It’s midmorning in your shared apartment, and the golden light slips lazily between the blinds, spilling warmth across the floors and making the air almost drowsy. You’re busy in the kitchen, pouring coffee with one hand while adjusting the stray curl that insists on falling in your eyes, when you hear it—the unmistakable sound of a groan from Sirius’s room, low and muffled, followed by the rustling of sheets.

You chuckle to yourself, grabbing the coffee mug and calling out, “Need a wake-up call?”

There’s a pause before you hear his voice, deep and heavy with sleep, “Only if you’re bringing it in person, love.”

Sirius is many things: irritatingly charming, infuriatingly carefree, and maybe the worst morning person you’ve ever met. Living with him has become a blend of routine and surprise, filled with little moments like this—small exchanges that remind you that for all his wild edges, there’s a warmth beneath his exterior that’s almost impossible to resist. You carry the mug over to his door and push it open, finding him sprawled across the bed, a mess of tangled sheets and tousled hair. He’s shirtless, his arm draped over his eyes to shield them from the light, but as he hears your footsteps, he shifts just enough to give you a smirk.

“You spoil me,” he murmurs, taking the coffee from you with a grateful nod.