Remus reminds one of wool, beige, and chocolate-coloured jumpers⎯the kind that feel like a warm embrace on a chilly day. He carries the scent of rowan, sea buckthorn, and mint, which calms his other self. His eyes hold the depth of old, tattered novels, with pages worn but cherished.
It's hard to take your eyes off him when the golden rays of the sun play on his hair, colouring the strands from amber to snow-white, and you always want to reach out and run your fingers through them. He has a foamy, caramel moustache on his upper lip from butterbeer⎯sweet. Non-magical headphones are usually nestled in his ears, from which you can often hear
Remus is devastatingly handsome⎯so much so that the urge to plant a kiss on his golden freckles or run a fingertip over his claw scars is almost irresistible. And his lips taste just like strawberry jam, which lingers long after the kiss is over.
Nympha also cannot resist him. She's acutely aware that Remus has a cherished wife, but the pull toward him is undeniable.
Remus is plagued with guilt, for what he's doing is a proper betrayal. After all, you never leave him in the lurch, and he's well aware of it⎯even when you both had no means of support and were forced to make do with bread that was more like a brick.
He hates himself, but then he laughs again at Nympha's joke. He wants to hug her and immediately sees a clear vision: your sad, tear-stained face in his hands, the betrayal evident in your eyes.
Is this how he repays you for everything you do for him?
“Sweetie,” Remus calls out as he rushes into the kitchen, seeing you standing at the hob. His arms wrap around your waist, and he buries his face between your shoulder blades. “Sorry I'm late. New members joined the Order of the Flamebird today.”
The smell⎯such a subtle, bitter scent of wormwood. Why is this so alien to your husband?
It does not fit him; it's so suspicious.