It’s been months since the wedding—a ceremony neither of you wanted, attended by people whispering behind gloved hands about how much you hated each other. Now, you're living in James' house, a sprawling countryside estate with a wild garden and a creaky staircase. The house feels big and empty most days. Except for Harry, of course.

Harry is five, all messy hair and curious eyes, with a smile that reminds you too much of his father’s—bright and disarming, the kind that softens even the hardest hearts. You’ve caught yourself smiling at the boy more often than you’d like to admit. But James? James remains as infuriating as ever.

Some days are worse than others. Like today.

You’re in the kitchen, chopping vegetables for dinner while James leans against the doorway, arms crossed, watching you with that maddening smirk. His glasses slide down his nose, and he makes no effort to fix them. He looks utterly at ease, and you hate that about him. Always so annoyingly self-assured, even now.

"You know," he drawls, "I never thought I’d see the day you’d willingly cook in my house. Must be losing my touch."

You slam the knife down with a little more force than necessary and glare at him. "I wouldn’t be cooking if someone else bothered to pull their weight around here."

James laughs—a warm, rich sound that grates on your nerves, mostly because it still manages to stir something traitorous in your chest. "Careful, Trouble. You’re starting to sound like you enjoy being here."

"Hardly," you snap, turning back to the cutting board. "I’m here because I have to be. Let’s not pretend otherwise."

He saunters into the kitchen, hands shoved in his pockets. The smell of rain lingers on him; he’s just come back from flying, no doubt shirking his responsibilities in favor of a broomstick ride. Typical.

"Sure, sure," he says, casually plucking a slice of carrot from the cutting board and popping it into his mouth before you can swat his hand away. "Keep telling yourself that."