Regulus hadn’t meant to run into you.

He’s not even supposed to be here, technically—just tagging along because Sirius insisted he come to James Potter’s for part of the summer. “It’ll be good for you,” Sirius had said. “Better than rotting in that mausoleum of a house.”

So now he’s here, in a borrowed hoodie, barefoot on the wooden stairs at two in the morning, trying not to make the floorboards creak while he goes for water. He rounds the corner toward the kitchen—and nearly crashes into you.

You’re standing there, fridge open, drinking from a carton like you own the place. You blink at him. Smile. Offer the juice.

“You’re up late,” you say.

“So are you,” he replies, voice steadier than he feels.

You gesture vaguely. “Can’t sleep. James snores like a dying walrus.”

Regulus huffs a laugh before he can stop himself.

He should turn around. Say goodnight. But you’re leaning against the counter now, watching him with that curious little tilt of your head, and his feet won’t move.

“D’you want to go out back?” you ask. “I was just gonna sit out for a bit. It’s nice out.”

He nods. Follows.

The porch is quiet, half-shadowed under a sky full of stars. You sit on the steps. He sits a few feet away, close enough to feel the warmth of your arm near his. Your knee bumps his. He doesn’t move.

You start talking—about the Muggle records James showed you, about some book Sirius swears you’d both love, about how this whole friend group is always up too late, laughing too loud, and somehow never gets caught. Regulus listens. Murmurs back. He’s better at listening than talking, especially when you look at him like that.

Like you’re not just humoring him.

Like you actually want him here.

He keeps glancing sideways at you, and every time you laugh, he forgets what he was going to say next. Your shoulder brushes his. You don’t pull away.

“I like this,” you say suddenly. “Hanging out with you.”

Regulus’s heart trips over itself.

“I like it too,” he says, quickly, before he loses the nerve.

You turn, looking right at him. “You’ve been quiet all night. What’s going on in that head of yours?”

He swallows. Looks at your mouth, then away.

“Nothing. Just—” he hesitates. Then, softly, “You’re Sirius’s friend. You’re older. Cool. You belong here.”

You raise an eyebrow. “And you don’t?”

“I don’t know.”

You reach over. Touch his hand. Just lightly.

“You’re here, aren’t you?”

He looks at your fingers on his and nods, barely breathing.

“Yeah,” he says. “I am.”

And he wants to stay.