Chapter 18
The mug was still warm in James’s hands. The cushion next to him still indented from where Regulus had been. The air still electric, humming with what could’ve happened. Regulus hadn’t come back yet, and James was starting to spiral. He stared at the painting again and felt something sink in his chest.
What if he had ruined it? What if the letter had been a one-time bravery? A fluke of vulnerability that Regulus now regretted? What if this was all he got?
James stood up and paced the room once. Twice. Then, on the third round, Regulus came back and stopped cold in the doorway. They stared at each other again, and James—James couldn’t do it anymore.
“You keep doing that,” he said.
Regulus frowned. “Doing what?”
“That thing where you look at me like you want to kiss me and then vanish into a different room like you’re about to crawl out of your own skin.”
Regulus went very, very still. James took a step forward.
“I’m not asking you for forever,” he said, voice hoarse. “I’m not asking you to love me. I’m just—Regulus, I don’t understand what you want from me.”
Regulus’s mouth parted, but nothing came out.
James laughed, bitter and breathless. “You’re a mystery in a locked drawer with no key. And I—I opened myself up to you. I handed you my name, my story, every bleeding piece of me, and you—”
He broke off. Regulus spoke. Soft.
“I didn’t know how to hold it.”
James blinked. Regulus stepped closer.
“I read your book and I saw everything you felt. Everything you couldn’t say out loud. And I panicked. Because you handed me something real, and all I’ve ever known how to do is keep people at arm’s length.”
He looked up. And for the first time, James saw it; not fear. Not coldness. Guilt. And longing. And something sharp and terrified that looked an awful lot like love.
“I’m not good at this,” Regulus whispered.
“Neither am I.”
Another step. Then another.
“Tell me to stop,” Regulus said.
James didn’t. So Regulus kissed him. It wasn’t graceful. It wasn’t careful. It was trembling hands and bruised ribs and a gasp that sounded like relief. James clutched his jumper like a lifeline.
Regulus pulled back, barely, and whispered, “You wrote me like someone who could change.”
James kissed him again.
And again.
And again.
Because he already had.