A/N: Hey, guys! For those of you who stick with this, I appreciate you so much! This is my first fic ever, so I'm pretty excited and hoping I can do the ideas in my head justice and these characters, who I love deeply, justice as well.

Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter, and if so, someone's stolen billions of dollars out of my bank account and my incredibly well-written and perfectly cast Marauders Netflix series is doing fantastic and being nominated for several awards.

Some Time Before

James Potter couldn't tell you when he fell in love all for the simple reason that he would hardly ever allow himself to think (hardly knew enough about himself), at the time, to know love was ever alive to begin with. Maybe once, before it all, he had felt it – once when the hour had grown late and nothing but the moon to light up the corner of his bed. Behind his closed ones, visions of eyes as green as the water in the summertime rested against speckled fair skin. It was only once – the slipping feeling he had felt in his legs, the burning sensation he had felt when those eyes had washed up on the shore of his skin, alone with the deafening silence in the dark – that he might have admitted it to be love.

He might have admitted he often thought about what her rosy fair skin would look against his sun-stroked brown.

But only once (that he'll admit to).

James Potter was a great many things. He was reckless with a mind mannered for mischief and a charm that could walk you off the edge of a cliff. He was made up of maddening contradictions, an unapologetic mess of a boy and fit for a fight at every corner. He was born a curious mind and taught to be unafraid in his opinions. Birthed in a miracle to Euphemia and Fleamont Potter, James was very much loved, and therefore, had very much to give in return. He was a fierce opponent, an even fiercer friend, and brave at heart.

James Potter was never wrong. (No) James Potter seldom admitted when he was wrong.

It was a quiet kind of pride that lived in his bones, followed him through the corridors and rested his eyes away from flashes of dark red waves – a pride that braved the day, only to leave him bare beneath the moonlight. It was much easier this way, you see – to deny it all – to pretend that for the last year he hadn't lived for the moments she would accidentally brush past him in the Great Hall, her "Go away, Potter," to see her bite the inside of her cheek when she held back a particularly nasty remark, the possibility of finding her wandering gaze in Charms. He'd spent enough time indulging in the pink that spread across her face when he teased her, argued with her, pursued her. It was easier to pretend he was past it.

Because James Potter was not in love with Lily Evans. (No) Because James Potter did not want to be in love with Lily Evans.

So he decided he wouldn't be (in love).

Some Time After

Lily Evans couldn't tell you how she fell in love all for the simple reason that she hardly knew enough about herself (would hardly ever allow herself to think), at the time, to know love was ever alive to begin with. Maybe once, after it all, she had thought it – once when the warmth of the sun had crept in through the window and nothing but the rustle of a morning breeze soothed the hurricane in her mind. Through and past the window, images of wild unruly curls as black as midnight hung over thin round glasses perched on the edge of a delicately shaped nose. It was only once – the sense of a gravity without center, the hum of electricity that whispered across her fingertips when his hand rested lightly on the side of her arm, alone in the crowd of laughter and noise that was The Great Hall – that she might have admitted to being in love.

She might have admitted she often thought about the purple flare that lit in his hair when firelight touched it, what it might look like through her fingers.

But only once (that she'll admit to).

Lily Evans was a great many things. She was headstrong with eyes that shined the light from within a gentle heart and a wit that could cut you deep to the bone. She was made up of sweet responsibility, an emotional mess of a girl and a selfless will to defend the people she loved. She was born with a hot temper and taught to be kind with her hands. Born in quiet Cokeworth, England with her sister Petunia, Lily learned to create beauty in the things that were simple, in the stillness that resided within the town. She was a fierce friend, an even fiercer opponent, and generous with her heart.

Lily Evans was never sure of what she wanted. (No) Lily Evans seldom admitted to the things she wanted.

It was a quiet kind of pride that whispered in her ear, sat beside her under the faint glow of lanterns when she stayed late in the library, and stopped her from looking too long into eyes that held more shades of gold and brown that she had known existed – a pride that trembled even in the most crowded of places. It was much harder this way, you see – to deny it all – to pretend that she hadn't spent the last few months studying his face scrunch up in frustration rather than pain when he got hit with a bludger, the different faces he wore with his "Oye, Evans," his effortless flick of a wand in Transfiguration, the motherly way he fussed over Lupin when he would get ill. She'd spend enough time pretending the small smile his mouth held when he took notes didn't soften all the previous notions she'd held against him. It was harder to pretend she could fight it all.

Because Lily Evans did not want to be in love with James Potter. (No) Because Lily Evans had been in love with James Potter for quite some time now.

So she decided she would be (in love).

James and Lily stood there now, standing under the same moonlight where he had once quietly re-traced the memory of each spot that marked a map across her face, where he had once decided she was only the idea of a girl he didn't actually want – that didn't belong to him – and for once he felt afraid of what might come next. It was oddly familiar, their closeness now, but only because he was looking into her eyes, a sort of sedative for the flight response turning gears in his limbs. Her eyes were darker than he'd seen before, the color of a raging storm against the sea, the color the trees turned after a night of heavy rain.

Their hands were still on each other, one against her ribcage and the other on her waist, hers gripping the sides his shoulders where she caught herself. Her heart was beating hard against his palm and he worried she could hear the roar within his own chest. All he needed was one moment of nerve – real nerve – that no prank or fight had ever prepared him for. Brave, they always called him. Fearless. But when it came to Lily Evans, and in such a state he had never found himself before, he couldn't understand why they had always called him those things. She disarmed him, and so very easily.

With his face only inches apart from hers, he let go of her gaze and looked at her parted lips. He could feel her breath against his skin, and with the slightest slant of his neck, he rested his forehead against hers.

Lily closed her eyes and he couldn't help but only partially drop his lids to watch as her lips inched closer towards him, and then he thought to himself, conquered, I'm in love with Lily Evans.

But our story doesn't begin here.

A/N: Had to stop before the kiss, tbh.

This makes sense though; it isn't as vague as I originally thought it would be. It's a sneak peek into what both our main characters are feeling at different times during this story. I have an absolutely terrible sense of a timeline; so don't expect too many specifics in that regard.

Reviews! They help, but I will cry if they're too mean, go easy on me... but not too easy. You know what I mean.

Next chapter will be uploaded shortly where you'll meet some characters and get some plot going. I honestly just couldn't wait anymore to post this.

-k