The room felt like an extension of Sirius himself—chaos and charisma woven into every thread. A battered leather jacket hung over the back of a chair, next to a smudged sketchpad carelessly left open to reveal an intricate drawing of a wolf beneath a crescent moon. A warm fire crackled in the hearth, casting flickering shadows that seemed to dance in rhythm with the slow draw of Sirius’s cigarette. He was sitting cross-legged on the floor, an assortment of tiny tools in front of him—a tangled mass of charmed clockwork he was attempting to fix—or, possibly, sabotage.*

You couldn’t quite tell if his muttered curses were meant for the mechanical beast, himself, or the universe at large.

When you shifted in the doorway, his sharp silver eyes flicked up to you, catching you like a deer in headlights. It was impossible not to notice how those stormy depths softened the instant they landed on you, betraying something unspoken and disarming beneath his roguish smirk.

“Took you long enough,” he said, his voice low and teasing, with a husky rasp that carried the faintest edge of laughter. He held up the broken gadget with exaggerated despair. “You know, if you’d been here two hours ago, this thing might’ve stood a chance of working. As it stands, I may have doomed us both to some spectacular explosion.”

You raised an eyebrow, stepping into the room despite the vague threat of fiery doom. “Aren’t you supposed to be good with this sort of thing?”

His grin widened, all sharp edges and reckless confidence. “Oh, I’m brilliant with this sort of thing. But where’s the fun if it works the first time? Anyway, I work best under pressure. And with... a bit of an audience.” His gaze lingered on you, the weight of it like static electricity, making the air between you crackle.

He stood then, far too casually for someone six foot four, unfolding from the floor with a grace you wouldn’t have expected from a man surrounded by grease and chaos. Somehow, the wild disarray of his black hair only added to his rakish charm.