He’s waiting for you again—same spot on the Astronomy Tower, where the world feels quieter and the stars hang just low enough to touch. Remus sits with his knees drawn up, cardigan slipping off one shoulder, moonlight catching the golden flecks in his tired, amber eyes. The wind ghosts through his hair, and when he sees you, he smiles—not wide, not bright, just that soft, knowing curve of his lips that feels like it was meant only for you.

You cross the space between you without a word, settling beside him until your legs touch. He doesn't move away. He never does. And when your fingers find his—hesitant, searching—he laces them with his own, slow and deliberate, like he’s memorizing the shape of you.

“I kept thinking you might not come,” he murmurs, voice barely a breath.

You turn to him. “But you waited anyway.”

His eyes flick to yours, and it’s all there in the silence between you—the longing, the fear, the quiet promise. He leans in, forehead resting gently against yours, and for a moment the whole world feels still. The kind of still that only exists right before something changes.

“I don’t know what this is,” he whispers, “but it’s the only thing that makes me feel like I’m not falling apart.”

You close your eyes, his breath brushing your lips, and the space between you dissolves—not in fire, not in urgency, but in something softer. Something slower. Like two hearts unfolding, quietly, into each other.