let me know if you want me to add any characters from any show!
i will basically write anything that i like, i’m open to a lot of stuff, but i will NOT write smut for underaged characters, incest, rape, or any illness that i think i won’t be able to do justice.
tags: fem!reader. spiderman au. spider girl!reader. friends to lovers. slowburn. genderbend spiderman x gwen stacy? blood and violence talk related to this universe.
a/n: oooooh spiderman au? gender bend? ;) also the title (and fic) is based on season 2 weight loss by harry styles! enjoy xx
—
Remus usually doesn’t mind you being late, he never does, actually. It’s an ongoing bit between your friend group that you’re perpetually late—and with everything you’re balancing, no one really has the heart to hold it against you. It’s a factor everyone naturally takes into account when making plans with you.
He sips at his fourth glass of water for the last hour and forty minutes, skimming his book absentmindedly like he hasn’t read it multiple times already. He knows the plot and dialogue like the back of his hand—but it serves as a good distractor to his anxiety. Yeah, you’re always late… but never this much.
Sirius slips into the booth a beat later, damp rag on his shoulder indicating that his shift at the bar is over. Jesus—where the fuck are you?
“She probably had a tizzy again,” he says, stealing a sip from Remus’ glass. “You know her.”
Remus does know you. He knows the kinds of chaos you get into and occasionally find yourself trapped in most of the time. It wouldn’t be a surprise if you storm in, breathless and begging Sirius or Marlene to hide you under the bar. Looking suspiciously like you’re limping or like everything hurts. It’d be hard to shrug off if they knew you weren’t—additionally to being perpetually late—perpetually clumsy.
He knows all this. He knows there’s usually a reason for your tardiness. Crammed tube, late work or, yes, a tizzy. But lately? Remus feels like knowing these little quirks about you is not enough.
“I’m here, I’m here!” your voice carries out from the entrance, breathless and loud. You scramble inside, fumbling with everything you’ve got going on—tangled earbuds, heavy backpack and rumbled clothes. “Fuck, Rem—I’m so so sorry.”
From the counter, Lily points at you. “You better take the bloody skateboard away from my shiny floors!” she calls out, not at all miffed but frustrated enough to make you actually flinch.
“Sorry!” you pick it up in one swift motion, still breathless and like you’re one beat away from slumping over the table. “Sorry, everyone. Nothing to see here!”
Lily only waves you off, turning back to chat with Marlene like nothing happened. Because, realistically speaking, nothing has. As it always does. You’re late, they wait for you, and you come in breathless and trying desperately to blend in but doing anything but. Just another part of your routine.
You exhale sharply, hands at your hips. Sirius eyes you amusedly, having successfully stolen Remus’ water now. “Right,” you run a hand through your hair, a tiny bit disheveled. “Sorry m’late. I was quite literally on my way over but the station got hijacked and—and it was a whole fucking thing.”
“Hijacked?” Remus frowns, worry making itself more clear in his tone. “What happened?”
“Just some psychos thinking it was funny to pester civilians,” you wave him off, gesturing at Sirius to slide further on the booth. He does, busy typing into his phone. “S’all fine now.”
“It must’ve been terrifying, though.”
You wave him off, stealing Sirius’ glass to give it a few lengthy sips. You end up downing it in one go. “Nothing too scary.”
Sirius makes an amused sound, not quite looking away from his phone. “Well, of course it wasn’t. If Spidergirl was there.” He turns the screen. Your other hand flies to hold the glass, eyes darting away from the phone. “Fuck, that was a close one—Did you see that?”
“What?” you ask, setting the empty glass down.
“This!” Sirius says, taking the phone back from Remus to show it to you. Like you didn’t see it first hand. “Not fair—why do I never get saved by her?”
You snort. “Why would you want to be saved by that weirdo?
“Don’t be ungrateful.” Sirius scolds you, lips twitching when you roll your eyes at him. “She saved your life.”
“Hardly.”
He shakes his head, turning to Remus. “Help me here?”
Remus clears his throat, pretending he had been listening intently. “She did stop the psychos, dove.”
You pause at this, the faintest of movements before you’re waving him off, too. “Doesn’t matter now. I’m here, aren’t I?”
“At last.” Sirius groans, taking the glass with him as he stands. He turns to you. “In fact, had you seen my texts you’d know I can’t drive you back to the dorm.”
“What?”
“He’s got a date.” Marlene singsongs, bypassing him with a mischievous little eyebrow wiggle.
You blink, turning back to Sirius. “You do?”
Remus sighs, opening his book again. “Here we go—”
“It’s not a date!” Sirius bristles, taking the rag from his shoulder to hit Marlene. His timing, as usual, is flawed when he hits the pints she’s balancing in her hands. They come flying, beer and liquid contents included.
Of course, unlike Sirius’ timing, your reflexes are impeccable. A blur of movement passes before you’re catching them, preventing them from crashing onto the floor and giving Lily an early death with her shiny floors.
Marlene jumps back. “Sirius!”
“It was an accident!”
“It’s fine,” you straighten, fixing your hold around the pints. You smile, awfully casual as you set them on the counter for Lily to take. “See? Nothing happened.”
This, of course, is yet another common occurrence. Jumping in to fix messes that aren’t yours.
“You’re a meddling little shit.” Sirius snipes, with hardly any bite but blushing enough to know he’s still reeling from the whole exchange. “It’s not a date.”
You turn, rejoining them with smoother movements. Funny, Remus swears your right leg was shaking. But you only lean over the booth like you’d do any other day, fixing the zip up you’re wearing or checking you didn't get beer on you. He almost wants to point out that you did—though it looks too dark to be a beer stain…
“Right, Rem?”
“Huh?”
Sirius groans. “Don’t drag him into this—he’s already given me an earful about it.”
“And you’re still going through with it?”
“We’re just going out for drinks!”
“We all know that a date with Barty Crouch Jr. isn’t just a date, Sirius,” you say, tone taking a slight edge at the name. Remus glances up, but you’re clearing your throat before he can pinpoint the reason. You nudge his shoulder. “Tell him, Remus.”
Remus parts his lips to speak, but Marlene is already sliding into the booth. Looking like she’s got more to say now that her hands are free to flail around.
“Sirius, the boy’s lunatic,” she reasons. “And his dad, too. By the way—not sure if you remember.”
“That’s true.” You add, nodding and not at all minding the way Sirius glares at you. “Who knows what kinds of shit he’s involved in.”
“My god, you’re a relentless lot,” he rolls his eyes, looking more irritated the longer you pile on about this supposed date. “I’ll be fine!”
You lean back, sighing at the sharpness of his tone. “Okay, fine,” you fiddle with your sleeves, pulling them longer and longer. “Just let us know where this date’ll be, yeah?”
“Yeah, yeah. Whatever.” Sirius slides off, waving you off. “I’ll share my location, too. My god, I forgot who I was talking to.”
Remus glances up at you, feeling yet another ache at the way you frown. He nudges you with his shoulder, trying to get your attention, but the slight downturn of your lips won’t go as you watch Sirius walk into the storage room. Worrying, almost.
“He’ll be fine.” He says, which is unfair, because he knows it’s empty comfort. But you look so thoroughly worried he wishes to quell your anxiety. “Come on.”
You blink. “What?”
“Why don’t I walk you home?” he starts collecting his things, pointedly smiling at you at the guilty look that crosses your face. “We can talk about that essay on the way.”
“Okay,” you nod, brushing your hair away and visibly biting back a wince. “I’m sorry.”
Remus shakes his head. “Nothing to be sorry for,” he nods in farewell at Marlene, then Lily.
They immediately fuse at your early departure, and it proves to be a difficult task to get you to leave when they look so genuinely put out that you’re leaving. He’s beginning to think you’re staying until a yawn escapes you mid sentence, then Lily glances up to meet Remus’ gaze and he’s shepherding you out the pub. He tries to tame his surprise when you actually let him.
You’re setting the skateboard down as soon as the door closes behind you, and Remus wordlessly hooks an arm around yours—another easy routine between you. Hooking arms on empty sidewalks to make sure you don’t accidentally push your board farther and leave either him or you behind. Even with you relaxing at the familiarity of this silence, your shoulders remain tense and lips downturned the more it stretches.
“You think Sirius got miffed at me?” you ask quietly, the wheels of your board clatter with every push. When Remus tilts his head in evident confusion, you’re quick to speak again, “I just want him to be safe—I think I was too harsh.”
“You? Harsh?” He shakes his head, out of reflex. “Never. And even if you were, I think Sirius needs it sometimes.”
“Still…” you hesitate.
“Dove, he’s a big boy. Who certainly knows better than to involve himself with the likes of Junior,” he tries to make his words as calm and coaxing as possible. “And he’s going to be okay. His ego will be a little wounded tomorrow, but nothing we can’t fix, yeah?”
You look away, pushing your board again. Accidentally too hard, it makes you gain too much speed and Remus has to pick up his pace to remain at your side.
“And sorry for being late,” your voice is smaller now, guiltier. “It won’t happen again, I promise.”
It will. But Remus and you know that pointing this out will help no one. He only gives your linked arms a reassuring tug, feeling his lips twitch when you finally look up at him.
“How was your day?” he asks instead, trying to appear casual and like he’s not actively coaxing why you were late in the first place. “Aside from that bloody hijacking, of course.”
You go quiet for a bit, and Remus waits. Even if you’re getting closer to your dorm. “It was okay.”
“Yeah?”
“Just a bit tiring, I s’pose. That new freelance gig is a bit more exhausting than I expected. But at least they accepted my photos for the front page again, so there’s that.”
Remus feels himself smiling before he can rein it in. It’s a surprise he doesn’t stumble with your board when you smile back. “Yeah?” He says, just to not look too crazy. Just smiling at you. “That’s great news, dovey.”
Your lips twitch again, and he swears there’s a faint blush at your cheeks. “Thanks,” you push yourself again, and this time Remus doesn’t have to catch up with you. It comes almost in sync. “How was yours? Did you manage to find those books for the essay?”
“It was alright, and yes,” he nods, finding it hard to tame his smile. “I think I’ve found our subject, but—of course, won’t settle until you read them.”
“It’s okay. I trust your judgment,” you say, too quick. Almost instinctively. A freudian slip. “I mean—if you think it’s a good angle, I’m all in.”
He laughs, and immediately scolds himself for how stupid fond it sounds. Thankfully, you’re too busy reaching for your dorm keys to pay too much attention to it. Remus clears his throat, passing a free hand over his chest to ease the fluttering he feels inside. Suspiciously close to his heart. He tries to channel that on reaching inside his own backpack for the books.
“Here.” He sets them on your hands. “Just let me know what you think, yeah?”
You blink, still looking down at the books and the peek of scars on his wrist. Remus drops his hand, fixing his sleeve and hoping that wasn’t what you were looking at. Of course, you’re flashing him that soft tentative smile when you look up.
“I will, yeah.” You step on the end of your board, easily tucking it under your arm. “Will get started on it and text you my thoughts.”
“Of course.” Remus scolds himself again at the softness that slips with his tone. “I have a few assignments I’d like to get started on when I get home, so…”
“Oh,” you pause. Then shake your head quickly, schooling your expression. “Sure, yeah. Me too.”
He takes a step back, reaching inside his jacket for his cigarette pack. “Well, I better get going. See you tomorrow?”
“Of course,” you say again, back pressed against the wall. Then, your lips part—and Remus can immediately anticipate what you’re about to say before the words leave your lips. Text me when you get home. “Um, and remember to let me know when you get home, please?”
Remus smiles, and doesn’t have any qualms to hide it this time. Especially with how you relax. “Of course, dove. You know I will.”
You blink, genuinely stunned at his answer. But you recover quickly, reaching blindly for the knob. “Okay. I’ll just…” you open the door, laughing embarrassingly when you stumble on your way inside. “Be careful?”
“I will.” Remus nods, waiting until you’re fully inside and far from sight to step down the porch.
He exhales deeply, it feels like his first actual breath in the last hours. Movement picks up outside the building with students coming and going, and he takes the cue to head home at last. He does have assignments to complete, in the end.
It takes him approximately two streets to realize he hasn’t lit up his cigarette. And another street to realize someone’s following him. Neither of these facts are new, and he doesn’t turn around when the presence is strangely familiar in its faux subtlety.
When he flicks the lighter on, inhaling deeply. Remus doesn’t even deign to pretend surprise when someone clears their throat.
“You know those are bad for you, right?”
He blows the smoke out, not quite glancing over his shoulder. “Hello, fancy seeing you again,” he murmurs, knowing the volume of his voice doesn’t matter. “And you know you’re not very subtle, right?”
There’s a thwacking sound, then a soft landing. “How did you know it was me?”
Remus finally turns, gaze full of amusement as he takes a short drag. “For someone that calls herself Spidergirl, you’re not very stealthy.”
“And for someone that loves to call bluff, you’re very, very wrong.” Spidergirl says easily. “I’ve actually been lurking longer than you realize.”
“Have you, now?”
“Hm. Also, sorry for making your friend late.”
He laughs. “What?” he plucks the cigarette from his lips, finally turning to look at her. “Oh, you mean on the tube?”
“A whole bloody circus, that tube.”
“I heard.” Remus nods. “Are you in the habit of following civilians you save? To make sure they get home safely?”
“Sometimes," she hums. "Just the ones that take good pictures of me, mostly. Will you thank her for me?"
“Oh God.” Remus laughs again, a tiny bit more amused, too. “Is that why you follow y/n home? So she can get more shots of you?”
Spidergirl shrugs. “It’s actually a very good business transaction. She gets me on the front pages and I make her earn money,” she adds a skip to her step. “We all win.”
“And you make sure she’s safe. Following her home.”
“See? You’re catching up.”
Remus takes another drag, feeling his lips curling around the cigarette. “That sounds very close to stalking. You know that, right?”
Another thwacking sound, and he doesn’t need to look up to know Spidergirl is perched at the streetlight by his side. “It’s called vigilantism, actually.”
“Ah, right. I forgot,” he smirks, even more when Spidergirl tilts her head sideways. Curiously, almost. “Is y/n aware her test subject is lurking around her all the time or…?”
“Maybe. I don’t know,” she says, leg dangling from the post. “Why? Will you tattle?”
“What is it for me?”
“What is it for you? Mate, just be glad I’m granting you a minute of my most requested presence.”
Remus’ laugh gets louder in its amusement. “So what I’m hearing is, you get to stalk my best friend and I get nothing?” he flicks ash into the bin, waiting for the light to turn. “Doesn’t sound like a good transaction to me.”
Spidergirl groans. “My god—that girl seriously needs to reconsider the people she surrounds herself with,” she shifts, and Remus tries to hide the way his heart almost leaps out of his chest when Spidergirl launches herself off the post. Now dangling upside down from her knees. More like a monkey and less like a spider. “Pretty blokes trying to get something out of the city’s vigilante? Shameless opportunism.”
He blows the smoke out, smirking. “You think I’m pretty?”
She stills, crossed arms loosening. Remus momentarily wonders if he’s successfully flustered Spidergirl. But she makes an amused sound, like the pause didn’t happen.
“Don’t let it get to your head.” She hums. “You’d be surprised how common pretty boys are around here.”
“Right,” his lips twitch, stubbing out his cigarette. “And yet you followed me home.”
“Not by choice.”
“Well, I don’t see anyone forcing you.”
“My duty’s forcing me, actually. Didn’t we establish this already?” the green man turns on, and there’s more shuffling as Spidergirl matches his pace. “It’s called vigilantism.”
“I’m starting to think vigilantism is your excuse for stalking pretty people.”
At this, Spidergirl nearly crashes into a few bins. “What?” she lands, then scrambles to catch up to Remus. The skip to her step seems less genuine this time, like trying to make up for her reaction. “Wait, you think I—y/n is pretty?”
“Why? Will you tattle?”
Spidergirl clicks her tongue, running a hand through her suit. “Now, see that—this is exactly why I don’t interact with civilians,” she scoffs, sounding a tad breathless. Remus feels his smirk widening at this. But she only skips at her step again. “They start getting kooky ideas, flirting with me? Completely unprofessional.”
“Now, see,” Remus starts to say, stopping in front of his flat building. “you’re the one who called me pretty first.”
Spidergirl scoffs again. “Stop sounding so smug about it,” she turns, climbing a lamppost.
“Pretty, smug…” Remus lists off, fiddling with his keys. “Anything you’d like to confess?”
“Yes. I find you unfunnily observant.”
Remus laughs, and she tilts her head sideways. “Goodnight, Spidergirl.”
“Yeah, yeah. You too.” She waves him off, sounding awfully flustered and pretending it’s casual.
He watches her go with a little smile, not quite entering until Spidergirl’s swinging away. Her silhouette being shadowed by the sunset, jumping rooftops until she’s gone. Remus shakes his head, smiling down at his shoes as he climbs up to his floor.
When he jams the key to his door, his phone buzzes.
Y/N: did you get home safe???? it’s been a while
RL: yeah. sorry i got distracted
Y/N: ???
RL: i’ll tell you tomorrow. goodnight dove x
hey guys sorry i’ve been MIA lately, we got evacuated from my uni because they were threatening to bomb it, then we moved to a different city, and now i’m preparing for my midterms (i have 10 subjects in 9 days) so i’m dying a little bit! i’ll get back to writing after my exams! and no i didn’t ignore your requests, in fact, send more my way and i’ll get to them as soon as i can!!
summary you start your year with an unexpected surprise.
pairing james potter x reader.
warnings none. no description of reader. a quick one to start the year! i’m working on a lottt of new stuff so stay tuned! based on this
The snow is coming down in lazy, steady flakes, softening the edges of the street and making the streetlights glow warmer, gentler. It feels peaceful, a kind of quiet that only exists when everyone else is busy celebrating somewhere far away.
You walk with your hands tucked into your coat sleeves, breath fogging in front of you as you drift from window to window. Gold light spills through glass displays. Scarves you don’t need, a delicate music box spinning endlessly in the corner of one shop, a bookshop window with a tiny village built of paper and glitter. You step closer, tilting your head, then take a step back to see the whole thing, when you bump straight into someone.
“Oh—! I’m so sorry,” you say quickly, turning.
The man behind you stumbles half a step, more startled than hurt, fingers tightening reflexively around the paper bag in his hands. It crinkles softly as he steadies it against his chest. Whatever’s inside, it’s clearly something he doesn’t want to drop.
He looks about your age, dark hair already dusted white with snow, cheeks flushed pink from the cold, glasses slightly fogged. There’s something open about his face—something warm.
“No, it’s— you’re fine,” he says, breathless more from surprise than exertion. “I should’ve been watching where I was—”
You smile. Just a reflex. Apologetic. Soft.
And James Potter’s heart stutters so hard he feels it in his ribs.
It’s immediate and ridiculous, the way it trips over itself. He knows it is. He’s been through worse than this— battles, grief, endings— but something about your smile slips past defenses he didn’t realize he was still wearing.
His sentence trails off, and for half a second he just… looks at you. Like he’s forgotten what comes next.
You give a small nod, still smiling, and step aside so he can pass.
He does, glancing back over his shoulder once to watch you turn to the window again, eyes shining.
He takes three steps.
Four— and stops.
All he can think about is the curve of your smile, the way your eyes softened without effort.
The world narrows to the sound of snow crunching beneath his boots and the distant echo of laughter somewhere down the street. His heart gives a stupid, unmistakable skip, loud enough that he feels it in his throat.
Don’t be stupid, he tells himself.
He turns around anyway.
Walks back toward you, slower this time, like he doesn’t want to spook you.
“Hey,” he calls, suddenly aware of how ridiculous he must look.
You turn again, eyebrows lifting slightly, the same smile still adorning your lips.
He rubs the back of his neck, letting out a quiet laugh. You notice his hands are pink with cold, knuckles tense, like he’s bracing himself.
“This is going to sound strange,” he says, voice warm despite the chill. “But it’s New Year’s, and—well.” He exhales, breath fogging between you. “Have you got your New Year’s kiss yet?”
The question catches you off guard. The street feels suddenly quieter, as if everyone walking around stopped their conversation to listen.
“No,” you answer honestly, shaking your head.
Something flickers across his face before he reins it in, jaw tightening just a touch.
“Would you like one?”
There’s no pressure in his voice. Just an offer. A moment held open.
You study him for a second longer than necessary. The way he’s waiting. The way he looks like he’d be perfectly fine if you said no, but hoping you wouldn’t.
An uncontrollable smile curves across your lips at the strangeness of it all. You know you shouldn’t, but you give in anyway.
“Sure.”
James’s smile widens, open and unmistakable, and it doesn’t fade when he steps closer. He sets the bag carefully at his feet, as though this moment deserves his full attention. His hands hover for a second before settling at your waist, gentle, asking for permission even now. The cold nips at your cheeks, but his warmth is undeniable.
Up close, you see the snowflakes clinging to his eyelashes, melting as he blinks, eyes catching flecks of gold.
The kiss is soft. Careful. Just enough pressure to promise something without asking for more. His lips are warm despite the snow, and when you kiss him back, he exhales a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding, smiling as he does.
He pulls back only a fraction, breathless, still close enough that you can feel his smile lingering against your lips.
Then he kisses you again.
Deeper this time. Certain. Like he’s decided he doesn’t want this moment to end without knowing it properly. His smile doesn’t fade, if anything, it softens. Something hopeful settling into place as his thumb presses lightly into your side, grounding. His hair tickles your forehead, and the world narrows to the warmth between you.
For a heartbeat, he forgets the year that ended. The one that took things from him. The one that taught him how easily moments slip away.
All he can think about is you.
When he finally pulls back, his forehead rests against yours, breath mingling, eyes closed like he’s committing the moment to memory, afraid it might vanish if he doesn’t.
“I’m James,” he says softly, like offering his name means something more than an introduction.
You tell him yours, smiling again— the same smile that made him turn back.
He opens his eyes, studying you like he’s already reluctant to let you go.
“Well,” he says softly, a quiet awe in his voice, “that’s a pretty perfect way to start a year, I think.”
Snow continues to fall around you, the street hushed and glowing, the city moving on without you for a moment longer. Eventually, you step back, fingers brushing as you do. Just barely.
James picks up the bag at his feet, glancing down the street, then back at you, like he’s weighing something.
“Maybe,” he says, hesitant but hopeful, “I’ll see you around?”
It’s not a question he asks lightly.
You smile warmly, familiar now, and nod.
As you walk away in opposite directions, the snow erases your footprints almost immediately. But James keeps glancing back anyway, heart still unsteady in his chest, knowing that some beginnings don’t announce themselves loudly.
Some just wait, quietly, for the year to catch up.
summary you thought leaving meant moving on. james potter thought loving you quietly was the safest way to survive.
pairing james potter x f!reader
warning rivals to lovers, the occasional reference, a little bit of awkwardness, a lot of fluff, not proof-read, no use of y/n :)
The sliding doors exhaled cold air onto your face as you stepped out of arrivals, your suitcase rattling behind you with the one wheel you’d been meaning to fix for months. The terminal roared with overlapping noise, families bunched together with flowers, kids sprinting in circles, someone proudly holding a sign that said Welcome home from rehab, Todd! in sparkly letters.
You scanned the crowd once. Twice. Your heart pumped so hard it almost hurt.
Your mom spotted you first.
You didn’t even see her walk—she just materialized, hand flying to her mouth, shoulders trembling. Her eyes were already full in that way moms get when they’re trying not to cry and losing the battle instantly.
“Honey,” she breathed.
And then she was running. Your suitcase toppled over when you let go of it.
She threw her arms around you like you were thirteen and coming home from summer camp, pressing her cheek against your neck. She smelled like the same vanilla lotion she’d used your whole life—the one you always teased her about endlessly. Her breath shook in tiny uneven bursts, and without thinking, you wrapped your arms around her tighter.
“I’m here,” you murmured, voice thick. “Mom, I’m here.”
She nodded into your neck. “I know, sweetheart. I just—I missed you so much.”
Then your dad appeared.
He never rushed anywhere, not even when you were kids and spilled juice on the rug, always so composed. But now he crossed the distance in a few long strides, swallowing hard, jaw tight in the way he always got when he was fighting emotions.
He rested a hand on your shoulder first, gentle and testing, like confirming you were real. Then he pulled you from your mom’s hug and into his, firm, protective and a little desperate around the edges.
You felt his breath shake against your hair.
“You got taller,” he muttered into your scalp, voice rough.
You let out a wet laugh. “Pretty sure I didn’t.”
“Well.” He cleared his throat. “You feel taller.” The most dad comment imaginable. It ached in your chest
When he finally pulled back, he cupped your face in both hands, studying you closely. His eyes were softer than you remembered.
“You look good,” he said quietly, nodding like he could finally breathe again. His eyes shone, but he blinked the tears back. “Real good.”
Your mom wiped her eyes and sniffled loud enough to be heard over rolling suitcases. “Let me see you—oh my god, your hair is longer.” Her lip wobbled again. “Two years is way too long.”
“It wasn’t supposed to be two years,” you whispered.
“I know,” she brushed your cheek with her thumb. “But you’re home now. That’s all that matters.”
Someone bumped your abandoned suitcase behind you, but none of you turned. The three of you stood there in a tiny bubble of stillness in the middle of the airport chaos, holding on like time might try to snatch you apart again.
Finally your dad grabbed the suitcase with one hand and slung his other arm around your shoulders.
“Come on,” he said softly. “Let’s get you home.”
Your mom immediately linked her arm through your free one, resting her head on your shoulder as you walked toward the exit together.
When the automatic doors opened and the winter air slapped your face, she squeezed your arm.
“Wait until your sister sees you,” she muttered. “She’s been bouncing off the walls since sunrise.”
Your dad let out a noise somewhere between a laugh and a sigh—the sound of someone who’s been worried for too long.
And for the first time in years, with both of them on either side of you, fussing and talking over each other, you felt like yourself again.
You felt home.
★
Your family treated Christmas the way some people treated the Olympics—loud, competitive, and requiring months of preparation. The house was glowing from halfway down the street, wrapped in white lights, the inflatable reindeer your mom insisted on two years ago wobbling in the wind., and a wreath on the door big enough to qualify as a safety hazard.
Thirty minutes later, your mom was elbow-deep in cookie dough, humming off-key to whatever radio station syndrome had decided to overplay today. The house smelled like cinnamon, butter, and mild chaos. Your dad was locked in a battle to the death with a string of Christmas lights. And your little sister, June, sat cross-legged in front of the fireplace, wrapping presents with so much tape they looked like ransom packages.
You loved them. Truly.
But moving back after two years in the city felt… claustrophobic. Like slipping into clothes you’d outgrown but everyone expected you to wear anyway. Old routines, old expectations, old versions of yourself.
You barely made it down the stairs post-shower when your mom chirped, “Oh! The Potters are coming over tonight!”
You froze. “Why?”
“Well, they wanted to see you, of course! And James always helps your father with his projects. Be nice.”
Be nice.
James Potter.
You hadn’t seen him in two years. He’d been a constant fixture your entire childhood. The golden-retriever boy next door who shoveled driveways, coached kids’ soccer, and managed to charm every adult he encountered.
Everyone adored him.
Everyone except you.
He’d always been too much. Too loud, too smug, too effortlessly good at everything. He gave you a nickname you hated, ended up in your group projects more often than not, and took up way too much space in places he didn’t belong.
You left for college thinking you’d never have to see him again.
But apparently he’d stayed in town, taken over his dad’s carpentry business, and become the guy neighbors called for everything from fixing their porch steps to keeping them company over tea.
You never thought about him.
Except sometimes you did.
But that didn’t matter now. This was temporary.
You were halfway back up the stairs when boots thudded on the porch and someone knocked. Two quick taps, one slow. The same pattern he’d used since he was eight.
“Door!” your dad yelled from the living room, tangled in wires.
You grit your teeth and opened it, putting on a smile if only for Mrs. and Mr. Potter—who always insisted on you calling them Mia and Monty.
Except… it wasn’t them standing before you. It was him.
James Potter stood on the porch, curls dusted with snow, cheeks flushed from the cold, plaid jacket unzipped to reveal a grey sweater stretched across a chest broader than you remembered. Firewood was tucked under one arm, a toolbox in his hand, and a foil-covered pan balanced on top.
He froze.
Then he smiled. Warm, boyish. Unfairly familiar. “Hey, stranger, you’re home!”
You stepped aside. “Hi. Yeah. Come in.”
He brushed his boots off and entered like he’d done it a thousand times.
Your mom lit up like he’d brought the secrets of the universe. “James! Did you eat? Where are your parents?”
“Dad’s not feeling great,” he said shyly, lifting the pan. “Mom stayed with him but she sent this.”
Your mom took the pan, cooing, and disappeared back into the kitchen, muttering about calling Mia after the cookies are done.
He shot you a quick grin—the exact grin you absolutely adored hadn’t missed.
You rolled your eyes. “My dad’s in the living room. It’s an electrical war zone. Good luck.”
James passed you with a smirk. “Missed your sunny disposition.”
You opened your mouth to retort, but he was already laughing with your dad on the couch, untangling lights like they’d rehearsed it.
Great.
Three minutes back in town and James Potter had already invaded the walls of your life again.
★
After an hour of avoiding him, you walked into the kitchen for hot cocoa only to find him leaning against the counter like he’d lived there since birth. Soft yellow lights reflected off his glasses. His curls looked obnoxiously perfect.
“Want one?” he asked, lifting his mug.
“You drink tea now?” you asked.
He smirked. “I’m twenty. Not twelve.”
“You still act like it.”
He laughed low and warm. “There she is.”
Your stomach dropped. “There who is?”
“The you who secretly loves me.”
You choked. “I do—”
“Sure,” he murmured lightly, though his eyes said he didn’t believe it at all.
Before you could argue, your mom marched in with reindeer socks and a fistful of ribbon.
“Oh! Could you run to the craft store for more of this? Take James— he knows where the new shop is.”
“What?”
“Sure!” James said at the same time.
You glared at him.
He shrugged. “Could be fun.”
Your mom clapped. “Bundle up! And don’t fight in public, please.”
You muttered the entire way to the door. James held it open for you anyway. “After you.”
You brushed past him, refusing to acknowledge the way his gaze softened.
★
Snow was falling softly by the time you reached the town square on the walk back, three rolls of ribbon in hand.
Families gathered around the big spruce in the center, kids clutching hot cocoa, the choir practicing slightly off-key carols. The air smelled like pine and cold and memory.
You slowed down. They were lighting the tree tonight.
James shoved his hands in his pockets, glancing around like he knew exactly what you were thinking. “You missed this.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You didn’t have to.”
You exhaled sharply. “Stop assuming things.”
“I’m not assuming.” His voice softened. “I just… know you.”
Something in your chest pulled tight.
A couple walked by holding hands, laughing. Children collected candy canes from a volunteer dressed as an elf. It was painfully wholesome.
The mayor began the countdown. The tree and the entire spruce lit up in a burst of color. Glowing ornaments, warm bulbs. Everyone cheered.
You looked up at the lights.
James looked at you.
“What?” you whispered.
He shook his head a little, voice low. “Nothing.”
The walk home was silent except for the crunch of snow under your boots. James walked a little too close. His scarf brushed your sleeve.
★
A week later, desperate to escape the suffocating house, you went to the library. Browsing the shelves, you turned a corner and nearly slammed into someone.
A hand caught your elbow.
“Sorry,” James blurted, pulling back like he’d touched something dangerous. “I didn’t see you.”
“You never did,” you snorted. Then winced—it sounded too familiar.
Instead of teasing back, he just stared. Soft, startled.
“I’m helping Mrs. Lambert with returns,” he said eventually.
Of course he was. Always good with old people. Always good.
You stepped aside, but he hesitated.
“You’re really staying?” he asked quietly.
You nodded.
He opened his mouth like he wanted to say more.
“James Potter!” Mrs. Lambert shouted. “Stop flirting and bring me those books!”
Your soul left your body.
James turned crimson. “I—I wasn’t— she—”
“Relax,” you cleared your throat, the corner of your mouth lifting. “She says that to everyone.”
But he looked at you like he knew she didn’t.
★
The next morning, snow blanketed the street. Your parents declared it a perfect day for “community service,” which apparently meant shoveling every driveway in a 200-meter radius.
James showed up to help.
Of course he did.
Which meant you were trapped with him, wearing those stupidly fitted gloves.
“Here,” he offered you a shovel like it was a peace offering.
You snatched it. “Don’t think I won’t swing this at you if you piss me off.”
He leaned on his shovel and smirked. “Threatening me? Adorable.”
You rolled your eyes. “Shut up.”
You worked side by side for an hour, shovels occasionally clashing. He flicked snow onto your scarf once and had the audacity to grin.
“Oops.”
“You’re impossible,” you muttered, brushing the snow off. The next time you swung your shovel, you made sure its contents landed inside his jacket.
He yelped. You smirked.
By late afternoon, your hands were numb and your cheeks a permanent shade of cherry when he wandered over again, breath fogging in the cold.
“Your folks have that town council thing tonight,” he said. “We could go to the cabin. Warm up. Just us.”
“Us?” you blinked.
He shrugged. “If you want. No pressure.”
You should’ve said no.
Your first instinct was to say no, that he’s being ridiculous.
But instead, you said, “fine, but only because I don’t want to freeze my face off anymore.”
He smiled like you’d just given him the moon.
★
The cabin wasn’t fancy, just a little wooden place tucked between pine trees that always looked like it’d been dropped right out of a decades-old postcard. The kind of place your families used to rent when you were younger, back when you and James argued over who got the top bunk and he’d steal your hot chocolate mix just to watch you throw a fit.
Inside, it was small and warm and smelled faintly of firewood and cinnamon—the same as it always did. Only now the air felt different. Heavier. Charged.
You stepped inside first, stomping snow from your boots. Your fingers ached from the cold as you peeled off your gloves, your damp scarf clinging to your neck.
James followed behind, letting the door thump shut with his foot. His boots left a trail of melting footprints, the water soaking into the worn rug. He shrugged out of his jacket, shaking snow from his curls, and immediately crouched in front of the cold fireplace like it was his job.
“You brought cocoa?” you asked, cautious, because you didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of thinking you were impressed.
James held up a grocery bag. “Of course. Marshmallows included. I know your weaknesses.”
“I don’t have weaknesses,” you said airily, freeing your hair from your scarf.
He looked up at you with a knowing smirk. “So you don’t want any?”
Your mouth tightened. You snatched the bag out of his hand without ceremony and dumped a frankly irresponsible amount of marshmallows into your mug.
He didn’t gloat. Not out loud. But the sparkle in his eyes said everything.
You handed him his own mug and slid down onto the couch beside him. The firelight flickered across his face, painting his cheekbones gold, catching the curve of his eyelashes. He wrapped his fingers around the mug, leaning back, letting out a quiet breath like he’d been holding it all day.
It was… unsettling.
Seeing him relaxed around you again.
Seeing him look at you again.
“So,” you said finally, breaking the silence before it swallowed you whole. “You’ve been here this whole time. In town. Doing… whatever you’ve been doing.”
He took a slow sip of cocoa. “Fixing things. Helping people. The family business.”
You nodded. “Right.”
And that was it. The conversation died like a candle blown out too soon.
But he kept glancing at you.
Not in an obvious way. Not the old, obnoxious James Potter who always had something snarky ready. This version of him was quieter. Watching. Waiting. Trying to figure out how close he was allowed to sit to you now.
The silence wasn’t hostile this time. Just… full. Full of things neither of you knew how to say.
A few card games later and after bickering over unfair shuffling, dramatic sighs, and the kind of small domestic moments that made your chest feel too warm. You stretched your arms overhead and wandered to the window.
“It stopped snowing so hard,” you murmured.
James joined you, peering outside. “Perfect time for a walk.”
You whipped your head toward him. “A walk? It’s freezing.”
“You’re dramatic,” he said, already pulling on his coat. “Fresh air’s good for you.”
You groaned. “You’re insufferable.”
“That’s the spirit,” he said, shouldering open the door.
You followed him out, partly because you didn’t want to stay in that cabin with the fire crackling and the cocoa scent lingering and the heat making your thoughts too soft.
Outside, the world was quiet. Snow clung to the branches like cotton. The air stung your cheeks.
“You know,” James said, shoving his hands in his pockets, “I forgot how much you complain when it’s cold.”
You rolled your eyes. “I forgot how much you talk.”
He grinned. That boyish, sunshine grin that always made it impossible to stay annoyed for long. “Think fast!”
A clump of snow smacked your shoulder.
You stared at the melting patch on your jacket. Then at him.
“Don’t.” You warned him.
He grinned. “Me? I would nev—”
You nailed him in the chest with a perfect snowball.
His face lit in outrage. “Oh, this is war.”
And it was.
For ten freezing, chaotic minutes, the two of you sprinted across the clearing like children, slipping on ice, shouting threats, laughing so hard your ribs hurt. Snow flew everywhere. Your hair, his scarf, your eyelashes. He ducked behind a tree, you slipped on a patch of ice and shrieked, he doubled over laughing, and you absolutely vowed revenge.
“Potter, don’t you—!”
He barreled toward you with too much momentum, misjudging the slick ground. His boots skidded. You yelped. And then—
He slammed into you, sending you both crashing into the snow.
You hit the ground on your back with a soft thud, breath whooshing out of you and James landed right on top of you.
And everything stopped.
His breath warmed your freezing skin. His curls brushed your forehead. His body caged yours, arms braced on either side. Snowflakes melted on his red cheeks.
His eyes—God, his eyes—looked at you like he’d been waiting years for this exact moment.
“Hey,” he whispered, and it broke something open inside you because it wasn’t teasing. It wasn’t cocky for once.
You swallowed hard. “James…”
His gaze flicked from your eyes to your mouth and back. Barely a second. But you felt it in every corner of your body.
“You don’t have to—” you began, trying to protect both of you.
But he shook his head, slow and soft, like he was terrified you’d disappear.
He kissed you.
And the world tilted.
His lips were warm, gentle but aching, as if he’d been holding himself back for too long. Snow melted against your jaw. His breath mingled with yours. Everything in you leaned forward before you even meant to.
For one dizzy, electric moment, you kissed him back.
Your fingers curled into the front of his coat. Your heart thudded so loud he must’ve felt it. Something in you unraveled completely.
Then your brain caught up and reality slammed into you.
You shoved him off, hard enough that he stumbled in the snow, eyes wide, cheeks flushed.
You scrambled to your feet, breathless, heart pounding out of your chest like something had crawled in and lit a fuse.
“What the hell was that?!” Your voice cracked. Anger, confusion, fear, all coming up and clogging your throat.
“I— I’m sorry,” James said immediately, voice cracking. “I shouldn’t have— I thought—”
“You thought wrong.” Your voice sliced through the cold.
He froze like you’d slapped him. “I’m sorry,” he whispered again, smaller this time. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
You turned away. “I have to go.”
“Wait,” he said, stepping forward.
You stepped back.
“Don’t.”
He stopped instantly, like the word itself pulled a leash.
You turned and walked past the cabin, down the path, past the trees and into the dark, cold stretch towards your home with freezing hands, numb legs, and a heart that felt like someone had shaken it until it rattled. Every breath stung. Every step felt like you were running from something you weren’t ready to face.
James didn’t follow.
And you didn’t talk to him.
Not for one day. Not for two. Not for seven.
A whole week passed where you avoided him like he was fire and you were dry pine.
Your mom asked if you were coming down with something.
Your dad asked if you were fighting with someone.
June said you were “haunting the house like a teenage ghost.”
James didn’t show up at the house either. Not once.
Not even to help your dad with his projects.
Like he thought giving you space was the only thing he could offer that wouldn’t break you both.
Which somehow made everything worse.
★
You had mastered the art of avoiding James Potter.
Or at least... you were really convinced you had.
Seven straight days of pretending the world didn’t contain tall, broad-shouldered boys with brown curls and soft eyes. Boys who smelled like winter wind and wood, who used to annoy you on purpose, and who somehow became the one person you weren’t ready to see, had made you think you were an expert at dodging disasters.
Until your mother handed you a grocery list that grew every time you blinked.
“Just a few things,” she’d said, which turned out to be a lie the size of England. By the time you stood outside the store, your phone had twelve new texts, each one adding something increasingly unnecessary. Fresh thyme. Unsalted butter. That nice cereal your sister likes—the blue one, not the yellow one.
You tugged your scarf higher, muttered an exhausted prayer to the universe, and pushed through the sliding doors.
You were planning a tactical strike— quick in, quick out.
And then you saw him.
Leaning over a shelf of bread like it personally betrayed him.
James Potter. In the soft grey sweater you used to secretly like on him. Hair a little unruly, cheeks wind-flushed, mouth set in a tired line.
But it was his eyes that did it.
He looked like someone who’d forgotten how to sleep. Like someone who’d been thinking too hard about something he couldn’t say out loud.
He turned at the same moment you looked at him.
The world didn’t slow. It stopped.
A beat of stillness.
A beat where neither of you breathed.
A beat where your heart kicked so sharply you swore the canned goods rattled.
James froze.
You froze.
And your pulse did something humiliating, an eager little leap you didn’t have the energy to unpack.
He was the one to break the stare first. His gaze dropped to the loaf of wholegrain like he was considering throwing it at his own head.
You grabbed a basket abruptly, even though your mother’s list absolutely required a cart and probably a forklift. You pretended to study the cans of soup like they held the secret to eternal life.
Maybe you could get by him if you acted fast. Maybe he’d pretend he didn’t see you. Maybe fate would show mercy for once.
“Hey.”
His voice wasn’t loud. It was quiet. Controlled. Careful, like if he spoke too harshly he’d crack something between you.
Aisle Seven had never felt smaller.
You turned slowly, your fingers tightening around the plastic basket handle.
“Hi.”
The silence afterward made your lungs burn.
He rubbed the back of his neck, that familiar, boyish gesture that used to annoy you and somehow make your chest hurt at the same time. “You, uh… been okay?”
“Yeah.” You crossed your arms, even though it felt defensive. “You?”
He hesitated. “I’ve been… around.”
You nodded sharply. “Good for you.”
His lips pressed together. His eyes flicked down, then back up, then away again like looking at you hurt but looking away hurt worse.
“I, um—about last week—”
“We don’t need to talk about that.” Your voice was too quick, too sharp. You reached blindly for the nearest item on the shelf— a can of something with a bright red label —and tossed it in your basket as if your life depended on it.
“I think we do.”
“Well, I don’t.” The words came out flat, almost cold.
His shoulders tightened. “Right. Okay. I just… I’m sorry.”
“I know.” You adjusted your scarf and the basket all at once, desperate for an escape. “It’s fine.”
“It’s not fine,” he murmured, almost under his breath. A confession, not an argument.
You didn’t have an answer for that.
He took one step toward you— small, hesitant, giving you space even as he closed it. Nothing threatening. Nothing dramatic. Just a boy trying to shorten the distance between you.
But you stepped back anyway.
Pretended your phone buzzed. Pretended you had somewhere important to be. Pretended your throat wasn’t tight and your ribs weren’t buzzing with all the unsaid things between you.
“See you around,” you muttered, turning before your voice could betray anything else.
“Yeah,” he said softly. “See you.”
You walked so quickly you clipped the corner of a gingerbread house display, catching it just in time before it crashed.
Your cheeks were burning, and your hands were shaking, and you couldn’t explain either.
And even when you made it halfway across the store by the apples, ignoring the enormous holiday choir of cinnamon-scented candles, you could still feel his eyes.
★
That evening, when you walked into the living room the atmosphere hit you before the sight did. The air had that strange, stiff quality of a family meeting waiting to happen.
Never, ever a good sign.
Your mom, dad, and June were sitting together on the couch like a tribunal, legs crossed, hands folded, eyes a little too bright with purpose. It felt like walking into an ambush staged by people who claimed to love you.
Your mom patted the empty cushion between them. “Sit.”
“No.”
“Sit,” June repeated, annoyingly smug.
You stayed planted where you were, arms crossed. “What did you do?”
Your dad cleared his throat, a whole speech hiding behind it. “So… we, uh… saw James today.”
You stiffened so hard your shoulder cracked. “Fantastic. Good for you.”
“He looked awful,” your mom said gently. “Really awful.”
You shrugged like your ribs weren’t tightening. “Maybe he’s tired.”
“He asked about you,” your dad said. “Twice.”
Your jaw tightened. “We’re not talking about this.”
“Sweetheart,” your mom murmured, “he cares.”
The words didn’t hit like a surprise. James always wore his heart so visibly he might as well staple it to his shirt, but something about hearing them say it made your stomach flip like you were fifteen again.
You lifted your chin, ready to deny everything with unnecessary aggression, when June, betrayer of the century, shoved a piece of paper into your hands.
“Here.”
You unfolded the paper.
Read the words, your breath caught.
It was a volunteer flyer. The town’s Christmas Eve charity event.
And right there, perfectly paired like some cosmic joke, your names.
Shift partners.
You stared at it. Then at your family. “What did you do?”
Your mom wrung her hands. “Mia and I may have… put you both down for the Christmas charity event.”
“Mama!”
“It’s harmless!” June insisted. “You’ve been moping around like someone stole your soul. He’s been moping like someone kicked his puppy. It’s exhausting. Even Remus is stressed out, and he’s the calm one.”
“Remus?” you repeated. “Remus knows about this?”
June nodded. “He said— and I quote —‘Please do something before James starts reorganizing my bookshelf again.’”
Your dad shrugged. “It’s for the kids’ winter coat drive. You can’t exactly stage a dramatic breakup scene while handing out gloves.”
Your mom gave you the softest, most hopeful smile. “And maybe… talking will help.”
You glared at all three of them, betrayal burning through every nerve. “First of all, there won’t be a dramatic break up scene, we were never together. And second of all, this is a coup!”
“Intervention,” June corrected.
“Mutiny,” you fired back.
But you didn’t tear up the flyer.
You didn’t even crumple it.
You just held it clenched in your hand, like you couldn’t decide whether to burn it or hide it under your pillow.
★ Christmas Eve
The wind outside cut straight through your coat, sharp and cold enough to turn every streetlight halo into glitter. Snow was stacking softly at the edges of the pavement, fresh, clean, glowing under the lamps.
You arrived at the town hall bundled like you were preparing for battle—thick coat, chunky scarf, gloves, hat pulled low. Armor. Emotional bulletproofing.
James, of course, was already there.
Forced proximity: the universe’s favorite joke.
He was standing near the donation bins, lifting boxes around like he was trying to rearrange the entire emotional weight of his life. His curls were falling over his eyes, cheeks flushed from the cold, and he wore a ridiculous scarf that didn’t match anything else he had on.
When he saw you walk in, he froze exactly the way he had in the grocery store.
“Hey,” he said softly. Cautious. Like the word might spook you.
“Hi.”
Silence spilled between you, awkward enough to feel physical.
“Thanks for coming,” he said.
“My family volunteered me.”
He winced. “Right. Makes sense.”
You walked to the sorting table and began folding winter coats with the kind of intense focus normally reserved for neurosurgery. James moved beside you, close enough that you could feel the warmth coming off him, close enough that every time your hands brushed the same box you felt your heartbeat spike.
Fifteen minutes passed in silence.
Then thirty.
Snow kept drifting down outside the windows, soft little flakes tapping the glass like nervous fingers.
Finally, James sighed, tired, defeated. “Are we gonna talk about it?”
“No.”
“I really think we should.”
“Well, I don’t.”
He looked at you then, and something in his eyes shifted from frustration to hurt. “I can’t fix what I don’t understand.”
You shoved a coat into the bin a little too hard. “There’s nothing to fix.”
“That’s not true,” he said quietly. Then, after a beat that felt like stepping into thin ice, “you ran away.”
“I walked,” you corrected, grasping at dignity like it was a lifeline.
“In the snow,” he said, matching you. “At night. Without your gloves. You were shaking so hard when you left that cabin, I almost—”
He cut himself off, mouth pressing shut.
You froze. “Almost what?”
His jaw tightened in that stubborn, vulnerable way he had. “Almost ran after you.”
Your breath stuck in your throat. “Why didn’t you?”
“Because you told me not to,” he whispered. “And I’m stupid about a lot of things, but I don’t want to be stupid about you.”
That silenced you completely.
Your chest felt too tight. Your fingers went numb inside your gloves. You fixed your gaze on the table because looking at him felt like stepping off something high without a rail.
James took a breath that shook just a little. “I shouldn’t have kissed you like that. I should’ve asked. I should’ve given you more time. I’m sorry.”
Your voice came out thin, almost fragile. “Then why’d you do it?”
He hesitated— then said the thing that broke you open “Because I’ve been in love with you since we were sixteen.”
Air: Gone.
Heart: Somewhere on the floor.
He rubbed the back of his neck, looking everywhere except your face. “I thought you knew. I thought it was obvious. I mean, I only ever talked to you, and I never tease anyone. Ever. I actually think I’m too shy for that kind of thing. Not that I’m shy— I’m not —but I—” He cut himself off, cheeks pink, clearing his throat.
It hadn’t been obvious.
Not to you.
Not then.
Not until snow and firelight and his mouth had rearranged the geography of your heart.
You looked at him now, and saw everything in his face. The exhaustion, the fear, the hope he was trying so hard to smother.
He whispered, barely holding himself together, “Please say something.”
But you couldn’t.
You couldn’t breathe properly, couldn’t trust your voice, couldn’t even trust your legs except to take one step, then another.
So you moved.
Walked to the next table slowly, leaving James standing there with his heart exposed and his fingers curling tight at his sides.
He watched you walk away.
Of course he did. He always did.
★
That night, after the event, Town hall’s lights glowed warm behind you, gold spilling onto the snow like melted stars. Your breath curled in the night as you stepped outside, letting the cold bite your cheeks.
Footsteps approached behind you.
“I don’t want to make you uncomfortable,” James said quietly. “Just… walk you home.”
Every reasonable part of you knew you could have refused. That you probably should have.
But something in his voice, tired, cautious, hopeful in the way that hurt, made refusing feel cruel.
You nodded.
The walk began silently, boots crunching over snow, lampposts humming, your gloved hands tucked deep in your pockets. The silence wasn’t angry anymore. It was thick. Full. Like both of you were holding things in your hands you didn’t quite know how to place down.
Halfway down the street, he stopped.
You took another two steps before you realized. Turned back. “What?”
His breath came out in white puffs, his face shadowed by the dim streetlight. When he lifted his eyes to yours, they were raw, open in a way you’d never seen him before.
“I need you to hear something.”
Your heart thudded too hard. “James—”
“No.” His voice cracked a little, but stayed steady. “Even if you never speak to me again after this. Even if you hate me. I need to say it.”
The snow caught in his eyelashes, settling there like little stars. His breath shook in the cold, or maybe from nerves.
“I didn’t kiss you because it was snowing,” he said. “Or because it felt romantic. Or because I panicked. I kissed you because I’ve been wanting to for years.”
Your lungs forgot their job.
He stepped closer. Not touching you, not assuming, just closing that invisible space that had been vibrating between you for days.
“I kissed you because I’m in love with you,” he whispered. “And I’ve been trying so damn hard to not be. You were so mean to me sometimes, and I—God, I loved it. Isn’t that insane?”
A startled breath escaped you, half pain, half disbelief.
He ran a gloved hand through his curls, snowflakes catching in the dark strands. “When you walked away from the cabin, I thought, ‘Okay. That’s it. I ruined it.’” His voice softened into something like heartbreak. “I ruined everything. I actually let myself hope you didn’t hate me, and then—”
“You didn’t ruin anything,” you whispered.
He shook his head like he didn’t believe you. “I scared you.”
A pause. Then, quietly, truthfully, “Yeah. You did.”
James closed his eyes like the words hurt, but he nodded, accepting it. “I’m sorry.”
You swallowed hard. “James…”
His eyes opened, uncertain, a little afraid.
“I didn’t walk away because I hated it.”
His shoulders went still.
Your voice wavered. “I liked it. Too much. That’s why I freaked out.”
You watched the breath leave him, a shaky exhale that looked like someone taking their first deep breath after being underwater too long. His whole face softened like hope rushed back into him all at once.
“Then what do we do now?” he asked, voice quiet, reverent.
You took a tiny step toward him. Just enough to close the emotional distance you’d left wide open.
“I don’t know,” you whispered. “But I don’t want to run anymore.”
He took that in—slowly, carefully, like he was afraid to break the moment. His shoulders lowered, tension draining out of him. His expression shifted into something warm, broken, gentle, aching.
He didn’t reach for you.
He didn’t push.
He didn’t even breathe too deeply, because he knew you hated loud breaths in emotional moments, and he always listened more than you gave him credit for.
“Can I kiss you again?” he asked softly. “Not like before. Only if you want.”
Your heart stuttered.
You nodded.
James lifted one hand, his glove brushing your cheek with the kind of tenderness that made your ribs tighten. When he cupped your face, it felt like he was holding something precious. Not fragile, but important. His thumb grazed your skin, warm even through the cold.
He leaned in slowly.
Slow enough for you to stop him.
Slow enough for him to stop himself.
But neither of you even thought to.
His lips met yours softly, like a question. Like a thank you. Like relief. This kiss wasn’t firelight and surprise and gravity dragging you together.
This was a beginning.
When you finally pulled back, you stayed close, your forehead resting against his. James stayed perfectly still, letting you choose the moment, letting you choose everything.
Your breath came out soft and white against his cheek.
“Merry Christmas, James.”
His eyes fluttered open, warm and shining and a little overwhelmed.
“Merry Christmas, love.”
★
BONUS SCENE 1: SIXTEEN
James always said he couldn’t stand you when you were both sixteen
And the whole town believed it.
Because you two weren’t rivals. You were capital-R Rivals™.
Snarking at each other across classrooms, racing each other to finish group projects, arguing over grades, over club responsibilities, over who got the last blueberry muffin at the café (you won that one; he never forgot), passing each other in the hallway, shoulders brushing like neither of you wanted to make space for the other.
Everyone thought it was harmless teenage competitiveness.
But James remembers the exact second that rivalry stopped being fun and started becoming something terrifying. For him at least.
It was late October. The sky hung low and heavy, the kind of pre-winter gray that made everything feel colder than it was. The high school’s fall fair was setting up on the football field. You were helping one of the booths near the stands.
James was supposed to be helping the track team.
He wasn’t.
He was mostly pretending not to look at you.
He had been very committed to not looking at you for about a month.
And then it happened— something stupid, tiny, insignificant.
Except it wasn’t.
You were dragging this awkwardly tall wooden stand across the field, muttering under your breath about it being built by “a middle-aged sadist with a tape measure and a vendetta.” James had been walking past, fully prepared to shoot some smart comment your way.
Except the board snagged on the hem of your sweater, and you yelped, stumbling backwards.
He caught you. He didn’t think— he just reacted.
One arm around your waist.
One hand braced on your back.
Your hands gripping his shirt instinctively.
Your breath hitting his chest.
Your eyes were wide. Shocked. A little embarrassed.
And he swore the world actually… tilted.
He tried to speak.
His brain short-circuited.
So the first stupid thing came out:
“Maybe try not fighting inanimate objects today.”
You rolled your eyes, scoffing, but your cheeks were warm. “Maybe mind your own business.”
You scoffed. Rolled your eyes. But your cheeks warmed. “Maybe learn how to mind your own business.”
You stepped away.
He let you go.
Three seconds. Maybe four.
But that was the moment.
Watching you brush dirt off your jeans and mutter about the universe hating you, James Potter realized, horrified and helpless, that he likes you.
He shoved it down so deep even he almost believed it wasn’t there.
But that night, lying in bed, staring at the ceiling with old posters peeling at the corners, he couldn’t stop replaying the moment. Couldn’t stop thinking about your eyes. Your hair. Your smile. Your laugh. God your laugh.
He was absolutely, hopelessly, catastrophically in trouble.
He never told anyone. Not Sirius, not Remus, not even his mom who could read him like a book.
He just kept it a secret. Carried it year after year, letting it simmer under every argument, every eye roll, every little moment where he looked a second too long.
By the time you were both adults, back in the same town for Christmas…
that old truth was still sitting in him, quiet but impossible to ignore.
He’d fallen for you at sixteen.
And he never really climbed back out.
BONUS SCENE 2:
Age 14: True Rivals
Your mom invited the Potters over on a hot July afternoon. You already knew something was off the second she insisted you “change into something cute.” At fourteen, you considered that a personal attack.
You were gangly and moody, sitting on the porch steps picking at a mosquito bite because you refused to socialize, while James paced the yard, glaring at a cicada like it insulted him personally.
Inside, the adults were practically leaking anticipation.
“She’s growing up so fast.”
“He’s turning into such a sweet boy.”
“Oh, do you think they’ll ever stop bickering?”
“I hope so! My money is on them eventually getting married.”
Your younger sister, who had the discretion of a feral raccoon, sprinted outside like she’d been launched.
“Mama says she hopes you marry James.”
You froze.
James choked on actual air.
“WHAT?!” you both snapped in perfect harmony, horrified, offended, traumatized.
Your sister beamed. “You guys argue every day. Married people do that.”
Sirius, lounging like a cat in a sunbeam, burst into laughter.
Remus hid a smile behind his lemonade, failing miserably.
Your mom walked outside holding a bowl of strawberries with a level of intentional cheerfulness that should’ve been illegal.
“Oh good, you’re all together! Sweetheart, take these to the kitchen. James, help her?”
You blinked. “Both of us?”
Mia hummed like she hadn’t just tossed you into a lion pit, giving you a gentle push toward the door.
Two teenagers.
One bowl.
Five seconds.
(Now that i think about it, it sounds like a bad porno.)
A setup so obvious even fourteen-year-olds knew what was happening.
You both carried the bowl so stiffly it looked like it contained live explosives. When you set it on the counter, it was with identical “don’t touch me, I’m unstable” energy.
Behind you, the moms exchanged a silent telepathic squeal.
“They’d be adorable together.”
James walked directly into the doorframe on the way out.
You pretended not to laugh, failing internally.
He then choked on a strawberry.
You stared at him for a solid three seconds before refusing, absolutely refusing, to ask if he was okay.
Your sister whispered to Sirius, “This is romance.”
Sirius whispered back, “This is trauma.”
★
Age 16: The Halloween Festival
Your dad loved a project. Fixing fences, painting sheds, forcing teenagers to work together so they could “build character.”
When volunteer sheets for the Halloween Festival went around, he signed you up without asking.
And, shockingly, the Potters signed James up for the same booth.
The caramel apple stand.
Your mom brought your sister along “to help,” which meant terrorize you.
Sirius and Remus tagged along too. Those two lived at the Potter house more than their own.
You walked up, saw James, and groaned loudly.
He groaned back, matching your tone like it was a competition.
Your dad elbowed Mrs. Potter. “They argue a lot.”
Mrs. Potter smiled like she was watching a proposal in slow motion. “Don’t they?”
Your sister tugged on Sirius’s sleeve. “Does that mean they’re in love?”
Sirius nodded gravely. “Tragic, really.”
Remus snorted and sipped his cider. “Idiots, both of them.”
You and James bickered about absolutely everything.
“For the love of—it’s too thick, Potter!”
“It’s PERFECTLY thick—you’re stirring wrong.”
“You’re stirring wrong!”
“You’re annoying.”
“You’re short.”
Both of your parents looked like they were watching their favorite soap opera.
At one point, James tried to hang a banner over the booth, the ladder slipped, and you grabbed his arm to keep him from face-planting, almost falling over him in the process.
Your parents gasped like you’d confessed undying love.
Sirius clapped.
Remus rolled his eyes so dramatically he nearly saw his brain.
James stammered, ears red. “You—uh— you could’ve let me fall.”
“Believe me,” you muttered, “I considered it.”
But you hadn’t. Not even for a second.
That was the part that bothered you.
By the end of the night, you’d sold the most apples. James had caramel in his hair, you had caramel on your shirt, and your families were closer than ever before.
Except well, you two. Right?
You were still convinced he was the single most irritating boy on the planet.
He, meanwhile, was watching you laugh with caramel on your cheek like he wasn’t supposed to wish he could touch you.
★
Age 17: Christmas Chaos
By seventeen, the rivalry was less fury and more routine. A tradition. Something comfortable the way a too-large sweater is comfortable—you pretend you don’t like it, but you’d freeze without it.
Your families decided to end the tradition for you.
They put both families in charge of decorating the community hall for the annual toy drive (how you had so many annual community things in your small ass town, you didn’t know). People dropped off old decorations, clothes, toys. Kids ran around, the hall smelled like cinnamon and pine, and it should’ve been fun.
You showed up with a box of ornaments.
James showed up with a ladder he definitely didn’t know how to use. (cue last year when he would’ve lost a tooth hadn’t you been next to him to save the day), and a box of his old jackets.
Your parents watched from the doorway, whispering.
“They’re so natural together.”
“They don’t even realize it.”
Sirius fake-swooned and Remus muttered, “They’re both idiots.” (which, like, speak for yourselves).
Meanwhile…
“Lower.”
“It looks weird lower.”
“It looks weird higher!”
“It looks weird on you!”
“That doesn’t even make sense, Potter!” You say exasperated.
Later, when you and James stepped back to admire the decorations, your hands brushed.
James froze.
You cleared your throat so hard it probably damaged something.
Behind you, your families giggled like teenagers.
★
Age 18: The Last Summer Before You Left
The Potters invited your family over for what they called a “goodbye dinner,” which was absolutely code for “one last attempt to get them together.”
Monty set the dinner table with assigned seating.
Your name tag was right next to James’.
Your sister winked.
Sirius whispered dramatically, “It’s fate.”
Remus stole a bread roll and snickered.
Your thighs brushed under the table— softly, unintentionally —and both of you reacted like you’d been electrocuted.
James dropped his fork.
Twice.
The parents exchanged looks like they’d bet money on the outcome.
Near dessert, the adults dramatically evacuated to “grab more plates.”
He barely spoke, which was strange for him.
You barely looked at him, which was strange for you.
To make matters worse, they assigned the other three teenagers to bring out something that was already placed on the table.
Suddenly, it was just you and James.
You poked at your pie, avoiding eye contact. “I think they’ll be gone a while.”
James shrugged, trying so hard to be casual it almost looked painful. “I’ll walk you home if you get tired.”
“You don’t have to,” you said, smile tugging at your lips.
He shrugged again, teasing lightly. “Makes you leave faster.”
You rolled your eyes, fighting a grin.
★
Age 18: The Day James Watches You Leave
He never talked about this part.
You were leaving for university far, far away. New city, new people, new everything.
Your families loaded the car together while both moms cried preemptively.
James stood a few steps back, hands in his pockets, jaw tight. Sirius and Remus on either side of him like moral support.
Your sister threw her arms around you, squealing, “don’t forget to write!” Then in a whisper, “and also marry James someday!”
You nearly punted her into the car.
When your parents and his hugged you goodbye, Remus and Sirius following, he couldn’t bring himself to move. So, James forced a smirk.
“Try not to terrorize the city.”
You forced one back. “No promises.”
But when you opened the car door, something in him cracked quietly.
He looked at the ground, because if he looked at you, he might’ve said something stupid.
Or too honest like, “Stay.”
The engine started.
Your hand lifted in a small wave.
And James felt something slip out of his life he couldn’t name.
Your mom cried harder. Your dad pretended he wasn’t crying. His parents looked emotional too.
James stayed on the driveway long after the car disappeared. Sirius nudged him. “You alright, mate?”
James nodded once, swallowing hard.
When the car turned the corner, his face fell. Completely, painfully. He looked like someone who’d been trying not to hope and failed anyway. Remus studied him for a moment and said gently,
“You’ll see her soon.”
But James didn’t see you soon.
You left. You built a life.
You didn’t come home for Christmas that year.
Or the next.
He didn’t say it out loud, but it sat heavy in him anyway.
And he tried to move on, he really, genuinely tried.
But no one else made him feel the way he felt when you grabbed his arm at sixteen, or brushed his hand at seventeen, or said goodbye at eighteen with that tiny, wavering smile.
Two years became a quiet ache he never talked about.
He kept the old holiday lights in a box in his closet because you liked the color of them.
He picked up your favorite drink at the café sometimes without thinking.
He still caught himself looking for your car around town.
He was the only one surprised when he realized he hadn’t moved on at all.
summary you visit your aunt in the countryside for the summer
warnings not proof read, other than that none, just pure fluff and james being an idiot
pairing cowboy!james potter x city girl!reader
sorry if i got any detail wrong! first james fic let’s gooo
The bus wheezed to a stop like it had been begging for the sweet release of death since it pulled out of the station. Heat slapped you the moment you stepped off, thick enough to make the air shimmer above the dirt road. You adjusted the slipping strap on your shoulder and took in the view.
You were looking at… Well, not nothing, exactly—just endless fields, fences stretching towards the horizon, and horses grazing under the lazy sun.
You’re only meant to spend a few weeks with your aunt in that sleepy stretch of countryside, the kind of place where the air tasted clean and the stars actually bothered to show up at night. You didn’t expect much from it. Maybe a tan. Maybe boredom. Definitely dust on your shoes.
You dragged your suitcase through the dirt, silently cursing its tiny wheels and the strap that would not stay put, loaded your bags into your aunt’s truck and were on your way.
What you didn’t expect however, was the boy leaning against the fence when you arrived at the ranch.
He was tall, sun-browned, curls sticking out from under his hat, shirt sticking to his shoulders from the heat. He was laughing with someone when he noticed you stepping out of your aunt’s truck, and his smile faltered. He froze, blinking once. Twice.
“Afternoon,” he said when your aunt introduced him. James Potter. His voice had that soft-rough sound people get from working outdoors all their life.
You muttered a polite hello, already feeling the weight of his gaze as he tipped his hat at you. You’d been here five minutes, and somehow this cowboy—boots, dirt-smudged hands, all of it—had you feeling like you’d stepped into a story someone forgot to warn you about.
When your aunt went to grab lemonade, you tugged your suitcase toward the porch—only for the wheel to catch on a loose board. You stumbled.
James moved before you even gasped, one hand wrapping around your waist steadying you.
“Careful.” he said, voice suddenly low enough to make your breath hitch. He was close enough for you to smell the apple orchard stuck on him.
You nodded, dazed, then stepped back a second later, cheeks burning, and James stared down at his empty hands like he wasn’t sure what to do with them now.
Later that day, your aunt sent him to help you with the hay in the shed. Apparently, James offered before she even finished asking.
“You sure you’re alright with all this?” he asked while the two of you lifted a bale together.
“I’m not as fragile as I look,” you told him raising a brow.
He grinned. “Didn’t say you were. Just being polite.”
He wasn’t just being polite. Any time you reached for something heavy, he was suddenly there. Any time you said you could do it on your own, he let you try, but he hovered—hands ready, expression soft with something he wasn’t saying.
You caught him staring at your bracelets once. He snapped his eyes away so fast his hat nearly slipped off.
And the next morning, he showed up before breakfast.
Your aunt lifted a brow. “You’re here early, James.”
He shrugged. “Thought I’d see if she needed help settling in.”
And just like that, James Potter became a constant presence, offering rides into town, bringing apples from their orchard, showing you where the fireflies liked to gather. He said he was just trying to be friendly.
Sometimes he’d look at you like he was trying to memorize you. Then he’d look away, pretending he hadn’t done it at all.
You didn’t tell him he wasn’t subtle.
You adapted faster than you expected, mostly because of him. He taught you how to feed the horses—Comet, the dramatic sweetheart, who will get offended if you don’t feed him first, and Marigold, who was a bit skittish of you at first, but warmed up quickly once you gave her a few strokes—he walked the pasture with you, and handed you water bottles like he kept track of your hydration levels.
★
One evening, the sunset spilled gold across the barn while you carried a bucket of feed. James leaned against Comet’s stall, gaze soft in a way that twisted something deep in your chest.
“You’ve got straw in your hair,” he murmured.
“Oh.” You reached up blindly.
“Here,” he murmured, stepping close and hesitantly raising his hand.
His fingers brushed your hair, gently tugging the straw free. He didn’t step back right away. His hand hovered near your cheek, and he looked down at you with an intensity that made your breath stutter.
“You’re doin’ good here,” he said quietly.
“Thanks to you.”
His jaw flexed like he wanted to say something else. He pointed at the bucket instead . “Finish feedin’ Comet before he starts complainin’.”
You scoff with a smile and a shake of your head.
★
People talked about Remus Lupin the way people talk about legends—quiet, steady, half-quiet, half-storm. James especially talked about him like people talk about royalty. You didn’t know what any of that meant until you saw him.
He was sitting on the back porch, boots propped up on a railing he probably built himself. Tall. Broad. Dust in his hair and a book sticking out of his back pocket. A flannel worn soft. And eyes that flicked over you with a slow, thoughtful curiosity, like he was memorizing things without meaning to.
James lit up the way Ray’s ass did when he was singing for Evangeline.
Remus saw you and raised an eyebrow so high it nearly hit his hat brim.
“This her?” he whispered.
James elbowed him hard. “Yes.”
Remus’s slow grin said it all. Then, he turned back to you with a gentler expression. “He’s been talking about you.”
Your stomach did something inconvenient. “Oh?”
James coughed loudly, ears turning pink. “No I haven’t.”
“Every day,” Remus ignored him. “I’d say it’s cute, but he might throw a boot at me.”
You laughed, and Remus smiled like he liked the sound. James narrowed his eyes at him.
“I swear t’god, Rem—”
Remus shook your hand, warm and steady, eyes amused as he glanced at James, who was trying—and failing—to look casual.
Later, when you walked away, Remus nudged James with a smirk. “You like her.”
James swallowed. “Yeah…”
“And you’re trying not to.”
James rubbed his face. “Shut up.”
Remus only grinned.
Because James was falling. Hard.
And he hadn’t even hit the ground yet.
A week later, just when you’d settled into a rhythm of mornings with your aunt and afternoons with James, the quiet of the countryside cracked open.
You were just coming back from town when the sound of tires crunching on gravel echoed through the yard. A sleek black car—wildly out of place—came rolled up the dirt road, tires kicking dust into the air. The windows were too tinted, the music too loud, and the driver leaned halfway out like he’d never seen a farm in his life.
You blinked, your heart jumping.
“No way.”
The door swung open and out climbed—
“SIRIUS?!”
Your best friend stepped out like the cover of a fashion magazine: sunglasses, silver jewelry, painted nails, black silk button-down tucked into tailored pants that had no business being this far from civilization.
He spread his arms dramatically. “Surprise, babe!”
You ran full-speed and he caught you, spinning you around like the world owed him wind effects. He smelled like expensive cologne and cigarettes.
“Why are you here?!” you half-laughed, half-yelled.
“To rescue you from—” He waved a hand vaguely. “—all this sand-colored… nature.”
“There’s literally no sand.”
“It FEELS like sand.”
You hugged him again, and he sank into it, muttering something about how you smelled like the outdoors and emotional stability.
You were still laughing when you heard the unmistakable crunch of boots behind you. James arrived a minute later, leading his horse from the stable, hat tilted back, shirt damp with sweat. He froze when he saw Sirius’s arms still wrapped around you.
“Who the hell is that?” Sirius whispered, gesturing toward James with a perfectly manicured hand, slowly pushing his sunglasses down, eyeing him like he was a particularly attractive statue. Then he whispered—still loud enough for everyone to hear—“My god, it’s like the Marlboro Man had a baby with a Greek God.”
“Sirius,” you hissed.
“What? I’m gay, not blind.” He whispered defensively.
James walked over slowly, jaw tense in a way you hadn’t seen before. “Friend of yours?”
“Childhood best friend,” you confirmed. “Sirius, this is James.”
Sirius stuck his hand out. “Hi. I’m very hot.”
James blinked. “Okay.”
You covered your face.
Your aunt insisted Sirius stay for dinner. He sat at the table like he was at a five-star restaurant, trying every dish twice, asking what herbs your aunt used, then complaining when he realized those herbs had been grown in a garden instead of purchased at a store.
James was very quiet. He barely spoke between bites. Barely looked up. But every time Sirius leaned across you to grab something, James’s jaw ticked. Every time Sirius made you laugh, James shifted in his seat like he couldn’t get comfortable.
After dessert, Sirius pulled you into your room to talk while you got him settled.
“So,” he said, sprawled across your bed. “He’s gorgeous.”
“Stop.”
“He’s also in love with you.”
“He is not.”
Sirius raised a brow. “He looks at you like you hung the moon and also personally invented peaches.”
You tried to brush it off. “He’s just nice.”
“He’s obsessed with you.”
“He barely knows me.”
“People don’t need time.” Sirius flopped onto his back dramatically. “They just need one moment.”
You didn’t argue, but you also didn’t admit the truth.
One moment had been all it took for James Potter.
You were starting to wonder if one moment was all it had taken for you, too.
When you stepped out later, James was in the hallway, fixing something on the old bookshelf even though it definitely didn’t need fixing.
He straightened when he heard your footsteps. “Everything okay with your friend?”
“Yeah. He’s settling in.”
James nodded, but he seemed distracted. You realized his eyes kept flicking toward your door like he could still see Sirius behind it.
“You two seem close,” he said.
“We grew up together.”
He nodded again, slower this time. “That’s… nice.”
It wasn’t the word he wanted to use.
You didn’t know what to do with the softness in his eyes.
You didn’t know what to do with how much it mattered to you.
And James, who’d been bold with his charm before, suddenly seemed shy in a way that made your breath catch.
“I’m glad you’re here,” he said. “Both of you. But mostly… you.”
You swallowed. “I’m glad I’m here too.”
He smiled, but it was a quiet one. A real one. One that settled somewhere deep in your chest.
★
Sirius adjusted to country life faster than anyone expected, with the addition of his own flair.
On the first day he nearly fainted when he saw a spider.
On the second, he made friends with the rooster.
By the third, he swore he could “live deliciously off the land,” which was very bold considering he still refused to touch mud.
James watched the whole transformation with that guarded expression he tried to pretend wasn’t jealousy. He kept busy around the property, stacking hay, fixing fences, brushing horses, but his eyes cut toward you every time Sirius got within three feet of you. Not in a hostile way. Just… tense. Protective. Wary.
Remus took notice.
The three of you were in the barn when Sirius wandered in wearing one of your scarves like some dramatic prince exiled to the countryside. Remus paused mid-task, his expression settling into something between amusement and understanding.
Sirius stopped next to you and draped an arm over your shoulder. James stiffened.
Remus leaned close to him. “You’re not subtle.”
James frowned. “Not subtle about what?”
Remus gave him one long, slow look.
James blinked, then sighed. “Oh.”
They watched Sirius twirl the scarf around his fingers while you tried to explain how bales of hay actually worked. He nodded like he understood and immediately misused every term you’d taught him.
James groaned under his breath. “He doesn’t even know the difference between straw and hay.”
When James shot him a confused look, Remus added, “He’s trying to impress her.”
James’s jaw tightened.
“But,” Remus continued, watching Sirius with a faint smirk, “he’s not trying to impress her like that.”
James blinked again. “Then why is he hanging all over her?”
Remus raised both brows.
Understanding dawned a second later.
“Oh,” James said again, but slower. “Oh.”
That evening, your aunt set up dinner outside because the heat finally broke. Fireflies floated around the porch as you sat down, and Sirius sighed dramatically like he’d never seen something so romantic.
Remus was already seated. Sirius stopped mid-stride.
You watched something shift in Sirius’s eyes. Like he’d just spotted his favorite artwork in a museum.
“I’m wonderful, God He’s—He’s—holy—” he whispered, dazed.
James muttered under his breath, “Oh, this is gonna be entertaining.”
He didn’t even look at him. “I’m sorry, but—look at him.”
Remus chuckled under his breath, and the sound nearly made Sirius sway.
Halfway through dinner, Sirius leaned forward. “Remus, you do leatherwork?”
Remus nodded. “I do.”
“I love leather,” Sirius said, then paused. “I mean… not like… I don’t—well, I do—but not in a weird way, just… in an appreciative-of-the-craft way.”
Remus stared at him. Slowly, a smile tugged at his mouth. “Good to know.”
You tried not to laugh. James tried not to glare. Sirius tried not to ascend into the clouds.
Later, you were washing dishes with your aunt, Sirius was drying them terribly, and James stood in the kitchen doorway, fiddling with his hat like he was trying to build courage out of thin air.
Remus joined him and bumped his shoulder lightly. “Talk to her.”
“I talk to her all the time,” James muttered.
“Not like that,” Remus said. “Tell her how you feel.”
James looked horrified. “I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because… what if she doesn’t feel the same?”
Remus sighed. “Mate. She looks at you like the world quiets down a little when you walk into the room.”
James’s breath caught. He swallowed hard, hands tightening around his hat brim. “I just… don’t want to mess it up.”
“You won’t.”
“That’s what you think.”
Remus nudged him again. “Then let her decide.”
James didn’t walk into the kitchen right away. He needed a moment. His eyes flickered to you—hair tied up, sleeves pushed past your elbows, laughing softly at something Sirius said. You looked relaxed. Sunlit. Alive.
James’s expression softened so much it almost hurt to watch.
“Yeah,” he murmured. “Maybe.”
The next morning, Sirius—wearing his black tailored pants, a shirt unbuttoned far too low for the countryside, and sunglasses so reflective you could see your own confusion in them—hatched a plan.
“A good romance needs a nudge,” he said, sipping coffee like he was plotting world domination.
“A nudge?” Remus questioned.
“A gentle push.”
“You want to push them?”
“In spirit.”
Remus sighed deeply, which only encouraged Sirius more.
His grand plan was simple: he’d get you and James alone by offering to take your aunt into town for groceries and insisting Remus come along. You realized something was off when Sirius winked at you so aggressively your aunt asked if he was having an allergic reaction.
James realized something was off even faster.
“You going somewhere?” he asked.
“Town,” Sirius replied.
“All of you?” James asked, glancing at Remus.
“Yes,” Sirius said.
“No,” Remus answered.
Sirius glared.
Before they could argue, your aunt announced she was staying home to finish laundry. Sirius blinked. His plan collapsed. Remus looked relieved, James looked lost.
Sirius finally muttered, “This is discrimination against meddling.”
But even without the plan working, the energy had changed.
James kept glancing toward you like he wanted—really wanted—to say something.
You felt it. You didn’t know what to do with it yet.
But the stillness between you had turned into something humming and alive.
And soon, you’d both run out of ways to pretend you didn’t feel it.
★
Your aunt told you about the summer picnic as if it were the social event of the century.
“Everyone goes,” she said while setting out freshly washed sheets. “Music, food, dancing. You’ll like it.”
Sirius nearly burst into your room when he overheard.
“A party? With real people? And not just cows?” He pressed both hands to his chest. “Finally.”
You were excited too, though you didn’t say why.
James had mentioned it once in passing, trying to sound casual.
“It’s nothing fancy. Just folks having food and a good time,” he’d said. He’d looked at you a little too long when he said it.
And now that the day had arrived, there was a strange flutter under your ribs.
Sirius insisted on helping you get ready even though he had the fashion sense of someone who’d once Googled “cottagecore aesthetic” and stopped halfway through the article, but he sifted through your clothes with the enthusiasm of a stylist preparing for a runway show.
“This,” he said, holding up a soft, summery dress you’d brought but hadn’t worn yet. “Absolutely this.”
“It’s too much,” you argued
“It’s perfect,” he said. “You’ll look like you belong in a painting.”
He braided your hair with delicate care, occasionally humming under his breath. “I swear this ribbon is the same shade as your soul,” he said from behind you, tying it into your hair.
“You don’t even know what shade my soul is.”
“Dramatic pink with hints of city despair. Perfect for the countryside.”
You laughed.
“You’re glowing,” he said. “And don’t pretend it’s from moisturizer.”
You shoved him weakly. “Shut up.”
He grinned. “Someone is going to forget how to speak when he sees you.”
“You mean Remus?” you teased.
For a second, Sirius actually blushed. “Maybe. But I wasn’t talking about him.”
You didn’t have time to think about that reply because your aunt called both of you downstairs.
You stepped onto the porch just as James got out of his truck. Remus was already there, talking quietly with your aunt.
James turned at the sound of your footsteps.
His entire body went still.
His hand slipped on the door. His hat tilted back a little. He didn’t blink for a long moment, and when he did, it was slow, like the world had knocked the wind out of him.
You’d seen James look at sunsets, horses, fields full of golden light.
He had never looked at anything the way he looked at you in that dress.
“Hi,” you said shyly.
He opened his mouth. Nothing came out.
Sirius whispered, “Told you.”
Remus coughed to hide a laugh.
James finally found his voice, barely. “You look… really beautiful.”
You felt suddenly warm all over. “Thanks. You look nice too.”
He didn’t look nice.
He looked undone.
His curls were a little messier than usual, his shirt fitted in a way that made you overly aware of his shoulders, sleeves rolled up, and his eyes kept dropping to your lips in a way he probably didn’t mean to let you see.
“Ready?” he managed.
“Yeah,” you said, even though your knees were questionable.
He walked beside you on the way to the truck, but he didn’t look anywhere else.
Not once.
The field was strung with lights. Tables were set up in long rows, covered in food and mason jars and wildflowers. People laughed and danced near the bandstand while children ran between blankets laid out in the grass.
Sirius looked around like he’d discovered an alien civilization. “It’s like a festival,” he whispered.
Remus smiled. “Told you.”
James kept close without making it obvious. Anytime someone bumped into you, his hand brushed your back. Anytime you turned your head, he was there.
Sirius abandoned you early on to flirt with three different people at once, then somehow switched gears and ended up walking along the creek with Remus, laughing at something Remus said so hard he bent at the waist. Remus looked… soft. Softer than you’d ever seen him.
James noticed too. “Seems like he’s taken with Sirius,” he said quietly.
You nodded. “Looks like it.”
But his eyes went back to you. They always did.
At one point, one of the local boys approached you. “You visiting?” he asked with an easy smile. “Never seen you around.”
James stiffened beside you.
You smiled. “Just for the summer.”
“You want company?” the boy asked.
Before you could answer, James spoke, slow and polite. “She’s got company.”
The boy blinked, then nodded and backed off, muttering about “possessive cowboy assholes.”
James pretended he didn’t hear him, but his ears went pink.
Toward sunset, someone unrolled a huge stretch of grassy hill for what everyone called a summersault. You’d never heard of it. Apparently it was a tradition where people rolled down the hill like children until they were dizzy and breathless.
Sirius dragged Remus with him. You followed, laughing as Sirius screamed the whole way down while Remus somehow maintained dignity mid-tumble.
You sat in the grass at the bottom, trying to catch your breath. James jogged down after you and dropped beside you, leaning back on his palms.
“You having fun?” he asked, looking at you like your answer mattered more than anything else happening that night.
“Yeah,” you said, smiling at the sky. “I really am.”
James watched you for a moment. You could feel it.
The air between you felt different. Softer. Closer.
He cleared his throat. “Can I, uh… tell you something?”
Your heart fluttered. “Sure.”
He hesitated, then shook his head a little and smiled. “Maybe later.”
But he didn’t move away.
He didn’t break eye contact either.
When night settled and the band switched to slower songs, people drifted toward the dance floor or the firepit.
James stood. “Want to… dance?”
Your first instinct was to say yes. Your second was panic. “I don’t really know how,” you admitted.
He smiled gently. “I’ll show you.”
He held out his hand. You took it.
His palm was warm, steady, and incredibly careful. He held your waist lightly, like he was afraid too much pressure would scare you off. You rested your hand on his shoulder. His breath caught quietly.
“Is this okay?” he asked.
“More than okay,” you whispered.
He moved you slowly to the music. You felt everything. His thumb brushing your waist. His gaze flicking to your mouth. The way he kept swallowing like he was trying to get rid of nerves he didn’t want you to notice.
Halfway through the song, his forehead rested against yours.
You didn’t think. You just breathed him in.
He whispered, “I really, really like you.”
Your heart jumped. “James…”
“You don’t have to say anything. I just… I wanted you to know.”
You looked up at him. He looked down at you. Your faces were close, close enough that you felt the warmth of his breath on your lips, but he didn’t lean in.
He let the moment sit there. And you did too.
Because you weren’t quite ready to kiss him—not yet—but you didn’t want him to stop wanting to.
His thumb brushed your cheekbone. “I think about you all the time,” he admitted softly, almost like he wasn’t sure he’d said it out loud.
You leaned into his touch, just slightly.
“James…”
He swallowed. “I know. No rush.”
He took his hand back with a slow breath, like it hurt him to stop touching you but he’d do it if that’s what you needed.
Then—
“James!”
Sirius barreled into the two of you, bumping James’s shoulder. “You need to see what Remus just did!”
Remus, who had slipped away to avoid attention, glared from across the field.
James gently pressed his forehead to your temple, half laughing, half exasperated. You laughed too, but your heartbeat didn’t slow for a long, long time.
And that was the moment you realized something quiet and certain:
You were falling for him.
Later that night, while you and James were helping carry leftover dishes to the truck, Sirius pulled Remus behind a tree.
You didn’t see it happen. You only heard Remus return with pink cheeks and Sirius looking smug.
He announced, “I’m living here forever,” and Remus smiled in a way you’d never seen him smile before.
James watched them, then glanced at you, amusement softening his whole expression. “Your friend’s chaos is contagious.”
You nudged him. “You like him.”
“I like you,” he said before he could stop himself.
Your stomach swooped.
“And him too, I guess,” he added quickly, cheeks warming.
You couldn’t hide your grin.
James drove you home. Fireflies glowed in the fields, and the night had that warm, quiet feeling that makes everything feel possible.
summary a loyal knight and the young king she’s sworn to protect spend years hiding their love in the shadows. until he chooses her over tradition, risking his crown to build a kingdom founded on trust instead of duty.
pairing king!james potter x fem!knight!reader
warning mention of injury (?), sirius makes the occasional appearance 13.8k ish
The first thing you learned about loving a king was that you could never call it that.
You were knighted the same year James Potter was crowned ruler of Avelaine. The kingdom had not yet grown used to the sight of him at the throne—twenty years old, gold circlet bright against dark curls that refused to behave. You knelt beneath vaulted ceilings as steel pressed to your shoulder and vows filled your lungs like something sacred and irreversible.
You sworn your sword to the crown.
Not the man.
The distinction mattered.
You repeated it often enough that you almost believed it.
Avelaine rose from the cliffs in white stone and sea wind. The palace overlooked the harbor like something carved from salt and sky, banners snapping sharp in the coastal gusts. It was beautiful.
It was also watched.
Everything within those walls was watched.
Especially the king.
Especially the knight who rarely stood more than a step from his side.
James ruled with an ease that unsettled older lords. He listened more than they expected. Walked the markets without escort if you didn’t physically block his path. Asked questions no one had asked in decades. He believed in his people without calculation.
That frightened men who preferred distance.
Your mornings began before dawn, blade cutting through mist in the courtyard while the palace slept. Training steadied you. It kept your body honest when your heart threatened rebellion.
He found you there more often than he should have.
“You know,” James called one morning from the balcony above, hair loose, sleeves rolled, “most knights don’t practice like invasion is scheduled for breakfast.”
“Most kings don’t wake before sunrise,” you replied, not breaking your rhythm.
His laugh—bright, unguarded—spilled into the quiet.
He descended moments later without crown or regalia, looking more like a stable hand than a monarch.
“You’re going to shame the royal guard,” he said, circling as you finished a sequence.
“They should be shamed,” you answered evenly. “They’re slow.”
He grinned. “You’re terrifying.”
“I’ve been told I’m comforting.”
That made him laugh again.
You told yourself the warmth that sound stirred in your chest was merely loyalty.
Sirius Black arrived in the dead of winter under no banner and no escort.
A northern prince in exile—officially estranged, unofficially hunted. He rode into Avelaine under the cover of darkness, fury poorly disguised as charm.
James embraced him without hesitation.
“You look terrible,” James said, pulling him close.
Sirius saw too much too quickly. He watched you with sharp curiosity the first evening and smirked as if he’d uncovered a secret no one had yet spoken aloud.
“You’re the knight,” he said. “That tracks.”
“Try not to cause trouble,” you told him.
He grinned. “I never do. It just follows me.”
He noticed the way James’s voice steadied when speaking to you. The way you angled your body in every room—not behind, not beside, but subtly between.
He said nothing.
He only watched.
Court life was a performance. You stood close enough to protect him, far enough to preserve the illusion. Your hand never touched him in public. Your gaze never lingered.
But you knew the signs of his fatigue—the tightness in his jaw when a lord pushed too far, the thumb pressed against his signet ring when weighing a decision. And he knew yours. He knew when your grip on your sword meant anger. When silence meant hurt.
On the night of the Winter Council, torchlight glared too harshly against the throne room. Without thought, you shifted so your shadow fell across him, blocking the worst of it.
He noticed. He always noticed.
Later, on the battlements, crown abandoned beside him, he said quietly, “sometimes I feel like I’m pretending. Like someone will tap my shoulder and tell me I’ve had my turn.”
“You’re not pretending,” you replied.
“I don’t feel like I’m enough.”
You stepped closer, armor brushing lightly against the fabric of his sleeve. An accident, if anyone were watching.
“You are,” you said. “All of the kingdom sees it.”
It was the closest you ever came to tenderness in daylight.
From the archway behind you, Sirius’s voice drifted lazily. “If you two get any closer, I’ll need to draft wedding invitations.”
James flushed instantly. You did not.
Spring brought unrest before it brought warmth.
Reports arrived first—raiders testing the northern ridge, supply routes harassed, minor clashes that felt less like accidents and more like measurements. Avelaine’s borders were being studied.
James insisted on riding with the battalion.
“You are the king,” you reminded him as armor was fastened and horses saddled.
“I am their king,” he corrected even,y. “If I don’t stand with them, I don’t deserve the title.”
There was no arguing with that version of him.
You rode at his side through churned earth and smoke, wind stinging your eyes, steel heavy in your grip. The clash came loud, chaotic, and disorienting.
A blade flashed toward James from the left.
You moved before any thought.
Steel struck steel. The impact jarred through your bones, knocked breath from your lungs. Pain flared sharp along your ribs, hot and immediate, but you held your footing. Forced the attacker back. Drove him down.
When the skirmish broke and dust began to settle, James was beside you before the last shout faded.
His face had gone white beneath grime and sweat.
“You’re bleeding,” he said.
“It’s shallow.”
“It isn’t.”
His hand lifted toward you on instinct—then stopped as soldiers closed in around you. He caught himself, fingers hovering midair before dropping to his side.
Composure returned to him like armor snapping into place.
Later, inside a dim command tent thick with the smell of iron and damp canvas, the healer examined the wound. It was deeper than you’d admitted, but not fatal. Not close.
She stepped out to fetch fresh bandages, the excuse transparent.
James knelt in her place.
He cleaned the cut himself, movements careful and tense.
“You don’t get to do that,” he murmured.
“Do what?”
“Decide that your life is expendable because mine isn’t.”
“You’re worth it,” you said simply.
He swallowed hard. “That isn’t the point.”
“It is to me.”
His hands stilled for half a second before resuming their work. He tied the bandage with unnecessary precision, fingers lingering longer than required.
“I can’t lose you,” he said quietly.
The admission was almost swallowed by the wind pressing at the tent walls.
“You won’t,” you replied.
It was the first time fear outweighed protocol.
Years gathered in moments like that.
The court saw nothing improper. Taverns sang of a brave knight and a principled king, but never of love. You stood at his right hand in council. You steadied his crown before ceremony. You rode beside him into danger.
But in stairwells, your shoulders brushed. In courtyards, your fingers grazed when passing practice blades. In long nights thick with exhaustion, honesty hovered just beyond reach.
It was enough.
Until it wasn’t.
The first time James forgot himself, it was late.
Maps spread across his study table. Candlelight low. The castle asleep.
Sirius had vanished hours earlier with a bottle of something expensive and ill-advised.
You stood beside James, tracing a flooded trade road with your finger.
“If we reroute through the western pass,” you said, “we spare the villages entirely.”
James hums thoughtfully, leaning closer to see.
Closer than necessary.
Your shoulders touched.
Normally, he would shift away, make the distance deliberate. But he doesn’t.
Instead, his hand came up slowly and rested at the small of your back. just resting there, warm through the thin fabric beneath your armor straps.
You went still.
He continues studying the map, thumb moving unconsciously in a small arc against your spine.
“That makes sense,” he murmured. “You’re always three steps ahead of me.” His voice had softened—less sovereign, more James.
“You make the final call,” you said carefully.
“Only because you keep me from making the wrong one.”
It was said lightly, but it did not feel light at all.
When he finally stepped back, the air felt different. Charged. As though something had shifted its weight. A boundary had been tested, And it was found wanting.
After that, he grew braver.
Only in private.
Always in private.
He stood closer when speaking. Close enough that warmth replaced formality. Close enough that brushing arms no longer felt accidental.
Before patrols, when you adjusted your gauntlets, he would step in without asking.
“Hold still,” he’d say, voice gentle.
He would fix a strap that did not require fixing. Tighten a buckle that had never loosened.
His knuckles graze your wrist.
You never commented.
“There,” he’d murmur. “Wouldn’t want my best knight uncomfortable.”
He didn’t say it like a title, but something more.
One evening, Spring rain trapped you in the west tower.
The storm rolled hard off the sea, thunder rattling the glass panes. You had been on watch when he climbed the steps carrying a cloak you’d forgotten.
“You’ll freeze,” he scolds lightly, draping it around your shoulders.
His hands lingered at your collar as he adjusted the fabric.
You looked up.
He was closer than ever before. Rain darkened the edges of his hair. His expression was steady, but his hands trembled faintly.
“You don’t have to bring this yourself,” you say quietly.
“I know.” He doesn’t step back.
His hands slid down your arms, settling lightly at your elbows.
“You take care of everyone,” he said. “Let me take care of you.” It’s almost shy, and something inside you gives away.
After that, his touch changed.
It wasn’t accidental anymore.
A hand at your waist as he passed behind you. Fingers brushing yours when offering a cup. Once—only once—he tucked a stray strand of hair behind your ear.
He paused afterward, watching carefully. Waiting.
When you didn’t move away, his thumb hovered near your cheek a moment longer than properly allowed.
“You’re always so composed,” he said softly. “Does it ever exhaust you?”
“Yes,” you admitted.
His gaze warmed. “You don’t have to be, with me.”
The gentleness of it was far more dangerous than boldness would have been.
Sirius noticed. Of course he did.
He watched James drift nearer during quiet conversations. Watched how easily James’s hand found your arm. Watched how you didn’t pull away.
For once, he doesn’t interfere. He leans back, arms crossed, expression unreadable but faintly satisfied.
And lets it happen.
You find him in his chambers at the end of a long day. There is no armor or crown. No posture carefully arranged for the court. Only lamplight and fatigue.
James sits on the edge of his bed, sleeves rolled to his elbows, hair falling into his eyes. You stand near the door, delivering your usual report— troop rotations, council correspondence, the minor disputes settled before supper.
He isn’t listening.
He’s watching you.
You feel it before you acknowledge it, and when you finish, silence lingers.
Then he stands. Slowly deliberately.
He closes the space between you without breaking eye contact. No court. No advisors. No witnesses.
Just him.
Just you.
He stops close enough that you feel the warmth of him.
“You know,” he says quietly, “I think I’m allowed one selfish thing.”
Your voice is steady by effort alone. “And what would that be, Your Majesty?”
His mouth curves faintly at the title.
“You.”
The word leaves him unguarded. Almost surprised.
His hand rises—not impulsive, but certain—and settles at your waist. Not tentative anymore. Anchoring. His forehead rests briefly against yours, as if he needs the contact to steady himself.
“You are not just my knight,” he murmurs. “You’re the only place I don’t have to pretend.”
You lift your hand slowly and press your palm against his chest. His heartbeat is fast and uneven beneath your fingertips.
“So are you,” you whisper.
He exhales, thumb tracing a quiet line along your side.
“I won’t hide from this anymore,” he says softly. “Not with you.”
When he pulls back, he doesn’t release your hand. His fingers lace through yours as if they’ve always belonged there.
Maybe they have.
James does not become reckless with you.
Maybe braver, but where walls protect you both.
In the inner courtyard, he insists on sparring—claims it keeps him sharp. In truth, he likes that you never treat as fragile.
You disarm him neatly.
He laughs, breathless, raising his hands in surrender.
“You’re insufferable.”
“You’re slow, your Majesty”
“I’m distracted.”
You arch a brow. “By what?”
Instead of answering, he steps closer. Close enough that your boots nearly touch.
“You,” he says plainly.
No smirk. No teasing. Just truth.
His hand lifts, brushing a curl from your forehead. He has done it before, but this time his fingers move slower, knuckles trailing the line of your temple before skimming your cheek.
“You look different when you fight,” he murmurs.
“How?”
“Like you’ve already decided you’ll win.”
His hand slides lightly to the side of your neck. Not gripping. Just resting.
Your pulse jumps under his touch.
His eyes darken slightly at the feel of it.
“James,” you warn softly.
It affects him more than it should. His breath shifts. His fingers flex gently against your neck, then slide down to your shoulder instead. “We’re alone.”
“I know.”
He searches your face, suddenly serious.
“Tell me if I cross a line,” he adds, softer now. “I never want to take advantage of the quiet.”
Your chest tightens. “You won’t,” you tell him. “You’re not that man.”
Relief flickers across his features. Then—because he’s James—he presses a brief kiss to your temple.
It’s maddeningly gentle.
During late strategy meetings, he sits closer than necessary. Knees brushing beneath the table. His hand resting over yours while discussing something serious, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world.
While reading correspondence aloud, he absently drags his thumb across your knuckles. Slow. Thoughtful. Distracted.
“You’re not listening,” he says without looking up.
“You’re distracting me.”
A pause.
Then, softly, pleased, “Good.”
Another night finds you in his chambers again, no maps, no politics—just quiet.
He sits on the floor by the hearth, boots discarded. Firelight glides his profile. You lean against the bedpost, watching the flames.
“Sirius told me I look different,” he says after a while.
“That is deeply concerning.”
He huffs a laugh. “He meant softer.”
You study him. “Do you?”
He looks at you over his shoulder. “Do I?”
You hesitate.
“Yes.”
He rises and crosses the room unhurriedly.
“I don’t mind that,” he says. “Not if it’s because of you.”
He stops in front of you, closer than breath.
His hand settles at your waist. Firm now. Not testing. Not questioning.
“You make me want to be careful,” he admits. “With you. With myself.”
Your hand comes up to his chest again, feeling the steady rhythm beneath your palm.
“You are careful.”
“Only where it matters.”
He bends first, brushing his nose lightly through your hair. Then along your cheek.
When his mouth finally finds yours, he does not rush.
He pauses first— giving you time to refuse.
You answer by closing the distance.
The kiss deepens slowly. No urgency. No claim. Just warmth and careful pressure and the quiet understanding that this has been building for years, the restraint finally dissolving.
His hand slides from your waist to the small of your back, drawing you closer with steady confidence. The other lifts to cradle your jaw, thumb resting just beneath your ear as though memorizing the shape of you.
When he pulls away, he doesn’t go far, forehead to forehead, breaths uneven.
“I’ve been wanting to do that,” he admits softly.
“For how long?” you ask lightly.
He gives a soft, almost embarrassed laugh. “Long enough to be insufferable about it. Poor Sirius.”
You smile, brushing your mouth against his again.
This time the kiss lingers. Slower. Deeper. Less hesitant.
Affection becomes instinctive after that.
He pulls you into his lap while reviewing letters. Wraps an arm around your waist when you stand together at the balcony. Rests his chin on your shoulder simply because he can.
“You’re brilliant,” he murmurs one evening after you dismantle a border dispute with three sentences.
“You’re biased.”
“I am,” he agrees. “Doesn’t make it untrue.”
He presses a kiss to your knuckles as if it’s instinct.
In public, nothing changes.
You stand at his right. He sits on the throne. Discipline and distance remain intact
But in quiet corridors, when no one is watching, his fingers find yours without hesitation.
And the first night you lie beside him—not as king and night, but simply as two people who have finally found their solace—he traces idle patterns along your spine.
“I like that you’re still my knight,” he murmurs against your hair.
You tilt your head back to look at him. “I am.”
He smiles faintly, brushing a slow kiss across your shoulder.
“And I like that I’m still yours.”
There is no grand declaration. Just certainty.
He begins coming to you instead of sending for you.
A soft knock at your chamber door before court, and his voice on the other side.
“Are you indecent,” he calls lightly, “or am I about to be disappointed?”
You open the door half-armored, hair still damp.
He always looks absurdly pleased when he sees you like that.
“I thought,” he says casually, eyes far too warm, “you might walk with me to breakfast.”
“You have servants for that,” you tease.
“I don’t want servants.”
As you turn to collect your gloves, his hands settle at your hips from behind. He rests his chin briefly against your shoulder.
“Stay,” he murmurs. “Just for a second longer.”
You do.
His hold isn’t possessive, it’s home.
When you lace your fingers over his, he exhales softly against your neck, as if that small permission means more than any crown ever could.
And for the first time, loving him doesn’t feel like something forbidden.
You discover that he likes brushing your hair by occident.
You’re sitting at the edge of his bed, armor shed piece by piece, exhaustion pooling in your bones. He stands behind you, fingers working loose the final leather strap from your shoulder plate.
“Turn around,” he says gently.
He sits and gestures for you to settle between his knees. Then, without ceremony, he runs his fingers slowly through your hair.
His hands move slowly, reverently. He gathers your hair back from your neck and lets it fall again, smoothing it as though memorizing the weight of it.
“You hold everything here,” he murmurs, thumbs pressing lightly into the tight line of your shoulders.
“I carry a sword,” you reply.
“And an entire kingdom’s worth of restraint.”
His hands pause. “You don’t have to be strong with me.”
“I know.”
He leans closer, voice quieter. “Then let me take care of you.”
There is nothing commanding in it. Only offering.
One night, after a particularly brutal day of council disputes, you find him sitting on the edge of his bed, shoulders bowed slightly. The crown rests on the table beside him, abandoned without thought. He looks younger without it.
You close the door and crosses the room. Without speaking, you kneel and begin unlacing his boots.
His breath catches. “You don’t have to—”
“I want to.”
You set the boots aside and look up at him.
Something shifts in his expression.
He reaches down, brushing his fingers along your jaw, then into your hair. “You undo me,” he says quietly, A faint smile tugging at his mouth. “In the best way.”
You rise just enough to kiss him—slow, steady, grounding. His hands slide into your hair as if he needs the contact more than air.
When you stand fully, he pulls you into his lap without hesitation now, as though the movement has long since been agreed upon.
Your knees settle at either side of him. His hands rest at your waist, firm and warm.
“I think I like this,” he admits.
“Being bold?”
“Being allowed.”
That softens you.
You kiss him again, slower this time. His hands tighten briefly before relaxing, always careful, always aware of you.
When you pull back, he rests his forehead against your collarbone.
In here, he lets himself be honest. He tells you you’re brilliant. That you are steady. That he trusts you more than anyone alive. And every time he pulls you closer, his shoulders ease in a way they never do in the throne room.
Outside these doors, he wears a crown. But inside them, he breathes.
The first time the conversation shifts from private to political, you are exactly where you always stand—at his right.
The council chamber smells of parchment and old stone. Sunlight stripes the long table. Lords shift with the smug assurance of men who believe lineage outranks royalty.
Lord Avery clears his throat. “Your Majesty, the stability of Avelaine depends not only on your reign, but on what follows it.”
James does not move. “Continue.”
“There is no betrothal in place. No negotiations underway. Neighboring kingdoms begun to inquire.”
You feel the word before it lands.
Heir.
It settles in your gut like a blade.
“You are beloved,” another lord adds smoothly. “But the realm requires assurance. A queen. Children.”
You keep your expression neutral.
James’s voice remains measured. “And you believe this requires urgency?”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
A pause.
You can feel the tension in him even without turning your head—the slight shift of his shoulders, the tightening of his jaw.
“Thank you,” he says at last. “I will consider what is best for the realm.”
Dismissal. The council bows. You escort him out.
The hallway beyond is empty and silent, your footsteps echoing sharply against stone.
“That was bold of them,” he mutters once the doors close.
You say nothing.
He walks faster than usual. When he reaches his chambers, he shuts the door harder than necessary.
“They speak of it like I’m breeding stock,” he says sharply. “A stud to be evaluated.”
“You knew this day would come,” you say evenly.
He turns to you. “Yes.”
“And?”
“Do you agree with them?”
The question lands heavier than the council’s suggestion.
“My duty is to the crown,” you reply carefully. “The crown requires stability.”
His expression flickers. “That wasn’t my question.”
He steps closer.
“Do you want me to marry someone else?”
Your armor feels suffocating.
“It doesn’t matter what I want.”
“It matters to me.”
There’s no anger in him. Only fear.
“The people will expect it,” you say quietly.
He exhales sharply through his nose. “I don’t care what they expect.”
“That’s not true,” you counter gently. “You care more than anyone.”
He runs a hand through his hair.
“I want a future,” he says. “But I refuse to let them choose it for me.”
He closes the distance entirely, hands settling at your back. “I have spent years pretending this is enough,” he murmurs. “Enough in shadows. Enough in private.”
His grip tightens. “They are asking me to build a life with someone else.”
The thought unsettles him visibly.
“You are king,” you say.
“And you are mine,” he answers before he can stop himself.
The room stills.
He exhales slowly.
“Not as possession. As choice.”
Your composure fractures.
“And if the realm demands otherwise?”
“Then I choose you anyway.”
“James,” you whisper. “You cannot risk the kingdom for me.”
“I’m not risking it,” he replies steadily. “I am strengthening it.”
His hand rises to your cheek. “They think a political marriage is stability. It isn’t.”
“What is?”
“Trust. Loyalty. Partnership.”
His voice lowers.
“You.”
You close your eyes briefly. “If you marry another,” you say quietly, “I will still stand at your side.”
His expression darkens, “I don’t want you beside me out of duty,” he says. “I want you there because you belong there.”
“You think I don’t know what this costs you?” he continues. “You think I haven’t seen the way you go quiet whenever the word ‘queen’ is spoken?”
You hadn’t realized he noticed. He always notices.
“I will not parade some foreign princess beside me while pretending my heart isn’t already spoken for.”
“You are asking to defy centuries.”
“I am asking to build something better.”
His fingers lace with yours.
“If they want an heir,” he says quietly, “they will have one.”
Your breath falters.
“With you.”
The words settle between you, heavy and fragile.
“That would cause scandal.”
“Let it.”
He lifts your hand and presses a kiss to your knuckles.
“I will face them,” he says. “But I will not do it without knowing you’re willing.”
“You would truly choose me?” you ask.
He doesn’t hesitate. “Every time.”
The council does not wait long to act.
Within a week, formal letters begin arriving—thick parchment sealed in foreign wax. Three neighboring kingdoms. Three proposals. Alliances dressed carefully as romance. Princesses described in polished, diplomatic language. Fertile. Educated. Well-tempered.
You stand beside James as he reads.
He shows no reaction at first. He simply folds each letter once, precisely, and sets it aside.
“Do they think I won’t notice the timing?” he says at last. “As though the council didn’t whisper ahead of them.”
You remain silent.
You have been quieter since that night. He notices that too.
“You’re retreating,” he says softly, not looking up.
“I’m considering the consequences.”
“I’ve considered them.”
“You’re not the only one who has to.”
That makes him look at you.
“You think I don’t know what they’ll say?” You asks quietly. “A king marrying his knight. A common-born woman elevated beyond her station.”
His jaw tightens. “They will not insult you without consequence.”
“They won’t need to,” you reply. “It will be written across their faces.”
He rises and walks around the desk.
“I don’t care,” he says.
“You will,” you answer gently. “When it affects the realm.”
He stops in front of you. “It affects the realm if I am divided,” he says evenly. “If I choose someone I cannot trust simply to quiet tradition.”
His hand finds yours. He does that more now—as though reinforcing something each time.
“I have ruled carefully,” he continues. “I have listened. Negotiated. Compromised. But this—“ his grip tightens slightly, “—is not something I will surrender.”
Your throat tightens. “You’re asking me to let you fight for me.”
“All I am asking is you stand beside me while I do.”
The next council session is anything but gentle.
They expect compliance.
They do not receive it.
James stands at the head of the table, composed.
“I have heard your concerns,” he begins. “And I agree that Avelaine deserves continuity.”
A murmur of approval ripples through the room.
You remain still at his right.
“But,” he continues, voice firming, “I will not enter into a loveless alliance to soothe foreign speculation.”
The murmuring falters.
“You speak of stability,” he says. “Then understand this—the strongest foundation of any kingdom is trust.”
He does not turn fully toward you. He doesn’t need to. Everyone sees.
“My knight has served this crown with loyalty unmatched,” he continues. “She has ridden beside me in battle. Stood beside me in council. Guarded not only my life, but this realm.”
Every gaze shifts toward you.
“And if I am to choose a queen,” steady and unyielding, “it will be someone I already trust with my life.”
Silence. Sharp. Tense.
Lord Avery looks as though he’s swallowed something bitter. “Your Majesty,” he says cautiously, “tradition—”
“Tradition does not rule Avelaine,” James replies. “I do.”
It isn’t loud.
The matter is closed.
In the privacy of his chambers, the weight of it settles.
You close the door behind you.
He stands by the window, hands braced against stone, staring out toward the sea.
“You’ve given them no room to misunderstand,” you say quietly.
“I didn’t want to.”
You cross the room slowly. “This will not be easy.”
He turns. “I never expected it to be.”
“You could still reconsider.”
“No.”
There is no hesitation. Only conviction.
He steps toward you, hands rising to your waist—his favorite place—as though grounding himself.
“I will not spend my life wondering what would have happened if I had chosen you when I had the chance.”
The words settle deep.
“And if they resist?” You ask.
“They will.”
“And if alliances falter?”
“Then we build new ones.” His thumb brushes gently along your hip. “I will not trade you for convenience.”
Emotion threatens your composure. “And You are certain?”
“I have never been more certain.”
He lifts his hand to your jaw, thumb grazing your cheek. “You have stood at my side for years,” he murmurs. “Let me stand at yours now.”
You search his face one final time.
“Then we face them together.”
Relief flickers—subtle, but unmistakable. He leans forward, resting his forehead gently against yours.
“I was never afraid of the council,” he admits softly. “Only of losing you to duty.”
You slide your hands up his arms, resting them at his shoulders. “You won’t.”
He kisses you then. A promise.
When he pulls back, he doesn’t release you.
Outside those walls, politics will churn. Nobles will whisper. Alliances will strain, fracture, and reform.
But inside this room, it is simple.
A future no longer hidden in shadows, but claimed openly together.
The council does not retreat quietly.
Whispers thread through court for days. Some lords avoid your gaze altogether. Others look at you too directly, calculations thinly veiled, as though measuring how high you might climb—and how far you might fall.
James pretends not to notice, But you see it in the way he keeps you closer now. Not tucked behind him, but closer in every sense.
At dinners, his chair shifts subtly toward yours. His hand settles at the small of your back. His fingers brush yours beneath the table without apology.
He is done being careful.
After another exhausting debate about succession law and “precedent,” you find him alone in the chapel balcony overlooking the sea.
Candles burn low. Salt air drifts through the narrow arches. The tide moves steadily below.
He doesn’t turn when you approach.
“I told them to begin drafting amendments,” he says quietly. “To allow a reigning monarch to marry outside the noble houses.”
You step beside him. “That is progress.”
“It’s resistance disguised as compromise.”
He exhales slowly.
“They’re afraid.”
“Of you?”
“Of change.” He glances at you, “And of loving someone they didn’t plan for.”
That last part is softer.
You study him in the dim light. He looks tired, burdened.
“You could still turn back,” you say quietly. “Marry someone they approve of. Secure alliances quickly. Avoid division.”
He finally turns to you.
“If I did that,” he asks, voice low, “would you stay?”
The question cuts through you, but you don’t hesitate. “Yes.”
He nods once. “That’s exactly why I can’t.”
You swallow.
“You deserve to be loved openly,” he says. “Not endured in shadow.”
His hand rises, cupping your cheek. “I have spent years loving you quietly,” he admits.
The word hangs between you.
Loving. Loving.
Your breath stutters. “You say that like I didn’t know.”
“I wasn’t sure I was allowed.”
He studies you for a moment—then says it plainly.
“I love you.”
The world does not shift. The sea does not roar louder. The candles do not flicker.
But something inside you settles into place.
“You were waiting for permission?” you murmur, hand sliding to rest over his heart.
He gives a quiet, embarrassed breath of laughter. “You outrank me in everything that matters.”
You shake your head faintly. “You foolish man.”
His mouth curves faintly.
“You love me too,” he says—not arrogantly, but with quiet assurance.
You step closer until there’s no space left between you.
“I have loved you,” you say steadily, “since the winter you trained until your hands bled and you refused to yield.”
His breath catches.
“I have loved you,” you continue softly, “every time you chose mercy when it would have been easier to choose pride.”
His fingers tighten at your waist.
“And I have loved you,” you finish, “long before I allowed myself to name it.”
He kisses you—hot and desperate. Relieved.
When he pulls back, he rests his forehead against yours.
“Say it again.”
You smile faintly. “I love you.”
His exhale is almost unsteady. “I love you.”
The days that follow feel different.
Not lighter, but clearer.
When the council reconvenes, James does not temper his language.
“I will marry for love,” he says plainly. “And I have already chosen.”
The reaction is louder this time. Audible shock.
You stand beside him —not hidden. Not diminished.
Sirius watches from the edge of the chamber, arms crossed, looking infuriatingly satisfied.
As you walk the corridor afterward, James laces his fingers with yours openly.
A servant passing by freezes mid-step before bowing and hurrying on.
He glances at you. “You alright?”
“They’ll talk.”
“They already are.” He squeezes your hand. “I would rather they speak truth than wonder who I might pretend to love.”
You stop walking.
“Pretend?”
He turns to face you fully.
“I cannot stand before the altar and speak vows I do not mean.”
His thumb brushes your knuckles, “I will not give anyone words that belong to you.”
Emotion rises sharp and immediate. “You are very stubborn,” you say softly.
“Yes.”
“And very foolish.”
“Also yes.” A small, sure smile. “But I am yours.”
Your hand lifts to his jaw. “And I am yours.”
He leans into your touch without hesitation.
The kingdom adjusts slowly.
Traditions strain.
But they bend.
And when he finally kneels—not as king, but as the man who chose you long before he dared to say it—there is no doubt.
No hesitation.
Only two steady voices speaking vows that were true long before they were public.
And when he says “I love you” before the entire realm, it is not whispered.
It is claimed.
Bonus Scene: The night before.
The castle is quieter than usual.
Word has spread—not officially, but enough that servants move carefully and guards stand straighter.
Tomorrow, James will formally announce your betrothal.
Tonight, it is only the two of you.
The west tower overlooks a calm sea. Moonlight stretches silver across the water.
He stands at the balcony, crown absent as always in private.
“I was hoping you’d come,” he says without turning.
“I always do.”
You step beside him.
For a moment, neither of you speaks.
Tomorrow changes everything.
“You can still change your mind,” you say quietly, because you must say it once more.
He huffs softly. “Is that fear I hear in my fearless knight?”
“It’s caution.”
He turns to you, eyes warm.
“Come here.”
You do.
He draws you into him without ceremony. Familiar. Certain.
“You know what I was thinking about?” he murmurs.
“What?”
“The first time you corrected me in front of the royal guard.”
“You were wrong.”
“I was not.”
“You were catastrophically wrong.”
He smiles against your hair.
“I remember thinking I would rather be challenged by you for the rest of my life than praised by anyone else.”
Your hands tighten slightly in his tunic.
“That was before you loved me,” you say.
He leans back enough to meet your eyes.
“I loved you then,” he says simply. “I just didn’t understand why it felt forbidden.”
“Are you afraid?” you ask quietly.
“Of marrying you?” He shakes his head. “Never.”
“Of what comes after?”
He considers that honestly.
“Of failing you,” he admits. “Yes.”
“You won’t.”
“I will make mistakes.”
“So will I.”
His thumb traces along your waist.
“Then we’ll make them together.”
He kisses your forehead. Your cheek. Your mouth.
When he pulls back, he rests his brow briefly against yours.
“Tomorrow,” he says, “I won’t be thinking about the council.”
“No?”
“I’ll be thinking about how fortunate I am.”
“You are the king.”
“And you are the reason the crown doesn’t feel like a burden.”
Silence settles comfortably around you.
After a moment, he lifts your hand and kisses your knuckles—once hidden, now unguarded.
“I love you,” he says, not because it must be declared, but because he likes the shape of it.
“I love you.”
Below, the sea moves steady and patient.
Above, the stars burn distant and ancient.
Between them stands a king and his knight—no longer hiding, no longer restrained.
summary james just wants to be loved by his best friend
pairing james potter x f!best friend reader
warning pining, james being very obvious. it’s a short one , loosely inspired by this song:
Everyone knows James Potter is incapable of subtlety.
It’s in the way he laughs too loudly at his own jokes, in the way he flies like the sky personally challenged him. And most of all, in the way he looks at you.
He doesn’t even attempt to hide it.
You’re sitting cross-legged on the rug, Transfiguration notes scattered in a hopeless sprawl around you. You’re attempting, unsuccessfully, to memorize them for your upcoming test while Sirius and Remus argue nearby about something utterly pointless and somehow very urgent.
James is supposed to be part of that conversation, but he isn’t listening.
He’s watching you instead, chin propped in his hand, gaze soft and completely unguarded.
Sirius notices first. His rant falters mid-sentence. He follows James’s line of sight and a slow, knowing smirk curves his mouth.
“Oh, for Merlin’s sake,” he mutters.
Remus tracks the shift. His gaze flicks from Sirius to James to you. He sighs like a man condemned to witness the same romantic disaster on a loop for eternity.
“Is he gone?” Remus asks mildly.
“Completely,” Sirius replies. “Not a single functioning thought.”
You glance up at the sudden quiet and catch James staring.
He doesn’t look away fast enough.
His ears turn pink.
You’ve known him too long to misread that expression. Since first year, when he offered you half his Chocolate Frog after yours escaped across the compartment floor, he’s been this way. Open, obvious, almost painfully sincere.
James has never been good at hiding what he feels. He wears it like a badge, even when it makes him vulnerable.
Especially then.
And he loves you.
He shows it in a hundred small ways. Carrying your books without asking, saving you the seat beside him at meals, waiting up in the common room when you’re out late studying.
He also shows it in other ways, like the way his jaw tightens whenevr you mention another boy’s name.
That part he tries to disguise as indifference, but you know better.
“Are you going to Hogsmeade with him again?” he asks one evening, the question is casual in theory, but it lands like a dropped plate.
You’re standing in front of the mirror, tying your scarf. “With who?”
He gives you a look. “Don’t do that.”
You hide a smile. “Maybe.”
His shoulders stiffen just slightly. “He’s an idiot.”
You laugh despite yourself, but the humor fades when he steps closer. “You deserve better,” he says quietly.
That’s what he always says. Never the choose me, or the I’m right here lodged in his throat. Just you deserve better.
You soften, because you recognize it for what it is: the bravest confession he can manage without risking everything.
You’re not brave enough to reciprocate.
“You’re a good friend,” you say gently.
The words hit harder than you intend.
He smiles anyway, because that’s what James does. He has always been good at catching hurt before it shows, tucking it behind charm and a crooked grin. He straightens, tosses back something witty, and steers the moment away from the edge.
But you see it.
You always do.
The truth is, James knows you too well.
He knows the boys you go out with don’t quite fit. He notices the way you check the time on dates. The way your laughter sometimes stops short of your eyes. He knows you want to be loved loudly. Fiercely. Without hesitation.
He just doesn’t know how to convince you that he would do it right.
It happens by the lake in late spring.
The sand is warm beneath your palms. The air glows gold as the sun dips low, stretching shadows long and soft. Sirius, Remus, and Peter are sprawled several yards away, pretending not to watch you like they’re front-row spectators at a very slow Quidditch match.
You and James, however, are sat close. Close enough that your arms brush every so often. Neither of you moves away.
You’re talking about summer plans and meaningless things. About television dramas you want to binge at home and how Hogwarts desserts could be improved. Safe topics. Comfortable ones
James watches you with that same unfiltered expression, like you’re something precious he still can’t believe is real.
“Tell me something,” he says suddenly, voice quieter than usual.
You glance at him. “That sounds ominous.”
His smile fades. “Tell me what you actually want.”
“In what sense?”
“Everything. In love, in life.”
You hesitate.
The breeze shifts, lifting a strand of hair across your face.
“I want someone who chooses me,” you admit finally. “Not just when it’s easy. Not just when it’s fun. I want someone who stays.”
James goes very still. His hand flexes in the sand beside yours.
“I’d stay,” he says before he can stop himself.
You turn toward him fully, surprised by the seriousness in his voice. He doesn’t look away.
“I know I mess around,” he continues, swallowing down the instinct to joke. “I know I’m loud and stupid half the time. But I’ve never once looked at you and thought I could walk away.” His voice roughens slightly. “I don’t want to be the safe option. I don’t want to stand here and watch you choose someone else again.”
Your heart stutters at his honesty.
“You’re my best friend,” is somehow the only thing you manage to whisper.
“I know.” He nods, quick and sure. “And I love being that. I do. I just…” His breath catches. “I want to be more. I’ve wanted that for a long time.”
Silence settles between you, fragile and full.
The sun dips lower, lighting his hair in molten gold. For once, he doesn’t laugh it off. Doesn’t dodge. Doesn’t retreat.
He just waits, completely exposed.
“What if it ruins everything?” you ask eventually.
He gives you a small, hopeful smile.
“What if it doesn’t?”
You study him, the boy who has always been there. Always steady. Always choosing you even when you pretended not to notice.
You’ve spent years wishing for someone to love you without reservation.
James has been doing exactly that all along.
“Quit thinking so hard,” he says nervously, a flicker of panic finally breaking through. “You’re terrifying when you go quiet.”
You don’t answer.
You lean forward and kiss him.
It’s soft at first. Tentative. Almost unsure.
Then he realizes it’s real, and exhales like he’s been holding his breath since first year. His hands lift carefully to cradle your face.
When you pull back, he looks stunned. Hopeful. Slightly dazed.
“Is that a yes?” he asks, voice barely steady.
You smile. “Yes.”
The word sinks into him like sunlight after a long winter.
He rests his forehead against yours, laughing quietly in disbelief.
“I was convinced I’d wake up one day and you’d never be mine,” he admits.
You brush your thumb along his cheek. “Maybe I just needed you to say it.”
He grins, warmth flooding back into his eyes. “Oh, I’ve been saying it. Just… very badly.”
You laugh.
And this time, there’s no hurt behind his smile.
He kisses you again—slow and certain now. Not desperate. Not afraid.
summary an emotionally unhinged rockstar, his terrifyingly competent manager, a secret basement comeback, and one motorcycle ride that absolutely did not help their unresolved tension.
pairing rockstar!james potter x f!manager!reader
warning sexual tension, banter
The problem with tonight is that tonight doesn’t care about logistics.
It doesn’t care that you’re an intern with a borrowed badge and a boss who clearly said this is a terrible idea before reluctantly handing you the reins. It doesn’t care that James Potter hasn’t played an intimate set in almost two years.
Tonight only cares that Minerva McGonagall asked for proof.
You pace the slick sidewalk outside Blackwood Records, phone pressed to your ear, spring rain threatening another round. The city hums around you—traffic hissing over wet pavement, distant sirens, neon flickering to life like the world senses something about to tip.
“No,” you say tightly, rubbing your forehead. “We need capacity. And atmosphere.”
The venue manager sighs. “We’re booked solid.”
“Check again,” you insist, the edge in your voice thinning into something close to pleading. “Please.”
There’s a pause on the other end where you hear a couple of papers being shuffled, then, “sorry.”
You end the call.
James leans against the brick a few feet away, arms folded, watching you like this is mildly entertaining instead of potentially career-altering. He looks calmer than he did this morning.
“That one sounded promising,” he says.
“They didn’t want you,” you reply flatly.
He winces. “Fair.”
You shoot him a look.
“Hey,” he adds, softer now. “I trust you.”
That almost undoes you.
You swallow it down and scroll again. Smaller venues. Basement bars. Rooms where sound matters more than spectacle.
Suddenly, you stop pacing.
“What?” James straightens immediately.
“There’s a place,” your pulse kicks up. “The Leaky Cauldron.”
He blinks. “The Cauldron? That’s—”
“A basement,” you finish. “Sixty people, max. No VIP section. No barricade.”
“No security.”
“There will be security,” you correct. “Just not the armored convoy you’re used to.”
He studies your face carefully. “And they’ll let me play?”
“They might,” you say. “If they’re convinced.”
You’re dialing before doubt catches up.
They answer on the third ring. You pitch like your life depends on it.
“It’s not a comeback show,” you say steadily. “It’s a reckoning. One night. Real people. No spectacle, just music.”
A beat of silence.
“Who’s the artist?”
You glance at James.
“James Potter.”
Silence stretches long enough to sting.
Then a soft laugh. “You’re insane.”
“Sure,” you admit. “But are you interested?”
Another pause.
When you hang up, you’re breathless. “Nine p.m., soundcheck at seven.”
James exhales his breath slowly, like he’s been holding it for years. “Jesus,” he murmurs. “Okay.”
By the time you arrive, the sun is slipping behind the buildings, leaving the sky bruised purple and gold.
The Leaky Cauldron is wedged between a shuttered bookstore and a neon-drenched dive bar. Unassuming. Brick darkened by age. Inside, it smells like old wood and beer and something electric beneath it. The stage is barely raised. The lighting is warm—merciful.
James steps in and looks around slowly.
“This feels right,” he says quietly.
The owner eyes him carefully. “No phones.”
He nods once. “That’s the point.”
Soundcheck is rough.
His fingers stumble on the opening chords. His voice cracks once. Then again.
You stand at the back of the room, arms folded tight, heart lodged in your throat. This is the part no one romanticizes, where confidence fractures and the ghosts creep in.
He closes his eyes. Breathes.
Starts again.
The room shifts. Something settles.
By the time doors open, the line outside is quiet. Word spread, but softly. Not frenzy—just curiosity, reverence, and people who look like they need music to mean something again.
McGonagall arrives ten minutes before showtime.
You’d texted her the moment the venue confirmed.
She stands beside you, hands clasped, eyes sharp.
“This was your choice?”
“Yes,” you answer.
She nods once. “Good.”
You don’t know if it’s approval or a test. Either way, you take it.
The lights dim.
James walks onstage with only his guitar and a microphone that’s seen better decades.
“Thank you for coming,” he says quietly.
And then he plays.
He strips his early hits down to bone and wire. The familiar melodies ache differently now. The lyrics land heavier—about pressure, anger, loving something so fiercely it nearly ruins you.
Halfway through, you glance at McGonagall.
She hasn’t moved.
At the end of the final song, there’s a heartbeat of silence. Too long.
Then the room explodes.
James stands there blinking, almost stunned. Almost disbelieving.
He looks lighter.
Backstage, he leans against the wall, chest rising hard, eyes bright in a way that has nothing to do with stage lights. You hand him a bottle of water. Your own hands are shaking.
“You did well,” you say softly.
McGonagall steps in and silence fills the small space.
“That,” she says evenly, “is the artist I signed.”
James swallows.
She turns to you.
“Summer. You’re not just repairing his reputation.”
Your chest tightens.
“You’re rebuilding him.”
And then she leaves.
James looks at you like you’ve done something miraculous.
“I first started my career in a place just like this,” he says quietly, “and you managed to start it all over again.”
You shake your head. “You did this.”
“I wouldn’t have without you.”
Later, the venue empties slowly. The adrenaline hasn’t settled yet, it still buzzes under your skin.
James drops beside you on the edge of the stage with a groan.
“I think my soul left my body during the third song.”
You smile. “You looked possessed. In a good way”
He laughs and tips his head back. Up close, he looks wrecked in the best way. Hair damp, collar tugged loose, skin flushed, chest still rising a little too fast.
“You know,” he says, “most managers don’t throw their artists into a basement with sixty strangers on day one.”
“Most artists aren’t you,” you shoot back.
He turns his head to look at you. “Is that a compliment or a warning?”
“Dealer’s choice.”
His mouth curves. “You’re terrible.”
You snort, offering him a hand. He takes it, but doesn’t stand immediately. His fingers are warm, calloused, grounding.
“I don’t think I told you,” he says, looking up at you, “you were terrifying today,”
“Terrifying?”
“In a very attractive way.”
You arch a brow. “HR would hate that sentence.”
He smirks. ”Good thing I’m your boss, I won’t snitch.”
“For now.”
He rides slowly, still holding your hand. Now he’s close. Close enough that you can smell sweat and cedar and something distinctly him.
“For now,” he agrees. “But you’re the one in charge and you like it.”
“Oh, absolutely. I live to boss around washed-up rock stars.”
He feigns injury. “Washed-up?”
“Formerly misunderstood.”
He steps closer— not touching, but enough to make you tilt your head and knock your pulse off balance.
“he says, looking up at you.
“You didn’t flinch tonight,” he says quietly. “About me. The reputation. The risk.”
You meet his gaze. “Everyone screws up. You just do it under better lighting.”
A surprised laugh escapes him.
“God,” he murmurs. “You’re funny.”
“funnier than you, that’s for sure,” you tease.
He studies you like you’re something he hasn’t figured out yet.
“Why me?” he asks suddenly.
You consider your answer.
“Because you still care,” you say finally. “And because I know what it looks like when people stop listening. I won’t do that to you.”
Something flickers in his expression— raw and unguarded. He swallows.
“Well,” he says lightly, retreating before it deepens too much, “guess I’m stuck with you.”
“You’re welcome. I charge in gold and jewels.”
“And teasing?”
“Complimentary.”
He grins, then leans in just enough that his voice drops. “You’re going to be the death of me.”
You smile sweetly. “Add it to my résumé.”
He steps back like a man physically restraining himself, dragging a hand through his hair and shaking his head as if he needs distance before he does something impulsive.
You reach for your jacket—only to realize it isn’t where you left it.
Of course.
You sigh and follow him out into the cool night air.
The street is quieter now. The post-show buzz has faded into the city’s usual hum. You pull your phone from your pocket, thumb already hovering over Peter’s name.
James snorts.
“Calling Peter?”
“Yes,” you reply without looking up. “Because I’m a responsible adult.”
He makes a face. “Debatable.”
“I am not letting you wander into the night unsupervised.” You say. “I don’t trust you.”
“They’ll turn it into a whole production,” he counters. “SUVs. Radios. Someone leaking it to the press by morning.” He glances at you, eyes gleaming. “Trust me. I’ve had enough babysitting for a lifetime.”
“So what’s your brilliant alternative?”
His grin shifts—boyish, almost mischievous. “Come on.”
He gestures for you to follow him around the corner.
You round the brick wall and stop dead.
And there it is. Low. Black. Polished to a mirror shine. Leaning against the brick like it’s aware of its own effect.
“…Absolutely not.”
James beams. “It’s a motorcycle.”
“Yes. I can see that.”
“You sound offended.”
“You rode that here?”
“Sure did.”
“You’re kidding.”
He tilts his head. “You scared?”
“Of dying?” you ask. “A little.”
“Fair,” he says. Then, gentler, “I won’t let anything happen to you.”
Before you can dismantle that promise, he grabs the helmet and steps into your space.
Too close.
He lowers it over your head, fingers brushing your cheeks as he adjusts the straps. His knuckles graze your jaw. The contact lingers a second longer than necessary.
“Hold still.”
“I am holding still.”
“You’re frowning.”
“You’re putting me on a death machine.”
He grins. “You look cute when you’re angry.”
You scoff. “I’m logging that as harassment.”
“Flirting,” he corrects automatically—then freezes. “Wait. No. HR would—”
“Stop talking.”
He laughs under his breath and shrugs out of his jacket, draping it over your shoulders before you can protest. It’s still warm from his body.
“There,” he murmurs, zipping it up himself. “Perfect.”
Your heart does something embarrassingly soft.
“I don’t need—”
“Yes, you do. You’ll freeze.”
“I’m fine—”
“Humor me.”
You swallow. “You’re enjoying this.”
“Immensely.”
He swings onto the bike with effortless confidence and pats the seat behind him.
“Hop on,” he says lightly. “And hold onto me.”
You climb on.
And deliberately grab the back of the seat instead of him.
There’s a beat of silence.
He glances over his shoulder, then fully turns his head.
“…Are you holding the bike?”
“I’m being safe.”
“That’s not how safe works.”
“How would you know?”
He laughs incredulously. “Unbelievable. I just bared my soul to sixty strangers and you won’t even touch me.”
“I don’t need to hold you.”
“That’s adorable.”
“I’m being respectful.”
“You’re being stubborn.”
He revs the engine lightly. The vibration hums through the seat, up your legs, setting somewhere inconvenient in your stomach.
“Hold onto me,” he says again, quieter this time. “Please.”
“No.”
He exhales like a tragic hero wronged by the universe. “Fine.”
Then bike glides forward—smooth, steady—
—and then he brakes sharply.
You gasp as momentum throws you forward. Your hands fly to his waist on instinct, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt.
You freeze.
Your chest presses against his back. There is no space. You can feel his heat and the solid line of his body beneath your palms. His breathing shifts slightly.
He doesn’t move.
Then he tilts his head just enough for you to hear the smile in his voice.
“There we go,” he murmurs. “Much better.”
You tighten your grip—purely out of spite.
“You’re evil.”
“I’m charming.”
“I hate you.”
“Mmh,” he eases the throttle. “Say it again when you mean it.”
The bike picks up speed—not recklessly, he wouldn’t do that when you’re with him—but fast enough that the city begins to blur. Streetlights stretching into streaks, wind rushing past your helmet.
You laugh despite yourself, breathless.
Then the road curves sharper than you expected.
Your grip tightens instantly.
“James,” you say, a little louder than you meant to.
He glances at the speedometer, then back at the road, completely unfazed. “You’re fine.”
“I would like to formally disagree.”
He chuckles. “Relax. I’ve got you.”
“That is exactly what men say right before doing something stupid.”
“You’re distracting me.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. My life just flashed before my eyes!”
“Well,” he calls back, “it’s hard to focus when someone’s trying to merge with my spine!”
“I am not—”
He accelerates just slightly.
You gasp and instinctively press closer, forehead nearly brushing his back.
“James!” you snap. “If we die, I’m haunting you.”
“That implies you’ll ever leave me alone,” he shoots back.
“Oh, you are asking for it.”
He laughs—open, easy, wind-torn.
“What are you gonna do?” He teases. “File a complaint?Write me a strongly worded email?”
“No,” you say sweetly.
Then, very sneakily, you let one hand shift.
Just enough to graze the inside of his thigh.
He jolts.
The bike stays steady, but his breath stutters, shoulders tightening instantly.
“Absolutely not,” he says, voice lower now. “You cannot do that while I’m driving.”
“Oh?” you say innocently, “better concentrate on the road then, lover boy.”
“That’s not fair,” he whines.
“You said I was the problem, I’m just proving it.”
“I meant emotionally,” he argues.
“Sure you did.”
He eases the speed down a fraction.
“You’re unbelievable.” He mutters.
“You love it.”
A pause.
“…Whatever.”
You smile inside the helmet and loosen your grip just slightly, but you don’t pull away.
“Drive,” you say. “And try not to think about it.”
He snorts softly. “That ship sailed five minutes ago.”
The engine hums steady beneath you, the city rushing by, tension coiled tight between your bodies—unspoken, unresolved, and very much alive.
summary the golden boy of pop rock is on a spiral to hell, will the intern at his record label succeed in saving him?
pairing singer!james potter x fem!manager!reader
warning no use of Y/n, and no description of reader, cursing
The thing about famous people is that they’re never supposed to look lost.
That doesn’t stop this one from looking exactly that.
He’s hunched over a chipped café table like it might swallow him whole, baseball cap pulled low enough to shadow his glasses-covered eyes. His fingers worry the cardboard sleeve of his coffee as if it’s the only thing tethering him to the room. The place smells like burnt espresso and rain-soaked coats—the kind of café interns haunt because it’s cheap, anonymous, and no one asks questions.
It helps that it’s only a two-minute walk from where you work.
You don’t recognize him at first. Not at all, in fact.
You’re waiting on the coffee Lila from accounting demanded when your eyes drift to the wall-mounted TV. A talk show host smiles brightly onscreen, mug in hand, poised to deliver the latest dirt from the fame machine.
“…It’s no secret a certain wild child of pop rock has been naughty with a capital N. But don’t take my word for it— see for yourselves.”
The footage cuts to paparazzi shots of james potter showing off his sunglasses and… not much else.
The host laughs. “That’s right! The James Potter was spotted baring all on a yacht ahead of his upcoming tour. And honestly— after all his stunts, Blackwood records must be sick of bleeding money every time he flaunts his ass. Am I right, or am I right?”
The studio audience erupts in applause just as the barista returns with your drinks.
“Thanks, John.”
“‘Course.” He nods toward the screen, frowning. “Shame, really. He’s on a hell of a downward spiral. I used to like James Potter.”
You glance between the TV and John. “Honestly? With the right PR plan and a dedicated manager, he could recover. People love a comeback. Besides, he’s got the right label for it.”
John’s grey beard frames his grin. “Can’t be that great. They’ve got their best employee fetching coffee.”
You smile, adding the last cup to the carrier, but as you turn toward the door, your thoughts lag behind.
You’ve spent three months fetching lattes for executives who say his name like it’s already past tense.
Potter’s numbers are tanking.
Potter’s brand is… unfocused.
His image is ruined.
You shake your head willing yourself to focus— and then you see it.
A black SUV parked just a little too casually. A man pretending to text. The glint of a camera lens, sharp as a threat.
Your gaze follows his line of sight to a hunched figure at a corner table. The bell over the door rings as someone enters, and the figure lifts his head just enough for you to see his face before he ducks it again.
You scan the café. No security. No handlers.
Your stomach drops.
Shit.
James Potter. Former golden boy. Two platinum records before twenty-three. Stadium tours. Tabloid girlfriends. A voice that once sounded like summer nights and cigarette smoke and the promise of something better.
Now he’s alone—jaw clenched, shoulders heavy.
And if anything happens to him here, it’d be a huge issue for the label.
You don’t think, you just move.
You slide into the empty chair across from him, set a coffee down, and say brightly— like you’ve known him forever— “You’re early. I told you one o’clock, James.”
His head snaps up.
Hazel eyes—brighter than they ever look on stage—flick from your face to the window. He spots the paparazzi instantly. You can almost see the math running behind his eyes. The exhaustion, the not again settling into his bones.
“You’re—” he starts.
You kick his shin under the table.
Hard enough to hurt. Not enough to forgive.
“Ow— what the hell—”
“Play along,” you murmur through a smile, leaning in like you’re mid-gossip. “He’s onto you. If you bolt, he’ll chase you.”
His jaw tightens. “Who are you?”
“Someone who doesn’t want you splashed across Page Six looking like a kicked puppy.”
That earns a ghost of a laugh. Barely there, but real.
You keep talking—about nothing, about everything. Loud enough to sell it, but soft enough to keep it private.
“So my boss says if I don’t finish the bridge by Friday, they’re scrapping the whole thing,” he says, rolling his eyes like he’s talking about some faceless third party.
You watch him, then slowly mirror his posture. “Yeah,” you mutter. “Sounds like him.”
Ten minutes pass. Then fifteen.
The paparazzi gets bored. Drifts off like a vulture realizing the body isn’t dying fast enough.
Only then does James exhale.
“You didn’t have to do that,” he says, rubbing his face.
You shrug. “Kind of did.”
“Why?”
This is where you should stand up. Walk away. Go back to being an intern with a half-functioning keycard and a boss who doesn’t know your name.
But you don’t.
Because he looks like someone standing at the edge of a cliff, waiting for gravity to make the choice.
“I work at Blackwood Records,” you say.
His mouth twists. “Ah.”
“I’m an intern,” you add quickly. “So don’t panic. I’m not here to spy on you.”
“Could’ve fooled me.” He stands, irritation flashing.
“I’ve heard the meetings,” you say quietly. “The way they talk about you.”
He stops.
“Then you know I’m on thin ice.”
“Yes.”
“And you still helped me.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
You meet his gaze and hold it. “Because they’re wrong,” you say. “And because you don’t need a label right now. You need someone who actually gives a damn.”
He studies you like you might be a hallucination brought on by too much caffeine and not enough sleep.
“You’re brave,” he says at last. “Or stupid.”
“Depends on the day.”
He huffs a laugh and sits back down.
“I don’t know how to fix it,” he admits. “I’ve done everything they told me to. Changed producers. Changed my sound. My look. Who I’m allowed to be seen with.” His voice cracks. “Nothing works.”
You lean forward. “What do you want to make?”
That stops him cold.
“I want my songs to sound like me,” ne says finally. “Messy. Honest. I don’t care about charts anymore. I just want to feel something again.”
Your chest tightens. “There,” you say softly. “That’s the James Potter people loved.”
He shakes his head. “That guy doesn’t sell anymore.”
“That guy built your career once,” you counter. “Let him do it again.”
Silence hums between you.
“You don’t even know me,” he says.
“I know your demos never get released. I know your best lyrics are buried because they’re ‘too raw.’ I know you’re exhausted and still showing up.”
His throat bobs.
“You shouldn’t know any of that.”
“I listen,” you say simply.
Another beat.
“What would you do,” he asks quietly, “if you were in charge?”
“I’d dim the spotlight,” you say without hesitation. “Get you into a studio with musicians who don’t care about numbers. Rebuild your sound from the bones up. And I’d fight the label like hell until they either back off or let you walk.”
He stares. “You’re an intern.”
“Yes.”
“You’d ruin your career.”
You finally smile. “I don’t have one yet.” And for once, that feels like freedom.
He laughs—warm and surprised.
“Jesus,” he murmurs. “You’re insane.”
“Probably.”
He looks down at his coffee. Then back up at you.
“What’s your name?” he asks.
You tell him.
He nods, committing it to memory like it matters.
“Take a chance on me,” you say. “Use me, I’m yours. Let me be your manager.”
He smirks, his eyes darkening. It’s clear he’s imagining doing just that. “Really?”
You clear your throat. “Why not?” you press. “You’ve tried everything else.”
After a long moment, he extends his hand across the table. “One condition.”
You take it, his grip is warm.
“If this blows up in my face,” he says, a crooked smile tugging at his lips, “we go down together.”
You squeeze his hand.
“Deal.”
Outside, the clouds begin to break.
And for the first time in a long while, James Potter doesn’t feel like the end of something.
It feels like the start.
Convincing James Potter to trust you had been the easy part.
Convincing the people who owned him?
That was an entirely different war.
Blackwood Records looks exactly the way it wants you to feel—small.
Towering glass walls. Polished floors that echo beneath every step. Offices that smell faintly of money and judgment. You’ve walked these halls a hundred times with coffee cups balanced in your arms, head held high, trying not to look invisible.
Today, James walks beside you.
No cap, no sunglasses, hair slightly too long, jacket worn soft at the elbows. He looks quieter than the version splashed across magazines.
You feel the stares immediately. Whispers ripple between assistants and A&R reps like static.
That’s him.
What’s he doing here?
Didn’t he punch someone again?
James’s jaw tightens.
You lean closer, lowering your voice. “Don’t look at them.”
“They’re gonna look anyway.”
“Let them,” you say. “This isn’t about them.”
It’s about Minerva McGonagall.
Founder of Blackwood. Industry legend. The woman who built the label from a two-room office and the radical belief that artists mattered more than algorithms—at least, that’s the myth. You’ve only seen her twice, both times from across a room, sharp-eyed and terrifyingly calm.
And today, you’re asking her to gamble.
Footsteps approach fast.
Dumbledore barrels down the hallway toward you, face flushed, glasses sliding down his nose as if they’d slipped in his haste.
“James,” he snaps, voice edged with steel. “Do you have any idea what that little stunt out there cost us?”
“Sir, I know it looks bad, but it didn’t happen the way they’re saying it did. I just need—“
Dumbledore doesn’t stop. He breezes past you as if you don’t exist, gripping James’s arm and hauling him forward.
“Guess I won’t be late to my own execution,” James mutters.
Dumbledore exhales sharply. “This attitude is precisely—”
“Why he’s here,” you cut in before you can stop yourself.
Both men turn.
Dumbledore’s brows lift. “And you are…?”
You straighten instinctively, and tell him your name. “I work in artist development.”
James shoots you a look. You ignore it.
“Intern,” Dumbledore corrects mildly.
“Yes,” you say. “For now.”
There’s a beat. Dumbledore studies you like a chessboard, already ten moves ahead.
He drags James the rest of the way down a hall and into an office marked ‘CEO’.
There, Minerva McGonagall sits behind the desk.
The room shifts.
Silver hair pulled back neatly. A tailored suit sharp enough to cut. She looks up, eyes cool and assessing, gaze flicking to James—then to you, lingering just a second longer than comfortable.
“Minerva,” Dumbledore begins.
She ignores him. “My assistant tells me James Potter requested a meeting. I was curious.”
James clears his throat. “I’m not here to beg.”
One brow arches. “Good. I despise begging.”
Dumbledore jumps in, voice tight. “Regardless, we’ve been getting calls from venues along your tour route. They’re canceling dates left and right.”
“Okay,” James says evenly. “Then book different venues. Isn’t that what I pay you for?”
You shoot him a look. Now, it’s his turn to ignore it.
McGonagall speaks before you can. “You pay us because your scandals keep multiplying, and the label keeps footing the bill to clean them up.”
Dumbledore nods. “This tour was meant to recover losses from your last crisis. Now it won’t. We believe it’s time James Potter and Blackwood Records part ways.”
You open your mouth before caution can stop you, this is your chance. “With all due respect—can't all of this be resolved with an optics clause added to James's contract?”
Silence crashes down.
Every eye turns to you. Dumbledore’s glare could shatter glass. You don’t look away.
“All of our standard contracts include one,” you continue. “If James pulls another stunt, you’d have clear grounds for termination.”
“We already have grounds,” Dumbledore snaps. “And my team is stretched too thin. Rebooking a tour on such short notice isn’t feasible.”
“I’ll do it,” you say quickly. “I’ll rebook the venues. I’ll manage the first appearances. That’s why we asked for this meeting—to propose a plan.”
Dumbledore turns fully toward you now. “This is not your place.”
Your pulse roars in your ears. “It is if it works.”
Another silence.
James looks at you, something like awe flickering across his face. He hadn’t expected you to step forward. But you do.
“The problem isn’t James’s talent,” you say steadily. “It’s his narrative.”
McGonagall taps a single finger against the desk. “Go on.”
“The press paints him as reckless. Violent. Unprofessional,” you say. “But no one asks why. They run clips without context. Headlines without truth. He’s reacting to pressure instead of being supported through it.”
“He started a fight at an afterparty.” Dumbledore cuts in.
“He stopped one,” you reply immediately. “Security footage confirms it. The articles don’t.”
“I asked,” you say simply. “People talk when you listen.”
A corner of McGonagall’s mouth twitches— not quite a smile, but close.
“And what are you suggesting?” she asks.
You square your shoulders. “We change the picture.”
Dumbledore scoffs. “With what money?”
“I'll leverage the buzz,” you say. “Brand deals. Strategic partnerships. Enough to drown out the paparazzi. Then I'll secure venues willing to take the risk.”
“Manirva, you can't be serious,” Dumbledore says sharply, and you resist the urge to roll your eyes. “She's untested—and James is practically feral.”
“Give us until the start of summer,” you press. “No forced appearances. No tabloid bait. Controlled access. Intimate performances. One charity event. One stripped-down release that reminds people why they fell in love with him.”
“This is reckless.” Dumbledore says.
“So is dropping me,” James says quietly.
That lands.
McGonagall leans back. “And your role in all this?” she asks you.
“I manage him,” you say. “Fully.”
“She’s untested,” Dumbledore insists.
“So was I,” McGonagall replies coolly. “Once.”
Dumbledore opens his mouth again. “James has a history of—”
“Being human?” you interject, sharper than intended—then soften. “Being pushed too hard, too fast, without anyone in his corner?”
James swallows.
McGonagall studies you for a long moment. Then she turns to James.
“Do you want to hire her?”
Yes,” he says without hesitation.
Dumbledore closes his eyes like he’s praying for patience.
“James needs to knock the rust off before we send him on tour,” McGonagall says at last. “Book him a show tonight. If you get through it without another incident, the tour proceeds—with you as his manager. And I’ll consider the optics clause.”
Relief tightens your chest. “Thank you, ma’am. I won’t let you down.”
McGonagall smiles then— sharp and dangerous. “Good. Because the clock is ticking. We’ll be in touch.”
The meeting ends quickly after that.
Out in the hallway, James stops.
“You were incredible,” he says quietly.
You let out a shaky laugh. “I think I just talked myself into a very public disaster.”
He steps closer. Too close. His voice drops, breath uneven.
“Hey,” he says softly. “They already think I’m trouble.” His gaze softens. “But you? You’re about to change everything.”
You meet his eyes, pulse racing. “Then let’s give them something worth talking about.”
Dean x Reader
Summary: A lifelong almost-love. Two friends tangled in jealousy, longing, and every wrong assumption that kept them apart. When fate brings them back together, they have one chance to rewrite the story that was always meant to be theirs.
Genre & Tropes: friends to lovers, yearning, jealousy, miscommunication. More jealousy. More pining. More than a sprinkle of angst.
Word Count: 2.9K
Read Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3 - Part 4 - Part 5 - Part 6
---
Dean is eighteen, but only for a few more minutes.
He hasn’t really thought about it. Birthdays aren’t a thing in his life. They’re barely a flicker on the calendar. Most years, the day comes and goes without so much as a “hey, kid,” and he’s learned not to expect anything from it. That’s safer.
There’s a soft knock on the door he shares with Sam.
He opens it to find her standing there, finger pressed to her lips.
“Come on,” she whispers.
He follows her down the wooden stairs, each step creaking in the sleepy quiet of Bobby’s house. She leads him into the kitchen, then steps aside.
There’s a cake on the table.
Homemade, a little crooked. Slightly burnt on one side.
One single candle stands in the middle of it.
She lights it, the flame flickering warm across her face, and says, “Happy birthday,” with a smile big enough to knock the air out of him.
Dean stares at the cake. Stares like he’s never seen anything like it.
His throat tightens, too tight to swallow.
“Come on,” she nudges gently, “make a wish.”
But he doesn’t. He steps forward and pulls her into a hug so tight she lets out a surprised breath against his shoulder.
“Thank you,” he whispers, voice breaking at the edges. “Thank you.”
No one has ever baked him a cake.
No one has ever stayed up just for him, much less woken him before midnight to make sure they didn’t miss it.
The kindness hits him all at once, overwhelming him to the point of stinging behind his eyes.
“Dean,” she says into the fabric of his shirt, “your wish.”
He shakes his head against her hair.
“I got everything I need,” he murmurs. “Don’t need nothing else.”
And he means it.
They sit at the kitchen table, sharing uneven slices of cake with mismatched forks.
The texture is a little dense, and the burnt part tastes like smoke.
But Dean knows nothing else in his life will ever taste this good.
Nothing.
Ever.
—
Dean is twenty, lying on his back under a busted car in Bobby’s yard.
She’s leaning against the fender above him, swinging her foot, handing him tools when he asks for them, and talking.
About everything that happened while he was gone. About school, about Bobby, about some stray cat that keeps wandering onto the porch. He listens the whole time, throwing in a comment here and there, letting her fill the air with her voice.
Until she mentions Robby.
He freezes, wrench half-raised. Then he slides out from under the car, squinting up at her through the sunlight.
“Was he here?”
“Yeah,” she says lightly. “Came by last week.”
“You talked to him?”
The question is sharp, cutting through the warm afternoon. He throws his wrench into the box harder than he means to and starts rummaging for something else. His jaw ticks.
Because he knows Robby.
Hunter. Older than both of them. Always staring at her way too long, with a look that makes his skin crawl.
He’s seen that kind of look before: in bars, in motels, in men who think the world owes them something young and sweet.
She shakes her head. “No, I was leaving when he got here.”
“Good,” he breathes out, relieved. “Guy’s a creep.”
The tension in his shoulders eases enough for him to grab the tool he actually needed and slide back under the car.
A beat of silence follows before she speaks again.
“You know,” she says, “Cindy asked me about you.”
He adjusts a valve, slides out. “Cindy?”
“The girl from the movie theatre. Blonde? Long hair?”
“Oh.” He wipes his hands on his jeans, eyes scanning for his rag that's… gone. “And?”
“She’s seen you around town. Thought maybe you’d…” She trails off, shrugging. “I dunno. Be interested.”
“Nah.” He waves it off, still looking. “Hey, have you seen my rag?”
“I don’t know,” she says, but the smirk tugging at her mouth gives her away. “Have I?”
He stares at her. “Okay. Hand it over.”
She takes one slow step back. “Or what?”
“Oh, you’re real brave today,” he says, voice dropping into a mock warning as he stands. “All right.”
He moves toward her. She moves back, laughing.
He lets her get a head start, lets her think she’s fast enough to beat him, lets the sunlight catch in her hair as she dodges between old cars.
Then he runs.
She shrieks and tries to escape, but he catches her easily, arms around her waist as he lifts her off the ground. She kicks and laughs, breathless and bright, her laughter echoing across the yard.
When he sets her down, they collapse together in the dirt, shoulders bumping, lungs burning.
Her shirt ends up smeared with grease. She doesn’t care; she just looks at him and smiles.
Something in that smile is different, though.
Dean doesn’t know what it is, not exactly, but his heart slams against his ribs so hard he can feel it in his throat.
For a moment, there’s nothing else in the world but the two of them, sitting close on the warm dirt of the junkyard, covered in grease and sunlight.
And Dean doesn’t know it yet, not fully, not in words he can say, but this is the moment something shifts. The moment something new begins.
—-
Dean is thirty-seven, and he’s halfway to the garage, coffee mug in his hand, when Sam crosses the hallway.
Fresh from a run, hair damp, breath still a little too steady for someone who just logged five miles.
“Hey, man,” Sam says, already angling toward the bathroom.
Dean hums in response, keeps walking.
Then his brother stops.
“Dean.” He turns around. Hesitates. “I think we should talk.”
“We can talk later,” Dean says automatically. And he means it. He wants to talk. Maybe it would help, maybe it would untangle the knot that’s been sitting in his chest ever since she showed up.
But Sam doesn’t let it go.
He reaches out, grabs Dean’s arm, glancing down the hallway before ushering him into his room.
“Kinda busy right now, Sammy,” Dean mutters, but he follows anyway.
The door clicks shut behind them. Sam drags a hand through his damp hair, pacing once before stopping.
“Listen,” he says, tone careful but firm. “Whatever happened between you two—you need to fix it.”
Dean stiffens.
“She’s been off ever since she got here,” Sam continues. “And she doesn’t want to talk about it, which—fine. That’s her call. But I know something happened. And judging by how weird you both get around each other…” He trails off, then looks Dean straight in the eye. “That something is you.”
His brother exhales slowly, staring at the floor. “It’s just—” He shakes his head. “It’s complicated.”
Sam watches him for a beat. “Okay,” he says carefully. “But can you fix it?”
Dean’s jaw tightens. “I don’t know,” he admits. The words taste bitter. “But I want to. I’m trying.”
That seems to be enough for now. Sam nods, shoulders relaxing just a fraction. “Good. That’s good.”
Dean nods back and reaches for the door.
His hand pauses on the handle.
“You never told me you kept in touch with her,” he says, turning back.
Sam frowns, genuinely confused. “We’re friends, Dean,” he says simply. “That’s what friends do.”
Dean’s face must give him away, because Sam squints at him, studying him more closely.
“What—” Sam pauses. “You don’t?”
Dean shifts his weight. “It’s just—forget it.”
“Wait. Not even a text on her birthday? Christmas?”
The words land harder than Dean expects.
Because suddenly, painfully, he sees it from the outside.
How long it’s been. How quiet he’s let it become.
He’d told himself it was easier this way, safer. That she’d never see him as anything more than Sam’s brother, or worse, a substitute. And he couldn’t survive being that.
So he stayed away, clung to old memories while the present rotted.
She was right. They hadn’t been friends in a long time.
“I’ll fix it,” Dean says quietly. Then, firmer: “I will.”
Sam watches him for a long moment, searching his face. Then he nods.
Dean turns and leaves the room.
The coffee in his mug has gone cold.
—-
A month before
Dean is thirty-seven, and he doesn’t know what’s worse.
The fact that she and Sam have been joined at the hip for the entire duration of the case, or the fact that his brother invited her to spend the holidays in the bunker, without so much as a nod to his opinion. Like his thoughts, his feelings, hell, even his space in his own damn house, don’t count.
“Whatever your problem is,” Sam finally says, zipping his duffel bag with a snap that echoes too loudly in the empty motel room, “fix it before she gets there. Don’t be a jerk to her. She doesn’t deserve it.”
Then, without adding another word, he heads outside, leaving him there to stare at an empty room.
Dean brings the last things into his duffel and zips it closed. He takes one step, and another, and another, and the door is right there in front of him. But his eyes fall on the trash bin. He lets the duffel meet the floor, and he strides towards the bin to pick up the crumpled slip of paper.
He opens it up carefully, as it's already washed out and ripped on the side.
He shouldn't have hope, he really shouldn't. But it did come true, didn't it?
And he can't just let it go. So he brings it to the nightstand, grabs the pen sitting there next to the phone, and he scribbles something at the end. Something hopeful, something complete.
Then he carefully folds it again and slips it back into his wallet, to the place where it belongs.
Then deep breath in and out, and he grabs the duffel bag to head outside. To try again. To hope.
Dean is thirty-seven, and the small slip of paper resting against the edge of his wallet is everything he has.
He has it memorized, the words burned into his mind and heart from longing and repetition.
Someone who once held your heart may cross your path once more.
And then, added at the end, in his handwriting:
This time he'll get to keep her.
—
Now
Dean is thirty-seven, and he's waiting for her in the garage.
He thinks she’ll come.
He hopes she will.
But certainty has been in short supply lately.
He just knows he has to do better, be better, and deserve a second chance or risk losing her for good. And he can't really afford that.
The door creaks open a few minutes later.
She steps inside, glances around at the rows of cars, and then her eyes land on him.
There’s a metal stool leaning against the wall. She grabs it, drags it across the concrete, and sets it beside him like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Lowers herself onto it and settles in.
Just like old times.
Dean blinks at her for a second, like he’s not entirely sure she’s real. He clears his throat and flips open the hood of his car, grateful for something to do with his hands.
At first, they work in silence.
He asks for a wrench, and she hands it to him. He doesn’t look at her when he takes it, but he smiles anyway.
After a while, he says, casual as he can manage, “So… where you livin’ these days?”
She tells him.
He asks if she still burns her cakes halfway through baking.
She smiles, and something in his chest loosens.
And then somehow, quietly, effortlessly, they slip back into conversation.
Something easy, familiar. Something like friendship.
They spend the entire day in the garage, breaking only for lunch. Then they do it again the next day. And the one after that.
The Impala doesn’t need much work, so they move on to another car. Then another. He asks for tools. She hands them over. They talk about everything and nothing.
Until one afternoon, she hands him a socket without him asking.
They both freeze.
Dean looks at the tool, then at her. “How’d you know I needed that?”
She smiles, soft and a little sad. “Muscle memory, I guess.”
He smiles back, and for a moment, the past and present fold into each other so cleanly it makes his chest ache.
Another day passes.
Dean shuts the hood of a car and doesn’t move away. He stares at the metal like it’s got answers. “Back then. The guy you liked. Was it Sam?”
She doesn’t hesitate. “No.”
Dean swallows. His hands curl around the edge of the hood. “…Was it me?”
She nods, just once. “It was.”
Dean exhales hard, hands gripping the hood like it’s the only thing keeping him upright. “You should kick my ass. Seriously. I’d deserve it.”
She closes the toolbox with a soft click. “It’s fine,” she says gently. “We were kids. We did the best we could.”
Another day goes by, and then another, and Sam smiles to himself as he watches them head back to the garage, laughing about something he doesn't know about. He feels like a kid again, back at Bobby’s, back when they were family.
Later, Dean’s under the hood of a car when he stops. He doesn't know if he should say it, he doesn't know if he should wait longer, but he doesn't want to repeat the same mistakes all over again.
“Hey,” he says, not looking at her. “Can I ask your advice on something?”
“Sure,” she replies from her seat. “What’s up?”
He straightens and leans against the car, wiping his hands on a rag. “There’s this friend of mine,” he starts. “And he’s been in love with someone for a real long time, you know? Problem is, he was an idiot. A real championship-level dumbass. Never told her. Not once. And then he lost her.”
She watches him like she already knows where this is going.
“And now,” he continues, voice rough, “she’s back. And he wants to be honest. But he’s scared it’s too late.” He swallows. “You think that’s something she’d wanna hear? Or would that just screw things up worse?”
A pretty smile stretches her lips. “I think,” she says softly, “he might still be in time. And yeah—I think she’d really want to hear it.”
Dean forgets how to breathe. “You mean that?”
She nods.
He clears his throat, tries to gather some courage. "Then, I think he has something to show her," he says.
He digs into his pocket, fingers trembling, and pulls out his wallet. From inside, he slides out a folded slip of paper and hands it to her.
“I found that in a fortune cookie about a year ago,” he says, embarrassed and earnest all at once. “Kept it ‘cause I hoped it’d come true. When it did, and things went sideways, I tossed it. But… I couldn’t leave it there. Guess I got attached to the hope.” He exhales. “So I added somethin’ to it, something that was missing, and I’ve been carryin' it ever since. I’m still… I’m still hopin' it comes true.”
She opens it and reads it.
Her breath catches.
In the next heartbeat, she’s on her feet, arms around his neck, hugging him like she used to when he came home to visit.
Dean closes his eyes and hugs her tight, one arm around her waist, the other cradling her head.
“I missed you,” he murmurs into her hair. “So damn much. And I’m sorry. For all of it.”
She pulls back just enough to look at him, smiling through tears, and kisses him slow and sure, stealing his breath. Dean smiles into it, eyes burning.
And then she leans back again.
“Dean," she says, completely serious, like an old memory he never forgot. “I think we should make out."
"I don't know,” he says, just as serious. “Did you bring the skirt?"
She smacks his chest but still laughs, and the sound lights up his chest. "Shut up.”
He notices her shirt is stained with grease from his hands, and she follows his eyes down until she sees it too. Then, without a care in the world, she just smiles and kisses him again.
They don’t go back inside for hours.
Because some memories deserve to be rewritten.
And the backseat of the Impala has been waiting a long time for this one. For a memory that won't be tainted by anything but an old love that never stopped existing.
—
Epilogue
Dean is thirty-seven, but only for a few more minutes.
He’s lying in bed with her, limbs tangled together, sleep hovering just within reach. Her fingers trace slow, absent-minded paths through his hair, grounding him, steadying him.
For the first time in a long while, his body knows how to rest.
He feels safe.
He feels at home.
When the clock ticks past midnight, she whispers his name. “Dean... Happy birthday, baby.”
He hums in response, half-asleep, tugging her closer until her warmth surrounds him completely. She leans in and kisses him softly.
“Time to make a wish,” she says quietly.
Dean smiles against her. “I’ve got everything I need,” he murmurs. “Don’t need nothin’ else.”
And it’s true.
Mostly.
Still, in the quiet of the room, with her heartbeat close to his, he allows himself one small, private wish.
To keep this.
To keep her.
To go to bed next to her like this again and again, years from now, birthdays blurring together, time stretching forward instead of slipping through his fingers.
summary you start your year with an unexpected surprise.
pairing james potter x reader.
warnings none. no description of reader. a quick one to start the year! i’m working on a lottt of new stuff so stay tuned! based on this
The snow is coming down in lazy, steady flakes, softening the edges of the street and making the streetlights glow warmer, gentler. It feels peaceful, a kind of quiet that only exists when everyone else is busy celebrating somewhere far away.
You walk with your hands tucked into your coat sleeves, breath fogging in front of you as you drift from window to window. Gold light spills through glass displays. Scarves you don’t need, a delicate music box spinning endlessly in the corner of one shop, a bookshop window with a tiny village built of paper and glitter. You step closer, tilting your head, then take a step back to see the whole thing, when you bump straight into someone.
“Oh—! I’m so sorry,” you say quickly, turning.
The man behind you stumbles half a step, more startled than hurt, fingers tightening reflexively around the paper bag in his hands. It crinkles softly as he steadies it against his chest. Whatever’s inside, it’s clearly something he doesn’t want to drop.
He looks about your age, dark hair already dusted white with snow, cheeks flushed pink from the cold, glasses slightly fogged. There’s something open about his face—something warm.
“No, it’s— you’re fine,” he says, breathless more from surprise than exertion. “I should’ve been watching where I was—”
You smile. Just a reflex. Apologetic. Soft.
And James Potter’s heart stutters so hard he feels it in his ribs.
It’s immediate and ridiculous, the way it trips over itself. He knows it is. He’s been through worse than this— battles, grief, endings— but something about your smile slips past defenses he didn’t realize he was still wearing.
His sentence trails off, and for half a second he just… looks at you. Like he’s forgotten what comes next.
You give a small nod, still smiling, and step aside so he can pass.
He does, glancing back over his shoulder once to watch you turn to the window again, eyes shining.
He takes three steps.
Four— and stops.
All he can think about is the curve of your smile, the way your eyes softened without effort.
The world narrows to the sound of snow crunching beneath his boots and the distant echo of laughter somewhere down the street. His heart gives a stupid, unmistakable skip, loud enough that he feels it in his throat.
Don’t be stupid, he tells himself.
He turns around anyway.
Walks back toward you, slower this time, like he doesn’t want to spook you.
“Hey,” he calls, suddenly aware of how ridiculous he must look.
You turn again, eyebrows lifting slightly, the same smile still adorning your lips.
He rubs the back of his neck, letting out a quiet laugh. You notice his hands are pink with cold, knuckles tense, like he’s bracing himself.
“This is going to sound strange,” he says, voice warm despite the chill. “But it’s New Year’s, and—well.” He exhales, breath fogging between you. “Have you got your New Year’s kiss yet?”
The question catches you off guard. The street feels suddenly quieter, as if everyone walking around stopped their conversation to listen.
“No,” you answer honestly, shaking your head.
Something flickers across his face before he reins it in, jaw tightening just a touch.
“Would you like one?”
There’s no pressure in his voice. Just an offer. A moment held open.
You study him for a second longer than necessary. The way he’s waiting. The way he looks like he’d be perfectly fine if you said no, but hoping you wouldn’t.
An uncontrollable smile curves across your lips at the strangeness of it all. You know you shouldn’t, but you give in anyway.
“Sure.”
James’s smile widens, open and unmistakable, and it doesn’t fade when he steps closer. He sets the bag carefully at his feet, as though this moment deserves his full attention. His hands hover for a second before settling at your waist, gentle, asking for permission even now. The cold nips at your cheeks, but his warmth is undeniable.
Up close, you see the snowflakes clinging to his eyelashes, melting as he blinks, eyes catching flecks of gold.
The kiss is soft. Careful. Just enough pressure to promise something without asking for more. His lips are warm despite the snow, and when you kiss him back, he exhales a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding, smiling as he does.
He pulls back only a fraction, breathless, still close enough that you can feel his smile lingering against your lips.
Then he kisses you again.
Deeper this time. Certain. Like he’s decided he doesn’t want this moment to end without knowing it properly. His smile doesn’t fade, if anything, it softens. Something hopeful settling into place as his thumb presses lightly into your side, grounding. His hair tickles your forehead, and the world narrows to the warmth between you.
For a heartbeat, he forgets the year that ended. The one that took things from him. The one that taught him how easily moments slip away.
All he can think about is you.
When he finally pulls back, his forehead rests against yours, breath mingling, eyes closed like he’s committing the moment to memory, afraid it might vanish if he doesn’t.
“I’m James,” he says softly, like offering his name means something more than an introduction.
You tell him yours, smiling again— the same smile that made him turn back.
He opens his eyes, studying you like he’s already reluctant to let you go.
“Well,” he says softly, a quiet awe in his voice, “that’s a pretty perfect way to start a year, I think.”
Snow continues to fall around you, the street hushed and glowing, the city moving on without you for a moment longer. Eventually, you step back, fingers brushing as you do. Just barely.
James picks up the bag at his feet, glancing down the street, then back at you, like he’s weighing something.
“Maybe,” he says, hesitant but hopeful, “I’ll see you around?”
It’s not a question he asks lightly.
You smile warmly, familiar now, and nod.
As you walk away in opposite directions, the snow erases your footprints almost immediately. But James keeps glancing back anyway, heart still unsteady in his chest, knowing that some beginnings don’t announce themselves loudly.
Some just wait, quietly, for the year to catch up.
masterlist, part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4, part 5, part 6, part 7, part 8, part 9, (part 10)
summary this is a series that follows the show some, the game some, and some scenes are from my imagination. everyone is aged down, sarah doesn't die.
warnings description of a dead body, guns, violence.
pairing joel miller x f!reader
Morning crept in slow and gray, light filtering through the trees in thin, icy ribbons. Dew clung to the grass, shimmering around the dying fire where only faint curls of smoke still rose.
Y/N stirred first. Her back ached from the truck bed, the blanket twisted tight around her legs. She blinked awake to see Joel already moving near the hood— crouched low, sleeves pushed up, siphoning gas from an old can. The soft glug-glug broke the quiet stillness of dawn.
Ellie was awake too, perched on a fallen log with a granola bar halfway to her mouth, watching him with open fascination. “Nice! How does that work?” she asked, leaning forward.
Joel glanced up. “It’s a siphon.”
Ellie waited. “And…?”
“It’s when liquid travels… against gravity… because pressure—“
Y/N scoffed from where her arm covered her eyes against the sun. “He has no idea.”
“I know it works.” Joel muttered, defensive enough to make Ellie snort.
She chewed thoughtfully. “You ever get a mouthful of it?”
He gave her a long, flat stare. “More than once.”
Ellie gagged. “Ugh. That’s disgusting.”
“Yep.”
From the truck bed, Sarah’s groggy voice mumbled, “He’s exaggerating… right?”
Amara groaned beside her. “Please say he’s exaggerating.”
Y/N stretched her arms overhead with a grin. “Nope. I’ve seen it. Almost threw up myself.”
Joel shot her a look over his shoulder. “Appreciate the backup, sweetheart.”
“Anytime.”
Ellie pointed at them. “You two are weird.”
Joel stood, wiping his hands on a rag. “And yet here you are. Taggin’ along.”
“Yeah, because I’m the fun one,” Ellie shot back.
Sarah sat up, rubbing her eyes. “Sure you are.”
“She’s delusional this early,” Amara mumbled.
Y/N hopped down from the truck, handing Joel the canteen. “You didn’t sleep again, did you?”
He took it, pretending he hadn’t heard.
“Joel,” she pressed quietly.
“I’m fine.”
“You always say that.”
“Because it’s true.” He twisted the cap off and took a sip.
She sighed, though the corner of her mouth twitched. “You’re lucky you’re handsome when you’re stubborn.”
Joel snorted, hiding the faint smile behind the canteen. “You keep sayin’ that like it’s gonna get you whatever you want.”
“Oh, it absolutely will.”
Ellie groaned loudly. “Gross. Parental flirting should be illegal before breakfast.”
Sarah raised her hand. “Welcome to my childhood.”
“And our adulthood,” Amara added.
Joel muttered something about ungrateful rugrats, but the warmth in his tone gave him away.
They packed up camp soon after— blankets folded, bags tightened, weapons checked. The woods around them were quiet, birdsong and soft wind being the only sound for miles.
Before climbing into the truck, Joel paused, scanning the horizon. His hand brushed the small of Y/N’s back as if making sure she was really there. She caught the gesture and gave him a soft smile.
“Ready?” she asked.
He nodded, eyes on her. “Yeah.”
Ellie flopped dramatically into the backseat.
Sarah crossed her arms, slouching low in the back seat with a scowl that looked a lot like her dad’s, while Ellie poked at a book pretending she wasn’t taking up the entire seat.
“You’re hogging the whole seat,” Sarah muttered, nudging her knee against Ellie’s.
“I’m literally sitting where there’s room.” Ellie argued. “Maybe if you didn’t sprawl out like a starfish—”
“Starfish?!” Sarah sputtered. “You’re the one sitting like you own the damn car.”
“Technically none of us own it,” Ellie said smugly. “Shared custody.”
Joel started the engine while Y/N buckled in. “If I gotta pull this truck over—”
“Yeah, yeah, Dad voice, we get it,” Amara teased.
Y/N covered her laugh with her hand as Joel shot her a look that was more amused than irritated.
A few miles in, Ellie perked up, holding the pun book again.
“Oh no,” Joel groaned.
Ellie smirked. “Why did the coffee file a police report?”
“Ellie—”
“It got mugged!”
Sarah groaned. Amara laughed. Y/N bit her lip to keep a straight face.
Joel exhaled slowly. “I preferred it when she was asleep.”
Ellie grinned. “You love them.”
He shot her a deadpan look. “Do I?”
Y/N squeezed his knee gently. “You do.”
He softened in that quiet way he only ever did with her.
The farther they drove, the more the world hollowed out— towns crumbled, cars abandoned and swallowed by vines.
“Hey, Joel? Where in Wyoming did you say your brother was?” Ellie asked.
Amara answered without opening her eyes. She’d been trying to catch a nap for thirty minutes. “Last contact came through a radio tower close to Cody.” Joel hummed in agreement.
Ellie searched the map in her hands. “Ah, man. That is deep up in there.”
“That’s what she said.” Y/N murmured under her breath, earning a look from Joel.
Ellie ignored it. “And if he’s not there?”
“Then odds are he’ll be near a settlement,” Joel replied, gaze lingering on Y/N. “Probably close to another city out there.”
Y/N winked at him, he shook his head. “Ain’t too many of ‘em in Wyoming.”
“Chee-Yen,” Ellie read aloud.
“Cheyenne.” Sarah corrected, adjusting her watch.
“Che— really?” She blinked. Everyone hummed.
She read more names before pausing. “What’s his name? Your brother.”
“Tommy.”
“Younger or older?”
“Younger.”
“Why isn’t he with you?”
“A long story.” He sighed.
Ellie raised a brow. “Is it longer than 25 hours? Cause I think that’s what we got.”
Y/N shrugged her shoulders, Joel looked at her, and he sighed, “Tommy is what we used to call a Joiner. Dreams of becoming a hero. So he enlisted in the Army right outta high school. A few months later, they shipped him off to Desert Storm.”
Ellie frowned at the unfamiliar term, “it’s what they called that war, it doesn’t matter,” he waved it off. “Point is, bein’ in the Army didn’t make him feel much like a hero. Cut to a few years later, outbreak happens. He convinces us— Y/N and I— to join a group makin’ their way up to Boston, which we did. Mostly to keep an eye on him, keep everyone alive.”
Everyone was quiet, listening to him tell the story, even if most of everyone in the car has heard it before— heck they lived it.
“It’s where we met Tess.” Y/N added softly. “And that whole crew, we… well, for what it was, it worked.” She pursed her lips.
Joel tightened his grip on the wheel, jaw ticking. “That’s when Tommy meets Marlene.” She continued. “She talks him into joining the Fireflies.”
“Same mistake he made when he was 18.” Joel shakes his head— in disbelief? disappointment? Ellie doesn’t know— “wants to save the world. Pipe dream. Him, Fireflies all of them.”
The sisters share a look over Ellie’s head, Y/N nudged him gently, which seemed to rile him up even more, his tone turned sour. “‘Course last I heard, he quit the Fireflies, too. So now he’s on his own out there and I gotta go get him.”
She reached out and squeezed his hand. “We will.”
“If you don’t think there’s hope for the world, why bother going on? I mean, you gotta try, right?” Ellie looked at him, eyes full of an emotion he couldn’t describe.
“You haven’t seen the world, so you don’t know.” He says softly, squeezing his wife’s hand, “you keeping goin’ for family. That’s about it.”
“I’m not family.” Ellie mumbled.
“No.” Joel replied. “You’re cargo. I made a promise to Tess. And she was like family.”
Y/N turned her head to Joel in disbelief, retreating her hand, crossing them over her shoulder, and shaking her head.
Ellie’s shoulders sagged, and quietly she asked, “what if you don’t find him?”
“I will.”
“How do you know?”
“I’m persistent.”
Y/N scoffed, Joel shot her a guilty glance.
Ellie looked out the windshield in silence.
“You got up pretty early. If you wanna grab more sleep—“
“I’m not even tired.” She cut him off.
Thirty minutes later, she was drooling on Amara’s shoulder.
They drove on until the green road signs overhead began to thin out and fade. Joel slowed, squinting toward one that was riddled with bullet holes.
“Kansas City,” Y/N read.
“Yeah,” Joel murmured. “We’ll get through, find a clear road past it.”
But the road ahead was blocked— cars jammed bumper to bumper, some burned out, others overgrown. Joel’s jaw tightened.
Y/N noticed the way his hands flexed on the wheel. “You see anything?”
He shook his head.
“Maybe we go around?” Y/N suggested.
He nodded, turning down a side street. The buildings loomed taller here, windows shattered, signs faded.
Sarah was looking out her window, unease flickering in her eyes. “Something feels off.”
“Yeah,” Joel muttered, scanning every shadow.
“Stop!” Ellie yelled, making Joel step on the break hard.
They all looked in the direction she was staring at.
“Is that the QZ?”
“Where the fuck is FEDRA?” Sarah said in confusion.
Suddenly, a man stumbled into the street ahead of them, waving his arms. “Hey! Please help! Please! My leg—”
Joel grabbed his seatbelt. “Buckle. Now.”
Ellie leaned forward. “Aren’t we gonna help—?”
“Dad—” Amara started, but her mom’s tone was like iron.
“Now.”
The man straightened suddenly, pulling a gun from his waistband.
Joel slammed on the gas.
Shots rang out, AC unit crashed onto the windshield. Glass exploded.
“Down!” Joel barked.
Y/N threw her arm across the gap to shield Ellie. Sarah and Amara ducked as the tires blew, the truck swerved and they crashed through the front of a laundromat.
Y/N coughed, touching the side of her head. “Everyone okay?”
“I think so!” Amara choked out.
“You’re not hurt? Nothin’?” Joel asked in a panic, searching each of their faces. Adrenaline was still pumping in his veins, the need to protect his family reaching new levels. He grabbed his gun, eyes darting to Y/N again. “Stay with them.”
“Like hell I am,” she hissed, snatching her handgun.
He didn’t argue— just nodded once as more gunshots rang out.
They scrambled out of the truck and ducked away from the bullets.
Y/N spotted a hole in the wall. “Girls, see that opening?” She said, her breath quick, “can you squeeze through?”
Joel caught on, “when I say go, you crawl to that wall, and you squeeze through and you don’t come out until I say, okay?”
Another bullet hit the window beside Y/N. Glass cut through her cheek and she hissed in pain.
“They’re not gonna hit you.” Continued Joel.
The younger girls were panicked, looking around for ways to escape the situation, but coming up with nothing useful as fear dug its claws in deep.
“Hey!” Joel snapped. “Look at me! They’re not gonna hit you. Stay down, stay low, stay quiet, and keep each other safe. Do you understand?”
The girls nodded, swallowing the bile threatening to spill out.
Joel nodded back, glancing at his wife, “okay. GO!”
They moved fast. The girls crawled to the hole, Joel peeked through the cracked windshield— two men advancing. He shot first, one went down. The other fired back, bullets cracking against the frame.
Y/N slipped out the other side, crawling to flank him. She caught the second man off guard, took him down with two precise shots.
By the time Joel reached her, she was breathing hard but steady.
“You good?” he asked, scanning her over.
“Yeah,” she said. “You?”
He nodded once, but his eyes lingered on her face a second longer than usual. Relief flickered there.
Joel turned just as a man tackled him, slamming him against the wall. They fought, struggling, the rifle skittering across the floor. Y/N froze for half a second, unable to get a clear shot.
The man held Joel’s rifle, pressing it down on his neck, chanting, “look what you did! You killed yourself, motherfucker!”
Y/N raised her gun, ready to shoot their attacker, when a fourth blindsided Y/N, slamming a plank into her skull. She hit the ground hard as he straddled her, yanking her hair.
He shoved her closer, his breath hitting her cheek. “Maybe we could bring you back with us, huh? What do you say?” He hissed.
“Go to hell!” She spat, thrusting her hips upward, breaking his grip. She kicked him off, grabbed her gun, and shot him dead.
But when she spun towards Joel— she froze. Ellie was already there, trembling, gripping Joel’s fallen gun.
She fired.
The man collapsed.
Shallow, painful breaths filling the shocked silence.
Joel inhaled sharply. Y/N stepped between Ellie and the body as Joel finished the attacker off with a knife.
Ellie was shaking, gun still raised.
Y/N reached for it gently, “ Hey. It’s okay, sweetheart. You’re okay. You did what you had to.”
She didn’t move.
“Ellie,” Joel said softly. “Give me the gun, kid.”
Her breath hitched. “He was gonna— he—”
“I know,” Y/N whispered, hand on her shoulder. “You’re safe.”
Joel took the gun from her carefully, and for a second, his expression broke.
Sarah appeared from the hole, wide-eyed, but safe. “Is everyone okay?”
Y/N nodded. “We’re fine.”
Joel holstered his weapon, clearing his throat, “Amara, We gotta get in there.”
Everyone moving to the wall, Sarah going back in to help her sister move the desk blocking the door.
Once the other three were inside, the door was blocked once again.
Y/N glanced back at Ellie, who was sitting down now, staring at her hands. She crouched beside her, brushing dirt off her sleeve. “Hey. You listen to me. You’re not alone in this, alright? Not ever.”
Sarah crouched next to them, voice soft. “You did good, kid.”
“Thank you for saving him.” Amara added gratefully.
For a second, Ellie managed a small smile.
Joel stood near the door, his throat burning. The weight of it all—the danger, the loss, the way Ellie looked at him now.
“She saved your life.” Y/N murmured as she walked past him.
“I know,” he met her eyes, “I just hate that she had to.”
“She’ll be okay.” She promised. “We’ll make sure of it.”
He didn’t trust himself to speak, but he nodded, then turned back around and cleared his throat, “We gotta go up.”
They all moved to the back exit, “hopefully, we spot a clear route out. Stay close.”
Sarah nodded, though her face was tight. Amara clung close to her sister. Ellie kept one hand on Y/N’s jacket, still rattled from what she’d done. Y/N stayed right beside Joel, matching his pace while he took point, rifle slung across his chest, scanning the street corners.
Somewhere in the distance, a pipe clanged, and all four girls froze instinctively, but Joel only lifted a hand, signaling quiet.
They walked like ghosts through the remains.
Finally, They slipped past an alley blocked by burned-out dumpsters and into the back door of a boarded-up bar. Joel pushed it open slowly, gun raised.
Inside, it was dark and dusty, smelling like old beer and damp wood. The shelves were empty, glass shattered everywhere, stools tipped over like people had run out in a hurry, the windows were covered in newspaper, concealing their forms.
They saw about half a dozen cars stroll through the street, men with rifles were surveilling the area.
Y/N looked around the place. “You sure it’s safe?”
“For a little bit, maybe,” he admitted.
Sarah sat beside Amara in a booth, rubbing her back. Ellie lowered herself into the opposite side like someone three decades older, legs wobbling from the adrenaline crash. Y/N slid in beside her and held her for a moment, smoothing her hair back.
“Looks like they’re checkin’ out apartment buildings first. But they’ll be coming through these places soon enough.” Joel muttered.
“There’s a really tall building four blocks away.” Amara said.
“Yeah, saw it.”
“So that’s the one?” Sarah chimed in.
Joel nodded, “as soon as we don’t hear a truck, we move. Fast as we can.”
He sat down and looked at Ellie when she asked, “are you okay?”
Joel looked to the side, not knowing how to answer for a moment, “I’m alright. Are you alright?”
Her response came in a shaky, “yeah,” her eyes not straying from her boots, Y/N tightened her hold on her.
A moment of silence fell on everyone’s crestfallen expressions. The older man shook his head before explaining, “thing is, I didn’t hear that guy comin’. You shouldn’t have had to… you know.”
Ellie looked up, “well, you’re glad I did, right?” Voice broken and full of hope, trying to find the good side of the awful thing she’s done. Trying to breathe.
“You’re just a kid. You shouldn’t know what it means to—“ he looked to the floor, then, “it’s not like you killed him, but, shootin’ or—“ he was struggling to find the words.
His family was around them staring at different parts of the bar, trying desperately to not make it obvious that they were listening in.
“I know what it’s like. First time the you hurt someone like that. If you—“ he stopped, shaking his head in frustration, “I’m not good at this…”
“Yeah, you really aren’t.” Ellie said softly.
“I mean, it was my fault, you shouldn’t have had to. And I’m sorry.”
Y/N looked away sharply, guilt twisting in her chest. If she’d been faster, killed him sooner… Ellie wouldn’t’ve had to go through that.
Finally, Ellie looked up at him and wiped the tears in her eyes, sniffling.
“It… wasn’t my first time.” She admitted quietly.
Everyone’s eyes were on her in a second, shocked expressions painting their features.
Joel pulled out the gun he’d taken from her earlier. Y/N slipped away to give them space.
Ellie stiffened— but Joel simply knelt and flipped the gun around, offering her the handle. “Show me your grip.”
Relief flooded her face.
She took it.
“Finger off the trigger.” He instructed. “Now, who taught you that?”
“FEDRA school.”
“Figures.” He proceeded with teaching her the proper way to hold and shoot.
They slipped out of the bar before sunset. A pale glow filling the sky over Kansas City, soft and wrong against the wreckage.
Sarah yawned so wide her jaw cracked. Amara nearly tripped over her shoelaces. Ellie looked ready to jump at shadows.
“Y’all are a lively bunch,” Joel muttered.
“Wow,” Sarah deadpanned. “Peak positivity. How do you do it?”
“I drank coffee. Once upon a time.”
“Dad,” Mara said, “you’re cranky even after coffee.”
“No lies were told,” Ellie agreed.
Joel shot them an unimpressed look over his shoulder.
They walked until the stairwell to the high-rise towered above them, spiraling into darkness.
“Damn,” Amara whispered, staring up.
“You’ve gotta be kidding me.” Ellie groaned.
“You wanna get shot at again?” Joel asked mildly.
“…Fine.”
They climbed flight after flight of stairs, increasingly exhausted, legs burning, Y/N eventually gripping the railing with her whole arm to keep from slipping on loose debris.
Ellie got bored halfway up and tried jumping two steps at a time until Sarah grabbed her hood.
“You’re gonna break your neck,” Sarah muttered.
“Is this building a million floors?” Ellie complained.
“Forty-five,” Joel answers.
She stared at him. “You counted?”
He doesn’t miss a beat. “No. I can read numbers painted on walls.”
Sarah exhaled, hands on her knees, “this is the worst cardio I’ve ever voluntarily endured.”
“Can I go back to almost dying in a city of maniacs?” Mara replied.
Y/N shook her head with a faint smile. “Up. All of you.”
Thirty flights in, Y/N quietly took Sarah’s backpack. Joel ended up carrying both Amara’s and Ellie’s.
At floor 33, they emerged into the quiet hallway lit by moonlight pouring through broken windows. Furniture was overturned, offices looted, but it was empty. Safe enough.
“This’ll do,” Joel said softly.
Joel and Sarah sprinkled broken glass near the door as a warning trap. Ellie and Amara watched carefully, soaking it all in.
Y/N leaned against the window. Fires flickered faintly across the city like dying stars.
Joel came up to her and wrapped an arm around her waist. His thumb brushed circles against her hip without thinking.
“You alright?” She whispered.
“Don’ matter,” Joel murmured. “They are. Are you?”
“No,” she leaned into him. “But with you… yeah. I’m alright.”
He pressed a soft kiss to her hairline. She kissed his jaw in return, and he let his forehead rest against her shoulder, breathing in the quiet.
“I love you,” she murmured.
He tightened his arm around her and smirked. “’Course you do.”
“Say it back.”
Joel huffed a tiny laugh through his nose. “I love you.”
“Good,” she whispered. “Get some sleep.”
The kids settle in, the married couple following right after, Ellie mutters, “did you know diarrhea is hereditary?”
Joel, confused, turns to look at her.
Ellie holds back a smile. “Yeah, it runs in your genes!”
Sarah giggles. Amara throws her sleeve over her face. Joel mutters, “Jesus Christ,” and turns back around, but there’s that tiny twitch at the corner of his mouth.
You catch it. Ellie catches you catching it. She smirks. Then, everyone bursts out laughing.
Night settles in and everyone starts to drift.
The sharp voice of his girls cut through the quiet.
“Joel!” “Dad!”
Joel jolted awake, heart hammering, eyes snapping to a small figure—maybe seven—wearing a superhero mask painted around his eyes and holding a gun aimed straight at Y/N’s head. Her arms were raised, her own weapon nowhere in sight.
Behind the boy, an older one stood rigid, face hard, gun steady. “Eyes on me. Eyes on me!” he barked at Joel.
Joel didn’t blink, heart pounding, instincts roaring awake too late.
Henry’s voice was low, urgent, edges sharp like broken glass. “You don’t have to worry about what to say. We don’t wanna hurt you. We wanna help you.”
“Okay.” Joel replied, voice flat, almost robotic.
“Okay, uhm— I don’t know what the next step is with something like this, but if I lower my gun… we didn’t hurt you… so you don’t hurt us… right?”
Y/N’s eyes flicked between the two strangers, hand inching towards Joel’s sleeve.
“That’s right.” He said with the same monotone voice.
The older boy’s face twitched. “That’s a weird fuckin’ tone, man.”
“Hey, hey, it’s alright,” Y/N interjected. “That’s just how he talks.”
Ellie chimed in, “it really is. He has an asshole voice.”
“Yeah, dad, it would help not sounding like a serial killer.” Amara joins.
“Dad, tell him he’s okay.” Sarah whispered.
“Everything is great.” Joel said, tone unchanged.
“Joel!” Y/N scolded.
“Fuck!” The older boy cursed, “okay, listen… I’m gonna trust you.” He glanced to the younger boy, signing something, then nodded at Joel. Once the boy answers, he says quietly, “yes.” Then louder, “but if any of you guys try anything…” he raised his gun again, “yeah?”
“Yeah,” Joel mutterd, “can I sit up?”
“Slow! Get up slow.” Joel obeyed.
“Who are you?” Y/N asks.
“My name’s Henry, that’s my brother Sam. I’m the most wanted man in Kansas City,” he finally lowers his gun, “although, right now? My guess is you’re running a close second.
The tension in the room was thick enough to choke on. Joel’s hand stayed tight on Y/N’s fingers, as he nibbled on the jerky in front of him, slow and deliberate.
“Where’d you get these?” Henry asked, attempting small talk to fill the silence.
“From Bill and Frank. They’re friends.” Answered Ellie.
Henry nodded awkwardly, and silence settled again.
Joel wrapped the last of his portion and handed it to Sam. The boy accepted it gratefully, signing to his older brother, gesturing toward Joel.
“He says thank you. I’m guessing you don’t have much, so… this means a lot.” Joel only stared at him.
“How old is he?” Amara asked softly. Sam signed something, making her smile.
“He’s eight.” Amara translated.
She had taught herself some basic signs years ago, mostly from boredom during quieter days in the QZ, even teaching Sarah a few— “food,” “water,” “wait”, “jerk”—enough to tease each other during patrols.
Henry’s face tightened. “You… understood that?”
Amara swallowed, cheeks warming. “Uh… yeah. I mean— not fluently or anything. I just… kinda taught myself. When we were bored in the QZ.”
Sam stared at her with wide, surprised eyes. He signed again, slower this time.
You sign?
Amara hesitated for only a second, then lifted her hands.
Little bit.
The tiniest smile tugged at Sam’s mouth.
And Henry… Henry’s jaw literally dropped— not dramatically, just like he’d forgotten how to close it.
Joel exhaled, confused as hell. “When… when did you learn sign language?”
Amara shrugged like it was no big deal. “Couple years ago. No internet, no games. Found some old books. Sarah helped me practice.”
Sarah scoffed. “Helped? I was basically a hostage in your learning journey—”
“Not the time!” Amara hissed.
Sam giggled silently, able to read their lips.
Henry blinked between his brother and the girl he’d nearly shot less than an hour ago. “That’s… incredible.”
Amara’s ears turned pink. Ellie smirked knowingly. Joel looked like he was about to break the ‘deal’ he made with henry and put a bullet in him right then and there. Y/N rubbed her forehead.
Sam edged closer to Amara, relief flooding his face in a way she hadn’t expected. Surrounded by strangers, scared and unsure, suddenly there was someone who could understand him. Someone kind.
He signed another question.
How old are you?
Amara signed back, Twenty-four.
Sam grinned. My brother’s twenty-five. I’m eight.
Amara’s smile softened so much Joel thought he might melt. Henry definitely did.
Henry cleared his throat, trying to recover, though his voice still sounded stunned. “Well… uh… that’s… that’s pretty damn impressive,” he muttered.
Sarah leaned over to her mom and Ellie. “He’s staring at her like she hung the moon.”
Ellie whispered back, “Mara’s got a fan.”
“Mara’s got a crush,” Sarah corrected under her breath.
“Hush!” Y/N giggled.
Henry cleared his throat, suddenly aware he’d been openly staring. He dragged his eyes away from Amara and focused on Joel.
Having had enough of the older boy’s staring at his daughter, Joel said, “look, you ate, we didn’t kill each other, let’s call this a win-win and move on.”
However, Henry didn’t look pleased. He wiped his hands and said, “I’m betting that y’all came up here to get a view of the city and plan a way out. And when the sun’s up, I’ll show you one.”
Y/N and Joel exchanged a look. Sarah raised her eyebrows in Ellie’s direction, curious.
Tag list: @issieruby @6kaja9 @princess76179 @staley83
summary you thought leaving meant moving on. james potter thought loving you quietly was the safest way to survive.
pairing james potter x f!reader
warning rivals to lovers, the occasional reference, a little bit of awkwardness, a lot of fluff, not proof-read, no use of y/n :)
The sliding doors exhaled cold air onto your face as you stepped out of arrivals, your suitcase rattling behind you with the one wheel you’d been meaning to fix for months. The terminal roared with overlapping noise, families bunched together with flowers, kids sprinting in circles, someone proudly holding a sign that said Welcome home from rehab, Todd! in sparkly letters.
You scanned the crowd once. Twice. Your heart pumped so hard it almost hurt.
Your mom spotted you first.
You didn’t even see her walk—she just materialized, hand flying to her mouth, shoulders trembling. Her eyes were already full in that way moms get when they’re trying not to cry and losing the battle instantly.
“Honey,” she breathed.
And then she was running. Your suitcase toppled over when you let go of it.
She threw her arms around you like you were thirteen and coming home from summer camp, pressing her cheek against your neck. She smelled like the same vanilla lotion she’d used your whole life—the one you always teased her about endlessly. Her breath shook in tiny uneven bursts, and without thinking, you wrapped your arms around her tighter.
“I’m here,” you murmured, voice thick. “Mom, I’m here.”
She nodded into your neck. “I know, sweetheart. I just—I missed you so much.”
Then your dad appeared.
He never rushed anywhere, not even when you were kids and spilled juice on the rug, always so composed. But now he crossed the distance in a few long strides, swallowing hard, jaw tight in the way he always got when he was fighting emotions.
He rested a hand on your shoulder first, gentle and testing, like confirming you were real. Then he pulled you from your mom’s hug and into his, firm, protective and a little desperate around the edges.
You felt his breath shake against your hair.
“You got taller,” he muttered into your scalp, voice rough.
You let out a wet laugh. “Pretty sure I didn’t.”
“Well.” He cleared his throat. “You feel taller.” The most dad comment imaginable. It ached in your chest
When he finally pulled back, he cupped your face in both hands, studying you closely. His eyes were softer than you remembered.
“You look good,” he said quietly, nodding like he could finally breathe again. His eyes shone, but he blinked the tears back. “Real good.”
Your mom wiped her eyes and sniffled loud enough to be heard over rolling suitcases. “Let me see you—oh my god, your hair is longer.” Her lip wobbled again. “Two years is way too long.”
“It wasn’t supposed to be two years,” you whispered.
“I know,” she brushed your cheek with her thumb. “But you’re home now. That’s all that matters.”
Someone bumped your abandoned suitcase behind you, but none of you turned. The three of you stood there in a tiny bubble of stillness in the middle of the airport chaos, holding on like time might try to snatch you apart again.
Finally your dad grabbed the suitcase with one hand and slung his other arm around your shoulders.
“Come on,” he said softly. “Let’s get you home.”
Your mom immediately linked her arm through your free one, resting her head on your shoulder as you walked toward the exit together.
When the automatic doors opened and the winter air slapped your face, she squeezed your arm.
“Wait until your sister sees you,” she muttered. “She’s been bouncing off the walls since sunrise.”
Your dad let out a noise somewhere between a laugh and a sigh—the sound of someone who’s been worried for too long.
And for the first time in years, with both of them on either side of you, fussing and talking over each other, you felt like yourself again.
You felt home.
★
Your family treated Christmas the way some people treated the Olympics—loud, competitive, and requiring months of preparation. The house was glowing from halfway down the street, wrapped in white lights, the inflatable reindeer your mom insisted on two years ago wobbling in the wind., and a wreath on the door big enough to qualify as a safety hazard.
Thirty minutes later, your mom was elbow-deep in cookie dough, humming off-key to whatever radio station syndrome had decided to overplay today. The house smelled like cinnamon, butter, and mild chaos. Your dad was locked in a battle to the death with a string of Christmas lights. And your little sister, June, sat cross-legged in front of the fireplace, wrapping presents with so much tape they looked like ransom packages.
You loved them. Truly.
But moving back after two years in the city felt… claustrophobic. Like slipping into clothes you’d outgrown but everyone expected you to wear anyway. Old routines, old expectations, old versions of yourself.
You barely made it down the stairs post-shower when your mom chirped, “Oh! The Potters are coming over tonight!”
You froze. “Why?”
“Well, they wanted to see you, of course! And James always helps your father with his projects. Be nice.”
Be nice.
James Potter.
You hadn’t seen him in two years. He’d been a constant fixture your entire childhood. The golden-retriever boy next door who shoveled driveways, coached kids’ soccer, and managed to charm every adult he encountered.
Everyone adored him.
Everyone except you.
He’d always been too much. Too loud, too smug, too effortlessly good at everything. He gave you a nickname you hated, ended up in your group projects more often than not, and took up way too much space in places he didn’t belong.
You left for college thinking you’d never have to see him again.
But apparently he’d stayed in town, taken over his dad’s carpentry business, and become the guy neighbors called for everything from fixing their porch steps to keeping them company over tea.
You never thought about him.
Except sometimes you did.
But that didn’t matter now. This was temporary.
You were halfway back up the stairs when boots thudded on the porch and someone knocked. Two quick taps, one slow. The same pattern he’d used since he was eight.
“Door!” your dad yelled from the living room, tangled in wires.
You grit your teeth and opened it, putting on a smile if only for Mrs. and Mr. Potter—who always insisted on you calling them Mia and Monty.
Except… it wasn’t them standing before you. It was him.
James Potter stood on the porch, curls dusted with snow, cheeks flushed from the cold, plaid jacket unzipped to reveal a grey sweater stretched across a chest broader than you remembered. Firewood was tucked under one arm, a toolbox in his hand, and a foil-covered pan balanced on top.
He froze.
Then he smiled. Warm, boyish. Unfairly familiar. “Hey, stranger, you’re home!”
You stepped aside. “Hi. Yeah. Come in.”
He brushed his boots off and entered like he’d done it a thousand times.
Your mom lit up like he’d brought the secrets of the universe. “James! Did you eat? Where are your parents?”
“Dad’s not feeling great,” he said shyly, lifting the pan. “Mom stayed with him but she sent this.”
Your mom took the pan, cooing, and disappeared back into the kitchen, muttering about calling Mia after the cookies are done.
He shot you a quick grin—the exact grin you absolutely adored hadn’t missed.
You rolled your eyes. “My dad’s in the living room. It’s an electrical war zone. Good luck.”
James passed you with a smirk. “Missed your sunny disposition.”
You opened your mouth to retort, but he was already laughing with your dad on the couch, untangling lights like they’d rehearsed it.
Great.
Three minutes back in town and James Potter had already invaded the walls of your life again.
★
After an hour of avoiding him, you walked into the kitchen for hot cocoa only to find him leaning against the counter like he’d lived there since birth. Soft yellow lights reflected off his glasses. His curls looked obnoxiously perfect.
“Want one?” he asked, lifting his mug.
“You drink tea now?” you asked.
He smirked. “I’m twenty. Not twelve.”
“You still act like it.”
He laughed low and warm. “There she is.”
Your stomach dropped. “There who is?”
“The you who secretly loves me.”
You choked. “I do—”
“Sure,” he murmured lightly, though his eyes said he didn’t believe it at all.
Before you could argue, your mom marched in with reindeer socks and a fistful of ribbon.
“Oh! Could you run to the craft store for more of this? Take James— he knows where the new shop is.”
“What?”
“Sure!” James said at the same time.
You glared at him.
He shrugged. “Could be fun.”
Your mom clapped. “Bundle up! And don’t fight in public, please.”
You muttered the entire way to the door. James held it open for you anyway. “After you.”
You brushed past him, refusing to acknowledge the way his gaze softened.
★
Snow was falling softly by the time you reached the town square on the walk back, three rolls of ribbon in hand.
Families gathered around the big spruce in the center, kids clutching hot cocoa, the choir practicing slightly off-key carols. The air smelled like pine and cold and memory.
You slowed down. They were lighting the tree tonight.
James shoved his hands in his pockets, glancing around like he knew exactly what you were thinking. “You missed this.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You didn’t have to.”
You exhaled sharply. “Stop assuming things.”
“I’m not assuming.” His voice softened. “I just… know you.”
Something in your chest pulled tight.
A couple walked by holding hands, laughing. Children collected candy canes from a volunteer dressed as an elf. It was painfully wholesome.
The mayor began the countdown. The tree and the entire spruce lit up in a burst of color. Glowing ornaments, warm bulbs. Everyone cheered.
You looked up at the lights.
James looked at you.
“What?” you whispered.
He shook his head a little, voice low. “Nothing.”
The walk home was silent except for the crunch of snow under your boots. James walked a little too close. His scarf brushed your sleeve.
★
A week later, desperate to escape the suffocating house, you went to the library. Browsing the shelves, you turned a corner and nearly slammed into someone.
A hand caught your elbow.
“Sorry,” James blurted, pulling back like he’d touched something dangerous. “I didn’t see you.”
“You never did,” you snorted. Then winced—it sounded too familiar.
Instead of teasing back, he just stared. Soft, startled.
“I’m helping Mrs. Lambert with returns,” he said eventually.
Of course he was. Always good with old people. Always good.
You stepped aside, but he hesitated.
“You’re really staying?” he asked quietly.
You nodded.
He opened his mouth like he wanted to say more.
“James Potter!” Mrs. Lambert shouted. “Stop flirting and bring me those books!”
Your soul left your body.
James turned crimson. “I—I wasn’t— she—”
“Relax,” you cleared your throat, the corner of your mouth lifting. “She says that to everyone.”
But he looked at you like he knew she didn’t.
★
The next morning, snow blanketed the street. Your parents declared it a perfect day for “community service,” which apparently meant shoveling every driveway in a 200-meter radius.
James showed up to help.
Of course he did.
Which meant you were trapped with him, wearing those stupidly fitted gloves.
“Here,” he offered you a shovel like it was a peace offering.
You snatched it. “Don’t think I won’t swing this at you if you piss me off.”
He leaned on his shovel and smirked. “Threatening me? Adorable.”
You rolled your eyes. “Shut up.”
You worked side by side for an hour, shovels occasionally clashing. He flicked snow onto your scarf once and had the audacity to grin.
“Oops.”
“You’re impossible,” you muttered, brushing the snow off. The next time you swung your shovel, you made sure its contents landed inside his jacket.
He yelped. You smirked.
By late afternoon, your hands were numb and your cheeks a permanent shade of cherry when he wandered over again, breath fogging in the cold.
“Your folks have that town council thing tonight,” he said. “We could go to the cabin. Warm up. Just us.”
“Us?” you blinked.
He shrugged. “If you want. No pressure.”
You should’ve said no.
Your first instinct was to say no, that he’s being ridiculous.
But instead, you said, “fine, but only because I don’t want to freeze my face off anymore.”
He smiled like you’d just given him the moon.
★
The cabin wasn’t fancy, just a little wooden place tucked between pine trees that always looked like it’d been dropped right out of a decades-old postcard. The kind of place your families used to rent when you were younger, back when you and James argued over who got the top bunk and he’d steal your hot chocolate mix just to watch you throw a fit.
Inside, it was small and warm and smelled faintly of firewood and cinnamon—the same as it always did. Only now the air felt different. Heavier. Charged.
You stepped inside first, stomping snow from your boots. Your fingers ached from the cold as you peeled off your gloves, your damp scarf clinging to your neck.
James followed behind, letting the door thump shut with his foot. His boots left a trail of melting footprints, the water soaking into the worn rug. He shrugged out of his jacket, shaking snow from his curls, and immediately crouched in front of the cold fireplace like it was his job.
“You brought cocoa?” you asked, cautious, because you didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of thinking you were impressed.
James held up a grocery bag. “Of course. Marshmallows included. I know your weaknesses.”
“I don’t have weaknesses,” you said airily, freeing your hair from your scarf.
He looked up at you with a knowing smirk. “So you don’t want any?”
Your mouth tightened. You snatched the bag out of his hand without ceremony and dumped a frankly irresponsible amount of marshmallows into your mug.
He didn’t gloat. Not out loud. But the sparkle in his eyes said everything.
You handed him his own mug and slid down onto the couch beside him. The firelight flickered across his face, painting his cheekbones gold, catching the curve of his eyelashes. He wrapped his fingers around the mug, leaning back, letting out a quiet breath like he’d been holding it all day.
It was… unsettling.
Seeing him relaxed around you again.
Seeing him look at you again.
“So,” you said finally, breaking the silence before it swallowed you whole. “You’ve been here this whole time. In town. Doing… whatever you’ve been doing.”
He took a slow sip of cocoa. “Fixing things. Helping people. The family business.”
You nodded. “Right.”
And that was it. The conversation died like a candle blown out too soon.
But he kept glancing at you.
Not in an obvious way. Not the old, obnoxious James Potter who always had something snarky ready. This version of him was quieter. Watching. Waiting. Trying to figure out how close he was allowed to sit to you now.
The silence wasn’t hostile this time. Just… full. Full of things neither of you knew how to say.
A few card games later and after bickering over unfair shuffling, dramatic sighs, and the kind of small domestic moments that made your chest feel too warm. You stretched your arms overhead and wandered to the window.
“It stopped snowing so hard,” you murmured.
James joined you, peering outside. “Perfect time for a walk.”
You whipped your head toward him. “A walk? It’s freezing.”
“You’re dramatic,” he said, already pulling on his coat. “Fresh air’s good for you.”
You groaned. “You’re insufferable.”
“That’s the spirit,” he said, shouldering open the door.
You followed him out, partly because you didn’t want to stay in that cabin with the fire crackling and the cocoa scent lingering and the heat making your thoughts too soft.
Outside, the world was quiet. Snow clung to the branches like cotton. The air stung your cheeks.
“You know,” James said, shoving his hands in his pockets, “I forgot how much you complain when it’s cold.”
You rolled your eyes. “I forgot how much you talk.”
He grinned. That boyish, sunshine grin that always made it impossible to stay annoyed for long. “Think fast!”
A clump of snow smacked your shoulder.
You stared at the melting patch on your jacket. Then at him.
“Don’t.” You warned him.
He grinned. “Me? I would nev—”
You nailed him in the chest with a perfect snowball.
His face lit in outrage. “Oh, this is war.”
And it was.
For ten freezing, chaotic minutes, the two of you sprinted across the clearing like children, slipping on ice, shouting threats, laughing so hard your ribs hurt. Snow flew everywhere. Your hair, his scarf, your eyelashes. He ducked behind a tree, you slipped on a patch of ice and shrieked, he doubled over laughing, and you absolutely vowed revenge.
“Potter, don’t you—!”
He barreled toward you with too much momentum, misjudging the slick ground. His boots skidded. You yelped. And then—
He slammed into you, sending you both crashing into the snow.
You hit the ground on your back with a soft thud, breath whooshing out of you and James landed right on top of you.
And everything stopped.
His breath warmed your freezing skin. His curls brushed your forehead. His body caged yours, arms braced on either side. Snowflakes melted on his red cheeks.
His eyes—God, his eyes—looked at you like he’d been waiting years for this exact moment.
“Hey,” he whispered, and it broke something open inside you because it wasn’t teasing. It wasn’t cocky for once.
You swallowed hard. “James…”
His gaze flicked from your eyes to your mouth and back. Barely a second. But you felt it in every corner of your body.
“You don’t have to—” you began, trying to protect both of you.
But he shook his head, slow and soft, like he was terrified you’d disappear.
He kissed you.
And the world tilted.
His lips were warm, gentle but aching, as if he’d been holding himself back for too long. Snow melted against your jaw. His breath mingled with yours. Everything in you leaned forward before you even meant to.
For one dizzy, electric moment, you kissed him back.
Your fingers curled into the front of his coat. Your heart thudded so loud he must’ve felt it. Something in you unraveled completely.
Then your brain caught up and reality slammed into you.
You shoved him off, hard enough that he stumbled in the snow, eyes wide, cheeks flushed.
You scrambled to your feet, breathless, heart pounding out of your chest like something had crawled in and lit a fuse.
“What the hell was that?!” Your voice cracked. Anger, confusion, fear, all coming up and clogging your throat.
“I— I’m sorry,” James said immediately, voice cracking. “I shouldn’t have— I thought—”
“You thought wrong.” Your voice sliced through the cold.
He froze like you’d slapped him. “I’m sorry,” he whispered again, smaller this time. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
You turned away. “I have to go.”
“Wait,” he said, stepping forward.
You stepped back.
“Don’t.”
He stopped instantly, like the word itself pulled a leash.
You turned and walked past the cabin, down the path, past the trees and into the dark, cold stretch towards your home with freezing hands, numb legs, and a heart that felt like someone had shaken it until it rattled. Every breath stung. Every step felt like you were running from something you weren’t ready to face.
James didn’t follow.
And you didn’t talk to him.
Not for one day. Not for two. Not for seven.
A whole week passed where you avoided him like he was fire and you were dry pine.
Your mom asked if you were coming down with something.
Your dad asked if you were fighting with someone.
June said you were “haunting the house like a teenage ghost.”
James didn’t show up at the house either. Not once.
Not even to help your dad with his projects.
Like he thought giving you space was the only thing he could offer that wouldn’t break you both.
Which somehow made everything worse.
★
You had mastered the art of avoiding James Potter.
Or at least... you were really convinced you had.
Seven straight days of pretending the world didn’t contain tall, broad-shouldered boys with brown curls and soft eyes. Boys who smelled like winter wind and wood, who used to annoy you on purpose, and who somehow became the one person you weren’t ready to see, had made you think you were an expert at dodging disasters.
Until your mother handed you a grocery list that grew every time you blinked.
“Just a few things,” she’d said, which turned out to be a lie the size of England. By the time you stood outside the store, your phone had twelve new texts, each one adding something increasingly unnecessary. Fresh thyme. Unsalted butter. That nice cereal your sister likes—the blue one, not the yellow one.
You tugged your scarf higher, muttered an exhausted prayer to the universe, and pushed through the sliding doors.
You were planning a tactical strike— quick in, quick out.
And then you saw him.
Leaning over a shelf of bread like it personally betrayed him.
James Potter. In the soft grey sweater you used to secretly like on him. Hair a little unruly, cheeks wind-flushed, mouth set in a tired line.
But it was his eyes that did it.
He looked like someone who’d forgotten how to sleep. Like someone who’d been thinking too hard about something he couldn’t say out loud.
He turned at the same moment you looked at him.
The world didn’t slow. It stopped.
A beat of stillness.
A beat where neither of you breathed.
A beat where your heart kicked so sharply you swore the canned goods rattled.
James froze.
You froze.
And your pulse did something humiliating, an eager little leap you didn’t have the energy to unpack.
He was the one to break the stare first. His gaze dropped to the loaf of wholegrain like he was considering throwing it at his own head.
You grabbed a basket abruptly, even though your mother’s list absolutely required a cart and probably a forklift. You pretended to study the cans of soup like they held the secret to eternal life.
Maybe you could get by him if you acted fast. Maybe he’d pretend he didn’t see you. Maybe fate would show mercy for once.
“Hey.”
His voice wasn’t loud. It was quiet. Controlled. Careful, like if he spoke too harshly he’d crack something between you.
Aisle Seven had never felt smaller.
You turned slowly, your fingers tightening around the plastic basket handle.
“Hi.”
The silence afterward made your lungs burn.
He rubbed the back of his neck, that familiar, boyish gesture that used to annoy you and somehow make your chest hurt at the same time. “You, uh… been okay?”
“Yeah.” You crossed your arms, even though it felt defensive. “You?”
He hesitated. “I’ve been… around.”
You nodded sharply. “Good for you.”
His lips pressed together. His eyes flicked down, then back up, then away again like looking at you hurt but looking away hurt worse.
“I, um—about last week—”
“We don’t need to talk about that.” Your voice was too quick, too sharp. You reached blindly for the nearest item on the shelf— a can of something with a bright red label —and tossed it in your basket as if your life depended on it.
“I think we do.”
“Well, I don’t.” The words came out flat, almost cold.
His shoulders tightened. “Right. Okay. I just… I’m sorry.”
“I know.” You adjusted your scarf and the basket all at once, desperate for an escape. “It’s fine.”
“It’s not fine,” he murmured, almost under his breath. A confession, not an argument.
You didn’t have an answer for that.
He took one step toward you— small, hesitant, giving you space even as he closed it. Nothing threatening. Nothing dramatic. Just a boy trying to shorten the distance between you.
But you stepped back anyway.
Pretended your phone buzzed. Pretended you had somewhere important to be. Pretended your throat wasn’t tight and your ribs weren’t buzzing with all the unsaid things between you.
“See you around,” you muttered, turning before your voice could betray anything else.
“Yeah,” he said softly. “See you.”
You walked so quickly you clipped the corner of a gingerbread house display, catching it just in time before it crashed.
Your cheeks were burning, and your hands were shaking, and you couldn’t explain either.
And even when you made it halfway across the store by the apples, ignoring the enormous holiday choir of cinnamon-scented candles, you could still feel his eyes.
★
That evening, when you walked into the living room the atmosphere hit you before the sight did. The air had that strange, stiff quality of a family meeting waiting to happen.
Never, ever a good sign.
Your mom, dad, and June were sitting together on the couch like a tribunal, legs crossed, hands folded, eyes a little too bright with purpose. It felt like walking into an ambush staged by people who claimed to love you.
Your mom patted the empty cushion between them. “Sit.”
“No.”
“Sit,” June repeated, annoyingly smug.
You stayed planted where you were, arms crossed. “What did you do?”
Your dad cleared his throat, a whole speech hiding behind it. “So… we, uh… saw James today.”
You stiffened so hard your shoulder cracked. “Fantastic. Good for you.”
“He looked awful,” your mom said gently. “Really awful.”
You shrugged like your ribs weren’t tightening. “Maybe he’s tired.”
“He asked about you,” your dad said. “Twice.”
Your jaw tightened. “We’re not talking about this.”
“Sweetheart,” your mom murmured, “he cares.”
The words didn’t hit like a surprise. James always wore his heart so visibly he might as well staple it to his shirt, but something about hearing them say it made your stomach flip like you were fifteen again.
You lifted your chin, ready to deny everything with unnecessary aggression, when June, betrayer of the century, shoved a piece of paper into your hands.
“Here.”
You unfolded the paper.
Read the words, your breath caught.
It was a volunteer flyer. The town’s Christmas Eve charity event.
And right there, perfectly paired like some cosmic joke, your names.
Shift partners.
You stared at it. Then at your family. “What did you do?”
Your mom wrung her hands. “Mia and I may have… put you both down for the Christmas charity event.”
“Mama!”
“It’s harmless!” June insisted. “You’ve been moping around like someone stole your soul. He’s been moping like someone kicked his puppy. It’s exhausting. Even Remus is stressed out, and he’s the calm one.”
“Remus?” you repeated. “Remus knows about this?”
June nodded. “He said— and I quote —‘Please do something before James starts reorganizing my bookshelf again.’”
Your dad shrugged. “It’s for the kids’ winter coat drive. You can’t exactly stage a dramatic breakup scene while handing out gloves.”
Your mom gave you the softest, most hopeful smile. “And maybe… talking will help.”
You glared at all three of them, betrayal burning through every nerve. “First of all, there won’t be a dramatic break up scene, we were never together. And second of all, this is a coup!”
“Intervention,” June corrected.
“Mutiny,” you fired back.
But you didn’t tear up the flyer.
You didn’t even crumple it.
You just held it clenched in your hand, like you couldn’t decide whether to burn it or hide it under your pillow.
★ Christmas Eve
The wind outside cut straight through your coat, sharp and cold enough to turn every streetlight halo into glitter. Snow was stacking softly at the edges of the pavement, fresh, clean, glowing under the lamps.
You arrived at the town hall bundled like you were preparing for battle—thick coat, chunky scarf, gloves, hat pulled low. Armor. Emotional bulletproofing.
James, of course, was already there.
Forced proximity: the universe’s favorite joke.
He was standing near the donation bins, lifting boxes around like he was trying to rearrange the entire emotional weight of his life. His curls were falling over his eyes, cheeks flushed from the cold, and he wore a ridiculous scarf that didn’t match anything else he had on.
When he saw you walk in, he froze exactly the way he had in the grocery store.
“Hey,” he said softly. Cautious. Like the word might spook you.
“Hi.”
Silence spilled between you, awkward enough to feel physical.
“Thanks for coming,” he said.
“My family volunteered me.”
He winced. “Right. Makes sense.”
You walked to the sorting table and began folding winter coats with the kind of intense focus normally reserved for neurosurgery. James moved beside you, close enough that you could feel the warmth coming off him, close enough that every time your hands brushed the same box you felt your heartbeat spike.
Fifteen minutes passed in silence.
Then thirty.
Snow kept drifting down outside the windows, soft little flakes tapping the glass like nervous fingers.
Finally, James sighed, tired, defeated. “Are we gonna talk about it?”
“No.”
“I really think we should.”
“Well, I don’t.”
He looked at you then, and something in his eyes shifted from frustration to hurt. “I can’t fix what I don’t understand.”
You shoved a coat into the bin a little too hard. “There’s nothing to fix.”
“That’s not true,” he said quietly. Then, after a beat that felt like stepping into thin ice, “you ran away.”
“I walked,” you corrected, grasping at dignity like it was a lifeline.
“In the snow,” he said, matching you. “At night. Without your gloves. You were shaking so hard when you left that cabin, I almost—”
He cut himself off, mouth pressing shut.
You froze. “Almost what?”
His jaw tightened in that stubborn, vulnerable way he had. “Almost ran after you.”
Your breath stuck in your throat. “Why didn’t you?”
“Because you told me not to,” he whispered. “And I’m stupid about a lot of things, but I don’t want to be stupid about you.”
That silenced you completely.
Your chest felt too tight. Your fingers went numb inside your gloves. You fixed your gaze on the table because looking at him felt like stepping off something high without a rail.
James took a breath that shook just a little. “I shouldn’t have kissed you like that. I should’ve asked. I should’ve given you more time. I’m sorry.”
Your voice came out thin, almost fragile. “Then why’d you do it?”
He hesitated— then said the thing that broke you open “Because I’ve been in love with you since we were sixteen.”
Air: Gone.
Heart: Somewhere on the floor.
He rubbed the back of his neck, looking everywhere except your face. “I thought you knew. I thought it was obvious. I mean, I only ever talked to you, and I never tease anyone. Ever. I actually think I’m too shy for that kind of thing. Not that I’m shy— I’m not —but I—” He cut himself off, cheeks pink, clearing his throat.
It hadn’t been obvious.
Not to you.
Not then.
Not until snow and firelight and his mouth had rearranged the geography of your heart.
You looked at him now, and saw everything in his face. The exhaustion, the fear, the hope he was trying so hard to smother.
He whispered, barely holding himself together, “Please say something.”
But you couldn’t.
You couldn’t breathe properly, couldn’t trust your voice, couldn’t even trust your legs except to take one step, then another.
So you moved.
Walked to the next table slowly, leaving James standing there with his heart exposed and his fingers curling tight at his sides.
He watched you walk away.
Of course he did. He always did.
★
That night, after the event, Town hall’s lights glowed warm behind you, gold spilling onto the snow like melted stars. Your breath curled in the night as you stepped outside, letting the cold bite your cheeks.
Footsteps approached behind you.
“I don’t want to make you uncomfortable,” James said quietly. “Just… walk you home.”
Every reasonable part of you knew you could have refused. That you probably should have.
But something in his voice, tired, cautious, hopeful in the way that hurt, made refusing feel cruel.
You nodded.
The walk began silently, boots crunching over snow, lampposts humming, your gloved hands tucked deep in your pockets. The silence wasn’t angry anymore. It was thick. Full. Like both of you were holding things in your hands you didn’t quite know how to place down.
Halfway down the street, he stopped.
You took another two steps before you realized. Turned back. “What?”
His breath came out in white puffs, his face shadowed by the dim streetlight. When he lifted his eyes to yours, they were raw, open in a way you’d never seen him before.
“I need you to hear something.”
Your heart thudded too hard. “James—”
“No.” His voice cracked a little, but stayed steady. “Even if you never speak to me again after this. Even if you hate me. I need to say it.”
The snow caught in his eyelashes, settling there like little stars. His breath shook in the cold, or maybe from nerves.
“I didn’t kiss you because it was snowing,” he said. “Or because it felt romantic. Or because I panicked. I kissed you because I’ve been wanting to for years.”
Your lungs forgot their job.
He stepped closer. Not touching you, not assuming, just closing that invisible space that had been vibrating between you for days.
“I kissed you because I’m in love with you,” he whispered. “And I’ve been trying so damn hard to not be. You were so mean to me sometimes, and I—God, I loved it. Isn’t that insane?”
A startled breath escaped you, half pain, half disbelief.
He ran a gloved hand through his curls, snowflakes catching in the dark strands. “When you walked away from the cabin, I thought, ‘Okay. That’s it. I ruined it.’” His voice softened into something like heartbreak. “I ruined everything. I actually let myself hope you didn’t hate me, and then—”
“You didn’t ruin anything,” you whispered.
He shook his head like he didn’t believe you. “I scared you.”
A pause. Then, quietly, truthfully, “Yeah. You did.”
James closed his eyes like the words hurt, but he nodded, accepting it. “I’m sorry.”
You swallowed hard. “James…”
His eyes opened, uncertain, a little afraid.
“I didn’t walk away because I hated it.”
His shoulders went still.
Your voice wavered. “I liked it. Too much. That’s why I freaked out.”
You watched the breath leave him, a shaky exhale that looked like someone taking their first deep breath after being underwater too long. His whole face softened like hope rushed back into him all at once.
“Then what do we do now?” he asked, voice quiet, reverent.
You took a tiny step toward him. Just enough to close the emotional distance you’d left wide open.
“I don’t know,” you whispered. “But I don’t want to run anymore.”
He took that in—slowly, carefully, like he was afraid to break the moment. His shoulders lowered, tension draining out of him. His expression shifted into something warm, broken, gentle, aching.
He didn’t reach for you.
He didn’t push.
He didn’t even breathe too deeply, because he knew you hated loud breaths in emotional moments, and he always listened more than you gave him credit for.
“Can I kiss you again?” he asked softly. “Not like before. Only if you want.”
Your heart stuttered.
You nodded.
James lifted one hand, his glove brushing your cheek with the kind of tenderness that made your ribs tighten. When he cupped your face, it felt like he was holding something precious. Not fragile, but important. His thumb grazed your skin, warm even through the cold.
He leaned in slowly.
Slow enough for you to stop him.
Slow enough for him to stop himself.
But neither of you even thought to.
His lips met yours softly, like a question. Like a thank you. Like relief. This kiss wasn’t firelight and surprise and gravity dragging you together.
This was a beginning.
When you finally pulled back, you stayed close, your forehead resting against his. James stayed perfectly still, letting you choose the moment, letting you choose everything.
Your breath came out soft and white against his cheek.
“Merry Christmas, James.”
His eyes fluttered open, warm and shining and a little overwhelmed.
“Merry Christmas, love.”
★
BONUS SCENE 1: SIXTEEN
James always said he couldn’t stand you when you were both sixteen
And the whole town believed it.
Because you two weren’t rivals. You were capital-R Rivals™.
Snarking at each other across classrooms, racing each other to finish group projects, arguing over grades, over club responsibilities, over who got the last blueberry muffin at the café (you won that one; he never forgot), passing each other in the hallway, shoulders brushing like neither of you wanted to make space for the other.
Everyone thought it was harmless teenage competitiveness.
But James remembers the exact second that rivalry stopped being fun and started becoming something terrifying. For him at least.
It was late October. The sky hung low and heavy, the kind of pre-winter gray that made everything feel colder than it was. The high school’s fall fair was setting up on the football field. You were helping one of the booths near the stands.
James was supposed to be helping the track team.
He wasn’t.
He was mostly pretending not to look at you.
He had been very committed to not looking at you for about a month.
And then it happened— something stupid, tiny, insignificant.
Except it wasn’t.
You were dragging this awkwardly tall wooden stand across the field, muttering under your breath about it being built by “a middle-aged sadist with a tape measure and a vendetta.” James had been walking past, fully prepared to shoot some smart comment your way.
Except the board snagged on the hem of your sweater, and you yelped, stumbling backwards.
He caught you. He didn’t think— he just reacted.
One arm around your waist.
One hand braced on your back.
Your hands gripping his shirt instinctively.
Your breath hitting his chest.
Your eyes were wide. Shocked. A little embarrassed.
And he swore the world actually… tilted.
He tried to speak.
His brain short-circuited.
So the first stupid thing came out:
“Maybe try not fighting inanimate objects today.”
You rolled your eyes, scoffing, but your cheeks were warm. “Maybe mind your own business.”
You scoffed. Rolled your eyes. But your cheeks warmed. “Maybe learn how to mind your own business.”
You stepped away.
He let you go.
Three seconds. Maybe four.
But that was the moment.
Watching you brush dirt off your jeans and mutter about the universe hating you, James Potter realized, horrified and helpless, that he likes you.
He shoved it down so deep even he almost believed it wasn’t there.
But that night, lying in bed, staring at the ceiling with old posters peeling at the corners, he couldn’t stop replaying the moment. Couldn’t stop thinking about your eyes. Your hair. Your smile. Your laugh. God your laugh.
He was absolutely, hopelessly, catastrophically in trouble.
He never told anyone. Not Sirius, not Remus, not even his mom who could read him like a book.
He just kept it a secret. Carried it year after year, letting it simmer under every argument, every eye roll, every little moment where he looked a second too long.
By the time you were both adults, back in the same town for Christmas…
that old truth was still sitting in him, quiet but impossible to ignore.
He’d fallen for you at sixteen.
And he never really climbed back out.
BONUS SCENE 2:
Age 14: True Rivals
Your mom invited the Potters over on a hot July afternoon. You already knew something was off the second she insisted you “change into something cute.” At fourteen, you considered that a personal attack.
You were gangly and moody, sitting on the porch steps picking at a mosquito bite because you refused to socialize, while James paced the yard, glaring at a cicada like it insulted him personally.
Inside, the adults were practically leaking anticipation.
“She’s growing up so fast.”
“He’s turning into such a sweet boy.”
“Oh, do you think they’ll ever stop bickering?”
“I hope so! My money is on them eventually getting married.”
Your younger sister, who had the discretion of a feral raccoon, sprinted outside like she’d been launched.
“Mama says she hopes you marry James.”
You froze.
James choked on actual air.
“WHAT?!” you both snapped in perfect harmony, horrified, offended, traumatized.
Your sister beamed. “You guys argue every day. Married people do that.”
Sirius, lounging like a cat in a sunbeam, burst into laughter.
Remus hid a smile behind his lemonade, failing miserably.
Your mom walked outside holding a bowl of strawberries with a level of intentional cheerfulness that should’ve been illegal.
“Oh good, you’re all together! Sweetheart, take these to the kitchen. James, help her?”
You blinked. “Both of us?”
Mia hummed like she hadn’t just tossed you into a lion pit, giving you a gentle push toward the door.
Two teenagers.
One bowl.
Five seconds.
(Now that i think about it, it sounds like a bad porno.)
A setup so obvious even fourteen-year-olds knew what was happening.
You both carried the bowl so stiffly it looked like it contained live explosives. When you set it on the counter, it was with identical “don’t touch me, I’m unstable” energy.
Behind you, the moms exchanged a silent telepathic squeal.
“They’d be adorable together.”
James walked directly into the doorframe on the way out.
You pretended not to laugh, failing internally.
He then choked on a strawberry.
You stared at him for a solid three seconds before refusing, absolutely refusing, to ask if he was okay.
Your sister whispered to Sirius, “This is romance.”
Sirius whispered back, “This is trauma.”
★
Age 16: The Halloween Festival
Your dad loved a project. Fixing fences, painting sheds, forcing teenagers to work together so they could “build character.”
When volunteer sheets for the Halloween Festival went around, he signed you up without asking.
And, shockingly, the Potters signed James up for the same booth.
The caramel apple stand.
Your mom brought your sister along “to help,” which meant terrorize you.
Sirius and Remus tagged along too. Those two lived at the Potter house more than their own.
You walked up, saw James, and groaned loudly.
He groaned back, matching your tone like it was a competition.
Your dad elbowed Mrs. Potter. “They argue a lot.”
Mrs. Potter smiled like she was watching a proposal in slow motion. “Don’t they?”
Your sister tugged on Sirius’s sleeve. “Does that mean they’re in love?”
Sirius nodded gravely. “Tragic, really.”
Remus snorted and sipped his cider. “Idiots, both of them.”
You and James bickered about absolutely everything.
“For the love of—it’s too thick, Potter!”
“It’s PERFECTLY thick—you’re stirring wrong.”
“You’re stirring wrong!”
“You’re annoying.”
“You’re short.”
Both of your parents looked like they were watching their favorite soap opera.
At one point, James tried to hang a banner over the booth, the ladder slipped, and you grabbed his arm to keep him from face-planting, almost falling over him in the process.
Your parents gasped like you’d confessed undying love.
Sirius clapped.
Remus rolled his eyes so dramatically he nearly saw his brain.
James stammered, ears red. “You—uh— you could’ve let me fall.”
“Believe me,” you muttered, “I considered it.”
But you hadn’t. Not even for a second.
That was the part that bothered you.
By the end of the night, you’d sold the most apples. James had caramel in his hair, you had caramel on your shirt, and your families were closer than ever before.
Except well, you two. Right?
You were still convinced he was the single most irritating boy on the planet.
He, meanwhile, was watching you laugh with caramel on your cheek like he wasn’t supposed to wish he could touch you.
★
Age 17: Christmas Chaos
By seventeen, the rivalry was less fury and more routine. A tradition. Something comfortable the way a too-large sweater is comfortable—you pretend you don’t like it, but you’d freeze without it.
Your families decided to end the tradition for you.
They put both families in charge of decorating the community hall for the annual toy drive (how you had so many annual community things in your small ass town, you didn’t know). People dropped off old decorations, clothes, toys. Kids ran around, the hall smelled like cinnamon and pine, and it should’ve been fun.
You showed up with a box of ornaments.
James showed up with a ladder he definitely didn’t know how to use. (cue last year when he would’ve lost a tooth hadn’t you been next to him to save the day), and a box of his old jackets.
Your parents watched from the doorway, whispering.
“They’re so natural together.”
“They don’t even realize it.”
Sirius fake-swooned and Remus muttered, “They’re both idiots.” (which, like, speak for yourselves).
Meanwhile…
“Lower.”
“It looks weird lower.”
“It looks weird higher!”
“It looks weird on you!”
“That doesn’t even make sense, Potter!” You say exasperated.
Later, when you and James stepped back to admire the decorations, your hands brushed.
James froze.
You cleared your throat so hard it probably damaged something.
Behind you, your families giggled like teenagers.
★
Age 18: The Last Summer Before You Left
The Potters invited your family over for what they called a “goodbye dinner,” which was absolutely code for “one last attempt to get them together.”
Monty set the dinner table with assigned seating.
Your name tag was right next to James’.
Your sister winked.
Sirius whispered dramatically, “It’s fate.”
Remus stole a bread roll and snickered.
Your thighs brushed under the table— softly, unintentionally —and both of you reacted like you’d been electrocuted.
James dropped his fork.
Twice.
The parents exchanged looks like they’d bet money on the outcome.
Near dessert, the adults dramatically evacuated to “grab more plates.”
He barely spoke, which was strange for him.
You barely looked at him, which was strange for you.
To make matters worse, they assigned the other three teenagers to bring out something that was already placed on the table.
Suddenly, it was just you and James.
You poked at your pie, avoiding eye contact. “I think they’ll be gone a while.”
James shrugged, trying so hard to be casual it almost looked painful. “I’ll walk you home if you get tired.”
“You don’t have to,” you said, smile tugging at your lips.
He shrugged again, teasing lightly. “Makes you leave faster.”
You rolled your eyes, fighting a grin.
★
Age 18: The Day James Watches You Leave
He never talked about this part.
You were leaving for university far, far away. New city, new people, new everything.
Your families loaded the car together while both moms cried preemptively.
James stood a few steps back, hands in his pockets, jaw tight. Sirius and Remus on either side of him like moral support.
Your sister threw her arms around you, squealing, “don’t forget to write!” Then in a whisper, “and also marry James someday!”
You nearly punted her into the car.
When your parents and his hugged you goodbye, Remus and Sirius following, he couldn’t bring himself to move. So, James forced a smirk.
“Try not to terrorize the city.”
You forced one back. “No promises.”
But when you opened the car door, something in him cracked quietly.
He looked at the ground, because if he looked at you, he might’ve said something stupid.
Or too honest like, “Stay.”
The engine started.
Your hand lifted in a small wave.
And James felt something slip out of his life he couldn’t name.
Your mom cried harder. Your dad pretended he wasn’t crying. His parents looked emotional too.
James stayed on the driveway long after the car disappeared. Sirius nudged him. “You alright, mate?”
James nodded once, swallowing hard.
When the car turned the corner, his face fell. Completely, painfully. He looked like someone who’d been trying not to hope and failed anyway. Remus studied him for a moment and said gently,
“You’ll see her soon.”
But James didn’t see you soon.
You left. You built a life.
You didn’t come home for Christmas that year.
Or the next.
He didn’t say it out loud, but it sat heavy in him anyway.
And he tried to move on, he really, genuinely tried.
But no one else made him feel the way he felt when you grabbed his arm at sixteen, or brushed his hand at seventeen, or said goodbye at eighteen with that tiny, wavering smile.
Two years became a quiet ache he never talked about.
He kept the old holiday lights in a box in his closet because you liked the color of them.
He picked up your favorite drink at the café sometimes without thinking.
He still caught himself looking for your car around town.
He was the only one surprised when he realized he hadn’t moved on at all.
summary you visit your aunt in the countryside for the summer
warnings not proof read, other than that none, just pure fluff and james being an idiot
pairing cowboy!james potter x city girl!reader
sorry if i got any detail wrong! first james fic let’s gooo
The bus wheezed to a stop like it had been begging for the sweet release of death since it pulled out of the station. Heat slapped you the moment you stepped off, thick enough to make the air shimmer above the dirt road. You adjusted the slipping strap on your shoulder and took in the view.
You were looking at… Well, not nothing, exactly—just endless fields, fences stretching towards the horizon, and horses grazing under the lazy sun.
You’re only meant to spend a few weeks with your aunt in that sleepy stretch of countryside, the kind of place where the air tasted clean and the stars actually bothered to show up at night. You didn’t expect much from it. Maybe a tan. Maybe boredom. Definitely dust on your shoes.
You dragged your suitcase through the dirt, silently cursing its tiny wheels and the strap that would not stay put, loaded your bags into your aunt’s truck and were on your way.
What you didn’t expect however, was the boy leaning against the fence when you arrived at the ranch.
He was tall, sun-browned, curls sticking out from under his hat, shirt sticking to his shoulders from the heat. He was laughing with someone when he noticed you stepping out of your aunt’s truck, and his smile faltered. He froze, blinking once. Twice.
“Afternoon,” he said when your aunt introduced him. James Potter. His voice had that soft-rough sound people get from working outdoors all their life.
You muttered a polite hello, already feeling the weight of his gaze as he tipped his hat at you. You’d been here five minutes, and somehow this cowboy—boots, dirt-smudged hands, all of it—had you feeling like you’d stepped into a story someone forgot to warn you about.
When your aunt went to grab lemonade, you tugged your suitcase toward the porch—only for the wheel to catch on a loose board. You stumbled.
James moved before you even gasped, one hand wrapping around your waist steadying you.
“Careful.” he said, voice suddenly low enough to make your breath hitch. He was close enough for you to smell the apple orchard stuck on him.
You nodded, dazed, then stepped back a second later, cheeks burning, and James stared down at his empty hands like he wasn’t sure what to do with them now.
Later that day, your aunt sent him to help you with the hay in the shed. Apparently, James offered before she even finished asking.
“You sure you’re alright with all this?” he asked while the two of you lifted a bale together.
“I’m not as fragile as I look,” you told him raising a brow.
He grinned. “Didn’t say you were. Just being polite.”
He wasn’t just being polite. Any time you reached for something heavy, he was suddenly there. Any time you said you could do it on your own, he let you try, but he hovered—hands ready, expression soft with something he wasn’t saying.
You caught him staring at your bracelets once. He snapped his eyes away so fast his hat nearly slipped off.
And the next morning, he showed up before breakfast.
Your aunt lifted a brow. “You’re here early, James.”
He shrugged. “Thought I’d see if she needed help settling in.”
And just like that, James Potter became a constant presence, offering rides into town, bringing apples from their orchard, showing you where the fireflies liked to gather. He said he was just trying to be friendly.
Sometimes he’d look at you like he was trying to memorize you. Then he’d look away, pretending he hadn’t done it at all.
You didn’t tell him he wasn’t subtle.
You adapted faster than you expected, mostly because of him. He taught you how to feed the horses—Comet, the dramatic sweetheart, who will get offended if you don’t feed him first, and Marigold, who was a bit skittish of you at first, but warmed up quickly once you gave her a few strokes—he walked the pasture with you, and handed you water bottles like he kept track of your hydration levels.
★
One evening, the sunset spilled gold across the barn while you carried a bucket of feed. James leaned against Comet’s stall, gaze soft in a way that twisted something deep in your chest.
“You’ve got straw in your hair,” he murmured.
“Oh.” You reached up blindly.
“Here,” he murmured, stepping close and hesitantly raising his hand.
His fingers brushed your hair, gently tugging the straw free. He didn’t step back right away. His hand hovered near your cheek, and he looked down at you with an intensity that made your breath stutter.
“You’re doin’ good here,” he said quietly.
“Thanks to you.”
His jaw flexed like he wanted to say something else. He pointed at the bucket instead . “Finish feedin’ Comet before he starts complainin’.”
You scoff with a smile and a shake of your head.
★
People talked about Remus Lupin the way people talk about legends—quiet, steady, half-quiet, half-storm. James especially talked about him like people talk about royalty. You didn’t know what any of that meant until you saw him.
He was sitting on the back porch, boots propped up on a railing he probably built himself. Tall. Broad. Dust in his hair and a book sticking out of his back pocket. A flannel worn soft. And eyes that flicked over you with a slow, thoughtful curiosity, like he was memorizing things without meaning to.
James lit up the way Ray’s ass did when he was singing for Evangeline.
Remus saw you and raised an eyebrow so high it nearly hit his hat brim.
“This her?” he whispered.
James elbowed him hard. “Yes.”
Remus’s slow grin said it all. Then, he turned back to you with a gentler expression. “He’s been talking about you.”
Your stomach did something inconvenient. “Oh?”
James coughed loudly, ears turning pink. “No I haven’t.”
“Every day,” Remus ignored him. “I’d say it’s cute, but he might throw a boot at me.”
You laughed, and Remus smiled like he liked the sound. James narrowed his eyes at him.
“I swear t’god, Rem—”
Remus shook your hand, warm and steady, eyes amused as he glanced at James, who was trying—and failing—to look casual.
Later, when you walked away, Remus nudged James with a smirk. “You like her.”
James swallowed. “Yeah…”
“And you’re trying not to.”
James rubbed his face. “Shut up.”
Remus only grinned.
Because James was falling. Hard.
And he hadn’t even hit the ground yet.
A week later, just when you’d settled into a rhythm of mornings with your aunt and afternoons with James, the quiet of the countryside cracked open.
You were just coming back from town when the sound of tires crunching on gravel echoed through the yard. A sleek black car—wildly out of place—came rolled up the dirt road, tires kicking dust into the air. The windows were too tinted, the music too loud, and the driver leaned halfway out like he’d never seen a farm in his life.
You blinked, your heart jumping.
“No way.”
The door swung open and out climbed—
“SIRIUS?!”
Your best friend stepped out like the cover of a fashion magazine: sunglasses, silver jewelry, painted nails, black silk button-down tucked into tailored pants that had no business being this far from civilization.
He spread his arms dramatically. “Surprise, babe!”
You ran full-speed and he caught you, spinning you around like the world owed him wind effects. He smelled like expensive cologne and cigarettes.
“Why are you here?!” you half-laughed, half-yelled.
“To rescue you from—” He waved a hand vaguely. “—all this sand-colored… nature.”
“There’s literally no sand.”
“It FEELS like sand.”
You hugged him again, and he sank into it, muttering something about how you smelled like the outdoors and emotional stability.
You were still laughing when you heard the unmistakable crunch of boots behind you. James arrived a minute later, leading his horse from the stable, hat tilted back, shirt damp with sweat. He froze when he saw Sirius’s arms still wrapped around you.
“Who the hell is that?” Sirius whispered, gesturing toward James with a perfectly manicured hand, slowly pushing his sunglasses down, eyeing him like he was a particularly attractive statue. Then he whispered—still loud enough for everyone to hear—“My god, it’s like the Marlboro Man had a baby with a Greek God.”
“Sirius,” you hissed.
“What? I’m gay, not blind.” He whispered defensively.
James walked over slowly, jaw tense in a way you hadn’t seen before. “Friend of yours?”
“Childhood best friend,” you confirmed. “Sirius, this is James.”
Sirius stuck his hand out. “Hi. I’m very hot.”
James blinked. “Okay.”
You covered your face.
Your aunt insisted Sirius stay for dinner. He sat at the table like he was at a five-star restaurant, trying every dish twice, asking what herbs your aunt used, then complaining when he realized those herbs had been grown in a garden instead of purchased at a store.
James was very quiet. He barely spoke between bites. Barely looked up. But every time Sirius leaned across you to grab something, James’s jaw ticked. Every time Sirius made you laugh, James shifted in his seat like he couldn’t get comfortable.
After dessert, Sirius pulled you into your room to talk while you got him settled.
“So,” he said, sprawled across your bed. “He’s gorgeous.”
“Stop.”
“He’s also in love with you.”
“He is not.”
Sirius raised a brow. “He looks at you like you hung the moon and also personally invented peaches.”
You tried to brush it off. “He’s just nice.”
“He’s obsessed with you.”
“He barely knows me.”
“People don’t need time.” Sirius flopped onto his back dramatically. “They just need one moment.”
You didn’t argue, but you also didn’t admit the truth.
One moment had been all it took for James Potter.
You were starting to wonder if one moment was all it had taken for you, too.
When you stepped out later, James was in the hallway, fixing something on the old bookshelf even though it definitely didn’t need fixing.
He straightened when he heard your footsteps. “Everything okay with your friend?”
“Yeah. He’s settling in.”
James nodded, but he seemed distracted. You realized his eyes kept flicking toward your door like he could still see Sirius behind it.
“You two seem close,” he said.
“We grew up together.”
He nodded again, slower this time. “That’s… nice.”
It wasn’t the word he wanted to use.
You didn’t know what to do with the softness in his eyes.
You didn’t know what to do with how much it mattered to you.
And James, who’d been bold with his charm before, suddenly seemed shy in a way that made your breath catch.
“I’m glad you’re here,” he said. “Both of you. But mostly… you.”
You swallowed. “I’m glad I’m here too.”
He smiled, but it was a quiet one. A real one. One that settled somewhere deep in your chest.
★
Sirius adjusted to country life faster than anyone expected, with the addition of his own flair.
On the first day he nearly fainted when he saw a spider.
On the second, he made friends with the rooster.
By the third, he swore he could “live deliciously off the land,” which was very bold considering he still refused to touch mud.
James watched the whole transformation with that guarded expression he tried to pretend wasn’t jealousy. He kept busy around the property, stacking hay, fixing fences, brushing horses, but his eyes cut toward you every time Sirius got within three feet of you. Not in a hostile way. Just… tense. Protective. Wary.
Remus took notice.
The three of you were in the barn when Sirius wandered in wearing one of your scarves like some dramatic prince exiled to the countryside. Remus paused mid-task, his expression settling into something between amusement and understanding.
Sirius stopped next to you and draped an arm over your shoulder. James stiffened.
Remus leaned close to him. “You’re not subtle.”
James frowned. “Not subtle about what?”
Remus gave him one long, slow look.
James blinked, then sighed. “Oh.”
They watched Sirius twirl the scarf around his fingers while you tried to explain how bales of hay actually worked. He nodded like he understood and immediately misused every term you’d taught him.
James groaned under his breath. “He doesn’t even know the difference between straw and hay.”
When James shot him a confused look, Remus added, “He’s trying to impress her.”
James’s jaw tightened.
“But,” Remus continued, watching Sirius with a faint smirk, “he’s not trying to impress her like that.”
James blinked again. “Then why is he hanging all over her?”
Remus raised both brows.
Understanding dawned a second later.
“Oh,” James said again, but slower. “Oh.”
That evening, your aunt set up dinner outside because the heat finally broke. Fireflies floated around the porch as you sat down, and Sirius sighed dramatically like he’d never seen something so romantic.
Remus was already seated. Sirius stopped mid-stride.
You watched something shift in Sirius’s eyes. Like he’d just spotted his favorite artwork in a museum.
“I’m wonderful, God He’s—He’s—holy—” he whispered, dazed.
James muttered under his breath, “Oh, this is gonna be entertaining.”
He didn’t even look at him. “I’m sorry, but—look at him.”
Remus chuckled under his breath, and the sound nearly made Sirius sway.
Halfway through dinner, Sirius leaned forward. “Remus, you do leatherwork?”
Remus nodded. “I do.”
“I love leather,” Sirius said, then paused. “I mean… not like… I don’t—well, I do—but not in a weird way, just… in an appreciative-of-the-craft way.”
Remus stared at him. Slowly, a smile tugged at his mouth. “Good to know.”
You tried not to laugh. James tried not to glare. Sirius tried not to ascend into the clouds.
Later, you were washing dishes with your aunt, Sirius was drying them terribly, and James stood in the kitchen doorway, fiddling with his hat like he was trying to build courage out of thin air.
Remus joined him and bumped his shoulder lightly. “Talk to her.”
“I talk to her all the time,” James muttered.
“Not like that,” Remus said. “Tell her how you feel.”
James looked horrified. “I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because… what if she doesn’t feel the same?”
Remus sighed. “Mate. She looks at you like the world quiets down a little when you walk into the room.”
James’s breath caught. He swallowed hard, hands tightening around his hat brim. “I just… don’t want to mess it up.”
“You won’t.”
“That’s what you think.”
Remus nudged him again. “Then let her decide.”
James didn’t walk into the kitchen right away. He needed a moment. His eyes flickered to you—hair tied up, sleeves pushed past your elbows, laughing softly at something Sirius said. You looked relaxed. Sunlit. Alive.
James’s expression softened so much it almost hurt to watch.
“Yeah,” he murmured. “Maybe.”
The next morning, Sirius—wearing his black tailored pants, a shirt unbuttoned far too low for the countryside, and sunglasses so reflective you could see your own confusion in them—hatched a plan.
“A good romance needs a nudge,” he said, sipping coffee like he was plotting world domination.
“A nudge?” Remus questioned.
“A gentle push.”
“You want to push them?”
“In spirit.”
Remus sighed deeply, which only encouraged Sirius more.
His grand plan was simple: he’d get you and James alone by offering to take your aunt into town for groceries and insisting Remus come along. You realized something was off when Sirius winked at you so aggressively your aunt asked if he was having an allergic reaction.
James realized something was off even faster.
“You going somewhere?” he asked.
“Town,” Sirius replied.
“All of you?” James asked, glancing at Remus.
“Yes,” Sirius said.
“No,” Remus answered.
Sirius glared.
Before they could argue, your aunt announced she was staying home to finish laundry. Sirius blinked. His plan collapsed. Remus looked relieved, James looked lost.
Sirius finally muttered, “This is discrimination against meddling.”
But even without the plan working, the energy had changed.
James kept glancing toward you like he wanted—really wanted—to say something.
You felt it. You didn’t know what to do with it yet.
But the stillness between you had turned into something humming and alive.
And soon, you’d both run out of ways to pretend you didn’t feel it.
★
Your aunt told you about the summer picnic as if it were the social event of the century.
“Everyone goes,” she said while setting out freshly washed sheets. “Music, food, dancing. You’ll like it.”
Sirius nearly burst into your room when he overheard.
“A party? With real people? And not just cows?” He pressed both hands to his chest. “Finally.”
You were excited too, though you didn’t say why.
James had mentioned it once in passing, trying to sound casual.
“It’s nothing fancy. Just folks having food and a good time,” he’d said. He’d looked at you a little too long when he said it.
And now that the day had arrived, there was a strange flutter under your ribs.
Sirius insisted on helping you get ready even though he had the fashion sense of someone who’d once Googled “cottagecore aesthetic” and stopped halfway through the article, but he sifted through your clothes with the enthusiasm of a stylist preparing for a runway show.
“This,” he said, holding up a soft, summery dress you’d brought but hadn’t worn yet. “Absolutely this.”
“It’s too much,” you argued
“It’s perfect,” he said. “You’ll look like you belong in a painting.”
He braided your hair with delicate care, occasionally humming under his breath. “I swear this ribbon is the same shade as your soul,” he said from behind you, tying it into your hair.
“You don’t even know what shade my soul is.”
“Dramatic pink with hints of city despair. Perfect for the countryside.”
You laughed.
“You’re glowing,” he said. “And don’t pretend it’s from moisturizer.”
You shoved him weakly. “Shut up.”
He grinned. “Someone is going to forget how to speak when he sees you.”
“You mean Remus?” you teased.
For a second, Sirius actually blushed. “Maybe. But I wasn’t talking about him.”
You didn’t have time to think about that reply because your aunt called both of you downstairs.
You stepped onto the porch just as James got out of his truck. Remus was already there, talking quietly with your aunt.
James turned at the sound of your footsteps.
His entire body went still.
His hand slipped on the door. His hat tilted back a little. He didn’t blink for a long moment, and when he did, it was slow, like the world had knocked the wind out of him.
You’d seen James look at sunsets, horses, fields full of golden light.
He had never looked at anything the way he looked at you in that dress.
“Hi,” you said shyly.
He opened his mouth. Nothing came out.
Sirius whispered, “Told you.”
Remus coughed to hide a laugh.
James finally found his voice, barely. “You look… really beautiful.”
You felt suddenly warm all over. “Thanks. You look nice too.”
He didn’t look nice.
He looked undone.
His curls were a little messier than usual, his shirt fitted in a way that made you overly aware of his shoulders, sleeves rolled up, and his eyes kept dropping to your lips in a way he probably didn’t mean to let you see.
“Ready?” he managed.
“Yeah,” you said, even though your knees were questionable.
He walked beside you on the way to the truck, but he didn’t look anywhere else.
Not once.
The field was strung with lights. Tables were set up in long rows, covered in food and mason jars and wildflowers. People laughed and danced near the bandstand while children ran between blankets laid out in the grass.
Sirius looked around like he’d discovered an alien civilization. “It’s like a festival,” he whispered.
Remus smiled. “Told you.”
James kept close without making it obvious. Anytime someone bumped into you, his hand brushed your back. Anytime you turned your head, he was there.
Sirius abandoned you early on to flirt with three different people at once, then somehow switched gears and ended up walking along the creek with Remus, laughing at something Remus said so hard he bent at the waist. Remus looked… soft. Softer than you’d ever seen him.
James noticed too. “Seems like he’s taken with Sirius,” he said quietly.
You nodded. “Looks like it.”
But his eyes went back to you. They always did.
At one point, one of the local boys approached you. “You visiting?” he asked with an easy smile. “Never seen you around.”
James stiffened beside you.
You smiled. “Just for the summer.”
“You want company?” the boy asked.
Before you could answer, James spoke, slow and polite. “She’s got company.”
The boy blinked, then nodded and backed off, muttering about “possessive cowboy assholes.”
James pretended he didn’t hear him, but his ears went pink.
Toward sunset, someone unrolled a huge stretch of grassy hill for what everyone called a summersault. You’d never heard of it. Apparently it was a tradition where people rolled down the hill like children until they were dizzy and breathless.
Sirius dragged Remus with him. You followed, laughing as Sirius screamed the whole way down while Remus somehow maintained dignity mid-tumble.
You sat in the grass at the bottom, trying to catch your breath. James jogged down after you and dropped beside you, leaning back on his palms.
“You having fun?” he asked, looking at you like your answer mattered more than anything else happening that night.
“Yeah,” you said, smiling at the sky. “I really am.”
James watched you for a moment. You could feel it.
The air between you felt different. Softer. Closer.
He cleared his throat. “Can I, uh… tell you something?”
Your heart fluttered. “Sure.”
He hesitated, then shook his head a little and smiled. “Maybe later.”
But he didn’t move away.
He didn’t break eye contact either.
When night settled and the band switched to slower songs, people drifted toward the dance floor or the firepit.
James stood. “Want to… dance?”
Your first instinct was to say yes. Your second was panic. “I don’t really know how,” you admitted.
He smiled gently. “I’ll show you.”
He held out his hand. You took it.
His palm was warm, steady, and incredibly careful. He held your waist lightly, like he was afraid too much pressure would scare you off. You rested your hand on his shoulder. His breath caught quietly.
“Is this okay?” he asked.
“More than okay,” you whispered.
He moved you slowly to the music. You felt everything. His thumb brushing your waist. His gaze flicking to your mouth. The way he kept swallowing like he was trying to get rid of nerves he didn’t want you to notice.
Halfway through the song, his forehead rested against yours.
You didn’t think. You just breathed him in.
He whispered, “I really, really like you.”
Your heart jumped. “James…”
“You don’t have to say anything. I just… I wanted you to know.”
You looked up at him. He looked down at you. Your faces were close, close enough that you felt the warmth of his breath on your lips, but he didn’t lean in.
He let the moment sit there. And you did too.
Because you weren’t quite ready to kiss him—not yet—but you didn’t want him to stop wanting to.
His thumb brushed your cheekbone. “I think about you all the time,” he admitted softly, almost like he wasn’t sure he’d said it out loud.
You leaned into his touch, just slightly.
“James…”
He swallowed. “I know. No rush.”
He took his hand back with a slow breath, like it hurt him to stop touching you but he’d do it if that’s what you needed.
Then—
“James!”
Sirius barreled into the two of you, bumping James’s shoulder. “You need to see what Remus just did!”
Remus, who had slipped away to avoid attention, glared from across the field.
James gently pressed his forehead to your temple, half laughing, half exasperated. You laughed too, but your heartbeat didn’t slow for a long, long time.
And that was the moment you realized something quiet and certain:
You were falling for him.
Later that night, while you and James were helping carry leftover dishes to the truck, Sirius pulled Remus behind a tree.
You didn’t see it happen. You only heard Remus return with pink cheeks and Sirius looking smug.
He announced, “I’m living here forever,” and Remus smiled in a way you’d never seen him smile before.
James watched them, then glanced at you, amusement softening his whole expression. “Your friend’s chaos is contagious.”
You nudged him. “You like him.”
“I like you,” he said before he could stop himself.
Your stomach swooped.
“And him too, I guess,” he added quickly, cheeks warming.
You couldn’t hide your grin.
James drove you home. Fireflies glowed in the fields, and the night had that warm, quiet feeling that makes everything feel possible.
