James woke first.
For a moment there was only blank, untethered confusion—the kind that clings to strange beds and borrowed mornings. The sheets smelled unfamiliar, and yet like something he’d been craving: crisp linen and something faintly herbal, clean and green and grounding. The flat was still. Quiet, except for the distant rhythmic ticking of a clock and the slow, steady breathing beside him. Then he remembered.
Evan.
James exhaled slowly and turned his head. Evan was sprawled beside him, face turned away, one arm folded loosely beneath the pillow. He looked like something half-remembered from myth—sculpted by a divine hand, caught somewhere between Greek god and artist’s muse. His hair spilled across the pillow in careless waves, gold against dark sheets—a contrast so vivid it could have been painted.
James slipped out of bed carefully, feet silent against the cool hardwood, and padded towards the bathroom. His eyes were dry, gritty—he’d fallen asleep with his contacts in. He took them out, blinking against the blur, then fumbled with the tap half-blind until a blast of hot water sluiced over him. The shower scalded away the weight of travel, the sleeplessness and worry of the night before. When he emerged, he dragged his bag from the hallway and rummaged until he found his glasses. Plato appeared then, tail flicking with theatrical indifference, wide eyes shining with manufactured innocence.
“You want something, don’t you?” James asked the cat, rubbing the towel through his damp hair.
Plato let out a plaintive meow. James glanced at the clock. Past midday. He didn’t know how often you were supposed to feed a cat, but lunch seemed reasonable. He dug through the cupboards until he found a sachet of cat food, scraped it into Plato’s bowl, and made another cup of tea—his first long forgotten, abandoned when Evan had pulled him into the bedroom.
He stopped in the doorway of Evan’s bedroom. Evan had turned in his sleep, the shift of his body sending the sheets slanting low across his hips. The sun—high now—poured molten gold through the open window, setting him aglow, tracing the hard cut of his shoulder blades, the long, lean arc of his spine. His back was a study in contrasts: sharp planes of muscle softened by the slow, easy cadence of his breathing. The sight was decadent, something that belonged in a gallery or carved into marble—Evan, haloed in light, golden.
James forgot how to breathe.
He’d never thought of Evan as particularly athletic. Had never pictured him lifting weights or running on a treadmill. But the evidence was there, laid out before him: the clean cut of his arms, the understated strength stitched beneath golden skin. Strength shaped by movement, not by artifice.
And when James stopped to really think about it, the pieces slotted into place—quietly, inevitably. The sleek black road bike mounted like a sculpture in the hallway. The hike Evan had dragged him, Sirius and Remus on last summer—some massive hill in the middle of Edinburgh, everyone else hungover and suffering while Evan had glided to the summit, barely winded. James considered the flat he was in now: the wall of windows, the plants thriving everywhere—like Evan was trying to bring the outside in.
James settled onto the bed beside Evan, pressing his back against the headboard, legs stretched out in front of him. He watched him sleep, soaking in the rise and fall of his breath, the careless sprawl of his limbs, the way the midday sun turned his skin to something almost unreal. He drank in the sight for as long as he could before his brain reminded him he was toeing the line between fond and fucking creepy. He dragged his eyes away—but not before a thought arose, sharp and definite. The thought that James would do just about anything for the man asleep next to him. It didn’t matter what happened next, if it all went to shit—James would be writing songs about him for the next ten years, easy.
With a sigh, he pulled out his phone, worked through a few emails—one from Minnie, one from their publicist Albus, or rather his new assistant, Gill. James wasn’t a fan; the guy was kind of intolerable. Unfortunately, he was also really good at his job. Then a text from Barty lit up the screen.
“Saw your note. U good pal?”
James smiled. Somewhere after the evening Barty had shown up at his hotel door with beers and a warning, they’d actually started to become friends.
“I’m in Edinburgh.”
The response was instant.
“And???”
“All good. I think.”
Three dots. Barty typing. And then: “Fucking class. Dinnae shag in front of my cat. Poor wee fella has seen enough as is.”
James chuckled and sent back a thumbs-up. His stomach twisted uncomfortably, reminding him he hadn’t eaten in far too many hours. He flicked through Deliveroo while he finished his tea. Evan stirred a while later. James heard the shift in his breathing before he moved, then watched as he stretched, rolling onto his back, blinking up at him with sleepy, half-lidded eyes.
“What time is it?”
His voice was rough, heavy with sleep—and something deep in James responded to it, something primal and wanting.
“Just after two,” James said, voice steadier than he felt. “I was thinking of ordering food. You hungry?”
“Fuck yeah.”
“What are you in the mood for?”
Evan raised an eyebrow. “Could go for Thai.”
A memory flickered behind James’s eyes—Evan on his doorstep, in his kitchen, looking like he belonged there. Telling James he’d never have a chance with Reg, that he should let it go. The flicker of surprise when James had asked if he liked Thai food. A different time. A different James. But the same Evan. The one James was totally and completely arse-over-tits in love with.
James laughed, the sound rising unbidden, warm in his chest. “Yeah, okay. Thai food it is.”
Evan sat up, dragged a hand through his hair, shot James a sideways look. “Should probably talk,” he said.
A thread of nerves pulled tight in James’s stomach. He exhaled slowly. He couldn’t fuck this up. Not now. Not when he knew—knew how it felt to have Evan’s lips on his, his body pressed against him, like gravity meant something different when they were together.
“Look,” James started, voice steady even as his pulse kicked up. “I’m not gonna push for anything you don’t want. This—” He gestured vaguely at the space between them. “—this was more than I expected. More than I was hoping for. Kind of thought you might tell me to fuck off. Would’ve understood if you had. Still will if you want me to. But really hoping you don’t.”
Evan watched him, expression unreadable, a slight frown. “Do you remember calling me on New Year? The last one. When I was in France?”
James nodded. “Remember you talking French and thinking it was really hot.”
“You asked me to come to London and speak filthy French to you. And then you asked me if I still wanted to snog a rockstar.”
James winced. He didn’t remember that bit.
“I told you to ask me again when you were sober,” Evan said. “But you didn’t. Wanted you to. Would’ve said yes if you had.”
“To which?”
Evan smiled. Slow—wicked. He raised one shoulder in a shrug.
“Both. Speak all the French you want. Take you to Paris, hire out the Eiffel Tower and fuck you at the top if you want.”
James’s mind stuttered to a halt. It took real effort to drag himself away from the mental image Evan had just painted.
Evan’s smile faded, became something—more serious. “But there’s something I want to know first.”
“Uh—yeah? What’s that?” asked James. His voice came out rough, unsteady.
Evan’s summer-blue eyes pinned him in place. “Lily Evans.”
James blinked, waiting for the rest of the question. It didn’t come. And then he got it. Lily Evans was the question.
“What about her?”
“Saw a picture. Looked pretty cosy.”
Understanding slammed into James, sudden and absolute. “Wait,” he said. “Is Lily why you didn’t come to Barcelona?”
“Yeah,” Evan said flatly. “Got it in one.”
Evan had been jealous, James realised. And then another realisation: Evan had been jealous, and James liked it. Liked the way Evan was looking at him, liked the heat it sent curling through him. He’d never understood people saying jealousy was hot. It had been an issue in more than one of his relationships, had bothered him when past partners had been jealous—he’d ended the one before Lily for that exact reason. But this was different. On Evan, it was absolutely, undeniably hot.
James grinned. “Lily’s really good friends with Marlene—my best mate from school, the one I started the Marauders with. Marlene was visiting from the States, and they both came out to see us. Marlene was there that day too. And Lily’s fiancé, Frank. They were just ahead of us—I grabbed her hand when we got stormed by the paps, didn’t want her getting trampled.”
Evan exhaled, shoulders loosening. “So you weren’t… together?”
James shook his head. “No.” And then, because he couldn’t help it, he grinned. “You were jealous?”
Evan frowned at him. “Fucking yeah I was—and there’s no need to look so fucking happy about it.”
James wanted to kiss him. Fuck, he wanted to devour him. But first he needed to make sure Evan understood—needed there to be no room for doubt before he did, because once he started he wouldn’t stop.
“Good,” James said, voice low. “Because I meant what I said earlier. I don’t want to share you.”
Evan’s answering smile was utterly devastating. “Don’t want anyone else,” he said, pulling James down into the heat of his body.
The kiss was a claiming, a promise, a beginning. James let himself be pulled under, kissing back like he was memorising every second.
Somewhere between kisses, Evan said against his mouth, “Didn’t know you wore glasses.”
James laughed, breathless. “Blind as a bat.”
“They’re hot. Like the earring too.”
James trailed kisses down his jaw, teeth grazing just enough to make Evan groan. He paused at his throat, bit down lightly.
“Is it even possible to hire out the Eiffel Tower?” he asked, voice rough against Evan’s skin.
“No fucking idea,” Evan said, threading his fingers through James’s hair and tugging just enough to make him shiver. “Want me to find out?”
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