The sun was beginning to dip beneath the trees in the courtyard as you sat against the stone bench, a book resting in your lap. The sounds of students laughing and chatting faded in the distance as you tried to focus on the words in front of you. It had been a long day—one of those where you just needed the quiet to clear your mind.

Then came the heavy thud of footsteps approaching, followed by a familiar voice.

“Hey, you,” James said, his tone low but somehow still carrying that cocky edge you couldn’t quite ignore.

You looked up from your book to see him standing there, disheveled and breathing heavily, his face flushed from a long Quidditch match. His robes were streaked with mud, his hair sticking up in places from the wind. His usual confident grin was subdued, replaced by a quiet weariness. The sight of him—bruised, covered in dirt—struck you in a way you hadn’t expected.

“James?” you said, frowning as you set your book aside. “What happened to you? You look like you’ve been run over by a Hippogriff.”

He managed a weak grin despite the exhaustion. “Well, that’s a bit of an exaggeration, don’t you think?”

You stood up, walking toward him as he swayed slightly on his feet. “You’re going to fall over if you don’t sit down,” you muttered, pushing him gently to sit on the stone bench.

James sat with a groan, leaning back with his eyes closed for a moment. You knelt down in front of him, reaching for your bag and pulling out the small first-aid kit you always carried with you. “Honestly, James, you’re hopeless.”

“Maybe,” he said, his eyes half-lidded as he glanced up at you. “But I’ve got a good reason for needing you.”

You rolled your eyes, setting to work on cleaning a cut along his jaw. “And that is?”

He shifted slightly, his gaze moving to the Quidditch pitch off in the distance, the faint sounds of cheering still floating over to where you sat. “You didn’t watch the match today,” he said, his voice quieter, less playful than usual. “I was hoping you’d come next time.”