Those Damn Memories
James stepped into his apartment, the door clicking shut behind him, leaving the lingering scent of Kayce’s cologne. The clock on the wall read just shy of midnight. He exhaled, rolling his shoulders, feeling the weight of the hospital visit settle in.
He should have invited Kayce in. It would have been the polite thing to do. Kayce was a good guy, patient, funny, the kind of person who never pushed too hard. They had fun together, easy conversations over drinks, laughter tangled up in late-night phone calls. And yet, James couldn’t bring himself to let him into this space.
It had taken him too long to make this apartment feel like home, to carve out a sense of belonging in the empty rooms and unfamiliar walls. The idea of someone else stepping in, shifting the air, making it feel different, it unsettled him. Kayce had been over before, sure, but never overnight. James couldn’t quite explain why he kept that boundary in place, only that it felt important.
Thankfully, Kayce hadn’t insisted. A quick kiss at the curb, a soft see you soon, and then James was alone again.
He made his way to the bathroom, stripping out of the hospital clothes as he went. The hot spray of the shower hit his skin, and he tipped his head back, letting the water wash over him, trying to scrub away the lingering unease.
But the image of the doctor stayed with him.
Dark waves falling across his forehead, like they had been sculpted to be touched. Eyes so pale they seemed almost silver under the fluorescent lights, sharp and unreadable. There was something about him, something familiar.
James squeezed his eyes shut.
It wasn’t the first time he had felt this way. There were always gaps, memories just out of reach, things he knew without knowing why. Like how he could walk into The Dragonfly and order without hesitation, despite not recalling ever being there before. It was a constant, quiet disorientation. He had learned to live with it.
Still, as much as he tried to shake the thought of Dr. Black from his mind, the feeling lingered. I know him. But from where?
James didn’t have an answer. And that frustrated him most of all.
James stepped out of the shower, steam curling around him as he wrapped a towel around his waist. His muscles ached, the heat having done little to ease the tension coiled beneath his skin. He ran a hand through his damp curls, exhaling as he padded into the kitchen.
The apartment was quiet, save for the faint hum of the refrigerator. He reached for his favorite blue mug, the ceramic warm and familiar in his hands as he steeped a bag of chamomile tea. The scent curled into the air, a ritual he had clung to over the past year, one small thing he could control.
He stirred in a dose of melatonin, watching the liquid swirl, trying to organize the mess in his head. It was an exhausting task. He had learned to live with the gaps in his memory, but the frustration never really left him. He could recall facts, habits, random knowledge that seemed to come from nowhere, but faces, people, those slipped through the cracks like water through his fingers.
And yet, the doctor. Dr. Black. Something about him refused to fade into the haze of half-forgotten things.
James took slow sips of his tea, willing himself to let it go. By the time the mug was empty, his head throbbed from the effort of trying to remember. He rinsed the cup, setting it carefully in the drying rack, before heading to the bedroom.
The pile of discarded hospital clothes lay in the hallway, but he ignored them. He’d pick them up tomorrow, maybe when his brain wasn’t aching from chasing ghosts.
He threw himself onto the mattress, arms spread out as he stared at the ceiling, waiting.
Sleep had been a fickle thing ever since the accident. Most nights, he was lucky to get more than an hour or two at a time. He had tried everything, medications, meditation, warm milk, white noise, but nothing ever stuck. The exhaustion was constant, a dull weight pressing down on him. Even when sleep did come, it was restless. His body always ached, his mattress never felt quite right.
He had tried replacing it once, spending hours testing new ones in a store, searching for something that felt comfortable. But none of them had. They had all felt wrong. So, in the end, he had kept the old one.
James shifted onto his side, exhaling through his nose. He didn’t like changing furniture. Didn’t like changing much of anything, really.
At some point, exhaustion won. James drifted into sleep, the weight of it pulling him under like deep water.
And then he was somewhere else.
A pool hall, dimly lit, the low hum of conversation blending with the clatter of billiard balls. The scent of chalk and beer lingered in the air. Across from him, Dr. Black, no, not Dr. Black, not in this dream. Here, he wasn’t a doctor. He was just a man, laughing softly as he lined up a shot and completely missed.
James snorted. “That was pathetic.”
The doctor straightened, lips twitching like he was trying to suppress a smile. “You’re a terrible teacher.”
“You’re a terrible student,” James shot back, grinning.
He rolled his eyes but didn’t argue. Instead, he stepped closer, pool cue resting lightly against his shoulder. His smile was small but real, tongue caught briefly between his teeth in quiet concentration. Then he said James’s name, and James shivered. It wasn’t just the way he said it. It was the way it felt. Like something he had heard a thousand times before. Like something that belonged to him.
The dream was so vivid. It had the same texture as the dreams he used to have in the hospital, the ones that clung to him long after waking. But those dreams had never felt strange. If anything, they had felt normal.
James’s eyes fluttered open. Sunlight streamed through the blinds, too bright, making him squint. He turned his head to check the clock and it was ten in the morning.
He blinked. That was… surprising.
For the first time in weeks, he had actually slept.
It was Saturday morning so James stayed in bed for a few minutes, blinking up at the ceiling, still wrapped in the strange haze of his dream. But he had plans, lunch at his parents’ house, so he forced himself up and got ready.
By 11:45, James stepped off the bus and made his way up the familiar path to his parents' house. It looked the same as always, warm and inviting, a feeling he had come to appreciate more than ever.
Inside, his parents greeted him with tight hugs and fond smiles before leading him to the dining room. The table was already set, and James sat down, eyeing the spread as his stomach grumbled. It was his first meal of the day.
As they settled in, his father glanced at him over his glass of water. “How’s Kayce doing?” he asked casually. “We thought he’d be coming over.”
James raised an eyebrow, a teasing lilt creeping into his voice. “You sound worried about him.” He smirked. “Didn’t think you were Kayce’s biggest fan.”
Fleamont and Euphemia exchanged a look, one of those silent conversations they had perfected over the years. Then Euphemia gave him a small, knowing smile. “We like Kayce. He’s a good boy, very proper.”
James tipped his head. “But?”
His mother reached for her glass, taking a delicate sip before setting it down. “He just doesn’t seem like your type, that’s all.”
James paused, frowning slightly as he turned the words over in his head. His type? Did he even have a type?
The only other person he remembered dating was Lily Evans when they were eighteen. Back then, he had been so sure she was it, that they were meant to be. But it turned out to be just a teenage thing, something they both grew out of. Now, they were friends, hanging out from time to time, and Lily seemed perfectly at ease with her new girlfriend.
Truthfully, James hadn’t even realized he was into men until a few weeks after waking up in the hospital. It hadn’t been some deep, introspective journey, he supposed he’d figured it out before, in the life he couldn’t remember. But this time, the realization hit him in the middle of the night, jolting awake from a dream that left him hot, flushed, and painfully hard. The man in the dream had been faceless, but the feeling was unmistakable. He was hot and bothered by the dream.
It had taken months for him to tell his parents. He had been terrified, the fear curling in his stomach no matter how much he tried to rationalize it. It didn’t matter that he was twenty-five, that his parents had never given him a reason to doubt them, it was still a terrifying thing to come out to them.
But when he finally did, their response had been… calm. Supportive. Almost unsurprised.
And that was when it clicked. He had probably come out to them before. They already knew it, they just never mentioned it. Never pressured him. They let him take his time, let him come to it on his own terms.
And for that, James was quietly and profoundly grateful.
Lunch is mostly uneventful, but James finds his mind drifting again and again to Dr. Black. He keeps picturing the way he smiled in his dream, tongue caught between his teeth, and wonders if the real-life Dr. Black ever does the same.
If he knows how to play pool.
If he doesn’t, James wouldn’t mind teaching him.
“James?” His mother’s voice cuts through his thoughts. “What are you thinking about?”
He blinks, caught off guard. “Nothing,” he says quickly. “Just, just a song I heard on the radio on the way here.”
Euphemia perks up with interest. “Oh? Which song?”
His mind blanks for a second, panic creeping in. Then, he blurts out the first thing that comes to mind. “Sunday Bloody Sunday.”
His mother’s face lights up with the biggest smile he’s seen in a while. “U2,” she says, eyes warm with something he can’t quite place.
James hesitates, then nods. “Yeah.”
“Are you remembering?”
His stomach twists. “Remembering what?”
Euphemia’s expression shifts just as quickly, smoothing into something unreadable. She shakes her head lightly, brushing it off. “You used to like U2 a lot.”
James frowns. That doesn’t feel right.
Maybe it’s just one of the many things he’s lost.
His mother reaches for her glass, voice soft when she says, “Don’t think too hard about it, darling. You’ll just give yourself a headache.”
He knows she means well. He knows his parents, like his friends, are careful not to push him, giving him space to piece himself back together without the weight of expectations. But sometimes, he wishes they would just tell him the important things, fill in the gaps, give him a map so he wouldn’t feel so hopelessly lost all the time.
After lunch, James lingers, engaging in conversation with his parents, but his mind is elsewhere. No matter how hard he tries to focus, his thoughts keep circling back to Dr. Black. It’s ridiculous, really, he barely even spoke to the man, no more than a four-minute interaction, and yet he can’t shake him.
He debates bringing it up, testing the waters, but how? How does he explain that a doctor he met for mere minutes has lodged himself into his brain, refusing to leave? How does he say it without sounding completely unhinged? His parents wouldn’t understand. Hell, he doesn’t understand. So, he keeps it to himself.
Eventually, they move to the living room, and James sinks into the couch, stretching out comfortably. He glances at his mother. “I remember,” he says, voice quieter now, “when I was a kid, I’d fall asleep on this couch, and somehow, I’d always wake up in my bed.”
Euphemia smiles at the memory. “Your father would charm himself into thinking he was strong enough to carry you,” she says with a fond laugh, glancing at Fleamont, who merely shakes his head in amusement. “But it was always me. You were such a heavy sleeper back then.”
James hums, a small smile playing on his lips. It’s strange, these scattered memories. Some come to him effortlessly, like this one, warm and familiar. Others remain locked away, just out of reach, teasing him with the knowledge that they exist somewhere in his mind but refusing to surface.
Euphemia continues reminiscing, telling him stories from his childhood, and James listens, letting the warmth of her voice wrap around him. His eyes grow heavier with each passing moment, the exhaustion from weeks of restless nights catching up to him. He blinks slower and slower, until eventually, he lets himself drift.
The last thing he hears is his mother’s voice, soft and steady, carrying him into sleep.
James dreams again, even more vivid and intense than before.
He is lying on his parents’ couch. It's afternoon; he can tell by the long, lazy shadows stretching across the room. In the dream, he’s on the verge of sleep, his body sinking into the cushions, utterly at ease. His head rests against someone’s lap. He doesn’t know who, but it feels right. Familiar. Safe.
Gentle fingers card through his hair, massaging his scalp in slow, soothing strokes. A scent lingers in the air, it's woody and spicy, something deep and rich. He breathes it in, chasing the comfort it brings. He hears a quiet laugh, soft and warm, and he wants to see the face of the person beside him.
He fights against the pull of sleep, forcing his eyes open...
Then he wakes up.
James blinks at the dim light of the living room, the dream slipping through his fingers like sand. A small blanket is draped over him now, tucked around his shoulders. He exhales slowly.
That wasn’t just a dream. It was too real. Too vivid. He’s remembering something.
He just doesn’t know what.
...
Through the week, more memories come back in flashes. They are sudden and overwhelming, slipping in when he least expects them.
The next one hits him while he's starting to get ready to bed.
He’s in bed. It’s dark outside. A knock at the door pulls him from his half-asleep state, followed by a voice.
“It’s the food. I’ll get it.”
He doesn’t see the person, but the voice lingers, deep, smooth, undeniably male. It’s faint, blurred by the haze of memory, but it sends a shiver down his spine. He grips the counter, grounding himself in the present. He longs to hear that voice again.
The third memory comes while he’s dusting his bookshelves. One moment, he’s wiping off the shelves, and the next, he’s somewhere else again.
There’s shouting. Anger, thick and sharp in the air. He sees himself, he sees his own hand hurling a portrait to the floor. The glass shatters on impact, splintering into a million jagged pieces. His chest is heaving. His pulse is racing.
James jerks back, breath unsteady.
He’s scared.
Not just of what he saw, but of himself. Of the kind of anger that could drive him to do something like that. He never thought he had it in him.
By the time James has his next therapy session, he’s already decided: he’s going to talk about it.
He enters the familiar room, settling into the chair a little closer to his therapist than usual. She offers him a warm, expectant look before asking, “How has your week been so far?”
James exhales slowly. “I’ve been remembering things.”
She leans in slightly, encouraging him to go on.
“They come out of nowhere,” he says, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “I’ll just be going about my day, and suddenly, it’s like I’m somewhere else, or I'm someone else. But it’s me. And I know it might sound crazy, but…” He hesitates, searching for the right words. “I think they’re memories from a past relationship. One I can’t fully remember yet.”
His therapist studies him for a moment before nodding. “And how do you feel about that?”
James exhales through his nose. “I—” He stops himself, shaking his head. “I don’t know. I just know that I long for it. For whatever it was. It felt real, you know? Like home.”
She offers a reassuring smile, then shifts gears. “Have you talked to Kacey about this?”
James tenses. His eyes flicker away before he shakes his head. “No.”
Her gaze is patient, but pointed. “Why not?”
“Because I don’t think he’d take it well,” James admits. “I mean, how could he? What am I supposed to say? ‘Hey, I think I’m remembering the person I used to love before my accident, and I feel like I miss him, but I don’t even know who he is’?” He huffs a humorless laugh. “That would go over great.”
His therapist tilts her head. “James, honesty is important in any relationship. If you’re feeling this way, maybe it’s something you should talk to him..."
James nods, but his fingers tighten where they rest on his knee, gripping the fabric of his trousers like an anchor. He hears his therapist speaking, but the words blur together, distant and muffled, like he’s underwater. His own thoughts are too loud, pressing against his skull.
He knows she’s right. He should talk to Kacey. Be honest. But every time he even thinks about bringing it up, a cold weight settles in his stomach. What would he even say?
The thought alone makes his throat tighten.
His hands unclench, then curl again. He’s been trying so hard to fit into everyone's expectations of who he should be. But this? This doesn’t feel like something that belongs in this type of life. It’s something separate, something that lingers just out of reach, pulling him in like a current he can’t fight.
And then there’s Dr. Black.
James doesn’t even know him, not really. He’s just a man who happened to be in the hospital at the right time, someone James met for no more than a handful of minutes. And yet...
Yet, his mind keeps returning to him. To the way his name had sounded in that dream, the way it had curled on a tongue James could almost feel. To the impossible familiarity in the doctor’s eyes, in the cadence of his voice, in the way James’s pulse had jumped the first time he saw him.
It doesn’t make sense.
But neither do these memories.
His therapist shifts, drawing him back. “James?”
He blinks, inhaling sharply. “Yeah?”
Her expression softens. “You were somewhere else just now.”
James presses his lips together, then exhales, his shoulders slumping. “Yeah,” he admits. “I think I was.”
James keeps his answers short after that. He nods when expected, hums in acknowledgment, lets the conversation drift to safer topics: work, his parents, how he’s been sleeping. But every time his therapist tries to steer them back to the memories, to what they might mean, he dodges. He cracks a joke, shifts in his seat, checks the time.
She catches on quickly. He’s not ready to talk about it. Or maybe he is ready, but he doesn’t want to be. Because acknowledging these memories, admitting that they feel like something real, something his, means admitting what they might mean for his life now. For his relationship with Kacey.
And that thought makes his stomach churn.
He’s supposed to be happy. Kacey is good to him, patient, understanding. He’s been there through all of this, through the confusion, the frustration, the blank spaces in James’s mind. Kacey cares about him.
And yet, James can’t shake the nagging feeling that something is off. That Kacey fits into his life like a carefully placed puzzle piece: logical, expected, but not like something inevitable.
And then there are the dreams. The memories. The way they make him feel like he’s missing something vital, like there’s a part of himself just beyond his reach, waiting for him to remember.
But if he lets himself go down that road, if he admits that these feelings mean something, then where does that leave Kacey?
So he pushes it down.
When the session ends, James thanks his therapist and leaves, walking a little faster than usual, as if he can outrun his own thoughts.
James lies in bed, staring at the ceiling, his thoughts refusing to settle. The room is dark, quiet, save for the occasional sound of cars passing outside. He twists onto his side, then onto his back again, eyes fluttering shut only to open moments later.
It’s him again.
Dr. Black. His voice. His face. The dream. It all keeps playing in his head like a song stuck on repeat. James exhales sharply, rubbing his hands over his face. This is insane. He’s obsessing over a man he barely knows, except that he believes he does know him, doesn’t he? He can feel it. And it’s not just the dream, it’s the way the man had looked at him earlier, the way his whole body had gone rigid when James said, I think I knew you.
James flips onto his stomach, pressing his face into the pillow. He needs to stop thinking about this. About him. But every time he closes his eyes, the images return. He squeezes his eyes shut tighter, willing sleep to take him, but it doesn’t.
Minutes pass. Then hours.
Eventually, exhaustion drags him under and he sleeps, but this time there isn't any dreams.
...
James balanced the tray of coffee cups carefully, his grip steady but his mind racing. He hadn’t thought twice about volunteering for the delivery—had barely let the words leave his mouth before he was already loading the drinks into the carrier. It wasn’t like he enjoyed playing delivery boy, but St. Mungo’s was just two blocks away, and, well…
He didn’t let himself finish the thought.
The walk to the hospital was brisk, the crisp morning air doing little to cool the heat prickling at his skin. His pulse thrummed under his skin, a steady, insistent beat that had nothing to do with the short distance and everything to do with the possibility of seeing him.
It was stupid. So stupid. James knew it, and yet, he still found himself hoping. Hoping that Dr. Black would be there, that their paths would cross again, that he could hear his voice.
But as he walked, the hopeful thoughts quickly began to blur with frustration, self-doubt creeping into the edges of his mind. The last year had been a series of failed attempts to find himself, to figure out what he was supposed to be doing. He’d tried so many things one might say too many things.
He had taken up painting, trying to mimic Sirius’s relaxed, artistic flow, but it had only left him tense and irritated. He was far too much of a perfectionist. Every line felt wrong. Every shade out of place. Instead of escaping, it pulled him into a vortex of dissatisfaction.
Then there was Remus, who had begged him to come along to one of his classes. James had tried to be supportive, watching his friend teach a room full of teenagers math. But the whole thing had felt... off. He hated math. And, frankly, he wasn’t all that fond of teenagers either. He had no idea why Remus had chosen to do that with his life.
Cooking was a disaster. He’d burned everything. His attempts at improvisation had been met with cringeworthy silence and confusion in the group classes, while photography, he thought it might be a quiet escape, had only made him frustrated when he couldn’t capture the essence of the moments he saw through the lens.
And then, there was the sales job. Both online and door-to-door. It had been the worst. The constant rejection, the fake enthusiasm, and the overwhelming sense of emptiness as he pushed products no one really needed.
Now, here he was, working as a barista. It was the same routine, the same motions, but nothing felt right.
The frustration boiled over. He just wanted something, anything, to click.
And yet, every failed attempt made him feel smaller. Like he was still lost in the fog, searching for a way out.
He shook his head, trying to push the thoughts aside. There were more important things to focus on. The hospital was just ahead, the looming structure coming closer with each step.
He turned the corner and St. Mungo’s came into view.
James inhaled deeply, eyes scanning the entrance.
He shouldn’t be thinking about him.
Shouldn’t be hoping to see him.
And yet, despite everything, there was still that tiny ember of hope flickering in his chest, stubbornly refusing to go out.
...
When James stepped into the lobby of St. Mungo’s, all he could smell was antiseptic and coffee. He approached the receptionist with a practiced smile, feeling a strange tension coil in his chest. “I have an order for the nurse department,” he said, shifting the tray of coffee cups slightly to steady his hand.
The receptionist glanced at the screen, nodded, and pointed him in the direction of the elevators. “Take the elevator to the third floor. It’s for the ward there.”
“Thanks,” James muttered, not missing the way her gaze lingered on him for a moment too long, likely judging his delivery-boy attire, but he wasn’t bothered by it. He wasn’t here for small talk or to be judged.
The elevator ride was quick which James appreciated. He stepped out into the hallway, the clatter of nurses’ shoes on tile and faint beeps from nearby equipment creating a buzz of background noise. He made his way down the corridor, past rooms that seemed to echo with muffled conversations and the shuffle of busy workers.
When he reached the nurse’s station, he cleared his throat. “Order for the nurses' station,” he said, setting the tray down with a gentle thud on the counter.
The nurse behind the desk looked up at him, her eyes flicking over the cups. “Ah, yes, thank you. I’ll take them from here.”
James nodded, turning to leave. It wasn’t a big deal. It was just another delivery. He had no reason to be disappointed. No reason to feel… let down.
James was already halfway to the elevator when the door ahead of him swung open with an unexpected creak open, and out stepped Dr. Black. His figure was tall and imposing, his coat slightly ruffled as if he had just come from a room in a hurry. James barely registered the movement before a second figure followed him. He knew that figure very well. It was Dr. Rowler, who had been treating him after his accident.
James hesitated for a second, his eyes briefly catching Dr. Black's back. His heart beating a little faster. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, unsure of how to proceed, when Dr. Rowler called out to Dr. Black.
“Regulus,” Rowler said, his voice carrying a hint of impatience, “We need to talk about what happened. We can’t just leave it at this.”
James’s eyes widened. Regulus? That was... his name? The name was unfamiliar, but it rolled off his tongue effortlessly, and James found himself repeating it quietly to himself in his head. Regulus. He liked how it sounded, how the syllables felt in his mouth: rich, full, and strangely intimate. He caught himself murmuring it, almost under his breath, testing it.
“Regulus...” James whispered, his voice soft as he repeated the name, savoring the way it felt to speak it.
Before he could fully absorb the feeling of the name, Dr. Rowler stepped closer to him, his hand lightly pulling at Regulus wrist.
Before he could lose himself in the name, Rowler moved a step closer to Regulus, grabbing his wrist and pulling him back slightly. “We should talk about this now,” Rowler insisted, but his grip on Regulus’s wrist was a bit too firm, a bit too intimate.
Regulus jerked his wrist free with an irritated glance, his eyes darkening. “There’s nothing to talk about,” he muttered, trying to shake off the moment.
Then everything seemed to slow down. Regulus took a step back, the erratic movement caused Regulus to lose his balance entirely. He hit James and the impact made Regulus land unceremoniously on his rear.
“Shit,” Regulus muttered, startled by the contact. “Sorry.”
James blinked up at him, still in a daze. He hadn’t even realized he had reached out to help him until his hand was extended, offering a chance to steady himself. “You okay?” James asked, voice more breathless than he intended.
Regulus looked at James’s hand for a moment, hesitation flickering in his eyes. Then, with a sigh, he accepted the help and pulled himself up, their hands brushing again. A shiver ran through James, and he tried to ignore how his skin tingled from the contact.
“What the hell are you doing in here?” Regulus’s voice was harsh, but there was an undertone of confusion in his words, as if this entire situation was as strange to him as it was to James.
James barely heard the question, his mind racing with the simple fact that they had touched. Touched. His hand... their skin... It lingered on his mind, and for a moment, he forgot where he was.
“I... uh, came for a delivery,” James finally muttered, his voice low. His heartbeat thundered in his ears as he realized Regulus had noticed his uniform.
Regulus looked at him for a second, his eyes narrowing, as if he were piecing together some unsaid part of the situation. “Delivery, huh?” he asked, his tone still skeptical.
“Yeah,” James answered quickly, managing to suppress his nervousness. “They give me the easy stuff. I get to leave early.” He let a smirk tug at the corner of his lips. “And free coffee. Who could say no to that?”
Regulus didn’t smile, but there was a flicker of softness in his eyes. For just a second, the wall between them seemed to soften.
“Yeah, well, you should be careful,” Regulus said, his tone still dry. He turned to walk away, but something in his posture remained tense.
Just then, Rowler, who had been watching the entire exchange, took a step forward and placed a hand firmly on Regulus’s arm. " Regulus.”
Regulus’s face hardened, his shoulders stiffening. “Not now, Dr. Rowler,” he said again, his voice quieter this time but no less resolute.
Rowler didn’t seem to take the hint, though. He leaned in, his tone sharpening. “I thought we were on a first-name basis, Regulus,” he said, a smug hint of something unspoken in his voice. “Please, I just want a chance of making things right.”
James watched the exchange, a sudden, uncomfortable knot forming in his stomach. The way Rowler spoke, so familiar, so confident with Regulus, it made something flare in James’s chest. He felt a twinge of jealousy, uninvited but undeniable.
But James didn’t want to focus on that. He couldn’t. Not with Regulus standing there, his back still turned to him, eyes narrowing as Rowler pressed further.
Regulus shook his head slightly, and as he turned to leave, he accidentally brushed past James again. This time, there was no mistaking the look in his eyes.
James stood there, staring after him, the name Regulus still swirling in his mind. He couldn’t help but repeat it one more time. Regulus. He loved the way it felt, the way it tasted.
But before he could think too much more on it, Rowler was gone, and he was left standing alone in the hallway, still caught up in the strange, unexpected interaction.