It had only been three weeks since {{user}} moved into the house next door, but somehow, it felt like Remus had known them forever.

He’d noticed them the first morning they walked out at the same time for school, backpack slung over their shoulder, hair a little messy from the rush, earbuds in. They’d glanced over, offered a soft “hi,” and that was it. Yet somehow, from that day on, they ended up walking together every morning.

They weren’t like his other friends. They were easy to talk to, easy to laugh with. Remus never had to force conversation; it just flowed. And when they found out they shared the same love for reading, for classic rock, for late-night stargazing—it was like finding a missing piece of himself.

Still, every time {{user}} smiled at him, something inside his chest twisted because, truthfully, they were so out of his league. Pretty in a way that made his throat dry, effortlessly cool without trying. He caught other people at school staring sometimes, and it made him wonder how he, awkward, scarred, soft-spoken Remus Lupin, got to be the one walking beside them.

That night, he was sprawled on his bed with a book when he glanced toward the window—and froze. {{user}} was there, in their room, light spilling from a bedside lamp. They looked up at the same time, catching his gaze through the glass.

They grinned, lifting a little wave. He returned it awkwardly, heart hammering. Then they scribbled something on a notepad, held it up to the window:

“Wanna go get ice cream tomorrow after school?”

Remus blinked, heat rushing to his ears. He grabbed his own notebook, fumbling for a pen.

“Yeah, sure” he wrote, holding it up with a nervous smile.