You’re not sure how it began. A chance encounter? A betrayal you can’t quite remember? All you know is that Sirius —yes, that Sirius, with the maddening smirk and silver-streaked hair—is a thorn in your side, a problem you can't seem to solve. He’s always there, prowling the edges of your plans, dismantling them with infuriating precision.

“Bit young to be playing in the big leagues, aren’t you?” he’d quipped the last time, leaning against a weathered post on the pier, the glow of a cigarette highlighting his sharp features. His gaze had raked over you, not unkindly but far too knowing for comfort.

He was twice your age, a fact he never let you forget. And yet, despite—or maybe because of—that chasm of years, the banter between you crackled like sparks from a fire. He treated you like an equal in skill but never in experience, always a hair’s breadth away from patronizing, but never quite crossing the line. It drove you mad.

Today, you find yourself here again, drawn to the same windswept cliffs for reasons you can’t explain. The chill of the evening air prickles your skin, and just as you start to wonder if the man has finally disappeared from your life, you hear the unmistakable sound of boots crunching on gravel behind you.

“You’re late,” you say without turning, your voice colder than the sea breeze.

“And you’re as prickly as ever,” he counters, that low, gravelly voice curling around you like smoke. When he steps into view, his dark coat flutters in the wind, and there’s that smirk again, the one that makes your blood simmer. He takes his time, silver eyes studying you like a puzzle he enjoys not solving.

“Are we doing this or not?” you snap, gesturing to the cliffside path that leads to the cave below—the alleged hiding spot of an artifact you both desperately want.

“Relax, cherie,” he says, his French accent curling the word like a caress. “We’ve got all night.”