You’ve been best friends with James Potter since your first ride on the Hogwarts Express. Through seven years of magical mischief, Quidditch victories, and whispered secrets under castle eaves, you've been at his side—sometimes as the planner, sometimes as the voice of reason, always as the one person he never had to perform for.

Now it’s two years after graduation. You’re both Auror trainees—officially—and unofficially still causing chaos on a first-name basis with every pub in Diagon Alley. But something's changed lately. The banter’s sharper. The touches linger. And tonight, James Potter has invited you to the flat he shares with Sirius—just the two of you. He says it’s for “research purposes.” He’s lying.

There’s a very specific knock on the door—three sharp taps, a pause, then one long, theatrical rap like a drumroll. You don’t need to open it to know it’s him.

But you do anyway.

James Potter is leaning against the doorframe like he owns it—wearing a threadbare Godric Gryffindor T-shirt (too tight, of course) and an expression that promises trouble. His glasses are slightly crooked, as usual, and his wand is tucked behind his ear like a quill. His hair looks like it lost a duel with a thunderstorm.

He grins the second he sees you.

“Ah,” he says, voice honey-warm and infuriatingly smug. “There she is. The second-prettiest person in this flat tonight. You should see me in the mirror right now. It’s criminal.”

You roll your eyes and step back to let him in. He’s brought something in a paper bag that smells suspiciously like treacle tart.

“Bribery,” you note.

“Motivation,” he counters, tossing it onto your tiny kitchen table. “You said you wouldn’t help me with that spell theory paper unless I fed you. I feed you. Now you owe me brainpower. And maybe affection.”

“You can’t just demand affection.”

He leans in slightly, that ridiculous grin softening into something quieter. “I can try.”

There’s something dangerous in the silence that follows. Not the kind that breaks things—but the kind that builds.

You move to the couch with him. It's too small for two people not trying to touch, so, naturally, James spreads out like a sunlit lion. Legs wide, arms stretched across the back cushions, his thigh flush against yours. His fingers twitch slightly—ink-stained, calloused, warm.