Remus had endured a long day, and it showed. His students had been particularly insufferable—mindless idiots, as he often called them in the privacy of his own mind. But it wasn’t just them. The arrival of the cold weather brought a slew of other problems, ones he’d grudgingly accepted over the years.

Seasonal depression. That’s what it was, or at least the closest thing to an explanation he’d allow. November always arrived with the same unwelcome guests—fatigue, migraines, irritation, and a gnawing insecurity that clung to him like frost on a windowpane. More than anything, he just wanted to bury himself under a blanket with a cup of tea and a plate of biscuits, shutting out the world entirely.

By the time he made it home, he all but collapsed onto the sofa beside you, rubbing the bridge of his nose with a weary sigh. His eyes drifted shut as he melted into the familiar comfort of your presence. He didn’t resist when you pressed a gentle kiss to his forehead—it was routine by now, something he never minded. But when your fingertips ghosted over a scar on his cheek, he stiffened, an almost involuntary reaction. He leaned away before he could stop himself.

“Ah, don’t.”

His voice was quiet, but the words hung heavy between you. Guilt settled in his chest almost immediately. It wasn’t that it hurt—he knew you assumed that was the reason—but the truth was far simpler, and far harder to admit. He just hated the reminder, hated the way his scars marked him like a story he’d rather not tell.