"you know, i get it," neil said

“I’m saying, I know we said we weren’t going to be those people,” James said, pointing at nothing as he turned sharply at the end of the bed. “We said we weren’t going to make lists before we needed lists. But then I thought, well, actually, lists are sensible. Lists are responsible. Lists are mature. And I am a husband now, Reg, I’m a father, nearly, technically, in progress, so really this is growth.”

Regulus did not blink.

James grinned at his own reflection as he passed behind him again, hair wild from sleep and fingers restless with joy. He had a notebook in one hand and his phone in the other, neither of which he seemed able to look at for more than three seconds at a time.

“And before you say anything, yes, I made categories. Obviously I made categories. Names, furniture, clothes, medical stuff, things my mum says are essential but look fake, things my dad says are essential but are definitely from 1967, things we actually need, things we do not need but I want because they’re tiny and I have no self-control.”

Regulus listened to none of it.

James made a delighted sound under his breath and flipped the notebook open.

“Names first. I am not saying we have to choose now. I’m just saying we should have a shortlist. A respectful shortlist. A shortlist with dignity.” He paused. “It currently has forty-eight names.”

Regulus stared at the shape of himself beneath the shirt.

Forty-eight names.

A person made out of possibility.

A future in pencil.

James was still moving, still glowing, still impossible and golden and alive in the reflection, but his voice blurred around the edges until it became little more than warmth in the room. Sound without words. Sunlight through water. His mouth moved, his hands gestured, his face cracked open with happiness, and Regulus stood very still.

A few months along.

That was what people said. As if it were a road. As if time was something he could walk along at a sensible pace, wearing good shoes, holding James’s hand.

A few months along.

He loved the baby.

That was the easiest part and the hardest part, because it was true with such violence that it left no room for doubt. He loved the baby in a way that had arrived already huge, already rooted, already terrifying. He loved them before they had a name. He loved them in the quiet hours when James slept with one hand thrown over Regulus’s hip. He loved them when he woke up nauseous and furious. He loved them when Euphemia cried down the phone and Fleamont pretended not to be crying in the background. He loved them when James pressed his cheek to Regulus’s stomach and whispered absolute nonsense as if the baby had developed excellent hearing and a tolerance for bad jokes.

He loved the baby.

He just hated the mirror.

He hated the soft roundness beginning to gather beneath his clothes. Hated the strange fullness that made his body feel less like a body and more like a public announcement. Hated how fabric sat differently on him now. Hated how his reflection kept dragging him backward into language that did not belong to him anymore but had once been forced onto every inch of him.

He hated knowing exactly why this was possible.

He hated the old knowledge of himself, the anatomy he did not want to think about, the organs that felt like buried evidence, suddenly central again. Necessary again. Praised again.

Every appointment, every scan, every gentle sentence, every careful smile felt like someone opening a locked room inside him and pointing.

There. See? This is what you were born with.

There. See? This is what your body can do.

There. See?

Regulus swallowed.

His throat hurt.

James laughed softly behind him, entirely unaware.

“—and Mum has decided the baby needs at least one handmade blanket. Which is sweet. Very sweet. Except she said ‘at least one’ in a tone that implied she’s planning an empire. Dad asked me if babies still use those little wooden cradles, which made Mum shout, ‘Fleamont, this is not the eighteenth century,’ and then he got offended and said craftsmanship is timeless.”

James stopped pacing long enough to look at the notebook again.

“He’s also offered to refinish anything we buy second-hand. Like, anything. A cot, a wardrobe, a changing table, a chair. I think if we accidentally leave a spoon at their house, he’ll sand it down and varnish it.”

Regulus’s fingers tightened on the hem of his shirt.

The reflection moved with him.

He wished it would not.

James turned another page, voice getting even brighter.

“And clothes. Listen, I know babies grow fast. I know they become different-sized potatoes every twelve minutes. I know this intellectually. But Regulus, there are socks. Socks smaller than my thumb. What am I meant to do with that? Walk away? Like a criminal?”

Regulus breathed in.

It did not go deep enough.

The bedroom looked the same as it always did. Their bed was unmade, duvet kicked back because James slept like he was fighting weather. One of Regulus’s jumpers was folded over the chair. James’s socks were on the floor beside the laundry basket rather than inside it, because James Potter had many virtues and one apparently permanent flaw. The curtains were half open, letting the afternoon light spill across the carpet in a pale square.

Everything was normal.

Everything was wrong.

His body felt too loud.

James wandered closer, still talking, still smiling down at the notebook.

“I found this little green thing, right, like a tiny cardigan, but with ears on the hood. Ears, Reg. Completely unnecessary. Cruel, honestly. Designed to destroy me personally. And then there was this yellow sleep suit with stars, and I thought, well, we can’t not get the stars, because then what are we teaching our child? That joy has limits? Absolutely not.”

Regulus tried to pull the shirt down.

It caught briefly over his stomach.

His breath stopped.

It was such a small thing. Ridiculously small. Just fabric snagging for half a second over a body changing because it was supposed to change. Because that was what bodies did. Because this body was building someone. Keeping someone. Holding someone alive in the dark.

It should have felt miraculous.

Sometimes it did.

Sometimes, when James rested a hand there and looked at him like Regulus had hung the moon inside himself, it did.

But now the cotton dragged over the swell of him and his mind snapped cleanly in two.

He let go of the shirt.

James did not notice.

“Dad wants to build shelves,” he continued, closing the notebook against his palm. “Mum wants to come round and cook. Actually, no, Mum wants to come round and cook, clean, reorganise the kitchen, stock the freezer, wash every baby blanket in Britain, and then pretend she only popped by for tea.”

His voice softened with fondness.

“They’re so excited, love. They’re trying to act normal, but they are not normal. Dad rang me yesterday to ask whether he was allowed to buy one of those little baby bath things. I said yes and he went quiet for so long I thought the call dropped, but no, he was just emotional about a bath.”

Regulus’s eyes stung.

Not because of Fleamont. Not because of the bath. Not even because of Euphemia and her blankets and her fierce, practical love.

Because James sounded so happy.

James sounded like the first warm day after a winter that had lasted years.

James sounded like this was simple.

Regulus hated himself for resenting that, even for a second.

Then James came up behind him.

It happened gently, naturally, as if his body had always known the route back to Regulus. He stepped close until his chest met Regulus’s back, warm and broad and familiar. His arms slid around Regulus’s waist, careful, always careful now, and his hands settled over the front of his shirt.

Regulus went rigid.

James kissed the side of his head.

“Mmm,” James hummed, cheek pressing into Regulus’s hair. “There you are.”

Regulus could see both of them in the mirror.

James was smiling. His eyes were soft behind his glasses, his curls falling over his forehead, his mouth pressed lightly to Regulus’s temple. He looked stupidly beautiful. Ridiculously happy. A man holding his husband in a sunlit bedroom, one palm curving over the small roundness beneath Regulus’s shirt.

Regulus looked pale and distant and trapped.

James did not see it yet.

He started swaying them slightly, barely enough to shift their weight from one foot to the other.

“My pretty boy,” James murmured. “My love. My clever, terrifying, perfect Regulus.”

Regulus shut his eyes.

James kissed his hair again.

“And my baby,” he whispered, voice turning unbearably tender as his hand rubbed a slow circle over Regulus’s stomach. “Our baby. Hi, tiny thing. It’s your dad. The annoying one. The charming one. The one with excellent taste in socks.”

Regulus made no sound.

James smiled against him.

“I still can’t believe it,” he said. “I keep thinking I’ve got used to it, and then I remember again and my brain just—” He made a soft exploding noise. “Gone. Useless. Completely useless. I’m going to be unbearable forever. I hope you’ve prepared yourself.”

Regulus’s jaw tightened.

James rubbed his stomach again, gentle and reverent.

“Look at you,” he said, almost to himself. “Look at you, baby. You’re incredible.”

The words landed badly.

They were meant as love. Regulus knew they were love. He knew James well enough to know there was no hidden blade in them, no cruelty tucked beneath the sweetness. James worshipped him so openly that it should have been embarrassing. Usually it was.

But look at you twisted somewhere inside him.

Look at you.

Look at the proof.

Look at what your body is doing.

Look at what you are.

Regulus opened his eyes, and there was the mirror again.

There was James, proud and glowing.

There was Regulus, disappearing.

His breathing changed first.

A tiny hitch.

James missed it because he was kissing Regulus’s neck, one soft press beneath his ear, another at his jaw, another into his hair.

“My husband,” James whispered. “My baby. My whole heart.”

Regulus’s vision blurred.

James’s hand passed over his stomach again.

Regulus flinched.

Not much. Barely anything.

But James felt it.

His hand stopped.

The swaying stopped too.

For one suspended second, the room held its breath.

“Reg?”

Regulus could not speak.

James lifted his head from Regulus’s shoulder and looked at him properly in the mirror.

The grin faded at once.

“Baby?”

Regulus stared straight ahead.

James’s arms stayed around him, but loosened, giving him room without letting him go entirely.

“Hey,” James said softly. “What’s going on?”

Regulus shook his head.

The movement was small. Useless.

James’s gaze searched his reflection, moving over his face with sudden, careful attention.

“Regulus.”

That did it.

His full name in James’s voice. Not sharp. Not panicked. Just present. Just there. An anchor dropped into dark water.

Regulus’s mouth opened.

Nothing came out.

James shifted slightly, turning him away from the mirror by the hips, slow enough that Regulus could resist if he wanted.

He did not resist.

He let James turn him until he no longer had to look at himself.

The second the mirror was gone, something inside him broke.

His face crumpled with no warning, no dignity, no graceful descent. One moment he was silent, blank, held together by the thinnest thread in the world, and the next he was crying so hard he could not breathe.

James’s face changed completely.

“Oh, love,” he whispered. “Oh, baby, come here.”

Regulus folded forward into him.

James caught him immediately, one hand rising to the back of his head, the other wrapping firm around his back. Not his stomach now. Not there. He held him higher, safer, pressed Regulus’s face into his chest and tucked his chin over his hair.

Regulus shook.

“I’m sorry,” Regulus choked.

“No,” James said at once. “No, no, don’t. Don’t apologise.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Nothing to be sorry for.”

Regulus clutched at the back of James’s shirt like he was trying to tear through it and find somewhere to hide.

James held him tighter.

“Breathe with me,” James murmured. “Just with me, yeah? Nothing else. In with me.”

Regulus tried.

It came out broken.

“That’s okay,” James said. “That’s alright. Again. I’ve got you. I’m here.”

Regulus pressed his face harder into James’s chest.

“I can’t—” His voice cracked. “I can’t look at myself.”

James went very still.

Regulus regretted saying it immediately. The words felt ugly outside his body. Too blunt. Too raw. They fell between them with all their teeth showing.

James’s hand moved slowly over the back of his head.

“Okay,” he said. “Okay, baby.”

Regulus cried harder.

“I love them,” he said, voice wrecked. “I do. I love them. I love the baby. I love them so much, James, I’m not— I’m not angry at them.”

“I know,” James said, and there was no hesitation in it. “I know that.”

“I am.” Regulus swallowed a sob and failed. “I’m happy. I am happy. I want them. I want this. I chose this. I wanted this with you.”

“I know.”

“But I hate it,” Regulus whispered.

James’s arms tightened.

Regulus shook his head against him, frantic now, words spilling out as if the locked room had finally opened and everything inside had started screaming.

“I hate what it’s doing to me. I hate that I can feel it. I hate that my clothes sit wrong. I hate that people look. I hate that everyone gets so excited about my body like it’s— like it’s something else now. Like it means something else. Like it proves something.”

James’s breath trembled.

Regulus kept going, because if he stopped, he thought he would never start again.

“And I know that’s not fair. I know nobody means it like that. I know your parents love me, and you love me, and the baby is— the baby is ours, and that matters more than anything. But I look in the mirror and all I can think about is what I was born with. What I never wanted to think about. What I had. What I still have. And now it’s all anyone talks about. Appointments and scans and symptoms and— and organs and words and—”

His voice shattered.

James’s eyes closed.

“Bebé,” he whispered.

Regulus made a wounded sound and buried his face lower.

“I don’t feel like myself,” he said. “I feel like I’m being dragged backward. I feel like my body is betraying me even though it’s also doing something good. And then I feel horrible because the good thing is our baby, and I love our baby, and I don’t want them to ever feel like I hated carrying them, but I— James, I hate this body right now. I hate it.”

James did not rush to answer.

For once, James Potter, who could fill silence with light and nonsense and entire thunderstorms of affection, did not speak just to speak.

He held Regulus.

He let the words exist.

He let the ugly thing sit in the room without trying to paint it pretty.

Regulus cried until his knees felt loose.

James shifted his stance, taking more of his weight.

“I’ve got you,” he said quietly. “Lean on me.”

“I’m sorry,” Regulus whispered again.

“No.” James’s voice was gentle, but firm enough to cut through him. “No. Listen to me, love. You do not apologise to me for this.”

Regulus shook his head.

James leaned back just enough to look down at him. He did not force Regulus’s face up. He only lowered his own, speaking into the small space between them.

“You can love the baby and hate what pregnancy is doing to your dysphoria,” he said. “Both can be true. Both are true. That doesn’t make you cruel. It doesn’t make you ungrateful. It doesn’t make you anything except a person going through something huge in a body that hasn’t always felt safe.”

Regulus’s fingers tightened in his shirt.

James kissed the top of his head.

“You’re my husband,” he said, voice roughening. “You are my husband every second of this. Not because of how you look. Not because of what your body is doing. Not because of what anyone else sees. Because you’re you. You’re Regulus. You’re my Regulus.”

Regulus let out another sob, quieter this time.

James breathed in shakily.

“And I’m sorry,” he said.

Regulus frowned against him.

James rubbed the back of his neck.

“I’m sorry I didn’t notice. I was so busy being excited, and I was touching you and talking at you, and I didn’t even stop to check whether it felt good for you right then.” He kissed Regulus’s hair again, lingering there. “That’s on me.”

“No,” Regulus mumbled. “You were happy.”

“I can be happy and still pay attention,” James said. “I’m going to do better.”

Regulus’s shoulders trembled.

James softened immediately.

“Not in a dramatic husband speech way,” he added. “Well. A little in a dramatic husband speech way, because I am still me. But I mean it. I’ll ask before touching your stomach. Every time, if that helps. I’ll shut up about baby clothes when you need me to. I’ll tell Mum and Dad not to fuss over your body or ask too much. I’ll be excited quieter when you need quiet.”

Regulus gave a broken little laugh into his chest.

James froze as if he had been rewarded by heaven.

“There he is,” he whispered. “There’s my boy.”

Regulus sniffed hard.

“I’m a mess.”

“You’re a very handsome mess.”

“James.”

“What? I said very.”

Regulus made another sound, caught somewhere between a sob and a laugh.

James smiled into his hair, but only for a second before his expression gentled again.

“Can I hold your face?” he asked.

Regulus hesitated, then nodded.

James lifted both hands slowly, framing Regulus’s face with care. His thumbs brushed beneath Regulus’s eyes, catching tears from his cheeks. He looked at him like there was nothing ruined there, nothing strange, nothing wrong. Like Regulus was not a crisis in the shape of a man. Like he was beloved.

“Hi,” James whispered.

Regulus’s mouth wobbled.

“Hi.”

“Bad mirror day?”

Regulus laughed miserably.

“Bad everything day.”

“Okay,” James said. “Then the mirror can go fuck itself.”

Regulus blinked at him.

James nodded gravely.

“I mean it. Rude piece of furniture. Standing there. Reflecting things. Horrible behaviour.”

Despite himself, Regulus huffed.

James’s thumbs stroked carefully over his cheekbones.

“We don’t have to look at it,” James said. “Not today. Not tomorrow either, if tomorrow is shit. We can cover it. Move it. Face it toward the wall. Throw a blanket over it like it’s a haunted Victorian child.”

Regulus’s lips twitched.

“It is not haunted.”

“You don’t know that.”

“It’s from IKEA.”

“Exactly. Suspicious.”

Regulus let his forehead fall against James’s chest again, exhausted.

James gathered him back in.

“Do you want the shirt off?” he asked softly. “Or on? Or a different one? We can do anything.”

Regulus closed his eyes.

“This one feels wrong.”

“Okay. Off it goes, if you want.”

“I don’t want to look.”

“You don’t have to.”

James waited.

Regulus nodded once.

Carefully, James helped him out of the half-twisted shirt, keeping his body angled away from the mirror. He moved slowly, asking with his hands before he moved fabric, pausing whenever Regulus’s breath caught. When the shirt came free, James tossed it away with more aggression than cotton deserved.

Regulus sniffled.

“That was unnecessary.”

“That shirt hurt your feelings.”

“It did not.”

“It looked at you funny.”

“You’re insane.”

“Only protectively.”

Regulus stood there in his trousers and the soft layer he wore beneath, arms drawn close around himself. James opened the wardrobe without letting Regulus turn toward the mirror and scanned the shelves like he was selecting equipment for a rescue mission.

“This one?” James asked, pulling out a loose black jumper.

Regulus shook his head.

James put it back.

“This one?” A grey one, soft at the cuffs.

Regulus hesitated. “Maybe.”

James held it up.

“Soft. Not clingy. Doesn’t make comments. Respectful jumper.”

Regulus nodded.

James kissed his forehead. “Good choice.”

He helped him into it with the same care, guiding one sleeve, then the other, then easing it down without dragging attention where Regulus did not want it. The jumper fell loose around him, familiar and forgiving.

Regulus exhaled.

James saw it.

“Better?”

“A bit.”

“A bit is good,” James said. “We can work with a bit.”

Regulus rubbed at his nose with the back of his hand.

James caught his wrist and gently moved it away.

“No, no, don’t do that. You’ll make your skin sore.” He pulled the sleeve of his own shirt over his hand and dabbed under Regulus’s eyes with absurd delicacy. “There. Fancy husband service.”

Regulus looked down. “I feel stupid.”

“Mm. Unfortunately, you’re wrong.”

“I’m crying because I got dressed.”

“You’re crying because your body and your brain are having a fistfight while you’re trying to grow an entire person,” James said. “That seems like a reasonable amount of crying to me.”

Regulus’s face twisted again.

James moved closer.

“Hey, hey.” His voice dropped. “Come here.”

Regulus stepped into him before the sentence was finished.

James held him again, swaying just a little. This time his hands stayed on Regulus’s back.

No belly.

No mirror.

No bright plans spilling everywhere.

Just James’s arms and his warm chest and the beat of his heart.

“I’m scared,” Regulus admitted.

James kissed his temple. “I know.”

“What if it gets worse?”

“Then we handle worse.”

“What if I can’t do it?”

“Then we help you do it.”

“What if I’m awful?”

“You’re not.”

“You don’t know.”

“I do.”

Regulus shook his head.

James leaned back enough to meet his eyes.

“I know you,” he said. “I know how you love. You love like it’s a vow and a threat at the same time.”

Regulus blinked wetly.

James smiled a little.

“You love the baby already. I know that. But love doesn’t mean you have to float through pregnancy like some glowing, peaceful saint in a linen advert. You’re allowed to hate parts of it. You’re allowed to be angry. You’re allowed to say, ‘This is making me feel awful,’ and still be a good dad.”

Regulus stared at him.

Dad.

The word moved through him differently than the mirror did.

It did not drag him back.

It pulled him forward.

A tiny sound escaped him.

James heard it.

His expression softened so much it nearly hurt to look at.

“You’re their dad,” James whispered. “You’re my husband. You’re Regulus. Nothing about this takes that away.”

Regulus pressed his lips together.

James brushed his thumb lightly beneath his eye again.

“And I’m going to remind you as many times as you need. Every hour, if I have to. I’ll make flashcards.”

Regulus sniffled. “Please don’t.”

“Too late. First card: Regulus Black-Potter, fit husband, terrifying eyebrows, beloved father.”

Regulus made an offended noise.

James continued solemnly. “Second card: mirror is a bastard.”

“James.”

“Third card: baby has excellent dads.”

Regulus’s eyes filled again, but this time his mouth curved faintly too.

James saw the smile and lit up, helplessly.

“Oh,” he said softly. “There. That one. I missed that.”

Regulus looked away.

James tilted his head, trying to catch his gaze.

“Don’t hide from me.”

“I look horrible.”

James’s expression changed, not into denial, but into something steadier.

“You look like you’ve been crying,” he said. “You look tired. You look like today hurt you. And I love you.”

Regulus swallowed.

James kissed his forehead.

“I love you when you’re sharp enough to cut glass. I love you when you’re quiet. I love you when you’re crying into my shirt. I love you when you’re excited about the baby and when you’re scared of what it means. I love every version of you that stands in this room with me.”

Regulus whispered, “I don’t know how to do this.”

James’s mouth pressed into his hair.

“Then we learn. Ugly and honest. One day at a time.”

Regulus leaned into him, the fight slowly leaving his body.

The room settled around them again.

Not fixed.

Nothing was fixed. The mirror still stood there, shining innocently in the corner of Regulus’s vision. His body was still changing. Tomorrow would still arrive with its appointments, its fabric, its language, its careful hands and bright questions. He would still have to live inside himself.

But James was here.

James was warm. James was solid. James had stopped talking about lists and socks and shelves the second Regulus needed him to stop. James had turned him away from the mirror. James had caught the ugly thing and held it without flinching.

Regulus breathed.

Once.

Then again.

James noticed that too.

“Good,” he murmured. “That’s it, love.”

Regulus’s voice came out small. “You’re not disappointed?”

James pulled back so fast Regulus almost stumbled.

“Disappointed?” James repeated, looking personally offended by the word. “In you?”

Regulus shrugged miserably.

James stared at him.

“Regulus,” he said. “The only thing I am disappointed in is the fact that I cannot physically fight dysphoria in a car park.”

Regulus blinked.

James nodded, dead serious.

“I would win.”

“You absolutely would not.”

“I would. I’m scrappy.”

“You cried when you hit your hip on the table.”

“That table attacked me.”

“You said you saw God.”

“I did. He told me the table was a dick.”

Regulus laughed.

It broke out of him thin and wet and surprised, but it was a laugh. A real one. James’s whole face transformed.

“There,” he whispered again, softer this time.

Regulus wiped at his face before James could stop him.

James caught his hand anyway and kissed his knuckles.

“Come sit down.”

Regulus let himself be guided to the bed.

James sat first, then pulled Regulus carefully sideways into his lap, arranging him with excessive caution. Regulus rolled his eyes faintly.

“I’m pregnant, not made of sugar glass.”

“No, you’re made of knives and expensive taste,” James said. “But I’m fussing. Let me have this.”

Regulus settled against him.

James wrapped both arms around him from behind again, but around his hips and ribs, avoiding his stomach until Regulus reached down, took his hand, and placed it there himself.

James stilled.

“Is this okay?” he asked immediately.

Regulus nodded.

“Just now,” he whispered.

“Just now,” James agreed.

His palm rested there, warm through the grey jumper. Not rubbing. Not claiming. Just present because Regulus had put it there.

Regulus covered James’s hand with his own.

The gesture made James go quiet.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke.

Outside the flat, somewhere beyond the bedroom walls, the city moved on with no idea that the world had narrowed to a bed, a mirror, a grey jumper, and two men breathing through the shape of tomorrow.

James pressed his mouth to Regulus’s shoulder.

“I was thinking,” he said softly, much softer than before. “No lists for the rest of the day.”

Regulus sniffed. “You love lists.”

“I love you more.”

“That was disgusting.”

“Romantic.”

“Disgusting.”

“Romantically disgusting.”

Regulus leaned heavier into him.

James smiled against his shoulder.

“No baby names,” James promised. “No furniture. No clothes. No Mum trying to clean the flat through sheer force of will. No Dad emotionally varnishing a cradle.”

Regulus’s mouth twitched.

“Emotionally varnishing?”

“You didn’t hear that part?”

“I heard almost none of it.”

James nodded. “Good. It was mostly nonsense.”

“It was joyful nonsense.”

“It can come back later,” James said. “When you want it.”

Regulus looked down at their joined hands.

“I don’t want you to stop being happy.”

James’s face softened.

“I won’t,” he said. “I’m happy because it’s you. Because it’s us. Because it’s our baby. But I don’t need to be loud about it every second. I can hold some of it quietly with you.”

Regulus’s throat worked.

James kissed his cheek.

“And when I forget, because I’m an idiot with volume-control issues, you can tell me.”

“I don’t always know how.”

“Then give me a sign.”

“What sign?”

James thought about it.

Regulus glanced back at him suspiciously. “Don’t make it stupid.”

James’s expression suggested he had already made it stupid and was now mourning the loss.

“Fine,” he said. “Squeeze my hand twice. Or say ‘mirror.’ Or just look at me like you want to murder a small appliance.”

“That’s just my face.”

“I know. I’ll pay close attention.”

Regulus breathed out, almost a laugh.

James rubbed his thumb once over the back of Regulus’s hand.

“Can I say something without making it worse?”

Regulus was quiet for a moment. “Maybe.”

James nodded, accepting the terms.

“I don’t think your body is betraying you,” he said carefully. “But I understand why it feels like that. And I’m not going to argue with the feeling. I just…” He paused, searching for the words. “I just want you to know that when I look at you, I don’t see proof of anything that hurts you. I see you doing something hard. I see you choosing love even though it costs you. I see my husband being braver than he should have to be.”

Regulus’s eyes burned again.

James immediately grimaced.

“Was that too much?”

“No,” Regulus whispered.

“Okay.”

“It was a lot.”

“Right. Sorry.”

“But no.”

James kissed the side of his head.

Regulus leaned back against him and closed his eyes.

The silence after that was easier.

James did not fill it all the way. He let it gather in the room, soft at the edges. His hand stayed where Regulus had placed it, and Regulus kept his own hand over it, controlling the pressure, the meaning, the moment.

After a while, James murmured, “Do you want to lie down?”

Regulus shook his head.

“Do you want me to move?”

Another shake.

“Do you want me to keep holding you and shut up?”

A pause.

“Yes.”

James nodded solemnly. “I am excellent at one of those things.”

Regulus snorted.

James grinned and kissed his shoulder again, then obediently went quiet.

For almost a full minute.

Then he whispered, “Sorry, one thing.”

Regulus groaned.

“One thing,” James promised. “Important.”

“What?”

“I love you.”

Regulus opened his eyes.

James squeezed him lightly.

“That’s all.”

Regulus’s face softened in spite of everything.

“I love you too.”

James’s smile pressed against his shoulder, warm through the jumper.

“I know.”

“Smug.”

“Loved.”

“Annoying.”

“Also loved.”

Regulus turned slightly, enough to tuck his face into the side of James’s neck. James responded instantly, hand leaving Regulus’s stomach so both arms could fold around him again. Regulus made a small noise of protest at the loss, then seemed embarrassed by it.

James noticed.

Because of course he did.

“Back?” he asked softly.

Regulus nodded against his neck.

James returned one hand to his stomach, light as a question.

Regulus settled.

James kissed his hair.

“Hi again, tiny thing,” he whispered. “Sorry. Your dad’s having a hard day. We’re taking care of him, okay?”

Regulus’s breath caught, but not like before.

James continued, voice barely above a murmur.

“He’s very brave. And very stubborn. You’ll learn that quickly. He’s also going to tell you I’m unbearable, but that’s only because he loves me so much it made him dramatic.”

Regulus pinched his wrist weakly.

James laughed under his breath.

“See? Dramatic.”

“Liar,” Regulus mumbled, but his body had softened almost completely against James’s.

The crying had left him hollowed out and heavy, but the frantic edge had dulled. His breathing no longer scraped. His hands had stopped shaking.

James felt the change and let himself relax too, though not entirely. He stayed watchful in the way only James could manage, all tenderness and tension beneath the surface, like a guard dog pretending to be a pillow.

Regulus lifted his head at last.

His eyes were swollen. His nose was pink. His curls were a mess from James’s hands and his own miserable hiding. The grey jumper swallowed him softly.

James looked at him like he was the loveliest thing ever made.

Regulus narrowed his eyes. “Stop looking at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like that.”

“Can’t. Face is stuck.”

“I look terrible.”

“You look like my husband.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It is my answer.”

Regulus stared at him for a second, then sighed and let his head fall back against James’s shoulder.

James smiled and rocked him once.

The movement was tiny.

Regulus let him.

After another quiet stretch, James shifted, peering down at him with the kind of brightness that meant he had decided tenderness needed practical support.

“Do you want me to make you some food, bebé?”

Regulus did not answer immediately.

James’s voice melted warmer, coaxing and sweet.

“Something easy, yeah? I’ll make whatever you can stomach. Toast, eggs, rice, soup, something with cheese, something without cheese because today cheese might be evil, I don’t know. You tell me, amor. I’ll make it exactly how you want.”

Regulus sniffled.

James kissed his temple.

“You need food in you, love. Just a little. Doesn’t have to be much.”

Regulus made a small whining sound.

James smiled.

“There it is.”

“Yeahhh,” Regulus mumbled, dragging the word out pitifully.

James chuckled, low and fond.

“Oh, bebé,” he cooed, turning his face to kiss Regulus’s cheek, then his temple, then the corner of his eye where the last tear clung. “My sweet boy. My poor love. Come on, then. I’ll feed you.”

Regulus leaned away only enough to look at him suspiciously.

“Don’t say it like I’m a Victorian orphan.”

James’s face went solemn at once.

“Of course not. My tragic little duke.”

Regulus groaned and shoved weakly at his chest.

James caught his hand and kissed his palm.

“My prince?”

“No.”

“My menace?”

“Closer.”

“My gorgeous, emotionally exhausted menace who needs toast?”

Regulus paused.

James grinned.

“Toast?” Regulus asked, voice still thick.

“Toast,” James confirmed. “Perfect toast. Elite toast. Toast made with devotion.”

“And butter.”

“An obscene amount of butter.”

“And maybe eggs.”

“Eggs. Soft? Fried? Scrambled?”

Regulus thought about it as if the question had national importance.

“Scrambled.”

James nodded. “Scrambled eggs. Buttery toast. Tea?”

Regulus sniffed again. “Yeah.”

“Sugar?”

Regulus gave him a look.

James smiled. “Right. No sugar. Sorry. Crisis James briefly forgot who he married.”

“Idiot.”

“Your idiot.”

Regulus’s mouth softened.

James saw it and went quiet, reverent again.

Then he leaned in and kissed Regulus properly on the forehead, long and careful.

“I’ll make food,” he murmured. “You stay here. Or come with me. Or sit on the kitchen counter and insult my technique. Whatever makes you feel less awful.”

Regulus looked toward the mirror without meaning to.

James followed his glance.

In one smooth movement, he stood, crossed the room, grabbed the blanket from the end of the bed, and threw it over the mirror.

It landed crookedly, covering most of the glass and leaving one corner exposed.

James glared at it.

“Don’t start with me,” he warned the mirror, then adjusted the blanket until every inch was hidden.

Regulus stared.

James turned back with his hands on his hips.

“There.”

Regulus’s eyes filled again, quieter this time.

James’s expression softened.

“No looking unless you want to,” he said. “Not one second before.”

Regulus nodded.

James came back to the bed and crouched in front of him.

“Food?” he asked again.

Regulus reached for him instead.

James took both his hands.

Regulus bent forward and pressed his forehead to James’s.

“Thank you,” he whispered.

James closed his eyes.

“Always.”

Regulus breathed him in.

James smelled like sleep and clean cotton and the faint trace of soap. Like home. Like all the mornings before this one and all the mornings waiting after it. Like a life that had not become simple, exactly, but had become shared.

Regulus whispered, “I’m still scared.”

James nodded against him.

“I know.”

“And I still feel wrong.”

“I know.”

“But less.”

James smiled.

“Less is good.”

Regulus’s fingers squeezed his.

James kissed him, soft and brief.

“Less is where we start.”

Regulus nodded again.

James rose, still holding one of his hands, and tugged gently.

“Come on, then, my love. Kitchen. Toast. Eggs. Tea. No mirrors. No lists. No tiny socks.”

Regulus stood slowly.

James watched him carefully, ready to catch him even though there was no need. Regulus rolled his eyes, but he let James keep fussing because James looked like he needed to fuss or he might burst into flames.

At the bedroom door, Regulus paused.

James paused with him.

For one second, Regulus looked back at the covered mirror.

The blanket turned it into nothing. Just a shape. Just furniture. Just a thing that could be hidden when it became cruel.

James’s hand tightened gently around his.

Regulus looked away.

“James?”

“Yeah, bebé?”

“You can tell me one name.”

James went so still it was comical.

Regulus glanced at him. “One.”

James’s mouth opened.

Regulus lifted a finger. “Not forty-eight.”

James closed his mouth.

He thought very seriously, as if entrusted with the naming of a star.

Then he smiled, softer than all his earlier excitement, softer than the lists, softer than the bright golden future he had been carrying around the bedroom in both hands.

“One,” he said.

Regulus waited.

James squeezed his hand.

“Later,” he decided. “After toast.”

Regulus stared at him.

James shrugged, smile turning sheepish and unbearably fond.

“What? I said no lists. I’m being noble.”

Regulus huffed, but the sound was warm.

“You’re ridiculous.”

“I know.”

James lifted their joined hands and kissed Regulus’s knuckles once more.

“But I’m making you breakfast, so I’m also useful.”

James grinned and pulled him gently out of the bedroom.

Regulus followed.

Behind them, the mirror stayed covered, the notebook stayed abandoned on the bed, and the room remained full of everything that had not yet happened.

But in the kitchen, there would be buttered toast.

Scrambled eggs.

Tea without sugar.

James humming softly under his breath while he cooked, glancing back every few seconds to make sure Regulus was still there, still breathing, still with him.

And Regulus would sit close enough to touch him, wrapped in the grey jumper, one hand resting where their baby grew beneath the ache and fear and love of him.

Not fixed.

Not fearless.

But held.