The night had shifted.

It wasn’t anything dramatic — no storm rolling in, no thunder crashing through the windows of the castle. Just a gradual quieting. The kind that seeps in after too much music and sugar and perfume; after too many people pretending to feel lighter than they are.

Remus had slipped away from the ballroom an hour ago, maybe less. Time had stopped holding shape the moment he stepped through the door and let it close behind him with a soft click. The corridor beyond had been empty then, echoing faintly with laughter and music and the occasional burst of applause. But now the stillness felt different — settled, somehow. Like the stone itself was keeping watch.

He sat beneath one of the tall, narrow windows that lined the corridor, spine curved gently against the carved frame, the chill of the stone seat long since forgotten. His elbows rested on his knees, long fingers loosely clasped, his body folded in on itself in a posture that spoke more of quiet containment than of comfort. The warmth of the Yule ball — all the gold-threaded gowns and lifted champagne glasses and swirling spells — was a distant thing now, muffled and dreamlike behind thick oak doors.

His dress robes, so carefully arranged at the start of the night, had gone soft and creased. His tie was half-untied and slipping from his collar. His hair, always a little unruly, had fallen into his eyes in the way it always did when he was too tired to fix it. He hadn’t moved much. Hadn’t needed to. The moment he’d seen you — truly seen you, under those chandeliers — the night had taken on a weight it hadn’t held before.

You’d looked luminous. He wasn’t sure anyone had noticed the way his breath caught. He hoped not. The truth of it sat somewhere low in his chest, deep and aching — the kind of truth that didn’t need to be spoken to be believed.

He hadn’t meant to watch. He wasn’t even sure how long he had. It wasn’t the kind of thing he could time. It was just… one moment, you were laughing — your hand on your dates arm, your eyes catching the candlelight — and the next, they were kissing you. Lightly. Briefly. Like it meant everything and nothing at all.

It hadn’t been a scene. No one had gasped. No one had stopped dancing. Just another golden detail in a night full of them.

But it had carved a space in him. Something small. Sharp. Slow.

He was still sitting with it when he heard you approaching — the sound of your steps like a signature. There were dozens of people at the ball, moving in and out of rooms, but he knew this was you. He knew your rhythm. He always had. It was ridiculous, really, the way his body recognized your presence before his mind had caught up.

“It was only a kiss. I know. People kiss each other all the time.”

There was a hollow note beneath the words, carefully concealed. Not bitterness. Just something resigned.

“But gods, I felt ridiculous. Just standing there like I’d been… winded.”

He let the breath out in something like a laugh, but there was no humor in it. Just release.

His fingers curled slightly, the way they always did when he wanted to hold something but didn’t dare ask. When he finally looked at you, it was slow — hesitant — the way someone touches a bruise to see if it still hurts.

“It wasn’t the kiss that mattered. It was the fact that it wasn’t me.”

And there it was. Laid bare. No armor. No performance.

The words fell into the silence between you and stayed there, like the snow on the windowsill — gentle, soft, unmoving. He didn’t try to take them back. Didn’t try to dress them up.

The faint strains of music continued behind the doors. Some slow waltz now, spun out in distant chords. It sounded like something from a memory he hadn’t had yet.

“Sorry, {{user}}.” he added finally, much quieter.