#quiet reader

At first you smiled politely when people spoke to you. Then you only nodded. Eventually, even that stopped.

All of your movements felt as if they were in slow motion. Your gaze unfocused somewhere beyond the table. When someone asked you a question, you took a moment too long to answer, they repeated it three times before you could actually respond.

Xavier reached over quietly, brushing his fingers against your wrist beneath the table.

“Starlight,” he murmured, “do you want to leave?”

You looked at him with visible relief.

He stood immediately, making an excuse to the group before helping you gather your things. The moment you stepped outside, the cold air wrapped around you, and your whole body visibly relaxed.

“You noticed?” you asked quietly.

He simply nodded.

His voice was soft as he guided you down the quieter side street instead of the crowded main road.

“You don't have to force yourself to keep up with everyone else.”

You leaned lightly against his shoulder as you walked.

Xavier smiled faintly. “I like your silence too.”

ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ🖤ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ

Rafayel:

Rafayel loved talking.

He bounced between topics like waves crashing against each other, one thought blending into the next before the previous one even finished. Most people struggled to keep up with him.

But you always listened so carefully in the beginning.

You laughed at all his dramatics, teased him back, rolled your eyes whenever he got distracted halfway through a story. He adored that look on your face.

Then slowly, over time, he saw the shift.

Your responses grew quieter. Your eyes glazed over. The spark in your expression dimmed under the weight of too much noise, too many people, too many overlapping conversations demanding pieces of your attention.

Tonight, the arcade was crowded and loud, lights flashing brightly enough to make your eyes ache.

Rafayel was halfway through complaining about losing a claw machine game when he noticed you had not responded in several minutes.

You were sitting beside him silently, shoulders slightly slumped, staring blankly at the floor while the sounds around you swallowed the room whole.

His expression softened instantly.

“Cutie,” he said gently, crouching slightly in front of you. “Battery dead?”

You gave the tiniest nod.

Without another word, he took your hand carefully and led you out of the arcade. The further you got from the noise, the more your body relaxed.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered. “I know I got quiet.”

Rafayel stopped walking, turning toward you fully.

“Why are you apologizing for being tired?” he asked softly. “You stayed as long as you could.”

The city lights reflected softly in his eyes as he brushed his thumb across your knuckles.

You’ve perfected the art of slipping through rooms without being noticed, of answering only when necessary, of observing everything and offering nothing unless it matters. It isn’t loneliness. It isn’t sadness. It’s choice. Silence lets you hear things other people miss—the hesitation in someone’s voice, the lie wrapped in a joke, the patterns buried in data no one else has patience for.

It’s why they keep you in the Tower.

Intel. Patterns. Eyes where others have none.

And it’s why no one—not even Bucky—has ever heard you sing.

---

You wait until the quinjet is long gone.

You’d watched it take off from the window in the operations room, arms folded, expression neutral as always while the rest of the team filed out with their usual chaos. John tossed you a two-finger salute. Yelena told you not to miss her too much. Bucky lingered a second longer than the others, like he always does, like he’s about to say something—

He never does.

Just a nod. A quiet understanding.

Then he’s gone too.

Or so you think.

---

The water is hot, almost too hot, steam curling thick against the glass and fogging the mirror until the world disappears into something softer. Quieter.

Yours.

You rest your forehead against the tile for a second, letting the tension drain out of your shoulders. This is your other kind of silence—the one you keep just for yourself.

And then, slowly, it breaks.

It starts under your breath. Barely there. A hum, soft and careful like you’re testing whether it’s safe.

It always is.

Your voice isn’t something anyone expects from you. It isn’t sharp or clipped or efficient like the few words you offer during briefings. It’s warm. Full. It moves. It fills the space in a way your presence never does outside these walls.

You close your eyes and let it build.

The song spills out of you, something old and soft, something you don’t even remember learning. It echoes gently off the tile, wraps around you with the steam, turns the bathroom into something private and fragile and entirely yours.

You don’t hold back.

Not here.

Not when you’re alone.

---

Bucky wasn’t supposed to be there.

He’d doubled back—forgotten gear, or maybe it was instinct, or maybe it was that quiet pull he doesn’t quite understand yet. The jet hadn’t taken off by the time he realized, and John had rolled his eyes and told him to be quick.

So he’d come back.

Expecting silence.

Expecting you.

He always expects you.

Just…not like this.

He hears it before he even reaches your door.

At first, he thinks it’s music playing somewhere down the hall. Soft. Faint. Pretty enough to make him slow his steps without realizing.

Then it hits him.

It’s not a speaker.

It’s you.

He stops dead outside your room, hand hovering midair like he forgot what he was doing entirely. The door is slightly ajar, and the sound—your voice—spills through the gap, unguarded and impossibly you in a way he’s never seen.

He doesn’t move.

Doesn’t breathe.

Just listens.

Because he’s heard you talk—short answers, quiet observations, the occasional dry comment that catches him off guard—but this? This is something else entirely. Something softer. Something that makes his chest feel too tight.

You sound…free.

And he realizes, with a jolt, that no one else has ever heard this.

That this is yours.

And he’s standing here, stealing it.

He should leave.

He doesn’t.

---

You don’t hear the door.

You don’t hear anything but the song, the water, your own voice filling up the space you’ve carved out just for yourself.

By the time you step out, wrapping a towel tight around your body, your hair dripping down your shoulders, you’re still humming the last note under your breath.

You push the bathroom door open and freeze.

Bucky is standing in your bedroom doorway.

Just…standing there.

Looking at you like the world tilted.

For a second, neither of you move.

The silence that follows is deafening.

Your brain catches up all at once, horror flooding your chest so fast it almost knocks the air out of you.

“Oh my god—”

You clamp your mouth shut immediately, like you can shove the moment back in.

Too late.

Bucky blinks, like he’s snapping out of something. His mouth opens, closes, and then—

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

Your stomach drops.

You grip the towel tighter. “You weren’t supposed to be here.”

“I know,” he says quickly, hands lifting like he’s surrendering. “I—I came back for something. I didn’t know you were—” He gestures vaguely toward the bathroom. Toward everything.

Your face burns.

“I wasn’t—” you start, and then stop because there’s no version of that sentence that doesn’t make this worse.

He takes a step forward, cautious, like you might bolt. “You sing.”

You look like you want the ground to swallow you whole.

“No, I don’t.”

“You do,” he says, softer now. Not teasing. Not pushing. Just…certain. “And you’re—” He huffs a quiet breath, shaking his head like he doesn’t have the words. “You’re really good.”

You close your eyes.

“Please don’t tell anyone.”

It comes out quieter than anything you’ve ever said to him.

That gets him.

Really gets him.

Because you don’t ask for things.

Ever.

He softens instantly, something warm settling into his expression. “Hey. Hey, I wouldn’t do that.”

You open your eyes just enough to look at him, searching for any hint of a joke.

There isn’t one.

“I mean it,” you insist, stepping forward now despite yourself. “If Walker finds out, he’ll—”

“He won’t,” Bucky cuts in gently. “No one will. It’s not… it’s not mine to tell.”

You exhale, shoulders dropping just a fraction.

“Okay.”

A beat passes.

He doesn’t leave.

You don’t move.

And then, quieter—almost like he’s asking permission—he says, “Can I hear you again sometime?”

Your eyes widen.

“No.”

He huffs a soft laugh, the sound low and fond. “Worth a shot.”

You roll your eyes, but there’s no bite to it. Just embarrassment, still lingering, still warm under your skin.

He shifts back toward the door, like he’s finally remembering why he shouldn’t be here. “I’ll, uh… go. Let you—” another vague gesture, less awkward this time. “Do your thing.”

You nod, grateful and mortified all at once.

He pauses in the doorway.

Glances back.

And then, softer than you’ve ever heard him—

“Hey… it was really beautiful.”

The door clicks shut behind him before you can respond.

You stand there for a long moment, heart still racing, the silence settling back into place around you.

It feels different now.

Not broken.

Just…shared.

And somewhere down the hall, Bucky leans against the wall, dragging a hand over his face with a quiet, disbelieving smile—

he’s like your own personal chaos generator, pulling you into adventures you’d never go to on your own. like tonight, when he shows up at your door unannounced, grinning like he’s up to no good (per usual).

“let’s go,” he says, leaning casually against your doorframe.

you blink at him clutching the blanket you were very much planning to stay under all night. “go where?”

“to watch the meteor shower,” he replies like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

you hesitate, glancing down at your pajama pants. “rafe, it’s late and cold”

he rolls his eyes but steps inside, completely ignoring the fact that you haven’t technically invited him in. “it’s not that cold,” he argues, grabbing a hoodie off the back of your couch and tossing it at you. “come on, you’ll regret it if you don’t.”

you mumble something about not regretting staying warm, but he’s already dragging you out the door.

you end up at some quiet spot by the water, the two of you sitting in the bed of his truck. he’s talking a mile a minute, pointing out random constellations and telling you random stories. one specifically about how his dad once tried to convince him shooting stars were alien spaceships.

you just nod and smile, your hands tucked into the sleeves of his hoodie, which is way too big for you. it smells like him, cologne and bonfires and you’re trying really hard not to think about it too much.

at some point, he notices how quiet you’ve gotten. “you okay?” he asks, turning to look at you.

you nod quickly, your cheeks heating up under his gaze. “yeah, just tired.”

he doesn’t buy it, but he doesn’t press either. instead, he reaches over and tugs the hood up over your head. “there,” he says softly, his voice quieter than usual. “that should fix one problem.”

you laugh. “you’re so dumb.”

“yeah, but you love it,” he teases, bumping his shoulder against yours.

you don’t say anything, but your heart’s doing that stupid fluttery thing it always does when he’s being sweet. and when a shooting star finally streaks across the sky, you can’t help but glance over at him instead of the sky, thinking that maybe you don’t need to make a wish after all.

It all started when she walked into the saloon you worked at. You were a saloon girl there. The staff and customers love you, as you were so kind to everyone who deserved. Though, you were also shy and quiet so most customers didn't pay you too much mind. The cookies who knew you well were so taken by your kindness that they gave you a nickname, Sweetie girl. Your shyness meant you somewhat relied on your co workers if someone was bothering you, which is how you ended up in the situation you're currently in.

It was a regular evening. Juice was flowing, people were merry, and things had been relatively calm. They a cookie with a long ponytail the color of grain walked in. The Wild Gun they called her. She took her seat at a corner table and ordered a juice on the rocks. The other saloon girls were busy so you'd have to be the one to deliver the drink. Gulping down the saliva forming in your throat, you approached the Wild Gun's table.

"Well, thanks for the drink, darlin' " she says as you place the glass on the table.

You get a bit flustered and scurry off to serve another patron. Rye cookie couldn't help by chuckle. She had been coming to this saloon for a good while but she never paid too much attention to you or the other saloon girls. She was a decent customer, but not overly friendly or chatty while on the job. That's why she was here after.

Pulling the crumble wanted poster from her pocket she scans the saloon for a cookie matching the description of a well known gun slinger that terrorized these parts. So, she drank her juice and waited for him to show his face.

Well, she didn't have to wait long as the outlaw bursts through the saloon doors, causing deathly silence to settle over the once rowdy saloon. He walks over to the booth Rye Cookie is sitting at, glaring down at her.

"Move it! This is my table," he demands.

Rye Cookie smirks under her hat as she stays right where she is. The outlaw gets angry, slamming his fists on the table as he shouts at Rye Cookie to move. When she doesn't he begrudgingly sits at a different table, demanding a drink.

The energy slowly comes back, though not as cheerful as it was moments before. You're the unfortunate soul who has to deliver him his drink, so you just stay quiet and place the drink on the table before going to scurry off. He grabs you, asking you to stay and chat for a bit. You try to get away but his grip is unrelenting. Rye Cookie stands up and walks over to the table, looking at the outlaw.

"Now, I do believe that darlin' asked you to let her get backed to work. So, let her go and we won't have a problem," she says, her accent and low voice making your face turn the color of a sugar gnomes' mustache.

"Or what?" The outlaw mockingly asks.

Rye Cookie looks him dead in and eyes and she can see the fear and recognition within them. She smirks, demanding the outlaw come quietly. He doesn't listen, instead he pulls out his gun as he pulls you against him. Tears start to leak from your eyes as the outlaw backs his way to his waiting horse. Rye Cookie follows behind carefully, waiting as he ties you up before tossing you onto his horse. She gets on her own horse and starts following the moment he takes off.

The chase is intense as Rye Cookie tails the outlaw like a bloodhound. She wants her bounty, but she also wants her new favorite saloon girl to be safe. She pulls out her lasso and manages to get the outlaw. Though, once he's pulled off the horse it stops and you're bond body falls and almost hits the group.

"I got ya darlin'" Rye Cookie reassures as she holds you bridal style in her arms.

Your face is red and tear stained by the time she brings you back to the saloon with her target in tow. Patrons and coworkers alike ask if you need anything and if you're OK. You reassure them, saying all you need is a moment to break and some water. A fellow saloon girl leads you to the back while the bartender makes you the fanciest water he can.

Rye Cookie has already collected her reward when she comes back to check on you. She saw you working as normal and sat down at a table. When you came by with her drink she asked if you were doing alright. You tell her you're fine and she softly chuckles.

"Whats so funny?" You ask.

"Nothin', it's just that you're such a sweetheart I thought you'd faint like a baby deer. Well, nice to know you're alright," Rye Cookie explains.

You giggle a bit and go to turn away but Rye Cookie gently grabs your first. Turning you nervously ask if everything's OK.

"Yeah, I was just winderin' if you'd want to go out sometime," she badly admits.

Your face is now a new shade of red as you cover it with your tray. Rye Cookie laughs, saying that your blush makes you look so much cuter. That makes you blush more but you do accept her invitation.

A YAWN PASSED THROUGH your tired lips as you gently laid yourself down onto your soft bed, slipping underneath the covers as to protect yourself from the cold air of your dormitory. Your eyes fluttered shut as you awaited for a peaceful slumber to consume you — one that never did.

It was rather impressive — impressively idiotic, that is, that you could spend an entire day wishing that you were asleep, but once your body was given a comfortable bed and the silence needed to do so, you felt more awake than you ever had over the long course of the day.

It was for this very reason that you found yourself now sauntering about the halls of Hogwarts, a book held snuggly between your chest and your arms. It was already nearing midnight by the time you'd decided to leave your dorm, coming to the conclusion that, if you could not sleep, it was better to appreciate the night for what it was worth.

Though you were able to remain relatively quiet, the halls seemed to resound with the sound of your footsteps. You'd never been one for breaking rules. Even now, you found yourself pausing to listen for any sounds that would indicate the presence of another, in the case that a professor, too, was wandering the halls. Though it didn't make very much sense — after all, the teachers required just as much rest as the students — you were at times convinced that some of the professors never slept.

Not that you could blame them. There was no doubt that many of the students in Hogwarts were skilled in the art of troublemaking.

You hadn't even realized that you'd entered a classroom until you noticed the faint flickering of a candle's light, sending some of the shadows dancing along the walls. Moonlight bled in through the large window that occupied the majority of the tower's walls, casting a faint silver hue throughout the room. You'd entered the Astronomy Tower, and it seemed as though you were not alone.

Before you sat none other than the silver-eyed, raven-haired boy by the name of Regulus Black, his eyes trained on a novel in his hands.

You knew of Regulus. Though you'd seldom spoken to him outside of the context of classes, it was common knowledge that he was the younger brother of the notorious Sirius Black. He was a reserved boy, not unlike yourself, but a stark contrast to his brother, and exuded a certain coldness and respectability. You often noticed him reading in the library or even in the few classes the two of you shared, sitting by himself or with his small group of Slytherins.

"I haven't seen you up here before."

You jolted at the unexpected voice. Lost in your own thoughts, you had deliberately failed to notice that Regulus was no longer consumed by his book, and was instead staring directly at you.

"I'm — I'm sorry?"

"No one usually comes up here — not at this time, at least," the boy explained. "I didn't expect to have any company."

"O—oh." You replied, pursing your lips. "I could... leave, if you'd like?"

Regulus shrugged, his eyes returning to the pages of his book. "You don't seem like you'd be much of a bother."

You nodded, awkwardly looking back at your own book, not yet having decided where to sit. You were unsure if he wanted to continue talking with you or if he wanted to be left to his solitude, so, after some thought, you situated yourself some good distance across from Regulus, not so far that the two of you could not converse but not so close that you or he would feel compelled to do so.

"You're in my potions class."

Startled yet again by the sudden statement, you looked up from your novel to find Regulus watching you carefully.

"I am," you breathed.

Regulus nodded to himself thoughtfully, and you could swear that a ghost of a smile danced along his lips.

"I remember, now. Y/n, isn't it? Slughorn has a certain fondness for you. He complains of your absence at his dinner parties."

"He does?"

"Nearly every time."

You considered his words. "I've — I've never been very interested in the prospect of attending one. Are they... any good?"

"They're dreadful."

Your brows furrowed. "Why do you go, then?"

"My parents would never let me refuse such an opportunity."

You could understand this. You supposed the only reason you were able to spend your nights without Slughorn's presence was because you had never told your parents of the invitation in the first place. Though, you suspected that even if you had, you would still find some way to avoid the dinners. Social gatherings were never something you particularly fancied.

"That makes sense, I suppose."

The two of you maintained a prolonged eye-contact, before you inevitably looked away, deterred only by the impenetrable nature of his stare. You could feel, however, that Regulus's eyes did not falter from you, and you tried to ignore his piercing gaze by focusing on your novel.

"You're reading Pride and Prejudice?" Regulus then questioned after some time, one brow raising in what appeared to be curiosity.

"You know of it?"

"I've read some muggle literature. I haven't read it myself, but I most certainly have heard of Jane Austen."

"You've — you've read muggle literature?" You echoed, utterly bemused. Though you didn't normally assume such things, you'd never imagined that Regulus Black, known Slytherin and blood-purist, would find any interest in literature that was not written by someone of magical descent.

"When I find myself alone, yes, I occasionally give it the benefit of the doubt."

You stared at Regulus, quite nearly impressed.

"I don't believe I've ever heard of a pureblood that willingly reads non-magical literature, even fiction."

He offered you something akin to a half-smile. "Well, I am not as tasteless as the rest of my family. I don't believe one needs to be of magical descent to be skilled in the art of writing." He paused. "Speaking of, you know of them?"

"Well, I — everyone knows of the Blacks, don't they?"

Regulus shrugged. "I suppose they do."

A silence followed, and although a certain tension was present, the quiet was not entirely unbearable.

"Why have you come up here so late?" He asked you after a few beats.

"Couldn't sleep," you replied simply. "You?"

"I needed some time to think. I find that this tower is the perfect place to do so, when not filled to the brim with students and teachers."

You felt the beginnings of a smile tug at your lips. "It truly is."

Your eyes fixated upon the night sky, and a quietness settled oncemore.

Some idle conversation passed after this, coupled with even more silence, but the quiet was not unenjoyable. You’d always quite liked silences — they always made thinking much easier, but your appreciation of them seemed to be enhanced in the boy’s company, something you would have never suspected. To be fair, however, the mere fact that you had any company at this hour was something that you would have never guessed would happen.

"I should head back to my dorm," you then said, getting up in a rather abrupt manner. You did not know why you did so. You weren't yet tired, but you felt a sudden need to return to the safety of your bed — felt it suddenly and quite intensely.

“So soon?” Regulus didn’t seem too troubled by your potential departure despite his words, his eyes wandering over to the book in his hands and his expression so perfectly indifferent. You couldn’t tell exactly why, but you felt a certain sadness at the thought of him not caring, not that you could very much blame him if he didn't. He hardly knew you. 

“I just remembered that I have an exam in Herbology. I don’t want to be any more tired than I should be.”

The lie rolled easily enough past your tongue, but you knew that Regulus could tell that what you were saying was not the exact truth as he nodded and leaned against the wall, narrowing his eyes upon you for all but a moment before opening his book. 

You stared at him for perhaps a moment too long before you made your leave. 

“Wait.”

Your footsteps came to a halt just as you reached the doorway. You turned. 

“Come back,” Regulus said, and you felt your eyebrows knit together at the statement. “If — if you cannot sleep any other night, come back. Your company is not entirely intolerable, and I come up here nearly every night.”

It was a question in the form of a demand, and you could tell such by the way Regulus seemed to shift awkwardly in his spot, his eyes holding something indescribable behind them. Nervousness, perhaps. It was odd. No one had ever acted nervous around you before. 

“If I am ever particularly energetic,” you agreed, before disappearing into the hallway. 

* * *

You thought of that night for the rest of the week. 

Your mind mulled over every word spoken, every moment of silence that the two of you had shared. You had little idea of why this very interaction occupied your thoughts in such an obsessive manner. It was a mere coincidence that you had found and spoken to Regulus; nothing more. Still, some small part of you hoped it wasn’t. 

It was, in hindsight, rather foolish that you forgot that you and Regulus shared Herbology among other classes. When you lied, for some strange reason you were under the impression that Potions was your only class in common. 

If Regulus was angry or annoyed, he didn’t show it — only shot you some small, knowing smile when your eyes met that made your stomach turn. He did not make any effort to speak or interact with you, and this made you feel all the more guilty — you didn’t want to make him think that you disliked him in the slightest. If anything, his presence had been refreshing. 

Other than this, classes went on as they usually did: slowly, painfully. 

It wasn’t until the next week that you decided to return, figuring that the only remedy to what was now your inability to think of anything but school and of the Astronomy Tower was by returning to it. 

Your footsteps echoed throughout the room, quiet but loud all at once. 

You’d be lying if you didn’t admit that Regulus looked somewhat surprised at the sight of you. It was, perhaps, wishful thinking that he then smiled, but he was undoubtedly startled by your presence, and at this you felt a certain satisfaction. 

“Hi,” you greeted, not very sure of what else to say. You always found that interactions with just barely acquaintances and almost-friends were more difficult than those with strangers. A lack of familiarity was something that was in itself familiar to you, but a small amount of such was something you were much less used to. 

“Hello,” Regulus responded after a moment. “Trouble sleeping?”

“I wouldn’t be here if I could.”

Regulus nodded.

Though there was some initial awkwardness, it was soon mollified by a steady stream of conversation, ranging from topics that evolved from trivial things to what could have perhaps been considered philosophical discussions — not that you disliked this in the slightest. In fact, you were beyond glad to have someone to speak to on topics that transcended the simplicity of day-to-day life.

From that night on, you found yourself, much to your dismay, only thinking more of Regulus, of your discussions. However, you couldn't bring yourself to stop your visits. Instead, you allowed them to become part of your routine. Visiting Regulus soon became something you expected.

* * *

"Are you usually this quiet?"

Regulus's voice startled you out of your thoughts.

"Sorry?"

"Well, and I don't mean for you to take any offense, but you are awfully quiet. And considering my own nature, that's especially odd for me to say."

You pursed your lips. You'd always known yourself to be quiet, but remaining so made you the most comfortable. Besides, idle conversation and small talk had never been a fortitude of yours.

"I have a loud mind."

Regulus hummed at this, and your heart skipped a beat at his next words. "Would I hear it if I got closer?"

"Maybe.”

Regulus took a seat beside you and leaned against the wall, admiring the stars.

A silence ensued, one in which the two of you merely gazed at the stars, appreciating the way they flickered from bright to brighter, expertly illuminating the night sky.

"Are you any good at Astronomy?" Regulus then inquired, his voice piercing through the quiet.

"I like to think so. When I was... when I was young, I always wanted to learn about the stars." You sighed contently, bending your knees so that you could rest your chin against them. "Are you?"

"My parents didn't name me after a star with the expectation that I'd be bad at it."

You hummed in response, before you felt a smile curve your lips, and eventually your giggles filled the air.

"What?" Regulus asked, a bemused smile on his visage.

You allowed your laughter to dissipate before you spoke. "I'm sorry, it's just — I just realized that it's rather ironic, that your name is Regulus and you just so happen to be in the Astronomy tower this late at night, every night."

Regulus, at this, felt his smile grow, until peals of laughter too fell from his lips and danced with yours. He liked your laugh, he thought to himself.

It wasn't even something that was particularly funny. Ironic, yes, but nothing to warrant this fit of laughter from the both of you. You had, in all honesty, no true understanding of why this affected you so, but you mused that it may have had something to do with your company.

When your laughters finally quieted down, a comfortable silence settled, and you couldn't help but steal a glance at Regulus, at the way his eyes squinted and his lips curved so perfectly when he smiled — a true, unbridled smile. And for one brief, foolish moment, you mind toyed with the idea that he may have been one of the most beautiful boys you'd ever seen. You didn't allow the thought to mingle in your mind, however, as he opened his eyes and spoke.

"Do you not find it difficult, being by yourself so often?" Regulus then questioned suddenly, pausing.

"I — I see you in the halls or during feasts occasionally. You never seem to have very much company, or when you do, you never seem to be engaging in very much conversation."

He noticed you. You didn't know why you felt so struck by his sudden statement. Perhaps it was the question itself, one that you'd so often asked yourself, sitting in your dorm or in the library, so close yet so far from everyone else. Or, perhaps it was because he saw you, someone he'd never before talked to outside of the safety of these nights, where social standings meant virtually nothing — that even though you often thought yourself to be so, you weren't nearly as invisible as you thought.

"I... I will admit, it can be lonely, at times, being alone. I mean — I do like being by myself, but I don't fancy being alone as often as I am. I think... I think, though, that it can be just as lonely as having superficial friendships or relationships where you don't really like each other, but you're just staying together for comfortability or for fear of change. I just so happen to not spend my time trying to nurture something that I know will never truly grow."

Regulus hummed at this, his eyes wandering back to the stars. He then closed his eyes, and you admired the way the silver light of the moon seemed to make his skin glow.

"Now that I'm thinking of it, I don't think I quite like my friends."

"You don't?"

He shook his head. "In fact, I don't believe I'd have any if keeping up appearances was not important. Every one of them either have an awful nature, or they lack any sort of intelligence."

"Why wouldn't you like them? They sound lovely."

Regulus smiled, and you couldn't help but mirror his expression. "Not nearly as lovely as you are."

Your smile faltered, but then grew as your eyes fixated themselves onto the floor. You wanted to tell him, that though the both of you didn't spend time together outside of the cover of darkness that you also thought that he was lovely, that you wanted to speak to him again the next night, and then the next, and then the next — that you looked forward to seeing him all day, that your heart skipped a beat whenever he sat nearer than usual, that whenever your skin so much as accidentally brushed against his, any doctor in their right mind would think that you belonged in a hospital by the way your heart was racing. That there was just something about him — something so very indescribable that drew you to him.

But you never were very good with words, so you hoped that your heated cheeks and the silence between the both of you spoke loudly enough on your behalf.

"I want you to come to the Yule Ball with me."

At the sudden words, your head shot up to find Regulus staring at you, a thoughtful expression on his face.

"I... what...?"

"My friends are bringing dates to the ball, as everyone seems to be doing, and... I don't believe I'd truly want to go with anyone but you."

You opened your mouth to reply, but felt utterly unable to truly respond the way you wanted to. You so desperately wanted to reply with an exuberant 'yes', but so startled by the statement, you were having trouble expressing this. He wanted to take you to the ball. You hadn't even anticipated going, suspecting that, if you did, it would be alone, or with some friends who already had dates — and you knew better than to third wheel at events such as those.

"I don't want you to feel compelled," Regulus muttered after a moment. "It's merely a proposition. If you don't want to — "

"I do," you then blurted. "I... I would love that — to go with you. To the ball."

Your heart fluttered as a radiant smile curved Regulus's lips, and already you knew it was worth it. If all did not go well — if the ball was not all that you would expect it to be, just his smile made it worth it.

"Brilliant. Well, I'll... I suppose we'll have time to discuss everything else later."

You smiled, breathing a laugh. "Lots, I'd imagine."

You hadn't even realized how very close Regulus sat until you stared at him with a certain twinkle in your eyes, one of amazement and admiration — one that could perhaps turn into something even more.

And then, maybe without realizing it, Regulus leaned forward, you following his actions until your lips met in the softest of kisses.

And, Merlin, was it one of the most tender things you'd ever experienced.

Regulus was gentle, his touch on you electric, and you grinned against his lips as his hand just barely grazed the skin of your cheek, before resting there to support your face.

You, too, were shy at first, but your fingers managed to tangle themselves in his dark curls, something you'd wanted to do for much too long.

You had no idea how long he had been kissing you by the time he finally stopped — hours, minutes, seconds — they were all meaningless in those few, blissful moments. So, before you could think of anything else, you spoke.

"Kiss me again."

And he did.