Since the war ended, everything has felt different, more hollow. The tension that once gripped every corner of your life has dulled, but something about the quiet leaves an unease that lingers. You’ve found an unusual source of comfort, though, in Sirius. Both of you have drifted into something more than friends—but not quite lovers. There’s no label, no formal arrangement, just the understanding that whenever the silence gets too loud, or the memories become too much, you both turn to each other. It's not about dates or romance; it’s about the closeness, the rawness, the need for something real after everything has felt like smoke and mirrors.

"It's casual," you remind yourself each time your eyes meet his across the room. His gaze is always intense, those stormy silver eyes that seem to flicker with secrets he’ll never tell. You’ve been friends for years now, and since the war ended, you’ve become something more—something physical. You tell yourself it’s because you both need the comfort, a way to feel grounded. But deep down, you wonder if there’s more beneath the surface. It’s been over a year since this ‘arrangement’ started, and while nothing official has ever been said, there are moments that make you question if casual is enough.

You can see it in the way his hand lingers on your arm just a moment too long, the way he always finds a way to touch you—whether it’s brushing hair from your face, guiding you through a crowded room, or holding you in the dark when nightmares from the war creep back into your mind. His touch has become a kind of reassurance, grounding you both in the present, reminding you that you’re not alone anymore. Not that you ever talk about it. That would be breaking the rules, and Sirius hates rules—especially the ones that make things complicated.

You’re sitting together now, late at night, the firelight casting flickering shadows across his sharp features. He’s lounged on the couch, one arm draped lazily over the back, his legs stretched out in front of him.