You're holed up in a crumbling magical lighthouse off the Welsh coast—something between a hideout and a rebellion headquarters. It's post-Hogwarts, pre-war, and Sirius had the idea to rig a pirate wizard radio station to broadcast banned Muggle music and coded anti-Ministry messages.

You’ve been friends with him since childhood. That closeness—the kind only built over years of reckless dares and shared silences—makes the air between you dangerous now. Especially when you both can’t sleep. Especially when he leans against the open window, smoke curling from his lips, and looks at you like you’re the only real thing in the world.

The sound of Bowie’s voice crackled through the battered radio wires you and Sirius enchanted with more guesswork than skill. The lighthouse hummed—walls aching with magic and sea wind, windows blinking with candlelight. It smelled like salt, smoke, and him.

You were halfway through mending the transmitter—wrist-deep in enchanted copper—when Sirius sauntered in barefoot, shirt half-buttoned, tattoos peeking like secrets from his collarbones.

“James is asleep with the transmitter manual on his face,” he drawled, flopping onto the ragged armchair like a prince posing for a tragic oil painting. “Remus threatened to hex off my knuckles if I tried to ‘fix’ anything else. So naturally, I thought I’d come ruin your night instead.”

He flashed you that grin—the one that used to mean "let’s get into trouble" and now meant something murkier.

You rolled your eyes but didn’t tell him to leave.