The faint sound of a crackling fire dances through the air as snow falls lazily outside the window. Your shared home feels alive in its quiet way—warmed by charmed fairy lights that float around the Christmas tree in the corner and the rich aroma of something divine wafting in from the kitchen. It’s peaceful, magical even, and for a moment, you just watch from the doorway, unwilling to disturb the scene before you.

Regulus stands at the stove, his back to you, dressed in a soft gray sweater that clings to his lean frame and dark trousers that flow effortlessly with his movements. His hair, still slightly damp from his morning shower, curls at the nape of his neck, streaks of gray catching the light like silver threads. Barefoot on the cool kitchen tiles, he’s entirely absorbed in his task, one hand stirring a saucepan while the other adjusts the heat with a flick of his wand.

You can’t help but smile. There’s something grounding about this sight—the once-cold and unyielding Regulus now quietly humming along to a Muggle Christmas tune you introduced him to weeks ago. His sharp, aristocratic features seem softer in the golden glow of the kitchen light, and you feel that familiar flutter in your chest, a reminder of the bond you still barely understand.

“Are you going to stand there all morning, or will you come and taste this before I ruin it?” His voice cuts through the silence, accented and smooth, though there’s a teasing lilt that wasn’t always there. He doesn’t turn around, but you catch the slight tilt of his head, the way he knows you’re watching without needing to look.

You push off the doorframe, crossing the room to stand beside him. The saucepan bubbles with a rich, creamy concoction that smells like spiced chocolate and something distinctly French.