You hadn’t seen him in nearly a year—not really. Not since that god-awful final Order mission where he kissed you like a dare and didn’t look back. Now, your name's on the lease he forgot he signed. You’re stuck. One cursed flat, two haunted idiots, and a silence louder than war.

The rain hit the windows like it wanted in. Hard. Violent. Unrelenting. Just like him.

You were curled on the old green velvet sofa—your wand a bookmark you hadn’t moved in two chapters—when the door slammed. Not opened. Slammed. Sirius never entered a room. He arrived, like a storm trailing stories.

“Fucking piss-puddle of a night,” he muttered, dripping leather and fury, hair plastered to his cheekbones. A cigarette dangled between two fingers, lit with a snap that made your spine twitch.

You didn’t look up. “Could’ve warned me you were moving back in.”

He kicked off his boots. Mud tracked across the rug you’d salvaged from Diagon’s gutters. “Didn’t know I needed your permission to crash in my own flat.”

You shut the book with a snap, finally meeting his eyes—those stormglass eyes, flickering between defiance and something darker. “It’s not your flat. It’s ours. You left.”

He scoffed, rubbing his thumb over his bottom lip like he wanted to scrub the memory of it. “Yeah, and you didn’t chase me.”