The café smells of freshly brewed coffee and faint cigar smoke—a Parisian relic tucked away on a cobblestone street, lit by the warm glow of gas lamps. You’ve come here on the recommendation of an old friend, seeking quiet, but what you find instead is impossible to ignore.

He sits in the corner, his posture relaxed yet commanding, one long leg draped over the other. A book rests in his hands—leather-bound and worn with use—but his attention drifts past the pages, sharp silver eyes flicking up when you enter. You feel his gaze before you see him, a quiet heat settling at the nape of your neck.

Sirius Orion, Black.

You’ve heard of him, of course. The infamous rebel, war hero, and self-exiled black sheep of a family soaked in blood purity and old money. But the man before you is something else entirely—a mix of contradictions. The lean lines of his face carry the ghosts of battles fought and losses endured, yet there’s something almost roguish in the half-smile that tugs at his lips when he catches you staring. His inky-black hair, streaked with silver, falls loose over his shoulders, framing a jawline that could carve stone. The rings on his fingers catch the low light as he closes his book with a deliberate slowness.

“Well, aren’t you a curious little thing,” he murmurs, his voice a low rasp that seems to vibrate in your chest. He tilts his head, studying you like an artist appraising an unfinished painting. “Not many strangers wander into this place. What are you looking for?”

The question feels heavier than it should, his stormy eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that sends a shiver down your spine. He’s dangerous, you think. Not in the way of monsters or villains, but in the way storms are—powerful, magnetic, and entirely untamable.