James called Evan from every stop on the tour. From every city. From a sun-drenched café in Amsterdam, sat outside beneath a crooked umbrella, legs stretched out towards the canal. He told him how they’d taken mushrooms and Sirius had talked them all into a trip to the zoo. Described the way the flamingos had looked like ballet dancers melting in slow motion. How Pete had become completely convinced the penguins were judging him. He could hear Evan laughing down the line. Then he told him how sometimes—mid-set, mid-chorus—he blanked on the lyrics. Said it made him feel like a fake, like he was playing at being a person someone else had written. Like he didn’t deserve the applause at all.
One night James called him from the rooftop of the hotel in Rome, the ruins lit golden in the dark like bones under candlelight. The others were out drinking, but James had stayed behind—tired down to the marrow, the kind of fatigue that sleep couldn’t touch. He talked about mythology. Not that he knew anything. Evan, of course, did—blame Barty, he said—delivering commentary that was dry, caustic, and funny. Somewhere between stories of ancient betrayal and winged gods, James asked Evan what he believed in. They talked about religion. Evan, agnostic of course, said it was all systems of control, but admitted his family were Catholic—that his childhood was laced with guilt and ritual. James cracked a joke about Catholics being the kinkiest of the lot when it came to religious trauma, and Evan laughed—low and even. The sound did something carnal to James. He had to clench his jaw to stop himself saying something he couldn’t take back.
From Milan, James called him straight after a press event. Too-tight trousers, too many lights, too many hands. Compliments that felt like currency. Too many probing questions aimed at him, the rest of the band getting off easy. The moment he shut the hotel door behind him he was dialling Evan’s number. Said something flippant like, “Saw a guy who looked like you today. Only better dressed.” Like anyone ever dressed better than Evan Rosier. Evan snorted. Told him to fuck off. James smiled. First real one of the day.
From his hotel room in Prague, James called to complain about the gothic church outside his window. The bells chimed on the hour, every hour. It was driving him insane. Evan told him he’d had a dream the night before that his thesis had come alive and chased him around the flat, snarling footnotes and page numbers at him. James laughed—really laughed, until his ribs hurt—and it felt like coming home. He asked how high Evan had been when he fell asleep. Evan, predictably, told him to fuck off. James told Evan he missed London. His parents. A bed that didn’t smell like hotel. There was a pause. He almost said—I miss you as well—but he didn’t.
And from Budapest—sleep-deprived, strung out, and not even pretending to cope—he called without an excuse. Didn’t have the energy to make one up, to tell a funny story. Just lay on the too-hard mattress and listened while Evan talked about how his supervisor wanted him to rewrite one of his sections, and add in some particular political theorist James had never heard of. About how Plato had knocked a cup of tea all over his annotated notes.
And James had realised he was in love. Really, fully in love. Totally and utterly fucked from the inside out. He’d been so tired, so stripped bare, he’d almost said it. But he hadn’t. Of course he hadn’t. And now he almost wished he had. Said it then, when he still could. Almost. Because now? Now he was terrified he’d lost the chance completely. That he’d waited too long and fucked it.
James’s flight touched down at seven fifty-seven a.m., and the moment the wheels hit tarmac, a dull throb started behind his eyes. He hadn’t slept. Hadn’t eaten since—fuck—yesterday afternoon. Something half-dead from catering, a wilted sandwich he couldn’t finish. His stomach churned, hollow and sour, acidic from the caffeine and adrenaline he’d been running on for the last forty-eight hours.
Evan hadn’t come to Barcelona. James had planned it. Planned what he was going to say. Spent weeks thinking about it and then Evan hadn’t turned up. Had said he would, and then hadn’t. Then Barty, knocking on his door with a serious expression. James had booked the first flight out he could get after that conversation. Didn’t even wait to see the others off. Wanted it all over—the tour, the noise, all of it. Didn’t want to be around anyone.
James tugged the front of his cap lower as he moved through passport control, then yanked his hood up over it, just to be sure. Too warm for a hoodie—stifling in the muggy terminal—but he didn’t care. A group of girls near the baggage carousel were already looking at him. Whispering. Wide-eyed, nudging each other.
He kept his head down.
This was the part no one had warned him about. Not properly. Not the label, not the press team, not even Minnie, who’d known it was coming. The tour had catapulted him into the public eye—a whirlwind of flashing cameras, voices shouting his name, hands grabbing at his clothes. He should have seen it coming. He hadn’t. It started slow. A couple of paparazzi lingering outside hotels. Kind of fun, at first. A novelty. Then there were more. Then crowds—everywhere, outside bars, outside cafés, waiting at stage doors, flashing cameras in his face before he’d even had his coffee. The tabloids started dredging up whatever they could, pulling scraps from his past, spinning headlines from nothing.
And then Lily. Her name printed in bold caps, splashed across headlines like she’d asked for it. Criticised like she was public property—her looks, her clothes, her job. They’d found her social media. Dug up her old university blog. Dissected her like she was a symbol, not a person. She’d called him when she got home. Furious, her voice thick with it—but it wasn’t the anger that had stayed with him. It was the hurt underneath. The kind she hadn’t said out loud, but that threaded through every word. The hurt that he hadn’t protected her, had been stupid, had let it happen. Then Frank had gotten on the phone. Calm, measured, but brutal in the way only Frank could be. Told James he needed to get his shit together. That he should have expected it. That she’d had to shut down her social media because people were spamming her accounts, picking her apart like she wasn’t even human.
James had spent the last five days trying to manage it—smoothing it over, a press statement that didn’t sound like him, a plea to fans to be kind, a constant headache. He’d been stupid, and Lily had paid the price. But as bad as he felt about Lily, it could have been so much worse. Because what if it hadn’t been Lily? What if it had been Evan?
Evan, with his layers of armour—cynical, sharp-edged, wrapped tight around something James had only ever glimpsed in fleeting moments. Evan, who had once told him that part of the reason he’d chosen Edinburgh was to get away, to put as much distance as possible between himself and the world he’d been born into without actually leaving the UK. Evan, who had spent years carving out a separate life. Who had a title he refused to use, a family name that opened doors he never wanted to walk through. Who had worked—fought—to build something of his own. Who never posted pictures of himself online because his family had rules about public image, discretion, control. Evan, who James never wanted to see end up like Lily—picked apart, exposed, turned into another piece of gossip. Because if that ever happened, it wouldn’t just be cruel. It would cost Evan everything. Everything he’d spent years building.
James knew what was at stake for Evan. Had a fairly good idea of how his family would react. He’d looked them up—curious after Sirius had told him about Evan’s title. Had read enough about them to figure out what kind of people they were—to figure out why Evan didn’t talk about them. And Evan, Evan had told him—barely three weeks ago—that he wanted to do a PhD. Said he’d been planning it since his undergrad but hadn’t told anyone because he didn’t want his family to know. Because he was trying to build something they couldn’t touch. Carve out enough stability to be free of them. Evan, who James told everything to. The person who made him feel steadier, clearer, grounded. The one who mattered. The person he was completely, irreversibly in love with. And now? The person who wasn’t answering his fucking texts. Who wasn’t picking up the phone. The person who’d gone on a date.
And not an Evan date—not some fucked-up piece of experimental theatre where the performer screamed in a made-up language or hurled food at the audience. Not a museum full of nightmares, not interpretive dance in a warehouse that technically didn’t exist on paper. No. Drinks. In a bar. With a girl from his course. A normal date. Evan, who hadn’t told James he was going on a date. Who’d let James find out from Barty. The glint in Barty’s dark eyes when he’d come to tell James—warned him, really. Warned him that he was dangerously close to missing his chance, if he hadn’t already, if he’d ever actually had one in the first place. Because Evan didn’t do drinks in a bar. Didn’t do second dates. This meant something. It meant Evan was actually trying. And he was doing it with someone who wasn’t James.
The queue for taxis snaked out from the terminal, a slow, jerky procession of people dragging wheeled suitcases that clattered against the concrete. James took his place at the back, shifting his weight from foot to foot, hands shoved deep into his pockets. He could feel eyes on him—that prickling, anticipatory hush of recognition just before the whispering started. He kept his head down, tried not to meet the curious eyes around him.
When the taxi pulled up, he stubbed out his cigarette under the heel of his boot. Lit another the moment he was out of the cab, pacing as he tried Evan’s number. It rang out.
James had been doing well, too. Managed to hold onto some semblance of routine during the tour—running most mornings, writing. Tried to keep himself steady through all the madness, the booze, the lights and the drugs. Tried to keep himself sane.
But now?
Now he was in freefall.
And he didn’t even care that he couldn’t pretend it was just social smoking anymore. Didn’t care that it was a blatant, compulsive response to stress. He sent a message, then another, then one more just for good measure. He knew he was being a desperate prick, but he was a bit past caring. What was text spamming compared to the bullshit he was about to pull? Fucking tame. James Potter and dignity—that ship had sailed.
A woman with an absurdly small dog pushed open the door in front of him, pausing to hold it. “Going in, love?”
Then he nodded. “Yeah. Thanks.”
He took the stairs two at a time, heart hammering somewhere stupidly high in his chest—that kind of nervous adrenaline that made his limbs feel both too heavy and too light at once. He barely registered the landing before he was at the door, knocking. No answer. He waited. Counted to twenty. Knocked again, harder.
And then—finally—the door opened.
Evan stood there barefoot, holding Plato against his chest like a small, pissed-off-looking shield. His hair wasn’t mussed exactly, but it looked softer somehow, a little less perfect. He was wearing a plain white t-shirt, slightly wrinkled, and a pair of navy Adidas joggers that hung low on his hips. It was the most casual James had ever seen him. No button-down, no tailored trousers, no faint scent of French cologne. Evan was usually an early riser—like James—but it was Sunday, just gone half nine. He looked like he’d just rolled out of bed. He looked better than he had any right to. And somehow, that thought made James feel like the ground had been pulled out from under him.
Evan had always been attractive—impossibly so, the kind of good-looking that made people stare too long in the street. But this was different. There was a softness here that James hadn’t seen before. A slowness. That just-woken haze in his eyes, the sleep-roughened edge to his confusion as he blinked at James in the doorway. James wanted to kiss him. Wanted to push him up against the wall the way he’d imagined doing a hundred times on the road. But Evan was holding the cat, and Plato was looking at him with an expression that said try it and I’ll scratch your eyes out, and besides—James wasn’t even sure Evan was alone.
That thought hit him like a punch.
What if the second date had happened? What if Evan looked like he’d just woken up because he had—because he hadn’t been alone last night? James’s stomach sank. He told himself it was fine. That he’d come here knowing it might be too late. That he wasn’t entitled to anything. But the thought of someone else in Evan’s bed—of Evan choosing someone else—made something twist deep inside him.
“Hi,” he said, trying to keep his voice steady. “Can I come in?”
Evan stepped back, letting him in, giving him a curious look. “Are you wearing a disguise?”
James winced, only just remembering the hoodie, the sunglasses, the cap pulled low—he probably looked ridiculous. Unhinged, even.
“I didn’t want to be recognised,” he muttered, suddenly aware of the sweat on the back of his neck, the stale airport air clinging to his clothes, the slight tremble in his hands.
He should have stopped in the airport bathroom, splashed water on his face. Maybe not shown up looking like he was fleeing the press. But Evan just nodded, unfazed. Like it made complete sense. Like it was normal.
“You want tea?” Evan asked, as casually as if James had wandered over from two streets away and not flown in from another country.
Something in James’s chest eased. Just a little. “Yeah,” he said. “Tea would be great, thanks.”
He dropped his bag in the hallway—just a weekend bag slung over one shoulder. He’d flown straight from Barcelona, left everything else packed, shoved into a suitcase with a scribbled note to Sirius asking him to take it home. He hadn’t wanted to show up looking like he was planning on staying. That felt too presumptuous. Too hopeful. Somehow, the weekend bag felt safer. Easier to explain.
He followed Evan down the hall, into the kitchen-living room, golden with morning light. The long orange curtains were half-drawn—not enough to block the sun, but enough to soften it, to tint everything with a slow, amber warmth. One of the windows was propped open, the breeze stirring the curtain edges, carrying in the sound of pigeons, the occasional car. A nature documentary played in the background, low enough to be nothing but quiet narration and birdsong. The room smelled like sunlight and plants and Evan. Like lived-in comfort. A life built slowly and precisely around someone who knew exactly what they wanted, what they needed. James breathed in and let some of the tension bleed from his shoulders.
There was the faint, unmistakable smell of weed lingering beneath the fresh morning air, and James found himself fighting a grin. A wave of almost dizzying relief rushed through him as he decided that the soft hair, the bare feet, the slow movements weren’t the sign of a late night, the sign of someone else in his bed, but the sign of Evan, high and soft-edged and very much alone.
Evan wordlessly passed James the cat—Plato giving him a look of long-suffering tolerance—and turned towards the kettle with the single-minded focus of someone unmistakably and extremely stoned. He moved around the kitchen in that careful, slightly-too-intent way that said the act of making tea required his complete concentration. It was endearing as fuck.
James leaned back against the wall, cat tucked against his chest, the soft whistle of the kettle filling the room. And for the first time in days—since Evan hadn’t shown up in Barcelona—he felt okay.
Maybe it’s not too late, James thought.
Maybe there’s a reason he didn’t come. A good one.
Maybe James wasn’t about to get his heart ripped out yet again.
Just maybe.
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