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The scent of roasted beans and steamed milk was becoming as familiar to James Potter as the smell of broomstick polish and old parchment. For a man whose culinary expertise peaked at perfectly buttered toast, the gleaming, intimidating espresso machine in the corner of the Potters’ sun-drenched kitchen was a beast to be tamed. But for Regulus, he would tame a dragon.
It had started with an offhand comment weeks ago, murmured into the soft fabric of James’s sweater. They’d been tangled together on the sofa, a documentary on celestial phenomena playing to an audience of no one. Regulus, his head on James’s chest, had sighed contentedly after a sip from his travel mug.
“I love this,” he’d said, his voice a soft, sleep-tinged murmur. “Most coffee is so… aggressive. All bitter and angry. This is like a warm hug.”
James had looked down at the crown of Regulus’s dark head, his heart performing a clumsy, joyous somersault. He knew Regulus’s order by heart, of course—a sickeningly sweet concoction with enough milk and sugar to give a dentist a heart attack, a stark contrast to the severe, black-coffee personality he presented to the world. But he’d never thought of it as a ‘warm hug.’ He’d stored the comment away like a precious secret.
The next day, he’d enrolled in barista classes.
“No, no, Mr. Potter,” chirped Chiara, his endlessly patient instructor. “You must tamp with consistent pressure. Think of it as… firm but fair.”
James, who usually approached life with the subtlety of a fireworks display, frowned in concentration. He pressed the grounds down in the portafilter. “Firm but fair,” he muttered, his tongue poking out from the corner of his mouth. “Right. Not like I’m trying to win a wrestling match.”
“Precisely!” Chiara beamed. “Now, the milk. You’re not scalding a dragon, you’re coaxing a kitten. A gentle hiss, not a furious scream.”
The first week was a disaster of biblical proportions. He produced coffee that could strip paint, milk that resembled cottage cheese, and on one memorable occasion, managed to short-circuit the machine, plunging the entire café into momentary darkness. But James Potter was nothing if not stubborn, especially when love was the motivator. He practiced with a fervor usually reserved for Quidditch finals. He bought bags of beans and gallons of milk. The kitchen looked like a café had exploded, much to his mother’s amusement.
“Is this a new career path, darling?” Euphemia had asked, sipping a mug of his early, disastrous attempt. She’d gamely swallowed it without a flinch, though her eyes had watered slightly. “Or are you trying to single-handedly keep the dairy industry in business?”
“It’s a surprise,” James had said, wiping sweat from his brow with a flour-dusted forearm. “For Reg.”
His mother’s face had softened into a look of such profound understanding and affection that James had to look away, suddenly embarrassed by the sheer magnitude of his own feelings. “Oh, James,” she’d said softly. “He’s going to love it.”
Now, after three weeks of clandestine lessons and covert practice, D-Day had arrived. The surprise was planned for a lazy Sunday morning. Regulus was due any minute, lured under the pretence of going out for a ‘proper coffee’ since James was, as he’d claimed, “hopelessly incompetent” at making it.
The kitchen was pristine, the battlefield cleared. Sunlight streamed through the large windows, catching the dust motes dancing in the air. James’s heart was hammering a rhythm against his ribs. He’d already prepped everything: the finest, sweetest Arabica beans ground to perfection, the ceramic mug Regulus loved—a deep navy blue with tiny, silver stars glazed into it—and the milk steamed to a velvety, microfoam perfection.
He heard the front door open and close, followed by the familiar, light tread of Regulus’s footsteps.
“James?” his voice called out, a little hesitant. “You said ten o’clock. I’m here to collect my hopeless boyfriend for caffeine.”
“In the kitchen!” James called back, his voice only slightly squeaky with nerves.
Regulus appeared in the doorway, and James’s breath caught, as it always did. He was dressed in soft, black trousers and a grey jumper that was slightly too big, the sleeves covering his hands. His dark hair was tousled from the wind, and his sharp, grey eyes scanned the room, instantly noting the absence of coats and the presence of the sparkling-clean espresso machine.
“What’s all this?” he asked, a curious frown touching his brow. “I thought we were going to the café on the high street.”
James couldn’t stop the grin that spread across his face. He gestured flamboyantly to the machine. “Change of plans. Please, take a seat, sir. Your barista for the morning will be with you shortly.”
Regulus’s frown deepened, but a flicker of amusement warmed his eyes. He slid onto a stool at the kitchen island, resting his chin in his hands. “My barista, huh? And what are his qualifications?”
“Extensive,” James said, puffing out his chest. “And very, very secret.” He turned his back, blocking Regulus’s view as he began the ritual. The grind of the beans, the firm-but-fair tamp, the lock of the portafilter. The rich, dark espresso began to pour into the starry mug, a perfect blonde crema swirling on top. The sound was a low, satisfying trickle.
He heard Regulus shift on the stool. “That… actually sounds professional.”
“Just you wait,” James said, his focus absolute. Now for the hard part. The art. Chiara had spent two whole lessons on this alone. You have to move with confidence, James. The milk will know if you’re afraid.
He picked up the pitcher of steamed milk. He took a deep, steadying breath. For Regulus. A warm hug.
He poured, high and slow at first, integrating the milk with the espresso. Then, he brought the pitcher closer, tipping it ever so slightly. A quick, subtle wiggle of his wrist. He poured a final, thin stream through the foam, pulling it up and through.
He set the pitcher down with a soft clink. He prayed to every star in Regulus’s mug that it had worked. He turned around, clutching the mug with both hands, hiding the design.
“For you,” he said, his voice uncharacteristically soft. “The way you like it. Sweet. No bitterness.”
He placed the mug on the counter in front of Regulus and finally stepped back, his hands nervously wiping on his jeans.
Regulus looked down.
And he went completely still.
There, floating on the surface of the creamy, light-beige coffee, was a near-perfect heart. It was a little wobbly on one side, perhaps more of a lop-sided love potato than a geometrically perfect symbol, but its intention was unmistakable. In the centre of the heart, James had managed to dot two little eyes and a small, smiling mouth with the last drop of milk.
It was ridiculous. It was adorable. It was the most earnest thing Regulus Black had ever seen.
He didn’t say a word. He just stared at the offering, his expression unreadable. The silence stretched, punctuated only by the frantic beating of James’s heart. Oh, god, he thought, panic beginning to curdle his pride. It’s stupid. It’s too much. He thinks it’s childish. I’ve—
Regulus’s head lifted slowly. His eyes, usually so cool and guarded, were shimmering with a sheen of tears. His lips were parted slightly, and he looked utterly, completely disarmed.
“James,” he whispered, the name a breathless, broken thing. “You… you made this?”
“The classes were every Tuesday and Thursday,” James blurted out, the words tumbling over each other in a rush of relief and anxiety. “And I practiced here. Mum probably thinks I’m insane. I ruined, like, ten gallons of milk. I think I almost set the kitchen on fire once, but don’t tell Dad. I just… you said you liked it sweet. That it was like a warm hug. And I wanted to be the one to give it to you. I know it’s silly, the heart is a bit wonky, I can never get the—”
“James,” Regulus interrupted, his voice firmer now, though still thick with emotion. “Stop talking.”
He slid off the stool and walked around the island. He didn’t stop until he was right in front of James, so close that James could see the tiny flecks of silver in his grey eyes, could feel the faint tremor in his hands as he reached up.
Regulus grabbed the front of James’s t-shirt, fisting the soft cotton in his hands, and pulled him down into a searing, desperate kiss. It tasted of salt—from the tears tracking down Regulus’s cheeks—and of the pure, unadulterated love that was pouring out of him. It was a kiss that spoke of years of receiving coldness and now being overwhelmed by this relentless, sunny warmth. It was a thank you, a promise, and a confession all in one.
When they finally broke apart, both were breathless. James rested his forehead against Regulus’s, his hands coming up to cup his face, his thumbs gently wiping away the tear trails.
“You’re crying,” James murmured, his own eyes prickling. “Was it that bad?”
Regulus let out a wet, choked laugh that was more of a sob. “You idiot,” he whispered affectionately. “You beautiful, ridiculous, wonderful idiot.” He kissed him again, softer this time, a slow, lingering press of lips. “No one has ever… ever… done anything like this for me.”
“It’s just coffee,” James said, though his chest was swelling with a pride that made him feel ten feet tall.
“It is not just coffee,” Regulus insisted, pulling back to look at him, his gaze intense and serious. “It’s you. It’s you listening to a throwaway comment I don’t even remember making. It’s you spending weeks learning something, secretly, just to… to make me smile. It’s this.” He gestured to the mug, the lopsided heart now slowly beginning to blend into the coffee. “It’s the most thoughtful thing anyone has ever done.”
He led James back to the stools, never letting go of his hand. He sat down and pulled the mug towards him, staring at it with a reverence usually reserved for holy relics.
“I don’t want to drink it,” he said softly. “I want to preserve it in amber.”
James laughed, the sound watery. “Don’t be daft. It’ll get cold. And I need you to taste it. I need to know if I got it right.”
With the utmost care, as if handling something infinitely fragile, Regulus brought the mug to his lips. He took a small sip. His eyes fluttered closed. A slow, blissful smile spread across his face, more radiant than any James had ever seen there.
“Perfect,” he breathed, opening his eyes. “It’s perfect, James. It’s the best coffee I’ve ever had.”
He took another sip, then held the mug out to James. “Here. You have to taste your masterpiece.”
James leaned forward and took a sip from the spot where Regulus’s lips had been. It was, indeed, incredibly sweet. Cloyingly so, to his own taste buds. But seeing the look on Regulus’s face, it tasted like victory. It tasted like love.
“It’s good,” James agreed, grinning.
Regulus took the mug back, cradling it in both hands. He was quiet for a moment, just looking at James with an expression of such open wonder that it made James’s throat tight.
“You know,” Regulus began, his voice quiet and thoughtful, “for most of my life, I thought love was supposed to be difficult. It was something you negotiated, something you earned through being perfect, something that was always conditional. It was… bitter. Sharp. Like black coffee. You drank it because you had to, to get through the day, not because you enjoyed it.”
He looked down into his mug, at the lingering remnants of the foam heart. “You… you’ve spoiled me for it. You’ve shown me it can be this.” He gestured between them, at the sun-drenched kitchen, at the mug in his hands. “Easy. And sweet. And fun. You’ve made it a warm hug.”
Now it was James’s turn to feel the hot press of tears. He cleared his throat, overwhelmed. “Well, you’re stuck with it now. With me. I plan on making you a disgustingly sweet coffee every single morning for the rest of our lives. Even when we’re old and grey and my hands are too shaky to pour a heart. I’ll just dump the sugar in and give you a kiss instead.”
Regulus’s smile was a breathtaking thing, small and real and entirely for James. “I think I’d prefer that, actually. The kiss, I mean.”
“Yeah?” James leaned in, nudging his nose against Regulus’s.
“Yeah,” Regulus whispered, his breath ghosting over James’s lips. “The coffee is a very, very close second.”
James closed the distance, kissing him again, slowly and deeply, pouring every ounce of the love he felt into it. He could taste the sweet, milky coffee on Regulus’s tongue, and he decided, in that moment, that it was his new favourite flavour in the world.
Later, when the coffee was finished and the mug sat empty between them, Regulus traced the pattern of the stars on its side. “So,” he said, a sly, playful glint in his eye. “Tuesdays and Thursdays, huh?”
James groaned, burying his face in his hands. “Merlin, don’t remind me. Chiara probably has a permanent eye twitch because of me.”
“I want to know everything,” Regulus said, prying James’s hands away from his face. “I want to know about the milk you scalded and the espresso you murdered. I want every detail.”
And so James told him. They spent the entire morning there at the kitchen island, the sunlight creeping slowly across the floor. James recounted his failed attempts with dramatic flair, and Regulus laughed—a real, full-bodied, joyous sound that was sweeter than any coffee. He interjected with kisses, each one a punctuation mark of his gratitude and amusement.
It was, James decided, the best morning of his life. Better than winning the Quidditch Cup, better than the first time he’d ever flown. This was better. This was real.
As Regulus finished laughing at the story of the short-circuited machine, he leaned his head on James’s shoulder with a contented sigh.
“You know,” he murmured, his voice drowsy with happiness, “next time, I’ll teach you how to make my favourite tea. It’s a very precise, very serious ritual. Almost no chance of electrocution.”
James kissed the top of his head, breathing in the familiar scent of him—old books, crisp air, and now, faintly, of sweet coffee and home.
“I can’t wait,” he said, and he meant it with every fibre of his being.