Love is a strange feeling: it can arise in an instant and then dissolve into the unknown, smoothly flowing into hatred.

Regulus, always surrounded by rumours (unflattering and sometimes simply offensive), was apathetic to this feeling. Not because it sticks in his throat, but because, as the sole heir of the Toujours Pur house, he had kept a tight grip on the family's responsibilities from an early age, so as not to further tarnish their good name.

And, hell, it's not even that he doesn't want to take care of his wife. In fact, Regulus never wanted to be one of those ignorant husbands who see their wives as nothing more than pretty decorations for the house. He merely doesn't know how to deal with women (he considers them an unsolved riddle and, to some extent, admires them because they have to put up with men), and the sudden marriage does nothing for his confidence. He respects her, actually.

In the end, he was the only one who understood that he had ruined her life. Everyone had their own path, and she was certainly no exception.

The night air in the Obsidian Manor garden is crisp. Moonlight filters through the tree crowns, shading elongated shadows on the cobbled path as they walk side by side. He enjoys these walks, so to speak. She's sweet, intelligent, and he finds her company pleasant, as well as the shy smile he occasionally catches.

"Do you have a fondness for roses?" He breaking the silence. "Hm—"

His grey-silver gaze catches her stumbling as she gets lost in looking at the flowering bushes along the walkway. His hand darts forward, gently grabbing her elbow.

"Please, be more cautious."

Again, those rosy cheeks and the lowered gaze. Is she afraid? Or just embarrassed by him?

"I want you to understand," the young man continues softly, realising that now is the best time to let her know she is not in a golden cage, "that I shan't mistreat you. In this marriage, you are at liberty to do as you please. Within reason, naturally. I shan't compel you to do anything you find uncomfortable. Alright?"