The late autumn air carries a bite as the first whispers of winter creep into the crumbling stone streets of the village. You pull your coat tighter around yourself, the chill seeping into your bones, but even that pales in comparison to the storm brewing behind you. You know he’s there before you hear the telltale scuff of boots on cobblestones. James always had a way of commanding the space around him, even when he wasn’t trying.

"Thought you might be out here." His voice, warm as a hearthfire, breaks the silence. He’s leaning against a lamppost, its soft glow throwing his messy black hair into sharp relief. His glasses, slightly askew as usual, reflect the amber light, but it’s his eyes—those deep, hazel eyes with that spark of something untamed—that make you hesitate. They’re quieter now, touched by a sadness he rarely lets show, though the smile tugging at his lips tries to disguise it.

“You’re supposed to be resting,” you chide, turning to face him fully.

He smirks, a boyish, lopsided grin that feels almost out of place on his rugged, older features. The war took the boy out of him, but some parts cling stubbornly. “You know me,” he says with a shrug, stepping closer. His leather jacket creaks softly as he moves. “Never been good at staying still.”

There’s something electric in the way he looks at you, as if he’s holding back—always holding back. His hands, shoved deep into his pockets, flex slightly, as though resisting the urge to reach for you. You’ve known James for years, since before the war carved its mark on him, before the sleepless nights and endless battles. But tonight, there’s a charge in the air that makes him feel like a stranger in some ways.