"Are you even sweating?" you ask James. He swings your joined hands between you and whistles some tune you vaguely recognize.
It's a beautiful day but it's warm and you've been walking in the sun for quite a bit. James, as always, is unperturbed. You, however, are hot. And sweating.
"I don't know, am I?" he asks, pulling your hand to his forehead.
You frown. "No," you say. "You are insufferable."
James laughs. It's a wonderful sound. You've always thought so. "I'm insufferable because I'm not sweating, darling?"
"Yes," you say, a bit grumpily. It's hot and sunny and you're strolling by the river. You love being with James, talking with James, holding hands with James. You love James. But you don't love this weather and he does.
"Well, I suppose I could be insufferable for worse reasons." He drags you to a bench and despite the heat you sit close to him, touching shoulder to knee and letting him put his arm around you.
"I'm sweaty," you grumble. "Can you tell?" You look at your boyfriend and he really truly looks perfect. Messy curls, brilliant eyes, charming smile. He's always looked like a disheveled prince, like someone you just gravitate towards in a room full of people. He's got a magnetic pull that you know affects more people than just you.
And then he looks at you like he's seeing the same thing. This is always how James looks at you -- like you're the greatest thing that he's ever seen. "Am I supposed to lie?" His eyes rake over your face and he reaches for you, cupping your face with one big hand and running his thumb over the skin under your eye.
You frown. "Yes," you say. He raises his eyebrows. "No," you correct. James scoffs fondly.
"I suppose you do," he muses. "You're glowing."
"What does that mean, James?" You pout. Your t-shirt is sticking to your back and your hairline feels damp. There's no way you're glowing.
"It means that you're beautiful," he says sincerely. "Radiant. Gorgeous. Brilliant."
You tuck your chin to your chest. "Did you read Remus's thesaurus again?" you say, trying to joke over how sincere he's being because it can be overwhelming to be loved the way James loves you.
"My sweaty girl," James says happily. You groan.
"That's less eloquent."
He laughs again and kisses your forehead, your cheeks, your nose. They're not gentle, sweet kisses, rather a smacking of his lips that would mortify you if anyone else was around.
"Gross, Jamie," you say, wiggling in his hold but not pulling away.
"No," he insists. "Never gross." He's a joker, he's fun, he's a good guy. He's cheery and kind and brave, honest and gentle. And he's always so sincere with you, so open about his feelings. You never imagined that you'd find someone who was willing to love you this loudly, this confidently. It's intoxicating.
"I wish you were sweaty," you say. "You perfect boy." His lips hover over yours.
"Oh, sweetheart," he says softly. "You know how to make me sweat." You plant a palm on his face and push him away before he can kiss you.
He makes an insulted noise as you pry yourself from his side and hop up from the bench. "Well, Potter," you say. "Race you home to find out?"
James grins at you before darting back down the path.