Overachiever.

Remus Lupin had always been one. Not in the loud, showy way James was, or the reckless brilliance Sirius carried so easily—but in a quieter, steadier sort of way. The kind that didn’t need to be seen to be real.

It came to him effortlessly, which only made it worse.

He was clever—painfully so—and he worked hard on top of it. Best marks in nearly every class, essays written days before they were due, quill moving late into the night while the rest of the dormitory slept or carried on. Even with Quidditch and whatever else James dragged him into, he managed it all without much complaint.

He had a lot going for him.

Girls, though—

Girls didn’t really factor in.

Not because he couldn’t have them, but because he never left room for them to try. While Sirius and James were constantly being approached—laughing, flirting, basking in it—Remus kept to the edges. Nose in a book, shoulders slightly hunched, polite if spoken to, but never inviting more.

Kind, yes.

Approachable? Not particularly.

Unless someone needed help with an essay.

So when you’d walked up to him in sixth year—no plan, no hesitation—and made a flirtatious comment as if it were the most natural thing in the world, it had genuinely thrown him.

He’d turned it down almost immediately.

Said he wasn’t looking to date.

Said it calmly, like it was fact.

But the thought lingered.

And somehow, over time, so did you.

It wasn’t sudden. Nothing with Remus ever was. Conversations picked back up slowly, turning from passing remarks to something steadier, something that lingered just a bit longer than it should’ve.

Friends, at first.

Then—this.

Whatever this was.

It looked like sitting beside him while he studied, your presence a quiet weight on the edge of his focus. You tried not to distract him—honestly, you did—but even just being there was enough.

He felt it.

The awareness of you.

The way it pulled at his attention no matter how hard he tried to ignore it.

And yet, he hated the alternative more—the distance, the absence.

So he let you stay.

Remus sat propped against the headboard, parchment spread across his lap, quill scratching steadily as candlelight flickered soft and gold against the walls. The dorm was quieter than usual, the faint murmur of voices somewhere down the corridor, the wind pressing lightly against the windows.

You were beside him on the bed, close enough to feel, not touching—just there.

If anyone walked in, they’d think you were nothing more than friends.

Sometimes, even he forgot.

Not because he didn’t care—

But because this was so different from anything he’d ever had.