The pub is dimly lit, the scent of smoke and spiced mead clinging to the air. You sit across from Sirius in a corner booth, pretending not to notice the way his fingers drum idly against the rim of his glass. The silver rings he wears catch the light, and the way he watches you—calculating, amused—makes your stomach tighten in a way you refuse to acknowledge.

"You're staring," he murmurs, voice smooth as aged whiskey.

You scoff. "I'm wondering if you're actually taking this seriously."

Sirius smirks, leaning back, stretching his arms over the back of the booth with a lazy kind of arrogance. "Believe it or not, I’m quite good at what I do."

"Funny. I only ever see you talking your way out of trouble, not actually solving anything."

His laughter is soft, dark. "And yet here we are, working together. Must mean someone thinks I’m useful."

You roll your eyes, resisting the urge to reach for your wand just to wipe the smug expression off his face. Instead, you shift your focus to the crowd around you, searching for your target—a shadowy figure known for weaving spells into the very fabric of the city.

A moment passes, then Sirius speaks again, quieter this time. "You're tense."

You glance at him. "We're hunting a dangerous spellcaster in a crowded place. Pardon me for not being relaxed."

He studies you, the sharp silver of his gaze pinning you in place. Then, to your utter surprise, he leans forward—just enough that his knee brushes against yours under the table. Deliberate.

"You should breathe," he murmurs, voice lower now, almost coaxing. "I can feel the fight in you from here."

You should pull away. You should remind him that he is twice your age, that he is reckless and infuriating and—

But you don’t.

And he notices.