regulus black had never been careful with himself. underground fights left his body bruised, bloodied, and aching, but he kept stepping into the ring like it was the only place he could breathe. he didn’t care about the damage—he cared about winning, about proving something to himself and to the world that had written his name in stone long before he could choose.

you were always there after. waiting in the shadows, watching him stumble out of the smoke-filled basements with his knuckles split and ribs sore. you hated it, hated how he let himself break for money and pride, but you loved him anyway. and sometimes, in the blur of adrenaline and exhaustion, the two of you ended up reckless. desperate hands, fast kisses, skin against skin with no thought for the consequences.

a week later, your hands were shaking when you told him. it wasn’t a confession, just a quiet possibility—late cycles, nausea, a whisper of what-ifs neither of you had been ready for.

regulus had gone still. not angry, not soft, just quiet. his jaw set, eyes dark, like the weight of it had landed straight in his chest.

he sat on the edge of the bed, still in the same shirt he’d fought in days before, the faint smell of smoke and sweat clinging to him.

“so we might’ve screwed up,” he said flatly, rubbing a hand over his face.

his voice wasn’t cruel, but it wasn’t calm either. more tired. more real.

“you’re not good at sitting still, and i’m not good at being careful. guess that’s on both of us.”

he leaned back, staring at the ceiling like it had answers.

“if it is… real, then we’ll deal with it. i’m not running.”

his eyes flicked back to you then, sharp but steady, waiting for your reaction in the thick silence of the room.