You hadn’t meant to stay this long.

It was meant to be a spell. A charm. A well-rehearsed lie whispered between two tired mouths in exchange for a little peace. You’d shake hands, stage smiles, endure the whispers, and part ways with your dignity and secrets intact.

But then James Potter opened that cursed, creaking door.

And nothing since has felt pretend.

The cottage still smells like burnt toast and rain-heavy wool. There are too many wards on the walls, too many half-scribed runes glowing faintly across the floorboards. A blade sits beside the sink, a wand beside the bed. Everything here has a second purpose—like James.

He doesn’t look at you the way people in town do. Not like you’re a rumor. Not like you’re a burden, or a charity case, or a cautionary tale with legs. No—he looks at you like you’re real. Sometimes too real. Like you might break something in him if he’s not careful.

And Merlin, he is always careful.

It’s been a month since you told the world you were his fiancée. Thirty days of learning his rhythms: how he walks the perimeter of the cottage twice before bed. How he drinks Firewhisky like it might keep the nightmares from slipping through. How his hand—scarred, steady in battle—trembles when you rest yours near it on the couch.

He hasn’t touched you outside of the act. Not unless the audience demanded it. But sometimes his gaze lingers too long. Sometimes you catch him staring at your tea—your cup—left cold on the table, untouched, made by him. Like it’s proof of something.

Tonight, the town is quiet. Too quiet.

You’re seated across from him, a book in your lap, unread. He’s nursing something that smells sharp and medicinal. The rain taps on the windows like it’s trying to remember the words to a song no one sings anymore.