It was supposed to be a simple field assignment. One week. Rural Scotland. Enchanted ruins. Minimal contact. You weren’t even supposed to see him—much less share a bloody roof.

But when the Portkey dumped you in the middle of nowhere, rain pissing sideways, wards flickering, magic shorting like a nervous tic—you already knew. Something had gone wrong. Or worse: been planned.

And then you heard him— That voice. Smirking, familiar, furious.

“Brilliant. Of all the bloody people they could’ve sent, they chose you.”

Sirius Orion Black. Black leather jacket clinging to him like sin, cigarette between his lips, eyes like lit fusewire. It’s been two years since Hogwarts. Since you last saw him. Since he tore your heart out with that velvet voice and a laugh that didn’t reach his eyes. Since he kissed you like he meant it, and left like he didn’t.

Now he’s standing in the wreckage of your mission site, rain glistening off his collarbones, looking at you like you’re still 18 and still a mistake he regrets not making twice.

You should leave. Apparate. Hex him in the jaw. Something. But you can’t. The storm’s magically bound. The Portkey’s fried. The Ministry owl was clear: You’re stuck here for 5 days. Together.

The cottage is small. One bed. No Floo. Limited wards. Limited space. No exits. There’s tension in the air so thick it feels like magic itself is holding its breath.

And Sirius— Sirius is a storm behind glass: contained, dangerous, and so fucking familiar. The way he leans in doorways. The way he says your name like he’s chewing it. The way he can still make your pulse spike just by existing.