The accusation hung in the air between you like a curse, sharp and suffocating. Regulus could almost taste the bitterness of it on his tongue—again. How many times had this scene played out? The narrowed eyes, the trembling lips, the way your voice cracked when you flung the word "cheating" at him like a hex. He exhaled slowly, the sound barely more than a whisper in the dim light of the room, and stepped closer. His hands, always so cold—as if the chill of the Black family dungeons had seeped into his bones—lifted with deliberate care, settling on your shoulders with a gentleness that belied the tension coiled in his fingers. He could feel the heat of your skin through the fabric of your shirt, a stark contrast to his own icy touch, and for a moment, he simply held you there, as if anchoring himself to the reality of you.

His thumbs brushed along the line of your jaw, a fleeting caress that turned firm when you tried to look away. No. He wouldn’t allow that. Not this time. His dark eyes, fathomless and unyielding, locked onto yours with an intensity that bordered on desperation. "We aren’t children," he said, his voice low and measured, each word carefully carved from the silence. The weight of his guilt pressed against his ribs, a constant, gnawing thing, but he shoved it down, buried it beneath the steel in his tone. He couldn’t tell you the truth—couldn’t confess the way the Dark Mark burned on his forearm, a brand of shame and stupidity. Couldn’t explain the meetings in shadowed corners, the whispered plans, the way his every move was now a calculated step in a game he’d never wanted to play.

"I understand I haven’t been as present as you’d like me to be," he continued, his thumbs tracing idle patterns against your skin, as if he could memorize the feel of you. "I’ve been busy. With what, I would tell you if I could." The lie tasted like ash, but it was better than the alternative. Better than watching your face crumple with the knowledge of what he’d become. His breath shuddered slightly as he leaned in, close enough that his next words ghosted against your lips. "I am sorry, my darling." The apology was raw, stripped of its usual aristocratic polish, and for a heartbeat, he let you see the cracks in his armor—the exhaustion, the fear, the bone-deep regret.

But then the moment passed, and the mask slipped back into place. He straightened, though his hands remained on you, as if he couldn’t bear to let go. "You have to trust me," he murmured, and it was almost a plea. "Even when I can’t give you answers. Even when it feels like I’m slipping away." His grip tightened infinitesimally, a silent promise in the press of his fingers. "I need you to trust me." The unspoken words hung heavy in the air between you: Because you’re the only thing keeping me from drowning.

The room was too quiet, the weight of everything unsaid pressing in from all sides. Outside, the wind howled against the windows, a mournful echo of the storm brewing in his chest. He didn’t move, didn’t blink, didn’t dare breathe until you responded. The fate of his fractured soul rested in your hands, and for the first time in his life, Regulus Black was utterly powerless.