#regulus angst

You jab your own cheeks for emphasis, fingers pressing into the softness just beneath your eyes, and the room erupts into snorts and muffled laughter, your so-called friends delighting in your apparent delusion.

But you know the truth. You have seen them—the delicate crescents that carve themselves into his cheeks when he smiles in that unguarded way, soft and fleeting, like moonlight filtering through darkened leaves. It is a secret you hold close to your heart, something sacred and untouched, for Regulus Black is not supposed to smile like that. Not according to them.

To everyone else, he is sharp lines and cold eyes, distant and unyielding, a boy forged from winter’s breath and brittle starlight. His name drips from their tongues like a warning, a reminder of ancient bloodlines and whispered expectations. But you know better. You have seen the way his eyes soften when you laugh, the way his hands hesitate before touching yours as if afraid he might shatter something precious.

Regulus Black, to you, is soft edges and hidden warmth, tenderness folded into the corners of his smile, something gentle and achingly beautiful beneath the surface. They could not see it, would not believe it, but you did. You always did.

"Darling," James begins, slipping into his most condescending tone as he tilts his glasses down the bridge of his nose to peer at you properly, eyes alight with mischief. "I’ve known Reggie since fourth year, and not once have I ever seen a dimple. Not even a suggestion of one."

He is wrong, you think, pressing your lips together to keep the secret tucked safely in your heart.

They do not know the way Regulus looks at you when no one is watching, how his gaze softens like the edge of dawn, or how his laugh—rare and unbidden—blooms like a flower in the dark. They do not know that Regulus Black, for all his coldness, holds sunlight in his smile, and you are one of the very few who has ever been allowed to see it.

"That’s because you’re not paying attention," you shoot back, arms crossing defensively. "He does this little smile sometimes, it’s soft and kind of lopsided, and there’s this tiny dimple right here—" you poke your cheek again, more insistently, as if the physicality might convince them. "I swear, it’s like magic."

"Or madness," Remus suggests mildly, and Mary dissolves into laughter, her curls shaking as she leans further into him.

"I mean, we’re talking about Regulus Black here, right? My-face-is-carved-from-stone Regulus Black?"

"Maybe it’s just a shadow," Sirius chimes in, inspecting his nails with a grin that teeters on smugness. He hardly even glances up, as if the matter is too trivial for his full attention.

"A trick of the light. Or you’ve been hexed. Definitely hexed. I bet it’s a dimple jinx. You see fake dimples, fall madly in love." His grin widens, eyes glinting with mischief, and the others snicker at the notion.

"I have not been hexed!" you cry, voice pitching higher in your indignation, but your outburst only seems to spur their laughter further.

The sound spills into the room like the crackle of firewood, unrestrained and merry, and you stand at the center of it all, defiant and unyielding. "I’m telling you, I’ve seen them. He has dimples!"

"Right," James nods, his expression shifting to exaggerated seriousness as he claps a hand on your shoulder, eyes sparkling with that brand of Marauder mischief that rarely bodes well.

"And I’m secretly the heir to the Malfoy fortune."

"Stop it." you protest, your hands flying to your hips as if that might root your argument more firmly in truth.

"He has dimples. If you look closely, you’ll see them!"

They laugh again, the sound bubbling up like champagne flutes clinking together, indulgent and disbelieving. But you only hold your ground, chin tilted upward with all the stubbornness of someone who has glimpsed something magical and refuses to let it be reduced to smoke and shadows.

Because you know. You have seen the way Regulus’s face softens when he lets his guard slip, how those tiny, secret dimples blossom at the edges of his smile like something fragile and hidden from the rest of the world. It is not a trick of the light, not some fleeting mirage conjured by wishful thinking.

It is real. He is real. And maybe, just maybe, they have never looked closely enough.

"He does not," Sirius says flatly. "I would know. I’ve seen that miserable mug for seventeen years straight, and not once has it ever hinted at joy. If he’s smiling for you, you might want to check if he’s choking."

"You don’t know everything about him," you snap back, and it’s a bit more pointed than you intended, because Sirius’s expression shifts for the briefest moment, but then he’s back to smirking, one brow arched.

"Oh, I know enough. And I know that my miserable little brother is physically incapable of producing dimples. It would require smiling first. Which is practically illegal for him, by the way. Pretty sure he signed a contract with Death himself."

"He does smile," you argue. "Just... not around you lot."

Mary’s eyes light up at that, and she sits up a little straighter, nudging Remus. "Not around us, huh? Just around you?"

You hesitate, heat creeping up your neck. "Well… yeah. I suppose." At their expressions, you quickly add, "That’s not weird!"

"It’s a little weird," Remus says thoughtfully. "I mean, I’ve never seen him smile like that." He looks to Sirius for confirmation, who just shakes his head.

"Me neither," Sirius agrees. "And if he was going to be grinning like a lovesick idiot, I feel like I’d know. Or maybe you just have some sort of freaky dimple-seeing ability. Is that a thing? Can we get that checked?"

"Maybe he only smiles for her," Mary sing-songs, and you swat at her, cheeks blazing. "What? I’m just saying!"

You cross your arms tighter over your chest, frustration curling hot and sharp beneath your ribs. You know what you saw. It wasn’t magic or shadows or madness. It was Regulus, soft and unguarded in a way that felt almost secret. A piece of him reserved just for you, like a glimpse behind the curtain of a play only you were meant to watch.

But they wouldn’t believe you. They couldn’t. Because to them, Regulus was all sharp edges and cold stares, impenetrable as stone. But to you, he was something else entirely.

You saw the parts he kept hidden—the softness, the ache, the way his eyes would linger when he thought you weren’t looking. The way his fingers brushed yours just a bit too long when he handed you your books, the way he stood a little closer than necessary when you walked side by side. His dimples were proof of it. Proof of the parts of him that were gentle and real and yours.

"I’m not making it up," you murmur stubbornly, softer this time, almost like you’re telling it to yourself.

James leans back, stretching his legs out in front of him. "You know, I almost want you to be right. I’ve never seen Regulus with dimples before. I think it would break my brain."

The room is still shaking with laughter when the portrait door swings open. It is a subtle thing, just the soft groan of hinges and the hush of movement, but you feel it like an echo in your bones. Your gaze snaps up before you can help it, the breath stalling in your lungs as if caught between heartbeats.

There he is, Regulus Black, framed in the doorway like he has stepped out of a painting, shadows and light playing across his features in sharp relief.

He is ice and elegance, his gaze sweeping over the room with cool detachment, the sort of look that makes even Sirius go still. His brother’s grin falters, an instinctual pause as if the air has been sucked from the room.

Regulus’s eyes flicker over them, James’s raised brow, Sirius’s smirk half-frozen in place, Remus’s unbothered calm, but there is nothing there, not even a nod of acknowledgment. His expression is marble-carved, beautiful and unyielding.

But then his gaze finds yours, and it softens, melts like snow beneath the first touch of spring. His eyes brighten, lips twitching at the corners, and suddenly it is like you are the only two people in the room. The change is breathtaking, the kind of transformation that feels like stepping into sunlight after days of rain.

Without thinking, you are already moving, feet carrying you across the room as if pulled by some invisible thread.

"Regulus," you breathe, and the way his name falls from your lips feels like unspooling thread, like the first sigh of spring. His expression softens entirely, something delicate and aching sparking behind his eyes as you practically throw yourself into his arms. He catches you easily, arms winding around your waist, steady and certain, like he has been waiting for you his entire life.

Your hands are in his hair before you realize it, fingertips grazing the base of his neck as you pull back just enough to look at him properly. His smile is still there, still hovering at the edges, and it is soft and real and yours.

"I missed you," you whisper, half a confession, half a prayer, and as soon as the words leave your lips, it happens.

A tiny crease, delicate and almost imperceptible, blooms on his left cheek, like the first hint of dawn breaking over a dark horizon.

A dimple, soft and secret, there and gone in a heartbeat, as if it only exists for you.

"I missed you too, amour," he murmurs, his gaze flicking over your face like he is memorizing it. "You have no idea."

There is a tension in the room, thick and breathless, as if the very walls are leaning in to listen, the crackle of the fire muted under the weight of disbelief.

The Marauders and Mary are watching with wide eyes, suspended between fascination and utter incredulity, as if the scene before them is too tender, too impossibly soft to be real.

Regulus Black—aloof and unyielding, frost-kissed and sharp-edged—is holding you like something sacred, his arms wrapped around you with a gentleness that seems to contradict everything they thought they knew of him. His thumb brushes across your cheek, feather-light and reverent, as though you are made of something finer than bone and breath, something worth protecting.

And then he smiles—just a fraction more—but it is enough.

You do not even realize what you are doing; your body moves before your mind catches up, and you lean up to press a kiss to the corner of his mouth, quick and soft and so achingly familiar it feels like slipping into an old memory. He blinks, eyes flickering with surprise, but you do not pull away.

You lean in again, pressing your lips to his other cheek, right where his smile deepens, and it happens—a twin to the first, blooming on the opposite cheek as if coaxed into existence by your touch alone.

A second dimple, tender and unmistakable, carved into his pale skin like it had been waiting there all along, hidden just beneath the surface.

You are not the only one who notices.

Behind you, there is the unmistakable sound of someone choking on their own breath, followed by a very loud, "What the hell?" from James, his voice pitched somewhere between awe and utter disbelief.

Regulus glances up, his gaze catching on James, who is staring as if he has just witnessed stone turn to gold, like magic itself has unfolded right in front of him.

Sirius is uncharacteristically silent, eyes narrowed in something akin to suspicion or maybe even wonder, while James’s jaw is completely unhinged, glasses slipping precariously down the bridge of his nose.

Remus is blinking rapidly, as if trying to clear away a mirage, mouth slightly parted in surprise. And Mary—sweet, sharp-eyed Mary—looks positively gleeful, her grin spreading slow and wicked as she nudges Remus sharply in the ribs, her eyes dancing with triumph.

"I told you," she mouths, lips curving around each word with delight.

Because it is true.

There is no need to look closely, no need to squint or peer beneath shadows—Regulus Black’s dimples are right there, clear as daylight and twice as warm, so stunningly visible that they might as well have been carved out of starlight.

They blossom wide and unguarded, softening the sharp lines of his face, and for a heartbeat, he is not the boy forged from winter’s chill and midnight silence. He is something brighter, something softer, and it is plain to see that with you, he is allowed to be gentle.

"I told you!" you practically crow, turning back to face them while still locked in Regulus’s arms. "I told you he has dimples!"

Sirius remains silent, watching with something like suspicion, but James looks like he has seen a ghost.

James is still staring. "I think I need to sit down."

"You are sitting down," Remus points out.

"I think I need to sit down lower," James clarifies faintly.

But you are not paying attention to them anymore, because Regulus is looking at you with that same impossible smile, both dimples still lingering like promises.

His hand cups your cheek, thumb stroking a gentle line across your skin. "You told them about my dimples?" he asks, voice low and edged with amusement.

You nod, breathless and unashamed. "I did. And they did not believe me."

His smile softens, stretching wider, and both dimples deepen like secret doorways to some hidden softness that only you are allowed to see.

He leans in, the space between you shrinking until his breath mingles with yours, and his voice drops to a low, velvety murmur meant only for you.

"You really should not spend so much time with Gryffindors," he whispers, his tone laced with quiet disdain that is more habit than heart, though his gaze remains warm and unyielding, crafted entirely for you. "I think they are starting to rub off on you." His eyes glimmer with amusement, but there is something else there too, something tender that settles in the quiet curve of his smile.

Your laughter spills out, bright and unrestrained, like the first crack of sunlight through winter clouds, and before you know it, your hands are tugging him closer, closing whatever space remains.

In that moment, it is just you and him, suspended in the fragile stillness that belongs only to the two of you, where the rest of the world feels distant and unimportant, something to be dealt with later.

For now, there is only this: his smile, his dimples carved like promises into his cheeks, and the gentle, unwavering warmth of his arms around you, holding you close as if he is terrified of letting go, as if this is a vow whispered into the spaces between heartbeats.

The truth is, Sirius had always known that Regulus had dimples.

He had known for years, had seen the faint creases carve themselves into his brother’s cheeks on the rarest of occasions, like fleeting whispers of a softer world beneath the ice.

But the thing is, those dimples only ever appeared when Regulus was around you, when your laughter spilled into the room like sunlight or when your name slipped from his mouth with that unguarded tenderness that seemed to unravel something deep and hidden in him.

It was a simple misunderstanding.

And although Regulus is a man of few words, most of them are accompanied with a bit of bite. Ever-so-slightly harsh in a way that wards of anyone who would take them as mean-spirited, or brand him as someone to avoid.

He doesn’t mind this.

Regulus is very aware that he could easily change this, change how people perceive him and make his overall disposition far more pleasant if he wanted to. But he won’t, already deemed it far too much effort for people who quite frankly don’t deserve it.

Though, there are a select few who got a sort of ‘special treatment’ from Regulus. He extended this to people like Barty, Evan, Dorcas, Pandora—his friends—and, because he wasn’t cruel by any means, to other just naturally kind souls; people who brought the best out of him even if he didn’t want them to.

People like Professor Mcgonagall, Lily Evans—you.

Its not like his personality did a entire 180 when he was around you, not at all—its more that, breathing felt easier, he never had to think too hard when you were around, like you were in sync. It was just so easy to be himself if you were there.

Never once did you shame him for being too gloomy, or too sarcastic or snarky, you just giggled behind your hand and breathe into his ears something just as sardonic. Entertained his playful banter and matched his wit word for word like it was second nature.

It was a little routine you’d built, la little secret for just the two of you. At first it was just in English, a game of sly mumbles and whispered words, teasing traded over textbooks and tea in the common room. Until your own little habits just sort of slipped into it, late one evening when you muttered under your breath at the sound of Barty barrelling through the common room. Regulus beside you, one of your legs draped over his—he’d heard you say something, and for a moment he thought he’d misheard.

As much as he wracked his brain, over and over repeating the phrase you had said, for the life of him, he couldn’t figure out why he knew what you meant—how he understood your words without knowing them.

Turning to you with a tilted head, before he leaned over and whispered to you in French, eyes darting between you and Barty. Your lips split into a grin as the dots connected and it was a slippery slope from there—you didn’t understand every word he threw at you, but you caught enough—the tone, the rhythm, the smirk behind the syllables.

It wasn’t about exact comprehension, really. It was about cadence. Intention.

It was almost comforting, this back-and-forth; your own little world made up of half-understood words, endearing mockery and jest.

You started using it to your advantage—whispering phrases you knew sounded sweet but carried just enough mischief to make him squint at you suspiciously. Bickering back and forth, his brows would sometimes furrow when you spoke, but he’d recover quickly, responding as though he understood everything perfectly with just the right amount of bite.

Regulus would roll his eyes, feigning boredom when you would spew sentence after sentence, tongue tripping over itself in a stream of half-comprehendible words, but his lips always twitched like he was fighting a smile. You taunted him endlessly and he wound you up again and again—all harmless fun and games until well, it wasn’t.

The common room was nearly empty—dimly lit by the glim of candles, the soft hiss of the fire and faint crackle of the logs filling the room. One of the long days were the night took too long to come. Both you and Regulus had been occupied with assignments all morning and had hardly seen each other, lunch and dinner had passed by the time you were finally able to haul yourself away from your study group.

There was a faint smell of parchment that lingered in the room with just a hint of smoke, and Regulus sat quietly in the corner, tea still steaming, quill lying long forgotten on the table and a book open on his lap.

You moved on impulse, silent and fluidly drifting through the room and to the corner where your boyfriend sat. Plopping yourself practically on top of him with little grace, legs thrown over his as you curled into his side.

Regulus didn’t mind. He never said as much, and he didn’t pull away either.

So naturally, you mindlessly continued your little habit.

Leaving virtually no space between you whenever you’d gravitate towards him—it was second nature at this point. There was just something about how he held you, his affection was exactly grandious in any way; it shon in quieter moments like this. In the nonsense patterns the tips of his fingers make against your skin, or instead of a verbal greeting, Regulus would shift his body when he’d hear you coming, making room for you to slot yourself beside him like a lock and key. How when you settled he’d almost breathe out a sigh of relief as if there was a terrible weight on his shoulder and you’d come to ease it—like his bones were rejoicing at your presence,

It felt wrong to sit any other way.

To deny either of you the comfort of the other.

To act like this wasn’t a million times better than sitting without your limbs tangled together, almost inconviently so.

At least that’s how you saw it.

You could feel his heartbeat where your temple rested against his shoulder; calm and steady—it was almost hypnotic. The quiet metronome of his pulse making your eyes feel just that bit heavier. He must have noticed the way your lids sagged, or how every muscle in your body had given out and now rested comfortably on his side.

“Toujours collée à moi, toi, (Always stuck to me, you,)” he murmured suddenly, voice low and touched with that tired amusement that always found its way into his words when he was this relaxed. And you were almost asleep when his turned to you, leaning in and letting the tip of his nose graze the skin beneath your ear before planting the smallest, most gentle peck.

Then, under his breath, “quelle sangsue…(what a leech…)”

It wasn’t cruel.

Not really.

Well, not in his mind at least, it was teasing—a fond sort of complaint, the kind of thing that’s said with a cheeky smile, the kind of thing that would earn him a light swat had you been awake enough.

And if he’d let his linger on your skin for just a moment more, maybe you would have been able to feel the way they stretched upwards into the smallest of smiles. It was that downturned one that you loved, that was for him more than anything—he even fought the urge to press his lips to you again, in fear of stirring you, like he’d already been too indulgent with that one timid peck.

Though, he had stirred you, because you heard him. The words hung there, foreign and sharp-edged and they made your stomach lurch at the implication—you knew what that meant, or at least you thought you did.

Suddenly, your eyes were no longer heavy, and sleep was not so tempting. Still you didn’t move, kept your eyes closed and stayed curled up all but on top of your boyfriend, acutely aware of each and every point of contact your bodies were making.

Come to think of it, as you feigned sleep, you found yourself struggling to recall a single time when you weren’t completely invading his space—when your body wasn’t irritatingly close to his, a moment when your presence wasn’t entirely inescapable. How overbearing you must be.

Gods, maybe you were always stuck to him.

Regulus has always been someone who enjoyed his solitude, liked to be alone with his thoughts and here you were taking that away from him.

You just assumed you were exempt, that he didn’t mind you being constantly glued to his side. And not once did he complain, probably for your sake—how could you have been so inconsiderate?

The words replayed over and over until you couldn’t bring yourself to continue laying on him. So you shifted, slow and careful, as if your bones were still heavy with sleep. Regulus barely stirred, too lost in whatever quiet thought had softened his face earlier, and you used that mercy to your advantage. Pushing yourself upright just a little, enough to murmur in a voice still thick with faux-sleep,

“I’m—um…I’m gonna go to bed.”

You could still feel the warmth of his arm at your side, how his thumb ran over the fabric of your shirt. Regulus was barely able to get a word out before you’d stood up, it was all so sudden—there was no time to ask you to stay a little longer, no kiss goodnight, no lazy drape of your hand across his shoulders. Just a rushed, whispered ‘goodnight’ and the ghost of a smile he couldn’t quite make out in the dark. You slipped away quick and silent, padding up the stairs to your dorm and slipping under your own blankets as you struggled to swallow the tightness that was building in your throat.

The next morning was just as busy as the last few had been, but when you finally had a moment—the whiplash cruel. He greeted you with that soft peck and a “good morning” and a slight furrow between his brows when you didn’t lean into him the way you always did. You did smiled back, warm as ever, and that only seemed to confuse him more.

Though, you kept your hands to yourself, as much as they itched and searched for his, kept your shoulder from brushing his, kept your body angled just enough away. It was subtle, agonisinglys so, an you though maybe he might not notice, and if he did, you hoped he’d be glad.

It was a slow withdrawal for the days to come. Like you were breaking a bad habit, weaning yourself off of him—you convinced yourself that this was necessary, because you loved him too much to suffocate him. The contrast was so stark. Cold yet warm, near by far—because you were still you just out of reach—still teased him in that half-formed jumble of languages, still whispered smart little quips that earned you the usual narrow-eyed smirk.

You still giggled at his sharp jokes, treated him the way you always had…just without the part where your bodies were tangled, where you rested your chin on his shoulder, where your fingers found his without thinking.

At first, he asked if you were coming down with something. It was the only possible reason in his mind for this odd behaviour you were displaying; why else would you be avoiding his touch like the plague?

But you laughed him off, shook your head and smiled, told him you were fine. Which wasn’t entirely a lie, but it still didn’t completely fool. He pressed, gently but worriedly, asking if something had upset you, you looked so genuinely baffled that he swallowed the rest of the question before it reached his tongue.

So, instead he watched—he was good at that.

Regulus knew he wasn’t crazy, he could see how your smile fell flat the second you thought he wasn’t looking or how you stared at the seat beside him for a second too long before choosing another. Saw that your hand twitched like it wanted to reach out but didn’t, it started to bleed into him.

The distance.

He was snappish, irritable, made him withdraw into himself like he’d been left out in the cold. Barty made a comment about him being moody and Regulus nearly hexed him. He didn’t know what he’d done wrong, couldn’t fathom why you suddenly treated the space between you like it was necessary, like being close would burn you.

Almost week went by—one of the longest, most miserable weeks Regulus had experienced in a long time. But he respected it—your strange newfound aversion to leaning against him, your insistence on walking side-by-side instead of arm-in-arm. He respected it not just because he loved you, because if you needed this space, he would never take that away.

But when the sun set and he found his bed that bit colder and the blanket suddenly far too much for one, he’d stayed awake staring at the ceiling, replaying every moment of the last month, searching for what could have caused this.

Regulus was smart—top of all his classes, skipped almost two full academic years, and yet for the life of him, he couldn’t figure this out. He kept coming up empty-handed every time, and it was really starting to get to him. And the spiral began, every sign pointed to the one thing he dreaded.

You were going to leave him.

This was your way of preparing yourself, preparing him.

He was unravelling by the end of the week.

And Gods did he just want to be selfish, to move across the room everytime you avoided him, to indulge himself in the one slither of solace he’d grown spoilt with—desperate for, lonely without.

Finally, when he couldn’t physically stand it anymore—when the ache in his chest had worn him down to the last sleepless night he could bear—he pulled you aside during a free period. Into his empty dorm room that you hadn’t seen in over a week. His hand closed around your wrist before he could think better of it, then dropped it just as quickly like he’d committed some unforgivable act.

When you caught a glimpse of his face, it was almost foreign.

His eyes were wide and frantic in a way you’d only seen a handful of times, and as much as he tried to steady his hand in tight fists by his side, you’d felt the way they trembled slightly as they let you go.

“Is something wrong?” he asked first, and when you opened your mouth he pushed forward like he was afraid he’d never have the voice to speak again and the words were getting out quickly enough.

“Did I upset you? Did I—did I do something? Do you—” His words got caught, stuck on his tongue like it physically hurt to get them out, and his throat bobbed. “Do you hate me?”

Immediately your face crumbled, brows knitting together as you rushed out words, “What? No. Reggie—no, never! What’s going on?” You grabbed his arm on instinct—warm and gentle, just like how he remembered; and the effect it had on him was instantaneous.

His breath hitched just slightly before he pressed his lips into a thin line as if to steady himself, but the tension in his shoulders visibly released. Even if he could bring himself to meet your eyes, his own flickered helplessly to where you held him.

“Then why do you treat me with such contempt? Why won’t you come near me? Did I do something to make you want to leave?”

Leave.

You blinked at him, actually stunned—lips parted to speak but words seemed to fail you, because never—not once—had the thought even crossed your mind. All you could do was shake your head, adamant, because how could he think that? He couldn’t possibly believe you’d ever leave him?

You grabbed his arms then, both of them, sliding your hands down slow and deliberate, like they were memorising the surface of his skin until they met his. And his fingers curled around yours like he’d been starving for the contact.

Emptying your lungs in one sharp exhale, you squeezed his hand firmly as you spoke, guilt burning at the base of your stomach.

”No. No, I—I never meant to make you feel that way. I’m not going anywhere. I was only doing it for you. I thought it was what you wanted.”

“What I wanted?” His voice pitched so sharply it almost echoed. “Why on earth would I want this? Why would I want you far?”

He relinquished his hold on your hand and ran a hand through his hair, pulling harshly at the roots as his lips spilled words faster than he could filter them. “I’ve spent the whole week thinking about this—about you, about the way you lean on me—what made you think I wanted any of this?”

Your cheeks burned, shame, hurt, frustration all mangled together, and then you were snapping, mouth twisting and voice sharper than you’d planned, on the defence.

“Can you blame me? It’s because of what you said, Regulus. I heard you that night.”

His name on your lips wasn’t soft anymore, it was brittle, trembling and cracking at the end. Regulus could see the sheen building on your eyes, how you breath skipped at you watched him in silence, waiting—while he wracked his brain yet again for what you could be talking about. His own brows knitted together high on his forehead and a wash of confusion painted his face, but he only shook his head as he spoke,

“What? What are you talking about?”

Your blood only festered warmer, frustration prickling up your spine as you took a step away from him, fists clenched at your sides. But he didn’t let you go far, hands reaching out to take yours again.

“Maybe you thought I was asleep but—” you swallowed before the words tumbled out,”—but you called me a parasite, Regulus. What else was I suppossed to think?!”

His mouth opened, then closed his brows pulling impossibly tighter, “I—no. **Never. I would never call you that.”

There was no attempt to conceal the scoff that left your lips, followed by another step back—but he didn’t let go.

“But you did.”

You were serious, he could tell, could hear it in your voice; the flat tone it took, just how adamant you were, that you were one hundred percent sure that he’d called you such a mean and nasty thing. “And you were right—I didn’t realise how overbearing I was being and I‘m trying to fix it!”

Regulus was still holding you, hand wrapped firmly around your wrist, his gaze weighty on your face and silence even heavier, but you couldn’t bring yourself to meet his eyes. Not when you were trying to calm your pulse, trying to ignore the feeling of his skin on yours, not when you knew you’d be met with **those **eyes—soft and desperate and pleading.

It was already in motion, the tell-tale signs were there. That clogged, suffocating feeling in your sinuses, the tightness at the back of your throat and burning behind your eyes, the way each word was harder to get out than the last.

“…Sangsue?” you sniffed, “You really don’t remember calling me sangsue?”

The recognition visibly washed across his face and his other hand reached for yours before you had time to react, grasping both your hands, almost frantic. “Yes—I said that, but it doesn’t mean...I don’t think you’re—I’d never call you that.”

You still couldn’t be believe him, not fully. You’d heard the word with your own ears, in his voice, knew what that word meant to you.

“I meant it teasingly,” he speaking quicker, his fingers tightened around yours instinctively like he knew you’d try pull away, words rushing out to reduce the damage he’d done that night. “Endearingly. It’s—it’s like calling you clingy, but not in a bad way, in the way you…you cling to me. The way you hang onto me. It wasn’t an insult. I—”

He winced. “A leech. I meant leech.”

Your eyes roll back.

“Oh, fantastic,” you scoff, deadpanned. “because that’s so much better.”

Regulus nodded rapidly, almost too rapidly, as though he feared the apology wouldn’t land unless he offered it with his entire body. A helpless sound left him—something between a groan and a plea. “I know,” he blurted, voice thin and earnest. “I know it sounds awful. I know it does.”

He was tugging you closer, caution but insistent as he spoke—rambled, spilled out words trying to fix things, make the anger and hurt that was etched into your face leave.

“It’s all a misunderstanding. I’m sorry. I won’t—I won’t use that word again, not ever. I didn’t realise how it would sound, what it meant to you, I didn’t know you’d heard me, I—” His breath faltered, shoulders caving in a way that made your throat tighten all over again.

Step by step, he coaxed you forward until the backs of his knees hit the bedframe. The moment they did, he let himself sink down onto it, but he didn’t let go of you—not once. Instead, his hands slid to your waist, fingers splaying wide over your waist and hips as if he were trying to relearn the shape of you with his palms.

“I never want you far from me,” he said, voice quieter now, raw at the edges. He looked up at you, searching your face like he needed to analyse every flicker of emotion there.

When you speak your voice is baseless and brittle, “You don’t?”

“Not for a moment.” He lifted your hands to his lips and pressed small, desperate kisses to the backs of them.

”This last week has been—” He broke off, exhaling shakily. The breath collapsed out of him, “It’s been miserable,” he confessed, the word barely above a whisper. “Everything felt wrong. I couldn’t sleep, I couldn’t focus—”

When your hands find their way into his hair, he quiets without thinking. Eyes fluttering shut, like solace had finally been granted to him, and his thumbs drew unconscious lines along your sides, small, soothing, pleading motions that made you melt, made you forget, made you forgive.

“How could I ever not want this?” he murmured, leaning into your touch.

“There’s no better feeling in the world.”