He thinks he could’ve walked it in a day at his best, but maybe he’s being generous with himself. In his current shape, after all of what he’d call short breaks (and what anyone else would call fainting), it takes him three.​‌‍‍‌‍‍‌‍‌‍‍‌‍‍‍‍‌‍‍‌‍‍‍‍‌‍‍‌‍‍‍‌‌‍‍‍‍‌‌‍​

That’s three days he’s missing. Three days in which you must think he’s dead.

What was left of him on the battlefield? His broken wand, the chunk of his shoulder he left behind when he apparated, maybe a bloody footprint. A black layer of soot would’ve settled over all of it from the blast that nearly killed him, had he stuck around.

He did not run, by the way. He’s not a deserter or anything of the sort. He didn’t receive the command to retreat, but he’s sure it was coming, or that he had simply missed it. It was clear as day that they had lost that battle long before James made his exit.

Technically, he was supposed to retreat to a designated safe house, not his own backyard (overshot by fifty kilometers), but his mind wasn’t exactly clear, and all he could think was that the safest place in the world was you. You and the little cottage in the highlands that had become a safe house for the Order, and something of a home for you and James.

Maybe you don’t believe he’s dead, despite the evidence being pretty damning. He likes to think that you’d have more faith in him. He likes to hope that this hasn’t crushed yours.

It’s late in the evening, the autumn air dropping several degrees below what’s comfortable, when he starts to recognize his surroundings.

Fueled by a renewed burst of energy, he makes it home before the sun sets. Pink and orange hues cast over his and your home when he emerges from the trees. It’s like out of a painting, almost too beautiful. He would think he’s hallucinating if it weren’t for the old splintered fence that he can feel under his palms. He pushes through the gate, which squeaks at the hinges the way it always does.

James doesn’t feel like he’s walking to the house, more like floating. It’s all very hazy and dreamlike, and Merlin he really hopes he’s not hallucinating.

The back door is locked, but he knows where to find the spare key—under the pot of pink flowers. Never mind, it was the purple ones, but they all look the same to him, even when he isn’t drunk from his injuries.

The house is dark when he enters, just barely illuminated by the last bits of sunlight through the windows. The first thing he sees is a pitcher of water on the kitchen table, and he can’t resist scooping it into his good arm and taking a large gulp straight from it. Only one, because the pointed tip of a wand jabs into his back, and he slowly puts it down.

“It’s me,” James coughs. His voice is so raspy it’s nearly unrecognizable. He turns his head slowly to show you his face. To see yours.

Your eyes widen like you’ve seen a ghost. Maybe you think you are. You shake your head once, like you don’t believe your eyes at all. Or like you don’t believe him.

“Do you remember the first thing you ever said to me?” James asks, running his sandpaper tongue over his cracked lips. “It was second year. I was in the library with Sirius, being a shit. You shushed us, so I walked over just to be a bother, and you said, ‘For someone who talks so loud, you think you’d hear how stupid you sound,’” he says with a smile, as if he were recalling the sweetest compliment. “And then I-”

“You pulled on one of my pigtails,” you finally speak, your voice just above a whisper. “And you called me a bug.”

“I meant bookworm, but I couldn’t think of the word,” James laughs, turning around completely now that he’s sure he’s proven himself. “I couldn’t think of it ‘cos I was too flustered when you looked at me with those eyes. I was just twelve, but even then, knew I was a goner.”

You lower your wand. Without taking your eyes off James, you place it on the table. It rolls to the floor with a clatter, but neither of you even flinches. Slowly, you reach out to touch him, like the verbal verification wasn’t enough for you to trust that he’s real. Your fingers brush his cheek, and his head involuntarily tilts into your touch.

“It’s me, love,” he murmurs, his eyes falling shut. His limbs suddenly feel very heavy. Finally, in the safety of your touch, his body is ready to give out.

A sharp sob captures all your breath, and it’s the most heartbreaking, beautiful sound he’s ever heard.

“I thought you- What happened? Are you-?” You have a frantic look in your eyes as you scan him for injuries, which you find many of. You push his cloak out of the way and find the bloody makeshift bandages, made from his shirt, stained a dark crimson color, almost brown.

“Oh, James,” you practically whimper. You usher him into a chair, lip caught between your teeth in worry. “You need to sit. Where in Merlin’s name have you been? What- what happened?”

“Shh, just let me look at you for a minute, won’t you?” James murmurs, catching you by your hand as you lift his cloak again to inspect the suspiciously hollow area of his shoulder wrapped in what used to be his sleeve.

You stand above James, him slumped in his chair, and you’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen, even with your puffy, bloodshot eyes and messy hair. But you just won’t keep still, so he can admire you. It’s incredibly frustrating.

“No, I need to get the dittany. You’re hurt, James, you- you’re more than hurt, you’re-”

“‘M fine,” he insists. If he could just have you in his arms for a moment, he’s sure he’ll be healed.

“No, you’re not!” you say shrilly. “You’re half dead. I thought- I thought you were-”

James thinks, privately, that he almost was. There were times he thought he couldn’t possibly keep going, he couldn’t possibly muster the strength, but just as things were beginning to go dark, images of you would flash in his mind, and he’d get back up again.

He doesn’t voice those thoughts. He can’t have you know how close he came. Instead, he brings his hand to your cheek and asks, “You think I’d die on you?”

“One day you might not have much of a choice.” Your lower lip wobbles, chest aching because you thought you lost him. Because in times like these, you so easily still could.

He shakes his head once, brow set in the same determination that got him here. “Not even the deepest grave could keep me from coming home to you.”

He swipes at your tears, which haven’t stopped falling since the moment you thought you lost him. You place your hand over his, rubbing your thumb over his knuckles.

“Let me heal you, so we don’t have to confirm that theory.”

“Okay, m’love,” James mumbles, eyelids drooping.

Things get really fuzzy after that, but he feels your hands and the warmth of your magic, bringing him back to life.​‌‍‍‌‍‍‌‍‌‍‍‌‍‍‍‍‌‍‍‌‍‍‍‍‌‍‍‌‍‍‍‌‌‍‍‍‍‌‌‍​

A minute passes when you hear another laugh and feel someone's eyes on you. You look up, accidentally staring directly at the culprit. His big brown doe-eyes capture yours, pulling you into their depth, and James's entire face lightens up when he sees you become visibly flustered. He's teasing you. You know he is. You huff and lift your book, putting it up as a barrier. You duck down, your cheeks feel like they're on fire and your heart is pounding. It's not fair. 

Another minute passes and then you hear a tap against the book cover. You squeeze your eyes shut, turning your head to rest on the table. The tap becomes louder and more insistent and you reluctantly lower the book. You lift your eyes and catch James's gaze again which makes your stomach do a summersault. He's leaning forward against the table you're at, one arm extended as he taps on the book, his chin resting on his arm. 

James's smirk widens when he sees the cute expression you're wearing. "Hiya, love," he sing-songs. "Whatcha doing?" 

"Studying, James, studying," you say, keeping your voice steady so as to not completely break into a smile. Afterall, you're upset with him. James pouts and watches as you prop the book up once more. He drums his fingers on the table impatiently. If there is anything that James Potter hates, it's being deliberately ignored. 

"Love?"

He receives no answer. 

James's cheeks puff out as blows some air out in frustration. "Lovie?"

Still no answer. 

"Lovie!" James's large hand pushes the book down and you gasp. You stare at him and James can instantly tell how fucked he is by your expression because he drops the book and leans away. "Sorry," he says, "I didn't–"

"Fine," you groan, standing up and packing up your bookbag, "you want my attention so badly?" 

James can hear the annoyance in your tone but he can also see that special look in your eyes. He nods slowly, his voice dry. His friends have gone quiet as they watch James follow you out of the library like a lost puppy. Sirius sneers, a disgusted look on his face as he sees the look on his best friend's face. Peter's cheek turns a little paler and he looks at Remus. "What's happened?" He sounds worried.

"She's gonna shag him, Wormy. Ow!" Sirius yelps as Remus gently wacks the book he'd been reading against Sirius's head. Remus doesn't speak as he lowers the book and opens it once more, flipping through the pages. "Fine, I think she's gonna shag him," Sirius groans, rubbing the back of his head. 

Remus lowers the book, an annoyed look on his face. Peter nervously looks between them both as Remus continues, "That is not what I meant,"

"What?! They are totally gonna fuck! You're both bli— OW!"

* * *

Back in the Gryffindor Common Room, James is still awkwardly walking behind you as you enter the room. You turn around. "Let's go to your dorm," you say, eyes narrowed. James can't tell if you're horny or angry at him for disturbing you, but he likes it. He nods, rushing up the stairs with you behind him. Once he opens the door and you both enter, you waste no time shutting the door behind him and dropping the bag. In mere seconds, you're pressing your lips against his. James responds instantly and kisses you back, his hands finding home in your hair. 

You bite his lip, surprising him. "Ouch, lovie," he says, pulling away. You grab his collar and pull him back into the kiss. James's voice is muffled but he melts against your mouth again.

"Weren't you just desperate for my attention, hm?" You scold, slowly forcing him to back up until he stumbles onto his bed. James is breathless. He's done this to you what feels like a thousand times: gently pushing or even throwing you onto his bed, but when he's on the receiving end, he doesn't quite know how to react. James stares at you, his eyes wide. You smile and gingerly climb onto his lap.

You lean over him, kissing him again as James's hands find your hips. "Isn't this what you wanted?" you tease, sliding your lips down to his throat. James's hands tighten on your hips.

"Baby, t-this is–" he moans, turning his head to the side. He's not used to being the one in control.

"Is this not what you wanted? So you being a brat wasn't to have me on top of you like this?" You ask, sliding your hand down his shirt. You fumble with the buttons of his chemise and his tie but when James senses that you're having trouble with them, he takes over and shimmies out of his shirt and tie. When he looks back up, he sees that you've done the same. You smile sweetly at him, watching his eyes rove over you in just your lacy, black, bra. 

"Fuck me. Yes, yes this is what I wanted. I wanted your attention," he admits, his hands trembling with need as they slide up your sides. 

  "Oh, you did? So what does that make you, Jamie?" You grin and grab his hands. You lean down until you're pinning his hands near his head on the mattress, lips by his ear. 

James looks wrecked already but he manages to whimper, "A brat?" 

You grin. You know he's not used to being the submissive one, but perhaps this will teach him a lesson on bothering you while you're studying. You nod and arch your back so your ass is slightly in the air, your bra skimming James's bare chest. You gently kiss at his neck, leaving small love-bites across his skin. James doesn't bother concealing his moans as he throws his head back, squirming a little.

"Can I touch you? I want to touch you, baby?" He whines, hands flexing. You smile and drag your teeth over the sensitive spot on his throat. You smile. You and James know he could over power you if he wanted, but he seems determined to play along.

"What's the magic word?" You ask him, pushing his hands higher as you lower your hips, pressing down against his slacks. You can feel how hard he is beneath you. 

"Please, please," he pleads, squeezing his eyes shut. 

You lick a strip up his throat and bite on his ear. "If you're so desperate, apologize for bothering me when I was trying to study. Apologize for being an attention seeking slut, Jamie." You feel him shiver and his hips lift up against yours on instinct. You squeeze your hands around his wrists as a warning. 

"I'm sorry I was bothering you when you were studying," James breathes out, his poor cock is throbbing in the confines of his cotton prison. 

"And?"

"And I'm s-sorry for being an attention seeking slut," he adds, shivering again. He's so turned on. You grin and happily hop off his lap. James sits up, crossing his legs, as he watches you lay with your head near the end of the bed, your knees bent by his ankles. You stare up at the ceiling, smiling. When James doesn't move, you sit up on your elbows and exaggerate your frown. 

"Well? Apologize properly." You punctuate your words by steadily spreading your legs. Hearing this, James's eyes light up and he wastes no time sitting on his knees. He leans in, his hands touching the fabric of your skirt. Gently, he flips your skirt up and presses a kiss over the sheer fabric of your tights.

You're already worked up from all the dirty talk that just the kiss makes your pussy clench needily. You throw your arm over your mouth, gently biting down as you feel James's hand slide down your tights. You lift your ass for him. "Don't tear them," you mumble, sounding stern but you're still smiling behind your forearm. 

James shakes his head as an answer, his eyes glued to the lacy pair of panties you have on. Once he finishes with your tights, he hooks his fingers in the waistbands and looks at you for approval. You turn your head, watching him, and nod. 

James carefully pulls your panties off your leg, lifting them up in the process and gently resting them on his shoulders. You feel warmth creep up your cheeks at how hot he looks like this. His eyes are half-lidded from arousal, his curls fall messily across his eyes, and his muscles flex because of how gentle he's being. 

Fuck me, you think. 

You try to keep up your dominance as you observe his movements. He kisses your thighs, moving closer and closer to your bare pussy. With his breath against your clit, you're losing just a little more authority over him and James knows it. And once his lips attach to your lips, sucking and gently licking, it's game over. 

You fall apart, letting a moan escape your lips as you tense your legs, squirming. James tightens his hold on your thigh, sucking with more precision now as his other hand gently caresses your calf. He smirks, nose nuzzling into your clit. He knows he's won. "Ya shouldn't have asked me to do this if you couldn't handle it," he taunts, watching you fall apart. 

Your head is fuzzy and all you can think of is how good he is at this. You lift your hips, encouraging him some more. "James," you whine, already feeling that familiar tension in your stomach. James grins and pulls away for a moment, kneading your thigh.

"Baby, you were soaked through even before I started," he chuckles, "are you gonna cum now?"

"Fuck," you groan, the absence of his lips causing a shock to your core. You lift your head, hands grasping the sheets. "James!" You exclaim, sounding so desperate.  

James doesn't want to be mean this time so he happily gives you what you want. He lowers himself and kisses your clit again, applying pressure as he sucks. He licks you with the flat of his tongue, his hand sliding up and presses against your hole, causing a small inhale to fall from your lips. You squirm and James knows you want more.

He presses his index inside you, licking and sucking on your sensitive nub. Just when he knows you're ready, he adds another finger, curling them both, and you arch your back, cumming with a broken moan. 

When James feels your body relax, he pulls out his fingers and licks them clean. You watch him with hazy eyes, chest lifting and falling rapidly from your orgasm. Your gaze drifts to his slacks, where you can see how hard he is and you sit up. You wrap your arms around James's shoulders and pull him in for a kiss. 

You don't care that you can taste your juices in his mouth, all you care about now is being as close to him as possible. You shift on his lap, your bare cunt pressing against his bulge and James hisses. "Stop teasing me," he groans in between kisses, his hand caressing your hair. 

You smile and unclip your bra, allowing it to fall from your shoulders and arms. James's arms move to tighten around your back as he captures your nipples in his mouth without hesitation. He kisses and licks them, enjoying how you'll pull at his hair if you like something. 

"You're so beautiful," he whispers, kissing the curve of your breasts. 

"I know," you giggle and reach down between your bodies to unzip his trousers. "Look at me," you say, voice light from your arousal. James lifts his head and you watch as his features contort with pleasure as you pull him from his trousers and boxers, stroking his hard length. Your gaze flickers down and your lips water. You aren't sure you'll ever get used to his size. 

You lift your hips and guide the tip of his cock against your pussy. James looks flustered as he holds onto you, his hands trailing down your sides in a soothing motion. You kiss him again, tongue slipping past his lips at the same time you sink onto his cock. James tenses at the feeling, doing his best not to cum immediately. You feel so slick and warm.

Your hands find his curls as you gently bounce up and down, taking your time. James's hands tighten around your hips as you do so. He disconnections your lips and rests his head against your shoulder. "You feel so good," he groans.

You concentrate, focusing on your movements and the pleasure coursing through you. Your pussy flutters against James's cock and he swears again, his fingers digging deeper into your skin. The sounds of your moans fill the room and the air is thick with the smell of sex. You've lost count of how many times you've bounced as you kiss your boyfriend again. 

James can feel you begin to tire and without a word, he grips your thigh, keeping it secure to his side and he sits up, shifting you so that you're now laying on your back with him hovering over you. His dick slips out for a moment, but you don't have time to whine from the loss because he's sinking into you again, thrusting harder this time. You gasp, clutching his shoulders. "James–"

"Shh, let me take care of you," James says, kissing your neck as his hips snap against yours. He keeps one of your legs up and around his hip as he does so and from this angle, James is hitting that spot inside you. It's almost too much.

"James, I'm really gonna–"

"Wait a bit longer, lovie, okay?" James asks, kissing the side of your face. You whimper, not wanting to. "Wanna come together, okay? M' close. Just a bit longer." He groans and fucks you harder. You pull him down closer, needing to feel his warmth. 

You do your best to hold it in, the pressure only building up, until when James finally whispers in your ear that you can cum, your body goes numb as you finish. "Bloody hell," James moans, pulling out quickly and spilling his cum all over your stomach. Spent, he flops beside you, catching his breath. You do the same, panting. Your pussy feels all tingly in the best way and you shift, snuggling closer to James. 

James doesn't even bother putting his dick back in his slacks yet as he pulls you into his chest. He kisses your head. "I love you," he whispers. 

"I love you more," you say, tracing little hearts on his bare chest and then you pause. "Just, don't bother me when I'm working, okay?"

James smirks. "If this is the consequence, I may just have to make bothering you a habit," he jokes. You don't find it funny as you lift your head, glaring at him. James's smirk only widens and he laughs. He swings his legs off his bed, tucking himself back into his pants, and gingerly scoops you up his arms. You gasp. You're always surprised by his strength. "I'm joking. I won't bother you, my love. Now c'mon, let's shower." 

All frustration leaves your body as you hold onto his neck and laugh. James beams as he walks across the dorm suite to the bathroom. "And no funny business, Missy."

You laugh harder, kissing James's cheek. "I wouldn't dream of it, Mister." 

Meanwhile, Remus, Peter, and Sirius are sitting on some beanbags in the corner of the library. All three of them are sitting in silence. Not even assignments and library books can distract them now. The sky outside has fully turned dark and Sirius impatiently taps his finger against his thigh as he glances at Peter, who looks just as bored. 

Remus, who is pretending to read a book while in reality, he's been re-reading the same paragraph over and over again, finally concedes. He drops the book to his lap and turns to his friends. "I say ten more minutes and then we go back."

Sirius throws himself back against the bean bag. "Five. James probably doesn't even last this long," he chuckles but reels his arm back as Remus attempts to swat it gently. "Ow! Bullocks stop that, Moony! I know you hate when I'm right, but you don't need to resort to violence!"

"Let's say twenty! I really don't wanna walk in on them," Peter squeaks, embarrassed. 

It started three months ago, during a Gryffindor party celebrating another Quidditch victory. You'd had too much firewhisky, James had had just enough, and one thing led to another in his dormitory while Sirius was conveniently away for the weekend.

The next morning, hungover and tangled in his sheets, you both agreed it had been incredible—and equally agreed it couldn't happen again. Except it did. The following weekend. And the one after that.

Somewhere between the third and fourth encounter, you'd both sat down in his dorm, fully clothed for once, and hashed out a system. A set of rules designed to protect what you had: friendship with extraordinary benefits, nothing more.

1. No kissing or touching in public. Not a peck, not a hand on the lower back, not a lingering glance that meant anything beyond friendship. In the Great Hall, in the corridors, in the common room—you were just mates. Nothing more. 2. No falling in love. This was the big one. The one you'd both sworn on with solemn expressions. Feelings were off the table. If either of you caught them, you'd end things immediately. 3. No jealousy. If James flirted with another girl at a party, you smiled and moved on. If you laughed a little too long with another bloke, James didn't bat an eye. Possessiveness had no place here. 4. The relationship ends if one of you gets a partner. The moment either of you found someone real—someone you wanted to date properly, introduce to your parents, bring home for Christmas—this arrangement dissolved. Clean break. No hard feelings. Back to just friends.

Thursday. Eleven-oh-seven PM. Gryffindor Boys' Dormitory.

The candles had burned low, casting amber shadows across the stone walls. Your breath came in ragged gasps, body pinned beneath James's weight as he drove into you with that final, devastating rhythm you'd come to know so well.

"Fuck—" His voice cracked, forehead pressed against yours, glasses fogged and askew. His hips snapped forward one last time, deeper than before, burying himself to the hilt. "Darling, I'm—"

The word sent a jolt through you—darling. He'd never used that before. But the feeling of him pulsing inside, the heat spreading through your core, drowned out the thought. Your back arched, nails digging into his shoulders as your own release crashed over you in waves.

"James—James—"

"That's it, sweetheart," he breathed against your neck, thrusting slowly through both your climaxes, milking every last shudder. "Let go. I've got you."

For a long moment, neither of you moved. Just existed in that warm, hazy space where bodies remembered what minds tried to forget. His chest heaved against yours, heart hammering in time with your own.

Then came the part you knew. The routine.

James pulled out gently, and you braced yourself for the usual—a quick kiss to your shoulder, a murmured "same time next week?" as he handed you a towel and rolled over.

But tonight was different.

He stayed.

His lips traced a path along your collarbone, soft and unhurried, as his fingers brushed damp hair from your face. "Stay here," he whispered. "Don't move, love."

Love.

Before you could question it, he was already padding across the room to the washroom, completely naked and utterly unbothered by it. The water ran for a moment, and he returned with a warm, damp cloth and a handful of tissues.

"Sit up a bit, sweetheart," he said, settling beside you on the bed.

You propped yourself on your elbows, watching in confusion as he gently—gently—began cleaning you. The warm cloth traced over your thighs, your stomach, the tender skin between your legs with a care that made your chest ache.

"James," you started, voice hoarse. "You don't have to—"

"I know I don't have to," he said simply, not looking up. His fingers worked the cloth in slow, methodical strokes, like he was memorizing every inch of you. "I want to."

When he finished, he tossed the cloth aside and reached for the tissues, dabbing away the remaining moisture. Then—impossibly—he leaned down and pressed a kiss to your inner thigh.

"James."

He hummed against your skin. "Hm?"

"What are you doing?"

He looked up, and there was something in his eyes you'd never seen before. Something soft and unguarded. "Taking care of you. Is that a problem, darling?"

Your heart stuttered. "We don't... this isn't part of the arrangement."

"Fuck the arrangement." He said it so casually, so earnestly, that you almost laughed. But then he was rising, crawling up the bed to lie beside you, pulling the duvet over both your bodies. His arm wrapped around your waist, drawing you close.

"I'm hungry," he announced, as if he hadn't just completely shattered every rule you'd both established. "Are you hungry?"

"What?"

"Food. You know, the stuff you eat?" He grinned, that familiar troublemaker grin, but his hand was rubbing soothing circles on your hip. "I've got some of those chocolate biscuits you like. And I think there's leftover treacle tart from dinner."

"James, you're deflecting."

"Maybe I am." He pressed a kiss to your forehead, lingering there. "But I'm also serious about the treacle tart."

You stared at him, this boy who was supposed to be nothing more than a Thursday night arrangement, now looking at you like you were something precious. Something worth keeping.

"Same time next week?" you heard yourself ask, the words automatic, a shield against whatever this was becoming.

James's expression flickered. For a split second, something vulnerable passed through his features before he masked it with another grin. "Same time next week," he echoed, but his voice lacked conviction.

You told yourself you didn't care.

It was easier that way. Easier to roll out of his bed on Friday morning when he was still asleep, easier to ignore the way his hand reached for you even in slumber, easier to slip back into your own skin like nothing had happened.

Same time next week.

The words echoed in your head as you walked to breakfast, stepping into the Great Hall with your bag slung over one shoulder. The morning light streamed through the enchanted ceiling, casting golden patches across the four house tables. You spotted Lily and Remus already seated at the Gryffindor table, a stack of parchment between them, their heads bent together in animated discussion about their Charms essay.

"You're quiet this morning," Lily observed, nudging your shoulder. Her red hair was pulled into a messy bun, and she had that knowing look she got when she suspected something was off. "Everything alright?"

"Fine," you said, perhaps too quickly. "Just tired. Long night of studying."

Remus, seated across from you, raised a skeptical eyebrow. "Studying? You finished that Transfiguration essay three days ago."

"Other studying." You took a bite of toast, chewing slowly to avoid further questions.

Lily and Remus exchanged a glance—that silent communication they'd perfected over years of friendship. You braced yourself for an interrogation, but before either could speak, a commotion at the Great Hall's entrance drew everyone's attention.

The Gryffindor Quidditch team, fresh from morning practice, filed in with their usual fanfare. Sirius was laughing at something, his arm slung around Marlene's shoulders. Peter trailed behind, looking exhausted. And James—

James was at the center, as always. His hair was even messier than usual, damp with sweat, and his Quidditch robes were slung carelessly over one shoulder. He was laughing too, bright and loud, but when his gaze swept across the Hall, it landed on you for just a fraction of a second.

Something flickered in his eyes. Something soft, and hungry, and complicated.

Then he looked away, turning to say something to Marlene that made her shove him playfully.

Your chest tightened.

"Speaking of long nights," Sirius announced, dropping into the seat beside Remus with a dramatic groan, "Potter kept us all out on the pitch until nearly midnight. Twice as long as practice needed to be. Reckon he's trying to impress someone."

"Who would James Potter need to impress?" Lily asked dryly, but her eyes slid to you.

You busied yourself with your tea.

"No idea," Sirius said, but his grin was wolfish. "But he's been off lately. Distracted. Woke me up at three in the morning muttering about... something. Wouldn't tell me what."

Your heart stuttered. Three in the morning. Thursday night had ended around eleven. What had he been thinking about at three?

Stop it. It doesn't matter. He's just your Thursday arrangement.

The conversation shifted to other things—homework, Hogsmeade weekend, the upcoming quidditch match against Slytherin. You nodded along, laughed when appropriate, but your eyes kept drifting to the other end of the table where James sat between Marlene and another chaser, looking every bit the carefree heartthrob everyone believed him to be.

He caught you looking once. Twice. The second time, he offered a small, almost tentative smile—gone so quickly you might have imagined it.

You looked away first.

The afternoon passed in a blur of parchment and ink. Around four, the library doors swung open, and you heard the unmistakable sound of Sirius Black's laughter echoing through the stacks.

"Shh!" Madam Pince hissed from her desk.

"Sorry, sorry—" Sirius's voice, not sorry at all. "Just looking for someone."

You didn't look up. You kept your eyes fixed on your Transfiguration notes, even when you heard footsteps approaching your table.

"Oi, Evans. Lupin. Mind if I borrow your friend for a minute?"

Lily glanced at you, then back at Sirius. "What for?"

"James wants to see her. Something about... a Quidditch strategy thing."

"I don't play Quidditch," you said flatly.

"No, but you're good at—" Sirius paused, clearly improvising. "—numbers. Yeah. Strategy numbers. Come on, it'll just be a sec."

Lily and Remus were both watching you now, expressions unreadable. Your heart was pounding so loudly you were sure they could hear it.

"Fine," you said, standing. "But if this is a prank, I'm hexing you both."

Sirius grinned. "Wouldn't dream of it."

He led you out of the library and down a narrow corridor, finally stopping near an empty classroom. He pushed the door open with a flourish.

Inside, James was pacing.

He stopped the moment he saw you, running a hand through his already disastrous hair. "Hey."

"Hey."

Sirius gave a low whistle. "I'll leave you to it. Try not to break anything." He ducked out, closing the door behind him.

Silence stretched between you, thick and charged.

"You wanted to see me?" you asked, keeping your voice neutral.

James opened his mouth, closed it, then tried again. "I... yeah. I just—" He let out a frustrated breath. "I've been wanting to talk to you since Thursday. But every time I saw you, you were with Lily or Remus, and I didn't know how to—" He gestured vaguely. "I don't know. I'm making a mess of this."

"What's there to talk about?" You crossed your arms, a barrier against the way his eyes kept searching yours. "Same time next week, right? It's only Monday."

Something flickered in his expression—hurt, maybe. Or frustration. "Is that all you want? Just... Thursdays?"

The question hit you like a bludger. "That was the arrangement."

"I know what the bloody arrangement was." His voice cracked. "But I thought—after the other night—I thought maybe—" He stopped, shaking his head. "Never mind. Forget I said anything."

He moved to walk past you, but your hand shot out, grabbing his arm. "James."

He stopped, not turning around.

"What were you going to say?"

For a long moment, he was silent. Then, quietly: "I don't know what I'm doing. I've never felt like this before, and it's terrifying. I wake up thinking about you. I go to sleep thinking about you. And I know the rules say no feelings, but I think I'm—" He swallowed hard. "I think I'm breaking them. All of them."

Your breath caught.

He finally turned, and the vulnerability in his eyes was almost too much to bear. "But if you don't feel the same way, I'll back off. I'll keep to Thursdays. I'll pretend this conversation never happened. Just tell me what you want, sweetheart."

Sweetheart. There it was again.

"I don't know what I want," you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper. "I'm scared, James."

He let out a shaky laugh. "Join the club."

Before either of you could say more, footsteps echoed in the corridor. Marlene's voice called out: "James! McGonagall's looking for you—something about practice schedules!"

You spent the rest of the evening pretending to read by the fire, your eyes following the same paragraph for the twentieth time. The common room was busy—students chatting, chess pieces clattering, the fire crackling.

James hadn't come looking for you. He was across the room, playing Exploding Snap with Sirius and Peter, laughing like he didn't have a care in the world. He hadn't looked at you once.

Maybe he changed his mind, you thought bitterly. Maybe he realized getting involved with me isn't worth the trouble.

Lily flopped down beside you. "You're staring."

"I'm not."

"You absolutely are. And he keeps glancing over here when he thinks no one's watching."

Your heart leaped, but you forced yourself to shrug. "Doesn't matter. We're just friends."

"Friends who can't keep their eyes off each other?"

..

The smell of spilled Firewhisky and sweat-dampened wool hung heavy in the Gryffindor common room, a thick, intoxicating fog that muffled the roar of the celebration outside. Wednesday night Quidditch victories always felt different—sharper, more frantic. The Fat Lady had given up trying to shush the revelry hours ago, and now the room was a chaotic tapestry of red and gold, vibrating with the thrum of a Wizarding wireless set blaring a distorted Celestina Warbeck remix.

You leaned against the stone hearth, the heat of the dying fire seeping through your robes. Your eyes wandered across the room, tracing the familiar faces of your friends. Lily stood near the drinks table, laughing as Pandora Lovegood pointed out invisible Nargles hovering over the punch bowl. Marlene and Mary were locked in a slow, swaying dance in the corner, oblivious to the world.

Even Sirius and Remus were tucked into a shadowed alcove, their heads bent close together, sharing a flask and a look that suggested they’d be disappearing soon.

And Peter—bless him—was actually glowing, tucked into a loveseat with a Ravenclaw named Lizzy who looked at him like he’d personally invented the Snitch.

Everyone had a person. Everyone had a reason to stay until the sun came up.

You took a long drag of your drink, the burn of the alcohol grounding you. You didn't need a date. You had an arrangement. A Thursday night arrangement. But today was Wednesday, and the air between you and James Potter had been charged with a static electricity that threatened to burn the castle down ever since last week.

"Having fun?"

The voice was low, vibrating through your spine before you even turned. James stood a few feet away, his Quidditch jersey rumpled, his hair a catastrophic mess of dark peaks and valleys. He looked edible—the kind of handsome that made your throat go dry.

"Just watching the madness," you said, your voice steady despite the way your heart thudded against your ribs. "Great game, Potter. That dive in the second half was nearly suicidal."

"Nearly is the operative word, isn't it?" He stepped closer, the scent of broomstick wax and crisp autumn air clinging to him. He reached out, his fingers hovering inches from your elbow—Rule One: No touching in public—before he caught himself and shoved his hands into his pockets. "I didn't see you after-game in the changing rooms."

"Too crowded," you lied. "I figured I'd wait for the main event." James opened his mouth to reply, his eyes dropping to your lips for a fraction of a second, but a high-pitched giggle cut through the tension like a dull knife.

"Jamesieee! There you are!"

A Hufflepuff girl—Tamsin, or maybe Tracy—practically tackled him, her hands sliding up his biceps with a possessiveness that made your stomach turn. She leaned her head against his shoulder, looking up at him with wide, doe-like eyes. "You promised me a dance, remember? After you finished your captain's talk."

"Go on, James," you said, your voice a masterpiece of feigned indifference. You offered him a tight, sharp smile. "Don't keep the lady waiting. I think I'll go find a drink that isn't half-backwash."

You didn't wait for his response. You turned on your heel and melted into the crowd, the heat in your chest feeling less like firewhisky and more like acid.

An hour later, the room was a blur of motion. You’d had three more drinks, and the world was beginning to tilt in a way that felt like floating. The music shifted to something slower, a deep, rhythmic beat that vibrated in the floorboards.

"You look like you're in another world."

You blinked, looking up at a tall Gryffindor boy—Julian, a seventh-year you’d seen in the Great Hall. He was handsome in a sturdy, reliable sort of way, with a kind smile and hands that looked large and warm.

"Maybe I am," you murmured, letting him lead you toward the center of the makeshift dance floor.

"Let's bring you back to this one then," Julian said, his voice a pleasant baritone. He slid his hands onto your waist, pulling you flush against him. You draped your arms around his neck, the friction of his robes against your skin providing a sensory distraction you desperately needed.

As you swayed, the world narrowed down to the movement of his hips and the soft hum of his voice as he talked about his plans after Hogwarts. You nodded in the right places, but your skin felt pricklish, like someone was burning a hole in the back of your neck. You shifted your head, looking over Julian’s shoulder, and there he was.

James was leaning against a table, a glass of something dark in his hand. He wasn't talking to Tamsin anymore. He wasn't talking to anyone. He was staring at you—no, he was glaring. His knuckles were white around his glass, and his jaw was set so tight you thought his teeth might crack. His eyes tracked Julian’s hands on your waist with a lethal, predatory intensity.

"Is everything alright?" Julian asked, his thumb grazing the small of your back.

"Fine," you whispered, turning your attention back to him. You didn't want to follow the rules anymore. You wanted to break them. You tilted your head back, offering Julian a smile that was more teeth than warmth. "Everything is perfect."

Julian didn't need a second invitation. He leaned in, his breath smelling of cider, and pressed his lips to yours.

It was a good kiss—soft, tentative, and sweet. But it wasn't the kiss you wanted. It didn't have the desperation of Thursday nights; it didn't have the hunger that made you feel like you were being consumed.

The castle was quiet, the kind of silence that pressed against your ears after a day of dull, dragging classes. You’d stayed behind in the library, parchment spread across the table, quill scratching furiously as you tried to finish the Transfiguration project McGonagall had so kindly piled onto you. By the time you rolled up the last scroll, your hand cramped and ink-stained, the clock tower had already tolled past eleven.

Your stomach dropped.

You were late.

“Shit,” you whispered, shoving parchment into your bag. “Shit, shit, shit.”

The corridors blurred as you sprinted through them, heart hammering, robes flaring behind you. Every step echoed with guilt. He was waiting. He was always waiting. Thursday nights were sacred, carved into your bones like ritual. And you’d blown it.

By the time you reached the Gryffindor boys’ dormitory, your breath was ragged, chest tight. You pushed the door open, half-expecting James sprawled on his bed with that crooked grin, ready to tease you for being late.

But he wasn’t grinning.

He was sitting on the edge of his bed, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor like it had betrayed him. His hair was damp from a shower, curling at the edges, glasses abandoned on the nightstand. When he lifted his head, the look in his eyes made you freeze.

Not anger. Not amusement. Something heavier.

“James,” you started, voice trembling. “I’m sorry, I—McGonagall—”

He stood. Too quickly. Too suddenly. And then he was in front of you, close enough that you could see the faint shadows under his eyes, the way his jaw clenched like he was holding back something dangerous.

“Call it off,” he said.

You blinked. “What?”

“The arrangement.” His voice cracked, raw and desperate. “I can’t—fuck, I can’t do this anymore.”

Your heart stuttered. “Is this because I was late? James, I—”

“Don’t.” His voice sliced through yours, sharp enough to make you flinch. He didn’t shout, but the edge in it was worse than anger. “Don’t make excuses. Don’t pretend this is working.”

You froze, the apology dying on your tongue. “James…”

He shook his head, pacing a short, restless line across the dormitory floor. His hands were clenched, his shoulders tight, like he was holding something back. “It’s not you being late. It’s everything. This—” He gestured between you, abrupt, almost violent. “This arrangement. It’s a bloody joke.”

Your chest tightened. “We said—”

“I know what we said.” His laugh was hollow, bitter. “No feelings. No jealousy. No strings. Just mates who happen to fuck on Thursdays. Sounds simple, doesn’t it? Except it’s not. It’s messy. It’s complicated. And it’s not working anymore.”

The words hit like a blow. You swallowed hard, trying to steady your voice. “So what, you’re just… done?”

Maybe I am.” He stopped pacing, finally looking at you. His eyes were hard, but underneath the hardness was something you couldn’t name. “Because I can’t keep pretending this is fine. I can’t keep pretending I don’t care when you blow me off for homework, or when you walk into the Great Hall and don’t even look at me. I can’t keep pretending you’re just a Thursday night.”

Your throat burned. “James, that’s not fair—”

“Fair?” He barked out a laugh, sharp and humorless. “None of this is fair. Not to you, not to me. We thought we could control it, make rules, keep it neat. But it’s not neat. It’s a mess. And I’m tired of it.”

The silence that followed was suffocating. The dormitory felt smaller, the air heavier. You wanted to argue, to tell him he was wrong, that you could fix it, that you hadn’t meant to be late. But the words wouldn’t come.

Because maybe he was right. Maybe the cracks had been there all along, and you’d just refused to see them.

James ran a hand through his hair, muttering under his breath. “It just won’t work out. Not like this. You were a mistake.”

He didn’t stop. He couldn’t. “I thought I could keep it simple. Thought you could too. But you’re not built for this. You’re too soft, too bloody fragile. And I’m tired of pretending it’s fine.”

Your chest ached, the sting of his words cutting deeper than any hex. “You don’t mean that.”

“Don’t I?” His laugh was hollow, sharp. “Look at you. Standing here like you’re about to cry because I said what we both know. It won’t work out. It never was going to.”

The silence pressed in, suffocating. You wanted to argue, to scream, to demand he take it back. But the look in his eyes — cold, distant, final — froze the words in your throat.

So you did the only thing you could.

You left.

Your footsteps echoed down the corridor, each one heavier than the last, until the dormitory door shut behind you with a dull thud. The castle felt colder, emptier, as you walked away, his voice still ringing in your head.

You were a mistake.

The morning light spilled through the enchanted ceiling of the Great Hall, but it felt colder than usual. You walked in with your bag slung over one shoulder, eyes scanning the Gryffindor table automatically — and then darting away the moment they landed on him.

James was already there, laughing at something Sirius had said, his hair damp from practice, his grin as careless as ever. But you noticed the way his laughter didn’t quite reach his eyes.

You sat two seats down from Lily, deliberately choosing a spot where the Marauders wouldn’t crowd you. When James glanced your way — just for a heartbeat — you bent over your toast, pretending to be fascinated by the butter knife.

Avoidance became your armor.

In Charms class, you slipped into a seat beside Marlene, even though you usually sat near James. You didn’t look at him once, not even when Flitwick paired you together for wandwork. You traded partners with Remus instead, muttering something about “better synergy.”

In Potions, you lingered at the back of the classroom until James had already chosen a table, then slid into one on the opposite side. You kept your head down, scribbling notes furiously, though your ears burned every time his voice carried across the room.

In the corridors, you timed your steps to avoid him. If you saw him coming, you ducked into side passages, pressed yourself against stone walls, or pretended to be deeply interested in a tapestry.

And James — James avoided you too.

He didn’t stop you in the hall with his usual grin. He didn’t nudge your shoulder in passing. He didn’t even try to catch your eye when Sirius teased him about being “off his game.” Instead, he laughed louder, joked harder, as if noise could drown out the silence between you.

But the silence was deafening.

Every time your paths almost crossed, it felt like the air itself shifted, heavy with the weight of what had been said. His words — You were a mistake — echoed in your chest, sharp and relentless. And yet, beneath the sting, there was something worse: the hollow ache of missing him, even when he was only a few feet away.

By the end of the week, the silence had carved itself into your bones.

Your mood sank, heavy and unshakable. You snapped at Lily when she asked if you were alright, brushed off Remus’s concern with a brittle smile. Your essays grew sloppy, your handwriting uneven. Nights stretched long and sleepless, replaying his words over and over: You were a mistake.

James wasn’t faring better. His Quidditch practices grew harsher, teammates whispering about how distracted he seemed. He missed easy catches, cursed under his breath, stormed off the pitch more than once. Sirius teased him about being “moody,” but the grin never reached James’s eyes.

The Marauders noticed. Lily noticed. Everyone noticed. But neither of you said a word.

Because words were dangerous. Words meant breaking the fragile wall you’d built between yourselves. And so you kept silent, kept avoiding, even as the weight of it dragged you both lower by the second.

By Sunday night, the castle itself seemed to echo with the distance. The laughter in the common room felt hollow, the corridors colder. And you realized, with a sick twist in your chest, that the arrangement hadn’t just ended — it had taken pieces of you both with it.

Neither of you spoke. Neither of you moved.

And the distance between you felt wider than the whole castle.

“YOU TOLD HER SHE WAS A MISTAKE?!”

Sirius’s voice cracked through the dorm like a whip, loud enough that Remus looked up from his book across the room.

James winced, running a hand through his hair. “Padfoot—”

“Don’t you Padfoot me.” Sirius was pacing, his boots thudding against the stone floor. “Merlin’s balls, James, what the hell is wrong with you? You don’t say that. Not to her. Not to anyone.”

James sat hunched on his bed, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor. His Quidditch robes were crumpled in a heap beside him, forgotten after practice. He looked wrecked — pale, hollow-eyed, like he hadn’t slept in days.

“I didn’t mean it,” he muttered. “I just… it came out.”

Sirius stopped pacing, glaring down at him. “Came out? That’s not something that just comes out. That’s cruel. And you’re not cruel, James. Not to [name] .”

James’s jaw tightened. “You don’t understand.”

“Then make me understand,” Sirius shot back. “Because all week you’ve been moping around like a bloody ghost. You’re snapping at the team, you’re avoiding her like she’s the plague, and now you tell me you called her a mistake? Explain. Now.”

James dragged his hands down his face, groaning. “We… we had this thing. An arrangement.”

Sirius raised an eyebrow. “An arrangement?”

“Friends with benefits,” James said flatly, the words tasting bitter. “Thursday nights. No strings. Just… mates who shag.”

Sirius snorted. “Duh. No shit. You think I didn’t notice you sneaking off every week? You’re about as subtle as a Hippogriff in the Great Hall.”

James shot him a look, but Sirius only crossed his arms, waiting.

“It was supposed to be simple,” James continued, voice low. “We made rules. No kissing in public, no jealousy, no falling in love. Easy. Clean. But somewhere along the way…” He trailed off, swallowing hard. “I started wanting more.”

Sirius’s expression softened, though his tone stayed sharp. “More than just fuck buddies.”

James nodded, eyes burning. “I wanted her. Not just Thursdays. Not just stolen hours. I wanted mornings, afternoons, everything. And I knew she didn’t want that. She wanted the rules. She wanted it neat. So when she was late, when she walked in like it didn’t matter—” His voice cracked. “I lost it. I dressed it up as anger, as cruelty. I told her she was a mistake because it was easier than saying the truth.”

Sirius stared at him, incredulous. “Easier? You think breaking her heart was easier than admitting you’re in love with her?”

James flinched. “I don’t know what else to do.”

Sirius sighed, dragging a hand through his hair. “Prongs, you’re an idiot. A noble, self-sacrificing idiot. You’d rather hurt her than risk her not wanting you back. But now you’ve got both — she’s hurt, and you’re miserable.”

James buried his face in his hands, voice muffled. “I just… I can’t lose her. Not as a friend. Not completely. If I told her how I feel and she didn’t—”

“Then at least you’d know,” Sirius cut in, firm. “Instead of festering in this bloody mess you’ve made. You’re killing yourself, James. And you’re killing her too.”

The dorm fell quiet, the weight of Sirius’s words settling heavy in the air. James sat motionless, guilt gnawing at him, while Sirius stood over him, equal parts furious and protective.

Finally, Sirius sighed, softer now. “You’ve got to fix this, mate. Not with Quidditch, not with jokes, not with avoidance. With honesty. Because if you don’t, you’re going to lose her anyway.”

James lifted his head, eyes haunted. “And if she doesn’t want me?”

Sirius’s grin was sharp, but his voice was steady. “Then you’ll survive. You’re James bloody Potter. But if you keep pretending, you won’t survive this at all.”

The door creaked open, and you stepped inside after what felt like the longest week of your life. Your bag slipped from your shoulder, parchment spilling across the floor, but you barely noticed. Because James was there.

Pacing.

His hair was a mess, his shirt untucked, his hands raking through his hair like he was trying to tear the thoughts out of his skull. And when he saw you — when his eyes finally landed on you — he stopped dead in his tracks.

Silence.

The kind that pressed against your chest, heavy and suffocating.

“Don’t leave,” he said finally, voice hoarse. “Please. Just… hear me out.”

You froze by the door, every instinct screaming to turn around, to run. But something in his voice — broken, desperate — kept you rooted.

James swallowed hard, stepping closer, words tumbling out in a rush. “I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry. I shouldn’t have said it. I shouldn’t have called you a mistake. You’re not. You’re the opposite of a mistake. You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me, and I ruined it because I was scared.”

Your throat tightened. “James…”

He shook his head, cutting you off. “No, let me finish. I’ve spent this whole week festering, tearing myself apart. I told Sirius everything — about us, about the arrangement, about how I wanted more. And he called me an idiot, because he’s right. I am. I dressed it up as anger, as cruelty, because I thought it would be easier to push you away than admit the truth. But it wasn’t easier. It was hell.”

Your chest ached, his words slicing through the silence. “You hurt me.”

“I know.” His voice cracked, raw. “And I hate myself for it. Every time I see you in the corridor, every time I watch you laugh with Lily or sit with Remus, I feel it — the weight of what I said. And I swear, I’d give anything to take it back. Anything.”

He stepped closer, until he was only a breath away. His eyes were glassy, haunted. “You’re not a mistake. You’re the only thing I want. And if you hate me now, if you never want to see me again, I’ll accept it. But I need you to know — I’m sorry. I’m sorry for the words, for the silence, for all of it.”

And then, impossibly, James dropped to his knees.

Right there, in the middle of your room, he knelt before you, head bowed, hands trembling. “I’m begging you,” he whispered, voice breaking. “Don’t let this be the end. Don’t let my fear ruin us. I’ll grovel, I’ll crawl, I’ll do whatever it takes. Just… don’t walk away.”

The sight of him — James Potter, golden boy, Quidditch captain, reckless heartthrob — on his knees, shattered something inside you. His words were gut‑wrenching, his desperation palpable, his apology raw enough to bleed.

He stayed on the floor, eyes locked on yours, voice trembling but relentless.

“I don’t want this to be just a fling,” he said, each word heavy, deliberate. “I don’t want Thursdays and stolen hours and pretending we’re strangers in the daylight. I don’t want to keep sneaking around like what we have isn’t worth more. Because it is. You are.”

You swallowed hard, throat tight. “James…I-”

He shook his head, cutting you off, his voice breaking. “I want mornings with you. I want afternoons in the library where I don’t have to pretend I’m not staring. I want to sit beside you in the Great Hall and not feel like I’m betraying some stupid set of rules we made. I want to walk with you through Hogsmeade and hold your hand without worrying who sees. I want you. All of you. Not just the parts you give me when the candles burn low.”

Your chest ached, his words slicing through every wall you’d built.

His hands trembled as he reached for you, not touching, just hovering. “But I can’t keep pretending. I can’t keep living like you’re only mine in the shadows. I want more. I want everything. And if you don’t—if you can’t—then I’ll crawl, I’ll beg, I’ll grovel until you believe me when I say you’re not a mistake. You’re the only thing I want.”

And then, with a shuddering breath, James bowed his head lower, his knees pressing into the stone floor. His voice cracked, raw and pleading.

“Please. Don’t let me lose you. Not like this. Not when I finally know what I want. I want you. More than a fling. More than an arrangement. I need you.”

The silence stretched, heavy and fragile. You looked down at him — James Potter, golden boy, Quidditch captain, reckless heartthrob — kneeling at your feet, stripped of bravado, begging like the world depended on it.

Your throat burned. “You’re an idiot.”

He laughed, broken and breathless. “I know.”

“And you don’t get to call me a mistake ever again.”

His eyes lifted, desperate. “Never. You’re the opposite of a mistake. You’re the only thing I want.”

Something inside you cracked. Slowly, cautiously, you reached out, fingers brushing his hair, his temple, the curve of his jaw. He leaned into the touch like it was salvation.

“Get up,” you whispered.

He hesitated. “Does that mean—”

“Get up,” you repeated, softer this time.

James rose, shaky, uncertain, until he was standing before you. His eyes searched yours, pleading, terrified. And then, finally, you let the smallest smile break through the ache.

James rose, shaky, uncertain, until he was standing before you. His eyes searched yours, pleading, terrified. And then, finally, you let the smallest smile break through the ache.

“Maybe,” you said, voice trembling. “Maybe we can try.”

His breath caught, relief flooding his features. He didn’t move to kiss you, didn’t push — just stood there, eyes shining, as if the word maybe was enough to keep him alive.

And for the first time in a week, the silence between you wasn’t suffocating. It was fragile, tentative, but it was hope.

The days that followed weren’t easy. The silence between you had cracked, but it hadn’t vanished. It lingered, fragile, like glass that could shatter with one wrong word.

James tried, though. He tried in ways that were clumsy, earnest, and unmistakably him.

In classes, he didn’t push to sit beside you, but when Flitwick paired you together again, he didn’t trade partners. He stayed, quiet, careful, his wand steady as he matched your spells.

In meals, he didn’t sit across the hall anymore. He slid into the seat near you, not too close, not too far, offering you pumpkin juice without a word. When Lily raised an eyebrow, he only shrugged, his grin softer than usual.

In the common room, he didn’t crowd you with Sirius’s laughter or Remus’s chess matches. Instead, he lingered nearby, book in hand, pretending to read but glancing up every so often, waiting for you to meet his eyes.

And slowly, you let him.

You didn’t forgive him overnight. The sting of mistake still echoed, sharp and raw. But when he offered parchment for your essay, you took it. When he muttered a quiet joke under his breath, you let yourself laugh. When his hand brushed yours in passing, you didn’t pull away.

One evening, the library was nearly empty, the candles burning low. You sat across from him, quills scratching in tandem, the silence comfortable for the first time in weeks.

James looked up, hesitant. “I meant what I said. I want more. Not just Thursdays. Not just shadows. I want you in the daylight.”

Your chest tightened, but you didn’t run. You met his gaze, steady. “Then prove it.”

He nodded, almost reverent. “I will.”

The nightmares don’t stop when he wakes up. That’s the thing nobody tells you. They linger in the corners of his vision, in the fluorescent flicker of the Family Video lights, in the static hum of the television playing previews on loop.

He keeps moving. That helps. Movement means he’s not back there, not strapped to that chair with his face throbbing and blood in his mouth and Robin screaming his name through the drugged haze. Movement means he’s here, now, stocking shelves and rewinding tapes and pretending he’s a person who works a normal job in a normal town where normal things happen.

The coke helps too.

He’s not proud of it. That’s the thing— he knows what it is, knows what he’s doing, knows the way his hands shake when he’s been too many hours without a bump, knows the way his jaw clenches so tight his teeth ache. He knows his mom would die if she knew. His dad would probably laugh, then disinherit him properly this time instead of just threatening it.

He's done it once or twice in high school. Tommy H and Carol would bring it over— back when they were still speaking, back when Steve's house was the designated party spot because his parents were never home and nobody cared what happened to the furniture.

He remembers those nights in fragments. The way the high made everything sharper, brighter, faster. How his fingers would drum relentlessly on the armrest of his dad's leather recliner while some movie played that none of them were watching. Tommy and Carol would start making out on his parents' couch within twenty minutes, every time, like clockwork. Then they'd escalate— clothes coming off, Carol straddling Tommy's lap, the wet sounds of their kissing filling the room.

Steve would try to focus on the TV, but Tommy would catch his eye. Would grin at him, wolfish and mean, and force Carol to look over too. They'd give him a show— moaning louder, moving slower, making sure he saw everything.

And Steve would sit there, half-hard at best despite his sex drive being kicked into overdrive, palming himself through his jeans because that's all his body would cooperate with. The coke made him want it but wouldn't let him have it properly, and that made him feel even more pathetic, more lonely. So he'd sit there listening to Tommy and Carol fuck on his couch, high off coke, nursing whiskey stolen from his dad's cabinet, feeling like the loneliest person in the world.

But it keeps him awake. Keeps him sharp. Keeps the edges of everything bright and manageable instead of soft and suffocating.

He does a line before his shift. In his car, in the Family Video parking lot, because he’s run out of places where he feels safe enough to let his guard down for the thirty seconds it takes. His hands don’t shake when he does this part. Muscle memory, maybe. Or maybe this is the only thing he’s good at anymore— the efficient mechanical process of self-destruction.

The powder burns going up. Always does. He tips his head back, pinches his nose, blinks hard against the sting. Then comes the drip, bitter and medicinal down the back of his throat, and he swallows it down with the dregs of yesterday’s Dr. Pepper from the cupholder.

The world sharpens. Everything gets louder, brighter, faster. His heartbeat kicks up— too fast, probably dangerous, definitely not sustainable— but god, it feels better than the alternative. Better than the gray nothing that settles over him when he’s sober, the weight that makes it hard to breathe, hard to move, hard to care about anything beyond the fact that he’s still somehow alive when he probably shouldn’t be.

When he walks into Family Video, he’s smiling. It’s not real— hasn’t been real in months— but it’s there. Keith barely looks up from his magazine. Robin does, though. Robin always does.

She’s behind the counter, reorganizing the candy display with the kind of focused intensity that means she’s either avoiding her own thoughts or overthinking his. Probably both. She glances up when the door chimes, and her eyes do a quick assessment, that flash of concern she tries to hide but never quite manages.

“Hey,” she says, and it’s careful. Everything with Robin is careful now, like he’s made of glass, like one wrong word will shatter whatever’s holding him together.

Maybe she’s right.

“Hey,” he says back, and his voice comes out too bright, too fast, words tripping over themselves. “Sorry I’m late. Traffic was insane. Well, not insane, but you know, backed up near the… anyway, I’m here. I’m good. We good?”

Robin’s mouth does something complicated. Not quite a frown, not quite a smile. “Yeah. We’re good.”

She doesn’t believe him. He doesn’t believe him either.

But he moves, because that’s what he does now. Stocks the returns, alphabetizes the new releases, helps a middle-aged woman find something “fun and sexy” for her Pamper-Chef party. His hands move too fast, fumbling tapes, dropping things. His jaw works constantly, chewing nothing, grinding teeth, tongue pressing against the roof of his mouth.

He talks too much. Knows it, can’t stop it. Words pour out of him like water from a broken faucet. It’s jokes that don’t land, observations nobody asked for, rambling tangents that lose their point halfway through. Robin listens, responds when she can, but he sees the way she watches him. The way she’s always watching now.

“You okay?” she asks during their break, sitting on the curb behind the store, watching him smoke a cigarette he doesn’t actually want.

“Yeah,” he lies. “I’m good. Great, actually. Feeling really good today.”

“Steve.”

“I’m fine, Robin.”

“Steve.”

He takes a drag, hands trembling slightly, and doesn’t meet her eyes. The sun is too bright. Everything is too bright. His skin feels too tight, like it doesn’t fit right anymore, like he’s wearing someone else’s body and doing a shit job of pretending it’s his.

“I’m handling it,” he says finally.

“This isn’t handling it.” Her voice cracks slightly. Even though she probably has no clue what “this” entails, she knew it was something to worry about. She saw right through him now, even when they’ve only been friends for less than a year. 

He doesn’t answer. Can’t. Because she’s right, and he knows she’s right, and knowing doesn’t change anything. Knowing doesn’t make the nightmares stop. Doesn’t make the mall go away. Doesn’t bring back the version of himself who existed before that summer, before the Russians, before he learned exactly how much pain a human body can endure before it stops feeling like a body at all.

He finishes his shift. Smiles at customers. Makes change. Recommends movies he hasn’t seen and probably never will. When it’s over, when he’s back in his car in the empty parking lot, he does another line because the crash is coming and he can’t face it sober.

The high doesn’t feel as good the second time. Never does. But it keeps him moving, keeps him functional, keeps him from having to think about the fact that he’s nineteen years old and his life has already ended twice.

He drives home with the windows down, radio too loud, heart hammering against his ribs like it’s trying to escape. The Harrington house is dark when he pulls up. It’s always dark. His parents are in Indianapolis, or maybe Chicago, or maybe they’re dead and nobody bothered to tell him.

He doesn’t go inside.

Instead, he sits in his car, engine running, hands gripping the steering wheel, and tries to remember what it felt like to want something. Anything. A future, a purpose, a reason to keep doing this day after day after day.

Nothing comes.

So he turns the car back on and drives until the tank is almost empty, until the sun starts coming up, until the coke wears off enough that exhaustion finally drags him under.

And tomorrow he’ll do it again.

Because Steve Harrington doesn’t know how to do anything else anymore.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

.-.-.-.

Another thing Steve Harrington is strung out on is sex.

Steve Harrington has been fucking. A lot. It gives him almost the same rush as the coke does— that brief obliteration of self, that momentary escape from his own head.

Steve loves sex. Loves the heat of it, the mechanics, the way bodies fit together in configurations that make sense when nothing else does. He loves watching a girl take him, the way her face changes when he pushes inside, the small adjustments her body makes to accommodate him. He loves when they call out his name— proof that he exists, that he's real, that he's here. He loves the pretty sounds they make, the gasps and whimpers that mean he's doing something right. He loves when they tell him he's good at this, that he's making them feel good, because it's the only thing he's still good at anymore. He loves giving those praises right back, feeling them tighten around him when he calls them “pretty” or a “good girl.” He loves pleasing them, loves the focused simplicity of it—read the signs, adjust accordingly, make her come. He loves the rush, the high, the brief euphoria when he finishes, that thirty-second window where his brain goes mercifully quiet.

Then it's over and he's alone again and nothing's changed except now he's sticky and tired and the girl is getting dressed and he has to pretend he'll call.

Tonight when he gets off work, the loneliness hits him the moment he steps inside his empty house.

Robin didn't work today— had the day off, probably spending it with her mom or locked in her room listening to records. He'd been stuck with Keith for the entire shift, and Steve had tried his hardest to handle it. 

He can quit anytime he wants. That's what he tells himself. He knows how and when. So it's no big deal that he kept disappearing to the bathroom to get a bump, something he needed to survive eight hours of Keith's breathing and Keith's commentary and Keith's existence.

On his third trip, Keith had made some joke about him shitting his pants— loud enough that the pretty customer Steve had been on his way to help could definitely hear. The girl he'd been planning to flirt with, get her number, take her out, fuck her, forget her.

Now it's Friday night and Robin is busy. Dustin is busy with whatever nerdy shit he does nowadays. And Steve is bored and alone, still wearing his Family Video vest and polo and jeans, standing in his kitchen that echoes with emptiness.

He'd taken another hit twenty minutes ago and he's never felt more alive, more awake, more like his skin is electric. And unfortunately, with the wake comes that desire— low and insistent in the bottom of his belly, pooling heat that demands attention.

It's almost ridiculous that he doesn't question who to call.

It's not like you and him are anything. You're a good friend. Kind. Pretty in this understated way that sneaks up on him. And maybe if things were different, if he were different, if the world hadn't ended and restarted and ended again—

He doesn't let himself finish the thought.

He dials your number, the one he knows by heart now. 

"Hello?"

Soft. Slightly cautious because it's late.

His eyes are already dilated but he feels them expand wider when your voice comes over the line.

"Steve?" You sound surprised but not unhappy. He hasn’t even said anything to let you know who it was. He hates how his stomach flips at the thought that he’s the only one who calls at this hour. "It's almost midnight."

"I know, I know." He laughs, pacing across the kitchen, cordless phone pressed to his ear. "Are you busy?"

"I'm reading." There's a smile in your voice. "Why?"

"Come over."

A pause. "Now?"

"Yeah, now. I'm bored out of my mind and—" He stops, switches tactics, drops his voice lower. "Come on, honey. You wouldn't want me to drink alone, would you?"

It's code. You both know it's code. This isn't about drinking and it never has been.

You sigh, but it's fond. "You're ridiculous."

"Is that a yes?"

"Give me twenty minutes." You arrive in twenty-two, and he's still wearing his Family Video vest because somewhere between hanging up and you knocking on his door, he'd decided— high and wired and restless— that the kitchen needed to be deep cleaned.

Now.

At 11 PM on a Friday.

He's reorganizing the spice cabinet when you walk in, letting yourself in because he always left the door unlocked for you. He can hear you giggle when you find him in the kitchen. 

"Were you cleaning?"

"Maybe." He grins, abandoning the paprika to pull you into the living room. "Want a beer?"

"Sure."

Within thirty minutes you've killed three bottles between you and migrated to the couch, your legs tucked under you, his arm stretched along the back cushions. The conversation flows easy. It’s of work stories, Robin's latest drama with Keith, the new arrivals at Family Video, but there's an undercurrent humming beneath it all.

You lean in and kiss him.

It starts slow, exploratory, your hand coming up to cup his jaw. But it escalates fast. His hands find your waist, pulling you closer, and you shift to straddle his lap. Your fingers grip the green fabric of his Family Video vest, clutching it tight for leverage as you deepen the kiss.

Steve groans into your mouth, hips already rolling up against you. He can feel himself getting hard, finally, thankfully, and he grinds against your thigh desperately, seeking friction. The vest bunches under your grip, polyester crinkling, and his hands slide up your back under your shirt.

Your skin is so soft. The coke makes him hyperaware of every texture—the cotton of your shirt, the smoothness of your back, the slight roughness of the couch fabric under his knees. But mostly it's you. The heat of you. The way you feel pressed against him.

"Fuck," he breathes against your lips, humping your leg like a teenager, unable to stop himself. "You feel so good."

You make a small sound. It’s like a half-laugh and half-moan, and you grind down on him harder. 

In one swift move he lays you down. 

Now you're kissing him harder, your back against the cushions and him half on top of you. His hands are in your hair, on your waist, pushing up under your shirt to feel bare skin. Your mouth tastes like beer and something sweet— gum, maybe, or chapstick— and he chases the flavor of it with his tongue. 

He's hyperfocused on every detail. The way your lips are slightly swollen already from kissing. The way your chest rises and falls with your breathing, faster now. The little sounds you make when his tongue finds yours. You're so responsive, so fucking perfect under him, and the high he’s on makes him feel like he could do this for hours, could map every reaction, could learn exactly what makes you gasp and whimper and moan.

You're still holding tightly to the green vest, as he desperately humps your leg, his cock aching. He can feel the heat of you even through layers of clothing and it's driving him insane.

God, you're beautiful like this. Hair mussed, lips parted, eyes heavy-lidded. He wants to memorize this. Wants to burn this image into his brain so he can recall it later when he's alone and the house is too quiet and he needs something good to hold onto.

But he's jittery. Coming down from the last high, and his hands are shaking as he tries to unbutton your blouse. The buttons are small, slippery, and his fingers won't cooperate. He fumbles, curses under his breath, tries again.

"Fuck," he mutters, laughing awkwardly because he can feel you watching him struggle. "Sorry, I…long day. My hands are—"

He can't sit still. The exhaustion is creeping back in around the edges, that bone-deep tired that the coke usually keeps at bay. He's desperate for you, wants you. He wants to see more of you, touch more of you, taste more of you, but his body isn't responding the way it should and his brain won't slow down and he needs—

"I need—" he starts, then stops himself.

He stands up abruptly, crosses to where his jacket is draped over a nearby chair. His hands find the baggie in the inner pocket— muscle memory, autopilot— and he's back at the coffee table before he's fully processed what he's doing.

He pulls out his dad's credit card. The one they left behind with a note: For groceries and bills. Don't spend it on anything stupid.

He cuts sharp, clean lines on the glass surface with practiced efficiency. One swipe, two, three—the scraping sound of plastic on glass loud in the quiet room. He leans down. Inhales one line, quick and sharp, the burn immediate and familiar. His throat closes around the drip, bitter and chemical.

He notices the silence then. How quiet you've gotten.

He freezes, finger still pressed to his nose, and slowly looks over at you.

You're watching him. Not moving. Not speaking. Your eyes are wide, lips slightly parted. They’re still swollen from kissing him, and even now, even caught like this, he thinks about how good you look. Hair messed up from his hands, shirt rumpled, sitting there looking at him like... he can't read the expression on your face. Something between shock and concern and something else he doesn't want to name.

Steve sniffs hard, licking his lips where the drip is already coating them. "I'm sorry. I didn't—" He stops, swallows. "Fuck. I'm sorry."

You should leave. He knows you should leave. He's shown you the ugliest part of himself and now you're going to walk out and he'll deserve it and he'll be alone again and—

"Can I try?"

The words don't compute at first. He stares at you.

"What?"

"Can I try it?" you ask again, and your voice is steady, certain.

His eyes dance across your face, trying to see any inclination that you don't mean it. But all he sees is you. You’re pretty and patient and here and you’re looking at him like you actually want to understand this part of him too. The coke makes his heart race faster, makes the moment feel surreal and heightened, makes you look almost ethereal in the low lamplight.

His buzz has his mind like mush, thoughts moving too fast and too slow simultaneously. He should say no. Should tell you to go home, to forget what you saw, to stay away from him and his shit and everything he's become.

Instead he hears himself say, "Yeah. Come here."

You move from the couch to the floor, kneeling beside him at the coffee table. And god, the sight of you like that. On your knees next to him, looking at him with those wide eyes. It sends a bolt of heat straight through him that has nothing to do with the drugs and everything to do with how badly he wants you.

He cuts another line for you— smaller than his, because you've never done this before and he's not completely gone yet. The scraping sound seems louder now, more obscene. He watches you look at it, sees the slight tremor in your breathing. Even nervous, you're gorgeous. He wants to touch you, pull you into his lap, bury his face in your neck.

"Like this?" you ask, leaning forward slightly, and the movement makes your shirt gape at the neckline. He can see the curve of your breast, the shadow between them, and he has to force himself to focus.

"Wait." His hand comes up, gathering your hair back from your face. The strands are soft, slipping through his fingers, and when his knuckles brush the nape of your neck you shiver. He feels the goosebumps rise on your skin and it makes him want to put his mouth there, feel you shiver under his lips. "Yeah. Like that. Cover one nostril with your finger. Atta girl... now inhale through the other. Quick and sharp. Don't stop halfway or you'll waste it."

You hesitate for a second, and he can see the war happening behind your eyes. Then you lean down and do it.

The sound— the sharp inhale, the slight catch in your throat— makes his cock twitch. There's something so intimate about this, watching you do this, teaching you, sharing this fucked-up thing with you. He shouldn't find it hot. Knows he shouldn't. But the coke strips away his ability to lie to himself and the truth is he's never been more turned on in his life.

When you come back up, your face is already changing. Eyes watering immediately, nose scrunching, one hand flying up to cover your face. Even like this— eyes red, nose running— you're beautiful to him. Everything about you is beautiful to him right now, heightened and perfect and his.

"It burns," you say, voice strained and slightly nasal.

"Yeah. That's normal. It'll pass." He reaches out, thumb swiping at the residual powder dusting your nostril. Your skin is so soft under his touch. He wants to touch you everywhere. "Open your mouth."

You do, lips parting, and the sight of your mouth opening obediently for him sends heat pooling in his gut. He rubs the powder on your gums— slow circles with the pad of his thumb that make your eyes go darker, pupils starting to dilate. The bitter taste will hit your tongue, will numb your mouth slightly, and you'll chase that feeling for hours after.

He's watching your face so intently. The way your eyelashes flutter. The way your lips look wrapped around his thumb. The pink of your tongue visible behind your teeth. The coke makes him feel like he could stare at you forever and still find new details to fixate on.

As he starts to pull his thumb back, your lips close around it. Your tongue swirls, wet and warm, cheeks hollowing as you suck, and the sight of it punches the air from his lungs.

When his thumb comes out it's with a wet pop that goes straight to his cock.

"Christ," he breathes.

You're going to ruin him. He knows it with absolute certainty. This moment, this image of you on your knees with your pupils blown wide and your lips wet and swollen, is going to live in his head rent-free for the rest of his life.

Then you're on him, kissing him hard, and it's different now. Rougher. More desperate. You're both chasing something— the high, the heat, the obliteration of thought— and your mouths crash together with bruising force.

His tongue swipes into your mouth and yours meets it immediately, tasting him, and the kiss is wet and open and obscene. The sounds fill the room— gasping breaths, the slick slide of tongues, the wet smack of lips separating and meeting again, small desperate noises from both of you that might be pleasure or might be something else entirely.

Steve's hand finds your cunt through your jeans and even through the denim he can feel how wet you are, heat radiating through the fabric. "Fuck," he groans against your mouth, voice wrecked. "So wet already."

But the coke has him in its grip, and despite how badly he wants you, his cock is only half-interested. The blood hasn't rushed south yet, too busy keeping his heart racing at dangerous speeds and his brain firing in every direction.

You rock your hips against his hand, seeking friction, and he helps you. He guides you from the floor back onto the couch, positions himself under you, between your legs.

You grind against him, desperate and needy, your hips rolling in a rhythm that's almost violent. His fingers dig into your sides hard enough to bruise, gripping through your shirt, holding you steady as you drag your pussy against his growing bulge. The denim-on-denim friction is too much and not enough, the scrape of it audible in the quiet room. The fabric on fabric, your breathing getting harsher, small gasps punching out of you with each roll of your hips.

He's getting harder now, finally, blood responding to stimulus even if delayed. But you don't stop. You keep moving, keep grinding, and he keeps pulling you down harder, rougher, the sounds getting wetter somehow even through all the layers. Your arousal soaking through your jeans, his cock straining against his zipper.

His mouth finds yours again. It’s sloppy and open, tongues sliding together, panting into each other's mouths. He can taste the chemical bitterness on your tongue, mixing with beer and something that's uniquely you. He pulls back to kiss down your jaw, your neck, teeth scraping skin. You whimper and it’s high and needy. The sound makes him grind up into you harder.

He pulls your shirt aside roughly, mouth finding your collarbone, and sucks a mark there. Hard. Intentional. His teeth close on skin and you moan, back arching, pushing your breasts toward his face.

His lips find them through your bra, tongue circling your nipple through the thin fabric until it's wet and you're squirming. His eyes when he looks up at you are completely blown. His pupils are so wide the hazel is almost gone, swallowed by black, and when he sees your face he knows you look the same. Wrecked and wild and desperate.

"Need to touch you," he mumbles against your breast, words slurring slightly. "Need to feel you come."

His hand works between your bodies, fumbling with the button of your jeans. He finally gets it open. The pop loud in the room, zipper rasping down, and slides his hand inside your panties.

You're soaked. Swollen and hot and so wet his fingers slide through your folds with no resistance, the obscene slick sound of it making him groan. He finds your clit, circles it with firm pressure, and you cry out loudly.

"Steve!"

He fingers you fast and rough, two fingers pushing inside while his thumb works your clit, and it's frantic— the wet sounds of his fingers pumping in and out of you mixing with your gasps, the squelch of it indecent and perfect. He’s still kissing you open mouthed and sloppy. The pace of his fingers are too quick, the pressure too hard, but you're there, you're close, he can feel it in the way you're clenching around his fingers, can hear it in the pitch of your moans climbing higher.

"Come on," he urges, voice rough and desperate. "Let me feel it. Come for me. Come on my fingers."

You do, crying out his name. "Steve, Steve, Steve.” Your whole body goes rigid before the orgasm tears through you. Your cunt clamps down on his fingers in rhythmic pulses, so tight it almost hurts, and he works you through it, fingers gentling slightly, the wet sounds continuing as he draws it out.

When you finally go limp against him he pulls his hand away. His fingers are shining, coated in you, and without thinking he brings them to his mouth and sucks them clean. The taste of you— salt and musk and something sweet underneath— makes him groan.

You're both panting, sweating, hearts racing from the coke and the exertion and the need that still hasn't been fully satisfied.

He's still only half-hard, the coke keeping his body from catching up to his mind, and he needs more. Needs the friction, needs the build, needs something to chase.

"Keep going," he rasps, hands gripping your hips. "Don't stop."

This time when you grind down the angle is different. It’s harder, more focused. He can feel himself getting there, blood finally rushing where it needs to go, his cock filling out properly against the confines of his jeans.

The sounds are obscene. The fabric scraping, your breathing harsh and ragged, the small mewls punching out of you with each roll of your hips. He's gripping you so hard his knuckles go white, bruises blooming under his fingers, and you're chasing it too, chasing that edge you can't quite reach through the chemical haze.

"That's it," he groans. "Fuck, keep going. Almost there."

When he's finally fully hard, aching and straining against denim, he doesn't wait. Can't wait. He lays you down on the couch, your back hitting the cushions, and you're both fumbling with clothes. Buttons, zippers, fabric pulled and shoved and discarded until you're bare beneath him.

He can't even wait. Can't take the time to appreciate the sight of you spread out on his couch, can't slow down enough to make this good. He lines himself up and pushes inside in one thrust.

You cry out. It’s sharp and high, and he groans, the sensation muted but present. He can barely feel it, knows it's the same for you, but he can tell you're being stretched. Can see it in the way your mouth falls open, the way your hands scrabble for purchase on his shoulders.

One pump. Two. Then his pace is fast. His hips slapping against yours, the wet crack of skin on skin filling the room, rhythmic and filfthy and loud in the quiet house. He's gripping the back of the couch with one hand for leverage, knuckles white, the other splayed across your hip hard enough to bruise. One knee is up on the cushions, giving him the angle to really take you, to drive deep, and the couch creaks beneath the both of you with every thrust.

It's rough. Unrelenting. The coke has numbed you both out and he's chasing sensation through a fog, trying to feel anything beyond the muted pressure. So he goes harder, faster, like he can fuck his way through the chemical wall if he just doesn't stop.

The little punched-out ah, ah, ah sounds you make with each drive, involuntary and breathless, building on top of each other like a song he wants to memorize.

"Feels so good," you moan.

He changes angles, dropping his weight onto his forearm, bending over you to kiss you. Your tongues sliding together, wet and messy, his mouth swallowing the next gasp before it can escape. Then his mouth finds your neck, and he sucks hard. His teeth scraping skin until you twitch beneath him. Another hickey blooms under his mouth, darker than the first, and he drags his lips lower.

His mouth closes around your nipple, sucking hard, teeth grazing the peak until you arch up into him with a sharp cry that echoes off the walls. He does the same to the other. It’s so wet a string of salvia between his lips and your tit, leaving matching marks. He then pulls back to watch.

Your breasts bounce with each thrust, the movement hypnotic, and he could watch it forever. Your mouth is forming shapes. Os and gasps and his name broken into syllables, “Ste—, Steve—, oh—” the sounds dissolving into each other. You look so sexy like this. Wrecked and flushed, sweat already clinging to your skin, hair fanned out across the cushions, whiny little gasps punching out of you with each drive of his hips like you can't help it, like he's making you make those sounds and you have no say in it.

You're trying to grab at him, trying to match his pace, nails raking down his back hard enough that he hisses through his teeth.

Then he stops.

The sudden absence of movement is almost violent. The room goes quiet. It’s only your ragged breathing and the creak of the couch settling. 

You're so oversensitive, so lost in it, that you don't notice at first. Your hips roll forward chasing friction that isn't there anymore. Then your eyes snap open. They are confused, glazed, pupils swallowed whole by black, and you're about to ask what, why, please— when he slips out of you and reaches for the baggie on the coffee table.

He's back in seconds.

He makes a line between your breasts— careful, practiced, the white powder stark and almost pretty against your damp skin. Then he leans down, nose pressing into the valley between them, one hand splayed flat against your sternum to hold you still. 

He inhales sharp. One smooth, practiced drag, the burn immediate, his exhale warm and humid against your chest. The excess dusts your skin in a fine scatter and he doesn't pull back. Just presses his nose into you, sniffing, breathing you in, his face buried between your breasts, moving it back and forth. His stubble dragging rough against your skin, and you laugh, startled, the sound bright and real and so you that something in his chest does a complicated thing he doesn't have words for.

Then his mouth finds your nipple again and the laugh cuts off into a moan.

He sucks hard, and you cry out, "Steve!" The sensation cutting through the numbness for one sharp moment.

You catch him off guard then, both palms flat against his chest, and push. He goes easily. He falls back against the couch with a breathless laugh, sprawling, looking up at you with blown pupils and that crooked grin that does something unfair to his face.

"Your turn," you say, voice sweet and breathless, and the combination of the two— the sweetness, the breathlessness— makes his stomach clench.

He's grinning as he reaches for the baggie. Makes a line at the curve of his stomach— right above where soft meets the trail of dark hair leading down, the skin there pale and vulnerable. His hand shakes slightly, the powder scattering more than he means it to, and he struggles to concentrate because he can already feel the ghost of your breath against his skin as you lean in. 

"Hold on," he mutters, more to himself than you.

You don't hold on.

Your tongue licks up his happy trail first, wet and warm, and he gasps. His abs contracting involuntarily, the baggie nearly slipping from his fingers.

"Christ—"

You smile against his skin. He can feel it.

You kiss the bottom of his belly— the soft part he's always been self-conscious about— and the second he finishes the line his hand is in your hair. Fisting the strands, gathering them back from your face, knuckles brushing your cheek. He can feel his own pulse in his palm where he grips you. 

You come up to his chest, kissing his pecs, your tongue circling his nipples, and god he wishes he could feel it properly but you look so fucking hot when you glance up at him. Eyes wide and innocent, pupils blown to black, lips parted and shining.

He hasn't told anyone. Wouldn't be doing this with anyone else. The thought hits him like a truck and he pulls you in for another kiss. It’s messy and wet and desperate. You bite his bottom lip hard enough that he should feel pain but the coke has stolen that too.

He gets you on all fours then, your knees dipping into the couch cushions as he kneels up behind you. He worships the curve of your spine with his hands, the nape of your neck with his mouth. The fat of your ass fills his palms and he grips it, spreads you open, then slips back inside.

And he's unrelenting again. Thrust after thrust, your body jolting forward with each one, gasps punching out of you in rhythm with his hips. He can feel you come again— the clench and flutter around his cock— as he circles your clit with determined fingers.

Your body shakes and he flushes his chest against your back, bicep coming around your throat in a loose headlock, his mouth finding your neck. The sounds are dirty— wet and slapping, skin on skin, your ass meeting his hips with each brutal thrust. He's being rough but it's controlled, purposeful, chasing something neither of you can quite reach.

"You feel so good for me," he whispers against your ear, breath hot and harsh.

You whimper.

"You're so fucking hot like this."

He knows his breath against your ear makes you feel something because you whisper, "Fuck, more Steve, please." the words broken and desperate.

He's gripping your ass now, guiding you to an even faster tempo, and he can feel the head of his cock brush against something deep inside you. His heavy cock twitches, finally getting close.

He lets out a curse when he feels your teeth sink into his bicep as you cry out. You give a loud moan muffled against his skin. The high makes him feel like he has to return it and his teeth find your shoulder, biting down hard.

He whimpers loudly back in your ear when he feels himself finally reaching the edge, that coiled tension in his gut starting to unravel.

Then his hand finds the middle of your back and presses. Flat and firm, pushing you down. Your hands clutch the armrest, knuckles going white, your forehead bowing down to meet it too as your back arches. The new angle wrings a sharp gasp out of you.

He pulls out.

The noise you make is immediate. High and bereft, hips rolling back on instinct, searching, finding nothing. Your ass lifts and wavers in the air and he watches it with dark blown eyes and says nothing for a moment.

"Stay still."

You don't.

You wiggle back toward him and it’s shameless and chasing. Steve’s palm cracks down.

"Harder," you gasp.

You wiggle again. Deliberately.

He spanks you harder, the sound sharp in the room.

"Steve." His name wrecked in your mouth. "Harder."

So he gives you harder. Everything he has behind it, palm connecting with a sound that's almost too loud, too much. The welt rises fast. The whole spread of his large hand mapped out on your skin in one angry blooming mark that he stares at for a beat too long. It feels like he has done another line right then and there of how euphoric he feels.

Then both hands grip you, nails biting in, spreading you open, and he drops his mouth to you.

His tongue finds your cunt first and he doesn't ease into it. The coke has him wired and single-minded, every nerve lit and humming, and it makes him relentless. His tongue works fast and hard, licking into you with a focused feverish energy that makes you cry out and scrabble uselessly at the armrest. He doesn't let your hips move. Holds you open with both hands and just goes, like he's trying to take you apart, like his brain has locked onto this and won't release until you're shaking.

Then he drags his tongue up to your rim and the sound you make is startled and high and desperate. He presses the tip there and works. It’s fast, hard circles that don't let up, his tongue pushing insistent and relentless, the coke driving him past any point of subtlety. A thumb keeping you open for him, as your other hand finds your cunt and rubs with the same frantic energy and you cry out something that might be his name or might be nothing at all. 

Your hand flies back, grasp his hair. Your grip is hard, fingers twisting into the roots and pulling, and the sharp tug sends a bolt straight down his spine. His breath stutters against you. Even through the coke the sensation cuts through, immediate and grounding, and something low in his chest clenches at the fact that you're holding on to him specifically. Not the couch, not the cushions. Him.

Then he guides you down. Fully flat, stomach to the cushions, your cheek pressed into the fabric. He lines himself up and drives into you in one stroke and the sound you make punches out against the fabric. It’s breathless and broken and loud.

He doesn't stop. Flesh against flesh, the wet slap of it filling the room, mixing with his grunts and the broken syllables he's making of your name, incoherent and desperate and not quite swearing but not quite words either.

Finally he can feel the numbed-out bubble popping in the pit of his stomach. He thinks he's coming. He can't quite tell through the haze, but he continues making faltered thrusts into you anyway, riding it out. 

He pants between your shoulder blades, forehead dropping there too, both of you completely still for a moment except for the heaving of your lungs. His hands are braced on either side of you, trembling slightly. Beneath him you're still clutching the cushions, knuckles slow to release, fingers uncurling one by one as the tension drains out of you. 

He thinks about the mess underneath you both. He's going to have to flip over the cushions later, hide the evidence.

He can feel the aftershocks moving through you. Little waves, involuntary, your body still working through it. You’re twitching and shivering under his weight, hips making these tiny helpless rolls that you probably aren't even aware of. Like your body hasn't gotten the message yet that it's over. Like it's still chasing something, still wringing the last of it out.

He watches it happen. Stays still and just lets you ride it out beneath him, his chest rising and falling against your back, his breath evening out slowly while yours does the opposite. Those soft broken sounds still escaping you, little exhales that aren't quite moans and aren't quite sighs.

Your whole body is flushed and damp, trembling in waves, and he can feel every shiver of it against his skin.

He presses his lips to your shoulder blade. Then between them. Quick and soft and almost reverent… almost. A string of kisses down your spine that don't match anything that came before them.

Eventually the trembling slows. Your breathing deepens. The grip on the cushion finally releases completely.

He eases back. Offers you his hand without thinking about it.

You both sit up slowly, carefully, like the room might tip if you move too fast.

He's still high but he looks at you with concern. "You okay, right?"

"Yeah." Breathless. Smiling. Your voice still hasn't fully come back.

He hates how good you look like this. Wrecked and soft, hair tangled, lips swollen, that particular fucked-out looseness in your expression that the high and the orgasm have conspired to put there. If he really tried— another bump, maybe two— you could probably go again. Go all night. His body is already filing the suggestion away somewhere dangerous.

But something in his chest twists at the sight of you.

The mascara smudged at the corners of your eyes. The marks blooming across your collarbones, your shoulders, your neck— purple and red and unmistakably his. Your hair messed beyond repair. All of it his doing, every bit of it, and the high isn't quite enough to make that feel uncomplicated.

"You sure you're okay?" He asks it before he can stop himself, and he hears it—hears the shift in his own voice, that particular register he falls into. Concerned. Careful. The boy who checks on people, who makes sure everyone got home safe, who asks twice because once never feels like enough.

There he goes again. Falling into it with someone he considers his friend. Someone he secretly, quietly, in the part of himself he doesn't examine too closely… wishes could be something more.

At first it's just the high and the afterglow doing the looking— soft eyes, dopamine-loose smile, drinking in the sight of him equally wrecked. You find the bite mark on his bicep, already darkening. The hickies scattered across his neck and chest that he didn't feel forming, that his body couldn't register through the chemical wall. You look at all of it with something warm and unhurried.

Then the warmth shifts.

It's subtle— only a flicker behind your eyes, there and gone— but he catches it. He's been watching your face all night. He knows its geography now.

Sadness. Worry. Something that looks uncomfortably close to longing.

He knows. Doesn't want to know, but knows anyway— the way you always know the things you're trying hardest not to. You're worried about him. Have been for a while, probably. Tonight wasn't just want, wasn't just the hour and the high and the phone call pulling you here. Some part of you came because you didn't want him to be alone with it.

And some part of him— the part he keeps quietest— knows you want more too. Has known for a while. Files it away in the same place as another bump and just one more night and all the other things he tells himself he'll deal with later.

"I am," you say.

But you aren't looking at him when you say it.

You end up going upstairs to his room anyway, leaving behind the mess. He turns off the lamp. The two of you navigate the dark staircase side by side without touching.

He wouldn't have asked you over if he didn't have the house to himself tomorrow. That's what he tells himself.

He'll probably stay awake anyway while you sleep.

Neither of you shower. His bed is unmade, same as always. You crawl in from opposite sides, the mattress dipping, and normally there'd be talking. There's usually talking. It’s the easy, rambling kind that fills the dark, nothing important, everything comfortable. But the crash is already pulling at him, heavier than usual, the coke's debt coming due all at once. His eyes go leaden. His thoughts slow and blur at the edges.

He thinks, distantly, that he should stay awake. Keep watch. Old habit.

He doesn't.

.-.-.-.

Sunlight hits him first.

White and merciless through the gap in the curtains, straight into his eyes, and he surfaces with a groan already forming in his chest. His head is a closed fist. 

Migraine.

It’s the specific kind that lives behind his left eye, the kind that's been his companion since that summer, another reason the sunglasses are never far, another thing he doesn't explain to people.

He turns over slowly.

Stops.

You're still asleep. Your face is toward him, lashes dark against your cheek, mascara tracked down in faint smudged lines you don't know are there yet. Your brow is slightly furrowed even now— not peaceful, not quite. Like sleep hasn't fully convinced you to let go of something.

That feeling in his chest does what it always does when he looks at you for too long. Pinches. Pulls. Fills up with something warm and complicated and shot through with shame— at the marks on your skin, at the smudged mascara, at the furrow in your sleeping brow that he put there. That he caused, one way or another. The mess downstairs. All of it.

He gets out of bed carefully. Doesn't let himself look at you again.

The living room is exactly what he left it. The coffee table. The scattered clothes. The cushions are slightly out of place.

His hands are shaking before he's fully reached the bottom of the stairs. That familiar morning tremor. He’s anxious before he's had time to think of something to be anxious about, dreading the day before it's started, bone-tired in a way sleep doesn't touch.

He crosses to the coffee table on autopilot. Sits on the ground, his back against the couch. He leans forward, elbows on his knees.

There’s still white lines on the surface of the coffee table, patiently waiting for him.

He stares at it for a long time.

He thinks about you upstairs, brow furrowed in sleep. He thinks about Robin behind the Family Video counter, watching him with that careful, knowing look she tries to hide. He thinks about Dustin calling him Steve the Babysitter like it's an insult that's actually the best thing anyone's ever said to him. He thinks about all the kids. Max and El, even sometimes Mike. All of them. They look at him like he’s someone to look up to. 

He thinks about the mall.

His eyes sting. He pinches at the corners hard, jaw working, forces it back down. He's not doing this. Not right now. Not here when it’s seven in the morning.

He swipes his hand across the table.

The powder catches the light as it goes. It’s white and fine, almost pretty, and scatters into the carpet like snow that's already melting.

He sits there for another moment.

Then he gets up. Finds the vacuum in the hall closet. Runs it methodically over the carpet until the floor is clean, until there's nothing left to see.

After, he goes to the kitchen and pulls out ingredients to make breakfast. 

Pancakes. He can do that.

He hears you pad softly into the kitchen, rubbing your eyes sleepily. You're wearing one of his shirts and it falls to mid-thigh on you.

"Good morning," you say groggily.

"Good morning," he answers back, voice rough from sleep and chemicals and whatever else.

You hop up on a bar stool, cheek in your hand, watching him. He asks, "How do you feel?"

You mumble, "I'm tired."

"Yeah," he says softly. "Me too."

He turns back to the stove. He watches the batter spread slow and pale in the pan.

And he lets himself have it. The tiredness, the quiet, the strange aching ordinariness of standing here while you sit there. He doesn't reach for anything. He doesn’t run. Doesn’t feel like he has to to get another bump to get through the morning. 

He stands in his own kitchen on a Saturday morning and lets it all be exactly as heavy as it is.