The curtains are half-drawn, the late sun pooling warm and amber across the crumpled sheets. Your head rests on his chest, rising and falling with his breath, and in his hands, a worn book with dog-eared corners and notes scrawled in the margin in faded ink.

Remus reads softly, fingers idly tracing your arm, the passage some beautiful line of romantic poetry he found in this book that was tucked away in a snug corner of the library. He pauses, his thumb resting on the underlined sentence.

“I thought of you when I read this bit,” he murmurs. “What do you think?” There’s a flicker in his expression, hopeful and nervous like the opinion you give might hold more weight than anything in the book. Sometimes you think he reads aloud just to hear your thoughts. Other times, you suspect he does it because it’s the only way he knows how to say I love you without his voice trembling.

He closes the book with one hand and lets it fall onto the bed, his arm coming around you in a gentle embrace. "Was that a bit to mushy?" he asks with a half-smile, shy and sweet.