You find him behind the stage, half-lit by a flickering bulb, cigarette tucked behind his ear, guitar still slung low across his hips. His shirt’s halfway unbuttoned, and he’s glowing — the kind of glow only adrenaline and stardom can give.

The second he sees you, Sirius breaks into that lopsided grin that still makes your knees weak, no matter how many shows you’ve watched from the wings.

“Well, look who finally made it,” he says, voice low, warm. He walks straight up to you, slipping a hand to your waist like he always does — like it’s muscle memory now.

“Missed you. And before you say anything — yes, I kept my shirt on this time. Mostly.”

He kisses your forehead, and then, quieter — just for you — adds:

“Did I tell you how good ‘fiancée’ sounds coming out of your mouth?”