executive dysfunction

Across the room, Sirius raises a single eyebrow, watching the scene unfold like he’s in on some joke no one else knows the punchline to. He catches your eye briefly, and though his expression is unreadable, it carries that familiar glint of knowing. He definitely knows.

“I—um,” you stammer, the words colliding in your throat like a stack of falling books. “I should head up. I’ve got some work to finish.”

Remus straightens a little, a flicker of something unreadable passing over his face—disappointment? Concern? Whatever it is, it’s gone before you can name it. He nods gently.

“Alright,” he says. “Don’t let the cat find you again.”

You smile despite yourself, a small, fluttery thing that barely reaches your eyes. With a mumbled goodbye, you slip away, still clutching the hem of your jumper in your fist like it’s the only thing anchoring you. You can feel Sirius’s gaze trail after you, all the way to the stairs.

Remus, for his part, doesn’t look away. His eyes stay locked on the doorframe you just disappeared through, unmoving. His brow is furrowed slightly, replaying every word, every laugh, every nervous twitch of your fingers in his mind on an endless loop.

He doesn’t even notice James walking into the room.

James pauses, glancing between Remus and Sirius with a look of dawning confusion. Sirius, who has been watching the whole interaction unfold like it’s the most entertaining show on Earth, lets out a low whistle and leans back in his chair, stretching out leisurely.

“You’ve got to put the poor thing out of her misery,” Sirius says, tone light but threaded with a teasing sharpness. His arms cross over his chest, and the smirk tugging at his lips is all mischief.

Remus blinks, startled. “What are you talking about?” he asks, instinctively defensive. “We—we’re friends, Sirius.”

Sirius doesn’t even blink. “Oh, come off it,” he says smoothly, waving a hand toward the door you’ve just gone through. “You know exactly what I’m talking about, Moony.”

Remus turns away slightly, color rising in his cheeks. Sirius notices, of course. He notices everything.

He glances at James, who’s now standing squarely in the doorway, clearly trying to figure out what he’s walked in on. Sirius grins wider, as though he’s about to share something scandalous. “James,” he calls, sing-song, drawing out the name like it’s the start of a revelation.

“What?” James asks, brow raised.

“Who are we talking about?” Sirius says casually, as though the answer should be obvious.

James frowns, glancing again between the two of them. “Y/N?” he guesses.

Sirius snaps his fingers and points. “Ten points to Gryffindor.”

James raises both eyebrows. “Well yeah, she proper fancies moony.” he says, like it's the most well known thing in the world.

“What? No, that’s—” Remus flushes deeper, stumbling over the words like they’re foreign. “I—I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Mate,” Sirius says, shaking his head like he’s disappointed, “I’ve seen her say more to you in five minutes than she’s said to me in five years. Shame too, must be funny with how you were going on.”

Remus looks like he wants to disappear. “Sirius, no. It’s not—it’s just...”

“You’re sweet on her too,” James says, not unkindly, though the teasing is still evident. “Obviously.”

Remus freezes. His mouth opens like he might deny it again, but no words come out. His eyes flick toward the door, desperate, like maybe you’ll come back and spare him.

Sirius leans forward, wolfish grin on his face. “Just admit it.”

Remus’s face twists in frustration. “It’s not like that, you sods.”

“Sure it’s not,” Sirius says dryly.

Remus stands abruptly, hands clenched into fists, eyes flashing. “Just because you two only ever think with your dicks doesn’t mean I do,” he snaps. “She doesn’t like me, and I don’t—” His voice falters for half a second, but then he sets his jaw. “It’s never going to happen.”

Before either of them can speak, he turns on his heel and storms out, boots echoing against the floorboards, shoulders tight with tension he can’t shake.

The door slams behind him.

Sirius exhales slowly, the grin slipping off his face, replaced by something closer to a grimace. “Always so bloody dramatic with him,” he mutters, not unkindly. There's fondness in the complaint, buried just beneath the surface.

James watches the door for a long beat before glancing back at Sirius, eyes gleaming with quiet amusement. “You thinking what I’m thinking?”

Sirius smirks again, but this time it’s slower, more thoughtful. “Depends,” he says, voice low and conspiratorial. “What are you thinking, Prongs?”

-

“Are you sure this is going to work?” James’s voice wavers just slightly, betraying the flicker of doubt running through him. He leans against the arm of the couch, watching intently as Sirius adjusts a few books on the floor, each one placed at a precise angle, almost too perfect. Sirius is crouched low, a mischievous grin tugging at the corners of his lips as he arranges the trap.

Sirius flashes James a cocky smirk. “Trust me, Prongs. I’ve thought this through. It’s foolproof.” His eyes glint with that familiar spark, the one that always signals trouble.

James doesn’t look convinced, but he sighs and crosses his arms. “If this goes wrong, I’m blaming you, Pads.”

Sirius winks and straightens up, stretching his arms out with exaggerated nonchalance. “If it goes wrong, I’ll take full responsibility, mate. But it won’t. Just wait.”

Over in the corner, you’re completely oblivious to the scheming happening just a few feet away. As usual, your nose is buried in a book, the weight of the world in your hands as you try (and fail) to focus on the words before you. Filled with distractions from thoughts that don’t quite settle.

Remus, unaware of the trap laid before him, strides across the common room, deep in thought. His shoes strike the stone floor with a rhythmic clomp, a sound you’ve grown used to. But this time, it’s louder, as though fate has already decided he’ll make this entrance one for the books. His gaze is fixed ahead, oblivious to the strategically placed book in his path, waiting to trip him up.

Time seems to stretch as Remus’s foot catches the edge of the book, his body pitching forward. For a split second, everything is suspended in midair. His arms flailing in a desperate attempt to catch balance, and then the inevitable happens.

With an almost comical force, Remus stumbles right into you, knocking you back with the unexpected impact. You gasp, breathless, the force of his sudden weight landing in your lap. It’s like the entire room has frozen. Your eyes widen as you look up, heart racing with both surprise and sheer embarrassment.

Remus’s face turns a shade of red you’ve never seen before. He scrambles to get off you, muttering apologies at a rapid-fire pace. “Oh my Merlin, I—sorry! Sorry! I didn’t—” His hands dart about awkwardly, unsure of where to place them, like he might somehow make the situation worse. His gaze is averted, skipping frantically around the room, and finally, in a move that only adds to the embarrassment, he shuffles a few inches away and slumps down beside you, burying his face in his hands in utter mortification.

You, too, are a mess. Desperately wanting to say something, anything, but the words are trapped somewhere in your throat. You look anywhere but at him, at the way his messy hair falls over his forehead or the soft brown of his eyes. It’s impossible to avoid the feeling that the universe is conspiring against you as you twist your jumper hem between your fingers for something, anything, to do with your hands. The silence is deafening, thick with the weight of unspoken apologies and shared embarrassment.

James and Sirius, from across the room, have already collapsed into the nearest armchairs, practically choking on laughter as they watch the disaster unfold.

“Well, that was a disaster,” James mutters under his breath, rubbing his face with both hands. “What happened to the romantic part of the plan, Pads?”

Sirius is doing his best to hold it together, but he’s failing miserably. His shoulders shake with barely contained laughter, though it settles as he takes in the words. “Well it looked bloody romantic in that film, prongs. Not my fault moony is a fucking oaf,” he groans.

Remus is still frozen, staring at the floor as though it might swallow him whole. He hasn’t looked up, not even once. His embarrassment is palpable, radiating off him in waves. You, on the other hand, are fidgeting so violently that it’s a wonder your jumper isn’t a tangled mess by now.

Finally, after what feels like an eternity of silence, Remus lets out a breath and speaks, his voice tight with discomfort. “Are you—um—okay?” His words come out in a hesitant stutter, as if he’s testing the waters before he sinks any deeper. He risks a glance at you, but his eyes immediately flick back down to his hands, his voice cracking with embarrassment. “Sorry again. I really didn’t mean to—”

You shake your head frantically, a flush spreading over you. “I—I’m fine,” you stammer, your voice barely above a whisper. “You just... surprised me.”

Remus shifts uncomfortably beside you, his hands running nervously through his hair as he tries to relieve his awkwardness. “I didn’t mean to cause a scene... I’ll just—” He starts to rise, clearly planning to escape the awkwardness before it swallows him whole.

“Okay,” you whisper, your voice small and strained, too embarrassed to meet his eyes.

-

“Okay,” Sirius drawls, arms crossed as he leans back in an armchair, one eyebrow cocked. “You sure you’ve thought this one through, lover boy?”

James huffs, balancing two mugs of tea precariously in his hands while eyeing the worn, squishy couch near the fireplace. “This isn’t a bloody trap like yours, Pads,” he mutters, “It’s tea. It’s normal. It’s gentle. It’s what normal people do when they’re not trying to orchestrate the demise of moony.”

Sirius snorts, clearly unimpressed. “And your genius plan is what, exactly? Ply them with chamomile until they fall into each other’s arms?”

James sets the mugs down on the coffee table with exaggerated care, glancing over his shoulder to make sure neither Remus nor you have noticed anything amiss. “No,” he says, smoothing out an invisible wrinkle in his jumper. “The plan is to give them five minutes alone by the fire. Quiet, warm, relaxed. Maybe they talk, maybe someone smiles—hell, maybe someone blushes, Pads.”

Sirius clutches his heart mockingly. “Romance and tea? How Evans hasn’t snapped you up yet, I’ll never know.” he whispers, sarcastically.

But James ignores him, walking toward Remus, who’s nose-deep in a tattered copy of Wuthering heights. “Oi, Moony,” he calls casually. “Come sit by the fire for a bit, yeah? Brought you tea. The good kind.”

Remus looks up, eyes narrowing, skeptical. “What do you want?”

“Nothing,” James insists. “Can’t a man just care for his friend? You look like a corpse. You need tea.”

Remus snorts but rises anyway, stretching as he walks toward the couch. James waves him over, then slips off to the other end of the common room with a wink at Sirius, who is now trying not to look like he’s watching intently from behind a rogue transfiguration textbook.

You're already curled up at one end of the couch, a dog-eared paperback open in your lap, thumb nervously tracing the edge of the page. You glance up when Remus sits at the opposite end, a bit stiff, clutching the steaming mug with both hands like a lifeline.

“Hi,” he says after a pause, voice low and careful. His eyes don’t quite meet yours.

“Hi.” You smile, small, unsure, and drop your gaze.

The fire crackles. The silence between you two feels gentler this time, less like a vacuum and more like a space waiting to be filled. You peek at him from the corner of your eye, noting how his hair falls just-so over his forehead, how his fingers tap an absent rhythm against the ceramic of the mug.

Remus clears his throat and shifts a little closer, barely noticeable, but you do.

“You, um… like that book?” he asks, nodding toward the one in your hands.

Your smile returns, small but real. “Yeah. It’s kind of slow, but… nice.”

He nods, encouraged. “Sometimes nice is better than exciting.”

A breathy laugh escapes you, surprised. “I’d say so.”

There’s a flicker of something like confidence in his eyes as he holds your gaze just a moment longer than usual. His shoulder inches closer still, his voice a little warmer now. “I could lend you one, if you want. Something slower. But not boring.”

“I’d like that,” you say, voice barely above a whisper, but it’s the most certain thing you’ve said all day.

And for a moment, just a moment—there’s a softness between you, a glowing hush wrapped in firelight and chamomile steam. He’s looking at you like maybe he understands you, and you’re looking at him like maybe that’s okay.

From across the room, Sirius leans toward James and mutters, “Fucking hell.”

James just grins smugly, arms folded. “Told you. No tripping required.”

But just as the moment settles, as Remus opens his mouth to maybe, maybe, say something more, you glance at the clock above the mantel and visibly stiffen.

“Oh—I have to go. I’ve got the… the thing. For Transfiguration.”

You’re already collecting your book and mumbling apologies before he can respond, a heat blooming like wildfire climbing your neck. Remus stands halfway, as if to follow or say something; he doesn’t.

The silence you leave behind is tangible. Remus drops back onto the couch with a long sigh, fingers curling around the warm mug once again.

James claps Sirius on the shoulder. “Almost, mate. Almost.”

Sirius huffs a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “It has to be next time, I can’t go on like this any longer.”

-

The next few days pass in a strange, quiet limbo.

Remus avoids your eyes like they burn. You dodge his like they might catch you saying too much. Something cracked on that couch—small, but sharp. And tea, apparently, couldn’t fix it. Sirius delights in poking the wound. James, more subtle, keeps giving Remus pointed looks like he’s waiting for a confession. He never gets one.

But he does get an idea.

It starts with a note, tucked between the pages of your Advanced Defensive Spells textbook, just as you’re packing up in the common room. The handwriting is messy, but unmistakably meant to be Remus’:

Meet me in the library after dinner? Bring your notes. – R

Your heart stumbles in your chest. It’s short. Simple. But the way your fingers tighten around the parchment says everything it needs to.

-

By the time you make it to the library, the sun has dipped low, and the tall arched windows cast golden shadows that stretch like reaching fingers across the stone floor. The scent of old pages and polished wood settles around you. Picking a table in the far back, quiet, tucked behind a barricade of dust-laced bookshelves, you unpack your notes with hands that won't quite stop shaking.

Remus shows up exactly three minutes later, arms full; parchment, quill, a plethora of battered books. He looks like he’s braced himself for something, an ambush, maybe, or worse, a conversation. But when he spots you already seated, head bowed over your textbook, he clears his throat and slides into the seat beside you like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“Hey,” he says, softly.

You glance up. Your heart does that stupid flutter again, like it hasn't learned its lesson. “Hey.”

And then… silence.

You both read. Or pretend to. Every turn of the page feels loud, like it echoes between the bookshelves. You sneak glances at him when you’re sure he isn’t looking. He does the same, though less successfully—once your eyes meet for half a second too long, and you both dart back to your notes like they’ve become ancient relics demanding total concentration.

Two aisles over, James and Sirius are crammed behind a bookshelf, wedged between Theories in Transfiguration, Vol. VI and a truly enormous tome on magical law reform. Sirius is lying flat on the floor, chin propped in his hand. James crouches awkwardly behind him, squinting through the slats.

“They’re not even talking,” James whispers, scandalized.

“They’re studying,” Sirius hisses. “In silence. Like psychopaths. I told you we should’ve gone with the spilled ink plan.”

“You wanted to accidentally spill ink on her essay?”

“Disaster leads to bonding!” Sirius insists. “It’s science!”

“We've proved that it doesn't! I think they might deserve to bloody pine after each other forever.”

-

Remus shifts beside you, his brow furrowing ever so slightly as he scans the parchment in front of him. His quill taps an uneven rhythm against the tabletop, a quiet metronome to the silence that’s settled between you. The library around you hums with the soft rustle of pages and the occasional muffled cough, but it all fades beneath the weight of his hesitation.

Finally, after what feels like an eternity, he speaks, his voice low and cautious, but touched with that familiar, curious tilt that always sends a flutter straight through your chest.

“I’m not complaining,” he says, “but… why did you ask me to study with you? You usually study with Lily, don’t you?”

You blink, caught completely off guard. “What? I—Remus, you invited me.”

His head turns slowly toward you, confusion creasing his brow. “No, I didn’t.”

Your heart stutters. Something cold and strange prickles at the base of your spine. You reach into your bag, fingers curling around the folded parchment you’ve been carrying all evening, too nervous to hand over, too unsure of its meaning. You slide it across the table, letting the edges brush his fingertips. “This. I found it in my book. Before dinner. It’s your handwriting.”

Remus stares at the note. His mouth parts slightly, eyes narrowing as he squints at the familiar scrawl. He doesn’t touch it right away, just stares at it like it might suddenly change. Then, moving slowly, almost reluctantly, he reaches into his own satchel. His hand emerges clutching a nearly identical piece of parchment.

You stare.

He stares.

There’s a long, charged pause. Then you both move at the same time, him turning his note toward you, and you leaning forward to read it. The words are unmistakable:

Meet me in the library after dinner? Bring your notes. – Y/N

Your mouth goes dry.

The silence that follows is total, a suspended moment thick with realization. Then, as if on cue, your gazes snap to each other, eyes wide, the truth dawning between you.

“Oh my god,” you whisper.

“Those bastards,” Remus mutters, voice low and vibrating with disbelief. His ears are red, burning with equal parts rage and something else—something closer to hope, quickly doused. He stares at the parchment like it might suddenly start laughing at him. His mouth opens, shuts, opens again, as if he’s caught in a fierce internal war.

“I’m going to kill them,” he mutters, not looking at you, fists clenched around the parchment like it personally wronged him. “I swear I’m going to hex them into next week. I’m so sorry. James and Sirius are convinced that—”

“They’re right,” you interrupt, voice soft but steady, slicing clean through his rising spiral.

Remus freezes.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. You can feel the weight of his gaze, heavy and unrelenting, burning into you like sunlight through glass.

Your hands twist together in your lap, fingers tangling in your sleeves. Your voice is quieter now, barely more than a whisper. “They were right. The other night… I heard what you said.”

A beat of silence. He doesn’t breathe.

“You heard that?” he says finally, voice hoarse, like it hurts to ask

You nod, still not meeting his eyes. “Yeah. I didn’t mean to overhear. I’d forgotten my quill and came back down. But it’s fine.” You force a small, brittle smile. “Don’t worry about it. I know you don’t… feel that way about me.”

The look that crosses Remus’s face is devastating.

His mouth parts again; shocked, wounded and for a moment, he just sits there, stunned and pale, like the world’s dropped out from under him. Then the words burst out, rushed and raw.

“I was lying when I said I didn't–that it would never happen.”

You blink.

Remus swallows hard, dragging a shaky hand through his hair, which only makes it stand on end. “I panicked. I didn’t mean a single word of it. I just—” He groans and buries his face in his hands, fingers curled against his temples. “I thought if I denied it, I could kill the feeling. Control it. I didn’t think you could ever… possibly feel the same.”

You stare at him, your breath caught somewhere between your lungs and your ribs.

He lifts his head, looking directly at you now, eyes full of something desperate and unguarded. “You barely talk to anyone,” he says quietly. “But when you talk to me, it’s like… it’s like I’m hearing for the first time. And it kills me. That I can’t stop staring. Or thinking. Or wanting—”

He cuts himself off, lips pressed together, eyes still locked on yours like he's trying to memorize the exact way you're looking at him right now.

Your voice is barely audible. “You don’t have to stop.”

Remus freezes again. His brow furrows, as if he thinks maybe he’s misheard. “What?”

You meet his eyes, finally, fully, and it takes everything in you to hold steady, but you do. “Staring. Thinking. Wanting. You don’t have to stop.”

And just like that, the dam breaks.

He exhales like he’s been holding his breath for a month. Something in his posture shifts, his shoulders relaxing, the tension in his jaw unclenching. He leans forward across the table, hands still fisted around the note, but looser now, like he’s letting go of something heavy.

“Y/N,” he says softly, your name like a secret he’s been aching to speak aloud. “I’ve wanted to tell you for so long, but I didn’t want to scare you off. You’re… you’re shy, and I’m…”

“You’re safe,” you interrupt, a tremble in your voice, but the words are clear. “That’s why it scared me. Because I didn’t want to lose that.”

Remus’s eyes go glassy for half a second, like something just cracked open inside him. Then, with slow, careful movements, he reaches across the table and lays his hand, palm-up, beside your notebook. Not demanding. Not pushing. Just there.

An offering.

You stare at it. Your hand twitches.

And then you take it.

His fingers wrap around yours, warm and steady and so gentle you feel like you might come undone from the sheer kindness of it.

From the aisle across the way, a very muffled, triumphant whisper breaks the moment: “I told you! I bloody told you!”

You both whip your heads toward the sound.

There’s a thud. A loud shhh! And then a frantic scuffling of robes and shoe soles.

Remus sighs, but he’s smiling now, really smiling, soft and tired and happy. You’re still holding his hand. He hasn’t let go.

He doesn’t plan to.

“Next time,” he murmurs, eyes crinkling, “we leave them in the library and sneak ourselves somewhere quiet.”

You laugh, surprised and breathless, your forehead falling forward against your joined hands. “Deal.”

-

It’s a lazy Sunday afternoon in Gryffindor Tower, the common room awash in the soft gold of late-winter sunlight. You’re curled up on the windowsill with feet tucked under Remus’ thigh, your head resting against his shoulder. He’s reading, half reading, really, because every few minutes you say something, or shift closer, or just smile at him, and it ruins his concentration completely.

Not that he’s complaining.

Across the room, Sirius and James are playing chess. Sort of. Mostly, they’re watching you and Remus over the tops of their pieces, poorly concealed amusement flickering between them like a game of its own

James nudges a pawn forward without looking. “He’s smiling again.”

Sirius doesn’t even glance up. “He’s always smiling now.”

James leans back in his chair with a theatrical sigh. “Remember when he used to brood by the fire and sigh over his homework?”

“I do,” Sirius says wistfully. “It was like living with a moody Victorian ghost.”

“He had that haunted look.”

“And now,” Sirius says, gesturing vaguely toward the couch with a chess piece, “this.”

“Baby’s all grown up,” James laments, wiping a fake tear from his eye. “Disgusting.” he deadpans.

“You’re just bitter because Lily only just agreed to sit next to you in Potions again.”

James turns, affronted. “She leaned over to ask for my notes last week, Padfoot. It was a turning point.”

Sirius just hums, clearly not buying it, before casting another smug glance at Remus and you.

“Still,” he says, “we were right.”

James grins. “Painfully right.”

Sirius nods solemnly. “They’d still be dancing around each other if we hadn’t stepped in.”

Remus glances up from his book, catching the last bit. He raises an eyebrow. “Are you two talking about your own brilliance again?”

Sirius doesn’t miss a beat. “We’re just saying, without us, you’d still be sending each other tortured glances from opposite sides of the common room.”

You lift your head from Remus’s shoulder, hiding a smile. “We probably would.”

Remus looks at you, a little startled, then softens. “Maybe.”

Sirius gasps. “You admit it?”

James pounds the arm of the chair like he’s won a bet. “Finally.”

Remus sighs, and it’s the long, fond sigh of someone who knows better than to fight it. “Fine. You were right.”

Sirius clutches his chest. “Say it again.”

“I won’t.”

James winks at you. “Don’t worry. He’ll say it eventually. Usually after you leave the room.”

Remus throws a cushion at him, and James ducks with a laugh.

You nudge Remus gently, still looking over at the two boys, and he turns to you, instantly softening again when he sees your face.

“You were right,” you agree. “Even if you’re unbearable about it.”

“It just seems,” you say thoughtfully, “like maybe you could stay here with me tonight. Since, you know, most of the crime is already over.” 

“I have class until six-thirty, sweetheart. What do you want me to do?” 

“Stay home.” You take a bite of your tamale, but it’s hotter than you expected. You chew with unladylike open-mouthed bites, trying to breathe out the steam. “Obviously.” 

Peter grins at your misfortune. You glare, and he makes a face so dopily in love you almost can’t stand it. 

“I have to go,” he says. “Whatever the statistics say, there are still crimes happening, and if I’ve got their schedule figured out those guys will be coming back to try and rob the gyro place again.” 

You swallow your food, frowning. “Damian’s place?” 

“Yeah.” 

“Oh, fuck those guys. Go get ‘em.” 

“I knew you’d get it.” Peter pulls on his mask, backing up towards the window. It’s been opened so frequently it doesn’t even squeak. You shiver at the cold wind it lets in. “Back later.” 

“Be safe,” you say automatically, pulling out your laptop and tapping random keys until it turns on. “Don’t go after guys with guns.” 

“I won’t.” 

You think Peter’s lying, but it’s the sort of white lie you’re okay with being told. You try not to think too hard when he goes out on his patrols; the worry would drive you insane if you did. You can never really fall asleep until you feel that wind come in through the window again, though, his body slipping into bed beside yours. 

You’re just navigating to YouTube when there’s a schwick, and your laptop shuts. You stare at the splatter of webbing on the back side of your screen in silent indignance for a moment before tracing it back to the source. 

“Peter.” Your boyfriend is dangling from the window of your eight-floor apartment by his fingertips. By only one set of fingertips. You know all about his abilities, and still the sight makes your heart shoot up into your throat. “What are you doing?” 

“Aren’t we forgetting something?” 

“What?” 

He attaches his webbing to the windowsill, using that hand to pull off his mask. “Uh, a goodbye kiss?” 

You roll your eyes, but it’s hard not to look smitten when the thing your boyfriend is sternest about is romance. You get up and follow the line of his web to the window. 

“You’re going to clean this stuff off my laptop when you get back,” you say, tone softening with fondness as he looks up at you. 

“It’ll dissolve,” he replies. “C’mere.” 

You bend, and Peter meets you halfway, muscled arms shifting underneath the tight material of his suit as he pulls himself upward. His lips are warm. The ends of his hair shift in the wind, tickling your forehead. You have to stop yourself from leaning all the way out the window to follow him when he pulls away. 

“Mm.” He licks his lips. “Save me some of those tamales, please.” 

“Do not tell me that I taste like bean and masa,” you plead. 

Peter grins. “No, I’m just teasing. You taste like you. Which is to say…” He pulls upward again, finding you just where he left you. “...very good.” 

Your lips curve against his, staying even after the kiss. “Flirt.” 

“Maybe.” He lets himself drop down below you, knuckles to his chin. It’s odd seeing him like this, so at ease with the city whizzing about nearly a hundred feet below him. 

You bite your lip, and his eyes drop to the motion. 

“Okay,” he says. “One more.” 

You grin. “Now you’re just showing off.” 

Peter makes a noncommittal humming sound, but you know he’s well aware of the impressive flex of his biceps and forearms as he lifts himself upward for one last kiss. You make it a good one, soft and lingering. 

“Is it working?” 

“Maybe,” you repeat his answer to your flirting accusation. But when you look at him again, your voice drops into a more genuine register. “Hey. Be safe tonight, seriously.”  

Peter’s eyes go soft. “I will. I’ll see you later, pretty girl.” He winks before pulling the mask on. “Keep the bed warm for me.” 

“If you’re not back by midnight, I’m putting an ice cube on your pillow.” 

The wheels crunch over the gravel lane as you pedal slower now, letting the rhythm settle into your bones - the steady clicking of the chain, the whisper of tall grass brushing against your ankles as you ride, the drowsy hum of bumblebees. Harry awes at a passing butterfly, his chubby hands reaching for it and nearly toppling him sideways. You catch the back of his overalls with one hand, the fabric slightly damp where he’s chewed on it earlier.

“Steady, little love,” you tell him, and he blinks up at you with those absurdly green eyes. His cheeks are round and flushed, his hair a wild tangle no amount of brushing can tame. When he grins, a single dimple appears.

“Merlin, he’s James made miniature,” you say, laughing.

“He’s got his father’s spirit too,” Lily replies, warm and proud. “Same way of looking at the world like it’s one big adventure waiting to happen.”

The lane dips into a hollow where the air hangs heavy with the smell of honeysuckle. You coast, letting the bike drift, the shadows of oak leaves dappling Harry’s face. He reaches up, trying to catch the shifting light patterns, his tiny fingers splaying like starfish.

It’s peaceful, in a way that feels stolen, like the day itself is a secret the three of you are keeping.

The Potters’ cottage emerges gradually, the front garden a riot of roses and lavender - the kind of place that makes you believe in magic even when you already know it’s real.

James sprawls across the grass, his shirt untucked and grass stains on his knees, levitating a squadron of folded paper suits of armour for an audience of disinterested garden gnomes. Sirius is barefoot and shirtless, cooking something on the barbecue that smells suspiciously like burning.

Remus is half-hidden in the shade of a pear tree, a book open but forgotten beside him. His head lifts as you approach, his eyes catching the sunlight just so, amber warmed to gold. He spent the full moon here last week, tucked safely in the Potters’ cellar while the rest of you waited upstairs, listening for any sign of distress.

There was none. Just the quiet, and then Remus in the morning, tired but whole, pressing a kiss to your temple as you handed him tea.

Now, he’s radiant with summer and rest.

A slow smile curls at the edges of his mouth when he sees Harry’s daisy-chain halo, hopelessly lopsided. Remus scoops him from the basket as he babbles excitedly and settles him against his hip with the ease of practice.

You laugh, leaning your bike against the fence. The metal of the handlebars has absorbed the heat of the day, the ridges of the grip pressing familiar patterns into your palms.

“You’re all pink,” Remus murmurs, pressing a kiss to your temple. “Like you’ve been dipped in sunset.”

“It’s called a sunburn, Remus,” you joke, curling into his side. 

“Look at you two,” Sirius calls from the patio. “Domestic as anything.”

“We’re not domestic,” Remus throws back quickly. “We’re just temporarily borrowing domesticity.”

James snorts. “You’ve been temporarily borrowing domesticity for almost two years, Moony. At this point you might as well admit you’re good at it.”

“You’re a natural,” Lily says, grinning.

“It’s not hard when he’s this small,” Remus mutters, though his voice has gone soft.

James waggles his eyebrows. “So? When’s it your turn?”

You choke on nothing. “Our turn?”

“You know.” James waves a hand vaguely. “Baby. Tiny, shrieking, adorable progeny. You’d be brilliant at it.”

Lily smacks his arm, but she’s smiling. “Ignore him. He’s been broody ever since Harry started saying ‘Quaffle.’”

Remus exhales, slow. “It’s a terrible idea.”

The world narrows to the feel of his pulse where your wrists press together - quickened, just slightly. You watch a ladybug traverse the slope of his shoulder, bright as a drop of paint against his faded t-shirt.

“The worst,” you nod.

“We’re in the middle of a war.”

“Mhm.”

“And I’m - ”

His breath catches.

You turn to kiss to the corner of his mouth. “You’re Remus,” you say simply. “And that’s enough.”

Harry grabs a fistful of Remus’s hair with one hand and squeals in delight. You watch James brush a kiss to Lily's forehead while Remus tries to disentangle small fingers from his hair, and everything seems impossibly bright, impossibly fragile.

Sirius lets out a loud, exaggerated sigh. "Merlin’s beard, are we all having a moment? Do I need to start charging rent for emotional vulnerability in my presence?"

James flings a handful of grass at him. "You’re just jealous because no one looks at you like that."

"Please," Sirius scoffs, flicking a piece of fruit at James from whatever questionable meal he’s concocting. "I’ve broken hearts across three continents. I don’t do domestic. I haunt it."

Remus rolls his eyes. "Yes, Padfoot, we’re all very intimidated by your tragic, wandering soul. Now stop burning lunch."

"It’s charred, Moony, there’s a difference. Gives it character!" Sirius announces, brandishing a skewer like a conductor’s baton before dumping an alarming amount of what might be paprika over the grill. "Besides, I’ll have you know this is a Black family recipe."

"Which one?" Lily asks as she peers at the barbecue next to him. "‘How to Poison Your Relatives and Get Away With It’?"

Sirius gasps, clutching his chest. "This is a sacred recipe passed down through generations of people who definitely never tried to murder each other."

You grin. "Just tell us if we need antidotes on standby."

"No promises," Sirius says cheerfully, giving a final check to the coals before clapping his hands. "Right! Lunch is served - or it will be, once it stops smoking. Everyone sit down before I change my mind and feed it to the gnomes instead."

Harry shrieks with laughter, as if this is the best idea he’s ever heard, and for a moment, the war feels far away.

“Maybe,” Remus whispers beside you as he clips the belts on Harry's highchair. You don't need to ask what he means. “Someday.”