It was almost Pavlovian, how the sight of Draco’s hair falling over his shoulders almost had Harry’s hands thoughtlessly undo another row of buttons, the expectations ingrained bone-deep in him through months of repetition and anticipation.<br/>Harry had undone the top button of his waistcoat that his jacket revealed before he realized it.<br/>When Harry had enough sense to meet Draco’s eye, a sheepish and juvenile grin lit up his features, though appearing far too thrilled to feel any real sense of embarrassment about it. He couldn’t be arsed to, not when he was struck with the realization that seeing Draco with his hair down was a small but significant privilege, having taken it for granted when they hadn’t existed in public; Draco wore his hair up when he presented himself to others.<br/>Harry shrugged the jacket off his shoulders, pulling the sleeves off by the cuffs, struggling to keep his mind on dinner.<br/>“They can’t both be secret and exciting?” Harry pressed, more a tease than a proper question and he tossed the jacket over the back of an armchair. This was new, too, the way the rest of Harry’s life had begun to overlap the stolen moments he shared with Draco, and Harry couldn’t get himself to shy away from it, interested in seeing what space they were willing to create for one another.