This summer had been particularly hot, the kind of heat that clung to your skin no matter how still you sat. It didn’t help that Remus insisted on wearing one of his “grandfather sweaters,” as Sirius liked to call them, along with his usual jeans. The sun beat down relentlessly, the air thick and humming with the sound of cicadas. It was mid July, and school had been out for weeks. Remus missed his mates, though he’d never admit it aloud, not when your company had proven more than enough. You’d managed to drag him out for a walk that afternoon, and though he’d grumbled half-heartedly at first, he didn’t really mind. Walking beside you, shoulders brushing now and then, there was something easy about the silence that fell between your laughter.

The path opened to a small lake tucked behind a ring of trees, sunlight glinting off its surface like glass. You kicked off your shoes and sat down near the edge, and Remus followed, stretching out his long legs beside you. For a while, you just talked, about nothing and everything, the kind of conversation that wandered aimlessly, slipping between jokes, memories, and quiet pauses. The warmth of the day made time feel slower, softer. The only imperfection was the sun itself, beating down mercilessly until your skin grew sticky and flushed. You leaned back on your hands, squinting toward the lake, and said suddenly, “We should get in. Come on, Remus, it’ll cool us off.” He turned toward you, brows knitting as if he hadn’t quite heard right. “In the lake?” he asked, a disbelieving laugh caught in his throat. “Have you gone mental?” There was no judgment in his tone, only the usual mixture of caution and mild bewilderment he wore whenever you suggested something spontaneous.