#i--

      You tell him how being by his side brought you comfort that first day, and being needed, bringing something good to someone's life like that... It was almost too much for an eleven year old to bear, he makes it a point for himself from then on, to be by your side, whenever possible.

      When you're eleven you stand side by side, fingers barely touching, he offers his hand to help you when you trip and fall down, your arms touch in class because you're desk mates, your hands touch during lunch because both of you are always going for the same dishes.

      At twelve, he flicks your forehead for the first time to tease you, beginning an never ending war, whenever one or the other does something a little bit stupid, or goes a bit too far on the banter, two fingers and a click are coming, begins on the forehead, by the end of the year, the shoulder, the back of the head, arms, hands, cheeks, all fall victim to the awfully irritating war tactic.

      At thirteen, Hogsmeade weekends are chiseled by the way Remus takes your arms in his every time you're all about to leave, side by side, arms tangled as his hand went right to his pocket. You try not to feel anxious for it, but you silently count the days for when it's time to go there again.

      At fourteen he's already gotten so much taller, and he loves when you rest your head on his shoulder, he's also gotten the habit to almost hug you from behind when you're all standing up and talking, putting his arms on both of your shoulders, crouching down just enough so his chin is on the top of your head.

      When you're both fifteen, all these little touches begin to make your stomach twirl around, and when girls look at him you feel like you're going to either throw up or punch them in a rage fit.

      You start tracing Remus' scars with your fingers when its healed, and patching it up when its not.

      Getting off the train for your sixth year, Remus offers his hand to help you hop off, he doesn't let go when you do, holding hands becomes the norm. Reaching for each other's hand when something good is happening, or something terrible.

      He often places his arm around your neck, and you intertwine your fingers with his hand there.

      You lay on his lap on the common room, facing the fire place, and he reads to you while his fingers go from rubbing your arm to putting your hair behind your ear. He gives you good morning kisses, one cheek only, but it always lingers, and good night kisses, on your forehead, and it also lingers and always ends in a tight hug, your hands on his waist, his around your shoulders and on your head, pulling you close to him.

      You dance drunkenly during parties and it always feels like something is about to happen.

      But it doesn't.

      He almost doesn't let you go at King's Cross, enjoying every tiny bit of the last touch of the year, only pulling his arm back when even the tip of his fingers can't feel yours.

      It's seventeen and he helps you out of the train, and it's the first day of your last year, and his heart feels like it's going to burst if he doesn't do anything about it.

      It's not the most romantic place, or the most romantic time, but he knows if he waits too long he's gonna miss too precious of moments with you, so when curfew hits and the few people in the common room begin to leave, he holds you in place and you wait.

      It's silent for a while as you both just admire each other, Remus shakes his head a chuckles for a good second, not believing he took so long to actually do this, you laugh along with him.

      And it could be awkward. But it isn't, because it's him.

      You notice his hair still has that bit of light from the summer, making him almost blonde, but not so much, and he notices how your teeth are nibbling on your lower lip, anxiously waiting for something to happen.

      And this time it does, he takes your face with his hands and scooches closer to you, "can i kiss you?"

      If it was anyone else, you might feel childish by how hard your heart beat after he finally, finally asks it. You feel like you've been waiting for this moment from the second you saw him years ago, but you're sure you've been dreaming of being even closer to him for at least three years, you want to kiss him since you were fifteen.

      You nod in a hurry, afraid he might give up.

      "Took you so long to ask."

      He barely gets the yes and his hands drop to your waist, lips hungrily touching yours, you kissed back with just as much passion, landing your arms around his neck, his lips are chapped, but soft, yours taste like strawberries from your chapstick and he's going to remember that.

      He doesn't even have to try to deepen the kiss himself, you're more than willingly giving him entrance and as your tongues brushed against each other you can feel his breath and yours almost synchronize and think to yourself that might be the most romantic thing you've ever lived through.