Wife of marauders

Begrudgingly, he checks his clipboard. Glances at your press pass. “Hold on.” 

The door shuts again. 

Your short, surprised breath clouds in the air in front of you. Hold on? What are you holding for? Your editor hadn’t given you hardly any instruction at all for what you were meant to do once you got here, but it seems like this douche could keep you locked out here all night if he wanted to. 

It has the feel of a test. Like if you were a real journalist, an experienced one, you’d know what to say to get in the door. You’d hand the bouncer a cigarette and waltz in asking, The band’s in the dressing room? Cool, thanks. I know the way. 

As it stands, you’re cigarette-less and more liable to bite your tongue off from nerves than to use it for anything helpful. You’re about to raise your fist and knock again anyway when the door swings open. 

“Hi!” Inside is a girl about your age, with a feathery coat and a halo of dark curls. Her bright smile feels like a punch of relief. “Spellbound?” 

“Yeah.” You step closer, shaking the hand she sticks out. 

“I’m Mary. I handle the boys’ PR.” She steps back, and after a brief glance at the bouncer, you follow her inside. Mary sets off. 

“Awesome.” You hurry to keep pace with her, sidestepping rushing backstage crew and trip-hazard wires. “Um, and when you say ‘the boys,’ do you mean…” 

“Oh! The Marauders.” Mary laughs. “I forget they’re not just the boys to everyone anymore.” 

“Have you worked with them for long?” 

The glance she shoots over her shoulder at you is humorous, cryptic. You get the itch to turn on your tape recorder. “A while, yeah.” 

Before you can ask her to elaborate on that—and if she’d mind possibly being quoted in your article—Mary turns a corner, and you’re looking at the stage. 

The venue isn’t large, but it bowls you over how huge the crowd is. They’re wall-to-wall, teeming, and buzzing with a loud, anticipatory fervor. 

“The boys are just doing final checks,” says Mary, “but they’ll be out in a minute, and afterward I’ll have someone show you to their dressing room for the interview. Sound good?” 

“I get to watch the show?” you ask dumbly. 

She looks surprised. “Of course. Can’t write about musicians without hearing the music, right?” 

“Right,” you echo. 

Mary grins. “Great. Don’t leave without seeing me, okay? I’ll want to know when to expect the issue.” 

You don’t know those sorts of details. You hardly know who to ask to learn those sorts of details. But you nod at her, and she blazes off, and then you’re alone. Backstage at The Yard. 

You brush your fingers over the curtain tied back from the stage, imagining years of history trickling through your fingers like dust. The Who might have played here. Bowie. Marc Bolan. You’d pass out if you weren’t so keen on staying conscious for your interview

Your first interview. You’re still floored to have been offered it, honestly. Green as you are, a rising titan like The Marauders is no small gig. Either your editor wants a reason to fire you in your first month at Spellbound, or he has a lot more faith in you than you do. 

You nearly jump out of your skin when the speakers buzz to life as one. 

“Hello? Is this thing on?” 

Screams erupt from the crowd as they recognize the voice instantly. They surge towards the stage, hungry. 

“Stupid fucking thing.” There’s a dull beat, like someone tapping the microphone. “Do you think they can hear us?” 

The crowd cheers impossibly louder. Across the dark stage, you spot the movement of a few dark shapes, and despite your weak attempts at professionalism a thrill races through you. 

“Oh. Guess so.” The voice grows a bit cheeky, the facade of ignorance slipping. “Well, suppose we better get on with it then.” 

Sirius Black steps onto the stage, and everyone loses their minds. 

For one fleeting moment, you almost wish you were a photographer instead of a writer, because you’ll never be able to come up with the words to capture this. The way Sirius saunters into the spotlight as though he’s made of it, dark hair gleaming and guitar strap slung carelessly over his shoulder. The way fans at the front claw at the stage like they’d die to get a scrap of his leather boots under their fingernails. The way your own heart rockets into your throat, despite being on the same level as him while the fans aren’t, despite having prepared yourself for this night all week. 

Bandmates James Potter and Remus Lupin follow him out to no less lively reception. Sirius and Remus plug their instruments into amps while James gets cozy behind the drumset. While Sirius continues working the crowd, Remus glances to the left for hardly a moment—just long enough to catch sight of you. You’re hardly the only person standing off to the side of the stage, but you must look somehow distinct from the crew, because his eyes lock on you like you’re something out of place. 

His head tilts slightly, as though to say, And you are?

You hardly have an answer for him. Your hand comes up of its own mind, a sort of shrug that might be a wave. You try not to grimace at yourself. 

And then they start. 

There’s no countdown. You’re not prepared for it—you don’t know how they’re prepared for it. There was no signal that you could see. It was like fucking teleapathy. And far from the last magic show The Marauders have in store for fans tonight. 

The crowd throws itself into motion as the band plays the opening bars of their first hit, The Phoenix. The lights change from blue, to orange, to red. You scramble for your notepad, wanting to take down the set list before you forget it. 

Sirius is a born frontman. When the light hits him, he’s larger than life, and he’s good enough to take the crowd with him, too. Remus absorbs the adoration in a different way. He keeps his attention on his bass as he plays, seeming entirely focussed on the music, except for once in a blue moon when he’ll glance at someone in the audience. They go absolutely rabid for it. James is, clearly, just thrilled to be here. He’s got as much energy as the fans. His drumsticks move nearly faster than you can keep up with, until one goes sailing offstage halfway through the third song. A crew member has a replacement in his hand almost instantaneously.

It’s difficult to imagine these boys playing in pubs and small parties, as they’re alleged to have done for almost two years before making it big. The story goes that James was talking to Rita Skeeter, one of the biggest names in musical journalism with a self-proclaimed nose for talent, without any clue who she was; he charmed his way onto the scene on dumb luck. Looking at him now, you can believe it.  

Short of your jotted-down set list, you’ve no clue if there’s anything you’re supposed to be doing. You end up simply enjoying the show. The Marauders’ discography is short enough that they’re able to play every song in a single show, their audience growing more enraptured seemingly with each one. By the end, Sirius’ hair is a wild mess, James has lost three drumsticks to the crowd, and Remus only looks a tad sweatier than he did when they came out. The crowd roars their devotion as James thanks them all for a great night. 

You stand still as the stage goes dark. You’re humming with adrenaline and most definitely in the way, crew pushing past you to get to the stage and begin undoing everything that had gone into making the show as vibrant as it was. You step back, meaning to get out of their path, and find yourself on someone else’s toes. 

“Ouch.” 

“Shit, sorry!” You turn, finding yourself at terrifying proximity to a sweaty shirtfront. You step away cautiously, looking behind you this time to avoid any more collisions. 

“It’s okay. I step on them too, just not usually so hard,” says James. His voice registers only half a second before his face, shiny with sweat and as smiley as he’d been on stage for the last hour. James Potter. “Are you the journalist?” 

“Um” —Fuck, are you?— “yeah.” 

“Perfect. Mary’d fry me if I lost you.” James grins. “We’re ready if you are.” 

You nod dazedly, letting him turn and lead you away. When Mary said that someone would come and collect you, you didn’t imagine she meant someone from the band. You watch James wave hello to various crew members, too dumbstruck to remember the pen in your hand. 

“Did you like the show?” he asks you. 

“I…yeah. It was amazing.” You take in a breath. “It’s obvious why your tour sold out so fast.” 

“You think so?” James sounds genuinely pleased. It’s endearing. Is that the sort of thing you can put in your article, that he’s endearing? “Thanks.” 

Your voice peters off into shyness. “Of course.” 

James leads you down a hallway that leads to another hallway, and then you find yourself stepping into a room where Sirius Black is groaning, “Ah, fuck. James, you weren’t actually supposed to bring her here. You were supposed to shove her out the side door, you twat.” 

You stop at the threshold. 

The room is blurry with cigarette smoke, but almost better for it. It feels frozen in time. The vanities with marquee lights around the mirrors, the discolored velvet settee, the hanging aroma of cigarettes—it’s all just as you’d imagined a dressing room would be. You feel the need to reach back to your past self and squeeze her hand. It’s a dingy, dilapidated dream. 

“Settle something for us.” Sirius’ smooth voice pulls you back into the present. “Remus wants us to change the setlist to close with Red Rose, but we’ve always closed with Sweet and Easy.” 

“It doesn’t have the same effect,” Remus mutters, seemingly vexed by an argument already lost. 

“Right, and this effect has nothing to do with Red Rose’s bassline.” 

The hint of teasing is barely detectable in Sirius’ tone, but the way Remus rolls his eyes suggests he’s either heard it or has saintlike patience for his diva guitarist’s moods. You watch as James tosses himself over the back of the settee, tousling Remus’ hair in a conciliatory fashion. It’s surreal, seeing them all in motion like this. As though magazine photos have come to life. 

“Red Rose ends fairly definitively,” you say, slowly. “With Sweet and Easy, the riff at the end gives you a chance to prolong it if you want to. Like you did tonight.” 

“So you were paying some attention, then.” Sirius looks pleased. 

You frown. “It wasn’t my first time hearing your music.” 

“No?” 

“No.” 

He appraises you. You get the sense that it’s more for show than anything, the glitter on his eyelids flashing in the light. “You can come in, then,” he decides. 

“Oh god, sorry.” James turns around on the settee. “You didn’t really have to stay out there.” 

“It’s okay,” you say. “Door open or closed?” 

Sirius hums. “Closed.” He drops one eyelid in a wink. “Don’t want to spill all our secrets to you and then have Colin the sound technician blab them before you can.” 

You smile at him, though you doubt that. The Marauders are the emerging heartthrobs of England. They have a way of making fans feel as though they know each member of the band intimately, but when you’ve actually read their interviews you haven’t felt like they’ve revealed much at all. It’s all fluff—Sirius admitting he prefers dogs to cats, humorous tales of James orchestrating pranks in school, Remus divulging that Moonage Daydream is his favorite non-Marauders song. You think these three silly boys are better at giving press the runaround than they let on. 

You take a seat in a chair perpendicular to their settee and turn your tape recorder on, setting it on the ottoman between you. 

Remus extends a pack of cigarettes to you in silent offer. 

“Thanks.” You take one. Look at James, sitting unaffectedly while Sirius and Remus smoke next to him. “You don’t smoke?” 

It’s a small test. James has answered this question before; you’re only wondering if he’ll give you the same response. 

“No,” he says. 

“Have you ever tried?” 

He shakes his head, shrugging. “Haven’t ever really wanted to.” 

You consider him a moment. “Fair enough.” You set your cigarette down on a side table, unlit. “I’ll do it with you, then. Remus, how old were you when you started smoking?” 

Remus’ eyebrows lift, but Sirius laughs. It’s a blasé, false sound. “We went to boarding school, gorgeous,” he says, as though that’s answer enough. “Are we going to talk about cigarettes this whole time?” 

“I was just curious.” You lean back in your chair, trying to pretend like your heartbeat isn’t bumping in your fingertips. “Don’t want to scare you with all the big questions straightaway, right?” 

Sirius props his chin on his hand, eyes locking onto yours. They’re a watercolor gray-blue no photo you’ve seen could approximate. “We can take it,” he promises.

It feels like a challenge to hold his gaze, so you do. “Okay. Which of your songs means the most to you, and why?” Sirius opens his mouth to respond, but you turn away. “Remus?” 

Remus looks surprised to be asked. With how quickly Sirius and James both seize the mic, the public hardly knows anything about him. “Good question,” he hums. You do your best not to let the compliment go straight to your head. “I suppose The Phoenix.”

“And why’s that?” you prompt. 

“It’s the first song we all really collaborated on.” Remus is looking at you, but you don’t miss the fond smile James sends his way. “I can’t play it without thinking about the fun we had writing it.” 

You nod, beaming internally. Why don’t people corral Remus into taking questions more often? He’s fucking phenomenal at it. 

“And you?” you ask Sirius. 

Sirius affects a look of shock, pointing at himself. “Oh. Is it my turn?” 

You bite down on a smile. “Yes.” 

“Lovely. Just checking.” He leans back, crossing his ankles on the coffee table. “My favorite would have to be Fever Dog. Means a lot to me.” 

Your lips part, though really you should have expected this from him. Fever Dog is widely considered The Marauders’ most scandalous song. Whenever they play it live, Sirius will pick a woman in the audience and put on a grand show of lusting after her. Some have argued he should have to make a formal apology to one venue for what he did to their microphone stand. 

You stare at Sirius, and he stares back at you. He’s going to make you ask. 

“Why?” you ask, cheeks burning. 

He grins. “Oh, you know.” 

You wait for him to go on, but he doesn’t. He’s waiting for you to pry it out of him. If he thinks you’re going to use your time on that, he’s got another thing coming. You turn to James. 

“And what about you? Which song means the most to you?” 

“Actually,” says James, his smile a shade away from sheepish, “I’m afraid I’m going to have to be fairly tight-lipped about that one. My pick is a song we’ve only just written.” 

An ember of promise flares to life in your middle. “It’s unreleased?” 

“Unfortunately, yeah.” 

“When can we expect to hear it?” 

Sirius tuts. “Now, doll, you heard him. He can’t say.” 

“Come on.” You lean forward and look at James, nearly pleading. A brief conversation about smoking and bland answers to what was meant to be your most revealing question; so far, all you’ve managed to get is the same fluff as everyone else. “There has to be something you can tell me. What’s it about?” 

“Our lips are sealed,” Sirius answers for him. 

“Does it follow the trajectory of Lookaround, or are you returning to your old sound?” 

“Yes.” 

“What’s it called?” 

“Sorry, we’ve really got nothing for you there,” James laughs. “As of now it’s still only called Track 8.” 

The other boys go still. James doesn’t seem to realize why until you piece enough of yourself back together from the wreckage of your own shock to open your mouth. 

“You’re releasing an album?” 

Sirius’ unruffled facade is back in place in a millisecond, but James’ eyes widen, and that tells you all you need to know. 

“We label all our unreleased songs as numbers until we come up with a decent title.” Sirius gives a careless wave of his hand. 

You shake your head. “You’re releasing an album,” you say certainly.

Remus sighs, covering his eyes with a hand. “Oh, Jamie.” 

This is huge. Gigantic. The Marauders have risen to fame on singles, which is impressive enough—word of an impending album will blow up their fanbase. And to have the news break during their first tour—

“Now, what would give you that impression?” Sirius asks. But you see through him, now. His insouciance is all for show; he’s scrambling. 

A laugh stumbles out of you, giddy. Before you can launch into more questions, the door to the dressing room opens. 

“Unless we want to get caught in traffic, we really should—” The round-faced redhead stops mid-sentence when she spots you. “Oh. Sorry. Are you all almost done, because…” 

“Lily.” James’ tight voice is an obvious cry for help. 

The woman’s eyes find him instantly, her posture straightening. “What?” 

He smiles, abashed. Still hopelessly endearing. “I might have messed up.” 

“She knows about the album,” says Remus from behind his hand. 

Lily looks between the three boys for a handful of seconds—James’ contrite expression, Remus’ defeated posture, Sirius eyeing your tape recorder like he might grab for it. Her shoulders slump. “Oh, fuck. Seriously?” 

“I had nothing to do with it,” Sirius insists.

“Right. Sure.” Lily rolls her eyes. She crosses the room, picking up your tape recorder from the ottoman—you nearly lunge for it, panicking, but she only hands it to you—before taking a seat in its place. “Hi,” she says, seeming to collect herself enough to give you a halfway friendly smile. “I’m Lily. I’m the boys’ manager.” 

You smile back, mostly at the way she calls them ‘the boys,’ just like Mary did. You wonder if it hints at a familiarity not usually so common between bands and their teams. You shake Lily’s hand. 

“We’re not ready for people to know about the album,” she says calmly.

You steel yourself. “It’s my job to write about these things.” 

“I understand that.” She presses her lips together. “What can we offer you?” 

You feel your eyebrows go up. “I’m sorry?” 

“What if we promise you an exclusive on breaking the news about the album, but you wait until we give you the go-ahead to publish?” 

You’re shaking your head before she’s done. You don’t want to make any enemies—certainly not before you’ve even established yourself in the industry—but you have a job to do. There’s no good reason you shouldn’t publish this tomorrow. 

“Should I get Mary?” James asks worriedly. 

Lily holds up a hand. “We’re fine. What if—” 

“What if you let me write about the process?” you blurt, then shy at interrupting. “Sorry.” 

But Lily’s eyebrows have drawn together. “What do you mean?” 

“I, um.” You clear your throat. Try not to think about the other three sets of eyes on you, focussing only on Lily. “I could document the process of The Marauders creating their first album. It could be a feature in Spellbound.” You start talking faster as the idea solidifies, growing excited. “I’d have to ask my editor, but I’m sure he’d approve it. You let me stay with you for a while on the tour, do a few more interviews, sit in on some things, and I hold the news about the album until you’re ready to release it. With the full inside scoop.” 

For a while, Lily only looks at you. You scan her face, trying to gauge any reaction, but she’s unreadable while she seems to be doing the same to you. “That could work,” she says finally. 

“No!” Sirius is aghast. 

Lily grimaces. “Sirius—” 

“No, we cannot take the fucking enemy—” He sends you a look. “—nothing personal, gorgeous—on tour with us.” 

“We may not have much choice,” says Remus. His expression is weary, though thankfully not particularly hostile when he looks at you. The cigarette between his fingers has burned nearly to the filter. 

“We can’t finance you travelling with us,” Lily tells you. 

“I’ll pay for myself,” you reply thoughtlessly. How you’re going to do that is a problem for another time. “Do you have a tour bus I can ride along on?” 

She looks begrudging. “Yes.” 

“I can sleep there.” James cringes as if in sympathy at the idea, but you don’t second-guess yourself. “You won’t have to pay for anything.” 

Lily takes in a breath. She glances at the boys briefly, but sticks out her hand. “Alright. You come on the bus with us, we give you two formal interviews, and you hold the news about the album until I say.” 

You put your hand in hers. “Deal.” 

"Hey, love," James murmurs, bending down to kneel near you and brushing the hair from your cheek. Your eyes tighten, fighting against his attempt to wake you gently. 

"What?" You say, nose scrunched. James can't help but think he's in for a load of trouble. 

"Sorry, I really hate to wake you but I sort of need a favor. Urgently."

You groan, low and wounded, and James tries not to take it personally. "What kind of favor," you mutter, not even opening your eyes, "'s it something that can wait until I’m not dead?"

James smiles, guilty. “Tragically, no. Time-sensitive. Life-threatening, even.”

That gets one eye to squint open, glassy and irritated. “Did you get hexed?”

“No.”

“Lose your wand? Because I’m not going into the lake again searching for it.”

“No.”

“Fall in love with some clone of me and now you need help hiding the body of the real me?”

That makes his throat close around a laugh. It’s too on the nose. Too close. “Sort of the opposite of that, actually.”

You finally shift onto your back, blinking up at him with a sleepy, skeptical squint. “What I said made no sense. In fact, you’re making no sense.”

James sighs. Then runs a hand through his hair like it’ll rearrange the truth into something smoother. It doesn’t.

“I told the boys you were my girlfriend.”

Silence. The kind of silence that makes James feel like he’s balancing on the edge of the Astronomy Tower, toes over the stone, no broom. Heart racing, caution to the wind, adrenaline pumping. It’s a sort of danger-tinged excitement, waiting for your response.

“You… what?”

“In my defense, Sirius was being insufferable. He said I’d never actually move on from Lily and, well, I didn’t plan to say it. It just sort of," he mimics an explosion with his fingers, "happened. Very impulsive. Very Gryffindor. Very awful, very horrid, I deserve to rot, etcetera, etcetera.”

Your mouth parts slowly. “And I was the first girl who came to mind?”

James blinks. “Well, not the first—”

Your brows shoot up.

“I.” James sighs, shoving a hand through his curls again and looking at you, pleading, “You’re the only one I could actually trust to not hex me for it! And, you know, you’re already one of my best mates, it makes sense.”

You don’t answer, staring at him, speechless. After a moment, the self-deprocating grin falters on his face and warmth seeps into his cheeks. “I couldn’t take it. I’d already been rejected by Lily end of last term. I spent the summer pouting, and you know that – listened to me cry too many times for me to ever feel comfortable with you and Sirius sitting in the same room again – and now they won’t drop it. I’m over it, I really am, but I also needed them to be over it, too.”

You sit up, hair askew, shirt still rumpled, eyes sharper now. “And what exactly did you say?”

James has the nerve to look sheepish. “That we’ve been seeing each other for a bit, after all they’d all noticed that you’d been around mine a lot this summer. Said that you’re really really private about it, which is why no one’s noticed. Also that you’re terrifyingly brilliant, and way out of my league, which they didn’t argue, so you’re welcome for that.”

“James.”

“Please?” he says, voice breaking upward just slightly, boyish in the worst way. “Just for a little while. A month. Maybe two. Just until they get bored.”

You stare at him.

He stares back. All messy hair and hopeful smile and absolute nerve.

You fold your arms. “And what exactly does fake dating James Potter entail?”

James brightens like you’ve handed him a broom mid-freefall. “Nothing you’re not comfortable with, of course. Just a few well-timed appearances. Maybe a shared dessert at dinner, a couple cuddles in the common room, the occasional kiss if you’re feeling generous –”

You blink. Glare.

“Kidding! Mostly. I don’t really have the habit of self-control … Or doing anything by halves.”

“You’re going to owe me so much,” you mutter.

James grins like a man saved from drowning. “I already do.”

You sigh, resolve settling in your gut. “Well, come on, then,” you say, reaching forward and snagging his hand as you stand. Your eyes skim the floor, find your wand, and you begin marching while dragging him away. 

“Where are we going?” James asks, sounding startled but following nonetheless. “Please don’t murder me, love, we’ve only just begun our years of fond bonding started by an idiotic plot!”

“Merlin, James, just follow me. And be a little less loud.”

You drag him by the wrist out of the portrait door and through the halls of the castle. It’s late afternoon, nearly dinner time, and most of the students are enjoying the fading light of the day after classes, sitting in bunches under trees or bathing in the sun. As you expected, the library is empty. It’s early term, only a few weeks in, so few feel the need to really push in their studies. 

You nod and smile at Madam Pince as you pass her, ducking into one of the isles of books that lead to the back of the library. James is oddly quiet and pliant as you find the rows of encyplopedias that hardly anyone uses. 

As the year progresses, this spot will slowly become known again to couples looking for a quiet place to be alone. Now, though, it’s blissfully empty and tucked just so that you can see out toward the library with little chance of someone looking in. 

You throw yourself to the floor, knocking your head back against the shelves to look up at James. “Sit, let’s sort this out, then.”

James sits across from you, legs folding long and loose beneath him like he’s done this a thousand times—because he has, in a way. You’ve spent countless hours in these shelves with him, trading notes and teasing and whispering too-loud jokes until Madam Pince threatened to ban you both for a week. But it’s never felt quite like this.

You level him with a look. “If we’re doing this, we need ground rules.”

James straightens, all mock-seriousness. “Right. Rules. Hit me.”

“I’m serious.”

“Pretty certain you’re not,” James jokes with a wink. You knock his shoulder, glaring, hiding a smile. “No, you’re right. I can tell. You’ve got the rule-voice on.”

You press on. “First: no surprises. If we’re going to hold hands in public, or sit close at dinner, or, Merlin forbid, kiss anywhere people can see, I need warning. At least thirty seconds.”

James raises his eyebrows. “Do I need to narrate in advance? ‘Alright, sweetheart, my hand is now approaching your lower back,’”

“James.”

He grins, biting it back. “Okay. No surprises. Got it.”

You hesitate, then continue, voice a little lower. “Second: no one else can know.”

His face shifts a little at that. Not confused, just … quiet. He doesn’t laugh this time. You know he hates this, hiding from his friends. 

“This was your idea,” you remind him, “and we’re trying to fool your friends right now.”

“Right. Makes sense.”

“Exactly. You can’t let it slip.”

“I won’t. Swear on my broomstick.”

You nod, satisfied, but something tightens in your chest. James watches you for a second longer than is comfortable, his eyes thoughtful, and then leans forward slightly.

“You alright?” he asks.

You blink. “Yeah. Why?”

“You’re all stiff. Weirdly quiet and compliant. Makes me nervous.”

“Like I ever give you a hard time when it comes to your schemes,” you mutter.

“No,” he says, smiling. “But you’re usually the one calling me out when I get like this.” He gestures vaguely to himself. “All impulsive and such. You nag me about it pretty often, actually.”

You try to wave him off. “Hence my rules.”

“No, but you’ve said yes. To something I was certain I would have to beg more for it to happen.” James tilts his head, eyes scanning your face thoughtfully. “I know I’m already gifting you the exclusive James-Potter-boyfriend-treatment, can’t be beat honestly, but what’re you getting from saying yes?”

You freeze just enough to betray yourself. James doesn’t pounce on it. He leans back, instead, hands moving to relax in his lap, like he’s trying not to scare you off.

“I’m not judging,” he says, soft now. “I just want to know I’m not pushing you into something you’ll hate. I promise to not make you miserable. I’m actually a great boyfriend,” he teases, earnest eyes still searching yours.

You shake your head once, short and automatic. “It’s not a big deal.” Softly, you whisper to him, breaking eye contact to pick at the edge of your nail.

“Alright,” James says, just as softly. “But can I ask anyway?”

You don’t answer right away.

He waits.

Eventually, you speak, voice small. “It’s just … people don’t really see me that way.”

“What way?”

“As someone who’d have a boyfriend.”

James frowns. “That’s ridiculous.”

“Maybe. But I’ve never had one,” you admit, quickly, before you can stop yourself. “Not once. And when people joke about it, which they do, they’re never being cruel. Just casual. Laughing about how I’ll probably grow into some old, eccentric witch in the woods with a cottage full of cats and no one to kiss goodnight.”

James is quiet, letting it land.

“And I know it’s stupid,” you say quickly, too quickly, “because I don’t care, really, I’m not bothered, I just.” You shake your head again, curling in a little on yourself. “I just sort of want to prove them wrong. Like, maybe if they see that someone can see me that way, maybe I’m worth it? And so, really, nobody can know. Thi can’t turn into something they all laugh at me for.”

James leans forward again, this time slower. There’s no teasing in his eyes now—just something gentle, a little weighty, like he’s gathering his words with care.

“It’s not going to be like that,” he says. “Not with me.”

You glance at him.

“I won’t make you the punchline,” he goes on, steady and sure. “I won’t let it get to that point. And if anyone else dares to say something like that to you, let me know. I’ll take care of them.”

Despite yourself, you smile.

“I mean it,” he says, softer. “I know this is to save my pride and feelings, but this is for you, too, now. I’m not lying when I say I’ll be the best fake-boyfriend ever. You just get ready to fall in love with me.” James winks, goading a laugh out of you and relishing in the victory for a soft second before sobering. “And just because I’m technically your first doesn’t mean I get to keep the rest. You’ll still have all your good firsts. The ones that count.”

Your voice is a murmur. “Like what?”

James shrugs, but there’s warmth in his smile. “Real butterflies. Real messy late-night argument with someone who’s just as invested as you. First person to hold your hand just because they want to, not because they’re trying to prove something.”

You look down at your hands. “That sounds nice.”

“You deserve nice,” James says. “You know that, yeah?”

You give him a look that says maybe.

He nods like it’s a promise. “You will. When I’m done with you, you’ll see.”

Then he claps his hands against his knees, the mood snapping back to light. “Now – should we draw up a fake anniversary, or is that against the rules?”

You groan. “I’ll leave that to you. Just keep me in the loop so I know what to say.”

“Can I tell people I fell for you while you were cursing out a textbook in the library?”

“…Did you?”

James grins. “Maybe.”

You roll your eyes and shove his shoulder. “Come on, Potter. We’ve got friends to fool.”

He grins at you and the puddle of warmth in your stomach grows. You take a deep breath to steady yourself before taking his hand and letting him help you up. 

Except, this morning, the usual barista – a blonde girl with star tattoos on her fingers – isn’t at the counter. Instead, there’s someone new. Well, new to you.

He’s tall, lanky, with a sweater pushed up to his elbows and a couple of rings that flash silver when he adjusts the grinder. His hair is the kind of soft brown that probably curls if he lets it, and his face, there’s something unreadable in the set of it, even handsome as it is. A few pale scars slash across his cheek and nose, faint but distinct. Not recent. You try not to stare.

You clear your throat quietly, stepping up to the counter. “Hi.”

He glances up, eyes warm-toned and quick. “Morning. What can I get you?”

Your routine wants to blurt out vanilla latte, but his voice is lower than you expect with a little gravel in it and now your brain’s off script. You manage to get the words out, but with half a second of lag.

He just nods and starts moving. Efficient. No wasted motion. There’s a practiced rhythm to it, like it’s all muscle memory. He doesn’t speak again until he’s back with the cup, reaching for the till. “That’ll be—”

You hold up your lanyard, the little plastic card still stiff from disuse. “Staff.”

His gaze flicks to it. “Oh.” He leans slightly, reading your name. “Are you new?”

“Yeah.” You smile, trying to match his neutrality, but you know your grin probably tips too friendly. “I started last week. I’m Y/N, by the way.”

There’s a pause, one breath longer than it needs to be. Then a tight smile. 

“Remus.”

And just like that, he’s turning back to the machine, rinsing something out, already done with the conversation.

You blink, standing there with your cup cradled in both hands. Okay then.

Sliding into your usual seat by the window, you sip the coffee - it’s better than last week - whilst sneaking a look back at him as he wipes down the counter. He doesn’t look up. Doesn’t glance your way once.

Grumpy, you decide, watching him. Great. What did you do, breathe too loud?

You exhale into the drink. Maybe he’s just not a morning person. Or maybe he’s like the museum – slow to warm up, full of quiet corners.

Still, part of you hopes he’ll say something tomorrow. Even a hi would do.

You finish your drink, the cup warm in your hands, and head off for the start of your shift, back to the echoing halls and curious strangers. But the thought of him lingers, your attention captured by a stranger.

Everything goes on like that for a while.

Every morning, your routine holds. You nod to the guard, who now thinks your name is “Eloise,” but you don’t have the heart to correct him,  push through the café door with its quiet jingle, and find Remus already behind the counter. Always there before you. Always quiet. Always efficient.

The blonde girl reappeared once, briefly, but only to drop something off and vanish again, leaving Remus in charge. You’d hoped she might make conversation. Or at least act as a buffer. But no, it’s just him now. And you.

Your greetings are consistent, cheerful. Predictable, even.

“Morning, Remus.”

“How are you today?”

“Busy morning so far?”

“Did you get a break yet?”

Each one is met with a version of the same reply: a nod, sometimes a “fine,” sometimes just a half lifted brow that could mean anything. You get a thank you if you say something like “have a nice day,” but it’s clipped, almost like it costs him.

Still, you keep asking. Keep smiling. Keep showing up with soft eyes and the same friendly tone, like politeness might one day wear him down. 

You start noticing things. The way he always double-checks the milk temperature. The way he loosens one ring absentmindedly when the café is empty. The way he looks at the sky for a second before opening the blinds.

Week four. He hands you your drink, and when your fingers brush against his – purely by accident, you're sure – he doesn’t flinch away. He just glances at your hand, then back at you.

Week five. He asks, “Do you work in that old tile room?”

You blink. It’s the most he’s said to you in a sentence.

“The mosaic floor, yeah,” you say. “Ancient Cultures.”

“Thought so.” He looks down at the counter as he wipes it. 

You leave that day flushed, heart pattering like a schoolgirl with a stupid crush.

After that, his answers get longer. Not much. Not always. But enough to notice.

Some days, you learn things about him in scraps.

He used to work evenings somewhere else. He hates the music they play here now (“Too jangly”). He doesn’t like sweet drinks but will sneak half a biscuit if the blonde-haired girl (Marlene)  leaves them on the staff table. 

His eyes are a hazel that looks green in the café’s light, and when he smiles it’s a small, barely there thing. 

He still never asks anything personal. Never lingers. But he’s warming, you think.

Week seven.

The museum has settled into its summer rhythm, a slow, humming drone of tourists and school groups, all trailing sun cream and questions. You’re learning to smile through the heat, through the endless questions about where things are,  even though your exhibit is half a wing away from what they want. You ignore that one co-worker, Josh, who has made it his mission to make work so much harder than it needs to be. But it’s easier somehow lately. The rhythm of it. The known things.

And then there’s Remus.

You come in with your usual nod to the security guard – still calling you Eloise – and push open the café door. The bell chimes above your head in its usual sleepy way. You step into the warmth and scent of dark roast and milk foam, already sliding your lanyard from your pocket.

There’s a line today, longer than usual, and you join it without thinking, eyes on your phone, thumb tapping through unread texts.

“Yours is at the end,” a voice calls, smooth and unhurried.

You glance up.

Remus isn’t even looking at the current customer. He’s looking at you, wiping his hands on a towel like he’s been waiting. He tilts his chin toward the side counter, where a white cup already waits with its lid on, your usual blue marker initials scrawled across the sleeve. Still steaming.

You blink. “Wait–really?”

“Vanilla latte.” He says it with a shrug. Like it’s nothing. Like he didn’t just take a quiet little hammer to your morning.

People behind you are shifting, someone’s tapping a foot, but for a second you just stare at him.

“Thanks,” you manage, a little too high-pitched, and scurry around the line and out of people's way.

You cradle the cup like it might shatter if you hold it wrong. Still hot. Still yours.

When you glance back, he’s already returned to the espresso machine, sleeves pushed up, rings catching the soft overhead light. But as he slides a shot glass under the portafilter, he glances at you. A flick of his gaze.

Then, the smallest twitch of a smile.

And just like that, the air feels warmer than the coffee in your hands.

You retreat to your usual window seat, hiding behind your cup, heart thrumming somewhere in your throat. You just sit there, quietly stunned, sipping the drink he made for you before you walked in. Like he knew you’d come. Like he looked forward to it.

You want to say something. To go back to the counter and offer something casual, “That was really sweet” or “So you do have a heart under all that broodiness.” But you don’t.

Instead, you watch him work. Watch the careful way he knocks the grounds from the portafilter, the way he leans into the counter when no one’s ordering, thumb worrying the edge of a napkin.

You wonder if he’ll do it again tomorrow

-

The café quiets, the hush of espresso machines powered down, the last clink of a cup into the dish tray, the low hum of fluorescent lights buzzing faintly overhead. Remus moves through the space with the same muted precision he always does, wiping down the counters in wide, practiced strokes. There's a quiet satisfaction in it, the methodical wrap-up.

It’s muscle memory by now. Stack the ceramic cups, flip the chairs, sweep the corners, start locking everything up. His body knows what to do even while his mind wanders.

He doesn’t know why he made your coffee ahead of time.

He told himself it was efficient and you always come in around the same time anyway, like clockwork. A latte with syrup. Easy. It’s not a big thing.

But it sits oddly in his chest, the memory of your face when you saw the cup. The way your voice went slightly wobbly when you said “thanks,” like he’d surprised you.

He tells himself he didn’t mean to watch you the entire time you sat by the window, fingers curled around the cup.

“Stupid,” he mutters to himself, rinsing the last milk pitcher with a little too much force. The water splashes up onto his sweater sleeve. Of course.

He dries his hands, tosses the towel into the laundry bin, and flicks the back lights off. The place dims to a hush, that same familiar closing-time gloom. It’s a comfort, mostly.

Until he gets to the cubby room.

It’s a small alcove off the hallway outside of the café, half locker room, half staff closet. His bag waits in its usual spot, slouched and tired-looking. He shrugs his coat off the hook, ready to leave, already half-thinking about which book he might try and read tonight, but then–

He freezes.

A sound.

Barely there, muffled. A sharp inhale, the kind people try to bury. Then another. A stifled breath, wet at the edges. Like someone’s trying to cry quietly.

His jaw tenses before he even fully processes it.

He should leave. It’s late. It’s probably someone from exhibitions or marketing. Whoever it is deserves their privacy. He could just grab his stuff and go, let them have their moment, pretend he didn’t hear a thing.

But he doesn’t move.

There’s something about the sound that sticks under his ribs. He knows that kind of crying, the kind you push down until it erupts in the wrong place, where someone might hear. The kind that only slips out when you’ve kept too much in, for too long.

“Shit,” he mutters, exhaling sharply through his nose. Then, like the world's most reluctant ghost, he drifts toward the staff toilet door.

He knocks once, soft. The kind of knock you can ignore if you want to.

A silence. Then a rustling behind the door. He almost hopes they don’t answer.

“Hey,” he says, voice low, almost gruff. “You alright in there?”

Another silence. A breath. Then, to his slow dawning horror – your voice.

“I’m fine.”

You are absolutely not fine.

And now he’s stuck. Standing in a narrow hallway with your voice cracking on the other side of the door, and the memory of how happy you looked this morning when he handed you that cup.

Remus’s heart stutters painfully in his chest. Your voice cracking makes his stomach twist tight with something sharp and unfamiliar. 

“Y/N?” he says, his voice softer this time, like saying your name might somehow soothe the raw edges in the air between the door and him.

There’s a long pause. Then the door creaks open slowly.

You step out, shoulders hunched like you’re trying to fold yourself small enough to disappear. Your face is blotchy, tears streaked down both cheeks, and your eyes are red-rimmed, desperate to look anywhere but at him. 

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, voice barely more than a breath. “I didn’t mean for— I thought... Go ahead.” You try to step past him, head bowed, like you’re ashamed for letting yourself break in the first place.

But before you can slip away, Remus steps forward, blocking your path without a word. His hands clench into fists at his sides, like he’s trying to hold himself together. “What?” he asks quietly, but there’s something fierce in his eyes now, a sudden urgency. “No. I’m not leaving you like this. What’s wrong?”

You blink, the shame flickering against the tiredness in your eyes. You open your mouth to answer but nothing comes out for a moment. The weight of the silence between you is thick, almost suffocating.

You swallow hard, the lump in your throat making your voice catch before you manage to say, almost reluctantly, “Do you… know Josh?”

Remus’s jaw tightens, and something flickers in his eyes; something fierce, protective. He folds his arms, stepping aside just enough to gesture toward the bench by the lockers. “Yeah,” he says low, voice rough around the edges. “Enough said. He’s a right sod. What did he do?”

You drop onto the bench, shoulders slumping as if the weight of the day has finally caught up with you. For a long moment, you just stare at your hands, fingers twisting the hem of your sleeve, before you start to explain. Your voice is quiet, but steady.

“Josh… he’s made working here a nightmare. He’s always around, hovering where he’s not wanted, acting like he owns the place even though he barely knows anything about the exhibits. And worse–he’s gross. Like, constantly making weird comments, and he tries to make me feel stupid.” You let out a bitter laugh that barely hides the hurt. “He acts like he’s smarter than everyone, even though he clearly doesn’t know his stuff. I mean, I work in my area – I know what I’m talking about – but he’s like this constant shadow, trying to undermine me. Like if he can’t have control, he’ll just make things miserable for everyone.”

Remus’s eyes darken, and his hands clench again, fingers tapping against his thighs. “That’s bullshit. No one should have to deal with that crap, especially not here.”

You nod, grateful for the sudden flare of his anger. “I’ve been trying to ignore it, keep my head down, but some days it’s just… too much.”

Remus hesitates, then slides down onto the bench beside you, the scrape of his jeans against the chipped paint breaking the silence. His voice is softer now, cautious but edged with concern. “Have you talked to Mindy about it? The HR girl?”

You shake your head, shoulders trembling just slightly. “No. I didn’t want to kick up a fuss. I figured it’d just blow over… or maybe I’m just being too sensitive.”

He scoots a little closer, the space between your thighs shrinking until they’re almost touching. His knee bumps yours. “You’re not being too sensitive. And if you don’t say something, he’s just going to keep on doing it. It’s not right.”

You hum in reply, a soft, unsure sound. You lean your head against the cool locker behind you, taking a shaky breath as the tremors in your body slow. The pressure of his presence, quiet and steady, feels nice.

The silence stretches between you both, thick but gentle, as if the room itself is holding its breath. Your chest rises and falls unevenly at first, the raw ache behind your ribs dulling little by little. 

After a few minutes, his voice comes, low and careful, almost hesitant like he’s testing the air. “I’ll have to make Josh’s drinks even worse than I do now.”

You scoff, opening your eyes to find him watching you with a hint of dry humour flickering in his gaze.

 “Do you really do that?” you ask, a small smile tugging at your lips despite everything.

He rubs his nose with the back of his hand, a little flush creeping into his cheeks, and shifts so his body angles more toward you, less guarded. “Yeah,” he says quietly, voice rougher than usual but soft underneath. “Of course I do. People get the coffee they deserve.”

You laugh then, a short, genuine laugh that feels warm. It breaks through the tension in your chest, lightening the air around you. The sound seems to ease something in Remus, too, because his usual stoic expression softens, and you catch a flicker of relief in his eyes.

“Why do you think your coffee is always so good?” he adds, a teasing note threading through the words.

Remus watches you laugh – properly laugh – for what might be the first time. It softens something in his chest that’s been tight for weeks, like a string pulled too taut. The sound of it settles somewhere behind his ribs, where he knows it’ll stay longer than it should.

You're still smiling as you shake your head, brushing your sleeve across your cheek. “I thought you were just… good at your job.”

He huffs out a quiet breath, almost a laugh himself, but his eyes don’t leave yours when he says, “No. You’re just lovely.”

The words land in the air like something delicate. Not a throwaway. Not a joke. Just soft and honest and entirely intentional.

Your breath catches.

You look down, smiling before you can stop it. It’s a helpless sort of smile that blooms despite the redness in your eyes. You tuck your hair behind your ear in that absent, nervous way he’s come to recognise.

“Thank you, Remus,” you say softly. And the way you say his name twists something sweet and aching in his gut.

You glance at your watch then, eyes widening. “Shit. I have to go – or I’ll miss the bus and be stuck wandering the halls till morning.”

You stand a little too quickly, brushing off invisible dust from your coat. “But… I’ll see you tomorrow?”

He nods. “Yeah. I’ll be here.”

You give him a grateful look and then you’re gone, your footsteps fading down the hallway.

-

The air outside hits colder than you expect. The evenings dropped fast, draping the sky in a dull blue wash, and the street lamps blink on with a hum as you walk to the bus stop.

You shove your hands deep into your pockets and try not to replay the whole thing in your head. But of course you do.

You hadn’t meant to cry. Not here. Not where people could hear. Not where he could hear.

God, Remus.

He hadn’t turned away. Hadn’t offered you a useless platitude or made a weird joke or said oh no no no please don’t cry in that awkward way people do when they don’t know what to say. He’d just… sat there. Like it was fine. Like you weren’t making a mess of yourself.

And then that voice with its low, gravel-edge, “you’re just lovely.”

You groan quietly, ducking your head.

Great. Now you’re the girl who cried in the staff toilets and got soft-eyed over her barista. Maybe he was just being kind. Maybe he says that sort of thing to people all the time. He probably doesn’t.

Still, your brain itches with doubt. What if he thinks you’re too much? That you made it weird?

You scuff your boot against the pavement and watch a wet leaf stick to the toe.

Too late now. You’ll have to face him again tomorrow. You always do.

You let out a slow breath and step onto the bus.

He probably doesn’t think you’re a freak.

You hope.

-

You’re early but this time it’s not because of excitement or routine. This morning, it’s avoidance.

You skip the café.

You push through the museum’s staff entrance, still shrugging off your coat, and march straight past the security desk before Old Greg can butcher your name again (“Morning, Eloise!”). Your steps echo down the polished hallway, heart thudding with a strange mix of regret and mortification.

You should go in. That’s the truth. You want to, if only to prove you’re not the kind of person who has one crying episode and then pretends it didn’t happen. But the thought of seeing Remus again, of meeting those steady, unreadable eyes after sobbing in front of him makes your stomach roll in embarrassment.

So instead, you beeline for your exhibit.

The mosaic gallery is still dim when you get there, the lights on their early-morning timer delay, casting long shadows over the tiled floor.

You throw yourself into prep work you don’t need to do.

Brochure restocking. Cleaning the display cases, even though the cleaners already did it. You even re-label the “Unknown Roman Male Bust” for the fourth time, aligning the plaque a single millimeter straighter, because apparently today that matters.

You keep telling yourself it’s fine. This is fine. He probably didn’t think about it again. Probably chalked it up to an awkward one-off. If anything, maybe you did him a favour by not showing up.

Still, you feel… wrong. Like you’ve knocked something out of balance, a rhythm you didn’t even realise was holding you steady until it faltered.

Your first tour group filters in, three parents, two bored teenagers, and a kid who’s far too interested in whether anyone’s ever died in the museum. You manage it fine. You’re getting good at this. The words come smoothly now, practiced without being robotic, your voice echoing just right off the marble as you explain how these mosaics were lifted from their original sites in the early 1900s, how they tell stories if you know how to read them.

But your thoughts are elsewhere.

You wonder if he noticed.

You tell yourself it’s better if he didn’t.

You hate that you kind of want him to have noticed.

It’s only after the group has trickled out, sticky-fingered children and camera-toting grandparents in their wake, that you return to your little info desk tucked near the back corner of the gallery. You’re digging for a fresh stack of feedback forms when you spot it.

A cup.

Sitting quietly on the far edge of the desk.

Still warm.

White lid. Blue sleeve. Your name written in sharp, angled handwriting — the kind you’ve only ever seen scrawled on one café chalkboard.

A folded note lies underneath.

You freeze.

No one’s nearby. You glance toward the hallway as if the coffee might vanish the moment you look away.

You reach for the note with slow fingers, like it might burn you.

Unfold it.

You didn’t come to the café this morning, and I prepared my best cup yet :( — R.

The sad face is ridiculous. You stare at it like it might shift into something else. But no, it’s real. Undeniably him. A little crooked and careful. Like he’d been trying to be light about it, but something in the curve of the frown betrayed him.

And just like that, the giddy thing in your chest unfurls. Something warm and bright spreads up through your ribs, so soft you want to laugh and cry at the same time.

He noticed.

He didn’t think you were weird. He didn’t pull away. He made you a coffee anyway.

And he left it here. He found your station, dropped it off without a word, then vanished like a ghost with rings and good taste in espresso.

You hug the cup between your palms, holding it for a second before taking the first sip.

It’s perfect. Better than usual, even. He wasn’t bluffing about it being his best.

You smile into the lid, lip quirking against the rim.

Of course he made it today, of all days. The day your eyes are still puffy and your pride feels scraped raw. The day you told yourself to keep your head down.

And now you want to go see him.

But you don’t get the chance.

The museum is relentless. Your supervisor pulls you for an extra tour. Someone in admin ropes you into helping set up folding chairs for a lecture in the east wing. A kid throws up in the Greco-Roman alcove (pink slushie – impressive range) and you spend fifteen minutes helping a mortified mum find the right staff member.

By the time your shift winds down, the café is already closed.

You pass the doors on your way out. The lights are off and the chairs are stacked and you press a palm briefly against the fogged glass, just for a second.

There’s nothing in the window, no sign of him but you’re still smiling.

-

The next morning, you don’t hesitate.

No detours. No self-conscious stalling in the exhibits. You walk straight past Greg (who’s migrated from Eloise to Louisa, bless him), turn the corner before your nerves can change your course, and push open the door to the café with a soft jingle.

And he’s there.

Of course he’s there with his sleeves pushed up, a towel tossed over one shoulder and his whole shape haloed in the early light streaming through the fogged-up windows. He’s halfway through restocking the pastry case when the bell rings, but the second he looks up and sees you, he grins.

Not the usual small, polite tilt of his mouth you’ve come to know. No, this is a real smile. Full. Bright. It changes his whole face. Softens everything. Makes you feel like you’ve just walked into a sunrise.

His eyes crinkle a little at the corners as he leans both elbows on the counter, forearms flexing with the shift. One hand tucks under the other, fingers idly tapping as he watches you cross the room. The silver rings flash when they catch the light, and you’re momentarily derailed by the unfair handsomeness of it all.

“Morning,” he says, voice rough with sleep but lighter than usual, like the gravel’s melted into honey.

You raise your brows, dropping your lanyard on the counter between you. “Wasn’t sure I’d get such a warm welcome.”

“I was hoping I’d see you today,” he says, and there’s no hesitation in it. No second-guessing. Just those words, said with quiet conviction and a flick of warmth behind his eyes.

You grin, chin tilting just slightly. “Why? Did you miss my loveliness?”

Remus laughs that soft, startled kind of laugh that curls from his chest before he bites down on it. His head ducks a little, hand scrubbing the back of his neck, like he hadn’t meant to let it out quite so easily.

“Something like that,” he murmurs, glancing back at you with a spark in his eye that makes your stomach tilt a little too happily.

You lean on the counter to mirror him, fingertips brushing the wood. “Must’ve been hard for you yesterday, pouring your best coffee and no one showing up for it.”

“It was tragic,” he says, tone dry but eyes bright. “You’ll be pleased to know Marlene got to drink plenty of it.’”

“Well I suppose if I couldn't have it, Marlene would be my top choice” you say, smug.

“Don’t tell her that it’ll go straight to her head,” he says, mock-sulky. 

You laugh, and the sound seems to light something between you.

The rest of the morning blurs. You talk too long. Neither of you mentions it. He hands you your drink with a soft “here you go, lovely” that makes your ears feel too warm, and you tease him about his very nice handwriting. He deflects by accusing you of being a coffee snob with “absurdly high standards for someone who used to drink instant.” You gasp in betrayal and he shrugs, all innocence.

By the time you leave, you’re buzzing more from the exchange than the caffeine.

And then… it just keeps happening.

Every day that week, it’s the same. Easy. Familiar. Better than before.

He greets you with that real smile now, the one that makes you feel like you’ve been missed. Sometimes you catch him watching the door before you walk in, like he’s waiting. He’s still quiet in that Remus way, still folds into corners and doesn’t give much away, but with you, something’s shifted. He leans into the banter. Laughs more. Looks at you longer.

You learn he reads poetry – “the sad kind, mostly” – and hates using digital calendars. You tell him, what feels like a million little tidbits about yourself

Sometimes he tosses you a biscuit wrapped in a napkin. Sometimes you bring him a weird little fact from your gallery – “Did you know Roman cement gets stronger with seawater?” – and he rolls his eyes but always listens.

It’s all easy. Soft.

But underneath it, something else simmers.

A glance that lingers a beat too long. A brush of fingers over a coffee cup. The way your name sounds different when he says it, like he’s tucking it into his pocket.

-

The museum is quiet, everything is hushed and humming with the sound of a building exhaling. Somewhere, a cleaner wheels a cart down a hallway, the distant squeak of mop wheels echoing like footsteps in a cathedral. The last of the visitors are long gone, the lights dimmed to half, and you’re tucked into the little bench nook outside the Ancient Cultures gallery, coat balled beside you, bag in your lap, phone in your hand but not really looking at it.

The bus app offers its verdict with the apathy of a machine that does not know how tired you are. Next arrival: 47 minutes. Last update: 6 mins ago.

You sigh.

It’s fine. You’re fine. You’ve had worse. It’s just – you’re tired. And it’s unseasonably cold in the kind of creeping, inside-your-sleeves way that makes everything feel a little thinner.

You glance out through the thin museum windows. The sky’s gone blue-black, smeared with the last streaks of orange. Your reflection stares faintly back at you in the glass, hair a little mussed, cheeks flushed from the air.

You don’t hear footsteps.

But you do hear his voice.

“Hey.”

It’s soft, close, and it pulls you out of your thoughts like a hand gently tugging at your sleeve. You blink up and there he is.

Remus.

Still in his work clothes – jumper rumpled, sleeves pushed up, messenger bag slung crosswise over his chest. His hair’s messier than usual, like he’s been dragging his fingers through it.

His expression is familiar. Open. That gentle, attentive look like he’s trying to read your mood before you can even name it yourself.

“What are you still doing here?”

You shift, a little embarrassed, brushing at the hem of your coat. “Oh – my bus got cancelled. Signal issue or something. Not sure. The next ones delayed too.”

He huffs out a breath, the barest edge of a smile curling at his mouth, and moves closer. Not just a polite step, either. Close.

You can feel the heat of him now, the warmth from his coat, the faint smell of coffee beans and citrus soap. He stops in front of you, hands tucked into his coat pockets, one eyebrow lifted.

“Come on,” he says, like it’s already decided. “I’ll give you a lift.”

You blink. “What?”

“A lift,” he repeats, deadpan, one brow raised. “In my car.”

You let out a startled laugh. “Remus, no, it’s okay. Seriously. I’ll be fine. The next one’s just a bit delayed, and there’s a bench, and I can’t ask that of you–”

He cuts you off with a tilt of his head. “You’re not asking, dove. I’m offering.”

Your brain trips over the word, the pet name, like it hit a loose stone. He says it so naturally, like it’s always been your name, soft and certain and low in his throat.

You look up at him, eyes narrowing just slightly. “You can’t just call me a nice name and expect me to go along with whatever plan you’ve cooked up.”

“It’s working though, isn’t it?” His smile curves sharper at the edges and it’s stupidly smug as he sighs. “Please let me give you a lift, lovely.”

You stare at him – this utterly ridiculous, infuriatingly warm-eyed barista with stupidly good hands and a knack for catching you right when you're about to spiral – and you want to say no. Just out of principle. Just to prove you can.

But it’s cold.

And the bench is hard.

And his voice is a warm hand on your spine.

“…fine,” you say, quiet but clear.

Remus smiles, it’s not smug, but pleased, quiet and certain. And before you can even start doubting your own choice, he reaches down and takes your hand.

He slides his fingers around yours like it’s nothing, like you do this all the time. Like you’re not two people who have existed solely in the space between lattes and locker room small talk.

The contact is warm. Solid.

You blink down at your joined hands, startled but not resisting, and he gives yours a soft, reassuring squeeze. Doesn’t tug. Doesn’t rush. He Just waits until you lift your bag with your other hand and nod and then he starts walking.

He doesn’t let go.

Even when you’re halfway down the main corridor. Even when Greg mumbles “Good night,” and you toss him a weak wave with your free hand. Even when the staff door groans open and lets in a rush of cold night air.

Remus keeps your fingers wrapped in his like he’s afraid you’ll float off otherwise.

You reach the staff car park, tucked behind the museum’s east wing. His car’s parked under one of the flickering lamp posts. A beat-up, dusky green hatchback with mismatched hubcaps and a dent near the bumper that you think might be shaped like a shopping trolley. It’s endearing. Stupidly so.

He drops your hand only to unlock the doors, tossing his bag into the backseat before opening the passenger door for you with a little half-bow.

You narrow your eyes, trying not to smile. “I take it back. I am getting back on the bus.”

“You’re awful.” He grins. “It’s too late anyway. You already agreed.”

You slide in. The seat is a bit low, the dash cluttered with a few loose receipts and what looks like a crumpled poetry zine jammed into the side panel. It smells like bergamot and espresso grounds – not unpleasant. Just… him.

He starts the car with a cough and a wheeze that makes you both wince. “That’s normal,” he says, fiddling with the heat dial. 

The first few minutes are… quiet. Not tense, exactly. But unfamiliar.

You’ve never been in a space with him that didn’t include steam or café noise or the soft clink of ceramic cups. This is different. Too quiet. His profile in the passing streetlights is sharp — all nose and jaw and flickers of shadow — and you catch yourself sneaking glances like a weirdo, trying to place this version of him. The one who drives you home.

You fidget with the strap of your bag.

He adjusts the heat and says, casual, “Do you not drive?”

You glance over, surprised, then laugh. “Not all of us want to be in charge of a vehicle, Rem.”

He smirks. “I suppose if I had people willing to drive me about, I wouldn’t either”

“Oh, shut up. I don’t know if you’ve realised, but the only chauffeur I have is public transport.”

He raises a brow, glancing over as he turns down a quieter side street. “ And me, now.”

You pause. “…And you.”

He grins, and it’s like the air eases. Warms. His voice goes a little gentler. “So. How was today?”

You shrug, staring out at the blur of headlights. “Long. Better than yesterday, though.”

A pause.

Then: “Glad to hear it.”

You glance at him, then back at the windshield, your smile small but sincere. “Thanks for the coffee, by the way.”

He hums, casual. “Which one?”

You nudge his arm with your knuckles. “You know which.”

“Oh. That one.” He feigns thoughtfulness. “Yeah, I wasn’t sure you’d find it. Had to bribe Carol from admin to tell me your desk.”

You laugh. “Carol? Cardigan Carol?”

“That’s the one. Very protective. Nearly bit me when I asked.”

“She likes me,” you say, pleased.

“Everyone does,” he mutters. “Lot’s of competition for your work time affections.”

There’s a beat of shared amusement, and then the conversation just… flows. You talk about nothing and everything. He tells you about a café regular who only orders hot water and leaves a ten-pound tip (“I'm worried it's some kind of social experiment”), and you tell him about the time a kid on your tour started a rumour that one of the Roman statues was haunted and it spiraled into a three-week school ban.

Somewhere between the second roundabout and your street, your laughter fills the car in easy bursts, the kind that makes your stomach flutter with something dangerously close to joy.

He pulls up to your building with a gentle halt, the engine coughing softly before it settles into silence. The headlights catch on the chipped curb outside your flat, and for a moment neither of you moves.

The street is quiet. No one else around. Just the two of you, tucked into the warmth of his little car, the windows fogged at the corners.

You hesitate.

Your fingers fidget with the strap of your bag again. Then you glance sideways, your voice softer now, careful. “Thank you.”

Remus looks over, brows ticking together just a little like he’s not sure why you sound so serious. “Of course, lovely. Anytime.”

But you shake your head, shifting a little in your seat to face him more fully. “No. I mean… for everything.”

He blinks.

“For being kind,” you say, voice low but steady. For making me laugh when I felt like shit. For remembering how I take my coffee. For not making it weird. I just—” You pause, breath catching. “You didn’t have to be so nice. But you were. You are. I was sure you didn’t like me when we met.”

There’s a flicker in his eyes, then something gentle and sharp all at once. His hand is still on the gear shift, thumb resting idle, but his whole body seems to lean in a fraction.

“I don’t think there’s anything that could make me not want to be nice to you,” he says. “I did like you, I’m just slow to warm.”

And while he says it, his eyes drop, just for a second, to your mouth.

You notice.

And you don’t look away.

“You’re really lovely,” you whisper, voice catching only slightly on the truth of it.

Your words tremble a little, but not from uncertainty. More like something building. Your eyes flick down to his lips, then back up again.

Then down.

Then up.

Remus swallows. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

The silence stretches, soft and crackling, full of tension like the second before a summer storm breaks.

And then – like it’s inevitable – you both move at the same time.

It’s not rushed. Not desperate. Just sure. The way his hand rises to cradle your jaw like he’s done it a thousand times. The way your breath mingles in the narrow space between. The way your lips meet.  Warm and firm and certain, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

The kiss is slow at first. Testing. Careful. His mouth moves against yours like he’s learning the shape of your breath, like he’s been waiting for this and wants to remember every second. His hand slips to the side of your neck, thumb brushing just below your ear.

You lean in closer, fingers curling in the collar of his coat, anchoring yourself to him. Your lips part and he kisses you deeper, fuller, with a low hum in the back of his throat that makes your stomach flutter.

The windows fog a little more.

And when you finally pull back, breath shaky, he doesn’t go far. Just rests his forehead against yours. His nose brushes yours. He smiles,  small and stunned and glowing.

You laugh, quiet and breathless. “Hi.”

He lets out a soft chuckle. “Hi.”

You linger there, neither of you ready to break the moment. Outside, the street stays quiet. The world can wait.

Right now, there’s only the warmth between you.

And the way his thumb keeps brushing your cheek like he still can’t believe you’re real.

Sirius gave it a second, basking in it. Not out of arrogance—well, maybe a little—but because he’d worked his arse off for this. From the dingy pub stages in East London to this: a sunset slot on the main stage, a crowd 10,000 strong, and the press already calling them the “next big thing in alt rock.” He deserved this moment.

He reached for the mic, fingers adorned in silver rings, and grinned beneath the curtain of sweat-dampened hair falling over his face.

“Alright,” he said, voice cracking from overuse, low and melodic with that accent that made interviewers go stupid. “This one’s a bit different,”

The crowd stilled just enough for his voice to carry, a ripple of anticipation moving through it.

“Normally we’d end on Lily’s Lullaby or something with a filthy breakdown—”

A cheer from the crowd.

“—but I’m gonna be selfish, yeah?”

He shifted his guitar strap slightly, fingers brushing the strings absently.

“This next one—it’s not on any of our albums. Never played it live before,”

More noise, wilder this time. The crowd lived for unreleased content. That, and the enigma of Sirius Black doing anything unpredictable. He was the heartbreaker, the rebel, the beautiful bastard who wrote anthems about one-night stands and sleepless nights.

“This one’s not for the radio,” Sirius continued, a little softer now. “Wrote it back in uni. About a girl,”

He pauses.

“Someone I’ve never really stopped thinking about,”

The scream that tore through the crowd was feral. Phones shot into the air like missiles, filming, snapping, documenting. It was like someone had dropped a match in petrol.

Because Sirius Black—Mr. I-don’t-do-feelings, Mr. Probably-shagged-your-favourite-actress, Mr. Writes-a-new-love-song-every-week—was standing in front of thousands, half-smiling, admitting to being hung up on someone from his past.

A million TikTok theories were born on the spot.

Sirius just laughed, a bit self-conscious, scratching the back of his neck. “Anyway,” he said. “This one’s called English Love Affair. Hope she’s listening,”

He looked out across the crowd—not really expecting to find who he was looking for, of course, but somehow hoping the universe might oblige. Then, fingers deft on the strings, he struck the first chord.

It started on a weekend in May

I was looking for attention

Needed intervention

Felt somebody looking at me

The library at Hogwarts University smelled like stress, highlighters, and the slow decay of hope. It was the last few weeks before final exams, and the building was packed wall to wall with students muttering formulas under their breath and flipping through textbooks like salvation could be found between the pages of Financial Accounting and Corporate Strategy: Vol. II.

Sirius was not one of them.

He sat in a corner near the back, long legs stretched under the table, black hoodie rucked up to his elbows, a biro tucked behind his ear. His textbook lay open in front of him, unread and unhighlighted, the margins empty, the pages pristine—unlike everyone else’s, which were cluttered with notes, frantic underlines, and colour-coded tabs.

He hadn’t turned a page in half an hour.

Not because he was clever enough not to need to revise—although he could bullshit his way through most subjects if he had to—but because, frankly, he just did not care.

Finance. Fucking finance.

He hated the word. Hated the suits, hated the spreadsheets, hated the suffocating inevitability of it all. He only chose this degree because his mother nearly had an aneurysm when he said he wanted to study music. Now here he was, slogging through a degree in numbers and company law, just so she could parade him around at family dinners like some stock option.

And still, none of it meant anything to him.

The only reason he was even in the library was because James had confiscated his guitar that morning and told him to “go fail somewhere quiet,”

So he was here. Not failing exactly, but definitely not succeeding.

He sighed and let his head drop forward, forehead thunking softly against the open page.

“Kill me,” he muttered into the textbook. “Just… kill me and tell my parents I died doing something noble,”

He sat there a moment longer, pretending to care, then lifted his head.

And that’s when he saw you.

You were sitting two tables over. Hair pulled back, earbuds in, laptop open. You looked like the sort of person who had colour-coded tabs and knew how to use them. The sort of person who had probably made a revision schedule and stuck to it. The sort of person Sirius’ mother would call “sensible,” which, in Sirius’ world, meant “soulless.”

But you didn’t look soulless. You looked… distracted.

Because you’d just glanced at him. And then, when you thought he hadn’t noticed, you glanced again.

He smirked, straightening slightly. A distraction. Just what the day needed.

He watched you for a second—long enough to realise you were pretending to type while your eyes flicked back to him every few sentences. Something about it made his stomach twist, in a way that was more exciting than it should have been.

He gave it two more seconds.

Then he stood.

You saw him coming out of the corner of your eye and quickly looked back at your screen, like the spreadsheet on your screen had suddenly become the most fascinating thing on earth.

“Alright?” he said, stopping by your table. Voice low. Lazy.

You pulled out one earbud and looked up at him.

“Hi,” you replied cautiously. He was standing very close.

Sirius smiled. “You keep looking at me,”

You blinked. “Do I?”

He nodded. “Yeah. Not that I blame you. I’m devastatingly handsome and tragically bored,”

You snorted. “Bit full of yourself, aren’t you?”

“Just self-aware,” He grinned, and you hated that it made him even more attractive. You looked back at your screen, but the smirk tugging at your lips gave you away.

“Well, if you’re so bored, shouldn’t you be studying?”

He leaned one elbow on the table, peering at your notes.

“I’ve been staring at the same page for an hour. Thought I might die from the lack of stimulation. Then you started looking over,”

You raised a brow. “And that was enough stimulation?”

“Debatable,” he said, “but worth investigating. What’s your name?”

You tilted your head. “You don’t remember me, do you?”

He frowned. “Should I?”

You closed your laptop with a little snap and turned to face him properly. “We’ve been in the same lecture for Corporate Markets and Investment Policy all year.”

There was a long pause. Sirius blinked, visibly scrambling to remember. “...Seriously?”

You nodded. “Seriously,”

He rubbed the back of his neck. “Well, shit. In my defence, I don’t actually attend most of those. I just... exist in proximity,”

You laughed, properly this time. “Yeah, I know,”

His hand dropped to his side, and he gave you a sheepish smile. “Alright, that was rude of me. Let’s try again,” He held out a hand. “Hi. I’m Sirius Black. Chronic underachiever and part-time nuisance,”

You raised an eyebrow but shook his hand anyway. “Yeah, I know who you are.”

He grinned, pleased. “Reputation precedes me?”

“Something like that,” you said.

He laughed—loud enough that someone nearby glared over their textbook.

You didn’t apologise.

Sirius sat down in the chair across from you without asking, stretching out like he belonged there.

“So,” he said. “You clearly know everything about me, and I’ve got absolutely nothing on you,” he muttered, leaning forward to rest his arms on the table. “Give me something to work with,”

You looked at him, considering. You didn’t really have time for this—you had an entire section on financial derivatives to memorise—but the prospect of watching Sirius self-destruct over economic theory was weirdly entertaining.

And maybe... a bit flattering. The hottest boy in your course—maybe in the whole uni—had noticed you. And now he was sitting across from you, eyes warm, grin easy, pretending like this wasn’t completely out of the blue.

You introduce yourself, and he smiles.

“Suits you, your name,” he tosses you a wink and you roll your eyes.

“Charming,” You leaned back slightly. “Alright. Lets get revising,”

Sirius blinked. “What?”

You gestured at your notes. “Revising? For the exams? I’ll help you,”

He blinked again, visibly confused. “You will?”

You nodded. “On one condition,”

A pause.

“You buy me a drink after,”

Sirius stared. Then laughed, a little too loud. “That’s it? Just a drink?”

You shrugged. “My standards are low. Plus, it’ll be fun to watch you fail in real-time,”

He clutched his chest dramatically. “Ruthless,”

“You love it,”

“I do,” he agreed, leaning in again. “You’ve got this terrifying no-nonsense thing going. It’s very—” His eyes flicked to your collar, then back to your face. “—compelling,”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t quite stop the smile creeping across your face. “Eyes on the prize, Black.” You tap the textbook on the table with your finger. “This is your last chance to not flunk out,”

He sighed. “Fine. But I reserve the right to flirt with you shamelessly through every single concept,”

“Deal,” you said. “But if you ask me what ‘liquidity ratio’ means, I will hit you,”

Sirius smiled like he’d just won something. “Bring it on, sweetheart,”

—

Over the next hour, the two of you settled into a rhythm. You explained things with more patience than you thought you had, and Sirius surprised you by actually listening. He wasn’t as clueless as he made out—he just hadn’t bothered to try. But with you, he leaned forward, asked questions, made jokes that were half-clever and half-chaotic.

And every time you laughed, he looked pleased with himself.

The library didn’t feel as heavy anymore. The air around your little corner was warmer, brighter, tangled up in whispered banter and the scratch of your pens.

At one point, you reached over to show him something in his notes, and your hands brushed. It was stupid. Brief. But it sent a flicker of something down your spine.

Sirius glanced up at you, and you knew he felt it too.

He didn’t say anything. Neither did you.

But when he caught you watching him a few minutes later, he didn’t look away.

—

By the time the clock ticked past five, your brain was fried, your stomach was grumbling, and Sirius looked genuinely shocked to have filled an entire page with actual revision.

“Well,” he said, stretching, arms over his head. “That was productive,”

You nodded, packing your things away. “Told you I’m good,”

“You are. Absolutely,”

He stood with you, grabbing his bag, then hesitated.

“So. That drink?”

You slung your backpack over your shoulder. “You buying?”

“Obviously,” he said, throwing you a grin. “Consider it payment for saving my academic life,”

You paused, then leaned in, voice low. “If you actually pass, I might let you buy me a second one,”

He looked delighted. “Motivation. I like it,”

You nudged his shoulder. “See you at nine,”

Every single step had me waiting for the next

Before I knew it, it was serious

Dragged me out of the bar

To the backseat of her car

The bar was packed, noisy, and swimming in neon. It smelled like vodka, cheap perfume, and the burnt citrus of a bad cocktail. A proper student haunt—threadbare booths, sticky tables, and drinks so discounted they might as well have been charity. It was the kind of place people ended up when deadlines were done and mistakes were begging to be made.

And tonight, you were absolutely here for the mistake.

You walked in just before nine, wearing a dress that left little to the imagination and a lipstick shade that promised trouble. You didn’t do it for him—not entirely—but you did want to look good.

You spotted him before he saw you. Slouched at the end of the bar, drink in hand, legs stretched out like he owned the place. He’d dressed up, sort of—fitted black shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows, rings flashing on his fingers, and a ridiculous silk tie hanging loose around his neck. Burgundy, patterned, completely unnecessary.

He looked infuriatingly good.

When his eyes finally met yours, it was immediate—like a live wire connecting across the room. His mouth tugged into a slow, deliberate grin. And then he stood.

“Bloody hell,” he said when you reached him, voice low in your ear. “You clean up terrifyingly well,”

You gave him a smirk. “So do you. What’s with the tie?”

“Statement piece,” he said, tugging it dramatically. “Makes me look respectable. Like I haven’t just failed two modules,”

You laughed, and he motioned to the bar. “What’s your poison?”

“What’s the most expensive drink on the menu?” you asked sarcastically, leaning on the counter.

He raised a brow. “Brutal. I like it,”

And then the night began.

He bought you drinks. You made fun of his posh voice and the fact he’d never once brought a pen to class. He pretended to be offended when you called him a trust fund degenerate, and you pretended not to notice the way his eyes kept dropping to your mouth when you sipped your drink.

You talked for nearly two hours, and not a single thing either of you said truly mattered. It was all smoke and mirrors, banter and bravado. He told you about some summer internship he was meant to be doing in London. You told him about your part-time job at a bookshop, about your roommate who kept hogging the shower.

He laughed at everything you said. You rolled your eyes at everything he said. And yet—your knees brushed. His hand lingered too long when he passed you your drink. And the air between you got heavier with every sip.

By the third round, you were tipsy. Loose-limbed. Bolder.

“You’ve got a tell, you know,” you said, swirling your drink.

Sirius leaned in. “Oh?”

“You stare,” you said, eyes meeting his. “Like, a lot,”

He didn’t flinch. “So what?”

The silence after that was thick and deliberate. He looked at you like he knew what you were thinking. Like he’d been waiting for the moment you stopped pretending.

So you stood. Downed the last of your gin.

And said, very casually, “Come with me,”

He blinked. “What?”

You reached down, grabbed the end of that ridiculous tie, and gave it a tug. Not hard. Just enough.

He stumbled forward, grin spreading.

And then you dragged him out the back entrance of the bar.

—

The car park was half-empty, dark but not quite silent. Your little hatchback was parked in a corner, under a flickering lamp. You fumbled with your keys, laughing under your breath, and Sirius followed like a moth to flame.

The second the doors were shut, it was chaos.

You were in the backseat, lips on his, hands everywhere—his hair, his jaw, his shoulders. He was kissing you like he’d been waiting all term, like the world might end if he didn’t get another taste. His hands were on your waist, under your dress, against your thighs, and his mouth was hot and hungry against yours.

It was rushed. Clumsy. Perfect.

Clothes were pulled aside, not off. Your dress rucked up. His belt undone. Breathless laughter between kisses. The car fogged up quick, your back pressed to the front seat, knees hitched around his hips. The phone in his pocket dug into your thigh. Neither of you cared.

You moaned into his mouth, fingers tangled in his stupid hair, and he groaned like it physically hurt to hold back.

—

He thought about that night.

A lot more than he meant to.

It was supposed to be a one-time thing. A stress relief. An impulsive decision wrapped in gin and flirtation. You’d both gone home that night in your separate directions—him to his flat, you to yours. No promises made. No numbers exchanged.

But Sirius didn’t stop thinking about you.

He tried to laugh it off, at first. Made a joke to James the next morning about the perils of student bars and the danger of sharp women with sharper tongues. But then he couldn’t stop hearing your voice. Couldn’t stop remembering the exact shade of your lipstick or the way you’d yanked him by his tie like it was the most natural thing in the world.

And when he couldn’t sleep, which was often, he played his guitar.

Loudly.

At three in the morning.

“Mate,” James groaned one night, pillow over his head. “You are killing me.”

“I’m expressing my feelings,” Sirius muttered.

Remus poked his head in from the hall. “Can you express them a bit quieter? Some of us have dissertations.”

Peter mumbled something incoherent from the other room, which sounded vaguely like “murder” and “strangle.”

But Sirius just kept playing. Over and over again. New chords. Snatches of melodies. Half-formed lyrics that always started in May and ended with a car seat and a laugh he couldn’t get out of his head.

James, one bleary-eyed morning, said, “You’re obsessed.”

Sirius didn’t argue. Because it was true, you haunted him.

Not in a spooky, ethereal way. In a maddening, brain-eating way. You were a thought that scratched at the back of his skull. A loop he couldn’t escape. And the worst part? He hadn’t seen you since that night. No sightings. Nothing.

He looked around in lectures. Couldn’t see you.

He went back to the bar once, under the pretence of meeting someone else. You weren’t there.

He even almost asked around.

But something held him back. Pride, maybe. Fear that you’d already moved on and that it had just been one night for you. No regrets. No repeats.

Still, when he lay in bed at night, staring at the ceiling, guitar across his lap, he could still hear your laugh. Still remember the exact pitch of your voice when you’d said, “Come with me.”

And every time he closed his eyes, he was back in that car.

When the lights go out, She's all I ever think about

The picture burning in my brain

The lyrics came easily after that.

Sirius had written songs before—some good, most chaotic—but this one poured out of him. Every line was sharp-edged, vivid. He remembered your fingers in his hair, the way your perfume clung to his hoodie. The rush of it. The rawness. The feeling that something had tilted in the universe that night and hadn’t corrected since.

James found the scribbled lyrics one afternoon and raised an eyebrow.

“This about the library girl?”

Sirius didn’t look up from the guitar. “What library girl?”

“Oh come on,” James said. “The one you ditched us on a friday night for?”

Sirius strummed a chord, nonchalant. “Maybe,”

The movie playing in my head

Of her king sized bed

Means I can't forget my English love affair

You weren’t expecting him to approach you again.

You’d told yourself it had been one night

—a spectacular, toe-curling, sanity-erasing night, sure—but still, just one night. And Sirius Black didn’t strike you as the type to chase anything other than a bottle of whiskey or a reckless thrill.

So when you heard your name called across the quad, three days later, you were surprised enough to turn around.

And there he was. Strolling toward you with his bag slung over one shoulder and a grin already forming—the sort that suggested either mischief or flirtation, probably both. He looked slightly dishevelled in a way that was too intentional to be accidental. Button-up undone at the collar, necklace peeking out. That same stupid leather jacket strewn over his shoulder.

“Alright?” he asked casually, falling into step beside you.

You arched a brow. “Back for round two?”

“Actually, yes,” he said, and the shamelessness of it made you laugh. “But not the kind you’re thinking. I need help with business economics.”

You blinked. “You need help… from me?”

“You’re the only one who can talk about GDP without sounding like a dementor,” he said, matter-of-fact. “Also, I won’t lie—the button-up’s distracting in a way that makes learning bearable.”

You looked down at your shirt, then back at him. “So you’re bribing yourself into revision by ogling me?”

“Exactly,” he said brightly.

“Charming,”

“I try,”

He gave you a look then—not intense, not over-the-top, just curious. A bit hopeful around the edges. You didn’t have to say yes. But you were already smiling. You were already shifting your books and mentally clearing your schedule.

“Fine,” you said. “But if I’m going to babysit you through fiscal policy, you’re buying the coffee,”

He gave a dramatic bow. “I’m a man of honour,”

“And of short attention span,”

“That too,”

—

You studied together later that day in a quiet alcove of the library—you with your notes, him with his tongue between his teeth as he tried to understand elasticity graphs. Every time you leaned over to explain something, he stared. Not subtly. Not even a little.

“Eyes up, Black,” you muttered.

“Can’t help it,” he said without shame.

But you could tell he was trying. He asked questions. Made actual notes. Repeated terms back to you with enough confusion that you knew he was listening, even if he was wildly out of his depth.

At one point, you looked up to find him watching you with a strange sort of intensity.

“What?” you asked.

“Nothing,” he said, too quickly. Then added, “Just wondering how the hell I didn’t notice you before this term,”

You smiled, trying to ignore the warmth that crept up your neck. “Maybe because you only come to half the lectures,”

He chuckled. “Maybe,”

—

Two nights later, he was at your flat.

You’d invited him this time.

“You sure?” he’d asked, leaning against the kitchen counter when he arrived. “You could’ve dragged me to the library again,”

You handed him a glass of cheap vodka. “And let your eye-line drift all over the place in public? Absolutely not,”

He grinned. “Fair point,”

He looked around your flat—small but tidy, the kind of space that felt lived in, comfortable. A few mugs on the table, textbooks stacked under the telly, a random scarf hung by the door even though it’s almost June.

“Flatmates?” he asked, sipping.

“They’re out,” you replied.

He raised a brow.

You added, very smoothly, “I told you to come over today for a reason,”

That made him pause.

He didn’t reply right away. Just looked at you like he couldn’t decide whether to laugh or lunge.

Instead, he sat on the sofa, stretched out like he owned the place, and said, “Alright then. Teach me things, professor,”

You groaned, grabbing your laptop and books. “If you call me that again, I’ll throw you off the balcony,”

“Wouldn’t be the first time a woman tried to kill me for being too charming,”

“Gods, you’re exhausting,”

“Yet here I am. On your couch, with you. Alone,”

You tried to study. You really did.

But between the flirting and the alcohol and the way he kept leaning in to comment on the terrible formatting in your notes, it was a lost cause. The vodka burned. The music you put on (mostly as a distraction) didn’t help. By the third drink, you were both a bit giggly, a bit warm, sprawled sideways on your couch with your legs tangled together.

He was fiddling with your highlighter, spinning it in his fingers. You reached over to steal it back, and he caught your hand.

“What’s your deal then?” you asked, half-curious, half-buzzed.

“My deal?”

“You dress like you mugged a punk band,” you said, gesturing at his worn boots and tattered denim, “but you sound like you came out of a Jane Austen novel,”

He snorted. “It’s the trauma,”

“Oh, obviously,”

He sighed, let his head fall back on the arm of the sofa. “My family’s a nightmare. Old money. Very proper. Think they invented the stock market,”

You watched him for a moment. He looked tired—the sort of tired that sits in your bones. The kind you don’t fix with sleep.

“So why are you here?” you asked quietly.

He shrugged. “They paid my tuition. All of it. That was the deal—get the degree, then ‘join the family legacy’ or whatever. Be a good Black,”

“You don’t want to?”

“Not even slightly,” he said, voice dry. “I hate it. I hate the lectures, I hate the people, I hate the smug twats who think balance sheets are sexy,”

You laughed. “So what do you like?”

He hesitated, then looked at you sideways. “Writing music. Playing. Screwing around with the band.”

“You’re in a band?”

He grinned. “We’re called the Marauders. James, Remus, Pete and me. Mostly just gigs around campus and dive bars. We’ve got maybe one good song and three that sound like drunken karaoke.”

“So, what? You write songs about getting high and having sex?”

The words came out before you could stop them—a joke, half-serious, mostly cheeky. You were smiling.

“Pretty much,” Sirius shrugged lightly. “You’ve been quite the inspiration lately,”

You stared at him. For a full beat. “You’re taking the piss.”

“I’m really not.”

You started to laugh. “Are you serious?”

He gave you a wink. “That’s my name,”

You threw a cushion at his face. “That’s such a bad joke.”

He pulled the cushion off his lap and said, “I’m not kidding. It just sort of happened. Couldn’t stop thinking about it,”

You paused.

“You’re serious,”

He nodded.

“Why?”

He shrugged. “It was good. You were good. And I don’t know — I kept seeing it in my head. The windows fogged up, that stupid tie, the way you looked at me,”

You weren’t sure what to say.

Part of you wanted to laugh again—it was absurd, wasn’t it? The campus heartbreaker, Sirius bloody Black, writing actual music about an actual one-night stand. Another part of you… didn’t quite want to make a joke.

You looked at him, really looked at him.

He wasn’t smirking now. Wasn’t leaning into the charm.

He looked oddly nervous.

“You said you couldn’t stop thinking about it,” you said.

“Yeah.”

“And now what?”

He tilted his head. “Now I’m on your couch, half-drunk, trying to pass my finance exam so my mum won’t disown me,”

You smiled.

He smiled back.

—

Later that night, you kissed again—slower this time, more sure. Your hands in his hair, his on your waist. His lips soft and searching, like he was learning the shape of your mouth by heart.

You pulled back at one point, breathless, and said, “You’re not just here for the notes, are you?”

He laughed, low in his throat. “Not even slightly,”

And then he kissed you again.

You were the one who pulled back first.

Not because you wanted to stop. Just because the weight of what you were doing—the feel of his hands on your waist, the heat building behind his lips—had finally caught up with the moment. The couch was small, the flat was quiet, and Sirius Black was looking at you like you were already halfway into a dream he hadn’t realised he was having.

You gave him a look. One eyebrow arched, all faux-detachment and teasing heat.

“So,” you said casually, brushing a finger along the collar of his shirt. “What you’re saying is… I’m the best lay you’ve ever had?”

He didn’t even hesitate.

“Absolutely.”

You blinked, caught off guard by how quick—and how serious—he was. “That was fast,”

“I’m decisive,”

“You’re drunk,”

“And still right,”

You laughed, trying not to feel flustered, but your heart gave a weird little thud in your chest. “Sirius—”

“I mean it,” he said, sitting back just enough to meet your eyes fully. “Do you want the whole list? Cos I can’t even remember anyone else’s name when you’re looking at me like that,”

That shut you up.

He was smiling, yes—that usual grin, all teeth and trouble—but something in his voice felt weighted. Not a joke. Not really.

You searched his face, waiting for the punchline, the wink, the smug little shrug.

But he just looked at you.

Earnest.

Soft, even.

And your brain, already muddled by the vodka, the warmth of him, the whole surreal magic of the night, completely short-circuited.

“Right,” you said eventually, standing up too quickly. “Bedroom. Now. Before I change my mind and make you sleep on the sofa,”

He grinned, leaping up after you. “You love me,”

“Shut up,”

“You want to marry me and have my terrible punk babies,”

“Oh my God,”

“Gonna name one after James, obviously—”

You smacked him with a pillow before dragging him by the hem of his shirt toward the hallway.

You tried, genuinely, to be patient, but you were both far too drunk to have anything resembling grace. You got halfway down the corridor before Sirius managed to tangle one foot under the other and slam into the wall with a bark of laughter.

You wheezed trying to pull his shirt off and he ended up getting both his arms stuck through one sleeve.

He tripped over your shoes and nearly brought you down with him.

Your elbow went into a doorframe. His jeans got stuck on his ankle.

By the time you finally collapsed onto the bed, you were both half-dressed, breathless with laughter, and absolutely gone — the sort of drunk where everything is funny and your hands don’t quite do what you tell them to.

And still, somehow, your mouths found each other.

It was messy. Clumsy. Loud. Rushed in some places, slow in others. There was a lot of giggling. Some frustrated huffing. His necklace got caught in your bra strap and you ended up yanking it off entirely and throwing it across the room.

“Gentle,” you hissed at one point, when he tugged your hair a little too roughly.

“Sorry,” he mumbled against your collarbone, voice already hoarse. “Just—fuck, you smell good,”

“You’re really drunk, huh?”

“Drunk on you.” He throws you a wink.

You smacked his shoulder. “Gag, that’s such a cliche line,”

“You won’t remember it anyway,”

You didn’t speak after the initial teasing. There was no need for words when his hands were on your thighs and your mouth was tracing the shell of his ear and the whole world had shrunk to your mattress, your body, him.

And then it was over—or it wasn’t, you weren’t sure. The minutes blurred. The vodka didn’t help. You were sweaty, tangled together under your duvet, his arm flung lazily across your waist, your leg hooked over his hip like it had always belonged there.

You stared at the ceiling.

“You’re quiet,” he murmured after a while.

“Thinking,” you whispered.

“About?”

You turned your head to look at him.

Sirius Black. Shirtless. Sleepy-eyed. Absolutely ridiculous. And completely still.

You didn’t answer.

—

You woke up before him.

The sunlight coming through the blinds was far too bright for your hangover, but you didn’t move. Not immediately. You were too aware of the weight beside you, the arm still draped across your stomach, the soft sounds of his breathing as he dozed.

He looked younger when he slept.

Less arrogant. Less sharp around the edges.

And fuck, you thought, staring at the ceiling again. What the hell are you doing?

This wasn’t supposed to mean anything.

It was supposed to be hot, chaotic, meaningless fun. A distraction. A break from your assignments and your own mess and the looming terror of the post-uni void. He was supposed to be a good shag—nothing more.

But you’d seen the look on his face last night.

He meant it.

And, worse—some traitorous, pathetic, unguarded part of you wanted to believe it.

You let out a long breath.

Sirius stirred beside you, groaning as he blinked against the morning light.

“M’head,” he mumbled.

“That’s the vodka,” you said softly.

“Betrayed by my own choices again,”

You smiled despite yourself.

He looked over at you and smiled too, all sleepy and unfiltered, the kind that made something in your chest flutter before you could stop it.

“Morning,” he said.

“Morning,”

He stretched—limbs long and tangled in your sheets—and then rolled onto his side, propping himself up on one elbow.

“Do you always look this fit in the morning?” he asked.

“Do you always flirt through hangovers?”

“Only with people who’ve ruined me sexually,”

You laughed. “You’re so full of it,”

“And yet,” he said, leaning in to kiss your shoulder, “you keep inviting me back,”

You rolled your eyes. “You’re tolerable when asleep,”

“I’m irresistible always,”

“I think the word you’re looking for is insufferable,”

“No, no,” Sirius shakes his head carefully, trying not to worsen the impending headache. “Definitely irresistible,”

—

He left mid-morning.

You offered him toast. He accepted. Ate it half-standing in your kitchen like he’d done it a hundred times before. Then he grabbed his shirt, kissed your temple without thinking, and promised to see you later.

And then he was gone.

You stood there in the quiet.

Trying not to feel the loss in the room.

When I got out I knew

That nobody I knew would be believing me

You didn’t hear from him much over the next few weeks.

A couple waves, a few hellos, but nothing proper.

You were too busy. Exams swallowed your brain like quicksand. You crammed until your fingers cramped, drank enough energy drinks to probably cause a coronary, and watched the sunrise from your desk too many mornings in a row.

Your social life dwindled to caffeine-fuelled library whispers and the occasional flatmate making sure you’d eaten something other than toast.

When the final exam finished—the bastard of a quantitative finance paper—you nearly cried walking out of the lecture hall. Someone popped champagne in the quad. You high-fived your study group. You stood on the steps and screamed into the sky.

And in July, you passed. Somehow.

Everything felt lighter.

And then, just as you were heading to your car with your results in hand—sun out, heels clicking against the pavement, wind tugging at your open shirt collar—you saw him.

Sirius.

Leaning against the railing with his hair tied back and his leather jacket slung lazily over his shoulder. Like no time had passed at all. Like this wasn’t the first time you’d seen him properly in weeks.

“Hey, stranger,” you said, grinning.

He looked up, and smiled—not the usual smirk, but the softer one. The one you always had to pretend didn’t get to you.

You crossed the last few steps and launched into your news without hesitation. “I passed. All of them. Barely—and I mean barely—scraped through quantitative, but I did it. No resits. No crying. Well, I cried a bit, but not during any of the exams—”

He caught you mid-ramble with a laugh, pulling you into a hug before you could finish.

You sank into him automatically.

He smelled like cigarette smoke and warm leather. Your heart did that stupid little dance again.

“I’m proud of you,” he said, voice low against your temple. “Knew you’d smash it,”

You pulled back slightly, looking up at him with a grin. “You owe me dinner. Or celebratory sex. Your choice,”

He laughed, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Both?” he offered, light-hearted but off-kilter.

You narrowed your eyes, teasing but watchful. “Why do you look like someone’s kicked your puppy?”

He didn’t answer straight away.

That was the first clue.

The second was the way his hand stayed on your hip longer than necessary—like he was anchoring himself. Like he didn’t trust his legs not to bolt.

You stepped back fully.

“Sirius.”

“Alright,” he said, voice carefully casual. “Don’t get mad,”

You crossed your arms. “Why would I get mad?”

“Because I’m about to say something stupid,” he replied, then ran a hand through his hair. “And possibly ruin the vibes,”

You waited.

He sighed.

“I’m leaving,”

You blinked. “...What?”

He gave a weak laugh. “I failed. Most of my exams, anyway. Except the one you helped me with— so really, you’re the reason I’ve got any academic credibility at all,”

You opened your mouth, then shut it again.

“I got the notice yesterday,” he said, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “Uni’s not letting me back next year. They were… diplomatic about it. Said I could reapply after a break, provided I prove academic discipline, blah blah. But I’m not going to,”

“Oh,” you said quietly.

He shifted. “The band— the Marauders— we’ve been getting attention. Played a couple gigs in Camden, some scout liked us. Said we’ve got a sound. He’s offered to get us into a studio. Independent label, nothing big, but… it’s something,”

You were quiet.

“I’m moving out next week,” he added. “Might end up up north for a bit. Or Manchester. Depends where the recording space is. Everything’s still up in the air,”

He glanced at you, then away.

“But I wanted you to know,”

You nodded.

He watched you, a flicker of worry behind his lashes. “You alright?”

You let out a soft breath. “Yeah,” you said, and meant it. “I’m happy for you,”

“You sure?”

You gave him a small smile. “I mean… I’ll miss you. Obviously. Even if it was just a friends-with-benefits situation, or whatever the hell this was. But this is what you’ve wanted, right?”

He nodded. “Yeah,”

“Then I’m proud of you too,”

Something in his jaw tightened.

You tilted your head, half-grinning. “Besides, what kind of monster gets mad at a guy for chasing his dreams?”

He smiled—properly this time, though a bit bittersweet.

You nudged his shoulder. “So, one more round before you go?”

He blinked.

“Sex, genius,”

His eyebrows shot up. “You serious?”

“Call it a send-off. My treat,”

He stared for a beat longer than necessary, then grabbed your hand and pulled you towards your car.

You were both half-laughing, half-running — high off adrenaline and the electric sort of sadness that feels like holding fireworks too close to your chest. The air smelt like summer pavement and exam dust, and Sirius looked at you like he couldn’t quite believe you were real. You didn’t let yourself read too far into it.

You knew better than that.

Still, when he pressed you against the passenger door and kissed you with every ounce of tension he’d held in since telling you he was leaving, you let him.

And when you got back to your flat and climbed the stairs two at a time, limbs tangled and mouths chasing the next inhale, you let yourself want him.

Because why not?

What were you saving yourself for?

It felt like a dream, the way you stumbled into your room. His hands on your waist. Yours in his hair. The low clatter of keys falling to the floor. Clothes tugged off, discarded without aim. Your jumper. His shirt. The way he looked under the dim light of your lamp, mouth red and eyes blown wide.

When the lights go out

She's all I ever think about

Except… you didn’t even have sex.

You wanted to. So badly you could’ve screamed.

But something about it—something about the way he looked at you, or the silence between your heartbeats—shifted.

Maybe you both knew that this wasn’t going to be another carefree romp. That if you went any further, it would mean something. Something you weren’t sure either of you could walk away from.

So instead, you just… sat.

You climbed into his lap, straddling him where he’d dropped onto your bed. Your bare legs wrapped around his hips, your lips brushing his jaw—and instead of unbuckling his jeans, you let yourself settle there. Let yourself exhale.

Dusk painted the walls violet and blue. There was a breeze through the open window, and the smell of distant cigarettes from someone smoking below.

And you talked.

He told you about the producing deal in more detail—how the scout was a friend of someone’s cousin, and how it wasn’t official yet, but they’d been invited to record a demo. They’d booked a session in a dingy little place near Camden, and the label guy said if the sound was tight, he’d see what he could do.

“I mean, we’re still technically a uni bar band,” Sirius admitted, rubbing the back of his neck. “But we’ve got followers. And if it goes well, it’s a foot in the door. A real one,”

“That’s brilliant,” You nodded, tracing the edge of his collarbone absentmindedly. “And terrifying,”

“Oh, it’s horrendously terrifying. I haven’t told my family yet,”

You quirked a brow. “Why not?”

He gave a bitter little laugh. “Because they’ll cut me off. Or worse — be disappointed,”

You leaned your cheek against his shoulder. “Do they even know about the band?”

“Not really. They think it’s a phase,”

“They’re in for a surprise, then,”

He snorted. “They think music’s fine as a hobby — as long as I’m also taking over Black & Co. eventually,”

You hummed. “I’ll take your place,”

He paused. “What?”

You pulled back just enough to grin. “Once I graduate. I’ll apply to be the heir to your family’s cold, corporate throne. Could do with the cash,”

“Don’t even joke about that. You’ll be wearing grey slacks and developing caffeine dependency within weeks,”

You poked him in the chest. “Better than moving in with my mum,”

“Debatable,”

You mock-pouted. “You don’t think I’d make a great junior partner?”

“No offence,” Sirius said, lips twitching, “but my family are absolute twats, and I wouldn’t wish them on you,”

“None taken,” you replied. “They do sound like twats,”

He laughed, and you kissed the corner of his mouth. His hands slid along your thighs in a way that felt instinctive, not lustful—like he was memorising you.

You stayed like that for ages.

Talking. Drifting. Laughing into each other’s skin. The vodka stayed unopened on your desk. The city hummed around you. And every time you looked at him, something soft bloomed in your chest that you didn’t have a name for.

The picture burning in my brain

Kissing in the rain

He stayed the night.

You didn’t ask—just curled under the covers with him once the sky turned navy and the streets below went quiet. He didn’t object. Just pulled you close, his arm around your waist, your head tucked under his chin.

You both slept badly, but neither of you cared.

It was enough to be near.

To exist in the same breath, if only for a few more hours.

—

The morning came too soon.

You dragged yourself out of bed in an oversized hoodie while Sirius rifled through your room looking for his jeans. He finally found them behind your desk chair, tangled in the blanket he’d somehow pulled down during the night.

You tried not to stare at his back as he dressed. Tried not to think about how quiet it felt.

He pulled on his jacket, fingers catching the zip, and you reached out before you could stop yourself—smoothed it for him. He blinked, just once, then smiled that same smile you’d seen on the steps outside campus.

Like he was trying not to let something show.

The clouds outside were thick and heavy, grey like wet concrete. You walked him to the door anyway.

Neither of you said much. Until you opened it—and found the rain waiting on the other side like a punch to the face.

Sirius blinked, stunned by it, before laughing. “Bloody hell,”

It was *pouring—*sheets of rain, bouncing off the pavement, flooding the drains. The kind of rain that soaked you through in seconds. That made umbrellas feel pointless.

You reached for the car keys beside your door, but he stopped you.

“I’ll be alright,” he said, pulling his hood out from where it was shoved inside the back of his jacket, but not putting it up.

You stared at him. “You’re going to walk to your flat in this?”

“It’s only fifteen minutes,”

“In that?” You gestured to his torn jeans and thin cotton tee beneath the jacket.

“I’ll dry off,”

“You’ll drown,”

He chuckled, then hesitated—that same beat-too-long pause he always did before saying something real.

“I’ll be alright,” he said again, more softly.

You didn’t argue this time.

You just watched him step into the doorway and reached for the pen on the side table, scribbling his number on a crumpled receipt.

“Just in case,” He said, holding it out. “In case we get lucky,”

You took it with a grin. “Unlikely,”

“Still. Now you’ve got no excuse,” His eyes met yours, storm-dark and unreadable.

And then he kissed you, with feathered lips and hands gentle enough that they don’t even leave fingerprints on your cheeks.

You barely had time to kiss him back before he stepped into the rain.

Let himself get soaked.

Didn’t even pull up the hood.

He just glanced over his shoulder one last time, gave you a two-fingered salute, and vanished down the street, hair already dripping, receipt crumpled in his hand.

You stood in the doorway until he was gone.

And then longer still.

The movie playing in my head

Of her king sized bed

Means I can't forget my English love affair

The song ends, but the crowd doesn’t.

They’re still screaming—still throwing themselves toward the stage like they could grab onto the final chords and keep them going, as if their voices might convince the band to stay just a little longer. The lights pulse overhead, hot and gold and dizzying. The air tastes like sweat and smoke and bassline, like summer caught in a bottle and shaken until it fizzes over.

Sirius stands at the mic, breathless, his shirt clinging to his back. Hair damp, jaw sharp beneath the spotlight. He looks… elated. Wrecked in the best way. The kind of tired that feels like triumph.

You’re somewhere in the crowd, but he can’t see you.

Doesn’t know you’re there.

Not yet.

Because you hadn’t planned to come. Not until the very last minute—until your best mate shoved a last-minute ticket in your hand and said “Come on, it’ll be funny. Isn’t that your uni crush? The one who played guitar instead of going to lectures?”

You’d laughed.

And then you’d come.

Because somewhere after the goodbye, Sirius Black had turned into someone people recognised. Someone who got played on indie radio stations and reviewed in music blogs. Someone with tattoos and a fandom and a press schedule. The kind of person who said things in lyrics that made strangers cry.

“Holy shit,” James says, breathless as he steps offstage, clapping Remus on the back. “That crowd was insane,”

“Insane,” Remus agrees, wiping sweat from his brow and reaching for a bottle of water. “I thought we were going to lose the speakers during Track Six,”

“We might’ve,” Peter adds, looking mildly terrified and thrilled in equal measure. “I saw security taping one of the subs mid-song,”

James lets out a bark of laughter. “I didn’t notice. Too busy watching Sirius dry-hump his mic stand again,”

“Not my fault the crowd’s thirsty,” Sirius replies, dropping onto a crate near the back of the tent and fanning himself with a setlist. “I’m simply giving them what they came for

“That’s what she said,” Peter grins.

“I’ll leave you all to form your own relationships with your microphones, thank you,” Remus mutters, shaking his head.

Sirius just smirks.

He should be riding the high. The set went better than they’d hoped—no technical issues, the crowd was electric, and the reaction to the unreleased song was mental. He’d watched people mouth along to the chorus by the final repeat, like they already knew it. Like they felt it.

And maybe they did.

Maybe everyone has someone they can’t forget. Even the people who pretend not to care.

“You’re getting softer by the year,” James says as he flops onto the crate beside Sirius, elbowing him lightly. “Soon you’ll be writing acoustic shit about holding hands,”

“Don’t tempt him,” Remus says, snorting. “We’ll get a ballad about library desks and crosswords next,”

“Finance Girl,” Peter says dramatically, holding an invisible microphone. “Track one off the next album,”

Sirius doesn’t respond immediately.

He’s smiling—the kind of half-amused, half-resigned smile that means yeah, alright, fair enough. He tosses his towel over his shoulder, grabs a water bottle to throw in James’ direction, and watches as he raises it in mock salute.

“To Finance Girl,” James says, voice dry. “The unofficial fifth member of the band,”

“Oh, don’t say that,” Remus groans. “You’ll jinx it. She’ll turn up in a dramatic twist of fate and demand royalties,”

“She’s probably a CFO somewhere now,” Peter adds. “Drinking oat milk lattes and marrying some bloke named Quentin,”

James leans in conspiratorially. “So, remind us again. Why did you never go back for her?”

Sirius pauses. The air buzzes with leftover feedback and adrenaline. Somewhere outside, the next band is warming up.

He shrugs. “Dunno. Life got loud,”

“Bet she’s still fit,” Peter says with a dreamy grin. “Imagine the sexual tension if she did show up now,”

“She’s always in your head anyway,” James says. “You write more songs about her than I have about Lily, and we’re married,”

“That’s because you two are boringly vanilla,” Sirius replies without missing a beat, unlocking his phone.

Dozens of notifications. Mentions on Twitter. Clips of the performance already circulating. A missed call from their PR. A text from a number he doesn’t recognise.

And it’s that one that makes him freeze.

still writing songs about how good our sex was? count me honoured

The room falls away.

The noise fades.

He stares at the screen like it might combust in his hand.

Because no one else would know to send that.

No one else could make him feel like a second-year uni student again with just one sentence.

No one else ever dragged him into the backseat of their car by his tie.

Then a second message.

I really hope you haven’t changed your number otherwise whoever is getting this text is gonna be really confused

James notices first. “You alright?”

Sirius doesn’t look up. Just stares at his phone like he’s forgotten what it’s for.

“Mate?”

Sirius finally speaks. “I think she’s here,”

“Who?” Peter asks, still giggling at something Remus said.

You never really expected him to accept or say that he saw something between the two of you. But still, you didn’t expect this to be his response to your confession.

“Fairies?” you ask, confused. “What do you mean?”

Fairies? 

What does that even mean?

He visibly looks awkward before scratching the back of his neck and saying, “You know… really beautiful people, but that’s it.”

You stare at him, confused—and now slightly offended. “Pardon?”

Did he just say you had no personality?

He just sighs and mutters, “This is what I mean…” He continues, “You already know what I mean. Don’t make me hurt your feelings more—then you’ll go telling people I gave you some confusing reply.”

He says it, and all you can do is stare at him with the most offended, confused expression you’ve probably ever made.

You couldn’t believe this was real. Sure, you admit it—you knew he wasn’t going to accept your confession. He was most likely going to reject you. But not like this. He was always known as that really nice, one-year-above-you senior. You didn’t expect that this was how he actually talked.

Can someone really be this full of themselves? 

To think that if someone got rejected by them, they’d automatically go around badmouthing him?

That was exactly what you remembered happened last year—when you confessed to James Fleamont Potter about your childhood crush on him.

It was short, bittersweet, and you were ruthlessly rejected.

So why, exactly, had one of your housemates just barged into your room saying that James Potter was waiting for you downstairs… with flowers?

You look at her, confused. “What the bloody hell are you talking about?”

“I’m serious! He’s been standing there for a couple of minutes now—some students are already starting to form a crowd!” she says, her hand still gripping the doorknob.

The two of you just stare at each other for a moment—your eyes narrowing with suspicion, hers wide with urgency, silently begging you to believe her.

Then, you throw on your student robes and rush out of the room together, heading straight for the common room.

When you finally reach the common room, the first thing you notice is the crowd of students gathered near the door, all looking and whispering about something.

“E-Excuse me,” you say. “Please let me through…” you continue as you try to push past the sea of people.

Did no one have classes today? Seriously.

As you finally make it through, your eyes land on the man of the hour—leaning casually against the wall, one hand tucked into the pocket of his robes while the other holds a bouquet of flowers. 

He’s staring down at them, looking at each petal as if counting them. But then, as if sensing your gaze, he lifts his head, turns in your direction, and locks eyes with you. His eyes widen—then he grins and immediately jogs over.

“Fairy! I’ve been looking for you!” he calls, picking up his pace before stopping right in front of you—and wrapping you in a hug, right there in front of everyone.

Shit.

He pulls away, and you just stand there, frozen. You don’t even return the hug—you’re still too stunned to move.

He pouts. “Why didn’t you visit me? I missed you,” he says, then offers you the flowers. “Here. Flowers for my beautiful fairy.”

You take them slowly, glance at them for a moment, then look back up at him—still stunned.

Then, without warning, he cups your face—both hands gently resting just below your cheeks—leans in, and presses a kiss to your forehead.

Your eyes go wide.

And it’s not just yours. All around you, you can hear it—the gasps, the stunned whispers. Some girls are even tearing at the sight, as if their world had just ended.

James Potter isn’t in some temporary fling, this isn’t a will-they-won’t-they with Lily Evans again.

No.

He has just publicly declared, to the entire student body of Hogwarts, that Gryffindor’s Golden Boy is officially off the market.

He then looks at you, still grinning. “So, what time are your classes again? Want to sit in the courtyard while we wait?”

You look at him, now slightly confused. “Uh…”

Before you can respond, someone running towards you cuts off your thoughts.

“Prongs!” the person yells again, sprinting over—two other boys close behind him. You squint to get a better look, and sure enough—it’s Black, Lupin, and Pettigrew.

James turns towards the voice and, upon seeing Sirius, waves brightly. “Padfoot!”

Sirius finally reaches you, parting through the crowd as he pushes forward. Once he and the others are close enough, all three immediately fix their eyes on James.

“We’ve been looking all over for you,” Sirius says, slightly out of breath. “You’re not even supposed to be out of bed yet, remember?”

Remus and Peter stand on either side of him, also panting, clearly having run all around the school.

James just laughs. “Poppy said I could go early. Said I heal fast,” he says with a grin, flexing his right bicep for emphasis. Then, he casually throws an arm around you. “Also, I wanted to visit my fairy.” He turns to you, smiling as he gently tightens his grip on your shoulder.

His response makes all three of them look at you—each with a different reaction, but confusion is the most obvious. They glance at one another, then at the lingering crowd still watching everything unfold.

“Hey, Prongs…” Remus is the first to speak. “Can we borrow, uh… Fairy? Just for a quick talk. Won’t take long.”

He steps closer as he says it, and James looks at him, puzzled.

“Why? I’ll just come with you guys. It’s not a big deal.”

“No! Uh… Wormtail… has something to talk to you about,” Sirius says quickly, throwing a pointed look at Peter.

Peter stares back, blinking. “I do?” he asks, which earns him a sharper look from Sirius.

“I mean… yeah, I do! It’s kind of a thing only you can help me with, so…” Peter adds, hoping he doesn’t sound suspicious.

James raises an eyebrow at them but eventually shrugs. “Okay,” he says, then turns back to you. “I’ll talk to you later, yeah? We have a lot of catching up to do.” He caresses your cheek gently before winking.

You, still slightly frozen, can only respond with, “Y-Yeah. I’ll see you… later?”

He grins, then walks away with Peter. You’re still watching him when Sirius and Remus come closer—Sirius lightly taking your arm.

“Haha, yeah. Just talk to her later,” Sirius says, waving back at James, who waves one last time before disappearing down the corridor with Peter.

Once they’re out of sight, both boys turn back to you. “Can we talk somewhere more private?” one of them asks, casting a glance at the students still lingering nearby, though the crowd has thinned.

You just nod. “S-Sure. We can go to the covered bridge. No one’s usually there at this hour.”

They nod, and you lead the way—both of them walking silently just a few steps behind. The air between the three of you is tense and awkward, thick enough to cut with a knife.

You still can’t believe what’s happening.

What was up with Potter? Why did Black and Lupin want to talk to you? Why did he call you Fairy when that’s not even your name??

A hundred questions circle in your head as you finally near the covered bridge—and just like you said, there’s hardly anyone around this early. When you all get there, the three of you just stand in silence for a few seconds before Sirius finally speaks up.

“So… you’re Fairy?” he says, arms crossed, staring straight at you.

You stare at him before replying, “If you mean my name is fairy, then no.”

He squints, narrowing his eyes at you. “I meant—you’re Prongs’ girlfriend. The one he’s apparently had for a couple of weeks that none of us knew about.”

His words make your eyes go wide, and instinctively, you throw your arms up near your chest, as if that could shield you from the absurdity.

“Whoa! I am not his—or anybody’s—girlfriend. I barely even know the guy!”

“You’re not his girlfriend? Then why did he say you were?” Remus jumps in quickly, eyes narrowing slightly.

You all stare at one another for a tense beat, glancing between faces. And then, all your heads click into the same thought.

“I did not give him a love potion!”

“You love potion-ed my best friend!”

“You gave James a love potion, then?”

All three lines fly out at once.

Sirius pointing accusingly at you, you flailing your hands wildly in protest, and Remus standing there with arms crossed and one brow raised.

“Then…” Sirius stands up straighter. “Who are you to Prongs?” he finishes.

“I…” you start, trying to find the right words. “He rejected me last year, if that counts as being something to him.”

They both stare at you, visibly confused by your answer. You got rejected by James and now you’re his… girlfriend?

“Wait…” Remus says, brows furrowing as something clicks in his head.

“Didn’t Madam Pomfrey say something about possible distorted memories? Since he got hit in the head really hard by that quaffle?” he continues, turning to Sirius—whose eyes widen in realization.

“I’m sorry, but who was hit in the head?” you ask, completely lost.

“Prongs was—last week, during the match with Slytherin…” Sirius says, his tone shifting into confusion. “How do you not know that? It’s been a pretty big deal all week.”

You just shrug. “I’m not a Quidditch fan.”

They exchange glances before diving right back into the earlier conversation, discussing everything Madam Pomfrey had told them—the possible outcomes of James forgetting or misremembering things, how there was even a chance he’d forget his name or his friends entirely. Thankfully, that didn’t happen. Only the first part though.

You suddenly cut in, realization hitting you like a train.

“Wait. Are you saying Potter thinks I’m his girlfriend?”

Your voice snaps them both out of the conversation, pulling their full attention back to you.

“Yes—but it’s fine! It’ll just be for a few weeks—” Sirius starts, trying to reassure you that the situation is temporary.

“No way,” you interrupt sharply, immediately turning on your heel to walk away from the madness.

There was no bloody way you were going to pretend to be the girlfriend of the same guy who rejected you. Especially not now, when you’ve finally moved on from him.

They chase after you instantly. “Wait!” they both shout, jogging to catch up to you.

Once they do, Sirius starts again. “It’ll just be until he gets his memories back on his own. We promise.”

“I don’t care. I’m not doing it,” you say, still stubborn, still walking. You turn a corner without slowing down.

Sirius sighs and turns to Remus.

“I just realized this must be why he couldn’t name who ‘Fairy’ was—because he didn’t even know her name at all.”

Remus gives him a look, then replies, “Realize things later. Right now, we’re convincing her.”

And with that, they break into a jog again—just in time to see you turning another corner. You’re speed walking now. You have free period and your classes are done, so you’re heading back to your common room.

“Please reconsider,” Remus calls out. “Madam Pomfrey said it’s not advisable for us to interfere with how he regains his memory.”

You glance at him, before sighing and suddenly stopping—making them nearly crash into each other trying not to bump into you.

“And what is advisable?” you ask, looking at Remus directly.

“That we don’t tell him anything too stressful. Madam Pomfrey said any added pressure might worsen his condition.” he answers calmly.

“And the news that his girlfriend isn’t actually his girlfriend is… kind of stressful. I’d be going insane if I were him,” Sirius adds with a shrug, which earns him a glare from you. 

He shuts his mouth, then offers a sheepish smile.

You look at the both of them, arms crossed—still unconvinced, but clearly thinking it over.

“We’re pleading with you here,” Remus says. “We know it’s a little weird, but honestly—what isn’t weird at Hogwarts?”

“It’ll just be a few weeks. Or days, even! Prongsie does heal fast—according to him, at least!” Sirius chimes in.

You’re still staring at them, and just as you’re about to speak—

“Also, being Prongs’ girlfriend is a title every girl in Hogwarts would die for,” Sirius mutters under his breath, and you immediately glare at him then start to turn around again.

“No, no, no! Come back! I was just joking!” Sirius says quickly, reaching out a hand.

Remus simply watches him, sighs, and rolls his eyes.

This tosser.

You turn back around, staring them both down.

“Fine. But only because Madam Pomfrey specifically said those things,” you say. Then, you continue. “Not because of… that.”

You finish with another pointed glare in Sirius’ direction. He just flashes you a sheepish grin again.

“Fairy!”

All three of you are suddenly interrupted by someone calling you. You glance over Sirius’ and Remus’ shoulders—and there he is.

Your apparent boyfriend.

—

Just a day after that, the news had already traveled all around Hogwarts that James Potter was apparently dating a girl no one even knew existed. And by that, they meant you.

You weren’t known as the smartest, like Evans. You weren’t considered one of the prettiest, like anyone from the Black family. You weren’t even a well-known Hogwarts Quidditch player.

No one knew who you were.

So—who was Fairy?

You weren’t aware of any of this yet. You were just heading out, having just finished getting dressed and about to make your way to the Great Hall for breakfast. You told your friends to go on ahead, saying you’d answer their questions another time because you weren’t quite comfortable yet. Truthfully, you just didn’t think it was your place to explain James’ situation.

“Good morning, my fairy.”

The moment you opened the door, the first thing you heard was his voice—the one you now knew far too well.

“Potter!” you exclaim. “W-What… are you doing here?”

You look at him and see him leaning against the wall, just like yesterday. He’s already in his Gryffindor robes, hair still a mess—like he just rolled out of bed. 

Has he been waiting for you?

“I’m walking you to breakfast, obviously,” he says with a slight tilt of his head. Then, more pointedly, “Did you just call me Potter?”

You, now slowly walking towards him, glance up. He waits for you to catch up, and the two of you begin strolling together, side by side. His question still lingers in the air. Oh. Should you be calling him something else? Like… what?

“Sorry, uh…” you cough lightly, “love, I didn’t sleep well last night,” you say, deciding on that nickname—because that’s what people in love call each other… right?

He goes quiet. The two of you continue down the corridor towards the Great Hall. There are barely any students around—most of them are already eating. You’ve always been a bit late anyway, so it feels normal to have a few quiet moments before the noise.

Then suddenly, he turns to you with a smirk. “I’m your love now, huh?”

You look at him, confused. “What?”

He grins wider. “Thought you said you weren’t the nickname type? You used to only ever call me James. What changed?” He leans into you, bumping your shoulder like he’s teasing.

“Am I… making you change your ways, fairy?” he whispers in your ear.

Your eyes widened at the way he said it. And before you know it, you shove him away and start walking faster towards the Great Hall. You don’t notice it—but your ears are now the faintest shade of pink.

He laughs at your reaction, finding it adorable, then jogs to catch up.

“Wait for me, love!”

“Sod off, Potter!”

—

You told yourself that you weren’t going to fall for this again.

For him, again.

“And that’s another ten points to Potter!” screamed the Quidditch commentator as James scored once more, causing the crowd beside you to erupt in cheers. You were sitting in the Gryffindor stands because James had asked (begged) you to come. He insisted that the reason he was hit last time was because his “lucky charm” wasn’t there.

Of course you weren’t there. He hadn’t even known who you were.

And yet… you didn’t tell him that. You’d reluctantly agreed, which meant cramming all your homework the night before just so you could make time for James’ game.

“Potter gets the quaffle again, now zooming past the Ravenclaws—will he score another go—He did! Potter scores another goal for Gryffindor! What a game!” the commentator shouted as James’ name echoed across the pitch once more.

James immediately began scanning the Gryffindor stands, eyes darting as though searching for something—or someone. Then he spots you, locking eyes. He then grins and points right at you.

Your eyes widen, and you instinctively shake your head slightly, mortified. James only laughs at your reaction.

“Oh! Looks like Potter is dedicating that goal to someone—who is… his lucky charm?—wait, no, my partner just told me that it’s Potter’s Fairy! Woo!” the commentator cackles, his partner whispering excitedly beside him to clarify just who you were.

The moment the announcement was made, the Gryffindor crowd exploded again. People beside you began pushing playfully at your shoulders, cheering for you, teasing you, all in good fun. James’ “dedicated” goal had now turned you into a minor celebrity. You smiled at them, laughed along with the teasing, trying desperately not to let the heat rise to your cheeks. You were not going to make this a big deal.

You were here to help him recover. To keep your promise to his friends—that you wouldn’t stress him out. That you’d go along with it until his memories returned. And when that day came, you’d forget this ever happened.

That’s what this was supposed to be.

It’s just…

Maybe you were starting to wish it would all be over sooner, because if this went on any longer…

You weren’t sure you’d be able to stop yourself from falling for him all over again.

—

“How long are you going to write that? It’s been hours,” James complains, watching as you scribble another paragraph for your Potions homework.

“As long as I need to, Jamesy. There’s no time limit when it comes to finishing homework,” you reply, skimming over the last paragraph before adding a transition to connect them smoothly.

He just groans again and lays his head down on the table. The two of you are currently in the library. You’d both just finished classes, and he was about to invite you for a walk around the Black Lake—until you told him you were going to finish assignments that weren’t even due for another three days. He’d grumbled at first, clearly displeased with the idea, but eventually gave in, realizing this was the only way he could spend more time with you.

“I’m surprised you didn’t have practice today. I thought Quidditch was like your number one priority,” you say, glancing at him before returning your attention to your parchment.

He gasps dramatically, placing a hand over his heart.

“How dare you?” he says. “Spending time with you is my number one priority. Quidditch is only a close second.” He grins at you.

You make a face at his words before looking up from your work, you punch him playfully on the shoulder.

“Eugh! You’re so cheesy!” you say, scrunching your nose at him.

He laughs, rubbing the spot where you hit him. “I’m not kidding. You’ll always be my priority.”

“Pfft—stop it!” you say, punching him again. “I doubt you even know me that well to say things like that.”

His right brow arches. “Oh? Are you challenging me?” He shifts into a mock-thinking pose, arms crossed. “Let’s see… First off—you like doing your homework way earlier than anyone else in your year,” he says, gesturing toward your parchment, making you giggle.

“You… like arriving late to the Great Hall because you enjoy the silence in the hallways when you walk. You like putting your hair in braids when it gets too hot. You love talking about your family—especially your four dogs…” he goes on, and now you’re smiling, looking right at him.

“Now let’s get into what you hate... hmm,” he muses, tapping his chin. “You hate people telling your stories for you—that’s why you never do that to others either. You hate anything too sweet, especially sweet coffee, because in your words—‘that’s not the purpose of coffee!’ he mimics in a high-pitched tone, trying to sound like you, which makes you laugh.

He carries on, “You hate it when someone uses something and doesn’t put it back where it belongs. You hate running out of ink—so you buy ten bottles every month, just in case. And…”

He leans in closer, the space between you two vanishing, and suddenly it’s just you and him, smiling at each other.

“…You hate knowing that I’m right about everything I’ve said so far,” he finishes, grinning at you.

Then, without another word, he leans in—and kisses you on the lips.

You’re the one who pulls back first, both of you staring into each other’s eyes. His hand gently caresses your left cheek.

“I should’ve never rejected you.”

Your thoughts are suddenly interrupted by what James just said.

“What did you just say?” you ask, now slowly leaning back.

His eyes widened. “I mean—”

Before you can hear another word, you gather your things in a hurry and speed-walk towards the library doors.

“Fairy, wait!” you hear him call out behind you as you rush through the halls toward your common room. Tears are building at the corners of your eyes. Luckily, no one’s around to see it—because if anyone did, you just know this would be all over Hogwarts by tomorrow.

Someone suddenly grabs your shoulder, spinning you around—of course, it’s James Bloody Potter.

He stares at you, eyes pleading. “Please, let me expla—”

“Explain what?” you snap, your voice raising in frustration.

“What I said earlier, it’s not what it sounded like.”

You just stare at him, giving him the chance to explain himself.

“I really, really, really do like you. It’s why I never brought up that… I’ve already remembered what reality is. What you and I actually are,” he says, voice soft, almost desperate. “I know it’s selfish. I know I’m in the wrong…” he trails off.

“But I didn’t want to lose you…” he finishes, his hands now resting gently on either side of your arms.

You just look at him, tears in your eyes as he gazes back at you with those soft, pleading eyes of his. The hallway you’re currently in is quiet—only the two of you, and your voices, would be heard if anyone happened to walk through right now.

You take a breath first before asking, “How long… have you had your memories back?”

He just looks at you, silently begging you not to make him say it. But you shake your head and ask again.

“How. Long. Potter.” You say each word with heavy emphasis.

“…I got them back the night before our game with Ravenclaw,” he admits, still holding onto you.

“Argh!” you push his hands off your arms, clutching your things tightly to your chest as you storm off again—this time faster, heading toward your common room.

“No! Please, just give me another chance—” he calls, catching up to you easily and wrapping his arms tightly around you from behind as you struggle to get free.

“Let go of me, Potter.”

“No. Not until you hear what I have to say,” he insists, still holding you in his arms.

“I’ve already heard what you had to say—and I don’t want to hear anything else,” you say, still struggling.

You can hear his ragged breathing near your ear as you swipe at your tears. “Y-you rejected me… y-you said I-I had no substan—”

“I was wrong. I was so wrong,” he interrupts. “You’re vibrant, sweet, funny, and kind.” His head drops near your shoulder.

“So, so kind… please…”

You try to breathe properly as his words trail off. His warmth surrounds you as he continues to hold you from behind, your tears silently soaking into your hair and robes as you struggle to steady your breath.

“I’ll…” You slowly pull his arms off of you, taking a deep inhale as you try to calm yourself. You turn around to face him, and see that his eyes are red now too, his breathing heavy. You swallow hard before speaking, “I can’t. Not right now… I just… I want some distance between us.”

As soon as you say it, he looks like he wants to object—but then he sees your state. He takes a few more deep breaths, trying to ground himself.

He reluctantly nods. “Okay. Take all the time you need.”

—

It had been a few weeks since that day.

As you predicted, rumors had indeed started swirling around Hogwarts about your supposed breakup with James Potter. The theories varied, most suggesting that James simply wasn’t enamored enough to stay—though you were convinced those were mostly crafted by his more obsessive fangirls.

Just like James had promised, he gave you all the time and space you needed to clear your head before speaking to him again. Still, every now and then, he’d send you a letter just to remind you that he was still waiting. Sometimes, you could feel his eyes on you from across the Great Hall, the Courtyard, the Library... even while walking the hallways. And yet, every time you glanced in the direction of his gaze, he was already looking elsewhere.

You were now walking towards the Quidditch pitch, remembering that James once told you they held practice every Friday after classes. When you finally reached the changing rooms, you approached a player whose name you didn’t know and asked if he could call James for you. He looked confused at first, then his eyes widened slightly as he seemed to recognize who you were, nodding quickly before rushing off.

As you waited outside, you heard a chorus of playful “Ooooh!” followed by James yelling, “Buzzer off, you wankers!”—which was followed by a round of muffled laughter and teasing.

He appeared moments later, scanning the area before spotting you tucked in a corner.

“Hey…” he greeted you with a smile.

“Hey,” you replied, smiling softly back at him.

There was a pause, just a few seconds of quietness before—

“So…” you both began at once.

“Oh no, you go first,” you said quickly.

“No, you go. I’ll just listen,” he insisted, nodding for you to continue.

You smiled again before glancing at the ground, your hands slightly clammy from nerves.

“I’ve thought about it and…” you started, “I think we should move on from everything that happened.”

You raised your head to meet his gaze. James was watching you closely, giving you his full attention.

You continued, “It’s not fair for either of us to stay hung up on a ‘relationship’ that started from something as absurd as memory loss. We both deserve to go through all the cute little things—the awkward first dates, the late-night talks, the butterflies—before being in a real relationship. I don’t want either of us to miss out on that. I’m really sorry.”

You finished your piece and waited. You were bracing yourself for disappointment, maybe even denial—but instead, James just smiled.

He nodded. “I respect that,” he said. “And I hope the person you confess to—or the one who confesses to you—makes you just as happy as I was when I was with you.”

You smiled at that, and almost instinctively, you stepped forward to hug him.

He hugged you back.

A few seconds passed before you both pulled away, exchanging goodbyes. You wished him luck with practice, and he cheekily wished you luck on your walks, which made you laugh.

As you walked away, your heart felt light and a little heavy all at once—happy but sad, calm but kinda conflicted. That was, until you heard that familiar nickname again.

“Hey! Fairy!”

You turned around, surprised to still see James standing in the exact spot you left him. His hands were cupped around his mouth as he called out across the pitch. You tilted your head, confused.

“What is it now, Potter?”

He grinned. “I like you! And I want to get to know you more—over butterbeers in Hogsmeade!!”

Your smile faded, your eyes widening.

What?

He kept going, calling out again with a grin that didn’t falter. “What do you say?!”

You stared at him, frozen—your expression stunned, lips parted slightly. He stood there, just smiling.

A few seconds passed before a grin slowly crept across your face. You laughed, the joy bubbling up inside of you as the words finally registered. He kept grinning, watching your reaction. You cupped your hands around your mouth, your voice carrying back to him.

You've heard rumors of Sirius Black's infamous charm, almost all the girls in your year say so, but being his best friend you had never experienced it yourself—Sirius had been too busy throwing mud in your hair for you to care about his looks. 

However, watching him now, at seventeen and taller; his normally pale skin slightly tanned from the summer sun at Potter's vacation home in Cornwall, with his dark hair falling around his shoulders in faint waves, you suddenly see what the student body could have meant and it sends heat through your cheeks. 

You feel someone else's presence behind you and you turn around. Remus Lupin is holding both his trunk and Peter Pettigrew's as the latter ties his shoes clumsily. Remus has also changed over the summer, he almost towers over you now, but your eyebrows furrow when you see some new scars across his cheeks. He's never told you why he has them and the others have warned you not to ask. Still, they worry you.

Instead of mentioning them, you point to his ankles and whisper, "Remy, you've outgrown your pants. Do you need new ones? I can ask—" 

Remus helps Peter up and chuckles. He ignores the comment and smiles, nudging Peter over. "We missed you," Peter says, interrupting your worry as he hugs you with a wide smile. Unlike Sirius and Remus, he hasn't changed much and you're happy for the familiarity. One summer couldn't have changed that much. You hug him, pulling Remus in by his sleeve to have him join, still smiling. 

"I missed you both more." 

The train honks and you all wince, laughing as you cover your ears. You look around and just as you open your mouth to ask, you're snatched from Remus and Peter. The scents of vanilla, cinnamon, and oak fill your nostrils as a warm cheek skims yours, muscular arms circling around you. 

James Potter presses feathery light kisses on your cheek and then tousles your hair in a way that has always driven you crazy. "Merlin I missed you, bug," he exclaims, his voice so quiet only you were supposed to hear him. Once he finally releases you from his clutches, you look at him, and he smiles. It's not James's usual smile. It's your smile, the one he has reserved only for you. 

You duck under his arms quickly and escape his hand, groaning as you comb your fingers through the mess he's made of your hair. You send him an annoyed, and reluctantly amused, look as Sirius, Remus, and Peter laugh in the background. 

James's smile turns into his boyish smirk as he laughs. You look at him closely, your eyes squinting as you take him in. His hair looks slightly longer and he looks much more in shape than when you'd last seen him. Perhaps things can drastically change over the summer.  

"What have you been doing over the summer?" you ask, your gaze locked on his arms. He's holding his robe over his shoulder casually, which is causing his forearm to flex and Merlin's name it looks practically sinful—

James bursts out laughing. Your cheeks now burn hotter and it only becomes worse when Sirius puts his hand on your shoulder, "You like 'em? Prongs worked hard for those babies over the summer," he remarks and wiggles his brows in James's direction as his best friend obnoxiously flexes. He looks ridiculous.  

"Oh, fuck you," you say and push Sirius's arm off you. You look at James again and shake your head, biting your cheek. You don't want to encourage him but he does look good. So good your mind wanders.

Suddenly, James's attention moves from you as he calls out a name, one name, one normal, unoriginal, name but the moment the name leaves his mouth, you feel ill and you hold your breath. "Lily!" 

Lily Evans, beautiful and kind Lily Evans. You don't hate her. How could you hate someone so sweet? And still, whenever you hear Lily's name something inside you crumbles into dust and you don't know why. It's like your chest suddenly becomes too small for your heart. Slowly, you turn as James drops everything and pushes by you and some other students simply walking by to meet the red-head. 

"Lily-Flower," he exclaims dramatically, swooping in low and wrapping his arms around the smaller girl's waist, hoisting her up into his arms. You half-assume James will lean in to kiss her— he's always looked like he wants to kiss her, Lily has just never given him permission. 

However, this time their lips connect and the air in your lungs feels like it's been jerked from your chest. Remus moves closer to you, his hand skimming your arm to steady you. You look up at him, your eyes wide. You don't even need to ask. 

"It happened this Summer. Prongs won her over." Remus explains in a whisper, "It all happened so quickly he must not have had time to send you an owl."

Remus making up excuses for James isn't new. He'd tell them in class, during dinner, in the courtyard, during Quidditch matches, anywhere, but he'd never told them to you. James has never been dishonest with you, or hidden something from you. Not you. Up until now, when it must have slipped his mind to tell his best friend something as important as a new girlfriend.

"Oh," is all you can say. 

"James! Not here! Your friends—" Lily squeaks with embarrassment, pulling away and hiding in James's chest like a love-sick school girl. Lily seems to be more relaxed and easily embarrassed. It's weird. 

"No one minds, right, guys?" James asks, looking over at you all. Sirius shrugs, clearly unimpressed and Remus and Peter shake their heads. James's eyes meet yours, looking at you expectantly and you feel cornered. All you can do is strain a reassuring smile with your stomach sinks.  

James returns his attention to Lily, fussing over her as she blushes and clearly enjoys the attention. Your other friends must sense the mood shift because Remus loops his arm in yours, Peter coming to your opposite side, and Sirius isn't far behind as he mutters a spell and your trunks, having them float behind you all. "C'mon, I'm starving," Remus jokes, lightening the mood. 

"I hope they have pudding," Peter thinks aloud, causing a snort from Sirius behind you. 

"They always do, Wormtail," he teases, his tone light, "you just eat it all up for everyone else—" 

"Oi, you shut up, you're already a pain in my arse," Remus snaps at Sirius, who barks another laugh, and for a while, the pain in your stomach from seeing James with Lily becomes a distant memory. 

* * *

Dinner passes fast and you didn't eat with them. You usually don't. You're not a Gryffindor and you have your own friends, friends that you also haven't seen all summer. Jane Hughes, one of your roommates, keeps pestering you about James—to which you only brush her off. There is nothing to say, especially since he's dating Lily.

Your mind wanders as you walk to your Common Room. You don't even hear someone approach behind you until it's too late. "Ow," you suddenly hiss as someone yanks your hair from behind. 

Your cheeks burn with anger as you turn and see—Severus Snape. He's smiling, which leaves your palms sweaty and makes your stomach twist. Perhaps it's the way he hates you, or the strange thing that's always existed between him and Lily Evans, or perhaps it's how even breathing next to him sends James into a fit.

"Snape," you say, soothing your scalp as you move away from him a little. 

"Y/l/n," the boy drones back. You frown. He looks even angrier this year. 

"What is your problem? You can't just pull someone's hair. What are you, a first year? It's childish," you snap, crossing your arms.

Severus looks unamused by the scolding. "You talk too damn much. I have a proposition. I want to date you," he says like he's rehearsed it a thousand times in the mirror. You feel ill.

Your eyes round in shock. You move back again until your shoulders hit the wall. "Excuse me? You want to what?"

"Date you," he repeats, his voice still emotionless. It's becoming awkward. He steps closer and panic rises in your chest. Damn it, you should have just walked back with the others. 

"No."

"No?"

"Yes. No. I don't want to go out with you, Severus."

"Potter would be furious," he says it casually but his gaze flicks over you like you're something to be won. You frown. You don't understand what that has to do with anything. "Don't you want him to be furious? Dating you would make him crazy, Y/l/n, he thinks your his—"

His words are cruel, and it's pathetic. Your gaze hardens as you stand your ground. You're not some pawn he can use to mess with James. "I said no."

"You heard the lady," a voice says behind you—and then James is there, grabbing Severus by the collar. "Why don't you mind your business, Snivellus?" he asks, his tone harsh, as he brushes imaginary dust off Snape's collar as he grins. "You're clearly not wanted here. What a surprise."

Severus shakes his head but his fists are clenched. For a second, you think he'll swing.

He never does. Instead, he shoves James away and the latter lets him. James crosses his arms as Severus mutters a curse behind his breath, "Consider my offer, Y/l/n," is all he says as he turns away.

You watch him slink away, your expression disgusted. You relax once he's gone.

"Bloody creep," James mutters. He turns to you, also relaxed. "You okay?"

You nod, smiling a little. "What are you doing here? Aren't you supposed to be in the Common Room already? I saw you and the boys leave the Great Hall hours ago."

"I was concerned, and as Head Boy it's my duty to investigate any concerns I have," he says with a nonchalant shrug. "I suppose I have a sixth sense when it comes to you." He smiles.

"We're not in the same house, you knob. And maybe you're just a stalker and I should be worried."

James only laughs, he's unfazed by your words, and simply holds out his arm. "Can I walk you, m'lady?" You smile and take his arm, happy for normalcy. 

The walk toward the Ravenclaw common room is silent in the beginning. You want to ask so many questions about Lily, but you don't want to sound jealous. Still, James is your best friend. He is your best friend no matter what and you shouldn't walk on eggshells around him because of his girlfriend. Knowing Lily, she wouldn't want that anyways. 

"So, you and Lily, huh?"

His eyes light up. Your stomach sinks.

"It happened this summer. She came over when you couldn't, I invited her," James pauses, sounding a little sheepish but he continues, his tone becoming lighter as he tells you, "and well, she kissed me one evening. Just happened."

"She kissed you?" You look genuinely surprised.

"I know! I mean, I never thought the day would come." James is beaming and you should be happy, but you aren't. "Who would've imagined she would make the first move? I mean, technically I made all the moves, but—"

You tune him out.

Left, right, left, right.

You focus on the rhythm of your steps instead of the ache creeping up your chest.

"You okay, bug?" James's voice pulls you from your thoughts and you realize you've made it to the Ravenclaw Common Room. James is looking at you with those puppy dog eyes and you strain a smile. 

"Yeah, I'm really happy for you, Jamie."

The smile hurts.

James smiles back, leaning in and kissing your cheek lightly. Like he always does. "I'll see you in the morning, okay?"

"Oh. Okay. Sure." 

James pretends not to notice your fake smile or that you had completely tuned out his rambling. Pretends, because deep down, he knows. He knows what it really is and he won't allow himself to admit it. "Goodnight," he says simply.

* * *

October

"You look awful," Sirius says, eyeing the half-hidden state of your face as you groan against your desk. It's been weeks of no sleep and endless exposure to James's lovesick nonsense. The start of this year has been absolutely  horrible. You turn away from Sirius, who is supposed to be your Potions partner but you haven't been listening. Hair shields the dark circles beneath your eyes.

"I'll hex you, you arse," you mutter.

Sirius ignores you and turns you towards him. When he sees your eyes, how blood-shot they are, he panics. "Bloody hell, did someone—"

You snap up, your head pounding. It isn't Sirius's fault but he's there and you've had enough. "Don't touch me,” you snap, yanking away.

Sirius blinks, confused by your explosion. You stand and shove your books into your book-bag. The entire class has grown silent but you're much too upset to stop now. Your emotions are everywhere. "Can't you shut up for one bloody second? Ever?!" you snap, the words hurtful, and storm out.

Sirius doesn't let it go. He follows you out into the hallway, his voice sharp behind you, "Y/n?!"

You spin around and find him standing close. He's so close your noses almost touch and his cheeks are flushed. His grey eyes are sharp as he grips your shoulders and pushes you against the wall. You gasp. "How dare you speak to me like that?"

You laugh bitterly. "Oh Merlin, Sirius. Grow up."

You try moving away from him but his grip holds you firm. You're so overwhelmed now that your eyes squeeze shut, hiding the tears that threaten to spill.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" he asks.

You open your eyes. He looks different now. He looks genuinely upset that you look so hurt and sad. Sirius's hand touches your cheek and suddenly the world stops. His hand is warm against your skin and your heart skips and you don't know why. Suddenly, you can't look away. Sirius looks at your lips and you look at his.

And then he kisses you.

His lips move with certainty, brushing against yours as his hand tightens around your cheek. This shouldn't make you feel better but somehow it does. You kiss him back and your body leans in without permission. You hear a sound behind you and instantly, you snap your head away and look behind Sirius. No one is there. Thankfully. 

Sirius tilts your chin towards him, smiling a little. You laugh, but it's shaky. You laugh until you almost cry. "What was that?" you ask, your voice small. 

Sirius shrugs. "I wanted to kiss you."

Your stomach flips. "This can't happen again, Sirius," you croak, your throat dry.

His smile fades and he drops his hand from your face. He moves away a little. "Why not? I fancy you, Y/n."

Your breath catches. What? Since when? You feel sick. How did this happen? How could you have allowed this to happen? This year is already a mess and now you've kissed one of your best friends while being madly in love with another?

No.   

"Un-fancy me, then."

"I don't think that is how feelings work."

You stare at him. Sirius has never liked girls like you, Merlin's beard you've never even heard him mention a crush! You shake your head. "I'm sorry I let you kiss me. I shouldn't have. But, Sirius, you and I, it's never gonna happen."

Sirius looks gutted.

'I'm so sorry," you whisper, only feeling more horrible than you had been.

Sirius exhales. "It's alright. I get it." He looks into your eyes, his knuckles skim your cheek, smiling a little. "And just so you know, this doesn't change how I feel, hm? And if you ever change your mind, I'll still be here. Waiting," he says and pauses. "This doesn't have to change anything," he whispers.

You don't want him to wait for you, it's unfair. But knowing Sirius, nothing will change his mind right now. You exhale. You really want to believe him that nothing will change. You do. But he’s wrong. Things have already changed. You feel like you're swimming in muddy, uncertain water, and you're not sure how much longer you can stay afloat.

"Yeah," you whisper, your voice shaky. "Okay."

You’d been counting since the first time you gave a drawing to a stranger, an elderly street musician whose weathered hands moved across his guitar strings so smoothly, you couldn’t help but try to capture his ease. When you’d shyly offered him the sketch afterwards, the tiredness in his face gave way to something softer. 

Surprised. Delighted.

“Is this me?” he asked, his voice carrying that gentle kind of warmth older people always seem to have.

You had simply nodded.

The musician smiled, thanked you, and carefully tucked the drawing into the front pocket of his jacket, and that small moment sparked something in you—a sense of purpose, you could say, that had been missing from your otherwise structured life as a graphic designer. Since then, every morning without fail, you picked a fellow passenger on your train commute, capturing them in a quick sketch, and offering it to them before your stop arrived.

Maybe it was cheesy, but you didn’t care. It was the smile that made it worth it—the way a simple gesture could light up someone’s face at such early hours—that’s what kept you going, for exactly 713 days and counting.

As you locked your apartment door this morning—Tuesday, 6:32 AM—you had no idea that your simple, stupid little cheesy routine was about to change.

Your phone vibrated as you reached the station entrance. A notification from the transit app lit up your screen:

Line 6 service temporarily suspended due to overnight maintenance issues. Please seek alternative routes.

Great. Just what you needed.

Line 6 was your direct route to the office, the one that got you there at precisely 8:00 AM every morning. And you’d never been late. Not once in three years at Takahashi Media Group. And today of all days? Really? The Yamada account presentation was at 9:30, and as lead designer, you needed time to prep. 

Panic started to bubble.

“Excuse me,” you said to the nearest station attendant, trying to keep your voice steady while a tiny voice inside your head was screaming. “What’s the fastest way to Central District Station?”

Clipboard guy barely looked up. “Take Line 4, transfer at Miyashita to Line 9. Adds about twenty minutes.”

Twenty minutes?

Now panic was definitely starting to bubble up. 

Okay, think. If you skipped your usual coffee stop and went straight to the office, you could still make it with just enough time to run through your slides once. Not ideal, but doable.

Line 4 was unfamiliar territory. Unlike Line 6, which you always caught early enough to get a seat, this one was already full. Businessmen in dark suits, students in uniform, and way too many elbows. And the smell—less lemony and clean, more like... cologne and sweat. You squeezed in and clutched your sketchbook to your chest as the doors closed behind you.

Usually, you picked your sketch subject within the first minute. It was like on autopilot by now. Your eyes would just land on someone, and you’d know. But in this crowded, unfamiliar car full of strangers, you felt a little bit lost. These weren’t your usual commuters, the ones you’ve come to recognize over hundreds of mornings, even if you’ve never spoken to them. 

But then you saw him.

He was standing near the doors at the far end of the car, one hand gripping the overhead rail, the other tucked casually into the pocket of his pants. He looked completely out of place, so unlike the others around him.

He was tall. Like, really tall. And his hair was white. It caught the overhead lights in a way that made it shimmer, like fresh snow under a winter sun. He looked young, though. Early thirties, maybe? The white hair didn’t read as old, more like a choice. Or maybe it was natural. Hard to tell.

His suit was navy, perfectly tailored, but somehow different from all the other navy suits in the car. Maybe it was the cut, or maybe it was just him. He wore it like—well, like he wasn’t trying. Top button undone, no tie. A pair of green-tinted glasses perched on his nose, partly hiding his eyes, but not quite.

Everyone else around him was either half asleep or nervously checking their watches, the usual morning commute zombie routine. But not him. He looked completely at ease and almost... amused. Like the full train and countless elbows between one’s ribs didn’t bother him.

You flipped to a blank page in your sketchbook, adjusting your stance as the train swayed. Your pencil hovered, studying him for a moment. Then, like always, the world blurred at the edges as your pencil touched paper, almost making you forget about the schoolboy who stepped on your foot every few seconds, squeezed between other schoolchildren on their way to class. 

After a while, the train announcement: Next stop, Miyashita Station. Transfer for Lines 2, 9, and 11.

You signed the corner, tore out the page, and held it for a second. This part was usually easy—walk over, smile, offer the sketch, say something nice, move on. But something about him made you hesitate.

What if he thought it was weird? What if he assumed you were flirting? What if he had a wife and three kids and a very awkward story to tell over dinner tonight? What if—

The train began to slow. Now or never.

You stood and started weaving through the packed car towards the stranger. He hadn’t moved, still holding the rail with that same relaxed grip, still wearing that faint smile.

“Excuse me,” you said.

He turned, and for the first time, you got a clear look at his eyes through those green-tinted glasses. Startlingly blue. Vivid and almost unnatural. Somewhere between forget-me-nots and ripe blueberries. When they locked onto yours, warmth spread through your chest like you’d just stepped into sunlight.

“This is for you,” you said and offered him the drawing.

For a second, he didn’t react, and panic started to flare. Oh no. He hated it. He definitely hated it. But it was good, or not? Not Picasso, but decent. Solid. Right? Oh god, if he doesn’t say something, literally anything in the next second, you’re going to spontaneously die.

Then, finally, his lips curled into a slow, handsome smile. 

“A drawing? Of me?”

His voice surprised you. Deep and smooth, with a certain richness to it, like dark chocolate. And... was that a Kyoto accent? Subtle, but there. He reached for the sketch, his fingers brushing yours as he took it.

You watched, breath caught in your throat, as his eyes moved over the page. It felt like your entire morning—no, your entire existence—was waiting on his next words.

“You’re very talented.”

...Huh?

You didn’t know what you expected, but it wasn’t that. Or rather, it was how he said it. Usually, people said “thank you,” or “oh, that's so sweet,” something polite and brief before they got off at their stop. But he said it like he meant every syllable. Like you’d just unveiled the Mona Lisa to him.

You. Are. Very. Talented.

The sincerity in his voice hit you oddly sideways.

Then the train doors hissed open and commuters surged forward, dragging you back to reality. Oh god—the presentation.

“This is my stop,” you said hastly, suddenly remembering everything else happening in your life. “I need to go.”

“Wait.” He took a small step forward, but you were already being swept along with the crowd.

“I hope you like it!” you called over your shoulder, catching one last glimpse of him, but then his white hair vanished among the sea of dark suits, and the doors slid shut behind you.

It wasn’t until you were halfway up the escalator to your connecting train that you realized something. Your signature—the tiny heart you always draw into the corner of your sketches. Gone. Missing. For the first time in 713 days.

It strangely bothered you. By the time you reached your office (7:58 AM—still on time, miraculously), you’d almost convinced yourself it was just the chaos of the morning and had nothing to do with the handsome stranger who made your heart beat just a little faster when your fingers touched. Absolutely nothing.

You shove the thought aside and focus on your presentation. Line 6 would be back tomorrow. Back to your normal route, your normal routine, your normal life. You’d never see that man again. 

Or so you think.

Your presentation went flawless. The Yamada executives nodded along to your designs, and your boss even cracked a rare smile by the time you wrapped up. It was almost unsettling.

And by the time you packed up to leave, the handsome stranger had faded into the background—a fleeting moment in a city full of them.

Line 6 was back on schedule that evening. You found your usual seat. Everything was exactly the way it had always been. Just how you liked it.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

The next morning, you slipped back into your routine without thinking. Alarm. Shower. Tea and toast. Line 6 at 6:52 AM. Your favorite seat at the end of the car.

Your subject today was a young woman with brightly colored headphones, who seemed lost in her music. When you handed her the sketch (this time with your trademark tiny heart in the corner) she beamed. You’d made her day, she said. 

Life continued exactly as it should. Drawing number 714, 715, 716... each one gifted, each one with a tiny heart in the corner. Your little bit of everyday cheesy rom-com magic thingy carried on, uninterrupted.

A week passed. You were on your usual train, putting the final touches on that morning’s sketch—an older man engrossed in a paperback novel. When you handed it to him, his face lit up. But then it changed. Surprise gave way to something else… something like recognition.

“Wait,” he said, adjusting his glasses to look between you and the drawing. “Are you the subway artist everyone’s been talking about?”

“I’m sorry?”

“The subway artist,” he repeated, like that explained everything. “There’ve been posters up on Line 4 all week. Someone’s trying to find the person who draws portraits on the train.” He smiled, gesturing to the sketch. “It’s you, isn’t it?”

“Line 4? I... I don’t usually take that line.”

But then it hit you. 

You thanked the man and stepped off the train feeling slightly dazed. All day at work, your mind kept drifting back to this strange turn of events. Someone was looking for you? Putting up posters?

There was only one person it could be.

The stranger from Line 4. 

After work, instead of taking your usual Line 6 home, you found yourself heading towards Line 4. Your heart beat a little faster.

The train was full with evening commuters, but you barely noticed them. Your eyes scanned the station walls as the train pulled into each stop. Nothing at the first station. Or the second. Then, as the train slowed for the third stop, you saw it.

There, on a pillar near the platform’s edge, was a poster. Even from inside the train, you recognized your own work. It was the sketch you had given the handsome stranger—or rather, a scan of it. Below, printed in bold, clear type:

LOOKING FOR THE ARTIST

Did you draw this portrait on Tuesday morning, Line 4? I’d like to thank you properly.

Please call: XXX-XXX-XXXX

The train doors opened, and without thinking, you stepped out, weaving through the tide of boarding passengers. You pushed your way toward the poster, staring at it in disbelief. It was definitely your drawing. No question. But why was he looking for you?

You pulled out your phone and took a quick photo of the poster, and then you just stood there, frozen. What now? Should you call? Would that be weird? What did “thank you properly” even mean?

You glanced around the platform, almost expecting to spot him nearby. But there was no sign of him. Only a sea of strangers, none of them with hair the color of snow. 

On impulse, you peeled the poster off the pillar and tucked it into your bag. Back at your apartment, you unfolded it on the kitchen table. The drawing looked back at you, familiar and strange all at once. You traced a finger over the phone number, wondering about the man who had gone to such lengths to find you. 

What kind of person did that? Was he just being kind? Did he want to pay you? Commission another drawing? Something about it was flattering… and also a little unsettling.

You took out your phone, entered the number into your contacts, and hovered your thumb over the call button.

This was ridiculous. You didn’t know anything about him—other than the fact that he had white hair and apparently enough time and money to put up posters in subway stations. What if he was a stalker? Or some kind of... weirdo?

You folded the poster again and tucked it into a drawer. Maybe in a few days you’d feel differently. Or maybe it was best to forget the whole strange thing altogether.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

Next day, you were back on Line 6, back to your routine. You chose your subject—a woman with a long braids—and focused on capturing the way the morning light played in her woven hair. By the time you handed her the sketch, all thoughts of the poster and the maybe stalker had faded.

Two weeks later, you were running a little late for work. As you rushed onto your usual Line 6 train, something familiar caught your eye on the station wall. The doors closed before you could really process it, and the train pulled away. You spent the rest of the ride wondering if you’d imagined it.

The next morning, you arrived at the station a few minutes early to investigate and what you found made your breath catch. There on the wall of your station, wasn’t just one poster, but several. Each one with your sketch. And this time, beneath the drawing, a new message:

TO THE ARTIST

Dinner? This Friday, 8 PM.

Hanami Restaurant, Central District

You stared. Eyes wide. A dinner invitation? Posted publicly in the subway? Who even does that? Oh god. 

He was a stalker. 

Or… maybe it was romantic? No. Definitely creepy. Right? Who publicly invites a stranger to dinner using posters? A total stranger he didn’t even know? 

But... Hanami Restaurant? That was a nice place. Fancy. Not cheap. You’d seen it once on your birthday when your coworkers took you somewhere nearby. This wasn’t just casual ramen and a maybe—this was… effort.

“Oh, you’ve seen them too?”

You turned to see an older woman standing beside you, also gazing at the posters.

“Isn’t it the most charming thing?” she said. “They’ve been popping up all over Line 6 for the past few days. My daughter thinks it’s a movie promotion, but I think it’s a real love story in the making.” She gave a wistful sigh. “I hope the artist shows up.”

You muttered something polite and hurried onto your train, heart thudding in your chest. 

This had gone from odd to completely, absolutely weird. Not only had he expanded his poster campaign to your line, but now he was publicly inviting you to dinner? How did he even know which train you usually took? Or worse, were these posters up on every line in Tokyo? No. That couldn’t be possible.

You sank into your seat, sketchbook clutched tightly against your chest, your thoughts spiraling. Was this romantic dedication? Or borderline stalking? 

The invitation was for tomorrow night. You didn’t have to go. It’s not like he knew who you were or where you lived—technically, you could ignore it and carry on like none of this ever happened. 

But… what would happen if you did go? What if he was charming and witty and everything you’d secretly ever dreamed about on sleepy train rides? What if he was a total creep?

You looked down at your sketchbook, heart still racing.

My God.

What had you started?

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

Friday evening arrived, and you found yourself standing in front of your closet, absently fingering the hem of a dress you hadn’t worn in months. For a dinner you weren’t going to attend. With a man you’d barely met.

“This is ridiculous,” you muttered, shutting the closet door with finality.

You’d already made your decision. Absolutely not going. This whole thing had gone from charming to…well, kind of creepy. Who put up posters across the subway just to find someone they spoke to for like two seconds? It was excessive. Borderline obsessive.

You ordered takeout from your favorite place down the street and spent the evening sketching while a movie played in the background. Every so often, your eyes drifted to the clock. 

7:30.

7:45.

8:00.

He was probably at the restaurant by now. Maybe checking his watch.

8:15. 

8:30.

Maybe he’d ordered a drink to pass the time.

9:00. 

Surely, by now, he knew you weren’t coming.

You told yourself it was for the best. This way, he’d get the message. No need for awkward conversations or outright rejection. Just silence. Clear. Polite, in a distant kind of way.

Life could go back to normal. Back to routine. Back to sketching strangers who didn’t plaster the city with posters looking for you. 

And still, somewhere underneath all that logic, a quiet little voice whispered: What if he’s just sitting there, alone, sad, and feeling as unsure as you do right now?

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

The weekend passed uneventfully. By Monday morning, you’d nearly convinced yourself you’d done the right thing. You’d protected your peace. Maintained your boundaries. All good decisions.

Your alarm rang at 5:45 AM. Shower. Hair. Makeup. Outfit. Green tea and avocado toast. Sketchbook and pencils in your bag. Everything back to normal.

On your usual train, your eyes landed on a high school girl seated near the doors. She looked tired, but focused. A textbook rested in her lap, worn at the corners and stuffed with colorful Post-it notes poking out from all sides. She tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear and leaned in to read.

By the time the train neared your stop, the sketch was finished, your signature heart placed neatly in the corner. You stood and made your way over to her, when a flash of colour outside the train window caught your eye.

Another poster. But this one looked different.

As the train slowed, you could make out your sketch—the one of the white-haired stranger—but now surrounded by a border of…were those flowers? 

You squinted, leaning closer as the train rolled to a stop. Then the doors opened, but instead of handing the student the sketch you had made of her, you stepped out onto the platform without thinking.

You moved toward the poster. It was definitely your drawing in the center, but someone—him, obviously—had added to it. Were those real flowers? Pinned around the edges? You leaned in. Yes. Small blossoms. Some still fresh, others beginning to wilt.

And below, a new message:

TO THE ARTIST WHO DIDN’T COME TO DINNER

I understand. Perhaps too forward. My apologies. But I’d still like to meet you.

Coffee instead? Your choice of time and place.

Same number below. No more posters after this, I promise.

Call: XXX-XXX-XXXX

You stared at the poster, not sure what to think of it. It was still... a lot. But the tone had changed. It didn’t feel like pressure anymore. It felt like a peace offering.

“Is that about you?”

You jumped slightly and turned to find the schoolgirl from the train standing behind you. She was looking between you and the poster, eyebrows raised. You hadn’t even noticed her step off.

“What? No, I—”

“It is, isn’t it?” she said, pointing to the edge of her portrait still peeking from your sketchbook. “You’re the subway artist! I’ve seen these posters for weeks. Everyone at school’s been talking about them.” Her eyes lit up. “But it’s real! It’s actually you!”

Your face went hot. “I just… draw people on my commute. It’s not a big deal.”

“Not a big deal?” She looked at you like you’d just told her the earth was flat. “Someone literally covered half the subway trying to find you. That’s so romantic.” She paused, glancing back at the poster. “Though I guess... it might feel a little intense if you don’t know him.”

“Exactly,” you said, a little too quickly, but relieved that someone finally understood. Not that you told anyone, anyway.

“But now he’s apologizing and backing off. That’s actually kind of sweet, don’t you think? Like he realized he overdid it.” Before you could respond, she suddenly gasped. “Oh! Were you going to give me something?” She pointed to your sketchbook.

“I—yes, actually.” You’d almost forgotten. You tore out the page with her portrait and handed it over. “I hope you don’t mind.”

She took the drawing, her face bright. “This is amazing! You made me look so... I don’t know, determined? Like I actually understand what I’m reading about.” She laughed. “Thank you so much!”

A chime echoed through the station—the warning for the next train.

“That’s my transfer,” she said and glanced at the poster one more time. “You know, if I were you, I’d call him. Not everyone gets a second chance at something interesting.” And with that, she turned and vanished into the crowd of boarding passengers.

You stood there for a moment longer, staring at the poster. At the flowers he’d carefully pinned around your sketch. It must have taken hours. 

Your phone buzzed with a calendar reminder. Morning meeting in fifteen minutes. With one last glance at the poster, you turned and headed for the station exit.

Maybe the girl was right. Maybe there was something here worth exploring. Or maybe this was exactly how people ended up in true crime documentaries. 

Either way, you had a decision to make.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

For the next three days, the poster haunted you. Not in a scary way, but enough to slip under your skin and stay there. 

You caught yourself absentmindedly sketching floral patterns during meetings, doodling petals in the margins of your planner, even on the back of your grocery list. His phone number was still saved in your contacts. You hadn’t called it. Yet.

By Thursday afternoon, in the middle of yet another agonisingly boring meeting, you finally made your decision. 

The moment your boss wrapped up, you grabbed your phone and slipped into the empty break room. Your heart thudded so hard it felt like it might knock your ribs loose. Before you could overthink it, you dialed the number.

It rang once. Then—

“Hello?”

That voice. Deep. Warm. Curious. Instantly familiar.

“Um. Hi,” you said, suddenly questioning every life desicion that had led you to this moment. “This is… well, I don’t know if you’ll remember, but I drew your portrait on the train a few weeks ago, and—”

“You called.” He sounded genuinely relieved. “I was starting to think you weren’t ever going to.”

“Yeah, well…” You took a breath. “You do realize those posters were kind of creepy, right?”

“I thought they were romantic?”

“For someone I don’t know, it’s more creepy than romantic. And also, what if I was already taken?”

“Are you?”

You went silent. Right. You probably should’ve seen that one coming.

“I’m Satoru, by the way.” You could practically hear the smirk in his voice.

You gave him your name in return, nervously clicking your pen against the break room table.

He repeated it slowly, like he was trying how it sounded on his tongue, and that somehow sent a strange flutter through your stomach. Why did hearing him say your name suddenly make you so nervous? It was just a name. Your name. You’d heard it a million times before.

But from him, it felt different. More intimate somehow. Ridiculous, you told yourself. You were overthinking it. Probably. Still... the little flutter lingered.

“Listen,” you said, clearing your throat, trying to sound casual. “I’ve got my lunch break in about an hour. If you’re free, maybe we could meet. Nothing fancy—just coffee or something.”

“An hour? Yes. Absolutely.” A pause. “Where do you work? I can come to you.”

You hesitated, then figured it was harmless. It was a large and well known office building downtown, after all. Not exactly revealing your home address. “Takahashi Media Group. Midtown Tower, fourteenth floor.”

“Perfect. I’ll see you in an hour.”

The call ended, and you stared at your phone for a beat before heading back to your desk. You tried to focus on your emails, your task list, anything—but your eyes kept drifting to the clock.

It was just coffee, you reminded yourself. Just a casual meeting with the stranger from the train who’d launched a city-wide poster campaign to find you.

 Totally normal.

Fifty-five minutes later, you were gathering your bag when a commotion near the reception area caught your attention. Moments later, your coworker Aki appeared beside your desk.

“Hey, there’s someone asking for you at the reception. And he’s... well, you should just come see.”

“Someone’s here for me?” you asked, frowning. “But I was supposed to meet—” You stopped. “Oh no.”

You hurried toward the reception area, Aki trailing close behind. As you rounded the corner, you saw a group of coworkers gathered near the glass doors, all pretending very badly not to be gawking at something—or better said, someone.

And there, standing right in the center of the chaos, was the handsome stranger form Line 4.

He was even more handsome than you remembered. Tall, effortlessly confident, and dressed in a perfectly tailored dark suit, with a blue tie that was the exact same shade as his eyes.

When he spotted you, his entire face lit up with a smile so dazzling it looked like it belonged in a toothpaste commercial. You saw your coworker Mei place a hand over her heart, and you could’ve sworn someone behind her whispered, “Oh my god.”

“Artist!” he called, completely unaware of (or more likely, entirely unbothered by) the scene he was causing. “Wow, you’re even prettier when you’re mortified.”

And then you saw the flowers. 

Correction: you saw the flowers.

He was holding the most ridiculous bouquet you’d ever laid eyes on. A vibrant, overflowing explosion of violet, pink, and red, easily three dozen stems if not more. It was a lot. Even for him.

Every head in the lobby turned toward you.

Great. Just fucking great.

You walked over, ignoring the heat rising in your face and the whispers following behind you, wanting nothing more than to quickly escape the awkward scene. Reaching him, you grabbed his elbow and leaned in, voice low.

“You really don’t know how to be subtle, do you?”

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

Satoru had suggested a café not far from your office, and you followed him down the busy street, relieved to be away from the scene he had caused with nothing more than… his face.

People glanced at him as you walked, some doing double takes. He seemed completely unbothered by it. Perhaps he’s used to it. Being pretty comes with stares naturally, you assumed.

Maybe he was a model. Or a singer. Or both. And you were the only person in Tokyo who didn’t recognize him and later it will be so awkward when paparazzi take photos of you holding hands on your way out and splash them across trashy magazines with some ridiculous headline and—

Wait.

Holding hands?

Why were you even thinking about holding hands?

He could still be a stalker. A total weirdo. A—

You nearly tripped over someone weaving through the crowd, lost in your thoughts. Before you could catch yourself, Satoru’s hand landed gently on your elbow, steadying you as he pulled you closer to his side. Your arm brushed against his, and that brief contact sent a shiver down your spine.

Stupid, handsome and cute weirdo, for sure.

A few minutes later, you were seated in a quiet café, staring hard at a menu you’d already ordered from because pretending to study the drink list was easier than making direct eye contact with the man who was definitely watching you.

You could feel it. His gaze. Not bashful. Not subtle. Not even blinking, apparently. 

Finally, you set the menu down. “You’re staring.”

“I am,” he said, without a hint of shame. “It’s not every day I get to meet the artist who’s been haunting my dreams for weeks.”

“Haunting your dreams, huh?” You glanced up and met those absurdly blue eyes. “You know, you do sound very creepy sometimes.”

“Do I?” He tilted his head slightly. “I’ll admit, I don’t do this often.”

“What, stalk people? Or launch city-wide poster campaigns?”

He laughed. “Both, I guess. That might’ve been a bit much. My colleagues say I have a tendency to go overboard once I’ve set my mind to something.”

“Oh really?”

His smile widened. “Okay, fair. I deserved that. But in my defense—it worked. You’re here.”

“Out of curiosity more than anything,” you said, though you weren’t entirely sure that was true. “So now that you’ve found me, what exactly was the plan? Beyond coffee, I mean?”

He paused, considering. “I must admit, I didn’t think that far ahead. I just wanted to meet you. To thank you for seeing something in me worth capturing.” There was an unexpected softness to his voice. “And maybe to find out if the person behind the pencil is as interesting as her art suggests.”

“And? Verdict so far?”

“Even more interesting,” he said without hesitation. “But I still have questions.”

“Such as?”

“Such as how long you’ve been sketching strangers on trains. Why you give the drawings away instead of keeping them. Whether you draw for a living.” He leaned in slightly. “And if you’d ever let me see your sketchbook.”

Before you could answer, the barista approached with a tray.

“Here’s your cappuccino, miss. And Mr. Gojo, your usual.” She set down a borderline theatrical coffee drink in front of him, along with a small plate of pastries you definitely hadn’t heard him order.

“Chef sent these over for you both,” she added with a smile. “It’s that new recipe you suggested last week.”

“Thank him for me, Hana,” Satoru said, offering her a warm smile that made her visibly melt. “They look perfect.”

“Of course, Mr. Gojo. Anything else you need, just let me know.” She gave a polite bow before heading back.

You watched the entire exchange with growing suspicion. As soon as she was out of earshot, you leaned in.

“Okay. What was that about?”

“What do you mean?”

“The chef takes your suggestions for pastries? And the barista knows your ‘usual’, which looks—by the way—like something from the kid’s menu.”

Satoru looked mildly amused as he slid the plate towards you. “Try one. They’re amazing.”

You took one, but fixed him with a pointed look still. “Still not answering my question.”

“I come here a lot.”

“I’ve been going to the same coffee shop near my apartment for three years,” you said, “and they still spell my name wrong on the cup.”

He laughed—a real one. It drew a few subtle glances from nearby tables.

“Fair point.”

The pastry was every bit as good as he promised—light, buttery, with just the right amount of sweetness. But you weren’t letting him off the hook.

“So?” you asked, licking a crumb off your thumb. “Why does everyone here treat you like you’re... I don’t know. Someone important?”

“I suppose because I am someone important”

“What does that mean?”

“I figured I’d bring this up eventually.” Satoru took a sip of his kid’s menu drink, then set the cup down. “I own Gojo Holdings.”

You stared at him. Blankly.

“Our headquarters occupies the top ten floors of this building,” he added, casually gesturing upward.

Suddenly, the name clicked into place. Gojo Holdings—a name you’d seen before. On office towers, in business headlines, maybe even on the news channel. One of those massive investment and trading firms. It was the kind of company that quietly owned half the city without anyone really noticing.

“You’re joking.”

“I’m not.” His tone was surprisingly straightforward. “I’m the CEO. Have been for about five years, since my father stepped down.”

“So this building—?”

“I don’t own the whole tower. Just the top portion. Company offices. This café’s independent, though we partner with them for corporate events.”

“Which is why they know your usual.”

He gave a small shrug. “Perks of a eating here often.”

“So when you were on that train…”

“I was just commuting. Like anyone else.” He sipped his coffee, completely at ease. “Traffic sucks. Trains are faster.”

“A practical billionaire. How novel.”

“CEO. Not a billionare,” he corrected. “Well—technically—”

“Not helping your case,” you cut in, and to his credit, he actually looked sheepish.

“So that’s how you managed to plaster half the city with posters.” You leaned back, studying him again. “Most people would’ve just... posted something online.”

“I don’t do things halfway,” he said, not even pretending to apologize. “Besides, I don’t have social media. Too messy in my position.”

You took a long sip of your cappuccino, buying yourself a moment. Then you asked the question that had been quietly building in the back of your mind.

“So what exactly does the CEO of a major trading company want with a graphic designer who sketches strangers on the subway?”

“The same thing I wanted before you knew any of this. Get to know you.”

You tilted your head, unsure whether to believe him. He must’ve sensed your hesitation. 

“Okay, listen,” he said, leaning forward. “I’ve been renovating the executive floor of our headquarters and there’s this white wall in my office. It’s been empty for months because nothing felt right for it—”

“You want to commission me?” You blinked, more confused than ever. “For your office?”

“Yeah. Actually, for the whole floor. A series of pieces,” he said. “Not landmarks or cityscapes—everyone does that. I want your version. The people. The soul of each place. Like the sketch you gave me.”

“So all this—the posters, the dinner invitation, the whole subway artist manhunt—was for a commission?”

Something flickered in his expression. Not quite hurt, but close.

“No,” he said after a second. “Yeah. I mean—” He sighed. “Does it sound that stupid?”

“I don’t know. It’s... unexpected. That’s all.”

“Is that a yes?”

You took another sip of your cappuccino, more for the excuse to think than anything else. “It’s an ‘I’m thinking about it.’”

“Perfect,” he said, pulling out a business card of his and sliding it across the table. “No pressure. No expectations. If you're interested, call me.”

You turned the card in your fingers, still watching him. “How do you even know I draw anything—beside subway sketches, that is? I never told you.”

He raised an eyebrow, like he couldn’t quite believe you said it yourself. “You don’t?”

Stupid, handsome man. “I  hate you.”

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

Back at your desk, you twirled Satoru’s business card between your fingers, trying to make sense of it all. Was he being genuine? Or was he making fun of you? 

You glanced at the flowers he’d gifted you—still sitting in the large glass vase Mei had found in the office kitchen. They were slightly too vibrant, slightly too much, still too beautiful to ignore. No one brought those kinds of flowers as a joke. Right? And yet, the absurdity of it all made you question even that. 

You slipped the card into your desk drawer and turned your attention to the ad campaign mockups waiting on your screen. But your focus faltered. Your mind kept drifting back to blue eyes, white hair, and the warmth in his voice when he said your name.

Aki appeared at your desk not long after, not even trying to hide her curiosity. You offered her the bare minimum. Just someone whose portrait you’d sketched on the train. Nothing serious. When she pressed further, you sighed and handed over his business card.

Her reaction was immediate. “Gojo Holdings? That Gojo?”

You nodded, reluctantly.

“And he wants to commission you? For art? In his office?”

“He mentioned it,” you said, already regretting sharing anything.

She didn’t miss the nuance. “Oh. He mentioned it. But also stared at you like you hung the moon?”

Your cheeks warmed. She grinned.

That evening, you moved the card from your desk drawer to your wallet, telling yourself it’s just in case you decide to take the commission. Nothing more. 

The rational part of your brain knew this entire situation had ‘bad idea’ written all over it—in flashing neon, no less. But the less rational part of your brain kept remembering how he looked at your sketch as if it were something precious. Not just charcoal on paper.

Days passed. Then weeks.

You kept up your morning ritual—train sketches, quiet observation, the meditative act of putting pencil to paper. But now, each time you boarded, your eyes scanned the car, quietly wishing to see him again. He never appeared.

The business card moved again—from your wallet to your bedside table, then tucked into your sketchbook, then back to your wallet. You drafted emails. Professional, polite. None of them made it past your drafts folder.

And then, life—as it so often does—made the decision for you.

It started with your car being a bit bumpy, then a strange rattle under the hood. And finally, smoke. The repair bill was roughly equivalent to two months’ rent.

That night, you sat at your kitchen table, staring at your bank account and mentally rearranging numbers that didn’t cover the bill no matter what you tried. Between rent, old student loans, and the usual cost of just existing, you didn’t have a cushion big enough to absorb the hit and your parents were still helping your younger sibling through college. Credit cards would only delay the problem.

Your gaze drifted to the business card sitting on the counter where you’d left it earlier. A commission from Gojo Holdings would cover surely more than the car repairs. And then some.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

“This entire hallway is yours to reimagine,” Satoru said, gesturing with a casual sweep of his arm. You trailed a few steps behind, sketchbook in hand, scribbling notes as he pointed at one blank wall after another. “Boardroom entrances, reception, executive offices—the whole floor could use your touch.”

The headquarters of Gojo Holdings was exactly what you’d imagined. Sleek, modern, almost intimidating. Walls of glass divided up the offices, giving the illusion of privacy without actually offering much of it. Matte blacks, brushed steel, deep grays, and just enough warm wood or marble veining to say ‘tasteful’ without inviting any real comfort. But maybe that was the point.

Offices like this weren’t meant to feel cozy. In these rooms, decisions were made that shifted markets. Billions moved with a gesture. A signature. A nod. And somewhere at the center of it all was Satoru Gojo, walking through it like he was on his way to pick up coffee at the mall.

“How many pieces are we talking about?” you asked, already measuring the length of yet another white wall in your mind.

“However many feels right.” He glanced over his shoulder just in time to catch your raised brow. “What? I mean it.”

“You know, most clients have a vision board. Timelines. Color codes. Budgets. A whole approval chain.”

“I’m not most clients.”

“Clearly.”

He continued the tour, leading you through a maze of meeting rooms and long corridors, while you took notes in your sketchbook—dimensions, how the light shifted through the glass and how certain walls caught the sun. 

You paused often to sketch rough layouts or mark potential placements, all while trying to ignore the way Satoru was watching you more than the rooms.

“And this,” Satoru said, stopping in front of a pair of sleek double doors, “is my office.”

His office was huge—at least four times the size of your apartment—with windows stretching from floor to ceiling, offering a stunning view of the Tokyo skyline. Gentle afternoon sunlight streamed in, causing everything to shimmer softly, as if in a dream.

“It’s…” you hesitated, searching for a word that wouldn’t stroke his ego, “…adequate.”

Satoru burst out laughing. “Adequate? That might be the first time anyone’s used that word to describe my office.”

“I’m sure people usually fall over themselves with compliments.” You moved towards the windows. “I thought I’d try something different.”

“And that,” he said, following with hands tucked casually in his pockets, “is exactly why I hired you.”

“Because I don’t stroke your ego?”

“Because you’re straight forward. I like that.”

Something in his tone made you glance up at him, but his expression was unreadable as he gazed out at the city below.

“That wall there,” he continued, pointing to the large empty space behind his desk, “is where I originally thought your work would go. But then I thought, why not the whole floor?”

You walked his office slowly, taking in the space, the light, the simplicity. “It’s quite the blank canvas.”

“I’ve been told my style is too minimalist.”

“By who? The interior design magazine that did a feature on your last penthouse?”

His eyes widened a little before crinkling at the corners. “You Googled me.”

“Basic research before meeting a new client,” you said, but your cheeks, of course, betrayed you.

“Mmhmm.” He didn’t look convinced. “Come here. I want to show you something.”

You approached the window where he stood.

“See that building there?” He pointed toward the horizon. “The one with the copper coloured roof?”

You squinted, seeing hundreds of buildings but not sure which one he meant. “Not really…”

“May I?”

Before you could fully register the question, he was behind you, one hand grazing your shoulder, the other gently tilting your chin to guide your gaze. His warmth at your back made your breath hitch.

“There,” he said, his voice brushing your ear. “Between those two towers. That’s where I first saw your work. A small gallery in Ginza. Community showcase. Your cityscape series.”

Your pulse stumbled. “You knew? All this time?”

“Kind of, yeah,” he admitted, still close enough that you could feel the quiet rumble of his words. “I’d actually thought about commissioning you back then—at the gallery. But things got busy, and I let it go. When I saw your sketch on the train, I recognized it immediately and it felt like… I don’t know. A sign. Like the universe was giving me a second chance.”

“How poetic.” You turned slightly, realizing his face was only inches from yours. “Why didn’t you just ask the gallery for my contact info? Would’ve saved you a lot of time. And posters.”

His lips curved into that maddening smile. “Where’s the fun in that?”

“You’re so weird.”

“Says the woman who stalks stranger on the train and draws them.”

“You’re the stalker here.”

“So, what do you think?” He stepped back and leaned casually against his desk. “Can you handle transforming the most boring executive floor in Tokyo?”

“Let’s talk numbers first.”

“I was thinking something in the range of two million yen for the full project,” he replied, watching you carefully.

You nearly choked. That was more than generous—enough to fix your car, pay off a good chunk of your student loans, maybe even take a breath for once. But something in his easy confidence made you want to test his limits.

“Four million,” you said, eyes steady. Bold.

His brows lifted. “That’s quite a jump.”

“I’m quite an artist.”

“That’s already well above—”

You tilted your head, pretending to reconsider. “Hmm. So, if you don’t want me…”

You let the words hang as you casually closed your sketchbook and took a slow step backward, turning like you were ready to walk out. “I get it. It’s a big commitment. I’m sure someone else can paint your sterile corporate walls.”

Satoru blinked. “Wait—”

You took another step.

“Three million,” he said. “Final offer.”

“Deal,” you replied, quick before he could change his mind. “But I have conditions. I want full creative freedom.”

“Naturally.” He pushed off the desk and extended his hand. “Three million yen, complete creative freedom, and dinner.”

Your hand froze halfway to his. “Dinner?”

“Just a simple business dinner,” he said innocently. “To go over project details.”

“We can go over those in an email.”

“Some things are better discussed in person. Over good food. And maybe a glass of wine.”

You crossed your arms. “That sounds suspiciously like a date.”

“Only if you want it to be,” he said, mirroring your stance.

“I don’t.”

“Then it’s not.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Fine. One business dinner.”

“At Narisawa,” he added casually. “Private dining room, excellent view.”

“Narisawa? That’s a two month waiting list.”

“Not for everyone.”

“You’re really trying to blur the lines between business and private, aren’t you?”

“I’m merely suggesting a restaurant worthy of an three million yen commission.”

“McDonald’s exists.”

“I’m not taking you to McDonald’s.”

“I thought I had creative control in this partnership.”

“Over the art,” he said. “Dining arrangements fall under my jurisdiction.”

You gave him a look. “I’m starting to think this dinner is more important to you than the actual commission.”

“What would give you that impression?”

“Maybe because you’re pushing harder for this dinner than you did for the art.”

“I didn’t need to push for the art. You were already sold.”

“Presumptuous.”

“Am I wrong?”

You sighed, knowing you were fighting a losing battle. “One dinner. No private room—that’s weird. Main restaurant only. And I’m paying for myself.”

“Main restaurant’s fine,” he conceded, far too agreeable. “But I’m paying. Consider it a signing bonus.”

“That’s not how signing bonuses work.”

“It is at my company.”

“Fine. But this changes nothing. It’s strictly professional.”

“Of course,” he said. “Just two colleagues having a quiet eight course meal at one of Tokyo’s finest restaurants. Completely professional.”

“You’re impossible.”

“And yet, here you are, agreeing to both the commission and dinner.”

You extended your hand to finally seal the deal. “Three million yen, full creative control, and one—singular, not two, only one—business dinner.”

He took your hand, his thumb brushing over your knuckles, and you hated how weak that made your knees feel.

“If you say so,” he said.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

Over the next two weeks, Gojo Holdings basically became your second home. You spent hours wandering the halls, filling your sketchbook with rough layouts and scribbled notes, snapping photos of how the light shifted from morning to dusk. 

The project had you more energized than anything you’d worked on in years. Full creative freedom and a proper budget? That almost never happened. You didn’t want to waste it.

What you hadn’t expected was how often you’d see Satoru, though. Despite being constantly pulled into meetings and conference calls, you know, running a whole financial empire and all that, he somehow always knew when you were in the building.

Sometimes you’d catch glimpses of him through the glass walls of the conference rooms, commanding attention with a casual confidence that was almost mesmerizing to watch. He’d be deep in conversation with some serious looking executives, completely in his element, and then, as if he could sense your gaze, his eyes would find yours. A subtle wink or the ghost of a smile just for you, and suddenly your stomach would do that stupid fluttering thing again.

Other times, he’d just… appear. Out of nowhere. Usually while you were measuring a wall or standing on your tiptoes trying to track the afternoon shadows.

“Need a hand?” he’d ask, already handing you a coffee like he knew you forgot to eat again and make some terrible joke about “hanging” your work. (“Get it? Because they’ll be hanging on the wall?” “Yes, Satoru, I get it. It’s still not funny.” “You smiled though.”)

He’d carve out little bits of time—ten minutes here, twenty there—despite his full schedule. Sometimes he’d walk with you through the space, telling stories about silly board meetings. Seriously, who would’ve thought that a company handling millions in the stock market could be run like a sitcom half the time? 

Other times, he’d just sit nearby while you sketched, sipping his coffee in silence and letting you work. Strangely enough, his presence was never distracting. If anything, it felt… comfortable. Good, even.

And occasionally, he’d say something that surprised you. A thought about layout. A comment about color balance. Something you didn’t expect from a guy who usually talked in numbers and strategies.

“Shouldn’t you be doing CEO things instead of analyzing my color palette?” you’d ask.

“I could, but I’ve already yelled at three departments today. I’m ahead of schedule,” he’d reply with a grin.

And the strangest part wasn’t how much he was around. It was how quickly you got used to it. And how weirdly empty the rooms felt when he wasn’t there.

Your concept came together almost on its own. A series about Tokyo told through its people. Not neon signs or city skylines, more salarymen passed out on the train, old women gossiping in corner markets, teenagers packed into ramen shops after school. Quiet, ordinary moments that felt honest. Human.

Your apartment turned chaotic. Canvases leaned against furniture, reference photos were spread across every flat surface, and your sketches were taped to the windows just to see how they looked in different light. You worked late most nights, completely losing track of time until your stomach reminded you that you hadn’t eaten anything except an energy drink and half a protein bar.

You’d send status updates to Satoru sometimes. Professionally, mostly.

The concept boards are coming along well. I’ll have something concrete to show you by next week. — You

His replies, however, did not share your sense of professional distance:

I’m sure they’re amazing, but I’d rather see the artist than the art. When are you letting me buy you dinner? — SG

You rolled your eyes at his persistence, but you couldn’t help the small smile tugging at your lips.

The art comes before the artist. Patience, Mr. Gojo. — You

Mr. Gojo was my father. I’m Satoru to you, remember? And patience has never been my strong suit. — SG

The exchanges continued like this—you sending actual work updates, him responding with barely veiled attempts to see you again. It was absurd. Unprofessional. And yet… you looked forward to his replies more than you cared to admit.

Three weeks in, his patience seemed to officially ran out:

Dinner. This Friday. 8 PM. I’ve already made reservations at Narisawa. Unless you’re planning to work through the weekend again? — SG

You stared at the message for a long moment before typing back:

I’m in the middle of the sixth canvas. Friday won’t work. — You

His response came almost immediately:

Art can wait. Food can’t. The reservation is at 8. — SG

You scoffed.

I don’t recall agreeing to this Friday. Reschedule? — You

Ten minutes passed with no response. You had just returned to your canvas when your phone rang. His name lit up the screen.

“Hello?”

“I don’t accept a no.”

“That sounds problematic.”

He laughed. “Only when it comes to dinner invitations. Specifically ones I’ve been waiting weeks for.”

“I’m covered in paint and haven’t slept properly in days.”

“You could show up in pajamas and still be the most interesting person in the room.”

“Flattery won’t work.”

“You’re an awful liar, you know that? Your voice just did that thing it does when you’re trying not to smile.”

Your traitor lips curved anyway. “You can’t possibly know that over the phone.”

“But I’m right, aren’t I?”

You sighed and set your brush down. “Why are you so persistent about this dinner?”

“Because I want to see you,” he said simply. “Because you’ve been painting pieces for my walls and I haven’t even seen your progress. Because maybe I miss the way you look at me like you’re immune to my charm.”

“I could send photos of the work.”

“Or,” he said, “you could wear something you like, let me feed you something expensive, and tell me about your process in person.”

“You won’t let me out of this, will you?”

“No.”

You sighed. “Fine. But I’m paying for myself.”

“We’ll discuss that over appetizers.”

“There’s nothing to discuss.”

“Friday at 8,” he said, ignoring your protest. “I’ll pick you up.”

“I can take the train.”

“Humor me.”

You could practically hear the smile in his voice.

“Has anyone ever told you you’re impossible?”

“You. Repeatedly. It’s part of our thing.”

“We don’t have a thing.”

“Yet,” he added. And before you could argue, “I’ll see you Friday. Wear something that makes you happy.”

After the call ended, you stared at your phone for a few moments longer, until the screen turned black.

Somehow, despite your best efforts and at least three attempts to ghost him, you had a dinner on Friday night. Not a date, you told yourself. A business dinner. With a man who was way too attractive, way too confident, and had launched an entire campaign just to commission you. Totally normal.

You turned back to your canvas and tried to focus, but the flutter in your stomach wouldn’t go away.

It was just dinner. In a restaurant. With candlelight and probably a lot of eye contact. Nothing more.

Still, as you painted into the night, you caught yourself wondering what you might wear that would make you feel good. And maybe—just maybe—make him look at you the way he had in his office, when he stood so close you could feel the warmth of his breath on your skin.

Strictly professional, you reminded yourself.

Even you didn’t believe it anymore.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

Friday evening arrived with the kind of weird, way too warm weather that made you rethink your outfit three times before settling on something that felt like you—comfortable but still nice enough for... whatever game Satoru might be playing.

You were fixing your lipstick when your phone buzzed.

Downstairs. Take your time. — SG

You walked over to the window for a quick glance outside—and there he was.

Satoru was leaning against the passenger side of a sleek black car, arms crossed, dressed in a dark suit that looked almost identical to the one he’d worn the day you first saw him on Line 4. As if he could feel your gaze, he looked up. And saw you. 

No wave, no wink—just a slow, knowing smile spread across his lips.

You blinked and stepped back from the window, heart fluttering in a strange way it hadn’t in a long time. Who even was this man? And how had he managed to get under your skin so completely, so quickly? You were dressing up, wearing lipstick, checking the window like some high school crush was picking you up for prom.

It was ridiculous. Stupid, even.

You grabbed your bag, took a breath, and headed downstairs before your brain had time to start asking too many questions.

He was still just a client. A persistent, maddeningly handsome client.

When you stepped out, he was still leaning against the passenger side door and just for a moment, he froze. No smirk. No teasing remark. Nothing prepared. His usual cool confidence seemed to falter as his eyes swept over you slowly and deliberately, like he wasn’t quite sure he was seeing you right.

“Wow,” he said quietly, straightening up a little and running a hand through his hair before letting out a breath. “You look…” He actually stopped to find the word—that alone felt suspicious. “…really beautiful.”

“Stop that.”

“Stop what? Being honest? Sorry, not tonight.”

Before you could say anything else, he was already opening the car door for you, one hand briefly touching the small of your back as you slid inside. Not in a sleazy way. More like it came naturally to him. Which made you almost forget to be annoyed by his presumption.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

Narisawa was exactly what you expected and somehow even more—the kind of place where the lighting was soft without being dim, where the air smelled faintly of thyme and something far more expensive, and where every detail felt carefully chosen to whisper, ‘you absolutely cannot afford this’.

Satoru had, of course, managed to get a table by the window, offering a view of the skyline that felt almost unreal. It was the kind of view that made the whole night feel like it belonged in a movie and made you almost forget this was technically a business dinner.

Conversation came easier than you’d expected. Over the first few courses—each one more art piece than meal, which made you feel slightly guilty about ruining it by eating it (I mean, who does that? Making such pretty food just for it to end up in a stomach?)—you talked about everything from your work as a designer and your favourite bands, to his tragic inability to make anything more complicated than instant noodles, and how he once almost made it into the national basketball team.

But what surprised you most was the way he asked about your art. He had a way of asking about that didn’t feel performative or polite. He was actually listening, not just waiting for his turn to talk.

“So, the third piece,” he said, slicing into what was probably the most perfectly cooked fish you’d ever tasted. “The one with the commuters—how do you get that sense of movement in a still frame?”

You paused. “You’ve been paying attention.”

“I told you—I’m interested in your process.”

“Most clients only ask when it’ll be done and how much it’ll cost.”

He smiled, lifting his wine glass. “I’m not most clients,” he said, echoing what he’d told you that first day at his headquarters.

For the next twenty minutes, you talked shop. Layering techniques, color and motion, how to evoke emotion without showing too much. He asked questions that actually made you think—sharp, specific ones that showed he wasn’t just nodding along to be polite. He was genuinely interested.

At some point, somewhere between your third course and your second glass of wine, you caught yourself relaxing. Laughing. Enjoying it. And then you paused and set your glass down.

“Can I ask you something?” you said, unsure why the question suddenly felt heavier than it should.

“Anything.”

“You really went through all this—the car, this restaurant, the whole dramatic dinner—just to talk about brushwork and layering techniques?”

He leaned back in his chair, fingers resting lightly against his glass as he searched for the right words. “I don’t know,” he said finally. “Maybe I just like you.”

“You like me?” you echoed, unsure if it was a question or a warning.

“Is that so hard to believe?”

“Kind of, yeah.” You fidgeted with your napkin. “I mean, you could be having dinner with a dozen other people tonight. Models. Actresses. CEOs’ daughters. People who don’t get paint on their shoes and give you a hard time.”

“Maybe that’s exactly why.”

Something shifted between you at his words. Like someone had turned the volume down on the room so you could hear each other better. You took a slow sip of wine, partly to buy time, partly to keep your expression neutral as you studied him across the table.

“So, you’re single then?” you asked. “Unless your girlfriend’s very cool with you taking strangers to fancy dinners.”

Satoru raised an eyebrow. “Are you asking if I have a girlfriend?”

“I’m asking if I should expect an angry phone call later.”

He laughed. “No angry phone calls. And yeah—I’m single.”

“Shocking,” you said. “A successful and attractive CEO who can’t keep a girlfriend? What’s the catch?”

“Maybe I’m just picky.”

“Or maybe you’re married to your work,” you teased. “Let me guess—canceled dates for board meetings, forgotten anniversaries because of some deadline?”

“That’s…” He paused, glancing down on his glass for a moment. “Actually, my last girlfriend cheated on me.”

Your smile slipped. “Oh. I didn’t mean to—”

“Don’t be sorry. She wasn’t the right one. If she had been, maybe she would’ve understood that building something that lasts takes time. And attention.”

“How long ago was that?”

“About two years.” He reached for his wine, swirling it once before taking a sip. “Haven’t really dated since then.”

“So, casual things?”

“More like burying myself in work. Honestly, the closest thing I’ve had to female company lately is my secretary. And she has this strangely strict voice that sounds exactly like my mother when she’s disappointed.”

You laughed, sharp and sudden, covering your mouth with your hand. It wasn’t even that funny, not really. But the way he’d said it—so dry, and slightly frightened—and the face he made, like a kid who’d just been scolded for wearing the wrong socks to a school recital, caught you completely off guard.

For a moment, he didn’t look like the CEO of a massive company or the man who moved literal billions without blinking. He looked boyish. Almost shy. Like he was letting you peek at something most people didn’t get to see. And somehow, that made it even funnier.

You tried to compose yourself, but your shoulders were still shaking as you dabbed at the corners of your eyes. “I’m sorry.”

He smiled as he watched you try to hold in your laughter. “I like when you laugh like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you’re not thinking about how you look doing it.”

Something in the way he said it that made the humor settle into something softer, something that hangs in the air a little too long. Like neither of you wanted to be the one to move past it first.

“Well,” you said, trying to ignore the way your pulse had picked up, “your secretary sounds scary. I can see why you’d rather have dinner with me.”

“Among other reasons.”

Heat crept up your neck before you could stop it. You picked up your glass, needing the excuse to look away for a second. “Are you always this charming?” you asked, trying to sound casual, but your voice came out a little softer than intended.

“I’m trying,” he said. “With you.”

He said it like it wasn’t heavy at all. But it was. And you could feel it settle in your chest.

“Satoru…” you started, not even sure what was going to follow. But then the waiter showed up and set down the next course with a brief description you didn’t really hear because you only had eyes for him.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

Dinner had stretched well past ten, neither of you making any real effort to end the night. So when Satoru suggested a walk instead of heading straight to the car, you said yes.

The night had cooled off more than you expected, and you pulled your jacket a little tighter around your shoulders as the two of you wandered through the quiet streets near the restaurant. It had rained earlier, leaving the pavement slick and glistening under the streetlights. At one point, a small puddle stretched across the sidewalk, and before you could react, Satoru just scooped you up without a word and carried you over it like it was the most natural thing in the world. 

Maybe it was the warmth the wine had left in your chest, or maybe it was just the way his arms felt around you, steady and sure, but you let yourself lean a little closer against him before he set you down again on the other side. 

“That was unnecessary,” you said, trying to sound annoyed, though you didn’t make much effort to slip out of his arms.

“Maybe,” he replied with a grin, “but I’ve always wanted an excuse to do that.”

It felt good—being with him felt really good. The kind of good that made you forget to guard yourself. The kind that crept in quietly and made you wonder what it would be like to have more nights just like this.

You’d just rounded a corner into a small park when you heard soft violin music drifting through the air. You slowed, then stopped entirely. Just ahead, a street musician stood under the warm glow of a streetlamp, playing something slow and aching and beautiful.

You stood still and listened for a moment, a smal smile tugigng at your lips. 

“Dance with me,” Satoru said.

You turned to him. “What? No.”

“Why not?” He held out a hand.

You hesitated and looked around for a second. 

“You know, I won’t take ‘no’ for an answer.”

You surrendered and took his hand. “This is so stupid.”

He smiled, soft and sincere, and stepped in close. One hand found your waist, the other guiding yours up between you. His touch was warm, steady. Familiar in a way it shouldn’t be.

“You know,” you began, as he gently started to move. Not quite dancing, more like remembering how. “I usually don’t do this with clients.”

“Figures. I always suspected I was your favourite.”

“I wouldn’t say that,” you teased. “That other client of mine, a guy from an accounting firm is pretty smooth too.”

“Oh really? Did he buy you dinner at Narisawa and slow dance with you in the park?”

“Not yet.”

“I like when you try to mess with me.”

“I’m not trying. You just make it easy.”

He spun you gently, then pulled you back in, your hand pressed lightly to his chest. You could feel his heartbeat through the fabric of his dress shirt—too fast, like yours.

A few people passed, smiling without staring. It didn’t matter. You were too aware of his breath near your cheek, the weight of his palm at your back, the quiet between songs that didn’t feel like silence at all.

“You’re good at this,” you said softly.

“I only dance with people who make it easy.”

“That line would work better if your hands weren’t shaking a little.”

He leaned in closer, his breath gazing your ear. “So are yours.”

You swallowed, the closeness of him settling into your skin. You didn’t answer. Just let him hold you for a few more seconds, rain beginning to fall in light taps across your shoulders, your hair. And then he dipped you back gently, one hand firm behind you.

“Still think it’s stupid?” he asked.

Your breath caught as you stared up into those impossibly blue eyes, your back arching as he supported your weight effortlessly. The rest of the world faded away until there was nothing but him and the violin and the electric space between you.

“Yes,” you whispered. “Absolutely.”

“But?”

You hesitated, then let your fingers curl lightly around the front of his jacket. “But I don’t want it to stop.”

That’s when you felt the first raindrop hit your cheek.

His gaze flickered down to the raindrop on your skin, how it slowly run down, and for a second you could have sworn he looked at you lips. And maybe, just maybe you wished he’d kissed you but then the rain came heavier.

“That’s our cue.” But he didn’t move right away. His eyes stayed on you. 

Finally, he lifted you back up, drawing you close against his chest. You were both breathing hard, though you’d barely been moving. The rain was falling more steadily now, and you could see Satoru’s white hair beginning to darken with moisture.

“Home?” he asked, voice rougher now, like he wasn’t quite ready for the answer either.

You nodded, not trusting yourself to say anything without giving too much away. Because at some point, this had stopped feeling like dinner with a client. You weren’t sure when it changed—only that it had. And now everything felt a little too close, a little too important.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

When the car pulled up to your building, he was out and opening your door before you could reach for the handle yourself. Of course he was. Always one step ahead, always just… thoughtful in that maddening, disarming way.

“Thank you,” you said, stepping out into the quiet night.

“My pleasure.” 

The air smelled like wet pavement and something faintly floral from someone’s balcony. He walked you to your door, hands tucked into his pockets, eyes flicking toward the sky like he wasn’t quite ready to say goodnight either. 

You fumbled with your keys for a moment, buying time before the inevitable goodbye. The silence stretched, not tense, but full. Full of everything that had happened and everything that hadn’t.

When you finally turned to him, he was closer than you’d expected, close enough that you could see the way his white hair had dried in soft waves from the rain. He smelled faintly of wine and cedar and like someone you could spend the rest of your life with.

“I had a really good time tonight,” you said. “Thank you. For the dinner, the dancing, the completely unnecessary puddle rescue…”

He smiled, a little crooked, a little tired. “Even the terrible jokes?”

“Especially the terrible jokes. Though the stories of your secretary will probably haunt me tonight.”

“Oh, she haunts everyone,” he said. “She’s very scary.”

You both laughed, but the sound died down fast, like the moment had suddenly remembered it was trying to mean something else. His gaze dropped, if only for the briefest moment, to your lips. Your heart hammered against your ribs as you waited, hoping, expecting—

“I should let you get some sleep,” he said. But instead of stepping back, he stepped closer.

Your breath caught as his hand rose—slow, deliberate—coming to rest gently at the back of your head. But instead of the dreamy kiss you’d hoped for, he kissed your forehead. Not your mouth. Not even your cheek. Your forehead.

The kiss was soft, warm—overflowing with care. But not the kind you’d been waiting for. It was tender, almost reverent, and somehow, it left you feeling strangely hollow.

“Sleep well,” he murmured against your skin before pulling back. And then he turned—just like that—and walked back to the car. No glance over his shoulder. No hesitation. No second thought.

Inside your apartment, you leaned against the closed door, jacket still damp against your shoulders. You touched your forehead, where his lips had been. It had been sweet. Really, it had. Just… not what you’d expected. Not what you’d wanted.

You let your head fall back against the door with a soft thud. Why hadn’t he kissed you? Why would he do all that just to not... kiss you?

You’d been so sure. The way he’d looked at you over dinner. The way he’d held you during that ridiculous dance. The way it had all felt like a slow build to something. And you wanted that something.

But maybe that was the problem. Maybe you were just another commission to him after all, something to be handled with care but ultimately kept at arm’s length.

It shouldn’t have stung the way it did. But it did.

More than you cared to admit.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

Monday morning arrived under a gray drizzle that matched your mood a little too perfectly. You stepped into a puddle on the way out, got your umbrella stuck in a doorway because you’d forgotten it was open, and then someone on the subway sneezed directly in your direction. It was that kind of morning.

You’d spent the entire weekend replaying Friday night over in your head—every glance, every word, every fleeting gesture—until you’d nearly driven yourself mad with questions that had no answers.

And Aki was absolutely no help. She was already perched on your desk when you walked in, your usual coffee in one hand and dark circles under your eyes doing all the talking.

“Soooo… how was your fancy dinner?”

“It was fine,” you said, powering up your computer.

“Fine?” Mei materialized beside her like she’d been lying in wait for gossip. “That’s it? You go to Narisawa with the hottest CEO in Tokyo and all we get is fine?”

“It was a business dinner. We discussed the commission.”

“What kind of man gets you flowers that pretty just to talk about business?”

“A man who takes his commission very seriously.”

You could feel their stares burning into the side of your head.

“Come on,” Mei pressed. “Did he kiss you? He kissed you, didn’t he? I can tell by your face.”

“He didn’t kiss me.”

“Ah,” Aki said, with that stupid satisfaction of someone who’d just solved a puzzle. “So you wanted him to.”

You groaned and buried your face in your hands. “Can we please not?”

But of course, they were relentless, firing question after question at you about what you wore, what you ate, what he said, if there was a ‘vibe’—until you were actually grateful for that boring meeting before lunch with a client who always rejected your ideas, made you change them back and forth a dozen times, and inevitably circled back to the original design. As frustrating as that was, it still didn’t compare to what was coming later.

You had a meeting with Satoru after work to talk about delivery logistics—when to bring the artwork, how many pieces were ready. The commission was nearly complete, and a few canvases could be brought to his office already. But the thought of standing across from him again, making small talk about framing and placement, felt unbearable.

Not to mention figuring out how to get those giant canvases out of your apartment, which was now packed to the walls with drying paint, sketches, and so many drop cloths you’d basically lost your kitchen to the cause.

For weeks, this commission had felt like the best thing to happen to your career. But now, standing outside the gleaming tower that housed his office, you weren’t sure what to think anymore.

Was this just business to him? Had you imagined the connection, the tension, the way he looked at you like you were someone special? Maybe successful men like Satoru Gojo were just naturally charming, and you’d been naive enough to think it meant something more.

You straightened your shoulders and walked into the building. If he wanted professional, he could have professional. You had a job to do, no matter what kind of game your heart thought it was playing.

You raised your hand to knock on his office door—though really, there was no need. The walls were glass, and he’d already spotted you the second you moved. 

He was on the phone, his shoulder pinning it in place as he typed something on the laptop in front of him. With a slight nod of his head, he gestured for you to come in. And there it was again—that maddening smile. The one that made it look like his whole face lit up just from seeing you.

You stepped inside, lingering uncertainly near the door. He was still deep in conversation, something about a company merger and someone named Gerald being an absolut idiot, and how he might as well handle it himself. Always busy, it seemed. 

Satoru shifted the phone slightly and glanced at you. “Hey, you want coffee?”

You nodded and then he was back to his call. You wandered a little further into his office, taking in the space. It was always so tidy which felt strangely at odds with how chaotic his work seemed to be. You drifted toward the tall windows and looked down at the city below. In the gentle afternoon sun, people were rushing through the city—commuters heading home, students in uniform, ordinary lives unfolding far beneath you.

Satoru stood and walked over to you. He was close—Why would he come so close?—and placed a hand gently at your waist, a brief touch that lingered just long enough to make your breath catch. He pressed the phone to his chest for a moment. 

“Sorry for the wait,” he said, voice low. “I’m nearly done.” 

And then he was gone, stepping out of the office and leaving you reeling.

When he returned two minutes later, he had two mugs in one hand and a canned coffee tucked under his arm, balancing it all as he kicked open the door with his foot. Phone was still pressed between his shoulder and ear. He poured two cups and handed you a one, flashing you that easy smile of his.

You took a seat on the couch, sipping carefully and doing your best not to make eye contact. But you were sure he’d already noticed the flush creeping into your cheeks.

Finally, he hung up and let out a long sigh. 

“I’m so sorry. There’s this big merger we’re handling, and the guy in charge is like the biggest idiot I’ve ever met.”

“It’s okay.”

He ran a hand through his hair, sending it falling messily back over his forehead.

“No, it’s not. I don’t want to keep you waiting.”

“I bet that just comes naturally with being important.”

“I’m not that important,” he replied with a grin.

“The whole tower has your name on it. I’d say that qualifies.”

“What’s more important right now,” he said, standing and walking over to you, “is you.” He took the seat across from you. “So… how was your day? Treat you well?”

Why was he asking about your day now? What kind of game was he playing?

“It was fine. Monday’s not exactly my favorite.”

“Don’t get me started.” He laughed. “I hope at least your meeting went well?”

You blinked. He remembers? You’d mentioned it briefly during dinner.

“Oh, uh… yeah. It went okay,” you said. “But let’s talk about the commission. That’s why I’m here, right?”

He frowned, and there was a moment of silence. “Sure.”

You spent the next hour and a half going over the artwork—discussing placement, lighting, framing. He was enthusiastic and attentive, genuinely appreciative in a way that still surprised you, even now.

You moved through the headquarters together. Most people had gone home by then. The sun had already set, casting long shadows through the quiet halls. A few late workers lingered, but Satoru told them to go and rest and sent them home. And just like that, it was the two of you, walking side by side through the empty building, planning where each piece would live.

It was in one of the offices on the west side of the building—the ones with the perfect view of Tokyo Tower—that you found yourself on your tiptoes, trying to tape a placeholder on the wall for one of the larger pieces. You stretched, struggling to reach just high enough to get the angle right.

“Wait, let me.”

Before you could respond, Satoru was suddenly right behind you. He gently took the tape from your fingers, easily reaching over you to press it into place. His body hovered just a breath away, tall and warm.

“Thank you,” you said, suddenly flushed. But he didn’t move away. “You can step back now.” You didn’t dare turn around because if you did, you would end up facing his chest. And you really didn’t want to face his chest.

“Does this make you uncomfortable?”

“What kind of question is that?”

“I’m just checking in,” he said casually, like it was the most normal thing in the world to stand inches away from someone like this.

“You have a strange way of doing that.”

“I had a feeling.”

“About what?”

“You’re avoiding me.”

“I don’t.”

He reached out, fingers brushing your shoulder, and then slowly trailed the back of his hand down your arm. It sent a shiver down your spine that you hoped he didn’t notice.

“So this doesn’t bother you?” he asked, almost curious.

“Satoru, what’s your mission here?”

You finally turned to face him and regretted it immediately. You were much too close, nearly pressed against him. His white dress shirt did nothing to hide the muscle beneath, and you hated the fact that your first thought was how unfairly good he’d look without it.

“You’re blushing.” He reached out, gently cupping your chin and tilting your face up toward his.

“It’s hot.”

“It isn’t,” he said, and smiled.

He was right. It was around eighteen degrees. Damn these fancy offices and their perfectly functioning ACs.

“Can we go back to work? I’d rather not have a sleepover here.”

Satoru didn’t move. Instead, he leaned in closer, placing one hand against the wall beside your head, caging you in.

“You’re acting strange today,” he said softly.

“Maybe because you’re keeping me here.”

“Was I mistaken?”

“About what?”

“Our date.”

“What about it?”

His hand dropped from your chin. “I thought it was… good.”

You blinked, trying to read him. “It was—” you cleared your throat, “—it wasn’t just good. It was great.”

“Oh. Yeah… I think so too. Then why—”

“But you didn’t kiss me.”

His eyes widened just a little. “You… wanted me to kiss you?”

“I…” You hesitated, feeling your face getting even hotter then is already was. “Yes.”

“I thought I’d be a gentleman and take things slow. Are we actually kissing on first dates these days?”

“I mean… yeah. It depends—I guess, but…” You trailed off, absolutely flustered.

He paused for a beat, then that maddeningly smug grin spread across his lips.

“Don’t smile like that,” you said, pushing lightly against his chest.

“I’m sorry, I just… I didn’t want to rush things. I mean, my whole approach was already kind of—”

“Weird? Borderline stalker—” And then his lips were on yours, silencing your words. 

No hesitation this time. No uncertainty. You melted into him instantly, your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. 

His hands slid into your hair, fingers threading through the strands as he tilted your head back, deepening the kiss with a confidence that made your knees go weak. One hand traced the line of your jaw while the other found the small of your back, pulling you closer until not even air could fit between you.

You could taste the coffee on his lips, could feel the slight tremor in his hands that betrayed that he wasn’t as composed as he looked. When he pulled back, you were both breathless, foreheads pressed together under the dim lights.

“Still think this is just about the commission?” he asked, his thumb brushing gently across your bottom lip, now flushed and swollen from his kiss.

“Shut up.” And then you grabbed him by his tie and pulled him back to your lips.

This kiss was different. Hungrier. Needier. He pressed you back against the wall, one hand braced beside your head, the other tangled deep in your hair. You couldn’t stop the soft sound that escaped when he deepened it further, like you’d been waiting for this longer than you wanted to admit.

“What’s the hurry?” he whispered between kisses, his mouth trailing along your jaw.

“You made a whole-ass campaign to find me,” you said, breathless, your fingers twisted in his shirt. “Don’t back down now.”

His laugh was low and rough against your neck. “Fair point.”

Before you could answer, his hands slid down to your thighs, and suddenly you were being lifted, your back pressed firmly against the wall as he held you there effortlessly. Your legs wrapped around his waist, and the new position brought you eye-level with him, close enough to see just how dark his eyes had gone.

“Still too slow for you?” he asked against your throat, his breath warm on your skin.

“Getting there,” you managed, though your voice was shakier than you’d intended, your hands gripping his shoulders for balance.

“I do like a challenge.”

Without breaking the kiss, Satoru carried you across the floor into his office, your legs still wrapped around his waist, until he reached the leather couch by the windows. He lowered you both down, following you as you sank into the soft cushions, his weight settling over you as his hands framed your face.

“Much better,” he breathed against your lips.

His kisses deepened, slow and deliberate, like he had all the time in the world to explore the taste of you. One hand slid into your hair while the other traced the curve of your waist. 

“I hope you sent everyone home,” you said, fingers threading through his white hair as his mouth moved along your neck.

“Don’t worry. And besides—glass or not, the walls are soundproof. One of the perks of being CEO.”

“How convenient.”

“I thought so.” His teeth grazed the sensitive spot just beneath your jaw, making you gasp and arch beneath him. “Though I have to admit—I didn’t imagine using it like this when I had them installed.”

You tugged gently at his hair, bringing his mouth back to yours. “Then what did you imagine?”

“Boring conference calls,” he said between kisses. “Definitely not as interesting as this.”

The leather of the couch was cool against your back where your shirt had ridden up, highlighting the heat of his large hands as they explored the newly exposed skin. Outside, Tokyo shimmered in the night, but the only thing holding your attention was the man above you—the way he kissed you like he was memorizing every reaction, every breath, every soft sound you made.

“What makes you think I’m that loud?” you murmured against his mouth.

“Oh, I have a feeling.”

His hand drifted lower, fingers tracing the curve of your hip before skimming up the inside of your thigh. The touch sent a rush through your veins, making you gasp softly into his kiss.

“Satoru,” you whispered, fingers gripping the front of his shirt, pulling him closer as his touch grew bolder.

“I know.” His hand inched lower between your legs, while his lips kissed down your neck. “I hate waiting too.”

Then his hand slipped beneath the waistband of your jeans, chasing every bit of tension that had been building between you since that very first subway sketch. And as the lights of Tokyo glittered beyond the glass, the rest of the world fell away, leaving nothing but the heat between you—and the things neither of you could hold back any longer.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

Later, you lay tangled together on the leather couch, your head resting on his chest as his fingers traced lazy patterns along your bare shoulder. Everything had gone still, except for your breathing and the distant noise of Tokyo still awake outside.

“So,” Satoru said, his voice warm with amusement, “where exactly did we leave off with the commission?”

You lifted your head to look at him, a smile tugging at your lips. “Pretty sure we got distracted somewhere around placing the canvas in the west office block.”

“Ah, yes—the once perfect placement. Facing the window, not the door. ‘Omg, what was I thinking?’” he teased in a gentle mimic of your voice, his fingers tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “For what I’m paying you, I really have no say.”

“Don’t blame this on me. You gave me full creative freedom. Or maybe you need better negotiation tactics.”

“My negotiation tactics are pretty solid,” he protested, his chest rumbling with quiet laughter beneath your cheek. “I got exactly what I wanted.”

“The art commission?”

“Among other things.” His arms tightened around you, drawing you closer. “Though I still think the pieces should face the door, so I can see them from the hallway when I pass that office.”

“Is that your professional opinion, Mr. CEO?”

“That’s my completely biased, utterly smitten opinion,” he said, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “The CEO in me would probably have a lot to say about the productivity level of tonight.”

“Poor productivity indeed. We only managed to discuss half the rooms.”

“Terrible oversight.” His hand slid slowly down your back, caressing your hip. “We’ll have to schedule another meeting. Several, probably. Very intensive. Very hands-on.”

“Hands-on is definitely the way to go with this project,” you said, tilting your face up to meet his gaze, and the look he gave you was so tender it made your heart skip.

In one smooth motion, he flipped you beneath him again, his weight settling over you as his lips found yours. “I think we should continue our discussion right now,” he murmured, trailing kisses down your throat.

You were just beginning to melt into his touch when the sound of the office door opening made you both freeze.

“Oh fuck! I didn’t know you were still here,” a voice blurted.

You scrambled to grab Satoru’s shirt from the floor next to the couch and pulled it over yourself as you pressed back into the couch cushions. Thankfully, the back of the couch faced the door, giving you at least some cover, but your heart was hammering so hard you were sure whoever it was could hear it.

Satoru pushed himself up, running a hand through his messy hair, looking far too at ease for someone who’d just been caught in a very compromising position

“Suguru,” he said, voice calm and unbothered. “What’s up?”

“Don’t bother—I’m just looking for my laptop charger. I’ll leave.”

“It’s okay. We were just...” Satoru began, then seemed to realize there was no good way to finish that sentence. “...Having a meeting.”

You buried your face in your hands, mortified. Why the hell is he starting a conversation right now? This was not how you’d imagined your evening ending—almost naked on Satoru’s office couch, wearing only his shirt, while his colleague stood in the doorway looking for his goddamn laptop charger. 

The time you waited for the guy to get his charger were the most agonizing twenty second of your whole life and to your bad, Satoru wasn’t even the slightest bit ashamed.

Little did you know that Suguru would become one of your closest friends once you and Satoru were actually in a relationship. But every single birthday party or casual gathering, that story would come again. “Haha, did you know Suguru caught us on the couch?” Satoru would joke, while Suguru would groan, “Can we please never talk about that again?”

Six months later, the apartment Satoru found for the two of you was perfect in the way only he could manage—spacious enough for both of you to have your own creative corners and with big windows that caught the morning light beautifully and offered a stunning view of the city skyline. It was nestled just across from a quiet park where the trees already turned gold for autumn.

But it was the room he’d turned into your art studio that brought you to tears the first time you saw it. Windows that faced the north for consistent lighting, spacious storage for your materials, and enough wall space to work on several large canvases at once.

“You didn’t have to do all this,” you’d said, running your fingers along the custom easel he’d installed.

“I wanted to,” he’d replied simply, wrapping his arms around you from behind. “I want to see what you create when you have all the space and time in the world.”

You’d cut your hours at Takahashi Media Group down to part-time—something that would’ve been financially impossible before Satoru. But the commission for his headquarters had led to three more corporate projects, and suddenly, you had enough steady work to support yourself as an artist. Real work. Meaningful work. Not just subway sketches—though you still did those too. Now, Satoru sometimes joined you on weekend train rides, amused by the way strangers reacted to receiving unexpected portraits.

Your mornings became a rhythm of coffee in bed while he read financial reports and you sketched ideas for new pieces. After the third time he found you passed out over a canvas at 2 AM, having forgotten to eat dinner, he installed a espresso machine in your studio. Now, he’d show up with perfectly crafted lattes and whatever takeout he’d ordered, settling into the window seat with his laptop while you painted—taking calls with investors in Tokyo, New York, and London, all while keeping an eye on you and making sure you don’t overwork yourself again.

“You know I can hear you smiling through the phone,” you’d tease after he hung up from his calls.

“Can’t help it,” he’d say. “I’ve got the most beautiful view in the city right here.”

The subway sketches evolved too. Instead of giving them all away, you started keeping some—the ones that captured something more, moments that felt like little revelations about people, about life. Satoru convinced you to include them in a group exhibition at a gallery in Shibuya. The opening night was small and intimate, but watching people connect with your work in a way they never had when you were just handing out drawings on trains felt like validation of everything you’d been trying to do.

“This feels like coming full circle,” Satoru whispered into your ear as you both watched guests study your pieces, his hand resting warmly at the small of your back.

“From stalking me through my art to displaying it properly?”

“From falling in love with your work… to falling in love with you,” he corrected. And even after months of dating, after hearing him say those words more times than you could count, they still made your heart skip.

Suguru became an unexpected constant in your life too. What began hella awkward slowly turned into real friendship. And the three of you fell into an easy routine of weekend dinners and spontaneous museum visits, Suguru often playing the role of best friend and occasional voice of reason when Satoru’s grand romantic gestures got out of hand.

Which happened more often than you’d expected. Like the time he rented out an entire floor of a restaurant because you’d wanted to eat there but hated crowded rooms. Or when he bought a whole flower shop’s worth of peonies because you’d mentioned loving them once. Or the morning you woke up to find the city’s best sushi chef—apparently an old friend of his, because Satoru seemed to know everyone in this goddamn town—preparing breakfast in your kitchen, just because you’d been craving good fish.

“You know you don’t have to keep trying to impress me,” you told him after each increasingly excessive gesture. “I already said yes to moving in with you.”

“I’m not trying to impress you. I’m trying to spoil you. There’s a difference.”

The truth was, it was the small things that meant the most. The way he’d automatically order your coffee when you were running late, or how he’d text you photos of interesting architecture from whatever city he was traveling through, or the fact that he’d learned to distinguish between your different paintbrushes and how to clean them properly when you forgot. 

He even kept a sketchbook of his own now, filled with terrible but enthusiastic drawings of you working, cooking, sleeping, just existing in the space you’d built together.

Your family adored him, of course. Your mother immediately started calling him her ‘second son’ after a chaotic family dinner he’d attended—which, by the way, you always thought was kind of weird. Like, why would parents call him their ‘son’ when he was spending every other night between your thighs?—Still, he charmed everyone with stories about his work, genuine interest in your father’s completely ordinary job and about your cousins’ college applications—and even remembered your aunt’s dog’s name. He always brought the perfect wine to pair with whatever your mom was cooking, and never forgot a birthday.

The subway sketches and posters that had started everything found a permanent home in the hallway of your shared apartment. A dozen framed moments that told the story of your work and your relationship. The original sketch you’d given him on that crowded train of Line 4 hung proudly in his office at work, right next to his desk where everyone could see it.

“That’s where it all started,” he’d say whenever anyone asked. “Best investment I ever made.”

Three years later, when Satoru proposed during one of your morning train rides—getting down on one knee right there in the subway car where you first met, causing a scene that had fellow passengers cheering and taking pictures—you realized that sometimes the best love stories start with the smallest gestures. 

A sketch handed to a stranger. A poster campaign that was equal parts romantic and unhinged. A decision to be brave enough to call a number written on a business card.

And every morning, as you watched the city wake through the studio’s windows while Satoru hummed in the kitchen, probably checking market reports with one hand and making your coffee with the other, you couldn’t help but smile at how beautifully imperfect it all was. How your once carefully ordered life had been turned upside down by a man with white hair and the kind of heart that didn’t know how to love in small doses.

“Still think I’m weird?” he’d ask sometimes, appearing in your studio doorway with a mug of coffee and that same grin that had made your knees weak the very first time.

“The weirdest,” you’d always reply, taking the coffee—and the kiss that came with it. “But you’re my weird. And I love you.”

“I love you more,” he’d say, leaning down to kiss your forehead.

And that, you’d learned, made all the difference.

masterlist + support my writing

author's note — wait ! before you go ! if you enjoyed this story, i’d be forever grateful if you’d consider gifting me 10 minutes of your time to participate in a research survey for my master’s thesis in psychology <3 (am i shamelessly using my reach to gather primary data ? yes. yes i am. and i have no regrets.)

here's the link.

it’s completely anonymous, but just a heads-up: the survey touches on nightmares and emotional wellbeing, so it may be sensitive for some. please feel free to stop at any point if it doesn’t feel right for you.

other than that, thank you so much for reading !! i hope you enjoyed the story. i need provider!satoru gojo so bad like ugh but instead i’m stuck in higher education trying to become my own provider. send help :')))

wishing you all the soft chaos you deserve. take care <3

ps: if you want to get notifications for future updates, you can join my taglist here.

tags — @fayuki @starmapz @starlightanyaaa @sxnkuna @cocomanga

@nanamis-baker @rosso-seta @sugurbo @chiyokoemilia @janbannan

@bloopsstuff @snowsilver2000 @ihearttoru @momoewn @yokosandesu

@90s-belladonna @fairygardenprincesss @juneslove21 @glenkiller338 @gojossugarcandy

@wiserion @moucheslove @nanasukii28 @sugucultfollower @leuriss

@raendarkfaerie @yeiena @rainthensun @yvesdoee @amayaaaxx

@Cristy-101 @bnbaochauuu @markliving @strawberryswtchblaxe @whytfisgojosohot

@Bloodandnix @zanayaswrld @noble-17 @soapyaya @ethereal-moonlit

@beaniesayshi

Regulus started talking to you more in second year and from there, you only got closer. He was still quiet, but you talked enough for the both of you. You succeeded in getting him to smile and laugh more. Regulus made friends with his dormmates and some of your other friends, but you were his closest friend, the one he liked the most. 

“James says Sirius is coming over for Christmas,” you said during early December of your fourth year. “Are you coming with him?” 

“Is he?” Regulus asked, turning the page of his book. “This is the first I’m hearing of this.”

You nodded. “I forget you don’t talk as much as James and I do. You’re welcome to come if you want to. Mum bakes the best desserts.” 

“Mother and Father don’t really celebrate.”

“They don’t? Then you have to come over! Experience the best holiday!”

“Does my brother know you’re inviting me?” 

“Well, no. But you’re my friend and I live there. If James can invite his friends, why can’t I?” 

Regulus didn’t join you for Christmas. He wrote you an apologetic letter, saying that his mother became furious when he told her he was planning on going with Sirius. Sirius gave you a pitiful look when he arrived. He heard quite the argument between Regulus and Walburga. He recounted part of it to James in his room later. He didn’t think you would be able to overhear him from your room, even though you shared a wall with James. 

“She was screaming about him socializing with your family. Said Y/N wouldn’t make a suitable wife for him. I’ve never heard him yell back at her before… She tortured him, Prongs.” 

From what you could hear, James didn’t say anything.

“I mean, he said she didn’t know your family and added that him and Y/N are just friends. But still… She’s never been that harsh on him. I-I almost brought him with me anyways, but he insisted on staying. There was fear in his eyes… Should I have stayed?” 

You turned on your radio. You didn’t want to listen to their conversation anymore. It hurt your heart to hear about what went on at their house. Sirius didn’t tell James much and you only got bits and pieces of what Sirius said; Regulus told you even less. It’s not that he didn’t trust. It was simply that he didn’t like to talk about it. 

Despite your disappointment that Regulus didn’t come for Christmas, the rest of the break was good. While he was there, Sirius ensured that the house was filled with laughter and chaos. It made you miss Regulus. They weren’t that similar, but their eyes and smiles mimicked each other. 

You waited until Regulus boarded the train back to Hogwarts before hugging him. He stood there awkwardly for a few seconds before even more awkwardly patting your back.

“Good to see you too?” he said. 

“Yeah. Yeah,” you breathed. Then you dragged him into the nearest compartment. “We need to talk.”

Whatever color he had in his face drained. “About?”

“You yelled back at your mother?” 

“I… How did you know?” 

You tilted your head and crossed your arms. 

“My brother. Right.” He sighed. “Yes, I did. So what?”

“You defended me,” you said with a small smile.

“You’re… You’re important to me and I wanted to celebrate Christmas for once.” 

You pulled him into another tight hug. This time he hugged you back like a real person. 

“Right, let’s find your friends,” Regulus said. 

Something you never talked to Regulus about was how sometime during third year, a small crush on him started to bloom and it never stopped. You figured you did pretty well at hiding it. He never said anything or implied that he knew. Hearing Sirius say that his mother didn’t approve of you for Regulus and he defended you? You didn’t know what to make of that. 

You and Regulus were as inseparable as ever. You noticed subtle differences in yourself that you didn’t want to linger on. You caught yourself staring at him, letting the silence sit between a little longer than you usually would, and you swore your hands brushed more often. Those non-platonic feelings you had for him grew stronger and got harder to hide. 

You didn’t notice the subtle differences in him, being too distracted by yourself. Ever since the train, he let himself hug you back when you wrapped your arms around him. He sat closer to you on the couch in the common room, staying up later than in the past. He looked for you the moment he touched down after quidditch matches. He had always looked for you, but now he really wanted you close. 

Like usual, you spent a bunch of time together before finals, studying. You spent far too much time watching Regulus study than studying yourself. You still ended up doing fine on your finals. But you realized that it was getting harder to keep your feelings masked. It was hard to stop yourself from kissing him a few times. 

“You’re going to try to visit, right?” you asked on the train ride to London. 

He nodded and hummed.

“And write. I will murder you if you don’t.”

“When haven’t I written to you, love?” 

Love. You loved when he called you that. Even if he only meant it as a friend, it showed that he cared for you. Enough to yell back at his mother and to risk that argument again with his promise to attempt to visit you this summer. 

“If you come with Sirius, we can do a quidditch scrimmage! Even better if Remus and Peter are there. Bigger game.”

Regulus scoffed. “I can’t imagine Lupin and Pettigrew on brooms.”

“They are decent enough. They can get off the ground,” you laughed. 

Regulus wrote to you first, only a few days after getting home. It was filled with the usual Regulus ramble. “Miss you already” was his sign-off. You stared at the words with a smile on your face. You stared for a while. Long enough for James to come into your room.

“What are you reading?”

“A letter?”

“From your boyfriend?”

“We’re not dating,” you grumbled, turning pink. 

“Uh-huh,” he said, crossing his arms and leaning against your door. “You just spend all of your time together?” 

“Because we’re friends.”

“You spend more time with him than I do with Sirius.” 

“That’s rubbish and you know it.”

“Fine, more than Sirius has with all of his girlfriends combined.”

“Exactly. We spend too much time together to be dating,” you said, ignoring the way your chest felt tight. “We’re just friends.”

“Right.” He didn’t sound convinced. 

You groaned, standing up to push James out of your room and close your door. “Go away!”

You weren’t lying. He wasn’t your boyfriend. You and Regulus were friends, that’s all. No matter how much you wished differently, you wouldn’t risk your friendship with Regulus for the slim, slim chance that he might like you back. It was too big of a risk. 

Just over a week later and multiple letter exchanges, Sirius showed up on your doorstep. One bag slung over his shoulder, trunk behind him and a fresh-looking shiner. You were the one who answered the door as James was laying on the couch and couldn’t be bothered to get up.

“Sirius? Were we expecting?” you asked, leaning backwards to cast an unsure glance at James.

He had perked up the moment you said ‘Sirius.’

“No.” James was throwing himself off the couch. “Think I can crash here for a bit?”

“Padfoot?’ James all but gasped as he pushed you aside.

“I’m fine,” Sirius said.

He turned to grab his trunk, but James beat him to it. Your father came out of his study to see what the commotion was about.

“Sirius?” he asked.

“Sir!”

“Your eye? Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. Just need somewhere to stay.”

“You’re always welcome here,” he said, giving the curly haired boy a look that said he would be asking more questions later. “Effie! Is the guest room clear?”

Your parents set Sirius up in the guest room, but he spent more of the evening in James’ room. Listening through the wall again, you got the gist of what happened. His mother struck him again and he decided he had had enough. He packed what he could and left. Your house was the only place he could think to go.

James repeated what your father said, “You’re always welcome here.”

All you could think about was Regulus. Had Walburga struck him too? Was he okay? Would his parents’ treatment get worse without Sirius? Could you write to him about it and would he answer honestly? Your mind was spinning. 

You wrote to Regulus first thing in the morning. You made yourself a cup of tea and waited. And waited. And waited. You read a few chapters of your book, you went on a walk, you baked with your mother. And you waited some more. A few days passed and you still didn’t hear from Regulus. You got worried. 

You knocked on Sirius’ door and poked your head in.

“Y/N, hey,” he said, looking up from the desk where he appeared to be writing a letter. 

“Have you heard from Regulus?”

He put his quill down and pushed his chair back. “No, but I haven’t written him. Have you not heard from him? I’m assuming you’ve written to him, you know, since you’re-”

“We’re not dating,” you said curtly. “But no, I haven’t heard from him and I wrote after you arrived.” 

Sirius frowned. He stood up and walked over to you before pulling you into a hug. You let him, but you didn’t hug back. You just buried your face into his chest and before you could stop yourself, you started crying. You were worried about Regulus and not hearing from only made it worse.

“Hey, hey, I’m sure he’s okay. He’s strong. You know that,” Sirius murmured. “He’s okay. He’s okay.” 

You sniffled loudly. He gently stroked your hair and kept repeating that Regulus was okay. Maybe if he said it enough, you’d believe him. You only half believed him when you pulled away from him and nodded. 

“I’ll try writing him. We’ll get proof.” 

“Thanks,” you said with a shaky breath. 

A few more days passed. James and Sirius walked into your room with grim faces. 

“We need you to cover for us if Mum and Dad ask where we are,” James said. 

You furrowed your brow.

“Regulus.” 

Your heart started beating faster, pounding in your chest. 

“You’re going to see if he’s okay?” 

“We’re doing one better. We’re going to get him,” Sirius said. “It’s the only way to ensure he’s okay all summer.”

“O-okay.” You stood up. “Can I come with?” 

Both boys immediately said, “No.” 

“I’m his best friend!” 

“And we’re older. We’ll bring ‘im here, don’t you worry,” James said. “Just cover for us.”

“James!”

“Cover for us,” he said more firmly. “We’ll be back before you know it.”

And with that, they walked out of your room. You followed them down the stairs and watched them leave out the front door. 

“Who’s at the door?” your mother called from the kitchen, having heard the door open and close.

“No one! James ‘n’ Sirius are going for a walk.”

“They better be home for dinner!”

You chuckled at your mother’s priorities. You went into the kitchen to make yourself a cup of tea while you waited for them to return. You knew it would be a while, but knowing where they were going and what they were doing, there was nothing you could do except worry. 

Waiting. Waiting. Waiting. And waiting. 

Your mother walked into the front room, drying her hands on a towel.

“Where are those boys? A walk you said?”

“Uh-huh. Guess they went a ways?”

“A walk and not a broom ride?”

“They said walk.”

“Okay…”

Your mother walked back into the kitchen and you sank back into the couch. Back to waiting. You debated making yourself another cup of tea. Something to do to distract you from your worrying, except your mother would know something was up. You weren’t one to constantly be drinking tea. 

And then the door opened. You jumped up from the couch and had your arms around Regulus before he could even walk into the house. He nestled his face into your neck and hugged you back tightly. James nudged Sirius in the side, giving the two of you a knowing look. You didn’t want to let this boy go. 

“You boys are late! Dinner was ready more than ten min-” your mother scolded, entering the front room again, and then she saw you and Regulus and the luggage that Sirius was holding. “Who is this?” 

You were hesitant to pull back from Regulus, but when he pulled away from you, you let him. 

“Regulus. My brother,” Sirius said. “Can he stay here too?” 

Your mother stared at the group of you, eyes darting from person to person. Sirius’ black eye was healing, but Regulus had a fresher one and his jaw looked bruised. You were almost positive that those were only the visible ones. There had to be more that couldn’t be seen. 

“O-of course. Dinner can wait… Monty!” she yelled in the direction of his study. 

You didn’t leave Regulus’ side for the rest of the night. You sat next to him on the second guest bed, rubbing his back as he laid quietly. Your mother let you and Regulus eat dinner in the second guest room. 

“You’re safe here. You’ll be okay,” you said quietly, continuously rubbing circles on his back. 

“I know.” He breathed what sounded like a breath of relief. “I’m with you, how can I not be okay?” 

You chuckled softly. “That how you survived finals, huh?”

He rotated so he was looking up at you. “It’s how I’ve survived everything. … Can I tell you something?” 

“Anything,” you said, running your fingers through his hair. 

“When I saw you that first day of Hogwarts, I knew one thing, and it’s not just that I wanted to become your favorite person, it’s that I wanted to be your everything. Best friend or more, just let me be your everything.”

Your eyes went wide as you stared down at him. He physically looked so broken, but his facial expression was full of adoration and words full of love. 

“The first day?” you asked quietly. 

“Do you remember?” he asked, voice just as quiet as yours. “You walked up to me and held out your hand and said, ‘Y/N Potter. Both our brothers are in Gryffindor.’ And you just stayed, no questions asked. You never turned your back on me.”

“Yeah, I remember. Best decision I ever made.” 

“Then… will you let me be your everything?”

You shook your head with a sad-sound chuckle. “You already are, Reg.”

“I-I… I mean, your everything,” he repeated. “As something more than friends.” 

“You… you want to be-”

“More than friends, yes.” 

“Let me finish. You want to be my boyfriend?” 

“Yes, more than anything.”

“You want to be my boyfriend?” 

“You just asked that.”

“And you just said yes?”

“Yes.” 

“So I’m your girlfriend?” you asked, feeling tears well up in your eyes. 

“If I’m your boyfriend.” 

You just smiled at him. You tried to blink back the tears before they could fall. Regulus adjusted so that he was sitting rather than laying down. He wiped away a tear streaking down your cheek.

“I-I didn’t mean to make you cry,” he whispered.

You grabbed his face and pulled it toward yours until your lips found each other. It was a wet kiss. It also wasn’t a long kiss.

When you pulled back, you said, “Happy tears, Reg. Happy tears.”

You’re lying on your stomach on a beach towel, arms folded under your head, stretched out in the sand in front of him, basking in the sun to work on your tan.

You lift your head from the towel, laying your cheek on your forearm as you gaze up at Regulus. As you guessed, his head is already turned to you. The corner of his lip quirks ever so slightly when you look at him.

You push yourself up into a seated position. “Regulus,” you croon.

“Yes, mon amour,” he says, slotting his bookmark between the pages.

“I wanna get in the water,” you say, nudging your foot against his with a small, hopeful smile.

He tucks his chin down, pressing his lips together in a silent response.

“Reg,” you whine, standing.

He moves his book off his lap to make room for you.

The strap of your bikini slips off your shoulder as you perch yourself on his leg, and Regulus follows the tan line it left behind with his thumb while his other hand rests low on your waist, fingers drawing lazy circles against your bare stomach.

You lift his sunglasses off the bridge of his nose. He squints in the new light, but he doesn’t stop you as you rest them on the top of his head.

“We don’t have to swim,” you murmur, brushing your nose against his. “Can we just walk along the shore? Dip our feet in the water?”

Regulus huffs, not out of annoyance, but something closer to resigned acceptance. He shrugs the towel off his shoulder and taps your thigh, signaling you to get up.

Your lips stretch into a wide grin, squeezing Regulus’ hand as you pull him to the shore. You practically skip the whole way there, and he wonders how you seem to be immune to the rough sand that burns against the soles of his feet.

As you walk along the beach, you keep in mind that the only reason he’s at the beach at all is to please you, so you ignore any urges to kick water at him as it laps at your feet.

Your arms are mid-swing when his hand slips from yours. He’s stopped behind you, and you turn, watching as he bends down, reaching to pluck something from the sand.

He lets the salt water wash over his treasure before standing back up, dropping it into your hand.

You roll the small stone in your palm, noticing that the color of the pebble is strikingly similar to—