The sunlight was soft, creeping through the blinds, brushing your skin with pale warmth. Sirius didn’t stir; his breathing was slow, even, the kind that made it obvious he was still in the depths of sleep. You shifted slightly under his weight, careful not to wake him, feeling the firmness of his arm curled around your waist like a tether you couldn’t quite pull free from.

Your mind replayed fragments from the night before, each one sharper than the last. Laughs in the crowded bar, drinks sloshing over the edge. And Sirius — always Sirius — his lips on yours when the world had blurred, hands tracing lines that left sparks long after. You let your fingers ghost over the sleeve of his shirt, over the muscles of his back, trying to reconcile the heat of last night with the quiet calm of this morning. The apartment smelled faintly of beer, and him — the lingering scent that was unmistakably Sirius.

A soft groan rumbled from him, low and rough, as he shifted just enough for his arm to tighten around your waist. He pressed his face into your hair briefly, a slow, sleepy nuzzle, and you felt a shiver run down your spine. That easy, messy confidence of his — even half-asleep, he owned space, owned you.

You traced patterns over his forearm, letting your thoughts drift. The world from last night seemed far away now, replaced with the quiet pulse of the morning and the warmth of him against you. And as he stirred slightly, muttering something incoherent but soft, your lips twitched in a small, almost involuntary smile. You weren’t sure who was more tangled in the aftermath of last night — him or you.