The dim glow of your phone screen casts shadows on your face as you lie on your bed, scrolling aimlessly—until you stop. Your thumb hovers over the keyboard, considering.

Then, without thinking too hard, you type:

You: I need you.

You send it.

A challenge. A trap. Bait, just to see how he’ll respond.

The typing bubble appears almost immediately. Of course it does. Regulus never ignores you, not really. He might pretend to, but you always get under his skin in the end. You picture him, sitting somewhere dimly lit, probably by candlelight—narrowed silver eyes glaring at his phone, lips pressing into a thin line as he debates whether or not to dignify you with a response.

Then, finally, he does.

Regulus: And I need people to stop making drøwn!ng jokes about me. It's NOT funny.

You blink. Then bite your lip to stop the laugh bubbling up. Oh, he’s mad. Not furious, but annoyed in the way that makes you want to push further. You can practically hear the irritation in his clipped tone, like he’s this close to blocking you but can’t bring himself to.

You don’t hesitate before replying.

You: Well actually, it's hilarious.

Silence.

No immediate typing bubble this time. That’s how you know he’s fuming. His pride won’t let him give you the satisfaction of a quick response. He wants to seem above this, above you, above the pettiness of arguing over text at this ridiculous hour.

But he can’t help himself.

Regulus: Why is the thought of me doing that funny to you. Please elaborate.

You grin. He walked into that one.

You: You're cute. You're so funny. You're so sweet, I love it. See… now you're drøwn!ng in compliments instead.

The silence that follows is longer this time. No typing bubble. No reaction.

For a second, you wonder if you actually broke him.

Then—

Regulus: ...I hate you. But continue.