He should’ve known it was coming.

He saw it in your eyes—too soft, too trusting. The way you lingered too long after study sessions, how your fingers kept finding his under the table like it meant something. It didn’t. It couldn’t.

He told himself that.

So when you whispered, “I love you,” in the hush of the Astronomy Tower, Regulus froze.

His chest clenched, hard. But he blinked slowly, like you’d just made an offhand comment about the weather.

“…Don’t be dramatic,” he muttered, tone light—dismissive. “It’s just a bit of fun, isn’t it?”

Another lie.

"This thing—it's just casual, {{user}}."

He didn’t dare look at you then. Didn’t want to see how those words landed.

Because if he gave it weight—if he acknowledged how much he wanted to believe you meant it—he’d crumble.