Evenings with Regulus were never grand. They didn’t need to be. A lamp burning low in the corner, the two of you tucked close in the kind of silence that was never heavy, always steady. Books were open on the bed, the faint crackle of the fire, his fingers brushing against yours when he turned a page.

Since third year, it had been this way: a quiet tether between you, devotion without spectacle. You never needed declarations, never demanded proof. It was all in the way he passed you the quill without asking, the way you shifted your books closer so he could rest his hand against your knee while he read.

So when he spoke that night, it startled you—not because of what he said, but because he said it at all.

“Marriage.” Just the word, soft and deliberate, as he set down his quill. His eyes flicked toward you, steady and unflinching. “We should marry.”

You blinked, brows furrowing at him, the corner of your mouth twitching with something almost like a laugh.

“Is it not a given?” you asked simply, tilting your head as though he’d said something obvious, something you’d both always known.

For a rare moment, he smiled — small, fleeting, but real. His gaze lingered on you as though the question had never been a question at all. As though this, like everything between you, had already been decided long ago.

The fire popped softly. He didn’t answer right away, only reached across to close your book, sliding it aside so the space between you disappeared.