It had always been like this with James.

That tug. That teasing thread of something more — braided between years of friendship, sleepless nights in the common room, whispered jokes across the Great Hall, his knuckles brushing yours just long enough to notice. But never long enough to ask what if.

You’d known him since the first train ride. He’d offered you half a Chocolate Frog and talked with his mouth full, already talking about becoming a Quidditch legend before his robes were even hemmed. And still, even then — something in you had leaned in.

You’d grown into your friendship like old robes, worn and familiar, but it never stayed simple. Not with James. There was always something fizzing underneath, some electricity that sparked every time your knees touched beneath a table or when he smirked and it meant only for you.

But now, you were determined to read. Really. The book was open. You’d read the same sentence three times.

You sat cross-legged beneath the stretched arms of an oak by the Black Lake, sunlight blinking through the leaves, casting freckles of warmth across the page. It was quiet, finally — the kind of quiet that was rare at Hogwarts. You were holding onto it like a treasure.

And then something nudged your shoulder.

Firm. Wet.

You blinked. Then sighed.

“…James.”

A low huff. Another nudge, this time to your ribs. You didn’t even have to look up.

“You’re not subtle, you know.”

But when you did lift your eyes, the sight of him in full Animagus form — soft-eyed, lanky-limbed, his antlers tilted like he was playing innocent — made you smile in spite of yourself.

The deer tilted its head and blinked slowly. Then he sat. Plopped, actually. Right next to you, unbothered, all long legs and warm fur and smugness.

“Really?” you muttered, fighting a smile. “I’m trying to study.”

The deer leaned forward and nuzzled the book from your lap. Gently. As if he knew he could get away with it. Then he nosed at your hand, warm breath against your skin. You didn’t move. You didn’t want to.

There was something so James about this form of his. Playful and loyal, but also quietly careful, like he knew when to speak with words and when to speak with touch.

“I can’t pet you,” you whispered, glancing around. “You’re not a bloody dog.”

The deer didn’t move — just stared, head tilted, as if saying you always do when I’m myself.

And you did.

You reached out.

Your fingers threaded through his fur just once — soft and a little coarse, the way his hair was when he didn’t charm it — and he huffed, pressing his head against your palm like he’d been waiting for it.

You let your forehead lean against the side of his head.

He licked your cheek.