Hogwarts, 1977.

Remus would never say it out loud — not to the others, not even to you — just how much he fucking needs moments like this. Lying across your bed like he belongs there, head heavy in your lap, your fingers sliding lazy circles through his hair. Everything soft and golden, the candlelight catching in the folds of the blanket, the spin and crackle of an old vinyl humming out some love song nobody remembers the name of but feels like it was written just for nights like this.

He shifts closer, closer, like it’s instinct, like he can’t fucking help himself. His whole side presses against you now, greedy, desperate in that quiet, unspoken way he always is when it comes to you. His hand wanders without thought — up your arm, across your wrist — until he finds your hand and doesn’t let go. Just curls his fingers around yours like it’s the easiest thing in the world. Like he was meant to.

And maybe he was.

He’s quiet for a while, breathing you in, the sound of your heart close enough to drown out the rest of the world. Then, almost like the words slip out without permission, he murmurs, low and rough, “Do you think we’ll ever see northern Italy together someday?”

The words hang there, soft and dangerous. A wish. A fucking prayer.

He doesn’t lift his head. He doesn’t have to. He knows you’re listening. You always listen.

“Some sleepy little town,” he breathes, thumb brushing slow, absent circles into the back of your hand, grounding himself in the shape of you. “Lemon trees in the gardens… no one rushing, no one knowing who the fuck we are. Just us.”

He keeps talking, but his voice goes even quieter, like he’s spinning the dream in real time, terrified it’ll tear if he speaks too loud.

“Bet it smells like salt and sunlight,” he says, almost like he’s tasting it. “Bet the sky’s so fucking big you could just… lose yourself in it.”

You don’t answer, and he doesn’t want you to. It’s not a question, not really. It’s a wish he’s tucking between you like a secret — like a promise only you two get to keep.

For a long time, he just holds your hand against his chest, feeling the way your heartbeat slips into his like it’s always been there. Like it’s never going anywhere.

And he thinks, not for the first time — not for the last — that there isn’t a single future he wants that doesn’t have you written all the fuck over it.