Author's Note: Thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed this story! It has been a real passion project for me even though it kicked my ass at times!

an end

Ian doesn't ask her where she's going when she tells him that she's leaving his flat for the night.

That suits Lily just fine because she cannot and will not lie, and Ian would naturally raise objections, and she doesn't want to get into the meat of things while his mates are still hanging around. She knows what's likely to happen when they next have a chance to speak in private. She can see it looming ominously on the horizon like an unexpected deadline at work, crucial to meet but so bloody tiring to achieve, and it's fine, it's fine, she's got this.

But she just... needs a minute.

A minute, or an hour.

A day, perhaps. A week or so would be helpful.

She needs enough time to get herself situated. Clear her head. Figure out what she's going to say and how she's going to say it, and if there's any way that she can navigate this whole mess without hurting someone she cares about.

In that vein, she knows that running off to see James Potter is the very last thing she should be doing. She knows that the sensible course of action is to drive herself home, immerse her tired body in a cool, relaxing shower, take several deep breaths and figure everything out by herself. If Kingsley is home, she could even let him ply her with fizzy prosecco and fancy Belgian chocolates before she inevitably passes out in her bed, only to wake up in the morning with a drummer boy pounding on her brain.

Lily tells herself this once she's climbed into her car, and is staring at her keys in her hand, poised above the ignition. Be sensible. Go home. Don't do anything that you might regret later. Go home. Go home. Go home.

She gets to Stamford in under thirty minutes.

When she pulls up in her usual parking spot by the river and sees that James is waiting for her there, leaning against the low stone wall with his hands in his pockets, Lily suffers a mild electric shock.

All at once, her palms are sweaty.

Knees weak, arms are heavy, she thinks, and a garbled, semi-hyperactive laugh bubbles out of nowhere, shuddering through her tight, tensed shoulders.

Great, James is standing right by the car and can obviously see her sniggering to herself in the driver's seat. He's going to assume—correctly—that she's unravelling at the seams.

There's vomit on his sweater already...

Jesus, she needs to—Mom's spaghetti—she needs to stop.

Her minor wobble hasn't gone unnoticed, because James strolls over and opens her door for her, clearly under the impression that she's too busy tittering to manage the task herself.

"Alright, Evans?" he says, stooping down to peer through the door at her.

"I didn't expect a welcoming committee," she replies, opting to forgo any form of explanation because all she really has is the truth, and the truth—I'm a little obsessed with you, want you, adore you, think I've made a monumental number of mistakes and now have no idea what I'm supposed to be doing—is too inappropriate for words. "Thought you'd be in the shop?"

"I wanted to get us both an ice cream cone, and I didn't think it would keep if I brought it back to the shop to wait for you," he explains, while Lily climbs out of the car, "unless you fancied licking it off my hand when it melts, but I took a wild guess and figured that wouldn't appeal."

He looks fantastic, hair a mess of soft, sooty black, his brown skin dewy in the sunlight, wearing yet another plain white tee because her life's not complicated enough already—she's convinced he knows how much she likes what those bloody t-shirts do for him—completely unaffected by a heat which has subjected everyone else in England to a sweaty, sweltering discomfort.

Lily dearly wants to lick every inch of him, but that's best kept to herself.

"I think," she says lightly, "you might have underestimated my ice cream obsession, if you think I wouldn't resort to such desperate measures."

"Have not. I've seen you inhale your fair share of strawberry sundaes. It's a truly magnificent feat that puts kids on sugar highs to shame." He cocks his head to one side, taking her in, his concern making itself known in the furrow of his brow. "How are you doing?"

She shrugs. "Been worse, been better."

"Did he give you any grief before you left?"

"Not a word, but I doubt he noticed I was leaving in the first place."

"Right," says James, and scuffs his foot against the ground. "Look, Lily, I can't exactly pretend I'm devastated to learn that your boyfriend's not Mr. Perfect, or anything—"

Lily lets out a weak wisp of a laugh.

"—but I'm really sorry that you're upset, because everything in your life should be," he continues. "Perfect, that is, because you're a bloody wonder, yeah? One of my top three favourite people, easy."

A strong and pleasantly warm sensation threads its way towards the centre of her chest.

She feels as if her heart is melting, in a figurative sense, though were her fleshy mortal body not tethering her to solidity, the blistering sun which beats down on her back feels as if it could easily dissolve her skin.

"The other two being yourself and Sirius?" she replies, rather than admit how much it means that he would think of her in that way.

"Sirius and Remus, actually," he corrects her, grinning, "though there's also my mother, and my dad, and my mate Pete and my cat, and—well, yeah, now that you mention it, I'm pretty wonderful myself." He points at her. "Case in point, my master plan to cheer you up is going to be a roaring success."

"Oh yeah?" She lifts an eyebrow. "Your master plan of stuffing me with ice cream?"

"The fun only starts with ice cream—there'll also be a soft drink of your choosing, plus, I will later be escorting you to the shop because I've got something cool to show you."

"Finally got around to hanging your portrait, did they?"

"No, the bastards, though I've lobbied for it for countless decades," he says, his voice low and dramatic, and she laughs. "Seriously, though, I'm excited for you to see it."

"And you won't get in trouble if I'm caught in there after hours?"

"Course not," he says, jangling his keys in his pocket. "My boss doesn't care, and besides, he owes me one. Nothing would get done in that shop if it wasn't for me."

"And Remus."

"Me and Remus, who gets to be the bigshot at book club, so he's already cashed in his favours," he swiftly concurs. "Anyway, if we get caught and there is any trouble, I'll just say you're a burglar and have you taken away in disgrace."

"That would really round out my day, getting arrested."

"Wouldn't it, though? Think of the stories you could tell," he says, and lopes his arm around her shoulders. "Right, Miss Evans, how many scoops are you thinking?"

He takes her to a cute little place on the high street and buys her a cone—two scoops, one butter pecan and one cookie dough—before they head back to the shop.

Their server, Sadie, is a cheerful older lady with cat-eye spectacles and unashamed, bright pink hair who offers warm smiles and huge scoops and is everything an ice cream server ought to be. She asks them about their plans for the evening, and Lily blooms like her namesake at the idea that sweet, friendly Sadie of the generous scoops might have assumed that she and James are a couple.

The truth is, Lily wants Sadie to believe that they're a couple. She wants people to believe it, to look at them and think that they're a natural fit, that together she and James make something right and whole, something that will justify the way she has been feeling. It's shallow and it's totally inappropriate, but it's there, and Lily can't help the thoughts that flit across her brain.

The walk to the shop is drenched in sunlight, a race to consume their ice creams before they melt. By the time they reach the shop and James unlocks the door, she's in a rather messy state.

"How did you get it on both hands?" asks James, who devoured his ice cream quickly and remains untarnished, once they're both inside and he's taken a proper look at her.

Lily swallows her last piece of wafer cone and sends him a flat look. "Because you were talking about ice-cream hands earlier, and it jinxed me."

"You're right, it was I who caused this, not the sun," he says dryly, then his gaze drifts over to the register. "I've got some wipes back here, actually. Hang on a sec."

He walks over to the register, ducks behind it and begins to root through the various drawers and cubby holes beneath the counter.

"Why'd you have wipes behind the counter?" says Lily, approaching it from the front.

"It's a necessity. Sirius likes to eat unsuitable foods on the job."

"He's allowed to do that?"

"You try telling him to stop," he says, and springs to his feet, brandishing a baby wipe. "Hand," he instructs, and circles the counter with his arm outstretched. Lily promptly complies, resting her right hand on top of his left, so James wraps his fingers around her wrist to hold it in place, then sets about wiping the sticky residue from her fingers. "Jesus, Evans, you're sloppy."

"I'm not sloppy!"

"Did you manage to eat anything at all, or did you let the whole thing melt all over you?"

"It's your fault for keeping me talking," she retorts, but obediently presents James with her other hand when he drops the first. "I could do this myself, you know."

"I know, but I'm about to show you something really special, and I don't want your grubby little paws making anything dirty. Need to be thorough."

"Grubby little paws?!" she cries, fighting to hold back her smile. Losing spectacularly, because her hand is in his and he's doing a more thorough job than perhaps he needs to. "You've got an absolute cheek, Potter."

"Correction," he retorts, "I've got two absolute cheeks. Four if you count my backside."

"Who would?"

"You would, I've seen you looking."

"How on earth could you have seen me checking out your arse when it's permanently behind you?"

"Reflective surfaces."

"Of which there are so many in this shop?"

"Maybe I've caught you on the CCTV, you don't know my life," James offers, scrunching up the baby wipe. He tosses it on the counter and turns away from her, clasping both hands to his backside as if to keep it hidden. "Come on then, pervert, follow me and keep your eyes averted."

"Is this for real?"

"No," says James. "It's an immensely sophisticated VR simulation."

Lily elbows him in the side, but there's no animosity behind the movement, and her attention is far too caught by the scene before her to give much purchase to his teasing.

"It's meant to be like a potions classroom," he explains, moving away from her, rounding a circular wooden table that sits in the centre of the room. "I think that comes across. I hope that comes across." He looks up at her, his brow furrowed. "Does it come across? I've said 'come across' four times now and it's starting to sound strange."

The tables are mismatched, some circular, some square, some long and thin, but all are made from the same dark wood, roughly hewn and charmingly knotted. Their surfaces are equally different—a rusting Bunsen burner screwed down here, pestle and mortar placed cunningly there—but each one is lit from above by hanging orbs that look like crystal balls. Vials of brightly coloured liquids glow from the shelves behind the carved coffee bar, the menus are disguised to look like spellbooks, and a polished suit of armour stands proudly near the door, a jaunty wizard's hat perched atop his gleaming head.

One wall is hung with yet another map, a sprawling, gorgeous thing, clearly hand painted and aged like parchment, detailing a building Lily doesn't believe exists—Charms Classroom, Astronomy Tower, Forbidden Forest—with inky black footprints spattered over the corridors and grounds.

"Yeah," she says softly, caught and amazed and enthralled, and touched. "It comes across."

"My mate Peter's an electrician," he continues. "He's kitted out the all tables with charging ports for laptops and phones, and we've ordered a bunch of privacy screens for customers who don't want people nosing at what they're writing, and there'll be complimentary WiFi, obviously, and instead of employee of the month, we'll have customer of the month—" He points to a cat-shaped chalkboard that is propped up on a wooden stand. "—and give out prizes to our regulars, like free drinks or pastries, something like that."

"Right," says Lily. "Right."

"I was thinking we'll have a sort of library up here, where people can grab a book and read it at their table if they fancy. Not anything from downstairs, obviously, or we'll be selling dog-eared copies, but a good enough selection, and we'll do cakes and lunches, and have specialist coffees with magical sounding names—"

She doesn't know if she wants to burst into tears or throw her arms around his neck.

Possibly both.

"—Sirius is working on that, he's good with that kind of stuff. I only think of puns, and everyone seems to hate puns," he finishes. "Though I managed to sneak a few onto the menus, and will staunchly defend them with my last dying breath."

"Puns," Lily quietly repeats, her eyes on vial of sugar which bears the label Moonstone Dust. "What a strange and specific hill to die on."

"And it's on that hill that I'll take my last dying breath," he replies, with an easy laugh, but she can tell by the way he's been holding himself—the slightly stiff shoulders, the little crease between his brow—that some part of him is anxious, waiting for her opinion, wondering whether or not she'll approve of what she sees. "What d'you think of it, anyway? We're all pitching in to get it done, so we'd appreciate the feedback."

What do you think, he asks, as if Lily could possibly lend words to how this makes her feel.

"Honestly, James, I don't—" she begins, and offers a helpless shrug, her gaze shifting to his thin, handsome face. "I don't even know what to say."

"Is that the good or bad kind of speechless?"

"Good kind," she offers quickly. "Definitely, definitely good. Brilliant, in fact. Wonderful Spectacular."

"Just as I suspected," he cockily drawls, visibly relieved. Utterly adorable.

"This was my idea," Lily adds, now unable to keep the smile from blooming across her face. She feels light and giddy as a child. "I said to go with magic."

"I know."

"You used my idea."

"Course we did. It was loads better than any of the other ideas we got and it won out in the vote, so at the risk that you might sue us for intellectual property theft—"

"As if I would!"

"Well, as a thank you, then," James amends, "for giving us the idea, and for being generally brilliant, I've been given clearance to offer you free drinks and food for life."

"Really?"

"Cross my heart," he says, smiling. "Even if you want fifteen muffins in one sitting."

"You think I can scarf down fifteen muffins in one sitting?"

"I think you can do whatever you set your mind to."

Lily laughs, and moves to walk among the tables, and definitely doesn't allow her mind to linger on how much she knows he means it.

"You said there was a vote?" she asks, after a minuscule silence.

"Yeah," says James. "My boss likes to get the whole staff involved in decisions like this."

"So there were other ideas floating around?"

"A few others, yeah."

"And how hard did you push for my particular idea, just out of curiosity?"

"Super hard," says James, "but in my defence, I'm very biased in your favour, and prepared to name a sandwich after you, should the offer of free food prove insufficient."

"It's more than sufficient that you used my idea at all," she tells him, stopping to run her fingers along the smooth, carved back of a sturdy walnut chair. "Do you have any idea how much I love this shop, or how happy I am that you've stamped some part of me into my favourite place in the world?"

He lets out a kind of scoff, but it's a soft, half-hearted thing. "It can't be your favourite place—"

"Yes, it is," says Lily firmly. "It's beautiful and unique and fun, and—"

"And Peterborough has really terrible bookshops?"

And you're here, she cannot add. You're here and you're everything. "And the manager gives me mates rates on books."

"I have to, or you'd go bankrupt, with all the bloody books you buy."

"Well, you can charge me full price now, if I'm in for a life of free lunches."

"Free lunches, free drinks, cheap books—you'll pitch up a tent eventually."

"Bold of you to suggest I haven't already done it."

"I'd know if you did, I practically live here myself," he says, and strolls behind the coffee bar. "I can make you something now, if you fancy."

"Really?" She feigns a shocked expression. "Before the official opening?"

"We're all stocked up already," he says, pointing to the table in front of her. The menu which sits upon it is titled Saucy Tricks for Tricky Sorts. "Why don't you sit yourself down right there, Miss Evans, and I can officially deem you our first ever customer."

She cocks an eyebrow at him. "Without a formal witness present?"

"It'll still be official. They'll have my word for it, and I'm scrupulously honest, except for all the times I'm not," he says, grinning at her. "I mean, you'll be a non-paying customer in perpetuity and some might think that doesn't count, but I think the point still stands."

"The crippling Irish guilt to which my mother devoted a lifetime to instilling is crying out for me to insist upon paying, but my mum's not here, so what can she do?" she chirps, taking the proffered seat. "I'd be honoured."

"That's the spirit. What d'you fancy?"

"Oh, just a—"

"I'm joking, I know you want a tea," James interrupts, as he lifts a comfortingly chunky mug from a hook above his head and tosses it lightly from one hand to the other. "Nice and strong, big splash of milk, and one sugar, unless you've already had a tea with sugar today, then you switch to sweetener."

Like she's missed a step on the stairs or heard a sudden bump in the dead of night, Lily's heart gives a massive, painful thump against her ribs.

"You'll only have hot chocolate in winter because you're a top flight lunatic, and you're not into coffee at all," James continues, as if nothing untoward has happened, as if her breath hasn't trapped itself inside her lungs. "Never have been, never will be. Tea girl, through and through."

It's such a small, insignificant thing, yet it shifts something enormous into place.

Clunk, there it goes, settling heavily in her brain, a truth she's known for a while—something she's been seeing daily in the corner of her eye, flitting around her head like an errant moth bouncing off a lightbulb, never staying still so she could properly examine it—the last, most crucial piece of a puzzle so easy, any small child could have worked it out in a day.

Lily is not in danger of falling in love with this man. Falling denotes a process she is actively embroiled in.

Lily loves this man.

She loves him ardently. Helplessly. She loves him like a bloody fool.

Already.

She has not yet broken up with Ian, yet here she is, alone with the man she loves in a cerebral dreamland she inspired, and what exactly is her plan? She can't kiss him, can't speak freely as to what is in her heart, and she certainly can't stay here—with this debilitating weight pressing down on her shoulders—and not act on what she's feeling.

Lily has been pushing—testing the waters with the tips of her toes, teetering over the edge of what could reasonably be deemed acceptable—but this single, stammering moment is as far as it can go.

"I have to leave," she says blankly.

James is already standing at the hot water dispenser, poised to fill the overlarge mug and make her a cup of tea—exactly how she likes it, because he knows, cares, and Ian never did—but he lowers it to the counter.

"You okay?" he asks, regarding her from beneath furrowed brows.

Lily looks down at the surface of the table.

"Yeah, I am, I just—I have to leave," she repeats, "I'm really sorry, I know this is coming out of the blue, but I don't think I should be here right now."

"Oh," says James. "I see."

She cannot see his face because she can't look at his face, but his voice betrays no surprise, no hint that he's been taken aback by this, or any indication that he might be poised to ask her to change her mind.

He already knows.

Of course he does. Most likely he knew long before she did.

"I'm so sorry," she murmurs, "I'm the worst—"

"You're not the worst."

"I can't believe that's true," she says, and looks up to tell him that he'd lock the door behind her and never let her back if he had any wits about him, but he's looking at her in a way he never has and it's so soft, projecting her own longing back towards her, and she has to leave before her heart bursts, or she does something stupid. "I want to stay, but I'm not sure if—I don't think I've been thinking clearly, but I need to go and do something. Now." She stands up so quickly that her chair almost clatters to the floor, but she hastily catches it with one hand, then turns back to him. "I have to do it now."

"Yeah," he quietly agrees, "I reckon you do."

He does not need to elaborate. This has been clear and present between them, all this time.

"You understand, don't you?"

James nods. "I think so."

"Because I didn't plan for this," Lily quickly adds. "I don't normally—this isn't me, you know? It's just… you, and all of this—"

"I know," he says, with a second, more assured nod, and gestures toward her with one hand. "I know who you are, yeah? What you're about. And I didn't plan for this either, but here we are."

"Right," she sighs. "Here we are."

For a moment, they simply stare at each other in silence.

Then she picks up her purse and hoists it onto her shoulder.

"I might not be back for a while," she tells him, her voice barely registering in her own ears, "because—well, it doesn't seem all that appropriate right away, but—"

"I know," says James, again. "I can wait a bit longer."

"No, listen, please don't feel you have to wait at all on my account. I really don't deserve—"

"I'm the one who gets to decide that," says James, in the firm, businesslike tone he sometimes uses when he speaks to his colleagues, "and believe me, I don't have a choice, but if I did?" He shrugs lamely, and shoots her half a smile. "I'd do it anyway. You're worth waiting for."

Her wanting little heart melts, and a silly, joyous warmth pools across her body, seeps into her muscles and bones.

But James deserves better than what she's done to him, and some stubborn, punishing part of her brain insists that he be made to agree.

She opens her mouth. Closes it. Tries again, tries her hardest to sound stern. "James—"

"Seriously, Evans," he says, lifting a hand to stay her, "we've got the rest of our lives to argue and I'm sure you'll win nine out of ten of them, but you're not having this one. Not a bloody chance."

There's nothing that Lily can say to counter that.

He's got her. Soundly, and for as long as she lives, apparently.

She can't fight her smile, faint and exasperated as it is, nor the blinding, powerful concoction of equal parts guilt and happiness that floods her body like a dam has burst in her soul. "The rest of our lives?"

"Not to be dramatic, because you know that's not my thing," he tells her flatly, "but the next time you come back here, I'm never letting you go."

These disconnected pockets of pure, unadulterated longing keep hitting her like arrows sent from a hidden assassin.

She has to leave.

Lily has to leave now, because she wants to kiss him so badly—needs to kiss him like she needs sustenance to live—but throwing herself into his arms would mean an ugly black spot on her heart that she can never scrub off, and she will not be that girl, tainting herself and him by association. James likes her too much to let her be that girl. He deserves better. Ian deserves better. She deserves better.

"I have to go," she says softly.

"You said that already."

"Yeah, I know, but—" She gestures towards him, expelling the thought on a deep breath. "God, James, you just—"

"I know."

"—and I'm supposed to just—"

"I know."

"Do you know everything today?" she asks him, sounding huffier than she intended, which immediately prompts him to smile. "You always say I'm the one who has it all together, but I've never felt more clueless in my life and you're just—what you just said was—"

"If it helps, I've had it rehearsed for ages," he offers, and scratches the back of his head, elbow pointing up towards the ceiling beams. "Parts of it, anyway. I wasn't sure when this was going to happen."

When, he says.

When, as if they've always been inevitable, and James has always known, and has been waiting patiently for Lily to figure it out for herself.

"You're—" she begins. "James."

"Yup. That's my name."

"You're unbelievable," she says, though she could scream, because everything she wants to say is everything she can't. "Just—just an unbelievable person, James. I've never met anyone like you in my life, and I don't—I don't deserve you, not one little bit."

"Thanks." He shoves his hands in his pockets. "For the first part, not the nonsense follow-up about what you deserve."

"Let's not argue about what I deserve."

"I mean, we could, but we've already decided that I get to win all the arguments today."

"We did," she agrees, smiling despite the awful, painful thing that she must later do. "I wish I didn't have to go."

"I always wish that, but you're right, it's for the best."

"Best for both of us," she agrees, and her whole body is crying out for her to kiss him, urging her on, mad at her for resisting, but she will not let them start a relationship with something rotten at their core, "but this is it, okay? Next time is going to be different."

He smiles at that, the faintest tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"Next time," he repeats, as if he likes the way those words sound falling from his tongue. "I'll hold you to that, Evans."

"I'm pretty set on holding myself."

"Good. Then we're sorted." He nods in the direction of the door. "Now go on, get out of here before I have to chase you with a pitchfork."

And Lily does.

She leaves—racing down the stairs, bursting into the sunlight—because that's all that's left to do, because she has to, because they've got to do this right, and she's going to do right, by both of them.

The next time she sees him, she'll kiss him.

Next time.

Lily feels as if she could fly back home.

She's in love.

In love. Properly in love. Madly in love. Her.

She's in heart-stopping, life-altering, romance-novel-appropriate, standing-on-a-windswept-precipice love, with that guy, not this one, and it's that freeing realisation that carries her out of the shop and straight to Ian's flat in her tired old car, flooring the accelerator whenever it's humanly and legally possible for her to do so.

Her relationship with Ian doesn't work. It never worked. She's wasted months attempting to fix something that wasn't broken, just entirely non-functional from the very beginning.

She has to end this. Immediately, if not sooner.

It should have ended a long time ago.

She hasn't treated anyone fairly over the last ten weeks, least of all Ian. Least of all James. Least of all herself.

How could it be fair to subject her boyfriend to her half-hearted interest in their flagging relationship? She has never been able to admit that she hated playing second fiddle to his hobbies, his mates, and his innumerable weekend plans, and that makes her no better than he is. Lily has been sticking with a man she doesn't want for the sake of being a decent person, for the sake of fairness, wishing he had someone else's face, making excuses to avoid sex because touching him makes her feel as if she's cheating on James—who isn't her boyfriend and has never been her boyfriend, but should be, and feels as if he is.

If emotional adultery is a thing, she is absolutely guilty of it.

And Ian… must have sensed it. Somehow. Surely.

What a foolish, ignorant woman Lily has been, to push against the will of her own heart, long after it had settled on exactly what it wanted. She belongs with James Potter, in every soppy, silly, mushy way she never allowed herself to believe existed, and he deserves every scrap of love she can give him, the full warmth and vibrancy of her affections, not a friendship that acts as a thin cover for the truth of how she feels. She left her heart in the care of his beautiful hands from almost the minute they met. He's her Adrian, her Darcy, her Gilbert Blythe.

He's her James.

She finds herself acting almost entirely on instinct, spurred on by a feeling of skittish impatience, doing without much conscious thought behind her efforts, knocking on Ian's door instead of using the key he gave her because she's forfeiting her right to entry and that feels only fair. He's surprised to see her when he opens the door, his rugby jersey stretched across his broad chest—he puts so much effort into keeping his bulky muscles up to scratch, hours and hours at the gym—his eyebrows lowered in a frown.

It strikes Lily, as she stares into his bright blue eyes, that she's hardly known herself since she and Ian started dating. Why has she kept with this man for such a long time, when she's been so terribly discontent? She used to be so fearless. She used to take risks.

"You're back," he says, though it sounds more like a question than a statement.

She can hear some sporting program blaring on his massive flat screen telly in the background. Perhaps the tennis is still going. Or the World Cup. England have been doing really well.

"I am," she says. "I'm sorry. Are your mates still here?"

Ian gestures behind him into the flat. "Paul's gone home to the wife, but Josh is still—"

"I'm so sorry," she cuts him off, "and I'll tell Josh I'm sorry, but I think you should ask him to leave. We really need to—"

"Lily, what—"

"—talk," she finishes. "We need to talk."

There's a flatness to her request, an urgency that bodes no other interpretation, and Ian knows what that means, knows immediately. She can tell by the shadow that falls across his eyes, the slow downturn of his lips, the wavering note of panic in his voice when he opens his mouth to speak.

Of course he knows. This has been on the cards for months.

"No," he tells her, one hand gripping the door frame as if he's determined to break it apart beneath his fingers. "I can't just ask—it's rude to kick him out, we were going to order a pizza and I don't—you should go home." He swallows. "Go home, yeah? You're all worked up and you need to calm down. You don't want to do this now, Lil, you'll only—"

"I won't," she blurts out, which sounds cruel and shattering and makes her feel terrible, but he's wrong, she's not going to regret it, and she can't keep putting it off. "I'm sorry, Ian, I'm so sorry, but I have to, we need to—" Her words catch in her mouth, and she releases a heavy sigh. "Please don't make me do this in front of one of your friends."

"We can talk tomorrow."

"It can't wait until tomorrow."

"Lily, look, I know we've had a few fights recently—"

"Ian, please," she implores, and reaches out, resting a hand on his upper arm. "Waiting it out isn't going to help. Just let me in and send Josh home. Please."

Ian shrugs off her hand like she's burned him, clenches his jaw tight, scuffs a foot against the ground as if he's preparing to square up for a fight…

...then his shoulders drop, and he sighs.

"Fine," he says, and sounds wretched, but he waves her inside. "Let's bloody get this over with."

The worst part of the breakup is that Ian does not agree with any of her reasoning.

Lily thought he would, that he'd also been going through the motions with the same fuzzy awareness of their inevitable end, but he thinks that their relationship works. He thinks there's nothing wrong or off or insurmountable between them on any fundamental level. He's been sailing across a placid, comfortable sea, perfectly content with the way things were going, and that kills her. It kills her that he cannot see their disconnect, how wholly unsuited to one another they are, or how unhappy she has been, despite her telling him, over and over, and in a hundred different ways.

"But I love you," he tells her, clinging desperately to her hands like she can't possibly leave if he just holds on. "I can change. I'll try harder. Weekends, trips away... whatever you need me to do to fix this. I know you've felt neglected and I know that's my fault—it's all my fault, I've been selfish—but I'll do so much better from now on, I promise."

She can only shake her head and tell him no.

Even if there was no James—and that's an ugly, unthinkable idea—his promises aren't enough. Ian doesn't really mean them, just wants to keep her from walking out the door. Wants to win, like he always does. Wants her to stay because he'd rather have a girlfriend—any girlfriend—than be alone and forced to take care of himself.

Lily wants a relationship with someone who cares, who tries, who is prepared to give back what she consistently puts in. She wants effort. She wants time. She wants to be some kind of priority. And Ian could really mean it when he says he's going to change. He could give her all of those things, and more. He could do a complete 180 and become the world's best boyfriend, but it doesn't matter, because she doesn't want it from him.

She wants James. Only James. Maybe she'll never want anyone else.

It's still too early to tell, but…

Before all of that, there is this. This horrible, painful thing.

The anger comes when the begging stops, after he tries to kiss her and she jerks her head away, and it has dawned upon Ian that there is no changing her mind, that he can't mend this wound with a hastily procured Starbucks and a bunch of pretty flowers.

"Why would you do this now?" he keeps repeating, as if this is a particularly sensitive time and she should have been more mindful, even though he has been very chipper lately. "When everything is going so—just out of the blue like this?"

He has released of her hands by now, and they've wound up in the kitchen, standing several feet apart.

"It's not out of the blue," she gently argues. "You know that. I know you know that. Things have been going wrong between us for a long time—"

"And whose bloody fault is that?!" he cries, throwing his hands into the air. "Christ, Lily, I'm not a mind-reader! How was I supposed to know what needed fixing if you wouldn't tell me?!"

"I did tell you," she says. "I tried telling you, so many times."

"But not—but not directly!" he splutters. Bright spots of red have appeared in his pale face. "It's all hints and comments with you, Lily, you never once said you weren't happy! If you had, I would've—would've—"

But he grinds to a shuddering halt, pressing his lips together.

"I asked you to spend more time with me at weekends, and you said you would, but you didn't," Lily points out. It's a difficult thing to say and say kindly. "That's only one example, and maybe I should have been clearer, but you shouldn't have to make those kinds of changes if it's really not what you want. That's not who you are and that's fine, but you should be with someone who'll be happy with that, and that's not me."

He only shakes his head at her, refusing to believe it, refusing to see sense.

"I don't understand this," he says weakly. "This doesn't—no. There's something you're not telling me," he adds, his eyes scanning her face as if desperate to uncover something hidden in the depths of her eyes. "What aren't you telling me?"

Lily's standing with her back to his kitchen counter, his fingers curled around the edge.

He's right, of course, but only half so. James Potter is the straw that broke the camel's back, the catalyst for this conversation, but he's not the cause. They were the cause, for they are so thoroughly incompatible, and were doomed from the moment they started.

"There might—there's something," she admits, wanting to tell him, not wanting to tell him, unsure if it will make things better or worse. "But Ian, before I tell you, you have to know that it's not why we're breaking up. I meant what I said, this has been a long time coming, and we—"

"There's someone else, isn't there?"

He says it so blandly, so bluntly, like he already knows.

She shouldn't be surprised, really. Catching him reading through her texts had been so strange. He'd never done that before, though perhaps it had always been in him to do it, but he simply felt that he had no need to.

"Yes."

Ian's nostrils flare.

"I knew it," he says, his voice low and hard. "It's that fucking prick Remus, isn't it? I knew it as soon as—"

"No!" Lily interrupts, waving her hands abruptly. "It's not Remus, he's a friend but he's not—his name is James." She brings her hands to either side of her head, pushes them through her hair and massages her temples. "He works at the bookstore, and we're friends and—and we've been spending a lot of time together and today he made me realise that—"

"So you've been cheating on me?" Ian's eyes have widened, outrage twisting his handsome features. "All this time, when you've been saying you're off to a book club, you've just been fucking some bloke who works there?"

Her insides twist at the crassness of his words, and she wants to object, say she'd never do that, that she and James aren't like that—that they're more than that, because what they have could never and will never boil down to just fucking, but that's a selfish, unhelpful urge, and Ian doesn't deserve to hear it.

"No," she says loudly. Firmly. "I haven't cheated. I never cheated. He's just a friend and that's all he's ever been, but—"

"But what?"

"But—I'm so sorry, Ian—but he's made it clear that he has feelings for me, and I—"

"And you love him," he spits bitterly, and Lily flushes, and that's all he needs to have his suspicions confirmed. "That's what you're going to say, isn't it? That you love him? That even though I make 100K a year, own my own car and bought this flat, you're leaving me because you're in love with some bloke who works in a fucking bookstore—"

"Ian—"

"—like it's not bad enough, but you couldn't even dump me for someone better? Where's he going to take you on dates, Lil? McDonald's? The park? Or will you just stay in and eat Pot Noodle because he can't afford to pay for you both to have a meal?"

"You know I don't care about money—"

"I bet he still lives with his mum," says Ian, really building up steam, working himself to up a height of savage jealousy. "You're leaving me for a minimum wage waster who still lives with his fucking parents, aren't you?"

Lily shrugs helplessly. None of this matters to her. It's a testament to how wrong she is for Ian that he could think it matters to her, and it's baffling that he can't see that. "I honestly don't know where he lives."

"Well, that's just great, isn't it?" he hotly continues. "Here I am thinking that I'm going to marry you one day, and you're passing me up for a fucking loser who can't find a real career, and—really, Lily? A fucking shelf-stacker? That's what you want?"

"What I want," she snaps, her own temper spiking, "is to not be with you anymore."

Whatever Ian is about to say withers and dies before it can leave his mouth.

"I'd want that even if I'd never met him," she quickly presses on, "but he just—he just sped it up, because I wasn't happy for a long time before we met and I'm sorry, Ian. I really am—sorry that I didn't end it sooner, that I didn't speak up more often, but you and I don't work. We don't."

Ian clamps his lip together, a muscle in his jaw twitching. For a long, protracted moment, he looks as if he's going to cry.

"I don't agree with you," he says quietly. Stubbornly. "I was—I was happy here."

"You were only happy because I was letting this relationship be what you wanted it to be," she explains, trying to soften her tone—he's hurting, he's entitled to react, and she can't stay mad right now, "but it wasn't what I wanted, and neither of us deserve that. You should be with someone who wants what you want, and I know she's out there, but she's not me, Ian."

He makes a jerking movement with his head, but Lily doesn't know if it's a nod of agreement, or some minor indication that he still wants to fight her decision.

"So that's it?" he says, after another beat of silence. "You're done with me, and now you're going to run off to him, celebrate together because you finally shook off your inconvenient boyfriend?"

"No," she says, and feels quite tired. "I'm going to go straight home."

"Home," he listlessly repeats, as if he's realised that he'll never see her flat again. "Home."

He slumps against his kitchen wall, hands behind his back.

"I love you," he tells her, words that come out on a choked sob.

"I know," she says, and doesn't believe him, even if he believes himself, "I'm so sorry."

"And I hate you for doing this," he continues. "I really, really hate you."

"I understand." She steps gently away from the counter. "Is there anything you need? A cup of tea? A coffee? Is there anything else you want me to explain?"

He shakes his head roughly. "Just leave."

She nods and shoulders her purse. Debates patting his arm before she exits the kitchen. Decides against it. "Take care of yourself, yeah?"

His chin jerks upwards. "Whatever."

"Alright, well… I'll just go."

She moves away, slinking past him, fighting the urge to start crying herself, and she's just reaching for the handle of the kitchen door when he calls out, "Lily?"

She turns around to face him, bracing for an onslaught of anger, another quick-fire round of questions, or worst of all, another breathless, desperate plea.

"Yes?"

For a moment, he says nothing, his blue eyes roving over her face as if he's trying to commit it to memory.

"I hope he deserves you," he says quietly.

She smiles at him, a tight, sad, sorry little thing.

Then she opens the door and leaves.

Beatrice and Mary convene at her flat when she texts them to share the news, all geared up to validate her decision, ready to alleviate any doubts or second thoughts, except Lily has none, which gets them both enormously excited.

Not excited as Kingsley, who ignores Lily's request that he at least pretend to be restrained and has Isaac drive over with a bottle of Dom Pérignon. He joyfully pops it whilst standing on his Katherine Carnaby rug and pours out glasses for everyone—except for Lily, who conscientiously objects to celebrating the pain she inflicted upon Ian—proving beyond refute that he has officially lost his mind.

"Worth it!" he cries, when the champagne has the cheek to bubble out and spill carelessly on the viscose.

He changes his mind the next morning, when in the cold light of day, Lily finds him hunched over the rug with a soft brush and his homemade cleaning solution.

Three weeks pass.

They're three good weeks, for the most part.

Ian contacts her a handful of times, mostly angry texts, requests for explanations, and occasional apologies designed to guilt her back into his life. Then one brief, drunken voicemail in the middle of the night, during which he tells her that "Josh thinks you're a slut," puts paid to all that, apparently for good. They've unfriended each other on social media, and she left her key at his flat. He picked up the stuff he left at hers while she was at the cinema with Beatrice. Kingsley had it all ready in a box.

Lily doesn't miss him.

Upon reflection, there wasn't much of a relationship to miss. She's always been without him at the weekends, and her weekday chores are practically halved. Less dishes to clean. No matted brown hair in her shower drain. No dirty rugby shirts strewn about her bedroom floor, waiting for her to pick them up and throw them in the washing machine.

It feels almost the same as before, but Lily is happier. Lighter. Feels connected to herself. And free.

She hasn't seen James since the night she and Ian broke up, right before she ran out of the shop, and that's okay, she hopes, because it's only right and fair that she takes some time to decompress. It feels disrespectful, somehow, to spend a meagre five minutes discarding a year of her life. Ian was a middling boyfriend—a crappy boyfriend, really—but he still was her boyfriend, and one half of a relationship that taught her several valuable lessons.

It's good to look at things that way, she thinks. It means her time with him had meaning.

She doesn't miss Ian, not one little bit, but boy, does she miss James Potter.

Not being around him, as she so sorely wants to be, makes three weeks feel like three lifetimes, leaves her pining and mooning and staring at his Facebook photos for several blank clusters of minutes, strengthens and solidifies her all-encompassing feelings. She loves him, loves him, loves him, and every day that passes only serves to further prove it.

They're still in touch, exchanging casual messages, checking in on each other, sharing photos of memes or things they found funny, but it's not enough—it simply can't be—and though he knows that she and Ian are finished, Lily can sense without asking that he's waiting for her to get up and act.

Act she must, because she knows that he's been patient, and this needs to be her move.

Act she will, because she loves him, and she's recently remembered the importance of being brave.

Act she does, on a blistering hot morning late in the month—what would otherwise be the beginning of week four—two days into a week of annual leave from her job, when she opens up her Messenger and proceeds to change both their lives.

Are you working today?

As messages go, it's not particularly inspiring. A sharp, witty opening line would be better, but she's far too nervous to think of something brilliant now. Simple and direct is all she's got.

It doesn't matter, in the end. As always, James answers her at once.

does tuesday end in y? if it does i'm probably working.

The shop can't function without you for a day?

i mean it tries but it only pines for me.

Like a pine tree?

like a pine tree full of books, which is extra cruel because trees are used to make books so that'd be like filling a pig pen with bacon.

First of all, you're hilarious. Second, before you go off on one of your patented bacon tangents, I have the week off work, so I thought I'd come in today and see everyone.

everyone would love to see you because everyone told me personally that he misses you.

I miss everyone too. A lot. In fact, I'd really like to talk to everyone about something important if possible.

have just checked with everyone and he is willing to make time in his busy work schedule for you to talk to him about important things so please drop by whenever.

Everyone is such a gentleman.

only for you, evans. only for you.

"Personal growth," says Sirius, as soon as Lily walks through the door.

She stops short, her feet planted squarely inside the island of Neverland, just as they were on the day she first walked in, all those weeks ago.

"Pardon?" she replies.

"You're here for James, yeah?"

The way he says it makes her feel slightly called out, and a stubborn part of her brain tells her to deny it out loud.

That would make her a liar, though, and that's not starting with her best foot forward. "Yeah."

Sirius makes a low, scoffing sound, his demeanour more suited to a nihilistic teenager than to the grown man he is, and lifts a thin, heavily tattooed arm to point towards the shop floor. "He's in Personal Growth."

"Oh."

"That's not a euphemism. He's stacking shelves—though that reminds me, use protection."

"Oh," says Lily again. "Thank you for the completely unnecessary sex-ed?"

"Happy to help," says Sirius, with a mock salute.

She wonders if she should stay and make some attempt to chat, if it would be rude to leave him there after such a perfunctory conversation, but her feet seem to propel her forwards of their own accord, into a labyrinth of books and aisles which house the man she's looking for. She does not dawdle to cast an eye over the newest set of reviews, nor does she pause to examine the floor and delight over another intricate detail that she previously failed to notice.

She doesn't have time to stop and linger. She's waited thirteen weeks for James Potter and those thirteen weeks felt unbearably long. There's no distraction so great that it could hold her attention now.

Shelf-stacker, Ian had called him.

Shelf-stacker, as if Lily cares. As if it matters. As if she hasn't devoted full hours to imagining how it would feel to quit her job as a corporate stooge and come to work in this magical place. Shelf-stacker, as if James isn't exceptionally dedicated, as if he doesn't work his fingers to the bone, as if he doesn't love his job more than Ian loves his. Shelf-stacker, as if that's a reason not to want him.

Lily had been so insulted by her ex-boyfriend's snobbery, and his cruel, jealous comments, but he's out of her life now, and it seems like nothing important.

When she rounds the corner that takes her where she was told to go, she finds him there, tidying a shelf with his back to her and humming an aimless tune beneath his breath.

"I'm looking for a book about the stupidest girl in the world," she says immediately. She'll do this at once or not at all, jump right in with both feet forward, because she's fresh out of idle time to waste. "Think you can help me?"

James turns around at the sound of her voice, his eyes falling on her face at once, and he cracks a smile so charming that it actually makes her ache.

"Nah," he replies, quick as always, "we don't stock Fifty Shades on principle."

"Oh, this girl's a much bigger idiot than that girl."

"So you claim, but I'm pretty sure I've read the same book and I have to respectfully disagree. The girl you're talking about is brilliantly clever."

"Would you call it brilliantly clever to stick with the wrong guy for far too long?"

"I'd call that a very human mistake, actually. She's loyal, this girl, y'know? Always tries her best."

"She was trying to give that relationship its best chance," she explains, with a faint, self-deprecating laugh, "but that was pointless, and she should have ended it ages ago so she could be with you, and she's never going to stop being sorry that she didn't."

James doesn't answer her immediately, but his eyes, now veiled and curious, linger on her face until she feels her skin begin to warm beneath his scrutiny.

"Don't be sorry," he tells her then, and takes a step towards her, then another. "None of that matters now."

Time slows to a standstill as his hands wrap warmly around both of hers, as he tugs her towards him with a quick, stuttering start, nudges her nose with his, and the eyes behind his glasses are a complex, blazing swirl of browns and greens and golds.

"I love your eyes," she tells him, a stray, unbidden thought that leaves her lips without her permission.

James laughs quietly at that, the barest release of breath. "I love yours, too."

Then he dips his head and kisses her.

It's a soft, sweet thing, slowly given and lovingly received, as if they might both shatter where they stand if they push any harder, as if this is happening all in a faraway dream, can't really be happening—soft, warm lips and swiftly fluttering heartbeats and fingers brushing tentatively against her waist—and they must be careful lest they break this spell, which is so little and so very much in one.

There are his lips and there are hers, and whirls of vibrant colour bursting forth behind her closed eyes, and Lily doesn't feel as if she's standing on her own two feet any longer. Instead, she thinks she may be sinking—sinking into relief, into madness, into love—and she could do this all day, willingly and gladly, with nothing else left to come between them except…

Except.

Better. He deserves so much better than this.

She jerks her head abruptly away from his.

"Wait," she protests weakly, without much real conviction. "We can't just—I had a whole speech prepared!"

James takes a moment to blink at her in surprise, as if he can't believe she's pulled her mouth away from his.

"Didn't you give it already?" he says.

"No, that was like... an abridged version. I had other things to say. I had an apology, I was going to explain things. I practiced it in the car, and—"

"I don't need an apology—"

"But you deserve an apology—"

"You've got nothing to be sorry about, honestly, you were trying to do the right thing—"

"—and I made so many mistakes, and I want to do this right, and—"

"Lily," James interrupts, "you know I'm very invested in this kissing business, yeah?"

"I know, and—I mean, I am too, but—"

"I love you," he says firmly. "I loved you the minute I met you, which definitely makes me some kind of mental—completely bloody mental, but it's true." He lets out a short, huffy kind of breath. "Do you love me?"

Happiness seems to slam right into her, a savage, heady bloodrush that leaves her stunned and woozy and electrified all at once.

"Yes," she tells him, and every second of longing, every interrupted dream, every whispered utterance of his name is packed inside one word that's far too small for a moment like this, because she could encompass oceans with affection, give him galaxies of it, verse and whisper and demonstrate her feelings in a million different ways, let her imagination run wild, if it will make him happy. "Of course I love you. I love you so much it hardly makes sense, but I still think I should—"

That, it seems, is all the assurance he needs to return to this kissing business he's quickly grown so fond of, because he swallows any further protest with his lips.

It's different now.

Warmer. Harder.

Every heated daydream come to life in a single moment.

He's devouring her, drinking her in, taking her whole body hostage, moaning when she threads her fingers into his deliciously soft hair and tugs, then she's colliding with the shelf behind her back and the whole thing shudders violently—Lily thinks she might hear something thunk but it's drowned out completely by both of them, by wanting, hungry sounds which pass from her to him and back again. He's kissing her still, tastes like everything and nothing all at once, and Lily is trapped, willingly, happily, with nowhere to be but flush against him, as if he took a break from starring in her fantasies to take a quick note of exactly what they entailed, and this is what it feels like to be wanted. To be loved.

Her arms wrap around his shoulders as he lifts her, letting his body hold her in place, her back scraping against the hard, unyielding edges of whatever shelf she's wedged against, her skirt bunching around her thighs as it catches, angling her body so she can feel him better between her legs, meld with him better, and if she could only think for a second… but he moves his mouth to her neck and she can barely think of anything at all. He's taken her to a place where her common sense can't follow, and all there is now are his lips on her skin, and an overwhelming hunger for every single part of him, and his hand sliding up her thigh, warm and inviting, moving higher and higher still...

"Sorry to interrupt this preclude to a very nerdy porno," drawls an amused, familiar voice, "but there's been an urgent customer complaint."

James pulls away from her neck at once, short on breath while her eyes snap open, and both discover that they have been joined by Sirius, who is leaning against a bookshelf further down the aisle with his arms folded over his chest, smiling as smugly as if he were Zeus on his mountain, readying his bolts, preparing to strike terror into the lives of some unsuspecting, unfortunate sods down on Earth.

She quickly combs her fingers through her hair to neaten it, as if that's somehow going to convince Sirius that she and James were having an innocent chat when he tripped and fell against her, landing rather conveniently in the space between her legs whilst subsequently hoisting her up.

"Sirius?" says James, as if he'd completely forgotten that anyone else was in the shop.

"A very concerned old lady just stopped by the register to inform me that a couple of young hoodlums were getting amorous in Personal Growth," says Sirius, his sly smile widening as he takes in their dishevelled appearances. "She'd like to speak to whoever's in charge around here."

"Oh," says James. He seems dazed, rather than embarrassed. "Can't you handle it yourself?"

"Course I can, but you think I'd pass up an opportunity to see the two of you squirm?"

"You're a terrible mate. What've you told her?"

"I told her that I'd fetch the on-duty manager."

"The on-duty manager is quite busy getting amorous in Personal Growth," James reminds him through gritted teeth, "so if you don't mind—"

"Oh, shit!" Lily cries, nerves jittering through her skin, her hands flying to James's collar, fingers tightening around the soft fabric. Her sudden outburst diverts his attention to her face. "I've gone and gotten you in trouble, haven't I?"

"Nah," says James immediately, "it's fine, you haven't—"

"I'm so sorry—"

"I'm the one who kissed you—"

"Oh, please," says Sirius loudly, "that wasn't kissing, that was softcore pornography. Call it what it is, at least."

"That doesn't matter," says Lily, refusing to dignify Sirius's accusation with a response, even though he's right, and the proof is pushed up against her thigh at that very moment, and her face is most certainly turning beet red, "It's my responsibility too, I shouldn't have come while you were working—"

"Somebody was about to come while you were working," Sirius puts in.

"Yes, you should've," James counters. "You're way more important than work."

This flat, no-bullshit statement, presented in a tone that bodes no argument and makes it crystal clear that James assumed that this was obvious, sets Lily's heart to soaring, but that doesn't magically alleviate her guilt, or her fear that she's somehow derailed his job security.

"It's easy to say that now," she points out, forcing a lovesick smile into submission, "but if you get in trouble—"

"I won't get in trouble."

"But what if that woman lodges a complaint?" she pushes on, gazing up at him imploringly. "What if she took a video, or something? What if she contacts the owner—"

Sirius lets out a sharp, loud bark of laugh, and Lily's eyes dart towards him once again.

"What?" she says, somewhat huffily.

"Sorry," he replies, though he doesn't sound sorry at all, "I'm amusing myself by imagining how that conversation would go."

"Sirius," says James warningly.

"I mean, I know you're a bit of an idiot, mate, but even you're not fool enough to sack yourself."

"Sack yourself?" Lily dumbly repeats, then blinks up at James. "Sack your—"

Oh.

Oh.

Her mouth falls open, and her hands drop to her sides as James takes a step away from her, relieving the pressure that has been holding her up against the shelves. She slides down a couple of inches, her feet coming to rest flat against the floor.

"Surprise," says James, with a tight smile.

"You—" she begins, then stops, her mouth closing and opening again like she is a hapless goldfish circling a bowl. "You own this place?"

"Technically..." James begins, then lets out a wearisome sigh, "yes, I do."

She stares in response.

"I mean, my dad owns the building," he continues, "or, actually, I own it now, because he gave it to me, but I set up the business. The business is mine."

"Ever heard of Sleekeazy?" says Sirius.

Lily nods blankly, never moving her eyes from James's face. "I use their hair masks."

"His daddy founded the company." Sirius lets out another derisive laugh. "You've been snogging a trust fund brat and you didn't even—"

"I will literally sack you on the spot if you don't leave right now," says James.

"We both know that's an empty threat."

"You've got a complaining customer to deal with."

"I wouldn't have a complaining customer to deal with if you hadn't decided that Personal Growth was the perfect place to get started on foreplay—"

"You own this place?" says Lily for a second time, though louder, effectively silencing them both. "You own—" A stunningly wonderful thought occurs to her. "You painted the floor?"

The floor. James. This floor.

Her heart is suddenly thumping even harder than before.

James shoots her a soft, abashed smile. "Caught that, did you?"

"This floor?" Lily looks down at her feet—yes, the floor is still there, still intricately beautiful, still the work of an angel, still the most wonderful thing she's ever seen—then back up to James, her eyes wide. "This floor that we're standing on right now? That was you?"

"What can I say?" He shrugs. "I like art."

"You like art?" she blandly repeats, and throws in a laugh for good measure. "I think this is a little more than—God, of course it was you." She clasps his face between her hands. "Of course it was you—it's perfect and beautiful and amazing and you're amazing, who else could it have been?

"You really like this floor, don't you?"

"I fell in love the second I saw it," she says solemnly. "I mean, then I saw you and you looked even better—"

James laughs.

"—but I knew it had to have been painted by some ridiculously talented artistic genius, and obviously that could only—" She sighs, and drops her hands to his shoulders. "I'm such a dolt, James, I should've realised."

"She's just found out that you're a fucking millionaire, but she's excited because you painted the bloody floor," says Sirius, shaking his head. "Unbelievable."

"Told you I loved her for a reason," says James, wrapping his arms protectively around Lily's waist, thrilling her completely in the process. He drops his forehead to meet hers. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you before, but the thing about having money is that some people can be kind of—"

"Gold-digging?" Lily suggests.

"Yeah, exactly that, and I've gone out with a few girls who were like that, and it was...well, not great, so I try not to tell people until I've gotten to know them."

"If you don't want him at his lowly, bookstore stooge worst, you can't have him at his silver-spoon eating best," says Sirius, who is still there, and should really get the message and leave. "I think that's the official motto."

"It's just a precaution," James explains. "I was mad about you right away, but I've been wrong about girls before so I asked the guys not to tell you, just in case—well, I know now that you don't care about money—"

"I don't."

"—and I wanted to tell you for a really long time, but I felt like I couldn't, in case you thought I was using that to convince you to break up with your ex."

"Instead, he talked my bloody ear off about it," says Sirius. "I've had the patience of a saint, and he's never thanked me, not once, then he threatens to sack me just because I interrupted his morning shag—"

"He's not going to leave, is he?" says Lily quietly.

"Nothing gives Sirius more pleasure than an opportunity to be a total nuisance."

"In that case, any chance you could abuse your power and pull rank?"

James's dark eyebrows lift slightly. "What have you got in mind?"

"I was thinking you could take the rest of the day off," she suggests, "you know, so we can talk in private, save the rest of your customers from further trauma, maybe take off all our clothes?"

She smiles at him, a soft, coy thing, and he returns it at once.

He's her James now—finally, as much as she is his—and the world is a wide and wonderful place today.

"Yeah," he says, and twines their hands together, "I think I can manage that."

"Passport," Lily murmurs, snatching the thin burgundy booklet from where it sits on top of her dressing table. "Pants, socks, bras—I've got my outfits packed, got my swimsuit for the spa, all of the party stuff, my coat…" She spins around, staring blankly at her bedroom wall, her nose scrunched up in concentration. "I'm forgetting something, aren't I?"

"Yup," says James from the bed. "Toothpaste."

"Toothpaste!" she cries, dramatically lifting and dropping her arms. "I forgot to get the bloody travel size!"

"Don't worry about it, I grabbed some for you on the way here," he supplies, frowning down at the copy of Exit West that sits open beneath his nose. "It's in a bag in the kitchen."

"You did?"

"Mmm." He turns a page. "Also, birth control pills. You told me to remind you to pack them."

"You're right, I did. Very crucial, those."

"Can't have you getting pregnant in France, can we?"

"Unless you're coming to France with me, there's absolutely no chance of that."

"Those sleazy French bastards can impregnate with a single glance," says James darkly, and looks up, his hazel eyes locking on hers. "Also, I'd rather not see you suffer debilitating period cramps because you missed a few, yeah?"

"I know, you ridiculously sweet man," she says, and slants a soft smile at him. "You always remember the one thing I forget."

He shoots an easy grin back. "That's what makes us such a great team."

He's right—entirely right, as he so frequently is—and there aren't words enough in any lexicon to quantify how happy that makes Lily feel.

She's never known a love like this before, one where the man in her life and her arms and her bed is an equal, a teammate—her partner, not her grown-up child—never knew she could have a love like this, but then she wandered into a bookstore that grew from magic, and then she met James Potter.

James, who zips around on wheelie trainers and occasionally falls off ladders. James, who makes puns like they're going out of fashion, and can never be counted upon to write a serious review of any book, even his ultimate favourites. James, who has an unnecessarily large collection of Nerf guns (all of which have names) and cites Cartoon Network as his favourite TV channel.

James, who lives in a tidy flat and always has clean towels. James, who taught himself to make perfect salmon fishcakes because Lily tried and loved them in a restaurant, and insists upon doing her dishes when she cooks for him. James, who texts her, without fail, every time he's setting out to visit her flat, to ask her if there's anything she needs picking up from Waitrose.

Her James, her man, the best part of her day. He kept a tight hold on all the best parts of being a child and fused them with everything an adult needs to do in order to be useful, and productive, and a really excellent boyfriend, above all.

It's November. A soft, lazy, cinnamon-scented November.

She and James have been together a mere four months, but Lily will never want anyone else—not a hope of it, not a chance—and she's been sure of that since August.

She tosses her passport in her open suitcase, moves to her bed and flops onto her back with her feet pointing towards the headboard, bouncing slightly on the mattress.

"Squish," she instructs. "Please."

James, who is lying belly down, flips the book shut and eyes her with interest. "Big squish?"

"The very biggest." She sweeps her hands along her torso. "Come on, hop to. I want the full weight of you, Potter."

James heaves himself across the bed, throwing one arm and then a leg over her body, and lowers himself until he's pressing her into her duvet—his chest against hers, their faces less than an inch apart, while his book gives them privacy by flopping to the floor—with a firm, warm pressure that comforts Lily as much as it excites her.

"How's this working for you?" he asks her, palms flat on either side of her shoulders, just in case she needs him to suddenly move off and give her air. She never does, but he says he likes to be prepared.

"Tremendously well," says Lily happily, and wraps her arms around his neck. "I'm going to miss you so much in Courchevel."

"I know, I'll miss you too. Whose bright idea was it to have Bea's hen party in bloody France?"

"Mine."

"I mean, whose amazing and genius idea was it to have Bea's hen party in France?" James corrects. "France, where you will be for three whole days, skiing and celebrating the impending marriage of your best mate while I'm stuck here, yearning for you like an old pirate who forgot where he buried his gold—"

Lily splutters out a laugh.

"—not that you're a possession I buried," James continues, looking thoughtful, "but you're just as, if not more, precious and desirable than mounds of buried treasure."

"Reading Treasure Island has had a real knock-on effect on your use of simile."

"Aye, it's true," he agrees, and Lily groans. "In fact, I might go as far as to say that I'm hooked."

"That's a quid for the pun jar," she says, once she's taken a second to recover from his efforts.

"What pun jar?"

"The one I've just conceived, brilliant woman that I am," she says airily, and James nuzzles her nose with his own, and her heart feels full and happy, beating in time with the twin he houses in his chest. "I reckon I'll be able to afford a flash Ferrari in about a week."

"This is flagrant greed at work. You love my puns."

"I love you," she corrects him.

"And puns are part of who I am," he retorts, like he's played the winning hand, "which means you also love puns, and your jar of greed concept has been soundly defeated."

"Flawed logic, Potter."

"A victory is a victory," he says, grinning cheekily down at her. "God, you're so bloody gorgeous."

"Distraction technique?"

"Nah," he says, and brushes his lips against her forehead, "just the truth."

She slides her hands to cup his face and kisses him, drawn to James by a hunger that's surprising in its intensity—or would be, if he weren't so fit, so attuned with her, so completely irresistible.

James seems to melt into her touch, her lips, her body.

Lily has given up trying to explain how he can do the things he does to her, the sensations he inspires, how the sounds he can elicit aren't a calculated effort—made to please, to reassure, formulaic and often faked—but escape her mouth before she ever knows they're there, because she's lost in him, consumed by him, over and over and over again. How she wants him, always, every inch of him fused with every inch of her, and how it'll never be enough, and she'll forever keep on wanting.

"You're wearing too many clothes," she tells him presently, following several breathless minutes.

"I'm wearing too many clothes? He pushes himself up with his arms, hovering over her, and tugs at the front of her olive green blouse. "What's this nonsense?"

"It's Primark's finest workwear."

"It's an abomination, is what it is," says James, and pops open the top button of her blouse with a careless flick of his deft brown fingers. "How am I supposed to properly devote myself"—Pop goes the second button—"to satisfying the woman I love"—He shifts himself further down, casually unbuttoning as he goes—"when she insists upon being dressed?"

"I had to get dressed for work this morning," she murmurs, shivering when he presses his lips to her exposed stomach. "They kind of insist upon it."

"That's a very unfair policy. I can wear or not wear what I want at the shop," he says, from somewhere south of her navel.

"The joys of being your own boss."

"You're my boss."

"I am not your boss."

"You are, I'll prove it." His hands are on her thighs now, pushing her skirt up, inching it towards her hips. "Tell me to get you off."

Lily giggles, squirming pleasurably at his touch. "Get me off, then," she tells him softly. "Please."

"Your wish is my command," he says, and dips his head to comply.

The new shop is their baby.

Literally, their baby, in every way a business possibly could be.

Lily has put her everything into the project. Her time. Her effort. Every penny of her savings. Her flat, her city, and even her job, which she finally quit a month ago, terrifying as that seemed at the time.

Now, she lives in a pretty house that overlooks the River Cam and wakes up next to James Potter every morning, snuggled up together beneath soft IKEA sheets, while Algernon splays across her stomach like she's his personal cat cushion.

James didn't need her money to open another branch, in truth. He's got a surplus of his own and was quite willing to cover her end if she so decreed, but they wanted to do this together, properly, and on as equal a footing as they could reasonably swing it.

Lily never would have felt like a real co-owner if she hadn't put her own funds in the pot.

Besides, as James likes to point out, it was her idea to expand in the first place.

Setting up a second shop in Cambridge was a brief, throwaway suggestion made one evening over dinner, but Lily didn't expect that to mean she'd wind up living there. She didn't expect James to pick it up and run with it almost immediately, but she should have, because it's what he always does. The two-and-a-half years they've spent together have done nothing to diminish his enthusiasm for her thoughts. He still thinks everything she says is marvellous.

It's a very big deal, this shop. It's a much larger building, to start with—three sprawling floors in total—with a much bigger pool of potential patrons. Cambridge is a proper hub of commerce, a centre of learning, and full of posh intellectuals who like hanging around in bookstores, drinking flat whites and working on their perpetually unpublished screenplays. She and James were adamant that they didn't want to start a chain of identical stores, that this shop needed to be different, and have heart—their baby, their brainchild, not a second Shelf Awareness, magical as it is—so they've dubbed it Three Stories High.

Their signage came this morning. The top two floors are already done. Lily is officially a business owner, and that sounds so tremendously fancy.

James spent two solid months painting the floor panels, and the final lot—the ground floor lot—are due to be put down in a week. In the spirit of shaking things up, the beautiful floor in Stamford remains entirely unique. Rather than creating an imaginary map of every fictional world imaginable, he and Lily split the store into parts, giving each section their own unique design—a jigsaw puzzle of genres.

Her favourite piece of this puzzle lives in the crime section upstairs. James painted the floor to resemble a murder scene on a Cluedo board, blood spatters, scattered weapons and chalk body outline all complete. The fake bookcase that doubles as a secret door to the cookery section was Lily's idea, and everyone agrees that it really brings the theme together.

Today, they've tasked themselves with the crucial step of decorating the children's section, which naturally consists of lobbing homemade paintballs at a blank white wall.

It's a messy and surprisingly tiring job, and Lily had to take off her ring to do it, but she'd rather be throwing paint-filled water balloons about with James Potter than doing anything else with anyone else in particular.

"You're showing off," she tells him, padding across the concrete floor with a mug of coffee in hand. "May I remind you that I'm the only other person here?"

"Who else would I show off for, if not you?" he responds, and sends another paintball flying. It hits the wall with the force of a bullet and explodes in a shower of lurid orange.

"Sirius," she says flatly. "Remus, Peter, Kingsley, Beatrice, your parents, my parents..."

"What's your point?"

"My point," she says, handing him his coffee, "is that you're throwing balls of paint at a wall, not pitching at a baseball game."

"Baseball's so American," he says, wrinkling his nose in distaste. He takes the drink from her, curling his paint-stained fingers around the mug rather than holding the handle. "I can't help it if I'm stronger than you, and therefore better at paintball tossing."

She lifts an eyebrow. "Oh, are you now?"

"It's a natural physical advantage that neither of us can help. Don't pretend it doesn't turn you on."

"You'll wind up covered in paint if you don't rein in your cheek," she warns, rather than give him yet another reason to bring up her obsession with his arms, pointing to the wicker basket that holds the rest of their paintballs. "Careful."

"Hardly a threat if I'm half-covered already."

"Perhaps, but it could always get worse."

"How could it get—wait a second." He pauses in the act of raising the mug to his lips, his eyes growing wide behind his glasses. "Do you mean—"

"No, I do not."

He pouts at her. "Spoilsport."

"Of all the places we could choose to bang, I'm not going to be party to christening the children's section with our bodily fluids."

"I was going to say, that'd be weird and wrong," he agrees, and downs a mouthful. "Thank you very much for the coffee."

"Weird and wrong," she repeats, "but you would have done it anyway."

"Of course I would have done it. When have I ever been capable of saying no to you?" He gulps down another mouthful of coffee before setting his mug down on the window ledge. "Where should we do it?"

"What?"

He wiggles his eyebrows. "You've got me thinking about it now."

"I did nothing to provoke that!"

"On the contrary, you've been shooting me coy looks all morning," he slyly counters, with that grin of his that makes her feel a little unsteady, and almost always gets him what he wants. It's something of a tragedy that he knows how well it works. "Don't think I'm not on to your game."

She's blushing, because he's not wrong.

Blushing, after thousands of kisses and innumerable hours spent cultivating an intimate knowledge of every inch of his body. James can still make her heart flutter, can still turn her insides to mush with a look, or a smile, or a brush of his hand against hers. They shared a flat for a full year before they bought the house in Cambridge, and Lily said yes—three times—when he asked her to marry him, twice before he could even finish the question, but he can still make her feel as if her secret crush on him has been rumbled.

"I have no idea what you're talking about," she says, trying to save face, "but I suppose I can spare an hour of my time for such an activity. Where haven't we done it already?"

"There's always Crime—"

"I'm not having sex at a murder scene—"

"A fake murder scene!"

"Do you know how off-putting it is when you try to fit your body inside the chalk outline?"

"Well, fine, if you're going to be a stick-in-the-mud about it," he quips. "Where else, then? We've done Cookery, Romance, Graphic Novels—"

"I think we've conquered Personal Growth at this point."

"Tell you what," says James, and approaches her, settling his hands lightly on her waist, "how about we do Travel today, and the first book that falls off a shelf is where we go on honeymoon?"

"What if the first book is a really crap country?"

"Like France?"

"I was thinking more along the lines of war-torn areas."

He shrugs. "If we get a crap country like France—"

"Or a war-torn country—"

"Or one of those, or France, we'll just keep trying 'til we knock out one we do like."

"And what am I supposed to tell people when they ask us how we picked our destination? That we shagged our way to a final decision?"

"God, Lily." He pulls a face of disgust. "Call it 'making love' at least, you animal."

Lily throws back her head and laughs, and James pulls her close, smiling down at her as his arms band tight around her waist.

She truly loves this man.

More importantly, she likes this man, and he makes liking him so easy.

"I'm very sorry," she says, tilting her nose up, a silent indication that she wishes to be kissed—and James, of course, picks up on it immediately, swooping in to press his lips to hers. "I didn't mean to offend your romantic sensibilities."

"That's quite alright, we all make mistakes, and you can make it up to me by showing up to the wedding."

"I mean, I did have plans to wash my hair that day, but I love you, so I guess I can make an exception."

"Ta for that, fellow business owner," he says, moving in to kiss her once again. "I love you right back."

Business owner. Homeowner. Future wife.

Lily had a plan, once, a clear direction in which she was travelling, a flat she shared with a brilliant, more successful friend, a boyfriend who was fine but nothing more than mediocre, and a career she didn't enjoy but assumed she'd keep until retirement. It took one morning—one chance encounter, one beautifully painted floor, and one brilliantly silly man—to turn that on all its head, to send a hundred different jets of light hurtling out into space, bouncing and refracting off every shining surface, and her life now moves in an entirely different direction.

Theirs is a really lovely life, though not the one she had envisioned and never the one she would have expected, but neither had James, and look at what they've made of themselves.

It's a brilliant life, the one they've got.

Like something out of a story.