Ink, Heat, Repeat
Remus stares at the blank canvas in front of him like it’s a mirror he’s too afraid to look into.
The air around him holds its breath. So does he.
His fingers twitch at his sides, aching with the ghost of motion, with the desperate, unspent need to create. To render. To let what’s inside him climb up through the muscle and tendon and break free. His hands have always been fluent in desire—art is the only language he knows how to speak when the words collapse in his throat.
And he knows, God, he knows, what he wants to make.
He can feel it humming in his knuckles, in the pulse behind his eyes. The image burns behind his eyelids like an afterimage from staring too long at the sun.
He could sketch it from memory. Already has, in dreams.
The sharp, elegant line of a jaw that looks like it was carved from marble and night. The hollow beneath the cheekbone, all shadow and tension. A mouth too soft for such a face—pink, plush, parted like it’s on the verge of saying something devastating.
And the hair.
That hair.
Jet black and disorderly, a tangle of ocean waves inked in midnight, wild with salt and rebellion. It doesn’t fall so much as crash—framing the face in a way that feels mythic. Sirenic. Like something that drags sailors to their deaths without meaning to.
Remus would swim into it willingly. Let himself be caught in the tide of it. Let it wrap around his limbs and pull him under. Not just to drown. But to disappear. To be devoured.
And yet—
He doesn’t move.
His hands remain useless at his sides, clenched into fists like he’s trying to hold something in. Like maybe if he grips hard enough, he won’t reach for the charcoal. Like maybe he won’t give in.
Because drawing someone he barely knows—sketching Sirius Black from memory like he’s a fever dream Remus can’t sweat out— feels wrong. Not without permission. Not without something offered. Something sacred.
But that isn’t the real reason.
No, the real reason is much worse.
It’s how badly he wants to.
How his entire body needs it. Not just as an artist, but as something else. Something more primal. More devout. Like sketching Sirius might be the closest he’ll ever come to touching him.
And that —that need, that hunger —terrifies him.
Because if he starts, he’ll lose himself. He’ll blur the line between art and obsession. He’ll chase the image until it owns him.
He won’t stop at one sketch. He’ll draw Sirius a thousand times. In profile, in silhouette, in sleep. He’ll fill notebooks with him. Layer after layer, as if he can capture the gravity of that face, that body, that presence —and maybe, in the end, understand it.
So instead, he reaches for the old muslin cloth, faded and soft from years of use, and throws it over the canvas in one practiced motion. Like a body covered in mourning. Like a secret he can’t yet name. The gesture is almost reverent.
Still, it doesn’t help.
The ache doesn’t vanish just because he’s hidden the temptation.
It’s been like this for days. Ever since Sirius walked into his studio with that cocky, careless slouch and a voice like velvet dragged over gravel. Said he wanted a tattoo. Sat down in Remus’ chair like he had no idea what he was doing. Like his presence wasn’t seismic.
Remus had been fine before that.
He’s always found people attractive. It’s part of the job—learning how to see. Not just the obvious beauty, but the subtleties: the curve of a neck, the story in a scar, the breath between one heartbeat and the next. He’s had crushes. Lovers. Men whose skin he’s touched with purpose and ink.
But Seeing Sirius felt like stepping on a landmine.
Like everything in Remus’ life—every fleeting glance, every one-night stand, every sketch of a face he didn’t care to remember—had been quietly stacking kindling. And then Sirius walked in. Lit the match. And flicked.
And now the fire’s licking at his ribs. Now the smoke is in his lungs.
Now he’s burning for someone he’s only just met.
And worst of all?
He wants to keep burning.
“Remus, you okay?” Naomi murmurs, her voice low with sleep as she comes to stand behind him. “Come back to bed. It’s three a.m.,” she adds, arms wrapping around his waist with instinctual ease.
Three a.m.?
He blinks. He hadn’t even noticed the time.
He doesn’t know how long he’s been standing there, barefoot on the cold floorboards, wrapped in the hush of a quiet war waging somewhere deep inside his chest.
He’d come home after dinner with Sirius. After the laughter. After the lazy sprawl of bodies in the apartment, the smell of smoke clinging to his sleeves. After James.
Seeing James again had felt like fate. A fluke of the universe. He never thought he would. Not after they lost contact all those years ago—when his father packed up their lives in boxes and moved them away from London, and with it, away from camp. Away from the only friend who had ever truly felt like home.
It wasn’t until James had walked into the shop—same round, wiry glasses, same mess of mahogany curls, same sun-warmed skin and blinding grin—that Remus realized just how carefully he had filed their friendship away. Tucked it into the farthest corner of his memory like a postcard he couldn’t bear to look at.
Because it would have hurt too much.
To remember the flashlight between them in the dark of the bunkhouse, batteries half-dead, whispering until their voices blurred into sleep. To remember days spent barefoot and wild, running through trees, drenched from the lake, laughing with no ceiling over their heads.
The dearest friend he’d ever known—and he thought he’d lost him for good.
But fate, it seemed, had brought his sun back.
He just never expected fate to bring him another star, too.
Naomi gently steers him back toward the bedroom. He lets her. But not without one last glance over his shoulder—toward the canvas, still standing there in the corner of the studio, bathed in the pale wash of moonlight. Covered, but no less accusing. As if it knows.
In bed, Naomi curls into him, warm and familiar. Her breath slows as she nestles into his chest, and he wraps an arm around her on reflex. But he’s not really there. He’s somewhere else entirely.
His mind betrays him.
He sees Sirius too often in his thoughts. In color and shape and sound. It can’t be healthy—this constant sketching behind his eyelids, this hunger in his hands. It’s not something he’s ever experienced before. Not like this.
It isn’t that he’s never questioned his sexuality. He has. But he’s never met someone—never met a man—who made that part of him rise to the surface with such certainty. With such urgency.
He thought Naomi might be the answer. That maybe she was the path he was supposed to walk. That maybe they could build something soft and quiet. Get married. Start a family. Grow old the way people are meant to.
So why does that thought feel like a slow constriction around his throat?
Why does it make his skin crawl, like something inside him knows it would be a lie?
He turns his face into the pillow, eyes shut tight, willing the questions to go quiet. Wishing—just once—for a sign. For a voice from the stars to tell him who he is and what he wants.
But the stars don’t answer.
Instead, sleep finds him slowly. And when it does, it does not bring peace.
Only blue eyes.
Soft skin.
Music notes scrawled like secrets across a forearm.
And the unbearable beauty of a boy made of firelight and starlight.
***
Opening the shop is one of Remus’ favorite things in the world.
There’s comfort in the ritual of it, in the small sacred moments before the city wakes.
He always arrives first—before the noise, before the clients, before even the coffee’s had a chance to go stale.
He moves through the space like it’s muscle memory, like it’s prayer.
Flicking on the lights. Testing the machines. Laying out the day with practiced care.
He doesn’t need to think while doing it—which is usually what he loves most about it.
Usually.
But lately, the silence has turned on him. It crackles at the edges, restless and full of questions.
He catches himself glancing at the door too often. Tensing at every jingle of the bell like it might be him .
He doesn’t like that. Doesn’t like the way his chest tenses at every jingle, the way his eyes flick toward the front window like he’s hoping for something. Or someone.
He’s been rearranging his schedule without meaning to—taking fewer appointments, stretching out gaps in the middle of his day under the vague pretense of needing time to sketch. But really, it’s just in case.
Just in case he shows up. And that’s not good. That’s not good.
Because Sirius Black is the kind of distraction he cannot afford. Not when he barely knows him. Not when every encounter feels like slipping toward something dangerous and tender all at once.
He’s already begun cataloguing him like art—
The shift in Sirius’ breath whenever Remus leans in too close.
The burn of his gaze—how it lingers just long enough to be felt, never long enough to be named.
The way his mouth twitches like he’s holding back a thousand thoughts, a thousand sins.
Remus shouldn’t be paying attention. Shouldn’t notice these things, not in the way that he does. Not in the way that makes his pulse drag slow beneath his skin.
Especially not when Sirius is James’ best friend.
James—who he only just got back, like a chapter reopened after years of being sealed shut.
Sirius is off-limits. For a dozen reasons.
And yet here he is, uninvited and unavoidable, curled behind Remus’ ribs like a song he can’t stop humming.
So he does what he always does when his thoughts get too loud—He returns to the rhythm.
Opens the blinds and lets the light spill in like honey across the floor.
Welcomes the static hum of the tattoo gun as it fills the air with something louder than his own mind.
Puts the needle to skin and lets himself disappear into the ink.
Today begins like any other, the playlist murmurs through the speakers.
His coworkers greet their own clients, the day settles into its shape.
Until the bell rings.
In walks the devil himself. Today’s shirt is black and half-unbuttoned, clinging just loosely enough to reveal far too much and yet not nearly enough. He leans over the reception desk like he’s telling it a secret, grinning at Cassidy, who is already half in love with him, poor thing.
Remus doesn’t look up.
Doesn’t let himself look up.
He keeps his focus trained on the dog portrait beneath his hand—Bessie, a lab with one floppy ear and a tongue sticking out like she’s permanently delighted by life. Her owner, Tom, is laughing about something, belly bouncing like a drum.
Then: boots on wood. A shadow at the edge of his vision. And a voice.
Sirius rounds the corner, all casual confidence, and offers Tom a friendly nod, as if asking permission to intrude.
Tom chuckles, his belly shaking. “So long as he doesn’t distract you too much, lad—I don’t want Bessie coming out looking like a gremlin.”
Remus huffs a laugh, eyes still fixed on the needle. “No promises,” he says dryly.
“Hello, Sirius. What can I do for you?” he asks, keeping his voice level. Professional.
“Terribly sorry to interrupt your fine craftsmanship,” Sirius replies, his tone mock-posh and horrendously affected. He says it with that stupid grin, as if trying to hide his real voice beneath something smoother. “Was just wondering if you had space today for a walk-in?”
Remus doesn’t look up. He’s shading around Bessie’s ears now, and the concentration is both a shield and a curse.
“Line it up with Cassidy,” he says evenly.
“Champion,” Sirius replies, all casual ease, before slipping back toward the front desk.
Only then does he glance after him—just once. Just enough to catch the sway of his shoulders, the sharp line of his spine beneath silk.
Then he exhales, long and low, dragging air into his lungs like it might tether him back to earth. He’s going to need it.
He’s going to need every ounce of oxygen he can find if he’s going to survive another hour in the orbit of Sirius Black.
***
It turns out Remus doesn’t have another client after Tom.
Which is… unfortunate.
Because that means there is no reprieve, no buffer, no sacred stretch of time for him to recalibrate—no grace period to steady his hands or quiet his thoughts before the storm that is Sirius Black comes rolling in again like some magnetic weather system.
No. He is left bare. Exposed.
And Sirius, of course, arrives right on schedule.
He’s getting too comfortable around him. That’s the problem. Or at least, that’s what Remus keeps telling himself. That this slow erosion of his boundaries is dangerous. That this easy familiarity creeping in between them is something he should fear.
But he doesn’t stop it.
He doesn’t want to stop it.
Even though he plans, every single time, to be distant. Detached. To lean back on that cool, nonchalant detachment that’s always come so naturally to him. The careful professionalism. The practiced ease.
And yet the second Sirius opens his mouth—
The second his voice—rich, rough around the edges, and so casually devastating—fills the space between them, Remus is undone .
It’s like Sirius reaches into his chest and plucks the words right from the folds of his brain. Like his very presence dismantles the internal scaffolding Remus has built to keep himself intact. He can’t help it. He couldn’t hold it in if he tried.
And now— now —to make matters worse, Sirius has decided to go for his fucking back .
Remus would laugh if it didn’t feel like a cruel cosmic joke.
Instead, he just watches—stricken—as Sirius climbs onto the chair, settling into a straddle like it’s the most natural thing in the world. His shirt is already peeled halfway off, bunched at his elbows, leaving the entire stretch of his back exposed in the low, forgiving light of the studio.
And what a back it is.
All lean muscle and milky skin, a living canvas of shadow and definition. The way his shoulder blades shift when he moves. The slow ripple of muscle down his spine. The tension bracketing his neck. The hollow at the base of it.
Remus, mercifully, is behind him. Which means Sirius can’t see the way his eyes drink him in—greedy and unrepentant. Can’t see the way his breath catches, how he has to actually force himself not to lean closer. Not to touch anything he doesn’t have to.
He wants to knock the sight of him back like a shot of whiskey. Burn through it, all in one go.
But some cruel, indulgent part of him wants to savor it instead—let it sit on his tongue like wine, slow and deep and heavy.
His gaze trails downward—he knows he shouldn’t—but God, he does . Follows the slope of Sirius’ spine, the divot where it dips low, the devastating symmetry of two back dimples punctuating the skin just above the waistband of his Calvins. It’s obscene. It’s art. It’s…
Remus barely resists the urge to bite down on his own knuckle.
Then Sirius speaks—and Remus flinches like he’s been caught.
“Okay,” Sirius says, voice slightly muffled by the chair, “so, I wasn’t really nervous about the others—my arms were fine—but, uh…” He cranes his head over his shoulder to look back at Remus. His eyes are wide, unreadable. “How bad is this one gonna fuck me up?”
Remus sees it immediately—the restless twitch of his leg, the subtle bounce of a foot against the base of the chair. It’s almost imperceptible, but not to him. He clocks it. Catalogues it. Feels a traitorous pull in his chest, an ache to reach out and press his hand there. Steady it. Steady him .
But he doesn’t. He doesn’t let himself.
Instead, he clears his throat and tries to summon something neutral. Something safe. But even that feels like a lie.
“Judging by how well you took the first two,” he says, voice low, controlled, “you’ll handle this one just fine.”
It’s the truth. But it’s also a prayer.
Because Remus isn’t sure he will.
Not with Sirius half-naked and stretched out in front of him like temptation incarnate. Not when every breath smells like ink and warm skin and trouble. Not when he can already feel the ghosts of hands on skin that isn’t his.
And he hasn’t even touched him yet.
Not really.
Not like that .
But he’s about to.
And he’s not sure he’s ready for what it might do to him.
It feels a little like a cosmic joke—pun intended, cruelly so—as he carefully tattoos the solar system down the length of Sirius’ spine.
Each planet is rendered small, deliberate, perfectly spaced along the delicate line of vertebrae. They nestle into the natural dips and rises like they belong there, as if the body had always been waiting to cradle them. Mercury rests near the nape of his neck. Neptune hovers low at the base of his back. The sun glows steady in the quiet middle, warm beneath the press of Remus’ hand.
Silence settles over them at first. Sirius doesn’t speak. Just breathes slow and shallow, like he’s trying to find a rhythm inside the discomfort. The hum of the machine fills the room, low and pulsing.
A faint thread of music murmurs from the speaker. The occasional shift of weight, the catch of breath—these are the only sounds between them.
Tattooing an arm is one thing. Skin gives there, muscle cushions. The spine is different. Bone doesn’t yield the same way. Every stroke vibrates through Sirius like a struck chord, like the echo is playing somewhere deeper than the skin.
There’s a twitch in his shoulders. A slow drag of his hips across the leather. An arch, subtle but telling. Hard to say if it’s the pain or just the awkward sprawl of the position—but either way, it’s enough to make Remus pause.
The machine clicks off. One hand lifts instinctively to steady him. His palm lands at the curve of Sirius’ hip, fingers settling there before he even registers the motion.
Only when Sirius goes tense beneath him—muscles drawing taut like a pulled string—does he realize how firm the grip had been.
“Hey… you alright?” The question comes low, almost careful.
No answer at first. Just a pause. Sirius stays as he is, arms folded under his chest, forehead resting on the cushion. When the reply does come, the voice is tight at the edges.
“Yeah. Yeah… m’fine. Keep going.”
Still no glance over his shoulder. No shift to meet him.
“Could’ve used the numbing cream,” Remus offers, quieter now. “It’s not too late—I can still apply it to the rest if you want.”
“It doesn’t hurt,” Sirius says quickly. Too quickly. “Just… keep going.”
The tension in his back lingers. Not pain, exactly—something else. Something more interior. Whatever it is, he’s not offering it up.
So Remus exhales, lifts the machine again, and finds his place among the planets.
He decides, for now, to take him at his word.
The outline of the second planet had just been finished when Sirius begins to squirm again. It’s subtle—barely a shift—but noticeable all the same. Face still tucked into the crook of his arms, unreadable. No chance of catching an expression, a flicker of his eyes, anything that might help gauge how bad it is. But the movement gives him away.
He’s in pain.
Still, Remus doesn’t stop this time. Trusts Sirius to speak up if it’s too much. If he needed to pause, he would’ve said something. Right?
Only, he’s not talking.
And that’s strange. By now, Remus has grown used to the sound of his voice—smooth and sharp in equal measure, always filling the silence with something unexpected. The absence of it rings louder than the machine.
This session’s going to take hours. If Sirius is already struggling now, there’s no way he’ll make it through the rest without falling apart. And Remus isn’t sure he can, in good conscience, keep going.
But then, as he finishes the fifth planet—right at the center of Sirius’ back—Sirius jerks forward, sharp and sudden.
The machine clicks off instantly.
“That’s it,” Remus says, voice firm despite the pulse racing in his throat. “You’re clearly in pain. I can’t keep going if you can’t stay still.”
No response at first. Then Sirius turns, slow and reluctant, and Remus sees it.
Not pain—at least, not just.
Heat streaks his cheeks, flush blooming high and bright across his face. His lips, parted slightly, are bitten red, swollen where teeth have clearly sunk in too hard. There’s a sheen to his skin, a tension in his shoulders that has nothing to do with discomfort and everything to do with something else entirely.
Something Remus has no business noticing.
But he does.
And like a goddamn fool, he makes a sound. A soft, involuntary whimper escapes before he can catch it—buried, he hopes, beneath the buzz of machines and music filling the studio. Jodie and Nya are still working a few feet away. He prays they didn’t hear.
Sirius finally speaks, his voice a little hoarse. “It’s fine. Swear. Just… need the toilet.”
“Yeah. Okay. Let’s take a break,” Remus says, too fast, grateful for the out.
As soon as Sirius disappears down the hall, he retreats to the back room and drags in a breath like he’s been underwater.
The air had been stifling. He hadn’t noticed until it was gone.
What the fuck is happening?
He paces. Runs a hand through his hair. Tries to will the heat from his skin. His heart feels like it’s caught in his throat. This is wrong. Wildly, stupidly, professionally wrong.
Getting hot and bothered over a client is the kind of thing that lands people in lawsuits.
But Sirius isn’t just a client, is he? At least, not anymore. Not with the way they talk. Not with how easily they click. Remus likes to think they’re heading toward something real
—friendship, at the very least. Something solid. But that future won’t survive if he keeps entertaining these… thoughts.
And then it hits him. The thunderclap of it.
Naomi. His girlfriend.
His life. His home. The person he’s supposed to love.
Think of Naomi. Think of Naomi.
You are not a cheater, Remus Lupin. Get your head on straight. Have some dignity. Have some goddamn respect.
He repeats it like a mantra. It grounds him, just enough to steel himself.
By the time he makes it back to his station, Sirius is already in the chair again, arms stretching behind his head, rolling out his shoulders like he’s gearing up for round two.
A few strands of hair cling to his temple from sweat, but the tension seems to have eased.
The break had helped, for both of them.
They slip back into the session with quiet ease. Sirius breathes easier now, more like he had during the first few appointments. The silence doesn’t feel heavy anymore. Just calm. The way it’s supposed to be.
A song drifts through the speaker—something low and slow—and a moment later, Sirius begins to hum along to it, just under his breath, soft and content.
Remus doesn’t say anything. Just lets the melody fill the space between them, and keeps his hands steady.
***
Nya finishes with her client first and drifts over, curiosity pulling her toward the workstation. Her gaze lands on Sirius, then the in-progress tattoo, and her whole face lights up.
“Hey, you’re back,” she greets warmly, arms crossed, long braids twisted into an updo with two tendrils left to frame her face. “At this rate, you’ll catch up with Remus in no time.”
“Actually, I plan to beat him at his own game,” Sirius quips, grin smug as he lifts a hand to fist bump her.
“Don’t move,” comes sharply from Remus before the gesture can land. Neptune’s nearly finished—one wrong twitch and he’ll have to redo the linework.
They’re making excellent time. And hours later, when the last pass is done, Remus sits back to admire it all—the full stretch of the solar system orbiting down Sirius’ spine in perfect scale. The planets nestle into each vertebrae like they belong there, pink irritation blooming soft and warm across the newly inked skin.
In hindsight, it should’ve been done in two sessions. The detailing alone had pushed boundaries. If Sirius came down with tattoo flu tomorrow, Remus would hardly be surprised.
He mentions it, lightly, tries to offer a bit of guidance about recovery—hydration, rest, all the usual warnings. But predictably, Sirius waves him off with a dismissive hand.
Still shirtless, he strolls across the shop to the tall mirror near the door. Angles his body just so, craning to catch the full view. No phone camera, no photo—he wants to see it. Raw. Real. And when he does, when the full picture lands, his smile cracks wide and brilliant. Grateful. A little amazed.
Warmth pools in Remus’ chest. Settles there, low and aching.
By six o’clock, the sun is bleeding out behind Camden’s rooftops. The sky turns liquid gold, and outside, the street is pulsing with life. People spill from cafés and shops, drawn out by the lingering heat. Laughter echoes in the narrow alleys. The air tastes like fried food and summer.
A cigarette is non-negotiable after a session like that. Out back, behind the shop, they stand in the quiet alley where the bricks still hold the heat of the day.
“I really love it,” Sirius says, turning to face him, genuine in a way that always knocks something loose inside Remus. “You’re so talented, Remus. Honestly.”
The compliment hits harder than expected. Heat creeps uninvited into Remus’ cheeks, so he shifts the subject. “This aftercare’s going to be more difficult than the last two.”
“Yes, yes, Mum. I believe I’ve got the hang of it already,” Sirius quips, holding out both arms to showcase his healing tattoos like trophies.
“This one’s on your back. You’ll need help moisturizing it.”
“I’m sure James would love to volunteer.”
“Right after he scolds you for another tattoo in the span of two weeks.”
“He’s going to have to get used to it. Say goodbye to the old Sirius.” A drag from his cigarette, deep and languid, and the smoke drifts from his mouth like it’s been choreographed.
“The old Sirius?” Remus lifts his own cigarette to his lips.
“Getting a tattoo made me realize how boring my body was before. I am a walking art piece. Now I can be bea—” He falters, a shake of the head interrupting the thought. “I just like the idea of having art on my body,” he finishes instead.
No push for the truth. Remus lets it lie.
“I can relate to that.” A glance at his own ink, the constellation of scattered tattoos climbing across his arms, legs, ribs. Most of them were done half-drunk, on a whim, late nights with friends and bad ideas. Not all of them have stories. But the ones that do—the ones that count—he carries like spells under the skin.
“What’s that one about?”
A finger presses gently to the crescent moon near his elbow. In its curve, a skeleton sits reading a book.
“I like to read at night,” Remus says with a soft laugh. “My mum used to joke I’d die surrounded by books instead of people.”
“Ugh. That’s so on brand for you tortured artist types.” Sirius rolls his eyes, already stubbing out his cigarette and pulling a spliff from the pocket of his jacket.
“And it’s so on brand for you wannabe rockstars to carry joints around like breath mints.”
“Don’t act like you don’t benefit from it,” Sirius fires back, lighting up and taking the first slow inhale. He passes it off like an offering.
“Point made. Carry on, then—for the good of society.” Remus takes it, exhales slow, head tilting back.
An alarm chirps. Sirius curses under his breath and pulls out his phone.
“Fuck. Totally forgot I’ve got a shift at the bar tonight.”
“You’re a walking aesthetic stereotype,” Remus mutters, handing the spliff back.
No one should be allowed to smoke like Sirius Black. He ghosts the exhale, lips parting with ridiculous control, pulling tricks from his mouth like it’s a performance. Circles. French inhales. Ghost trails. It’s too much.
“You should come,” he says suddenly. There’s something hopeful in his voice. Soft, but there. “To the bar, I mean. James and Pete always show up after work. The girls too. Trivia night. Total shit show. But fun.”
Naomi flares through his mind like a match struck in the dark—bright, familiar, and fleeting. She’s probably already home by now, sipping wine out of a glass too delicate for his clumsy hands, humming along to some soft jazz record she bought for the aesthetic. He isn’t sure he’s ready to bring her into this world just yet—the boys, the buzz of ink and heat, the heartbeat of the shop after hours, the version of himself he hasn’t quite figured out.
He doesn’t know what it would mean if he did.
“I’ve got a few more clients today,” he says, careful not to meet Sirius’ eyes for too long. “But I’ll see if I can swing by later.”
Something flickers in Sirius’ face—a small shift, subtle and almost easy to miss. Disappointment, maybe. No, probably not. Not that it matters. The moment’s gone before Remus can be sure.
“Oh. Okay. No problem. You know where to find me.”
Technically, it’s true. There are still a couple of piercings left on the books, but nothing urgent. Nothing that can’t wait. What the excuse buys him is space. Enough to breathe. Enough to think. Enough time to go home, weigh his options, figure out how to tell Naomi something that won’t make her look at him like he’s a stranger.
Because he can’t just say, I want to spend my night with someone who makes me feel like I’ve stepped into a world I forgot I used to want.
She gets weird about those things.
The walk home feels too quiet.
His ears still ring faintly from the buzz of the machine, from the music, from Sirius’ voice looping somewhere in the back of his mind like an unfinished song.
The air smells different here—cleaner, quieter, like the world has pressed pause. But his body is still humming from the hours before, fingertips aching with the echo of contact.
By the time he steps through the front door, the flat is already thick with the sharp, plasticky scent of hairspray and heat. Naomi is perched at her vanity, curling iron in hand, twisting a strand of hair around the barrel with studied precision. Her reflection glances up at him through the mirror—cheekbones dusted in highlighter, lips perfectly glossed, the two front pieces of her hair already curled and pinned to frame her face.
“Hey, baby!” she calls out brightly, like they haven’t spent the last few weeks quietly orbiting each other.
He crosses the room and kisses her cheek, his touch light and practiced. “Hey, Naoms.”
And still—guilt sits low in his gut, even though he hasn’t done anything wrong. Not really. Just an ache that won’t settle.
“I’m so glad you’re finally home,” she continues, setting the curling iron in its cradle. “You should come out tonight. Layla’s boyfriend has this rooftop booked—supposed to be amazing. Music, drinks, views of the skyline. The works.”
She says the works like it’s supposed to dazzle him. It doesn’t.
The thought of spending the evening surrounded by Naomi’s posh, curated circle—Layla and Sienna and whatever latest startup guy they’re dating—makes his skin crawl. The conversation will be shallow. The laughter brittle. Everything just a little too polished, too practiced.
Still, her plans give him an out.
“That sounds fun,” he lies, voice easy. “But I actually already have plans with James.”
Another half-truth. James had mentioned trivia night. But it was Sirius who made the plan. Sirius who extended the invitation. Sirius who looked at him like he wanted him there. Remus doesn’t know why he doesn’t say his name.
Naomi pouts, lips jutting out as she swivels around to face him fully. “You never want to hang out with my friends.”
“We just don’t have much in common,” he says simply, stepping past her.
He makes his way toward the bathroom, but pauses in the hallway. The easel stands where he left it, draped in its soft muslin sheet. Covered, but not hidden. It hums at him like a low, unspoken dare.
Something inside him shifts.
“I mean,” Naomi calls after him, her voice tinged with frustration, “you could try a bit harder.”
He doesn’t answer.
The shower hisses to life a moment later. Steam curls into the air as he steps under the stream, eyes closed, heart thudding like a drum inside his ribs.
The decision’s already made.
They met when he was still trying to figure himself out—fresh out of school, still grieving the version of his life he thought he’d have. Naomi had swooped in like a breath of fresh air. Confident. Graceful. The kind of woman who didn’t need anyone, but chose him anyway. She made him feel seen. Maybe even wanted.
But now, all the shine has started to fade. Or maybe it never fit him in the first place.
Tonight, he doesn’t want champagne on a rooftop or forced conversation in glittering shoes.
Tonight, he wants dim lighting, cheap beer, and the sound of Sirius Black humming under his breath behind the bar.