Work Text:
Breathe in. Breathe out.
You knew he’d be here, she reminds herself as she carefully dissects her reflection in the mirror, twirling and tucking a loose strand of deep red hair behind her ear. You knew this wouldn’t be easy.
The sounds from the party drift into the lavatory as someone rejoins the festivities, and Lily rolls her shoulders back, lifting her chin, and gives herself a final once-over, taking a moment to delight in the cut of her rich blue dress robes—appropriate enough for the work-adjacent occasion, but still flattering in all the right ways.
With a victory party raging on the other side of this door, she berates herself for the nerves she feels gnawing at her from within. Her job was done. Eugenia Jenkins would be the next Minister of Magic. She deserved to celebrate the win, and her instrumental part in it. But even the thought of him out there, watching her…
The gnawing turns into a hunger that she tries desperately to tamp down. That’s not what this is. Not anymore.
Splashing some cool water on her flushed face and ensuring no lasting damage to her makeup, she charges out of the lavatory, mind set on returning to the festivities and enjoying the night—guest list be damned.
She doesn’t make it five steps from the door when a warm, familiar hand carefully grabs her arm and pulls her around the corner, a small, surprised yelp eking from her parted lips.
Her heart thunders in her chest, even as the hand releases her, and she tries to muster the most disinterested expression she can as she meets the gaze that’s been watching her across the ballroom for the better part of half an hour. There’s something unusually stormy in the rich warmth of the brown and gold eyes that appraise her from behind angled glasses. Under his gaze, she feels the earlier champagne she’d had fizzing and popping under her skin.
“Lily.”
His voice—gods, had it only been a month since she’d actually heard him speak? It thrills and angers her in equal measure, and she pulls herself to stand a little taller as she shakes her head.
“No, we’re not doing this.”
Delayed, she tries to step away, only to be trailed by a loaded, “You’re here with him?”
The disbelief, the accusation in his voice ignites something in her (even as her stomach twists again—this time with guilt for somehow completely forgetting her date for the last ten minutes). She spins around, temper flared.
“So what if I am?” she challenges.
James steps towards her, face carefully wiped of any tell-tale emotion, save for a slight crease of his brow. His voice is low, and while it doesn’t hold the same level of contempt as his earlier question, it’s still ragged around the edges. “You could’ve warned me.”
Lily can’t help it—a bitter chuckle erupts from deep within as she steps closer to him. “I think you made it very clear we don’t owe anything to each other. Not anymore.”
She doesn’t punctuate this with a dramatic exit. She holds the eye contact to watch as the realization hits him—that she’s right, that he’s the reason they’re not here together. Not Lily, not Dirk Cresswell (who is probably wondering where the fuck she is), but him. James.
This close, she sees the hurt that swims in his eyes, muddying with irritation and—
The anger in her veins gives way to that fizzy champagne-induced feeling again as the desire registers, somewhere between the honey-golds and the despair and the small, rich flecks of green looking back at her.
Again, she doesn’t move. Something compels her to the spot, an energy between them that seems to be pulling at her, the gravity of him—of them—growing heavier and heavier until suddenly she feels the cool marble of the wall behind her, the warmth of James radiating around her, his breath gently rustling the hairs on her temple as his forehead rests against hers.
It’s intoxicating, being this near him again. She wants nothing more than to leave here, immerse herself in him, forget the last month ever happened.
Somehow, she finds the willpower to look away, and the cool air—a breath of air that doesn’t smell like earth and cinnamon and James—brings her crashing back down to reality.
“No,” she says, though it comes out rough and petulant and soft, without conviction. Another breath of the non-James air and her next words have more strength, her hand gently resting on his chest. “James, no.”
He nuzzles against her temple, breath hot as he sighs. “I miss you, Lil. I’m an idiot.”
Her muscles scream in protest (as does every single one of her other senses) as she pushes him away, knowing that she needs to leave in the next couple of seconds or something very, very stupid is going to happen.
Giving him another hard look, she ignores the pang in her own chest, the way her stomach drops at the sadness on his face as she takes a full breath. “Yes, you are.”
And though she wants to see his reaction she knows she can’t, so she turns quickly and marches away, heart echoing in her ears in time with her heels on the marble as she reenters the party flushed and overwhelmed and desperately looking for a distraction. She grabs another flute of champagne and scans the crowd for her date, downing half the glass in one sip as she feels the burn of James’ eyes behind her.