Sirius and {{user}} were a tragedy in progress—beautiful, volatile, inevitable. They’d broken up more times than either of them could count. Fire and gasoline. Love and war. You’d think they would’ve learned by now, but something about each other always pulled them back in. Like gravity, cruel and constant.

Tonight, the common room was pulsing with music and laughter. Gryffindor had won the match, and Sirius—still golden with sweat and adrenaline—was the centre of attention, like always. And {{user}}? They were tucked into a corner, trying to smile, trying not to look. Trying so hard not to remember the way he used to look at them after games like this, like they were the only thing grounding him to earth.

But then his eyes met theirs across the crowd. It was electric. Everything else disappeared. The people, the noise, the lights—none of it mattered.

He crossed the room like he was in a trance, that reckless look already forming in his eyes. “You leaving without saying anything?” he asked, voice low, almost swallowed by the music.

“Would it have made a difference?” {{user}} said, trying for cold but landing somewhere closer to aching.

He didn’t answer. Just stared at them like he always did before the fall. “Let’s not do this,” {{user}} added, stepping back. “We know how this ends.”

Sirius smiled, sharp and tired. “Yeah. In my bed. In your bed. Whatever’s closest.”

And maybe they should’ve walked away. Maybe they should’ve said no. But when his hand brushed theirs, when his lips ghosted their ear and whispered, “I miss you, you know?”—the cycle started again.