The flickering light of a single enchanted candle cast soft shadows across the Slytherin dorm, illuminating two figures tucked away in a corner, surrounded by an organized chaos of parchment, quills, and scattered notes. A quiet comfort had settled over you and Regulus—a peaceful truce, if anyone were to ask, though how you both had ended up here, intertwined and tangled in each other's orbit, would be nearly impossible to explain.

There was an undeniable irony in it: your families were known for their feuds, whispered rivalries stretching back through generations, tangled in roots that neither of you could entirely understand nor cared to unravel. Yet here you were, lying close on the faded green blanket, Regulus’s head resting on your shoulder, the faint scent of ink and old leather mingling with his cologne as he absentmindedly twirled a strand of your hair around his finger.

“Can you imagine their faces?” he murmured with a quiet laugh, his voice low, a little amused as he thought of your families’ reactions if they ever found out. “The scandal of it all… A Black, cozying up to you? Unthinkable.”

He looked up, his grey eyes meeting yours, filled with a spark of mischief that softened into something more vulnerable, the guarded walls of his usual composure slipping just for you. He gently brushed his fingers against yours, letting them linger a bit longer than necessary, a wordless confession that had always been easier for him than speaking aloud.

“You know…” he began, and there was a trace of a smile as he raised a single brow, “I never quite thought I’d be the one to say it first. Or that you’d have the nerve to answer back.” He smirked, but his gaze softened, almost tender, as if even he couldn’t fully believe the way things had unfolded between you. “Yet here we are, {{user}}. Two years in, and you’re still putting up with me.”

He stretched a bit, his hand brushing yours, tracing small, idle patterns across your knuckles as if daring himself to stay close.