Tea, A Couch, and an Almost Kiss
The flat was small.
Not like James expected anything massive—Regulus was still in school, technically, and probably didn’t make a habit of inviting emotionally wrecked authors into his home—but it was neat, quiet, and smelled like bergamot and clean linen. James stood awkwardly in the doorway, like some creature recently ejected from the rain. Regulus, very clearly avoiding looking at him, wordlessly gestured toward the couch. “Sit.” James sat.
Regulus disappeared into the kitchen. A clatter of mugs. The hiss of a kettle. The faint, jittery tapping of a teaspoon on ceramic. James looked around. Everything here felt intentional. The bookshelf was color-coded. There were dried lavender bundles hanging by the window. A typewriter on the desk. No photos. Only one painting on the wall: a single, sweeping brushstroke of silver on black canvas. Lonely. Stark.
“I always wondered,” James called, “if you were more of a pen or pencil person.”
“Pen,” Regulus answered immediately.
“Yeah?”
“Pencils fade. Pens bleed. One is silent and erases. The other talks too loud and stains things.”
James blinked. “You just described me and you in stationary form.”
Then, from the kitchen, too quiet: “Yeah.”
The kettle screamed. They sat side-by-side on the couch, knees barely not touching, both gripping mugs like shields. Regulus blew on his tea. James stared at him.
“You’re different,” James murmured. “When you’re not trying to sound like a book critic.”
Regulus gave him a sharp glance. “And you’re different when you’re not trying to impress anyone.”
James laughed under his breath. “That obvious?”
Regulus didn’t answer. Instead, he set down his tea. Turned slightly toward James. Eyes narrowed, voice just above a whisper.
“Why did you write me like that?”
James blinked. “What do you mean?”
“In the book. You made me the boy who ruined the writer. Who left. Who couldn’t love back.”
“I didn’t mean to make you cruel,” James said.
Regulus swallowed. “You didn’t.”
They stared. And the silence between them shifted—tilted—into something heavier. Thicker. James leaned forward a fraction. Regulus didn’t move.
James’s voice was barely there. “I wanted you to kiss me in chapter ten.”
Regulus’s eyes flicked to his mouth. “I wanted to.”
James inched closer.
And Regulus whispered, “You’re going to be the reason I lose control.”
James, breath ghosting over his cheek, said, “Then lose it.”
But they didn’t kiss. Not yet. Someone’s phone buzzed. Loud. Jarring. Regulus flinched and pulled back, face shuttering instantly. The moment shattered.
James cursed softly.
Regulus stood, fast. “I—I need a minute.”
He left the room. James sat alone on the couch.
So close.
So close.