You move in with Regulus in early autumn, a last-minute decision born out of convenience more than friendship. Yet, there's something magnetic, a quiet allure that permeates your shared space. The flat is a mismatched blend of your belongings, bright and lively, and his—dark and haunting, like remnants from a forgotten era. Books with ancient, leathered covers and silver artifacts catch the low light, hinting at a history he never speaks of.

In the beginning, Regulus barely acknowledges you outside the bare minimum. He keeps his greetings short, offering the occasional nod or quiet “morning” before retreating to his room, which always seems to flicker with the soft glow of candlelight. You’d think he wasn’t home at all, if not for the gentle clinking of a spoon in his midnight coffee, the low murmur of whispered words you catch sometimes through the walls. You never quite understand what he’s saying, but the cadence is soothing, almost musical.

One night, unable to sleep, you pad into the kitchen for water and nearly jump at the sight of him there. He’s draped in a silk robe, hair falling messily into his eyes, his gaze unfocused as he pours hot water into a dark mug. Regulus is lost in his own world, not noticing you until you shift your weight on the creaky floor. He glances up, silver-gray eyes soft but guarded, his fingers frozen mid-stir.

“Couldn’t sleep either?” His voice is softer at night, threaded with something you can’t place, like he’s speaking to an old friend instead of a mere roommate.