You huffed under your breath, gripping the heavy crate of practice Bludgers tighter as you trudged toward the equipment shed.

James was beside you, carrying the other half, his usual, infuriating grin still plastered across his face despite having spent the last two hours barking orders at the team.

“Y’know,” he said, effortlessly adjusting his grip like the crate weighed nothing, “if you weren’t so busy glaring at me during practice, maybe you’d actually manage to listen to the strategy I was explaining.”

You shot him a glare that could have set his broom on fire. “Oh, sorry, Captain. Next time I’ll be sure to hang onto every brilliant word that comes out of your mouth.”

James just laughed, completely unaffected, his hazel eyes bright with amusement. “That’s all I ask.”

You groaned, shaking your head as you reached the shed. He had this way of getting under your skin—like an annoying little itch you couldn’t scratch. It wasn’t just the fact that he was a talented player or a natural leader or that he made Quidditch look so damn easy.

No. It was the fact that he knew all of this, and he enjoyed pushing your buttons about it.

The two of you set the crate down inside the shed, the worn wood creaking under the weight. You turned to grab the last few Quaffles, and James, ever the show-off, tossed his into the storage bin without even looking.

“That was luck,” you muttered.

James smirked. “That was skill, darling.”

You rolled your eyes, about to retort, when—

Click.

The sound was so quiet that it almost didn’t register. It wasn’t until you turned back toward the door, reaching to grab another broom, that you realized it had swung shut behind you.

You frowned.

James frowned too, as if the same realization was dawning on him at the exact same moment.

Slowly, you reached for the handle and twisted it.

It didn’t budge.

You twisted harder.

Still nothing.

There was a beat of silence.

James blinked. “Did you just—?”

“It’s locked,” you said flatly.

James let out a nervous chuckle. “That’s funny.”

You turned to face him, arms crossed. “Yeah. Hilarious.”

Another pause.

Then—like the absolute idiot that he was—James reached for the door handle himself, as if that would make a difference. He twisted. Pushed. Pulled.

Nothing.

He let out a sheepish cough. “Okay. So it’s… properly locked.”

You stared at him, unamused. “Brilliant deduction, Potter.”

“Well, no need to panic. Just grab your wand and—”

You narrowed your eyes at him.

James stopped.

You saw it—the exact second he realized.

“No,” he said, his voice dropping into something close to horror. “No, no, no—tell me you have your wand.”

You didn’t answer.

“Tell me one of us brought their wand.”

Silence.

His face fell.

“Oh, bloody hell,” he groaned, running a hand through his already-messy hair.

You let out a slow breath, pinching the bridge of your nose. “We left them in the locker room.”

“Because Quidditch robes don’t have pockets,” he finished, nodding grimly.

More silence.

Then, James turned to you, a half-smile tugging at his lips. “I mean… at least we have each other?”

You deadpanned. “I’m going to kill you.”

His grin widened. “That would be counterproductive.”

You groaned, slumping against the wall of the shed. “This is your fault.”

James raised his eyebrows. “My fault?”

“You’re the Captain. That makes everything automatically your fault.”

He scoffed. “That’s not how it works.”

“Well, I wouldn’t know, because I’m not Captain.”

James let out a dramatic sigh. “Are you still salty about that?”

You glared at him. “I hope someone finds us in here tomorrow.”

James just laughed.

And, Merlin help you, you hated how much you liked the sound of it.

Because for all your irritation, for all your sharp words and glares and gritted teeth… you didn’t actually hate James Potter. Not even a little.

And that was the real problem.

James stretched his arms behind his head, utterly unconcerned about the fact that you were well and truly stuck. You, on the other hand, were pacing a tight line along the cramped space of the shed, trying to think of a way out.

“Maybe if we both threw our weight against the door at the same time, we could—”

“Shatter the entire thing?” James cut in, amused. “Brilliant idea. McGonagall would love that one.”

You whirled on him, scowling. “You got a better plan, Captain?”

James, to his credit, pretended to think about it. “Not really. But if we are stuck here, we might as well make the most of it.”

You gave him a deeply unimpressed look. “And how exactly do you suggest we do that?”

James smirked, leaning lazily against the wall like this was all just a minor inconvenience, like you weren’t actually trapped inside a tiny wooden shed with only old broomsticks and deflated Quaffles for company. “Well,” he said, voice infuriatingly casual, “we could always sit and have a nice chat.”

You let out an exaggerated groan. “I’d rather take my chances with the door.”

“Come on,” James said, tilting his head at you. “I’m trying to be civil.”

You shot him a glare but begrudgingly slumped against the opposite wall, arms crossed.

“Alright, since you’re so interested in chatting,” you said, voice thick with sarcasm, “why don’t you enlighten me? What is it, exactly, that makes you so insufferable?”

James laughed, bright and easy. “Dunno. It’s a talent, I suppose.”

You rolled your eyes. “You would think that.”

He grinned, looking far too pleased with himself. But then, to your surprise, the amusement in his expression softened just a fraction.

“Alright,” he said, a little more serious now. “Your turn. What is it, exactly, that makes you so mad at me?”

You scoffed. “Oh, where to begin?”

James just raised his eyebrows, waiting.

You hesitated.

Because, really—what was it?

What was it that made your blood boil every time he smirked at you? What was it that made you grind your teeth when he swooped past you on his broom, looking like some Quidditch poster boy? What was it that made you so incredibly bitter about him being Captain, when, deep down, you knew he was actually pretty damn good at it?

You cleared your throat, shifting uncomfortably. “You’re just… you,” you said finally, though even you knew it was a weak answer.

James hummed. “Right. And that means…?”

“You’re arrogant. You’re annoying. You think you’re the greatest thing to ever happen to Quidditch.”

He grinned. “I am the greatest thing to ever happen to Quidditch.”

You gave him a look. “See? That. That right there.”

James laughed, but his hazel eyes stayed fixed on you, sharp and searching, like he was seeing something beyond your words. Like he knew there was more to it.

And the worst part? He wasn’t wrong.

James leaned in slightly, his grin never faltering. “You know, I think you secretly like it.”

You snorted. “Like what?”

“The way I get under your skin.” He tilted his head, watching you closely, like he was trying to read you. “The way I push your buttons.”

Your stomach did an annoying little flip. You ignored it. “Oh, please.”

James smirked. “You wouldn’t glare at me so much if you didn’t care.”

A silence stretched between you, not quite tense but not entirely comfortable either. The shed was small—too small—and now that you weren’t moving around, you were painfully aware of how close the two of you were.

James must have noticed it too, because his smirk softened, something flickering in his hazel eyes. “Listen,” he said, a little quieter, “if this is about Quidditch—about me being Captain—I didn’t take it to spite you.”

You frowned. “I never said you did.”

James gave you a knowing look. “You didn’t have to.”

You looked away. Because, maybe he had a point.

Maybe it wasn’t just about the title. Maybe it was the fact that when McGonagall had announced James as Captain, your heart had twisted in a way you hadn’t expected. Because you had worked so hard, and yet—James had gotten it without even breaking a sweat. Like everything else.

And maybe it stung because James—golden, charming, ridiculously talented James—had always been just one step ahead of you.

You exhaled, crossing your arms tightly. “I know you didn’t take it to spite me,” you admitted, voice quieter than before. “It’s just… frustrating.”

James watched you, something unreadable in his gaze. Then, after a beat, his mouth curved into a slow, lopsided smile.

“Y’know,” he said, voice teasing but warm, “for what it’s worth? You’d make a bloody brilliant Captain.”

Your breath hitched slightly, but you masked it with a scoff. “Yeah, yeah. Flattery’s not gonna get us out of here, Potter.”

James grinned. “No, but it might make you like me a little more.”

You rolled your eyes. But this time, it was harder to fight the smile tugging at your lips.

James must have noticed the way your mouth twitched because his grin widened. “Was that a smile?”

You scowled on instinct. “No.”

His eyes sparkled. “It was.”

“It was not.”

James hummed, looking insufferably pleased with himself. “It’s alright, you know. You can admit it. You like me.”

You scoffed, leaning your head back against the wooden wall with a dramatic sigh. “Being trapped in a storage shed with you has made me delirious, that’s all.”

James chuckled, and for once, it wasn’t the teasing, self-satisfied kind of laugh that usually made you want to throw a Bludger at his head. It was softer. Warmer.

And that was almost worse.

Because James Potter was supposed to be arrogant and annoying and completely, utterly insufferable. He wasn’t supposed to look at you like that—like he actually wanted to understand you. Like he wasn’t just playing a game.

You exhaled, shifting slightly where you sat. “I do take Quidditch seriously, you know.”

James tilted his head. “I know you do.”

“I don’t just get annoyed at you for the sake of it.”

“Well,” James said, smirking, “maybe a little.”

You rolled your eyes. “I just—Quidditch is the one thing I’ve always been really good at. And then you come along, and you’re just… better.” You hadn’t meant to say that last part out loud.

James blinked. “Wait—do you actually think that?”

Heat rose to your cheeks. “I—shut up.”

James stared at you like you had just told him the sky was green. “You think I’m better than you?”

You groaned, covering your face with your hands. “Forget I said anything.”

“Not a chance,” James said, still looking mildly offended. “You’re one of the best players I’ve ever seen. I mean it.”

You peeked at him through your fingers, skeptical. “Even better than you?”

James grinned. “Obviously not.”

You let out a strangled laugh, shoving his shoulder lightly. “Git.”

James just laughed, but then his expression softened. “You know I admire you, right?”

You blinked. “What?”

James shrugged, like he hadn’t just casually thrown that out there. “You work harder than anyone. You make plays even I wouldn’t think of. And you never back down from a challenge. It’s kind of impressive.”

Your throat felt oddly tight. “Oh.”

James smiled. “And a little terrifying.”

You snorted, shaking your head. “Good.”

A comfortable silence settled between you. The shed was still small, still cold, still locked. But somehow, it didn’t feel quite as unbearable anymore.

James shifted, bumping his knee against yours. “For what it’s worth, I don’t think McGonagall gave me Captain because I’m better. I think she gave it to me because I’m loud and she wanted me to yell at people so she wouldn’t have to.”

You laughed. “That does sound like her.”

James grinned. “And you would’ve been a nightmare. Can you imagine? You’d have us all doing drills in our sleep.”

You raised an eyebrow. “And you don’t?”

“Fair point.”

Another pause. Then James nudged you again, his voice quieter this time. “Hey.”

You glanced at him.

His hazel eyes were even softer now, searching. “I really don’t want you to hate me.”

You swallowed. “I don’t.”

He held your gaze, like he was waiting for you to take it back. But you didn’t.

And then, before you could talk yourself out of it, you leaned your head against his shoulder. Just for a second.

James stilled. You could hear his breath catch, just slightly, before he let it out. Then, slowly—hesitantly—he leaned his head against yours.

You sighed, closing your eyes. “If you tell anyone about this, I will deny it.”

James chuckled, quiet and warm. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

And for some odd reason, you almost didn’t mind being stuck with him.

Masterlist

Heartslabyul <3

⋆ You see once you start cooking for them, you’re not going to stop. Cater and Ace make sure of it. They all love your cooking! They feel so loved and cared for with each dish you lovingly made for them. Does this contribute to their ever growing feelings for you?

⋆ Yes, yes it does.

⋆ Riddle was kinda on edge by it. Not because he thought you were a horrible cook, he’s tasted Ace’s cooking before, but because he didn’t understand the warm feeling in his chest. Riddle’s mother never cooked, instead she had chefs cook the blandest (healthy, she claimed) foods for them both. He’s never felt the warmth and comfort from a home cooked dish. Trey is an excellent cook, and even better baker, but it’s Trey. You were different, always had been to him. Riddle almost moaned at the taste of the different spices and flavors that exploded in his mouth. This boy has never tasted so many all at once. It was truly an eye opener. Riddle asks if you could teach him some recipes.

⋆ So relieved. Trey is just the epitome of a parent finally sitting down after a long day when you come to help in the kitchen or bring containers of food. Trey finds himself visiting you at Ramshackle more often, with the intention of learning or cooking with you. But ends up with you ushering him to sit down and you’ll be back with some fresh soup. He really does appreciate your presence, everything about you is so comforting and lively, so you making amazing food is an added bonus. Loves to learn about different foods from your world, even more so any type of pastry/sweet! Considers asking if you want to do a bake off, but decided not to, because he knew everyone would choose you. (he would do the same tbh)

⋆ If you didn’t have a magicam account dedicated to your cooking before, well now you do! Cater will take photos of every dish you made, going on a long rant on how this is the most delicious food he’s ever eaten. If you let him, he'll post pictures and videos of you cooking/baking on the account. The account is as comforting as your food. Ofc, he has tons and tons of photos and videos on his phone of you. Cater looks forwards to whatever you make, but is especially touched when you bake something that isn’t incredibly sweet or something entirely different then what you made the others. It makes him feel special.

⋆ Ace didn’t consider himself a picky eater, at least not until he ate your food! Boy will not leave you alone. He's constantly begging you to make him food and treats. Saying 'you just killed a poor starving boy, gootbye-' and just crashes onto you. Ace just really enjoys your cooking and he melts whenever you bring him food without him asking (begging). He’s the type of person to sit on the counter and talk while you’re busy doing things all around the kitchen. It briefly reminds him of his own childhood. It’s oddly domestic that it sikes him out for a moment. But then he glances at you and suddenly that feeling is replaced with a warm fluttering feeling in his chest. (don’t question the blush on his cheeks ofc)

⋆ Deuce isn’t one for taking photos but every thing you’ve ever made him has been instantly snapped and sent to his mom. (who loves knowing that her darling son is eating well) He’s not as obvious as Ace, but Deuce tries to slyly suggest that you make him more food. And of course, he’s more than willing to help. Again, unlike Ace who sits and talks, Deuce follows you around the kitchen like a duckling, patiently awaiting your orders. He wants to be helpful! Will gladly take anything out of the oven and carry any heavy materials. Will crash if you hold up a spoon for him to taste test. Isn’t this romantic? He asks himself as he shakily takes the spoon into his mouth. Omg, and if he sees you do your own taste test with the same spoon? Oh sevens, help you both.

Savanaclaw <3

⋆ Another group that doesn’t let you stop cooking/baking for them. But at least you have free access to a buttload of money and two very eager helpers (for very different reasons)

⋆ Leona isn’t a stranger to good, probably excellent, cooked meals. He’s a prince, duh. But when it’s a meal cooked by you? Everything that he’s eaten up til now is straight trash. Pride is one way to describe how he feels, quickly followed by smug. Of course, you’d dedicate your time and energy to cook him a meal. And of course, you poured your love into every step. He’ll eat practically anything you give him, though he will side eye the vegetables and discreetly give them to Ruggie. As for sweet things, he’s not a big fan of sweets. I feel like he’d like savory flavors, maybe a little bitter or maybe a little tart. Or perhaps something with subtle flavors but a hearty texture. I’m just speculating of course, so it’s always a hit or miss when it comes to baked goods with him. Though, don’t worry, nothing you make goes to waste. Ruggie is always ready to swoop in when needed. And as mentioned before, Leona knows ingredients can get spendy, so he’s more than willing to hand you his credit card.

⋆ Speaking of credit cards, Ruggie just always happens to be in the same vicinity when that black card hits your hands. Ruggie wouldn’t call himself the greatest chef, but he is resourceful. With everything you cook, Ruggie shows you how to get the most out of your ingredients. He even shows you some low-budget/free ingredients you can find all over campus and how to make it. Ruggie is honestly a good person to have by your side when it comes to cooking, you learn plenty of new things and you get to share your own knowledge to someone you know will share with others. However, Ruggie isn’t someone that does something for free. So he expects to be taking half of whatever you're making back with him. On a cuter note, Ruggie practically bursts into two when you show up with a container full of warm, mouth watering, doughnuts. Judging by how fast Ruggies tail was wagging, you were afraid that he was about to fly up into space.

"Whaaaat? Oh come on, Boss. I bet I still look good!" Kaz whines.

Snake grabs Kaz by the waist, pinning him to his side. He spins him abruptly, and now they're face to face. Snake's thick finger points to the last photo.

"Why don't you do a reenactment of this pose for me, babe? I like this angle of you."

"Y-you do?" Kaz's eyes go wide, he might be a little afraid. But he's also excited.

Snake nods, the corners of his mouth turn up slightly.

"Yeah. I do."

"Mmmmf!"

Snake pushes Kaz. Pushes him hard, and he falls over on the bed, his ass up in the air.

"H-hey, Boss! A little warning, next time?"

"Here's your warning: Here I come."

Still, the day awoke around you slowly. Parker didn’t immediately jump from the bed, and neither did you — choosing to delight in the fact that she was here at 9 AM and not at PTMC. The truth was that you’d gotten used to the late nights, and the rarely overlapping schedules, but it still hurt when you went to bed alone. And it still hurt that you couldn’t watch your shows together.

“’Mornin’,” she grumbled, pulling you from your melancholic thoughts. Her fourth year of residency would always be hell, but at the end of the day, she was yours. And she kept coming back to you, no matter how hard it got. You scrunched your nose, a light laugh leaving you when she pulled you closer. You didn’t even have to kiss her, the contact like this was more than enough, but you crossed the distance between you lazily, lips moving languidly against hers. She melded into your touch, preening where your hand cradled her head and the other caressed the small of her back.

You kissed up her jaw to her ear, whispering, “Good morning,” there before biting down on her ear lobe. She groaned lowly in your ear, your name falling from her lips like butter, silky and smooth. You giggled, sucking at a particular spot under her ear, making sure to bite down hard enough to bruise. Her hiss didn’t stop you from going lower, not stopping your musings until her orgasm came on a moan of your name.

Mouth slick and wet, you smiled softly, climbing over her to entrap her lips in a deep kiss. Your lips melded together in lewd sounds of saliva, tugging and biting until she had you pinned down on your back. She smirked down at you, “Sweetheart… you know I can’t have you hot and bothered before the day even starts.” You scoffed playfully, smirking back up at her.

“Yeah? Funny how I’m still both hot and bothered.”

Her stare turned icy, “You,” she warned, hands itching down your sides.

“Don’t you fucking dare.” She raised an eyebrow, challenging and begging for a response. “Parker, I swear to god,” you said. It was clear she didn’t care. A moment later she was holding you down, guiding you to your orgasm, with hands still bordering on tickling you. It was torture, the way her fingertips grazed the sensitive parts of your hips just enough to hold you in place but almost crossing the line. You hated her for it.

And when she kissed you after, the taste of you on her lips, “I love you,” was the easiest thing to say.

The day began with a shower, you both climbing into the shower for the first time in a month. It was a hot mess, trying to keep your braids from getting wet and stuffing her locs in a shower cap. Then came trying to not fall. Still, the steam wasn’t the hottest thing in the room when one of her fingers found its way inside of you, a moan escaping your lips that were locked with hers. It was physically uncomfortable. Still, the feeling of being with her was irreplaceable.

You came for a second time just from her fingers. Something deep in you was being righted the more you connected sexually, like it was the most natural thing in the world for this to right your heart.

But the way to Parker’s heart was more personal.

Parker hadn’t had a choice when she first starting locing her hair. Her mom had done it when she was young, citing the low-maintenance of the style as a reason for putting it in her daughter’s hair. It was all she had known, and even when she got bullied for it, she protectively defended herself — and by extension, her mother — against the kids in school who didn’t understand why she had a “boy hairstyle”.

Finally feeling the agency over her hair she’d longed for so long, she cut her hair during her junior year of high school. She had a new job, and could pay to get her own hair done. Plus, she was killing it in school — likely to get a scholarship on a pre-med track — so she wanted to look the part. But when she realized that wasn’t for her, that she enjoyed the locs her mother had tried to make her love, the transition came easily. Maintenance was easy, regular retwists and styles, daily moisturizing, and constant care work. She had the time for all of that in undergrad.

When med school rolled around, maintenance became more difficult — retwists were rare and they rarely came with styles, her hair got dry and brittle, and the upkeep that had kept her roots alive completely fell apart. Then, you had asked the fateful question: “How can I help?”

Her regular loctician was happy to give you tips, letting you know what the best techniques for styling were. It took time, time that you were happy to devote to showing her how much you care for her. And when you were finally ready to style her hair, she’d looked at you in a way she’d never done before — pure devotion.

“Ready!” You shouted from the kitchen once all of the supplies were ready. She needed a wash, it’d been over a week since her last one and you were not going to work on dry and dirty hair. She strolled into the kitchen, clad in only a sports bra and soft basketball shorts. You could see the lining of the boxers she wore under them. She smirked at you, leaning to show off her abs that she knew you were staring at. The eyeroll was so familiar to you, and you slapped the chair in front of you with the towel. “Sit,” you ordered. She sat the speaker on the table, the low sound of Jazmine Sullivan’s Heaux Tales filtering into your ear, before sitting down and leaning back into the low sink bowl.

You washed her hair carefully, fingertips gliding over her scalp in a way you knew was soothing to her. You sang the words of Pick Up Your Feelings under your breath, relishing the way her hand came to rest on your thigh as you stood over her. It relieved you that she still loved touching and holding you — that time hadn’t weathered her most honed behaviors. As you applied conditioner, you made sure to massage her scalp and the soft groans were confirmation enough that she’d been neglecting her haircare for two weeks too long.

When her hair was clean and wet, you grabbed your hair bin, following her to the couch where she sat on the floor with the television remote in hand. You took the seat on the couch, letting her sit back between your legs. She turned on a Netflix show you hadn’t heard of, getting comfortable while you got to work.

The monotony of retwisting came naturally to you now. Carefully sectioning the hair, then moving from the back row to the top. There were 79 locs in her head, meaning it would take you forty-five minutes to retwist and then another thirty minutes to style. You breathed evenly as you pulled each strand into it’s barrel twist. “She’s so damn stupid,” you mumbled, commenting on the side character of the show you were watching.

“You right but can you blame her?” Parker asked. You wished she could see the deadpan look on your face.

You rolled your eyes instead, “That don’t matter,” you were mumbling again while putting the final rubber band in. “She still ain’t have no business doing all of that for a nigga that don’t even want her.” And then you were done, sitting back to admire your work before you reached for your battery powered razor. Turning her head to the side, you shaved the side, making sure the cut was even and repeating it on the other side.

Finally done, you rested against the back of the couch, exhaling softly and closing your eyes. The feeling of her shadow looming over you made you open your eyes. “Thank you. I love you,” she whispered into your lips before kissing them. You smiled into her mouth, warmth blossoming in your chest and cheeks. The day was almost over, and you’d get one more night with her in your bed until her next vacation.

But this was enough. Doing her hair would always be enough.