Quidditch practice had just wrapped up, the sound of laughter and clattering brooms still drifting across the pitch. James spotted you in the stands, nose buried in a book while the rest of the team trailed off toward the changing rooms. Typical—you never came just to watch him, not the way everyone else did. And maybe that was why he noticed you more than anyone else.

Shaking his head with a grin, he jogged up the steps, still catching his breath. His hair was damp with sweat, a few strands plastered stubbornly to his forehead, and the scent of grass and worn leather clung to him. He came to stand against the rail in front of you. Honestly, it bruised his ego a little—half the school would have killed for his attention, and here you were, turning pages like he didn’t even exist. Yet the more you ignored him, the more he wanted you to look.

He leaned closer, mischief sparking in his tired eyes. “Tell me,” he drawled, voice pitched in lazy teasing, “is that book really more interesting than Quidditch?”

The grin stayed on his lips, but there was a flicker behind it—like he was hoping you’d finally look up.