They didn't make any declarations.
Soft skin, warm stubble, wet.
They didn't need a marriage license.
A push and pull without permission or negotiation: pounding like the blood in their ears.
They didn't want children.
"No dog, no dishes, no . . . no, oh, that's perfect."
Not together, anyway.
"Want to . . . to . . . shout about you, 'Mio—fuck!"
They wouldn't use pet names. Ever. It was a rule.
"Sorry, sorry, sorry," Harry murmured, into Hermione's neck.
She released his hair. "If you . . . don't want this . . . to be, oh! some random thing, only once, then—"
"Yes, yes." Harry stopped moving, stared at her. "Yes."