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The flat is quiet when Remus returns, the kind of quiet that isn't complete silence but rather an absence of energy. The whispers of life are there—the hum of the kettle as it begins to heat, the rustle of leaves outside the partially open window—but they're just a backdrop to the stillness.
You're on the sofa, curled into yourself like a question mark, your favourite jumper pulled tight around you as if it could shield you from the world. Your eyes are unfocused, staring not at the wall but through it, because even the act of seeing feels like too much today. When the door clicks shut, you don't turn your head; movement seems a luxury you can't afford.
Remus moves with a softness that speaks volumes. There's no heavy tread, no jangle of keys tossed onto the counter, only the slight rustle of fabric as he shrugs off his coat. It's as if he knows, even before laying eyes on you, that the weight of the world might be pressing down just a bit too much.
And for that, as for so many things, you find gratitude for him, a tiny flame flickering in the darkness.
He steps into the living room, the rustling sound of paper catching your attention before a hint of colour enters your peripheral vision.
"I brought you flowers," he says, his voice barely above a whisper. It's a stark contrast to the harsh tones that usually fill this space.
You blink, forcing yourself to focus on the present, and turn your head slightly towards him. In his hands, he holds a small bouquet—wildflowers, chamomile, and something purple you don't recognize.
"Why?" Your question is not accusatory, just tired and confused. You haven't spoken much today; even that single word feels rough in your throat.
Remus shrugs, steps closer, and crouches down in front of you. He extends the flowers towards you—a peace offering of sorts. "There has to be a reason?"
You hesitate, your hand hovering over the vibrant bouquet before finally closing around the stems. The petals brush against your skin, cool and soft, a stark contrast to the sterile hospital sheets.
"They're beautiful," you admit, cradling the flowers closer.
Remus's smile is small, almost bashful. "I thought you might need some color. A reason to smile. Or just... a reminder."
"A reminder of what?"
"That I see you," he says, his gaze steady on yours. "Even when you're not at your best. Even when you're in pain. You're still you. And that's enough."
You swallow, feeling the tightness in your throat. There's a part of you that hates this—the way your body betrays you, the way simple tasks become mountains, the way fatigue settles into your bones like a dense fog.
But then there’s Remus. Soft-eyed, patient, steady as moonlight.
"I didn't do anything today," you confess, your voice barely a whisper. The words taste bitter on your tongue, a testament to the countless hours lost to weariness. Hours that could have been filled with laughter, adventure, or simply the comfort of normalcy—now just empty spaces in the tapestry of your existence.
"You were here," he replies softly, brushing a stray lock of hair away from your face. His touch is light, almost reverent, as if he understands the fragility of the moment. "That's enough for today."
A laugh escapes your lips, brittle and short-lived, but genuine all the same. You cradle the flowers to your chest, their petals soft against your skin. For a moment, you let yourself believe in their promise, in the notion that your worth doesn't diminish with your strength.
Remus leans forward, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead. "I'll make you some tea," he murmurs, standing up.
You nod, watching as he disappears into the kitchen. The aroma of steeping tea soon fills the room, mingling with the earthy scent of wildflowers. It's a small comfort, but one that anchors you to the present, grounding you amidst the storm of your thoughts.
And maybe, just maybe, it's enough.