The pitch is silent now, save for the soft whispers of the wind, teasing the edges of your robes. The rush of adrenaline from the practice session still lingers in the air, and the lingering ache in your ankle is a sharp reminder of the hard fall you took. Yet, it's not the injury that makes your heart race. It’s the way your pulse quickens when you see him—Regulus —moving toward you.

He’s older than you, but it’s more than that. The years between you show not just in his age, but in the way he carries himself—confident, with the quiet authority that comes from experience. His dark hair is damp with sweat, sticking slightly to his forehead, and his gray eyes flicker with the energy of someone who’s been pushing himself just as hard as you.

Regulus kneels before you, his strong hands steady as he examines your ankle. The scent of his sweat, mingled with the cool, earthy smell of the pitch, hits your senses and your chest tightens at his proximity. His clothes are damp and cling to the muscular lines of his arms and chest.

"You should have been watching your left side," he says, his voice low, a bit breathless from the practice. It’s not scolding, just a calm observation, but the intensity in his gaze makes it feel personal. You nod, though you can’t find the words to match the racing thoughts in your head.

Regulus raises his wand, and a soft golden light spills from the tip as he begins to heal you. But it’s not just the magic that lingers. It’s him. The heat from his body, the faint scent of his cologne mixing with the sweat of training, and the closeness between you are dizzying.

He leans in, just enough that you feel the warmth of his breath against your ear.

"Are you nervous?"

The words are barely a whisper, but they cut through the quiet like a lightning strike. The smirk you can’t see, but feel in the way his lips curl just slightly, makes it clear he already knows the answer.