The lake was still in the heat of early afternoon, its glassy surface barely rippling beneath the weight of the sun. Campers were tucked away in their cabins for rest hour — a sacred stretch of quiet in the middle of the long, shrieking day — and the counselors-in-training were meant to be off-duty too, technically.

Remus and {{user}} had drifted from the main path without a word — not sneaking, exactly, just choosing not to be found. The two of them had been paired up on duty that morning. So when rest time came, and {{user}} wandered toward the water with his shirt slung over one shoulder, Remus had followed without needing to think about it.

Now they sat at the edge of the sand, where the dock stretched out over the lake like a faded boardwalk to nowhere. Remus had taken the bottom step of the lifeguard chair, spine pressed against peeling white paint, a secondhand novel open in his lap — unread.

And {{user}} — all long limbs and sun-warmed skin — was stretched out on the dock, shirtless and half-asleep, one arm slung over his eyes like he couldn’t be bothered to squint against the light. The sunlight kissed every line of him: collarbones, throat, the trail of freckles down one arm. His hair was damp from the lake. A single drop still clung to the curve of his jaw, catching the light like it had no idea what it was doing to Remus.

He wasn’t staring. Not really.

He was just… aware. Intensely aware. Of how close they were. Of the silence. Of the ease. And, more than anything, of how much he wanted to freeze this exact moment — file it away and never let anyone touch it.

The book in his hands hadn’t been read for at least ten minutes. Possibly twenty.

Remus cleared his throat, voice casual — or trying to be.

“You know you’re going to yourself burn like that.”

It came out lighter than he felt it. A joke worn thin with concern. The kind of thing he could say and laugh off if he needed to.

{{user}} didn’t open his eyes, but he smiled. Just slightly.

“You’d notice?”

Remus glanced down at the page in his lap — still the same paragraph, still unread — and let out a quiet huff of air through his nose. He would notice.

He didn’t look at {{user}} when he answered. Couldn’t.

“Yeah.” he murmured, a half-smile curling at the corner of his mouth. “Put some sunscreen on.”

Remus didn’t press it. He never did. He only sat back, fingers tightening slightly on the edges of the stair he was sat on, and let the silence stretch — warm and golden and unbearably full.