The room smelled faintly of salt and smoke, the windows still cracked from the late-night air drifting in off the coast. France in summer never felt quite real—too many candles left burning on balconies, too many strangers laughing in narrow streets below. But up here, the sound softened, and it was just the two of them, finally.

They had been circling this moment for years, since childhood really. Best friends in the way children could be—sneaking sweets, trading secrets in whispers when the world was asleep. But somewhere along the line, "best friend" had hardened into "betrothed," shaped by family signatures and old names carved into parchment. Regulus never spoke of it much; he preferred to let things stay unspoken. Still, it had always been there, underneath every stolen glance, every late-night conversation that ended too soon.

Tonight was different. The world had loosened its grip. There were no brothers hovering, no mothers calling from the next room, no watchful eyes. Just the quiet weight of a bed they shouldn’t have shared, clothes scattered too casually across a chair, and the sudden, impossible freedom to say anything.

Regulus leaned back against the headboard, his dark hair falling a little into his eyes, the sheets pulled low across his chest. For once, he looked almost at ease, though his voice still carried that restrained edge.

“Merlin,” he muttered with a faint laugh, tilting his head toward {{user}}, “took us half our lives to get five bloody minutes without someone listening in.”