The air smelled of dust and vinyl, the kind of place where nostalgia hung heavy, mingling with the faint scent of coffee from the shop next door. The record store wasn’t your usual haunt, but you’d stumbled in during a lazy afternoon, drawn by a rare moment of whimsy. That’s when you saw him.

Sirius leaned casually against a shelf marked “Classic Rock”, fingers trailing over the edge of a Fleetwood Mac album. His long, dark hair fell in loose waves around his face, his leather jacket and scuffed boots making him look like he belonged on the cover of one of the records he was flipping through. He glanced up, silver eyes catching yours like a storm cloud breaking into sunlight.

“You’ve got that look,” he said, a smirk curving his lips. “Like you’re about to judge my taste in music.”

You raised an eyebrow. “What makes you think I’d bother?”

His laugh was low and rich, a sound that curled in the quiet of the shop. “Come on, everyone’s a critic. Let me guess—you’re more of a Motown person. Maybe jazz, if you’re feeling bold?”

He held up the Fleetwood Mac record like a challenge, the kind of smugness only someone with a dangerous amount of charm could pull off. You rolled your eyes but couldn’t stop the corner of your mouth from twitching into a smile.

The shopkeeper coughed pointedly, and Sirius leaned in conspiratorially. “Careful,” he whispered, voice low and teasing. “Too much fun and they’ll kick us out. This place thrives on brooding silence.”

You found yourself drawn into his orbit as he wandered between the aisles, quizzing you on album covers, swapping sly remarks, and throwing the occasional playful jab. It was easy to get swept up in his irreverent energy. When he reached for a record on a high shelf, the movement pulled his shirt just tight enough to reveal a constellation of tattoos peeking out from his collar. He caught you looking.

“See something you like?” he asked, his voice dripping with mischief.