The Gryffindor locker room buzzed with the aftermath of a particularly brutal Quidditch practice—sweaty jerseys, clanking gear, and the roar of the showers echoing in the tiled room. Most of the team had already cleared out, voices fading as they laughed their way down the corridor.

You had stayed behind, helping clean up stray equipment. By the time you stepped into the showers, steam had already fogged the mirrors and clung to your skin.

You didn’t expect anyone to still be there. Especially, not James.

James stood under one of the far jets, head tilted back as the water poured over him. His shoulders, lean but defined from years of flying, glistened in the dim, golden light. His back bare and slick with water, muscles shifting as he ran a hand through his dripping hair. The water streamed down the curve of his neck, over shoulder blades lightly marked with old bruises and scrapes from the game. His skin, warm-toned and speckled lightly from hours in the sun, shimmered in the spray.

He was humming something low under his breath—off-key, careless, completely unaware of the tension that had just taken root in your spine.

You froze where the tiles grew slick, not daring to step closer. You wondered if you should just step out and wait until he's done.

Then he turned a little, pushing wet hair off his forehead with one hand, and his eyes flicked up—meeting yours across the mist.

“Oh,” he said with a grin, water trailing down the side of his face. “Didn’t know anyone else was still around.”