James Potter was not good with feelings. In fact, he couldn't think of anything that he liked less.

The first time he realised that he was in love with Lily Evans he had all but hexed himself, instead opting to smoke a lot of cigarettes and avoid his nosy best friend at all costs. That night he had sat outside the Hogwarts building and buried his head in his hands, because loving someone was completely terrifying and enthralling and so unlike him that he wanted to rip his hair out.

He almost wished he didn't love her. He had sat there yanking the grass from the ground with trembling fingers, trying to think of ways to forget her and go on with his life. And by the end of the night he thought he could do it, thought he could close his eyes and open them to a world where Lily Evans wasn't so important, with her stupid lovely, hair and her stupid, lovely smile. Because that's what he did. He loved his friends and no one else; everyone else always disappeared. He would care for a fleeting second before it was pulled out of his grasp, and he was left with nothing else but what he'd always had. And he was happy. He was always happy.

But then the next day he woke up and got out of bed and saw her. And gods was she beautiful. And not just on the outside – when she smiled he could see everything inside her, and Merlin's beard, he never did that with anyone. Of course, when she greeted him he made a joke, ruffling up her hair and watching her turn the colour of an undercooked beetroot – a colour that, undeniably, almost suited her. But he loved her. And there was nothing else. Nothing. His heart rate didn't speed up and he didn't stutter and blush but he realised it so suddenly that there was nothing left to deny.

And he could almost do it. He could almost stand there in the middle of the Gryffindor Common Room and love her and feel nothing else, because it was different and when he looked at her it just sat right. Like it was impossible to not love Lily Evans. Like it was normal.

But the thing that he hated the most about feelings was when they weren't returned.

James Potter did not cry. He did not – would not, cry. Ever. Hell, he'd jump from the Astronomy Tower before he'd allow the liquid to leave his eyes, to dribble down his cheek and onto the floor. He would snog Sirius before he would let himself cry. He was in Gryffindor for a reason; he was brave, he was strong and he was determined. He would not cry. He would not whine. He would smile and joke because he loved to do it and because he was brave and daring enough to do anything.

But maybe… maybe he wasn't brave enough for love. And maybe that was why he sat on the floor of the shower, his hands clenched in fists and his head staring defiantly at the mouldy, white tiles on the wall. Maybe that was why he kept replaying the day's events in his head, over and over. Because it was not like he cared. Not in the slightest. Of course not. She had said no – so what? So what if she had laughed? It wasn't like it mattered. He would move on. He would see her tomorrow and ask her again, and she'd laugh once more and deny him and he'd smile and go on with his day.

Except he wouldn't. He wouldn't ask again. And he didn't know why, or rather, he didn't want to know why, but he wouldn't. Because maybe, possibly, perhaps it had hurt a teeny, tiny bit. Just a little. A miniscule amount. So he wouldn't do it again. He would leave her alone. Maybe she'd enjoy it. Maybe she'd be relieved. Maybe he didn't care. He did not. He did not.

A knock on the bathroom door brought him out of his thoughts, and his eyes flickered anxiously to the closed door. "Prongs? Have you fallen into the toilet or something?"

The corners of his lips flicked up into a smile before he let out a sigh. Reaching above him, he turned on the tap, allowing cold water to fall onto his head, dribble down his cheeks, onto the floor. "Having a shower," he called out, curling his fingers around the damp folds of his shirt. He waited. Footsteps led away from the door. He lowered his head to the ground.

Tomorrow it wouldn't matter. Not at all.

But for now it did.

Just a little.

It was cold outside. Rain dribbled down the windows, almost serene, almost lovely. He walked down the hallway, his Transfiguration books in his hands, his glasses slipping down to the end of his nose. "James!"

He stopped, stiffening slightly before turning around. And there she was, grinning at him, in a way that made him start to smile too. "Evans," he greeted charmingly, his hazel eyes twinkling as he looked down at her.

Toying with her lower lip, she smiled at him, pulling her books further against her chest. "It's the end of the day," she said, brushing an errant red tendril of hair away from her eyes. He frowned at her slightly, and watched as a pleasant red hue flooded her cheeks. "You've gone a day without asking me out," she said slowly, letting out a soft laugh, her green eyes twinkling. "Didn't think you had it in you, Potter," she joked, her eyes flicking to the ground for a second before they met his.

He didn't know what to say to that. Well, no he hadn't, but being the goddamn twat that he was he couldn't think of a thing to say. He wanted to make a joke or a cool remark and smile at her but for some damn reason his mouth wouldn't open and he was left standing there, looking like an idiot.

And if there was one thing that James Potter was not, it was an idiot. Ever.

She frowned, green eyes framed with thick, dark lashes looking up at him curiously. "Your…" she trailed off slightly, taking a slight step forward. "Your glasses are coming off… hang on a second…" Reaching up her fingers brushed against his nose and his breathing suddenly became a little bit harder to do, dark eyes lowering to meet hers. She had stiffened slightly in front of him, her breath sharpening as they fell from her trembling lips, warm and sweet, tickling his lips. She was right there, right in front of him, her eyelids quivering as they lowered down to gaze hazily at his parted mouth. Her fingertip travelled down his nose, brushing delicately against his cheek, dragging lower, like the kiss of a butterfly. She traced his jaw line, his heart thumping like mad, his body feeling alight as his eyes dropped down to focus lazily on her soft, pink lips, which were trembling as she breathed.

He went to pull away. He really did. Everything in him wanted to kiss her ferociously and some insane part of him almost thought that she wanted him to; with the way she was breathing and looking at him and touching him, eyes wide like a frightened deer but desperately beautiful in a way that he couldn't deny. And he almost did. Pull away, that is. But just as he did she was cupping his cheeks and pulling him against her lips, softly at first, just a brush, just a taste. And then his arms were holding her and she was kissing him so sweetly and so gently that he realised that this was love. This. Kissing Lily Evans; that was love. And he liked it. Gods did he like it.

He almost wanted to laugh. He, James Potter, was snogging the Head Girl in the middle of the hallway, surrounded by what he was sure were many stunned bystanders. But instead of laughing he lifted his hand to her cheek and pulled her closer, eyes fluttering shut in a goddamn feminine satisfaction as he kissed her.

And then she pulled away, her breath just a whisper against his lips, her cheeks flushed pink with embarrassment. Lowering her eyes, she gently pushed his glasses further up his nose so that they were resting against his eyes. "Got them," she breathed, cheeks darkening as she slowly began to pull away.

"Would you have said yes?"

It was all he could think of asking her as she stepped backwards, picking up her books from the ground and smiling in a way that was so Lily that he found himself grinning. She still seemed breathless, clearing her throat as she pushed her hair away from her eyes. "Would I have said yes to what?"

His eyes were dark and somewhat playful as he watched her, looking at her in an almost lazy fashion. "If I had asked you out?"

She was silent for a second before she pushed her hair behind her ear, green eyes twinkling as she regained composure. "Well you didn't ask," she said smoothly, her cheeks still slightly pink as she stepped backwards. "Better ask again tomorrow."

And then she was walking away and he found himself smiling and wondering if maybe he really did like feelings after all.

Just for a little fun because I needed to write some Jily fluff and my long story has only just started, so it would be a bit of a mistake to write it there. Anyway, I hope you enjoyed and I'd love to hear what you think!