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As you step into the living room, you freeze.
Remus is on the couch, his long legs tucked under a blanket that bears the uneven stitches of your first knitting attempt last winter. His usually furrowed brow is smooth, relaxed in reprieve from the world outside. The blue light from the television washes over him, highlighting the focused intensity in his expression.
You blink, once, twice.
He's watching your show.
Not just any show, but the one—the one with the convoluted storyline and dry humor, the one with overlapping plotlines that all trace back to that one pivotal episode in season two you've watched more times than you can count. The show you tried once to explain to James, only for his eyes to glaze over ten minutes into your rambling synopsis.
Remus didn't ask if you wanted to watch it tonight. He didn't even tell you he'd started the series.
He just... did.
You linger in the threshold, caught between wanting to join him and not wanting to disrupt his peace. His attention shifts immediately from the screen to you, a warm smile spreading across his face as he meets your gaze.
"Hey, love."
"You're watching my show," you say, more of a question than a statement. It's one of those shows that isn't widely popular but has a devoted following—yourself included.
"I am." Remus's smile widens, and he pats the empty space next to him on the worn couch. "Episode six. The one with the librarian who turns out not to be a librarian at all."
Your eyebrows lift in surprise. "You remember that?"
"Of course." His response is simple, matter-of-fact. "You were talking about it last week. You seemed quite taken with the twist at the end."
It's a small thing, this acknowledgement of your interests, but it makes your chest tighten with warmth. Most people around you simply nod and smile when you share your passions—they either don't understand or don't care to try. But Remus listens, remembers, engages. He makes you feel seen, and it's startling how much that means.
But not Remus. He leans forward, eyebrows furrowed in concentration, his attention an anchor in the tumultuous sea of your thoughts.
"They just hinted at the hidden code," he says, handing you the remote with a soft clink as it meets your fingertips. "I didn't catch it until my second watch."
"Second watch?" You look at him, taken aback. The world outside seems to hold its breath, waiting on the precipice of something unsaid yet deeply felt.
Remus shrugs, a gesture so casual it belies the significance of his actions. "I wanted to understand before I bombarded you with questions."
You stare at him for a moment, the weight of his words sinking in like stones tossed into a still pond. Little ripples of understanding spread out, touching the edges of your awareness.
"Remus, you don't have to do this," you say quietly, a soft plea on your lips. "If it's not your thing, that's okay."
He turns to look at you then, his eyes gentle yet steady as the morning sun. "But it is your thing, isn't it?" he replies, almost tenderly. "And that makes it important."
A breath hitches in your throat, and you press your lips together. His words aren't heavy, they don't weigh you down. Instead, they're like warm water pouring into cold hands—startling, but soothing.
You've never had someone who wanted to understand, really understand, the way Remus does. It's not about him or you, not really. It's about the connection, the shared understanding that comes from knowing another person's passion.
So you take a deep breath, your shoulder brushing against his as you lean closer. "Well..." you begin, hesitation giving way to excitement. You explain the overall storyline they're setting up, the hidden detail in the last scene that might be foreshadowing, why the librarian character isn't real—at least, not yet.
And Remus listens.
Not because he has to, not out of obligation or expectation.
But because he loves you.