Potter and Evans

The Morning

This was the second time Lily Evans had woken up in James Potter's bed.

Except this time, he was in the bed too.

Her head was heavy on her stiff neck from the awkward resting position it had taken on James' shoulder: she moved it off and rubbed it with her free hand (because the other hand was still encased in James').

He did not stir as she did this, so she looked to the clock - quarter to ten.

A hot embarrassment from last night surged within her muscles, making them cringe, and making her screw her eyes up so tight that she saw white spots, as if she could forget the memory if she tried hard enough.

She opened her eyes a few seconds later: maybe she didn't want to forget. If she stopped over analysing every move, maybe she would find that James hadn't once made fun of her - in fact, he had let her into his room, and he had comforted her. She would find that as tired as she was, James was also just as tired.

Even if he wasn't so exhausted, he probably would have acted in such a similar manner, it would be indistinguishable.

She had been so vulnerable, and in her time of need James was nice to her - he was more than nice - he looked after her. He made her feel safe.

James Potter made her feel safe.

And least she could now admit it.

At least she could now admit that she did like him more than you should like someone who's just a friend.

Should she wake him up though? Should she wait for him to wake up? Should she leave before he gets a chance to wake up? Making him think it was all a dream, and none of it actually happened?

Quickly weighing out the consequences of her three options, and finally deciding that the latter would be the best option, considering that his parents, or Sirius, could walk in at any minute, and the more minutes she stayed for, the higher the possibility.

But how was she to get her hand from his without waking him? She gently tried to slip her hand from his, which she assumed would be simple enough, but he stirred as she did so.

Not thinking, or possibly thinking too much (for these days she couldn't tell the difference between the two), Lily lay her head back on his shoulder and shut her eyes, faking sleep.

The room was bright when James opened his eyes, he squinted without his glasses, encouraging the room to be less blurry, and went to stretch, but he felt a weight beside him and froze. Lily was there.

Of course she was. She was upset, and he had let her in.

...and she had come in...and she had stayed for the night...the whole night...and she was still lying next to him...

His mind was boggled, the wires of the universe felt twisted, because no way was Lily Evans there with him. It was platonic, he knew that. He knew that it would always be platonic, and maybe he was finally learning to accept that.

But sometimes, maybe not sometimes, maybe all the time (definitely all the time, his subconscious whispered), he still wanted more...and he feared he would always want more...that these feelings would never fully go away...

He still liked her. He would always like her.

He reached for his glasses, and one handedly put them on his face: for he noticed that one hand was still laced with Lily's. He carefully tried to take his back, but in the process he regrettably woke Lily up.

The red-head shuffled beside him, and her eyes fluttered open, 'Sorry,' James immediately apologised, reclaiming his hand from hers.

She sleepily smiled, 'It's okay.'