It's James Potter's birthday. I wrote this thing. It's not about his birthday, but it's about James Potter so come at me it's relevant.

Yes, it's another Ed Sheeran inspired fic. No, I'm not sorry.

Enjoy xx

If she's honest, he terrifies her a little bit.

She didn't expect to feel this, this much, for him already. For his laughs and smiles and smouldering eyes and frantic fingers to fill her dreams, his jokes and winks and devilish smirks and waggling eyebrows to fill her days. She can barely pull her mind from the firm planes of his chest, the long lean muscles of his arms, the way his chin feels as he rests it against the top of her head when he hugs her from behind, the way his forehead feels pressed against hers, his breath blowing in waves over her face, panting because neither of them can ever quite control themselves. She can't keep her eyes from his across the table in the Great Hall, her fingers out of his hair when they're laying in bed, her lips from any part of him when they're even remotely within touching distance of one another.

He's everywhere and everything and it's overwhelming and it terrifies her because she should be more scared than she is, she should want some kind of distance, but instead she just wants to press him closer, kiss him constantly, wear her heart on her sleeve so he knows just how much she feels for him.

But with this, with the realisation of just how much she loves him, how much she wants him, needs him, everything, comes the realisation that he could crush her, press her between his fingers and smash her into dust. Loving him means trusting him not to do that, and she does trust him, with her life, but she can't help the bubble of fear that sometimes forms in her chest in the middle of the night when she wakes up in his arms and realises that she doesn't know what she'd do without him.

She isn't dependent, not really, Lily fucking Evans would never be dependent, but she does… need him. She needs his laughs like she needs oxygen, they make her forget that people are killing each other outside the castle walls, that they're killing each other over people like her, that she'll, very soon, be in their sights. She needs his fingers dancing across her skin, needs them pressed against her, pushing, coaxing, torturing, teasing, caressing. She can do it herself, but she much prefers when he's at the controls. She needs his breath in her ear, the whispered jokes in the middle of Transfiguration, the barely muffled laughter when he buries his face in her hair in Potions, the quiet reminder of "I love you, Evans," in the middle of Charms.

Fuck, maybe that's dependent.

Maybe the scariest part of it all is that she isn't worried about being dependent on him anymore, that she isn't ashamed of it, not even a little bit, because with James it feels easy and instant and as natural as breathing, even when, especially when, he's driving her round the bloody twist and she is this close to just pushing him off the Astronomy Tower. Even then, she loves him, and that's what people always talk about, isn't it, that you'll know you've found it when you love them even when you want to kill them, when the idea of living without them is more terrifying than loving and losing, that you'll take that risk because you cannot, for anything, come up with a reason that they aren't worth it. That's what her fear comes down to, if she's honest - losing.

She used to think that he'd realise she wasn't the woman he built in his brain, the one he'd followed around corridors and lusted after for years. She wasn't interested in living up to some imagined version of herself, someone that was probably soft and rounded edges where she was sharp and made of steel. But James, bloody James, loved her, all of her, he pushed, challenged, drove her completely spare, made her laugh, wiped her tears, held her hand. He was there, every day, through all of it, and she didn't worry, not anymore, that he was just holding out for some fantasy Lily to finally show herself. He'd seen too much of her, now, for her to think he'd expected that.

No, when she thought about it, it was the fear of losing him that made her stomach clench, her hands shake just a bit as she traced the muscles of his back with her fingertips while he lay sprawled beside her. It was never waking up next to him again, never hearing his stupidly loud laugh, seeing his bloody hand in his bloody hair, feeling his body pressed against hers, his muscles quivering under her fingertips. She wasn't worried he'd leave her of his own accord, the expression on his face every time he looked at her made it abundantly clear that that wasn't an option, but she was terrified, bloody terrified, that they'd walk out of this school and they would fall apart.

That the world would be too much, the war would be too much, the pressure too much.

She'd told him this late one night, whispered it into his skin. "You're stupid, Evans," he breathed, brushed her hair back from her eyes, tipped her chin so she'd look at him, grinned impishly, "It will never be too much with you. I'll always want more. You know that."

She did know that.

"But you can't tell me you aren't afraid, James."

He studied her for a moment, pressed a soft kiss to her forehead, "Of course I'm scared. But I'm only scared of losing you or Pads or Moony or Wormtail. That's it."

"Well, that's what I'm scared of, too. That," she leaned forward, pressed her nose to his neck and inhaled, steadying herself before pulling back and looking at him, "that one day you'll go out and you won't come home. How am I supposed to…"

She trailed off, but James just laid there quietly, waiting for her to finish the thought she'd initially had no interest in finishing. She sighed, knowing full well he would lie there silently until she finished her sentence, "How am I supposed to do this without you?"

He moved his arm to her waist, pulled her closer against him, "You won't have to."

She sighed, "You can't promise that - "

"I can. I won't have your broken heart on my conscience, Evans." He smiled softly at her, trying to lighten the mood.

"Besides," he wound his fingers in her hair, "Voldemort might be a right foul bastard, but he's got nothing on us, Evans."

It's stupid and she knows it isn't true, but she smiles anyway because the bastard did always know how to make her laugh.

He pressed her into his chest, his fingers sliding through her hair, "I love you, Lily." He pulled away, looked at her, "You know that?"

She rolled her eyes, of course she knows that, but she smiled anyway, "Yeah, James. We're in love."

"Well, that's all we need isn't it?" James grinned at her, "That's what ol' Al always says, anyway."

She smacked his chest, "James. You cannot call Dumbledore 'Al'."

He laughed, "He didn't mind when I wrote it on his Christmas present this year."

She rolled her eyes, but couldn't help the laugh that escaped her, "You're a fucking idiot."

"Yeah," he pressed his forehead to hers, smile beaming at her in the darkness, "but I'm your idiot."

It helps.

And she decides it doesn't matter. It does, because she doesn't ever, ever, want to have to deal with this, doesn't ever want to find out what happens to her life if James suddenly isn't in it, but it doesn't matter, not really. She takes a page from James' book, tries to live suspended in the moment, to explode with possibility and promise, to take life and make it hers, theirs.

He's still everywhere, he's always everywhere, always shaking her up, pushing her further, grabbing her hand, fingers and thumbs wound tight, and taking a running jump off the nearest cliff. And she realises, ultimately, that it doesn't matter because they might be falling, she might be terrified, but they're together.