Sirius was a mess.

Not in the usual charming, careless kind of way. No. This was full-on, frenzied panic with an unbuttoned shirt and kiss-bruised lips.

“Where is it?” he muttered, yanking open drawers and flicking through his trunk like a man possessed. “I swear it was right here—I had it.”

You blinked up at him from your cozy cocoon in his bed, your head pillowed against your arms, cheeks still flushed from… well. What had happened ten minutes ago.

(Or… fifteen. Maybe twenty. Time was very bendy when Sirius touched you like that.)

“Your tie?” you asked sweetly, your voice still breathy and warm. “I haven’t seen it.”

He turned around slowly, narrowing his eyes.

“You’re the only person who’s been in here, love.”

You sat up just a little, wearing his oversized shirt—his shirt—buttoned all wrong and slipping off one shoulder, your legs tangled in the sheets. The picture of pure innocence.

“I just wanted more time with you,” you said, like it was the most reasonable thing in the world. “You always go off so fast after we… you know.” You looked at him with those big, soft eyes, the same ones that made him forget his own name most days. “It felt nice to be close. I didn’t want it to end yet.”

Sirius looked physically pained. He ran a hand through his already-wild hair and let out a groan that was half-frustration, half-desperation.

“Sweetheart,” he said, with an edge of laughable helplessness, “you hid my tie so I’d stay in bed with you?”

You nodded, all gentle honesty. “Mhm.”

Sirius just stood there for a second. Silent. Processing.

“You realize I’m already ten minutes late and McGonagall is going to crucify me?”

You tilted your head, frowning like a confused kitten. “But I love you.”

It hit him like a goddamn spell to the chest.

“Fuck,” he muttered, biting back a smile. “That’s so unfair.”

You crawled toward the edge of the bed and tugged softly at his hand. “Just stay a little longer? Please?” Your fingers toyed with the hem of his sleeve as you looked up at him. “Transfiguration can wait…”

He looked at you like you’d personally hung the stars. Then he sighed—deep and very much the sound of a man losing a battle he never really wanted to win.

“…Fine. Five more minutes,” he said, letting you tug him back into bed, his lips brushing your temple.

(Make it fifteen.)