James spent the rest of the day at the kitchen table, turning an idea over in his mind. Remus stopped by around lunchtime to check on him. Later, Moody appeared, less welcome, insisting on reviewing the events of the previous night in exhaustive detail, play by play. When he was finally gone, James returned to his post at the kitchen table. The spellwork had already taken shape in his mind. The object was harder.
At first, he thought of coins—small, portable, easily enchanted. But also easily lost. Easily spent without thinking. Too mundane. No, he needed something wearable. Something functional. And—being a touch sentimental and more than a little vain—something with a bit of style.
Still, it had to be subtle. Inconspicuous. Nothing that would catch the wrong kind of eye. He wanted metal—pure metal, something with power, something that could hold the charmwork. Silver or gold, ideally.
His second thought was rings. But he dismissed that quickly. Rings meant something. And while Evan probably wouldn’t see it that way, the idea still made James feel oddly uncomfortable. Too intimate. Besides, Evan didn’t strike him as a jewellery person. He didn’t wear rings. Didn’t wear chains or bracelets or anything flashy. If he suddenly started, someone might notice.
But a watch? That was different. That would work.
Evan wore a watch.
No one would think too much of it if he started wearing a different watch.
It took James another half day to figure out how to bind the charmwork—how to make the connection without creating a magical signature that could be traced. He was careful, precise. It wasn’t the sort of magic you rushed, not if you wanted it to hold.
On the afternoon of the second day, after Lily had left for the hospital, he went out to buy a watch. It took longer than it should. Three shops—two goblin-owned, one wizard-run—before he found the right one. Sleek. Silver. Close enough to the watch Evan wore that, at a glance, it might pass for the same. He left the shop with his pockets lighter and a quiet sense of satisfaction.
Back at the cottage, he buried himself in notes and trial runs. By evening, he was hunched over the workbench in the small room off the kitchen, wand clenched between his teeth as he pressed the final charm into place. When he finished, the clock read ten. He sat back, scrubbed a hand over his face, and looked down at the result with a tired kind of pride.
At half past five on the third day, Evan’s wards jolted through James’s body. His spine lit with pins and needles, nerves sizzling, every limb prickling as though struck by static. It was different—unlike anything he had felt from the wards before. Whoever was coming was dangerous.
His wand was already in his hand when he called for Lily. She came down the stairs, frowning.
“What?”
“Someone’s coming,” James said. “Someone dangerous.”
“What?” Lily asked, brow furrowing. “How do you—”
“Just be ready.” He cut her off and crossed to the window, peering out into the lane.
Peter was walking up the garden path, a brown paper bag swinging from one hand, whistling cheerfully, as if nothing in the world were wrong. He had brought scones from the bakery around the corner and stayed for tea. James forced himself to smile, to laugh at the familiar jokes. Lily did not. She sat quiet, her shoulders tight, unease written plain across her face. Peter noticed.
He shot James a curious look as James walked him out. “I do something to piss off Lil?” he asked, brow furrowed in a damn good impression of concern. “She seemed a bit off.”
James shoved his hands into his pockets and gave a shrug he hoped looked a little forlorn, as though he didn’t quite know what to do.
“Nah,” he said. “It’s not you, it’s me. We’re… not doing so great at the moment, Pete.”
“Shit.” Peter’s watery blue eyes pinched into a frown. “I’m sorry. You alright?”
James gave another half-shrug. Forlorn, he hoped. Peter reached out, clasped his shoulder, and pulled him into a quick hug. It took everything James had to keep his body soft, to lean in instead of flinching back as instinct urged.
Evan flashed across his mind—how different that embrace had been. Strength and warmth. Comfort. This one felt thin, insubstantial. A pretence. An echo of something James wasn’t even sure had ever truly existed.
Peter clapped him on the back and stepped away. “You let me know if there’s anything I can do. Or if you just fancy a pint, blow off some steam, yeah?”
James nodded, drawing back. “Yeah. Will do. Thanks, mate.”
Pete gave him a final quick smile before heading down the path and through the gate. James watched until he cleared the Apparition wards, turned on the spot, and vanished. Relief hit at once, a low hum reverberating through his spine as the wards whispered that the danger had passed, that the property was safe again. He turned and went back into the cottage. Lily was in the kitchen, cleaning away the mugs and plates.
“You can’t do that,” he snapped, sharper than he meant to. “He’s going to know something is wrong.”
She froze, the plate still damp in her hands, then set it down with deliberate care before turning to face him, arms folded across her chest. “I didn’t do anything.”
“You spooked him, Lily,” James said. “We can’t afford that. He’s too useful. We need him thinking he’s safe—thinking his cover’s intact. It’s the only way to use it against them.”
Her expression tightened, twisting with something between offence and disbelief. “I was fine.”
“No, you weren’t. And he bloody well noticed. Asked if he’d pissed you off.”
A flicker crossed her eyes, quick and sharp—fear, or maybe guilt—and James felt the weight of it sink into his stomach. He sighed, dragging a hand through his hair, trying for calm, failing.
“Look,” he said, softer, “it’s fine. I covered. Made up some bullshit about us and relationship issues. He seemed to buy it, but you’ve got to be careful. You can’t treat him differently. You’re going to have to get better at pretending.”
There was a pause, brittle and cold, like glass under strain. Then Lily’s green eyes lifted to his, hard as jade.
“I guess I’m just not as good a liar as you are.”
The words hit like knives cutting at something deep inside him, something he didn’t want to face.
“What is that supposed to mean?” James demanded. Defensiveness rose hot and fast, its bitter taste too close to anger on his tongue.
“I don’t know, James,” Lily snapped. “You tell me.”
Silence dropped heavy between them, settling into the cottage until it seemed to smother the air itself. They moved around each other without speaking, the rooms shrinking under the weight of everything unsaid. Every sound—the clatter of a pan, the groan of a floorboard—rang too loud, the ordinary made unbearable.
By seven forty-five, James’s skin was humming, his mood gone from bad to worse. He ditched his robes for jeans and a dark-knit jumper. He didn’t look at her as he grabbed a jacket off one of the pegs by the door.
“Where are you going?” Her voice was cool, not sharp with heat but cold, heavy with anger held tight.
James kept his eyes on the door. “Out,” he said.
He Disapparated the moment he crossed the threshold of the wards, landing in London, beneath the shadow of a faded brick wall in Kensington.
The pub wasn’t much to look at. Red-brick frontage, paint peeling under the soot of the city, hanging baskets straggling with half-bloomed geraniums. Above the door, an iron sign swayed and groaned, the gold lettering almost worn flat. Inside, the bar was three-deep, patrons elbow to elbow, the air a stew of cigarette smoke, stale beer, sweat, and the greasy tang of chips. A football match played on the pub’s lone television, its commentary half-drowned out by the noise. A woman in a faux-fur coat laughed too loudly. Groups of lads in shirts and ties stood with pints in hand, and in the far corner, in the only booth not overflowing, sat Evan.
James pushed through a group of lads standing around a high table and dropped into the seat opposite him.
“How many people did you have to hex to get a booth?” James asked, only half joking.
Evan smirked. “Better you don’t know. Plausible deniability.”
A pint was already waiting for him. James picked it up, the glass cool and sweating, and took a sip. The flicker of the television in the corner carved shadows across Evan’s face, sharp and restless one moment, softened the next. James studied him. He looked better—rested, almost. As if he’d slept properly since the morning at the cottage. Good, thought James.
“Well?” Evan prompted.
James reached into his pocket and drew out a flat black box, sliding it across the table between them.
Evan opened the lid. “Pretty,” he said, then looked up with a smirk. “And I didn’t even have to put out. Aren’t you a gentleman?”
James snorted. “Check the back.”
Evan turned the watch over, squinting at the inscription:
“Jenson & Co. Kensington?”
“You can change that,” James said, taking another sip of his pint. “Tap it with your wand and then give it a new location. Set the time and date, and it’ll update mine.” He raised his own wrist to indicate the gold watch.
Evan snapped off his watch and replaced it with the charmed one. “Clever.”
“It’ll heat when one of us sets a meet,” James said. “Not enough to burn—just enough to feel it. Should give you a nudge without drawing attention. Got the idea from your Mark. Same principle.”
Evan flipped his wrist, inspecting the watch. “Like this a lot better.”
James smiled. “Thought you might.”
“You’re wasted on the Order,” Evan said. “Truly wasted.”
James huffed a laugh. “If I’d known buying you something shiny would make you so agreeable, I’d have done it sooner.”
James suggested another round, not because he wanted it, but because leaving felt harder than staying. With Evan it was easy—comfortable. They talked about Floo travel, Evan sketching out bits of theory, and somehow slipped into discussing charms. James found himself explaining the watches, Evan listening with his head tilted, genuinely interested.
It was easy. Like coming up for air after being too long underwater.
When Evan finally drained his third pint and said he should call it a night, James felt the tug of disappointment, sharp and stubborn. Leaving meant the end of easy, the return to the cottage.
It was close to midnight when he opened the door. The windows were dark, the fire burned low to coals. James stretched out on the couch, staring into the shadows. He told himself he’d go up to bed in a bit, that he was only resting a moment. But when his eyes began to close and he felt the tug of sleep, he didn’t move. He stayed where he was on the couch.
With Lily gone, the cottage was quiet, and so James spent Thursday evening occupying himself with the promised dinner. He worked on the marinade—mincing garlic, toasting spices, measuring yoghurt by instinct rather than precision. The kitchen filled with warmth and spice, and for a while he almost felt like himself again: the James he had been before all this. Before Regulus’s death. Before he learned the Cruciatus. Before lying to his friends had become second nature.
On Friday, Lily left at six. Her hair was pulled too tightly, her eyes lined with exhaustion as she stepped into the Floo.
At ten to seven, James pulled on the Invisibility Cloak and Disapparated from beyond the garden path.
Evan was waiting. Dressed all in black again—turtleneck beneath a heavy wool coat that fell to his knees, dark trousers, black boots. He leaned against the red-brick wall of the warehouse, one boot braced behind him, a cigarette loose in his hand.
From beneath the Invisibility Cloak, James watched him exhale a stream of smoke into the cold night air. The posture looked relaxed, but James caught the tension beneath it—the way Evan’s eyes swept the street, sharp and alert. Waiting. Ready.
James crept closer, light and careful, slipping soundlessly up beside him. He leaned in until his mouth was close to Evan’s ear.
“Boo.”
Evan jolted like he’d been hexed, cigarette slipping from his fingers in a spray of sparks. A rapid stream of French tore out of him—harsh, fast, furious—as the embers snagged at his coat. He spun, wand in hand, eyes raking the empty air where James stood hidden.
James laughed, helpless, bright and unrestrained.
“Tosspot?”
“Yeah,” James said. “Sorry—couldn’t resist.”
“Scared the shit out of me.” Evan scowled, then paused, eyes narrowing. “Why the fuck can’t I see you?”
“Invisibility Cloak,” James said.
“Wanker.” Evan shook his head. “Right, let’s get out of the open.” He turned and started walking. James fell into step behind him, just in time to catch the tail end of a muttered string of French.
“…fantôme de merde.”
Evan led him through the warren of warehouses, the brick walls looming close on either side. James realised, not for the first time, that he’d be hard-pressed to pick out the right one alone. He wondered if that was part of Evan’s warding—some twist in the air, some subtle shift that made the place harder to find than it should be.
Evan stopped before a heavy metal door. A door that James swore was not the same one they’d entered through the last time he’d been here. He was about to ask Evan about it when Evan spoke first.
“Give me your hand.”
James pulled off the Cloak and offered his left hand without hesitation. Silver flashed; pain bit across his palm. He glanced down to see blood welling, dripping from his hand. Evan caught his wrist, pressed the bleeding hand to the door, and pushed it open. Inside, the warehouse looked abandoned—bare walls, empty space. Then Evan lifted his wand, tracing deliberate patterns through the air. Blood rose from James’s palm in thin red threads, shaping strange symbols that hung suspended. The air around them shivered, humming low and warm, like static before a storm, then convulsed once—rippling outward like a stone dropped in water. When it cleared, they were no longer in the ruined shell. The space had shifted. Transformed. James blinked and found himself standing in the industrial-chic foyer he remembered from before—tall glass panes and dark steel beams.
“Come on,” Evan said, nodding towards the stairs. “I’ll patch you up inside.”
At the top, Evan stopped before the heavy metal door and took James’s hand again. He pressed James’s bloody palm to the steel. The metal shuddered under their touch and pulsed faintly with blue light, accompanied by the same shimmer in the air that James recognised as blood magic. A series of mechanical clicks sounded from within, followed by the whisper of enchantment lifting.
The door swung inward on silent hinges.
Evan led James down the corridor, past the high-ceilinged living room with its leather sofas and tall windows, and into the kitchen. James dumped his bag of supplies on the polished silver island and leant back against it. Evan pulled a Muggle first-aid kit from a cupboard beneath the sink. He snapped it open, pulling out antiseptic wipes and a bandage roll. James watched as Evan cleaned his palm, gentle—focused.
The wipe stung. James hissed in a breath between his teeth.
Evan looked up briefly, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Don’t be a baby.” Then, as he wrapped a bandage around James’s palm, he added, “Trust you to own an Invisibility Cloak.”
“Family heirloom,” said James with a shrug. “Had it since school.”
Evan tied off the bandage. “Explains a lot. Always wondered how you got away with half the shit you did.” He turned James’s hand, inspecting his handiwork. His thumbs brushed lightly over the edge, checking the wrap held firm.
“It certainly helped,” agreed James with a grin.
“I bet.” Evan released James’s hand. “Well, I’m not a Healer, but I think you’ll live, Tosspot.”
“Thanks,” James deadpanned. Then, after a beat: “What was that about anyway?”
“Wards,” Evan said. “Other day got me thinking. Good to have a failsafe. Chances of you ever getting past mine without permission? Zero.” He gave James a small smile. “No offence. Just reality.”
He crossed to the fridge, voice drifting back. “Could be a problem if you ever need me—or need to get in. So I figured it was better to key you in. That way, if it comes to it, you can.”
James watched his back, outlined in the pale fridge light, and was quietly grateful Evan wasn’t facing him. It gave him a moment to school his expression before Evan turned, two bottles of beer in hand. He slid one across the island.
“You want to go over Floo stuff before food?” Evan asked, popping the cap off his own bottle against the counter.
James nodded. He knew, logically, that Evan cared—cared enough to take risks, to throw himself in harm’s way to keep James alive. He had done it more than once. But this was different. This wasn’t protection. This was trust.
Evan had given him access to his home, to his wards. It felt raw, almost startling in its simplicity. A declaration disguised as nothing at all. Casual, offhand, the way Evan did everything. As if it wasn’t monumental. As if it didn’t matter.
It did. At least to James.
“Cool,” Evan said, stowing the first-aid kit back beneath the sink before heading for the living room. “Come on then.”
James unpacked the bag onto the shelves of Evan’s fridge—still as bare as the last time he’d looked. He wondered again at the lack of food. Didn’t Evan ever get hungry here?
He followed him into the living room. Evan was already kneeling before the fireplace, sleeves pushed up, the Dark Mark stark against golden skin. He glanced up as James entered.
“How are your runes?” he asked.
James leaned against the wall, looking down at him. “All right. Got an O in N.E.W.T. Ancient Runes. Haven’t used them much since, if I’m honest.”
Evan nodded, a piece of chalk in one hand. “I’m going to show you how to patch in. First step to—theoretically—travelling from an unregistered fire to a registered one.”
Evan began drawing on the stone floor in confident, sure strokes. “This is traceable. If someone’s looking, they’ll be able to see your journey. It’s possible to hide the journey signature, but that takes study and time. We can work on that next time. If you want.”
He looked up, sharp-eyed. “For now? This is probably the most useful thing I can teach you when it comes to Floo-hacking—could save your life. Quick getaway. Nothing clean, but it’ll do in a pinch. Good place to start.”
Evan finished sketching the first rune. It was jagged, oddly asymmetrical, with a tapering curve that looked like a blade being swallowed.
“This isn’t a standard rune,” Evan said. “It’s older. Taken from Etruscan sigils and early fire-binding magic. It means”—he tapped the rune—“permission asked. Not granted. Not taken. Asked. Remember what I said about it being a negotiation? That’s important here.”
He sketched three more, each one stranger than the last—lines that looped into spirals, one with a deliberate break in the centre.
“These two”—he pointed to the middle runes—“these are elemental runes. These are standard runes, you might recognise them—a call for metal. You can call fire with metal, can use physical metals if you’ve got them—iron filings, pewter dust, that’s what Floo powder mainly is—but to be honest”—he glanced at James with a wry smile—“how often are you walking around with iron shavings in your pocket?”
James raised an eyebrow. “Not lately.”
“Exactly. So you learn the runes. These are binding symbols for ferrous and soft metal. Think iron, lead, pewter, tin—what the fire feeds on when it moves.”
He traced them again, slower this time, and James followed, tracing them himself with his wand in the air. The first rune was angular and blunt, like a square folded in on itself. The second was more fluid, with a curl at one end that reminded James of a hook.
“You’re not conjuring metal out of nowhere,” Evan said. “You’re pulling trace elements from your surroundings. Don’t need much, just enough to tempt the fire.”
“And that one?” asked James, pointing to the last rune. It wasn’t a rune so much as a fusion of them—three symbols interwoven: more complicated than anything James had ever seen.
“It’s the name of the fire,” Evan said. “Or as close as I can get. Ignis Perennans. Eternal fire. Doesn’t really translate to runes—not a known branch of runic language. So this is my best approximation.”
James nodded.
“Fire. Time. Space,” Evan said, tapping each part. “Technically, this”—he pointed to one curling, repetitive part of the rune—“is being, not space. But it works. It’s a really old rune, bit vague in meaning. Sort of existence, I suppose. I’m using it for space. Not exact. Might be better ways to call the fire, but this is what I’ve worked out.”
James crouched down beside Evan, studying the runes where they glowed on the hearth. And that was when it hit him again—just how clever Evan was. He wasn’t teaching James something out of a book. He was showing him something he’d built. Magic he’d constructed himself.
“You figured all this out yourself?”
“Pretty much,” answered Evan. “Now let’s light it up.”
He wiped the chalk runes clean from the hearth with a sweep of his hand, then drew his wand and began sketching the runes again—this time in the air, above the grate. As he traced each one, he said its name aloud, voice even and steady. When he reached the final symbol—the composite, the one for Ignis Perennans—he spoke the name of each, twisting them together into one word. The runes flared in sequence, and as the last line settled into place, green fire burst up from the hearth in a sudden tower of flame.
It roared high for a moment, then died down into a steady, pulsing shimmer.
Evan rocked back on his heels and shot James a sideways grin. “Your turn.”
James drew his wand. Exhaled. And tried.
He got the first three runes right on the first go, but the last one kept catching. His lines wouldn’t connect right, the balance was off, the flow wrong. The rune didn’t settle. The flame refused to respond.
“Shit.”
Evan conjured a stack of parchment and a quill with a flick of his wand and handed both to James.
“Draw it,” he said simply. “No magic. Just ink.”
James gave him a look. Evan shrugged. “Can’t cast it if your hands don’t know it. It’s not complicated, just unfamiliar. Let’s break it down.”
And they did.
Evan was patient—surprisingly so. He broke the shape into parts, pointed out the joins, redrew it when James faltered. His instructions were clean, efficient, without condescension. James found himself remembering a night years ago, sitting in the chamber at the base of the Astronomy Tower while Evan explained the rules of blackjack with the same measured clarity.
By the tenth try, the shape landed.
James tried again with his wand, and this time the flames flared—sharp, clean, green.
Evan grinned and clapped him on the shoulder. “There we go, Tosspot.”
James felt the fire pulse and flicker—and felt something else settle, deep and warm in his chest.
Satisfaction.
Evan taught him another sequence of runes after that—these ones quicker to pick up, with a neater, almost geometric structure.
“They’re good practice,” Evan said, sketching them fluidly into the air above the grate, the wandlight glinting silver off the hearthstone. “And more importantly, they’re a lock. Won’t hold forever, but if you need to make a jump—throw these up behind you. Should stop anyone from following. In theory, anyway. Never had anyone try to follow, as far as I know. So I’m estimating a bit.”
There was a pause. James looked at the runes—at the way they hovered, shimmering faintly in the darkened room. “Your estimations,” said James, “usually pretty good?”
Evan grinned, sharp, all teeth. “Wouldn’t be here if they weren’t.”
James huffed a laugh.
Evan had him call the fire three more times, and each time James moved more confidently—shoulders looser, lines cleaner. When he finally layered the last set of locking runes and they flared silver before fading into the brickwork, Evan gave a short nod and said, “Alright. That’ll do.”
They’d been at it for nearly three hours. James’s fingertips were dusted with chalk and soot, and there was an ache building low in his back—but it was the good kind, the kind that came from learning something real, from earning it.
His turn now.
Evan followed him into the kitchen, dragging a hand through his hair and leaning back against the polished stainless steel of the centre island, arms loosely folded. He watched as James stepped over to the hulking black wood-burning stove, elegant and old-fashioned in its design, heavy iron doors and enamelled panels gleaming faintly in the low light.
The stove was spotless inside—no ash, no soot, not a trace of use. James smiled to himself. Criminal, he thought.
James opened the firebox with a clank and crouched to stack the kindling. A flick of his wand sent a tongue of flame curling into the wood. It caught at once, heat spiralling upward in bright threads. He shut the door, adjusted the vent, and lingered a moment to watch the fire settle into its rhythm before standing, brushing his hands absently on his jeans.
James opened the fridge and began pulling out the ingredients he’d brought: a container of marinated lamb, another of diced onions, peas, yoghurt, chopped coriander, spices wrapped in waxed paper and string.
He fished out two more beers and tossed one to Evan, who caught it easily.
“You know,” James said, eyeing the bare shelves before shutting the door, “fridge this big ought to hold more than milk, beer, and mustard.”
Evan took a swig. “I don’t cook.”
James snorted. “Mate, doesn’t look like you eat, let alone cook.”
Evan shrugged. “Never really spent that much time here. Didn’t want my father finding out about it. Went to a lot of effort not to have it tied to my name. Wanted somewhere that was just mine. Somewhere I didn’t have to play the part. Been here more the last few weeks—prefer it here, to be honest.”
James nodded. His first impression of the loft came back to him: beautiful, but not lived in. He looked at Evan again, catching that studied detachment he’d learned to read—not indifference, but something sharper, more deliberate. Interest, folded behind nonchalance like a blade in a sleeve.
The oil hissed as it hit the pan. Garlic, ginger, cumin followed, each one blooming into the air until the room was warm and fragrant. James explained what he was doing as he went, Evan occasionally asking questions as James sliced aubergines, charred them, and set rice to simmer.
When he was done, Evan nodded towards a cupboard containing plates.
James opened it and paused, smiling to himself. Uniform stacks of dark grey ceramics—bowls, plates, and side dishes—all pristine, all unused.
Very Evan.
He pulled out a neat stack and set them down on the island. Evan, still leaning against the counter, arched a brow.
“Don’t think anyone’s ever used that many plates in here,” he said, faintly amused.
James grinned. “Curse of my cooking. Makes a lot of washing up.”
Evan shrugged. “If it’s anything like last time, I’ll say it’s worth it.”
James dished everything up and carried the bowls and plates through to the living room. He chose the coffee table and couches over the dining table in the corner, laying everything down on the low table.
Evan dropped onto one couch; James took the other, leaning over the table to dish up. He watched as Evan took his first bite. Chewed. Swallowed.
“Fuck me, that’s good.”
James grinned.
“Tell you what, Tosspot,” said Evan around his second mouthful, his attention fully fixed on his plate, “if Evans doesn’t marry you, I will. Sod legality, rewrite the bloody law myself if it gets me lifetime access to this.”
James laughed and dug into his own plate—somehow the food tasted better for Evan’s appreciation.
Evan handled the heat without batting an eye. The lamb wasn’t mild. It was a decent kick above what James would normally serve to any of his friends—definitely more than Remus could handle, and Sirius... well. Sirius still needed milk on standby for most of Effy’s meals. James made a mental note to offer up a couple of properly hot dishes next time, see just where Evan’s cut-off point was for heat.
After they’d eaten, they cleaned up—Evan at the sink, sleeves rolled, methodical, precise. James dried and put things away, occasionally nudging him with an elbow when he was too slow. And then, when they were done, James quietly packed the leftovers into containers and slid them into Evan’s fridge, feeling an oddly disproportionate satisfaction as he shut the door on what was now a small stack of neatly arranged dishes in an otherwise near-empty space. He left just after one in the morning, not because he wanted to—Evan didn’t look like he was planning on bed any time soon, feet up on the coffee table, whisky in hand—but because Lily was due home at two. He didn’t want to face that look in her eye, the one she’d been giving him with increasing frequency.
Suspicion.
He made it back half an hour before she did, showered, slid into bed. He was still awake when he heard the flare of the Floo, the sound of running water in the bathroom. An hour later she crawled beneath the covers beside him, her hair damp, faintly scented with disinfectant.
When she whispered his name—a soft question, asking if he was awake—he kept still. Because he was tired. Tired of the chill between them, the distance, the knowledge that it was his fault. Tired, too, of not knowing how to fix it. Or rather of knowing but not being able to. So he held his eyes shut, kept his breathing steady, and before long the lie blurred into truth as sleep took him.