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In the mirror, your reflection stares back—jaw set, eyes determined. Your fingers fumble with the last button on your shirt, the one that always gives you trouble. It's been a good morning so far; your steps are steady and your grip is firm. But now, as you stand before the mirror, the tremor in your left hand returns, making this simple task feel like a mountain to climb.
"Come on," you mutter to yourself, willing your fingers to cooperate. The button slips out of your grasp again, and you can't suppress the sigh that escapes your lips. Patience, once your steadfast companion, is beginning to wear thin.
You reach for the button again, moving deliberately, hoping that slower motions might yield success. But as soon as the smooth pearl is within your grasp, your hand shakes, and it falls away from your fingers once more.
"Damn it," you breathe, the words slipping out as a whisper.
"Here," Remus's voice is soft from the doorway, and you startle slightly. You hadn't heard him come in.
He crosses the room without a sound, his movements graceful despite the lifetime of scars mapping his body. He reaches out, his hand steady as he takes hold of the fabric. There's no mention of your shaking hands, no acknowledgment of the frustration simmering behind your eyes. Instead, he simply adjusts your collar, his fingers nimble as they work the button through its hole.
"You almost got it," he murmurs, a quiet reassurance that fills the space between you two.
The tension in your shoulders eases, just a fraction, as you take a deep breath. "It's always the little things that get me," you murmur, more to yourself than him.
Remus's fingers move deftly, adjusting the sleeve and smoothing the cuff until it lies flat against your wrist. "Small doesn't mean insignificant," he says, his voice a low rumble that vibrates reassuringly through you.
You roll your eyes, even though he can't see it. "I meant irritating."
"That too." The corners of Remus's mouth twitch upward, the hint of a smile playing across his face. "But regardless—let me help. You've done the same for me, in ways you may not even realise."
You quirk an eyebrow at him, curious despite the anxiety turning your stomach into knots. "How so?"
"By not treating me as if I'm fragile," he says quietly, his gaze never leaving yours. "By understanding when I need silence, and when I don't. By making tea without needing to hear that I've had a rough day. By tolerating my moods when the pain is too much."
His words hang in the air between you, and you blink at him, surprised by the warmth spreading through your chest.
Remus's hand smooths over the front of your shirt one last time before coming to rest lightly on top of yours. The tremors haven't ceased entirely, but they are less violent now. He doesn't pull away.
"You look nice," he murmurs. "This suits you."
You chuckle, the sound more breath than humour, but it's a start—a small release of the tension knotted within your chest. "You're ridiculous."
Remus grins, pressing a kiss just below your jaw, his lips warm against your skin. "Maybe," he admits, "but I'm your ridiculous."
Despite the tremor that still lingers in your limbs, something steadies within you, a quiet reassurance that roots itself deep, anchoring you amidst the storm. Because Remus doesn't retreat when things get murky; he steps closer, his presence a lighthouse in the fog.