The snow outside the window swirled in a topsy-turvy February frenzy, plastering the glass as if it were trying to warn, Don't go out; it's dreadfully cold. But how could you stay when the roar of an engine tore through the darkness and his wild laughter shattered every doubt? Sirius took off his helmet, and in the light of the streetlamp, his grey eyes glittered like fragments of a polar black star. “Did you really think I was just going to leave you alone on Valentine's Day?”

You clung to him. The bike jerked forward. His leather jacket warmed your cheek, while your nose was met with a cocktail of petrol, tobacco, and something sweet—a crumpled pack of marshmallows peeked out from his pocket. He stopped at the Royal Garden, vanished behind the fence for what felt like three eternities, and returned with a snapped tulip, torn out by the root.

“Stroppy.” He jabbed the flower into your palm, leaving smears of soil on your skin. “Like me. Perfect for you.” He exhaled sharply. “Forgot to buy the bloody bouquet. Cocked it up again, eh?”

The pier is empty as expected.

Sirius, hunched by the bonfire, fusses over a tangle of branches. “Why'm I such a cack-handed git?” he grumbles.

The wind whistles, clawing under your leather jacket (“Now you're my accomplice. No way back.”), but the cold retreats the second he fixes you with those damn lovestruck eyes. He fishes a battered cassette player from his pocket, slots in a tape with a scratched-up Rolling Stones label, and shoves one earbud at you. “Hm. No romance without a soundtrack, innit?” the corner of his mouth twitching upward as the first chords of Wild Horses kick in.

He hands you the dessert, burnt on the outside but gooey on the inside; taking a piece without your fingers brushing his lips is a challenge. Shit. Oh—no luck. “Well?” He arches an eyebrow.

“Sweet.”

Sirius smiles wolfishly. The earbud tumbles free, but the music still plays in his remaining earbud. “Know the sweetest thing here?” He leans in, tugging you down with him onto the sand. “You.”