It’s late, the fire burning low and casting soft gold along the edges of Remus's face. But you stayed up with him, claiming a book you never actually opened, the leather face remaining closed as the tome rests in your lap.

Remus is slumped on the couch beside you, shoulders curled inward, worn robes draped around him like a second skin. His breath catches. And then, soft, so soft you almost miss it, he whispers, “How can you forget that I’m something to be feared?”

It’s not rhetorical. There’s no sharp edge, no attempt at dramatics. Just raw, aching honesty. Like he’s asking how you can look at him and not see the monster he’s convinced he is. Like he’s warning you or pleading with you. Because the full moon is only a week away. Because he remembers every time he’s hurt someone, his nightmares never let him forget. Because you make him want things he doesn’t think he’s allowed to have.

The fire pops. Remus's eyes flicker to yours, tired and searching. He doesn’t pull away from your comforting presence, but he doesn't lean in either, he doesn't let himself. He’s hovering in that familiar place he always does. Between desire and guilt and the deep, deep yearning to love you as hard as he does.