A moment of weakness, a fleeting reassurance. A promise—if it was one at all

Sirius spent the next few days trapped in a loop of self-recrimination, pacing through the empty halls of Grimmauld Place like a restless ghost. The house, once a symbol of his defiance, now felt like a tomb—cold, vast, and indifferent to his turmoil.

He had never been good at dealing with emotions head-on. He had spent too many years drowning them out with reckless impulses, anger, and distraction. But this wasn't something he could ignore or fight his way through.

Severus thought his flirtations, his invitations, all of it had been leading to nothing more than a convenient night together.

Sirius wasn't sure what hurt more—the fact that Severus had left without hesitation, or the fact that he had been the one to make him think that was all he wanted.

And wasn't that the worst part? Of course Severus would think that. It wasn't just about what had happened between them as adults. It was the weight of history pressing down on them both.

Sirius Black, the arrogant Gryffindor who tormented Severus Snape for years. Sirius Black, the reckless Order member who had never taken things seriously until it was too late. Sirius Black, the man who wrote endless letters, who played games instead of saying what he meant.

He had spent so long hiding his real feelings behind jokes and baiting, behind a careful mask of insincerity. And now, when he had finally been honest with himself, Severus hadn't believed him. Because why would he?

Sirius exhaled sharply, pressing his hands against the cool wood of the kitchen table. His fingers curled into fists.

Is it already too late?

Was there any way to fix this? Any way to make Severus believe that this wasn't just loneliness, that it wasn't just an accident? That Sirius had wanted him—always had, even when he hadn't admitted it to himself?

Was there even a chance?

He wasn't sure. But for the first time in a long time, he needed to find out.

Sirius made up his mind. If Severus didn't believe him now, then he would just have to prove it.

He had spent too long running from his own feelings, too long convincing himself that what he wanted wasn't possible. But now that he had faced the truth, there was no going back.

If all Severus wanted from him was an occasional night, then fine. Sirius would take it. He would take whatever he could get from Severus. Because he couldn't go back to the endless days without Severus's presence.

But he would also show Severus that he wasn't just chasing a fleeting thrill. That he wasn't playing a game. That he wasn't going to lose interest and move on.

He knew what Severus thought of him—reckless, insincere, incapable of commitment. And why wouldn't he? Sirius had spent their entire youth building that image, and it wasn't as if he had done much to prove otherwise since.

But that was the past.

This time, Sirius was going to stay.

So he wrote another letter. Nothing too different from the others—another comment about the house, a question about a book he'd been struggling with. A casual mention that he had stocked the lab properly, in case Severus wanted to inspect it himself.

No mention of what had happened. No hint that anything had changed.

And then he waited.

Days passed before Severus responded. A short, clipped reply. A single sentence answering his question, no acknowledgment of the rest.

But Sirius wasn't deterred. He wrote again. And again. Never pushing, never demanding. Just giving Severus an easy excuse to keep coming back.

When Severus finally did return, Sirius played it carefully. No expectation, no pressure. He didn't bring up the last time, didn't ask why Severus had come. He just made himself available.

And when, eventually, Severus ended up in his bed again, Sirius didn't let himself hope.

Not yet.

Because hope was dangerous. Hope meant opening himself up to the possibility of being wrong.

For now, it was enough that Severus was here.

For now, he would take whatever scraps he could.

And maybe, just maybe, one day Severus would see that Sirius wasn't going anywhere.

Severus's visits became a pattern, though Sirius wasn't sure he liked what that pattern had become.

He would come. They would talk, in the way that Severus allowed—clipped words, half-hearted responses, polite acknowledgment that barely concealed his impatience. And then, inevitably, the conversation would shift, the atmosphere would change, and Sirius would let himself be taken apart by hands that never lingered too long, by a mouth that never spoke anything beyond what was necessary.

And then Severus would leave.

Every time.

It didn't seem to matter how late it was, or how exhausted he looked, or how comfortable he might have been if he just stayed. The moment it was over, he was pulling his robes back into place, standing, making for the door like there was some unspoken rule that he couldn't remain.

Sirius tried not to let it bother him.

But it did.

Because it wasn't just about the sex.

It never had been.

So he tried, in the ways that he could, to make it more.

He started conversations, asked about Hogwarts, about the tournament, about anything that might get Severus to talk to him like a person rather than an obligation. Severus would answer, because it seemed he felt some need to indulge Sirius before they got to the inevitable part of the evening. But it was always with that same cold detachment, that same indifferent tone.

Sirius would take whatever he can, but this—this obligation, this distance—this was hard to bear.

And yet, he didn't stop trying.

Because something was changing.

It was slow, almost imperceptible at first. But it was there.

Severus stopped sounding quite so bored when they spoke. His responses, though still sharp, were less dismissive. He wasn't just enduring Sirius's attempts at conversation—he was engaging in them, even if he pretended not to.

It was something.

It was almost friendship.

And Sirius clung to that fragile, unspoken shift like a lifeline.

Because if they could be friends, maybe—just maybe—there was still hope for something more.

Sirius wasn't sure what had made tonight different.

Maybe it was the way Severus had looked at him when he arrived, his gaze lingering just a fraction longer than usual. Maybe it was the way he had moved against him earlier—not with urgency but something closer to ease, as if this had become routine, familiar. Maybe it was just that Sirius was tired—tired of pretending that this was enough, tired of the ache that always settled in his chest when Severus rose to leave.

So when he saw the familiar shift, the telltale tension in Severus's shoulders, the way his breath evened as he prepared to push himself up, Sirius did something he had never done before.

He reached out.

His fingers traced absent patterns over the scars on Severus's back—scars he had never asked about because he knew Severus would never answer. His touch was slow, lingering, a silent plea.

And then Severus moved again.

Sirius's arms wrapped around him from behind before he could leave, holding him there, burying his face in the crook of Severus's neck.

"Don't go."

He pressed his lips to warm skin, breath ghosting over the sensitive spot beneath Severus's jaw.

Severus stiffened immediately.

"Stop." The command was sharp, biting.

Sirius hesitated, then reluctantly let go.

But the moment Severus sat up, Sirius acted without thinking—grabbing him, pulling him back down onto the bed, covering him with his body before he could escape.

Severus pushed against him, but Sirius held firm.

Severus was now glowering at him, eyes dark and unreadable, his expression severe.

Sirius averted his gaze, his lips brushing against the curve of Severus's ear as he whispered, "If the only reason you're here is for sex, there's a lot more we can do."

Severus shoved him away—harder this time.

Sirius let himself be pushed, rolling onto his side, breathing heavily. The rejection was nothing new, but tonight, it cut deeper than before. He felt like a dog left out in the cold

So in one last, desperate attempt, he murmured, voice raw with something dangerously close to pleading—"Please stay."

Severus sighed, already reaching for his clothes. "I really have to go. Maybe next time."

Sirius let out a breathless, humorless laugh, eyes dull. He muttered under his breath, barely more than a whisper—"I know what you mean by that. You say that only because there won't be a next time."

For a long moment, Severus said nothing.

He only stared.

Deep, searching, like he was reading every inch of Sirius's soul, dissecting it piece by piece.

Then, to Sirius's utter disbelief, Severus leaned down, fingers grazing his temple before pressing a feather-light kiss to his forehead.

"There will be a next time. I promise," His words were barely beyond a whisper.

And then he was gone.

Sirius lay there in stunned silence, staring at the ceiling, his hand absently drifting to where Severus had kissed him.

That was new.

Affectionate.

Real.

And Sirius had no idea what it meant.

Sirius didn't expect it to hurt this much.

It wasn't as if he hadn't been left before.

Severus had always been like this—cold, detached, slipping away as easily as shadows at dawn. Sirius had gotten used to it, had learned to brace himself for the inevitable retreat, had even convinced himself he could live with it, as long as Severus kept coming back.

But this time, he didn't.

Days passed. Then a week. Then two.

And Sirius—who had once filled the silence with restless energy, with letters, with excuses—did nothing.

He told himself he wouldn't reach out. Not this time.

Instead, he let himself drown in memories, replaying that last night in an endless, maddening loop. From the moment Severus stepped through the door, his usual wary presence filling the house, to the lingering press of lips against his forehead, to that soft, almost hesitant promise— "There will be a next time. I promise."

But had it meant anything?

Had Severus only been humoring him? Placating him?

Sirius had pushed, had pleaded, had exposed himself in a way he never had before. And Severus had seen him—had looked at him like he was something fragile, something worth studying, worth understanding.

But understanding wasn't the same as caring.

Severus had always been unreadable, his affections buried beneath layers of cynicism and sharp edges. And Sirius—Sirius had spent a lifetime being nothing but reckless, impulsive, desperate to chase after anything that made him feel alive.

Maybe that was all this had been to Severus.

A distraction. A moment of weakness.

A moment of weakness, a fleeting reassurance. A promise—if it was one at all

Maybe he had been a moment of weakness.

The thought made something in him curdle.

Sirius told himself it didn't matter. He could survive this. He had survived worse.

And yet, in the quiet of Grimmauld Place, in the absence of Severus's presence—however reluctant it had been—he felt it creeping in again.

The loneliness.

The doubt.

The aching, unbearable want.