#almost always

When you snuck in, Joe woke up and got out to pee. How he just so casually made his way to the bathroom in just his boxers and a T-shirt without tensing a single muscle at the cold was beyond you. As he got back in, pushing you towards the other edge of the bed, the mattress dipped and you rolled towards him automatically. Your cheek brushed his chest and he curled his arm instinctively around your ribs. Joe’s hand found the back of your neck in the exact way that he knew you liked, a touch to the base of your skull that always immediately calmed you down. Made everything better.

You heard a soft snicker in the dark as you met there, in the middle of the mattress, a warm breath against your forehead whilst his other hand found your calf under the duvet.

“You’re freezing,” he murmured, shocked and amused and fond all at once.

A small noise escaped you, something between a whine and a sigh and a don’t perceive me like that, because it was embarrassing how your body always betrayed you. The way you ran cold. The way you needed warmth so desperately but pretended that you didn’t.

Joe slid his foot under yours, catching your ankle between both of his in an attempt to trap the cold there and beat it out with his own heat. To help even more, he smoothed his palm up and down the back of your leg, slow and steady.

“There,” he whispered. “Better?”

You nodded, or maybe you just melted a bit. It was hard to tell the difference, but it was nice to feel like were being looked after.

You didn’t notice the thought the first time it came to mind. This tiny, barely-formed complaint that your feet wouldn’t be this cold if Joe’s flat wasn’t kept at arctic temperatures. It was a whisper under the comfort. A dry seed in freshly-turned soil. I wouldn’t need saving if you didn’t make the conditions I need saving from.

Joe shifted, tucking you closer as his mouth brushed your hairline. Your fingers played with the edge of the duvet cover, rubbing over the fabric in an attempt to self-soothe.

“Hey… what’s going on in there?” he asked quietly, all gentle and curious. A little insecure maybe, since he’d noticed your fingers.

You swallowed and thought of saying it. Not to start an argument. Not to cause a problem. Just… a truth. I’m cold. Why does is always have to be so fucking cold? It wasn’t like he’d never heard it before. But… the room smelled like him, and your knees were tangled together, and his chest warmed your back just fine, and you didn’t want to ruin any of it. Not this moment. Not when the rest of it felt so perfect.

“Nothing.”

So you lied instead.

“Just tired.”

Joe hummed, not entirely satisfied, and kissed the back of your shoulder. Instead of settling back down, he suddenly pushed himself upright. The bed dipped and creaked as he sat up, and in the faint spill of streetlight from the window, you saw him tug his T-shirt over his head before reaching for you. His hand found your wrist and gave a gentle pull until you understood what he meant, until you sat up too, confused but compliant. Without a word, he guided your arms through the sleeves, dressing you in his shirt in the dark, smoothing the fabric down over your sides. His fingers lingered at your ribs as if to check that the warmth was finally settling there.

“Better,” he murmured again, quieter this time, almost to himself.

“Tell me next time,” got murmured into your skin. “Don’t go quiet on me.”

You nodded into your pillow, like you agreed, like you would next time, like you had magically turned into someone who was going to say things when they mattered. Maybe you would... eventually.

As his hand rubbed slow circles at your hip, warming you from the outside in, you felt growth in the next thought you had.

I’ll talk to him about it in the morning.

You didn’t.

Not then.

But the intention for you to change your ways and be better this time around was there, and that had to count for something.

Instead of speaking up, you just fell asleep dressed in Joe’s T-shirt which layered over your own, grateful for the warmth it gave you, and pretending you didn’t need anything more than that.

You wake first.

It’s a soft, quiet morning, grey-gold shimmering through the blinds. It’s the kind of soft light that makes everything look photogenic even if it looks shit when you turn the big light on.

You stretch your body, moving carefully so you don’t wake Joe. You don’t want to disturb his sleep before his alarm goes. He’s curled up behind you with his fingers splayed over your stomach, warm and heavy, thumb tucked just under the hem of your top. You stay still longer than you need to, partly to let him sleep, but mostly because letting go means facing the day.

You eventually slip out from under his arm, brush a kiss to his jaw on instinct and watch how his lips twitch in his sleep in response. You bite into your smile at how the muscle-memory of love reacts to you, even when he’s unconscious, and pad to the kitchen as quietly as you can.

It’s cold, but you’re layered up in his clothes, so you feel okay. You’re in is T-shirt and his hoodie, fingers hidden inside the sleeves where they can rub at the fabric to your heart’s content. They slip out for a second as you reach for the kettle.

A steaming cup of tea makes mornings easier, you’ve learnt.  

Water fills.

The kettle hums.

Mugs sit in wait.

You’re keeping your fingers warm buttering toast when he wanders in not much later, shirt half-tucked like he got dressed too fast. He kisses the top of your head without thinking, squeezes your biceps and lets his hands slide down your forearms like he’s smoothing you into the day. His palms linger at your wrists, and you feel it everywhere. Soft love, this second-nature thing, routine and ritual and normality. You love it.

“Morning,” he says around a yawn.

“Good morning.” You pass him a mug, teabag still in. Strong and bitter. Just how he likes it.

He scrolls his phone while sipping, leaning against the counter right next to you, and it’s that casual domesticity that used to make your chest feel too tight because it implied something neither of you would say out loud.

Now it’s less terrifying.

More familiar, secure.

He clears his throat when you ask if he’d like some yoghurt with his breakfast. “No, thanks, car will be here in a minute. By the way, I know I said it’d be a half day, but I’m fairly sure it won’t be. You know what it’s like. We’ll probably run late.”

You pause mid-spread.

Not angry.

Just… hit by it, because no, you don’t know what it’s like. And this is annoying.

It’s tiny.

A little nothing thing.

But last night he’d asked if you wanted to do a late lunch today. And you’d said yes. Booked a nice place. Put your card down for it too, happy they still had a table available for the two of you this last minute.

And now this.

It’s not like Joe’s being intentionally cruel, but it’s thoughtless in that way that men just assume that, she’ll understand.

You swallow.

Consider your options.

He nudges your hip with his as he turns, he’s that close. That tiny knock-together of bone and denim almost dissolves your resolve. Almost has you choosing peace over truth. Comfort over growth. It’d be so easy to file this under things to forget because it’s not a big deal and it’s scary to show him how much this makes you feel.

Instead, you could also tell him that this annoys you. Like you said you were going to at least try.

So, you choose the scary thing.

“Did you um, did you forget about lunch?” you ask gently, avoiding eye-contact completely, trying your best to not sound accusatory.

He looks up from his phone and blinks at you, a little sleep-tired still. Confusion flashes, followed by guilt fast behind it.

“Ah, shit. Yea. I guess I did. Sorry. I... sorry, I didn’t think.”

You nod slowly, finish putting breakfast together, and you could leave it at that. You used to. There’s a million reasons to let this slide. There’s no time, he’s going to get picked up soon. He’ll start off his day in a bad mood. You won’t get to finish your conversation and so then it’ll just linger until it becomes a fight when he gets back later that evening.

But you promised yourself different.

Better.

“I know you didn’t mean anything by it,” you say, voice low but steady. “But I want you to think next time. I was looking forward to this afternoon.”

There.

A soft truth, placed carefully between you like fine china where you can both admire it.

Joe shifts slightly and you can feel how his eyes scan you whilst you keep busy finishing your breakfast. You can tell he feels a bit uneasy, which is fair. You just served him an emotional bill he didn’t know he was going to have to pay.

“I said sorry…” he says, defensive on instinct, mild but it’s definitely audible in his tone of voice.

“I know,” you meet his eyes. “And I'm not mad. I just… remember we said I shouldn’t pretend things don’t matter to me when they do?”

Joe frowns. “When did we say that?”

“Joe…”

His jaw works, and you can see how a muscle in his cheek tightens. The old version of him would’ve thrown a joke your way. Would’ve retreated, or said you were overreacting without using those exact words. He almost falls into old patterns, you can see how it rises before it gets swallowed down.

“It’s just lunch.”

And there it is.

The thing.

Small, but not small at all. Feelings dismissed. Opinion shoved aside.

You could fold. Would’ve folded before. Yea you’re right, have a good day at work, I’ll see you after. It’d be so easy to follow the script you know front to back, but it’s that script that ruined it all before.

But you know what? Fuck that script.

You breathe in, slow and grounded, and instead of folding, you stay.

“It is,” you say, because Joe’s not wrong. It is only lunch. “But it’s also us showing each other we matter in the boring, stupid, small little tiny ways. And those ways count. More than big ones, sometimes… at least, I– I think so…”

He stares into his mug for a moment, processing. It’s early still, so you grant him a moment to think about what you’re saying. Slowly, Joe nods, and raises his eyebrows like he realises you’re right. This is something he said he’d wanted you to do. Speak up in he moment rather than let things build until something cracks and you unleash weeks of small little annoyances in one go.

“Is this a huge thing, then?” he asks. “One of those things you used to keep in your head before?”

“Yes. Which is why I’m saying it now. Sorry.”

You wish you didn’t apologise, but it’s already out of your mouth, so you just let it exist. Nothing you can do about it now. You hold his gaze as he steps a little closer, his chest touching your arm, his knee brushing yours. It’s not aggressive, just seeking.

“You told me you wanted honesty in the moment, remember?”

His lips press together.

“Yea, no. You’re right.”

He remembers. You both do. You have no doubt that Joe’s mind flashes back to one of the many arguments in which that’s exactly what he’d say. You’re just doing what he always asked of you, and Joe realises he never actually thought about what that would be like and it’s impossible not to feel defensive. He doesn’t like this, which checks out. You don’t like it either, so at least it feels fair. It’s no fun to confront Joe like this, because it shifts the warm love you felt when he’d walked into the room to something a little colder.

Like it’s not cold enough already, Jesus fucking Christ.

He rubs the back of his neck. “I’m sorry, but you’ve got to understand… I’m not used to– to this. What do you want me to do?” Good question. You’re not exactly sure. “Or like, how am I meant to change things? I can’t tell them I’m going to fuck off at one, just because I’ve booked lunch with my girlfriend, can I?”

“I’m not asking you to.”

“For fuck’s sake,” Joe’s hand moves from the back of his neck to his face to rub down. “I’ve screwed up before the day’s even started.”

You soften, just a fraction, because you get it.

“You’re not screwing up,” you say. “You’re… I don’t know, you’re learning me, I guess. And I’m learning you.”

He scoffs softly, “We’ve learnt each other plenty, don’t you think?”

You ignore it. “This is what trying looks like.”

He slowly breathes out, lets all the air go from his lungs as he twists his mouth, and then he determinedly says, “Okay.” like he’s got a plan.

Fingers curl around your wrist, thumb brushing lightly.

“Can I… so instead of lunch, we’ll do dinner? Yea? Some place nice. I don’t know what time I’ll be able to get out of there, but I’ll let you know, and I’ll make some phone calls.”

You smile, entirely unsure if this is the solution you were after, but it’s nice that he seems to want to fix things none the less. “Yea. Yes, please.”

He nods. Doesn’t kiss you like in the movies. Just stands impossibly close to you, caging you against the counter.

“Yea? We’ll have dinner and, then, you won’t leave me, and–” your huff of laughter interrupts him, and you see how his slight insecure expression turns into something a little more cheeky.

“No, I’m joking. But we’ll have dinner, and then, I’ll horn you up for dessert.”

“Joe.”

“What? You don’t want that?”

You cock your head and give him a dry stare. Or, you try, at least, but you’re unable to fight the smile off of your face.

“Yea you do.” Joe concludes, grinning widely, finally leaning in for a kiss.

And when he leaves a with his shoes half-tied, one last look over his shoulder, a stupid crooked smile that you fell for ages ago, it doesn’t feel like a whole lot has changed.

It has, though.

It feels like you’re in the middle of trying. It feels messy, but deliberate, and even if the trial and error is a bit heavy on the error, the fact that trial is where the focus lies means everything.

The door shuts and the quiet you get after him is not the old, heavy kind of silence. The flat feels bigger when he’s gone. You watch the door for a second longer than you should, drain the last of your tea and decide you want another, and breathe out through your nose. The kind of exhale that tries to let go of something you can’t name.

It’s not much later when your phone buzzes.

Called two places. Got us 9:30. I know it’s late. I’ll make it nice.

It buzzes again before you can answer.

Also I heard you. Thanks for telling me

It’s not a miracle. Definitely not perfection, but just… you’re just two people learning to stay warm without burning the whole place down.

You pull his hoodie over your mouth and whisper into the cotton.

“Don’t be late.”

Then you add, because this is the point now, a threatening “If you are, I’ll tell you how it made me feel.” making yourself giggle.

The day begins.

The kettle hums once more.

The city moves.

Another text comes in.

Love you x

Joe’s trying to not only warm you from the outside in, but also from the inside out.

And that’s good.

Better.

---

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and then lily evans walked in.

you didn’t blame him — she was brilliant. sharp wit, sharper mind, all wrapped up in green eyes and a waterfall of red hair. from where you stood, it was like watching him meet color for the first time.

you watched him fall, headfirst and ungraceful, like only james potter could. the grand gestures started first: flowers, chocolate, elaborate pranks meant to make her laugh. then came the public declarations, the “evans, go out with me!” that echoed through the great hall. it was all so loud, so much bigger than you.

and you… you stayed on the sidelines. because telling him how you felt seemed selfish when you could see how badly he wanted her. so you smiled, teased him about being lovesick, and stitched your feelings into the quiet places where he wouldn’t see.

by the time seventh year rolled around, you’d gotten used to it — the ache, the pretending. until that september afternoon.

you hadn’t meant to overhear. you’d just been on your way past the empty classroom when lily’s voice cut through the air.

“james, i’ve told you before. i’m not interested. i’m sorry, but it’s not going to happen — not now, not ever.”

there was a pause, heavy and final. you could almost hear his heart drop.

when he stepped out into the corridor a moment later, you ducked back around the corner. he was wearing that smile — the one he put on when he wanted the world to think he was fine.

but you knew him better than that.

and the worst part? you also knew that even now, with his heart bruised and his pride dented, he still didn’t see you.

the common room was mostly empty that night — just a few fifth-years huddled over a chessboard and the quiet crackle of the fire. you were curled into your usual spot on the sofa, knees tucked to your chest, half-reading a book you weren’t really absorbing.

the portrait hole creaked open, and james stepped through. his hair was windswept, his tie hanging loose, and there was a faint tightness around his mouth — the kind he got when he was trying not to show he was hurting.

he flopped down beside you with a sigh that felt heavier than it sounded.

“long day?” you asked softly.

he shrugged, staring into the fire. “you could say that.”

you closed your book, studying him. “james… she doesn’t know what she’s missing.”

he huffed a laugh, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “don’t start, love. you’ll make me blush.”

“i’m serious. you’re… you’re kind and brilliant and annoying as hell, but in a good way. you deserve someone who sees that. all of it.”

something in his expression shifted then — softer, searching. his gaze locked on yours, and for a long moment, neither of you spoke.

“you’ve always been here, haven’t you?” he murmured.

your breath caught. “of course i have.”

and before you could say anything else, his hand was on your cheek, warm and steady, and then his lips were on yours.

it wasn’t like you’d imagined — it was better. slow, gentle, almost hesitant, as though he was memorizing the feel of you. when he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, and you swore you could hear your own heartbeat in your ears.

for the first time in years, you let yourself hope. maybe this was the moment you’d been waiting for.

but the next day, there was no mention of it. no sly grin, no teasing remark. just james, laughing with sirius, tossing a quaffle back and forth in the common room like nothing had happened. you told yourself it was fine — maybe he just needed time.

when you finally cornered him two days later in an empty corridor, you didn’t get the answer you’d been clinging to.

“about the other night…” he started, rubbing the back of his neck. “i think it was a mistake. i mean— you’re my best mate. i don’t even think of you as a girl.”

it was a gut punch, swift and merciless.

you swallowed the lump in your throat. “right. of course. my mistake.”

he opened his mouth — maybe to take it back, maybe to explain — but you didn’t let him.

“maybe we shouldn’t be friends anymore.”

the words tasted bitter, but you said them anyway.

you didn’t wait to see his reaction. you turned, walking away before he could stop you.

and behind you, james potter stood frozen in the middle of the corridor, already wishing he could undo every word he’d just said.

it was strange, at first — adjusting to life without james as your shadow. you’d catch yourself looking for him in the great hall or reaching for his arm in the corridors, only to remember you weren’t that person to him anymore.

so you made yourself someone else.

you sat with different people at meals, spent your free periods in the library with remus, joined study groups you’d never bothered with before. you smiled at people in the corridors, started up conversations you’d never have had the courage for months ago.

and slowly, it got easier.

remus was your anchor — quiet, steady, and blunt when you needed it. one evening in the library, you were bent over your potions essay when he leaned back in his chair and said,

“sometimes the kindest thing you can do for yourself is stop waiting for someone to notice.”

you looked up at him, pen frozen in your hand. “you make it sound so simple.”

“it’s not simple,” he said with a faint smile. “but it’s worth it.”

so you tried. you laughed more with other people, talked to boys you’d never noticed before, let yourself feel lighter. and for the first time in years, your happiness didn’t hinge on james potter.

but james noticed.

he noticed the empty seat beside him in transfiguration — the one you used to claim without fail.

he noticed you didn’t run to him after quidditch matches, no matter how many goals he scored.

he noticed you didn’t look for him first in a crowded hall.

and he hated it.

the final blow came one afternoon when he spotted you in the courtyard, leaning against a stone wall, head tipped back in laughter. regulus black — sirius’s infuriatingly smug younger brother — stood beside you, hands in his pockets, saying something that made you grin.

james’s stomach twisted. he told himself it was nothing, that you were free to talk to whoever you wanted. but the sight of regulus looking at you like you were a puzzle he wanted to solve made something ugly curl in his chest.

by the time you walked away, james was glaring at the cobblestones like they’d personally offended him.

“you’re staring,” sirius said lazily, appearing at his shoulder.

“not staring,” james muttered. “just… watching.”

“uh-huh.” sirius followed his gaze, smirk spreading. “oh, this is rich. you’re jealous.”

“i am not—”

remus’s voice cut in, calm but sharp. “you do realize you have no right to be jealous, don’t you? you’re the one who told her she wasn’t—” he stopped himself before finishing.

peter, oblivious, piped up, “wasn’t what?”

“nothing,” remus said. but his eyes never left james.

james shoved his hands in his pockets, scowling. “it’s stupid anyway. regulus is— he’s—”

“single. attractive. not you,” sirius supplied cheerfully. “and probably smart enough not to tell her she’s ‘not a girl.’”

james groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “merlin, i’m an idiot.”

“yeah,” remus said dryly. “and now you get to live with it.”

it started small — little things james didn’t even notice at first.

the way his eyes automatically searched for you in the common room.

the way his stomach flipped when your laugh drifted across the courtyard.

the way he found himself leaning toward you before he remembered you didn’t lean back anymore.

it was pathetic, really. he used to chase lily evans like his life depended on it — grand gestures, big speeches, dramatic quidditch dives to impress her. now, all it took was the sound of your voice to have him changing direction in the corridor.

he started hovering near your study tables, trying to wedge himself into your conversations. you’d smile politely, answer his questions, maybe laugh once if he was lucky — but you didn’t light up. not for him.

he “accidentally” sat next to you in the great hall more than once. you didn’t move, but you didn’t turn toward him either.

sirius noticed first.

“merlin’s beard, you’re hopeless,” he said one morning, watching james try and fail to get your attention while you chatted with marlene mckinnon. “you’re like a stray kneazle begging for scraps.”

james scowled. “shut it.”

remus, of course, just gave him that quiet, knowing look. the one that said you’ve made your bed — now you get to lie in it.

and then came hogsmeade.

it was a crisp saturday, the air sharp with the promise of snow. james had gone with sirius and peter, ready to spend the day at zonko’s, when he saw you.

you were standing outside honeydukes, bundled in your scarf, cheeks pink from the cold — and laughing at something regulus black had just said. he was carrying your bag like it was the most natural thing in the world, his gloved hand brushing yours as you stepped inside together.

the sight punched the air from james’s lungs.

he didn’t hear sirius calling after him. didn’t feel the cold. all he could think was that regulus looked at you the way he used to look at lily — like you were something rare, something worth chasing.

later, back at the castle, he cornered remus in the empty common room.

“i think—” his voice cracked, and he swallowed. “i think i’ve been in love with her for years. i just didn’t know it until she stopped looking at me like i hung the moon.”

remus’s expression didn’t soften. “then you’d better be ready to work for it. because you don’t get to break someone’s heart and expect them to hand it back to you when you change your mind.”

james stared into the fire, jaw set. “then i’ll work for it. no matter how long it takes.”