Room Service

Chapter 19

Intense boredom has forced her hands—quite literally—to download Candy Crush on her mobile at half-past three in the morning as she recuperates from the hangover of finally having finished her e-book a few minutes ago. Lily stifles a large yawn, posture poor as she slumps further into her chair, fingers swiping over the phone half-heartedly to make skilful matches of multicoloured jellies and beans across the grid.

Then, quite out of nowhere, the screen shifts, displaying an incoming call.

She blinks rapidly at the name for a few seconds to make sure she hasn't accidentally fallen asleep on the chair—that this isn't a dream—before cautiously pressing accept.

"Hello?"

"Oh, good, you're up!"

"Um—" she tugs on the end of her ponytail, stomach already in knots. "Of course, I am, James. I don't always fall asleep on the desk, you know. What are you doing, up so late?"

"Can't sleep. Are you busy?"

She narrows her eyes. "Why are you asking?"

"For very complicated reasons that I cannot possibly articulate over the phone because I might choke up from the depths of my emotions. The only sensible thing, therefore, would be for me to come downstairs and explain them to you."

"James…"

"See you in a bit, Evans!"

"Hey!"

She looks up from her position on the chair, lets a flat stare settle on James's cheerful expression, struggling to hold back a smile at his impossible enthusiasm even at such unforgivably early hours. "You're mad. You should be asleep."

"I'm bored," he corrects. "Sirius is out on a client-site visit. And I needed company—" Here, a medium-sized bowl is slid over the counter, filled with triangular fried snacks. "Samosas. Love them, but they're too many. Thought you could share them with me."

Lily sighs, half-exasperated; fully besotted. "James—"

"Oh, come on, Evans. There's literally no one around. And you're not even working!"

"I don't—"

He presses forward. "Please."

She watches him silently for a few seconds, feeling the grip on her resolve slipping under the force of that pleading—albeit terribly exaggerated—stare. She used to be stronger than this, didn't she? "Ugh, fine, alright. But only because you're being insufferable as usual, and I don't have the energy to fight you right now."

He grins. "Stop, or you'll make me blush."

Lily rolls her eyes. Git.

When she expends a long-suffering breath, gets up from the chair, and reaches out for one of the samosas, James, despite all his badgering, inexplicably pulls the bowl away from under her fingertips before she can pick one up. "Wha—"

"Not here." He tuts.

"What do you mean?"

"Let's go outside."

"Outside? Outside, where?"

"Not to bloody Hawaii, would you relax?" He laughs, but that only worries her more. The gleam in his eyes, behind those glasses—she's come to recognize it only a little too well as the harbinger of bubbling mischief it generally is. God, if only the senses in her brain could be sturdier than the hormones in her veins, then maybe she wouldn't find everything about the bloke so fucking attractive. "Just outside by the entrance. I promise we'll stand close enough that you can hear the phone ring in the lobby if it does. I just… I really love the night air, and I, uh—was hoping you could… join me?"

"Oh," she breathes, a strange something stirring in her chest. The hope etched over every line of his face prevents her from denying him outright, causes her to nibble contemplatively on her lower lip. "Why me?"

"Oh, don't worry, I tried asking McGonagall first, but she refused to take my call."

"God, you—"

"Yes, yes, I'm a cretin of the highest order. So, will you come?"

"I—" the hesitation crumbles steadily. "I suppose taking a ten-minute break won't hurt."

"Perfect!" He beams, scooping the bowl off the counter and jogging over to her side. And then, before she can even blink, he's sliding a large, warm hand into her own, tugging her along behind him as he strides down the lobby. She is, all of a sudden, rather grateful that he can't see her face, because he's likely to become a little alarmed by the flames engulfing it. "Hold tight to that thought, Evans. Can't have it slipping away."

"You're funny," Lily deadpans.

"Thanks." A grin shot over his shoulder. "I think so, too."

Her traitorous body expels dumb laughter at that. "How do you walk around with that head of yours, I wonder."

"I have you to keep it under check, don't I?" He winks.

Fortunately enough, she is not required to respond immediately; James's pace slows down as he takes the effort to slowly push open the main doors, trying not to wake the doorman, Nick, who snoozes lightly just past the entrance. Of course, being a professional in the trade means that the man still stirs, pops one bleary eye open—but upon seeing Lily's silent, reassuring wave of hand, he nods, going back to sleep.

They quietly slip past him, just a couple of feet away so that their voices don't disturb him.

"Fuck, it's freezing!" Lily pulls her hand free from James's grip, wraps both arms around herself, fingers rubbing vigorously over skin to counter the chill of the air outside. At least she has the temperature to blame for the goosebumps littering her arms right now instead of his touch—or his words that really shouldn't feel so meaningful but that she can't help but find meaning behind. "You truly must be from hell if you run warm enough to enjoy this cold."

"Hold this—"

She doesn't really have a choice; he's already planted the bowl of snacks in her hands.

"What are you—?" But it becomes rather evident what he's doing when James shrugs off the light jacket he'd been wearing atop his full-sleeved black cotton t-shirt, and drapes it over her shoulders, unperturbed as you please. Then, with barely more than a pleasant smile thrown in her direction, he plucks the bowl from her fingers again, taking a bite out of a samosa. "Um… you didn't have to do that. I was just being overdramatic."

"Don't lie. Your fingers are like ice."

"Well, yes, but—"

"Lily," he says, and something inexplicable about that tone makes her pause. "I want you to have the jacket, okay?"

She presses back a smile. "Okay."

"Good. Now, eat."

James turns away with a little smirk when she dutifully reaches for a samosa herself, bites onto the crunchy outer coat and closes her eyes to the flavour of the fillings. "This is really good," she sighs, head tilting up to the night sky, one arm still wrapped around her waist. He hums in agreement, but otherwise stays silent, and she thinks—no, she knows—that she's probably never enjoyed a quiet moment with someone else more than this before. After she's finished the snack in her hand, Lily turns to him slightly. "Thank you."

"For what?" He looks at her sideways, everything about his expression softer under the pale light of moon. Longing tugs painfully at her chest.

"I don't know." She shrugs. "For being here, I guess, even though…"

When she doesn't finish her thought, he half-turns to face her. "Even though, what?"

Her gaze roams over his face, words caught in her throat. She shoves them out. "Even though I know I haven't made things easy for us. Even though you could leave, could hate me for asking so much, and—"

"Lily." He smiles, almost a little sad. "I don't want to leave. Never did. I'd rather—oh, shite!"

His voice cuts off on a loud pitch when, with absolutely no warning or steady progression, a torrent of ice-cold rain splatters upon them from the sky. Lily yelps, laughing madly as her feet spring from the ground, adrenaline and giddiness kicking in as the water splashes over her arms, cheeks, lashes. "Oh, fuck, that's freezing!" Her fingers blindly scramble to find James's hand, and slip inside his already waiting grasp. "Come on, come on, let's go back inside!"

"Are you sure you don't—"

"Jesus Christ, yes, I'm sure I don't want to get wet in this bloody mad temperature, Potter!"

He laughs boisterously, pleased by her reaction, but doesn't put up a fight when she drags them both inside, quickly thanking Nick on the way for holding the door open for them.

Their shoes carry in a trail of rainwater on the immaculate floors when they enter, and Lily is thankful that it'll dry up entirely by morning, saving the cleaning staff an additional chore.

"God, that was mad!" James huffs happily once they've reached the reception counter, places down the empty bowl there.

"How on earth are you not cold?" She complains, running her tongue over cold lips as the dry air only increases her awareness of the way her shirt has soaked through, her ponytail sticking to the nape of her neck. A glance at James confirms that he's in much the same state, except that his hair still doesn't lie completely flat on his head. Figures.

"From hell, remember?" he says cheekily, removing his rain-dotted glasses to wipe them on his equally wet t-shirt.

She laughs, pulling him by the hand again. "Come along. I'll get some towels from the linen room, or we'll both freeze to death."

When he doesn't protest the idea with the fact that he can always return upstairs to his room—and more importantly, doesn't suggest that Lily follow him there herself—she feels the momentary buzz of anxiety quiet in her stomach. Two extreme sides of the spectrum, and she's once again confronted with her selfish aversion to both, but there's only so much temptation she can resist when it comes to James Potter—especially a wet James Potter—and trying to only stay mates with him.

"This is actually kind of cool." His whispered words pull Lily back into the moment, and she twists around to realize that she's already led them into the staff hallway behind the reception; James watches on in child-like fascination as they silently walk past several rooms, staff quarters, departments, the kitchens—which will soon come alive again for breakfast preparations—until she stops just outside the hotel's linen room. "Why does it feel like we're not supposed to be here?"

She sniggers under her breath. "Well—you certainly aren't."

But despite the teasing, there's some truth to James's assessment; the silence brought on by the odd hours is stifling when combined with the darkness of the room when they enter it. Lily quite suddenly feels hyper-aware of the presence behind her. The heat of his body and the tension growing in a way it hadn't outside, in the open air, sends her pulse racing in her neck. But she takes care not to turn around, and uses the meagre light spilling in from the open door to fish around the shelves, looking for fresh towels for the both of them.

She locates a stack on the shelf below the topmost one, and reaches up for it, breathing out a sigh of relief.

"Here, let me…"

Nervous energy locks her into place, body freezing as she feels James shift closer, near enough that the scent and warmth of him invade her personal space, aches deliciously between her lungs. And when her wordless nod gives him the permission to stretch upwards—arm rising to pull down the towels—it brings her back flush against his front for the shortest of heartbeats.

It's enough; more than enough.

Lily sucks in a breath, sharp and audible, and he pauses like that, in that position; skin still touching hers. Just when she thinks there's a high possibility of her burning to a crisp from the flush that has crawled up the back of her neck, James finally lowers himself, silently handing her one of the towels he's extracted. She doesn't take the time to wonder why he hasn't said anything, why he hasn't called her out on her mortifying behaviour, and gratefully accepts the proffered cloth, using it to wipe away the droplets still stuck to her arms, neck, clavicle, hair.

The whole, torturous process of it is made only slightly easier when he moves to the side to dry himself off too.

The naive belief and hope that things will return to the ease she'd identified earlier when they leave the room fizzles out like flame under water when she places the used towels in the bundle to be washed, steps out into the lit hallway once more, but still finds herself unable to look at James or hold his gaze. To make things worse, for the first time since she's met him, James doesn't seem to possess any stupid joke or flirtatious remark in his arsenal to counter the silence that crackles between them.

Even as she struggles to think of a topic to slice through the quiet, her eyes fall on the door that leads out to the reception, just a few feet down the corridor. For reasons that make next to no sense, she finds herself reluctant to walk out there as well—and what in the fuck is that about? It's not like she enjoys this weird tension in the air, she doesn't. But at the same time, leaving this brewing madness unacknowledged feels like ignoring something monumental, an unresolved—

"Evans, wait."

Lily jolts on the spot, not just at the sound of his voice behind her, but because of the hand that he wraps around her wrist—because of the way he tugs her backwards, into him, quick, desperate. Her right palm lands over his chest, right over the damp fabric of his t-shirt, and there—his heart thuds, just as insanely and erratically as hers.

"James," she whispers, warning in her tone. But it really says something about the state of her mind that she can't even bring herself to raise her eyes higher than the column of his neck; that her fingers curl into his t-shirt, pull on the cotton, contradicting what she tries to say.

"Fuck," he curses, leaning down. And something about hearing the crack in his voice, feeling the vibrations rumble through his chest, forces her to close her eyes, tilt her face up almost instinctively. Gently, slowly, his forehead rests against hers, lips parted, breath fanning, sweet, over her heated skin. The sound of his swallow is loud, and it stokes the want burning through her veins even more. "God, fuck it!"

And then he slides his mouth over hers.

In all her fantasies and dreams, Lily has expected a lot of things for her first kiss with James.

She doesn't expect this.

Not the kiss itself, because try as she might to deny her awareness, she's had plenty of time to pull away if she'd wanted to—no, what she doesn't expect is the wave of sensation that soars through every cell of her body when he kisses her—finally, finally, finally—and forces her to tighten her grip on him, to press cold fingertips to the back of his neck; an anchor as she gasps into him, tries to stay rooted. James groans softly, brows tensing against hers as his hand slips firmly around her waist and back; the other sliding up to cup her jaw. And when he swipes his tongue over her bottom lip, when she immediately opens her mouth to him with a quiet moan, she tastes rain and thrill and intoxication.

It drives her fucking mad.

As ridiculous—crazy, silly, unreal—as it sounds, she feels like she's never really kissed anyone before this.

A sudden hunger alights on her skin, and she's pulling herself closer to him, allowing her fingers to travel higher, sift through that sinfully soft hair. He seems to like it; his hand squeezes her hip, torso slotting flush against her front, guiding her backwards until she's trapped between the cool wall and his scorching warmth. And even then—even then it isn't fucking enough! It's like some dam that's burst open, desire and desperation balling together to create a mess of a feeling that makes her think that she could crawl right into him, feel his heartbeat on her palm, and it still wouldn't allay the ache within.

James tilts his face, runs his tongue hotly over hers, angry, aggressive—no, frenzied, and it's like he can read her thoughts, it's like he's saying I fucking feel the same way.

The sensation of his palm sliding up her waist, over her ribcage, right below the edge of her bra further collapses any logic or sense Lily might have harboured. She arches into him, fingers falling from hair to neck, further down until she can slide hands under the hem of his t-shirt. James lets out a soft hiss at the contact with her freezing skin, but she swallows down the complaint, hungry for that specific warmth of his—

Silence shatters.

The ringing of a phone.

And that sound—that familiar sound—proves more effective in dousing the haze of foolishness they'd been caught under than any bucket of ice-cold water could hope to be.

Lily jerks away immediately with a startled noise, eyes stretching wide, chest heaving breathlessly as she looks up at James, watches as a crease forms between his brows, lids still shut as he pants through kiss-swollen lips. She stares at him, wonders what he thinks.

The phone rings.

"Lily…"

But they both know. They've always known why this can't happen.

Her voice comes out thick, like she's speaking through a cotton-stuffed mouth. "I—I'm sorry—"

"Don't!" And now he opens his eyes, hazels dark and light at the same time, almost pleading. "Don't say sorry."

Her face has warmed, ears burning hot, and in lieu of a response, she gently steps away, skin still tingling from the memories of his touch and the softness of his lips. With a shaky inhale, she sheds the jacket he'd draped over her earlier and returns it to him with a boulder in her chest, fingers trembling slightly. "Thank you," she whispers, voice breaking. "And um—I'll see you later."

"Lily, wait."

But she can't, because the phone is still ringing; because anyone could have seen them in here; because this should not have happened; because it's ruined everything; because—

Because she's fucking falling in love with him.

And if he sees her, she's scared he'll know.

So Lily shakes her head silently, walks past him and out the door, back to the reception, where she picks up the call, tears streaming down her cheeks the entire time as she listens to a poor guest complaining about a migraine attack and requesting for medicines. She notes the name of the medication, reassures them calmly, and then disconnects the call.

Even without turning around to check, she knows James has already left by then.

A/N - I mean, at least they made progress, right? 😈