A.N: I have got an update for Organised Chaos as well, but this is a start of a new collection of one-shots I'm intending to do involving Lily and James. They probably won't go together at all, but I've found a lot of new inspiration in music and photography so I'm going to give it a go :)
Enjoy!
He knows he shouldn't watch her while she's sleeping.
He knows his friends, if they were around, which, thankfully, at the moment they aren't, would nudge him sharply in the stomach or elbow and tell him to stop acting like a stalker and leave her alone.
He knows that they're only supposed to be friends, the two of them. They'd spent the entirety of the journey back home laughing and drawing absurd little doodles on the window panes of the carriage, their breath mixing together as they turned the glass cloudy. But he can't help but feel a sense of longing that starts within his heart and pulsates around his body along with the blood in his veins when he's close to her.
The small flower that she drew is still standing solitary among the smudged handprints on the glass, her head resting just below it as she slumbers on. He smiles as he takes in the gold and red coloured hat that she pulled over her head just before they boarded the train, complaining that her ears were too cold despite it being the middle of June and quite warm. Her hair is loose and red and curled in tendrils at the ends, framing her petite face and slightly flushed cheeks.
Quietly, he moves from sitting opposite her to sitting next to her, knowing her best friend will be annoyed at the stolen spot when she comes looking for them both. He puts one arm around her shoulder and her body subconsciously turns towards him, and he revels in the intimacy of the moment.
Slowly, she stirs and her eyes open, and he watches as the pupils that are engulfed by her entrancing emerald eyes dilate and then widen as she takes in her surroundings, blushing an endearing shade of pink as she removes her head from his chest.
"Sorry," she mumbles, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.
He shrugs nonchalantly, smiling again at her awkwardness, "S'lright. We're almost at the station."
"Oh," she returns the smile, a sleepy one as she rubs her eyes with a dainty, ivory hand. Then she bites her lip and he knows she is remembering something, because he knows every little thing about her, another quality that his friends would find stalker-like.
He raises an eyebrow as he watches her rummage around in her coat pocket for something or another. She emerges with a black biro in her hand and smiles jauntily at him and he feels his heart skip a beat.
"You wanted my address," she explains, "Hold out your hand. I haven't got a piece of paper."
So he watches as she scribbles her address down hastily; the train's whistle has just sounded, piercing and loud, and he feels as though the ink written on his hand, written in her hand, will never wash away, just as the imprints she has made on his heart will never fade.
And then he knows that next year, he won't watch her anymore. He'll try, for one last time, to ensnare her heart as she has already done with his.
Little does he know that he already has.