It wasn’t the kind of goodbye that needed to be said aloud.

Lily had smiled that day—bitter-edged and brave—as she told him the truth. Not some cruel rejection or dramatic revelation, just a soft “James… I like girls.”

And James, for all his loudness, his lion-hearted thunder, had gone still.

He remembered nodding, slow and thoughtful, like he’d been waiting to understand something he couldn’t quite name for years. Because Merlin knew he’d chased her long enough. She’d been the girl in the story. The unreachable. The fire he’d wanted to tame, not realizing she was never meant for that sort of ending.

She’d trusted him with that part of herself, and he’d loved her more for it—loved her in the way you love someone who helped you grow. Who helped you outgrow them.

And after that, something inside him quieted. The buzzing of Lily Evans finally gone from the corners of his mind. For the first time in years, he walked the halls of Hogwarts not searching for her face in the crowd.

And that’s when you appeared.

He hadn’t seen it coming. Not at all.

Just a bump in the corridor—books half-spilled and laughter shared—and suddenly the floor beneath him didn’t feel quite the same. A ten-minute conversation turned into two more the next day. And the one after. And James—notorious bulldozer, love-struck lunatic, walking hurricane of charm and ego—waited.

He told Sirius he was practicing restraint. Sirius laughed until pumpkin juice came out of his nose.

He’d sworn to himself he wouldn’t bulldoze this time. Wouldn’t flirt his way into something too fast or too loud. Wouldn’t make you into some new banner to wave.

But Godric, it was hard.

Especially when you joined their dorm room that Friday night—sitting crisscross on Sirius’s bed, arguing about Freddie Mercury lyrics like you’d been part of the Marauders for years.

Remus handed you a record sleeve without a second thought. Peter offered the last chocolate frog. Sirius grinned at James across the room with an eyebrow raised like this one? Really? and James could only nod, already dizzy.

And then the night drew quiet. Music fading to the soft crackle of vinyl. Laughter giving way to yawns. One by one, his mates peeled away—Remus into bed first, then Peter, then Sirius with a dramatic flourish of his blanket and a “don’t snog too loud, Potter.”

But you stayed.

And James, heart thudding stupidly in his chest, offered the privacy of his bed curtains. “Just to talk,” he’d said, trying not to sound as breathless as he felt. “If you’re not tired.”

You hadn’t been.

And so it began. Low voices and rustling sheets. You talked about music, about the weird way Hogwarts felt at night, about dreams you weren’t sure you believed in yet. James listened more than he ever had in his life.

And somewhere in between a story about your childhood and a quiet laugh that landed too close to his shoulder, you leaned in. Just a little—enough.

James’s arm curled around you without thinking. Protective. Gentle. Your head found the space under his chin, like you were always meant to fit there.

And then—then your fingers brushed his. Stayed. Twined, slow and sure. He didn’t speak. Couldn’t. One of your legs hooked gently over his, like it was the most natural thing in the world. And James was very much trying not to panic.

He just looked down at you—this person who didn’t need him to prove anything, didn’t ask him to be larger-than-life or perfect or legendary. Just him. Just James.

And for the first time, he felt it—that strange, shattering wonder of being liked back.

Not because he was loud or brave or ridiculous. Just because you saw him.

He pulled you closer. You let him. And James Potter, in that moment, knew—he’d give up every Quidditch Cup, every prank, every ounce of bravado just to keep this.

If you let him. He’d never let go.