From a fanfic I’ll never write. No happy ending.
“What are we doing, Draco? You barely touch me anymore—and I don't even mean sex. You can't, can't even hold my hand, or hand me something, o-o-o-or brush past me in the kitchen! Why can't you—can't we—? I—”
“How can I touch you when every time I do I get burned, Potter? Huh? How can you expect me to just be able to keep doing this—to keep being around you like nothing's changed when everything has changed! When every time you're around me all I remember is—is— fuck. Don't you get that if I touch you it'll be like everything's fine? It'll be like we're, we're just us, like we haven't— like I'm—I'm forgiving you or something—forgiving myself. And I just... I can't do that, Harry."