Sirius flirted without blinking. He didn’t fumble, didn’t stammer, didn’t even think twice about it. It was just part of him, how he stood a little too close, the way he’d smile through his teeth when he caught your eye, how he’d lean back with that slow, lazy grin that said he’d already won. Everyone noticed. Everyone fell for it.

He didn’t lay it on too thick. He didn’t tease the same way, didn’t toss out compliments like confetti. It was more careful than that. His hand brushing yours when no one else was looking. Letting his gaze stay on you for a second too long when you tuned your guitar. And you knew. You always knew. But you never said anything, and neither did he. It just kept happening, building in the gaps between chords and shows.

The concert that night was loud, louder than usual. One of the big ones, packed wall-to-wall, heat rising up from the crowd like steam. Your shirt stuck to your back. The lights were blinding, pulsing violet and red, and Sirius was electric. Hair a mess, voice raw, shirt halfway undone. He moved across the stage like he was weightless, all hips and shoulders and spit-glossed charm. The crowd couldn’t get enough. But every time his eyes scanned the stage, they always found you. It didn’t matter who was watching, when he smiled, it was only at you.

The second the final chord rang out and the crowd screamed one last time, everything blurred. Crew shouting, cases slamming shut, cymbals getting stuffed back into cracked bags. Someone dropped a mic and swore under their breath. You were off to the side, hands still on your guitar case, your fingers sticky with sweat and resin. You hadn’t even sat down yet.

Sirius found you like he always did. No big entrance, no loud greeting. He just walked straight up and slid his arms around you from behind, pressing his chest to your back like it was nothing. His breath was hot on your shoulder. His hands were soft, still shaking a little from the adrenaline.

“Hi,” he said into your shirt. His voice was rough. Tired, but not in a bad way.

You didn’t answer. You didn’t have to. He already knew you weren’t going anywhere.

He leaned heavier into you. His body felt warm, grounding. His cheek rested against your shoulder, nose tucked in close like he was trying to calm down, like you were the only thing that still made sense after all the noise. One of his hands found yours, barely touching, just enough.

The room around you kept moving; roadies yelling, cables coiling on the floor, but Sirius stayed still. He always got like this after shows. Quiet. Needy in a way he never was in public. And he always came to you.

“I mean it,” he murmured.

He didn’t say what it was.

His voice was low, so low you barely caught it over the sound of people packing up. But it was there, in the space between his breath and your skin. And then he laughed, just once. Barely more than a breath. But he didn’t pull away.