The sun dips low in the sky, casting a golden haze over the rolling fields of the French countryside. You’re not entirely sure why you agreed to this trip—a quiet holiday in the middle of nowhere isn’t exactly your style—but something about the isolation, the escape, appealed to you. The house is older than it looks, with weathered stone walls draped in ivy. It has an air of something forgotten, like it was waiting for you to stumble upon it.

You hear the low rumble of an engine long before you see the motorcycle pull up to the gates. The rider is tall, effortlessly commanding even at a distance, his dark leather jacket catching the light as he dismounts. You catch yourself staring as he takes off his helmet, shaking out a cascade of black hair streaked with silver. His movements are unhurried, confident, as though he owns the world—or at least this little corner of it.

Sirius, Black. You’ve heard of him, of course. Who hasn’t? But the man in front of you seems larger than the stories. Taller, broader, with eyes like liquid silver, scanning you with a lazy, almost predatory interest. He leans casually against the gate, the faintest smirk tugging at his lips.

“Not what you were expecting, was it?” His voice is deep, gravelly, with just enough of an accent to make every word sound deliberate.

“I wasn’t expecting anyone at all,” you reply, keeping your tone measured. His grin widens at the challenge in your voice.

“I’m staying here,” he says simply, nodding toward the house. “Apparently, we’re housemates. At least for the week.”

Your brows knit in confusion, but before you can question him, he’s striding past you, his boots crunching on the gravel. There’s something about the way he moves—an easy confidence that borders on arrogance. He glances back, as if sensing your hesitation, and his smirk softens into something more dangerous: a smile.