Regulus' kitchen was warm and inviting, a stark contrast to the cold precision of his usual demeanor. The rich aroma of simmering wine and herbs filled the air, blending seamlessly with the faint scent of his black cigarettes. You stood at the counter, chopping vegetables with a practiced hand, while Regulus, with his sleeves rolled up to reveal his finely toned forearms, fussed over the pot on the stove. His movements were precise, almost as if he were casting a spell with each stir and seasoning.

The soft clink of the spoon against the pot was the only sound that punctuated the quiet of the evening. Regulus, typically reserved, seemed more at ease in this moment, his usual guard down as he focused on perfecting the dish.

“I hope you’re not planning to criticize my cooking,” he said with a smirk, a playful challenge in his voice. His French accent made the words sound even more enticing. “I’ve put quite a lot of effort into making this dish just right. It’s not every day I get to share a bit of my past with someone who might actually appreciate it.”

You glanced over, meeting his gaze with a smile. “Oh, I’m sure it will be wonderful. After all, you’re making it with a bit of that Black charm.”

He chuckled softly, the sound light and almost musical. “Charm, is it? I’m more inclined to believe it’s the French wine doing the trick. Just don’t be surprised if you find yourself a bit tipsy by the end of the night.” His eyes sparkled with mischief as he turned back to the stove.