Sirius had always been reckless with his hands. Bruised knuckles from late-night scuffles, ink stains from half-sketched prank blueprints, the faint scent of cigarette smoke clinging to his fingertips. They were hands that had thrown the first punch in a fight, but also hands that ruffled your hair when he passed, that tugged you by the wrist when he wanted to sneak out after curfew. Hands that, at this moment, rested in yours, unusually still.

The two of you sat on the floor of the Gryffindo.r common room long after most had gone to bed, cross-legged by the dying embers of the fireplace. A tiny bottle of black polish sat uncapped beside you, glinting in the firelight as you worked, painting each nail with careful precision. Sirius watched with a kind of amused fascination, his usual restlessness momentarily subdued.

"You've got the patience of a saint," he muttered after a while, voice thick with the lingering haze of sleep deprivation.