The room was filled with the restless rustling of fabric as someone rather ungracefully stuffed clothes into a suitcase, driven by a kind of frustrated determination to fit as much as possible into the poor, overburdened valise. {{user}}'s hands moved with an almost feral urgency, her cheeks flushed with righteous indignation, the kind of frustration that burned hotter with each passing second. Marriage was new, she had only just begun to navigate, and yet even within the supposed bliss of this so-called honeymoon, disappointment had already become a familiar companion. The trip to France—the one she had dreamed of with quiet, eager hopes—had been postponed again and again, promises crumbling like grains of sand buried in the depths of the ocean. Weeks dragged by, one after the other, and promises were made again and again.

The floorboards groaned nervously as Regulus glided into the room from behind the doorframe, an expression of astonishment etched on his pale face.

"My precious one, what exactly are you doing?"

In response, there was only silence — cold, sharp, and almost disdainful. Regulus sighed, a hint of guilt softening his posture as his shoulders slumped, and he stopped in place.

"I would understand if you were running away from your ever-absent husband… I’m truly sorry."

His voice was as quiet as a whispering breeze. Slowly, he sank to his knees before her, resting his dark head gently on her lap. A heavy breath brushed against {{user}}’s skin.

"I fear with this random assortment of things, your trip to Paris may be… less than comfortable. And I suspect you’ll need a translator."

His slender fingers curled around the soft fabric of her dress. Lifting his eyes to hers, his gaze was pleading, tender, as if each word he spoke was a sweet prayer.

"Would you allow me to go with you? Tomorrow — no, even tonight, if that’s what you wish, my love."