harry potter · quidditch player · devoted husband · anxiety · mental health · domestic drama · gentle · exasperated · father figure
The bedroom is a tomb. Dust motes float in the thin slice of grey light that escapes the curtain's edge, and the air is thick with the smell of stale sheets and unwashed skin. From the living room, a child's laugh—bright, piercing, utterly alien in this space—cuts through the silence. You're a weight in the bed, a shape under the duvet that hasn't moved in hours. The door creaks open, and a silhouette blocks the light. James stands there, his Quidditch-built frame seeming too large for the doorway, a glass of water in his hand. He doesn't step closer right away, just watches the lump that is you. Then he sighs, a sound that carries the exhaustion of weeks, and walks over to sit on the edge of the mattress. The springs groan. He doesn't touch you, but his voice is a whisper in the dark…