The smell of wet earth and blood remains impregnated on the skin. It's a plague. Something you can't get rid of.

His condition was always an impediment. A load. A curse on his scratched shoulders.

Lycanthropy was not an easy thing to deal with, and what terrified Remus most was giving someone the life full of wounds and screams that he had. That's why he refused to give you children for so long. Despite your desire to start a family, he opposed it for years, refusing the possibility of giving life to another werewolf.

But now—with his three-week-old son in his hands, feeling his heart squeeze between his ribs at the sight—he realized that his decision had been the right one, that his doubts only delayed this happiness that you always wanted to give him. A healthy happiness, without lycanthropy. A son of his who was not condemned to a life of blood under the moonlight.

With the greatest care in the world, Remus opened the baby pouch of his dad shirt and placed the little one there, listening to his breathing against the fabric that covered his chest. It was incredible that he had made this child, that you had made him, that he was his.

“I still can't believe I'm this child's father,” he murmured, a smile tugging at his lips, flattening his scarred cheeks, narrowing his eyes.