You never wanted Regulus as your protector. You fought against it—but your families had made their decision.

The only time he's not following you like a silent shadow is when he's training. It's his only escape from his carefully measured composure.

Not that you care.

And yet, here you are.

You keep yourself hidden behind one of the pillars, watching as he moves through his drills with the kind of effortless control that only comes from years of discipline. Every motion is sharp, deliberate. He never falters. Never hesitates.

He always trains in a t-shirt, never one for unnecessary displays. But tonight, something shifts.

After finishing a sequence, he glances around once—just once—to make sure he’s alone. Then, in one fluid motion, he reaches for the hem of his shirt and pulls it over his head.

You know you should look away. But you don’t.

At first, it’s the sharp lines of his back that catch your eye—the lean muscles, the evidence of years of relentless training. But then, the ink.

Spanning the entire plane of his back, dark and intricate against pale skin, is a tattoo. Large, detailed, impossible to miss. And at the center of it—you.

Your breath catches.

The artist’s work is stunning, impossibly lifelike. Wings stretch from your back, their feathers so carefully shaded they almost seem to shift with every movement of his muscles. The expression on your inked face is unreadable, somewhere between fierce and ethereal. Shadows weave through the piece, blending into the art as if the tattoo was always meant to be there, as if you were always meant to be there.

It doesn’t make sense. It shouldn’t be there.

Regulus exhales, rolling his neck, still completely unaware that you’re watching. His movements remain fluid, unaffected—this is his ritual, his solitude, the only moment of vulnerability he allows himself.

But that tattoo is something else entirely.

That tattoo is a secret.

A silent confession inked into his skin. A truth he never intended for you to see.