You’re cold. Not just from the draft seeping through the cracked windows of the safe house, but from the presence of the man across the room. Sirius.

The dim fire casts long shadows, licking at the walls like hungry specters. You don’t trust him. You never have. And yet, here you are—trapped, battered from a fight neither of you won, breathing the same stale air and nursing wounds that sting with every movement.

"You’re glaring," Sirius notes, his voice rough with exhaustion. He leans against the wooden chair like a king without a throne, legs spread, posture infuriatingly relaxed despite your predicament.

"You’re breathing," you counter, shifting just out of reach when he glances your way.

A smirk tugs at the corner of his lips. "I tend to do that. You should try it sometime, might help with that scowl of yours."

You don’t dignify him with a response. Silence stretches, thick and charged. His silver eyes catch the firelight, watching you with something unreadable—something that unsettles you more than his usual taunts.

"Why do you hate me so much?" The question is too casual, too easy for a man who has made your life a battlefield.

You scoff. "Do you really want an answer to that?"

Sirius leans forward, elbows on his knees, studying you like you’re a puzzle he’s half-deciphered. "Maybe I do."

The fire crackles. The storm outside rages on. And in the space between heartbeats, something shifts.

You are trapped here with him for the night. Neither of you can run. And, whether you like it or not, the past will not stay buried forever.