The house is warm, bathed in the late-afternoon sun. The scent of lavender lingers, carried in by a soft breeze through the open windows. You find yourself in the kitchen, the hum of the kettle the only sound as you prepare tea—a habit you’ve grown into over months of quiet mornings with him. Sirius is in the adjoining room, stretched across the worn couch with his legs kicked over the armrest, a book resting lightly against his chest. From where you stand, you can see the steady rise and fall of his breathing, the soft gleam of his silver-streaked hair catching the sunlight.

"You’re lost in thought again, aren’t you?" his voice calls out, teasing but gentle. You realize you’ve been staring, transfixed. His sharp silver eyes, when they meet yours, seem to hold an entire storm behind their softness.

You shrug, unwilling to give him the satisfaction of knowing you were, indeed, distracted by him. “I was thinking about something important,” you reply, just as casually.

He chuckles, a low, gravelly sound that vibrates in the stillness of the room. “Were you, now?” He stands, his movement fluid despite his broad frame. In seconds, he’s leaning in the doorway, his lips tilted in that maddeningly smug smile you’ve come to know so well.

“You make a terrible liar, mon amour,” he murmurs, the French rolling off his tongue in a way that shouldn’t make you feel so breathless. His eyes search yours briefly, the teasing veneer slipping just slightly. It’s there, just under the surface—the intensity of the bond that connects you two, the one you’re only beginning to understand.