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You're propped up on the couch, a heating pad nestled against your belly, and a soft blanket thrown over your legs. A magazine lies open on your lap, but you're only half reading it, your attention wandering with each turn of the page. The apartment is filled with the scent of roasted garlic and something warm, something savory—the only reason you haven't retreated back to bed.
Your stomach has been in knots for days.
It's not severe enough to warrant a hospital visit, no need for new prescriptions or frantic calls to your doctor. But it's there, a dull ache that ebbs and flows, leaving you drained and listless. You've barely eaten since yesterday, subsisting on sips of broth and nibbles of toast, careful not to provoke the beast that seems to have taken up residence in your gut.
So when James's voice filters through from the kitchen— "Hey, I made soup!"—your first reaction is a flicker of suspicion.
"Really?" you ask, scepticism colouring your words.
"Swear on my wand," he insists, popping his head around the corner. His glasses sit slightly askew, and his hair is even messier than usual—if that's possible. "No dairy, no spice, no exotic oils. Checked everything thrice. Even used the bland salt you like."
"That's sea salt," you correct without thinking, a smile tugging at the corners of your lips. "It's not bland—it's mild."
"Right, mild." He grins, disappearing back into the kitchen with the clatter of a spoon against a pot. "Just like me."
You laugh despite yourself, shaking your head.
He returns with a bowl cradled in his hands, his expression as hopeful as it was the day he first asked you out. But now, he's not offering an elaborate meal prepared by someone else. This is something different—something made from scratch with vegetable broth and an untold amount of effort.
"Just a sip," James coaxes, kneeling beside you, the bowl extended like an olive branch between you. "I assure you it's safe. Just carrots, ginger, a hint of chicken. Nothing more."
You glance at him, taking in the small burn on his wrist and the dusting of flour on his cheek. The evidence of his labour is there, and despite yourself, your lips curl into the faintest of smiles. So you reach out, fingers brushing against his as you take the offered spoon.
The soup is warm as it slides down your throat, coating your tongue with a gentle burst of flavour. Your body doesn't immediately reject it, a small victory that loosens the knot in your stomach. And the taste—it's good. Better than anything you've had in days.
James watches you intently, his brows furrowed in anticipation. "Well?"
You swallow again, allowing yourself another taste of the soup before answering. "It's… actually perfect."
His face breaks into a wide grin, relief and pride mingling in his hazel eyes. "YES! I knew it! Sirius said I'd overdone the salt, but he eats like a bloody troll, so what does he know."
A laugh bubbles from your lips, surprising both of you. It's weak, strained by your still-aching sides, but it's real. He chuckles along, then leans forward, careful not to disturb the heat pack on your chest. His hand cups your cheek, thumb brushing away a stray lock of hair, and he presses his lips to your forehead.
“I thought you might want something nice to eat,” he murmurs, “even when your body’s being a prat.”
You lean against the familiar warmth of his side, cradling the bowl in your hands. For the moment, your stomach seems to settle, as if in response to James' care.
"You always take such good care of me."
James wraps an arm around your shoulders, pulling you closer. "It's what I do," he says quietly. "And it's because I love you."
For the first time in days, you manage to eat. It's not much—just a few spoonfuls—but it's enough. Because when James cooks, it's more than just food. It's comfort, it's care, it's love—all served up in a chipped bowl with a gentle smile.