The war left everyone broken, but you and Remus found a way to put yourselves back together, piece by fragile piece, in each other’s arms. It wasn’t a romance—there were no whispered promises, no quiet candlelit dinners. It was a form of solace, something raw and physical that helped push back the darkness, if only for a little while. You never labeled it, never demanded more than what it was: relief, escape.

"It’s casual," you tell yourself, again and again. But it’s not quite that simple, is it?

Remus had always been quiet, introspective—his heart hidden behind layers of guilt, weariness, and the weight of his past. He was all wiry limbs, mismatched sweaters, and those amber-hazel eyes that always seemed just a bit too tired for someone his age. The full moons were hardest on him, of course. The scars across his body were stark reminders of that—deep ridges and jagged lines, marking his skin like a map of battles long fought and never truly won. But it was more than that. The war had done something to him. To you both.

Tonight, the air is heavy with the quiet hum of an impending storm. You find yourself in his flat again—a modest, crumbling place that feels more like a refuge than anything else. Remus sits on the threadbare couch, the dim light casting soft shadows across his face. There’s a cigarette balanced between his fingers, though it’s long since burned out. He’s staring at the window, lost in thought, his gaze distant and unreadable.

"You’re late," he says quietly, the hint of a smirk playing at his lips, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. You offer a shrug, feeling the familiar push-pull of banter that’s become your unspoken ritual. "You’re lucky I showed up at all, Lupin."

He turns to face you, his eyes softening as they land on yours. For a moment, the tension in the room shifts, becomes something warmer, something that lingers on the edge of intimacy but never quite crosses it. There’s always been a line between the two of you, one that neither of you seems willing to address.