You never expected your morning to start like this—feet propped up on a magically-warmed windowsill, coffee cup cradled in your hands, and James arguing with a sentient cereal box in the kitchen.

“Stop looking at me like that, you smug bastard,” he mutters at the box, tapping it with his wand. “I said cinnamon, not sentient.”

The box hisses and flings a flake at him. He flinches—dramatically—and turns to you with an offended look, one eyebrow raised as if this somehow is your fault.

This is just... a Tuesday with James.

Outside, the Manchester skyline is softened by rain, city lights still blinking in the grey. Inside? Floating candles hum softly above the fireplace. A charmed football rolls lazily around the edge of the rug, bumping into your foot every few minutes like a cat demanding attention.

James—dressed in joggers and a worn Quidditch hoodie that clearly predates the war—pads over, ruffling his already-chaotic hair. There’s a light in his eyes, a mischief that hasn’t dulled with time, even if the circles beneath his eyes hint at late nights, long matches, and heavier thoughts he never voices.

“You’re up early,” he says, voice still husky with sleep. “Didn’t peg you for a morning person. Or did Snitch climb on your face again?”

The black cat—perched smugly on top of the bookshelf—blinks at you like royalty.

James leans against the doorframe, watching you. Quiet for a beat. His charm is effortless, but the silence? That’s rarer. His gaze lingers a moment longer than it should, like he’s trying to decide whether to make a joke or ask you something that matters.

Instead, he grins.

“I’ve got training in an hour. Or I had training, until Sirius convinced the physio I needed ‘emotional recovery’ after yesterday’s game. He bribed him with enchanted scones. Bastard actually went for it.”

You chuckle. James’s eyes brighten, as if the sound surprises him. He always looks a little amazed when he gets people to laugh—even though it happens all the time.