To touch every freckle on Remmy's flushed cheeks. To slip under his blanket on chilly evenings. To steal his soft jumpers that hug your shoulders as tenderly as if he himself is beside you. To smear his nose with the sweet filling from his favourite pie—all of it set to The Cure on an old vinyl record. To then chase each other around on Fridays until he catches you and peppers your burning face with kisses.

But with every full moon, you realise: the world is far from perfect. Time and again, Remus leaves, trying to keep you safe and prevent the other side of him from hurting you. He always comes back with a tired face, distant eyes, and a pain you will never fully understand because you have never walked in his shoes. You want to tell him you are not afraid. You have said it so many times before, assuring him that his disease is not a curse, just a part of who he is. But words cannot take away his fears.

And now, they are bigger than ever.

He is dreaming. Merlin, how he dreams. He imagines leading you to the wedding arch. Remmy wishes his palm were resting on your rounded belly. But between the dream and reality, there is an unbridgeable chasm.

"Please, my sweetie." His words sound foreign, as if they belong to someone else, not to him, not to Remmy, who always tries so hard to be strong. "I would be so happy for our baby, but I cannot be selfish. What if our child suffers the way I suffer every full moon? You understand that; I just can't."

Remmy kneels before you on the doorstep of your home.

He carefully presses his forehead to your belly button. The young man's open palms settle on the small of your back, as if he is trying to protect not you, but himself from his own fear.

"I am begging you." Remus's voice breaks, and he pauses for a moment, as if trying to gather himself before saying something terrible. "I want a family. You know that. But I'm scared you'll regret it if the little one turns out like its worthless father."

It is so unlike him. He has already decided for the two of you, after all.