After the Storm
James woke up on Regulus’s couch.
The blanket was half-off. His back ached. His mouth tasted like too much emotion and not enough water. But there was sunlight coming through the curtains. Regulus was in the kitchen. Wearing James’s hoodie.
James sat up slowly, quietly, like he was afraid of breaking the moment just by moving. The sight of Regulus, hair mussed, sleeves swallowing his hands, mumbling to himself while pouring tea—it did something catastrophic to James’s chest. Regulus turned at the soft creak of the couch. His expression shifted. Guarded, for a second.
Then softly, “Good morning.”
James gave a crooked smile. “Is it?”
Regulus shrugged. “You’re not running out the door.”
“You’re wearing my jumper.”
“You left it here.”
“You could’ve given it back.”
“I don’t want to.”
James’s smile faltered.
“I don’t want to give any of it back,” Regulus said, quieter now, setting the mug in front of him. “The letters. The book. You.”
James’s breath caught. And maybe he should’ve said something clever. Maybe he should’ve flirted. But all he could do was reach for Regulus’s hand across the table. And Regulus didn’t flinch. They sat in silence. Just steam rising between them. Just the birds outside. Just the warmth of skin and breath and knowing.
“Do you think,” Regulus murmured, “that we could… start again?”
James tilted his head. “Like—what? First chapter all over?”
Regulus nodded. “No pen names. No misunderstandings. Just… Regulus. And James.”
James smiled. Big. Bright. Real.
“I’d like that,” he said. “But I still think you were wrong about chapter three.”
Regulus raised a brow. “You wrote chapter three.”
“Exactly.”
Regulus huffed a laugh. “Then let’s rewrite it together.”