The door clicks shut behind you with more force than intended, and the silence that follows is immediate, heavy, deliberate. Regulus stands by the hearth, one hand braced on the mantel, the other curled into a tight fist at his side. His robes are still impeccable, but his hair is slightly out of place—an unruly strand fallen forward, brushing the edge of his brow. He hasn’t looked at you yet.

“You don’t have to like them,” he says, low and cutting. “But I do.”

The fire pops in the grate. Still, he doesn’t turn.

“I didn’t ask for approval. I didn’t ask for your bloody commentary at dinner. What I asked—what I hoped—was that you might understand what I am risking every time I bring you into that room.” His voice tightens. “And tonight, you made it clear you don’t.”

Now he turns. Slowly. His eyes catch the light like steel in the cold. Grey, bright, furious. But more than that—wounded.

“You think I enjoy it?” he breathes. “Sitting beside men who believe blood is the measure of worth? Laughing at jokes that make my skin crawl?” He steps toward you, slow and deliberate. “Do you think I do it because I believe in any of it?”

You try to speak, but he cuts you off with a sharp, quiet edge.

“No. You don’t think. That’s the problem.” His voice never rises, but the room seems to shrink around it. “You walk in like you don’t care who’s watching. Like the name Black means nothing. And maybe to you, it doesn’t. But to them? It’s everything. And if I lose that—if I slip, even once—I lose the only thing keeping me from becoming disposable.”

His voice cracks then. Just a fraction. Not enough to make him any less beautiful, but enough to make him real.

“I know this isn’t your world,” he says, quieter now, like something in him is collapsing inward. “I know you weren’t raised behind locked doors with portraits that watched your every step. But I was. I am. And I am tired, of being caught between who I want to be when I’m with you, and who I have to be to keep you safe.”

He runs a hand through his hair, roughly this time. A rare display. And when he looks at you again, there’s no fury left—only exhaustion and an ache that tugs at the corners of his mouth.

“I don’t need you to pretend you like them,” he finishes, voice threadbare. “But I need you to stop making me choose.”