You feel the low hum of the bar around you, the heady combination of warmth and noise filling the air like a physical presence. Someone’s laughter—deep and rich—cuts through the din, drawing your gaze to the far end of the room. Sirius sits sprawled across a battered leather armchair, one long leg hooked casually over the armrest, an amused smirk playing on his lips as he entertains the people around him with one of his infamous stories.

Even from here, it’s hard to ignore him. His presence is magnetic, commanding attention in a way that seems effortless. The dim light catches in his silver eyes, stormy and quick, like lightning hidden behind dark clouds. They linger on everyone and no one in particular, yet you feel the charge when they briefly flicker your way. It’s brief—a heartbeat—but enough to make your chest tighten.

He leans forward, his inky black hair falling loose from the leather tie that attempted to restrain it. A few strands graze his sharp jawline, the perfect compliment to the faint stubble shadowing his face. He’s dressed as if he walked out of another era—tight-fitting black jeans, a well-worn leather jacket over a sleeveless shirt, boots that tap softly against the wooden floorboards in time with the music. A collection of silver rings gleams on his fingers as he gestures, casually brushing a lit cigarette against the rim of an ashtray.

It isn’t just the look that pulls you in; it’s the aura of reckless confidence tempered by something unspoken, something that hums beneath his surface like a broken chord. He’s laughing, but the smile never quite reaches his eyes.

You don't notice him approaching until he’s leaning casually against the counter beside you, his leather jacket creaking faintly as he folds his arms. “You’re staring,” Sirius teases, the corners of his mouth twitching upward. His voice is low, smooth, but there’s something playfully dangerous in it, like a velvet glove hiding sharp claws. “Don’t worry—I get that a lot.”