James Reads Whatever That Was
James didn’t mean to cry.
Actually, scratch that—James didn’t want to cry. But by the time he hit Page 197 wrecked me, his vision was already swimming and he was clutching the letter like it might disappear.
He read it again. And again. And again. And when Sirius came home, James looked up from the kitchen floor with red eyes and a voice like cracked porcelain.
“He read it.”
Sirius froze. “What?”
“He read it,” James whispered. “And he wrote back.”
He held up the letter like a medal.
Sirius took one look at James’s face and tossed him his coat. “Shoes. Now. I’ll drive.”
Regulus wasn’t expecting the knock.
Not because he thought James wouldn’t come—he hoped James would come—but because he thought he’d have more time. Time to look less like a disaster, time to rehearse what to say, time to breathe.
He opened the door.
And James was there.
Rain-damp curls. Hoodie that didn’t match his shoes. And the letter—folded and refolded—sticking out of his jacket pocket like a second heart.
Regulus stood frozen in the doorway.
James opened his mouth. Then closed it.
Then opened it again, helpless. “Hi.”
Regulus’s chest pulled tight.
“Hi,” he said back.
Silence.
Heavy.
Then James stepped forward and blurted, “You walked into a wall?”
Regulus flushed. “You wrote about my laugh like it was a plot twist.”
James laughed—sharp, breathless, real. “It was. You never laughed before me.”
“You never shut up before me.”
A beat.
Their eyes locked.
Then, softly, James said, “Do you want to come inside?”
Regulus blinked. “This is my flat.”
James flushed. “Right. Okay. That’s fair.”
Another beat.
Then Regulus stepped aside. James walked in. And for the first time since the café, they were in the same room, knowing exactly who the other was. No lies. No misunderstandings.
Just one boy who wrote too much, and one boy who finally read it.
And maybe—if they were brave enough—this was where the story started