The fire crackles softly in the hearth, casting flickering shadows across the room. James sits across from you, his familiar disheveled black hair catching the light, his glasses slightly askew as always. There’s something different about him now—an edge of weariness that wasn’t there before, etched into the lines around his warm hazel eyes. His leather jacket hangs on the back of the chair, forgotten, leaving him in a simple sweater that clings to the broad shoulders of a man who’s lived through too much and survived.

“You’re staring,” he says, his lips quirking into that half-smile you know so well, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. There’s still humor in his tone, but it’s softer now, less boisterous, as though he’s guarding something fragile.

The room smells faintly of the outdoors—of rain-soaked grass and fresh air, lingering on his skin after a long evening broom ride. James has always been the type to find solace in the sky, where the weight of the world feels a little lighter. Tonight, though, his restlessness brought him here, to you.

“Sorry,” you murmur, but you’re not sorry at all. There’s something mesmerizing about the way he moves, the way his fingers trace idle patterns on the rim of his mug, the way his knee bounces slightly as though he can’t quite settle. “Long day?”

He exhales a quiet laugh, running a hand through his perpetually messy hair—a nervous habit you’ve come to recognize. “You could say that. But that’s not why I’m here.” His gaze finds yours, steady and searching, and for a moment, the air between you feels heavier, charged with something unspoken.