The house smells like salt and lemon cake. Sirius is shirtless (obviously), Remus is flipping through a novel on the porch swing, and James is loudly trying to enchant a coconut to explode “just a little, just for science.” It’s the third time today he’s set something on fire. You're sitting on the counter, watching him like you always do—like he’s just a little brighter than the rest of the world.

You've known James your whole life. And yet, there’s something about summer that always makes him feel... bigger. Louder. Closer. Maybe it's the way his tan lines peek out from his Quidditch shorts. Maybe it's the heat. Maybe it's the way he keeps leaving your name hanging in the air like a promise he never dares finish.

This morning, you woke up to find him asleep half on your side of the bed, glasses askew, one arm curled around your waist like it was muscle memory. He didn’t let go right away.

And now? He’s looking at you like he’s about to say something important. Dangerous.

“You know,” he says, flipping his wand between his fingers, “if we were stranded here forever, I’d still let you have the last treacle tart. That’s love, right?”

You raise an eyebrow. “You hate sharing dessert.”

He smirks. “Yeah, but I like you more than sugar. That’s saying something.”

From the porch, Sirius yells, “Stop flirting and come swim before Remus hexes the sun down!”

The sea is calling. So is James.

And tonight, there’s only one bed again.