mayuasiri

It starts with a coffee. A hot one.

He runs for the elevator—late, as usual—and his foot catches on the threshold, sends him tumbling forward. The coffee in his hand gets forgotten as he throws his arms out, braces himself on the back wall of the elevator. Which is fine—technically—if you ignore the scalding coffee that now soaks the front of his shirt.

He sighs, mumbles under his breath, “Really?”

He steps out of the elevator, white shirt stained brown. Weaving his way through the already bustling bullpen, he finds his desk. He tosses his bag on it, throws his now useless coffee mug in the trash can, and makes his way to the break room.

He’s wiping at his shirt with a paper towel when he hears your voice.

“Rough morning?”

Clark looks up. You’re standing by the counter, leaning one hip against it like you’ve been there a while. You’re holding a box of donuts, lid open, half a jelly one in your hand.

There’s no teasing in your voice. No laugh or sideways smirk. Just a simple question. And it catches him off guard more than the scalding coffee did.

He blinks. “Yeah. Just—clumsy.”

You glance down at his shirt, then back at him. “Looks like you lost the fight.”

Clark huffs a soft laugh, rubbing at the stain a little harder.

You look at him for a moment, then hold the box out toward him. “You want a donut, Kent?”

He hesitates. There’s something unexpectedly intimate about it—being offered a donut while feeling like a disaster. But you don’t say anything more, don’t try to explain it or soften it. You just keep holding the box.

He reaches in and takes one. “Thanks.”

You nod like it’s nothing, but he watches as you tuck the lid back over the box and move past him, back into the bullpen.

x

Later, when he returns to his desk, there’s a napkin sitting just beside his keyboard.

“Next time, wear a darker shirt.”

Written in Sharpie, slightly smudged. He stares at it for a long moment, then huffs out a quiet laugh.

He folds it once, carefully, and slides it into the back of his top drawer.

He doesn’t really know what just happened.

But it feels like something.

x

A few days later, he stands in the lobby coffee shop staring at the menu like it’s written in Kryptonese.

He doesn’t know what you usually drink. He’s seen you hold a cup, sure—but not the label. And it changes. Sometimes it’s iced. Sometimes it smells like vanilla. Once it had foam shaped like a cat.

He tries to guess.

Hazelnut latte. Almond milk. Light cinnamon. It sounds close enough.

When he sets it down on your desk, you blink at it like it’s an unexpected package.

“I thought you might need caffeine,” Clark says. “Or sugar. Or…both?”

You raise your eyebrows, but accept it, lifting the lid to peek inside. You take a sip without comment. Then another. You smack your lips thoughtfully.

“Bold move with the cinnamon.”

His heart stops.

“Oh—did I mess it up?”

You shake your head, smiling around the rim. “No. It’s terrible. But it’s endearing.”

He laughs, a little too loud. “Endearing. Terrible. Good to know.”

You tap the side of the cup with your fingernail. “Don’t worry, Kent. I’ll return the favor.”

Later that afternoon, when he comes back from a meeting, there’s a pencil topper perched on his keyboard. It’s a neon green frog with googly eyes and bendy legs, clinging to a tiny sign that reads “Stay Ribbiting.”

No note. Just the frog.

He glances over. You’re at your desk, pretending to type.

He picks it up, holds it between two fingers. “This for me?”

You don’t look up. “For good luck. Or frog luck, I guess.”

He bites back a grin and slides it onto the top of his pencil.

It stays there the rest of the day.

Then the rest of the week.

Eventually, it just becomes part of his desk—like it’s always been there.

x

It starts with a duck.

Not metaphorically. A literal duck. Ceramic. Possibly cursed.

He’s on the train home when his phone buzzes. It’s a photo from you—blurry, taken from a distance, like you didn’t want to get too close. The duck is tucked into a shop window display beside a mannequin foot and what looks like an old CPR dummy.

You:

You in pottery form.

He stares at the screen for a second. Then he snorts.

Clark:

Haunting. Accurate.

You don’t reply right away. He thinks that’s it—just a one off joke—but the next day, you send him a photo of a novelty candle shaped like a screaming clown. The caption just reads:

You:

Your vibe after deadline.

He scrolls back to the duck, then the clown, and starts a new folder in his phone.

From there, it becomes a thing.

The ugliest salt shakers in the window of a bodega on 43rd. A sock monkey with one eye. A velvet painting of a cat playing poker. You send each other photos like breadcrumbs—tiny, ugly reminders that you’re thinking of each other when the city gets loud and messy and heavy.

And Clark? He kind of loves it.

It’s the kind of joke you only make with someone who knows you. Or wants to.

One afternoon, walking past a souvenir kiosk in Midtown, he sees it: a keychain shaped like a corn cob, wearing sunglasses. Embossed on its rubber body:

NEBRASKA — A-MAIZE-ING.

It’s horrible.

He buys it immediately.

He doesn’t leave a note—just sets it on your desk when you’re in a meeting. When you return, he watches from across the bullpen as you pick it up, examine it, and slowly break into a grin.

You don’t say anything.

But the keychain goes on your bag.

And that’s more than enough.

x

He’s been staring at the same paragraph for half an hour.

The words blur, swim, reform in different shapes. He doesn’t even remember what the article is about anymore—just that it’s due, and he’s behind, and his head aches like he skipped breakfast.

Which he did.

And lunch.

He’s about to force himself to power through when something slides into the corner of his vision.

Half a sandwich. Wrapped neatly in wax paper.

You sit on the edge of his desk like it’s nothing. Like you do this every day.

“You eaten?” you ask.

He blinks. “Uh. Not really.”

You nod like that tracks. “It’s turkey. Sorry, no mustard. I don’t trust the office packets anymore.”

You don’t wait for him to say thank you. Just hop down and walk back to your desk, already mid-conversation with someone else like handing him food wasn’t the kindest thing anyone’s done for him in weeks.

Clark unwraps the sandwich slowly. It’s not the food.

It’s the fact that you noticed.

It’s the fact that you cared enough to share something small, without asking for anything back.

He chews quietly, watching you laugh at something across the bullpen. The ache in his head starts to fade.

A few days later, he leaves something folded on the corner of your desk.

It’s a napkin from the break room. On it, a careful ballpoint pen drawing: your name, hidden inside a tiny, sketched city skyline. Fire escapes. Rooftops. A water tower. A coffee cup drawn on the roof of one building like a beacon.

You pick it up during a lull and glance across the room.

He looks up just in time to see your expression shift—confused, then fond.

You hold up the napkin with one brow raised.

He shrugs, sheepish. “I got bored.”

You roll your eyes. But you don’t throw it away.

You tuck it into the notebook you always carry.

And Clark spends the rest of the day smiling, just a little.

x

It starts in the middle of a deadline week, when everything’s buzzing and no one’s getting enough sleep.

You’re typing like your life depends on it, eyes narrowed, lip caught between your teeth. Clark glances over, barely even aware of the hum at first—just a low, rhythmic noise, almost under your breath.

It takes a second to register.

Dun dun.

Dun dun.

Dun dun dun dun—

“Are you humming the Jaws theme?” he asks, incredulous.

You don’t even look up. “Helps me focus.”

“That’s…worrying.”

You grin without turning around. “Don’t knock it. This article’s not gonna bite itself.”

He laughs—fully, helplessly—and you keep humming, just a little louder now. Like it’s a joke only the two of you are in on.

After that, it becomes a thing.

Any time you’re working intensely, the humming starts. Sometimes dramatically. Sometimes obnoxiously loud. Once, Clark walks by your desk and you snap at him: “You distracted me, Kent! I was mid-attack!”

He brings you a granola bar in surrender.

A few days later, he finds a small plastic shark sitting on his desk.

Its mouth is open wide in a cartoonish grin. It’s painted a bright, almost offensive blue. Clearly from a dollar store, possibly meant for a fish tank. The tag still dangles from its fin: “Jawsome!”

No note. Just the shark. Proudly perched on top of his stapler like a tiny aquatic guardian.

Clark holds it up, smirking.

You glance over from your screen. “You’ve been officially marked.”

He places it right back on the stapler. No one is allowed to touch it after that. Not even Perry.

He never says it, but that dumb shark means something.

A shared joke. A private language. A piece of your brain carved out just for him.

Clark thinks, softly, barely there:

This is how it starts, isn’t it?

x

He feels like he's made of concrete.

Every limb heavy. Every breath slow.

He doesn’t remember sleeping. Not really. Just flashes—his apartment ceiling, the blinking streetlight outside, the steady loop of everything he couldn’t stop thinking about.

It shows on him. He knows that. He didn’t even try to hide it this time.

His tie’s crooked. His eyes are dull. His shirt is wrinkled enough that Lois made a noise when she saw him, like she was personally offended by the fabric.

He trudges through the bullpen, keeps his head down. Reaches his desk.

And freezes.

There’s a cup waiting for him. A paper to-go one, the lid slightly askew. Still warm. He stares at it.

You look up from your computer without saying anything.

He lifts the lid and takes a sip.

It’s cocoa.

Perfectly made—just enough sweetness, not too thick. A sprinkle of cinnamon. Exactly how he likes it. Exactly how he needs it when the weight gets too heavy.

“How did you…?” he asks, voice still rough.

You shrug. “You always want it when you’ve had a bad day.”

Clark doesn’t have an answer for that.

Just stands there for a beat, cocoa in hand, wondering how someone could know him so quietly. So well.

Later that day, when you’re in the copy room, he leaves something on your desk.

It’s tiny—barely the size of your thumb. A small glass bottle, stoppered at the top and filled with fine silver glitter. Tied around its neck: a piece of folded paper.

When you open it, the message is simple, scrawled in his neat handwriting:

For emergencies.

You don’t say anything when you return.

But when he looks up, you’re holding the bottle up to the light, watching the glitter swirl like a snow globe.

You smile.

And Clark feels something shift in his chest—gently, deeply.

Like maybe, just maybe, he’s allowed to be held, too.

x

The walk home becomes a ritual.

Sometimes you talk. Sometimes you just exist next to each other, sharing the quiet hum of the evening.

One night, you tell him about your weird high school poetry phase—scribbled lines hidden in notebooks, awkward rhymes about stars and loneliness.

He tells you about Ma—how she believed in things bigger than just right and wrong, and how she taught him to find light even in dark places.

The city softens around you. Streetlamps flicker to life, casting pools of gold on cracked sidewalks.

At one point, you stoop down and pick up a rock, smooth and shaped vaguely like a heart.

You hand it to him with a grin. “This is a metaphor. Don’t drop it.”

He slips it into his coat pocket without a word but promises himself he never will.

Clark is in love. Probably.

He hasn’t necessarily had that much experience with it, but the feeling seems right. The pull deep behind his ribs feels like love. It makes him want to write poems. Things like “Ode to the Shape of Wet Footprints Outside the Shower” or “Sonnets in the Key of Enamored”.

He’s not a writer, though. Not like that.

Still, he thinks he should tell you. Something. If not all of it, at least the way his heart stutters in his chest when you get him cocoa without asking. Like you know he wants it—needs it sometimes.

And, besides, Ma always said secrets hurt you more than they ever hurt the other person. She was talking about rumors, but, still, Clark thinks the logic holds.

Maybe it’s time he stopped hiding.

x

You pitch it like a joke, like you’re half-serious, half-trying-not-to-care.

“What if we went on vacation here? Stayed in some little hotel? Went swimming and ate greasy takeout?”

He blinks, not expecting you to actually want to do it. But when you look at him, waiting for a “no,” and he doesn’t say it, you smile.

So, he nods. “Yeah. Yeah, let’s do that.”

It feels like the first time he’s agreed to something without overthinking it. No mission, no deadline, no hero stuff. Just you and him, being stupid and normal.

And somehow that’s exactly what he needs.

x

The hotel isn’t fancy. Just a room with a tiny pool, a bed too small for comfort, and enough quiet to feel miles away from everything.

You jump in the pool even though the water’s freezing. You laugh like a kid while he tries to hold his breath underwater, failing miserably. You splash, make dumb faces, and forget the world for a little while.

Dinner’s takeout—messy, greasy, and nothing like what you usually eat. You both sit on his bed, share fries like thieves, teasing each other over who’s the better snack bandit. It’s ridiculous. It’s perfect.

It all seems to go sideways when you start to leave, go to your own room.

You linger in his doorway, lean against the doorframe like there’s something you want to say.

Instead, you only lean forward, press a kiss to his lips.

And, it happens too fast for him to catch up, to kiss you back. You’re gone before he can even realize he wants to.

“I'm sorry,” you mumble. “I’m sorry. That was…” You trail off, shake your head. “I shouldn’t have done that.

“No,” Clark starts, but you’re already turning, already running down the hall to your own room.

You leave him standing barefoot on the hotel carpet, feeling for all the world like a fool.

x

The room feels off.

Too still, like even the air’s holding its breath. The leftover takeout is cold now, fries gone limp in their box. Your laughter clings to the walls like chlorine from the pool to his skin—fading, but not gone. Not yet.

Clark sits on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, staring at nothing in particular. His hair’s still damp, and the pillow behind him is proof he didn’t think to dry off before collapsing back here.

It all replays on a loop:

You, jumping into the pool without hesitating.

You, with fry tusks and that ridiculous grin.

You, standing in the doorway, looking at him like you meant it.

And then—

The kiss.

Soft. Quick.

Enough to undo him.

He hadn’t expected it. Not really. He’d hoped for it—somewhere deep and unspoken—but he didn’t think you’d actually do it. And when you did, when your lips touched his, it felt like gravity flipped sideways.

He didn’t kiss you back. Not because he didn’t want to—he just froze. His whole body went still except for his heart, which was suddenly trying to punch its way out of his chest.

Then you were apologizing. Backing away. Already gone.

He didn’t chase you.

He should’ve.

Now, all he has is silence, chlorine skin, and a pit in his stomach that won’t let him sleep.

x

He doesn’t know what he’s doing.

He’s standing in front of your door, hoodie sleeves pulled over his fists like armor. It’s late. Or early. The hotel hallway hums with that weird, too clean quiet that only shows up at 3 AM.

He raises his hand to knock. Pauses. Drops it again.

Tries to find the version of himself that doesn’t mess this up. Fails.

Then he knocks—soft, but definite.

When you open the door, he forgets everything he practiced on the walk over.

Your eyes are tired. Or maybe just surprised. He can’t tell which.

“Hi,” he says, stupidly.

You don’t say anything at first. Just wait.

He swallows. “I couldn’t sleep.”

You nod once. Still nothing.

He shifts his weight, tries again. “About last night—I didn’t kiss you back. I know. I didn’t move. And I’m sorry if that made you think I didn’t want to.”

He takes a breath, lets it out slow.

“I did. I do. I just panicked. It hit me out of nowhere and I froze. But it wasn’t a no. It was never a no.”

You open the door a little wider, and Clark’s heart stumbles. He doesn’t take a step in. Not yet.

“I’m not really good at this,” he says. “Feelings. Or saying them. But I’ve been sitting in that room trying to figure out what to do, and I kept thinking—what if I don’t say anything and you think I didn’t care?”

He looks down. Then back up.

“I care.”

Three small words. Heavy in his mouth.

He means them.

He stands there, waiting. Hoping. Braced for whatever comes next.

x

You don’t say anything at first. Just look at him like you’re still trying to figure out what to do with the pieces of last night.

Clark holds your gaze. It takes everything in him not to look away. Not because he’s scared of you—he’s scared of hope. Of getting it wrong. Of wanting too much.

Then, slowly, you step closer. Close enough that he can see the tiny crease between your eyebrows ease up.

You reach out—fingers brushing his hoodie like you’re asking permission.

And he nods. Just barely. But it’s enough.

The kiss isn’t dramatic. It doesn’t need to be. It’s not fireworks or movie scores or a grand sweeping anything.

It’s quiet. Steady. The kind of kiss that feels like a beginning.

When you pull back, you’re both a little breathless. But more than that—you’re calm. Like the world has finally taken its foot off your chest.

Clark lets out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. The nerves curled at the base of his spine uncoil.

You smile. Just a little.

He smiles back.

And that’s it.

Two people standing in the middle of a hotel hallway, choosing—maybe for the first time—to stop running.

x

It’s nothing special.

Just a Wednesday. A lunch break long enough to breathe, sitting on the concrete ledge outside the office, the two of you watching pigeons fight over half a bagel someone dropped.

Clark doesn’t say much. He doesn’t need to. The air between you is easy now—careful, still, but not tense. Like walking on soft earth. Like something just beginning to take root.

You’re telling him a story—something about a printer jam and someone trying to fix it with a spoon—and he’s nodding along, grinning at all the right parts, but mostly?

He’s focused on what’s in his pocket.

He pulls it out without ceremony.

A tiny plastic astronaut. The kind you’d find in a vending machine. One arm melted just slightly, like it got too close to a candle or someone’s hair straightener. Its face is a shiny gold bubble—no features. Just space.

He sets it beside your coffee cup.

“I saw it and thought of you,” he says, like it’s nothing.

You look at it. Then at him. “Because I’m brave and heroic?”

He shrugs. “Because you launched me into emotional orbit and then abandoned me in deep space, obviously.”

You laugh—the kind of laugh that catches you off guard. That full-body kind.

And then—without even glancing down—Clark reaches for your hand.

And this time, he doesn’t hesitate.

His fingers brush yours. You curl them back.

The astronaut sits between you like a witness. Slightly melted. Slightly ridiculous.

Exactly right.

Clark looks over at you. You’re still smiling. Still here.

No fanfare. No grand declarations.

Just this:

A shared bench. A new trinket. Two people willing to try.

And for once, Clark doesn’t wonder if he’s messing it up.

He just lets it be.

Soft. Simple.

“Yes–yeah,” he replies, sounding almost relieved. “You’re welcome to come by, have a look around? See how it feels?”

“That would be great, actually,” you say, breathing out slowly. “Would this afternoon work? Or whenever suits you.”

“This afternoon is perfect.”

You confirm the address and end the call, only then realising that you don’t know his name and he doesn’t know yours. Still, something about the tone of his voice settles the panic in your chest. It’s probably foolish, but for now, it’s enough.

-

The tube ride over is a blur. You're tucked into a corner seat, fingers clenched tight around the handle of your bag, knees bouncing in spite of your best efforts to seem composed. The whole journey, you’re rehearsing what you might say. Hi, I’m here about the flat. Too stiff. Nice to meet you, thanks for having me. Weirdly formal. Please let me live here, I’m very quiet and I won’t use your milk. Pathetic.

The closer you get, the more you regret not backing out. Your stomach’s knotted, heart thudding. It doesn’t help that the sky’s overcast, a flat grey pressing down like it might rain at any moment. You find the building easily – it’s a narrow brick townhouse with peeling paint around the windows but an otherwise respectable facade. Not too posh, not too grotty.

You buzz the number he gave you. A beat, and then the door unlocks with a clunk.

You’re greeted at the top of a narrow stairwell. The man from the listing is already waiting at the threshold of the flat, leaning lightly on the doorframe.

You freeze.

He’s beautiful.

Not in a clean, shiny way like the men in ads. No, he’s something quieter, warm brown eyes, framed by tired lashes and shadows that suggest long nights. His jumper hangs loose on a tall frame, sleeves pushed up to his forearms. There’s a scar that cuts across the bridge of his nose – thin, pale, old – but it fits his face. You’re staring.

He shifts, and you realise you're just standing there like a lemon.

“Hi,” you manage. “I’m Y/N, by the way.”

He smiles. “I’m Remus.”

You nod like that’s normal, like his voice isn’t curling around you in a way that makes your breath catch. Remus. You tuck the name away for safekeeping.

He steps aside to let you in. “Come on, I’ll show you around. It’s not Buckingham Palace or anything, but it’s solid.”

The flat is surprisingly nice. Wooden floors, worn but clean, a big window in the living room that lets in more light than you’d expected. There are bookshelves and a threadbare sofa that looks deeply comfortable. The kitchen is small but tidy, and he opens a cupboard to show you what would be “your half”.

“And the bathroom’s through here–no mould, promise,” he says, glancing at you over his shoulder with a grin that’s too charming to be fair. “And I don’t take forever in the mornings.”

You follow, nodding, your voice still lodged somewhere near your collarbone. “You, um... seem very prepared.”

He chuckles, rubbing at the back of his neck. “I try my best.”

You breathe in through your nose, trying to summon enough courage to sound like a normal person. “Well,” you say, your voice higher than usual, “as long as you don’t kill me in my sleep, I think we should be fine.”

The words are barely out before you regret them. Why would you say that? You flush, gaze snapping to the floor. But then—

Remus laughs.

Not just a polite huff, either. A real, warm laugh that starts low in his chest and melts into something softer.

You blink, stunned.

“Fair enough,” he says, still smiling. “I promise not to kill you. I make a mean cup of tea, though. That help balance it out?”

You nod, trying to hide the way your mouth twitches. “Yeah. That might do it.”

-

Living with Remus is fine, better than you expected actually. You’ve found him to be a perfectly amenable flatmate and his claims were true, he doesn't take forever in the mornings and he does make lovely cups of tea. 

Still, you find yourself hiding away in your bedroom most of the time, listening for when he vacates the living room and kitchen before making some quick food to eat and retreating back. He spends a lot of his time sitting at the dining table working on his manuscript and you'd hate to disturb him.

It's no fault of his that you hide away, you dont think you’ve met a nicer, more gentle boy in your life. It’s more like, you're so worried about imposing on his space and routine, being an annoyance that you avoid him.

So, when you hear the sound of his bedroom door shutting you make a break for the kitchen, stomach rumbling.  

You rummage through the fridge, the cold light humming against your skin, illuminating a disappointingly bare shelf. Half a tub of hummus, a sad-looking cucumber, and a block of cheddar that’s luckily mould free. You sigh and close the door with your hip, already drafting a mental shopping list.

Tomorrow, definitely. You’ll go tomorrow.

For now, you settle on a sandwich – cheese and cucumber. The bread’s from the freezer, so you wedge two slices apart and drop them into the toaster, rubbing sleep from your eyes with the back of your hand while you wait. The flat is quiet, save for the low tick of the kitchen clock and the mechanical whirr of the toaster heating up. It’s peaceful like this, when it’s just you and the hum of appliances. You suppose it's always peaceful really though, Remus isn’t very loud.

You’re halfway through slicing the cucumber when you hear it: the soft creak of a door down the hall. Footsteps. Then Remus appears, yawning into the sleeve of his jumper, his hair mussed like he’d been lying down.

“Oh–I’m sorry,” you blurt, stepping back from the counter instinctively, knife still in hand. “I didn’t mean to take over the kitchen.”

He blinks, confused for a half-second before smiling. “You’re fine,” he says gently. “Just need to get in there–” he nods at the cupboard above your head.

You quickly sidestep, hugging the counter as he reaches past you. As he opens the cupboard, his fingers brush your shoulder in passing, a light, friendly touch. You flinch, just barely, but he either doesn’t notice or chooses not to mention it.

From the shelf, he pulls down a small box full of blister packets of painkillers, the label worn from use. He moves to the sink, filling a glass with water as you return to your sandwich-making, quieter now. More self-conscious.

“I, um–didn’t mean to interrupt your rest,” you offer, hoping it doesn’t sound too awkward.

Remus looks over his shoulder at you, then downs the tablets with a quick gulp. “You live here too,” he says easily, setting the glass in the sink. “You don’t have to apologise for being in the kitchen.”

You look at him, a little surprised by the softness in his voice.

“Still,” you murmur, pressing the sandwich together, “you’ve got your routines. I didn’t want to get in the way.”

“You’re not,” he says, and smiles. It's a little crooked, a little tired. “Seriously. Come in here whenever you want. Cook something that stinks. Use the last teabag. The whole kitchen is yours too.”

Your eyes lift to meet his, and there’s something about the way he says it, like he means it, that makes your throat go tight.

“Oh,” you say softly. “Okay.”

Remus excuses himself with a quiet smile and a muttered, “Back in a bit,” before padding back down the hallway.

You catch it just as he turns: a slight shift in his gait. Barely noticeable, the way his weight tips unevenly between steps, like one side of his body isn’t quite cooperating with the other. It slows him, just slightly. Enough that your brows draw together before you even realise you're staring.

You stand in the kitchen for a long moment, sandwich forgotten in your hand. It’s not like you to pry. You hate when people ask about things you haven’t offered up willingly – hate the sharp, intrusive edge of what’s wrong with you? 

You take your sandwich to the little dining table where his laptop still sits closed, charger curled beside it. The seat across from you remains warm from where he’d been earlier. You chew in silence, mind gnawing at the image of him walking away with that faint limp. He hadn’t mentioned anything. No sign of injury.

Your chest prickles with quiet unease. Maybe it’s not your place. Maybe he doesn’t want questions.

The sandwich is half-finished when he reappears, this time in fresh pyjama bottoms and a different jumper, a little looser in the sleeves. He walks slower than usual, and now that you’re looking for it, the limp is unmistakable. It’s subtle but deliberate, a kind of favouring of one leg over the other. You feel that pinch again, behind your ribs.

Remus notices your eyes on him, and he offers you a faint smile, tired but open.

“Sorry,” he says, lowering himself gently into the chair opposite you with the kind of care that makes your heart ache. “Was hoping the tablets would kick in faster.”

Your voice is quiet when you speak. “Are you okay?”

He glances up at you, blinking like he hadn’t expected the question. For a moment you think he might brush it off, toss out some polite, yeah, all good lie. But then his expression softens. Honest.

“I will be,” he says. Then he hesitates, eyes flicking down to the grain of the wooden table, fingers brushing over a faint coffee ring like it might help ground him. “It’s just a flare-up. Happens sometimes.”

You nod slowly, waiting. Letting him lead.

“My joints,” he says eventually, voice low but calm. “They’ve been wrecked for years. Doesn’t usually act up like this, but sometimes–weather, overdoing it, not sleeping right–it just hits harder.” He gestures vaguely toward his leg, then his shoulder. “Today’s one of those days.”

You don’t say anything at first. Not because you don’t know what to say, but because your first instinct, that sounds awful, I’m sorry, feels both too much and not enough. You don’t think he’d want the sympathy of it anyway.

Instead, you offer him your full attention. “Is there anything you need? I mean, anything I can do?”

Remus looks at you, properly this time, and something unreadable passes behind his eyes. Gratitude, maybe. Surprise.

“No,” he says gently. “Thanks, though. Just rest, really. Try not to be on my feet more than I have to.”

You nod. Then, quieter, “I didn’t realise you were in pain.”

“I hide it well,” he says, the corners of his mouth lifting in something that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Comes with practice.”

“I could make tea?”

He smiles, just barely. “Only if you make it as good as I do.”

✩ June ✩

Downpours in June always catch you off guard. In your mind, the month should be full of sun and warmth even though it never is. Shockingly, the rain does little to dampen your mood on the walk home, too excited with the knowledge that when you get into the flat, Remus will be there, probably writing, ready to talk to you and listen to your day. 

You found quite quickly, after you got more comfortable, that you and Remus have a lot in common. You like the same shows and takeaways, both reading copious amounts of books and both of you are quiet and calm a lot of the time. You think he might be your only real friend and maybe that's a bit pathetic but you can’t bring yourself to care. 

Your trainers squelch faintly as you step into the building, hair sticking to your forehead and the back of your neck. Still, there’s a smile tugging at your lips. You’re soaked and half-frozen, but the thought of the flat and Remus keeps your spirits high.

You shake the worst of the water from your coat before unlocking the flat door. It swings open, the familiar creak greeting you–

–and then a sound you weren’t expecting.

Laughter. Loud, overlapping voices. And not just Remus’.

Your eyes flick up as you step into the living room and stop short.

There are people in your flat.

Three strangers are sprawled across the sofas, legs thrown over armrests, half-drunk mugs of tea and empty crisp packets scattered across the coffee table.

The girl with striking red hair and green eyes is curled into the far corner of the loveseat, gesturing with a half-eaten biscuit and grinning. Next to her, a tall, dark-haired boy is half-lounging, half-sliding off the cushions, knees spread like he owns the place. His shirt is rumpled, his hair even more so, but it works on him. On the floor, sitting cross-legged and sipping from a mug, is another man, long dark hair, an open leather jacket.

And in the middle of it all, Remus.

He’s leaned forward in his usual seat, elbow braced on his knee, a lazy sort of smile tugging at his mouth. He looks comfortable. At home. The sleeves of his jumper are pushed up, and there’s a small ink smudge on his knuckle. He lifts his head at the sound of the door and lights up when he sees you.

“Oh–hey!” he says, already standing. “You’re back.”

All at once, the three others look up. At you.

You freeze in the doorway, suddenly aware of your rain-slick hair, damp jeans, the drip of water off your coat. Your bag sags heavily at your side.

“Hi,” you manage, blinking.

Remus crosses to take your bag, entirely casual. “Didn’t think you’d be back this early. I’d have warned you.”

You shrug, trying for a smile. “The rain chased me home.”

“Let me get you a towel in a sec–uh, this is Lily, Sirius, and James.” He gestures over his shoulder, and they all wave.

Lily smiles kindly. James does a salute from the couch. Sirius raises his mug.

You nod, stepping a little further into the room, wringing your hands slightly.

Of course Remus would have friends like this, you think. People who look like they stepped out of a film set or an advert or maybe an indie band that never quite went mainstream. If you didn’t know any better, you’d assume they were all built in the same beautiful factory.

Sirius leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, eyes glinting with mischief. “So you’re the one living with Moony. Brave soul.”

James chimes in, grinning. “Yeah, seriously. Does he still snore like a bear, or has he grown out of it?”

You blink, then giggle – actually giggle – which surprises even you.

“I haven’t noticed,” you say, glancing at Remus as he hands you a towel, whose ears have gone slightly pink. “He’s actually… really great to live with.”

You miss the way he straightens slightly at that, how his expression softens. You’re too busy trying to unstick a strand of wet hair from your cheek.

“I’m just gonna–” you gesture vaguely down the hall, “–shower. Before I mildew. I’ll be back.”

You duck into the hallway with a grateful glance toward Remus, clutching the towel he pressed into your hands like a lifeline. You’re still soaked through, jeans sticking to your legs, and your skin feels clammy beneath your shirt. In the bathroom, you peel out of your wet clothes, your cheeks still warm from the shock of unexpected company.

The shower helps. Hot water pounding against your back, steam curling around your face, loosening the tension in your shoulders. You scrub quickly, methodically, trying not to think too hard. You don’t know why their presence made your chest tighten like that – maybe it was the surprise, maybe it was how pretty they all were. Maybe it was the way they all seemed to belong here.

It’s not jealousy, exactly. Just a small ache, like being on the outside of a joke you’d love to be part of.

-

Back in the living room, as the sound of the bathroom door clicks shut, a shift happens.

Sirius, who had been half-sprawled on the floor with his mug, shoots a look at Remus – slow and smug. “Mate.”

Remus doesn’t look up from where he’s fidgeting with the hem of his sleeve. “Don’t.”

“Oh, I will.” Sirius grins, wolfish.

Lily lets out a snort, raising her brows at James. “Did you see the way he lit up when she walked in?”

James nudges Remus’s knee with his own. “It was sweet, actually. Like a dog seeing its favourite person.”

Remus groans, dragging a hand over his face. “You’re all insufferable.”

“Not denying it, though,” Lily singsongs.

“There’s nothing to deny,” Remus mutters, flushing down to his collarbones. “She’s just my flatmate.”

James grins. “Flatmate. Right.”

Lily’s voice softens just slightly, teasing but kind. “It’s okay, Remus. We like her. She seems sweet.. And clearly into you, even if she doesn’t know it yet.”

Remus shifts in his seat, pulling his sleeve back down like it might shield him. “She’s not. And even if she were, she deserves... more.”

Sirius tilts his head, tone quieter now. “More than what?”

Remus doesn’t answer.

The conversation lapses just in time for the soft pad of footsteps down the hallway.

-

You return with damp hair falling to your shoulders, the sleeves of your jumper pulled over your hands. The soft scent of your shampoo trails after you. You hover at the edge of the living room, unsure if you’re intruding again.

Remus looks up first, his face softening instantly. “Feel better?”

You nod, giving him a small smile. “Much.”

There’s a pause – comfortable, this time – before he gestures to the seat beside him. “Come sit?”

You do.

The sofa is warm from where he’d been sitting earlier. Close, but not too close.

“Are you hungry?” he asks, turning slightly toward you. “We’ve got crisps, biscuits. Sirius tried to eat all the digestives but I fought him off–”

“I let him win,” Sirius adds from the floor.

“–or there's your leftovers in the fridge.” He continues, ignoring his friend's input.

You shake your head. “I’m okay, thank you.”

Lily leans forward, her smile easy. “So, how’s it been living with this one?” She jerks her thumb toward Remus.

You glance at him, then back to her. “Honestly? Pretty great. He’s... very considerate.”

“She’s being polite,” Remus mumbles, rubbing the back of his neck.

“She’s being nice,” Lily corrects, then turns back to you. “It’s very commendable of you, I’m sure there's something about him that annoys you.”

“Charming, Lils.” Remus says with a fond eye roll.

Lily is wrong, you think, at this point in time you can't think of anything about remus that annoys you. He’s not a perfect person, obviously, but any little annoyances you have with him are forgotten quickly after they happen.

The conversation rolls on from there. They ask about your job, your favourite books, where you went to school. You end up laughing more than you have in weeks, tucked into the corner of the sofa beside Remus, your shoulder just barely brushing his arm.

By the time the clock on the wall nudges past ten, the living room has slipped into a comfortable sprawl of conversation and low laughter. Mugs have been refilled more than once, empty wrappers tucked under cushions, and Sirius has taken to stacking biscuit crumbs on James’s shoulder like a game of Jenga.

Eventually, one of them – Lily, predictably – checks the time and groans. “Alright, we’re off,” she says, pushing herself up with a dramatic sigh. “Some of us have to be adults in the morning.”

“Tragic,” Sirius mutters, already reaching for his jacket.

There’s a flurry of movement – shoes tugged on, bags slung over shoulders, mugs gathered into a clumsy stack for the kitchen. You stand too, a little uncertain, hanging back near the hallway door as the group bunches near the entrance.

Then, unexpectedly, Lily turns to you

“You coming to the pub quiz next week?” she asks, suddenly warm and familiar, like you’ve known each other longer than just a few hours. Her voice is bright but her eyes are kind, like she really means it.

You blink. “Oh. Um—”

“It’s good fun,” she says quickly. “Low-stakes. Mostly an excuse to drink.”

Your lips twitch despite yourself. “That sounds nice.”

“Perfect,” Lily beams. Then, before you can overthink it, she wraps you into a hug.

You freeze for a second. Her arms are confident and soft around you, her hair brushing your cheek. But after the initial surprise fades, you lean into it.

“See you there,” she murmurs as she pulls back, with a wink

The others say their goodbyes in overlapping waves. Sirius claps Remus on the shoulder with a dramatic flourish, James promises to text him about the weekend, and Lily gives Remus a kiss on the cheek.

Then they’re gone – the flat door swinging closed behind them with a satisfying click, their chatter already fading down the stairs.

You’re still standing in the living room when Remus comes back a few minutes later, having seen them out to the street. He exhales deeply as he toes off his shoes, running a hand through his hair.

You’re already moving, collecting empty mugs from the coffee table and straightening a blanket draped halfway to the floor.

“You don’t have to do that,” he says, voice gentle as he returns to the room. “It’s not your mess, love.”

You glance up at him. The endearment settles warm and light in your chest. He says it so naturally you’re not sure he even notices.

“It’ll be faster if we do it together,” you reply simply, heading into the kitchen with a stack of cups.

Remus follows, quiet but not resisting. The two of you move easily in tandem – like you’ve done this before, like you’ve lived together for years instead of just a month. He wipes down the coffee table while you rinse out mugs. You clear the sofa of stray crisp bags while he tucks the blanket back into shape.

It’s domestic, almost absurdly so. The kind of soft, mundane routine you used to dream about without realising it.

When the last mug is tucked into the drying rack and the cushions on the sofa are more or less back in their proper places, you find yourself standing in the middle of the living room, blinking in the stillness. It’s quiet again, but a good kind of quiet.

Remus glances over from where he’s just finished folding the throw blanket across the back of the sofa. “Right,” he says, scrubbing a hand through his hair. “Mission accomplished.”

You nod, suddenly aware of the ache settling into your limbs – the kind of tired that follows a long day and warm company.

“C’mere,” Remus says, and without really thinking, you follow as he flops down onto the sofa, sprawling into the corner he always claims. He gestures for you to join him, and you do, curling up on the opposite end. Your knees tuck beneath you, your elbow sinking into the cushion. The warmth of the evening clings to your skin, a pleasant, weighty tiredness settling in.

You let out a breath, soft. “Your friends are really nice.”

He hums in agreement, tipping his head back against the cushion to look at the ceiling. “They are.”

Then, quieter, you add, “Sorry if I was... imposing. I didn’t mean to crash your night.”

His head tilts, gaze sliding over to meet yours, brows gently pulled together. “You’d never be imposing.”

You blink at him, something tender sparking behind your ribs.

“They liked you,” he says, like it’s the simplest, most obvious thing in the world.

You smile, small and uncertain. “That’s a relief. I’d have to start hiding away again if they didn’t.”

He huffs a soft laugh, turning more toward you, one leg tucked up beneath the other. “I don’t see how anyone wouldn’t like you.”

The room goes still for a beat.

It’s not even the words that hit you so hard, it’s the way he says them. Quietly, plainly. Like it’s not even a question. Like he believes it.

You swallow. Your fingers twist in the hem of your jumper.

“You’d be surprised,” you murmur.

Remus watches you carefully, eyes soft and steady. “No, I wouldn’t.”

You look away first, heart thudding too loud in your chest. It’s not flirtation, what he’s doing – it’s too sincere for that. It feels heavier somehow, more honest.

He shifts again, this time stretching his legs out, one foot brushing yours beneath the throw blanket. He doesn’t move it away.

You try for something lighter. “You didn’t tell me you had friends that were basically a rock band.”

He chuckles, running a hand over his jaw. “Yeah, they’re a bit much, aren’t they?”

“They’re... great,” you say, and you mean it. “I don’t think I’ve ever met people that easy to talk to.”

His smile is quiet. “They’ll love that. Especially Sirius. He lives for being charming.”

“I could tell.”

Remus’s laugh is low, and it lingers. “I’m glad you stayed. You looked like you were going to bolt.”

You flush, ducking your head. “I was.”

There’s a pause.

“I get it,” he says eventually, voice softer now. “Crowds. Strangers. It’s a lot sometimes.”

You nod. “It’s not that I didn’t want to be there. I just… didn’t think I’d belong.”

Remus’s gaze sharpens slightly, something almost fierce behind his tired eyes. “You do. You absolutely do.”

The words land between you, sure and solid. You feel them take root within you.

You glance over, meeting his eyes. “Thanks.”

He doesn’t look away. “Anytime.”

Your foot is still touching his under the blanket. You don’t move it.

The telly is dark, the flat dim except for the soft glow of the kitchen light and the little lamp in the corner. Everything feels slow. Settled. The way conversations stretch late into the evening when neither person wants to be the one to end it.

Eventually, you yawn. An embarrassingly large one that catches you off guard.

Remus smiles. “Go to bed.”

“Shouldn’t I be saying that to you?” you ask, though your limbs are already heavy.

“I’m older,” he says, mock-stern. “I get to decide.”

“You’re not that much older,” you mumble, rising reluctantly.

As you pass him, he catches your wrist gently. Not to stop you – just a brush of fingers, warm and grounding. You pause, and he looks up at you from where he’s still curled on the sofa.

“Hey,” he says, low. “I meant it, you know. About people liking you.”

You nod, throat tight again. “I know.”

He lets go. You head to bed. And long after the door closes behind you, the warmth of his touch lingers.

✩ July ✩

“Please tell me you didn’t actually do that!” you exclaim, laughing at Sirius’ expense.

“I did,” he responds, having the decency to look ashamed, “I didn’t expect him to cry though.”

“He must’ve been a sensitive soul.” 

“You’d know all about that, wouldn’t you, doll?” Sirius shoots back, grinning as he nudges you with his foot under the table.

You move to swat him, but he’s already leaning back, laughing like this is his favourite game. And maybe it is, because you’ve learned Sirius loves nothing more than winding people up, especially the ones he likes.

You can’t be sure when it happened but somewhere between meeting Remus’ friends and now, they became your friends too. The pub quiz is a weekly ritual for you all now. You have silly in jokes with them and you're almost at a point now where you speak with them as freely as you do Remus. 

You’re just about to fire back a quip when a familiar hand places a drink in front of you.

“Here,” Remus says softly.

Your eyes lift to find him standing beside you, the warm pub lighting casting a soft glow over his features. He sets down his own glass as well, then, without really thinking, slides into the booth beside you.

As he sits, his hand drifts up and settles between your shoulder blades, thumb brushing idly in a slow arc. It’s not the first time he’s touched you lately – little things, small and familiar. A hand on your lower back when guiding you through a crowd. Fingers brushing your knuckles when you pass him a cup of tea. But this, it still catches your breath a little.

“What have you done to get her attacking you already?” Remus asks, shooting Sirius a look that’s half amused, half exhausted.

Sirius throws his hands up. “I didn’t do anything. She’s just violent–where’s my drink?”

“You didn’t ask for anything,” Remus says with a small shrug, taking a sip of his own pint.

“I didn’t know I had to ask,” Sirius complains, scandalised. “I thought we had a system.”

“You thought wrong.”

You shake your head, trying to hide your smile as you pick up your glass. “Thank you,” you murmur to Remus, your voice quieter than before.

He turns his head toward you just slightly, expression softening, “Anytime.”

You take a sip. 

Sirius groans dramatically, flopping back in his seat. “This is blatant favouritism.”

“You’re just mad because she doesn’t threaten to hit me,” Remus replies, entirely deadpan.

“I’ll start,” you offer, raising your eyebrows at Remus in mock challenge.

He grins, a slow, crooked smile. “I’d like to see you try.”

Before you can respond, the door to the pub swings open and a gust of summer air follows James and Lily in. James is grinning, his hand causally linked with Lily’s as she glances around, eyes landing on your table.

James and Lily slide into the booth with the easy comfort of long familiarity – James immediately reaching to swipe a chip from Sirius’ plate, Lily pressing a quick kiss to your cheek as she squeezes in beside you.

“We’re not late, are we?” she asks, already pulling a notepad and pen from her bag.

“Perfect timing,” Remus says, glancing towards the bar where the pub quiz host is fiddling with a mic.

“Brilliant,” James says, cracking his knuckles. “Because I’ve been revising.”

“Revising?” Sirius snorts. “Is this the A-Levels again?”

“Better,” Lily says, shooting a grin across the table. “He made me quiz him on obscure geography facts while I was straightening my hair.”

James winks. “Multitasking, babe.”

You laugh into your drink, heart buoyant with the energy around the table. You’re hemmed in by Lily on one side and Remus on the other, the heat of his thigh brushing yours beneath the table. He’s not moving away, and neither are you.

The quiz kicks off not long after – a crackly voice through the speakers announcing the rules as the pub dims the lights slightly and the host launches into the first round.

It starts out strong. Lily knows every answer in the literature round. Sirius, unsurprisingly, nails the music one, especially anything classic rock or 80s synth. James and Lily dominate the sports and politics sections, passing the pen back and forth like it's a baton in a relay.

You’re good at the random ones. The weird general knowledge stuff no one expects anyone to know. But every time you offer a hesitant guess, Remus is the first to jot it down without hesitation.

“She’s right,” he murmurs after you mutter something about which planet has the longest day. “It’s Venus.”

You glance at him. “Are you sure?”

He taps his pen, smirking. “Positive.”

And he’s right.

Remus is the dark horse of the whole night. Quietly scribbling answers during the history and science rounds, barely even hesitating. Everyone starts deferring to him, especially when it gets harder.

At one point, James throws down his pen and mutters, “Where do you keep all this stuff? Is there a little librarian in your brain with a filing cabinet or something?”

Remus shrugs, barely biting back a smile. “Just... remember things. I read a lot.”

You lean over and murmur, “You know so much weird information. It must be all the books.”

He turns to look at you, eyes crinkling. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“No,” you say, grinning. “It’s kind of impressive. Annoying. But impressive.”

Remus nudges your knee with his. “Thanks, I think.”

But when the final scores are tallied, and the host calls out your team’s name as the winners, the entire table erupts.

You blink in disbelief, then burst out laughing as Sirius howls, leaping to his feet and banging on the table like a victory drum.

“We won! We actually won! We’re legends! Immortalised in pub quiz history!”

Lily rolls her eyes fondly and raises her glass. “To Remus, our walking encyclopaedia.”

They present the prize – a bottle of cheap prosecco and a £25 bar tab – and you all decide to split one more round with it. The drinks are sweeter, the laughter looser. There’s music playing now, and you find yourself talking to Lily about your favourite poetry collections while Sirius tries to convince Remus to dance.

Eventually, the evening wanes. The pub thins out, chairs scraping, the air thick with the scent of beer and summer sweat. You and Remus walk home together under a sky lit dimly by street lights and stars.

It’s warm enough now that your jacket’s slung over your arm. Your trainers scuff the pavement in easy rhythm beside his.

The walk home is slow, lazy with the warmth of the evening and the quiet hum of contentment between you. The street is dappled with soft pools of golden light. You and Remus fall into step like always, shoulder to shoulder, the occasional brush of arms sending quiet ripples through the comfortable silence.

You’re still buzzing from the night, from the win and the wine and the lingering warmth of everyone’s laughter. Every time you glance at Remus, he’s smiling, that soft, secret smile that curls at the corner of his mouth when he thinks no one’s looking.

“I still can’t believe you knew the name of the first cloned sheep,” you say, bumping your shoulder into his.

“Dolly,” he replies smugly.

“I know,” you groan. “I’m saying I can’t believe you knew that.”

Remus shrugs, casual. “It’s basic trivia.”

You huff a laugh. “It’s bizarre trivia.”

“It’s useful trivia,” he counters, giving you a sidelong glance that makes something flutter low in your belly. “Won us a bottle of cheap prosecco, didn’t it?”

You grin, and the quiet stretches between you again.

Your hands swing close again, knuckles brushing lightly. Neither of you pull away.

He shifts slightly, just enough that his fingers brush yours again, and this time, they stay. You glance down, heart in your throat, and feel his hand open, tentative but waiting.

You don’t think. You just slide your hand into his.

His fingers curl instantly around yours, warm and certain. You both keep walking, pretending it’s nothing, pretending your heart isn’t hammering so hard it hurts.

-

You step inside, the familiar hush of the flat wrapping around you both. Remus toes off his boots and hangs his jacket up, and you do the same, suddenly hyper aware of the proximity, the quiet.

He turns to you, lingering just a step closer than he needs to be. The air between you feels too full, your skin thrumming where he’s still holding your hand. His eyes flicker down to your mouth, just for a second. Barely a heartbeat.

Then he leans in.

It’s subtle at first, a shift in weight, his eyes still locked on yours. And then he’s close, close enough to kiss you.

And he almost does.

His breath ghosts over your lips, and you tilt your chin up instinctively, eyes fluttering shut—

But at the last second, he stops. Pulls back.

Just a fraction.

You blink up at him, startled and flushed and blinking hard, heart suddenly thudding in disappointment.

He opens his mouth like he wants to explain, but nothing comes out. You clear your throat, trying to save the moment, to make it feel less heavy.

“Right. Um–goodnight, then,” you murmur, stepping back and turning toward the hall.

You don’t get far.

“Wait–” he says, voice low and rough.

You freeze.

Then you feel it, his hand catching your wrist.

You turn, breath held tight in your lungs, and he’s right there again. Eyes stormy and wide, jaw tense.

“I can’t–” he starts, but the words twist out of him like they’re too slow for what he’s feeling. “I’ve wanted to–”

And then he kisses you.

It’s not gentle.

It’s urgent – a bruising, heated thing that steals the breath from your lungs and sends your hands into the fabric of his shirt, gripping tight. His mouth moves over yours like he’s been holding this back for too long, like he’s starving for it.

You gasp, just slightly, and he swallows the sound with a low groan, his hands sliding up your arms, into your hair, down your back. You’re pressed against the wall before you even realise he’s moved you, his body warm and solid against yours, his mouth insistent.

There’s no space between you anymore. Just warmth, friction, hands fumbling and mouths desperate.

You break for air only to pull back in with even more hunger, his lips on your jaw, your neck, then back to your mouth like he can’t decide what part of you he wants more.

“Remus,” you breathe against him, dizzy.

His hands settle on your waist, gripping tight like he’s anchoring himself. His forehead rests against yours for a breath, and then he murmurs, “Come with me.”

You nod.

He leads you to his room without another word, fingers still laced with yours, and when he closes the door behind you, the air changes again.

Slower, now.

More deliberate.

The urgency is still there, but it softens into something deeper, more consuming. He kisses you again, slower this time, reverent. His hands roam, mapping, remembering. Yours find the hem of his shirt, the warmth of his skin.

You don’t rush.

You undress each other like a secret being unfolded. You climb into his bed like you’ve always belonged there.

And when he finally sinks into you, it’s not rushed, not hurried.

He holds you like he’s afraid to let go. Like he’s wanted this for months and is still struggling to believe it’s real.

And when you come apart beneath him, it’s with his name on your lips and your hands in his hair, and the kind of breathless clarity that tells you nothing will be the same.

-

The first thing you feel is warmth.

From the slow rise and fall of his chest beneath your cheek, the steady heartbeat you must have drifted off to somewhere between kisses and whispered breaths.

You’re tangled up in Remus Lupin.

The duvet is twisted around your legs, one of his arms is slung heavy and loose around your waist, and his bare chest is the perfect place to rest your cheek. His skin is warm, smooth in some places, scarred in others. You trace a lazy finger over one of the faded marks near his collarbone, remembering where your mouth had been hours earlier.

He’s still asleep, face tilted slightly toward you, lips parted just enough to show the edge of a tooth. His hair’s a mess – curling against his forehead in soft, unruly waves – and he looks younger like this. Softer. The tension that he sometimes carries, that quiet weight he doesn’t talk about, has slipped away entirely in sleep.

You smile without meaning to, letting your eyes wander across his face.

How is this real?

You stay like that for a while, not quite ready to break the spell, watching the soft flutter of his lashes, the faint rise of his chest. You feel safe, grounded, like the world could wait a little longer.

And then–

Your phone buzzes.

You blink, reach for it blindly, and when the screen lights up, your stomach drops.

“8:43 AM – New Message from Manager: Hey! Just checking you’re still coming in?”

You sit bolt upright.

“Shit–shit, shit, shit.”

Remus stirs beside you, brow furrowing slightly, but doesn’t wake. You scramble out of bed, moving towards your own bedroom trying to get ready as quickly as possible.

You do a rushed version of your morning routine in the tiny bathroom – brush teeth, splash water, a swipe of mascara and a spritz of dry shampoo that does absolutely nothing. When you return to his bedroom, Remus hasn’t moved. He’s sprawled diagonally across the bed now, hair mussed, arm half-reaching toward where you’d been.

And then you’re out the door, down the stairs, and into the rush of the day.

-

The hours drag.

Your body is at work, but your mind is still back in that bed. On the way Remus had looked at you. On the way he’d touched you. You spend the day replaying it in loops, trying not to let it show on your face.

It’s hopeless. You catch your reflection in a window around lunch and see it: the too-bright eyes, the almost-smile that keeps slipping onto your face for no reason.

-

By the time you get back to the flat, you’re not sure what to expect.

Remus is in the kitchen.

He looks normal.

Hair still messy. Wearing one of his old jumpers – the navy one with sleeves that swallow his hands – and stirring something in a pot on the stove. You hover in the doorway, your bag still slung over one shoulder.

He glances over, smiles. “Hey. How was work?”

It’s his usual voice. Easy, casual. Like it’s any other day.

You blink. “Uh... fine. Busy.”

He nods, turns back to the stove. “You want dinner? I made pasta.”

Your heart sinks a little, stupidly. “I’m not super hungry right now,” you murmur. “Thanks though.”

He doesn’t push. Just shrugs and says, “Alright,” like nothing’s strange.

But it is. You can feel it. 

The thing that bloomed between you last night, heavy and breathless and real, has been tucked neatly out of sight.

Maybe he regrets it.

Maybe it was a one-time thing.

Maybe he doesn’t want it to mean what it meant to you.

Eventually, you mumble, “I’m gonna go change,” and head down the hall before he can answer.

You close the door to your room with more force than necessary, leaning back against it with your eyes squeezed shut.

You feel foolish. You’d thought...

Well. 

You’d thought it might change things.

Instead, it feels like everything’s gone backwards.

So you do what you always do.

You hide.

You crawl under your duvet and pull your knees up to your chest, pretending you’re tired. Pretending you’re not waiting for a knock on your door that never comes.

✩ August ✩

You’ve fallen back into your routine from when you first moved in. Hiding away in your room, when Remus is in the living room. Retreating into yourself, an act of self-preservation, you think. 

You’ve escaped from your room today, Remus away at the doctors. Laying out on the sofa with a glass of cold water to combat against the heat that seeps into the flat, the hottest day of the year. You stare at the tv, staring unseeingly.

You’re halfway through the world’s most pointless reality show when the front door clicks open without warning.

You flinch slightly, half-rising off the sofa, until a familiar voice echoes from the hallway.

“Don’t get up on my account, sweetheart.”

A second later, Sirius is leaning over the back of the couch, sunglasses perched on his head and a takeaway iced coffee in each hand. He pokes you in the shoulder with one long finger, smirking.

You blink up at him, disoriented. “How did you get in?”

He raises an eyebrow. “Still have the spare. You lot never changed the locks after that one time I borrowed the toaster.”

“Stole,” you correct automatically.

He walks around the sofa and flops down beside you like he owns the place, long legs kicked out, one arm draped over the backrest behind your shoulders. He hands you one of the coffees. “Drink this. You look like you’re dying.”

“Thanks,” you mutter, finally slumping back into the sofa, gaze returning to the screen, where someone’s just burst into tears over a ruined meringue.

Sirius watches you for a beat. Then he leans in again, voice pitched low.

“So… what’s going on with you and Moony?”

You blink at him, your brain stuttering.

“What?” You shake your head. “Nothing. I mean, I have no idea. We don’t really… talk.”

Sirius clicks his tongue.

“Ah. Problem found.”

You glance over. “What?”

He gives you a look that’s both amused and just this side of exasperated. “He’s mopey. Has been for like, a couple weeks.”

You try not to let your expression betray you. “I don’t think that’s about me.”

“Yeah,” Sirius says dryly, “and I’m the Pope.”

Sirius watches you steadily, the smirk slipping off his face just a little as the silence stretches. You take a long sip of the iced coffee, letting the condensation chill your fingers, and avoid his gaze.

Finally, you exhale. It’s a slow, reluctant thing. “We slept together,” you admit, your voice barely above a whisper. “It wasn’t… nothing. I mean, it didn’t feel like nothing.”

Sirius’s eyebrows shoot up, but to his credit, he doesn’t interrupt. Just takes a slow sip from his own drink and waits.

You run a hand through your hair, the heat of the day clinging to your skin like guilt. “It was after the quiz. We were walking home and then–god, it just happened. And it was… really good. But I had to go to work the next morning. And then when I came back–he didn’t bring it up.”

You swallow. The words are harder to say than you thought they’d be.

“I figured if he wasn’t talking about it… maybe it was just one of those things. A mistake, even. So I didn’t either.”

Sirius lets out a low whistle, tossing his head back against the cushions. “Bloody hell.”

You roll your eyes. “Yeah. That about sums it up.”

There’s a beat of silence. You focus on the way the ice is melting in your cup, the way your pulse hasn’t quite calmed down.

Sirius shifts beside you, his voice quieter now. “Look. Rem’s a smart bloke. But sometimes…” he trails off, shaking his head. “He forgets people can’t read his mind. Thinks if he doesn’t say it out loud, it’s safer. Like he can keep it from meaning too much.”

“And he’s got it in his head,” Sirius continues, nudging your knee with his own, “that you’re far too good and far too pretty for him.”

You snort. “What, so he thinks I pity fucked him? Are you serious?”

Sirius deadpans, “Unfortunately.”

“That’s–” You set your coffee down with a soft thud, sitting up straighter. “That’s the most idiotic thing I’ve ever heard. He’s gorgeous.”

Sirius flashes a grin, all teeth. “Preaching to the choir, babe.”

You blink at him. “Wait, you–?”

He waves a hand. “Not the point. The point is, he’s probably thinking he’s ruined everything and you’re here thinking you did. You’re both being daft.”

You sigh again, pressing your fingers to your temples.

“You think I should talk to him.”

“I think,” Sirius says, voice level now, “that you need to. Because he’s not going to. Not unless he’s sure you want him to.”

“Okay,” you say finally, softly. “Okay. I will.”

Sirius reaches over, squeezes your shoulder with surprising gentleness. “Good girl.”

You roll your eyes. “Don’t push it.”

He winks. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

-

You feel grosser and grosser as the day goes on, becoming more sweat than girl. Whether it’s because of the heat or nerves you’re not sure. An unhealthy mix of both, probably.

You’ve run through what you want to say a million times in your head.

Maybe more.

Every version sounds wrong. Too much. Too vulnerable. Not enough.

So you sit on the sofa, legs crossed, iced coffee long since gone watery, clutching a cushion to your chest like it’s armor. The fan is humming in the corner but it does nothing to move the heat pressed into the walls of the flat.

When the front door creaks open again, you sit up so fast your spine protests.

Remus walks in slowly, his posture heavy with the weight of the day. He pauses when he sees you sitting there, like he wasn’t expecting it. There’s a split second where his face flickers. He gives you a tight, polite smile. The kind you might offer a stranger you bumped into at the shops.

Then he turns wordlessly toward the hallway.

“Remus.”

You say it before you can talk yourself out of it. Your voice doesn’t shake, but it’s close.

He stops. Still facing away. One hand resting on the edge of the doorframe.

“…Yeah?”

You take a breath that doesn’t help at all. Then another.

“I did want to talk about it.”

His head tilts slightly, just enough that you see the edge of his profile. There’s a pause. Like maybe he’s hoping he misheard.

“About what?” he says finally. Neutral. Careful.

You press your palms against the cushion like it might anchor you.

“About us having sex,” you say plainly. Then, softer: “And the day after.”

He winces.

You see it even from across the room – pain flashing over his face before he schools it away again. But not fast enough. Not before it lands in your chest with a hollow thud.

“I just…” You trail off, shake your head, try again. “I don’t want to pretend it didn’t happen. Because it did. And it wasn’t nothing to me.”

He turns at that, just enough to look at you properly. His arms are crossed, but not in that closed-off way you sometimes see, more like he’s holding himself together. His brows draw in, mouth set like he’s bracing.

“I know it wasn’t nothing,” he says quietly.

You sit back a little, heart thudding so loudly you’re sure it’s rattling your ribs.

“Then why didn’t you say anything?” It comes out softer than you mean it to, more hurt than accusatory. Your voice dips at the end like you’re hoping he’ll have an answer that makes it all make sense. Something that takes the last few weeks and peels the ache from them.

Remus hesitates. Then he laughs – dry, self-deprecating. Not unkind. Just tired.

“Because you didn’t say anything either.”

Your mouth opens. Closes again. You hadn’t expected that.

He rubs a hand across the back of his neck, the gesture tight with nerves. “I thought I’d messed it up. I thought–I don’t know. That maybe I crossed a line. You left so quickly that morning, and then you just–disappeared. And I thought, alright, that’s fair, it was a heat-of-the-moment thing. And I didn’t want to make it harder by pushing.”

“But I didn’t disappear,” you whisper. “Or I didn't mean to, I had to go to work. You acted like nothing happened when I got home.”

He meets your eyes then. And for the first time since that night, he looks open. Vulnerable in a way that makes your stomach twist.

“Because I thought if I let myself believe it meant what I wanted it to mean,” he says, voice low, “and I was wrong… I wouldn’t be able to look you in the eye again.”

You blink. “What did you want it to mean?”

There’s a beat of silence between you. The fan hums on, useless. The world waits.

Remus’s eyes are soft, almost pleading. “Everything.”

Your breath catches in your throat.

He exhales like he’s been holding it for hours. Days. Weeks, maybe.

“I wanted it to mean we’re not just friends who got carried away,” he continues, stepping closer, careful. “I wanted it to mean I get to look at you in the mornings and kiss you before you leave for work. I wanted it to mean you wanted me, too. Not just that night. After.”

Your heart cracks wide open.

“I do want you,” you say, voice trembling now, but sure underneath. “I never stopped. I thought I’d imagined it–that you regretted it. That it was a mistake.”

“It wasn’t,” he says, quickly. Firm. “Not even close.”

You stare at him, all those weeks of doubt pooling like ink in your chest. Slowly, you set the cushion aside, like shedding a shield.

He watches you. Doesn’t move.

“I wanted to tell you,” you say, standing slowly. “I just didn’t know how.”

“You’re telling me now,” Remus says softly. “That’s enough.”

You cross the room in four steps, barefoot and shaky and brave, and then he’s in front of you, warm and real and still yours to choose.

“I missed you,” you whisper, hands coming up to rest against his chest.

His arms come around you immediately, pulling you in like he’s been waiting this whole time. His face presses into your hair, his breath warm against your ear.

“I missed you more than I know how to say.”

You lean back enough to see his face, your hands curling in the hem of his jumper.

“Then say it like this.”

And you kiss him.

This time, it’s not urgent. Not desperate. It’s steady and soft and full of all the things you didn’t say. His lips move slowly over yours, reverent. Familiar. Like a promise.

He smiles into it. And when you pull away just enough to look at him properly, you find his eyes lit up with something you’ve only seen once before.

Hope.

“You’re not getting rid of me now, you know,” you say, resting your forehead against his.

“Good,” he murmurs. “I was hoping you’d stay.”

✩ September ✩

The days stretch a little shorter now, but summer’s warmth still clings stubbornly to the air, trailing behind in the soft buzz of bees and the golden hush of late afternoons. The flat’s windows are thrown open, letting in the scent of sun-warmed pavement and the rustle of dry leaves skittering along the street below.

Remus is barefoot in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, humming something low under his breath as he chops herbs with practiced ease. The late light catches in his hair, softens his features into something dreamlike. There’s a faint breeze lifting the curtain near the sink, and the clink of glass as he pours two drinks, glancing toward the living room where you’re curled on the sofa, legs tangled with Sirius’ across the cushions.

Lily and James arrive a few minutes later, the door swinging open with a chorus of greetings and laughter. Lily’s holding a warm loaf of bread wrapped in a tea towel; James has a bottle of wine under his arm and a grin too big for his face.

“Boo! I hate you guys being happy and in love,” Sirius announces, flinging himself into a new position across the armchair.

“You love it,” you say without looking up, one hand reaching blindly for Remus’ as he passes you a glass. He presses a kiss to the top of your head before he settles beside you, his arm slung across the back of the sofa, fingers brushing your shoulder in a quiet rhythm.

He hasn’t stopped touching you since that night.

It’s not overwhelming, not loud. Just soft, consistent reminders that he’s here, that you’re his, that he’s yours. A hand at the small of your back, knuckles brushing your thigh under the table, lips against your temple as he passes. Like he’s still learning how to believe it, but he’s trying every day.

Dinner is chaotic and loud, wine-stained and full of clattering cutlery and overlapping stories. Someone burns the garlic bread, Sirius knocks over a candle, and Lily accidentally flings a piece of tomato into James’ lap.

Later, when the plates are stacked and the last of the wine has been poured, Sirius puts a record on — something old and scratchy and perfect — and Lily pulls James up to dance. They sway messily in the living room, laughing, bumping into the furniture.

You’re half-tucked under Remus’ arm when Sirius offers you his hand.

“Come on, one dance. For your favourite.”

You shake your head, smiling. “No way. You’ll trip me up.”

“Probably,” Sirius concedes cheerfully. “But what a way to go.”

Remus chuckles beside you, warm and low, and you turn your face toward him instinctively. His gaze catches yours, steady and soft. Like everything else has blurred out.

“Go on,” he murmurs. “I’ll be here.”

You kiss him once — quick and fond — before letting Sirius spin you clumsily around the room, both of you laughing like children.

When the night winds down, James and Lily head off with matching yawns and promises to host next time, and Sirius dramatically declares he’s staying the night, already halfway through making the sofa into a makeshift bed despite your offers for him to sleep in your room that goes largely unused.

You and Remus retreat to his room, quiet and content. You curl into bed with the windows still open, letting the night breeze ghost across your skin. He wraps an arm around your waist and kisses your shoulder, murmuring something half-asleep against your skin.

It’s nothing dramatic. Just a slow, steady settling. A feeling in your chest that hums: this is it.