Autumn wrapped Black Manor in its quiet chill, the wind rattling half-bare branches outside and carrying the faint scent of fallen leaves. Inside, the drawing room glimmered in the soft firelight, though the vastness of the space made the warmth feel almost distant, like a memory of comfort he had long ago abandoned. She sat beneath a heavy blanket, composed yet weary, her eyes tracing the flicker of the flames. Regulus observed her with practiced detachment, noticing the subtle details he had come to catalog over time, the way her fingers clenched the fabric, the slight tension of her shoulders, the way she breathed around some invisible weight.

Without a word, he rose and left the room, his movements measured, precise. He returned moments later with a fine porcelain cup, steam curling delicately from its surface, carrying the faint warmth of cloves and cinnamon. He placed it carefully on the table within her reach, not offering a smile, or even betraying the smallest fragment of tenderness. “You should have a drink,” he said, voice controlled, polite, more like instruction than comfort. His eyes lingered on her for just the briefest moment, sharp and unreadable, before he shifted back to the far end of the sofa, reclaiming distance with the ease of habit.