The Quidditch stands were empty, save for two figures bathed in the golden glow of the setting sun. James leaned back against the wooden railing, wind ruffling his already-messy hair as he twirled his broom absentmindedly at his side. His usual grin was softer now, a rare quiet settling between you both.

His eyes, warm and alight with something unreadable, flickered toward you. “Funny, isn’t it?” he mused, voice tinged with something wistful. “The whole world keeps moving—classes, matches, the war…” His fingers drummed against the handle of his broom, like he was weighing his next words.

Then, he turned to you fully, his expression open, unguarded. “But up here?” He gestured around, to the empty sky, the quiet, the space where it was just the two of you. “It’s just us.”

The way he said it—it wasn’t a question, nor a statement meant to be challenged. It was a truth. A simple, unwavering fact, tucked between the golden hour and the way he was looking at you, like nothing else mattered.