summary: You and James are best fucking friends—nothing more, nothing less. So why does everyone act like you're secretly in love, like it's some kind of undeniable fact?
cw: fluff, a pinch of angst, steamy makeout but no smut, best friends to lovers, idiots in love.
James gets up from the booth and leans down to ruffle your hair just because he knows it’ll annoy you. All sat around a too small booth in the back of the pub with a few chairs pulled up to accommodate the large group. It’s James' turn to buy a round, and you make a show of swatting his hand away as he goes, tracking his movements all the way to the bar.
You have a second to take in the dingy lights and the rowdy regulars in the local before Lily scares you half to death, leaning into your field of view. Eyes alight with mischief and an impish smile on her lip.
“So…” she says, dragging out the vowel, “what's going on?”
“What's going on with what?” you laugh, confused but delighted by Lily after a few drinks.
“You and James!” she practically squeals, shaking your arm with gleeful energy. “You’ve been giggling like schoolkids all night. He had his arm around you! Just admit it already—you like each other.”
You groan. “Lils, we always do that.”
She rolls her eyes dramatically, clearly fed up with your refusal to see what she sees. And you? You’re fed up with everyone constantly implying that you and James must fancy each other. As if friendship isn’t enough.
“James and I are friends. That’s—”
“Best fucking friends,” James announces cheerfully, appearing out of nowhere and sliding your drink in front of you before placing the rest in the middle of the table.
“Exactly! Thank you,” you say, gesturing to him like he’s just proved your point.
Lily exhales sharply, throwing you a meaningful look before turning back to the group.
James sinks back into the booth beside you, draping an arm casually along the backrest behind your shoulders
“Try this,” he says, nudging his glass toward you. He’s been working his way through the list of ridiculous specialty mocktails on the menu and insists you sample every one. “It’s strawberry… something. You’ll like it.”
You take a sip. He’s right, obviously, it’s sweet and bright and tastes like summer. You smile up at him, pleased. “That’s really good. I’m getting one next round.”
He grins, radiant. “You can have that one, angel.”
You try to push the glass back, but he doesn’t let you. He’s about to insist again, mouth open, eyes soft, when a familiar voice cuts in.
“Why don’t you share your drinks like that with me, Moony?” Sirius whines from across the table, looking genuinely offended.
Remus sighs—meaning to sound exasperated, probably—but the fond look he gives his boyfriend tells a different story.
“We’ve been drinking the same thing all night, that’s why,” he replies, a smile starting to bloom on his lips. “And…” He glances your way with a teasing glint in his eye. “We’re not an old married couple like them.”
“Yeah,” Sirius mutters, barely above a breath, like it's a tragedy, “good thing they’re both fit.”
You let out a loud laugh. “We’re friends—”
“Best fucking friends.”
“—Not an old married couple. And honestly, you can’t say anything, Remus ‘Knitwear’ Lupin.”
“She’s not wrong,” James says with a quiet chuckle, sliding his hand to your back, fingers moving in lazy, absent-minded circles.
Remus only laughs, shaking his head, while Sirius looks scandalized—utterly betrayed on his boyfriend’s behalf.
“I like Rem’s knitwear, Trouble,” Sirius says, fixing you with a glare that would be more effective if his cheeks weren’t flushed from the drinks. “And I’d be very careful, or I’ll convince him to stop knitting your presents. Then all you’ll get are boring gift cards.” He nods solemnly, clearly impressed with his own threat.
You gasp dramatically, hand to your chest like he’s wounded you. “You wouldn’t.”
Sirius just giggles in response—giggles, which is never a good sign—so you turn to Remus, eyes wide, appealing.
“You wouldn’t let him, would you? You’ll still knit me things, Rem?”
Remus chuckles, shaking his head with a smile that promises yes, always.
That’s when you notice James has gone quiet. You turn toward him, curious, and catch the way he’s watching you. Soft eyes. That funny little smile he only wears when he thinks no one’s looking.
“You okay?” you ask, voice gentling with concern.
The question seems to pull him out of whatever haze he was in. His grin returns, bright and easy, like it never left.
“I’m great, angel.” He leans in, dropping his voice so only you can hear. “If Moony stopped knitting for you... I’d learn how to.”
You blink at him. “You? Knitting?”
He nods solemnly, one hand still warm against your back, and raises the other as if swearing an oath. “I’d do it for you. Even if it meant stabbing myself with the needles every five minutes. That’s how committed I am.”
You laugh, unable to help yourself. “You’re so dramatic.”
You’re laughing, and your cheeks are warm, and James is still looking at you like you’ve hung the stars, but you brush it off like you always do.
Because this is what you and James do. Banter, teasing, little smiles no one else gets—your own language that you’ve been speaking fluently for years. It’s not new. It doesn’t mean anything.
He nudges your knee with his own, still grinning like he’s won something. Like your laugh is enough.
And maybe it is. Maybe it always has been.
But then Lily shoots you another look across the table, all smug eyebrows and that annoying “I told you so” glint in her eye, and it hits you again like it always does—this sudden awareness of how everyone else sees you. You and James. As if it’s already written somewhere, carved into the stars or tucked between the pages of your shared history.
You take a sip of the strawberry-whatever to stall, trying not to frown. Because the truth is, you know how this looks from the outside. All the little things he does, the way you lean into him without thinking, the endless inside jokes—it paints a picture. A certain type of story.
Because he’s James. And you’re... you.
And no matter how many times Sirius winks or Mary raises a knowing brow or Lily insists you're in love, you don’t think there’s a universe where you and James actually get together. Not really.
You’re best friends. That’s it.
And maybe there’s something sacred in that. Something worth protecting.
Besides—he doesn’t fancy you. Not like that. And you certainly don’t fancy him. No matter how charming he is. Or how warm his laugh makes you feel. Or how he always saves you the last piece of your favourite treats even when he pretends he won’t. Or how he’s looking at you now like he’d burn down the world just to keep you smiling.
No. You don’t fancy each other. That would be... messy. Complicated. The end of everything easy and good between you.
And James Potter may be a lot of things, but he’s not your ending.
He’s your always.
So you take another sip of the mocktail he gave you and bump his shoulder with your own, like nothing ever passed through your mind. He bumps you back, that lazy smirk still on his lips.
-
The pub starts to empty in waves, voices thinning out as people stumble toward coat racks and lingering goodbyes. You're nestled deeper into the booth than you realized, lulled by warmth and easy laughter and the comfort of being surrounded by your people.
Eventually, someone suggests calling it. Mary’s already halfway into her coat, Sirius is trying to coax Remus into stealing pint glasses for their flat and Lily kisses you on the cheek with a meaningful look before grabbing Marlene’s arm and disappearing toward the door in a burst of cold air and laughter.
And James?
James is exactly where he’s been all night—at your side, elbow brushing yours every time he moves. When you pull your coat on, he reaches over without thinking and helps tug the hood into place for you.
“You ready?” he asks, and it’s easy, familiar.
“Yeah. Thanks for driving.” You smile, a little sleepy now that the buzz is fading.
He shrugs like it’s nothing. “Wouldn’t trust anyone else to make sure you get home.”
-
The drive is quiet, but it’s not uncomfortable. Music hums low through the speakers—something you’ve heard a million times over, something James mumbles along to under his breath when he thinks you’re not listening. He’s one of those annoyingly good drivers too. One hand on the wheel, the other resting loosely between the seats, fingers drumming to the beat.
You glance over once and catch him mid-yawn, eyes crinkling at the corners as he grins at the road.
“Wanna come in?” you hear yourself ask when he pulls up in front of your place, your voice softer than you expect. “Just for a bit? I might put on a film.”
James looks at you, searching your face for something. Whatever he finds, it makes him smile gentler than before. “Yeah,” he says. “I’d like that.”
You flick on the lights when you step inside, and it’s like muscle memory from there: shoes off, jacket thrown over the arm of the sofa, kettle filled. James leans against your kitchen counter like he belongs there. And he kind of does. There’s a mug he always uses in your cupboard. A hoodie of his in your laundry pile.
“What are we watching?” he asks, already padding into your living room, socked feet silent on the floorboards.
“Something easy,” you say. “Something we’ve seen before so I don’t actually have to pay attention.”
James shoots you a grin over his shoulder. “That for me or for you?”
You ignore the question, toss him the remote. “Dealer’s choice.”
You end up on opposite ends of the couch, legs tangled somewhere in the middle because it’s late and it’s cold and this is what you do. It’s not new.
The movie starts playing, dim blue light casting soft shadows across his face. You watch it for a while—or try to—but your thoughts start running at a mile a minute instead.
You try to focus on the movie. Really, you do. But all you can hear is Lily’s voice echoing in your head: “Just admit it already—you like each other.”
It’s not just her. It’s everyone.
Sirius, with his loud, theatrical gasps every time James passes you a drink. Marlene muttering “just kiss already” under her breath like it’s an inside joke. Even Remus, who’s supposed to be the voice of reason, always quirking a brow when James tosses an arm around your shoulder like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Which it is. It’s normal. It doesn’t mean anything.
But now? Now it’s stuck in your head. Every glance, every smile, every stupid joke he laughs too hard at—it’s all tinged with the weight of everyone else's expectations.
You lean your head back on the cushion and sigh.
“What’s going on in that head of yours?” James asks, voice soft and scratchy with tiredness.
You glance at him. His eyes are still on the TV, but the corners of his mouth twitch like he already knows you’re spiraling.
You hesitate, then sit up a little. “Can I ask you something?”
His gaze flicks to you instantly. “Course.”
“Do you ever get… tired of everyone thinking we’re in love?”
James lets out a short breath, somewhere between a laugh and a groan. “All the fucking time.”
You nod, almost relieved. “Right? It’s like—just because we’re close doesn’t mean we’re secretly pining.”
“Exactly!” James says, animated now, like he’s been waiting for someone to validate this. “Like, we literally watched Sirius throw himself at Rem for years and no one said shit, but I pass you a drink and suddenly it’s like—‘When’s the wedding, James?’”
You snort, finally smiling. “It’s exhausting.”
“Truly.”
Silence falls again, but it’s different now.
“I just…” you start, voice quieter. “I wish there was a way to prove it, you know? That we don’t fancy each other. That this—” you gesture vaguely between the two of you “—this is just friendship.”
James raises a brow, half-amused. “You want, like… a presentation?”
You giggle. “Maybe.”
“Bullet points and everything?”
“‘All the reasons James Potter is categorically not in love with me.’”
“‘Exhibit A: the time I ate her last slice of pizza.’”
“‘Exhibit B: he never laughs at my best jokes.’”
“That’s a lie and you know it.”
Another beat passes. You look at each other.
There’s a flicker in James’ eyes—just a spark of something you can’t name—and it hits you, sudden and sharp, how close you are. His knee is still pressed against yours. His fingers are brushing your ankle like it’s nothing. Like it always has been.
You lick your lips. Heart hammering. And then—
“…We should kiss.”
James blinks. “What?”
You’re not even sure where the words came from. They just slipped out. But now that they’re here, they feel oddly right. Inevitable.
You swallow. “We should kiss. Just once. To prove there’s nothing there.”
He stares at you, stunned into silence.
You rush to explain. “I mean—everyone keeps saying there is. And maybe if we just… did it, and it was awkward or bad or whatever, we could tell them and they’d drop it. They’d finally stop acting like we’re in some secret relationship.”
James is still staring, mouth slightly open.
You flush, heat creeping up your neck. “It’s stupid, forget it—”
“I’ll do it,” he says suddenly.
Your breath catches. “You will?”
He nods, slowly, like he’s still catching up with himself. “Yeah. If it’ll prove a point.”
You try to ignore the way your pulse spikes. “Right. Okay.”
With the room still mostly shrouded in darkness, it's difficult to make out the features of his face clearly. He shifts closer to you whilst manoeuvring your legs to settle beside you properly. There's little time to recognise the shift in his gaze as it pins to your lips before he's grinning and speaking again.
“What happens when you fall in love with me because of this?”
You snort, rolling your eyes, “Your ego’s fucking massive Potter, I’ll be fine.” you say, gently slapping his arm. “Not sure about you though.” he rolls his eyes and shakes his head at you, acting like you're the biggest nuisance in the world.
“Come on then.” you say, impatiently. James sighs, then nods, before he's raising a hand to cup your jaw. His touch is gentle, like he's holding something fragile, priceless. And then he's leaning in so slowly, allowing you the time to pull away in case you’d been joking.
You let your eyes fall shut, expecting his kiss as your hand drifts to rest on his knee. You don’t notice the faint hitch in his breath at your touch—it’s so subtle, it nearly slips past you. The kiss comes and goes in a heartbeat, a fleeting, chaste peck that barely brushes your lips. When his hand pulls away and he clears his throat, your eyes open. He doesn’t say a word.
Despite the fact you should feel happy that you felt nothing, there's a strange twisting feeling in your stomach. Like when you startle awake after dreaming that you're falling. Then it comes to you, that kiss wasn’t a real one it can’t prove anything.
“That wasn’t a proper kiss, James.” you say while looking down at your hands, not wanting to face him.
“You’re right.” you look up to see his bottom lip trapped between his teeth and you're startled by the sudden fascination with his mouth.
“You have to kiss me like you’d kiss someone you're in love with.”
James’ gaze drops to your lips and stays pinned there as he’s silent, thinking.
“I can do that… I think.”
“Come on then.” you joke as you take a deeper breath in.
James exhales, slow and steady, but you can see it, the way his fingers twitch slightly, like he’s restraining something. Like there’s a weight behind your words neither of you wants to name just yet.
“You’re sure?” he asks, voice quieter now, with none of that usual cocky lilt. It’s careful. Measured. He’s giving you one last out.
You nod. “It’s just a kiss.”
But it’s not. You both know that. It hasn’t been just a kiss since the moment you suggested it.
Still, you say it anyway, because it’s easier to pretend it’s simple.
James shifts closer, knees brushing yours again, the space between you shrinking by the second. His hand finds your jaw again but this time his thumb lingers at your cheekbone, the pad of it brushing soft circles that make your heart lurch. There’s something almost reverent in his touch now, like he’s memorising every inch of you.
When he leans in this time, it’s slower. Like he’s moving through water. Like the world around you doesn’t matter anymore.
And when he finally kisses you, it’s nothing like the first time.
It’s not hesitant or performative or brief. It’s warm and aching and real.
James kisses you like he’s been waiting his whole life to do it. Like this isn’t about proving anything or making a point—it’s about you. About this.
His lips are soft and sure against yours, and when your hand slips up to grip the front of his jumper, he deepens the kiss with a low hum in the back of his throat, like he’s been holding that sound in for too long.
One of his hands slips down to your hip, shifting you closer, settling you on his lap. You go willingly, knees digging into the sofa at either side of his thighs as he tilts his head back to reach you better. Completely lost in each other, forgetting, you’re sure your lips will soon turn numb.
Your hands drift upward to settle around his neck and lightly tug the hair at the nape of his neck. James pulls you closer by the waist, chests flush and his mouth remains probing and searching on your own.
There’s the feeling of a smile in the kiss but you can’t tell who’s it is. You’ve fallen into a steady rhythm, easy and sweet, but when a noise is pulled from his throat you freeze, pulling away.
Looking down at him your face sits somewhere between concern and confusion. James stares right back at you panting, but otherwise seemingly unaffected.
“Forgive a man for getting distracted, angel.” he defends, like it's all your fault.
You know you should move away from him now. Really, you know. But there's a strange standoff happening where neither of you look away and neither of you move. Until you do.
It's hard to tell who moves in first, but the other reciprocates and you’re kissing again. James kisses you like a man starved. It's feverish and intense. It's everything.
You can’t help but grab hold of his hair, curls silky and soft through your fingers, giving them the slightest tug experimentally. It makes James shamelessly grind up against you. Nails digging lightly into the back of his neck, you gasp when his mouth leaves yours properly and latches onto your neck, lost in the bliss of it all, you grind down against him.
“Fuck, don’t do that,” His breath sounds strained. “can’t take it—“ His murmur is a rumble against your skin. You flush at the idea that he can’t contain himself because of this. Because of you.
When he pulls away, finished ravishing your neck, you come back down to earth, scrambling to remove yourself from his lap. His hair is messy, messier than usual, from your touch and his lips are red and kiss bitten.
You look to the far corner before you speak, unable to look at him now.
“... I guess we’ve proved we don’t fancy each other, then.”
You’re a liar and you know you are.
-
It’s been two days since the kiss. Two long, excruciating days where you haven’t spoken to James once. Not a text. Not a call.
You’ve replayed that night over and over in your head, hoping it would start to blur around the edges, lose its sharpness. But it hasn’t. If anything, it’s crystal clear—every touch, every sound, every look he gave you. And worst of all? You don’t even regret it.
You’re halfway through nursing a lukewarm coffee at the back corner of a café when Sirius slides into the seat across from you like he owns the place, all leather jacket and smug grin.
“Oi,” he says, tugging your cup toward himself and taking a sip without asking. “You’ve been avoiding us.”
You blink, startled. “Us?
As if summoned, Remus appears beside him, calm and neat in that way that makes you feel even more frazzled by comparison. “She’s definitely been avoiding James,” he says, not unkindly, as he slides into the seat beside Sirius.
Sirius throws an arm around Remus’ shoulders with dramatic flair. “And thus—by extension—the rest of us, tragically caught in the crossfire of whatever the hell is going on.”
You frown. “Nothing is going on.”
Sirius lets out a loud, derisive snort. “Right. Tell that to James, who has been moping around the flat.”
“I’m serious,” you say quickly.
Remus raises an eyebrow. “So are we.”
You roll your eyes. “Come on. He’s not moping.”
Sirius levels you with a look, all theatrics dropped. “He didn’t even yell at me for eating his last bag of crisps yesterday. He just sighed. Who even does that?”
Your heart sinks, but you try not to let it show. “He’s probably just… tired. He drove me home from the pub that night, maybe he’s still catching up on sleep.”
Sirius and Remus share a look.
Remus tilts his head. “That’s the night it started, you know.”
“I told you,” Sirius says, grinning now like he’s cracked a case. “Something happened in that car. Or after. Did you two fight?”
“No,” you say quickly. Too quickly. “Nothing happened.”
Sirius narrows his eyes at you. “You’re a terrible liar, you know.”
“I’m not lying,” you lie.
Remus leans in, voice quieter now, more careful. “We’re not trying to corner you. Just… we’re worried. About both of you.”
You take a long sip of your coffee, trying to buy time, but it’s cold and bitter and doesn’t help at all. You stare into the cup like it holds the answers. It doesn’t.
Sirius softens, which is somehow worse. “Look, we’re not asking for details. Just—maybe talk to him?”
You sigh. “I don’t know what I’d even say.”
“Try the truth,” Remus offers gently.
The truth is a mess, though. The truth is a blur of lips and hands and breathless gasps. It’s James’ eyes on yours in the dark, his fingers brushing your cheek like he was afraid you’d vanish. It’s the way you didn’t sleep that night, couldn’t sleep, because your skin still remembered the shape of his touch.
And the worst part? The worst part is you know what you felt wasn’t one-sided.
Sirius glances at his watch. “If you don’t call him, I’m sending him to your flat.” He threatens, leaving no room for argument.
-
You don’t call him.
You want to—God, you want to. You’ve picked up your phone half a dozen times just to stare at his name, thumb hovering over the call button like it’s going to electrocute you. But every time, something stops you. Some awful cocktail of fear and guilt and what-if. What if it was a mistake? What if he regrets it? What if he doesn’t, and you’re the one who ruins everything?
So you don’t call. You sit with the silence and let it suffocate you.
It's nearly midnight when there's a knock at your door.
Your heart jumps into your throat. For a second, you think about ignoring it, pretending you’re asleep, but you already know who it is.
You open the door anyway.
James is standing there, hoodie thrown on as if he’d left in a rush, curls messy and damp like he’d just run his hands through them a thousand times on the way over. His eyes flick across your face like he’s checking to make sure you’re real. Like he didn’t quite believe you’d actually answer.
He looks tired.
You swallow. “Hi.”
“Hi,” he echoes, voice low.
There's a silence. Tense. Tight. It stretches between you like a rubber band pulled too far.
“I wasn’t gonna come,” he says eventually, shifting on his feet. “Told myself you’d call. That I’d give you space.” He pauses. “But I waited. And waited. And you didn’t.”
Your chest aches.
“I know,” you say, barely above a whisper. “I just… I couldn’t.”
James steps past you without asking. You don’t stop him.
He makes his way into your flat like he always has- it’s muscle memory. Like he belongs here. And God, maybe he does.
“I’ve been losing my mind,” he says suddenly, turning to face you. “I thought we were okay and then it’s like you disappeared. No texts. No calls. Like it didn’t mean anything.”
“It wasn't supposed to mean anything, James.” you snap.
He flinches, like you’ve slapped him. You immediately regret it.
“I didn’t mean—” you start, but he cuts you off.
“You didn’t mean for it to mean anything,” he says, voice low. “But it did.”
You exhale shakily, crossing your arms like they can shield you from this. “We said it was just a kiss. To prove a point.”
“Yeah, well, that didn’t work,” he says, stepping closer. “Because I haven’t stopped thinking about you since.”
You glance away, blinking too quickly. “That’s not fair.”
“No, it’s not,” he agrees. “It’s not fair that I kissed you and everything changed and you’re acting like it didn’t.”
You hate this. Hate how right he is. Hate how vulnerable he looks standing in your living room like he’s afraid to breathe too hard and scare you off.
Your voice is quiet. “I didn’t know what to say.”
He’s quiet a beat. Then:
“Say anything.”
You hesitate. Your throat feels too tight. But then you force yourself to look at him, to see him.
“I love you,” you say. “And I don’t care if it’s wrong, I just do.”
James exhales, a slow, shaky breath like he’s been waiting for this—like he wasn’t sure he’d ever get it. “Say it again.”
“I love you,” you repeat, firmer now. “I love you and I’ve been trying not to. Because I thought it would ruin everything.”
He steps forward, hands gentle as they come to rest at your waist. “I’ve always loved you, I think.”
It breaks something open in your chest. This is real. This is terrifying. This is everything.
“But what if we mess it up?” you ask, voice trembling.
James gives you a soft, crooked smile—the one that’s always undone you. “Then we mess it up. Together.”
You laugh, a watery, disbelieving thing, before wrapping your arms around his neck and pulling him in.
And when he kisses you this time, it’s not tentative or desperate. It’s steady. Sure. Like he knows you’re his.
summary: you and Aaron are really good at hiding your relationship, or are you? or 5 times the team suspects you're together and 1 time they know for sure.
cw: fluff, typical criminal minds violence and topics
an: ahhh first hotch fic everrr, gonna have to write more cm stuff to get characterisations down but this feels like a nice first go
1.
"...so what do you think?" you ask, looking at Aaron – Hotch, technically, it is working hours – from across his desk. He glances up from his notes, the corner of his mouth twitching upward, an amused glint flickering in his eyes.
"You know the answer is yes, honey. Why are you even asking?"
"It's good manners," you say, your smile tugging wider as you inch forward in your chair, the toe of your shoe brushing his under the desk.
The truth is, you're both long past the need for politeness in these matters. If you want to stay over at Aaron's place, he's rarely, if ever, given you a reason to think he wouldn’t want you there.
He shifts in his chair slightly, setting the file aside to give you his full focus. The look he gives you is equal parts exasperated and soft, which is just how he loves you: half amused by your formality, half undone by it.
“You could come over unannounced and I’d still find a way to make it feel like I’d planned for you to be there all day,” he says, voice low and steady, like everything with him is. “You know that.”
You do. You know it in the way his fridge is always stocked with the oat milk you like, even though he won't touch the stuff. You know it in the extra toothbrush in his drawer, the way your laundry ends up folded at the foot of his bed after a weekend, neatly nestled between his dark t-shirts and pressed slacks.
Still, you like asking. You like that you can.
Hotch watches you for a beat, the silence stretching warm between you. Then he leans back in his chair, a slow breath leaving him like he's reluctant to shift back into Unit Chief mode, but he does because he’s nothing if not disciplined.
"You know something else, too," he says, eyes flicking down toward the folder on his desk before sliding back to meet yours.
You tilt your head, curious, a smile still ghosting on your lips. "What’s that?"
"That your break is over," he says, holding out the file across the desk, tone smooth but with the tiniest lilt of playfulness only you would catch. “And you need to go back to work.”
You glance at the file, then back at him, lifting a brow like you’re considering the offer. He’s in full supervisory mode now, except for the way he’s watching you too closely, his expression too fond.
You lean forward slowly, drawing it out, your hand hovering just short of the folder. "I think I’ll be alright," you murmur, feigning confidence, "my boss seems to have a soft spot for me."
The moment your fingers brush the edge of the file, he pulls it back with the smallest shake of his head, his mouth twitching again at the corners. Not quite a smile, not quite not, either.
"That might be true," he says quietly. "But don’t push your luck."
Aaron holds your gaze for a moment longer. Then, as if he just can’t help himself, he pushes up from his chair and rounds the desk in one fluid, practiced motion. You track him with your eyes, but your body stays still, waiting.
He stops in front of you, close enough that the scent of his cologne settles into the air between you. With that same maddening composure, he places the file in your lap, fingers brushing your thigh just enough to make your pulse skip.
“You’re not above paperwork,” he says softly, but the words are barely finished before he leans down and presses a quick kiss to your lips.
It’s the kind of kiss that feels like it costs him something to keep it brief.
But you aren’t finished. You tilt your face up before he can pull away fully, catching his jaw with your fingertips. You press back into him, just a little longer, a little deeper. His breath hitches, hands tightening against the arms of your chair like he’s not sure if he’s supposed to stop or pull you closer.
Hotch barely has time to blink before the knock comes.
You spring apart like teenagers caught in the act, both of you straightening instinctively—him taking a full step back, you smoothing the front of your shirt as you rise from the chair, face composed but pulse racing. You know you're standing too close, close enough that the air still feels warm between you, and for a second, neither of you moves.
Then the door creaks open.
Emily leans halfway in, eyes flicking from Hotch to you. She's not smirking, not yet - but her brow does lift, just enough to say: Interesting.
You clear your throat lightly, stepping aside as if you hadn’t just been kissing your boss at his desk. “Thanks for going over that file with me, Hotch,” you say, voice clear, maybe a little too deliberate. “Really helped.”
“Of course. Let me know if you need anything else.”
Emily’s gaze lingers on you for a moment longer. “JJ’s rounding everyone up in the conference room.” she says lightly.
You nod, making your way to the door with a quick “Got it,” and Emily steps back to let you pass. She waits a beat, then glances back over her shoulder at Hotch.
“Everything alright in here, sir?” she asks, the barest hint of a smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth now.
Hotch’s expression doesn’t shift. “Just going over case material.”
Emily hums noncommittally, clearly unconvinced but not pushing it. “Right. Very thorough, I’m sure.”
You catch the look she shoots you as you walk side by side down the hallway. You don’t say anything, and neither does she. But you know she knows. Or at least suspects.
2.
The case, as a lot of them are, is long and hard.
Cruelty that sinks into your bones and stays there, no matter how many hours you spend scrubbing it out under fluorescent lighting. You found the unsub and you brought him in, but no one really feels like they won.
The jet is quiet on the way home, lit only by the occasional blink of overhead lights and the low hum of the engines beneath your feet. You sit in the back corner by yourself, turned toward the window, cheek pressed lightly against your knuckles. It's dark out, nothing but clouds and sky and your own reflection staring back at you, tired and smudged at the edges.
At first, it was the usual: Morgan with his headphones in, head nodding slightly to some beat no one else can hear. Reid halfway through a dog-eared paperback. Emily curled sideways with her jacket for a pillow, Rossi sipping quietly at a scotch.
Aaron sat at his usual spot, paperwork spread neatly across the table in front of him. His pen scratched steadily for a while, methodical as ever. But even that faded eventually.
Now it’s just you and him.
Everyone else has drifted into sleep, slumped shoulders, legs stretched awkwardly into aisles, exhaustion settling over the cabin like a soft blanket. You hear Reid murmur something in his sleep and shift, but otherwise, the silence is heavy. Restful.
You’re so deep in thought you don’t hear the soft creak of leather as Aaron rises from his seat. Don’t notice the subtle hush of movement as he crosses to the kitchenette. The sound of a mug being set down, water pouring, the paper rustle of a teabag unwrapped – all of it folds into the white noise of the flight, lost beneath the whirring engines and the thick fog in your mind.
He moves the way he always does, like he knows time will wait for him. Like even gravity might hold off for a second, if he asked it nicely.
When he finally comes back, you only register him when the cushion beside you shifts under his weight. The faint scent of chamomile and citrus drifts upward, followed by the gentle clink of ceramic placed on the small table in front of you.
You blink, slow, as you turn your head.
Aaron’s watching you – not with concern, exactly, but something gentler. Something steadier. A softness in his eyes that no one else on this plane ever gets to see. You’re not sure they’d believe it if they did.
He glances at the tea, then back to you.
“I thought it might help,” he says, voice low, barely threading through the quiet.
You look down at the mug then back at him. “Thanks,” you murmur. Your voice is hoarse. You hadn’t realized how long it had been since you spoke.
There’s a beat of silence before he speaks again, even more gently this time.
“You alright?”
You nod instinctively, but then shake your head, just once.
“I don’t know,” you admit.
He doesn’t say anything right away. Just reaches over, his hand brushing against yours. When your fingers curl around his, his thumb sweeps across the back of your hand. He doesn’t ask for more. He never does. He just holds you like that, quiet and steady.
You both sit there for a while, the silence stretching long again.
You sip the tea slowly, the heat grounding, the taste comforting. His shoulder rests against yours, warm and solid, and neither of you moves away.
“I hate that it still gets to me,” you say finally, not looking at him. “You’d think I’d be used to it by now.”
His hand squeezes yours.
“I hope you never do,” he says, quiet but steady. “The day this stops getting to you is the day you’ve lost the part of yourself that makes you good at this, sweetheart.”
You don’t respond, but your grip tightens slightly around his, and he feels it. You know he does.
The tea is still warm in your hands when your eyelids start to slip. You don’t fight it. Not when his shoulder is right there, solid and warm.
You’re barely awake when he leans in, the press of his lips to your temple so light it could almost be imagined. But it’s not.
So you sleep.
-
When you wake, the world feels dim and weightless, the hush of descent in your ears, cabin lights low but brightening gradually. You blink against the dry air and shift slightly, realizing two things in the same breath.
Aaron is no longer beside you.
And you're warm. Too warm, actually.
You glance down to find his suit jacket draped across your front, heavy and crisp and unmistakably his. It’s folded in that way he does everything: precise, considered, like the act of keeping you comfortable matters more than anything else. The scent of him clings to the fabric – clean laundry, faint spice, and something uniquely his that you could pick out of a crowd without trying.
You’re reaching to smooth it over your lap when movement draws your attention. He’s walking back to the front of the jet, toward the files he’d left abandoned hours ago. The light overhead catches against the curve of his jaw, the familiar line of his shoulders. And just before he sits, he turns.
His eyes find you instantly.
You hold it for a second, that look, storing it somewhere behind your ribs where all the quiet, important things live.
Then you catch motion from the corner of your eye.
Spencer’s awake, sitting sideways in his seat a few rows ahead, blinking blearily behind his glasses. His book is open in his lap, but it’s clear he hasn’t read a word in a while. He’s looking between you and Hotch, his brows slightly furrowed, like he’s working a problem he doesn’t have all the variables for.
Thank god his genius brain takes a few minutes to start up after a nap.
You straighten a little, clearing your throat and nudging the jacket higher on your lap like it’s perfectly normal for your boss’s clothes to be draped over you mid-flight. Then you turn to Spencer with the airiest voice you can muster:
“Spence, what have you been reading?”
It works, somewhat.
He blinks, focusing on you as his brain shifts tracks. “Oh. Um.” He lifts the book like he’s only just remembered it’s there. “It’s a comparative analysis of the evolution of moral frameworks in isolated societies. There's this fascinating case study–”
You smile, nodding as you listen, letting his words fill the space. It’s enough to distract him, at least from whatever observations he was starting to piece together. And it's more than enough to keep your thoughts from drifting back to the warmth still lingering on your skin, or the weight of that kiss you’re still not entirely convinced you didn’t dream.
From the corner of your eye, you catch Aaron settling back in with his files, expression calm but unreadable again.
3.
It starts with a lull in the afternoon, one of those rare moments in the bullpen when the cases are filed, reports are done (mostly), and the coffee's gone lukewarm but no one wants to get up to fix it. The low hum of keyboards and the occasional rustle of paper fills the air, a kind of peace, however temporary.
You're halfway through your third report of the day, pen uncapped and mouth twisted in concentration, when Morgan leans across the short wall of your desk, drumming his fingers lightly against the divider.
"So, what’s the deal with you?" he asks, casual but too pointed for it to be offhand.
You blink at him, glancing up from your paperwork. "Clarify, please."
He grins like he’s been waiting for you to bite. “I’m just saying. We’ve known each other how long now? Three years? And I don’t think I’ve ever seen you even flirt with anyone.”
“Maybe I’m just selective,” you say without looking up, though the smirk tugging at your mouth threatens to betray you.
Emily’s head pops up from the other side of her monitor like a meerkat. “Selective or nonexistent? Because Morgan has a point. You’re attractive, smart, not a serial killer—what gives?”
Across from you, Reid glances over with a tiny frown, clearly confused as to how this became the topic of conversation. "Are we ranking coworker eligibility now?"
“No,” you say, “we are not. They are.” You gesture at Morgan and Emily with your pen. “And I don’t date because I’m too busy.”
“Too busy?” Emily echoes, incredulous. “Come on, you make time for what matters.”
You give a noncommittal shrug and flip a page in the file you’re reviewing. “Maybe nothing’s mattered enough.”
Morgan huffs. “You’re telling me no one’s even caught your eye lately?”
You barely have to think to keep your expression neutral, your tone light. “Nope.”
There’s a rustle of movement behind you, a door opening at the far end of the bullpen. Out of the corner of your eye, you catch Hotch stepping out of his office, file in hand, brow furrowed with that familiar look of concentration he always wears when he’s mid-thought. He glances around the room, then straight to you, like instinct. Like muscle memory.
You don’t meet his eyes, but you feel the moment he finds you. You feel it like a current, like the way your shoulders relax half a degree before you can stop them.
“Really?” Morgan presses, watching you too closely now. “No one?”
You glance up, keep your voice calm. “You ever try scheduling a date between a cross-country manhunt and a twelve-hour flight delay?”
“You think we haven’t?” Emily snorts.
Hotch’s footsteps pause just outside the group’s periphery, and you feel him hovering there — listening. You’d bet money on it.
“Well,” you say, flicking your pen across the page as if it’s just any other day, “I'm perfectly happy as I am now.”
Hotch moves finally, continuing toward the conference room, his voice low and even as he passes.
“Briefing in ten.”
He doesn’t look at you as he says it, not directly, but his hand brushes the back of your chair lightly. So lightly it might’ve gone unnoticed by anyone who wasn’t already watching too closely.
You don’t move. Just nod. “Got it.”
The moment he’s out of earshot, Morgan narrows his eyes at you. “That was weirdly… cordial.”
“Maybe he’s just in a good mood,” you reply, deadpan.
Emily mutters, “Which would be weirder.”
But they let it drop, mostly because the briefing’s about to start, and because the day’s quiet never lasts long. Still, Morgan gives you one last look before turning toward the conference room.
4.
The morning sunlight filtering through Aaron’s bedroom is soft and pale. It falls in golden streaks across the sheets, the hardwood floor, and the line of his bare shoulder where the covers have slipped down during the night.
You shift slowly, your leg sliding along his under the covers, your face still tucked into the space just below his collarbone. His hand is still resting low on your back, thumb tracing lazy circles against your skin like he’s mapping you in his sleep.
“Are you awake?” you whisper, voice thick with sleep.
“Mmm,” Aaron murmurs, the sound rumbling through his chest and into your cheek.
You smile, eyes still closed. “Five more minutes, Handsome?”
“That’s fine,” he says, and you can hear the smile in his voice even before you feel him press a kiss to your temple. “You got it.”
You shift again, curling closer, and he chuckles quietly at the way you practically climb on top of him. He smells like sleep and shampoo and the detergent you’ve secretly switched his sheets to without telling him — because the old ones smelled like hotel soap and starch. These smell like home.
“God,” you mutter, “can’t believe we have to work today.”
Aaron hums, his hand still steady on your back. “We can’t be late again.”
“We won’t be, you’re so dramatic.”
“We won’t be,” he repeats, more teasing now. “Yeah, right.”
You lift your head, finally, meeting his sleepy brown eyes and a smug smile. “You’re insufferable.”
“And yet here you are,” he says, tugging you forward by the back of your neck, slow and easy, until your lips meet his.
The kiss starts soft – sleepy and unhurried – but quickly deepens, his hand sliding up under your shirt, the weight of it grounding you. You sigh into his mouth, shifting to press him deeper into the pillows, and he lets you, his other hand sliding along your waist like he’s not ready to let go yet either.
Eventually, unfortunately, he does pull back, eyes flicking open again.
“If we don’t stop, we’re going to be very late,” he says, voice low and a little ruined now.
You kiss the edge of his jaw in retaliation. “That sounds like a you problem.”
He groans, but he’s already sitting up, scrubbing a hand through his hair.
He tosses you a look over his shoulder and leans down for one last kiss, slow and deliberate, before he gets up and heads to the shower. He pauses in the doorway, looking at you swaddled in his sheets like you’ve been dropped there by some vengeful sleep deity.
“I’ll be ten minutes.”
You whine softly, rolling over dramatically. “You’re abandoning me, cruel man.”
“You’ll survive, honey,” he says, smirking as he disappears into the bathroom and flicks on the water.
You stay in bed for another few minutes, eyes closed, completely content. You can still feel the press of his lips on your neck, still smell the citrus of his aftershave lingering in the sheets.
And then his phone rings.
You groan again, dragging yourself upright. The screen lights up—JJ.
Your heart skips, just slightly.
You let it ring out.
A few seconds later, your phone buzzes on the nightstand. You don’t even look before answering.
“Hey,” you say, clearing your throat. “What’s up?”
“We’ve got something,” JJ says. “Need everyone here, as soon as possible.”
“Okay. I’ll be ready in fifteen.”
“Thanks. I already tried Hotch, but he didn’t answer—can you try calling him?”
You blink. “Oh—yeah. I’ll, um… I’ll let him know.”
There’s a pause. Just long enough.
JJ’s voice is too casual when she says, “Thanks.”
And then, just as you’re about to hang up, you hear it.
“Honey?” Aaron’s voice, muffled but unmistakably clear, drifting out from the steamy bathroom. “Do you know if I left my belt on the—?”
You fumble to hang up the phone.
Too late.
There’s a beat of silence on JJ’s end. You can practically hear the way her eyes narrow.
You clear your throat again, face hot. “I—um. I’ll pass it along.”
“…Sure,” she says slowly. “See you soon.”
Sure enough, when you get to the office later that morning, JJ barely glances up from her folder.
“Morning,” she says sweetly. “You two sleep well?”
You don’t answer.
Aaron – your ever-collected, ever-disciplined Aaron – freezes just long enough to give the entire game away.
JJ just smiles.
And keeps reading.
5.
You’re hunched over a map of the city, elbows on the edge of the conference room table, red and blue pushpins scattered across the surface like confetti from a very grim party. Spencer leans over your shoulder, pointing at the area just north of the river.
“I’m telling you,” he says, tapping the map with the end of his pen, “the pattern holds if you factor in the population density from the census before the most recent one. It’s consistent with a comfort zone radius, even if it doesn’t look like it at first glance.”
You nod, squinting at the outline of streets and intersections. “So the unsub’s older, maybe? Operating off memory instead of current data? That would explain the anomaly in the last dump site.”
“Exactly. I mean, he might even be—” Spencer pauses, leaning closer, voice dropping conspiratorially. “—using a mental map that hasn’t updated since he lived here, assuming he moved away and came back. Like visiting old haunts.”
You raise an eyebrow. “That’s depressingly poetic.”
He grins. “A lot of serial killers are.”
You’re just about to reply when the conference room door swings open harder than necessary.
Hotch.
His expression is tight, jaw clenched, eyes sharp and tired in that dangerous way that means he’s too deep in it. His gaze sweeps over the map, the markers, and then the two of you. His eyes linger on the way Spencer’s leaning in, innocent enough, but close..
“Is this part of the profile?” he asks, voice clipped.
You blink, caught off guard. “What?”
“The conversation,” he says, straighter now. “Does it have anything to do with the case? Because if not, maybe we can stay focused.”
Spencer pulls back immediately, blinking. “We were just discussing—”
“I’m not interested in discussion. I want results.” Hotch doesn’t raise his voice – he never really does – but the tone alone is sharp enough to make Spencer recoil slightly. You feel your spine stiffen automatically.
“We are working,” you say, slower now. “We’ve been narrowing the comfort zone down to two square miles. The pins—”
“I don’t want excuses,” he cuts in. “If you’ve got something, put it on the board. Otherwise stop wasting time.”
Then he turns on his heel and walks out, the door snapping shut behind him like a slap.
The silence he leaves in his wake is thick. You glance at Spencer, who’s looking down at the map like it just personally betrayed him.
“Okay,” he says quietly, “that was… intense.”
“Yeah,” you mutter, pressing a palm to your forehead. “He’s been like this all day.”
It’s not a lie. The second the briefing started, Hotch had been on edge, pacing too much, correcting people mid-sentence. You knew the case was getting to him, and you knew what it meant when he got like this – when his control frayed and he lashed out not because he was angry, but because he was terrified of making the wrong call. Of losing someone.
But knowing that didn’t make it easier to be on the receiving end.
Especially not in front of everyone else.
You’re still rubbing your temple when Morgan appears beside you.
“Hey,” he says, nudging your shoulder. “You got a second?”
You nod, rising slowly as Spencer gives you an apologetic look and turns back to the map. Morgan leads you out of the conference room and down the hall, away from the rest of the team.
When he stops, he crosses his arms and leans against the wall like he’s gearing up for a talk. You groan internally.
“I know that look,” you say. “And I don’t like it.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Then stop making me use it.”
You fold your arms, mirroring him. “What?”
“You know what,” he says. “Hotch is being a dick. To everyone. And I know he’s stressed, I know this case is brutal, but it’s getting in the way.”
“I agree.”
He tilts his head. “Okay, so talk to him.”
You blink. “What? Why would I—”
“Because he listens to you.”
Your stomach flips. You hope to God it doesn’t show on your face.
“I’m not magic, Morgan.”
“No,” he says, voice low but pointed. “But you’re the only person he hasn’t completely snapped in half yet.”
You snort. “He just bit my head off in there.”
“Yeah,” he says slowly, “but he look too happy with himself after.”
You roll your eyes, trying very hard not to let your expression crack. “That’s a stretch.”
He just gives you a look. The kind that says don’t bullshit me, I have eyes.
You stare at him, exasperated. “Why does everyone assume I can fix it just because I—”
You stop yourself before you say love him.
Morgan doesn’t blink. “Because you calm him. He has a soft spot for you”
You sigh, slumping against the wall beside him. “Fine. I’ll talk to him. But no promises.”
He smiles, finally, clapping a warm hand to your shoulder. “I’ll take it.”
You wait until he disappears back into the conference room before you head down the hallway, toward the local precinct’s makeshift office where you know Hotch has holed himself up.
You’re already rehearsing what you’ll say: something about how his tension is bleeding into the team, how he needs to remember they’re on his side, how he can’t fix this case by destroying himself from the inside out.
But when you reach the door, it’s cracked just slightly – and inside, you see him.
Elbows on the desk. Head in his hands. Shoulders tight.
You stop. Because for a second, he doesn’t look like the man who barked orders ten minutes ago. He looks… tired. Scared. Like all of this has sunk too deep under his skin.
You raise your hand, knock softly.
His head lifts instantly. The second he sees it’s you, something in his face softens. He sits back slowly, composing himself, but it’s too late. You’ve already seen the unraveling.
You step inside and close the door gently behind you.
“Hi,” you say quietly.
He looks up at you, exhausted. “If you’re here to tell me I’m being an asshole, you don’t need to. I already know.”
You blink. Then let out a slow breath. “Okay. Well, that saves me a speech.”
He leans back, scrubbing a hand over his face. “I didn’t mean to snap at you. Or Reid. Or anyone.”
“I know,” you say gently, stepping closer. “But they don’t.”
He nods. Doesn’t argue. Just looks at you like maybe your presence alone is enough to let him breathe again.
After a beat, he says, quieter: “I’m afraid we’re going to miss something. That someone’s going to get hurt. And I’m pushing too hard because I don’t know what else to do.”
You step in front of him now, between him and the desk, and crouch just enough so you can meet his eyes. Your hand slides over his where it rests on his knee.
“Then let us help you,” you say. “Let me help you.”
His eyes search yours, and for a second, there’s nothing but the space between your breaths. Then he nods, barely.
You squeeze his hand once. “Come back in. Apologize. Let’s get this guy.”
His lips twitch, just slightly. “You’re bossy when you’re right.”
“And I’m always right,” you reply, and lean in to press a fleeting kiss to the corner of his mouth.
It lingers a second too long.
You pull back and then you hear it.
A cough. Somewhere behind you.
You turn just in time to catch Rossi in the doorway, brows lifted, a coffee in each hand.
He arches an eyebrow. “This is cozy.”
You freeze.
Hotch just sighs and mutters, “Dave...”
Rossi grins. “Learn to lock a door, Aaron.”
He winks and disappears down the hallway before either of you can respond.
You look back at Aaron.
He looks like he’s aged ten years in ten seconds.
“He already knew, didn’t he?”
“Yeah, honey.”
+1.
The call comes in fast. Too fast.
One minute you’re clearing a low-rise apartment complex with Morgan and Emily on your six, the next, there’s shouting, an unexpected backdoor escape, a scuffle, the unsub slipping through hands you thought were ready to catch him. You see the knife before anyone else does.
You don’t think. You move.
And then–
White-hot pain.
It's sharp and sudden, flaring across your side as the unsub lashes out and the blade sinks in just beneath your ribs. You hit the ground hard, knees scraping against cracked linoleum, and your breath punches out of your lungs before you can even process the impact.
You hear shouting again – Emily’s voice, Morgan’s, someone barking for medics – but it’s all underwater now. Muffled. Warped. The adrenaline is already fading, replaced by a nauseating chill that starts at your fingertips and crawls inward.
You press your hand to the wound and it comes away slick.
Shit.
Morgan’s face looms above you next, eyes wide, voice sharp. He’s pressing down on your side with both hands, trying to slow the bleeding.
“Stay with me,” he says. “Don’t you dare close your eyes, you hear me?”
You want to answer. Want to reassure him. But your lips feel slow, and your mind is already spinning sideways.
Then there’s another voice. Quieter, rougher, but sharper than a knife through fog.
“Aaron—she’s hurt bad.”
You don’t see him at first. You only feel the way Morgan shifts to let someone else take his place, the way the air changes as Aaron drops to his knees beside you, one hand immediately replacing Morgan’s at your side.
He’s pale. Jaw locked so tight it looks painful. But his eyes, his eyes are wild.
“Hey,” he says, too calm, too quiet. “Stay with me.”
You blink up at him, trying to smile. “Wasn’t... planning to go anywhere.”
His expression cracks. Just barely.
You feel his hand slide up, cupping your cheek like you might vanish if he blinks.
“You’re going to be fine,” he says, but it doesn’t sound like a promise. It sounds like a plea.
Your fingers twitch, reaching for him. He catches your hand like it’s instinct, like he was already halfway there.
“I’m sorry,” you whisper.
Aaron shakes his head once, fierce and immediate. “Don’t. Don’t do that.”
But you’re already fading, the pain morphing into something floaty and distant. You don’t know when the medics arrive. You don’t hear the sirens. You just feel Aaron’s hand in yours, tight and shaking slightly.
And the last thing you register before your world goes black is the sound of his voice – no longer calm, no longer careful – shouting your name.
-
You wake up to beeping.
Soft, steady, mechanical. A rhythm that feels like it’s been there forever, lulling you in and out of something thick and dark.
It takes a minute before your eyes crack open.
The hospital ceiling is blurry, too white, and the lights overhead are too bright. Your mouth is dry, your throat worse.
You shift, barely, and that’s when the pain comes.
Dull but deep. A throb just under your ribs, blooming out slow and insistent like a warning bell. Your face twists in a grimace, and a sound escapes your throat before you can stop it.
Instantly – instantly – there’s a hand on yours.
Not a nurse. Not a doctor. Not one of those brisk, impersonal touches meant to check your vitals and vanish again.
No. This is different.
This hand is warm. Familiar. Fingers wrapping around yours like an anchor.
You blink again, and your vision clears just enough to see him.
Aaron.
Slumped forward in the hospital chair, suit jacket discarded on the back of it, tie loosened but still intact. There’s stubble on his jaw, more than usual, and deep bruises under his eyes, like sleep gave up on him days ago. His hand is clasped in yours like he never left your side.
Because he didn’t.
He feels your fingers twitch and bolts upright, the chair screeching slightly beneath him.
“Hey,” he breathes, and it sounds like the first time he’s spoken in hours.
You try to smile. It’s weak. Pathetic, probably.
“Hey,” you rasp.
His eyes flick over your face, wild with relief and something else, still settling behind his ribs.
“You scared the hell out of me,” he says, voice thick.
You squeeze his hand—or try to. “I scared me.”
That gets a half-laugh out of him. It’s broken, but it’s there.
You take a shallow breath, testing your lungs. “What happened?”
“You lost a lot of blood. The knife missed anything vital, but barely.” He swallows hard. “You were in surgery for two hours. They had to give you a transfusion. You’ve been out for almost a day.”
Your brows lift slowly. “Wow. Overachiever.”
Aaron exhales, shaking his head. “You’re unbelievable.”
You’re quiet for a second, watching him. The tightness in his shoulders, the rawness in his voice. You reach for him again, slower this time.
“I’m okay,” you say softly, your fingers brushing over the back of his hand.
Aaron doesn’t move at first. Just watches you like he’s still waiting for the other shoe to drop, like if he lets himself believe it, the universe will punish him for the audacity.
You blink at him again, taking in the state of him now that your vision’s steadier. The wrinkled shirt, the undone top button, the half-drunk cup of coffee sitting cold on the bedside table. The dark smudges under his eyes make him look so sad.
“You haven’t left,” you murmur.
It’s not a question.
Aaron shakes his head once. “Didn’t want to.”
You arch a brow. Or try to — it feels more like a flutter of effort than expression. “Aaron... have you even gone home? Or... showered?”
His silence is damning.
“Have you slept?” you push, and your voice cracks halfway through, too dry, too rough.
“I don’t want to leave you here by yourself,” he says simply.
“Aaron.” You pause until he meets your eyes again. “I’ll be fine. Just for an hour. Go... sort yourself out.”
His jaw twitches. “What if you sleep and wake up again and I’m not—”
“Then I’ll be annoyed for five minutes and then I’ll fall asleep again,” you cut in. “Seriously. I don’t need a guard dog.”
He doesn’t look convinced.
So you lean your head back against the pillow and muster your most unimpressed tone: “If you don’t go, I’m going to ask Rossi to make you.”
As if summoned, there’s a knock at the door and a familiar head peeks in.
Rossi.
Followed by Morgan. Then JJ. Emily and Reid right behind. Garcia’s holding a bouquet that’s half her height and bright enough to sear through the fluorescent lighting.
“You rang?” Rossi says with a knowing look, already striding toward the bed.
Aaron stands stiffly, caught in the headlights.
“Perfect timing,” you murmur, letting your gaze flick toward Hotch. “Rossi, can you do me a favour?”
Rossi crosses his arms. “Of course.”
“Make him leave for, like... forty-five minutes. An hour. Long enough to eat and shower. Or sleep. Whichever comes first.”
Aaron huffs through his nose, not quite a protest, but not agreement either. Rossi doesn’t wait.
“You heard the patient,” he says, already taking Aaron by the elbow like it’s a done deal. “Come on. I’ll even buy you real coffee.”
“I’m not—” Aaron starts, but Rossi just tightens his grip.
“You’re not doing anyone any favors walking around looking like that. She’s safe. We’ve got her.”
And somehow, it’s that —the weight of trust in Rossi’s voice— that finally gets Aaron to nod. He squeezes your hand once more, like he’s leaving behind something vital, and then lets go.
“I’ll be back,” he says.
“I know,” you whisper, and you mean it.
Once he’s gone, the rest of the team crowds in, careful and gentle.
JJ brushes a hand down your arm and gives you a smile that’s equal parts motherly and relieved. “You scared the hell out of us.”
“Join the club,” you rasp, eyes flicking toward the IV in your arm. “Ten out of ten. Would not recommend.”
Morgan chuckles and drops into the chair Aaron vacated. “You still managed to take the guy down. Stab wound and all.”
“I just slowed him down. You all did the rest.”
“You gave us the opening,” Emily says softly. “That’s more than enough.”
Garcia sets the flowers down by the window and nudges the edge of your blanket with uncharacteristic caution. “When you’re better, I’m throwing a movie night. And you’re not allowed to say no.”
“I’ll be there,” you whisper.
Emily clears her throat and tips her head toward the door, where Aaron disappeared minutes ago.
“For what it’s worth...” she says carefully, her voice low and sincere, “we’re really happy for you both.”
JJ nods, smile gentle. “Seriously. It’s not exactly shocking.”
“We’ve seen the way he looks at you,” Garcia adds, her voice half a stage whisper, half delighted confession.
“You should’ve seen him when they wheeled you into surgery,” Morgan murmurs. “He looked ready to rip the whole ER apart just to stay with you.”
Your heart trips a little. You shift your gaze to the doorway, even though he’s long gone from sight.
“I didn’t mean for it to happen,” you say softly. “It just... did.”
“No one ever means to fall,” Rossi says from the hallway, returning with two coffees in hand. “The good ones just catch you.”
You smile again. This time, it doesn’t hurt quite so much.
“Thanks, guys.”
JJ squeezes your arm again. “Rest. We’ll be here when you wake up.”
And as you drift back down into the syrupy quiet, surrounded by the warmth of your team and the promise that he’ll be back —soon, always— you believe it.
remus x hyper reader pleaseee where she’s golden retriever energy and he’s more black cat
thanks for requesting!
Remus lupin x reader who gives him a flower ✩ 772 words
cw: fluff, grumpy x sunshine
Sirius likes to think of himself as a pretty sharp guy. He can tell when Remus just wants some quiet company, he’s learned the pattern behind James' chaotic mood swings, and – after a lot of trial and error – he’s even figured out what Regulus' barely noticeable shifts in expression mean. So yeah, Sirius considers himself fairly perceptive.
That is, until you show up out of nowhere, your head suddenly popping into the narrow space between him and Remus with your arm twisted behind your back, making him nearly jump out of his skin.
“Christ,” he mutters, a hand flying to his chest. “should get you a bell or something.”
“Hello, Sirius,” you grin at him, beaming like you haven’t just startled him half to death. “I’ll start stomping around more if that’ll help.”
You’re impossible to stay annoyed with – not that Sirius tries particularly hard. There’s something disarming about the way you grin, unapologetic and radiant. It’s endearing, honestly, how you make the effort to chat with him at all. He knows you’re not really here for him. Not when your eyes keep flicking sideways toward Remus like you’re trying not to look too eager.
Sirius suppresses a sigh, already feeling secondhand embarrassment bloom in his chest on your behalf. Moony’s in one of his usual silent moods today, the kind that comes with a permanent scowl and a drawn brow. You haven’t been seeing him long enough to recognise that yet, to know that sometimes he doesn’t want affection or words or even eye contact.
Sirius is halfway through crafting an excuse to get him far away from whatever is about to happen, when you finally turn your full attention to Remus.
"Hi, honey," you say, soft as anything. Your fingers move before Remus can flinch or lean away, gently brushing a stray bit of hair off his forehead and away from his eyes.
Sirius watches with morbid fascination. He’s seen Remus Lupin do a number of things over the years. He’s watched him break up fights, endure full moon recoveries, and drink James’ horrible attempts at fancy coffees without so much as a grimace. But now? With your fingers ghosting across his hair and your smile all warm and unbothered?
Remus is blushing.
And not just a faint, dignified flush either – no, this is a full-bloom, down-to-his-neck pink, the kind that looks particularly unfair on someone who normally prides himself on his unshakable composure. Remus clears his throat, eyes darting to Sirius for one mortified second before you continue like you haven’t just completely dismantled him.
“Oh!” you say, suddenly remembering yourself. “I brought you something.”
Remus blinks. "You… what?"
You smile wider and reveal the hand you’d hidden behind your back, a small, slightly crushed wildflower. Yellow, with ragged petals and a bent stem, clearly plucked mid-walk or from somewhere inconvenient. Sirius squints. It looks like the kind of flower a child would press between book pages and then forget about for a decade.
“I saw it and it made me think of you,” you say, tone offhanded, like the connection between Remus and a half-wilted flower is the most obvious thing in the world. “It’s pretty.”
Remus stares at you like you've grown a second head.
Then, without saying a word, he takes it. He’s careful, absurdly so, and before you can flit away again – because you’re already turning back toward the door, likely off to check on whatever it is sunshine people check on – Remus reaches out.
His arm slips around your shoulders, pulling you gently into his side.
It’s awkward at first, mostly because you weren’t expecting it, but then you melt against him like you were built for it. Your head tips to rest against his collarbone, just for a second, before you hum contentedly and pat his chest.
Sirius can’t believe his eyes.
“Be back in a bit,” you say, already halfway out the door again. “Look after it, please!”
The door closes.
There’s a moment of silence.
Remus exhales, the faintest sound of breath escaping as he starts fiddling with the flower. He doesn’t look at Sirius, he can't stand the thought of it. The pink is still climbing up his ears.
Sirius, for his part, stares at him like he's trying to solve a riddle.
“…You’re cuddling now?”
Remus grunts, still very pink. “Shut up.”
Sirius exhales dramatically and leans back against the couch. “Mate...”
Remus only half-hides the smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. He tucks the flower into the page of his book, precisely, carefully.
Sirius watches this development unfold and mutters, not without fondness, “You poor bastard.”
i’ve been thinking about james with a reader who really enjoys physical touch and closeness.
i feel like james would be sooo about physical touch, just glued to readers side. just massive loverboy energy from him all the time
idk if this is enough detail to be a proper request, but would love to read you thoughts or something similar to it
you're so real for this actually, anon! here's a little drabble for you <3
James Potter x reader ✩ 550 words
cw: just fluff
“I wish I could crawl inside your skin,” you murmur, your voice thick with sleep, barely more than a whisper.
James’s fingers stay tangled in your hair, warm and steady. It’s late – far later than either of you should be awake – and the soft pull of exhaustion drapes over you both like a heavy blanket. But you cling to the last flicker of wakefulness just to stay here a little longer, pressed close to your lovely boyfriend.
“What?” His voice carries a bemused lilt as he tilts his chin down to look at you, eyes soft beneath the dim light. You’re sprawled against his chest, your face warm and hidden.
You bury yourself deeper into the heat of him, nuzzling the thin cotton of his shirt like you’re trying to dissolve into it. His arm tightens around your waist in response, and though you can’t see his face, you feel the slow, familiar grin spreading beneath you.
“Nothing,” you mumble, voice muffled and low. If you could melt right into the mattress, slip into the sheets and become one with them, you would.
James lets out a soft laugh that rumbles low and warm under your ear. He tilts his head, his chin brushing the crown of yours, a featherlight touch that sends a shiver down your spine. Then, without warning, he pokes you in the ribs. Not hard, just enough to make you flinch and squeak in surprise.
“That’s weird,” he says, feigning innocent curiosity. “Because it sounded like you said something about crawling into my skin, you freak.”
“Stop,” you hiss, squirming as his fingers press into your ribs again. Your laugh slips out anyway, tangled in embarrassment and affection. “You’re the worst.”
“Oh, I know,” he grins against your hair, voice warm and sing-song, “but apparently, I’m such a delight that you’d like to unzip me and wear me like a hoodie.” His breath tickles your ear. “That’s love, baby.”
You groan, mortified, and try to wriggle free, but he’s quicker, curling around you like a vine, anchoring you with his arms and laughter. His hand creeps up your side again, fingers poised like they might tickle.
“I didn’t mean it like that,” you say weakly, knowing full well you’ve lost all credibility.
“Oh no, I believe you,” he murmurs, voice low and fond. “I just think you’re unwell.”
“You’re unwell.”
His voice drops even softer, a secret between you two. “Yes. Terminally.”
His fingers loosen just enough for you to sink back into his hold, your body folding into his like two puzzle pieces finally clicking together. He nuzzles his head into yours, a warm sigh steady against your temple, and your legs instinctively tangle beneath the covers, desperate to feel every inch of closeness.
A soft giggle escapes you, light and unexpected in the stillness. His breath catches, and he pulls back just a fraction, brow raised in curious amusement.
“What’s funny?” he asks, voice gentle, teasing.
You trail a lazy finger along his collarbone, heart still fluttering, and whisper, “Seems like you’d like to get in my skin.”
His grin deepens, eyes sparkling in the low light. “Never said I didn’t, angel.”
if you fancy it, i would loveee a fluffy hotch fic!! maybe with injured reader and him just being doting and sweet. thank you! 💗💗
this request is from like nov, sorry it took so long!! <3
Aaron Hotchner x bau!reader ✩ 628 words
“You’re being so dramatic, Hotch.”
He grumbles something unintelligible in response, focusing on making you the tea he’s decided you so desperately need.
The ice pack pressed to your eye has begun to melt, cold droplets trailing down your wrist and soaking into your sleeve. You probably do look a bit pathetic, but Hotch’s reaction still feels wildly out of proportion.
You haven’t gotten much out of him in the time since you were hit to now, just small murmurs of things under his breath and a steady, guiding hand on your upper arm as he manoeuvred you away from the rest of the team. It was such a small thing, really. The precinct was already cramped, and with all of you packed inside it was practically inevitable. So a rogue elbow to the eye isn’t really such a strange thing to have happened.
Hotch finally turns back to you, crossing the room in two long strides with a mug in hand. He stops closer than necessary to set it down, and once he does, he doesn’t step away. Instead, he gestures toward the ice pack.
“Let me see.”
“I’m fine, Hotch.”
“Let me see, please.”
“I’m really fine. Promise.”
He ignores your dismissal, instead reaching out to take the ice pack away from your eye himself and taking your hand in his as he pulls it away.
“Aaron…” you murmur, watching him take in the sight of you. You understand his concern, you really do. Hotch has been your boss for years now and that comes with a professional concern anytime anyone on the team is injured. This is different. More recently Hotch has become Aaron to you, your sweetheart. Your kind, generous Aaron who you’re halfway to loving already. That’s who’s standing in front of you now.
Hearing his name, his first name, seems to soften the sharp edges of his face. The near permanent frown fading to give way to soft concern.
“Sorry,” he says, raising his free hand to run his fingertips over the contusion forming around your eye. “You’re gonna have a nasty bruise, honey.”
Honey. You smile despite yourself. All the pet names in the world felt rather saccharine before they were falling from Aaron's lips.
“Can’t look any worse than when I had the flu a few weeks ago.” You shrug.
“That’s true enough,” he teases, amusement flickering in his eyes.
“Aaron Hotchner!” you laugh. “You’re not supposed to agree with me. You’re supposed to say I was still so very lovely. Or something like that.”
“You were still so very lovely.”
He stays smiling down at you, not the full grin you might get at home but enough for now while his mind is still halfway on the case, taking in the fact that you are absolutely fine. His eyes slowly pull away from you and towards movement in the window behind you. While you wish you could stay in this little bubble forever, black eye and all, you know that there's still an unsub to be caught and people to try and save. You watch the stern mask fall back over Hotch’s face, preparing to get back out there.
With a quiet sigh, you stand, brushing imaginary dust from your trousers.
“Do me a favour?” Hotch asks, eyes still trained on the glass.
“What?”
“Keep icing your eye.” His eyes flit back to you before leaning down to peck your cheek once he’s sure no one will see his momentary lapse in professionalism.
“Yes, sir.”
He huffs, shaking his head in response while brushing past you to the door of the breakroom. Before he’s far he calls over his shoulder.
“Let's get back to work, Agent.”
You’ll find yourself counting down the minutes until he calls you honey again.
summary: on your hunt for a new flatmate you come across Remus. Lovely, handsome Remus. Over the summer months you slowly grow closer to each other.
cw; vague smut (not detailed) but still 18+, strangers to friends to lovers, fluff, tiny bit of angst, miscommunication, both reader and remus are a little emotionally constipated.
✩ May ✩
The harsh glow of your laptop screen, paired with the dwindling list of options, is giving you a headache. The pain pulses behind tired eyes, you’re exhausted. Landlords are pricks. The notice came a few weeks ago: your tiny flat, with its damp-stained walls (despite your investment in a fancy dehumidifier), a temperamental oven, and heating that barely registers in winter, is about to cost far more than you can afford. It’s barely worth what you pay now.
It turns out that most places in your price range are even worse than this, you must've seen upwards of twenty flats. So you’ve resigned yourself to looking for someone, anyone in need of a flatmate. Something entirely out of your comfort zone. A quiet, lonely girl by nature the idea of living with a stranger is alien and uncomfortable. But what other choices do you have?
There's a listing that seems like a good fit. Close to your work in a nice area, walking distance from a Tesco and it’s seemingly a good size. The only thing that puts you off is the fact it's a man, similar in age to you, advertising for a flatmate.
You don’t love the idea. But you’re running out of time. So you grab your phone and hover over the keypad, your mind racing while your fingers tremble as they type in the number.
Each ring after you press call makes your skin crawl with second thoughts. Still, you don’t hang up. And just when you’re about to, he answers. His voice makes you jump.
“Hello?” It’s low and calm.
“Hi,” you manage, your voice thinner than you’d like. At least he sounds nice, you think. “I, um… I saw your ad for a flatmate and I was wondering if you're still looking?”
“Yes–yeah,” he replies, sounding almost relieved. “You’re welcome to come by, have a look around? See how it feels?”
“That would be great, actually,” you say, breathing out slowly. “Would this afternoon work? Or whenever suits you.”
“This afternoon is perfect.”
You confirm the address and end the call, only then realising that you don’t know his name and he doesn’t know yours. Still, something about the tone of his voice settles the panic in your chest. It’s probably foolish, but for now, it’s enough.
-
The tube ride over is a blur. You're tucked into a corner seat, fingers clenched tight around the handle of your bag, knees bouncing in spite of your best efforts to seem composed. The whole journey, you’re rehearsing what you might say. Hi, I’m here about the flat. Too stiff. Nice to meet you, thanks for having me. Weirdly formal. Please let me live here, I’m very quiet and I won’t use your milk. Pathetic.
The closer you get, the more you regret not backing out. Your stomach’s knotted, heart thudding. It doesn’t help that the sky’s overcast, a flat grey pressing down like it might rain at any moment. You find the building easily – it’s a narrow brick townhouse with peeling paint around the windows but an otherwise respectable facade. Not too posh, not too grotty.
You buzz the number he gave you. A beat, and then the door unlocks with a clunk.
You’re greeted at the top of a narrow stairwell. The man from the listing is already waiting at the threshold of the flat, leaning lightly on the doorframe.
You freeze.
He’s beautiful.
Not in a clean, shiny way like the men in ads. No, he’s something quieter, warm brown eyes, framed by tired lashes and shadows that suggest long nights. His jumper hangs loose on a tall frame, sleeves pushed up to his forearms. There’s a scar that cuts across the bridge of his nose – thin, pale, old – but it fits his face. You’re staring.
He shifts, and you realise you're just standing there like a lemon.
“Hi,” you manage. “I’m Y/N, by the way.”
He smiles. “I’m Remus.”
You nod like that’s normal, like his voice isn’t curling around you in a way that makes your breath catch. Remus. You tuck the name away for safekeeping.
He steps aside to let you in. “Come on, I’ll show you around. It’s not Buckingham Palace or anything, but it’s solid.”
The flat is surprisingly nice. Wooden floors, worn but clean, a big window in the living room that lets in more light than you’d expected. There are bookshelves and a threadbare sofa that looks deeply comfortable. The kitchen is small but tidy, and he opens a cupboard to show you what would be “your half”.
“And the bathroom’s through here–no mould, promise,” he says, glancing at you over his shoulder with a grin that’s too charming to be fair. “And I don’t take forever in the mornings.”
You follow, nodding, your voice still lodged somewhere near your collarbone. “You, um... seem very prepared.”
He chuckles, rubbing at the back of his neck. “I try my best.”
You breathe in through your nose, trying to summon enough courage to sound like a normal person. “Well,” you say, your voice higher than usual, “as long as you don’t kill me in my sleep, I think we should be fine.”
The words are barely out before you regret them. Why would you say that? You flush, gaze snapping to the floor. But then—
Remus laughs.
Not just a polite huff, either. A real, warm laugh that starts low in his chest and melts into something softer.
You blink, stunned.
“Fair enough,” he says, still smiling. “I promise not to kill you. I make a mean cup of tea, though. That help balance it out?”
You nod, trying to hide the way your mouth twitches. “Yeah. That might do it.”
-
Living with Remus is fine, better than you expected actually. You’ve found him to be a perfectly amenable flatmate and his claims were true, he doesn't take forever in the mornings and he does make lovely cups of tea.
Still, you find yourself hiding away in your bedroom most of the time, listening for when he vacates the living room and kitchen before making some quick food to eat and retreating back. He spends a lot of his time sitting at the dining table working on his manuscript and you'd hate to disturb him.
It's no fault of his that you hide away, you dont think you’ve met a nicer, more gentle boy in your life. It’s more like, you're so worried about imposing on his space and routine, being an annoyance that you avoid him.
So, when you hear the sound of his bedroom door shutting you make a break for the kitchen, stomach rumbling.
You rummage through the fridge, the cold light humming against your skin, illuminating a disappointingly bare shelf. Half a tub of hummus, a sad-looking cucumber, and a block of cheddar that’s luckily mould free. You sigh and close the door with your hip, already drafting a mental shopping list.
Tomorrow, definitely. You’ll go tomorrow.
For now, you settle on a sandwich – cheese and cucumber. The bread’s from the freezer, so you wedge two slices apart and drop them into the toaster, rubbing sleep from your eyes with the back of your hand while you wait. The flat is quiet, save for the low tick of the kitchen clock and the mechanical whirr of the toaster heating up. It’s peaceful like this, when it’s just you and the hum of appliances. You suppose it's always peaceful really though, Remus isn’t very loud.
You’re halfway through slicing the cucumber when you hear it: the soft creak of a door down the hall. Footsteps. Then Remus appears, yawning into the sleeve of his jumper, his hair mussed like he’d been lying down.
“Oh–I’m sorry,” you blurt, stepping back from the counter instinctively, knife still in hand. “I didn’t mean to take over the kitchen.”
He blinks, confused for a half-second before smiling. “You’re fine,” he says gently. “Just need to get in there–” he nods at the cupboard above your head.
You quickly sidestep, hugging the counter as he reaches past you. As he opens the cupboard, his fingers brush your shoulder in passing, a light, friendly touch. You flinch, just barely, but he either doesn’t notice or chooses not to mention it.
From the shelf, he pulls down a small box full of blister packets of painkillers, the label worn from use. He moves to the sink, filling a glass with water as you return to your sandwich-making, quieter now. More self-conscious.
“I, um–didn’t mean to interrupt your rest,” you offer, hoping it doesn’t sound too awkward.
Remus looks over his shoulder at you, then downs the tablets with a quick gulp. “You live here too,” he says easily, setting the glass in the sink. “You don’t have to apologise for being in the kitchen.”
You look at him, a little surprised by the softness in his voice.
“Still,” you murmur, pressing the sandwich together, “you’ve got your routines. I didn’t want to get in the way.”
“You’re not,” he says, and smiles. It's a little crooked, a little tired. “Seriously. Come in here whenever you want. Cook something that stinks. Use the last teabag. The whole kitchen is yours too.”
Your eyes lift to meet his, and there’s something about the way he says it, like he means it, that makes your throat go tight.
“Oh,” you say softly. “Okay.”
Remus excuses himself with a quiet smile and a muttered, “Back in a bit,” before padding back down the hallway.
You catch it just as he turns: a slight shift in his gait. Barely noticeable, the way his weight tips unevenly between steps, like one side of his body isn’t quite cooperating with the other. It slows him, just slightly. Enough that your brows draw together before you even realise you're staring.
You stand in the kitchen for a long moment, sandwich forgotten in your hand. It’s not like you to pry. You hate when people ask about things you haven’t offered up willingly – hate the sharp, intrusive edge of what’s wrong with you?
You take your sandwich to the little dining table where his laptop still sits closed, charger curled beside it. The seat across from you remains warm from where he’d been earlier. You chew in silence, mind gnawing at the image of him walking away with that faint limp. He hadn’t mentioned anything. No sign of injury.
Your chest prickles with quiet unease. Maybe it’s not your place. Maybe he doesn’t want questions.
The sandwich is half-finished when he reappears, this time in fresh pyjama bottoms and a different jumper, a little looser in the sleeves. He walks slower than usual, and now that you’re looking for it, the limp is unmistakable. It’s subtle but deliberate, a kind of favouring of one leg over the other. You feel that pinch again, behind your ribs.
Remus notices your eyes on him, and he offers you a faint smile, tired but open.
“Sorry,” he says, lowering himself gently into the chair opposite you with the kind of care that makes your heart ache. “Was hoping the tablets would kick in faster.”
Your voice is quiet when you speak. “Are you okay?”
He glances up at you, blinking like he hadn’t expected the question. For a moment you think he might brush it off, toss out some polite, yeah, all good lie. But then his expression softens. Honest.
“I will be,” he says. Then he hesitates, eyes flicking down to the grain of the wooden table, fingers brushing over a faint coffee ring like it might help ground him. “It’s just a flare-up. Happens sometimes.”
You nod slowly, waiting. Letting him lead.
“My joints,” he says eventually, voice low but calm. “They’ve been wrecked for years. Doesn’t usually act up like this, but sometimes–weather, overdoing it, not sleeping right–it just hits harder.” He gestures vaguely toward his leg, then his shoulder. “Today’s one of those days.”
You don’t say anything at first. Not because you don’t know what to say, but because your first instinct, that sounds awful, I’m sorry, feels both too much and not enough. You don’t think he’d want the sympathy of it anyway.
Instead, you offer him your full attention. “Is there anything you need? I mean, anything I can do?”
Remus looks at you, properly this time, and something unreadable passes behind his eyes. Gratitude, maybe. Surprise.
“No,” he says gently. “Thanks, though. Just rest, really. Try not to be on my feet more than I have to.”
You nod. Then, quieter, “I didn’t realise you were in pain.”
“I hide it well,” he says, the corners of his mouth lifting in something that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Comes with practice.”
“I could make tea?”
He smiles, just barely. “Only if you make it as good as I do.”
✩ June ✩
Downpours in June always catch you off guard. In your mind, the month should be full of sun and warmth even though it never is. Shockingly, the rain does little to dampen your mood on the walk home, too excited with the knowledge that when you get into the flat, Remus will be there, probably writing, ready to talk to you and listen to your day.
You found quite quickly, after you got more comfortable, that you and Remus have a lot in common. You like the same shows and takeaways, both reading copious amounts of books and both of you are quiet and calm a lot of the time. You think he might be your only real friend and maybe that's a bit pathetic but you can’t bring yourself to care.
Your trainers squelch faintly as you step into the building, hair sticking to your forehead and the back of your neck. Still, there’s a smile tugging at your lips. You’re soaked and half-frozen, but the thought of the flat and Remus keeps your spirits high.
You shake the worst of the water from your coat before unlocking the flat door. It swings open, the familiar creak greeting you–
–and then a sound you weren’t expecting.
Laughter. Loud, overlapping voices. And not just Remus’.
Your eyes flick up as you step into the living room and stop short.
There are people in your flat.
Three strangers are sprawled across the sofas, legs thrown over armrests, half-drunk mugs of tea and empty crisp packets scattered across the coffee table.
The girl with striking red hair and green eyes is curled into the far corner of the loveseat, gesturing with a half-eaten biscuit and grinning. Next to her, a tall, dark-haired boy is half-lounging, half-sliding off the cushions, knees spread like he owns the place. His shirt is rumpled, his hair even more so, but it works on him. On the floor, sitting cross-legged and sipping from a mug, is another man, long dark hair, an open leather jacket.
And in the middle of it all, Remus.
He’s leaned forward in his usual seat, elbow braced on his knee, a lazy sort of smile tugging at his mouth. He looks comfortable. At home. The sleeves of his jumper are pushed up, and there’s a small ink smudge on his knuckle. He lifts his head at the sound of the door and lights up when he sees you.
“Oh–hey!” he says, already standing. “You’re back.”
All at once, the three others look up. At you.
You freeze in the doorway, suddenly aware of your rain-slick hair, damp jeans, the drip of water off your coat. Your bag sags heavily at your side.
“Hi,” you manage, blinking.
Remus crosses to take your bag, entirely casual. “Didn’t think you’d be back this early. I’d have warned you.”
You shrug, trying for a smile. “The rain chased me home.”
“Let me get you a towel in a sec–uh, this is Lily, Sirius, and James.” He gestures over his shoulder, and they all wave.
Lily smiles kindly. James does a salute from the couch. Sirius raises his mug.
You nod, stepping a little further into the room, wringing your hands slightly.
Of course Remus would have friends like this, you think. People who look like they stepped out of a film set or an advert or maybe an indie band that never quite went mainstream. If you didn’t know any better, you’d assume they were all built in the same beautiful factory.
Sirius leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, eyes glinting with mischief. “So you’re the one living with Moony. Brave soul.”
James chimes in, grinning. “Yeah, seriously. Does he still snore like a bear, or has he grown out of it?”
You blink, then giggle – actually giggle – which surprises even you.
“I haven’t noticed,” you say, glancing at Remus as he hands you a towel, whose ears have gone slightly pink. “He’s actually… really great to live with.”
You miss the way he straightens slightly at that, how his expression softens. You’re too busy trying to unstick a strand of wet hair from your cheek.
“I’m just gonna–” you gesture vaguely down the hall, “–shower. Before I mildew. I’ll be back.”
You duck into the hallway with a grateful glance toward Remus, clutching the towel he pressed into your hands like a lifeline. You’re still soaked through, jeans sticking to your legs, and your skin feels clammy beneath your shirt. In the bathroom, you peel out of your wet clothes, your cheeks still warm from the shock of unexpected company.
The shower helps. Hot water pounding against your back, steam curling around your face, loosening the tension in your shoulders. You scrub quickly, methodically, trying not to think too hard. You don’t know why their presence made your chest tighten like that – maybe it was the surprise, maybe it was how pretty they all were. Maybe it was the way they all seemed to belong here.
It’s not jealousy, exactly. Just a small ache, like being on the outside of a joke you’d love to be part of.
-
Back in the living room, as the sound of the bathroom door clicks shut, a shift happens.
Sirius, who had been half-sprawled on the floor with his mug, shoots a look at Remus – slow and smug. “Mate.”
Remus doesn’t look up from where he’s fidgeting with the hem of his sleeve. “Don’t.”
“Oh, I will.” Sirius grins, wolfish.
Lily lets out a snort, raising her brows at James. “Did you see the way he lit up when she walked in?”
James nudges Remus’s knee with his own. “It was sweet, actually. Like a dog seeing its favourite person.”
Remus groans, dragging a hand over his face. “You’re all insufferable.”
“Not denying it, though,” Lily singsongs.
“There’s nothing to deny,” Remus mutters, flushing down to his collarbones. “She’s just my flatmate.”
James grins. “Flatmate. Right.”
Lily’s voice softens just slightly, teasing but kind. “It’s okay, Remus. We like her. She seems sweet.. And clearly into you, even if she doesn’t know it yet.”
Remus shifts in his seat, pulling his sleeve back down like it might shield him. “She’s not. And even if she were, she deserves... more.”
Sirius tilts his head, tone quieter now. “More than what?”
Remus doesn’t answer.
The conversation lapses just in time for the soft pad of footsteps down the hallway.
-
You return with damp hair falling to your shoulders, the sleeves of your jumper pulled over your hands. The soft scent of your shampoo trails after you. You hover at the edge of the living room, unsure if you’re intruding again.
Remus looks up first, his face softening instantly. “Feel better?”
You nod, giving him a small smile. “Much.”
There’s a pause – comfortable, this time – before he gestures to the seat beside him. “Come sit?”
You do.
The sofa is warm from where he’d been sitting earlier. Close, but not too close.
“Are you hungry?” he asks, turning slightly toward you. “We’ve got crisps, biscuits. Sirius tried to eat all the digestives but I fought him off–”
“I let him win,” Sirius adds from the floor.
“–or there's your leftovers in the fridge.” He continues, ignoring his friend's input.
You shake your head. “I’m okay, thank you.”
Lily leans forward, her smile easy. “So, how’s it been living with this one?” She jerks her thumb toward Remus.
You glance at him, then back to her. “Honestly? Pretty great. He’s... very considerate.”
“She’s being polite,” Remus mumbles, rubbing the back of his neck.
“She’s being nice,” Lily corrects, then turns back to you. “It’s very commendable of you, I’m sure there's something about him that annoys you.”
“Charming, Lils.” Remus says with a fond eye roll.
Lily is wrong, you think, at this point in time you can't think of anything about remus that annoys you. He’s not a perfect person, obviously, but any little annoyances you have with him are forgotten quickly after they happen.
The conversation rolls on from there. They ask about your job, your favourite books, where you went to school. You end up laughing more than you have in weeks, tucked into the corner of the sofa beside Remus, your shoulder just barely brushing his arm.
By the time the clock on the wall nudges past ten, the living room has slipped into a comfortable sprawl of conversation and low laughter. Mugs have been refilled more than once, empty wrappers tucked under cushions, and Sirius has taken to stacking biscuit crumbs on James’s shoulder like a game of Jenga.
Eventually, one of them – Lily, predictably – checks the time and groans. “Alright, we’re off,” she says, pushing herself up with a dramatic sigh. “Some of us have to be adults in the morning.”
“Tragic,” Sirius mutters, already reaching for his jacket.
There’s a flurry of movement – shoes tugged on, bags slung over shoulders, mugs gathered into a clumsy stack for the kitchen. You stand too, a little uncertain, hanging back near the hallway door as the group bunches near the entrance.
Then, unexpectedly, Lily turns to you
“You coming to the pub quiz next week?” she asks, suddenly warm and familiar, like you’ve known each other longer than just a few hours. Her voice is bright but her eyes are kind, like she really means it.
You blink. “Oh. Um—”
“It’s good fun,” she says quickly. “Low-stakes. Mostly an excuse to drink.”
Your lips twitch despite yourself. “That sounds nice.”
“Perfect,” Lily beams. Then, before you can overthink it, she wraps you into a hug.
You freeze for a second. Her arms are confident and soft around you, her hair brushing your cheek. But after the initial surprise fades, you lean into it.
“See you there,” she murmurs as she pulls back, with a wink
The others say their goodbyes in overlapping waves. Sirius claps Remus on the shoulder with a dramatic flourish, James promises to text him about the weekend, and Lily gives Remus a kiss on the cheek.
Then they’re gone – the flat door swinging closed behind them with a satisfying click, their chatter already fading down the stairs.
You’re still standing in the living room when Remus comes back a few minutes later, having seen them out to the street. He exhales deeply as he toes off his shoes, running a hand through his hair.
You’re already moving, collecting empty mugs from the coffee table and straightening a blanket draped halfway to the floor.
“You don’t have to do that,” he says, voice gentle as he returns to the room. “It’s not your mess, love.”
You glance up at him. The endearment settles warm and light in your chest. He says it so naturally you’re not sure he even notices.
“It’ll be faster if we do it together,” you reply simply, heading into the kitchen with a stack of cups.
Remus follows, quiet but not resisting. The two of you move easily in tandem – like you’ve done this before, like you’ve lived together for years instead of just a month. He wipes down the coffee table while you rinse out mugs. You clear the sofa of stray crisp bags while he tucks the blanket back into shape.
It’s domestic, almost absurdly so. The kind of soft, mundane routine you used to dream about without realising it.
When the last mug is tucked into the drying rack and the cushions on the sofa are more or less back in their proper places, you find yourself standing in the middle of the living room, blinking in the stillness. It’s quiet again, but a good kind of quiet.
Remus glances over from where he’s just finished folding the throw blanket across the back of the sofa. “Right,” he says, scrubbing a hand through his hair. “Mission accomplished.”
You nod, suddenly aware of the ache settling into your limbs – the kind of tired that follows a long day and warm company.
“C’mere,” Remus says, and without really thinking, you follow as he flops down onto the sofa, sprawling into the corner he always claims. He gestures for you to join him, and you do, curling up on the opposite end. Your knees tuck beneath you, your elbow sinking into the cushion. The warmth of the evening clings to your skin, a pleasant, weighty tiredness settling in.
You let out a breath, soft. “Your friends are really nice.”
He hums in agreement, tipping his head back against the cushion to look at the ceiling. “They are.”
Then, quieter, you add, “Sorry if I was... imposing. I didn’t mean to crash your night.”
His head tilts, gaze sliding over to meet yours, brows gently pulled together. “You’d never be imposing.”
You blink at him, something tender sparking behind your ribs.
“They liked you,” he says, like it’s the simplest, most obvious thing in the world.
You smile, small and uncertain. “That’s a relief. I’d have to start hiding away again if they didn’t.”
He huffs a soft laugh, turning more toward you, one leg tucked up beneath the other. “I don’t see how anyone wouldn’t like you.”
The room goes still for a beat.
It’s not even the words that hit you so hard, it’s the way he says them. Quietly, plainly. Like it’s not even a question. Like he believes it.
You swallow. Your fingers twist in the hem of your jumper.
“You’d be surprised,” you murmur.
Remus watches you carefully, eyes soft and steady. “No, I wouldn’t.”
You look away first, heart thudding too loud in your chest. It’s not flirtation, what he’s doing – it’s too sincere for that. It feels heavier somehow, more honest.
He shifts again, this time stretching his legs out, one foot brushing yours beneath the throw blanket. He doesn’t move it away.
You try for something lighter. “You didn’t tell me you had friends that were basically a rock band.”
He chuckles, running a hand over his jaw. “Yeah, they’re a bit much, aren’t they?”
“They’re... great,” you say, and you mean it. “I don’t think I’ve ever met people that easy to talk to.”
His smile is quiet. “They’ll love that. Especially Sirius. He lives for being charming.”
“I could tell.”
Remus’s laugh is low, and it lingers. “I’m glad you stayed. You looked like you were going to bolt.”
You flush, ducking your head. “I was.”
There’s a pause.
“I get it,” he says eventually, voice softer now. “Crowds. Strangers. It’s a lot sometimes.”
You nod. “It’s not that I didn’t want to be there. I just… didn’t think I’d belong.”
Remus’s gaze sharpens slightly, something almost fierce behind his tired eyes. “You do. You absolutely do.”
The words land between you, sure and solid. You feel them take root within you.
You glance over, meeting his eyes. “Thanks.”
He doesn’t look away. “Anytime.”
Your foot is still touching his under the blanket. You don’t move it.
The telly is dark, the flat dim except for the soft glow of the kitchen light and the little lamp in the corner. Everything feels slow. Settled. The way conversations stretch late into the evening when neither person wants to be the one to end it.
Eventually, you yawn. An embarrassingly large one that catches you off guard.
Remus smiles. “Go to bed.”
“Shouldn’t I be saying that to you?” you ask, though your limbs are already heavy.
“I’m older,” he says, mock-stern. “I get to decide.”
“You’re not that much older,” you mumble, rising reluctantly.
As you pass him, he catches your wrist gently. Not to stop you – just a brush of fingers, warm and grounding. You pause, and he looks up at you from where he’s still curled on the sofa.
“Hey,” he says, low. “I meant it, you know. About people liking you.”
You nod, throat tight again. “I know.”
He lets go. You head to bed. And long after the door closes behind you, the warmth of his touch lingers.
✩ July ✩
“Please tell me you didn’t actually do that!” you exclaim, laughing at Sirius’ expense.
“I did,” he responds, having the decency to look ashamed, “I didn’t expect him to cry though.”
“He must’ve been a sensitive soul.”
“You’d know all about that, wouldn’t you, doll?” Sirius shoots back, grinning as he nudges you with his foot under the table.
You move to swat him, but he’s already leaning back, laughing like this is his favourite game. And maybe it is, because you’ve learned Sirius loves nothing more than winding people up, especially the ones he likes.
You can’t be sure when it happened but somewhere between meeting Remus’ friends and now, they became your friends too. The pub quiz is a weekly ritual for you all now. You have silly in jokes with them and you're almost at a point now where you speak with them as freely as you do Remus.
You’re just about to fire back a quip when a familiar hand places a drink in front of you.
“Here,” Remus says softly.
Your eyes lift to find him standing beside you, the warm pub lighting casting a soft glow over his features. He sets down his own glass as well, then, without really thinking, slides into the booth beside you.
As he sits, his hand drifts up and settles between your shoulder blades, thumb brushing idly in a slow arc. It’s not the first time he’s touched you lately – little things, small and familiar. A hand on your lower back when guiding you through a crowd. Fingers brushing your knuckles when you pass him a cup of tea. But this, it still catches your breath a little.
“What have you done to get her attacking you already?” Remus asks, shooting Sirius a look that’s half amused, half exhausted.
Sirius throws his hands up. “I didn’t do anything. She’s just violent–where’s my drink?”
“You didn’t ask for anything,” Remus says with a small shrug, taking a sip of his own pint.
“I didn’t know I had to ask,” Sirius complains, scandalised. “I thought we had a system.”
“You thought wrong.”
You shake your head, trying to hide your smile as you pick up your glass. “Thank you,” you murmur to Remus, your voice quieter than before.
He turns his head toward you just slightly, expression softening, “Anytime.”
You take a sip.
Sirius groans dramatically, flopping back in his seat. “This is blatant favouritism.”
“You’re just mad because she doesn’t threaten to hit me,” Remus replies, entirely deadpan.
“I’ll start,” you offer, raising your eyebrows at Remus in mock challenge.
He grins, a slow, crooked smile. “I’d like to see you try.”
Before you can respond, the door to the pub swings open and a gust of summer air follows James and Lily in. James is grinning, his hand causally linked with Lily’s as she glances around, eyes landing on your table.
James and Lily slide into the booth with the easy comfort of long familiarity – James immediately reaching to swipe a chip from Sirius’ plate, Lily pressing a quick kiss to your cheek as she squeezes in beside you.
“We’re not late, are we?” she asks, already pulling a notepad and pen from her bag.
“Perfect timing,” Remus says, glancing towards the bar where the pub quiz host is fiddling with a mic.
“Brilliant,” James says, cracking his knuckles. “Because I’ve been revising.”
“Revising?” Sirius snorts. “Is this the A-Levels again?”
“Better,” Lily says, shooting a grin across the table. “He made me quiz him on obscure geography facts while I was straightening my hair.”
James winks. “Multitasking, babe.”
You laugh into your drink, heart buoyant with the energy around the table. You’re hemmed in by Lily on one side and Remus on the other, the heat of his thigh brushing yours beneath the table. He’s not moving away, and neither are you.
The quiz kicks off not long after – a crackly voice through the speakers announcing the rules as the pub dims the lights slightly and the host launches into the first round.
It starts out strong. Lily knows every answer in the literature round. Sirius, unsurprisingly, nails the music one, especially anything classic rock or 80s synth. James and Lily dominate the sports and politics sections, passing the pen back and forth like it's a baton in a relay.
You’re good at the random ones. The weird general knowledge stuff no one expects anyone to know. But every time you offer a hesitant guess, Remus is the first to jot it down without hesitation.
“She’s right,” he murmurs after you mutter something about which planet has the longest day. “It’s Venus.”
You glance at him. “Are you sure?”
He taps his pen, smirking. “Positive.”
And he’s right.
Remus is the dark horse of the whole night. Quietly scribbling answers during the history and science rounds, barely even hesitating. Everyone starts deferring to him, especially when it gets harder.
At one point, James throws down his pen and mutters, “Where do you keep all this stuff? Is there a little librarian in your brain with a filing cabinet or something?”
Remus shrugs, barely biting back a smile. “Just... remember things. I read a lot.”
You lean over and murmur, “You know so much weird information. It must be all the books.”
He turns to look at you, eyes crinkling. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
“No,” you say, grinning. “It’s kind of impressive. Annoying. But impressive.”
Remus nudges your knee with his. “Thanks, I think.”
But when the final scores are tallied, and the host calls out your team’s name as the winners, the entire table erupts.
You blink in disbelief, then burst out laughing as Sirius howls, leaping to his feet and banging on the table like a victory drum.
“We won! We actually won! We’re legends! Immortalised in pub quiz history!”
Lily rolls her eyes fondly and raises her glass. “To Remus, our walking encyclopaedia.”
They present the prize – a bottle of cheap prosecco and a £25 bar tab – and you all decide to split one more round with it. The drinks are sweeter, the laughter looser. There’s music playing now, and you find yourself talking to Lily about your favourite poetry collections while Sirius tries to convince Remus to dance.
Eventually, the evening wanes. The pub thins out, chairs scraping, the air thick with the scent of beer and summer sweat. You and Remus walk home together under a sky lit dimly by street lights and stars.
It’s warm enough now that your jacket’s slung over your arm. Your trainers scuff the pavement in easy rhythm beside his.
The walk home is slow, lazy with the warmth of the evening and the quiet hum of contentment between you. The street is dappled with soft pools of golden light. You and Remus fall into step like always, shoulder to shoulder, the occasional brush of arms sending quiet ripples through the comfortable silence.
You’re still buzzing from the night, from the win and the wine and the lingering warmth of everyone’s laughter. Every time you glance at Remus, he’s smiling, that soft, secret smile that curls at the corner of his mouth when he thinks no one’s looking.
“I still can’t believe you knew the name of the first cloned sheep,” you say, bumping your shoulder into his.
“Dolly,” he replies smugly.
“I know,” you groan. “I’m saying I can’t believe you knew that.”
Remus shrugs, casual. “It’s basic trivia.”
You huff a laugh. “It’s bizarre trivia.”
“It’s useful trivia,” he counters, giving you a sidelong glance that makes something flutter low in your belly. “Won us a bottle of cheap prosecco, didn’t it?”
You grin, and the quiet stretches between you again.
Your hands swing close again, knuckles brushing lightly. Neither of you pull away.
He shifts slightly, just enough that his fingers brush yours again, and this time, they stay. You glance down, heart in your throat, and feel his hand open, tentative but waiting.
You don’t think. You just slide your hand into his.
His fingers curl instantly around yours, warm and certain. You both keep walking, pretending it’s nothing, pretending your heart isn’t hammering so hard it hurts.
-
You step inside, the familiar hush of the flat wrapping around you both. Remus toes off his boots and hangs his jacket up, and you do the same, suddenly hyper aware of the proximity, the quiet.
He turns to you, lingering just a step closer than he needs to be. The air between you feels too full, your skin thrumming where he’s still holding your hand. His eyes flicker down to your mouth, just for a second. Barely a heartbeat.
Then he leans in.
It’s subtle at first, a shift in weight, his eyes still locked on yours. And then he’s close, close enough to kiss you.
And he almost does.
His breath ghosts over your lips, and you tilt your chin up instinctively, eyes fluttering shut—
But at the last second, he stops. Pulls back.
Just a fraction.
You blink up at him, startled and flushed and blinking hard, heart suddenly thudding in disappointment.
He opens his mouth like he wants to explain, but nothing comes out. You clear your throat, trying to save the moment, to make it feel less heavy.
“Right. Um–goodnight, then,” you murmur, stepping back and turning toward the hall.
You don’t get far.
“Wait–” he says, voice low and rough.
You freeze.
Then you feel it, his hand catching your wrist.
You turn, breath held tight in your lungs, and he’s right there again. Eyes stormy and wide, jaw tense.
“I can’t–” he starts, but the words twist out of him like they’re too slow for what he’s feeling. “I’ve wanted to–”
And then he kisses you.
It’s not gentle.
It’s urgent – a bruising, heated thing that steals the breath from your lungs and sends your hands into the fabric of his shirt, gripping tight. His mouth moves over yours like he’s been holding this back for too long, like he’s starving for it.
You gasp, just slightly, and he swallows the sound with a low groan, his hands sliding up your arms, into your hair, down your back. You’re pressed against the wall before you even realise he’s moved you, his body warm and solid against yours, his mouth insistent.
There’s no space between you anymore. Just warmth, friction, hands fumbling and mouths desperate.
You break for air only to pull back in with even more hunger, his lips on your jaw, your neck, then back to your mouth like he can’t decide what part of you he wants more.
“Remus,” you breathe against him, dizzy.
His hands settle on your waist, gripping tight like he’s anchoring himself. His forehead rests against yours for a breath, and then he murmurs, “Come with me.”
You nod.
He leads you to his room without another word, fingers still laced with yours, and when he closes the door behind you, the air changes again.
Slower, now.
More deliberate.
The urgency is still there, but it softens into something deeper, more consuming. He kisses you again, slower this time, reverent. His hands roam, mapping, remembering. Yours find the hem of his shirt, the warmth of his skin.
You don’t rush.
You undress each other like a secret being unfolded. You climb into his bed like you’ve always belonged there.
And when he finally sinks into you, it’s not rushed, not hurried.
He holds you like he’s afraid to let go. Like he’s wanted this for months and is still struggling to believe it’s real.
And when you come apart beneath him, it’s with his name on your lips and your hands in his hair, and the kind of breathless clarity that tells you nothing will be the same.
-
The first thing you feel is warmth.
From the slow rise and fall of his chest beneath your cheek, the steady heartbeat you must have drifted off to somewhere between kisses and whispered breaths.
You’re tangled up in Remus Lupin.
The duvet is twisted around your legs, one of his arms is slung heavy and loose around your waist, and his bare chest is the perfect place to rest your cheek. His skin is warm, smooth in some places, scarred in others. You trace a lazy finger over one of the faded marks near his collarbone, remembering where your mouth had been hours earlier.
He’s still asleep, face tilted slightly toward you, lips parted just enough to show the edge of a tooth. His hair’s a mess – curling against his forehead in soft, unruly waves – and he looks younger like this. Softer. The tension that he sometimes carries, that quiet weight he doesn’t talk about, has slipped away entirely in sleep.
You smile without meaning to, letting your eyes wander across his face.
How is this real?
You stay like that for a while, not quite ready to break the spell, watching the soft flutter of his lashes, the faint rise of his chest. You feel safe, grounded, like the world could wait a little longer.
And then–
Your phone buzzes.
You blink, reach for it blindly, and when the screen lights up, your stomach drops.
“8:43 AM – New Message from Manager: Hey! Just checking you’re still coming in?”
You sit bolt upright.
“Shit–shit, shit, shit.”
Remus stirs beside you, brow furrowing slightly, but doesn’t wake. You scramble out of bed, moving towards your own bedroom trying to get ready as quickly as possible.
You do a rushed version of your morning routine in the tiny bathroom – brush teeth, splash water, a swipe of mascara and a spritz of dry shampoo that does absolutely nothing. When you return to his bedroom, Remus hasn’t moved. He’s sprawled diagonally across the bed now, hair mussed, arm half-reaching toward where you’d been.
And then you’re out the door, down the stairs, and into the rush of the day.
-
The hours drag.
Your body is at work, but your mind is still back in that bed. On the way Remus had looked at you. On the way he’d touched you. You spend the day replaying it in loops, trying not to let it show on your face.
It’s hopeless. You catch your reflection in a window around lunch and see it: the too-bright eyes, the almost-smile that keeps slipping onto your face for no reason.
-
By the time you get back to the flat, you’re not sure what to expect.
Remus is in the kitchen.
He looks normal.
Hair still messy. Wearing one of his old jumpers – the navy one with sleeves that swallow his hands – and stirring something in a pot on the stove. You hover in the doorway, your bag still slung over one shoulder.
He glances over, smiles. “Hey. How was work?”
It’s his usual voice. Easy, casual. Like it’s any other day.
You blink. “Uh... fine. Busy.”
He nods, turns back to the stove. “You want dinner? I made pasta.”
Your heart sinks a little, stupidly. “I’m not super hungry right now,” you murmur. “Thanks though.”
He doesn’t push. Just shrugs and says, “Alright,” like nothing’s strange.
But it is. You can feel it.
The thing that bloomed between you last night, heavy and breathless and real, has been tucked neatly out of sight.
Maybe he regrets it.
Maybe it was a one-time thing.
Maybe he doesn’t want it to mean what it meant to you.
Eventually, you mumble, “I’m gonna go change,” and head down the hall before he can answer.
You close the door to your room with more force than necessary, leaning back against it with your eyes squeezed shut.
You feel foolish. You’d thought...
Well.
You’d thought it might change things.
Instead, it feels like everything’s gone backwards.
So you do what you always do.
You hide.
You crawl under your duvet and pull your knees up to your chest, pretending you’re tired. Pretending you’re not waiting for a knock on your door that never comes.
✩ August ✩
You’ve fallen back into your routine from when you first moved in. Hiding away in your room, when Remus is in the living room. Retreating into yourself, an act of self-preservation, you think.
You’ve escaped from your room today, Remus away at the doctors. Laying out on the sofa with a glass of cold water to combat against the heat that seeps into the flat, the hottest day of the year. You stare at the tv, staring unseeingly.
You’re halfway through the world’s most pointless reality show when the front door clicks open without warning.
You flinch slightly, half-rising off the sofa, until a familiar voice echoes from the hallway.
“Don’t get up on my account, sweetheart.”
A second later, Sirius is leaning over the back of the couch, sunglasses perched on his head and a takeaway iced coffee in each hand. He pokes you in the shoulder with one long finger, smirking.
You blink up at him, disoriented. “How did you get in?”
He raises an eyebrow. “Still have the spare. You lot never changed the locks after that one time I borrowed the toaster.”
“Stole,” you correct automatically.
He walks around the sofa and flops down beside you like he owns the place, long legs kicked out, one arm draped over the backrest behind your shoulders. He hands you one of the coffees. “Drink this. You look like you’re dying.”
“Thanks,” you mutter, finally slumping back into the sofa, gaze returning to the screen, where someone’s just burst into tears over a ruined meringue.
Sirius watches you for a beat. Then he leans in again, voice pitched low.
“So… what’s going on with you and Moony?”
You blink at him, your brain stuttering.
“What?” You shake your head. “Nothing. I mean, I have no idea. We don’t really… talk.”
Sirius clicks his tongue.
“Ah. Problem found.”
You glance over. “What?”
He gives you a look that’s both amused and just this side of exasperated. “He’s mopey. Has been for like, a couple weeks.”
You try not to let your expression betray you. “I don’t think that’s about me.”
“Yeah,” Sirius says dryly, “and I’m the Pope.”
Sirius watches you steadily, the smirk slipping off his face just a little as the silence stretches. You take a long sip of the iced coffee, letting the condensation chill your fingers, and avoid his gaze.
Finally, you exhale. It’s a slow, reluctant thing. “We slept together,” you admit, your voice barely above a whisper. “It wasn’t… nothing. I mean, it didn’t feel like nothing.”
Sirius’s eyebrows shoot up, but to his credit, he doesn’t interrupt. Just takes a slow sip from his own drink and waits.
You run a hand through your hair, the heat of the day clinging to your skin like guilt. “It was after the quiz. We were walking home and then–god, it just happened. And it was… really good. But I had to go to work the next morning. And then when I came back–he didn’t bring it up.”
You swallow. The words are harder to say than you thought they’d be.
“I figured if he wasn’t talking about it… maybe it was just one of those things. A mistake, even. So I didn’t either.”
Sirius lets out a low whistle, tossing his head back against the cushions. “Bloody hell.”
You roll your eyes. “Yeah. That about sums it up.”
There’s a beat of silence. You focus on the way the ice is melting in your cup, the way your pulse hasn’t quite calmed down.
Sirius shifts beside you, his voice quieter now. “Look. Rem’s a smart bloke. But sometimes…” he trails off, shaking his head. “He forgets people can’t read his mind. Thinks if he doesn’t say it out loud, it’s safer. Like he can keep it from meaning too much.”
“And he’s got it in his head,” Sirius continues, nudging your knee with his own, “that you’re far too good and far too pretty for him.”
You snort. “What, so he thinks I pity fucked him? Are you serious?”
Sirius deadpans, “Unfortunately.”
“That’s–” You set your coffee down with a soft thud, sitting up straighter. “That’s the most idiotic thing I’ve ever heard. He’s gorgeous.”
Sirius flashes a grin, all teeth. “Preaching to the choir, babe.”
You blink at him. “Wait, you–?”
He waves a hand. “Not the point. The point is, he’s probably thinking he’s ruined everything and you’re here thinking you did. You’re both being daft.”
You sigh again, pressing your fingers to your temples.
“You think I should talk to him.”
“I think,” Sirius says, voice level now, “that you need to. Because he’s not going to. Not unless he’s sure you want him to.”
“Okay,” you say finally, softly. “Okay. I will.”
Sirius reaches over, squeezes your shoulder with surprising gentleness. “Good girl.”
You roll your eyes. “Don’t push it.”
He winks. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
-
You feel grosser and grosser as the day goes on, becoming more sweat than girl. Whether it’s because of the heat or nerves you’re not sure. An unhealthy mix of both, probably.
You’ve run through what you want to say a million times in your head.
Maybe more.
Every version sounds wrong. Too much. Too vulnerable. Not enough.
So you sit on the sofa, legs crossed, iced coffee long since gone watery, clutching a cushion to your chest like it’s armor. The fan is humming in the corner but it does nothing to move the heat pressed into the walls of the flat.
When the front door creaks open again, you sit up so fast your spine protests.
Remus walks in slowly, his posture heavy with the weight of the day. He pauses when he sees you sitting there, like he wasn’t expecting it. There’s a split second where his face flickers. He gives you a tight, polite smile. The kind you might offer a stranger you bumped into at the shops.
Then he turns wordlessly toward the hallway.
“Remus.”
You say it before you can talk yourself out of it. Your voice doesn’t shake, but it’s close.
He stops. Still facing away. One hand resting on the edge of the doorframe.
“…Yeah?”
You take a breath that doesn’t help at all. Then another.
“I did want to talk about it.”
His head tilts slightly, just enough that you see the edge of his profile. There’s a pause. Like maybe he’s hoping he misheard.
“About what?” he says finally. Neutral. Careful.
You press your palms against the cushion like it might anchor you.
“About us having sex,” you say plainly. Then, softer: “And the day after.”
He winces.
You see it even from across the room – pain flashing over his face before he schools it away again. But not fast enough. Not before it lands in your chest with a hollow thud.
“I just…” You trail off, shake your head, try again. “I don’t want to pretend it didn’t happen. Because it did. And it wasn’t nothing to me.”
He turns at that, just enough to look at you properly. His arms are crossed, but not in that closed-off way you sometimes see, more like he’s holding himself together. His brows draw in, mouth set like he’s bracing.
“I know it wasn’t nothing,” he says quietly.
You sit back a little, heart thudding so loudly you’re sure it’s rattling your ribs.
“Then why didn’t you say anything?” It comes out softer than you mean it to, more hurt than accusatory. Your voice dips at the end like you’re hoping he’ll have an answer that makes it all make sense. Something that takes the last few weeks and peels the ache from them.
Remus hesitates. Then he laughs – dry, self-deprecating. Not unkind. Just tired.
“Because you didn’t say anything either.”
Your mouth opens. Closes again. You hadn’t expected that.
He rubs a hand across the back of his neck, the gesture tight with nerves. “I thought I’d messed it up. I thought–I don’t know. That maybe I crossed a line. You left so quickly that morning, and then you just–disappeared. And I thought, alright, that’s fair, it was a heat-of-the-moment thing. And I didn’t want to make it harder by pushing.”
“But I didn’t disappear,” you whisper. “Or I didn't mean to, I had to go to work. You acted like nothing happened when I got home.”
He meets your eyes then. And for the first time since that night, he looks open. Vulnerable in a way that makes your stomach twist.
“Because I thought if I let myself believe it meant what I wanted it to mean,” he says, voice low, “and I was wrong… I wouldn’t be able to look you in the eye again.”
You blink. “What did you want it to mean?”
There’s a beat of silence between you. The fan hums on, useless. The world waits.
Remus’s eyes are soft, almost pleading. “Everything.”
Your breath catches in your throat.
He exhales like he’s been holding it for hours. Days. Weeks, maybe.
“I wanted it to mean we’re not just friends who got carried away,” he continues, stepping closer, careful. “I wanted it to mean I get to look at you in the mornings and kiss you before you leave for work. I wanted it to mean you wanted me, too. Not just that night. After.”
Your heart cracks wide open.
“I do want you,” you say, voice trembling now, but sure underneath. “I never stopped. I thought I’d imagined it–that you regretted it. That it was a mistake.”
“It wasn’t,” he says, quickly. Firm. “Not even close.”
You stare at him, all those weeks of doubt pooling like ink in your chest. Slowly, you set the cushion aside, like shedding a shield.
He watches you. Doesn’t move.
“I wanted to tell you,” you say, standing slowly. “I just didn’t know how.”
“You’re telling me now,” Remus says softly. “That’s enough.”
You cross the room in four steps, barefoot and shaky and brave, and then he’s in front of you, warm and real and still yours to choose.
“I missed you,” you whisper, hands coming up to rest against his chest.
His arms come around you immediately, pulling you in like he’s been waiting this whole time. His face presses into your hair, his breath warm against your ear.
“I missed you more than I know how to say.”
You lean back enough to see his face, your hands curling in the hem of his jumper.
“Then say it like this.”
And you kiss him.
This time, it’s not urgent. Not desperate. It’s steady and soft and full of all the things you didn’t say. His lips move slowly over yours, reverent. Familiar. Like a promise.
He smiles into it. And when you pull away just enough to look at him properly, you find his eyes lit up with something you’ve only seen once before.
Hope.
“You’re not getting rid of me now, you know,” you say, resting your forehead against his.
“Good,” he murmurs. “I was hoping you’d stay.”
✩ September ✩
The days stretch a little shorter now, but summer’s warmth still clings stubbornly to the air, trailing behind in the soft buzz of bees and the golden hush of late afternoons. The flat’s windows are thrown open, letting in the scent of sun-warmed pavement and the rustle of dry leaves skittering along the street below.
Remus is barefoot in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, humming something low under his breath as he chops herbs with practiced ease. The late light catches in his hair, softens his features into something dreamlike. There’s a faint breeze lifting the curtain near the sink, and the clink of glass as he pours two drinks, glancing toward the living room where you’re curled on the sofa, legs tangled with Sirius’ across the cushions.
Lily and James arrive a few minutes later, the door swinging open with a chorus of greetings and laughter. Lily’s holding a warm loaf of bread wrapped in a tea towel; James has a bottle of wine under his arm and a grin too big for his face.
“Boo! I hate you guys being happy and in love,” Sirius announces, flinging himself into a new position across the armchair.
“You love it,” you say without looking up, one hand reaching blindly for Remus’ as he passes you a glass. He presses a kiss to the top of your head before he settles beside you, his arm slung across the back of the sofa, fingers brushing your shoulder in a quiet rhythm.
He hasn’t stopped touching you since that night.
It’s not overwhelming, not loud. Just soft, consistent reminders that he’s here, that you’re his, that he’s yours. A hand at the small of your back, knuckles brushing your thigh under the table, lips against your temple as he passes. Like he’s still learning how to believe it, but he’s trying every day.
Dinner is chaotic and loud, wine-stained and full of clattering cutlery and overlapping stories. Someone burns the garlic bread, Sirius knocks over a candle, and Lily accidentally flings a piece of tomato into James’ lap.
Later, when the plates are stacked and the last of the wine has been poured, Sirius puts a record on — something old and scratchy and perfect — and Lily pulls James up to dance. They sway messily in the living room, laughing, bumping into the furniture.
You’re half-tucked under Remus’ arm when Sirius offers you his hand.
“Come on, one dance. For your favourite.”
You shake your head, smiling. “No way. You’ll trip me up.”
“Probably,” Sirius concedes cheerfully. “But what a way to go.”
Remus chuckles beside you, warm and low, and you turn your face toward him instinctively. His gaze catches yours, steady and soft. Like everything else has blurred out.
“Go on,” he murmurs. “I’ll be here.”
You kiss him once — quick and fond — before letting Sirius spin you clumsily around the room, both of you laughing like children.
When the night winds down, James and Lily head off with matching yawns and promises to host next time, and Sirius dramatically declares he’s staying the night, already halfway through making the sofa into a makeshift bed despite your offers for him to sleep in your room that goes largely unused.
You and Remus retreat to his room, quiet and content. You curl into bed with the windows still open, letting the night breeze ghost across your skin. He wraps an arm around your waist and kisses your shoulder, murmuring something half-asleep against your skin.
It’s nothing dramatic. Just a slow, steady settling. A feeling in your chest that hums: this is it.
summary: Being friends with idiots is hard. how long will it take them to realise you and Remus are dating? or a series of events where you become progressively more obvious.
cw: fluff, steamy makeout towards the end but no smut, established relationship
Somewhere between late night study sessions and early morning conversations, you fell in love. To your amazement Remus fell in love with you too, his honeyed words and soft touches taking on a new meaning. What started as quiet, timid affection bloomed into an all consuming devotion. Happy and safe.
At the start, you both decided to keep it quiet, nurture it by yourselves with no interruption. But time has a way of slipping past unnoticed, and now the two of you are in deep, and no one else has caught on. It’s not as if you’re hiding, exactly; you and Remus just prefer the intimacy of privacy. And honestly, there’s a quiet thrill in watching how long it takes your friends to figure it out.
The great hall.
The smell of toast and tea lingers in the air as you trudge through the double doors of the Great Hall, hair still mussed from sleep and jumper slightly askew. It’s far too early for the kind of noise James Potter is making, voice echoing off the high stone walls as he waves his hands dramatically about something you don’t have the energy to decipher.
“…and I told her, I don’t care if you hexed my quill, I’m still not going to that—”
He cuts off mid-sentence, eyes flicking past Sirius to you. His mouth snaps shut like a trap. Sirius glances behind him, curious about what could possibly silence James of all people.
You offer a sleepy wave as you shuffle closer, barely catching the way Remus’ head lifts from his folded copy of the daily prophet. His gaze finds you instantly. A slow smile tugs at his mouth, and his shoulders visibly relax, as if just seeing you settled something in him.
“Morning,” you murmur, sliding onto the bench beside him, bumping your knee lightly into his under the table. He shifts just slightly, his hand coming to rest on your thigh in a gentle squeeze, grounding and familiar. You hide a small, content smile behind your cup of tea.
Across the table, Sirius raises an eyebrow over his plate of eggs. “You look like you got hit by a bus.”
You open your mouth to retort, but Remus beats you to it, not even looking up from his paper. “Leave her alone, Pads. Some of us don’t spend an hour in front of the mirror every morning.”
Sirius scoffs, flicking a crumb at him. “Jealousy is a disease, Lupin.”
James is still watching you—narrowed eyes, brow slightly furrowed, as if he’s trying to do complex equations in his head. You glance his way, and he startles like he’s been caught.
“You alright?” he asks, eyes flicking briefly to Remus, then back to you. “You look—well, not great.”
You blink at him over your tea. “Cheers, James.” you deadpan, “I’m just tired.”
He opens his mouth to say more, maybe apologize, but Lily slides onto the bench beside you with a rustle of parchment and the kind of purpose only she can manage this early in the morning.
“Did you start the Transfiguration essay yet?” she asks, nudging your elbow meaningfully. “Because McGonagall will have your head if it’s late again.”
You groan, resting your temple against your palm. “Started it, yeah. Finished it? Not even close.”
Lily sighs, long-suffering but fond. “Library after lunch.”
You nod, and the two of you slip into an easy rhythm—first the essay, then weekend plans for Hogsmeade. Remus stays quiet beside you, content to listen, a soft, knowing smile pulling at the corners of his lips.
At some point, without saying anything, he sets his paper aside and starts assembling a plate. Two slices of toast, a spoonful of marmalade, a soft-boiled egg, a handful of your favourite fruit. He doesn’t announce it or fuss, just places it gently in front of you, brushing a few stray crumbs off your sleeve with ease.
By then, James and Sirius have resumed their conversation, judging by the rising volume. Lily spots Slughorn across the way and excuses herself with a quick goodbye, already halfway across the room before you can respond.
You turn back to your tea, only to pause. The plate of food wasn’t there before but it’s exactly what you would’ve gotten for yourself. Toast arranged neatly, marmalade on the side. You glance sideways. Remus is already reading again, pretending not to notice your looking.
Under the table, your hand finds his. You link your fingers, gentle and grateful, and when you squeeze, he squeezes back. It’s warm, steady.
You lean in slightly, just enough so he can hear you over the breakfast chatter.
“Thank you,” you murmur, thumb brushing along the back of his hand.
Remus doesn’t answer right away, eyes still on the paper; but the smile tugging at his lips is unmistakable. Quiet. Fond. Yours.
“It’s nothing,” he says softly, in a way that means everything.
You open your mouth to say something more, because it's not nothing and Remus is the sweetest boy you know, but Sirius cuts in from across the table, dramatically dropping his fork and fixing Remus with a mock-offended glare.
“Why don’t I ever get breakfast made for me, Moony?” he demands, gesturing wildly at your plate. “You’ve known me longer. I’m charming. Handsome. A delight, really.”
Remus doesn’t even look up. He just turns a page.
“Because you’re a right wanker,” he replies, so evenly it takes a beat to register.
Sirius gasps, clutching his chest like he’s been wounded. “The audacity! James, did you hear that?”
James snorts into his tea. “Hard to miss. He’s not wrong, though.”
“I’m hurt,” Sirius insists, turning to you with wide, dramatic eyes. “He used to be so sweet. So gentle.”
You glance at Remus, one brow raised. “Did he?”
The infirmary.
If Remus had to pinpoint the worst part of the full moon, he doesn't think he could. The way his body is violated and his mind succumbs to bestial madness is high up there. Or maybe it's the way his mind is tormented month-round, collapsing from exhaustion afterwards and being plagued with worry for the next. A vicious, never-ending cycle.
This time, he thinks, it's waking up the morning after the full moon.
Though he can tell it was a particularly bad one, it’s not the aches and pains. It’s waking to you, curled in an armchair at his bedside, asleep. Remus hates that you worry so much, that it affects you. Your neck is at an awful angle, and there's a faint crease between your brows, even in sleep.
He exhales, the breath barely more than a rasp, and your lashes flutter in response. You shift, not fully awake at first, and then, like something clicking into place, you sit up straighter, eyes flying open.
"Remus," you say softly, already pushing yourself to your feet and crossing the space between the chair and the bed. Your hands find his arm gently, carefully, as though you're afraid even your touch might hurt. "You're awake."
He tries to offer a weak smile, but it falters before it can fully form. "Unfortunately."
"Don't say that," you murmur, frowning as your hands glide down to check for injuries, the kind that bandages don't always catch.
“I’m fine, dove,” he lies, out of habit more than belief.
You ignore him. “Let me get you some water,” you say, already moving toward the small table where a pitcher and glass had been left. You pour it, return, and sit beside him on the edge of the bed, holding it to him with steady hands.
He accepts it, grateful but quiet, sipping slowly. When he’s finished, you set the glass back on the nightstand with a soft clink.
His brow furrows. “Why are you here?” he asks, voice hoarse but laced with genuine confusion. “You usually come after I’ve woken up.”
You hesitate, brushing a bit of hair away from his damp forehead. “You… woke up early. Just for a little while.”
“I don’t remember that.”
“I know.” Your hand stills against his temple. “It wasn’t for long. James came to get me. Said you were–” You glance away for a moment, mouth tightening. “You were in pain. And saying my name. Over and over. Apparently Sirius and Madam Pomfrey had to hold you down to get a calming draught in you.”
Remus goes still. Shame rolls through him like a fresh wave of fever. He looks away, down at the rough wool blanket, his hands balled in the fabric.
“I’m sorry,” he says quietly, the words bitter on his tongue. “I shouldn’t have– I didn’t mean to wake you. You didn’t have to come.”
“Stop being silly,” you say, almost fondly, but there’s a steel thread beneath it. You reach for his face again, gentle but firm, guiding his gaze back to yours. “Of course I came. You think I’m going to stay in bed while you’re in pain, calling for me?”
He starts to respond, some garbled protest forming in his throat, but you cut it off by leaning forward and pressing a quick, sure kiss to his lips.
It’s warm. Soft. Gone before he can even react.
He blinks at you, stunned.
“I’ll always come,” you say simply, your fingers still resting at the edge of his jaw. “You don’t have to be sorry for needing someone, Remus.”
Silence settles between the two of you.
You don’t say anything, and neither does he. It’s not awkward. shifting just slightly on the mattress, curling one leg up under you, you begin brushing the hair from Remus’ forehead again—gentle, patient sweeps of your fingers, like you have all the time in the world. His hair is still damp with sweat, a little tangled, but you don’t seem to mind. You just keep smoothing it back, over and over, letting him rest in the rhythm of it.
Remus closes his eyes. Not to sleep but just to relax. The silence swells around you, filled only by the quiet sounds of the castle waking up; distant footsteps, the occasional creak of old wood, and your even, steady breaths.
Eventually, his voice slips through the hush, barely more than a whisper. “Where are the others?”
You smile faintly. “James is with Regulus. Doing God knows what. Hopefully sleeping.” You roll your eyes, affection bleeding through the exasperation.
That gets a faint huff of a laugh from Remus, which quickly dissolves into a wince. He presses a hand to his ribs.
“And Sirius?” he asks.
You glance toward the door. “Went to get breakfast. Said you’d need something solid, not just Pomfrey’s apparently sad excuse for toast.”
Just as you say it, the door creaks open and Sirius steps inside, a paper bag tucked under one arm and two cups in his hands. The scent of butter and cinnamon trails in with him.
“Speak of the devil,” you murmur.
Sirius pauses when he sees the two of you. You're still perched on the edge of the bed, one hand resting lightly against Remus’ temple, the other curled in your lap. Remus’ eyes are open now, glassy with exhaustion but softer than they’ve been in days. The two of you are close and something about the look on your faces makes Sirius stop mid-step.
Then he just clears his throat and steps forward, saying nothing about it. “Brought food.”
He places the bag and drinks on the nightstand with uncharacteristic care, glancing once more between the two of you. His gaze lingers on Remus, searching for signs of deeper pain or unease, but seems satisfied by what he finds.
“I’ll leave you to it,” he says softly, stepping back. “See you later, Moons.”
There’s a quiet fondness to it.
“Thanks, Pads,” Remus says, voice rough but genuine.
Sirius nods and slips out the door with barely a sound.
-
Sirius finds James exactly where he expects: sprawled on one of the beaten-up sofas in the Gryffindor common room. Less expected is Regulus, curled under James’s arm, head tucked into his shoulder like it’s the most natural thing in the world. James looks half-asleep, fingers lazily combing through Regulus’s hair, while Regulus is clearly pretending he hadn’t just dozed off.
Sirius rolls his eyes. “For Merlin’s sake,” he mutters, stepping over the hearthrug. “Is there something in the Gryffindor water this year? Everyone’s getting domestic.”
Regulus lifts his head just enough to shoot him a glare. “You sound like you’re sixty.”
“And you look like you’re two seconds from sucking your thumb,” Sirius shoots back, dropping down onto the coffee table with a dramatic sigh. He leans forward, elbows on his knees, then looks squarely at James.
“You’ll never guess what I just walked in on.”
James, ever patient when Sirius is in a mood, lifts a brow. “Tell me.”
Sirius jerks his chin toward the entrance of the common room. “Remus is awake. Looks like hell, obviously, but that’s not the point. The point is…” He pauses for dramatic effect, glancing meaningfully between the two of them. “Y/N was there. Sitting right beside him. Touching his face. Whispering. Very softly, I might add.”
James frowns. “So?”
“I’m just saying,” Sirius drawls, “it was very couple-y.”
James lets out a soft laugh and shakes his head. “No way. They’ve been like that for ages, they’re just friends, mate. Remus would’ve told us if they were dating.”
Sirius nods, like that settles it.
Regulus snorts into James’s shoulder.
“What?” Sirius narrows his eyes.
“You two are incredibly dense,” Regulus says without looking up. “They are dating. It’s obvious.”
James and Sirius look at each other, then back at Regulus in perfect unison.
“No offence, Reggie,” Sirius says, raising a brow, “but they’re our friends. I think we’d know.”
“You think you’d know,” Regulus says flatly. “But you don’t. Because Remus is private and stupidly noble, and your friend is just as bad. Do you really think he’s going to announce it over breakfast? What would he even say—‘pass the marmalade, I’m in love’?”
James blinks.
Sirius blinks.
Then they both burst out laughing, as if Regulus is mental.
The black lake.
With the summer months fast approaching, and a week passing since the full moon, the warm weather has called for a relaxing day on the shore of the black lake. You're laid out on a blanket with Remus sat beside you, your head resting on his thigh.
With closed eyes, you can picture the peaceful look on Remus’ face as he reads with his fingers twirling in the ends of your hair.
The sun is warm where it filters through the branches above, casting soft, dappled patterns across your skin. Somewhere behind you, someone splashes into the lake with a shout, followed by a chorus of laughter. But it all feels far away.
You sigh, content, eyes still closed. “If I die right now,” you murmur, “tell Madam Pomfrey I went happy.”
Remus huffs a soft laugh, the vibration of it echoing down through his thigh. “Bit dramatic,” he says, though there’s affection in it.
“Mmm,” you hum, noncommittal. “We’ll see what you say when it happens.”
Another beat of silence. You think he’s gone back to reading–until his fingers pause, then still.
“Everyone’s out of the dorms tonight,” he says casually, “some ravenclaw party, or something.”
You open one eye, peering up at him. “You planning to go?”
Remus shakes his head. “No. I thought maybe… you’d want to come up for a bit. To mine.” His voice dips a little lower. “Just us.”
“I’d love to,” you say simply. “You and me. No interruptions. I’ll finally have you all to myself.”
Remus’s eyes soften. He sets the book aside, turning his full attention to you. “You already have me,” he murmurs.
Your only response is to wiggle your eyebrows suggestively, the grin on your face unmistakably wicked. Remus gives a soft, breathy laugh and shakes his head. “Minx,” he says, voice full of fondness.
You're just about to respond–something equally teasing on the tip of your tongue–when there’s the familiar thunder of approaching footsteps.
Before either of you can move, Sirius throws himself down onto the blanket with a loud oof, landing half across your legs and knocking Remus slightly off balance.
“You’re the worst,” you mutter, even as you’re giggling.
Sirius groans dramatically as you swat at him, your hand smacking against his shoulder with no real force.
“You love it,” Sirius replies, grinning like the absolute menace he is.
Before you can retaliate with some biting remark, a familiar voice calls out from behind.
“Y/N!” Lily’s voice rings clearly through the warm air, her red hair catching the sunlight as she approaches. “You coming to the greenhouses? Marlene’s already started without us and Dorcas is claiming all the best pots.”
You sit up with a groan, shoving Sirius more forcefully this time. He rolls onto the grass with a theatrical oomph that earns an eye-roll from Remus.
“On my way!” you call back to Lily, brushing grass off your legs. You turn to Remus, eyes softening, your hand brushing his wrist. “Later?”
He nods, that quiet little smile playing on his lips. “Later.”
Sirius waves lazily from the blanket, still lounging, and you hear him shout a cheerful “See you later, Y/N!”
The two of you start walking toward the greenhouses, and once you’re out of sight, Sirius suddenly sits up. Remus catches the shift in his mood, the way he straightens, a more serious look crossing his features.
Then, as if deciding to finally ask whatever's been on his mind, he looks at Remus, his voice quieter than usual. "You two are friends, right?" he asks, a slight edge of curiosity in his tone.
Remus, who’s watching you walk away, doesn’t hesitate. "Yeah. Of course." He’s telling the truth, you might be his girlfriend but you were his friend first and you're his best friend now.
There’s a brief pause, and Sirius nods slowly. He makes a soft sound, tapping his fingers absently on the grass, clearly stewing in his thoughts. Remus knows he’s trying to find the right words, the ones that aren’t too blunt but also get at whatever Sirius is really thinking. After another long stretch of silence, Remus sighs, deciding to make it easier.
“Spit it out, Pads. You're not very tactful.”
Sirius huffs a small laugh, a little awkwardly, before shifting on the blanket. He rubs the back of his neck, clearly conflicted. “I was just thinking,” he starts, “You… fancy her, don’t you?”
The question hits Remus like a sharp poke to the ribs. He looks over at Sirius, surprised at the bluntness, then immediately thinks Oh. He can’t help but chuckle lightly, thinking Sirius has finally put it all together–that he and you are already together.
“Well, yeah,” he says nonchalantly, his gaze drifting back to you. “I do.”
Sirius, however, just stares at him for a moment, blinking in confusion. “You… do?” He asks slowly, his brows furrowing in disbelief. “So, why are you not doing anything about it? Do you need help telling her?”
Remus freezes for a second, eyes narrowing. The warmth in his chest from the thought of you is still there, but now it comes with a pinch of amusement. He opens his mouth to respond, but then quickly closes it. Sirius really has no clue, does he? Remus can’t help but laugh softly, shaking his head.
“I don’t need help, Pads,” Remus says, his voice an easy mix of affection and slight exasperation.
Sirius scoffs, “If this is some mopey werewolf bullshit, I don't want to hear it. You deserve to be happy, Moony.”
“I am happy,” Remus stresses, “I’ve done all I need to.” he nods at Sirius, hoping that the boy can read between the lines.
“Okay.” Sirius sighs.
The dormitory.
The evening sun casts its last golden rays over the horizon as the two of you find yourselves alone in the quiet of Remus's dorm room. The noises of the day have faded to a dull hum, and it’s just the two of you now–no distractions, no interruptions.
Remus’ heated touch is wandering, hands gripping whatever part of you he can get to. His mouth is warm on your neck, doting but rough, anything else you were thinking of doing tonight quickly erased from your mind. One of your hands is buried in his hair while the other drifts upwards to his neck and jaw.
“Rem,” you sigh, breathless and lightly pulling his hair to move his mouth upwards.
A breathy laugh comes out of him, before he captures your mouth with his own. You sigh into his mouth, and he takes it gladly, his hands moving down to your hips shifting you closer in his lap. His eager kissing is warm, acting like a man starved.
You shift your hips, wanting to be closer, feeling him against you. It elicits a groan from one of you, that gets swallowed between you. Remus’ grip on your hips becomes firmer, working to guide you in your efforts grinding against him, and your moans become more frequent for it.
“Fuck,” he pants, pulling back to look up at you, his grip on you not faltering. He shifts a hand to toy with the hem of your top. “Can I take this off?”
“Please.” you reply breathless and he smiles at you planting a kiss to the corner of your mouth before moving your shirt up and over your head.
Remus moves in again, his mouth mean as it skims across the top of your breasts. It's bliss.
Neither of you notice the door opening until a scandalised gasp echoes through the room. “Bloody hell!” James squeals, immediately throwing a hand over his eyes and turning around so fast he nearly maims himself on the doorframe. “I’m blind! I didn’t need to see that!”
Remus scrambles to wrap a blanket around your shoulder as you shift to move off his lap. Once the blanket is secured, Remus’ hands grip your waist tightly and he looks at you, eyes pleading, begging you not to move.
Sirius lingers in the doorway, eyebrows shooting straight into his hairline as a wicked grin stretches across his face. “Well, well, well,” he whistles, arms crossing as he leans casually against the frame. “When you said you’d done all you need to, I didn’t think you meant you were shagging her. I thought you were a gentleman, Moony.”
Remus, who’s gone a shade redder than any of the Gryffindor banners, pulls the blanket tighter around your shoulders and groans. “Can you both just– piss off?!” His voice cracks halfway through the sentence, and he sounds more desperate than angry.
You stifle a laugh against his shoulder, only mildly mortified but mostly amused.
Remus shoots Sirius a glare, ears flushed pink. “That–that was me telling you she’s my girlfriend, you sod.”
There’s a long pause.
Then, in perfect unison, James–still hiding behind his hand–and Sirius both shout;
“What?!”
“Alright, alright,” you interrupt, amusement clear in your voice despite the heat in your cheeks. You’re still tucked against Remus, the blanket barely doing its job, and your shirt’s rumpled on the bed behind you. “This is really fun, guys, but could you maybe turn around so I can put my shirt back on?”
James lets out a garbled sound still shielding his eyes. Sirius sighs but obliges.
“What the fuck,” Sirius mutters, and James echoes it softly, bewildered and still shell-shocked.
You grin as you press a quick kiss to Remus’ lips, gentle, grateful, and a little teasing. He’s still beet red, poor thing, but the moment your lips touch his, some of that panic in his eyes melts into warmth.
Then, with a deep breath and no small amount of dignity, you swing your legs off his lap and slip your shirt back on. Remus helps you straighten it without thinking, hands ghosting over your sides like he can’t not touch you, even in the middle of the world’s most embarrassing interruption.
Once decent, you move to sit beside him rather than on top of him, though you don’t go far. Your knees still touch. Always.
“Alright, you can turn around now,” you call lightly, brushing your fingers through your hair.
James turns slowly, eyes still suspiciously squinted like he’s worried he’ll see something scarring again. He takes in the scene, both of you sitting side by side on the bed, fully clothed now but clearly together, Remus still flushed and you not bothering to hide your smug little smile.
“So…” James begins, narrowing his eyes, “when did this start?”
You glance at Remus, who looks as though he’d prefer the full moon over this interrogation.
“Be honest,” Sirius adds, crossing the room to drop dramatically into the armchair by the window. “If you say, like, last week, I will riot.”
Remus sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. “October.”
James blinks. “October last year?”
You nod innocently. “Started with studying. Got a bit… distracting.”
Sirius makes a sound like he’s just been betrayed. “You mean to tell me you two have been together for months and didn’t say anything?”
“It’s not like we were hiding it,” Remus mutters.
James gestures wildly. “You were definitely hiding it!”
You exchange a look with Remus, who just shrugs helplessly.
Sirius groans, dragging a hand down his face as if it's all too much to bear. And then, with the weariness of a man forced to admit defeat, he mutters:
“For fuck’s sake… Reg was right.”
Remus smirks, finally relaxed again. “You gonna be okay, Pads?”
“Absolutely not,” Sirius says, already slumping further into the chair. “You’re disgusting.”
But he’s grinning.
James just shakes his head, still in awe. “Next time, just tell us.”
You reach for Remus’s hand, lacing your fingers together, and smile.
Summary: You and Remus are hopeless, but James and Sirius aren’t quitters.
cw: fluff, shy!reader, kind of shy!remus, mutual pining, James and Sirius play matchmakers and are general menaces.
From where Sirius is sitting, it’s impossible to miss the way Remus looks at you, like every word spilling from your lips is the most important thing he’s ever heard. He’s leaning forward just slightly, head tilted in that way he does when he’s fully tuned in, a soft smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. His eyes are warm, attentive, like he’s trying to memorise you.
You're sitting there, fingers nervously twisting in the hem of your jumper, voice barely above a whisper as you recount the dream you had last night. Something about floating books in the library and a talking tabby cat with a monocle who demanded five galleons in overdue fines. You weren’t going to mention it to anyone—it’s ridiculous, really—but when Remus had asked how you slept, it caught you off guard. And you panicked.
Remus laughs, quiet and breathy. He leans in closer, resting his elbows on his knees, watching you like you’ve just gifted him something precious. His grin is effortless, lopsided, and it sends a pulse through your chest that’s so sudden, it borders on painful.
“Did the cat ever get its money?” he asks, mock-serious but clearly enjoying himself.
You blink, startled by the question, and then laugh, a shy, uncertain sound that’s more exhale than voice. “No. I think I woke up before I could pay him.”
“Tragic,” he murmurs, eyes twinkling. “Poor feline economy.”
His eyes crinkle at the corners as he says it, and something in his expression, so open, so achingly kind, threatens to unravel you completely. You glance down, focusing intensely on a loose thread near your sleeve, hoping it distracts from the way your heart feels too big for your chest.
Across the room, Sirius raises a single eyebrow, watching the scene unfold like he’s in on some joke no one else knows the punchline to. He catches your eye briefly, and though his expression is unreadable, it carries that familiar glint of knowing. He definitely knows.
“I—um,” you stammer, the words colliding in your throat like a stack of falling books. “I should head up. I’ve got some work to finish.”
Remus straightens a little, a flicker of something unreadable passing over his face—disappointment? Concern? Whatever it is, it’s gone before you can name it. He nods gently.
“Alright,” he says. “Don’t let the cat find you again.”
You smile despite yourself, a small, fluttery thing that barely reaches your eyes. With a mumbled goodbye, you slip away, still clutching the hem of your jumper in your fist like it’s the only thing anchoring you. You can feel Sirius’s gaze trail after you, all the way to the stairs.
Remus, for his part, doesn’t look away. His eyes stay locked on the doorframe you just disappeared through, unmoving. His brow is furrowed slightly, replaying every word, every laugh, every nervous twitch of your fingers in his mind on an endless loop.
He doesn’t even notice James walking into the room.
James pauses, glancing between Remus and Sirius with a look of dawning confusion. Sirius, who has been watching the whole interaction unfold like it’s the most entertaining show on Earth, lets out a low whistle and leans back in his chair, stretching out leisurely.
“You’ve got to put the poor thing out of her misery,” Sirius says, tone light but threaded with a teasing sharpness. His arms cross over his chest, and the smirk tugging at his lips is all mischief.
Remus blinks, startled. “What are you talking about?” he asks, instinctively defensive. “We—we’re friends, Sirius.”
Sirius doesn’t even blink. “Oh, come off it,” he says smoothly, waving a hand toward the door you’ve just gone through. “You know exactly what I’m talking about, Moony.”
Remus turns away slightly, color rising in his cheeks. Sirius notices, of course. He notices everything.
He glances at James, who’s now standing squarely in the doorway, clearly trying to figure out what he’s walked in on. Sirius grins wider, as though he’s about to share something scandalous. “James,” he calls, sing-song, drawing out the name like it’s the start of a revelation.
“What?” James asks, brow raised.
“Who are we talking about?” Sirius says casually, as though the answer should be obvious.
James frowns, glancing again between the two of them. “Y/N?” he guesses.
Sirius snaps his fingers and points. “Ten points to Gryffindor.”
James raises both eyebrows. “Well yeah, she proper fancies moony.” he says, like it's the most well known thing in the world.
“What? No, that’s—” Remus flushes deeper, stumbling over the words like they’re foreign. “I—I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Mate,” Sirius says, shaking his head like he’s disappointed, “I’ve seen her say more to you in five minutes than she’s said to me in five years. Shame too, must be funny with how you were going on.”
Remus looks like he wants to disappear. “Sirius, no. It’s not—it’s just...”
“You’re sweet on her too,” James says, not unkindly, though the teasing is still evident. “Obviously.”
Remus freezes. His mouth opens like he might deny it again, but no words come out. His eyes flick toward the door, desperate, like maybe you’ll come back and spare him.
Sirius leans forward, wolfish grin on his face. “Just admit it.”
Remus’s face twists in frustration. “It’s not like that, you sods.”
“Sure it’s not,” Sirius says dryly.
Remus stands abruptly, hands clenched into fists, eyes flashing. “Just because you two only ever think with your dicks doesn’t mean I do,” he snaps. “She doesn’t like me, and I don’t—” His voice falters for half a second, but then he sets his jaw. “It’s never going to happen.”
Before either of them can speak, he turns on his heel and storms out, boots echoing against the floorboards, shoulders tight with tension he can’t shake.
The door slams behind him.
Sirius exhales slowly, the grin slipping off his face, replaced by something closer to a grimace. “Always so bloody dramatic with him,” he mutters, not unkindly. There's fondness in the complaint, buried just beneath the surface.
James watches the door for a long beat before glancing back at Sirius, eyes gleaming with quiet amusement. “You thinking what I’m thinking?”
Sirius smirks again, but this time it’s slower, more thoughtful. “Depends,” he says, voice low and conspiratorial. “What are you thinking, Prongs?”
-
“Are you sure this is going to work?” James’s voice wavers just slightly, betraying the flicker of doubt running through him. He leans against the arm of the couch, watching intently as Sirius adjusts a few books on the floor, each one placed at a precise angle, almost too perfect. Sirius is crouched low, a mischievous grin tugging at the corners of his lips as he arranges the trap.
Sirius flashes James a cocky smirk. “Trust me, Prongs. I’ve thought this through. It’s foolproof.” His eyes glint with that familiar spark, the one that always signals trouble.
James doesn’t look convinced, but he sighs and crosses his arms. “If this goes wrong, I’m blaming you, Pads.”
Sirius winks and straightens up, stretching his arms out with exaggerated nonchalance. “If it goes wrong, I’ll take full responsibility, mate. But it won’t. Just wait.”
Over in the corner, you’re completely oblivious to the scheming happening just a few feet away. As usual, your nose is buried in a book, the weight of the world in your hands as you try (and fail) to focus on the words before you. Filled with distractions from thoughts that don’t quite settle.
Remus, unaware of the trap laid before him, strides across the common room, deep in thought. His shoes strike the stone floor with a rhythmic clomp, a sound you’ve grown used to. But this time, it’s louder, as though fate has already decided he’ll make this entrance one for the books. His gaze is fixed ahead, oblivious to the strategically placed book in his path, waiting to trip him up.
Time seems to stretch as Remus’s foot catches the edge of the book, his body pitching forward. For a split second, everything is suspended in midair. His arms flailing in a desperate attempt to catch balance, and then the inevitable happens.
With an almost comical force, Remus stumbles right into you, knocking you back with the unexpected impact. You gasp, breathless, the force of his sudden weight landing in your lap. It’s like the entire room has frozen. Your eyes widen as you look up, heart racing with both surprise and sheer embarrassment.
Remus’s face turns a shade of red you’ve never seen before. He scrambles to get off you, muttering apologies at a rapid-fire pace. “Oh my Merlin, I—sorry! Sorry! I didn’t—” His hands dart about awkwardly, unsure of where to place them, like he might somehow make the situation worse. His gaze is averted, skipping frantically around the room, and finally, in a move that only adds to the embarrassment, he shuffles a few inches away and slumps down beside you, burying his face in his hands in utter mortification.
You, too, are a mess. Desperately wanting to say something, anything, but the words are trapped somewhere in your throat. You look anywhere but at him, at the way his messy hair falls over his forehead or the soft brown of his eyes. It’s impossible to avoid the feeling that the universe is conspiring against you as you twist your jumper hem between your fingers for something, anything, to do with your hands. The silence is deafening, thick with the weight of unspoken apologies and shared embarrassment.
James and Sirius, from across the room, have already collapsed into the nearest armchairs, practically choking on laughter as they watch the disaster unfold.
“Well, that was a disaster,” James mutters under his breath, rubbing his face with both hands. “What happened to the romantic part of the plan, Pads?”
Sirius is doing his best to hold it together, but he’s failing miserably. His shoulders shake with barely contained laughter, though it settles as he takes in the words. “Well it looked bloody romantic in that film, prongs. Not my fault moony is a fucking oaf,” he groans.
Remus is still frozen, staring at the floor as though it might swallow him whole. He hasn’t looked up, not even once. His embarrassment is palpable, radiating off him in waves. You, on the other hand, are fidgeting so violently that it’s a wonder your jumper isn’t a tangled mess by now.
Finally, after what feels like an eternity of silence, Remus lets out a breath and speaks, his voice tight with discomfort. “Are you—um—okay?” His words come out in a hesitant stutter, as if he’s testing the waters before he sinks any deeper. He risks a glance at you, but his eyes immediately flick back down to his hands, his voice cracking with embarrassment. “Sorry again. I really didn’t mean to—”
You shake your head frantically, a flush spreading over you. “I—I’m fine,” you stammer, your voice barely above a whisper. “You just... surprised me.”
Remus shifts uncomfortably beside you, his hands running nervously through his hair as he tries to relieve his awkwardness. “I didn’t mean to cause a scene... I’ll just—” He starts to rise, clearly planning to escape the awkwardness before it swallows him whole.
“Okay,” you whisper, your voice small and strained, too embarrassed to meet his eyes.
-
“Okay,” Sirius drawls, arms crossed as he leans back in an armchair, one eyebrow cocked. “You sure you’ve thought this one through, lover boy?”
James huffs, balancing two mugs of tea precariously in his hands while eyeing the worn, squishy couch near the fireplace. “This isn’t a bloody trap like yours, Pads,” he mutters, “It’s tea. It’s normal. It’s gentle. It’s what normal people do when they’re not trying to orchestrate the demise of moony.”
Sirius snorts, clearly unimpressed. “And your genius plan is what, exactly? Ply them with chamomile until they fall into each other’s arms?”
James sets the mugs down on the coffee table with exaggerated care, glancing over his shoulder to make sure neither Remus nor you have noticed anything amiss. “No,” he says, smoothing out an invisible wrinkle in his jumper. “The plan is to give them five minutes alone by the fire. Quiet, warm, relaxed. Maybe they talk, maybe someone smiles—hell, maybe someone blushes, Pads.”
Sirius clutches his heart mockingly. “Romance and tea? How Evans hasn’t snapped you up yet, I’ll never know.” he whispers, sarcastically.
But James ignores him, walking toward Remus, who’s nose-deep in a tattered copy of Wuthering heights. “Oi, Moony,” he calls casually. “Come sit by the fire for a bit, yeah? Brought you tea. The good kind.”
Remus looks up, eyes narrowing, skeptical. “What do you want?”
“Nothing,” James insists. “Can’t a man just care for his friend? You look like a corpse. You need tea.”
Remus snorts but rises anyway, stretching as he walks toward the couch. James waves him over, then slips off to the other end of the common room with a wink at Sirius, who is now trying not to look like he’s watching intently from behind a rogue transfiguration textbook.
You're already curled up at one end of the couch, a dog-eared paperback open in your lap, thumb nervously tracing the edge of the page. You glance up when Remus sits at the opposite end, a bit stiff, clutching the steaming mug with both hands like a lifeline.
“Hi,” he says after a pause, voice low and careful. His eyes don’t quite meet yours.
“Hi.” You smile, small, unsure, and drop your gaze.
The fire crackles. The silence between you two feels gentler this time, less like a vacuum and more like a space waiting to be filled. You peek at him from the corner of your eye, noting how his hair falls just-so over his forehead, how his fingers tap an absent rhythm against the ceramic of the mug.
Remus clears his throat and shifts a little closer, barely noticeable, but you do.
“You, um… like that book?” he asks, nodding toward the one in your hands.
Your smile returns, small but real. “Yeah. It’s kind of slow, but… nice.”
He nods, encouraged. “Sometimes nice is better than exciting.”
A breathy laugh escapes you, surprised. “I’d say so.”
There’s a flicker of something like confidence in his eyes as he holds your gaze just a moment longer than usual. His shoulder inches closer still, his voice a little warmer now. “I could lend you one, if you want. Something slower. But not boring.”
“I’d like that,” you say, voice barely above a whisper, but it’s the most certain thing you’ve said all day.
And for a moment, just a moment—there’s a softness between you, a glowing hush wrapped in firelight and chamomile steam. He’s looking at you like maybe he understands you, and you’re looking at him like maybe that’s okay.
From across the room, Sirius leans toward James and mutters, “Fucking hell.”
James just grins smugly, arms folded. “Told you. No tripping required.”
But just as the moment settles, as Remus opens his mouth to maybe, maybe, say something more, you glance at the clock above the mantel and visibly stiffen.
“Oh—I have to go. I’ve got the… the thing. For Transfiguration.”
You’re already collecting your book and mumbling apologies before he can respond, a heat blooming like wildfire climbing your neck. Remus stands halfway, as if to follow or say something; he doesn’t.
The silence you leave behind is tangible. Remus drops back onto the couch with a long sigh, fingers curling around the warm mug once again.
James claps Sirius on the shoulder. “Almost, mate. Almost.”
Sirius huffs a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “It has to be next time, I can’t go on like this any longer.”
-
The next few days pass in a strange, quiet limbo.
Remus avoids your eyes like they burn. You dodge his like they might catch you saying too much. Something cracked on that couch—small, but sharp. And tea, apparently, couldn’t fix it. Sirius delights in poking the wound. James, more subtle, keeps giving Remus pointed looks like he’s waiting for a confession. He never gets one.
But he does get an idea.
It starts with a note, tucked between the pages of your Advanced Defensive Spells textbook, just as you’re packing up in the common room. The handwriting is messy, but unmistakably meant to be Remus’:
Meet me in the library after dinner? Bring your notes. – R
Your heart stumbles in your chest. It’s short. Simple. But the way your fingers tighten around the parchment says everything it needs to.
-
By the time you make it to the library, the sun has dipped low, and the tall arched windows cast golden shadows that stretch like reaching fingers across the stone floor. The scent of old pages and polished wood settles around you. Picking a table in the far back, quiet, tucked behind a barricade of dust-laced bookshelves, you unpack your notes with hands that won't quite stop shaking.
Remus shows up exactly three minutes later, arms full; parchment, quill, a plethora of battered books. He looks like he’s braced himself for something, an ambush, maybe, or worse, a conversation. But when he spots you already seated, head bowed over your textbook, he clears his throat and slides into the seat beside you like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
“Hey,” he says, softly.
You glance up. Your heart does that stupid flutter again, like it hasn't learned its lesson. “Hey.”
And then… silence.
You both read. Or pretend to. Every turn of the page feels loud, like it echoes between the bookshelves. You sneak glances at him when you’re sure he isn’t looking. He does the same, though less successfully—once your eyes meet for half a second too long, and you both dart back to your notes like they’ve become ancient relics demanding total concentration.
Two aisles over, James and Sirius are crammed behind a bookshelf, wedged between Theories in Transfiguration, Vol. VI and a truly enormous tome on magical law reform. Sirius is lying flat on the floor, chin propped in his hand. James crouches awkwardly behind him, squinting through the slats.
“They’re not even talking,” James whispers, scandalized.
“They’re studying,” Sirius hisses. “In silence. Like psychopaths. I told you we should’ve gone with the spilled ink plan.”
“You wanted to accidentally spill ink on her essay?”
“Disaster leads to bonding!” Sirius insists. “It’s science!”
“We've proved that it doesn't! I think they might deserve to bloody pine after each other forever.”
-
Remus shifts beside you, his brow furrowing ever so slightly as he scans the parchment in front of him. His quill taps an uneven rhythm against the tabletop, a quiet metronome to the silence that’s settled between you. The library around you hums with the soft rustle of pages and the occasional muffled cough, but it all fades beneath the weight of his hesitation.
Finally, after what feels like an eternity, he speaks, his voice low and cautious, but touched with that familiar, curious tilt that always sends a flutter straight through your chest.
“I’m not complaining,” he says, “but… why did you ask me to study with you? You usually study with Lily, don’t you?”
You blink, caught completely off guard. “What? I—Remus, you invited me.”
His head turns slowly toward you, confusion creasing his brow. “No, I didn’t.”
Your heart stutters. Something cold and strange prickles at the base of your spine. You reach into your bag, fingers curling around the folded parchment you’ve been carrying all evening, too nervous to hand over, too unsure of its meaning. You slide it across the table, letting the edges brush his fingertips. “This. I found it in my book. Before dinner. It’s your handwriting.”
Remus stares at the note. His mouth parts slightly, eyes narrowing as he squints at the familiar scrawl. He doesn’t touch it right away, just stares at it like it might suddenly change. Then, moving slowly, almost reluctantly, he reaches into his own satchel. His hand emerges clutching a nearly identical piece of parchment.
You stare.
He stares.
There’s a long, charged pause. Then you both move at the same time, him turning his note toward you, and you leaning forward to read it. The words are unmistakable:
Meet me in the library after dinner? Bring your notes. – Y/N
Your mouth goes dry.
The silence that follows is total, a suspended moment thick with realization. Then, as if on cue, your gazes snap to each other, eyes wide, the truth dawning between you.
“Oh my god,” you whisper.
“Those bastards,” Remus mutters, voice low and vibrating with disbelief. His ears are red, burning with equal parts rage and something else—something closer to hope, quickly doused. He stares at the parchment like it might suddenly start laughing at him. His mouth opens, shuts, opens again, as if he’s caught in a fierce internal war.
“I’m going to kill them,” he mutters, not looking at you, fists clenched around the parchment like it personally wronged him. “I swear I’m going to hex them into next week. I’m so sorry. James and Sirius are convinced that—”
“They’re right,” you interrupt, voice soft but steady, slicing clean through his rising spiral.
Remus freezes.
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. You can feel the weight of his gaze, heavy and unrelenting, burning into you like sunlight through glass.
Your hands twist together in your lap, fingers tangling in your sleeves. Your voice is quieter now, barely more than a whisper. “They were right. The other night… I heard what you said.”
A beat of silence. He doesn’t breathe.
“You heard that?” he says finally, voice hoarse, like it hurts to ask
You nod, still not meeting his eyes. “Yeah. I didn’t mean to overhear. I’d forgotten my quill and came back down. But it’s fine.” You force a small, brittle smile. “Don’t worry about it. I know you don’t… feel that way about me.”
The look that crosses Remus’s face is devastating.
His mouth parts again; shocked, wounded and for a moment, he just sits there, stunned and pale, like the world’s dropped out from under him. Then the words burst out, rushed and raw.
“I was lying when I said I didn't–that it would never happen.”
You blink.
Remus swallows hard, dragging a shaky hand through his hair, which only makes it stand on end. “I panicked. I didn’t mean a single word of it. I just—” He groans and buries his face in his hands, fingers curled against his temples. “I thought if I denied it, I could kill the feeling. Control it. I didn’t think you could ever… possibly feel the same.”
You stare at him, your breath caught somewhere between your lungs and your ribs.
He lifts his head, looking directly at you now, eyes full of something desperate and unguarded. “You barely talk to anyone,” he says quietly. “But when you talk to me, it’s like… it’s like I’m hearing for the first time. And it kills me. That I can’t stop staring. Or thinking. Or wanting—”
He cuts himself off, lips pressed together, eyes still locked on yours like he's trying to memorize the exact way you're looking at him right now.
Your voice is barely audible. “You don’t have to stop.”
Remus freezes again. His brow furrows, as if he thinks maybe he’s misheard. “What?”
You meet his eyes, finally, fully, and it takes everything in you to hold steady, but you do. “Staring. Thinking. Wanting. You don’t have to stop.”
And just like that, the dam breaks.
He exhales like he’s been holding his breath for a month. Something in his posture shifts, his shoulders relaxing, the tension in his jaw unclenching. He leans forward across the table, hands still fisted around the note, but looser now, like he’s letting go of something heavy.
“Y/N,” he says softly, your name like a secret he’s been aching to speak aloud. “I’ve wanted to tell you for so long, but I didn’t want to scare you off. You’re… you’re shy, and I’m…”
“You’re safe,” you interrupt, a tremble in your voice, but the words are clear. “That’s why it scared me. Because I didn’t want to lose that.”
Remus’s eyes go glassy for half a second, like something just cracked open inside him. Then, with slow, careful movements, he reaches across the table and lays his hand, palm-up, beside your notebook. Not demanding. Not pushing. Just there.
An offering.
You stare at it. Your hand twitches.
And then you take it.
His fingers wrap around yours, warm and steady and so gentle you feel like you might come undone from the sheer kindness of it.
From the aisle across the way, a very muffled, triumphant whisper breaks the moment:
“I told you! I bloody told you!”
You both whip your heads toward the sound.
There’s a thud. A loud shhh! And then a frantic scuffling of robes and shoe soles.
Remus sighs, but he’s smiling now, really smiling, soft and tired and happy. You’re still holding his hand. He hasn’t let go.
He doesn’t plan to.
“Next time,” he murmurs, eyes crinkling, “we leave them in the library and sneak ourselves somewhere quiet.”
You laugh, surprised and breathless, your forehead falling forward against your joined hands. “Deal.”
-
It’s a lazy Sunday afternoon in Gryffindor Tower, the common room awash in the soft gold of late-winter sunlight. You’re curled up on the windowsill with feet tucked under Remus’ thigh, your head resting against his shoulder. He’s reading, half reading, really, because every few minutes you say something, or shift closer, or just smile at him, and it ruins his concentration completely.
Not that he’s complaining.
Across the room, Sirius and James are playing chess. Sort of. Mostly, they’re watching you and Remus over the tops of their pieces, poorly concealed amusement flickering between them like a game of its own
James nudges a pawn forward without looking. “He’s smiling again.”
Sirius doesn’t even glance up. “He’s always smiling now.”
James leans back in his chair with a theatrical sigh. “Remember when he used to brood by the fire and sigh over his homework?”
“I do,” Sirius says wistfully. “It was like living with a moody Victorian ghost.”
“He had that haunted look.”
“And now,” Sirius says, gesturing vaguely toward the couch with a chess piece, “this.”
“Baby’s all grown up,” James laments, wiping a fake tear from his eye. “Disgusting.” he deadpans.
“You’re just bitter because Lily only just agreed to sit next to you in Potions again.”
James turns, affronted. “She leaned over to ask for my notes last week, Padfoot. It was a turning point.”
Sirius just hums, clearly not buying it, before casting another smug glance at Remus and you.
“Still,” he says, “we were right.”
James grins. “Painfully right.”
Sirius nods solemnly. “They’d still be dancing around each other if we hadn’t stepped in.”
Remus glances up from his book, catching the last bit. He raises an eyebrow. “Are you two talking about your own brilliance again?”
Sirius doesn’t miss a beat. “We’re just saying, without us, you’d still be sending each other tortured glances from opposite sides of the common room.”
You lift your head from Remus’s shoulder, hiding a smile. “We probably would.”
Remus looks at you, a little startled, then softens. “Maybe.”
Sirius gasps. “You admit it?”
James pounds the arm of the chair like he’s won a bet. “Finally.”
Remus sighs, and it’s the long, fond sigh of someone who knows better than to fight it. “Fine. You were right.”
Sirius clutches his chest. “Say it again.”
“I won’t.”
James winks at you. “Don’t worry. He’ll say it eventually. Usually after you leave the room.”
Remus throws a cushion at him, and James ducks with a laugh.
You nudge Remus gently, still looking over at the two boys, and he turns to you, instantly softening again when he sees your face.
“You were right,” you agree. “Even if you’re unbearable about it.”
