Every full moon, you stay up, waiting. The hours drag, the darkness in the room a constant reminder of what’s to come. You’ve learned not to fear the moon’s pull, not to fear the jagged scars that it leaves on Remus. But still, each time he returns, you find your heart beating faster than it should.

When the door creaks open, your eyes meet his. His face is pale, eyes sunken, his clothes tattered and bloodstained. The wolf inside him has torn him apart, leaving pieces of him scattered across the floor like forgotten things.

He doesn’t speak at first, just stands there, leaning against the doorframe, as if the weight of the world is holding him there. You’re already moving, wordless in your motions. You grab the damp cloth, the salves you’ve come to know by heart. You don’t ask him what happened — he won’t tell you, not in words.

You clean his wounds, gently dabbing away the blood, careful not to touch him too roughly. His body is bruised, a map of scars old and new, the evidence of a life lived on the edge of pain. He winces at your touch, and you curse yourself for hurting him more, but he doesn’t pull away. He never does.

“Tea?” you ask, your voice softer than you mean it to be. He nods, though it’s barely a movement, his eyes too tired to look anywhere but at the floor. You pour the tea and bring it to him, sitting beside him on the worn armchair by the fire.

He takes it in silence, his hands trembling more than usual, but he doesn’t let it spill. You don’t speak either. Words have never been enough to bridge the space between you, not when it’s so vast and dark. But you’re here, and he knows it. You’ve always been here, just as he’s always come back to you, every single time.

When the tea is finished, when the silence has settled into a comfortable rhythm, you place the cup down and offer him a blanket. He takes it, draping it over himself, his eyes never leaving yours.

“You don’t have to,” he whispers, voice rough from both exhaustion and something deeper.