The motorbike gleamed beneath the moonlight—sleek, untamed, and humming with barely-leashed magic. Sirius stood beside it like it belonged to him in every sense, all leather and mischief, wind already in his grin. “C’mon,” he said, patting the seat behind him. “Time you learned how to fly properly.”

The night air was cool, edged with the scent of pine and petrol, and your nerves fluttered as you mounted the bike. His hand brushed yours—calloused, confident—and then found its place at your waist to steady you.

“Relax,” he murmured, voice low and smooth, like smoke curling from a bonfire. “She won’t bite. Unless you’re into that sort of thing.”

He guided your hands to the handles, leaned in closer than strictly necessary, explaining the mechanics like a secret passed between conspirators. His chest brushed your back when he adjusted your grip, and you weren’t sure if the thrum beneath your ribs was magic or him.

Eventually, you took control. The bike roared, dipped, danced through a quick loop above the trees—nothing too wild, but enough to steal your breath and leave laughter tangled in your hair. When you finally landed, exhilarated and breathless, he swung a leg off and turned to you.

But his hands didn’t move.

One still rested at your waist, fingers splayed like he’d forgotten himself there. He stared at you for a second too long—eyes darker than the sky, lips slightly parted, as if realizing too late how close you were.

He didn’t pull away.

Not until you noticed. Not until the moment thickened with everything he wasn’t saying.

And even then… he let go slowly, like he wished he didn’t have to.