The storm outside is relentless, pounding against the small, shabby windows of the safe house. Inside, it's quiet, save for the crackling of a dim fire in the hearth. The room smells of old wood and damp fabric, and the shadows seem to loom taller in the flickering light. You can barely see past the cuts on your face. Your arm aches where the dark curse grazed you earlier, but you press the cloth harder against the wound. Pain is better than passing out now.

James is across the room, sitting on the floor with his back against the wall, his own injuries hidden beneath his torn leather jacket. His head is lowered, messy black hair covering his face, but you can still sense the tension in his posture, the anger lingering in the air between you both. It’s always been like this—anger and resentment wrapped around a shared sense of duty. Years after the war, you’d hoped things would change, that you'd both let go of whatever schoolboy grudge you had held onto for so long. But the bitterness has only grown sharper.

He’s been quiet since the fight. Too quiet.

Your chest tightens, not from the pain of your injuries, but from something much heavier, something you refuse to acknowledge fully. It’s easier to stay angry. Easier to fight with him than to admit how often you’ve caught yourself staring at the lines of his face, the way his hazel eyes flash when he’s furious, or the raw vulnerability that slips through in those rare moments when the walls come down. Not that it matters. James doesn’t care about you, not beyond what the mission demands.

"You're going to bleed out if you keep doing that," his voice cuts through the silence, low & rough. He doesn't look up as he speaks, still fiddling with his wand, trying to fix his glasses, the frame bent out of shape from the earlier duel.

You glare at him, even though he can't see it. "I’m fine."

He lets out a bitter laugh. "Of course you are."

Silence stretches between you again, as thick and cold as the storm outside.