#avoidant reader

"hey-"

you immediately turn around and run away.

" what's her problem she hasn't spoken to me all day, I didnt do anything!"

enjin sighs falling to his knees and his chin resting on the desk. semiu sigh's

" I honestly have no idea."

she says lying through her teeth and he knows it. he growls as he gets up and stalks away. you managed to go the whole day without seeing him by making yourself busy ( genuinely running away every time you hear his voice ) doing side quests with rude and zanka. you walk into your bedroom leaning your head against your door sighing, avoiding enjin has taken a lot out of you. as you turn you see him sitting on your bed and you freeze your hand reaches behind you to try and open the door

"don't"

you halt all movements, even holding your breath in.

"why are you avoiding me?"

he says as he gets up from your bed, meeting you in 2 strides.

"ummm..."

your mind starts racing with possible lies that could get you out of this situation

" don't even try to lie"

"I don't know I just mmm mmhm"

you start murmuring under your breath.

"speak up"

you cover your face

"I over heard you telling rudo you like me and I don't know what to say"

you say in one breath. he goes completely still. you glance up at him through your fingers and immediately wish you hadn't because now he's just staring at you.

"you overheard that?"

he asks and you let out a groan, dragging your hands down your face.

"please don't make me relive this."

a laugh escapes him and your eyes squeeze shut.

"oh my god you're laughing at me." "i'm not-"

he cuts himself off when another grin threatens to break through.

"okay maybe a little."

you make a noise of pure embarrassment and turn toward the door again only for him to turn you around again.

"so instead of talking to me you spent the entire day running away?" he asks.

"i wasn't running away." "you genuinely vaulted over zanka when you saw me at lunch." "because i panicked!"

he blinks before his expression softens.

"why?"

your mouth opens before immediately snapping shut.

because i like you too. the words sit on the tip of your tongue refusing to come out. enjin watches you struggle for a moment before letting out a sigh.

"you don't have to say anything."

your eyes snap up to his. "i don't?" he shakes his head.

"I know you and I know you are not too good with this sort of thing."

the confession somehow makes your chest hurt even more. "well that's stupid." "why?" you stare at him for a second.

"because i've been losing my mind all day over this."

another laugh escapes him and this time it's softer. "you've been avoiding me all day because you didn't know how to tell me you like me back?"

your heart practically stops. silence fills the room.

"maybe."

the grin that spreads across his face is immediate. "maybe?" he repeats.

"don't push it."

"so that's a yes?"

you stare at him for a long moment before sighing in defeat.

"yes."

for a second he just looks at you, like he's making sure he heard you right, before the biggest smile you've ever seen smears across his face. and suddenly all the effort you spent avoiding him feels completely pointless.

--

It started because of a microphone. Post-training press availability, a Tuesday in February. You were setting up in the media room, wrestling with a lapel mic that kept cutting out, when the door swung open twenty minutes too early.

“Sorry– thought this was–” He stopped.

You looked up, and immediately looked back down, because looking at Mason Mount directly felt a bit like looking at the sun if the sun had very nice eyes and also made you forget basic grammar.

“Press availability isn’t until three,” you said to the microphone.

“Right.” He didn’t leave.

You could feel him watching you fiddle with the cable, the silence stretching, your face doing something terrible that you could feel without being able to stop it.

“You’re the new press one, yeah?” he asked.

“I’ve been here eleven months.”

A beat. “The relatively new press one.”

Something about the way he said it gently, a little amused and not unkind really made you glance up despite yourself. He was leaning in the doorway, arms crossed, still in his training kit, with a small smile on his face.

“Y/N,” you said. “I’m Y/N.”

“I know,” he said simply, and then someone called his name from down the corridor and he was gone, leaving you sitting there with a broken microphone and the distinct feeling that something had just started that you were completely unprepared for.

You were desperately aware of the professional line. He was a player, you were staff, and your entire job depended on being neutral and unremarkable. Crushes were not in the press officer job description. He seemed to find your awkwardness genuinely interesting rather than off-putting, which was somehow so much worse, because you were used to people looking past you and you didn’t have a script for someone who looked at you. You filed it all away under inconvenient and got on with your job.

The second time, it was after a home win –2-0, he’d assisted both– and you were running the mixed zone, clipboard in hand, trying to direct traffic and make eye contact with precisely no one. He stopped in front of you instead of the cameras.

“You never watch the matches,” he said, not accusatory, just observational, like he’d been paying attention.

Your stomach did something inconvenient. “I watch the feed. In the media suite.”

“Not the same.”

“I know.”

He looked at you for a moment with that quiet, evaluating look you were already starting to recognise, then stepped toward the cameras. But right before he reached the journalists, he glanced back. “You should watch sometime. Proper watch.”

You wrote call about Thursday’s presser on your clipboard and absolutely did not think about it for the rest of the evening, which is to say you thought about it the entire evening.

-----

The away trip to Paris was not supposed to be a big deal, which is what your manager Diane had said when she handed you the travel itinerary –not a big deal, just a pre-season friendly, good experience for you– and you had nodded and smiled and then gone to the bathroom and stood very still for a moment, because it was in fact a very big deal to you specifically, given that you had never done an overnight trip with the squad before and were already mentally cataloguing every possible way you could embarrass yourself between London and France. The running total, so far: forgetting your press credentials, which you’d checked four times; saying something incoherent to a journalist, which felt probable; tripping in front of a camera, which was fifty-fifty; and doing something mortifying in front of Mason Mount, which was the new entry, recently added, and brought the total to four.

You boarded the coach to the airport with your head down, laptop bag clutched to your chest like a shield, and found a seat near the back next to Priya from social media, who was already on her phone and didn’t require conversation. You had your headphones in before the engine started and you did not look up when the players filed on, absolutely did not notice when someone sat down in the aisle seat two rows ahead and stretched his legs out and laughed at something Thomas Tuchel’s assistant said, and if you put your brightness down and stared at your spreadsheet with the focus of someone defusing a bomb, that was simply because you had a lot of work to do.

The flight was fine. The hotel check-in was fine. The pre-match media setup was genuinely fine, and for approximately three hours you felt like a competent adult professional person who had everything under control. And then you walked into a glass door.

Not through it –you didn’t break it, you weren’t injured, it was frankly the tamest possible version of this type of incident– but you had been speed-walking through the hotel lobby with your lanyard in one hand and a coffee in the other and the door had been more closed than anticipated and you’d walked face-first into it with a flat, resonant thunk that turned approximately six heads.

You stood there for a second. The door was fine. You were fine. Your coffee had survived. Your dignity had not. Okay, you thought, very calmly. Okay. That happened. That is something that just happened in the physical world and cannot be unhappened. Great. Wonderful. You pushed the door open correctly this time and walked through it with your chin up, because what else were you going to do, and you were almost in the clear when you heard it — a laugh, quick and surprised and genuine, not cruel, which somehow made it worse. You turned your head approximately three degrees, just enough to confirm what you already knew in your soul, and yes. Obviously. Of course. Mason Mount was standing by the lift with Ben Chilwell, hand over his mouth, shoulders shaking, and his eyes met yours and he held up both hands immediately –I’m sorry, I’m sorry– still laughing, mouthing something that looked like are you okay?

You gave him a thumbs up.

You turned and walked away at a pace that you hoped looked purposeful and not like the physical manifestation of wanting to be absorbed into the floor.

You avoided the lobby for the rest of the afternoon, which was professionally complicated given that your job required you to be in it at several points, but you managed through careful timing and a secondary route through the hotel restaurant that added four minutes to every journey and was absolutely worth it. By the time the pre-match dinner was underway in the hotel’s private function room you’d almost convinced yourself it wasn’t that bad. People walked into doors. It was a human thing. Probably he’d forgotten about it already.

“Seat taken?”

You looked up from your pasta.

Mason Mount was standing across the table from you, holding a plate, nodding at the empty chair directly opposite. The function room was busy –players, staff, coaching team, a few journalists from the approved pool– and there were other seats available. Several. Quite a few, actually.

“No,” you said, because what else were you going to say.

He sat down. You looked at your pasta. He ate in silence for a moment, and you thought — hoped — that maybe this was just a proximity thing, just a seat, no significance, absolutely —

“For the record,” he said, “the door was basically invisible. Very poor design.”

You looked up despite yourself. He had a completely straight face, but his eyes were doing the thing, the warm and slightly amused thing that you had already against your will catalogued and filed away and thought about more than once.

“I’ve seen it happen loads of times,” he continued, very seriously. “At least twice this year alone.”

“You’re being nice,” you said.

“I’m being honest.”

“They’re not mutually exclusive.”

Something shifted in his expression — small, quick, like you’d surprised him — and he tilted his head slightly. “Fair point,” he said.

Silence again, but different now, less like a gap and more like something taking up space on purpose. You ate a forkful of pasta. He poured water into his glass and then, without asking, into yours. You stared at your glass and told yourself: normal thank you, regular volume, like a person.

“Thanks,” you said. Normal. Fine. Good.

“So do you actually like this?” he asked. “The away trips.”

You considered lying — love them, great, brilliant — because that felt like the smooth and professional answer, and then you thought about how he’d said I know when you told him your name, like he’d been paying attention long before you’d noticed, and something about that made dishonesty feel like the wrong currency.

“I find them a bit overwhelming,” you said, to your pasta. “Lots of people. Lots of moving parts. I’m better when I know exactly what’s happening.” You added, quickly, in case it sounded like complaining, “But the work part I like. I’m good at the work part.”

“Yeah,” he said, like it wasn’t news to him. “You are.”

Your fork stopped moving. You didn’t look up, because you had a strong instinct that if you did your face was going to do something you couldn’t diplomatically explain, so you just sat there with it suspended over a piece of penne while Mason Mount ate his dinner across from you like he hadn’t just said something that was going to live in your head for no reasonable amount of time.

The thing was — the thing was that you were very used to being competent and overlooked. It was a comfortable arrangement. You did the work, the work got done, nobody particularly noticed. And he kept noticing, quietly and consistently, without fanfare, like it was just a thing he did, and you didn’t have a section in your mental filing system for that.

You ate your pasta. He said something to the physio on his left and laughed at the response, and you watched him for exactly one second — the way he laughed with his whole face, the easy way he had with people — and then looked firmly back at your food. Your phone buzzed, Diane asking for tomorrow’s schedule confirmation, and you answered immediately, grateful for the task, and spent the rest of dinner looking at your screen. But when you left, he said night, Y/N — just that, quiet, like it was easy — and you made it all the way to the lift before you let yourself close your eyes for a second. It had been a seat, probably. Nothing more than a seat. You took the stairs back to your floor and told yourself that twice.

The match was at nine PM and you knew this. You had written this, it was on the schedule you’d drafted and printed and laminated and distributed in three different formats, and yet somehow at 8:47 PM you were in the wrong corridor — not slightly wrong, comprehensively and architecturally wrong, the kind of wrong that suggested you had taken a turn approximately four decisions ago that had nothing to do with the media pen and everything to do with the fact that you’d been following the sound of crowd noise like a confused pigeon and had ended up somehow outside the away dressing room. The door was open. You spun around so fast your lanyard smacked you in the face.

“SORRY —” you said, to nobody, to the wall, to God, to whatever cosmic force had decided this trip was your villain origin story, and then you walked very quickly in the opposite direction and didn’t stop until you found a stairwell where you stood alone and pressed your back against the cold concrete and did a brief silent scream into your own scarf.

Your radio crackled. Diane’s voice. “Y/N, we need you in the media pen, kick off in ten.”

“Yep,” you said, into the radio, with incredible calm. “On my way.”

The match, at least, was good. Chelsea won 3-1 and Mason got the third — a low, precise drive from the edge of the box that made the journalists around you actually react, which journalists almost never did because they considered visible emotion unprofessional. You considered visible emotion unprofessional too, which was why you wrote goal, 79’, Mount very neatly in your notes and did not do anything embarrassing with your face.

Post-match mixed zone, and this was your territory. You moved through it with purpose — directing, coordinating, stepping in when someone asked a question heading somewhere diplomatically unfortunate, steering it away with the practiced efficiency of someone who’d learned very quickly that footballers and microphones were a combination that required management. You were good at this. You were calm at this, right up until Mason finished his camera interview, turned around, and walked directly into you. His shoulder caught yours, your clipboard went one way, your pen went another, and you made a sound — a genuinely involuntary sound, a sort of startled oh! — and grabbed the nearest stable thing, which was his arm, and let go immediately, record timing.

“Sorry — sorry, that was me, I was in the —” you started.

“No, that was me, I wasn’t looking —” he said at the same time.

A beat. He looked at you. You looked at him. He was still in his kit, slightly sweaty from the match, close enough that you had to make a conscious decision about where exactly to look, which your brain handled by suggesting perhaps the middle distance, which meant you were basically staring at his collarbone, which was not better.

“You okay?” he asked.

“Completely fine,” you said, to his collarbone.

He bent down, picked up your clipboard, and handed it back, your fingers touching briefly when you took it. You wrote nothing in your mental filing system about that because there was nothing to write.

“Good match,” you managed.

“Yeah?” He was doing the thing again, the looking thing. “You watched?”

“I was literally standing ten metres away.”

“You had your head down for most of it.”

You opened your mouth, then closed it. He was right, you had been looking at your notes, it was your job to look at your notes — but the fact that he’d clocked it, that he’d been aware of where your eyes were from the pitch while playing a professional football match, made your brain make a noise like a dial-up connection.

“I multitask,” you said finally.

He smiled — slow, a little devastating — and someone called his name from across the zone. He held your gaze for just a beat longer than necessary before he turned away, and you looked down at your clipboard to find you had written absolutely nothing useful for the last four minutes.

The coach back to the hotel left at midnight. You got on early, window seat, third row, headphones in, a buffer seat between you and the aisle filled with your bag, because you had learned from this morning. The players filed on gradually, loud and happy with the particular looseness of a team after a win, and you watched your phone screen with great concentration until the seat next to your bag dipped.

You looked up. Mason raised his eyebrows at your bag.

“Sorry —” you grabbed it immediately, shoving it onto your lap, and sat there with it pressed against your chest like a very awkward carry-on while he settled into the seat beside you, and internally you were asking why — there are so many seats, Ben Chilwell is right there, you are friends with Ben Chilwell, you chose this one specifically, why did you choose this one —

“You don’t have to hold your bag like that,” he said. “You can just put it in your lap normally.”

“This is normally.”

He looked at the bag, at your hands gripping the strap like it might escape. “Right,” he said, and looked out the window, and you could see the reflection of him almost-smiling in the glass. You let go of the strap, slowly, casually, like you had meant to do that all along.

The coach pulled out of the stadium and outside was Paris at midnight, lit up and thoughtless and beautiful in the way cities are beautiful when you’re tired and slightly off-balance and sitting next to someone whose arm is almost touching yours. Almost. You were acutely and embarrassingly aware of the almost.

“Can I ask you something?” he said.

No, said your entire nervous system. “Sure,” said your mouth.

“Why do you always look like you’re waiting for something to go wrong?”

You turned to look at him properly for the first time all night. He was watching you with that same evaluating calm, and the question wasn’t mean or pointed — it was just honest, the way he kept being honest in this inconvenient and disarming way that you had no defensive strategy for.

“Statistically,” you said instead of deflecting, “something usually does.”

“Like today.”

“I walked into a door and then a person in the same twelve-hour period.”

“The door was badly designed.”

“You said that already.”

“Still true.”

The streetlights were sliding past the window in long orange stripes and somewhere behind you Reece James was telling a story that was making half the coach laugh. The seat was warm and his shoulder was an inch from yours.

“Does it help?” he asked. “Waiting for it.”

You considered the question genuinely, which you hadn’t expected to do. “No,” you admitted. “But it means I’m not surprised when it happens.”

He was quiet for a moment. “That sounds exhausting,” he said, not with pity but like he was saying something true.

Your throat did something you refused to acknowledge. “It’s fine,” you said. “I’m used to it.”

“Being exhausted?”

“Being —” you paused. Careful. “Prepared.”

He turned his head to look at you then, and you were looking at him, and the coach hit a bump in the road that knocked your shoulder directly into his and neither of you moved away after. The almost became something else. You both looked forward, out at the Paris night, and said nothing, and the silence had that quality again, the kind that wasn’t empty but full and pressing and patient. Your heart did something it would file a complaint about later.

This is fine, you thought. This is completely fine. You are a professional. You are invisible. You are —

His little finger brushed yours on the armrest. Barely. Could’ve been accidental, probably was accidental, and he didn’t move it, and you didn’t move yours, and you stared out the window at Paris and breathed very carefully and thought about absolutely nothing at all for the rest of the journey.

Three weeks passed. You didn’t speak about the coach and neither did he, and somehow that felt less like avoidance and more like an agreement — a thing held carefully between you, too new to name. You worked. You were professional. You were, as always, fine. And then it was a Friday morning.

-----

The story broke on a Friday, and not a rumour this time, not a blurry photo with a question mark caption — a proper, sourced, photographed story, Mason Mount Confirms Romance with Model Isla Reeves, with a red carpet photo from some charity event the night before, her hand on his chest, both of them smiling, and a quote from his representative that said Mason and Isla have been seeing each other for a few weeks and are very happy.

Very happy.

You read it at 7:51 AM on your phone in your car in the Cobham car park, engine still running, and you sat with it for a moment the way you sometimes sat with a work email that required a careful response — reading it twice, making sure you’d understood correctly, giving it the appropriate weight — and then you turned your engine off, put your phone in your bag, and went to work.

You were, professionally, the first person in the building who needed to have a position on this, and that was the thing about your job that you had always found clarifying: when something happened, you didn’t get to feel it first. You got to respond to it first, and feeling it came later, quietly, in your own time, in your own space, in a way that affected nobody and changed nothing about the quality of your work. By 9 AM you had drafted a brief internal note — player’s personal life, not club business, no comment required — and sent it to Diane, who replied with a single agreed, good and that was that. By 10 AM three journalists had called and you handled them pleasantly and said nothing useful to any of them. By 11 am Priya had appeared in your doorway with two coffees and an expression that was trying very hard to be neutral.

“I saw,” you said, before she could speak. “It’s not a club matter. We’re not commenting.”

“Y/N.” Her voice was gentle in a way you didn’t particularly want it to be right now. “I’m not here about the press line.”

You looked at her. She looked at you.

“I’m fine,” you said.

Priya had known you for eleven months. She had watched you walk into a glass door in Paris and give a thumbs up and compose yourself in under thirty seconds. She knew exactly what your fine meant. She picked up her coffee, said “Okay,” and left, and you turned back to your screen and said fine to yourself, and meant it more aggressively than usual.

You didn’t see him until the afternoon, having been half-braced for it all day in the way you were braced for things; not obviously, not in a way anyone would notice, just a low-level readiness in your shoulders that had been there since 7:51 AM. When it happened it was exactly as undramatic as it should have been: you were crossing the main corridor outside the training analysis suite, he was coming the other way with Jorginho, and you met in the middle.

“Afternoon,” you said, pleasantly, the same way you said it to everyone.

“Hey.” Something moved across his face, brief and searching. “You alright?”

“Great, thanks. Good session?”

“Yeah —”

“Good. Enjoy your evening.”

And you were gone. Forty-two steps to the media suite. You counted. You sat down at your desk, opened your laptop, and stared at the screen for a moment, then started typing with fingers that were completely steady, because you were fine.

That night, alone in your flat, you allowed yourself exactly one hour, which was a system you’d developed in your early twenties for things you couldn’t afford to carry around — grief, disappointment, embarrassment, the specific sadness of something that hadn’t even been a thing, technically, and therefore had no real right to feel like a loss. You made pasta. You put a film on that you didn’t watch. You sat on your sofa with your knees to your chest and let yourself feel the full, quiet weight of it, and you were honest with yourself during the hour, because there was no point otherwise.

The thing was that nothing had happened. You knew that. There had been a coach in Paris and some lingering looks and a water glass refilled without asking and a finger that had maybe, possibly, brushed yours in the dark. That was the complete inventory. That was the whole of it. It was nothing. It had felt like something, but it was nothing, and he was now very happy with a woman who had 800,000 followers and a face that photographers loved, and that was how it was, and you were going to be fine because you were always fine.

The hour ended. You washed your bowl, turned off the film, went to bed. In the morning you were going to be completely okay. You had decided.

-----

The decision held, and the thing about when you made a decision was that you committed, because the same rigidity that made social situations feel like a practical exam meant that once you’d set a course, you stayed on it. No wobbling. No revisiting. Forward.

So: forward. You bought a new work blazer, which was perhaps not a necessary step but felt symbolically appropriate. You accepted an invitation to Priya’s friend’s birthday drinks, which you normally would have declined. You were present. You were socially available. Three weeks after the story broke, you met Daniel at a media industry event — a sports journalist, easy smile, the kind of person who was comfortable at events like this in a way you’d never fully understood — and he found you by the drinks table and said you looked like someone assessing threat levels, which was accurate, and he asked for your number at the end of the night with the straightforward confidence of someone who didn’t make it complicated. On the train home you thought: good. This is good. This is exactly right. You almost believed it.

The problem was that Daniel was… obviously a journalist but also a sports one… meant you had to disclose it to Diane, and you did it that same afternoon, clean and professional. She said: “As long as there’s no conflict of interest on club matters, it’s your business. Just be sensible.” “Always,” you said, and left her office feeling organised and sensible and forward.

You turned the corner and nearly walked into Mason.

His hand caught your elbow for barely a second and you both stepped back, the corridor suddenly too narrow, a small collision of sorry and no, I before a beat of quiet stretched between you. He’d come from training, hair still a bit damp, and there was a tiredness around his eyes that hadn’t been there before Paris — or maybe it had been, and you’d only learned to read him well enough to see it now, which was its own problem.

“You’re in a rush,” he said.

“Always.” Your standard line. Safe.

He nodded slowly, his eyes moving over your face in that way, reading the page, and you held yourself very still because you’d gotten good at still.

“You look well,” he said, careful, like he was testing the temperature of something.

“Thank you.” Perfectly pleasant. Perfectly level. Something shifted in his expression –brief, complicated, gone– and he stepped aside to let you pass. You walked away. Thirty-eight steps this time. You’d gotten faster.

-----

It was a Tuesday in April when you had three deadlines and a 4 pm call with a journalist who always ran over and a sad desk sandwich that had gone slightly warm.

You were eating the sandwich when he knocked.

The media suite was empty, as it usually was by 6 pm, everyone having the reasonable instinct to go home, and you had stayed because you had the call and then the deadlines and absolutely no other reason. Mason knocked on the open door, and you looked up to find him still in his training gear, jacket half-zipped, with the expression of someone who had decided something and was committed to it, which immediately made you feel like you needed to be somewhere else.

“I’m on a deadline,” you said.

“I know.” He came in anyway.

You watched him pull out the chair across from your desk — Priya’s chair, the one nobody sat in unless invited — and sit down in it with the particular calm of someone who had specifically decided not to be moved.

“Mason.” His name, again. Still a mistake. “I have a call in–”

“Twenty minutes,” he said. “Priya’s schedule is on the board outside.”

You stared at him. The sandwich sat on your desk between you like a small and unhelpful witness.

“I just need twenty minutes,” he said.

“For what?”

“To talk to you.”

“We’re talking now.”

“No,” he said, patiently, “we’re not. You’re managing me. There’s a difference.”

The sandwich sat on your desk between you like a small, unhelpful witness. You looked at your screen, then back at him, and he hadn’t moved and showed no signs of moving. “I’m busy.”

“I know.”

“I’m not– this isn’t a good time.”

“When is?”

“I’ll–” you reached for your notebook, reflexively, because holding something helped. “I can check the–”

“Y/N.” Quiet. Firm. “Stop.”

You stopped. The room was very still.

“I just want to know how you are,” he said. “That’s all. Not work. Not the schedule. You.”

And there it was — the question, the real one, the one he kept finding new ways to ask — and you felt the familiar tightening in your chest that meant you were approximately ten seconds from saying fine and redirecting and closing the whole thing down, because you were good at that, you had built your entire professional life on being good at that —

“I’m fine,” you said.

He nodded slowly, like he’d expected it, like he’d prepared for it, and then he picked up your sad, slightly warm desk sandwich, looked at it for a moment, and took a bite.

You stared at him. He chewed. Set it back down. Looked at you completely normally, like he hadn’t just eaten your dinner without asking, like this was a thing that people did.

“What,” you said.

“You weren’t eating it.”

“I was about to–”

“You’ve been staring at your screen for ten minutes, you hadn’t touched it.”

“You don’t– that’s my–” you picked up the sandwich, put it back down, because now it felt weird to eat it, which was somehow the most annoying thing. “You can’t just– that’s mine–”

“I know, I’m sorry–”

“Are you?” Your voice came out sharper than intended, something loosening at the hinge. “Are you actually sorry, or is that just… something you say?”

He went still. You heard what you’d just said and felt the shape of it, and that wasn’t about the sandwich and you both knew it and the knowing sat in the room between you like a third presence, warm and uninvited.

Walk it back, said the professional part of your brain. Redirect. You’re tired, you’re stressed, it’s a long week–

“What does that mean?” he asked, carefully, not defensive, just honest.

“Nothing. Forget it. It means nothing, it was about the sandwich, I’m tired, I have a–”

“It wasn’t about the sandwich.”

“Was it about Isla?”

The name landed in the room like something dropped. You didn’t answer, which was itself an answer, and you watched him watch you understand that, and there was nowhere to go suddenly; no redirect, no clipboard to pick up, no corridor to walk away down at pace.

“There’s nothing there,” he said. “It was– it’s done. It wasn’t serious.”

“You don’t have to explain your personal life to me.” Your voice was impressively level. You were quite proud of it. “Genuinely. It’s none of my–”

“I know it’s not. I’m telling you anyway.”

“Why?”

The word came out louder than you meant, raw at the edges, and you felt it leave you and couldn’t take it back and the room absorbed it and went very quiet.

“Because you went away,” he said simply. “After Paris. You just… went. And I didn’t know what I’d done, and then the Isla thing, and you got even further, and I just watched you go and I didn’t…” he stopped, reset, “I didn’t like it.”

Your chest hurt. Not metaphorically– actually hurt, the specific ache of something that had been compressed for a long time being asked to expand.

“You don’t–” your voice had lost some of its level, which you hated, “you barely know me.”

“I know you take different routes to avoid the main corridor some days. I know you eat lunch at your desk when something’s bothering you. I know you give thumbs up when you’re mortified and you say fine when you’re the opposite and you’re the best person in this building at your job and you carry your bag like it might escape.” He said it all quietly and evenly, like a list of facts. “I know you find it overwhelming when there are too many people and you told me that in Paris and I don’t think you tell people things like that easily.”

You stared at him. Your eyes were doing something you were furious about.

“That's...” your voice came out smaller than you intended. The wall was there, you could feel it, but your hands were tired. You’d been holding it up for a long time. “That’s not— you were with someone else. You were photographed. And I know— I know nothing happened between us, I know that, it was a coach and a dinner and I’m not— I’m not naïve enough to think—”

“Hey.” He’d leaned forward, elbows on the desk, close enough that you could see the tiredness in his eyes. “What did you think I thought it was?”

You shook your head.

“Tell me.”

“I don’t know.” Your voice cracked slightly on the last word and you pressed your mouth together and looked at the ceiling for a second. “I don’t know what I thought. I never— I don’t do this. I don’t read situations and I don’t make things out of nothing, I’m really careful, I’m always careful, and somehow I still—” you stopped. He waited, infuriatingly and tenderly patient. “And then you were with someone else,” you said, quietly. “And I was fine. I am fine.”

“You’re crying a little bit.”

“I’m aware,” you said, with some dignity.

There was a pause and outside the window the Cobham car park was going dark. “I ended it with Daniel,” you said, very quietly, and you weren’t sure why you were telling him except that you’d run out of things to protect. “Two weeks ago. I drove home feeling nothing and I think that was the answer.” He didn’t say anything for a moment and he didn’t look pleased about it, which you appreciated.

He didn’t say anything, didn’t make a speech, didn’t explain himself further. He just reached across your desk and put his hand over yours — still, warm, staying.

You looked at it. Looked at him.

“I ended it,” he said. “Weeks ago. Because it wasn’t — it wasn’t what I was thinking about.” He didn’t elaborate. He didn’t need to. “I’m not asking you for anything right now. I just needed you to know that. And I needed to know you were actually okay.”

Your hand didn’t move. Neither did his. Outside the media suite the building was quiet, the particular emptiness of Cobham at evening, faint hum of the lights, distant sound of rain on the roof.

“I’m not okay,” you said, very quietly. The truest thing you’d said in months.

“I know,” he said, and he didn’t let go of your hand, and you didn’t let go either, and for a moment— just a moment— you let it be enough.

***

He noticed her because she was the only person in the room not looking at him, which could sound like ego, and he’d be the first to admit it. But it wasn’t — it was just that he’d been doing this long enough to know what a room felt like when he walked into it, the subtle shift, the awareness, and he’d gotten so used to it that the absence of it was actually the thing that stood out.

The media room, a Tuesday in February. He’d come in twenty minutes early by accident and she was crouched on the floor wrestling with a microphone cable, completely absorbed, talking to it under her breath — not to him, to the cable — like he wasn’t worth the interruption. When he said sorry, thought this was — she looked up for exactly one second and then looked back down and said press availability isn’t until three like he was a scheduling inconvenience. He’d stood in the doorway longer than he needed to. He found out her name that day by asking Priya from social, casually, like it was an admin question.

Y/N. She’s been here nearly a year.

Nearly a year, and he’d been in the same building the whole time and somehow she’d moved through it like weather: present, functional, completely unregistered until suddenly she was the only thing he noticed. He thought about that for a while.

What he noticed first, properly noticed, the inventory he built without meaning to, was how careful she was, not in a cold way but in a way that looked like someone who had learned that the world required navigation. She moved through Cobham with a kind of deliberate efficiency, always slightly purposeful and never lingering, like she’d mapped every room and knew exactly how long she needed to be in each one before the odds of something going wrong increased. He recognised it, vaguely, as something he’d felt at seventeen when he first came into the first team setup at Chelsea: that hyperawareness, that sense of needing to be useful enough that your presence was justified. The difference was that he’d grown out of it, more or less, and she seemed to have just refined it, made it a permanent operating mode, built a whole professional identity around being competent and contained and fine. He found it interesting the way you found a locked door interesting, not because you wanted to force it, just because you found yourself wondering what was on the other side.

The Paris trip changed something. He’d sat next to her on the coach back from the match because he’d wanted to, which was simple and true and he didn’t overcomplicate it. She’d held her bag like a shield and made him almost-smile in the dark for twenty solid minutes and then said something so quietly honest — it means I’m not surprised when it happens — that he’d had to look out the window for a moment because the directness of it had caught him off guard. She talked to him like he was a person, not a footballer, not a name, not someone to be managed or impressed, and then she remembered to guard it and shut it back down and went back to her screen. But he’d heard it. On the armrest in the dark he’d let his finger brush hers and not moved it because he wanted to see what she’d do, and what she’d done was go very still and stare out the window and breathe carefully, like she was handling something fragile. He drove home from the hotel that night thinking about the careful breathing.

When she went cold after Paris he went over it methodically, replaying the conversations with the analytical part of his brain he usually reserved for match footage and coming up with nothing concrete — just the gradual withdrawal, the different routes, the lunch at her desk, the responses that were perfectly professional and perfectly empty. The Isla thing was — he’d been honest with himself about the Isla thing. She was fine, they’d had a few good evenings, and the whole time there had been a low-frequency awareness that he was doing something for the wrong reasons, or not quite the right ones. He ended it after three weeks, quietly, kindly, without drama, and he didn’t announce it because it hadn’t felt like something that required an announcement. In retrospect he understood why that had been a mistake.

What he saw in her — if anyone had asked him to put it into words, which nobody did, which was perhaps why he ended up sitting uninvited in Priya’s chair on a Tuesday with someone else’s sandwich — was this: she was sharp, not in an aggressive way but in a precise way, choosing her words carefully, and when she said something real it landed exactly right and he could always tell the difference between her professional voice and the one underneath it, the quieter one that came out sideways when she forgot to guard it. She was honest, and even when she was deflecting, the honesty was in there somewhere — she just mostly kept it inside. And there was something exhausting and sad and quietly admirable about the way she carried herself through every situation with that careful composure, like she’d decided a long time ago that the safest version of herself was the useful one, the competent one, the one who didn’t need anything.

He didn’t want that version. He wanted the one that talked to microphone cables and gave thumbs up when mortified and said that’s mine with genuine outrage over a sandwich. He wanted the one that cried a little bit and said I’m aware with her chin up. He wanted — and this was the thing he’d been sitting with for weeks, the thing that had been building since February in a room with a broken microphone — he wanted her to know that being seen didn’t have to be the most dangerous thing in the world. He just had to wait for her to let him tell her that, and he was, if nothing else, patient.

-----

Nothing changed overnight, and that felt important to say — the hand on yours and the quiet room and the I’m not okay did not constitute a transformation. You did not float home on a cloud of emotional resolution. You drove home in the rain, ate cereal for dinner because you’d missed the sandwich window, and lay in bed for forty minutes thinking about the fact that you had cried, slightly, in front of Mason Mount over a desk sandwich. A desk sandwich, you thought, at the ceiling. That’s what broke me. Eleven months of composure and it was the sandwich. You fell asleep before you could finish being embarrassed about it.

The next morning you arrived at Cobham at your usual time and took your usual route and made your usual coffee and sat at your usual desk and were, externally, completely normal. Internally you were doing something that resembled a browser with forty-seven tabs open, several of which were frozen and one of which was playing music you couldn’t identify or stop.

Priya came in at nine, looked at you, looked at her chair — back in its normal position, no evidence of last night, everything tidy — and said nothing. “Morning,” you said. “Morning,” she said. She made her tea. You answered your emails. The world continued rotating.

At 9:47 your phone lit up with an unknown number, and then a text.

it’s mason. priya gave me your number. hope that’s okay.

You stared at it. Priya, you thought, with great feeling.

You typed That’s fine, deleted it, typed Okay, deleted it, typed Sure, no problem, this is Y/N by the way in case you weren’t sure, stared at that for a long moment, deleted it, and sent: That’s fine.

Three seconds.

how are you

You looked at that for a moment, at the intimacy of the lowercase, the lack of punctuation, the fact that it was a question he’d asked you many times in many corridors and this was the first time it felt like it was actually asking.

You typed: Honestly. Still processing the sandwich incident. Otherwise intact.

don’t be

the sandwich thing was my fault

I’ve been told I have boundary issues around other people’s food

Who told you that, you typed.

my mum

she’s right

You pressed your lips together against something that was almost a smile. I appreciate the honesty, you sent.

anytime

are you around later

The forty-seven tabs all tried to load at once. Around where, you typed, because you needed the specificity, because your brain required logistics when everything else felt uncertain.

cobham. after the afternoon session. just to talk. no sandwiches involved

You looked at your screen, then out the window, then back at your screen.

I finish at six, you sent.

I’ll find you

You put your phone down and picked it up again and put it down, and Priya said, without looking up from her computer, “You’re doing the thing.”

“What thing.”

“Where you pick your phone up and put it down repeatedly.”

“I don’t do a thing.”

“You have several things.” You put your phone in your drawer. “I’m working,” you said, and Priya turned back to her screen with the expression of someone who had said everything she needed to.

He found you at six-thirteen, slightly later than six and slightly earlier than you’d spent the intervening hours catastrophizing about, and you were in the small corridor outside the analysis suite with your coat on and your bag on and ready to leave, which you’d timed deliberately, because being in motion was easier than being stationary when you were nervous.

“Hey.” He fell into step beside you, naturally, like it was easy.

“Hi.” You kept walking. He kept up.

“You were going to leave,” he said.

“I was going to coincidentally be leaving at this time, yes.”

“Right.”

“I had somewhere to be.”

“Where?” A pause.

“Home.”

“I’ll walk you to your car.”

You glanced at him sideways. He had his hands in his jacket pockets and the expression of someone who had absolutely clocked what you were doing and found it more endearing than annoying, which was honestly a little disarming. The evening was cool with that particular April coolness that couldn’t decide if it was still winter, and the car park was quiet, and he walked beside you with an easy unhurriedness that you found simultaneously calming and destabilizing.

“I wanted to say—” he started.

“You don’t have to—”

“I know I don’t have to.” Patient. Still. “I wanted to.” You closed your mouth.

“Last night wasn’t— I didn’t come in there to make things weird or to make you feel like you had to—” he paused, finding the words. “I just missed talking to you. The actual you. Not the press officer you.”

Something warm moved through your chest and you immediately distrusted it on instinct. “They’re the same person,” you said.

“They’re really not.”

“The press officer me is very competent.”

“She is,” he agreed. “She’s also a bit terrifying.”

You blinked. “I’m terrifying?”

“Not— no, not like—” he looked at you, caught something in your expression, and laughed, properly, that full-face laugh that you’d been cataloguing without permission since February. “You’re not scary terrifying, you’re just very— composed. You walk into a room and you know exactly what every person in it should be doing and you just sort of quietly arrange that without anyone realising and it’s—”

“Terrifying,” you finished.

“Impressive,” he corrected. “I was going to say impressive.”

“You said terrifying first.”

“As a compliment.”

“That’s a strange compliment.”

“You’re a strange person.”

The words landed and you looked at him, ready to feel the sting, and found him already looking at you with something so far from unkind that the sting never arrived. “Okay,” you said, quietly.

“In a good way,” he said, equally quiet.

You reached your car and stopped, and he stopped too, and the car park was empty and still and the sky above Cobham was doing that thing where it couldn’t decide between blue and grey. Somewhere across the car park a door opened and closed and you both glanced over instinctively, two people with the same instinct for discretion, and when you looked back at each other you were both almost-smiling at having done it simultaneously.

“I’m still—” you started. “I’m not very good at this. Any of this. I should probably tell you that upfront so you’re not surprised later when I say something weird.”

“You’ve already said several weird things.”

“That was a warm-up.”

He smiled, full and warm and aimed entirely at you, and your heart did the medically inadvisable thing.

“I think,” he said, “that we just— see how it goes. Quietly. No pressure.”

“Quietly,” you repeated, and something about the word settled something in you; the absence of performance, the permission to just be uncertain without an audience.

“Just us,” he said.

You nodded, slowly and carefully, like you were agreeing to something that mattered. “Okay,” you said. He reached over and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear— just that, light and quick, like it was the most natural thing— and you stood very still and your brain went completely blank in a way that was actually quite restful.

“Goodnight, Y/N,” he said.

“I have forty-seven browser tabs open in my head right now,” you said.

He stared at you. “Sorry,” you said. “That was one of the weird things. You’ve been warned.”

He was laughing as he walked away and you got in your car and sat for a moment and smiled at your steering wheel like an absolute idiot. Forward, you thought, but different this time, lighter. You drove home.

-----

The text came on a Thursday at 4:52 pm, not unusual in itself; you’d been texting for three weeks now, the kind of texting that had started as occasional and quietly become daily without either of you formally acknowledging that it had become daily. Short things mostly, observations, him sending something about training and you replying with something dry about the press implications and him sending back a single laughing emoji that you had, embarrassingly and privately, started to consider a form of affection. This text was different.

where do you live

You stared at it. Why, you sent back, because you were a person who required context.

just tell me the area

that’s not an answer to my question

Y/N

Mason— a pause, and you could almost feel him laughing at his phone—

i want to show you something. tonight if you’re free. what area

You looked at the text for a long moment. The sensible part of your brain —which had been gradually losing authority over the last three weeks but still showed up daily like a disciplined employee— said: ask more questions, get specifics, do not just give a man your postcode because he asked nicely.

Peckham, you sent.

perfect. I’ll send you an address. 7:30

That’s still not an answer

wear something nice

You stared at that for a genuinely unreasonable amount of time.

You almost talked yourself out of it twice— once at 5:30, standing in front of your wardrobe thinking this is insane, you don’t know where you’re going, and once at 6:45 when you were ready, navy dress and hair down, and you caught yourself in the mirror and your brain said this looks like effort and effort felt dangerous, effort felt like a declaration— so you grabbed your coat and left before the thought finished.

The address was a fifteen-minute drive, a street in Peckham you half-knew, quiet and residential, and when you pulled up you sat in your car looking at a small restaurant with its lights low and no sign outside, the kind of place that either didn’t need one or had decided signage was too much commitment. Through the window: candles, dark wood, small tables, the warm amber of a room specifically designed to make people feel like the rest of the world had gone quiet.

You looked at it. Looked at your dress. Looked back at the restaurant. Oh, said something in your chest. Oh, he absolutely did.

He was already inside and you saw him before he saw you —standing to greet you, dark jacket— and for a brief and unguarded second before he knew you were looking, he had an expression on his face that you didn’t have a word for yet. Anticipatory. Almost nervous. Mason Mount, nervous. You filed that away somewhere very safe.

Then he saw you and the expression shifted into something warmer and he said “you came” like he’d actually been unsure, which—

“You gave me forty minutes notice,” you said, sliding into the chair across from him. “I didn’t have time to talk myself out of it.”

“That was intentional.”

“That was manipulative.”

“Strategically timed.”

“Those are the same thing.”

“Are they?”

“I took a module on this—” you stopped. “You know what, never mind. Why is there no sign outside?”

“It’s a private dining room. Friend of a friend runs it, closes the main restaurant on Thursdays, does private bookings.”

You looked around at the low candles on every surface, at something that smelled extraordinary coming from somewhere, at a single table, yours, set properly with actual glassware and soft music from nowhere specific, the kind that existed to fill silence without demanding attention.

“So,” you said, carefully. “There’s no one else here.”

“No.”

“It’s just us.”

“Yes.”

“In a candlelit room.”

“Correct.”

“Mason.” You looked at him with great composure “Is this a date…”

He held your gaze, completely unbothered. “What do you think?”

“I think you should have said that in the text.” “Would you have come?”

A pause.

“…Strategically timed,” you said quietly.

He smiled.

The food arrived in small courses, unhurried, and somewhere in the middle of the second one you forgot to be nervous; not dramatically, just gradually, the nervousness losing its grip like a hand slowly unclenching, and what was underneath it turned out to be something that felt a lot like ease.

You talked, actually talked, not about work or schedules or anything that required a professional filter. He asked about your family and you told him about your mum who sent voice notes that were never under four minutes and your younger brother who you’d taught to cook badly and who had now surpassed you, which was both proud-making and annoying. He told you about growing up in Portsmouth, about being sixteen and terrified and certain he was one bad training session from being sent home, about the version of himself from that era that he wouldn’t fully recognise now.

“You seem very–” you searched for the word. “Settled. In yourself.”

“Now,” he said. “I wasn’t always.”

“What changed?”

He considered it. “Stopped waiting for permission to just be how I am, I think.”

You turned that over quietly. “I’m still waiting,” you said, before you’d decided to say it. “For permission. Or — I don’t know. For it to feel safe enough, maybe. To just —” you moved your hand vaguely, which was not a sentence but communicated something.

“I know,” he said, gently.

“It’s annoying,” you said. “About myself.”

“It’s not.”

“It takes me a long time to–”

“I know.” His voice was patient in that specific way that never felt like tolerance, just actual patience with no timer on it. “I’m not going anywhere.”

The candle between you flickered and your stomach did something long and slow and warm that had nothing to do with the food. He looked at you differently in candlelight, or maybe not differently — maybe just more visible, the way candlelight stripped out all the ambient noise of a space and left only what it chose to illuminate. He looked at you the way you’d been quietly terrified of being looked at, and the difference — the thing that was different from every other time someone had looked at you and made you want to disappear — was that it didn’t feel like an assessment. It felt like recognition. Like someone looking at something they’d been looking for.

You picked up your glass to give your hands something to do. “Stop,” you said.

“Stop what.”

“Looking at me like that.”

“Like what.”

“You know like what.”

He didn’t stop. He leaned back in his chair with the particular ease of someone completely comfortable in their own decisions and looked at you across the candlelight and said: “No.”

“No?”

“No. You’re going to have to get used to it.”

“That’s very presumptuous.”

“Probably.”

“I could leave.”

“Your coat’s on my side of the table.”

You looked. It was. You’d put it there yourself when you sat down. “I did that.”

“You did.”

“That was an accident.”

“Sure.”

You looked at him for a long moment — this person who had walked into a media room twenty minutes early and noticed you talking to a microphone cable and had apparently decided, quietly and without fanfare, to keep noticing — and felt something shift in you that was past the forty-seven tabs and past the wall and past the careful practiced fine, something that felt, cautiously, like being glad.

“This is a very good restaurant,” you said, because you needed to say something that wasn’t the thing you were actually thinking.

“I’ll tell him you said so.”

“The food is genuinely excellent.”

“Y/N.”

“The ambiance is also —”

“Y/N.”

“What.”

He was smiling. Soft, private, just for this room. “You’re doing the thing.”

“I have several things apparently.”

“The deflecting with commentary thing.”

“I don’t —” you stopped. “Okay I do that.”

“I know.”

Silence. The good kind. Full kind.

“I’m glad I came,” you said quietly. The truest available sentence.

His smile changed slightly. Warmer. Something in it that made you look at the candle for a moment because looking at him directly felt like a lot.

“Yeah?” he said.

“Don’t make it weird,” you said.

“I’m not making it weird.”

“You’re doing the face.”

“What face.”

“The — looking face. The one that makes my —” you stopped abruptly.

He waited. Very deliberately waited.

“Finish that sentence,” he said.

“Absolutely not.”

“Y/N —”

“The food is excellent,” you said firmly. “I’d like dessert.”

He laughed, full and delighted, the kind that meant you’d given him something he was going to keep, and you pressed your lips together against your own smile and looked at the menu with great concentration and felt, in the warm candlelit quiet of a room that was just yours, something bloom open in your chest that you didn’t have the words for yet, but you thought, maybe, you had time to find them.

Time did a thing at the restaurant, moving too fast in the parts where he was saying something that made you forget to monitor your own expression and too slow in the parts where he looked at you across the candle and you needed somewhere else to put your eyes, and by the time you both registered that the restaurant had gone completely quiet and the friend-of-a-friend had very politely stopped coming out of the kitchen, it was eleven seventeen.

“Eleven seventeen,” you said, looking at your phone with the specific horror of a person who had a 7 am press briefing.

“Eleven seventeen,” he confirmed, with considerably less horror.

“I have a 7 am .”

“I have a 6 am.” You stared at him. “And you’re not–”

“I’ve been here the whole time too,” he pointed out.

“Yes but you —” you gestured at him vaguely. “You seem unbothered.”

“I’m very bothered,” he said. “I’m just quiet about it.”

You stood up and reached for your coat –on his side of the table still, where you had put it accidentally on purpose three hours ago and neither of you had mentioned again– and he stood at the same time and reached it first and just held it open for you, naturally, like it was nothing, and you stood for a moment looking at it and then turned around and put it on and your brain said he’s right there and your body said yes I know and you said nothing and walked toward the door.

Outside: rain. Not light rain, not the fine invisible Parisian rain from the coach — proper, committed April rain, coming down in sheets across the empty Peckham street, turning the pavement to mirror, bouncing off the roofs of parked cars with a sound like applause. You stood in the doorway looking at it.

“Your car’s round the corner,” he said, from behind you.

“I know where my car is.”

“You’ll be soaked in about four seconds.”

“I have a coat.”

“It’s not a waterproof coat.”

You looked at your coat. He was correct; it was an aesthetic coat, a coat for looking put-together in mild weather, not a coat for this. “I’ll be fine.”

“I’ll drive you.”

“You don’t have to —”

“My car’s right there.” He nodded at a black car parked directly outside. “Yours is round the corner in this.”

Logic. Infuriating logic. “Fine,” you said.

The six steps to his car still got your shoulders wet, and he knew the way without being told, which you registered and chose not to examine. The city at nearly half eleven was a different thing: quieter, amber-lit, rain making everything soft and blurred at the edges, and you sat in the passenger seat watching London slide past and felt the pleasant and dangerous warmth of someone who had eaten well and talked for hours and was now in a small enclosed space with a person they were — you looked at your hands.

Careful, said the sensible part of your brain, which had made a full comeback. Oh shut up, said the rest of you, which was new.

“Left here.” He turned left. “And then the next right. The building with the blue door.” He pulled up.

It was a converted Victorian townhouse split into three flats, yours on the top floor with big windows and high ceilings and the kind of bones that people used words like character to describe, and you were quietly proud of it in a way you rarely told anyone.

“This is yours?” he said.

“Top floor.”

He looked at the building, then back at you. “This suits you.”

“It does?”

“Big windows,” he said simply, and you didn’t know what that meant and also understood it exactly and decided not to pursue it.

“Well,” you said. “Thank you for dinner. And the drive. You should get home, you’ve got the six–”

“It’s still raining,” he said.

“I’ll go quickly.”

“Or I could come up.”

The words landed in the car. You looked at him. He looked at you, his expression even and open, nothing in it that was pushing, just offering — like he’d put something on the table and was waiting to see what you did with it. Every sensible instinct you had lined up and said: say goodnight, go inside, this is the right place to stop.

“It’s quite messy,” you said.

“Is it?” “Not… not chaotically messy. Organised messy. There’s a system.”

“I believe you.”

“I’m also out of decent tea. I have one kind and it’s not very good.”

“That’s fine.”

“And there’s a plant in the hallway that looks dead but isn’t, before you say anything.”

“I wasn’t going to say anything about your plant.”

You looked at him for a moment longer. Then you got out of the car.

The flat was warm and smelled like the candle you’d left burning low on the kitchen counter, which you were privately grateful for because it meant the space had atmosphere you hadn’t had to engineer in the last thirty seconds. He came in behind you and stopped in the hallway and you watched him take it in: the high ceilings, the big windows running with rain, the warm lamplight, the bookshelves covering most of one wall in the living room, organised by colour because you’d gone through a phase and then committed to it. The plant in the hallway, which was fine and thriving and he glanced at but honourably said nothing about.

And the photos. The wall beside the kitchen was a gallery of frames, different sizes, no particular grid system, just things you’d loved enough to print and put up: your mum at the beach, your brother at graduation, a print of a painting you’d bought at a market in Lisbon on your first solo holiday aged twenty-four, terrified and proud of yourself, and a strip of photo booth pictures from a work Christmas party two years ago where Priya had dragged you in and you were laughing in every frame, genuinely laughing, the kind you couldn’t perform.

He drifted toward them and you filled the kettle because you needed something to do with your hands, watching him from the kitchen as he took his time, looking at each one with that same quiet attention he gave everything, and he stopped at the photo booth strip.

“This is you,” he said.

“Astute.”

“You’re actually laughing.”

“I do laugh.”

“I know. I just haven’t —” he paused. “I’ve heard you almost laugh. Where you stop it.”

You looked at the kettle. “Priya pushed me into a photo booth. I didn’t have time to stop it.”

“I like it.”

“The photo or the laughing.”

“Both.”

He turned from the photos and looked at you across the kitchen and the flat was small enough that across the kitchen wasn’t very far, and the rain was loud on the windows and the candle was still going and the kettle hadn’t boiled yet and —

“The tea really is not good,” you said. “I should warn you again. It’s some kind of —”

“Y/N.”

“— herbal thing that Priya left, I don’t actually know what’s in it —”

“Y/N.”

“— could be anything really, might be mostly —”

“Hey.” He’d moved, not a lot but enough that he was in the kitchen now, close enough that the forty-seven tabs all crashed simultaneously. “Look at me.”

You looked at him, which was a bad idea and an immediate regret, because he was looking at you the way he’d been looking at you all evening in the candlelight, the way that felt like recognition, and he was close and the rain was loud and you had genuinely just talked about herbal tea for thirty seconds to avoid this exact moment —

“I’m going to kiss you,” he said, quiet and straightforward, like he was simply providing information.

“Okay,” you said, very calmly. He leaned in. “Wait —” you said, and he stopped. “Sorry, I just —” you pressed your lips together and your heart was absolutely rioting, “I just want to say, for the record, that I’m normally a lot more composed than I’ve been the last few months, and this whole situation has genuinely been —”

“Y/N.”

“— a lot for me specifically and I don’t want you to think that I’m always —”

“Y/N.”

“— like this because I’m actually quite —”

You grabbed the front of his jacket. And kissed him.

It was not graceful, the first half-second, your timing slightly off and both of you adjusting, and then it was — warm and unhurried and tasting of the dessert wine from the restaurant, his hand coming up to your jaw like he’d thought about where to put it, the rain coming down outside and the candle burning low on the counter and the kettle boiling and clicking off and neither of you noticing.

When you pulled back you kept your eyes closed for a moment, and then opened them, and he was right there looking at you with that look, worse now somehow, more of it.

“For the record,” he said, quiet and a little rough at the edges, “you’re always composed.”

“I just talked about herbal tea for thirty seconds to avoid kissing you.”

“Composed and thorough.”

“That’s not what thorough means.”

“No?”

“No, thorough means —” you stopped. “I’m doing it again.”

“I know.” He was smiling, soft and private and just for this kitchen. “I don’t mind.”

His thumb moved, just slightly, against your jaw, and you were still holding his jacket, and outside the rain kept going, loud and committed and completely indifferent to the two of you standing in your kitchen at eleven fifty-three, figuring out something that had been waiting since February in a media room with a broken microphone.

“The tea really is terrible,” you said, very quietly.

“I’ll bring some tomorrow,” he said, equally quiet, and something in his eyes was warm and certain and patient, like someone who had decided and wasn’t revisiting it.

You nodded, once, small. “Okay,” you said.

And you smiled — not the almost-smile, not the stopped one, the real one, the Priya-photo-booth one — and he saw it and kept it like it was something worth keeping.

The candle burned. The rain came down.

Sure, it helped that you busied yourself with school work and took every possible opportunity to ensure you wouldn’t think about him, but that aching weight that had been residing on your chest since February began to lighten. 

You took on the role as one of the Slytherin Prefects during Sixth Year, at the beginning of the second term. It was another activity that would keep you busy, so you accepted it happily.

You spent the first few weeks patrolling the castle with Regulus Black, and while you appreciated that his withering stare would guarantee no one would cause any trouble, his preference for silence left you alone with your thoughts for hours. 

You tried making small talk here and there, but he would merely reply with nods or a slight up/downturn of his lips. 

There was only one evening where you held a conversation with him that lasted longer than two minutes, and it couldn’t have started more horribly:

“What ever happened between you and Potter?” 

Regulus had asked you it in a tone that was surprisingly gentle. 

You nearly pinched a nerve with how fast your head whipped over. “What? Why do you think something happened?”

“I have Astronomy with him, and for whatever reason he believes him and I are friends,” he began. “Are you aware of how long he’s able to talk?”

“He doesn’t mean any harm by it,” you supplied. 

“It’s infuriating,” he corrected. “Especially since so much of his one-sided conversation is spent discussing you.”

You blanched. “What? What does he say?”

“He mostly tells me that you two haven’t been talking much frequently. I suppose he expects me to drop some sly comment encouraging you to go see him, since he knows we’re both Prefects.”

“How does he know that?”

“The giant pins on our robes might be a tip off,” he deadpanned.

“Oh.”

He took a deep breath and gave you a calculated sidelong glance. “So, what happened between you and Mr. Golden Boy?”

“You don’t seriously call him that.”

He smirked. “I’ll stop if you answer the question.”

You rolled your eyes. “You’ve spent the past few weeks ignoring me during our shifts, you know that, right? And now you’re asking me for details about my break up?”

“It’s not like I have anyone to tell.”

“What’s to stop you from blabbing to him during Astronomy?”

“My disdain for him,” he replied curtly.

“No one disdains James,” you said quietly. “Not even you.” 

It was your turn to give him a calculated stare.

“I’m just curious,” he muttered through a sigh, and it almost sounded acquiescent. 

It was an unfamiliar look for him. Everything about him was always so unapologetic–he was like Sirius in that sense. You had realized, then, that the two brothers weren’t as dissimilar as you believed them to be. 

Regulus in particular would never admit the true intention behind his questions. He was doing it then, but you and him were alike in that sense, too: you were both calculating. You were fluent in reading body language and unmatched in your ability to get people to open up. Even Regulus, a boy who so many deemed cryptic, was always easy for you to understand. This was his attempt at befriending you. 

Sirius seldom talks about his childhood, but you know enough to comprehend that growing up with Orion and Walburga as your parents was anything but nurturing. You can see it in everything Regulus does, and it’s why he has no issue letting people dump their emotions onto him but wouldn’t dare to show a hint of vulnerability himself. 

Unlike Sirius, Regulus hasn’t found his James. Even at age eleven, James was able to break through the emotional walls that Sirius had spent his entire childhood carefully crafting. Their friendship told Sirius that love wasn’t conditional–he didn’t have to be good, he just had to be himself. James was–is–the brother that he never got to experience with Regulus. 

To Regulus emotions are weapons, and you can never know people well enough to predict what they will do with them. There is always a chance that the feelings you trust someone with can be used as ammunition against you. It is because of that slight chance that Regulus has learned to bottle his emotions up.

It’s the same reason you bottle yours up, too. 

“I couldn’t be the person he needed me to be,” you finally relented, keeping your answer short.

“That’s a bit dramatic for a teenage relationship.”

You scoffed. “Thanks for that input.”

Silence lingered between you two briefly. Students’ shoes clacked on stone floors, accelerating when they saw Regulus was on duty.

“Does he hate me?” you asked in a meek voice.

“No, Bambi, he doesn’t.” He looked down at his shoes. 

The tone of his voice made you feel stupid for asking the question in the first place, and while Regulus was a master at hiding his feelings, your face always betrayed you. He had looked over at you and you could tell by the slight furrow of his brow that he realized he had been too harsh. 

It was as if he had crept into your mind and seen the parallels between you and him, the ones that you had drawn just moments ago. And contrary to popular belief, Regulus isn’t heartless. In fact, he prayed everyday that he stopped feeling everything so deeply. He realized, then, that you probably did too. 

So he had done his best to comfort you, though it was very Regulus in fashion: “Quite the opposite, in fact.”

Short and to the point. But it worked. 

“Oh,” you had hummed, and you felt your shoulders begin to loosen.  

A while later, you had turned to him again. 

“Did you call me Bambi?”

He just chuckled. 

Seventh Year: September. 

It’s the dawn of your final year at Hogwarts, and you haven’t been able to categorize and label your feelings surrounding that fact. 

On the one hand, you’re looking forward to a life without uniforms, trudging through a massive castle and moving stairs, and spending nights tucked in the library cramming for exams. 

On the other, you can’t begin to imagine a life without all of those things, and without all of the people that have made those walks through the castle and midnight study sessions enjoyable. 

It seems that your pondering has left you staring out the window of the Hogwarts Express, dazed and with a concerned look on your face.

“You alright? You look worried,” your boyfriend, Thomas, says as he nudges your leg. 

“Yeah, I'm alright. Just thinking,” you reply half-heartedly. 

You and him became “official” at the end of your sixth year, and while it’s felt like it’s been ages since then, you’re not sure at what point you’re supposed to start opening up. It’s been four months, and surprisingly you didn’t bolt when he said he loved you. It was over the phone just a few days ago as you both caught up about packing for the new term and classes you’re excited to take. It slipped out of his mouth as he was saying goodnight, and you both had gone dead silent: him out of embarrassment, and you out of trepidation. Before you could talk yourself out of it, you told him you loved him and hung up. 

“I think I’m gonna go visit Lily and all them,” you decide suddenly. 

That’s a half-lie. 

“Didn’t really get to talk to them all summer.” 

That’s a full lie.

The name ‘James’ has become a bit of a sore subject between you and Thomas. At its most basic level, it can be condensed down to house rivalry: Slytherins and Gryffindors have never gotten along well, and Thomas is prouder than most about his Slytherin status. 

But the tension runs deeper than that, and you both know it. It hasn’t been discussed, but it’s not difficult to understand. Being friends with your ex has never ended well, for anyone, ever. 

So, you’ve found yourself speaking in these half-truths. You assume Lily will be sitting with James and the rest of the Marauders, so it isn’t a total lie to be saying you’re seeing Lily. But you have spoken to them. Frequently. You and Lily had called each other everyday over the summer break, and besides her your most frequent caller had been James. You didn’t want to admit to Thomas, or yourself, that you and James had talked more than you and your boyfriend had all summer. 

You slip out of the compartment without protest from Thomas and make your way down the aisle of the train. It doesn’t take long for you to find the Marauders’ compartment–they can’t sit in silence if someone paid them to. 

You tap at the glass, not wanting to spook them and disrupt the conversation that has them all nearly doubled over in laughter. The scene couldn’t be more different from the silence you’d been sitting in. 

“Not disturbing, am I?” You ask, poking your head in. 

Five heads whip around to face you: Lily, Sirius, Remus, Peter, and Mary all staring at you with growing smiles. 

Your eyes search for a boy with a head of messy brown hair and a perpetual smile. You falter. No James.

Lily springs up from her seat and crawls over tangled legs to throw her arms around you. 

“Finally!” She squeals, squeezing you tighter. “Where the hell have you been?”

You laugh into a sea of red hair. “I was sitting with Thomas.”

“Oh!” She replies in the fake-chipper tone of hers. You’ve been friends with her long enough to know when she’s lying. 

She removes herself from you and returns to her seat, but the feeling of the compartment has shifted. Palpably. 

“What?” You ask. 

Sirius gives Remus a pointed expression, narrowing his eyes and slightly furrowing his brows.

You sigh, stepping fully into the overly crowded compartment and shutting the doors behind you. 

“Can someone just spit it out?”

“What do you mean?” Peter says, staring into his lap. 

“I said I was sitting with Thomas and you all went silent. I thought we liked Thomas?”

“We do!” Peter says. 

“For someone without a pulse,” Sirius mumbles through a “cough”.

Remus snickers into his palm, and you’re still standing there, dumbfounded. You thought you’d done the greatest job at keeping in contact with everyone over the last three months, but it’s become evident that everyone–and everything–has changed. They’ve all formed their opinions about your relationship; had their private discussions. And you weren’t a part of it. 

“Nice job, asshole. Now she’s doing the face,” Mary hisses, pinching Sirius’s thigh. 

“What face?” You ask, swallowing back your worries. 

“Nothing, love,” Lily says soothingly. She pushes Remus onto the floor, claiming his legs are too long (which they are), and effectively freeing up a spot for you. Gently, she takes your hand and pulls you over. 

“Do you guys not like Thomas?” You ask with more vulnerability than you’d hoped. 

“I think we’re all just a little worried,” Remus admits. “He seems like a bit of a dick.”

You frown. “You guys just don’t know him.”

“Maybe,” he concedes, deciding it best to not start up such a heavy conversation in the train compartment, of all places. 

Ten minutes pass before you excuse yourself to the bathroom, where you end up crying into the sleeve of your shirt for twenty minutes. You return to your boyfriend after splashing cold water on your face.

“How’re your friends?”

“They’re fine,” you reply as you take a seat across from him. 

He narrows his eyes, but you ignore it. “Everything alright?”

You nod. “Everything’s fine. Just fine.”

He doesn’t pry. He never does. 

You two sit in silence for the rest of the train ride. 

Seventh Year: October

“I’m surprised you’re agreeing to be seen with me outside of our Prefect duties. It seems my womanly wiles have worked on you,” you whisper to Regulus, grinning. 

He glares at you in return which means he found it funny. “You’re tolerable.”

“Now, I think that’s the kindest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

In sync, you both reach into your bookbags and lay out your study materials on the table. 

By the end of Sixth year he had convinced you to take Astronomy II with him in the fall, and for whatever reason you believed him when he said it’d be fun. You want to throttle him for ever suggesting the idea in the first place. 

On Monday’s and Wednesday’s you have to hike up to the Astronomy tower. At 11 P.M. Every time you meet Regulus outside of the Slytherin common room, you want to slap the shit-eating grin off his face. 

“I hate you for making me think this class would be fun,” you say, looking down at your stack of notes woefully. 

He shrugs. “I needed a friend to be there with me. Everyone else is a fucking moron.”

Your eyes shoot up. “What I’m hearing is you not only consider me your friend, but smart.”

“...Bloody hell.”

In the back corner of the library, you and Regulus study and work for the next three hours. You always make him check over your work–he has an odd understanding when it comes to the stars–and you feel very proud of yourself when he’s found no errors on your paper. 

Thomas had stopped by earlier, sneaking scones and coffee in for the two of you to pick on as you worked. He had wanted you to meet him in the Great Hall for dinner, but you’d told him that you’d probably still be studying by then and didn’t want to keep him waiting. Regulus had given you a curious look, and since then you’ve been waiting for him to bring it up.

“Question,” he chirps. 

You sigh knowingly. “Yes?”

“Why’d you blow Thomas off?”

“Because we’re studying?”

“You knew we were going to get through all of this before dinner. So, why’d you blow him off?”

You crack your knuckles, looking down at your lap with a guilty smile. “Is it bad to say that I didn’t want to have dinner with him?”

“Not necessarily,” he says, his voice free of judgment. 

“I just feel like I have to watch what I say around him.”

“He’s not Mother Theresa,” he scoffs.

“...James came up the other night.” 

“Ah.”

“He asked how my day was, and I’d been with James for most of it because we had to gather ingredients for our potion in Hogsmeade.”

“And I’m assuming you two ended up doing more than just getting ingredients?”

“It was just lunch. And hot chocolate.” You swallow. “And book shopping.”

He winces. “Remember that thing I said earlier about you being intelligent? I retract my statement.”

“Thomas and I got into an argument,” you say. “Of course.”

“And you sat there silently, I assume?” The corners of his lips pull up into a cheeky smile that silently says “I know you”  as he rests his chin on the palm of his hand. His resemblance to Sirius is uncanny in that pose, but you don’t dare say that. 

“That’s not important,” you brush off. “What is important is that he asked me to do a couple’s Halloween costume with him.” 

“Oh, dear God.”

You nod grimly. “Leia and Han Solo.”

“I’ll come to the party if you agree to let me take a picture of you,” he quips. 

“Fuck off.”

Seventh Year: Halloween

It is an indisputable truth that Gryffindor hosts the party for Halloween every year. Of course, the Marauders have only solidified that fact during their time at Hogwarts, having been a part of the planning process since their second year. It would’ve been during their first year if the four boys hadn’t been in detention on Halloween night, something that they still lament about six years later. 

Following the sound of A Night At The Opera, you and Lily walk into the Gryffindor common room to find the Marauders hard at work. James is teetering on a ladder fixing streamers to the ceiling, Peter is setting up the sound system, Remus is hauling alcohol up to the dorm, and Sirius is struggling to move furniture across the room. 

“Who’s that?” James calls out.

“The usual suspects,” Lily answers. 

“How are preparations going?” You ask, walking over to stabilize the ladder James is on.

“This is going to be the best one yet,” Sirius promises. 

James descends down the ladder, landing right in front of you. “How does it look?”

You survey his work with a critical gaze but turn back to him with a proud smile. “You’ve outdone yourself,” you beam, patting him on the arm. 

He’s thankful that his face is already red from the sweater and jeans he’s in because your touch makes his cheeks warm. “I’m glad you’re here, actually. We need to check on our potion, I think.”

“Oh,” you hum. “I thought you went earlier?”

He shakes his head. “Forgot. Been preoccupied with decorating the entire day.”

“You forgot?” You sigh dramatically and snatch your bookbag from off the ground. “If we fail this assignment because you forgot to check–”

“–You’ll kill me, I know,” he finishes for you. “Now come on.”

“Have him back by five! He needs to help me with the furniture!” You hear Sirius bellow as you two exit through the portrait. You both laugh under your breath at the boy’s antics. 

“Are you excited for tonight?” James asks as you head down to the dungeons.

“I suppose, yeah,” you reply, cringing at the thought of your costume. You haven’t been able to stop thinking about it, because not only do you hate the idea of couples costumes, you hate Star Wars. 

James gives you a sideways glance. “You ‘suppose’? What’s going on?”

You laugh nervously, the sound echoing through the corridor leading into the Potions classroom. You walk over to yours and James’s station, plopping your bag down on the table and taking a seat on the stool. 

“I just don’t like my costume, which I know is a bit superficial. But it’s bugging me.”

He frowns and leans his hip against the table, his body facing you. “It’s not superficial. You just want to feel confident, yeah?” He assures you. “Who are you going as?”

You couldn’t get the forlorn expression off of your face if you tried. “Thomas wants to do a matching thing, and he wants me to be Leia.”

You wait for a chuckle, a smirk, some sort of quip about the whole thing. But no such thing comes. His confusion only deepens, it seems, as he takes a deep breath. He looks up as if trying to find the right words, then looks back over at you.

“You hate Star Wars,” he murmurs. To you, his tone sounds mildly…disappointed? Perplexed? Whatever it is, it makes your heart drop into your stomach in two seconds flat. 

“I know,” you agree quietly. 

“Explain it to me, then. Because to me it sounds like you’re only doing this to make him happy.”

“Well, yeah,” you admit without hesitation. No use lying at this point. 

He scoffs. Scoffs. Turns around to tend to the potion–stirs it mindlessly. He’s biting his tongue. 

“He doesn’t even know you,” he snaps in a low voice. “And I’m sorry if this hurts your feelings, but I don’t know what the hell you’re doing with him in the first place.”

“I’m sorry?” You manage to say, taken completely off guard. 

“He’s a jerk! He doesn’t make an effort to get to know you. And I know so because I know you, and all of this shit about Star Wars and matching costumes–it’s like you’re a completely different person around him.”

“Why’re you so pissed about this?” You argue, getting angrier now. Leave it to James to know how to get under your skin. 

“Because he’s walking all over you and you’re just letting him! Maybe you think it’s silly, but you shouldn’t have to put on a stupid costume from a movie you hate just to make him happy.”

“I know that!”

“So why’re you doing it?” He shoots back. Not yelling–he’d never raise his voice towards you–but his message is crystal clear all the same. 

“To stop an argument!” You finally spit out. “Him and I were in an argument–about you, funnily enough–and I knew that agreeing to this would be the only thing to make it go away.”

He turns back towards you now, curiosity piqued. “You were fighting about me?”

“It’s not the first time, actually,” you tack on in a mildly sarcastic tone, deciding to lay everything out on the table. “Truth is, he’s always picking arguments about you and me. He thinks there’s still something between us and that you’re trying to ‘steal me away,’ or some other shit like that. And I’m so sick of having the same conversation with him that I just needed to do something to…”

“To make him shut up?”

“Yes.” You bite back a smile; he knows you too well. 

He grabs a stool and pulls it up next to you, and you both pretend to ignore how your knees knock together. Neither of you moves, either.

He takes a deep breath and lets his shoulders loosen on the exhale. He doesn’t want to fight–he doesn’t want to do anything that resembles your current boyfriend. 

“Sometimes I wonder…or feel like–” He looks away again like he did before, his bottom lip catching in his teeth. 

“Do you ever feel like there’s something there still?”

Of all directions you were expecting this conversation to go, you never in a million years could’ve anticipated he would ask you that. You assumed it would remain something mutually understood, but unspoken, between you two. 

You’ve thought about it yourself many times before–you were thinking about it the entire time you were in Hogsmeade together. It has never been lost on you that he always tries to extend your time together by making pointless conversation or claiming he needs your help with something, and how you go along with it every single time. 

You spent approximately two seconds lying to yourself about why you always wanted to be around him; you knew it was never anything friendly. When it came to Thomas, you often felt relieved when plans fell through because something came up. You realized that you liked him so much over the summer because your relationship was purely phone calls, never actually seeing each other. With James, though, you could be with him for eight hours and never run out of things to talk about. There is nothing 'friendly’ about your relationship with him. You don’t think there ever was. 

Sometimes you swear you know James better than you know yourself, but then he asks questions like, “Do you ever feel like there’s something there still?” and you’re reminded all over again that there’s so much of him you’ve yet to learn. 

“...I can’t–You can’t ask me that, James,” you nearly whisper.

He sits up straighter, like you’ve caught his attention. “Why not?”

You glare at him. “You know exactly why not. Because of Thomas and because of everything I’ve just told you.”

“I don’t give a shit about Thomas right now,” he immediately retorts. “This isn’t about him, it’s about you and me. Now, please, just answer the question.”

The words roll off of your tongue in an almost primal sense, being uttered so instantly that your usually logical brain doesn’t get an opportunity to withhold them: “Yes. Yes, I do.”

The feeling that lingers in you now is almost cathartic–you feel physically lighter. Getting something off your chest has an entirely new (or, new to you) meaning. The absurdism of the situation–admitting you still have feelings for James, the potion rumbling in the cauldron beside you, your looming Star Wars costume–has now left you holding back laughter. What else is there to do in this situation, if not laugh?

And before you know it, James has joined you in this fit of giggles. Not because he finds anything about your admission particularly funny, but because he has no other way to express his sheer happiness about it. Usually he goes to the quidditch pitch to blow off steam but Sirius would have his head if he bailed on decorating the common room. Even then, there’s no other place he’d rather be right now than here with you in the Potion’s classroom, both of you with aching ribcages and practically leaning on each other to prevent either of you from falling over in laughter. 

What you’re not aware of, though, is that he has spent the better part of (all of) the time since your break up thinking about you. You replay in his mind constantly, and no amount of reminders that you treated him poorly have made his feelings for you dissipate. He tried moving on, but he found himself unable to stop comparing whatever girl he was with to you. He’s not unaware of the fact that there is still a chance of you bolting, like you did before. And it’d be even harder now, knowing that you still have feelings for him, to see you run into Thomas’s arms instead of his. 

He wants desperately to ask you where this leaves the two of you, what he should expect or if this changes things with Thomas. But he knows from prior experience that pushing you for answers too quickly will only ruin the progress he’s just made. He doesn’t want to delude himself into thinking that Thomas has remedied all the issues that plagued your relationship with him in fifth year and that you’re now able to have such conversations. 

The laughter between you two fades into a comfortable quiet. Even you, normally a nervous talker, don’t feel compelled to fill the silence. 

He notices that you aren’t twisting your hands together or cracking your knuckles–things that would go unnoticed by others, but never by him. He’s always paid attention to the smallest shifts in your demeanor; he wonders if you’re aware of how much he has studied you. 

“You’re surprisingly calm,” he notes.

You smile. “I was actually just thinking the same thing.”

“And that’s a good thing?” He ensures. 

“I think it is, yeah.”

He hums. “Good.”

When you look over at him, he’s already looking at you with a soft smile. 

let me know your thoughts pretty please! i realize now that this doesn't really talk about james's inner monologue as much as reader's so lmk if you'd want to see more of that <3

tags: @eviesletters , @rishtish , @str4wb3hrry , @kingoveverything