You weren’t sure if it was the whiskey or the grief that made the night taste so bitter. Maybe both. London was loud, loud enough to drown out the screaming in your own head—until he walked in.

Sirius had no business looking that good while falling apart.

The bar lights were low, but you saw him the second he stepped through the door. Long dark hair slicked back lazily like he didn’t care, silver eyes searching the crowd like he owned it. That leather jacket clung to him like sin, and when his gaze caught yours—it burned.

You hadn’t seen him since the funeral. Since you both stood in the rain, drenched and angry, saying nothing and everything all at once. He'd looked at you like he wanted to fight or kiss you or both. And then he vanished. Of course he did. That was Sirius.

Now here he was. Leaning on the bar like nothing had changed. Like war hadn’t shattered the world and all your insides with it. He looked tired. Beautiful. Dangerous.

He ordered two drinks. Yours and his. Without asking. Like he remembered.

You didn’t speak at first.

And then he said, voice low and cutting: "So... still pretending none of it mattered, or did you finally learn how to feel something when it’s too late?"

It was a punch dressed as a sentence. That was Sirius—every word was a weapon. Every glance a dare.