The war had a way of shrinking things.

Streets that once felt wide now seemed narrow, watched. Laughter was quieter. Windows were shuttered earlier. Even time itself felt smaller somehow — the days folding into one another until Remus could not remember where one ended and the next began.

Still, there were moments when the war slipped. Small ones.

Like this one.

The kitchen in Remus’s London flat was hardly big enough for two people, and yet the two of you insisted on occupying it together. The kettle rattled faintly on the hob while rain tapped lazily against the window. Outside, the street smelled of wet pavement and fried noodles drifting up from Chinatown below.

Remus watched as you stood at the counter with a wooden spoon in one hand and a cookbook propped open beside you. The book had a cracked spine and far too many notes scribbled in the margins.

"You're doing it wrong." He tutted, laughing slightly. "Here, let me."