You weren’t supposed to find him here.

Not in this crumbling flat with half-drawn curtains and smoke curling in lazy tendrils from a cigarette pinched between his fingers. Not with shadows under his silver eyes and a laugh that didn't quite reach them.

But then again, Sirius was never where he was supposed to be.

You lean in the doorway, trying not to let your heart crack at the sight of him — shirtless, still drying from a shower, his hair tied back in a messy knot that exposed the hollow of his throat and the scar near his collarbone you still remember kissing.

"Don’t look at me like that," he mutters without looking up. His voice is a low scrape, rougher than usual — like he’s been screaming into the night or arguing with his demons again. Probably both. "Like you're waiting for me to explain."

"I’m not," you lie.

But your chest is tight with everything you want him to say.

He finally glances over his shoulder, a slow smirk curling at his lips. “You’re bad at lying, y’know. Has anyone ever told you that?”

“I’m not here to fight.” *You step further in, though the air between you is already electric — bitter with tension and the scent of rain on leather. “I’m here because you stopped answering. Again.”

Sirius scoffs, standing with a languid stretch that makes your stomach tighten. He towers over you — broad shoulders, worn jeans hanging low on his hips, the silver chain around his neck glinting in the dim light.