You’re standing at your locker; spinning the lock rhythmically, whispering the number code to yourself for memory purposes.

Suddenly, you hear a slam next to you. You jump at the noise.

It was a guy who you think you've seen before around school. He was tall, dirty blonde, sports gear sticking out of his bag, probably older than you– just your average asshole teenage boy.

You give him a quick side glance and a condescending smile that quickly leaves your face, he’s already smirking when you look over.

“Hey,” he greets, his voice low.

“Uh, hi?” you reply, confused.

You keep your gaze on the stuff in your locker; grabbing stuff then setting it back down, rearranging stuff, just anything to not make eye contact.

He’s leaning against the locker next to yours like this is some cheesy romcom, very cliche…

“I just thought i’d come over and tell you, you look good.” his gaze strong and not breaking.

Now you’re completely and totally uncomfortable.

You give a fake smile and shut your locker, “thanks… I actually really have to go to class now.” Your words are quick and you try to cover up the way your voice shook.

You walk down the hallway, not giving him the opportunity to say another word.

You were now out in the courtyard, getting some fresh air during your free period, joined by your group of friends.

You see something– or rather, someone, in your peripheral. You glance over and see the same guy from earlier. You let out a quiet groan.

You turn over to Stiles, “thats the guy from earlier… the guy who was hitting on me in the hallway this morning.” You whisper, hoping he’s not approaching. Maybe he wouldn’t see you…

But he did.

He starts walking up to you, you’ve already made eye contact. You just wanted to crawl in a hole and die.

“Hey, you’re the pretty girl I was talking to earlier, I wish our conversation didn’t get cut short. How ‘bout we go talk somewhere else, I wanna get to know you.”

You could tell what he wanted.

You look over and Stiles’ jaw is clenched tight, you could tell.

“Uhm-” you start, you didn’t know what to say, but it didn’t matter because you were cut-off quickly.

“Well, she’s actually already having a conversation over here, so how about you wait your turn.” Stiles spoke up.

Everyone's heads turned to him, not really expecting him to say that.

He scoffed, amused by the confrontation, (because what snarky, egocentric teenage boy isn't?)

“Are you her boyfriend or something? ‘Cuz I have a hard time believing that.” he retorted.

You sat there, unsure what to do. You didn’t know if you should step in or just let them go at it… Stiles usually had your back and he frequently won verbal arguments.

But, you saw as his fists clenched and his jaw tightened.

“Stiles, It’s okay, I can defend myself.” You mumbled to him.

“Yeah, she’s fine. Just back off man, we’re just gonna go talk.” He sneered.

“Well I just don’t think she wants to talk to you, I mean who would? Really- anyone with a brain can tell what you really want to do, I think she knows you don’t want to just talk.” Stiles argued.

We all shared surprised glances with each other, none of us saying a word.

The older boy ran his tongue across his teeth, smirking. He shook his head and let out a breathy laugh.

“Well- i’m not gonna deny it, but I mean, she’s the one who decided to wear that shirt… She’s honestly asking-” he’s quickly cut off by a loud thud-like sound.

Your jaw drops when you see Stiles shaking his hand off and the guy who was previously borderline harassing you holding the side of his face.

But, to no avail, he’s quick to start throwing punches back at Stiles… and they’re far more powerful than his.

Scott quickly gets up and tries to pry him off of Stiles.

Suddenly, there’s a whole lot of noises like yelling and smacking.

A staff member comes over and begins to handle the situation. You get a good look at Stiles and he already has a good bruise forming over his eye and there was a good amount of blood on him…

You put a hand up to show who was talking and quickly alerted the nearest staff member who you believed was your math teacher, “Uh i’m gonna drive him home, he’s pretty hurt.”

You actually didn’t know if they said that was okay or if they even acknowledged that you said that. But either way you swung one of his arms over your shoulder and you both walked to his jeep.

He gave you the keys and you started the car, he laid his head down on the dashboard and groaned.

“Stiles… you really didn’t have to do that.” You mumbled, you felt so bad he got beat up because of you.

He let out a small noise, almost a groan, but not quite. Almost like he lacked the energy to give an actual groan.

Stiles turned his head, looking at you with half lidded eyes, one swollen.

“Well, I did it anyway. I’m not just gonna let someone talk to you like that, especially someone like him.”

You tried to keep your focus on the road but couldn’t help but glance over at him as he spoke.

It killed you seeing him bruised and bloodied.

“I know… but it’s my problem. You shouldn’t have involved yourself, because now you’re hurt. And it’s my fault.” Your voice quivered slightly at the end.

Stiles lifted his head up, “It’s not your fault,” his attention shifted over to the road.

You didn’t want to have a back and forth argument on whose fault it was, not like you both were argumentative; honestly it was rare you guys had serious fights, sometimes you meaninglessly bickered but never anything that truly upset each other.

“I just– I feel like it is, and I really don’t like seeing you hurt. And I don’t want you to get in trouble because of me, so I’m sorry.” You spoke up, taking a breath.

“I’m alright, stop worrying.” He let out a small laugh, there wasn’t a lot of energy behind it but it was still a laugh– leave it to Stiles to laugh when in pain and bleeding.

The rest of the ride was pretty quiet, minus the sound of the static of the radio and the hum of the wheels of the car against the road that felt excruciatingly long.

Eventually, you pull into Stiles’ driveway, parking his car carefully.

Turning the key, the car goes quiet and you pull the door handle. You look over to see Stiles doing the same, slowly and lacking energy. You rush over to the passenger side of the car to ensure he gets out safely, reaching a hand out to him just in case. He took it, his other hand resting on his head, clearly in pain still.

The both of you walk carefully to his front door, you walk behind him–just in case. You could only assume his dad wasn’t home, his car wasn’t in the driveway and you didn’t hear anyone else in the house.

Still, you both crept up the stairs up to Stiles’ room. He immediately sat down on his bed, his aching head rested in his hands.

“Alright, I’ll be right back. I’m just gonna go grab some painkillers, bandages, a wet cloth, ice– uh, anything else?” You ask, unsure on what to get exactly.

He let out a low hum as a response, and to that you just nodded.

You walk over to the bathroom and rummage through various drawers and cabinets, just grabbing anything you think would be helpful.

You go back to his room with armfuls of supplies, just dropping it all on his desk.

Nearing his forehead with a cold cloth you speak, “this might be a little cold at first, okay?” Your tone gentle and soft, warning him before pressing it to his head, carefully wiping the now somewhat dried blood away.

Thankfully, there wasn’t that much. Just a couple scrapes that ended up bleeding a bit. But not too serious of injuries– which is good since you honestly had no idea what you were doing.

But, you look down and see his lip is split, red and raw. You instinctively graze you thumb over the large red line, holding up his chin with your other fingers.

Stiles looks up at you with his eyes, one half squinted from the early signs of a black eye.

The both of you stay like this for a moment, gaze locked.

Until, you continue wiping the red from his face; still, the eye contact unbreaking.

You eventually take the hand off his chin and walk over to his desk, grabbing the icepack– which you hoped was still cold enough, and pressed it to his swollen eye.

“Just keep holding it there,” you let go slowly as his hand reached up and grabbed onto it, holding it as steady as possible in the same position. “I’m just gonna get a cup of water so you can take a pain relief pill, okay?”

He carefully nods and you leave the room, hurrying down the stairs into the kitchen.

As you’re filling the cup with water, Stiles’ dad walks through the door.

“Oh- hey you, what're you doing here?” He checks his watch, “aren’t you supposed to be at school right now?”

You just nod, shutting off the faucet.

“Well– yeah, but we had a pretty good reason to leave.” You reply, you weren’t sure if you wanted to be the one to tell him what happened but you felt bad not telling him.

He raised a brow, “and that is?”

It felt wrong withholding the truth from a member of the law enforcement, besides if I was a parent I would want to know sooner than later my child started a fight and is now pretty injured…

“Uh, Stiles got into a fight…” your tone meek.

His expression immediately concerned and a little frustrated, “with who?”

“This guy at our school, he kept trying to talk to me and was just making me pretty uncomfortable, and he said some pretty rude stuff about me to Stiles, which is when Stiles ended up throwing the first punch– which, didn’t end well…” you explained, your storytelling abilities not the best when under pressure. But as long as you got the idea and point across.

His demeanor softening as you explained the whole situation, sighing as he massaged the bridge of his nose. “Is he alright now?”

You nodded, “yeah, I cleaned him up pretty good and his injuries aren’t too bad.”

Stiles’ father immediately gave an appreciative grin, “good, good.”

You raise the cup off water in your hand, signifying you should go give it to him.

He nods, understanding your implication. But, as your beginning toward the stairs, he stops you. “Can I just say– thanks for being there for him. I appreciate you, he appreciates you, a lot.” his tone genuine, still smiling.

You give a just as grateful smile, raw and natural. Hearing those words mean so, so much.

Stiles means a lot to you, you’re more than happy to hear the man he loves and cares about the most in his life to say his son appreciates you. You suddenly feel a little lighter, like suddenly every tense muscle had just relaxed. You felt fluttery.

“Of course, thank you.” You reply, finally.

The both of you give a quick nod and you go back to the initial task at hand. You walk back up the stairs with urgency and purpose, but careful not to spill a drop.

You make your way into Stiles’ room, he’s now laying on his back; icepack still rested over his eye.

“Hey, sorry for taking a bit, your dad just got home.” You shut the door gently behind you, “I told him what happened, he’s not mad or anything.”

He sat up slowly, taking the icepack off his face and setting it down carelessly on his bed.

“Im guessing your head still hurts?” You ask, grabbing the pain relief medicine.

Stiles nods, “yeah.” His voice was a little raspier than usual.

After grabbing a small pill from the bottle, you hand him the cup of water and the painkiller; sitting down next to him on his bed.

He swallows it quickly and you take the cup and reach over to set it on his bedside table.

You can’t help but just stare at him, looking at the small details up close, the scrapes and spots you can tell will turn into a bruise– or the ones that are already. You felt completely at fault. You should've just told that guy to leave you alone to begin with, not even allow Stiles to know it was happening.

Especially hearing his dad say how he appreciates you, it pained to see him– well, in pain.

You brought a hand up to the back of his head, slowly massaging his scalp– he subtly leaned into your touch. “I’m sorry.”

“Stop saying that. It’s alright, I was the one who started it, I should’ve expected this.” He let out a small breathy laugh, barely a laugh. But he still had a lopsided grin. “I should be the one apologizing, you don’t have to be taking care of me like this.”

I gave him my own lopsided smile in return, “It’s the least I could do. I wasn’t just gonna let you drive home and do it yourself, I’m not even sure you could.”

“How come your always there, always there when I need something– or, someone.” He says, voice low. Almost like not asking you, but rather, the universe. Asking how he’s so lucky.

You turn to him fully, “because I care about you.” a smile spreading across your face, not even trying to fight it at this point.

Your eyes lock, you stare soulfully into his hazel eyes; gaze softened. The warmth between the two of you sweet and comforting, like that alone could heal his injuries. Your guys’ stare unwavering as he put an arm your shoulder, squeezing gently.

Any space between you two is broken as you move closer and rest your head against him, “Stiles,” you break the silence; you practically whisper his name your tone is so soft.

He turns his head slightly, “Yeah?” his tone matching yours, gentle and quiet.

“Thanks for fighting for me.” The words came out hushed and real, like they were only meant for him to hear.

You look up, eyes meeting again, your instantly met with his lopsided smile. He doesn't say anything at first.

“I tried my best.” He finally spoke, manner the same as yours, soft. But his is more playful; you both share a small laugh.

You recounted how quiet he was the last time you saw him, hardly stopping to say goodnight before hurrying off to the dorms. You lowered your voice to a hushed whisper. "Have you checked the map?"

"Not yet," Sirius said back.

You thought for a moment, and an idea came to mind that told you the map wouldn't be needed. "I have a feeling I know where he is."

Without another word, you gathered up your things, and maybe a pastry or two, and took your leave out of the Great Hall. A confused-looking Sirius watched you all the while, but you felt as if you needed a moment alone with James anyway. Especially after seeing him look so closed off the night before.

It took a few minutes to make it all the way across the castle, but soon enough you'd made it down to the locker rooms next to the Quidditch pitch, somewhere you knew James frequented when he spent some time alone.

The hall was mostly empty, which you blamed on the fact that breakfast had only just been served, though you managed to catch one boy on his way out of the locker room.

"Hi," you greeted, and the boy stopped in his tracks to peer curiously at you, who clearly did not play Quidditch. "Do you know if anyone's in there?" You motioned towards the locker room behind him.

He followed your eyeline and, after a beat, turned back to you with the ghost of a smile creeping onto his features. "Looking for Potter?" he asked, his tone somewhat amused. You nodded, hiding your confusion.

"Yeah," he then added, tilting his head towards the door in front of you. "He's in there."

You gratefully smiled at him and mouthed a 'thank-you,' striding towards the locker room.

"James?" you called softly as you opened the door, all too aware that technically you weren't supposed to be in the boys' locker room, but figuring it would be empty besides James anyway. To your suspicions, you were right and there was no sight of anyone. That was, until you turned the corner and saw the boy you'd been searching for.

James was standing in front of his open locker, though he'd disregarded it the moment you'd stumbled upon him after what looked like his post-practice locker room state. That is—shirtless. Very shirtless, and practically glowing underneath the sweat from whatever Quidditch skills he'd been drilling.

"Oh, um," you began messily, eyes widening and trying their best not to so obviously take in any area beside his face, but the gleam of his bare and sun-kissed chest was certainly not making it easy. "I can come back-"

"No," James cut in, and the timbre of his voice echoing in the empty locker room had you pausing. "Stay."

You nodded, his voice soft but strong enough that you found yourself standing there, unmoving. He'd clearly not been expecting any visitors, especially not you of all people, to show up in the locker rooms. But if he knew you at all, and he did, he should've known you'd always find him even when he didn't exactly want to be found.

That fact and the unwelcome wandering of your eyes over his chest and abdomen, as if he wasn't staring straight at you watching you do it, had you feeling slightly guilty. You cursed yourself the moment you realized what you were doing, trying to salvage yourself as much as you could.

You cleared your throat. "You weren't at breakfast," you said after you remembered why you'd come to find him in the first place. Your throat felt tight, the spacious and brightly-lit room suddenly feeling cramped.

"I wasn't that hungry," James said simply, and if he felt at all off-put by his shirtlessness and your obvious fit of staring he didn't show it.

"You need to fuel your body if you're gonna be playing Quidditch all the time, James," you chided.

He shook his head at you, eyes maybe a little warm but probably slightly annoyed. "You sound like my mum."

You breathed in your laugh at the warm memories of his mother from every summer you spent with him. "I'll take that as the highest of compliments then, J."

You swore you saw his lips quirk up at the nickname at the end of your warm sentiment. Maybe he was thinking of your summers together then, too, or maybe he was still questioning why the hell you'd chased him into the locker room. A silence passed over you both for a moment. You were still standing by the door, him at his locker some feet away, wordless.

"But seriously," you continued, taking an intentional step closer to him as you spoke. "You okay?"

James's eyes lifted from where they'd been settled off somewhere in the distance, meeting your own for only a split second. "You really love asking me that question."

You tilted your head at him, knowing he was only being avoidant. "James."

His expression revealed little to nothing, and it was like he refused to meet your gaze from that point on. "I'm fine." Following through with his dismissiveness, James turned away from you then, his front to his open locker and his back, his very bare back, to you. He began putting away his things, the muscles visible to your eyes churning with each action. You ignored that on top of his aversion.

"Are you sure?" you asked. "Because I know that last night you didn't exactly seem 'fine' and all, or, I don't know, you seemed upset," you fumbled to voice. "And then I talked with Remus and he kind of mentioned that you might be upset because of me and-"

"He did?" You could see him tense as his words broke your rambling. Either you'd begun to melt his sudden cold exterior or you'd frozen it even further.

"Yeah, he did." You spoke slowly, words cautious. "Whatever it is, you can talk to me about it, I promise." You paused there, giving him an opening to respond, but he didn't. He didn't even turn your way, his back still to you as he began organizing whatever he had in his locker. Your worrying kept your mouth running. "And if I did something to upset you, then- "

"You didn't." James finally turned around, shifting your view of him from his back to his front, and you could see in his eyes that he was holding something back. He looked uncharacteristically shy, his voice coming out softly but withdrawn. "You didn't do anything to upset me."

"That's good to hear," you said, even if you didn't truly believe it. "But you're clearly upset about something. I mean, you're out playing Quidditch before half the school's even woken up."

He shrugged his bare shoulders. "I do that all the time."

"Without telling any of the boys?" you questioned. "Sirius didn't even know where you were. We were gonna use the map."

James stared at you silently for a second, as if he was considering something up in that brain of his, but he stopped the action with a slight shake of his head and another shrug. "Look, I don't know what you want from me." His tone was growing more irritated with every word you pulled from him, and it was starting to not only annoy you but hurt you.

"I just want you to tell me what you're upset about-"

"I'm not upset, alright?" He practically cut you off, shutting his locker door with a jarring echo, but the sound was less alarming than the flinch you noticed in James's face. You shifted your gaze downward. Maybe you'd been too distracted by his reserved front or his unexpected shirtlessness to notice the bandages on his wrist.

Your brows pulled. "What's wrong with your wrist?"

James's eyes darted to yours at the question, and then down at his wrapped wrist as if he'd forgotten all about it. Knowing James and his unruly way of living, you reckoned he probably had. "It's nothing." He threw the shirt he'd most likely recently taken off over his shoulder, apparently ready to ignore your prying all over again.

You stared him down disbelievingly. "James."

He paused his endless movement to offer you a better answer with a sigh. "It started bothering me a few days ago during practice." When you continued frowning down at the injury, he added, "It's no big deal. I hardly notice it."

"You just flinched." You narrowed your gaze. "Now stop being all mysterious and let me at least look."

Giving in to your doting, James took a seat beside you on the wooden locker room bench, his legs facing the opposite side of yours. The skin of his shoulder brushed against your own, which you ignored.

Ever-so-carefully, you picked up James's hand and laid his wrist in your palm. His skin was surprisingly soft, something that contrasted the material of whatever bandage he'd used to cover his injury that'd clearly been chafing angrily against his skin. You eyed the messy bandage work and suppressed any urges to scold him, figuring he was already sitting here against his will.

You glanced up at him from where you sat, only a few inches between the two of you, and looked at him for approval to do more. His eyes searched yours for a beat, maybe in question, and then he nodded.

Steadily, you used your other hand to begin unwrapping the greying gauze, focused on the sound of your own tight breathing and the steadiness of your hands working the bandages. They'd definitely needed rewrapping if not just being thrown out and replaced altogether.

The silence in the empty locker room was distracting you, or maybe it was the fact that James sat so silently next to you, watching your every move. In your peripheral, you could see the hard plain of his chest rising and falling as you worked on his wrist. You chased the view away, lowering your head more until all you could see was your hands and his.

It took another moment to fully unwrap his wrist, your perturbation only heightening each time a new inch of bruising skin was revealed. You held the uncovered limb in your hands, frowning and fighting back a gasp at how not-fine the injury seemed.

"Merlin," you whispered, taking in the redness that'd come from both the bandages and the visible swelling. Slowly, you bent his hand forward ever so slightly, and even that action had James tensing in your hands, the small inhale he took more than audible to you from next to him. "You're telling me you hardly noticed this?"

James gave another aggravating shrug. "It only got this bad this morning. Must've slept on it wrong."

"Or maybe it was from you overworking it out on the pitch just now." You gave him a look. "You're lucky it's your non-dominant hand."

You scanned over the injury for another second and then placed his wrist on your lap gingerly. You turned to get your wand out of your bag but remembered the pastries you snagged from the Great Hall for him.

"I brought you food from breakfast, for after I finish with your wrist." You nodded to your bag. "I even got a chocolate croissant. Your favorite." You felt your lips tugging into a smile. Godric, you really did sound like a mother.

"You didn't have to," James insisted delicately, though you saw his eyes soften momentarily.

"I had to pay you back somehow for all the food you sent up to my room the other day. I never got to thank you."

James shook his head. "I got your thank you note."

It took a second for you to recall the scribbling of your quill against napkin, something you'd done in a hurry in your dorm but meant every word you wrote. You felt your cheeks warm at the memory and under James's gaze that you swore you could feel dancing across your face.

You focused back down at his hand that rested on your lap, taking ahold of your wand and pointing it steadily at the discoloration around his wrist. You certainly were no Madam Pomfrey, but you'd learned some basic healing spells over the years from being the boys' honorary on-hand nurse every time they came back still achy after full moons.

Even with that knowledge, you knew not to try anything too experimental on James's sensitive wrist. Delicately, you lifted his arm again before softly muttering the most appropriate healing spell you could recall. His arm felt especially heavy in its limpness, but you could tell James was still tense. You moved the fingers that held his arm back and forth slightly, a soothing gesture as you dragged the tip of your wand over the bruises. The pointed wood grazed over red-and-purpled skin but left it void of discoloration as it moved.

Your lips parted at the sight that never failed to seem brilliant to you, no matter how many nights you spent alongside your friends in the nurse's wing as she tended to them. You didn't look up to see his expression, but you could feel James's fingers soften in your grasp, hear his breathing shallow.

You worked on his wrist with your wand for another minute before you were satisfied, moving it around slightly and humming softly at the lack of discomfort he seemed to have. For safe measure, you lifted his arm from atop your thigh again and began rebandaging it, more neatly this time. Your fingers grazed against now healthy-colored skin, his long fingers limp in your hold but seeming more alive now that the wrist they were attached to was stronger.

You closed off the bandage, tucking in what needed to be tucked and scanning over your work once more for good measure. You leaned forward slightly to make sure the bandage wasn't twisted on the side of his hand you couldn't see and felt a soft and featherlike something brush against the top of your forehead.

Taken out of the intense focus you'd had on his wrist, you looked up to find the culprit of the feeling. It'd been one of James's curls that'd brushed against the top of your head, a sensation nauseatingly familiar, but you were more concerned with the way he was looking down at you.

Looking didn't seem a proper word for it, maybe studying or staring a better fit, but all train of thought had gone off the rails when you met his eyes. They were hazel, you knew that fact better than you knew the back of your hand, but now they seemed to sink into a deeper color, something heavy behind the way he was looking at you. And maybe you were only imagining it, but you could've sworn his gaze was angled to an area near your parted lips.

You blinked in alarm as your breath caught in your throat, not knowing what to do with all the weight of his stare but feeling like moving was impossible anyway with the way he seemed to suffocate you, all without moving a muscle. You were so close to him, close enough to see the heavy rise and fall of his very bare chest and every movement in his face. His breathing was thick, and yours was getting heavier by the second. Something shuttered inside of you as your brain recalled the only other time he'd looked at you in this way, right before he kissed you over Spin the Bottle.

You tried to chase the fluttery, dizzying feeling away, but it stayed fixed in place within your stomach. Did he know how he was looking at you right now? Like he was deep in thought, but as if his mind was blank, hypnotized. Like you'd entranced him. Like he didn't mind. Like he wanted to ...

The door to the locker room slammed open, and you'd never turned your head so fast in your life. You were sure James did too, but you were too busy staring at the unfamiliar strawberry-blonde boy standing in the doorway to be sure.

"Crap, I'm so sorry Captain," rang the short boy nervously, eyes shot wide as he took in the proximity of you and James, his shirtlessness, and most likely the flush in your face. James stood up and you followed suit, noticing the distance he'd already put between the two of you. "I didn't know you were in here. I just came for my broom polish. "

James cleared his throat, curtly nodding at the boy. "It's alright, Crembley." His voice took on the assertion of a levelheaded Quidditch Captain and showed no sign of the unstableness you were feeling from beside him. You didn't know how the hell he did it.

That thought, along with seemingly hundreds of other ones, ran through your head whilst the kid James addressed as Crembley ran through his things in the locker by the door. All you could hear was the shuffling of his things and the ringing in your ears as you waited. Daring to look over, James's head was perched downward in the silence, and he didn't show any signs of discomfort besides the subtle tick of his jaw.

It felt as if an eternity had passed before the boy found what he needed, carrying a round container in his hand as he closed his locker and walked back towards the door. "See ya Captain," he smiled thinly, probably noticing the thickness in the air. He nodded to you politely as well, albeit awkwardly, before taking his exit, leaving you and James alone in the locker room once more.

The silence was deafening. You looked down at your shoes and then at James, who somehow seemed like he was standing even farther away from you than before. You took a breath in to speak before you even knew what you were going to say, but James beat you to it.

"You should go." His voice cut through the silence and echoed through the room and your head unwelcomingly, tone low and sober.

You blinked at him, brows pulling into a line. "What?"

"I mean," he continued, seeming to correct his blunt tone before you could question it. "You're gonna miss Transfiguration."

His explanation didn't have you feeling any less confused. Your forehead creased and you squinted at him and his tense, broad shoulders. "So are you. James, what-"

"I'll meet you there, okay?" he still hadn't looked at you fully, eyes pitched somewhere too low or too shifted to either side of you to be truly at you. You didn't know what was going on, the questions you'd been trying to get answers to still swirling across your mind, unanswered. You tried to force him to meet your eyes, at least give you that respect, but he wouldn't. As you stared at him and the unwavering projection of his hardened gaze, you gave up trying to shift it.

"Okay."

Your heart throbbed in your chest, tired from the work it'd been put through in the span of a single minute. You suppressed the feeling, gathering your bag and throwing it over your shoulder. You took steps towards the door and James, but paused, remembering something.

"Here." You reached into your bag, pulled out the pastries you'd brought for him concealed by a napkin, and held them out for him to take. For a second, he didn't move, and you thought he might reject your offer entirely from whatever mood he'd been consumed by and send you on your way. But he was still James, the one you'd known since forever, and he took them from your hand timidly.

"Thanks," he said, almost a whisper, and he met your eyes then for only a second. You didn't miss the flush of his cheeks that you were sure matched your own, no matter how much he tried to ignore it. His eyes were guilty and quiet and a muscle in his jaw worked as he looked down at the food in his hand. He kept his gaze on it as you pushed open the locker room door and rushed away, feet moving you as your mind stayed stuck in the locker room, replaying its scenes like they would make anything that'd just happened clearer.

taglist!! ->