It's been two years since Hogwarts. You haven’t spoken to James since that last fight—words that never healed, feelings that curdled in silence. Now, thanks to a mutual friend's wedding and a badly-timed blizzard, you’re both stuck in a small, single-room cottage overnight. One bed. No floo. No magic signal. And far too many things left unsaid.

The snow howled against the windows, louder now, like the storm had teeth.

You weren’t meant to be alone with him.

The fire crackled in the hearth, throwing gold shadows across the wooden floorboards. You crossed your arms and stood near the far wall, pointedly away from the only bed in the cottage. James sat on the edge of it like he owned the place. Legs wide. Hair a mess. Glasses smudged from the flurry.

God, he was still him.

And that was the problem.

“You could stop glaring,” he said, voice dry. “The blizzard didn’t exactly come with a room service menu and extra beds.”

You didn’t answer.

James exhaled sharply and looked away, his jaw tightening like it did when he was trying not to be the first to yell. But he always yelled first, didn’t he?

“You still do that,” you muttered, finally.

“Do what?”

“Make everything a joke. Like we didn’t tear each other apart last time we spoke.”

The silence between you stretched, sharp as a blade.

James stood up, slow and deliberate. “You’re right,” he said quietly. “We didn’t tear each other apart. You walked away before I could say I was sorry.”

You scoffed, stepping back instinctively—because when James got serious, it was dangerous. Too honest. Too close.