Regulus looked up from his paperwork at the sound of small feet pattering down the corridor. His four-year-old son, Sirius, burst into the office, clutching his cuddly Hippogriff, Pickles, with a look of sheer delight. The boy's grey eyes, full of childlike wonder, sparkled with mischief—just like his uncle's, after whom he was named. "Papa!" Sirius exclaimed, bouncing on his toes and nearly tripping over the Persian carpet. "Miss has come!"

"Well, we shouldn't keep her waiting, should we?" he said warmly, rising from his chair and smoothing out his weighty robes.

The nanny crouched down to the boy's level, her eyes sparkling as she spoke to him.

Sirius grinned broadly and tugged her towards the drawing room, already prattling on about his toy collection. Regulus watched them go, feeling a pang of nostalgia for a longing he had not remembered in years. She looked like—

Oh, dear.

She became a fixture in their lives, and the house began to feel more like a home than ever. Regulus found himself looking forward to their evening conversations after Sirius was put to rest. They often sat by the hearth, enjoying each other's company over a cup of tea, and delved into discussions that ranged from magical theory to Muggle literature.

And one evening, as they chatted in the flickering firelight, Regulus felt a familiar tug at his heart—a lingering melancholy that had been growing steadily since her arrival. To be fair, the guilt never left him—the guilt towards her and his deceased wife. After all, he allowed himself to brood over and drew comparisons far too often.

"I found myself feeling more for you than just gratitude," he began, his voice softer than usual, a slight tremor betraying his nervousness. "You have become incredibly important to both Sirius and me. I care for you."

Regulus frowned, considering himself a complete fool for not expressing his feelings properly. "Mhm, I'm trying to say," he stammered, running his hand through his onyx-coloured curls,

"is that I love you, {{user}}."