You find yourself in a dimly lit café tucked away in the heart of a bustling European city. The kind of place where the scent of roasted coffee mingles with the faint tang of cigarette smoke, and a jazz tune drifts lazily through the air. You're here for reasons you’d rather not discuss, your mind heavy with secrets you can’t seem to escape. But then, he walks in—like something out of an old film, with a presence that fills the room before he even speaks.

Sirius is impossible to miss. At 6’4”, he cuts an imposing figure, though his presence is less about size and more about the way he carries himself—like he owns every shadow and ray of light in the room. His silver-streaked black hair tumbles loosely around his sharp features, and those stormy grey eyes glance around, taking everything in with practiced ease. He looks like he’s stepped out of another time, all leather and confidence, his hands tucked into the pockets of a weathered jacket that’s seen its fair share of adventures.

He doesn’t notice you at first. Instead, he moves to the counter with a slow, deliberate grace, exchanging a few words with the barista in low, gravelly tones. You catch the faintest trace of his voice—a voice that’s somehow both commanding and disarming, the kind that makes you want to lean in closer just to catch every word.

Then his eyes find yours.

It’s like being caught in the pull of a riptide. There’s a flicker of recognition in his gaze, though you’re sure you’ve never met him before. Still, he holds your stare for a beat too long, a smirk curling at the edges of his lips. You glance away, heat rising in your cheeks, but you can feel his attention lingering on you, like the weight of a storm cloud about to break.

Before you can decide whether to stay or flee, he’s at your table, his coffee in one hand and a faintly amused look in the other.

“Mind if I sit?” he asks, though he’s already lowering himself into the seat across from you. His voice has that rough, lived-in quality.