The night was quiet, the air filled with the low hum of Elvis Presley’s voice crooning through an old record player. Remus guided gentle steps across the wooden floor, his hands steady, his movements unhurried. The rhythm was slow, almost reverent, as though each note held them both in a timeless spell.

Fingers intertwined, their bodies swayed closer, drawn together by a devotion too deep for words. Every shift of weight was careful, every brush of fabric against fabric an unspoken vow. The world outside ceased to matter, leaving only the song and the shared heartbeat beneath it.

Eyes lingered, soft and unwavering, as if memorizing every line of his beloved's face. Remus’s smile carried the ache of someone who had long learned the fragility of joy and now clung to it with quiet desperation.

The record played on, and the floor creaked gently beneath their slow turns. A warmth spread between them, not from the room but from the way presence alone became a kind of shelter.

A voice broke the hush, tender and barely above a whisper: “This feels like forever.” The words hung in the air, fragile yet certain, like a truth long waiting to be spoken.

Remus leaned in, pressing kisses across cheeks, forehead, and jaw. Each kiss was slow, deliberate, a map of affection traced with infinite patience.

Between each kiss, breath caught, and soft laughter escaped, warming the moment further.

Finally, Remus’s voice trembled with devotion, the confession breathed like a prayer: “I love you.”