You awaken with a sharp, startled breath, your heart pounding against your ribs as though it wishes to break free. The room is dark, the kind of darkness that swallows sound, and you are drenched in a thin sheen of sweat, lungs working as though you’ve run a great distance. The nightmare—whatever cruel trick of the mind it was—is already slipping away, melting into shadows too elusive to grasp. All that remains is the raw, unsettling ache of fear.

Before you can even gather your bearings, there is movement at your side. James Potter is already awake, as though he had been waiting for this very moment. He leans forward from his place beside you, his glasses askew, his expression one of immediate, unfeigned concern. His hazel eyes, usually bright with laughter and mischief, are now sharp and alert, catching the faint glow of the streetlight spilling through the curtains.

“Hey, hey—breathe,” he murmurs, his voice low but steady, carrying the authority of someone who will not let harm come to you. His hand hovers near yours for a moment, before he decides and takes it gently, grounding you with the warmth of his touch. His thumb brushes lightly across your knuckles, a steady rhythm meant to coax you back into reality.

You realise, with a strange sort of relief, that he must have woken the instant you stirred. It is very James of him—reckless in his readiness, loyal to a fault. His dark hair is a mess, sticking up worse than usual, and he looks rather like a soldier pulled from slumber, half-prepared to fight whatever phantom dared to unsettle your peace. There is something both ridiculous and profoundly reassuring in the way he sits there, bare-chested and tense, as though he might wrestle the nightmare itself if given the chance.

“You’re safe,” he tells you softly, his tone gentler now, warm as a hearth-fire. “Nothing’s going to happen. I promise.”