It's with almost a touch of sadness that he watches how Draco's gaze is drawn to the vial. It's clear he's to the point of almost craving it. If not the potion itself, the temporary relief it offers, and it's the first step down.

When Draco responds, almost petulant, saying he could have made it himself, there's a split second where Snape can't help but think how ungrateful he sounds. But it doesn't go any deeper than his words. Everything else says that he's touched, almost relieved that Snape knew, that he'd taken the time to bother with this, that he'd cared enough. The petulance is a mask he wears, and truthfully, it often has been in the past as well, hiding fear and uncertainty, and pain.

Once Draco takes the vial, Snape's hand falls back to his side, and he nods. Yes, he can stay.

"If you want to," he says softly, eyes skimming down Draco's slender form. He was dressed as he always was, meticulous even though he'd just woken from a nightmare. He'd like to scoop him up into his arms, hold him close and make it better, however Draco needed it to be better. If that meant being bent over a desk, so be it, but Snape also wanted it to mean being tucked against him beneath the covers.