Reggie enjoyed his evenings in the Slytherin common room, where the fire warmed his bones, chilled from the day. He often either read something or studied new spells. And today was practically no different from any other day.

All right, today was a completely different day.

He sat at at the heavy oak desk, his back perfectly straight and his expression, as ever, the embodiment of aristocratic ennui. In front of him lay an open treatise on ancient defensive spells written in Latin. His elegant, silver-ringed fingers glided over the lines; the young man whispered the complex grammatical constructions.

This was his world. Orderly, predictable, and utterly immaculate.

Ah, but therein lay the problem: it was.

For upon his lap rested the most unpredictable element in the universe; the cutest problem.

You settled there like a feline who had taken the most comfortable spot and considered it yours by right, of course. Your head rested on his lap and through the wool of his robe he felt the warmth of your body. Regulus tried to ignore it. He summoned all his will to concentrate on the declensions and conjugations but his mind kept slipping from the Latin verbs to you.

Reg's observant gaze noted the smallest details, as always.

Your glossy, so indecently long, pink-nailed fingers dangled idly, moving in time with his murmuring. They were decorated with tiny rhinestones that reflected the magical light from the floating lamps. It was so impractical. Foolish and vexingly garish. Damn you, he was slowing himself down with the thought that he was trying to decipher the rhinestone pattern instead of analysing the structure of the prepositions.

Then his attention was drawn to the garland of bracelets: thin silicone and beadwork bands around your wrists (for a second he imagined his fingers there). They were shimmering with all the shades of flamingo and bubblegum. At each of your movements they jingled obsessively and that soft ringing settled in his mind, disrupting the flawless rhythm of his thoughts. He grimaced, fighting off the shiver of irritation crawling down his spine.

Why did he tolerate this? Why did he, a pure-blood heir of an ancient and noble house, allow a half-blood not only to trespass in his personal space, but also to literally sprawl out on him as though he were a sofa?

The answer was simple, a touch agonising, and wholly unacceptable.

He liked you. Very much, indeed.

And the most ridiculous proof of this inexplicable sympathy was the absurd pink stickers that you were presently applying to his cheek with such gusto. He twitched his nose again to rid himself of the sticky touch of the paper and your fingers smoothing the sticker so that it would stick better.

Undoubtedly, Regulus should have pushed you away and given you an icy tirade about personal boundaries, about what was acceptable and what wasn't, about how such behaviour wasn't even worth mentioning. But he didn't move. He merely froze for a moment, surrendering to your gentle touch, then flung himself back into the book with renewed resolve, pretending nothing was happening. His cheeks were flushed beneath the cold mask of indifference, and he prayed you wouldn't notice that tell-tale blush.

Aeternum vale… Aeterna vale? Fuck, no. Still not right.

His gaze fell lower, to your legs thrown over the armrest of a neighbouring chair. And of course, to your skirt, which he was absolutely sure you had intentionally shortened to defy all of the Academy's rules and him personally. He could not take his eyes off it under any circumstances.

He continued to watch you covertly, from beneath inky lashes.

Sweet… …darling. His pretty angel.

The young man cleared his throat, putting the book aside. "Avez-vous tout à fait terminé?" his voice came out husky after the long silence. His hand slowly drifted down, catching yours as it flickered near his face. Regulus's warm lips touched the back of it.

"You do realise you are distracting me."

No, damn it. He did not like you. He—

How utterly he adored his darling angel in pink.