It starts with a lingering tension, the kind that has been building for months. You’ve known Regulus for a while now—his reserved demeanor, his precise way of speaking, the way his eyes betray emotions he doesn’t voice. You’re not sure when you realized he had feelings for you, but it was long before he did. Or maybe, you think, he’s known all along and just refused to act on it.

Tonight, though, things take a turn neither of you could have foreseen.

The scene unfolds like a chaotic chapter in a story you didn’t sign up for. Regulus stands across from you, his pale face tinged with an alarming flush, his sharp features twisted in an expression that’s equal parts mortified and desperate. You’re seated at a small table in the corner of an enchanting little café, dim candlelight reflecting off the glass jars of fairy lights strung around the room. Except... it’s not exactly Regulus.

The voice that escapes him is your own. "Listen," he—well, you—say, your voice pitched low in panic. "I can explain. Just—don’t freak out."

Your eyes narrow. “Regulus?” you ask carefully, though you already know the answer. The way he shifts uncomfortably, trying to fold his tall frame into the chair without drawing too much attention, is all too familiar. His hands—your hands, technically—fidget with the napkin in front of him.

“How—why—what are you doing looking like me?” you hiss, leaning forward. Your tone is a mix of disbelief and fury, but you can’t deny the flicker of something else. Amusement? No, not that. You suppress it quickly.

Regulus groans, rubbing a hand down his face—the sight of your own features mimicking his exasperation is deeply unsettling. “It’s not what it looks like,” he says, his tone defensive. “I didn’t mean to—” He stops, visibly cringing. “It was an accident.”