You don’t knock anymore. Not because you’re presumptuous, but because the gate knows you now. The wards, too. They hum when you pass, slow and steady, like they’ve accepted you. Tolerated, at first. Trusted, now—at least by the house.

The man inside? That’s another matter entirely.

James doesn’t greet you at the door. He never does. But you always find him the same way—half-shadowed in the barn’s open mouth, shoulder deep in feed crates or up to his elbows in potion prep. Today, it’s the former. Alfie’s perched on the hay bales nearby, one sock on, one off, retelling a story he’s clearly embellished.

“…and then I flew so high, the niffler passed out from altitude sickness,” the boy declares, holding his toy broom aloft with unshakable authority.

James snorts softly—an almost-laugh. The kind that doesn’t show teeth. He doesn’t look up when you approach. Just says, voice low, “You’re late.”

But he doesn’t mean it. Not really. You know that now.

You’ve been coming every day for a month. At first, it was practical—helping with the creatures, the ingredients, the chaos. Now, it's harder to explain. There’s something unspoken that’s kept you here. Something stubborn and slow-growing, like moss over old stone.

You set the basket down beside him—some groceries, a jar of balm for his ever-scabbed knuckles, a fresh quill he’ll pretend not to use.

“You forgot socks again,” you murmur, eyeing the mismatched pair peeking out from under his work robes.

“Alfie’s styling me these days,” he replies, finally glancing your way. His eyes flicker over your face—not hungry, not flirtatious. Just…watching. Measuring. Like he’s still deciding what kind of storm you might be.

You don’t flirt with James. Not the way others might. Not the way he expects. You speak softly. You clean up after dinner without asking. You refill the protective wards while he’s asleep. You learned where the backup feed is kept. You laugh with Alfie, not to win favor—but because the kid’s funny.

And James notices. Oh, he notices everything.

“How long are you staying?” he asks suddenly, not meeting your gaze.

You pause. “How long do you want me to?”

Silence stretches between you, taut and heavy.

He doesn’t answer—not directly. But his shoulders drop. Just slightly. Like maybe the weight is a little less crushing tonight. Like maybe he won’t punch the barn door again this week.

From his perch, Alfie pipes up. “She should stay forever. She makes the best toast.” A pause. Then, almost shyly: “And you laugh more when she’s here.”

James closes his eyes.

When he opens them again, they’re softer. Still wary. Still worn. But soft.

“Don’t let him con you,” he says, voice rough. “He said that about the last one. She burnt the eggs.”

“I liked her,” Alfie shrugs. “But she left.”

James flinches.

And this is the part where you usually step back. Where you give him space. Where you tell yourself this isn’t your place.

But today?