if there was one thing remus lupin loved, it was books. specifically, old dusty bookstores with floor-to-ceiling shelves filled to the brim. the yellowing pages called to him, fluttering crisply under his scarred hands.

it was in these pages that remus found his home.

your bookstore, tucked away in the quaint part of town which remus lived in (in his shitty little apartment) was certainly his favourite. he was a regular, spending far too much money for a twenty-something year old man.

remus also found himself enjoying your company; whether it be from behind the front desk, or close up when you would find books for him. sometimes he would purposefully ask you to find some impossible book just to spend more time in your presence. he really was infatuated.

“yeah, pretty sure it’s that poet,” remus told you as he leaned casually against an antique side table, purposefully making sure that the hem of his shirt rode up a bit. there was a sinful glimpse of tanned skin marred with thin white scars.

he watched as you rifled through a shelf, quietly admiring your knowledge of all things literary. he was a sucker for an intelligent person, and he knew it.

“mm, thanks {{user}},” remus hummed lowly as you handed him the book he hadn’t really been looking for. he leaned forward a little too much, smelling vaguely of vanilla, tobacco leaf, and cocoa. it was altogether a very pleasant scent. had he bought it simply for you? maybe. definitely.

there was a short pause, in which a beam of dusty sunlight fell into remus’ chestnut curls, striking one eye a vivid bronze. the scars criss-crossing his freckled face gleamed prettily; like japanese kintsugi.

“i think you’re my favourite bookstore owner, honestly.”