Chapter 2: Don't Stop

She pulled him down before she could think twice about it, her fingers finding their way into his hair and gripping tight. The kiss was different this time. Hungrier, maybe, or just more certain. She pressed her mouth against his and let herself feel it, the way his lips moved against hers, the small sound he made when she tugged at the roots of his hair.

His weight settled over her, one forearm braced against the seat cushion beside her head. The train rocked gently beneath them, a steady rhythm that seemed to match the beat of her heart. She could feel the warmth of his chest pressing into hers, could feel the way his breath hitched when she tilted her head to deepen the kiss.

She wanted more. The thought came clearly, surprising her with its urgency. She wanted him closer, wanted to feel his skin against hers, wanted to stop thinking about whether she was doing it right. The doubts were still there, lurking at the edges of her mind, but they felt smaller now. Drowned out by the heat pooling in her stomach and the way his hand was sliding down her side, leaving a trail of warmth through her jumper.

She broke the kiss just enough to speak, her lips brushing against his as she whispered, "Don't stop."

Her voice came out steadier than she expected, though she could feel the tremor underneath. She watched his eyes, dark and focused, and saw something flicker there. A question, maybe. Or a warning. But then his mouth curved into the ghost of a smile, and he dipped his head to kiss the corner of her jaw.

"I wasn't planning to," he murmured against her skin.

His lips traced a path down her neck, slow and deliberate, and she let her head fall back against the velvet seat. The sensation was strange at first—the wet warmth of his mouth, the slight scrape of teeth—but she found herself arching into it, her fingers still tangled in his hair, holding him there.

Then his hand moved lower.

She felt it before she understood what he was doing. His fingers found the button of her jeans, fumbling slightly through the thick fabric. She tensed without meaning to, her breath catching as she realized what was happening. But he didn't rush. He pulled back just enough to look at her, his hand resting on her hip, his thumb tracing a slow circle through the denim.

"Alright?" he asked, his voice low.

She nodded, though she wasn't sure she could speak. The air felt thick, charged with something that made her skin prickle and her thoughts scatter.

He turned his attention back to the button, his fingers working with deliberate slowness. She watched him, fascinated despite her nerves. The way his brow furrowed slightly as he focused. The way his knuckles brushed against her stomach, sending sparks of sensation through her. He didn't rush. He didn't fumble. He just worked the button loose with a careful patience that made her chest ache.

The button came free with a soft pop.

She sucked in a breath, her hands tightening in his hair. She could feel the waistband of her jeans loosening, could feel the cool air of the compartment against the newly exposed skin of her lower stomach. His fingers lingered there, resting against the edge of the denim, and she realized he was waiting again.

He lifted his gaze to meet hers, his hand still resting on the zipper tab. The question was clear in his eyes, a quiet check-in that made her heart do something complicated. He wasn't going to move forward without her say-so. He was giving her a chance to stop, to back out, to pretend none of this was happening.

"Still okay?" he asked.

She looked at him, really looked. At the way his hair fell across his forehead, at the slight uncertainty in his eyes despite the confidence of his hands. He was holding himself back, she realized. Holding himself still, waiting for her.

She nodded, the motion small but certain.

"Yeah," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "I'm okay."

A flicker of relief crossed his face, there and gone in an instant. He leaned down and pressed his lips to her forehead, soft and brief, and she felt the warmth of it spread through her like a slow tide. Then his hand moved again, fingers finding the zipper, and she let herself breathe.

He shifted his weight, pulling his hand away from her zipper. For a moment she thought he was stopping, that something had changed, but then he reached down and took her hand instead. His fingers curled around hers, warm and steady, and he guided her wrist toward his waistband.

She understood what he wanted.

Her heart lurched, a sudden spike of panic mixing with the heat already pooling in her stomach. She wanted to do this right, wanted to be smooth and confident like the girls in the books she'd borrowed from the restricted section when she was curious and too embarrassed to ask anyone. But her body didn't seem to care about what she wanted. The moment his hand released hers, leaving her to complete the movement on her own, she jerked forward too fast.

Her elbow connected with something solid.

A sharp crack rang out, and Sirius's breath left him in a pained wheeze. His hand flew to his ribs, his whole body curling away from her as he let out a sound that was half groan, half curse. The momentum of her mistake carried her forward, her forehead bumping against his shoulder, and she froze.

"Oh god," she said, the words tumbling out before she could stop them. "Oh god, I'm so sorry."

She expected him to pull back, to laugh it off or make a joke. Instead, he let out another wheeze, and then a sound that was unmistakably a laugh. It came out strained at first, like he was trying to hold it in, but it escaped anyway. A choked, breathless laugh that made his shoulders shake.

She felt her own face crack, the tension breaking as a giggle escaped her. It was small at first, barely a sound, but it grew as she watched him clutch his ribs and laugh, his eyes watering. The absurdity of it hit her all at once. Here they were, tangled together in a dark compartment, trying to be sexy and serious, and she'd just elbowed him in the ribs like some kind of fumbling idiot.

The giggle turned into a laugh, and then she was laughing too, the sound loud and ungraceful in the quiet compartment. She buried her face against his shoulder, her body shaking, and she felt his arm come around her, pulling her closer as they both dissolved into helpless laughter.

"This," he managed between breaths, "is not how I pictured this going either."

"Your ribs," she gasped. "Are you okay?"

"I'll live." He pulled back, still laughing, and wiped at his eyes with his free hand. "Though I might have a bruise tomorrow. A very romantic bruise."

She laughed harder, her face hot and her stomach aching. The laughter felt good, like a release valve had been opened, letting out all the nervous pressure that had been building since the moment they'd fallen off the seat. She looked at him, at the way his eyes were bright and crinkled at the corners, at the smile that seemed to light up the dim compartment, and she felt something loosen in her chest.

He was still laughing, his hand rubbing at his ribs through his shirt. "You have a mean elbow, Jones."

"I didn't mean to."

"I know. That's what makes it funny." He took a breath, letting it out slowly as his laughter subsided into a grin. "Alright. Let's try that again, but maybe with less violence this time."

She nodded, still smiling, and shifted her hips to find a better angle. He leaned back slightly, giving her more room, and they adjusted together. Her knee bumped his thigh, his hand found her hip, and they settled into a new position that felt less cramped, more intentional. The laughter lingered between them, a shared warmth that made the moment feel easier. Less fraught.

He caught her eye, and the grin on his face softened into something gentler.

"Ready?" he asked.

She took a breath and reached for him again, slow and careful this time.

His fingers found the buckle of his belt, the metal clinking softly in the quiet compartment. She watched his hands work, quick and practiced, and felt something shift inside her. The nervous flutter was still there, but it had changed shape. Less like fear and more like anticipation, warm and spreading.

She reached for him without thinking about it this time. Her hand found his, stilling the movement, and he looked up at her with a question in his eyes. She didn't answer with words. She just let her fingers trace down his wrist, over his knuckles, until she reached the buckle herself.

His breath caught.

She worked the leather loose, fumbling a little but not caring. The belt came free with a soft rasp, and she let it fall open, her hand resting against the waistband of his trousers. She could feel the warmth of him through the fabric, could feel the slight tension in his muscles as he held himself still.

He didn't rush her. He let her explore at her own pace, let her fingers map the landscape of his hips, his stomach, the sharp line of his collarbone where his shirt had come untucked. She felt powerful, suddenly. In control. The shyness was still there, lurking at the edges, but it didn't matter as much anymore.

He reached for her jeans again, his fingers finding the zipper he'd left half-undone. This time she didn't flinch. She let him ease the denim down her hips, let him guide her legs free until she was left in just her knickers and the oversized jumper she'd worn for the journey. The air was cool against her bare thighs, raising goosebumps across her skin.

"Beautiful," he said, the word quiet and rough.

She felt her face heat, but she didn't look away. She reached for him again, tugging at the hem of his shirt, and he got the message. He pulled it over his head in one smooth motion, tossing it onto the seat beside them. The dim light caught the lines of his chest, the shadows pooling in the hollows of his collarbones, and she let herself look.

He was beautiful. She'd known that for years, had watched him from across the Great Hall and wondered what it would be like to touch him. But this was different. This was real, and he was here, and he was looking at her like she was the only thing in the world worth seeing.

The awkwardness faded as they moved together. She shifted her hips, and he adjusted his weight, and somehow they found a rhythm that worked. His hands were gentle, guiding without pushing, and she found herself relaxing into his lead. Every time she hesitated, he waited. Every time she moved, he followed.

When she gasped, he slowed down. When she pulled him closer, he held on tighter.

The train rattled on beneath them, the world outside nothing but darkness and the occasional flicker of a distant light. She lost track of time, lost track of everything except the warmth of his skin against hers and the quiet sounds they made in the dark.

Afterward, she lay still against the seat.

Her body felt strange, heavy and light at the same time. She could feel his heart beating against her back, could feel the rise and fall of his chest as he caught his breath. His arm was wrapped around her waist, holding her close, and she let herself sink into the warmth of him.

The quiet settled around them, soft and complete.

She didn't know what she was supposed to feel. The girls in the books always talked about fireworks, about overwhelming joy, about tears of happiness. She felt something, but she couldn't name it. It was big and complicated and lodged somewhere in her throat, making it hard to breathe.

She turned her face into his shoulder, hiding.

The first sob caught her by surprise. It came out wet and ragged, and she felt his arm tighten around her immediately. She tried to stop it, tried to swallow it down, but it was too big. Too much. The tears came anyway, hot and silent, soaking into his skin.

"Hey," he said, his voice soft. "Hey, what's wrong?"

She shook her head, unable to speak. She didn't know how to explain it, this overwhelming wave of feeling that had nothing to do with pain and everything to do with the way he was holding her. Like she mattered. Like she was precious.

He didn't push. He just wrapped his other arm around her, pulling her closer until she was pressed against his chest, her face buried in the curve of his neck. She felt his lips press against her temple, gentle and warm.

"You were perfect," he whispered.

The words broke something open inside her, and she cried harder, her fingers gripping his shoulders as the tears spilled over. She didn't know if she believed him. She didn't know if she'd done anything right, if she'd been clumsy or awkward or disappointing. But the way he said it, soft and certain, made her want to believe.

He held her through it, his hand stroking slow patterns down her back. He didn't tell her to stop crying. He didn't ask what was wrong again. He just let her fall apart in his arms and waited, patient and steady, until the sobs quieted into hiccups and the hiccups faded into shaky breaths.

She pulled back just enough to look at him, her eyes red and her face blotchy. She probably looked a mess. She felt like one, too, raw and exposed and weirdly lighter.

"I'm sorry," she managed, her voice hoarse.

"Don't be." He brushed a strand of hair from her face, his fingers lingering on her cheek. "You don't have to apologize for feeling things."

She let out a shaky laugh, wiping at her eyes with the back of her hand. "I didn't mean to cry."

"I know." He smiled, soft and crooked. "But I meant what I said. You were perfect."

She looked at him, at the sincerity in his gray eyes, and felt something settle in her chest. She didn't know what came next. The train was still moving, carrying them toward Christmas and families and the messy reality of the world outside this compartment. But for now, in this moment, she was warm and safe and held.

She pressed her forehead against his and closed her eyes.

He kissed her once more, soft and slow, and she let herself melt into it. The train rattled on, the dark pressed against the windows, and she stayed there in his arms, letting the quiet wrap around them like a promise.