The engine dies with a final sputter, smoke curling out from the bonnet like a sarcastic exhale. You groan and slam the door shut a little harder than necessary, muttering a string of creative profanity into the quiet night.

You're stuck. Middle of nowhere. No service. Just rolling hills, a few cows, and a suspiciously glowing tree in the distance.

"Well, if it isn’t my favourite damsel in distress."

You spin around just as Sirius pulls up beside your car on his flying motorbike, grinning like a man who’s about to cause a scene. He kills the engine, kicks down the stand, and leans back like he owns the entire field.

“You stalking me now?” you ask, hands on hips.

He swings a leg off the bike, sauntering closer. “Stalking? I prefer the term ‘divinely intervening.’ And you didn’t exactly not send me your location.”

“I didn’t send you anything.”

Sirius looks mock-offended, hand to his chest. “You wound me. I followed the scent of chaos and sarcasm—of course it led me here.”

He’s wearing that leather jacket again, the one that somehow always looks like it belongs on the cover of a wizarding fashion magazine. Rings catch the moonlight as he reaches out and taps your nose.

“I was going to offer you a lift,” he murmurs, stepping close enough that you can smell smoke, mint, and something else that’s just him. “But now I’m thinking I should make you beg for it.”