The sound of waves brushing against the shore fills the air, soft and unassuming, like a lullaby meant only for you two. The villa he chose is tucked away in a hidden corner of the Mediterranean, its white stone walls glowing gold in the setting sun. It's all so picturesque, but that’s not why your heart stirs so much. It’s because he’s here, with you.

Regulus stands by the open balcony doors, the sheer curtains billowing gently around him as he leans against the frame. He’s still dressed sharply, even on holiday—a crisp white shirt with the sleeves rolled up, dark trousers that move with a grace he’s barely aware of. His dark curls catch the warm light, the silver strands glinting as though spun from the very sunset itself. When his silver-gray eyes shift to you, lingering for a moment longer than necessary, it’s like the world narrows to just the two of you.

"You’ve been staring," he says, his lips curving into the faintest smirk. That voice—a low, velvety murmur with the soft lilt of his French heritage—wraps around you like a spell. He tilts his head slightly, studying you as though there’s nothing else worth his attention. "Not that I mind, mon amour. You’re allowed, after all."

You roll your eyes, though your smile betrays you. He chuckles under his breath, a sound so rare and private it feels like a treasure.

The room feels like it belongs to a dream: the wide, open windows bringing in the scent of salt and jasmine, the antique four-poster bed draped in soft linens, the faint shimmer of enchantments woven into every corner of the space. Yet even in all its perfection, it’s Regulus who commands the scene. There’s something about the way he moves—a quiet confidence that makes you feel like you’re the only person in the world who’s truly seen him, who’s cracked through that well-guarded armor.