THEN

Newcastle/Oxford, 2017

It seemed to be a basic tenet of the law of…luck, or whatever, that it piss down with rain whenever James had to travel. The journey up to Newcastle two days ago had been mired in a torrential downpour, making every mile of the journey as excruciating as it could possibly be. He wasn't even supposed to be there: he should be in Oxford, helping get the new place ready for opening. But there was an issue with suppliers that the manager up there couldn't seem to solve—what exactly they had hired this bloke for, if he couldn't deal with the basics, he didn't know—and Sirius was, as he phrased it, "allergic to long car journeys", and so it had fallen to James to make the trek up north.

He'd even been delayed leaving to head back to Oxford, because of course he was, with some confusion over the payroll system that they were trying to roll out to each of the pubs. James had been given strict instructions to get back in time to help with the private event they were hosting, but as time ticked on and he showed the manager, again, how to input people's timesheets into the software, he knew that he was not going to make it.

At least he knew Sirius had help. Some friend of Ally's, dragged in at the last minute. James wasn't too sure how much they could rely on someone who was so available so late notice, but for one night it would have to do.

He fired off a text before leaving the Newcastle pub, letting Sirius know his ETA, and almost as soon as he climbed into his car and started the engine, the rain began again. A gentle mist of it, at first, but by the time he reached the outskirts of Leeds, hardly any distance into the journey, it was pouring down. "Build-an-ark weather," his dad used to call it.

That thought quieted him for another hour or so, his mind darkening with the sky.

He finally reached Oxford around ten, managing to find a parking space not too far from the pub and wrangling an old umbrella from under the passenger seat. His coat was not made for weather like this: even with the brolly, he'd be pretty well soaked through long before he reached The Deer and The Dog.

So he was tired, and he was wet, and he was still a bit sore from memories of his parents when he finally crossed the threshold of the pub—definitely not in the mood for Sirius and his 'jokes'.

Case in point: "Prongs! Good of you to show up!"

He looked up wearily, just about ready to inform Sirius Black of where he could shove his hilarious comments, and then the bottom fell out of the world.

That was dramatic. But it was how he felt.

Was it definitely…? Yes, it had to be. In so many ways, she looked exactly the same as she had nearly ten years ago—little changes, here and there, like a second piercing in her right ear that hadn't been there in sixth form (and he would've known, he'd done some intensive investigating of as much of her body as was available to him). She stared back at him, her eyes wide and with just the slightest glimmer of something like hope, like she was pleased to see him, as if the last time they'd seen each other she hadn't—

Not even an hour later, reflecting on the evening as he drank yet another glass of whiskey in front of a TV programme he was roundly ignoring, he would consider that it had been the wrong move. To pretend not to know her, to present a blank face. Childish, probably, and that wasn't who he was. But there was something about her, about her presence there in his pub, looking as beautiful and beguiling as ever—it was like stepping back in time, and stepping back in time to a period when the hurt had cut through him unrelentingly, a broken heart that he had to take a very long time to piece back together.

And maybe that, in itself, was ridiculous, because he clearly hadn't been all that important to her, had he? She'd moved on quickly enough, before they were even properly finished, while he moped around for months on end, wondering where he had gone wrong.

So maybe this was just his subconscious' way of protecting itself again: pretend you don't know her, and put a wall around your heart.

In the moment, though, it wasn't even as thought through as all that. Sirius said, "James, this is Lily, Al's mate," and he'd nodded in her direction, wondering if she could tell that he felt like he'd been punched in the stomach, and said, "Nice to meet you."

Because that's what this would have to be. A meeting—a fresh start. She was helping out tonight, great; she'd be gone soon, and he could forget about her again. Move on, again.

Easy as that.

They'd watched her leave, Sirius looking annoying cheerful—well, he hadn't spent six hours in the car, no wonder he was so fucking perky—as he turned back to James. "What's the problem?" he'd asked. "She's a hard worker. Easy on the eyes—punters like that. She's funny, she's clever."

Funny, clever, gorgeous. And she shattered my heart into a million fragments when we were eighteen, and sometimes I still feel like I'll never quite recover.

James just shrugged, and turned away. "Fine. Do what you like."

Easy as that.

NOW

Oxford, 2019

It was a good turn-out: there was barely any space left in the whole downstairs of the spacious house, people chatting, laughing, drinking—enjoying themselves.

Most people were, anyway.

Lily stood, her back to the wall, and watched. She tried not to watch the door, to wait for his arrival; there was little point, he'd texted to say he'd be at least another thirty minutes.

She tried not to watch every male in the crowd; that was surely a level of paranoia that she didn't need to sink to.

Instead, she tried to watch her friends.

Mary was chatting animatedly with one of Alice's colleagues, her latest beau stationed at her side. Tom had already proven himself at the gauntlet of Mary's friends, more than holding his own against a fairly invasive level of interrogation from Dorcas and Lily. He watched Mary as if the sun rose and set in her eyes. It was a bit sickening, but in a nice way, and anyway, she was happy for Mary. If anyone deserved to be adored, it was her.

Dor was over by the fireplace, flashing her new ring around and laughing at just about anything. Ally stood nearby, part of the same cluster of people, but observing her new fiancée more than actually joining in: she had a soft, sweet look on her face, a mixture of awe and quiet delight, as if she couldn't quite believe the situation she'd found herself in.

A wedding, in their friend group. Lily had laughed nervously when Dor had joked, "honestly, Lil, I thought it would be you and James first". They hadn't even lived together yet; she hardly thought James was about to get down on one knee.

She was happy for her friends: of course she was. She loved them both dearly; she watched them together and knew they were made for each other. It was just difficult, to summon that energy, after the day she'd had.

She really didn't want to think about that, though. Mary had suspected something when Lily had arrived a few hours ago, eyes narrowing just slightly as things clicked into place in her head—maybe it was Lily's pale face, the way she avoided prolonged eye contact, the determined fashion in which she changed the subject away from herself and onto literally anything else.

But Mary had let it go, because it was an engagement party, and not an intervention. Besides, Lily knew that her friends didn't need to get bogged down with all her issues, not today.

She'd been relying on James, though, on his timely arrival. Waiting for the calm that came with his hand at the small of her back, his smile at her side. So, when he texted to say he was going to be late—another crisis or other at the pub—she felt more knocked back than she should have.

Time ticked on, and she didn't move from her position. There was comfort in it, safety; she was tucked away from most of the groups of chattering people, she had her back to the wall so she had a good view of the room. Which made it even stranger when she didn't notice James arriving, didn't take in his effusive greeting to the hosts; didn't notice anything until he was standing right in front of her.

"There you are," he smiled, ducking down to dot a kiss to her cheek. She blinked, surprised. "Sorry I'm late, Luce was having a bit of a meltdown…"

Lucy was the latest in a line of—in theory—general managers for The Deer and The Dog: annoyingly blonde, annoyingly perky, and apparently a tad melodramatic when it came to anything regarding the computer system James had recently overhauled. Lily wasn't jealous of Lucy, she knew James was trustworthy…it just irked her, that this woman kept stealing away chunks of their evenings together. It had happened at least once a week since she'd been hired.

And today it rankled more than ever. She had needed him, and he'd been absent. Elsewhere.

"It's okay," she said, sounding almost like it was true; if he noticed, it didn't register on his face. Across the room, she noticed Sirius and Remus talking with Dorcas, laughing, relaxed. Everyone in the room seemed to be feeling that way.

She needed a drink.

Half an hour, and three large glasses of pinot grigio later, she found herself only half paying attention to a conversation between James, Sirius and a school friend of theirs and Alice's. Bethany was friendly enough, had clearly had a few glasses of wine herself, and Lily was working overtime to quiet the buzzing in her head so as not to be too impolite as Sirius (also extremely inebriated) and Bethany retold raucous stories of their misspent youth.

"And how did you meet our Jamie?"

Lily looked up from her nearly-empty glass, then, noticing that all three of them were looking her way. "Sorry, I didn't catch that?"

Bethany smiled kindly. "I asked how you met James."

"Oh." Lily glanced over at her boyfriend; his smile was still there, although there was something else in his eyes, now, a concern that she knew was blossoming just for her. "It's…a bit complicated. We met first in sixth form."

"Ahhh, after he was dragged away from us!" Bethany beamed. "So you're childhood sweethearts! How lovely!"

"Well, sort of," James agreed, tearing his gaze away from Lily. "We…drifted apart, for a while, then met again in 2017."

Lily drained her glass; it wasn't enough, but she knew it would seem odd—and rude—if she ditched them to find more alcohol. "Yep…"

Sirius smirked, giving James a friendly knock on the shoulder. "And then, this absolute charmer…he pretended not to know who she was!"

Bethany's smile dimmed, just a tad, as a look of confusion passed across her face. "Oh," she said, and forced a laugh. "That's—what, as a joke?"

Lily felt strange. This sort of teasing comment had been made before, and she'd been fine. She wasn't sure why it was any different now. "No," she said. "Not as a joke."

James rolled his eyes, shooting his best friend a weary grin. "You love bringing that up, don't you?"

"Don't I?" Sirius blinked innocently. "Anyway, what does it matter, we're all friends here!"

"Pretended not to know her, Jamie," Bethany tsked teasingly; she glanced over at Lily as if to draw her into the ritual, to make her a part of it instead of a bystander. "And here I was thinking you weren't a heartbreaker!"

Was this what going mad felt like? She tried to swallow against the lump in her throat, tried to ignore the ringing in her ears. She felt like there was an itching, a festering something just underneath her skin and the only way to get rid of it would be to tear it out.

Oh, god. She was going to cry. She was going to cry surrounded by all these people.

"Evans?" Sirius' voice cut through the fog, his grin long since having faded.

"Sorry," she said, and her voice might as well have been coming out of a different person entirely. "Zoned out a bit."

"Lily," James frowned. "Are you—"

Maybe it would be the question that would fix things, the one that would steady her heartbeat, stem some of the hurt. But they didn't get to find out, because his phone started to ring.

"Luce again?" Sirius asked, glancing over James' shoulder at the screen. "She must be racking up quite the bill, ringing you all the time."

James rolled his eyes. "She'll…grow out of it." He shot Bethany an apologetic smile. "Sorry, B. Back in a sec."

They watched as he disappeared into the crowd, phone to his ear; Lily became aware of Sirius watching her, now. She worked hard to school her expression into something neutral.

"He works too hard," Sirius said, almost a joke, and Lily tried to smile. "And Luce not hard enough, apparently."

"She's the new manager?" Bethany asked.

"Started a few months ago," he nodded. "She…" He paused, his eyes trailing briefly over to Lily. "She seeks reassurance from James, a lot."

She wasn't sure exactly why, but that was her limit. She needed some air and she needed it now. "Excuse me," she murmured, avoiding any eye contact—she felt sure it would give her away—as she turned and melted into the crowd, in the direction of the back garden.

The air was cool, the sky dark, and it was quiet…apart from a familiar laugh, coming from a little way down the lawn. She would've recognised James anywhere: there was something about the set of his shoulders, the way he held himself. She stopped at the top of a small set of steps that led from the patio to the grass, watching him. There was an urge, almost overwhelming, to move forward, to slip her arms around his waist; to breathe in the warm, calm scent of him, to draw on his strength.

But she didn't give in to the urge. She just stood there; watched, waited, her heart in her throat.

James was still laughing, shaking his head at whatever Lucy was saying. "…yeah, well, we'll see about that tomorrow, won't we?" A pause, then another chuckle. "Sure. Okay. No, it's fine, that's my job. Yeah…see you tomorrow."

He ended the call, fiddling with something on his phone a moment before he slid it back into his pocket and turned to head back inside—and stopped at the sight of Lily, shivering in silhouette against the backdrop of the house. "Oh, hi…"

He had ambled closer before she had the words to reply, and he looked like he was going to draw her into him, hold her close—something she had needed, desperately, since earlier that day—or he would have, if she hadn't said what she'd said.

"Is the flirting part of the management training scheme, or do you just throw it in for free?"

Apparently her words surprised him (they certainly surprised her); his eyebrows raised, and he studied her face far too closely for comfort. "…what?"

Why did she want to pick a fight? Because it was easier than honesty, easier than ripping herself open again. She couldn't keep being vulnerable; the only alternative seemed to be an offensive strategy. "We're at our friends' engagement party," she pointed out. "You can flirt with Lucy another time."

James was frowning now, looking genuinely confused. "I—I've been out here barely five minutes," he replied. He reached for her hand, and she snatched it away—an instinct borne out of all the wounds that had been torn open today. He just looked more concerned, more baffled. "Lil, I don't—I'm not flirting with her, I—I try to be friendly, but that's it, I would never—"

Again, her limit had been reached. Evidently she could go on the offensive, say things to provoke a reaction, but she couldn't bear the response. Suddenly all she wanted was to be at home, to be tucked under the covers where it was quiet and warm and safe.

"I'm going home." She just barely met his gaze. "Stay if you want."

She didn't give him a chance to say anything; she didn't pause, on her way through the house, to say goodbye to her friends; she didn't even wait to see if James was following her. She just knew that if she didn't get out of that place, out of that crowd, and soon, she was going to simply fall apart.

Outside, she took a gasping breath of cold night air, coming to a stop at the end of the driveway.

"Lil?" James' voice got closer. "What's going on?"

Everything. Everything felt wrong, and she'd been left on her own to deal with it.

"Nothing," she replied, quiet, dull. "I just want to go home."

He didn't let her go home alone—of course he didn't. Even if he was confused, or irritated, or angry at her behaviour, he would never do that. He asked her to wait, and returned a few minutes later with her coat and bag. Things she hadn't even considered in her anxiety to get out.

James tried to make conversation on the drive home; tried, and failed. He followed her up to her flat, set about locking up and making some tea as if they'd had a normal evening. He didn't try to speak again until he trailed behind her into her bedroom.

"Lil, please…I don't understand," he said, sinking on to the end of the bed. She knew it was unreasonable, knew it beyond a shadow of a doubt, but she still found it unendingly irritating that he watched her every move around the room—the way she flung her socks into the laundry basket, the way she cast her earrings carelessly to the top of the dresser, the aggressive nature in which she tugged the curtains closed—watched her as if she were about to explode, like he didn't know what to expect. "What's going on?"

It wasn't fair, she knew it wasn't fair, but it grated against the raw nerve that had been exposed for hours now. Since…

"There's nothing to understand," she replied, her words clipped, short. "Okay? Let's just go to bed."

Amelia Bones would not be impressed with this; she knew that, and yet it didn't seem to change anything. She could even hear her beleaguered therapist's wise words in her head, what she would say if she were there, watching this unfold, her hands folded neatly in her lap like always, that knowing look on her face. You're lashing out so that you don't have to feel it, she would have said. Seeing him again, even from a distance, brought up feelings you thought you wouldn't have to go through anymore, and now you're taking it out on yourself and on James.

She kicked an errant shoe out of the way, tugging off her jumper. Amelia Bones wasn't here, and Lily just wanted to go to sleep.

"Lil?" She chose not to glance his way; she didn't quite understand why she felt so particularly angry at him. He'd been at work all day; yes, he'd entirely missed their dinner plans, and been late for the party, but that did happen sometimes. It had happened a few weeks ago, and she hadn't reacted like this. She had waited for him to get back to her flat, had tugged him onto the sofa for long, luxurious kisses and steadily more-ignored episodes of University Challenge on the telly…

She knew why today was different. But knowing it logically, and feeling it in her bruised and battered heart, were very different things.

"Lil," he murmured, and for a moment she felt a twinge of guilt; he sounded so worried, so concerned. She put that in his voice. "You can't just pretend I'm not here—"

Maybe it was the guilt that made her lash out. Maybe it was the guilt, or maybe it was the way she still couldn't quite feel her fingers, hadn't been able to since around two o'clock that afternoon, when she'd looked up from her table at the coffee shop round the corner and spotted Evan Rosier with his wife, with their baby in a pram, his arm draped around her shoulder, without a care in the world.

For a second, again, she was back there. Frozen in place at her table, a rapidly cooling latte in her hands—feeling like she was eighteen all over again, that she was moments away from staring at her reflection in a bathroom mirror and wondering how she was going to be able to go back out to the party without just crumbling to the floor in front of everyone she knew…

She didn't know why she lashed out. She didn't want to think about it. Easier, not to. "What, like you did?" she asked, voice like ice: she didn't sound like herself. She didn't feel like herself. "Oh, wait, you didn't pretend I wasn't there, just that you didn't know who I was."

The silence that followed was heavy; she felt aware of his gaze on her, still, as she stopped by the side of the bed. It suddenly felt more difficult to catch her breath, like there was a weight pressing down on her, compressing her lungs, snatching the air from her throat.

That sensation only worsened when he spoke again, at the quiet ache in his voice. "Is this about Sirius' stupid joke?" he asked. "You're this angry…because of something that happened…over a year ago?"

She didn't turn to face him—couldn't turn, couldn't seem to move her feet to do the thing that she knew would help this situation. Because if she saw him, the warmth of his eyes, she wouldn't feel the knife edge of anxiety and pain at her throat like she did in that moment.

Some habits were hard to break. Dig in deeper. "You make it sound like it was something inconsequential," she replied. She sounded even less like herself, and she didn't know how to claw that back. She hadn't felt like this in so long, had become used to being together, having control: as soon as it was gone, slipping through her fingers like smoke, her mind emptied.

What was the point in all this expensive therapy if she fell apart at the first setback?

"I know it wasn't," James replied. He sounded more frustrated than anything else, now. She knew he'd had a long few days. She knew that Sirius was away with Remus for the week, that the responsibility was falling to his shoulders. "And I've told you, many times, just how deeply I regret it. I thought…I thought we had worked through it."

She clenched her fists, her fingernails digging into her palms—an effort to feel something else, to remind herself where she was.

James sighed. He must've been exhausted: he'd had a long day. And now she was making it even longer. "I just…I'm confused, Lil, because this morning everything was fine, you didn't hate me, and now you can barely look at me and you're accusing me of flirting with my coworker and dragging up things we've talked over, worked through…"

Another breath caught in her chest, a hitching sound in the otherwise dull, sad silence. "I don't—I don't hate you," she murmured, wishing she sounded more secure in her words. As it was, it felt like that sentence had to come scraping out of her throat. "I—"

The sound of movement, and then, she became aware of him standing in front of her, although he seemed to be there through a mist, and that was when she realised that, at some point, she had started crying. "Lil," he whispered, and she closed her eyes at the sensation of his thumb, wiping a tear from her cheek, very gently, as if she were made of glass.

He fell quiet, then, but the silence felt different than it had before. A shuffle of fabric, and she felt his hands soothe over her scalp, pausing to cup her cheeks, every brush of his skin against hers like a whispered prayer, something which spoke to the ache in her chest.

She wasn't sure how long they stood like that before he moved again; it was time she needed, and maybe he did, too. His hands were cool as they brushed her cheeks, a smoothing motion that moved down her neck to her shoulders: the weight of them there was more comforting than she thought it would be, a soft, heavy sensation that seemed to say, breathe.

She did. Eyes still closed, she drew in a steadying breath; she counted to twenty; she felt her heartbeat slow from its previous frantic gallop.

She wasn't sure how long it was before he spoke again. "You're okay," he murmured, and she felt like crying again, like burying her face in his chest where she knew comfort lay—as if she hadn't just snapped at him, shouted at him, their first real fight that had spiralled out of her control, that familiar sensation of things slipping from her grasp and shattering around her. "It's okay..."

It was okay. This wouldn't shatter.

"I'm sorry…" she murmured, opening her eyes; he gazed back down at her, his face a picture of concern and, most of all, care. God, she loved him.

He let his thumb brush her cheek again, his eyes searching hers. "Please," he said, voice low, quiet. "Talk to me."

It felt like all the fight had gone out of her, drained of energy and the adrenaline that had kept her moving all evening; she sank into his embrace, tucking her head against his chest where she could hear the comforting thud of his heartbeat. She knew, too, that he would struggle with the truth once she told him: he was protective of her, and, although he was always willing to listen if she needed to talk, she knew he found it hard to push aside the sense of guilt he still held over what had happened to her. So maybe it was better this way, him not able to see her face.

"I was getting coffee," she murmured; his hand moved in soothing circles on her back. "At Cafe Puccino, this afternoon."

"You can't resist their pasteis de nata," he noted softly, fondly.

"I can't," she agreed, and closed her eyes, knowing the pain that was coming now, for them both. "And…I saw him. With his wife, and their baby."

James' hand froze at her lower back, his breath seeming to still in his chest. "Him? You mean…?"

Lily swallowed hard. "Yeah."

James was quiet a moment, apparently trying to gather himself, gather his words. "Did he…he didn't try to talk to you, did he…?"

She shook her head, a sudden, jerky movement accompanied by a sharp intake of breath. Just the thought… "No. I don't think he saw me."

Some of the tension in his body melted away at that, although he still held her close, as if unwilling to let her go. "Good," he murmured, then added, "I'm sorry. That…I can't imagine how you must have felt…"

Lily closed her eyes, just for a moment. "I hate that it still makes me feel this way," she said, the words catching in her throat. "And I just—I took it out on you, I'm sorry…"

He lowered his head a little, catching her cheekbone with a tender kiss. "It's okay."

"It's not," she murmured, and they could both hear the emotion there, yet more tears that threatened to break through. "I know it's not. You were just—being a good boss, and doing your job and I…" She trailed off, unsure of what to say.

"You…?" he prompted gently.

She couldn't tell him almost everything and leave the rest behind in the dark. Now or never. "I needed you," she whispered. She felt his hands still, again, on her back, in her hair. "I really needed you, and…"

He sounded broken, a bit, when he spoke. "And I wasn't there."

Lily pulled back at that, still holding on to him—like he was a life raft, the only thing keeping her afloat—but now able to see his face, for him to see hers. "But that's because I didn't tell you I needed you," she said. She wanted to wash away the sadness in his eyes. "I know that if I'd just…told you…"

He brushed a lock of hair from her face. "You're my number one, Lil," he told her. "All you have to do is say and I'd drop everything for you."

"I know you would." She pushed herself up, her hand at his jaw, to dot a kiss to his lips. "I love you, so much. I'm sorry I didn't give you the chance to be there…"

"I love you too," he murmured, his words warm against her lips. "And you have to stop apologising."

At that, she managed to crack a smile. "Right," she agreed, adding, almost a joke, "sorry."

His fingers skated the edges of her face. "What do you need?" he asked. "Talk some more? A bath? Sleep?"

She drew in another slow breath; the day had wiped her out completely. "Sleep," she decided. "And you."

James offered her a small but sweet smile, the kind she adored whenever she saw it—it reminded her of him, aged eighteen, giving her that smile at a desk in the English classroom. The beginning of something utterly wonderful, all that time ago. "I think we can manage that."

They changed quietly, clambering into bed; she felt secure, there, in his arms, the steady beat of his heart, the steady thrum of his breath, the steady solidity of him.

"Our first fight," she mumbled sleepily, as he brushed a kiss to her temple.

"Mm," he murmured his agreement. "Can't say I enjoyed it…"

"Me neither," she fought off a yawn. "Night, James."

She was already starting to drift off, safe in that space with him, that warmth and security and peace that she'd ached for all day, when he murmured his reply. "Night, love…"