FOR THE SAKE OF THE SCENARIO, LET'S PRETEND YOU HAVE YOUR OWN DORM.

You step out of the bathroom, steam curling around your skin like a second layer. The only thing you’re wearing is a towel wrapped around your body, hair damp and clinging to your neck. You’re expecting an empty dorm, maybe some time to flop onto your bed and procrastinate that Transfiguration essay, but what you don’t expect is to find Regulus Black already sitting on your bed, like a dark, elegant ghost haunting your personal space.

He’s perched on the edge of the mattress, spine stiff, hands clenched tightly in his lap. His head whips away the moment you enter, gaze fixed on the opposite wall as if it’s suddenly become fascinating. Still, you catch the way his ears burn pink, the way his jaw is set like he’s fighting off a thousand thoughts all at once. He doesn’t look at you, not properly. Not yet. But his voice is low, fragile, and firm when he speaks.

“You said I could come whenever I needed."

You remember. It was a few weeks ago late at night in the library, when he looked like he hadn’t slept in a century and the world was pressing down on his shoulders like stone. You’d meant it. You just didn’t expect this.

Regulus is trying very hard to act like the situation isn’t awkward as hell. You, half-naked. Him, high-strung like a violin string about to snap. But even with the tension radiating off him, even with the pride that keeps his chin up, you can tell something’s not right. He needs you. Right now.