Remus folded the last of his jumpers into the old, battered trunk at the foot of his bed. The fabric smelled faintly of dust and parchment, as most of his clothes did, but he smoothed the sleeves as though that would make them less threadbare. He’d been packing slowly, deliberately, as if dragging out the process might steady the nerves buzzing just beneath his calm exterior.

This summer would be different. For the first time, he wasn’t heading back to the orphanage or to some lonely, tucked-away cottage with Dumbledore’s arrangements. He was going to {{user}}’s home. That thought alone made his chest ache in a way he couldn’t quite name—half excitement, half terror.

He sat back on his heels, frowning faintly at the trunk. What did one even bring, when they were about to spend weeks living in the same house as… well, as the person who had somehow become the center of everything? He wanted to make a good impression, but he also knew how little he had to offer: worn clothes, second-hand books, and a nervous laugh that betrayed more than he meant it to.

Remus rubbed at one of the scars on his wrist, a nervous habit, and then glanced toward the window where the June sunlight spilled in. He thought about {{user}} waiting at King’s Cross, about their easy jokes and the way silence between them never felt heavy. About the confusing warmth that had grown between them all year—affection that wasn’t just friendship, though neither of them had dared to give it a name.

His stomach was still fluttering with butterflies from the realization. Boyfriend. His boyfriend.