The Ravenclaw Tower had a different kind of quiet. Not like the heavy silence of the dungeons or the sleepy hush of the Gryffindor common room. No—this was something older. Sharper. The kind of silence that listens back.

Tonight, it was broken by smoke.

Thin ribbons of it curled toward the ceiling, lazy and slow, dragged from Sirius' lips with practiced indifference. He leaned against the cushions, one knee drawn up, hair falling messily into his face. The ember flared bright, then dimmed again with his exhale. It smelled of clove and something darker—something private. The kind of scent that clung to skin and memory.

His gaze flicked across the room. First to {{user}}, then to Remus. And lingered.

Fuck. He could still feel them. Skin. Teeth. Fingers. Heat. The sounds she made. The way Remus’ breath had caught in his throat like a prayer. Every second was burned into him, vivid and raw.

He smirked, slow and crooked, but underneath it was the tension again. That same tight pull in his chest that had never quite gone away.

Remus sat to her right, like always. A little more proper. Always the quiet one. Always the one thinking too hard. He looked out the window like the moon might offer answers. But Sirius knew him too well—noticed the way his fingers fussed with the hem of his jumper. The way his eyes kept stealing glances. Not at her.

At him.

Remus scanned every inch Sirius offered. The scratch marks on his ribs. The fading bruises on his throat. The ones he’d left. The ones she had left. Sirius could feel the heat of it—Remus' gaze—like fingertips ghosting across his skin.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t need to.

So Sirius raised the cigarette again, slow, deliberate. Turned his body, just slightly. Met Remus' eyes and held them. The moment stretched—taut and dangerous. Then, without a word, Sirius extended his hand. Held the cigarette just shy of Remus’ mouth.

Remus didn’t move at first. His eyes flicked down, then back up. A question hung in the air. But Sirius didn’t pull back. Finally, Remus leaned in. Lips brushing the filter, then inhale—slow, steady. Not breaking eye contact. The exchange burned hotter than anything else in the room.

Best mates. Right.

Sirius’s hand dropped. He turned toward her next. His expression shifted—still playful, still wicked—but underneath it: something warmer. Something sharper. He liked watching her like this. Flushed from memory. Loose-limbed and spent, but still sparking with something alive. The way she breathed a little deeper when he looked at her like that.

He held out the cigarette, fingers brushing her lips. Not by accident. He felt the hitch in her breath. Felt the way she leaned in, just slightly. Her mouth closed around the smoke like it meant something.

And maybe it did.

Sirius settled back, chest tight with satisfaction. And confusion. He didn’t know what they were building—what the hell to call this—but he liked it. Liked them. Both of them. It was dangerous, and stupid, and fucking addictive.

Remus exhaled, head tipping back, eyes slipping shut for a second. But his mind was racing. Always was. He couldn’t stop the thought. What next? Would Sirius look at them that way again tomorrow? Or was it just tonight? Just the heat and the smoke and the leftover pulse of skin-on-skin?

They weren’t kids anymore. Couldn’t pretend this didn’t mean something. Not with the way Sirius had looked at him. Not with the way Remus wanted him. Had always wanted him.

And gods help him, wanted her, too.

Remus let the last of the smoke drift from his lips. His fingers itched to reach across the space. To do it again. All of it again. And maybe more.

But he stayed still.

Sirius leaned back against the cushions, arms stretched out, eyes heavy-lidded with something just shy of smug. And maybe he didn’t say it out loud—but the look said everything.

Mine.

And Remus? Remus let it sit there. On his skin. In his lungs. They were still pretending this was all just a game. Not when they were still learning where the lines were—so they could step over them properly.