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The last time Lily Evans saw James Potter, he was begging on his knees for her to stay. Stay with him. Stay in that small town. Stay in the life they’d built out of late-night drives and long summer afternoons, dirt roads and cheap beer and textbooks. She still remembers the rain that night—how it came down like punishment, soaking through his flannel, running down his face so she couldn’t tell which drops were rain and which were tears. She remembered the tremor in his voice when he said her name, how it cracked right in the middle.
And she left anyway.
Left him there, clutching nothing but his pride, as she chased a dream she’d been running toward since she was 13. Lily Evans left, and James Potter’s heart shattered right alongside that cold November sky.
Now, she would see him again.
The café was too small, too quaint, too James Fleamont Potter. It smelled of coffee grounds and cinnamon, the kind of place that sold happiness in ceramic mugs. She sat tucked into a booth by the window, leg bouncing under the table, hands curled around a cup of coffee gone cold an hour ago. Her stomach turned every time the door opened, every time a tall shadow stretched across the floor.
3 minutes.
In 3 minutes James Potter would walk through those doors and be her living nightmare dripped in sin. In 3 minutes, she would have to beg ask him if he would be interested in posing a strictly PR relationship with her. In 3 minutes, her life was going to crumble at her feet.
Her life had been a whirlwind these past few years. Sold-out arenas, platinum records, fake smiles that hurt her cheeks. But nothing could’ve prepared her for this latest disaster.
One stupid interview. One throwaway question. One damned viral clip.
Someone, someone with far too much time on their hands—had dug up an old video from their high school days. In it, a seventeen-year-old Lily Evans stood in the courtyard, red hair blazing under the sun, rejecting James in front of half the town. Not gently.
No, Lily didn't do stuff half hearted. She was cold and calculated as she pulled the strings she knew would hurt him the most.
And it had blown up, 2.5 million likes, trending hashtags, TikToks painting her a cruel-hearted monster who’d humiliated a ‘good man.’ James Potter, the internet had decided, was a national treasure. The ‘sweet cowboy from Godric’s Hollow who got his heart broken by Hollywood.’
Her image was left in shambles, brand deals threatening to back out, her newest release gathering hate from the world. Everything overshadowed by the burning sun.
Mary, her publicist, thought of only one solution. “Fake date him.” Pause. “Pretend the two of you had a reconciliation a few months ago and got together. It’ll switch the narrative and give us more interaction.” Pause. “Convince James.”
For this however, there was a major oversight. She had never so much as interacted with James after she left for Hollywood. No call, no text, no social media presence.
Tink.
The bell above the café door jingled, and Lily’s stomach dropped. Her chest tightened as the familiar tall figure stepped in. James Potter. His hair was a mess, yet somehow looked perfect as it curled around his face. A cowboy hat (of-fucking-course he had a cowboy hat) lay askew on his head. Lily Evans may hate, scratch that, loathe him, but she had eyes and James Potter was one hell of a man.
His eyes found hers immediately as he stalked towards where she sat.
“Lily Evans,” God that voice, pure honey, a secret temptation, her forbidden apple. “Finally made your way back?”
“James, always a pleasure.” She forced the words out, chalk against her throat.
He gave a low, humorless laugh and slid into the booth across from her, stretching out like he owned the place. “Pleasure, huh? That what you call it when your ex turns you into a bloody meme?”
Lily’s jaw tensed. “You’ve seen it then.”
“Oh, I’ve seen it,” James said, leaning back, arms crossed over his chest. “Hard not to when the whole internet’s collectively decided I’m the poor sod you humiliated. You know how many interviews I’ve turned down this week? Everyone wants to hear from ‘the guy Lily Evans rejected.’ Real flattering.”
“I didn’t ask for this either,” she snapped, heat rising in her cheeks. “You think I wanted my teenage self trending on TikTok? That I planned for my career to implode because people can’t separate high school shit from reality?”
James tilted his head, the faintest smirk tugging at his mouth. “Funny. You always were good at separating yourself from reality, Evans. Usually right before you ran from it.”
The words hit harder than they should’ve. She exhaled slowly through her nose. “I’m not here to fight.”
“Then what are you here for?” he asked. “An apology? A reunion? Or is this about your shiny little PR disaster?”
Her spine stiffened. “The last one.”
He snorted. “Of course it is.”
“Look, I know you’ve seen the clip, and I know the internet’s painted you as some broken-hearted saint,” she said, keeping her tone even. “But I need this to blow over, and my team thinks the only way to fix it is if we—” She hesitated, hating how ridiculous it sounded out loud. “—pretend to be together. Publicly.”
James blinked. Then barked out a laugh that turned a few heads. “You’re joking.”
“Do I look like I’m joking?” she deadpanned.
He leaned forward, elbows on the table, eyes narrowing. “You want me— the guy you’ve rejected, what a million times?—to fake date you. For PR.”
“Yes.”
A long pause. Then, “You’ve got some nerve.”
“I’ve got a ruined career,” she shot back. “And you’ve got a golden reputation that’ll only shine brighter if you play along. Everyone loves a redemption story. The broken-hearted cowboy and the big-city sellout who found her way home again.”
James stared at her for a beat, expression unreadable. Then he said quietly, “You think you can just walk in here after seven years and use me to clean up your mess?”
“Use you?” she repeated. “You’d be benefiting too. Press coverage, interviews, maybe even a few new sponsors. You could actually make something out of this, James.”
He studied her for a long moment, jaw ticking. Then, finally, he said, “Four months.”
Lily blinked. “What?”
“Four months,” he repeated. “That’s how long I’ll play your doting boyfriend. Public events, social media posts, the whole thing. After that, I’m done.”
She swallowed. “Okay. Four months.”
“But we do it my way,” he said, voice dropping. “You show up when I say. You smile when I say. You don’t run off halfway through a shoot or pull some shit that’ll get us both trending again, for the wrong reason. You wanted this, Evans. You deal with it.”
Lily met his gaze, fire meeting fire. “Fine. But if you think I’m going to let you play the wounded hero while I grovel, think again. I’ve got conditions too.”
He smirked. “Of course you do.”
“Public appearances are mine to control. No surprise interviews, no ambushing me in the press. And if we’re going to sell this, really sell it—you’re going to have to stop glaring at me like you want to throw your coffee in my face. Trust me, my self restraint is hanging on by a thread.”
James lifted his cup, eyes glinting. “No promises.”
For the first time in years, she almost smiled. Almost. “Then it’s a deal?”
He set the cup down with a soft thud. “Four months, Evans. Then we go back to pretending we don’t know each other.”
Her heart twisted, but she nodded anyway. “Four months.”
They shook on it, his hand warm and solid around hers—too solid, too familiar. And as she pulled back, she caught the faintest hint of something dangerous in his smile.
“Careful, Evans,” he murmured. “You’re playing with fire again.”
“Good thing,” she said, rising from her seat, “I learned how not to get burned.”
°❀.ೃ࿔*°❀.ೃ࿔*
Lily smoothed her dress for the fifth time, palms slick against the silk. The mirror reflected a stranger: hair twisted into an elegant updo, lips tinted the color of betrayal, eyes painted into perfection. Somewhere underneath all that makeup was the girl who used to race James Potter down dirt roads in bare feet. But that version of her had been buried years ago—under fame, under expectation, under guilt.
The knock came at precisely 6:03. Of course it did. James Potter was nothing but not punctual.
She opened the door, and there he was.
James looked like he’d stepped straight out of vogue—black suit, crisp shirt unbuttoned just enough to look rebellious, curls brushing his forehead. He held himself with the careless ease of someone who didn’t care about the cameras waiting outside. Except Lily knew better. He cared. He just didn’t want her to know he did.
“Evans.” He gave a mock salute with the hand not shoved into his pocket. “You clean up nice. Didn’t even have to Photoshop you this time.”
Lily blinked, unimpressed. “Wow. Compliments and insults in one breath. You really are evolving.”
His truck gleamed under the fading sunset, perfectly polished obsidian. It was absurd how much attention the man gave to his vehicles and how little he seemed to give to her.
The drive started quiet. It always did. The city blurred past her window —billboards, blinking lights, fans already gathering outside the venue. James tapped his fingers against the steering wheel, a rhythm she half-recognized.
“So,” he said finally, breaking the silence. “You ready to pretend once again that you're head over heels for me?”
“I’ve been pretending for a month,” she said dryly. “I’m practically a professional now.”
He chuckled, low and rough. “You always were good at acting.”
That one stung. She glanced at him, the corner of her mouth tightening. “Don’t start.”
“Barely said a word”
They fell into silence again. It was always like this, barbed and careful, like two people who knew exactly where to twist the knife but kept stopping just before it drew blood.
When they finally pulled up to the event, the world outside exploded— flashes, shouting, the endless hum of voices chanting their names. Lily took a breath, pressed a smile to her lips, and opened the door, slipping faultlessly into her practiced facade.
James was already there, offering his hand.
She took it, fingers slipping into that familiar warmth. The cameras roared, seemingly catching the moment.
Well, it was their first public appearance together, so who could blame them?
They walked the carpet like they’d done it for years, hand in hand, bodies angled toward each other, every move choreographed down to the tilt of her chin and the brush of his thumb against her skin. He whispered something that made her laugh on cue; she said something back that made his mouth twitch into a grin that wasn’t entirely fake.
To anyone watching, they were perfect. Effortless. A love story written in light.
But under the flashbulbs, Lily’s pulse thudded with something close to panic.
She could feel his thumb tracing slow circles against her wrist, almost absentmindedly. Could feel the heat of his body when he leaned close for the photos. It wasn’t supposed to feel this real.
“Keep smiling,” he murmured out of the corner of his mouth. “You’re doing great.”
Fuck, was her panic evident?
“I’m aware,” she said through clenched teeth.
They posed for a few more shots before heading inside, the crowd fading into a muffled buzz behind them. The hotel ballroom glowed gold, chandeliers dripping like honey. Waiters glided between tables, and someone was already calling her name from across the room.
James leaned in slightly. “Drink?”
“Please.”
They made their way to the bar, every eye following them. Lily could feel the weight of it, the scrutiny, the gossip. She smiled wider. James ordered whiskey; she got white wine. Their fingers brushed when he handed her the glass, and it sent a jolt through her, sharp and inconvenient.
“So,” he said, sipping his drink. “How does it feel? Is the PR crisis finally gone?”
Lily arched her brow. “Oh, it’s delightful. I get to be the villain and the fairytale ending, all at once.”
He laughed into his glass. “That’s Hollywood for you.”
She hesitated, watching him. There were faint lines at the corners of his eyes now—more mature, more tired, more… real. And God help her, she hated how good he looked in a suit.
“Thank you,” she said softly.
He looked up, surprised. “For what?”
“For doing this,” she said. “For putting up with all of it. I know you didn’t have to.”
James studied her for a long moment, then shrugged. “I didn’t do it for you.”
Her chest tightened. “Right. Of course not.”
He downed the rest of his drink, eyes flicking briefly toward the flashing cameras aimed their way. “I did it because sometimes, when life hands you a mess, you might as well make sure it’s a good show.”
Lily almost laughed. Almost. “You always were good at putting on a show, Potter.”
“And you always loved the spotlight,” he shot back, but it came out softer this time—less venom, more memory.
They were quiet again, the tension between them almost unbearable. Then, without meaning to, she said, “Do you ever think about it? About before?”
James’s jaw clenched. “Don’t.”
She swallowed, guilt pricking her throat. “I just meant—”
“Don’t, Lily,” he said again, gentler this time. “Not here. Not while half the world’s watching.”
The words silenced her.
But later that night, after the photos, after the interviews, when the world had stopped pretending and the two of them were just James and Lily again, standing by the car under the dim streetlights, he looked at her, really looked at her. Looker at her past her persona and makeup and glamour.
“Four months,” he said quietly, echoing their deal.
She met his gaze, pulse stuttering. “Four months.”
The drive back was quiet at first.
The city outside had softened into blurred neon — the kind of haze that only existed after too much champagne and too many smiles that weren’t real. Lily’s heels were off, her feet tucked up on the passenger seat, her head resting against the cold window. James drove with one hand on the wheel, the other tapping faintly against his thigh to some rhythm only he could hear.
They were both tipsy, not enough to slur, but enough that truth sat closer to the surface.
“Nice work tonight,” he said eventually, voice rough. “Didn’t even flinch when I called you sweetheart. Thought you’d combust.”
Lily huffed out a laugh. “You looked like you wanted to.”
“I nearly did. But then you smiled at me like that and…” He trailed off, glancing her way. “You’re too good at pretending, Evans.”
“Comes with the job,” she said lightly.
He hummed. “Yeah. Always did.”
That one landed between them like a dropped glass. Lily didn’t answer. Outside, the rain had started again, soft, pattering, blurring the world into watercolor.
When he pulled up outside her apartment, neither of them moved. The car idled, engine humming low, headlights slicing through the drizzle.
James finally sighed, leaning back against the seat. “You ever get tired of it?”
“Of what?”
“The pretending.”
Lily turned to him. His tie was loose, curls damp from the rain, eyes too honest for someone who’d spent the night performing.
“Every day,” she admitted. “But you can’t exactly quit when the whole world’s watching.”
He gave a humorless laugh. “Guess not.”
Silence settled again, thicker this time.
Lily reached for the door handle. “Goodnight, James.”
“Wait.”
She froze, hand hovering.
He rubbed at his jaw, eyes fixed on the steering wheel. “Why’d you do it?”
She blinked. “Do what?”
“Leave.” His voice cracked slightly — not angry, not cold, just tired. “All those years ago. You didn’t just leave town, Lily. You left me standing there like an idiot.”
Lily swallowed. The room, the car, felt smaller suddenly, like the air had been pulled out of it. “You really want to do this now? When we’re drunk and—”
“Yes,” he cut in, sharp. “Because if I don’t ask now, I never will.”
Her throat worked. For a moment, she thought about lying, about offering some half-arsed excuse about needing to ‘find herself.’ But his eyes stopped her.
“I was scared,” she said softly.
He frowned. “Of what?”
“Of being stuck,” she admitted. “Of being someone’s small-town girl forever. Of waking up one day and realizing the world had moved on and I hadn’t. You were—” she broke off, breathing unsteady, “you were everything I loved, James. That was the problem. I loved you too much to stay.”
His brow furrowed. “That doesn’t make any damn sense.”
“It does to me,” she whispered. “You were my home. And if I’d stayed, I never would’ve learned who I was without you.”
James was quiet for a long time. The rain grew heavier, drumming against the roof.
He reached into the back seat, grabbed the whiskey bottle they’d stolen from the afterparty, and twisted off the cap. “You could’ve told me that,” he said, taking a swig. “I would’ve understood.”
“No, you wouldn’t have,” she said. “You would’ve begged me to stay, and I would’ve said yes. Because I always said yes to you.”
He turned to look at her then, and there was something new in his eyes, not anger, not heartbreak. Just understanding, worn and fragile.
“I didn’t make it easy for you to leave, did I?”
She gave a quiet laugh. “You kneeled in the rain, James.”
He chuckled too, shaking his head. “God, I was dramatic.”
“You still are.”
They both laughed then, soft and disbelieving.
He leaned back against the seat again, staring up at the roof. “You know, I told everyone I hated you for a long time.”
Lily looked down at her hands. “Did you?”
“Yeah,” he said. “But I didn’t. I just didn’t know how to love someone who wasn’t there anymore.”
That one hit her square in the chest. “James…”
He waved a hand. “It’s fine. I get it now. You left because you had to. And maybe I needed you to.”
She blinked. “You needed me to leave?”
He nodded. “If you hadn’t, I’d still be waiting for you to come back instead of figuring out who I am.”
There it was, the soft ache she’d been carrying for years, turned gentle in his voice.
Lily smiled, small and real. “So what now?”
“Now,” he said, taking another sip, “we keep pretending. For a few more months.”
“And after that?”
He shrugged. “Maybe we stop pretending, go back to strangers or friends, your choice.”
She laughed quietly. “You say that like it’d be easy.”
“It won’t be,” he admitted. “But maybe it’s worth trying again. Different people this time.”
Their eyes met, and for a moment, everything stilled. The air, the rain, the noise in her chest.
Then he leaned forward, not to kiss her, not yet, but close enough that she could feel his breath.
“Next time you leave,” he murmured, “warn me first.”
Lily smiled, faint and trembling. “Next time I won’t.”
James chuckled softly, and for the first time in eight years, it wasn’t bitter. Just tired. Tired and honest.
He passed her the whiskey bottle. “To fake dating and us.”
She took a sip, wincing at the burn. “To second chances,” she said quietly.
He looked at her, eyes soft. “Yeah,” he murmured. “To that.”
When she finally got out of the car, the rain had stopped.
And as she walked inside, she realized for the first time in years, her heart wasn’t breaking anymore. It was just… waking up.
°❀.ೃ࿔*°❀.ೃ࿔*
The bar was loud in the way that made your thoughts blur and your heart go quiet. Sticky floors, neon signs, laughter echoing off wood-paneled walls. The kind of place where heartbreak went to sweat itself out beneath bad lighting and whiskey breath.
Lily Evans was on her third drink, maybe fourth, who was counting — and trying very, very hard not to think about James Potter.
“Two months,” she muttered to her glass. “Two bloody months and he’s fine.”
Because he was. Perfectly fine. Interviews, smiling at fans, that little PR breakup announcement where he’d called her a ‘wonderful person’ and thanked her for ‘the memories.’ God, the memories. She’d almost thrown her phone across the room when she saw it.
So, fine. If he could move on, so could she.
Marlene had dragged her here after her mopping about, claiming that a good night out would fix everything and that the best way to get over someone was to get under someone else. It was stupid, it was reckless, and it was working (mostly).
“Lils, that guy’s been looking at you for ten minutes,” Marlene shouted over the music, nodding toward a man by the bar. “Go dance with him before he loses his mind.”
Lily laughed, a little too high-pitched. “I don’t dance with strangers.”
“Please, you used to make strangers fall in love with you on live TV.”
She rolled her eyes. “That was different.”
“Exactly. This time, it’s not for someone else.”
Marlene gave her a little shove, and somehow, that was all it took. The man met her halfway to the dance floor, grinning like the night belonged to him.
“Can I?” he asked, holding out a hand.
Lily hesitated, and then took it.
His hand was warm, rough. He smelled like bourbon and aftershave, and when the music slowed, he pulled her close, too close. She told herself she didn’t care. She told herself she wanted this.
But every time he spun her, her eyes darted to the door. Every time his fingers grazed her waist, she thought about James’s hand there instead — how he’d always rested it just a little higher, almost protective.
She hated that she remembered that.
The man leaned in, murmuring something she didn’t catch, his breath hot against her ear. She laughed anyway, too loud, because pretending was easier than feeling.
“Having fun?” he asked.
“Loads” She said through gritted teeth.
And she was, sort of. It felt good to be wanted, even if it wasn’t real. To feel someone’s eyes on her for who she was now, not the Lily from the café, not the one from the interviews, not the girl who’d left a boy crying in the rain years ago.
Just her.
The lights spun, the fiddle picked up, her pulse matched the rhythm, and she closed her eyes, willing herself not to care.
If she could just keep moving, keep smiling, keep dancing, maybe she could convince herself she didn’t miss him anymore.
She was laughing when she felt it, that odd pull at the base of her spine. Like static. Like being watched.
She turned her head toward the door.
And her heart stopped.
James.
James fucking Potter was there.
There and glaring at her with an emotion she had never seen before.
Because she was a masochist, or maybe just stupid, and with some good ol’ alcohol courage, she smirked at him.
She fucking smirked at James Potter.
He didn’t move at first, didn’t even blink. Just stood there, watching her, chest rising and falling like he was holding back a storm.
Fine. Two could play at that game.
She threw her head back and laughed, loud and unbothered, letting her dance partner spin her again. She let the music slide through her body, hips swaying just enough to make a point. And maybe she even pressed a little closer to the stranger’s chest, her hand trailing up his arm, knowing, knowing, James was watching every damn second.
Except, when she turned back around to look at him, he vanished. For a heartbeat, she thought she’d imagined him.
Then someone tapped her shoulder.
And when she turned, he was there.
Up close now, eyes darker, jaw tighter, the faint smell of whiskey on his breath. His entire demeanor was different to the James she knew.
“Evenin’, Evans.” His voice dropped low, gravel and honey and entirely too steady for a man that furious. “Didn’t think I’d find you here.”
She blinked, a little dizzy from the alcohol and a lot dizzy from him. “You stalking me now, Potter?”
He tilted his head, a slow, deliberate motion. “Didn’t need to. Whole damn bar heard you before they saw you.”
“Was that supposed to be an insult or a compliment?”
“Whatever you want it to be, sweetheart.”
Oh lord.
The stranger she’d been dancing with cleared his throat, Rick, or wait was it Ryan?. “Uh, Lily? You good?”
She forced a smile. “Peachy.”
James didn’t even look at the guy. “You should probably find someone else to dance with, mate. Song’s over.”
“Excuse me?” Rick/Ryan said, but one look at James and decided it wasn’t worth the trouble. He mumbled something and disappeared into the crowd.
Coward.
Lily turned back to James, seething. “You can’t just—”
“Watch me.”
“Oh, bite me.”
He smiled, slow and devastating. “Careful what you wish for.”
And god help her, she laughed. Because that’s what James Potter did to her, made her laugh when she wanted to scream.
Lily tried to step past him, but James shifted just enough to block her path, an infuriating move made worse by the little tilt of his head that said go on, try me..
“Move,” she said, sharp and sweet.
He didn’t. “You looked like you were having such a good time. Hate to ruin your night.”
“Oh, you already did,” she shot back. “Congratulations, Cowboy of the Year.”
His grin widened, lazy and dangerous. “If you wanted to give me a title, sweetheart, you could’ve picked somethin’ a little funnier.”
“God, you’re insufferable.”
“Mm.” He leaned closer, close enough she could smell whiskey and cedar and something that felt like home. “You say that like it’s new.”
Lily exhaled sharply through her nose, trying not to let her heart race like it used to around him. For goodness sake, she was not some lovesick fool. “If you’re done ruining my night, I’ve got better things to do than stand here arguing with you.”
“Better things?” He raised a brow. “Like lettin’ some drunk stranger put his hands all over you?”
“Excuse me? You're starting to sound like you're jealous, Potter.”
James shrugged, like he hadn’t just lit a fire under her ribs. “You didn’t look like you were enjoyin’ yourself, Evans. Thought maybe I’d step in before you had to fake another smile for the cameras.”
Her blood boiled. “You’ve done enough of that for both of us.”
For a moment, he said nothing. His jaw clenched, something sharp flashing behind his eyes. But then, slowly, deliberately, his grin returned. “Fine,” he said. “You wanna dance so bad?”
“What?”
He held out a hand. “Then dance with me.”
She blinked. “You’re joking.”
“Do I look like I’m jokin’?”
She wanted to say yes. She wanted to scoff, to toss her hair, to tell him exactly where he could shove that offer.
But the music was still playing, some old country ballad with too much ache and not enough rhythm, and his hand was right there, open and waiting, like it always had been.
“Come on, Lily,” he said softly, voice shifting from sharp to something that almost, almost, —sounded like the boy she used to know. “For old times’ sake.”
“Old times don’t deserve sake,” she muttered.
“Then make new ones.”
She hated him for saying that.
She hated him for meaning it.
But most of all, she hated herself for taking his hand.
He pulled her in without hesitation, his palm settling on her waist, the warmth of it burning through the thin fabric of her dress. The world around them blurred into neon and laughter, but all she could focus on was the way his thumb brushed her hip, the way his breath ghosted her cheek.
“You’re still terrible at dancin’,” he murmured.
“And you’re still terrible at shutting up.”
He chuckled slowly. “Guess some things don’t change.”
Her laugh caught in her throat. “Some things do.”
His gaze flicked down to her lips. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “Some do.”
The air shifted, thicker now, heavier. The song changed, slower this time, and neither of them stepped away. They swayed in time, small movements that felt too intimate for what they were supposed to be.
Lily swallowed hard. “Im supposed to hate you, you know, you should too. Sober me will kill me for even talkin’ to you.”
James’s hand tightened slightly at her waist. “Trust me, Evans, I’m tryin’ real damn hard to hate you.”
That earned him a laugh, half bitter, half broken. “Could’ve fooled me.”
He leaned in, voice barely a whisper. “Maybe I stopped wantin’ to.”
Her pulse skipped. She could feel it in her chest, in her throat, in her fingertips where they brushed against the hem of his shirt.
“James—”
He didn’t let her finish.
Just smiled, slow and knowing. “You still smell like vanilla.”
“And you still talk too much,” she said, but her voice came out soft, trembling at the edges.
No. She needed to have the upperhand.
As if the universe heard her silent plea, the music shifted. Bass — heavy, wild, the kind of song that crawled up your spine and dared you to lose control. The rhythm pulsed under her skin, thrummed against her ribs.
Still swaying with him, she tilted her chin up, letting her fingers drag up the hard line of his shoulders. Her hips rolled forward, slow, deliberate, matching the beat.
James stilled. Completely.
His hands found her waist before she could blink, fingers tightening with that same frustrating confidence he’d always carried. He moved with her, caught between a dance and a dare.
She spun in his grip, back flush against his chest, head tipping back on his shoulder.
“What do you think you're doing, Lils?”
“Dancing, just like you said.”
His gaze burnt into her, as if he could see right past all those old tricks and performances. His fingers flexed against her waist, and for a fleeting second, his resolve slipped. He leaned in, his lips brushing the shell of her ear.
“You’re gonna get yourself in trouble, Evans.”
She turned in his arms, slow and deliberate, until they were chest to chest again. “You gonna stop me?”
“Should,” he said. Didn’t move.
“Then why don’t you?”
“I never stood a chance against you.”
Everything else seemed to disappear at that moment. The music, the people, the world itself. It was just James and Lily. Them and the air between.
“Is that why you left?”
Confusion overtook his face, “Me? Lily, when did I ever leave?”
“After–... After the PR announcement,” her voice trembled, “You— You just disappeared… I thought that maybe we could just be friends again, but– but you just left.”
“I left because I can never just be friends with you, Lily. If- if I stayed I’d let you break my heart another time.”
Her breath hitched, her lungs burnt and her heart jumped to her throat.
She blinked at him, throat closing around a hundred things she’d never said. “You think I wanted to break your heart?”
He laughed once, quiet, bitter, the sound of something splintering. “You did it anyway.”
“I had to leave, James.”
“I know,” he said softly, too softly. “Doesn’t mean it didn’t wreck me.”
“Seven years,” she whispered. “You still hate me that much?”
“I can never hate you Lils, not even a bit.”
The song changed, something slower now, all velvet bass and heartbreak. Lily should’ve stepped back, made a joke, thrown up one of her walls. But she didn’t. She just stood there, looking at him like maybe she could memorize the shape of his face all over again.
“Tell me to stop,” he murmured.
She didn’t.
And so he didn’t either.
James’s hand slid up her arm, over the bare skin of her shoulder, stopping at her jaw. His thumb traced her cheekbone, almost reverent. When he kissed her, it wasn’t angry or desperate; it was everything that had been waiting, seven years of restraint snapping all at once.
The kiss was heat and history, the ache of every almost-and-never. Her fingers curled into his shirt, pulling him closer, and he went willingly, a man surrendering to gravity.
She tasted whiskey on his tongue, felt the rasp of his stubble against her skin, the weight of him anchoring her in a world that had never felt steady since she left. The noise of the bar melted into a heartbeat, fast and uneven.
When they finally pulled apart, both breathing hard, her lipstick smeared against his mouth, she didn’t know who moved first. Maybe she did. Maybe he did.
Maybe it didn’t matter.
They stumbled out into the cool night air, laughter caught somewhere between disbelief and relief. The street outside was nearly empty, neon signs flickering like stars that had given up trying to shine. He leaned against the wall, hat tipped low, eyes still on her.
“Still think you can walk away?” he asked, voice rough.
She smiled, small, shaky. “Do you?”
He didn’t answer. He didn’t have to.
What came next wasn’t meant for anyone else.
Maybe they argued again, maybe they didn’t. Maybe she said something about still loving him, maybe she just let her hands do the talking. Maybe he kissed her again and didn’t stop this time.
You might want to know what happened when the lights went out — if they stayed, if they said the words that had waited seven long years. If this was the beginning or the end of something that had never really stopped burning.
But that part isn’t for anyone else to hear.
They were never built for the eyes of the world. Their love wasn’t meant for red carpets or camera flashes. It was made of quiet apologies whispered against skin, of hands finding their way back after being lost too long.
Because Lily Evans and James Potter have always been fire meeting wind, inevitable, consuming, and utterly private. What they said, what they did, what they finally allowed themselves to feel, that belonged to them.
It was a secret language spoken in sighs and half-smiles.
A promise written in bruised lips and trembling hearts.
Theirs was a story that burned too bright to be performed, meant to exist only in the hush between heartbeats, in the moments no one sees.
And if you looked close enough that night, past the noise, past the city lights — you might’ve caught it: two souls finally colliding again, a spark reigniting in the dark, proof that even after all the breaking and burning, Some things are too stubborn to stay gone.
Some loves just don’t end. And theirs was alive again, back from the dead.