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chapter four; a hoard of centaurs
In his sleep-dazed mind as he drifted off last night, his hold on Amaya not loosening so he could make sure she was safe, James realized something that hit him like a hoard of Centaurs that whilst stomping on him shouted, "You fucking moron! You didn't realize this sooner?"
What James had realized was simple. He fancied the shit out of Amaya Santoro. And perhaps what took him so long to arrive at that precise conclusion, that he was falling for the girl, was the fact that he never felt the way he did.
He thought he'd been in love with Lily, after all, it'd been "destiny". At least that's what he used to think. He'd grown up listening to his parents' stories, how they fell in love in Hogwarts in the same house, how Mum didn't like Dad at first but he won her over with easy smiles and effort.
James thought that would be him and Lily and now he realized how fucking wrong he'd been. Because he never really loved Lily.
Did he like her? Yes. Did he obsess over her? A healthy amount, though he wouldn't ask anyone other than himself that question. Was he infatuated with her? Perhaps a little. But he never loved her. He was never in love with Lily Evans.
And he knew that now. Because waking up with Amaya in his arms seemed to have settled all of his troubles, seemed to have calmed his heart as much as it made it race. He was falling for Amaya Santoro and he didn't want to be saved.
He felt a feather-light touch on the bridge of his nose as he regained consciousness. He kept his eyes close though, amusement bubbling up in him as he felt her fingers trace his face.
He was lying on his side, her head lying on his arm and they must not have been like that for long because his arm wasn't dead. And he'd pulled her closer in his sleep, his arm resting around her waist.
Her fingertips traced his brow, his cheekbones, his jaw, a gentle touch that sparked his skin on fire. His breath caught though when her thumb brushed over his bottom lip. A smile twitched on his lips, he couldn't pretend to sleep anymore, so he nipped her finger making Amaya curse in Spanish from the surprise.
Shoving him in the shoulder she muttered, her voice laced with laughter, "You arsehole."
His eyes fluttered open and he grinned at her, his hand trailing up her spine as he took a good look at her. Her eyes were puffy, but not bloodshot anymore, and the color was back in her face, her eyes whiskey in the light shining through the window and he wanted nothing more than to kiss her right there and then.
Instead, he tugged on her hair with a smile. "Hi."
"Hey," said Amaya, her cheeks blushing.
"Did you sleep well?" he asked, his voice gravelly in the morning.
