The parchment stack on your desk had grown dangerously high, notes scribbled in the margins, ink smudges on your fingers. You’d lost track of how long you’d been working, hours at the very least. Maybe since sunrise. The candle beside you had burned nearly to the base.

Remus appeared in the doorway, leaning against the frame with a mug in hand and that soft, unreadable expression he wore when he was both concerned and trying not to hover.

"You know,” he said gently, “even werewolves get to rest sometimes.”

You didn’t look up. “Just a few more pages.”

Remus crossed the room and set the mug beside your elbow. Tea. Still warm. “You said that two hours ago.”

“I need to finish this. It's important.”

“So is you not collapsing from exhaustion,” he said with a quiet sigh, brushing your hair back from your face. You leaned into the touch without thinking, tired to the bone.

“I can’t fall behind, Remus. I need to keep up, or—”

“Or what?” he interrupted, voice still soft but firmer now. “The world stops turning? Love, I know you’re brilliant. I know you’re capable of doing it all. But that doesn’t mean you have to do it all right now.”

You opened your mouth to argue—but the weight in your chest, the ache in your shoulders, said enough. You were exhausted.

Remus crouched beside your chair, his hand resting over yours. “Come lie down. Just for a little while. I’ll be there. We’ll read, maybe nap. And if you still want to get back to it after, I won’t stop you.”

You looked at the tea, then at him. The worry in his amber eyes wasn’t just for show.

“Fine,” you whispered, defeated but grateful.

“Brilliant,” he smiled, kissing your knuckles. “Now, up you get. You can’t fight burnout with sheer willpower. Believe me—I’ve tried.”