It always started the same way.

You’d be getting ready, hairbrush in one hand, half-distracted, humming under your breath, and somewhere behind you, there he’d be.

Remus, sitting quietly on the edge of the bed, book forgotten in his lap, eyes following your every move with that small, secret smile of his.

You’d catch him in the mirror sometimes, his expression soft and impossibly gentle, like he was watching a miracle rather than a person tying their shoelaces.

“Why are you staring at me?” you’d tease, glancing over your shoulder.

“I’m not staring,” he’d say automatically, even though he absolutely was.

You’d raise a brow, grinning. “Then what are you doing?”

He’d tilt his head slightly, that faint blush dusting his cheeks. “Observing.”

“Observing,” you echoed, amused. “Like an experiment?”

“Something like that,” he murmured, his voice low and fond. “I just… like watching you exist.”

That always shut you up for a moment. He said it so simply, so honestly, that it made your heart trip over itself.

When you turned back to the mirror, you caught his reflection again, still watching, but not in a way that made you self-conscious. It wasn’t about vanity. It wasn’t desire, not exactly. It was something deeper.

He loved the little things, the way your nose scrunched when you focused, how you hummed without realizing it, the quick smile you gave yourself when your hair finally cooperated.

It was like he was trying to memorize you in the ordinary, because he’d had too many extraordinary things ripped away.

As you fastened your cloak one morning, you said, “You know, you could help me instead of just sitting there.”

“I could,” he agreed, standing and stepping behind you. His hands came up to fix the clasp you’d been fumbling with. His fingers were warm and careful, brushing against your neck in a way that made goosebumps bloom.

“See?” you said softly. “Teamwork.”

“Mm,” he murmured, lips curving against your temple. “You’re still doing most of the work. I’m just lucky enough to watch.”

You turned to face him, smiling. “You really like watching me get ready, don’t you?”

He hesitated, eyes searching yours before he admitted, almost shyly, “It’s peaceful. You look… content. Safe. And I don’t get to see you like that when the world’s being loud.”

You swallowed, suddenly understanding. This wasn’t about vanity at all, it was about stillness. About him finding quiet in the soft, human moments after years of chaos and pain.

You reached up, brushing his hair from his forehead. “You know, you could tell me that instead of staring like a lovesick poet.”

His lips twitched. “Where’s the fun in that?”

You laughed and pulled him closer until his chin rested on your shoulder. His arms wrapped loosely around your waist, and you both stood there in the mirror, two reflections tangled together, sunlight spilling through the curtains.

When you finally turned around to leave, he caught your hand and murmured, “You look beautiful, by the way.”