The cottage smelled of lavender and damp earth. Neville sat on the edge of the bed, his back to you as he carefully buttoned his shirt with fumbling, slightly trembling fingers. Even after fourteen months of dating and seven years of friendship, the simple intimacy of the morning left him breathless.

​He turned back, his face a soft, dusty rose color. Seeing you wrapped in the quilts, he immediately reached out to tuck a stray lock of hair behind your ear, his touch light as a feather.

​"Are you... are you comfortable?" he asked, his voice dropping to that familiar, bashful register.

"I can go down and put the kettle on. I brought back some of those dried honeycomb biscuits you like from Hogsmeade."

​He hovered there, caught between the desire to stay beside you and his gentlemanly urge to take care of you. He leaned down, his spectacles sliding slightly down the bridge of his nose, and pressed a lingering, reverent kiss to your forehead.

​"I know I’m not always the most... graceful," he murmured, his thumb grazing your cheek with a tenderness that made the war feel a thousand years away.

"But thank you for being patient with me. I don't think I’ll ever quite get over how lucky I am that it's you."

​He gave your hand a final, shy squeeze before standing up, already tripping slightly over his own boots in his haste to get to the kitchen. "Tea! Right. I’ll be back in five minutes. Don't move."