I'm sorry I tried to kiss you.

It rings in my head, over and over and over again, as I lie in bed that night, staring blankly at the deep blue drawings above me. Every second from the moment Jett dropped me at Ancient Runes replays on a loop – how I'd been baited into banter, how I'd followed him so blindly, and – I'm sorry I tried to kiss you.

Shit.

Why did he - no, why did I - why did we -

I'm sorry I tried to kiss you.

It won't stop. I keep hearing it, hearing him, that rough, raw voice burned in my mind. I'm not sure if I even fall asleep, and if I did, I kind of wish I hadn't. Because all night I think about it - think about him - and I really do not want to believe that I dreamed about James Potter.

I don't understand him. Truly, I don't. But I still keep hearing him, and then I see him, too - at the Gryffindor table next to Jett, in class next to Jett, and wandering the halls next to Jett – but he won't look at me. Not once. And I need him to - I need to figure him out - to rationalize it - him -

But he doesn't. And he won't. And I can't.

Maybe it's the lack of sleep, maybe it's the confusion, maybe it's both, but the world passes in a blur as my mind whirls like a kaleidoscope. I catch brief fragments here and there - a feather exploding in Charms, complicated equations in Arithmancy, wandless magic in Defense - but it all just swirls together.

At some point Aiden Wood pushes me down to the Quidditch pitch for practice, but I don't remember how that happens. I don't remember much from today, to be honest, because deciphering that nonsensical memory seems to be taking up all of my mental energy.

When I finally shove the ball crate back into the broomshed after practice – I'm still on clean-up duty, and probably will be for as long as I'm with Jett – I'm utterly exhausted from the brutal combination of practice, no sleep, and that same, grating replay in my head. My legs ache as much as my head, and all I want is to just not think. For five minutes. I just need five minutes of peace.

So I grab a seat on the crate and lean forward, elbows on my knees, as I press my palms against my eyes. Sweet silence drapes over the broomshed in a welcome relief from the chaos of my day. I'm not sure how long I sit there, focusing on my breathing, feeling the chill of the crisp evening air slowly sinking into my bones, but when I open my eyes, night blankets the world around me.

It gets oppressively dark here – out in the middle of nowhere, without the light pollution I'm so accustomed to dusting the horizon. I've never been somewhere quite so isolated, and I'm not entirely sure if I appreciate it or not. My mind seems to flip-flop every day.

Blazing stars blink back at me as I peer out the broomshed window from my perch on the ball crate, the only light winking through inky blackness. It is beautiful, that's for sure – but in a lonely, haunting way.

"What are you doing here?"

I stiffen instantly as the voice ricochets through me, gaze frozen on the stars beyond. I don't need to turn towards the door to know who it is. After all, it's the same damn voice I've been hearing in my head since last night.

"Aria?"

I blink and unwillingly glance over my shoulder, ponytail swinging with the motion. He's leaning against the doorframe I'd left open, right shoulder pressing into the rickety wood barely holding the structure together. That same blazing starlight leaks into the shed from the pitch beyond, so stark as a backlight that I can barely see James' face.

"I thought Ravenclaw finished an hour ago."

"We did," I say stiffly. James clears his throat and crosses his arm, glancing down at the ground. "I didn't realize Gryffindor had the pitch booked."

"We don't." He sighs and kicks a pebble with his foot. "I gave everyone a night off before tomorrow's match. Just came down to run and saw the door open."

Tension aches in the air, as thick as the darkness pressing down around us. I don't want to be here with him, trapped in this God-forsaken room. I don't want to be this close, I don't want to see how his jaw twitches, I don't want to have this painfully normal conversation. It's embarrassing. Because all it takes is one look from him, starlight bouncing across his skin, and I'm right back there in that hallway, feeling the cold smooth stone beneath me and the heat of fingers across my cheek.

"I'll just leave, then, sorry to –"

"Are we going to talk about it?" I ask softly. He lets out a short breath at my words - not relief - no, definitely not - but a breath of something.

"I'm a disaster at talking to girls I fancy, so no, we probably shouldn't," he says simply. He shifts so his whole back leans against the doorframe, one foot on the grass outside, the other on the shed's paved floor. "Or just one girl, rather."

And there it is.

It wasn't Lila. It was never Lila. It's why he sounded off on that first day with Jett, it's why he started that fight - oh, God. Everything makes sense now. How did I not see this?

Silence pulses around us. James won't look at me - he hasn't all day - and if I know him as well as I think I do, he's not about to start opening up about the inner workings of his mind. He doesn't need to, though. The dark circles beneath his eyes and messier-than-usual hair make it apparent enough.

"Please don't tell Jett." His voice is soft, almost ashamed. "I'll get over it."

"I won't tell him."

"Thanks." Pink stains the high arc of his cheekbones, and his gaze still won't meet mine, jumping around to every other corner of the room. "I'm sorry. I -" He cuts off and clears his throat gruffly, eyes still averted. "I'm just sorry. About everything."

I know he's not just talking about yesterday. He means it all – the way he's treated Jett, things he's said, Sophie, all of it.

"I never wanted to hurt Jett. You have to believe that. Never. I just – I don't know. I don't know what I was thinking. I wasn't thinking –"

"James," I say sharply, and his jaw snaps shut. "Stop. It's okay. I won't tell him."

"Thank you." He shakes his head, as if trying to flick away the embarrassment, and pinches the bridge of his nose between his thumb and his forefinger. "Feel free to ignore me from now on. It would make my life a hell of a lot easier."

His eyes find mine for the first time tonight, but they're hidden by the night around us, no hint of the starburst I saw shimmering yesterday. That doesn't stop my heart from shuddering against my chest, though, or beating furiously like I've just finished practice. But I shove that relentless, flustered feeling away, back into the hole it crawled out of, and stretch to my feet.

"Good luck tomorrow," I say quietly, and then I cross the few feet separating us to begin my trek back to the castle. My pulse rings in my head, pounding against the stillness, and that delinquent, unchecked piece of my mind wonders if he can hear his heartbeat, too.

I see James clearly for the first time tonight as I brush past him in the doorway, those usually bright eyes ringed by dark circles, but I glance away before that persistent shuddering in my chest has time to grow.

And even though every footstep takes me across the pitch, up the rolling grounds, into the castle – even though every footstep should carry me away from whatever it is that's burning through every sensible thought – I can't shake the feeling that a part of me never left the broomshed.

I had hoped a full night of sleep would improve my mood, but alas, it did not. So when I wake the next morning to the chatter of my roommates preparing for the first Quidditch match of the season, pulling on layers of clothing and waving hot curling wands through the air, I simply let out a scowl and stare up at my deep blue hangings.

"Sophie, I've never seen you get this excited for Quidditch."

"Yeah, you've gone to like four matches total."

"Remember when Aiden Wood nearly suffered from a mental breakdown last year? But - but - what do you mean she hasn't gone to any matches? Prefects need to support their houses!"

"Oh, yeah, classic."

"Are you coming, Aria?"

I perk up slightly at that, pulling myself up to rest my back against the wall behind my bed. "Nah, you go without me," I say, pawing at one eye sleepily. Mia stares back at me angelically, face already flushed a pale pink from the layers of clothing she's pulled on. "I have to sit with the team, anyway. Aiden wants to take notes during the game."

"Of course he does," Sophie mutters. "Won't take notes in class, but sure, do it at a Quidditch match!"

They depart not long after that, leaving the room in sweet silence, but I don't have long to enjoy it. I've already wasted enough time this morning while silently wallowing, so I force myself out of bed stiffly, pull on a muted red sweater and Jett's Quidditch jacket, and fight the urge to curl back up beneath my duvet with every second.

The weather outside matches my mood - grey and stormy with the ever-present threat of rain on the outskirts of the horizon. It also doesn't help that I find myself squeezed between our Beaters, Asher Samuels and Tanner Macavoy, in the stands, stuck listening to them twitter on like only teammates can about the former's blatantly obvious crush on the Gryffindor Seeker, Lindsey Stanmore.

"I hope you know that's no excuse to take it easy on them when we play," Aiden pipes up, twisting around from the row in front of us. "And that goes for everyone."

Real subtle there, buddy.

My heart aches at the thinly veiled reference to Jett, and I glance away from the blur of red and green on the pitch to the creaking wood beneath my feet. Not even the roar of the match has helped to quiet the roaring in my head. I've barely even paid attention to what's going on at all.

All I know is that Gryffindor's ahead, and if Aiden's frequent combination of Jett's name with swears are any indication to go by, he's absolutely racking up the points. I should pay attention. I should feel burning pride at how well he's performing. I should be like Grace Clarke, sitting in the best seat in the house and screaming every time he scores. I should.

But instead, I can't even look at him. And I couldn't wish him good luck this morning, either. I just waved with a forced smile from the Ravenclaw table as he walked out with his team, giving me a confused look that seemed to say "where the hell have you been all morning?"

"Fuck," Aiden moans, drawing out the word, and Alex Harrison stifles a laugh behind me. "That's four goals in the first twenty minutes – look at that speed, Harrison –"

"Easy to look good when James is letting him take every shot," Alex says simply, and I glance up at him curiously. "What, you don't see it? Just thought your boyfriend was that good?"

"What do you mean?" I ask, and Alex flops back in his seat, hair ruffling from the wind whistling through the stands.

"C'mon, Fields. You're a Chaser. You know formations and execution." His gaze shifts to the air above us, eyes flickering between three streaks of red. "Watch as they approach – see how he's deferring? Stretton is, too, a bit, but that's probably just because Nolton's clearly better than him."

Muscle memory kicks in as I finally focus on the action before us, the movements slowing to almost half-speed in my head. Call it ingrained genetics, call it literally growing up on a Quidditch pitch, but strategy just clicks for me. It's like a chess match, almost, the way each angle and position and decision informs the next three moves.

And right now, James could have a clear shot at the goal.

He knows it, too. I saw the slight glance towards an open pocket of air, one spine-tingling opportunity to dart diagonally, where the Slytherin Chasers left a small gap undefended. But he doesn't take it.

"Did you see –"

"Yeah, I saw," I murmur, leaning forward on my knees as I cut Alex off. What is he doing? That was ten easy points, almost guaranteed. And he just ignored it and passed to Jett instead.

"If either of you even think about pulling shit like that, Aiden will have us running laps until we drop dead," Jack Murphy, the third in our Chasing trio, chimes in. Jack's already got good instincts, despite it only being his second year playing. A couple of more seasons on the school pitch will put him right in competition for a pro contract, I'd bet.

"Agreed," Aiden throws back over his shoulder, but it's distracted and half-hearted. "We need to run up the score as much as possible."

And the more I watch, the more apparent it is that the Gryffindor team has the opposite mentality – or at least their Captain does. James should be taking every open shot he gets, but he's not. Which makes absolutely no sense, because Quidditch isn't like Muggle sports. It doesn't just matter if you win; it matters by how much. Every point counts in the race for the Cup.

Even with James's nonsense, though, it's clear that Slytherin is entirely outmatched. Their Chasers simply can't keep pace. And when Lindsay Stanmore catches the Snitch thirty minutes later, snagging it twenty feet below an oblivious Lucas DuPont, the crowd roars for a 230-30 Gryffindor victory.

If I was in my right state of mind, I would have been awed at the explosion around us, the way a flood of red streaks down to the field, the exuberant screams as classmates celebrate – so foreign from the way any match felt at home, no matter which school I was at. It almost feels like a professional game, the way adrenaline thrums through the atmosphere. I notice it – I notice everything – and yet, at the same time, I don't. Not at all.

The Ravenclaw team doesn't move as the chaos unfolds, save for Aiden scribbling his final thoughts and illegible diagrams furiously in a bound leather notebook. I can barely hear Asher and Tanner beside me over the noise erupting below, and when Aiden finally turns around, he has to yell for our attention.

"All right, we've got a lot to work on, then – unfortunately, they look better than last year – I've got notes for everyone – Samuels and Macavoy, we'll start on more advanced defensive maneuvers this week –"

But I'm not the only one letting his words go in one ear and out the other, and Aiden's face crumples slightly at the total lack of interest emanating from our squad. "Oh, fine, go party," he finally grumbles, and Asher Samuels instantly jumps to his feet, scouting for Lindsay Stanmore earnestly. "But we're working on your aim and power at the next practice, Samuels!"

Aiden scowls at Asher's departing figure as the rest of us stand and stretch, shaking out stiff bodies after an hour of sitting on hard seats in the cold November air.

"Is he always this dramatic?" I mutter to Alex, and he falls into stride beside me as we make for the stairwells. The stands are nearly empty now, thanks to Aiden's rambling, and Alex simply throws me a shrug.

"What do you think?"

"Point taken."

"You should run off to your boyfriend before Wood changes his mind," he quips, and we step into our winding descent down the wooden tower. "He deserves some praise after that performance. Damn."

Alex shakes his head, almost in awe, and we make the rest of our way down to the field in silence, letting the dissipating celebrations wash over us. He nudges my shoulder in parting once our feet hit the grass, and it's not long before I spot Jett's broad shoulders about thirty feet away, emerging from the locker rooms.

A flush stains my cheeks as I stand there, rooted still, watching him greet his many, many admirers. Everyone wants to give the hero of the day their congrats, it seems, and yet I can't even get myself to put one foot in front of the other. I haven't spoken to him since Ancient Runes two days ago, just the thought of looking him in the eye slowly killing me because I'd –

Because nothing.

Nothing happened. Nothing will happen.

It doesn't change how I feel about him. It has nothing to do with me, anyway. That's all on his friend. His friend. Not mine.

But that doesn't explain why I feel a twinge of guilt in my stomach when Jett casually swings an arm over James's shoulder, now just ten feet away. And it certainly doesn't stop me from flushing even harder as a smile lights up Jett's face when he sees me, waving with his free hand while wandering in my direction.

"You know, mate," I hear him say as they approach, "I bet we could make a kickass Beater team. Always in sync."

James stops short, turning to face Jett with a serious expression plastered across his face. "Why have we not thought of this before?"

"I feel like Longbottom would've nixed that one. Too much destructive potential."

"It'd be bloody fun, though. Next practice, you and me. You in?"

"Deal." Jett lets out a bark of laughter as he lopes over to my side, hands sliding to my waist, and my feet lift off the ground as the world twirls. "Hey, Fields," he says softly, and he sets me down before leaning in for a kiss.

He still smells like Quidditch – sweat and broom polish mixed with the sharp freshness of the air – and I lean against his warmth, his chest, feeling the comfort of his arms around me after the kiss ends.

"Congrats," I murmur into his shirt, but I'm not sure he hears me over the buzz of chatter still hanging over the pitch.

"Are you coming to the victory party tonight?" Jett asks earnestly, although slightly muffled, with his face buried against my hair. I don't exactly know what that means, though, so I pull away to ask, but the sight of far too familiar hazel eyes next to us stops the words in my throat. "I've always wanted to bring a real date."

"Very cute," James says teasingly, punching Jett lightly in the arm, but I see the way his smile falters just slightly. I turn away from him, burning with that same frustrating embarrassment as last night, and by the time I gather the courage to look back, he's gone.

"What victory party?" I ask distractedly after Jett repeats his question. "Like, for Gryffindor?"

"Yes, for Gryffindor. What else would it be?"

I barely hear him though, my eyes trained on a mess of inky black hair over by one of the golden goalposts, fifteen feet to our right. It's like – I don't know. When he's close, all I want is to run away, to put distance between us. And when he's not, I can't stop looking, analyzing –

"Aria? Hello?" A hand waves in front of my face, obscuring the image I'd rather not see anyway. "You okay?"

"Yeah, sorry," I mumble, and Jett glances down at me with concern. His brows scrunch together, a crease forming between them, and once again, I can barely bring myself to look at him.

"You sure? I've hardly seen you since Thursday."

"I'm just – not sleeping well," I finish lamely. Jett presses a kiss against my forehead, short and sweet, then laces his calloused hand with mind.

"I can help with that."

"Oh, stop," I say, swatting at him as we trail towards the edge of the pitch. But the thought of him sleeping in my bed won't leave my head, burned there like the flush on my cheeks, except it's not – it's not because I want it. Or maybe I do.

My stomach twists at the thought, rolling with anxiety that seems to live there constantly now, and I can't tell if the flutter in my chest is good or bad. Maybe it doesn't matter. Maybe if I let him stay over again, if I let things go further – maybe it would help to get my head screwed back on straight.

I should want to, right? If it was ever going to be anyone, it should be him. The rational side of my brain knows it. I should want him, like how I know he wants me. The only reason he wants you, that God damn devil on my shoulder hisses, and I shake my head, clearing every image and thought.

That's not true. I know it's not true. Every sweet gesture, every walk to class, every half-dimpled grin proves that it's not.

"Aria?" Jett asks, and I glance over at him, blinking slightly in surprise. He still looks concerned, but now it's mixed with a bit of annoyance, too. And while I'm used to seeing that expression – I saw it endlessly during those weeks he'd come back from practice, pissed off about every tiny nitpick – it's never been directed at me before.

"Sorry, what?"

Jett lets out a breath and scratches at the back of his neck. "I asked what you thought about my roll. I've been working on it for weeks."

"Oh, yeah," I say, shutting my eyes. Images from the game flicker through my mind, but I can't once remember him executing a roll. "Why don't you show me again later? I'll come down to the pitch with you."

"That's fine, I guess," he says, and my heart twinges again at the look in his eyes. He knows I didn't see it. He definitely knows, but he's too polite to say anything. God, why can't I just focus?

"I'll write my dad, too," I say warmly, forcing myself to smile up at him. "See if he's got any pointers. I think he mentioned Appleby had a scout here today, maybe he can steal some notes."

"That would be brilliant," Jett says excitedly, that grin of his lighting up his face, and I glance back out across the pitch as he starts talking about all the scouts he was able to spot. "Do you think I've got a chance?"

"Sorry, what?" I ask again – the second time in five minutes – and that little flicker of annoyance on Jett's face isn't so little anymore.

"To get an internship this summer."

"Where?"

"Are you listening to me at all?" he asks suddenly, and I blink at the shift in his tone. Now he's definitely annoyed, voice as sharp as the chill wind slicing through the pitch.

"Of course I am –"

"Oh, come on, Aria. Just be honest, you haven't heard a word I've said."

"That's not true," I protest, but he lets out another huff of annoyance and glances away. "I'm sorry. I'm just tired."

I think we both know it's a lie, though, and Jett scuffs one foot absentmindedly against the grass. Behind him, I can just make out Grace Clarke staring beadily in our direction, and embarrassment blooms on my face again. No wonder she hates me. I couldn't even tell you how many goals he scored, but she probably knows exactly how he did each one.

"It's all right," he finally says, sighing heavily. "I just – I wanted you to be excited."

"I am, really." I offer him another smile, but what little I'm able to muster fades as another set of curls catches my eye – strikingly beautiful auburn against the golden goalposts, like autumn leaves falling against the sunset.

"Oh, just let him be," Jett says, following my gaze to where James stands with Sophie, leaning down to say something in her ear. "She's probably a good influence on him, to be honest."

I open my mouth to respond, to write it off in agreement, but my breath catches in my chest as Sophie pushes up on her toes for a kiss. Because that's all it takes for that memory of the damn sixth-floor corridor to haunt me again, and I – oh, God. Sophie.

I didn't even think about Sophie. Am I really that self-absorbed that I didn't once consider her? Didn't realize how it would make her feel if she knew, because –

Because it's not Lila. Sophie thinks it's Lila. Everyone thinks it's Lila.

Shit.

Guilt presses down on me, even worse than I've felt every time I've looked at Jett, and I – I can't breathe. I can't breathe. Oh, God. Sophie. I'm sorry, I'm so sorry –

And all I want is to run away, to hide in the broomshed like I did last night, to let the silence and darkness sweep away the roaring guilt – but Jett's right there, looking at me, and I'll I've done is stare at Sophie and James and I hate – I hate – that I can't tear myself away.

"She's not influencing him, Jett," I say quietly. It's all I can manage when every breath stings, when I can barely feel the November air filling my lungs. "She's being used."

"Sophie's smart, Aria. She knows what she's doing," Jett says simply, waving me off, but his words twist like a knife in my gut. Because she doesn't know what she's doing. She doesn't know that it's not just about some petty annoyance with Lila. And if she did – would she still make the same decision? Would she care if she knew that he –

What? That he what?

I don't even want to think it. I don't want to make it real in my head. I don't want to think about the lingering glances since the first day I got here, the far too quick back-and-forth, the burning fingers on my skin –

"Why do you care, anyway?" Jett asks, and I blink once as I stare up at him blankly.

"Why do I care?" I repeat. Jett crosses his arms, annoyance flickering across his face again, and it's all I can do not to scream right then, right there, to get that damn roaring guilt out of my head. "I care because Sophie's my friend. I care because she cares, and it's not right to just –"

But I bite my lip, cutting off the words as all of the emotions bubble up and mix in with the guilt coursing through me, a concoction of shame and embarrassment and anger now, too. Anger at Jett for not caring enough, anger at myself for caring too much, anger at that little piece of me that I keep shoving away. For feeling something that should not be there. Ever.

My eyes snap back to Jett as he lets out a sigh, and the grey that meets my gaze looks as cold and stormy as the sky above us. "Seriously? I scored seven fucking goals, and all you want to talk about is James and Sophie. That's some bullshit, Aria," he snaps, and I take a half-step back in surprise.

He's right. Of course he's right. What the fuck am I even doing?

"Do you have anything to say?" he asks, annoyance now turning darker, and I take another step back, putting more space between us. "And if it's complaining about my best friend, just keep it to yourself."

"Jett, I –"

But he cuts me off with a huff, running one hand through his windswept hair roughly, and I flush as the lingering bodies around us pause to eavesdrop. "You didn't wish me good luck this morning, barely congratulated me, won't even acknowledge that I scored all but one of our goals, haven't heard half of what I've said –"

"I'm sorry, Jett –"

"Godric, Aria," he says bitterly. I shiver as another gust shrieks through the pitch, stinging my cheeks with cold, but Jett doesn't so much as flinch. "You're being such a bitch today."

My heart freezes as if the wind just went straight through my chest. Our onlookers freeze, too, and I shut my eyes, trying desperately to wipe the telltale sting of hot tears away. Which is stupid, obviously, because I know he doesn't mean it, not really – but I can't help it, and the fact that I can't help it turns them from drops of hurt into drops of frustration.

"What did you just say?" I whisper, low and quiet.

"You heard me." He's not looking at me when I open my eyes, glancing across the now nearly empty pitch to avoid me, arms still crossed stubbornly against his chest.

"Go to your stupid victory party on your own, then," I spit back, and his jaw hardens as those stormy grey eyes remain locked on anything but me. "I doubt you'd want to show up with a bitch on your arm, anyway."

"Fine!" I hear him shout, but I've already got my back turned to him, striding quickly across the grass. And when I glance back over my shoulder at the edge of the pitch, he's still rooted to that same spot, but a doting Grace Clarke now fills my place at his side.

I don't speak to Jett the next day or the day after, and soon the days roll into a week and we still haven't said a word to each other, save for mandatory lab work in Potions.

"Nobody holds a grudge like a Gryffindor," Dom said simply on the second day as we worked on our Charms assignment together. "Except maybe a Slytherin."

That didn't reassure me, though, and the pit of anxiety burning in my stomach only worsens as the days tick by. He brushed past me in the hall today, laughing loudly at a joke shared with Connor Finnigan, and I almost grabbed his arm, almost pulled him back to me, because I miss him, I just miss him - but I didn't. And then Jett walked off around the corner without a second glance back.

"At least we've only got a month left until the holidays," Mia McCubbin offers up in our dormitory later that afternoon. She's wrapped up in her duvet, sitting upright with it tucked up to her chin, while Gabrielle Ancrum rummages through her trunk, looking for her Ravenclaw hair scrunchie. It's mostly just been the three of us recently, with Sophie far too wrapped up in her lip-locking around the castle to spend much time in our room.

And that's probably for the best, too, because every time I look at her I feel nauseous with guilt and regret and the burning sting of a feeling I really don't want to dig into.

"I know, bless," Gabrielle cheers, voice muffled from the trunk. "This term has been absolutely killer. Who thought taking advanced Arithmancy was a good idea, anyway?"

"I like Arithmancy," I muse, at which Gabrielle pops up and tosses the scrunchie at me.

"Good, you can help me with my practice set, then."

"Mia's way better than I am!"

"Yeah, but she wants me to challenge myself."

"It's true, I do," Mia pipes in, nodding with that angelic smile of hers.

"Oh, honestly, Aria, just make up with Jett already. You're no fun anymore, and I need you back at the Gryffindor table to bring me gossip again. Rowena knows Sophie barely has time for us anymore."

"Noted," I comment dryly. The air in our dorm suddenly feels stifling, like it did down on the Quidditch pitch, in the broomshed, in the sixth-floor corridor, and I pull in a breath to stop the walls from closing in. "I'm going to the library."

I need to get out. Away. Just like I have all week, running for isolating silence every time someone mentions Sophie or Jett.

"Aw, come on, Aria, I'm only kidding," I hear Gabrielle call behind me, but I'm already out the door, bag of books banging against my legs as I nearly stumble down the stairs.

"Nice one," I hear Mia's voice say to her, drifting down the stairwell.

Gabrielle's right, though. I'm no fun without Jett. And sure, maybe some of my lack of fun is because of Sophie – a lot of it is probably because of Sophie – but it's more than that.

And the more I've thought about it this week, the more I've realized that it's because Jett's probably what I've always really wanted. To feel safe and grounded and home. It's strange, and I know that. It's so strange to feel that way about a person, but it's true. And even though I still haven't quite figured out where I fit in here, still have no love for the constant clouds or the endless mazes or the customs I don't quite understand – I would still stay for him.

I think it was last year, at Ilvermorny, when I gave up on caring whether or not we ever stuck in one place. The first time we moved was hard. The second time was disappointing, but not unexpected. The third time, when we came here, I could not find it in myself to even care at all. I didn't want to come, of course, but that was more to do with not wanting to go through all the effort of starting over again. If we stayed, if we left halfway through the year – I just didn't care.

But now?

I would miss it, for sure. I would miss Jett. It almost hurts, how much I like him, and every time I see my parents' owl swoop in at breakfast, I'm absolutely terrified of what their letter might say. That I'll open it and find my world turned upside-down again and this time, I'll actually have something to lose.

The thought strikes me as I approach a bend in the corridor near the library, and I'm still so lost in it that I don't even see what – or, rather, who's – coming straight towards me as I round the corner. My open bag crashes to the ground as our bodies collide and sharp pain splits through my side. Books, parchment, and quills spill out of my bag - thankfully, I invested in the no-spill ink jars this summer - and I crouch to the ground as a vaguely familiar female voice apologizes from above me.

"I'm so sorry, oh my God -" But she cuts off when I look up at her, a stray brunette curl swinging back and forth like a pendulum, and her eyes narrow into slits. "Oh, wait, on second thought, no, I'm not sorry."

"What is your problem -"

"Grace!" A gruff voice echoes from a few feet down the hallway. Footsteps ring closer and closer, and I glance up just as they stop short before us.

"Hey, James," Grace coos, and I practically have whiplash from the sharp change in her tone. "Are you going back to the common room? I was just on my way there."

"Nah, I'm not. Heading out to the pitch."

"Oh." She wrinkles her nose slightly at that, then sniffs disdainfully when James drops down to the floor to help with my spilled supplies. "See you later, then."

James ignores her, though, and hands me my Arithmancy book as Grace finishes rounding the corner we'd collided at. "Sorry about her," he says roughly, and I meet his gaze as I stuff the book back into my bag. "She's had a massive crush on Jett for years, and it doesn't help that he chewed her out in the common room a few hours ago."

"What?" I ask, the word barely more than a whisper.

"Yeah, he gave her an earful. She was bitching about you and he put a stop to that pretty quickly."

"Oh." It falls out lamely, and I tug on the corner of my lip while his words sink in.

"You sound disappointed."

"No, just surprised," I say with a light shake of my head. "He's barely acknowledged my existence for the past week."

"Oh, please," James says casually as he gathers a few scattered ink pots. "He's bloody crazy about you and can't stand Grace, anyway."

"What'd she say?" I ask curiously. The poison in her expression springs to mind, the closest I've ever been to her, and I shut my eyes quickly to clear the image.

"You don't want to know," James mutters. He turns back to me, a few ink pots sitting in his palm, but his gaze stares down at the floor beneath us. "Trust me. Biting my tongue took just about all of my willpower for the day."

A silence settles over us then, and James lets out a sigh before shuffling my now very mixed-up notes into a pile. I stuff a few more books into my bag haphazardly, trying to clear room for the parchment, and match his exhale. I'm going to have to dump the whole thing out again in the library to reorganize.

"What are you even fighting over, anyway?" James asks curiously. His back settles against the wall next to us as I start sorting through the parchment pile. "Jett won't tell me."

"You," I say simply, and his eyebrows tick up slightly in surprise. "Well, you and Sophie."

"Oh." His response echoes mine from just a few minutes earlier, ringing through the empty corridor and off the stone walls. Then the silence falls over us again, sitting uncomfortably in the space between our bodies, and James clears his throat. "Why?"

"Jett thinks that it's fine to string her along. I disagree."

"For the record," he says softly, "I'm on your side."

My eyes flick up to him from the stacks of parchment before me, now somewhat sorted by subject. He glances down at his hands, at one scrap of my notes he's still holding, and I can't tell if the expression on his face is more guilt or regret.

"What I'm doing to her is shitty, isn't it?" It's practically a whisper, soft and pained. I rock back on my feet from my crouched position, sighing, and he finally looks up at me. "That was mostly rhetorical, by the way."

A wry, half-hearted grin flickers across his face, but it's not quite the look I'm used to seeing. It's almost as if he can't even muster the will to summon it. Or maybe – I don't know. Maybe he's finally letting his guard down.

That's what it is, isn't it? All the bullshit he usually pulls. It's like a distraction, almost. Smoke and mirrors. It's what Jett sees right through, and what he wanted me to see, too. It's why he kept pushing me to get to know his best friend. I get that now.

"Jett's been miserable all week," James says quietly, and I startle at the sound of his voice breaking through my thoughts.

"Me too."

Another sigh, an exhale that's almost resigned, and James tosses the piece of parchment he's been holding to the floor. My Arithmancy practice set, I can see now. A scrawl of scratched-out numbers and charts that I've busted my ass working on for the past week.

"Aria –"

"I should go."

"Aria – "

"Look, we don't have to do this, pretending like it's not weird -"

"I –"

"I want Jett."

I'm not sure what makes me say it, and I'm not sure who I'm trying to convince, either. Maybe I'm just trying to shut the conversation down altogether, or maybe it's just because I'm scared of the anxious knot in my stomach. But I do want Jett. Truly. I've missed him desperately all week, missed the comforting feel of his hands twining with mine, missed how his grin lights up the castle, missed him.

"I know, I –"

"He's my best friend," I say softly, almost to myself, "and I miss him."

"I know." James clears his throat, and I find his eyes again, that hazel sparking just a few feet from mine. Something shudders in my chest – that familiar, irritating ache – and I pull in a deep breath to clear my mind. "I was just going to say you're doing this equation wrong."

He nods towards the parchment he'd dropped on the floor, and heat stains my cheeks. Shit. Embarrassment pours through me like a flood, but James offers up a small smile of reassurance.

"And I was going to offer to help if you want," he continues, shrugging as he climbs to his feet. He doesn't move from the wall, though, leaning against it with his hands stuffed in his pockets like I've seen so many times before.

"Really?" Surprise colors my voice as I gather the parchment piles I'd left abandoned during our conversation, stacking the groups into one large mound. "Why? You told me to ignore you last week, or have you forgotten that already?"

"Only half of me meant that," he admits, glancing down at me. That same half-smile dances on his lips, and I tear my gaze away as phantom heat skims across my skin again.

"Which half?" I ask as I stand. The half-smile turns into a full grin as he pushes off the wall, falling into step beside me, hands still casually resting in his pockets.

"The non-masochistic half," he says simply, and my grin matches his as we round the bend in the corridor. "Come on, then. I've got some time to kill, and that practice set's due on Monday."

"I know," I mutter darkly, and he laughs, the sound echoing down the corridor. "I was planning to lock myself in the library until I get it done."

"I finished mine last week."

"Of course you did."

"Bitter?"

"Just a bit," I say as he pushes against the heavy wooden door to the library. It's nearly empty, save for a group of fifth years studying for mock O.W.L.s at one table in the main study area, and James drops down at a table in the corner beneath a high, arching window.

"Right, so you've forgotten to add the units into a single sum," he begins, pushing the offending practice set towards me. "See? Look here…"

I groan, rolling my neck, and glance down at where his finger's pointing. Arithmancy regularly gives me a headache – too many numbers, too many rules to remember, too many interdependent equations – but James doesn't have that problem, apparently. Mia mentioned it off-handedly a few weeks ago, casually throwing in that he's the only one who ever beats her when I saw her midterm exam grade.

"God dammit," I groan, and I hear him snort beside me. But he's right, of course, so I pull out a quill and squint at the parchment, scratching out my old work to correct it. But that changes the second number – which means I'll have to adjust the next equation – and so on, and so forth, and – "Eugh."

"There you go, Fields," he says, and I glance up to see him crossing his arms on his chest and tipping the legs of his chair backward. "You've got it."

"You always look like you're about to topple over," I comment absentmindedly as I continue marking up the problem.

The legs of his chairs come slamming down at that, and he leans forward, forearms pressed against the table, that grin I've become so accustomed to now fully etched on his face. "Better?"

"Much," I mutter. My quill scratches against the parchment, circling my final answer for the first question, and I see his eyes flick towards it. It's right. I know it's right. And I also already know that I made the same mistake on the rest of the problems, and he really didn't need to come all the way to the library with me to point out that one simple, mind-numbingly obvious error.

But –

The thought hesitates on the edge of my mind, and the logical part of me screams not to let myself think it. Don't go there. Don't go there. Don't go there. Don't –

But I like that he's here, anyway.

It clangs through me, intrusive and unwanted, and I swallow roughly as I stare down at the numbers swirling across my assignment. James shifts at the edge of my vision, as if he can sense my discomfort, and straightens up from the table.

"See? You can do it on your own," he says, voice light as ever. "You don't even need me."

I glance up at him, meeting all the flecks of emerald and amber I've thought more about than I should, and that little crease forms above his nose as he stares at me, waiting for a response. I know what he's doing. He's letting me decide if I want him to stay or not, leaving the door open.

"So on the second question, I don't need to sum it, right?" I ask, and the corners of his lips twitch ever so slightly, as if he's fighting not to smile.

"No, that's completely wrong," James says, but neither of us has even looked down at the parchment. I can feel nerves fluttering in my stomach, feel my breath growing quicker, and I swallow roughly, glancing away. "I guess you do need me, then."

"I guess so," I say, but my voice is tight. If he hears me, though, he ignores it and simply leans forward to point out exactly where I went wrong, the same spot as the first question.

The sun sinks lower into the horizon as we sit there for thirty minutes, an hour, two, slowly correcting my practice set, but before long it's more talking than working. The parchment sits abandoned on the table, shoved away and forgotten, our focus derailed by thoughts on the British & Irish League, the latest scandal sweeping MACUSA, everything and nothing. Darkness descends onto the grounds outside in the blink of an eye and as the candlelights flicker on, I sit up, startled.

James frowns and checks his watch before stretching to his feet, apparently off-put by whatever it is he sees. "We should go. I can't steal your whole evening."

"I'm afraid I stole yours," I comment quietly, but he simply shrugs before handing me my bag. "Thanks for the help."

"I'm not sure how much I actually helped," he replies, and I glance over to find him looking at me in amusement.

"Well, you helped with the first question."

"That's true," he says, but it's distracted, and as we push out of the library, he grinds to a halt. One hand runs back through his hair, the other drumming against his leg distractedly.

"What?" I ask, and James leans back against the wall. I take a step towards him, curious, and his eyes flash to mine, shimmering beneath the candlelight now glowing through the corridor.

"Nothing, just thinking."

"What?" I repeat, taking another step closer, one hand pressed to my hip. He smiles lightly and glances away, letting out a short breath.

"I was just thinking I probably don't need to go for a run anymore," he says quietly. Right. He was heading down to the pitch before he found me with Grace, before he saved me from what surely would've been a disaster in the making. "My heart rate's already more than fast enough."

What?

Oh.

Oh.

I blink once, staring at him, at the way his head tips back against the stone, eyes closed, and it's like – I don't know. It's like my brain short-circuits, like I can't think properly over the pounding in my head, the electric anxiety skipping through my bones. My hand grabs his wrist, almost automatically, and James's eyes fly open at my touch, a question on his lips.

But I shake my head, concentrating as I press my index and middle fingers lightly against the vein streaking up into his palm, counting silently. Seventeen, eighteen, nineteen –

"120, or somewhere around there," I say, dropping his wrist. "You can do better than that. Aim for at least 140."

That not-quite-there smile flickers again as he pushes off the wall. "I guess I should go for that jog, then. Have a good evening, Fields," he says, but before he can take a step away, I grab him again, this time on his forearm.

"Which half is winning?" I ask, and confusion flickers through his eyes before my question clicks.

"Oh, the masochistic half, definitely," he says dryly. "And it's not even close."

Then he's off, footfalls echoing around the corridor, and I watch until he disappears around a bend before letting out a breath I didn't realize I was holding. My hand finds my neck, the same two fingers I'd used to take his pulse resting against my carotid artery on instinct. It's the same motion I've done nearly every day of my life, ingrained into me after every training session with my dad like an unbreakable habit.

I close my eyes, standing stock still, and feel the blood pulsing beneath my fingers. My foot taps, counting the seconds automatically as I notch the heartbeats in my head. No need for a watch – not when I've done this a thousand times before.

But when the ten seconds are up, when my foot stops tapping, I can't bring myself to move. I just stand there, eyes closed, feeling the pulse continue to beat against my fingers, because –

Because my heart rate's at 120, too.