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The bell above the bakery door jangled violently at two in the morning.
Remus Lupin nearly sliced through his own thumb.
He’d been kneading dough, earbuds in, some old French jazz fuzzing in the background of his tired brain. He wasn’t expecting anyone—not at this hour, not ever. Only the drunks wandering home from Soho occasionally mistook Lupin et Fils for a late-night café, rattling the locked glass door before staggering away.
But this wasn’t a drunk. The figure that stumbled inside was too big, too sharp, and—Christ—too armed.
Gunmetal glinted under the fluorescent lights.
Remus yanked out an earbud. “We’re closed,” he croaked. His throat felt dry as flour dust.
The man didn’t answer. He turned, slammed the door shut, locked it, then dragged a metal chair across the floor and jammed it under the handle. He moved like someone who had done this a hundred times before.
He was huge—easily 6’3”, broad-shouldered in an expensive suit now torn at the sleeve, streaked with blood that didn’t look entirely like his own. His jaw was sharp, his hair long and dark, and his eyes—grey and cutting—swept the bakery like it was a battlefield.
Remus’s stomach dropped. He knew that face. Everyone did. London whispered about him like a bogeyman.
Sirius Black. The Black family. The bloody mafia.
Remus’s pulse roared in his ears. He stepped back, bumping into a tray of croissants. “You—you can’t be here. I—I’m just—” He gestured vaguely at the rows of rising dough, the powdered counters. “I’m a baker.”
Black didn’t look at him. He pulled out a pistol, checked the magazine, and muttered something low and sharp in Italian. Then he glanced up—actually looked at Remus—and for a moment, something unreadable flickered in those storm-grey eyes.
“Stay down,” Black said. His voice was deep, rough velvet. “Keep your head down and don’t scream.”
Remus’s knees locked. “Are—are they coming here?” he whispered.
“Not if I’m fast.” Black moved to the back of the shop, scanned the rear exit, cursed under his breath. “Do you have a cellar?”
“Yes—yes, but—”
“Show me.”
Remus hesitated, but one hard look from Sirius Black was enough to make him spin on his heel. He led him past racks of baguettes and mixing bowls, down a narrow set of stairs. His heart hammered so hard he thought he might pass out. He wasn’t built for this. He was built for bread and jam and polite customers—not whatever the hell this was.
In the cellar, the air smelled like yeast and damp stone. Black shut the door softly, leaned against it, and—just like that—the dangerous edge softened, if only slightly.
“Thanks,” Black said. And then he smiled. It was quick, crooked, and surprisingly human for a man with blood on his cuffs. “You’re doing great.”
Remus blinked. “I’m… hiding in my own basement.”
“That’s better than getting shot,” Black said easily. “Trust me, sweetheart, I’d know.”
Remus’s ears burned. “D-don’t call me that.”
“Alright, darling,” Black teased. Even in the dark, his grin was disarming. “Better?”
Remus scowled despite the terror prickling his spine. “Why are you even—why here?”
Black shrugged like it was obvious. “You were the only light on.”
That answer shouldn’t have made Remus’s chest feel weird. It shouldn’t have made him notice the faint smell of smoke and expensive cologne clinging to Black’s suit, or the way those broad shoulders barely fit against the stone wall.
Sirens wailed faintly in the distance.
They waited in silence. Remus’s hands shook. He wrapped them around himself, suddenly self-conscious—about his soft stomach under his flour-streaked apron, about the sweat curling his hairline. About existing in the same room as him.
After what felt like forever, Black straightened. “Clear enough now.” He unlocked the cellar door, but before climbing up, he turned. “You’re safe. They won’t come back. My people will… handle it.”
Remus just nodded, numb. He didn’t know what to say.
Black’s gaze lingered on him for a beat too long—assessing, intense, something else under it that Remus couldn’t name. Then the mafia boss disappeared into the night, leaving a dusting of gunpowder footprints across Remus’s clean kitchen floor.
——
The next morning, Sirius Black returned.
Not bleeding, not frantic—calm. Immaculate suit. A little smirk.
“Two pain au chocolat,” he said casually, dropping a twenty on the counter. “And a coffee. Black.”
Remus stared. “…You’re serious?”
“I am Sirius,” the man said, completely deadpan, and waited.
——
By the third morning, Remus stopped pretending it was coincidence.
Sirius Black—London’s most infamous name whispered in pubs and backrooms—was seated at the same corner table again. Immaculate suit. Grey eyes hidden behind a newspaper he clearly wasn’t reading. And that same ridiculous order:
“Two pain au chocolat. Coffee. Black.”
Remus slid the plate and mug onto the table. “You know,” he muttered, “we sell other things.”
Sirius folded the paper with deliberate care. “Why fix what’s perfect?”
Remus’s ears heated. He wiped his hands on his apron, the fabric already dusted with flour. He didn’t look at Sirius as he moved back behind the counter, trying to ignore the heavy gaze he could feel on him.
He bent to pull a tray from the oven. Heat flushed his face. Don’t think about it. He’s a customer. Just a customer. A terrifying customer.
Behind him, Sirius watched openly. At first, he’d told himself it was curiosity—this man had been calm under pressure, hadn’t screamed, hadn’t begged. That was rare. But the longer Sirius sat there, the more he caught himself studying the way Remus moved: steady, grounded, strong despite the softness that clung to him.
When Remus reached for a high shelf, his shirt pulled just enough to reveal a pale ridge of scar along his forearm—old, jagged, too clean to be an accident.
Sirius’s brow furrowed. He’d noticed them yesterday too, when Remus had brushed hair from his face. Thin white lines along his hands. The faint shadow of something across his neck.
Military? Witness protection? Some ugly past?
Sirius wasn’t used to being curious about anyone. Normally, he didn’t let himself be. But something about this baker—this quiet, self-conscious man who barely met his eyes—felt…different.
——
“Boss,” James muttered later that day, sliding into the booth of their usual restaurant. “You’ve been late three mornings in a row. Let me guess. Croissants?”
Sirius didn’t look up from his glass of scotch. “Pain au chocolat.”
“Same difference,” James said. “You’re smitten.”
Across the table, Regulus raised an eyebrow. “With a baker?”
“He’s not just a baker,” Sirius snapped before catching himself. He leaned back, tried to sound casual. “He’s…competent. Makes good coffee.”
Regulus snorted. “You’ve killed men for less than looking at you wrong, but a guy kneads dough in front of you and suddenly you’re Shakespeare?”
“Drop it.” Sirius’s voice was sharp, but his men only exchanged knowing looks.
No one in the Black syndicate had ever seen Sirius date. Ever. He’d built his reputation on discipline, control, an unshakable focus on the business. It made him a legend. Untouchable.
But now their boss—the man who never flinched at gunfire—was skipping meetings to watch some scarred, soft-looking baker pipe chocolate into pastry.
James smirked. “We just want you to be happy, mate.”
Sirius glared, but there wasn’t much heat in it. “He’s not for me.”
“Right,” Regulus said flatly. “That’s why you’re risking being recognized by every cop in London just to stare at his—what was it you called them?—‘perfect bloody buns.’”
Sirius’s ears went red.
——
That night, Sirius found himself parked across from Lupin et Fils after closing. Through the window, he could see Remus cleaning, sleeves rolled to his elbows. Scars gleamed under the yellow light, mapping across his forearms like a history written on skin. Sirius’s chest tightened. He’d seen men with marks like that—men who’d survived something they shouldn’t have.
What the hell happened to you, sweetheart?
——
It started small.
“Boss, need anything from that bakery tomorrow?”
“No? Just asking. You’ve been skipping breakfast.”
Then:
“Hey, Lupin et Fils is doing those fruit tarts again. Want me to grab one for you?”
Then, James actually showed up with a white paper bag.
“Pain au chocolat,” he announced cheerfully. “From your boyfriend.”
Sirius glared. “He’s not—”
“Sure, sure.” James smirked. “You just happen to know his entire schedule, what he listens to while he bakes, and which apron he wears on Thursdays.”
By the end of the week, every man in Sirius Black’s crew knew. Their stone-faced, no-nonsense leader—the man who’d built London’s most feared crime family—had a crush. And not on some femme fatale or sleek heiress.
On a baker.
A quiet, scarred, soft-around-the-edges baker who probably didn’t even realize Sirius was alive.
——
The joke spread fast. It wasn’t cruel—not in Sirius’s house. The Black syndicate was ruthless, but they had their own code: protect family, protect loyalty. And somehow, in their twisted definition of family, this random French pastry shop was becoming sacred ground.
“You even touch that bakery, you’re dead,” one of Sirius’s lieutenants muttered to a new recruit.
“Why?”
“Boss likes the guy.”
“The boss? Likes anyone?”
“Yeah. Shocking, innit? Don’t screw it up.”
——
But the Jaworski Syndicate didn’t have that code.
The shootout happened fast—warehouse deal gone bad, bullets slicing through the night. Sirius ducked behind a stack of crates, firing back in controlled bursts. James covered the left flank. Regulus was cursing in rapid French.
Then a voice rang out from the chaos:
“HEY, BLACK! HEARD YOU’VE GOT A FAT LITTLE BAKER WAITING TO WARM YOUR BED!”
A pause. Then, nastier:
“WHAT’S THE MATTER, BOSS MAN? TOO BUSY SUCKING OFF YOUR PASTRY BOY TO RUN YOUR CREW?”
Sirius froze.
For one split second, the world narrowed to a pinpoint: smoke, gunpowder, and that voice. The air snapped like ice around him.
Then Sirius stood up.
Not crouched. Not covered. Stood.
And when Sirius Black stood in the middle of a firefight, everyone—ally and enemy—knew what that meant.
“Take them,” he said quietly.
His men didn’t hesitate. Gunfire erupted, merciless. Within moments, the Jaworskis were scattered—some fleeing, some bleeding. Sirius himself moved like a storm, precise and cold. By the time it was over, the ground was slick and the air tasted metallic.
One surviving Jaworski tried to crawl away. Sirius grabbed him by the collar and hauled him upright. His voice was low, lethal.
“You ever say his name again,” Sirius said, “and I’ll make sure you spend the rest of your short, miserable life begging to die.”
The man whimpered. Sirius let him drop.
James approached cautiously. “Boss… you good?”
Sirius’s hands were still steady on his gun. “No one touches him,” he said. “No one even talks about him.”
James nodded. “Understood.”
——
Back at headquarters, the men didn’t tease him that night. They just cleaned their weapons in silence, glancing at their boss, who sat in the corner smoking like a man trying to calm a hurricane inside his own chest.
Because now they all knew:
This wasn’t just a crush.
Sirius Black would kill for that baker.
——
Remus almost dropped his coffee when the news anchor said the name:
“Last night’s deadly altercation between the Black and Jaworski syndicates—leaving at least twelve confirmed dead—marks the most violent escalation in London’s organized crime wars in years…”
Remus turned off the radio. His hands shook. He pressed his palms into the counter, breathing shallow.
He’d known. Of course he’d known. The man who kept showing up at his bakery wasn’t just some eccentric night owl with a taste for pain au chocolat. Sirius Black was that Sirius Black.
And yet… every time Sirius leaned across the counter, grey eyes glinting with something softer than they should’ve been, every time that low voice teased him—God help him—it turned Remus on.
You’re pathetic, Remus thought bitterly. He’s a killer. And you—look at you. Forty-five, belly first, scarred to pieces, grey before your time. You look older than you are, and for what? To hide every full moon and pretend you’re just a baker who likes long hours?
He caught sight of himself in the bakery’s darkened window: tired eyes, a soft body under a flour-streaked apron, scars visible where his sleeves were pushed up. Not the kind of man anyone like Sirius Black would want.
Certainly not the kind of man Sirius Black would risk his life for.
——
That night, Remus stayed late, scrubbing the tile floors until they gleamed. Jazz played through his earbuds, loud enough to drown out his own thoughts. Sweat dampened his shirt, making it cling. When he shifted to reach a corner, his belly pressed against the floor, his hips swayed automatically with the rhythm of the work.
He didn’t hear the door open.
He didn’t see Sirius Black—bleeding, pale, moving unsteadily—slip inside.
Sirius’s head was spinning. The graze along his side burned like fire, but adrenaline kept him upright as he scanned the room. Empty. Good. He needed a minute. Just a minute to breathe, patch himself up, then—
Then he saw him.
Remus, on his hands and knees, shirt riding up to reveal the curve of his lower back, scars like pale rivers across tanned skin. His belly swayed as he scrubbed, movements efficient, unselfconscious. The softest, most solid, real thing Sirius had ever seen.
The world tunneled. Sirius forgot about the blood soaking his side. Forgot about the gun at his hip. Forgot everything but the sheer, overwhelming need to touch him. To protect him.
Then his vision tilted.
The last thing Sirius registered was Remus’s body—and then the hard thud as he hit the freshly washed floor.
——
Remus ripped out his earbuds, heart racing. He spun around to find Sirius Black sprawled on the tile, blood streaking his white shirt.
“Oh, hell,” Remus breathed.
For a fraction of a second, panic flared. Mob shootout. Blood. If anyone sees me—
But old instincts took over. The ones he’d buried deep, the ones that knew how to deal with wounds without hospitals, without questions. Werewolf instincts.
He locked the door, dragged Sirius’s heavy body to the back, and grabbed the emergency kit.
“Stay with me,” he muttered, as if Sirius could hear. “Don’t you dare die on my floor. I just cleaned it.”
Sirius stirred, half-conscious, watching Remus work through a haze. Strong, scarred hands pressing a cloth to his side, calm and quick. Too calm for a man who was supposedly just a baker.
“You—know what you’re doing,” Sirius rasped.
Remus froze for half a beat. “…I’ve seen worse.”
Sirius’s sharp eyes flicked to the scars along Remus’s arms, his throat, even the edge of one disappearing beneath his shirt.
“Who—” Sirius coughed, winced. “Who did this to you?”
“Focus on yourself.” Remus tightened the bandage, ignoring the way his chest ached. “You’re losing blood.”
But Sirius kept staring at him. Even bleeding, even weak, there was something dangerous in his gaze—not toward Remus, but for anyone who had ever touched him.
“Tell me,” Sirius said, voice low, unsteady but firm. “Who hurt you?”
——
Sirius came to with the smell of yeast and sugar thick in the air, a soft hum in the background—Remus, low and tuneless, probably not realizing he was doing it. Sirius’s head throbbed, his side burned, but his focus narrowed instantly:
Remus was kneeling beside him.
The man’s hair clung damply to his temples, his shirt plastered to him from the heat of baking and the frantic work of patching Sirius up. Up close, Sirius could see everything: the freckles across his shoulders, the scars like roughened constellations, the swell of his belly pressing gently against the edge of his apron as he leaned forward to check the bandage.
Christ. Sirius’s jaw tightened. He’d been with men before, but never like this—not wanting like this. Never feeling something that hit him low and sharp just from the way someone’s body looked strong and solid instead of lean.
Look at him, Sirius thought, almost dizzy. Thick arms, those hips—he could crush me without even trying. He’s gorgeous. He’s—
“Stop glaring,” Remus muttered, startling him. “You’ll pop your stitches. If I’m lucky, you won’t bleed out on my clean floor.”
Sirius blinked, realizing his face had probably betrayed something entirely different from his actual thoughts. He pushed himself up on one elbow. “You patched me up.”
“I’m not letting someone die in my bakery,” Remus said shortly, though his hands were careful as he checked the gauze.
Sirius watched him work, grey eyes dragging over every detail he couldn’t admit out loud: the faint tan lines at Remus’s wrists, the way his stomach moved when he bent, the scar just under his jaw that made Sirius want to find whoever caused it and make them disappear.
“You’ve done this before,” Sirius said quietly.
Remus froze for a fraction of a second before shrugging. “I read books.”
“Books don’t teach field stitching.” Sirius’s voice dropped. “Who hurt you, Remus?”
The name slipped out before he could stop himself. Remus’s head jerked up, surprise flickering across his face.
“I’m fine,” Remus said too quickly. “You’re the one with a hole in your side.”
“Don’t deflect.” Sirius sat up fully, ignoring the flare of pain. “Someone did that to you.” He gestured at the scars. “A lot of someones. And I want to know who.”
Remus’s throat worked. “You don’t get to ‘want to know.’ We’re not—” He gestured vaguely between them, flushing. “Whatever you think this is, you’re just… you’re Sirius Black. You kill people. I make bread.”
Sirius leaned forward despite himself. “I’d kill a lot more if I knew who left those marks on you.”
Remus went silent. Sirius could almost feel the man retreating behind walls.
“You need to leave,” Remus said finally. “Before someone sees you here.”
——
A Week Later
The men noticed.
They noticed when Sirius started rearranging schedules just to “swing by the bakery.”
They noticed when a rival crew threatened a random shop on the same street and Sirius’s entire syndicate showed up, heavy, silent, and armed to the teeth.
They noticed when Sirius had an uncharacteristic softness in his voice if anyone so much as said the word baker.
“Boss,” James said one night, “you’re about three steps away from burning down half of London for this guy.”
Sirius didn’t deny it. He just looked at his scotch and muttered, “He’s worth it.”
——
The morning started like any other.
Remus was setting a tray of croissants in the display case when the bell above the door chimed. He didn’t look up at first—regulars often wandered in early—but something about the silence made him glance over his shoulder.
A tall man stood in the doorway. Broad shoulders under a cheap leather jacket, pockmarked skin, pale blue eyes that didn’t blink.
He didn’t order. He just stared.
“Can I help you?” Remus asked carefully, trying to keep his voice steady.
The man smirked. “You’re the one, huh? The fat hog who’s got Sirius Black’s attention.” His accent was sharp, Polish, his voice dripping contempt. “Figures. Bet you squeal real nice.”
Remus froze. He’d heard insults before. He’d been called worse as a teenager, even as an adult by drunk customers. But there was something in the man’s tone—deliberate, targeted—that hit him in the gut harder than any casual cruelty.
“Leave,” Remus said quietly, hoping the tremor in his hands didn’t show. “We’re closed.”
The man laughed. “Closed? For me? No, sweetheart. We’re just getting started.”
——
An hour later, James pushed open the bakery door, expecting to find Remus wiping counters and humming like he always did.
Instead, he found silence. Flour dust hung in the air. A tray was overturned on the floor.
And by the counter—faint, but there—a smear of blood.
“Boss,” James said into his phone, already pulling his gun. “Something’s wrong. Remus is gone.”
——
Sirius had faced ambushes, betrayals, and near-death too many times to count. He had never panicked.
Until now.
“Find him,” Sirius snapped, pacing like a caged animal. “Every safehouse, every Jaworski rat hole. I want their leader’s head by midnight.”
“Jaworskis?” James asked.
“Who else would be stupid enough to touch him?” Sirius’s voice cracked like a whip. “MOVE.”
——
Remus woke to cold.
The smell hit him first—metal, rot, old blood. He blinked, disoriented, and realized he wasn’t upright. His feet were bound, looped to a chain overhead, his body hanging inverted.
Panic shot through him. He twisted instinctively, but the motion made the blood rush to his head and the rope bite into his ankles. A distant sound of dripping water echoed around him. A meatpacking plant.
A Jaworski signature.
His heart hammered. He could already feel the full moon dragging at the edges of his control.
Not now. Not here. Please not here.
——
Sirius tracked them to the outskirts, an abandoned facility reeking of rust and violence. His men moved like shadows, taking out guards with silent precision, but Sirius himself wasn’t silent.
The first man who tried to fire at him didn’t get a second chance. Sirius shot him twice, cold and efficient, then kept moving.
“Remus!” he shouted into the echoing corridors. “Hold on!”
A weak noise—muffled, but real—answered him.
——
Sirius burst into the main chamber and stopped dead.
Remus hung from a meat hook, pale and trembling, stripped down to his boxers, scars stark under the harsh fluorescent light. His belly pulled heavy under gravity, and his face—God, his face—was flushed with pain and shame.
For a split second, Sirius couldn’t breathe.
Then he moved.
“Got you,” he growled, cutting the rope in one brutal slice. He caught Remus as he fell, steadying the man’s disoriented body, ignoring the blood soaking his own shirt. “You’re safe. I’ve got you.”
“Y-you—” Remus stammered, his voice hoarse. “Sirius, they’ll—full moon—”
But Sirius wasn’t listening. He was already standing, gun raised, murderous fury igniting every nerve.
“You hurt him,” he said to the men rushing in. “You don’t get to walk away.”
——
By the time the last Jaworski screamed, Remus was gone.
Sirius spun, heart hammering. “Remus?!”
From the dark trees beyond the loading dock came a long, low howl.
Not human. Not even close.
Sirius froze. Grey eyes widened, shock clashing with something like awe.
——
The night after the slaughter, Sirius couldn’t get the sound out of his head—the howl that had split the dark.
It hadn’t been a dog. He knew dogs. This had been deeper, older. Predatory.
And then there’d been the blood trail: not enough to mean death, but too much to ignore. Not the clean drag marks of someone being carried away. More like… like Remus had moved himself, leaving strange, uneven patterns.
But no footprints. Just smears that stopped suddenly, as if whatever had bled had simply… vanished.
——
The next morning, Sirius was outside Lupin et Fils before sunrise.
The bell chimed softly. The bakery smelled of butter and yeast, warm and familiar.
And there was Remus. Alive. On his feet. Sweeping flour from the counter like nothing had happened.
For a second, Sirius didn’t move. He just stared—at the same broad back, the same soft hips shifting as Remus reached for a tray.
“Remus.” His voice came out rougher than he intended.
Remus stiffened. Turned slowly. His face looked… different. Paler. Tight around the eyes.
“You shouldn’t be here,” he said softly.
“The hell I shouldn’t.” Sirius stepped forward, anger barely leashed. “You were taken. They were going to kill you. I tore that place apart and when I came back for you—” His voice cracked. “—you were just gone.”
Remus swallowed hard. “I got away.”
“How?” Sirius demanded. “You were barely conscious. You were hanging like—” He cut himself off, jaw clenching. “You didn’t just walk out of there.”
Remus gripped the broom handle until his knuckles went white. “I don’t owe you an explanation.”
Sirius stared at him, fury and something far more raw twisting in his gut. “You were bleeding, Remus. I thought—” He stopped. Took a shaky breath. “I thought you were dead. And I’ve seen a lot of death, but that? That nearly broke me.”
Remus’s lips parted, but no sound came. For a second, Sirius saw something flicker there—guilt, fear, longing—but it vanished as quickly as it appeared.
“You need to leave,” Remus said, quieter this time. “It’s safer.”
“For who?” Sirius demanded. “For you, or for me?”
Remus didn’t answer.
——
Remus kept his voice sharp, because if he didn’t, it would shake.
“You brought this to my door,” he said, knuckles pale against the countertop. “They came for me because of you.”
Sirius didn’t flinch. His grey eyes were steady, unreadable, but his jaw locked hard enough to creak.
“I know,” he said quietly. “And I’m sorry.”
“Sorry?” Remus laughed bitterly. “Sorry doesn’t undo what they did. Sorry doesn’t change that I—” He stopped, breathing hard. The scars on his arms felt like brands. “You’re dangerous, Black. I don’t want you here.”
Sirius’s face didn’t change. Not visibly. He just nodded once, clipped, military neat. “Understood.”
Then he turned and walked out the door.
——
That night, the Black syndicate saw something they’d never seen before.
Their boss didn’t yell. He didn’t slam his fist on the table or order anyone’s death. He just sat in his office, staring at nothing. At one point, Regulus passed the door and froze: Sirius Black—the man who’d built an empire—had his head in his hands. Shoulders shaking.
“Bloody hell,” Regulus whispered. “He’s crying.”
Word spread like wildfire. Men who’d seen him tear through rival crews without blinking were suddenly… unsure. Because if Sirius Black could break, what did that mean for the rest of them?
——
Still, even heartbroken, Sirius gave orders:
“Two men on the bakery every night. Discreet. No one touches him. Not even a shadow crosses that shop.”
——
A few mornings later, James Potter strolled into Lupin et Fils, as casual as if he hadn’t been carrying a gun twelve hours earlier. He leaned on the counter, watching Remus frost a tray of pastries.
“Pain au chocolat. And a black coffee,” James said. “You know the drill.”
Remus’s hand stilled. “…He sent you?”
“No,” James said gently. “He hasn’t been in. Said he wouldn’t bother you anymore.” He watched Remus for a beat. “You really don’t know, do you?”
“Know what?”
James sighed. “Boss doesn’t do crushes. Doesn’t do relationships. Hell, I’ve worked with him for fifteen years and I’ve never seen him look twice at anyone. Then you—” He gestured vaguely at Remus, at the bakery that smelled like warmth and sugar instead of blood. “He’s been showing up every day just to see you. That’s not protection detail. That’s…” James smirked faintly. “That’s him making a fool of himself.”
Remus blinked. “What?”
“He’s terrifying, sure,” James said. “But around you? He turns into a bloke who waits in line like everyone else, just to watch you knead dough.” He took the bag of pastries Remus handed him. “Don’t mistake distance for disinterest. He’s trying to give you what you asked for.”
Remus stood there long after James left, heart pounding. Sirius Black. Coming in every day. Not to intimidate me. Not to shake me down. Just to… see me?
For the first time, Remus wondered if maybe—just maybe—he’d misread everything.
——
Sirius’s men were used to him being intense. They were not used to him being quiet.
For days, their boss functioned like a machine: meetings, orders, deals—all flawless, all cold. But between tasks, Sirius’s eyes drifted. Toward nothing. Toward someone who wasn’t there.
“Boss,” James finally said one night, breaking the silence, “you’re driving yourself mad.”
Sirius didn’t look up from cleaning his gun. “Maybe I already have.”
“About him?” James asked, deliberately gentle.
Sirius said nothing.
“You did everything right,” James pressed. “You kept him alive. You even let him push you away when that’s the last thing you wanted.”
Sirius finally glanced up, grey eyes sharp but haunted. “You ever think you’re imagining things, James? That you’ve been at this life so long you’re seeing ghosts instead of men?”
James frowned. “What are you talking about?”
Sirius hesitated. “That night in the meat plant. He was bleeding. Hurt. I cut him down. I turned my back for thirty seconds and he was gone. No exit. No footprints. Just a blood trail that stopped cold.” He exhaled, low. “And then I heard it. A howl. Close. Too close.”
Regulus, leaning in the doorway, muttered, “I heard one too. Couple nights ago, on watch outside the bakery.”
Sirius’s head snapped up. “What?”
“Big as hell. Not a dog.” Regulus shrugged. “Could’ve been wild, I guess.”
One of the younger lieutenants chimed in from across the room, “Swear I saw something in the alley last week. Huge. Eyes like lanterns.”
“Enough,” Sirius snapped, though his voice lacked its usual bite. He rubbed his temples. “You’re all just—reading too many bloody ghost stories.”
But later that night, sitting alone in his car outside Lupin et Fils, Sirius found himself scanning the shadows.
——
Meanwhile, the syndicate started to meddle. Quietly. Strategically.
James made sure Remus’s favorite flour supplier never ran out. Regulus “accidentally” paid triple for a wedding cake they didn’t need. A soldier left a bouquet on the counter with no note.
And when Remus grumbled about the strange attention, James only smiled and said, “It’s not just us. Boss might be scary, but he’s got a lot of people who’d rather see him happy than angry.”
Remus frowned, torn between suspicion, guilt, and something warmer he didn’t want to name.
——
Sirius found him in the back room, stacking flour sacks like nothing had happened. Remus didn’t even look up.
“You shouldn’t be here,” Remus said flatly.
Sirius ignored that. “Who hurt you?”
“I told you—”
“Don’t.” Sirius’s voice was low, raw. “Don’t tell me it doesn’t matter. Those scars—your arms, your neck, your chest—they weren’t from one night. That’s years of—” He stopped, breath catching. “Of someone doing that to you. Over and over.”
Remus’s hands tightened on the flour sack. “It wasn’t someone.”
Sirius blinked. “What?”
Remus turned then, eyes sharp. “It was me.”
For one stunned second, Sirius didn’t move. “You mean—” His throat felt dry. “You did that to yourself?”
Remus didn’t answer fast enough. Sirius stepped closer, almost frantic. “Why? Why would you—Remus, you can’t—” His voice cracked hard. “I should have seen it. I should have—”
“I’m not—” Remus exhaled sharply, anger mixing with something like panic. “I’m not what you think I am.”
Sirius froze. “Then what are you?”
Remus’s gaze locked with his, defiant despite the tremor in his jaw. “A monster.”
For a moment, Sirius didn’t understand. And then pieces slammed together—vanished footprints, the howl, the blood trail that ended in nothing.
Not self-harm. Not a victim of some unnamed enemy.
A wolf.
——
Sirius staggered back a half step. Not out of fear, but from the sudden rush of everything. The confusion, the terror he’d felt that night, the fierce protectiveness that hadn’t made sense until now.
And the realization that Remus had carried all of it alone.
“You think that makes you a monster?” Sirius asked quietly.
Remus didn’t answer. His chest rose and fell fast.
Sirius wanted to reach for him but stopped himself. “Someone hurt you once. And then life kept hurting you. But none of that makes you unworthy. Or dangerous to me.”
Remus laughed bitterly. “You don’t know what you’re saying.”
“Maybe not,” Sirius admitted. “But I know I’ve killed real monsters, Remus. And you’re not one of them.”
Remus stared at him, throat tight, as if he didn’t know whether to argue or break.
——
It didn’t happen right away. Sirius left that night without pushing further, giving Remus the space he clearly needed. But he stayed close—watching the bakery from his car, keeping men on discreet rotation, making sure no one got within fifty feet without him knowing.
Two nights later, Remus stepped outside after closing and found Sirius leaning against the wall, hands in his coat pockets. He looked… tired. Less like the untouchable mafia boss and more like a man who’d been carrying something too heavy for too long.
“You’re still here,” Remus said.
“Always,” Sirius replied simply.
Silence stretched. Then Remus sighed, almost defeated. “You should be afraid of me.”
“I’ve seen worse,” Sirius said. “Hell, I am worse.”
That made Remus huff out a laugh despite himself. “You don’t know what happens on a full moon.”
Sirius stepped closer, but not enough to corner him. “I don’t care. I just know you saved my life. And I know I’ve wanted to see you every damn day since I walked into your bakery bleeding to death.”
Remus stared at him, searching for the catch. “You… you don’t even know me.”
“I know enough.” Sirius’s voice softened. “I know you’re strong. I know you’re kind. I know you make bread that tastes like home. And I know I’ve spent forty-five years never wanting anyone, and now I can’t stop wanting you.”
Something cracked in Remus’s chest. The tension, the fear, the years of hiding—everything slipped just a little.
And when Sirius reached up—slow, giving him time to pull away—and cupped the side of his face, Remus didn’t move.
Sirius kissed him like a man who didn’t know how to be gentle but was trying anyway. Careful. Reverent. Like Remus wasn’t something dangerous, but something rare.
——
The Black Syndicate, Three Days Later
“Boss is smiling,” Regulus muttered, horrified.
James grinned. “He’s not just smiling. He’s whistling.”
“Whistling,” another soldier whispered. “Like—like a happy person?”
The entire room looked around uneasily, then burst out laughing. Because if Sirius Black—ruthless, cold Sirius—was happy, then maybe the world wasn’t ending after all.
——
That night, Sirius sat in the back booth of the bakery after closing. Remus moved around him, clearing trays, and Sirius couldn’t stop watching—the easy strength in him, the way his belly brushed the counter when he leaned forward, the faint lines at the corners of his eyes that made him look tired and beautiful all at once.
“You’re staring,” Remus said without turning.
“Get used to it,” Sirius said, smirking into his coffee. “You’ve ruined me.”
Remus shook his head, but his lips twitched. “You’re impossible.”
“And you’re…” Sirius searched for the right word. Settled on: “Mine. If you’ll have me.”
Remus froze for just a second. Then, quietly: “We’ll see.”