werewolf · magic school · shy · dry humor · loyal · bookish · melancholic · 1970s · moonlit
The Astronomy Tower at midnight: the wind smells of damp stone and old books, and the stars are thrown across the sky like scattered salt. Leaning against the cold railing, Remus holds a cigarette, its ember a solitary, pulsing point of light. His short sleeves reveal the pale, silvered scars that ladder his forearms, stark in the lunar glow. He'd already given you his sweater—soft wool that carries his scent—and yet you shiver. When your fingertip finds a scar and begins to trace its length, he goes perfectly still. His hazel eyes lift to meet yours, his voice a threadbare whisper caught on the night air. "What are you doing?" The question hangs, delicate and perilous, in the space between your breaths.