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Chapter Text

The morning light filtering through James Potter's bedroom curtains pulled him from sleep. Still drowsy, his hand automatically reached for the nightstand, fingers searching for the small velvet box. There it was, exactly where he'd left it, the same ritual he'd performed every morning for a week now.

Today was the day. Today he'd ask Catherine to marry him.

Rolling onto his back, James smiled up at the ceiling. Eight-thirty—later than usual, but he'd earned the lie-in. Today was special, after all, and his first meeting wasn't until eleven anyway. Plenty of time.

He lifted the box with careful hands, opening it to reveal the ring inside. The two-carat diamond caught the morning sun, throwing tiny rainbows across the white gold band. A week of trudging through London's jewelry quarter had led him to this elegant without being flashy, expensive without being vulgar. Perfect. Just like Catherine.

He'd rehearsed this moment a hundred times in his head. The Aura restaurant, where they'd shared their first kiss two years ago over wine that had lasted far too long. Catherine in that brown dress—the one he'd given her last birthday, the one that made her eyes look like liquid amber. His own trembling hands, his voice catching as he dropped to one knee at their usual table by the Thames-side window.

Would she cry? Or would she freeze first, unable to believe it was really happening, before throwing herself into his arms?

James snapped the box shut and set it back down. Time to move. He had a long day ahead, and everything had to be perfect.

Stretching as he climbed out of bed, he felt the pleasant ache in his muscles from yesterday's two-hour gym session — his attempt to burn off the nervous energy that had been building all week. Marriage proposals were serious business, even when you were dead certain of the answer. And James was certain. Catherine's love for him was written in every glance, every touch, every Sunday evening when she'd fall asleep against his shoulder during their movie marathons.

In the bathroom, he switched on the coffee machine and began his morning routine. Hot shower, careful shave, the familiar rituals that grounded him and prepared him for whatever the day might bring. Looking at his reflection, James gave himself a critical once-over. Twenty-four years old, tall and lean from regular exercise, with unruly dark hair that seemed to have a mind of its own and brown eyes that Catherine claimed turned golden in the right light. He caught women looking at him on the street sometimes, but there was only one woman who mattered.

Over breakfast, he scrolled through the news on his tablet: global markets, political developments, sports scores. His father had always drummed into him that successful businessmen stayed informed about everything, regardless of whether it directly affected their work. "Information is power," Fleamont would say, "and power is money."

By ten, James was dressed and ready. The charity project awaited his own initiative that he'd been nurturing for over a year now. They helped disadvantaged children with school supplies, tutoring fees, and counseling support. His father considered it a waste of time and resources, but for James, it was essential. He couldn't simply blow through the family fortune on personal luxuries while kids nearby went without basic necessities.

October in London was showing its best face today — golden sunlight warming the streets, crisp air, leaves just beginning their autumn turn. Perfect weather for a perfect day. James decided to walk to the foundation offices in Shoreditch, letting the familiar streets help him think and plan.

The foundation occupied a modest building, nothing fancy — functional furniture, simple offices, walls covered in children's artwork and photos from fundraising events. James loved the authenticity of it. No corporate gloss or pretense here, just real work making real differences.

"Morning, Mr. Potter," Emma, their project coordinator, greeted him with a smile. She was the heart of the operation — brilliant, and completely dedicated to their cause. "Ready for the quarterly review?"

"Absolutely." James followed her into the conference room where the rest of the team was already assembled.

The next two hours flew by in budget discussions, case reviews, and planning sessions. Thirty children in their program, each requiring individual attention. Susan from East London, whose single mother worked double shifts but still couldn't afford piano lessons. Tommy, ten years old, whose father had walked out leaving three kids and no support. The mathematical prodigy twins, Jack and Scott, who couldn't access advanced classes.

Every story hit James in the chest. Maybe that's why he could never fully commit to the family business, the corporate world felt too cold, too calculating. Here, he could see the direct impact of his work in children's smiles and parents' grateful letters, in small but meaningful changes to real people's lives.

"You seem distracted today," Emma observed as the meeting wound down.

James couldn't help grinning. Apparently, his mood was more obvious than he'd thought.

"I'm proposing to Catherine tonight," he admitted.

"Oh my God!" Emma's hands flew to her mouth. "That's incredible! Congratulations!"

"Save the congratulations until she says yes," James laughed.

"She will," someone else chimed in confidently. "Anyone with eyes can see how crazy you two are about each other."

"Let us see the ring!" Emma demanded.

James pulled out his phone, finding the photo he'd taken last night during his hundredth ring inspection.

"Gorgeous," Emma breathed. "She's going to lose her mind."

"Where's the big moment happening?" asked Dean.

"At the restaurant" James replied. "Where we first kissed."

"James Potter, you hopeless romantic," Emma teased. "Catherine doesn't know how lucky she is."

After the meeting, James found himself drawn to central London. Two hours until lunch with Catherine, and he needed to walk off the nervous energy buzzing under his skin. He made his way to the Thames, standing on one of the bridges watching tour boats navigate the muddy water and commuters hurry past on their lunch breaks.

Somewhere in this sprawling city, Catherine was probably explaining Shakespeare to her fifth-graders, completely unaware that her life was about to change forever. James pulled out his phone and reread his planned speech for the dozenth time:

*Catherine, these past two years have been the happiest of my life. You've made me a better person than I ever thought I could be. You've taught me to see the world through your eyes—to find beauty in ordinary moments, meaning in everyday life. I want to spend forever trying to make you as happy as you've made me. Will you marry me?*

Simple words, straight from the heart. They'd have to be enough.

At one o'clock sharp, James met Catherine at their usual spot — a cozy café near her school. The sight of her still made his heart skip, even after two years together. She could erase everything else from his mind with a single smile.

Today she looked tired, wearing the reading glasses she only put on when truly exhausted, her blonde hair pulled back in a messy ponytail. But to James, she was absolutely perfect.

"Rough morning?" he asked, kissing her cheek and breathing in her familiar perfume.

"Nine -graders and Shakespeare," Catherine sighed, pulling off her glasses to rub her nose. "Try explaining Romeo and Juliet to kids who've never even held hands with the opposite gender."

James laughed. This was what he loved most about Catherine, her ability to find humor in life's mundane frustrations. She was genuine, unpretentious, nothing like the affected society girls from his world.

"One particularly bright boy asked why Romeo and Juliet couldn't just run away and live somewhere else," Catherine continued, accepting a menu from the server. "And you know what? I couldn't give him a decent answer."

"Because then it wouldn't be a tragedy?"

"Exactly what I said. And he told me he'd prefer a happy ending. Made me think—he's absolutely right. Why do we need all these tragedies when real life provides enough pain?"

James reached across the table, taking her hand in his. The ring box pressed against his ribs, a pleasant weight in his jacket pocket.

"Maybe start them off with sonnets instead?" he suggested.

"Sonnets aren't any easier," Catherine laughed, threading their fingers together. "'Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?'—try explaining to children that it's not just pretty words, but an entire philosophy of love."

"How do you explain it?"

"I tell them that when someone loves truly, they want to compare their beloved to the most beautiful things in the world. That real love transforms ordinary words into magic."

James felt his chest tighten with tenderness. There she was his Catherine, brilliant and kind and able to find poetry in the simplest things.

"Any plans for tonight?" he asked, fighting to keep his voice casual.

"Nothing exciting," Catherine shrugged. "Mark papers, read that new novel I picked up last weekend. Maybe catch something on television. What about you?"

"Actually, I made reservations at the Aura for eight," James said, his pulse quickening. "Thought we should celebrate being... well, us. Still together, still happy."

"The Aura?" Catherine's eyebrows shot up. "James, they book months in advance."

"I know people," he said with a mysterious smile.

"You're plotting something," Catherine narrowed her eyes, but they sparkled with delight. "What should I wear?"

"That brown dress. The birthday one. The one that makes you look like a goddess."

"James Potter, you are definitely up to something," Catherine laughed. "Fine. I'll be ready by eight."

They spent the next hour and a half in easy conversation, work stories, weekend plans, Catherine's latest book, current events. James watched her face as she talked, memorizing the way she gestured when excited, how she wrinkled her nose when thinking hard.

"I should head back," Catherine said, checking her watch. "Three more classes, then a parent conference. See you tonight?"

"Can't wait," James replied, watching her leave with that familiar flutter in his chest.

At five, James headed home to prepare. Shower, best suit, final ring check, and mental preparation for the most important moment of his life.

From his wardrobe, he selected his navy suit, the one Catherine called his "James Bond look." Perfectly tailored, elegant, expensive. He paired it with a white shirt and a tie that matched Catherine's dress perfectly. They'd look like they belonged together.

In the shower, James ran through his speech one more time. The words felt right, natural, but he still worried that nerves would steal them away when the moment came.

At six-thirty, his phone rang. His father's name on the screen made him frown — Fleamont Potter never called at this hour, especially when he knew James had evening plans.

"James, I need you at the office. Now," his father's voice was strained, urgent.

"Now?" James glanced at his watch. "Dad, I have something incredibly important tonight."

"Nothing is more important than family," Fleamont cut him off. "This affects the company's future. Your future. Get here immediately."

"But I—"

"James." His father's tone turned steely. "This isn't a request."

The line went dead. James stared at his phone, feeling his perfect day beginning to crack. What could possibly be so urgent? His father had never demanded he cancel personal plans for business. If anything, Fleamont always preached work-life balance as the key to long-term success.

James checked the time again. Six-thirty. Dinner at eight. If he left now, he could handle whatever crisis his father had manufactured and still make it back with time to spare.

He called Catherine.

"Hi, gorgeous," he said when she picked up. "I've got a slight problem."

"What's wrong?" Concern crept into her voice immediately.

"Dad's having some kind of business emergency. Wants to see me urgently. Could we push dinner back to eight-thirty? I'll sort it out with the restaurant. This shouldn't take long."

"Of course," Catherine said, though he caught a note of disappointment. "Everything okay?"

"You know Dad, everything's a crisis when it comes to work. Nothing serious."

"Alright. Eight-thirty then."

"Eight-thirty. Love you."

"Love you too."

James pocketed his phone and grabbed the ring box from his dresser. Even hidden in his suit jacket, he could feel its presence — a small box that would change everything.

The drive to Potter Enterprises took twenty minutes through London traffic. James spent the journey trying to imagine what crisis could possibly require his immediate attention. A major contract falling through? Shareholder problems? His father rarely involved him in the complex machinations of high-level business, claiming James wasn't ready for that level of responsibility yet.

The office tower looked nearly deserted at this hour, most employees long gone home, only a few windows lit on the executive floors where the senior staff worked late. James took the elevator to the forty-second floor and his father's corner office.

Mrs. Davies, Fleamont's assistant, was still at her desk unusual since she typically left at five-thirty sharp.

"Good evening, Mr. Potter," she said, but her voice sounded tight, worried. "Your father's waiting. You can go straight in."

"Thanks, Mrs. Davies," James paused at her desk. "Don't stay too late."

She just nodded without looking up from her computer. Something was definitely off.

James knocked once and entered. His father sat behind the imposing mahogany desk that had dominated this office for fifteen years, but something was wrong with the picture. Fleamont's usually immaculate appearance was disheveled suit wrinkled, tie loosened, deep worry lines creasing his face. A thick manila folder lay open in front of him.

"Sit," Fleamont said, gesturing to the leather chair across from his desk.

James sat, but remained alert. The atmosphere felt heavy, charged with tension.

"What's the emergency?" he asked, studying his father's expression.

Fleamont was quiet for several long seconds, as if carefully choosing his words.

"I received an interesting proposition this morning," he finally said. "From Orion Black."

James felt a flicker of surprise. The Blacks had been business associates of the Potters for years, but the relationship between the families had always been complicated — too much competition, too many old grudges and misunderstandings. They collaborated when it served mutual interests, but had never been friends.

"What kind of proposition?"

"A merger," Fleamont leaned back in his chair, never breaking eye contact. "Complete corporate integration. Potter Enterprises and Black Corporation becoming one entity."

James raised his eyebrows. That was significant such a merger would create one of Europe's largest conglomerates.

"That's... big," he said carefully. "What are the terms?"

"Complex," Fleamont rose and walked to the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the London skyline. "Orion wants assurance that this merger represents a genuine, lasting alliance between our families, not just a temporary business arrangement."

"Meaning?" James felt the first stirrings of unease.

His father turned back to face him, and something in his expression made James's stomach clench.

"Meaning he wants to seal the alliance through marriage," Fleamont said slowly, each word deliberate.

The office fell silent except for the tick of the antique clock on the wall and the distant hum of the city below. James stared at his father, not quite processing what he'd heard.

"Whose marriage?" he asked, though his heart was already racing with dread.

"Yours," Fleamont said calmly, as if discussing stock prices. "To Orion's younger son. Regulus."

The world seemed to tilt sideways. James heard his own heartbeat, the whisper of the air conditioning, the faint sounds of traffic far below, but his father's words felt surreal, impossible.

"What?" The word came out as barely a whisper.

"You'll marry Regulus Black," Fleamont repeated, returning to his desk. "It will guarantee the stability of the merged company and demonstrate to the business world that our families are truly united in purpose and vision. James, we're facing bankruptcy. This is our only way out."

James shot to his feet so quickly his chair rolled backward and struck the wall.

"Bankruptcy? Since when?" His voice cracked with the effort to stay calm while everything inside him was screaming. "Do you understand what you're asking me to do?"

"I'm asking you to act responsibly," Fleamont's voice turned cold. "We've lost three major contracts in the past six months. The tax investigation, the environmental compliance issues at the Manchester plants, the data breach scandal while you've been playing charity worker, the family empire has been crumbling."

Each word hit James like a physical blow, blood pounding in his temples.

"So your solution is to sell me?"

"Don't be dramatic," Fleamont opened the folder and extracted several documents. "This is a strategic partnership sealed by marriage. Influential families have made such arrangements for centuries. Regulus Black is young, educated, well-connected. You share common backgrounds..."

"I have Catherine!" James exploded. "I'm marrying her! Tonight! I was going to propose in two hours!"

"Catherine is a lovely girl, but she's just a teacher," his father didn't even look up from the paperwork. "Her family brings nothing to the table that could save this company. The Blacks can."

"Dad, you cannot be serious." James planted his hands on the desk, leaning forward. "I despise Regulus. I love Catherine."

Finally, Fleamont raised his eyes to meet his son's gaze. There was no warmth there, no sympathy—only cold, calculating business pragmatism.

"We have one week to decide," he said. "If we refuse, the Blacks will take their offer elsewhere, and we'll be filing for bankruptcy before Christmas. Thousands of jobs, James. The pensions of employees who've given their lives to this company. The family reputation that generations of Potters have built. All of it disappears if you can't set aside your... romantic fantasies."

James stepped back from the desk, feeling his world begin to crumble around him. In his jacket pocket lay the ring — symbol of his love for Catherine, his plans for the future, his dreams of a happy married life. And across from him sat a man who wanted to turn all of it to ash.

"What if I say no?" he asked quietly.

"Then by month's end, you'll not only be without an inheritance, but without any prospect of decent employment in London," Fleamont shrugged. "Orion Black has connections everywhere. One word from him, and no serious company will want anything to do with you. You'll be a nobody in the business world."

"And Catherine? What happens to her?"

"Catherine will go back to her literature classes. Find herself a suitable husband. Start a family."

James closed his eyes, trying to fight the rising nausea. How could everything change so quickly? This morning he'd woken up a happy man preparing to propose to the woman he loved. And now...

"How long do I have to think about it?" he asked without opening his eyes.

"Until Sunday," Fleamont replied. "Orion wants an official answer by Monday morning."

"James," his father's voice softened for the first time, "I understand this is difficult. But sometimes we must sacrifice personal happiness for family, for the people who've devoted their lives to us. Your grandfather did the same when he married your grandmother. Their marriage was also a business arrangement, but they found a way to be happy."

"Goodbye, Father."

He left the office, nodded farewell to Mrs. Davies, and headed for the elevator. In the mirrored doors reflected a young man in an expensive suit, but with a face that showed bewilderment and despair. A man who half an hour ago had been ready to propose to the woman he loved, and now didn't know how to explain why he was late for the most important meeting of their lives.

In the taxi, James pulled out his phone and dialed Catherine's number.

"James?" Her voice sounded worried. "Where are you? It's almost nine."

"I know, sorry," he rubbed his forehead, trying to focus on the conversation. "The meeting with Dad ran over. I'll be there in ten minutes."

"Is everything alright? You sound strange."

"Yes, everything's fine. Just tired. Wait for me, okay?"

"Of course I'm waiting. I love you."

"And I..." James swallowed hard. "I love you too."

He put away his phone and pulled the ring box from his pocket. The diamond still caught the light from the street lamps, still sparkled with thousands of facets.

---

In the same London, in the Black family mansion on Grimmauld Place, Regulus sat in his room rereading the business documents his father had left on his desk after dinner. Company merger, marriage contract, agreement terms — dry legal formulations hiding the prospect of his most cherished and most hopeless dream coming true.

James Potter would become his husband.

Regulus set aside the documents and walked to the window. Outside, fine rain was drizzling—typical London weather for an October evening. Somewhere in this city, James was spending time with his girlfriend, that teacher about whom his father's private detective agency had compiled a detailed dossier. Catherine Smith, twenty-three years old, taught English literature at a state school, lived in a small flat in Islington, had been dating James for two years.

Regulus knew everything about her , where she worked, what she preferred for breakfast, what books she read, which gym she went to on weekends. He knew and hated every detail of her life, because that life included what he desired most in the world —James Potter's love. But he still couldn't bring himself to hate her completely.

He had been in love with James for as long as he could remember. Even as a boy, he would secretly watch Fleamont's son, two years older, always self-confident, with those unruly dark hair and laughing brown eyes. He was his brother's best friend. James was everything Regulus could never be.

As a teenager, when the families occasionally crossed paths at social events, Regulus studied James's every movement, memorized every word, every smile. He knew that James noticed him as nothing more than Sirius's younger brother and the son of his father's business partners—would nod politely when they met, sometimes exchange a few phrases about weather or studies, nothing more. Regulus could clearly see how his very presence irritated James.

Then Regulus went to Cambridge, studied economics and international law, preparing to take part in the family business. James meanwhile finished the London School of Economics and took up charity work.

Regulus followed his activities from afar — read interviews in the business press, studied charity foundation reports, sometimes even anonymously donated money to children's programs, knowing it would bring James joy.

And two years ago, Catherine Smith appeared.

Regulus learned about her by accident, saw them together at the theater, at the premiere of a new production of "Hamlet." James sat in a box, and next to him was a blonde girl in a simple but elegant dress. They held hands, whispered to each other, laughed. James looked... happy. Truly, radiantly happy.

Regulus spent the entire performance watching them instead of following the action on stage. He saw how James gently brushed away a strand of hair that fell across Catherine's face, how she nestled against his shoulder, how they went out during intermission without letting go of each other's hands.

It was painful and beautiful at the same time seeing how the person you love loves someone else. Regulus understood that he could never give James what this girl gave him ease, genuine feelings.

Regulus returned to his desk and looked through the documents once more. The terms of the marriage contract were crystal clear official marriage, joint public appearances, presenting a united front in business matters. Nothing was said about personal life and intimacy, but Regulus understood he shouldn't expect reciprocation. This would be a business partnership, nothing more.

But even a business partnership meant that James would belong to him, at least formally. They would live in the same house, wear wedding rings, appear together at official events. Regulus would fall asleep and wake up knowing that James was somewhere nearby.

It wasn't enough, but it was more than he'd ever had.

Tonight James Potter was making a decision about his future. And about Regulus's future too, though he didn't know it.

Regulus closed his eyes and allowed himself to imagine for a moment that everything would end well. That James would agree. That in time, perhaps, he would learn if not to love, then at least to tolerate his presence nearby.

That would be enough. After so many years of hopeless love, even that would be more than enough.

Chapter Text

James never proposed that day.

He made it to the Aura restaurant, the ring still burning in his jacket pocket while his father's words echoed in his head like a funeral bell. Catherine waited at their usual table, wearing that brown dress he loved so much, her hair done up in a style she'd spent half the day perfecting, her eyes full of love and anticipation.

He sat across from her, ordered wine he had no intention of drinking, and watched her face, knowing this might be one of the last evenings she'd look at him with such tenderness.

"You look pale," Catherine said, taking his hand in hers. "Did the meeting with your father go badly?"

"You could say that," James replied, intertwining their fingers. Her skin was warm, soft, familiar. He memorized every touch.

"Want to talk about it?"

James looked into her grey eyes and felt something tear inside him. How could he tell her that his father was proposing to sell him like merchandise? That their future, which they'd dreamed about, might vanish overnight?

"Just business problems," he lied. "Nothing that can't be handled."

They had dinner, talked about her students, about the book she was reading, about weekend plans. The ordinary conversation of an ordinary couple in love. But James felt like an actor playing his final role.

When they left the restaurant, Catherine stopped on the steps and hugged him.

"Thank you for a wonderful evening," she whispered. "I thought you were going to propose."

James froze. The ring in his pocket felt white-hot.

"Why did you think that?" he asked carefully.

"Well, the restaurant where we first kissed, your mysterious behavior, this dress you asked me to wear..." she laughed. "All the signs were there."

"And if I had proposed?" James didn't know why he was asking this question. Perhaps he wanted to hear "yes" at least in theory.

"I would have said yes so fast you wouldn't have had time to blink," Catherine kissed his cheek. "But I understand you want to do everything right, at the right moment. I can wait."

"I can wait." Those words haunted him all the way home.

Over the next few days, James tried to find a way out. He studied the company's financial reports, trying to understand if the situation was really as catastrophic as his father claimed. Met with independent auditors, consulted financial analysts.

The results were disheartening. Potter Enterprises really was on the brink of bankruptcy. A series of failed investments, lost contracts, fines for environmental violations—all of it had reduced years of profits to nothing. They had three months at most before creditors would start demanding repayment.

James considered taking loans against his personal assets, selling his apartment, his car, everything he owned. But even that would only give the company a few weeks' reprieve. The debts were too large.

The Blacks' proposal, however, could genuinely save the company. Their financial resources, connections, reputation—all of it could stabilize the situation and secure jobs for thousands of employees.

But the price...

James spent sleepless nights sitting by his window thinking about Catherine. How she laughed at his jokes, even the stupidest ones. How she fell asleep with her head on his shoulder during movies. How she sang in the shower, thinking he couldn't hear. How her eyes lit up when she talked about her students' successes.

How she'd said "I can wait," not knowing there might be nothing left to wait for.

On the fourth day, he finally met with Catherine. 

"You're in a good mood," James noticed.

"Today one of my students, Emily Stewart, wrote an amazing essay about Romeo and Juliet," Catherine beamed with pride. "Remember I told you about the boy who asked why they didn't run away? Well, Emily wrote an alternative ending where Romeo and Juliet actually do escape to another city and live happily ever after."

"How did you grade it?" James asked.

"Gave her top marks," Catherine laughed. "Of course, it wasn't what the curriculum required, but the essay was written with such passion, such understanding of the characters... I couldn't give her a low grade for believing in a happy ending."

James felt his heart clench.

"Catherine," he began, but she interrupted him.

"Speaking of happy endings, my friend Jenny announced her engagement yesterday. She and Steve have only been dating a year, but he said when you meet the person of your dreams, there's no point waiting."

She looked at him meaningfully, and James understood this wasn't a casual comment.

"Catherine..."

"James, we've been together two years," she covered his hand with hers. "I'm not rushing you, but... I'm not wrong about our relationship, am I? We're moving toward something serious?"

This was the perfect moment to tell the truth. To tell her about his father's proposal, the company's financial problems, how their future hung by a thread. But looking into her trusting eyes, James couldn't do it.

"Of course we are," he said. "It's just... work is complicated right now."

"I understand," Catherine smiled. "Your charity program is very important. I'm proud of what you do."

After lunch they walked through the park near her school. Catherine talked about summer vacation plans, visiting her parents, new textbooks she wanted to introduce. Ordinary, everyday plans of someone who had no idea their world might collapse at any moment.

"What about your plans?" she asked. "You were thinking about expanding the foundation program?"

"Yes," James replied. "But it all depends on funding."

They stopped at a bench under an old oak tree. Catherine sat down, tugging his hand for him to sit beside her.

"James," she said seriously, "if the problems are that serious, maybe I can help? I have some savings..."

"No," he shook his head. "It's not that scale, Catherine."

"Then maybe you should talk to your father? Explain how important your work is?"

If only she knew that his father had suggested exactly that conversation—just with completely different terms.

"We've already talked," James said quietly.

"And what did he say?"

James looked at her—at her concerned face, how she held his hand tightly, ready to support him in any situation. And he realized he couldn't lie anymore.

"Catherine," he began, "what if I told you that things might not work out between us?"

She frowned.

"What do you mean?"

"What if circumstances developed so that I couldn't... so that we couldn't be together?"

"What circumstances?" worry crept into Catherine's voice. "James, you're scaring me."

"Just... hypothetically. If You had to choose between mw and... something very important to your family. What would you do?"

Catherine was quiet for a long time, studying his face.

"James Potter," she finally said, "if you're planning to break up with me, at least say it directly."

"I'm not..."

"Because all these hypothetical questions sound like preparation for goodbye," she continued. "And if that's the case, I'd prefer to hear the truth, not riddles."

James felt everything inside him contract. She was too smart not to understand where he was heading.

"The truth is," he said slowly, "I don't know what happens next. Dad's company has serious problems. And I might have to make decisions that will change my entire life."

"And these decisions involve us?"

"Possibly."

Catherine released his hand and pulled away.

"You can't give me a straight answer, can you?" she said quietly. "Because you already know what you'll choose. And it's not me."

"Catherine..."

"No," she stood up from the bench. "No explanations needed. I understand."

"You don't understand," James stood too. "This isn't about choice. This is about..."

"This is about the fact that when it comes to really important decisions, I'm not on your priority list," Catherine's voice trembled, but she held herself together. "Two years, James. Two years I thought we were building something together. Turns out at the first serious problems, you don't even think to consult me."

"That's not true..."

"Then tell me the truth," she turned to face him. "All of it. What's happening with the company? What decisions do you need to make? And why do you think I shouldn't know about it?"

James stood looking into her eyes, understanding this was a crossroads. He could tell her everything—about the company's bankruptcy, the Blacks' proposal, how thousands of people's fates depended on his decision. He could trust her as she'd always trusted him.

Or he could lie again and try to protect her from the truth that would destroy them both.

"My father's company is on the verge of bankruptcy," he finally said. "We'll lose everything within months if we don't find an investor."

Catherine nodded as if this explained a lot.

"And you found an investor?"

"Yes."

"But there are conditions that involve us?"

James closed his eyes.

"Yes."

"What conditions, James?"

He looked at her—at the woman he loved more than life, who stood in the autumn sun waiting for him to find the courage to destroy her world.

"I'm being offered marriage. A business marriage. To seal the partnership."

Catherine's face didn't change, but something in her eyes died.

"To whom?" she asked very quietly.

"To Orion Black's younger son. Regulus."

"A man."

"Yes."

She nodded as if this was just information to consider.

"And will you agree?"

"I... I don't know."

"Don't know," Catherine repeated. "Do you have time to think?"

"Until Sunday."

" So you have three days to decide whether you want to spend your life with me or with someone you don't even love, for money."

Her voice didn't break, but James could see something dying in her eyes.

"I tried to find another solution," he said desperately.

"Did you find one?"

"No."

"And you won't," Catherine released his hand. "Because there is no other solution, is there? You'll marry him."

"I haven't decided..."

"James," she looked directly into his eyes, "be honest at least now. You've already decided everything. You'll marry Regulus Black to save the family company."

He wanted to object, but the words wouldn't come. Because she was right. Deep down, he already knew what he'd do.

"Thousands of jobs," he whispered. "Thousands of families will be left without means of support."

"Yes," Catherine nodded. "And you can't let that happen."

"Do you understand?"

"I understand," she said quietly. "And I hate myself for it"

"What will happen us?" James asked.

"Nothing," Catherine answered. "There won't be an 'us' anymore."

"Catherine..."

"No," she shook her head. "Don't. Don't make this more painful than it already is."

She stood and took her bag.

"Catherine, wait."

"Why?" she turned around. "So you can tell me you love me? That it won't change anything between us? That you'll think of me when you're in bed with your husband?"

"This marriage will only be on paper..."

"Will only be on paper," she agreed. "And I'll be a married man's mistress. Wonderful prospect."

"I'm not asking you to wait..."

"Good," Catherine said. "Because I'm not going to."

---

The Black house on Grimmauld Place greeted him with grim Victorian luxury. Heavy curtains, dark furniture, paintings of long-dead aristocrats who looked down from the walls with judgment.

Orion Black turned out to be a man of about fifty with sharp features and penetrating grey eyes. He shook James's hand with the air of someone who had just concluded a profitable deal.

"Welcome to the family," he said with a barely visible smile. "Regulus is waiting in the library."

James walked down the long corridor, past portraits and ancient tapestries, to the double doors at the end. He stopped, put his hand on the handle, and realized his heart was beating so loudly it seemed audible throughout the house.

Behind this door waited the man who would become his husband. The man whose life he'd also destroyed by agreeing to this.

James opened the door.

Regulus Black stood by the window, his back to the entrance. He was slightly shorter than James, slender, in an expensive navy suit. His dark hair was neatly styled, and when he turned at the sound of the opening door, James saw a face with aristocratic features and grey eyes very much like his father's.

"James," Regulus said quietly. "Good to see you."

"Good isn't the word I'd choose," James replied coldly.

Regulus flinched slightly but quickly composed himself.

"I understand this is difficult for you."

"Difficult?" James laughed bitterly. "Two days ago I was planning to propose to the woman I love. Today I'm engaged to you. 'Difficult' is putting it mildly."

"You had a girlfriend," Regulus said. It wasn't a question.

"Had. Not anymore."

"I'm sorry."

"What are you apologizing for?" James stepped closer, and Regulus instinctively stepped back. "For agreeing to this farce? For ruining my life? For the fact that I'll never be able to be with the person I love?"

He saw something flicker in Regulus's eyes — pain, disappointment, but he quickly hid his emotions behind a mask of politeness.

"I don't expect anything from you beyond what's necessary for public appearances," Regulus said evenly.

"Good," James nodded. "Because that's all you'll get."

They stood facing each other in the library's silence, two men now bound by engagement but separated by a chasm of mutual misunderstanding and pain.

"Wedding in December?" James asked.

"The fifteenth."

"Wonderful. A Christmas present for everyone."

"James," Regulus began, "I know you hate me."

"I don't waste that much emotion on you," James interrupted. "Hate implies some kind of feeling. I feel nothing for you."

"How sweet," Regulus smiled, but the smile didn't reach his eyes. "And here I thought you were capable of stronger emotions. Apparently your ex-girlfriend came to the same conclusion."

James stepped forward sharply, but Regulus didn't even blink.

"Careful," James warned in a low voice. "Not all topics are worth touching."

"Or what?" Regulus raised an eyebrow slightly. "You'll hit me? I can imagine tomorrow's headlines. 'Potter Heir Beats His Fiancé on Eve of Engagement.' Your parents would love that."

"You..."

"What am I?" Regulus stepped forward, now there was very little space between them. "Speaking the truth? Yes, perhaps. We both know who the real victim of circumstances is here, James. And it's certainly not you."

"Don't pretend this isn't profitable for you," James hissed. "The Black family will benefit from this marriage, otherwise your father wouldn't have agreed, your reputation..."

"My reputation?" Regulus laughed shortly, and the sound was almost painful. "You think I enjoy being known as the guy who married for money? As the younger son who was sold for an alliance?"

Real bitterness slipped into his voice for the first time, but he quickly composed himself.

"But you're right about one thing," Regulus added more calmly. "I won't pretend to be a victim. Unlike some people, I know how to accept the consequences of my decisions."

"Your decisions?" James nearly choked with indignation. "Our parents made this decision!"

"Yes, but I could have said no," Regulus shrugged. "Just like you could have. But we both agreed. So let's not play out a tragedy here, Potter. We're both getting what we want."

James clenched his fists.

"You don't know anything about me."

"I know enough," Regulus walked back to the window, turning his back to him. "I know you agreed to this marriage just as quickly as I did. I know you didn't fight for your great love. And I know that right now you're blaming me for everything because it's easier."

He turned around. His grey eyes looked at James.

"So let's make a deal, James. You can hate me as much as you want—that's your right. But don't pretend you're the only innocent lamb here." Regulus smiled. This smile was sharp as a blade of a small knife. Not dangerous enough to kill, but sharp enough to leave a cut on the body.

Chapter Text

The wedding preparations went smoothly.

James found himself caught up in a whirlwind of meetings, fittings, and consultations that seemed increasingly surreal with each passing day. He nodded mechanically, signed papers, chose from the options presented to him—but it all happened as if through a light haze, as though he were watching someone else's dream.

Florists displayed exquisite arrangements of snow-white roses and delicate baby's breath, their hands deftly weaving buds into lush garlands. Caterers insisted on tastings—they served him elegant canapés, tartlets with truffle filling, delicate desserts, but the flavors didn't register, dissolving into the general background.

The organizers, by contrast, sparkled with energy. They passionately discussed seating charts, color schemes for table settings, the sequence of ceremonial speeches. Their voices rang out, their gestures precise and confident—a living antithesis to his quiet numbness. The brighter their eyes burned, the more acutely he felt his own detachment, as if standing behind thick glass through which neither sounds nor emotions could penetrate.

The engagement announcement appeared in The Times exactly one week after the visit to Grimmauld Place. A dry, laconic paragraph buried among the stock market reports:

"Mr. Fleamont Potter announces the engagement of his son James to Mr. Regulus Black, younger son of Mr. Orion Black."

No words of love, no photographs of the happy couple—only facts that set London society ablaze with gossip.

Phone lines burned with calls. University friends squeezed out embarrassed congratulations, business partners offered restrained approval, and social acquaintances, feigning indifference, fished for details. By day's end, James had stopped answering. The false tone, the strained questions—it all triggered an acute desire to hurl the phone into the fireplace.

Euphemia Potter, his mother, plunged into the preparations with cold determination. She commanded the wedding like a general commanding a siege, calculating guest lists and supplier negotiations down to the minute. When James cautiously suggested a modest ceremony, she looked at him as if he'd stammered about getting married in a tavern.

"This is the event of the season," she cut him off. "The union of two great families. There can be no room for carelessness here."

Perfection.

That word hung in the air like a curse. Perfect flowers, flawless orchestra, photographs meant to preserve the memory of a marriage devoid of even a hint of feeling.

Worst of all was that to everyone else, everything seemed normal. His parents discussed seating arrangements over breakfast as if planning a simple dinner party. The organizer rhapsodized about fabric shades. Even the priest blessing their union spoke of the sanctity of marriage, not noticing that the grooms hadn't exchanged more than ten words throughout the entire process.

Since that first meeting in the library, James had seen Regulus only three times:

— At an official dinner, where they discussed the weather through gritted teeth.

— At the photography studio, where their smiles froze like masks.

— At the meeting with the organizer, where they sat on opposite sides of the table, nodding in rhythm to other people's plans.

Each encounter left behind a heavy silence—as if an invisible wall had already been erected between them by foreign hands.

Each interaction had been painfully civil, both of them playing their roles. Regulus was unfailingly polite, answering questions about his preferences for flowers and music with the same detached courtesy he might use with a business associate. James found himself doing the same, discussing the merits of orchids versus roses as though it actually mattered.

The engagement party was scheduled for the following weekend at the Dorchester Hotel. Two hundred of London's elite would gather to celebrate their upcoming nuptials, raising champagne glasses in toasts to their happiness. The thought made James's stomach turn.

It was during one particularly suffocating meeting with the florist that his phone had buzzed with a text from Sirius: "Meet me at the marina. We need to talk. Now."

James had excused himself from the discussion about whether the boutonnieres should feature white or red roses—a debate that seemed to require his urgent input despite his complete indifference—and driven to the Thames. He found Sirius waiting on his yacht, a sleek vessel that reflected his restless nature and inherited wealth.

"About bloody time," Sirius said as James climbed aboard. "I was beginning to think you'd been kidnapped by wedding planners."

Despite everything, James found himself almost smiling. Sirius looked unchanged—dark hair pulled back carelessly, expensive clothes worn with deliberate casualness, that familiar spark of mischief in his gray eyes. The same eyes as Regulus, though they'd never seemed so different.

"When did you get back to London?" James asked.

"This morning. Had to cut my trip short when I heard the delightful news." Sirius started the engine, guiding the yacht away from the dock with practiced ease. "Thought we should have this conversation somewhere private."

They motored down the Thames in silence, past the familiar landmarks of London. The city looked different, cleaner somehow, more removed from the complications of daily life. James found himself breathing easier as they put distance between themselves and the shore.

"So," Sirius said once they'd reached a quieter stretch of river, cutting the engine and dropping anchor. "My baby brother. Really?"

"It's not what you think."

"I think it's exactly what I think," Sirius replied, opening a bottle of whiskey and pouring two generous measures. "A business arrangement masquerading as a marriage. The question is why you agreed to it."

James accepted the glass and took a long drink, feeling the whiskey burn down his throat. Where could he even begin?

"The company's bankrupt," he said finally. "Has been for months, apparently. Dad managed to hide it from me until the very last minute."

Sirius raised an eyebrow. "Potter Enterprises? Impossible. That company's been solid for generations."

"A series of bad investments, lost contracts, regulatory fines." James stared out at the water, watching a pair of swans glide by with enviable serenity. "We had maybe three months before complete collapse. Thousands of employees, their pensions, all gone."

"And the Blacks rode to the rescue."

"Your father proposed a merger. Complete integration of both companies. It would save Potter Enterprises and create one of the largest conglomerates in Europe."

"For the small price of your freedom."

James laughed bitterly. "That's what I said. But then I saw the numbers, Sirius. Really looked at them. The scale of the disaster, how many people would be affected..." He took another drink. "How could I choose my personal happiness over thousands of livelihoods?"

Sirius was quiet for a moment, studying his friend's face. "And Catherine? What did you tell her?"

The mention of her name hit James like a physical blow. He closed his eyes, remembering that afternoon in the park, the look in her eyes as understanding dawned, the quiet dignity with which she'd walked away.

"I told her the truth. Eventually."

"And?"

"She understood. That's the worst part—she actually understood why I had to do it. Said she'd have made the same choice in my position." James's voice cracked slightly. "Then she told me she wouldn't wait, wouldn't be the mistress of a married man, even one married in name only."

"Have you tried to contact her since?"

"Twice." James stared into his glass, watching the amber liquid swirl. "The first time, she didn't answer. The second time, she picked up but said we had nothing left to discuss. That clean breaks were better for everyone."

"Stubborn woman."

"Smart woman. She's protecting herself the only way she knows how."

They sat in silence, the yacht rocking gently on the Thames.

"You know what the truly maddening part is?" James said suddenly. "I keep thinking about that night at the restaurant. I had the ring in my pocket. I was ready to propose. If Dad had called just two hours later..."

"You'd be planning a very different wedding right now."

"We'd probably already be married. Living in that little flat she loves in Islington, fighting over whose turn it is to do the washing up." James smiled sadly. "She sings while she does the dishes, you know. Terrible voice, but she doesn't care. Just belts out whatever song is stuck in her head."

Sirius refilled their glasses. "Tell me about Regulus. How is he handling all this?"

"With his usual charming personality." James couldn't keep the bitterness from his voice. "He acts like this is all perfectly reasonable. A business transaction that happens to involve marriage certificates."

"That sounds like Regulus. He's always been practical to the point of being cold."

"He actually seems to think I should be grateful. Like he's doing me some sort of favor by agreeing to this farce."

Sirius was quiet for a long moment, swirling the whiskey in his glass. The silence stretched between them, broken only by the gentle lapping of water against the yacht's hull and the distant hum of London traffic. When he finally spoke, his voice was carefully neutral.

"Maybe he is."

James's head snapped up. "What?"

"Think about it, James. Regulus could have married anyone. Hell, half the eligible bachelors in Europe would kill for a Black alliance. But he chose this. He chose you." Sirius took a measured sip of his drink. "The question is why."

"Because his father told him to."

"Our father tells Regulus to do a lot of things. He doesn't always comply." Sirius's smile was sharp around the edges. "Trust me on that one."

James felt something uncomfortable twist in his chest. He'd been so focused on his own misery, his own sacrifice, that he hadn't really considered what this arrangement meant for Regulus. The other man had seemed so composed, so accepting of their fate, that James had assumed he was simply following orders.

"What are you saying?"

"I'm saying my brother has always been more complicated than he lets on." Sirius leaned back against the yacht's cushions, his expression thoughtful. "When we were children, he used to follow you around like a lost puppy. Did you know that?"

The memory hit James unexpectedly—a small, serious boy with dark curls and silver eyes, always hovering at the edges of their games, too proud to ask to join but clearly wanting to. James had been older, already at Eton when Regulus was still in primary school, but during holidays and family gatherings, the younger Black had been a constant presence.

"That was just... childhood hero worship or something."

"Was it?" Sirius's eyebrow arched in a way that reminded James painfully of Regulus. "He kept newspaper clippings about your rugby matches. Your university achievements. Your business successes. Stored them all in a little box under his bed."

James felt the bottom drop out of his stomach. "How do you know that?"

"Because I found them when I was sixteen and looking for something to blackmail him with. Standard brotherly duty, you understand." Sirius's expression grew serious. "But I never used them. Something about the way he'd written little notes in the margins, dates and scores... it seemed too private. Too important."

The yacht rocked gently, and James found himself gripping his glass tighter. This couldn't be right. Regulus had been nothing but coldly polite during their interactions. Professional. Detached.

"You're wrong. If he felt... anything like that, why would he act so indifferent about all this?

"Oh, James." Sirius laughed, but there was no humor in it. "You really don't know my family at all, do you? We're trained from birth never to show vulnerability. Never to want something too obviously, because that's when it gets taken away."

A memory surfaced—Regulus at fourteen, watching James play tennis at their country club. Every time James had looked over, the boy had quickly turned away, pretending to read his book. At the time, James had thought it was typical Black arrogance. Now, he wondered if it had been something else entirely.

"Even if that's true," James said slowly, "it doesn't change anything. I don't... I can't feel that way about him."

"Can't? Or won't?"

James wanted to give a quick, definitive answer, but the words stuck in his throat. Because the truth was, he'd barely allowed himself to really look at Regulus during their recent encounters. Every interaction had been filtered through his resentment and grief over losing Catherine. He'd seen what he expected to see—cold indifference, aristocratic disdain.

But there had been moments. Brief flashes when Regulus thought no one was watching. A tightness around his eyes when the photographer had positioned them too close together. The way his hands had trembled almost imperceptibly when they'd discussed living arrangements. The careful space he'd maintained between them, as if he were afraid of something.

"This is insane," James muttered, running a hand through his hair. "Even if you're right, even if he... it doesn't matter. I'm in love with someone else."

Sirius smiled—the first genuine smile James had seen from him all day. "James? Even if romance is off the table, you could still be friends. Partners. A team. That's more than a lot of arranged marriages get. I don't want you both to live your lives in pain and hate."

They motored back to the marina as the sky darkened, both lost in their own thoughts. James felt unsettled in a way that had nothing to do with the gentle motion of the yacht. Everything he'd assumed about his situation, about Regulus, about his own feelings—it was all suddenly uncertain.

As they tied up at the dock, Sirius grabbed James's arm. "Do me a favor. Before you write this whole thing off as impossible, spend some actual time with him. Not formal meetings with your parents hovering, not photo shoots with strangers directing your every move. Just... time. See what happens."

James nodded, though he wasn't sure he was agreeing to anything more than getting Sirius to stop talking. But as he drove home through London's evening traffic, he found himself thinking about silver eyes and careful spaces and newspaper clippings hidden under a teenage boy's bed.

The Potter family mansion was blazing with lights when he arrived, and James's heart sank. He'd forgotten—tonight was the dinner party his mother had organized to introduce some of the key wedding vendors to both families. Another evening of forced smiles and discussions about napkin colors while pretending his entire life wasn't being arranged by committee.

He barely had time to change into proper dinner attire before the first guests arrived. The florist, the photographer, the catering manager—all bustling around with portfolios and sample menus, eager to impress the families who would be signing their paychecks.

The Blacks arrived precisely at eight, because punctuality was apparently another family trait. Orion Black looked exactly as James remembered—tall, distinguished, with the kind of presence that commanded attention without effort. His wife Walburga was elegant in the way that money and breeding could create, though her smile never quite reached her eyes.

And then there was Regulus.

James found himself really looking at his fiancé for the first time in weeks, trying to see past his own preconceptions. Regulus was wearing a perfectly tailored navy suit that emphasized his lean frame, his dark hair styled with just enough casual elegance to look effortless. He moved through the room with quiet confidence, shaking hands and making polite conversation with the vendors.

But there was something in his posture—a tightness across his shoulders, a careful control in the way he held himself—that suggested the ease was performed rather than felt.

"James, there you are." His mother's voice cut through his observations. "Regulus was just asking about your preferences for the ceremony music."

James turned to find Regulus standing a careful three feet away, his expression politely expectant. This close, James could see the faint shadows under his eyes, the almost imperceptible tension in his jaw.

"I don't really have strong opinions about music," James said, then caught himself. This was exactly the kind of polite deflection that had characterized all their interactions. "Actually, that's not true. I hate those overly dramatic classical pieces that make every wedding sound like a funeral. Something... lighter would be better."

A ghost of a smile crossed Regulus's face. "I was hoping you'd say that. The wedding planner keeps pushing Pachelbel's Canon, which I've always thought sounds like musical torture."

"Exactly! It's like aural wallpaper. Pretty but completely meaningless."

"Your mother mentioned you play piano," Regulus said, and there was genuine curiosity in his voice now. "Do you still?"

James blinked, surprised by the personal question. "When I have time. Not as much as I'd like. You?"

"Violin. Though I suspect I'm rustier than you are." Regulus's smile became slightly more real.

"Maybe we could... I mean, if you wanted, we could play together sometime. After..." James gestured vaguely at the room full of wedding vendors.

"I'd like that." The response came quickly, almost before Regulus seemed to consider it, and James caught a flash of something vulnerable in his expression before the careful mask slipped back into place.

"Wonderful!" Euphemia Potter appeared beside them with the wedding planner in tow. "I was just telling Mrs. Whitmore about your musical interests. Perhaps we could arrange for a special performance during the reception?"

Both men froze. James felt Regulus stiffen beside him, and he recognized the trapped look that crossed the other man's face—the same expression James had been wearing for weeks.

"Mother, I don't think—"

"Oh, it would be perfect," Mrs. Whitmore interrupted, already scribbling notes. "So romantic, the newlyweds performing together. We could arrange special lighting, perhaps have the photographer capture—"

"No." Regulus's voice was quiet but firm. "Thank you, but no. That's... private."

There was something in the way he said it that made James's chest tighten. Private. As if the idea of music, of playing together, was something precious that Regulus wanted to protect from the circus their wedding had become.

"Of course," James said quickly. "Mrs. Whitmore, we appreciate the suggestion, but we'd prefer to keep the reception entertainment professional."

Regulus glanced at him, and for just a moment, their eyes met directly. There was surprise there, and something that might have been gratitude.

The rest of the evening passed in the usual blur of decisions and tastings, but James found himself more aware of Regulus's presence. How he managed to eat almost nothing while making it look like he was enjoying the catering samples. The careful way he positioned himself in group photos, close enough to James to look natural but never quite touching.

It wasn't until the vendors began packing up their samples and portfolios that James noticed Regulus slip away from the main gathering. He found him on the terrace, leaning against the stone balustrade and staring out at the gardens. The October air was crisp, and Regulus had wrapped his arms around himself against the chill.

"Escaping too?" James asked, stepping out onto the terrace and closing the French doors behind him.

Regulus didn't turn around. "I needed some air. Your mother is very... thorough in her planning."

"That's one word for it." James moved to stand beside him at the railing, careful to maintain that familiar distance between them. "She means well, but I think she's forgotten that this is supposed to be about us, not about impressing and half of London."

"Is it, though?" Regulus's voice was quiet, almost lost in the evening breeze. "About us, I mean."

The question hung in the air between them. James found himself really looking at Regulus's profile—the sharp line of his jaw, the way the moonlight caught in his dark hair.

"I don't know," James admitted. "I've been so focused on everything I was losing that I haven't thought much about what I might be gaining."

Regulus finally turned to look at him, and James was struck by how young he looked in the dim light. Vulnerable in a way that the daylight conversations had never revealed."What were you expecting to gain?

"The honest question deserved an honest answer, but James found himself struggling to put his thoughts into words.

 "I don't know," he said again.

 "A business partnership, I suppose. A way to save both our families' companies. Mutual respect, maybe, eventually."

"That's all?"There was something in Regulus's tone—not quite disappointment, but a careful neutrality that suggested he was bracing himself for an answer he didn't want to hear.

"Mr. Potter? Mr. Black?" Mrs. Whitmore's voice interrupted from the doorway. 

"So sorry to bother you, but Mr. Black wants to discuss living arrangements."

The moment shattered. Regulus straightened, his expression smoothing back into polite composure.

"Of course," Regulus said, already moving toward the door. "We should get back inside."

"The townhouse on Belgravia Square would be most appropriate for newlyweds, I believe," Orion said.

"The renovations were just completed," Walburga added. "Fresh decorating, modern conveniences. Perfect for starting married life."

James felt Regulus tense beside him. Another decision made for them, another aspect of their future planned without consultation.

"Actually," James heard himself say, "I was thinking we might look at places together. Choose something that suits both our tastes."

Four pairs of parental eyes turned to him in surprise. But it was Regulus's reaction that mattered—the quick, startled glance he threw James, as if he couldn't quite believe what he'd heard.

"House hunting together?" Euphemia looked slightly scandalized. "James, dear, that's hardly proper before the wedding."

"We're already engaged," James pointed out. "And we'll be living together for the rest of our lives. Shouldn't we have some say in where?"

"The Belgravia house is perfect," Orion said firmly. "The location, the prestige—"

"With respect, Mr. Black, prestige isn't the same as comfort." James kept his voice level but decisive. "Regulus and I will find somewhere that works for both of us."

He could feel Regulus staring at him now, but didn't dare look back.

"Well," Walburga said after a moment, her tone suggesting she found the entire conversation unseemly. "I suppose there's no harm in looking, as long as you choose somewhere appropriate."

As the Blacks departed, James caught Regulus's arm gently before he could follow his parents to their car.

"I meant what I said," James said quietly. "About choosing a place together. And about the music thing being private. I know most of this is out of our control, but maybe... maybe some parts don't have to be."

Regulus looked at him for a long moment, something unreadable flickering in his silver eyes.

"Why?" he asked finally.

"Because you were right earlier. This is supposed to be about us, even if it doesn't feel like it. And because..." James took a breath, surprised by his own honesty. "Because I'd rather spend the rest of my life with a friend than a stranger."

Something in Regulus's expression softened, just slightly. "I'd like that too."

"Good." James managed a small smile. "I'll call you tomorrow. Maybe we can start looking at some properties this weekend."

"James." Regulus paused at the top of the front steps, his parents already waiting by the car. "Thank you. For tonight."

Chapter Text

The next day, James called Regulus as promised. They agreed to meet at a small café in Mayfair to discuss house hunting—neutral territory, away from both sets of parents and their endless opinions about what was "appropriate" for the future Mr. and Mr. Potter-Black.

James arrived first and chose a corner table, ordering coffee and trying to shake off the nervous energy that had been building since their conversation on the terrace. The night before had felt like a breakthrough of sorts, the first real connection they'd managed to make beyond polite formalities.

Regulus arrived exactly on time, impeccably dressed in a charcoal wool coat that probably cost more than most people's monthly salary.

"Sorry I'm late," he said, though he wasn't.

"You're not late," James said, standing to shake hands—an oddly formal greeting for one's fiancé, but they hadn't quite figured out the casual intimacies yet. "I ordered you tea. Earl Grey, if that's all right."

"Perfect, thank you." Regulus settled into the chair across from him, pulling out a leather portfolio. "I've made a list of potential properties. Nothing too presumptuous, just some options that might suit both our needs."

James accepted the typed pages, noting the neat handwriting in the margins—Regulus's personal notes about location, amenities, proximity to their respective offices. It was thorough, thoughtful work that must have taken hours.

"This is impressive," James said, genuinely pleased. "You've really thought this through."

"I assumed you'd want somewhere close to the City for your commute, but not so central that we'd have no privacy." Regulus's tone was businesslike, but there was a hint of uncertainty underneath. "Of course, if your preferences are different..."

"No, this looks perfect. Very practical." James studied the list, noting that Regulus had included several properties in areas he'd never mentioned preferring. "How did you know I'd want to avoid Belgravia?"

Regulus looked surprised by the question. "You always seemed... uncomfortable at the family gatherings there when we were younger. I assumed you found the atmosphere rather stuffy."

The observation was both perceptive and unexpectedly personal—the kind of detail that suggested Regulus had been paying attention to James for years. It should have been touching, James realized later. Instead, something about it made him feel exposed, almost violated.

"You've been watching me that long?" The words came out sharper than he'd intended.

Regulus blinked, clearly taken aback by the sudden change in tone. "I... what?"

"All those years of family parties, you were cataloguing my reactions? Making mental notes about my preferences?" James felt his chest tighten with an inexplicable anger. "Were you planning this even then?"

"Planning what?" Regulus's voice was carefully controlled, but James could see the hurt flickering in his silver eyes. "James, I don't understand..."

"This marriage. This convenient solution that saves both our families and gets you exactly what you've apparently wanted since we were children."

The accusation hung between them like a physical thing. Regulus went very still, his hands flat on the table, and James watched all the warmth drain from his expression.

"Exactly what I wanted," Regulus repeated. "You think I wanted this?"

"Didn't you? Sirius told me about the newspaper clippings, the way you used to follow me around. This must feel like Christmas morning for you — getting to marry your childhood obsession without even having to earn it."

The moment the words left his mouth, James knew he'd gone too far. Regulus flinched as if he'd been slapped, his face going pale except for two spots of color high on his cheekbones.

"My childhood obsession." Regulus's voice was deadly quiet. "How... quaint that you see it that way."

"What else would you call it?"

"Admiration, perhaps. Respect." Regulus's hands had curled into fists on the table. "But you're quite right, of course. How pathetic of me to mistake a business arrangement for something that might have actual meaning."

"Regulus, I didn't mean—"

"Oh, I think you meant exactly what you said." Regulus was already reaching for his coat, his movements sharp and controlled. "Thank you for clarifying where we stand. It will make the next several decades much easier to navigate."

"Drop the act."

"Act?" Regulus laughed, but there was no humor in it. "You've just accused me of orchestrating your company's bankruptcy so I could trap you into marrying me. If anyone's being dramatic, it's you."

James felt a flicker of shame, but the anger was stronger. Its like all his grief of his old life turned into anger

"That's not what I meant and you know it."

"I know exactly what you meant, you've decided I'm some sort of manipulative predator who's been scheming to possess you since childhood." Regulus stood, pulling on his coat with sharp, precise movements.

"Where are you going?"

"To look at houses. Alone. Since apparently my input is both unwanted and suspect." Regulus's smile was razor-sharp. "Don't worry I'll choose something practical. Preferably with separate wings so we can avoid contaminating each other."

He was halfway to the door before James found his voice. "Regulus, wait—"

But Regulus was already gone, leaving James sitting alone at the corner table with two untouched cups and the careful notes about houses they would never choose together. The other patrons were studiously avoiding his gaze, though he could feel their curious stares burning into his back.

James stared at the typed pages, noting details he'd missed before—how Regulus had marked properties with gardens, knowing James missed having outdoor space. How he'd avoided anything too modern, remembering James's preference for period architecture. .

His phone buzzed with a text from his mother:

"Regulus called. He's chosen the Belgravia house after all. Says you agreed it was the most practical option. The papers are being drawn up this afternoon."

James closed his eyes, feeling the full weight of what he'd just destroyed settling on his shoulders. Whatever fragile understanding they'd been building, whatever possibility of partnership or friendship—he'd shattered it all.

James gathered up the pages and left the café, but he didn't go home. Instead, he drove aimlessly through London's streets, he wanted to call Catherine. Try to talk to her again, one last time.

He opened his phone.

It had had three missed calls from Sirius and a single text message from Regulus:

"Arrangements finalized. No further consultation necessary."

James stared at the message for a long time, then deleted it without responding. There was nothing he could say that would undo what he'd done.

The engagement party was in two days. Two hundred guests would raise champagne glasses to toast their happiness, and James would have to stand beside Regulus and pretend they were anything more than two strangers bound together by duty.

The Belgravia house was everything James didn't want.

It sat on a pristine crescent, all white Georgian façade and glossy black railings, the kind of address that screamed old money and older expectations. The interior was worse—cavernous rooms with crown molding so elaborate it gave him a headache, marble floors that echoed with every footstep, furniture that looked like it belonged in a museum rather than a home.

He stood in what would be their bedroom— their bedroom, Christ—and tried to imagine sleeping here every night for the rest of his life. The bed was enormous, some antique monstrosity with posts thick as tree trunks. At least it was large enough that they could maintain a respectable distance. Small mercies.

His phone rang. Sirius, again.

"What?" James answered, more curtly than he'd intended.

"Wow, hello to you too." Sirius's voice was dry. "Just calling to see if you've completely destroyed your life yet, or if there's still time to stop you."

"Too late for that."

"The house thing? Yeah, Regulus told me." There was a pause. "You're an idiot, you know that?"

"Get in line." James sank down onto the edge of the bed, pressing his free hand against his forehead. "He told you what I said?"

"Not in so many words. But I can read between the lines." Sirius sighed. "Look, I know you're grieving. I know this whole situation is fucked up and unfair and you didn't ask for any of it. But taking it out on Regulus? That's low, even for you."

"I don't need a lecture right now."

"Too bad, because you're getting one anyway." Sirius's tone sharpened. "My brother has been half in love with you since we were teenagers. You know that, I know that, probably half of London knows that. But he never would have pushed for this marriage if your company wasn't already circling the drain. He's not the villain here."

"I know that," James said quietly. "I know."

"Regulus doesn't work that way. If he wanted you, he'd have done something about it years ago. The fact that he didn't—that he waited, that he kept his distance—that should tell you everything you need to know about his character."

James closed his eyes. "I fucked up."

"Spectacularly." Another pause. " Are you planning to apologize, or are you going to let this fester until you're both miserable?"

"I don't know if he'd even accept an apology at this point."

"Probably not. But you owe him one anyway." Sirius's voice softened slightly. "Look, I'm not saying you have to fall in love with him. I'm not even saying you have to like this situation. But you could at least try not to make it actively worse."

After Sirius hung up, James sat alone in the enormous bedroom and tried to figure out how he'd become this person—someone who lashed out at people trying to help him, who turned kindness into ammunition, who couldn't separate his anger at the situation from his anger at the people caught in it alongside him.

His phone buzzed. Another text from his mother: "Final fitting tomorrow at 10. Don't be late."

The fitting was at some exclusive tailor in Savile Row, the kind of place where they knew your measurements before you walked in the door and charged more for a suit than most people paid in rent. James arrived exactly on time, which meant Regulus was already there, standing on a platform in front of three mirrors wearing a perfectly cut navy suit that made him look like he'd stepped out of a fashion magazine.

"Mr. Potter," the tailor said warmly. "We're just finishing up with Mr. Black, then we'll get you sorted."

James nodded, taking a seat in one of the leather chairs along the wall. He tried not to stare at Regulus's reflection, but it was impossible. The suit emphasized his lean frame, the sharp line of his shoulders. His hair was slightly longer than usual, curling just slightly at his collar. He looked beautiful.

"The shoulders need to come in slightly," Regulus was saying to the tailor, his voice professional and detached. "And perhaps lengthen the sleeves by half an inch."

"Of course, sir."

Regulus caught James's eye in the mirror for just a second before looking away. The dismissal was worse than anger would have been.

The tailor made his adjustments, pinning and marking, while Regulus stood perfectly still. James watched the careful blankness of his expression and felt something twist in his chest.

"There we are," the tailor said finally. "Perfect. You can change now, Mr. Black."

Regulus disappeared into the changing room without acknowledging James's presence. The tailor turned to him with a professional smile.

"Your turn, Mr. Potter."

James's suit was charcoal grey, conservatively cut but undeniably expensive. As the tailor fussed with the fit, James caught sight of Regulus emerging from the changing room in his street clothes—black trousers and a cream sweater that somehow managed to look both casual and impossibly elegant.

"I'll have both suits ready by six this evening," the tailor was saying.

"Yes, thank you," Regulus said quietly.

He was halfway to the door when James spoke. "Regulus, wait."

Regulus paused but didn't turn around. "What?"

"Can we talk? Just for a minute."

"I think you said everything that needed saying at the café." Regulus's voice was perfectly neutral, which somehow made it worse.

"Please."

The tailor had very diplomatically vanished into the back room. Regulus stood with his back to James, one hand on the door handle, and for a terrible moment James thought he was just going to leave. But then his shoulders sagged slightly and he turned around.

"Make it quick. I have appointments."

James stepped down from the platform, suddenly aware that he was standing there in a half-fitted suit with pins sticking out of the shoulders. Not exactly the ideal position for a serious conversation.

"I'm sorry," he said. "For what I said at the café. All of it. You didn't deserve that."

Regulus's expression didn't change. "Is that all?"

"No." James took a breath. "I was angry and scared and I took it out on you. That was wrong. You've been nothing but considerate through this whole thing, and I... I threw it back in your face."

"You accused me of orchestrating your company's collapse so I could trap you into marriage." Regulus's voice was still carefully neutral, but James could see the tension in his jaw. "That's a bit more than throwing kindness back in my face."

"I know."

"Do you?" Regulus took a step closer. "Because from my perspective, it seems like you've decided I'm some sort of obsessive stalker who's been plotting to possess you since we were children. Never mind that I've spent the last decade deliberately keeping my distance. Never mind that I only agreed to this marriage because both our families were pressuring us and it seemed like the least terrible option. Never mind that I've been trying—really trying—to make this bearable for both of us."

James felt heat creep up his neck. "You're right."

"Of course I'm right." Regulus laughed, but there was no humor in it. "You know what the worst part is? I actually thought we were making progress. That conversation on the terrace, talking about the house—I thought maybe we could be friends, at least. Maybe even partners, eventually. But clearly I was deluding myself."

"You weren't."

"Oh, I was." Regulus's grey eyes were hard. "You think I have some romantic fantasy about you, but you're the one who doesn't see reality. This marriage isn't some fairytale. It's a business arrangement between two families, and I'm trying to approach it practically. That's all I've ever been trying to do."

"I know that now."

 Regulus crossed his arms. "Here's what's going to happen. At Wedding night, we'll stand in front of two hundred people and pretend to be happily marrying. We'll smile for the cameras and make appropriate toasts and play our parts. Then we'll move into that house and figure out how to coexist without killing each other. That's it. That's the extent of our relationship."

"It doesn't have to be like that."

"Yes, it does." Regulus's voice was final. "You made sure of it."

He turned to leave again, and James felt something like panic rise in his chest.

"You probably know I loved someone," he blurted out. "Her name was Catherine. We were together for two years. I was going to propose."

Regulus froze.

"When the company started failing, when my parents told me about the arrangement with your family..." James's voice cracked slightly. "I had to end it. Had to tell her I was marrying someone else."

Slowly, Regulus turned back around. His expression was unreadable.

"The night before you called about looking at houses, I tried to call her one last time," James continued. "She didn't answer. She's blocked my number. And I'm standing here about to marry a stranger while the person I actually love won't even speak to me."

 Regulus seemed to be choosing his words carefully. "James, I'm not asking you to love me. I'm not even asking you to like me particularly. But I am asking you to stop punishing me for a situation neither of us wanted."

Because it feels like you're so busy mourning what you've lost that you can't see what's actually in front of you. I'm not Catherine. I'm never going to be Catherine. But I am going to be your husband, and we're going to have to figure out how to make that work."

James looked at him. Regulus's carefully controlled expression, the tension in his shoulders, the way he held himself like he was bracing for another blow. He looked exhausted and hurt and still somehow managing to maintain his composure.

"I'm sorry," James said again. "Not just for what I said. For all of it. For not seeing you clearly. For making assumptions. For being a complete arse."

"You were," Regulus agreed. "But I understand why."

"That's generous of you."

"Not really. I'm just trying to be practical." Regulus glanced at his watch. "I do actually have appointments. Can we table this conversation for now?"

"Yeah. Of course." James paused. "Will I see you tonight?"

"There's a family dinner. Both families together. Did your mother not tell you?"

She probably had. James had been deleting most of her messages unread.

"Right. The dinner."

"Six o'clock. Try not to be late."

The family dinner was exactly as terrible as James had anticipated.

Both sets of parents were there, plus Sirius and a handful of aunts and uncles who'd flown in for the engagement party. They gathered in a private room at some Michelin-starred restaurant in Mayfair, the kind of place where the menu didn't have prices and the waitstaff moved like ghosts.

James arrived five minutes late and immediately wished he'd stayed home.

"There he is," his father boomed, standing to shake his hand. "The man of the hour."

Regulus was already seated, wearing a dark suit and an expression that gave nothing away. He nodded politely as James took the chair across from him—of course they'd been seated across from each other, so everyone could watch their interaction like it was dinner theater.

"You look well, darling," James's mother said, leaning over to kiss his cheek. "Doesn't he look well, Walburga?"

Regulus's mother, a formidable woman with silver-streaked black hair and a gaze that could cut glass, studied James with the intensity of someone evaluating livestock. "He'll do."

"Mother," Regulus said quietly.

"What? I'm simply being honest." Walburga turned her attention back to her wine. "Though perhaps a bit more sleep wouldn't go amiss. You both look exhausted."

"Wedding planning is stressful," James's mother said diplomatically.

"Hardly. Everything's been arranged." Walburga's eyes flickered between James and Regulus. "Unless there's some problem we should know about?"

"No problem," Regulus said smoothly. "Everything's fine."

It was amazing how he could make "everything's fine" sound like a threat.

The first course arrived—some sort of delicate fish that probably had a French name James couldn't pronounce. He pushed it around his plate while his father and Orion Black discussed business, their voices low and serious.

"The merger will be finalized next month," Orion was saying. "Once the marriage is official, of course."

"Of course," James's father agreed. "All very proper."

James felt Sirius kick him under the table. He looked up to find his best friend giving him a pointed look.

Behave, Sirius's expression said clearly.

James turned his attention to Regulus, who was eating with mechanical precision, his posture perfect despite the obvious tension in his shoulders.

"How was your afternoon?" James asked, aiming for casual conversation.

Regulus looked up, surprise flickering across his face before he controlled it. "Fine. Productive. Yours?"

"Long."

"I can imagine."

It was possibly the most stilted exchange in history, but at least they were talking. Small victories.

"I meant to ask," James continued, ignoring his mother's obvious delight at them engaging in conversation. "About the house. Are you happy with it?"

Regulus's expression shuttered. "It's suitable."

"That's not what I asked."

"It's what I'm answering." Regulus took a sip of wine. "Does it matter if I'm happy with it?"

"Yes."

"Why? You made it clear you weren't interested in my input."

James deserved that. "I was wrong. I'd like to hear what you actually think."

Regulus studied him for a long moment, clearly trying to decide if this was genuine or some sort of trap. Finally, he said, "It's too formal. Too much like a museum. I'd have preferred something with more character, more warmth. But it's in the right location and it has good bones. We can make it work."

"We could look at other places. If you're not happy—"

"The papers are signed. It's done." Regulus's tone was final. "Besides, it doesn't really matter where we live. It's not like we're building a home together. It's just... housing."

The word landed like a slap. James opened his mouth to respond, but Walburga cut in.

"Regulus, don't be dramatic. The Belgravia house is perfectly lovely. Your father and I started out in something far less grand."

"And look how well that turned out," Sirius muttered into his wine glass.

The comment earned him a sharp look from both parents, but no one addressed it directly. Instead, the conversation shifted to logistics for tomorrow's party—the guest list, the catering, the photographer who'd been flown in from Paris specifically for the occasion.

James tried to focus, but his attention kept drifting back to Regulus. The careful way he held himself, like he was made of glass and might shatter at any moment. The way he deflected every personal question with smooth professionalism. The way he never quite looked at James directly.

"—don't you think, James?"

He realized his mother was speaking to him. "Sorry, what?"

"The first dance. You'll need to practice before tomorrow."

"Practice?" James blinked. "I It's just a simple dance."

"Yes, but you need to look natural together. Comfortable." His mother exchanged a glance with Walburga. "Perhaps after dinner, you two could run through it quickly?"

Regulus's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. "That's not necessary."

"Nonsense. It'll only take a few minutes."

"Mother, I don't think—"

"Regulus." Walburga's voice was steel wrapped in silk. "Don't make a scene."

The rest of the dinner passed in a blur of courses James barely tasted and conversation he didn't follow. By the time dessert arrived, he felt like he'd run a marathon.

Finally—finally—it was over. The parents departed in a flurry of air kisses and reminders about tomorrow's schedule, leaving James, Regulus, and Sirius standing on the sidewalk outside the restaurant.

"Well, that was excruciating," Sirius said cheerfully. "Anyone fancy a drink?"

"I need to get home," Regulus said. "Early morning tomorrow."

"Come on, one drink. For old times' sake."

"There are no old times." But Regulus's protest was half-hearted.

"There will be if you have a drink with us." Sirius was already flagging down a taxi. "Come on. I know a place that's quiet. No photographers, no family members. Just us."

Regulus looked at James, something unreadable in his expression. "Do you want me to come?"

It was the first time he'd asked James directly what he wanted. The first time he'd given James the choice.

"Yeah," James said. "I do."

Something in Regulus's expression shifted. Not quite softening, but not quite as brittle either. "Alright then. One drink."

The bar Sirius chose was tucked away in Soho, the kind of place you'd walk past a dozen times without noticing. Inside, it was all dark wood and low lighting, jazz playing softly in the background. They claimed a corner booth, and Sirius ordered a bottle of whisky that probably cost more than the taxi ride over.

"To tomorrow," Sirius said, raising his glass. "May it be less painful than tonight."

"Impossible," Regulus muttered, but he clinked glasses anyway.

The whisky was smooth and burning at once. James felt some of the tension in his shoulders ease.

"So," Sirius said, looking between them. "Are you two going to keep pretending everything's fine, or are you going to actually talk about the fact that you can barely look at each other?"

"Subtle as always," Regulus said dryly.

"Someone has to address the elephant in the room." Sirius poured another round. "Look, I love you both. You're my brother and my best friend. And watching you two tiptoe around each other like you're afraid of setting off landmines is exhausting."

"What do you want us to say?" James asked. "That this whole situation is fucked? We know that."

"I want you to stop treating each other like enemies." Sirius's usual humor had drained away, leaving something raw and serious in its place. "You're getting married tomorrow. Actually married. And unless one of you plans to call it off—"

"We're not calling it off," Regulus said quickly.

"—then you need to figure out how to at least be civil to each other."

"We are civil," James protested.

"You're not." Sirius looked at Regulus. "He apologized, didn't he? At the fitting?"

Regulus's fingers tightened around his glass. "Yes."

"And did you accept?"

"I... we didn't finish the conversation."

"Right. Well, here's your chance." Sirius stood up, draining his glass. "I'm going to the bathroom. I'll be gone for exactly ten minutes. Use them wise"

He disappeared before either of them could protest.

James and Regulus sat in silence for a long moment. The jazz played on, some melancholy trumpet piece that seemed to underscore the weight of everything unsaid between them.

"I did accept your apology," Regulus said finally. "In case that wasn't clear."

"It wasn't. But thank you."

"I understand why you said what you said. It doesn't mean it didn't hurt, but I understand." Regulus traced the rim of his glass with one finger. "For what it's worth, I'm sorry too."

"For what?"

"For not realizing how much you were grieving."

"I can't give you what you want," James said quietly. "I don't know if I'll ever be able to."

"I know." Regulus's voice was steady. "I'm not asking you to. I'm just asking you to stop looking at me like I've stolen something from you."

"I don't—"

"You do. Every time you look at me, I can see it. The resentment. The anger. Like I'm the physical embodiment of everything you've lost." Regulus's composure was cracking, just slightly. "And maybe I am. Maybe that's all I'll ever be to you. But I can't spend the rest of my life being punished for circumstances neither of us controlled."

James felt something crack in his chest. "You're right. I'm sorry. Again. Still."

"Stop apologizing."

"I don't know what else to do."

The rest of the time passed easily, the dark wood and soft jazz isolating them from the world that awaited them outside. They didn't talk about their families or the wedding; instead, they discussed Sirius's latest poker loss and his crush on the bartender. For the first time, James felt a fragile sense of comfort between them. It was far from home, but it wasn't a cage.

When it was time to leave, the city was quiet. They stood at the entrance to the bar, the air cool and damp.

As Regulus got into the taxi Sirius had hailed, James felt a strange mixture of fear and... Not excitement, but determination. Tomorrow was inevitable. But at least now they wouldn't be facing each other as enemies.

Chapter Text

The morning of the wedding dawned with unseasonable sunshine, which seemed like a cruel joke.

James stood in front of the mirror in his childhood bedroom, adjusting his bow tie for the third time. His hands wouldn't stop shaking. Outside, he could hear the chaos of preparations—the shouts of the cooks, the random clatter of his mother's heels on the marble floor, the sound checks of the string quartet in the garden. It all got on his nerves so much that he wanted to bang his head against the wall.

Two hundred guests. A six-tier cake. Flowers brought in from the Netherlands. All of this had been organized in less than three months, because when influential families wanted something, deadlines became recommendations rather than restrictions. It was important to Orion that the wedding be lavish. To James, it seemed outrageous, because even as the son of a wealthy family, he had never allowed himself to flaunt his wealth so openly. 

"You'll choke yourself if you pull it so tight," Sirius said from the doorway. He had been dressed for a long time. "Let me help you."

James lowered his arms, allowing Sirius to tie his bow tie. "I can't do this."

"Yes, you can."

"What if I just... don't show up? Get in the car and drive away somewhere? Maybe to Scotland. Or France."

"Then Regulus will show up alone, be humiliated in front of everyone he knows, and both families will destroy each other trying to blame each other. Besides, your father's company will fall apart anyway, and you'll achieve nothing except looking like a coward." Sirius took a step back, examining his work. "Better?"

James looked at himself in the mirror. He looked exactly as he was — a man being led to his execution in a designer tuxedo.

"Do you think she'll come?" he asked quietly.

Sirius didn't need to ask who he meant. "Catherine? I don't know. Did you invite her?"

"No. But she knows. Everyone knows." James sat down on the edge of the bed. "I tried calling her again last night. She still isn't answering."

"Maybe it's for the best."

"How is that better?"

"Because seeing her today, on your wedding day to someone else, will only make things worse." Sirius sat down next to him. "Listen, I know you loved her. I know this isn't what you wanted. But you have to accept it. The sooner you accept it, the easier it will be."

"I don't want it to be easy. I want it all to be over."

Before Sirius could answer, Euphemia burst through the door. 

"James, dear, you need to... Oh, thank goodness, you're dressed. The photographer wants to take family portraits in twenty minutes, and you haven't even... Sirius, my boy, is that champagne? It's not even noon yet."

"I'm celebrating, Euphie," Sirius said cheerfully, raising his glass.

"It's too early for alcohol."

"It's never too early for alcohol at a wedding."

James's mother ignored him, fixing James with a laser-sharp gaze. "You look pale. Are you feeling all right? Should I ask someone to bring you something to eat?"

"I'm fine, Mom."

"You don't look fine. You look like you're about to throw up." She put her hand on his forehead. "Do you have a fever? God, what if you're sick? What if you can't make it through the ceremony?"

"I'm not sick. I'm just nervous."

"Nervous. Of course. Of course you're nervous." She was already reaching for her phone. "I'll have someone bring you some crackers. And tea. Tea helps calm you down."

"Mom..."

But she was already gone, the heels of her shoes clicking down the hallway at double speed.

Sirius laughed. "Euphie will lose her mind by the end of the day."

"Welcome to the club."

They sat in silence for a moment. Through the window, James could see the garden being transformed into something out of a fairytale—white chairs arranged in perfect rows, an arch covered in roses and ivy, more flowers than he'd ever seen in one place. It was beautiful. It was suffocating.

"I saw him this morning," Sirius said. "Regulus. He looked about as terrified as you do."

"That's comforting."

"I'm just saying, you're both in the same boat. Both scared shitless, both trapped by circumstances beyond your control. Maybe you could try remembering that when you're standing up there promising forever."

James's phone buzzed. A text from his father: I need to talk to you. Now.

"Duty calls," James said, standing. "Probably wants to give me some last-minute advice about being a good husband."

"Or he wants to make sure you're not going to bolt."

"Also possible."

The study was on the ground floor, tucked away from the wedding chaos. James found his father standing by the window, a glass of scotch in hand despite the early hour. He looked older than James remembered, the lines around his eyes deeper, his shoulders slightly stooped.

"Close the door," his father said without turning around.

James did. An uneasy feeling settled in his stomach.

"I need to tell you something. Before the ceremony." His father finally turned, and James was startled by the exhaustion in his face. "Something I should have told you months ago. I didn't want to do it now, but they left me no choice"

"What?"

"The company's financial troubles. They're not just... regular business problems." His father took a long drink. "I made some mistakes. Bad investments. Riskier than I should have taken. And when things started going south, I made even worse decisions trying to fix them."

"I know all this, Dad. You've explained—"

"I borrowed money from people I shouldn't have borrowed from." The words came out in a rush, like he'd been holding them in too long. "Dangerous people. The kind who don't accept 'I need more time' as an answer."

The room seemed to tilt. "What kind of people?"

"Does it matter? The point is, the debt is substantial. More than substantial. The kind that destroys families." His father's hand was shaking around his glass. "The Blacks offered a solution. Merge the companies, marry you to Regulus, and they'd cover the debt. Make it disappear. It was the only way out."

James felt cold all over. "You're telling me this now? On my wedding day?"

"Because you need to understand what's at stake." Fleamonts voice cracked slightly. "If this marriage doesn't happen, if you back out, we don't just lose the company. We lose everything. And the people I owe... they won't just take our money. They'll take everything we have. They've made that very clear. They are sitting among the guests right now and watching our every move."

"Jesus Christ." James sank into one of the leather chairs. "How much do you owe?"

"More than you want to know."

"How much?"

His father named a figure that made James's vision blur. It was obscene. Impossible. The kind of debt that took generations to repay.

"How could you let it get this bad?"

"I thought I could fix it. I thought if I just made one good investment, one smart move, I could climb out. But every time I tried, I sank deeper." Fleamont looked older than his fifty-five years. "I'm sorry. For all of it. For putting this on you. For not being honest from the start. For letting my pride destroy your future."

"What about Regulus?" James asked, still standing with his back to his father. "Did he know? Did he know he was part of the deal?"

"Orion said no. He told me he presented it as a marriage of convenience, for the sake of 'strengthening the fortunes and influence of two ancient families.'" I don't know if Regulus believed it. The Blacks are an impenetrable bunch.

A marriage of convenience. The cold, sterile phrase was a neat little lie to hide the ugly truth: debt repayment. James was the pawn.

"I want you to look at me, James."

James didn't move. He couldn't. If he looked at his father, he was afraid he would see a monster or, worse, a pathetic man, and either image would break something important inside him. Because James loved him. 

"I can't undo this," Fleamonts voice was firmer now, stripped of its former tremor, a last desperate plea in it. "I can't get the money back. And the people I borrowed it from... they're not the Blacks. They're not an old family with a reputation to uphold. They're monsters, James. They don't need a company, they don't need a name. They want to hurt people. They want to make us an example to others. Marriage... marriage gives us time, gives us protection, because the Blacks have influence and power that these other people respect. If this doesn't happen, your mother will be dragged through the mud, and you and I... we'll face things you can't even imagine."

The sheer horror of this admission finally broke through James's wall of rage. It was no longer about the estate or the company; it was about survival. He was overcome by a sickening wave of fear and deep resentment. His father, in his desperate gamble, had brought a real, tangible threat to their doorstep, and James's life—his love, his freedom, his choices—was the only shield left.

There was a knock at the door. James's mother's voice: "The photographer is ready. James, darling, we need you in the garden."

"Coming," James called, his voice sounding hollow even to his own ears.

He looked at his father one last time. "If you ever keep something like this from me again, we're done. I don't care about the company or the debt or anything else. We're done. Understood?"

"Understood."

The photographs were torture.

Stand here. Smile. Tilt your head. Put your arm around your mother. Look happy. Look like you want to be here. Look like this is the happiest day of your life.

James went through the motions mechanically, his mind still reeling from his father's confession. Mafia debt. Dangerous people. His entire future sold to keep everyone safe. He wanted to laugh at the absurdity of it, but he was afraid if he started, he wouldn't be able to stop.

"You're scowling," his mother whispered during a break between shots. "Everyone's going to think you're unhappy."

"I am unhappy."

"James—"

"Sorry, I'm just overwhelmed." He pulled away from her, needing space, needing air.

He found himself wandering toward the house, away from the manufactured joy of the garden. The guests would be arriving soon. He should be getting ready, going over his vows, preparing to stand in front of two hundred people and promise forever to someone he barely knew.

Instead, he ended up in the library, staring out at the driveway.

That's where he saw her.

Catherine stood next to a taxi, arguing with the driver about something. She was wearing a dress he'd never seen before—dark green silk that brought out the auburn in her hair. She looked beautiful and furious and completely out of place at his wedding.

James's feet were moving before his brain could catch up, out the library door and down the front steps.

"Catherine."

She spun around, and for a moment, they just stared at each other across the gravel drive. The taxi driver said something irritated and drove off, leaving them alone.

"You weren't supposed to come," James said.

James's gaze was fixed on Catherine, and the perfect lie he had made up for the photographer crumbled into dust on the driveway. The rays of the setting sun reflected in her tears. She looked like a woman who had just stepped off a cliff, yet she stood there radiating a desperate, restrained strength.

"You shouldn't have come," he repeated, but the words were barely audible, devoid of any reproach due to the shock and pain of seeing her. The sound of the departing taxi faded away, leaving a heavy silence broken only by the distant, muffled sounds of last-minute preparations—a clear sign that their stolen moment was quickly coming to an end.

"I know," she admitted, and that single word was evidence of her struggle. She smoothed the skirt of her dress, trying in vain to collect her thoughts, and lifted her chin slightly in a gesture of defiant humility. "I spent all morning staring at the invitation and watching the clock. Every sane part of my brain was screaming at me to stay home, to protect what little dignity I had left. I knew coming here would be masochistic and foolish, and would only make things worse." Her voice faltered slightly on the last word. "But I couldn't just... I couldn't let it end with a text message and a desperate, half-explanatory phone call. I needed to see you. One more time. To prove to myself that you were real, and that this whole last year wasn't just some complicated, cruel dream."

He slowly took a step toward her, the crunch of gravel under his expensive leather shoes sounding deafeningly loud. He wanted to close the distance, pull her toward him, beg her to disappear with him, but the fear of the invisible people his father owed — the monsters — was a physical cage holding him back.

"Catherine, please don't do this," he pleaded, helplessly raising his hand between them. "Don't make this any more complicated. Because it's already incredibly complicated."

"This is the hardest thing I've ever done, James," she replied softly, a sad smile appearing on her lips. "So don't worry about me. I'm not here to make a scene or beg you not to do this. I know it's been decided. I know it's over between us. The decision was made for you long before I showed up here. I just needed to say goodbye properly. To look you in the eye and say... I don't regret a single second."

The sincere absence of malice, the pure, undisguised sadness in her expression broke his heart. " I'm sorry," he croaked, but the apology was insufficient for the magnitude of the sacrifice he was making and the destruction he was leaving behind. "For everything. For lying to you about the seriousness of my father's problems, for letting you believe we had a future, for letting it all end this way. If there were another way that wouldn't lead me to the altar today, I would have taken it."

"But there isn't," she finished for him, losing her composure for a moment as a tear finally rolled down her cheek. "I know. I've known for a long time. The man I loved would never have done this if he hadn't been forced to. Honestly, that's the only thing that makes it bearable. It doesn't make it any easier, but I know it."

She took a deep, shaky breath, wiped her cheek with the back of her hand, and tried to regain her fragile composure. The next question was the most difficult.

"Is he good to you? This Regulus?" she asked, his fiancé's name sounding harsh and foreign on her tongue. The implication was clear: will you at least be safe? Will anyone at least take care of you?

James hesitated, a knot forming in his chest. "I... I don't know yet," he admitted honestly. "We've only met a few times. He's... distant. Reserved. But he's not cruel. He does it for his family, just like I do for mine."

"But could he become that way? Over time?" Catherine insisted, her voice softening with hope as she sought the bright side of his personal disaster. "Will you be able to find a life there? A quiet, dignified one? Will you be safe?"

He met her sincere gaze, the garden and house disappearing into the mist, leaving only the two of them on the brink of two different lives. He had to give her something she could walk away with.

"Yes," James lied, and that word was a promise he hoped to keep. "It can be like that. And I'll be safe. I swear, Catherine. I'll be safe." And I'll do everything to make sure you're safe too. 

"Okay. That's... okay," Catherine repeated, and she uttered that simple affirmative word with a great amount of effort. She quickly wiped her eyes again, trying to regain some control over her face. "I hope you're happy, James. Maybe not right away, but someday. You deserve it." Her voice was soft, she sincerely wished him happiness, and it was this selfless kindness that touched him deeply.

"You too," James said, sincerely.

"I will be," she replied, and a sincere, though tearful, laugh escaped her lips. It was a fragile sound, like the crack of glass. "I'm working on it. I started therapy. I joined a book club. It's all very helpful and mature." She tried to smile brighter, but the smile didn't reach her eyes. "I still feel like my heart has been ripped out, but they tell me it will pass with time. I'll be okay. In time."

"Catherine..." James began, wanting to say some final words of comfort or explanation, something that would make this separation less cruel.

"I have to go," she interrupted him softly, shaking her head. "Before anyone sees me and it turns into a scandal. You don't need a scandal on your wedding day, and I certainly don't need the humiliation from your future husband." She took a step back, then stopped, her whole body turning toward him. "James? If it matters, I really did love you. And I still do. But loving someone isn't always enough, is it? Sometimes... reality matters more."

She didn't wait for his answer, didn't give him a chance to change his mind. With a deep sigh, she turned on her heels and walked away, her dark green silk dress swirling around her. James stood motionless, watching her lone figure diminish in the distance along the long, immaculate road until she reached the main road and raised her hand, hailing a passing taxi that quickly whisked her away from his life and away from his doom.

James remained standing where he was, her words ringing in his ears: "Reality matters more." He felt empty, as if he were not just watching the taxi drive away, but witnessing the quiet, solemn funeral of the last honest part of his former self.

"That was Catherine, wasn't it?"

 James slowly turned and saw Sirius standing on the top step of the marble staircase, who had silently left the house.

 Sirius, who knew more than anyone James knew about escaping suffocating family obligations, did not ask what had happened; the emotional residue of the scene hung in the air.

"Yes," James confirmed, uttering the word harshly.

"Did she come to say goodbye?" Sirius asked sympathetically.

"Something like that. She came to check if I'd been replaced by a clone and that I was still making my own decisions—even if that's the only thing I have left," James summed up bitterly. He rubbed his face with both hands, running them through his perfect hair. "God, what a disaster. What a grand, self-inflicted, catastrophic disaster."

Sirius descended the steps and stopped a few paces away. He looked at the empty space where Catherine had disappeared, and a genuine sadness flashed in his eyes. "I prayed every day that things would be different."

He put his hand on James's shoulder. "Come on. You need to get ready. The photographer is done, the flowers are in place, and the first guests are already arriving. The ceremony will begin in an hour. You're marrying my brother, and I'd prefer you not look like a convicted criminal when you do it."

Sirius squeezed his shoulder tightly. "Let's go."

James stared at the majestic entrance to the house, the polished wooden doors, the sparkling windows, the facade of wealth and stability. He straightened his shoulders, feeling the weight of the lie settle on them again. "Yes. Let's go sell my soul."

The chapel was built in the eighteenth century, with high ceilings and stained glass windows that cast multicolored hues onto the pews. It was beautiful in that austere, awe-inspiring way that old churches often are, and it was filled with people James barely knew or actively disliked.

He stood at the altar next to Sirius, his best man, trying not to look at the faces staring at him. Trying not to think about Catherine. About his father's confession. About the fact that he was about to tie his life to a stranger because dangerous people demanded payment.

The music grew louder. Everyone stood up.

And Regulus appeared at the end of the aisle.

For a moment, James forgot how to breathe.

Regulus was dressed in a perfectly tailored dark blue morning suit, his dark hair slicked back. He looked otherworldly and unreal, like a character from a historical film. But it was the look on his face that stopped James's heart—he looked absolutely terrified, his composure barely held together by sheer willpower.

Their eyes met across the chapel, and something passed between them. Solidarity. They were both drowning, and they only had each other to hold on to.

Regulus walked down the aisle with careful, measured steps, his father beside him. When he reached the altar, Orion Black placed Regulus's hand in James's, and James felt how badly Regulus was shaking.

"Are you okay?" James whispered.

"No. Are you?"

"Not even a little."

This brought a small, sincere smile to Regulus's face. "At least we're honest."

James's attention shifted to the assembled guests. His mother sat in the front row, wiping her eyes with an embroidered handkerchief, the embodiment of maternal joy. But James noticed the tension in her shoulders, the way her other hand, with its white knuckles, clenched his father's hand. His father sat next to her, motionless, staring straight ahead with the expression of a man who had bet everything and was waiting to see if his bet would pay off. On the other side of the aisle, the Black family occupied the front pews like royalty. Scattered throughout the chapel were faces James did not recognize—perhaps these were the dangerous people his father had mentioned? Creditors and criminals in expensive suits, watching them like wolves stalking their prey? James felt their eyes on him like a physical weight.

 "James Fleamont Potter, do you take this man to be your lawful husband?" 

The priest's words interrupted the thoughts swirling in James's head. That was it. The moment of no return. James looked at Regulus. Up close, he could see the faint shadows under his eyes, evidence of sleepless nights. A tiny scar on his left cheekbone, barely noticeable. 

"I do," James heard his voice say, the words flying out of his mouth before he consciously decided to say them.

Something flashed in Regulus's eyes— Relief? Humility? Gratitude? It passed too quickly to tell.

"And you, Regulus Arcturus Black, take this man to be your lawful husband?"

Regulus' pause was so brief that most people probably didn't notice it. But James did. He saw the moment of hesitation, the internal struggle that played out in less than a second. Then Regulus' shoulders straightened almost imperceptibly, and he lifted his chin with a practiced dignity that must have been honed over years.

"Yes," Regulus said, his voice clear and even, betraying nothing.

The rings were presented—gold wedding rings that probably cost more than most people's cars. James took Regulus's hand to put the ring on his finger and was surprised at how cold it was and how much it was shaking, despite Regulus's outward calm. Their eyes met again, and James squeezed his hand, hoping it would calm him. In response, Regulus' fingers tightened around his hand for a moment, then relaxed.

Then it was Regulus's turn. His hands were firmer as he slipped the ring onto James's finger, but James could feel the reluctance in every movement, the way Regulus seemed to move as if in syrup, forcing himself to make each gesture.

"By the power vested in me, I now pronounce you husband and husband. You may kiss."

Silence fell over the chapel. It was the moment everyone had been waiting for, the culmination of months of negotiations and preparations and a quarter of a million dollars spent on the wedding.

"We should probably..." James said quietly.

"Yes," Regulus agreed, but still neither of them moved.

Finally, James leaned in, giving Regulus every opportunity to pull away. But Regulus didn't. He stayed perfectly still as James pressed a brief, chaste kiss to his lips—barely more than a brush of skin against skin, over almost before it began. Regulus's lips were soft and cold, and tasted faintly of champagne, as if he'd needed liquid courage to make it through the ceremony.

When they parted, Regulus did not look away. His eyes were filled with unbearable longing.

The reception was held in the garden, under a canopy of white silk and garlands. Tables covered with cream-colored tablecloths were scattered across the lawn, each adorned with an arrangement of white roses and crystal. 

James sat at the head table, Regulus next to him, both locked in their assigned places like chess pieces on a board. They had hardly spoken since the ceremony. What was there to say? "Nice weather for a forced marriage. How do you like being sold into marriage?"

Guests came in waves to congratulate the newlyweds. Their fathers' business partners, distant relatives, friends.

"You look so happy together," cooed an elderly woman, some aunt of Regulus, James thought. "What a beautiful couple. The photos will be stunning."

"Thank you," James replied automatically, feeling the words sound insincere in his mouth.

Next to him, Regulus muttered something polite, placing his hand on the table just inches from James's. They did not touch each other. They had barely touched each other since kissing at the altar.

The woman finally left, and James picked up a glass of champagne and drank it in one gulp.

"Careful," Regulus said quietly. "You'll have to give a speech soon."

"I know."

"Just thought it was worth reminding you." 

"Consider it done."

A tense silence fell between them. 

"James..."

"Mr. Potter!" The photographer appeared with his camera raised. "And Mr. Black... or should I say Mr. Potter-Black? We need to take some pictures of the happy couple. Would you mind standing up? Maybe by the pink arch?"

James wanted to refuse, to tell the photographer to go to hell, but Regulus had already stood up, adjusting his jacket. James followed his example, playing his part.

They posed by the arch, then by the cake, then by the fountain. The photographer kept asking them to stand closer, look at each other, smile. James felt like a puppet, with someone else pulling the strings.

"Put your arm around his waist," the photographer instructed.

James hesitated, then complied. Regulus's body was rigid under his touch, every muscle tense.

"Relax," James whispered, so quietly only Regulus could hear.

"I can't," Regulus whispered back, his lips barely moving.

"Try. Everyone's watching."

Regulus took a breath, and James felt some of the tension leave his body, though not all. He leaned into James slightly, just enough to make it look natural for the cameras.

"Better," the photographer said. "Now look at each other."

James turned his head, finding himself inches from Regulus's face. This close, he could see the exact shade of Regulus's eyes—a grey so pale they were almost silver in the sunlight. Could see the way his jaw was clenched, the tiny pulse point at his throat beating rapidly.

"Smile," the photographer called.

Neither of them smiled. They just stared at each other, and something flickered in Regulus's expression—something raw and wounded that James recognized because he felt it too.

"Perfect," the photographer said, apparently mistaking their mutual misery for intimacy. "That's the one."

When they were finally released, James needed space. He excused himself, weaving through the guests toward the house. He found himself in the conservatory, a glass-enclosed room filled with his mother's orchids. It was quiet here, the party noise muffled by the walls and foliage.

He loosened his bow tie, breathing deeply.

"Running away already?"

James spun around. Regulus stood in the doorway, backlit by the afternoon sun.

"I needed air away from them." James gestured vaguely toward the reception. "The guests. The cameras. The performance."

They stood in silence, listening to the distant sounds of the reception. James studied his husband—God, how strange that word sounded.

"I need to ask you something," James finally said. "And I want you to be honest with me."

Regulus's expression didn't change, but James noticed his fingers clench at his sides. "Okay."

"Why did you agree to this?" The question came out sharper than he intended. "This marriage. Why did you agree?" Was it really just for your family's business interests? To "strengthen the wealth and influence of two ancient families"?

A bitter smile touched Regulus's lips. "You doubt it?"

James hesitated. After everything his father had confessed to him that morning, he was no longer sure what to believe. "I don't know. That's why I'm asking you."

Regulus was silent for a long time, staring at something in the distance. When he finally spoke, his voice was carefully restrained. "What if I told you there were other reasons?"

"What other reasons?"

 "I know about the debt," he said quietly. "About the people your father borrowed money from."

James felt his blood run cold. "How?"

"Does it matters?." Regulus took a step closer, his face looking almost ghostly in the fading light. "I know about your father's debts. I know about the bad investments, the desperate loans from even more desperate people. I know about the threats, about the deadline, about how your family was three weeks away from losing everything—and I don't just mean money.

The ground beneath James's feet seemed to shift. "What are you talking about?"

"I'm talking about the Dolokhov organization." Regulus uttered the name like a curse. "The people your father borrowed money from. Do you know who they are? What they're capable of?"

James shook his head silently.

"They're not just loan sharks or business rivals. They're an organized crime syndicate with ties to the Russian mafia. They deal in weapons, drugs, people." Regulus's voice was even, but there was a hint of something darker in it. "When they lend money, they don't just want it back with interest. They want leverage. Control. They destroy families for fun, James. They would take everything from you—your home, your company, your freedom. And when that wasn't enough, they would start hurting people. Your mother. You. Everyone your father cared about. They would kill you."

"I wanted to protect you." Regulus' voice was sharp now. "This is my chance to help. To offer protection."

"Protection." James laughed, but there was no humor in his laughter. "By forcing a marriage of convenience?"

"Creating a bond they can't ignore." Regulus moved even closer, so that there were only thirty centimeters between them. "The Blacks have power, James. Real power. Not just money, but influence over important people. Politicians, law enforcement, even other criminal organizations. The Dolokhovs respect that power because they know that defying us will cost them dearly. By marrying you, officially uniting our families, you and your parents come under our protection. The debt is paid off, the threat is neutralized, and everyone saves face."

"Yes, my father's motives are simple and selfish. But I

... James... I just don't want you and your family to get hurt. That's all." 

Chapter Text

The warm wind pleasantly whipped against his face.

Croatia had turned out to be the perfect place for their "honeymoon" – far enough from England, romantic enough not to raise suspicions among the paparazzi, and secluded enough that they could finally relax after all the events of recent weeks. And most importantly, it was a chance to hide from the Dolokhovs, at least for a while.

Their villa sat on a cliff above the sea, surrounded by lavender bushes. White Istrian stone, terracotta tiles, a spacious terrace with views of the endless blue Adriatic – the place seemed detached from the real world where family enemies, assassination attempts, and forced marriages existed. Here time seemed to stand still, dissolving in the measured sound of the surf and the cry of gulls over the transparent water.

After that awkward conversation about Regulus's true motives, they had barely seen each other. And now here they were, in Croatia, playing the role of a happy couple on their honeymoon, though in reality they were simply hiding from those who could still pose a threat. The first week they practically didn't speak, except for necessary phrases about breakfast, plans for the day, or places worth visiting to maintain their alibi. But gradually, day by day, the silence between them became less tense, and casual conversations grew longer.

Regulus sat on the edge of the terrace, barefoot, legs dangling down. The stone slabs still held the warmth of the day's sun, heated through the long hot day. The evening sun painted the sea in golden and pink tones, its rays playing on the waves, turning the water into a glittering surface. A light breeze, smelling of sea salt and wild rosemary, played with his dark hair, which had grown longer and softer over these weeks without constant styling.

He wore a simple white linen shirt, unbuttoned to mid-chest – here, away from everyone, he could allow himself such luxuries as simplicity and carefree ease. The tan lay unevenly on his usually pale skin, highlighting his sharp cheekbones and making his features less severe.

James stood behind him, leaning against the wrought-iron terrace railing, watching as the last rays of sun slowly sank into the sea. In his hand he held a glass of local white wine – something light and smooth that they had opened for dinner but never finished amid conversation. He too had changed over these weeks – his usual wariness had softened, his shoulders had straightened.

"I need to go meet my friends; they've been living in Croatia for a long time."

" Are they the reason we found such a luxurious villa so quickly?" asked Regulus.

" They own this place; it's the safest option."

Regulus slowly turned his head, his gray eyes glancing over James's figure, lingering on the glass in his hand. There was a flicker in them that could be mistaken for curiosity, but it was more like an assessment of an opponent before a chess game.

"How convenient," he drawled, turning back to the sea. "You have the right people everywhere. I wonder if they know exactly why we're here?"

There was no direct accusation in his voice, but the subtext was easy to grasp: you tell everyone our secrets, and I don't even know who these people are.

James took a small sip of wine, feeling the acid sting his tongue. Regulus had a talent for making such remarks — outwardly neutral, but leaving an unpleasant residue, like sand in an oyster.

"They know exactly what is necessary for our safety," he replied in an even tone, but there was a steely edge to his voice.

Regulus chuckled — the sound was unexpectedly melodious against the backdrop of the surf.

A silence hung between them, filled only with the sounds of the evening sea. Somewhere in the distance, tourists' laughter could be heard from a neighboring villa, the smell of cooking fish and fresh basil drifted over. The contrast between the peacefulness of the surrounding world and the tension that had thickened on the terrace was almost palpable.

James placed the glass on the table with a little more force than necessary. The glass clinked against the stone.

"Will you introduce me to your friends?" Regulus asked without turning around.

"Maybe," James replied. "Tomorrow morning."

James clenched his fists until his knuckles turned white. Regulus knew how to find the most painful spots and press on them with surgical precision.

"They want to meet both of us," he said finally. "It's part of the legend. Happy newlyweds don't spend a single day apart during their honeymoon."

"Happy newlyweds," Regulus repeated, as if savoring the words. "Yes, we play that role very well."

He rose from the edge of the terrace, shaking sand from his bare feet. His movements were graceful, almost catlike.

"What should I wear to meet your friends?" he asked, walking past James toward the villa doors. "Anything that screams 'I'm happily married' or 'I don't plan on killing my husband tonight' will do?"

James watched him go. In the light of the setting sun, Regulus' silhouette seemed almost ghostly—tall, slender, with that special elegance that cannot be acquired, only inherited. And yet there was something wild about him.

God, help me deal with him.

In the morning, Regulus woke to the sound of running water – James was taking a shower. The sun had already risen high, its rays penetrating the room through light curtains, painting everything in golden tones. Regulus lay listening to the sounds from the bathroom, understanding that the time of measured solitude was coming to an end. Today they would have to put on their masks again.

He got up from the bed and approached the window, throwing it wide open. Warm sea air rushed into the room, bringing with it the scents of salt and blooming oleanders. Somewhere below, on the road, a car drove by – a rare sound in this secluded place.

James emerged from the bathroom, wrapped in a towel around his waist, hair damp and tousled. Water droplets rolled down his shoulders and chest. Regulus felt himself tense, seeing this unexpectedly intimate sight. They had been living in the same room for three weeks now, but James had always been careful, always covered. Now he moved freely, as if forgetting about Regulus's presence.

"Sorry," James muttered, noticing Regulus's gaze. "Thought you were still asleep."

"Not anymore," Regulus answered without turning from the window.

But in the wardrobe mirror he could see James searching for clothes, how the towel slipped lower on his hips, how the tan lay in uneven stripes on his skin – darker on his arms and neck, paler on his torso. Regulus squeezed his fingers on the windowsill, forcing himself to look at the sea.

"What time do we need to be ready?" he asked when he heard the rustle of fabric – James was getting dressed.

"In an hour. We'll drive to a familiar café noearby."

Regulus nodded, still not turning around. He needed time to collect himself.

Frank and Alice Longbottom turned out to be exactly as Regulus had imagined them – relaxed, with that special ease of people who had lived in a warm climate for many years and did what they truly enjoyed. Frank was solidly built, with a good-natured face and a firm handshake. His handshake was long, sincere, with direct eye contact – the way people who are accustomed to trusting at first sight shake hands. Alice was a petite blonde with a sharp gaze and a smile that didn't reach her eyes. Her light hair was pulled into a careless bun, several strands had escaped and fluttered in the sea wind, and her skin had that golden shade that appears only after many years of living under the southern sun.

"Finally we meet our James's mysterious husband," Alice said, hugging Regulus a bit longer than politeness required. Her embrace was warm, almost maternal, but Regulus felt how her fingers squeezed slightly on his back, as if she were trying to read something from the tension in his muscles. Her perfume smelled of citrus and something expensive – perhaps that very rose oil she would talk about later. "James told us so little about you."

Regulus felt James's gaze slide over his face, as if checking his reaction. He slowly pulled away from Alice's embrace, his movements smooth, controlled.

"James doesn't like to talk much in general," he answered with a light smile that was supposed to look loving. He slightly turned his head toward James, and the sunlight penetrating through the terrace awning softly outlined his profile. "A man of action, not words."

James felt something tighten in his chest at these words.

They settled on the terrace – Alice took the chair with the best view of the sea, Frank settled opposite her, leaning back his massive shoulders, and James and Regulus sat side by side on a wicker sofa. A few inches of space remained between them, but James occasionally shifted slightly, and their thighs touched. Each such contact made Regulus imperceptibly tense.

Alice admired the view, examining the endless blue of the Adriatic, pointing to white yacht sails in the distance and exclaiming over the color of the water near the shore. Frank unhurriedly told the story of how they found this villa five years ago – a tale about how they got lost trying to find another house, how their car broke down right at the driveway, and how the villa's owner not only helped them with repairs but also offered them to stay for a few days.

"Since then we've been coming here every summer," Frank concluded, sipping cold white wine. "Stefan has become like family to us."

Regulus listened attentively, occasionally nodding and asking clarifying questions about the area, the climate, how safe it was here. His questions were natural, the kind a person planning to spend their honeymoon here might ask, but James noticed how carefully Regulus memorized every detail.

James played the role of the happy husband with professional calm, occasionally touching Regulus's hand – light touches of fingers to wrist when pouring wine, a fleeting touch of palm to shoulder when leaning over to place a plate of olives on the table nearby. Each touch was deliberate, natural, but Regulus felt tension in them – as if James was reminding himself of the need to play the role.

The sun rose higher, and the shadow from the awning shrank. Alice removed her light wrap, remaining in a summer dress the color of sea waves that emphasized her tan. Frank unbuttoned another button on his shirt and leaned back in his chair, blissfully squinting in the sun.

"And you, Regulus, what do you do? Besides the Black family business," Alice asked, leaning back in her chair with a glass of rosé wine. She asked this question as if in passing, but Regulus noticed how she leaned slightly forward, how her gaze focused.

Regulus took a small sip of wine, giving himself time to think. The sun beat into his eyes, and he squinted slightly.

"Consulting," he answered briefly, but not abruptly. "International markets, strategic planning."

"How interesting," Alice set her glass on the table and turned to him with her whole body. Her eyes gleamed with that special shine that appears in people when they sense an opportunity to get something useful. "So you work with different countries?"

"With different ones," Regulus confirmed, and a barely noticeable wariness appeared in his voice.

Frank glanced at his wife, but she was already completely focused on the conversation.

"You don't happen to be familiar with Asian markets?" she asked, and now an almost childlike hope sounded in her voice. "We've been having some problems..."

Frank shot his wife a warning look – that very look with which spouses stop each other when one of them is about to say too much. But Alice was in that state when the opportunity to solve a long-standing problem outweighed all other considerations, and she ignored her husband's warning.

"Alice..." Frank began, but she was already continuing.

"We deal with importing natural cosmetic oils," she said, speaking faster than usual, as if afraid she would be interrupted. "Mainly from Turkey and Bulgaria. We have a small but stable business – we supply oils to several English companies that produce organic cosmetics."

Regulus nodded, showing he was listening but not displaying particular interest. James beside him tensed almost imperceptibly – Regulus felt it with his skin.

"But a year ago we decided to expand," Alice continued, now paying no attention to her husband. "And we started working with suppliers from Azerbaijan. The rose oil from there is amazing quality, just amazing! And the prices were very attractive – almost thirty percent lower than Turkish ones."

"Sounds like a good opportunity," Regulus noted cautiously.

"Yes, we thought so too," Alice sighed and leaned back. "And what went wrong?" Regulus asked, sipping his wine. James tensed beside him – the movement was barely noticeable, but Regulus felt how James's breathing changed, how he leaned slightly forward.

Alice exchanged a long look with her husband. Frank nodded almost imperceptibly.

"At first everything went great," Alice said slowly, as if sorting through the sequence of events in her memory. "The first six months were just perfect. Stable quality, deliveries exactly on time, no problems with documents. We even started planning to increase volumes."

She fell silent, turning the glass in her hands. The rosé wine swayed evenly, reflecting sun glints.

"But the last six months, problems started," she continued finally. "Small ones at first – deliveries began to be delayed by a week, then by two. We thought it was temporary difficulties related to the season or logistics."

"And then?" Regulus gently prompted.

"And then the quality became unstable," Frank joined the story, his voice sounding tired. "Sometimes the oil would arrive perfect, then suddenly a batch with impurities or wrong consistency. Our clients started complaining."

"And to top it all off," Alice added, "our main partner there – suddenly started demanding full year's payment in advance. We used to work with deferred payment, and now he says no advance payment, no deliveries."

"How much is that?" Regulus asked.

"About eighty thousand euros," Frank answered. "We can't afford that, especially considering the quality problems. But we don't want to lose this supply channel either – when everything works well, it's very profitable."

Regulus set his glass on the table, the movement slow, deliberate. His fingers drummed thoughtfully on the glass – a light, rhythmic sound that was almost lost in the sound of the surf. James watched this gesture, recognizing in it a sign that Regulus was thinking through something important.

"Have you tried working not directly with manufacturers, but through local trading houses?" he asked finally.

Alice and Frank exchanged glances.

"Are there such things?" Alice asked.

"In Azerbaijan there are several large family businesses that specialize in exporting essential oils," Regulus explained, and now he spoke calmly, methodically, as if conducting a presentation. "They work with dozens of small producers simultaneously, which allows them to guarantee stable supplies even with problems from individual suppliers."

Alice leaned forward, interested. The sun played in her light hair, and she looked younger than her years.

"But wouldn't that be more expensive?" she asked. "After all, an additional link appears in the chain."

Regulus smiled slightly – the first genuine smile of the entire conversation.

"It would be logical to think so," he agreed. "But in practice it's the opposite. They buy large volumes – many times more than you need – so their purchase prices are often lower than individual producers'. Economy of scale."

Frank nodded, following the logic of the reasoning.

"Plus they usually provide more flexible payment terms," Regulus continued. "Say, thirty percent advance and seventy on delivery. This is standard practice for export trading houses."

"What about quality control?" Frank asked.

"Serious trading houses have their own laboratories and quality standards," Regulus answered. "It's not in their interest to ruin their reputation because of bad oil from one producer when they have access to dozens of others."

He paused, took a sip of wine.

"And most importantly – they have warehouse facilities in Batumi," he added. "This greatly simplifies logistics to Europe. Instead of coordinating shipments from different points in Azerbaijan, you get consolidated deliveries from one place."

Frank exchanged a look with his wife – a long, meaningful look of spouses who had spent years learning to understand each other without words.

"Sounds reasonable," he said finally. "I think we'll try your option. Thank you."

Regulus nodded, as if he had just given insignificant advice on choosing wine, not offered a solution to a months-long problem. James watched him, trying not to show surprise. In all the weeks of their forced coexistence, he had grown accustomed to Regulus's cold aloofness, to his caustic comments and distrust. Seeing him like this – calm, competent, almost friendly – was unexpected.

"If you want, I can give you a few contacts," Regulus added, taking out his phone. His fingers glided over the screen with practiced ease. "The Akhmedov family – one of the most reliable exporters. I worked with them a couple of years ago when I was consulting for a French perfume company."

Alice beamed, her eyes sparkling with joy. She extended her phone across the table, almost knocking over her wine glass in the process.

"Oh, you're simply a lifesaver!" she exclaimed. "We've been struggling with this problem for six months. You know, you wake up in the middle of the night thinking: 'God, what if we lose the English clients? What if we have to close the business?'"

"Alice is being a bit dramatic," Frank smiled, but relief was audible in his voice. "But yes, it really was a serious headache."

Regulus transferred the contacts and returned the phone to Alice. His movements were precise, calculated – like a person accustomed to business meetings and information exchange.

"Mention my name when you contact them," he said. "It might help when discussing terms."

"Absolutely," Alice clutched the phone tightly in her hand, as if afraid the contacts might disappear. "I just can't believe it. We spent so much time trying to solve this on our own..."

Frank raised his glass.

"To new acquaintances that bring not only joy but also benefit," he pronounced with a warm smile.

James raised his glass, and Regulus followed suit. Their hands touched for a moment – a light, accidental touch, but James felt the familiar tension that arose every time they touched each other.

The glasses clinked, wine splashed, reflecting sunlight. The sea breeze intensified, bringing coolness and the smell of seaweed. Somewhere in the distance a motorboat roared, leaving white foam in its wake.

"And how did you two meet?" Alice asked, settling more comfortably in her chair. Now that her main problem had received an unexpected solution, she could relax and indulge her curiosity. "James was so secretive about all of this. We couldn't go to the wedding unfortunately!"

James felt Regulus tense imperceptibly beside him. They had rehearsed this story before leaving, but it was one thing to retell the legend in an empty hotel room, and quite another to do it before the attentive eyes of Alice, who clearly loved romantic stories.

"Through mutual acquaintances," James began, but Regulus interrupted him, placing a hand on his knee. The touch was light, almost weightless, but unexpected enough to make James fall silent mid-sentence.

"At a charity auction in London," Regulus said, and a note of softness appeared in his voice that had never been there before. "Last autumn. The most boring event, to be honest."

Alice laughed, leaning back.

"Oh yes, those charity evenings can be deadly dull," she agreed.

"I was planning to leave early," Regulus continued, his fingers tightening slightly on James's knee—a warning or a plea for silence. "But then an auction started, and James stubbornly fought over some painting. Contemporary art, absolutely awful—just blots and paint splatters."

James turned to him, raising an eyebrow. They hadn't rehearsed this version. Regulus was improvising.

"I was defending the honor of abstractionism," James played along. "And someone nearby was loudly commenting that a preschooler could paint better."

"I was right," said Regulus, and the corners of his lips twitched in an almost-smile. "But you were so outraged that you turned around and started lecturing me about the significance of color fields and the emotional saturation of space."

"And did it work?" Frank asked with a smirk.

"What worked was that he was so absorbed that he forgot to watch the auction," Regulus replied. "And someone else ended up buying the painting."

James snorted—the sound unexpectedly genuine.

"But I got the phone number of the self-taught critic," he said, and now his own hand reached for Regulus's, covering it. "Who, by the way, never recognized the value of that work."

"And never will," said Regulus, but there was no venom in his voice. "Those were just blots."

Alice watched them with a soft smile, her hands folded on her chest. Frank smiled too, sipping his wine.

"So it's love at first argument," Alice concluded. "The most reliable kind."

"Something like that," James agreed, and their gazes met Regulus's.

The sun climbed higher, the heat becoming more tangible. Frank suggested moving into the shade, and they relocated to the cool living room of the villa, where the air conditioning hummed and soft sofas awaited. Alice brought a platter of local cheeses and figs, while Frank opened another bottle of wine—red this time, rich, with the aroma of ripe cherries and oak.

The conversation flowed smoothly from topic to topic—from politics to local traditions, from memories of London to plans for the future. Regulus participated in the discussion with restraint, but not detachment, asking questions, occasionally sharing his own experience. James watched him covertly. He enjoyed doing that.

Perhaps it was the calm of this place. Or exhaustion from constant tension. Or something else—something James preferred not to think about.

By noon they said goodbye, promising to meet again before departure. Alice hugged them both, long and tight, and Frank shook their hands with genuine warmth.

"You're a wonderful couple," Alice said at parting, standing in the doorway. "You can see you complement each other."

James smiled, putting his arm around Regulus's waist—a gesture that was meant to look natural but made them both freeze for a second.

"Thank you," he answered.

The drive back to their villa wound along the coast, past pine groves and white stone houses nestled in greenery. James drove in silence, hands on the steering wheel, eyes on the road. Regulus looked out the window, watching the sea flicker between the trees—now brilliant turquoise, now dark blue in the shadow of the cliffs.

"You did well," James said at last when they turned onto the narrow road leading to the villa.

Regulus turned his head, his reflection flickering in the side window.

"With what exactly?" he asked evenly.

"With everything," James answered. "With Alice and Frank. With the auction story. With..." he paused, searching for words, "with helping them with their problem."

Regulus shrugged—a light, barely noticeable movement.

"It wasn't difficult," he said.

"Still," James parked the car in the shade of an old olive tree and turned off the engine. "You could have said nothing."

Regulus opened the door and got out of the car without answering. James followed him, closing his door a bit louder than necessary. They walked to the villa along the gravel path, small stones crunching under their feet.

"Regulus," James called when they reached the terrace.

Regulus stopped at the railing, placing his hands on it. His back was straight, shoulders tense, though he was clearly trying to look relaxed.

"What?" he asked, not turning around.

James walked closer, stopping a few steps behind.

"Let's go swimming," he said suddenly, surprising himself with the suggestion.

Regulus turned, raising an eyebrow. The sun beat down on his face, making him squint, and for a moment James saw something unguarded in his features—a momentary confusion that Regulus immediately hid behind his usual mask of composure.

"Now?" he asked. "We just got back."

"Right now," James walked past him toward the villa doors. "It's hot. We spent all day playing a happy couple, pretending, smiling. Let's just... for at least an hour..." he trailed off, searching for words, "be here. Without witnesses."

Regulus looked at him with a long gaze. Then he slowly nodded.

"Alright," he said. "But I'm not taking a towel if you forget yours."

James smiled—a short, unexpected sound.

"Fair enough."

They went to their separate rooms to change. James found his swim trunks—dark blue, simple, ones he'd bought in London specifically for this trip but had never worn. In three weeks here, they'd never swum together. Regulus went to the sea early in the morning when James was still sleeping, or late in the evening after sunset. James did the same, but at different times. They'd avoided this closeness, this intimacy of bathing together, as if afraid the water would wash away the last remnants of their protective masks.

Regulus took a towel, draped it over his shoulder. His gray eyes slid over James's figure—a quick, assessing look that he apparently thought had gone unnoticed.

"Let's go," Regulus said and was the first to head toward the narrow stone staircase that led down to their private beach.

The staircase was old, the steps worn smooth by time and countless footsteps. In places, stubborn grass and small flowers with violet petals pushed through cracks between the stones. The railing—wrought iron, darkened by sea air—was hot under his palm. James descended behind Regulus, watching how he moved—confidently, gracefully, placing his feet precisely in the center of each step, not holding onto the railing.

The descent took several minutes. With each step, the sound of the surf grew louder, the air more humid and salty. Somewhere above, seagulls cried, and below, by the water, waves lapped against the rocks.

Their beach was small—a strip of white pebbles about fifteen meters wide, squeezed between two stone outcrops. On the right and left, cliffs rose up, overgrown with tough shrubs and pines that bent over the water as if trying to reach it. The beach was sheltered from prying eyes, and at this time of day the sun illuminated it completely, turning white stones into glowing coals.

Regulus stopped at the waterline, where the pebbles were wet and dark from the spray. Waves rolled onto shore slowly, lazily, foaming in the shallows and retreating with a quiet rustle. The water was transparent as glass—you could see the bottom several meters down, every stone, every grain of sand.

"I forgot how clear the water is here," Regulus said.

James threw his towel on a flat rock in the cliff's shadow and pulled off his shirt. When he turned around, Regulus was looking at him—not covertly this time, but openly. Their eyes met, and Regulus didn't look away.

"You first," Regulus said. "I'll wait."

"Afraid of cold water?" James smiled.

"Afraid of your splashes," Regulus countered, and a smile twitched at the corners of his lips.

James walked toward the water, feeling Regulus's gaze on him. The pebbles were hot under his bare feet, almost burning, and he quickened his pace. The first touch of water was a shock—cold, sharp, taking his breath away. But within a second, his body adjusted, and the cold became a pleasant coolness, a relief after the day's heat.

James waded deeper—water rose to his knees, to his thighs, to his waist. The bottom here was rocky but smooth, polished by waves to perfect roundness. He took a few more steps and dove.

Underwater it was quiet. All the sounds from above—seagull cries, wave sounds—became a dull hum. James opened his eyes and saw an underwater world—scattered stones, swaying emerald seaweed, a small fish that darted away from his movement. Sunlight pierced through the water with pulsing rays, dancing on the bottom.

He surfaced, sputtering, tossing his wet hair back. Water streamed down his face, across his shoulders, warm in the sun and cold in the shade. James turned toward shore and saw that Regulus was still standing in the same spot, watching him.

"Perfect temperature!" James called. "Even you won't find anything to complain about!"

Regulus shook his head—a gesture difficult to interpret. Then, slowly, as if still deliberating, he entered the water. He moved carefully, testing each step, and James could see him tense when the water reached his thighs. Regulus stopped, ran his palms over the water's surface as if testing it for stability, and then, unexpectedly quickly, dove.

He surfaced about three meters from James. His dark hair clung to his skull, water droplets glittered on his lashes and shoulders. He looked younger that way—without his usual restraint and rigidity. He reminded James of a wet cat.

"Tolerable," Regulus said, but his voice held a satisfied note.

"Just tolerable?" James swam toward him slowly, with broad strokes. "You just don't want to admit I was right."

"You weren't right," Regulus objected, but without his usual bitterness. "You just suggested an option that turned out to be not the worst of the possibilities."

James laughed—loud, genuine, and the sound carried over the water, reflected off the rocks. Regulus looked at him in surprise, as if he hadn't expected to hear such laughter.

Gradually, Regulus began to swim away slowly. He didn't just move to a safe distance; he suddenly turned and swam away with such force and determination, as if trying to escape from the conversation, from James, from himself.

James watched as his dark head receded, and disappointment mixed with strange, sudden anxiety bubbled up inside him. Regulus was swimming too far, too fast, to a place where the water became deep, ink-black.

Suddenly, Regulus stopped.

He jerked—once, twice, three times—his movements became sharp, clumsy, breaking his usual grace. He exhaled sharply, his shoulders tensed, and then his head disappeared under the water. He wasn't diving. He was drowning.

James didn't think. All the exhaustion and pensiveness of the past minutes vanished, swept away by instinct. Adrenaline shot through his blood; his body instantly switched to rescue mode. He lunged forward, shifting into powerful, fast crawl strokes, his mind focused on only one dark, disappearing point.

The strokes were long and strong. He felt he'd caught up with him within seconds—in a place where the waves seemed heavier and the current more tangible. He dove, opened his eyes, and saw beneath him a dark, bottomless depth.

He grabbed Regulus by the shoulder, firmly, almost painfully. Regulus's body was cold and stiffened, his muscles taut but failing, his head thrown back. James yanked him to the surface.

Regulus gasped, loudly, convulsively, spitting out salt water. He didn't resist; he just clung to him, fingers digging into James's forearm, his eyes, gray and wide with terror, were clouded.

"Calm down," James exhaled, his voice low and hoarse. He pressed Regulus against him—one arm wrapped firmly around his thin waist, the other supporting his head above water. "I've got you. Everything's okay."

From that moment, he didn't swim; he dragged. Only James propelled them, slowly and stubbornly turning them toward shore, battling the wave surge that beat against their faces. The physical contact was too intimate, too sudden: Regulus's wet, limp body, his quick, hot breath on James's neck, and the strong, frantic beating of his own heart, thundering in his ears.

The tension was like a taut rope, unbearably acute. In this closeness there was no desire, only fear and an animal need for rescue. Regulus was completely defenseless, completely his, and James hated himself for noticing it.

The shore seemed infinitely far away. Each stroke burned in his muscles; his lungs burned with strain. Regulus no longer resisted—his body had gone limp, trusting James completely, which was almost scarier than his panic a second ago. His breathing was quick and uneven at James's ear, hot exhalations contrasting with the cold water.

James felt every curve of his body, every involuntary shudder. Wet skin slipped under his palm; ribs moved beneath his fingers with each breath. It was too much—too close, too intimate.

When James's feet finally touched bottom, he felt almost no relief—only the weight of Regulus in his arms and the need to drag him to shore. The water became shallower, reaching to his chest, then to his waist. Regulus tried to stand on his own, but his legs gave out, and James held him tighter.

"Don't," he said hoarsely. "I'll carry you."

Regulus didn't object. His fingers still dug into James's shoulder, leaving red marks on his tanned skin.

They reached the shore, and James set Regulus down on the pebbles. Regulus sat with his knees pulled to his chest, trembling all over—fine, uncontrollable tremors that wouldn't stop. His hair clung to his forehead and cheeks; water streamed down his neck, his back. His eyes were closed, his breathing still ragged.

James dropped down beside him, his own breathing heavy. The adrenaline began to recede, leaving behind weakness in his limbs and a strange, pulsing sense of unreality about what had happened.

"What the hell happened?" he asked when he could speak. His voice sounded harsher than he intended, but fear still sat in his throat like a lump.

Regulus didn't answer immediately. He continued to sit with his knees drawn up, his chest heaving with each breath. The sun beat down on his back, drying water droplets, leaving salt traces on his skin.

"Cramp," he exhaled finally. "In my calf. I couldn't... move."

James closed his eyes, letting those words sink in. A cramp. Such a simple, such a mundane thing, which could have cost Regulus his life. If he hadn't turned around at that moment, if he hadn't noticed...

"You were swimming too far," he said, opening his eyes. "Too fast. You need to warm up gradually for that distance."

"I know," irritation cut through Regulus's voice, a glimpse of his usual sharpness. "Do you think I don't know basic rules?"

Regulus fell silent. His gaze slid across James's face as if trying to find signs of a lie. Then he slowly leaned back, reclining on his elbows.

"I needed to swim away," he said, looking at the sky. "Farther. From you. From..." he stopped, searching for words. "From all of this. You're too close."

James felt something tighten in his chest. He knew what Regulus meant—not physical closeness, though that too. Emotional closeness, that dangerous territory they'd been treading into more and more with each passing day in this secluded place.

"We're in this together," he said quietly. "Whether we like it or not."

"Yes," Regulus agreed, and bitterness crept into his voice. "But for you, it's not this hard, James. You know what I feel for you; it hurts to even stand next to you."

James sighed. Even if he hadn't known about someone else's feelings, he would have noticed anyway. The way Regulus turned away every time James touched him in front of others—not from disgust, but because the touch was too much, too real, too much like what Regulus wanted but couldn't have.

And the worst part—James couldn't reciprocate. Not because Regulus was unworthy, not because he was a man, not because there were any external obstacles. It's just... the heart doesn't choose.

"Regulus," he began, but the words caught in his throat.

What could he say? Sorry I can't love you back? Sorry that every touch of mine is torture for you, but just a necessary part of the performance for me?

"Don't," Regulus interrupted, still not looking at him. His voice was even, but James could see his jaw muscles tighten. "Don't say something comforting or apologize. I know you don't feel the same. I've always known. But that doesn't make this whole situation any less painful."

Sirius stood on the balcony, leaning against the cold metal railing, a cigarette smoldering between his fingers. London air was sharp, humid, saturated with the smell of rain and exhaust fumes.

He drew deeply, the smoke burning his lungs with familiar bitterness. The city below hummed—even at three in the morning, London never fully slept. Car lights crawled down the streets; somewhere in the distance, a siren wailed; in a neighboring building, someone laughed loudly.

Behind him, in the apartment, it was warm and quiet. Too quiet after the noise they'd made an hour ago. Sirius smirked, imagining tomorrow morning's complaints from the neighbors. Though who was he kidding—the neighbors had long since grown accustomed to their lifestyle.

Sirius felt the presence behind him before he heard the footsteps. Remus moved silently, as always—a habit acquired over years of working in an illegal organization, a habit of a man who'd learned to walk so quietly that even dogs didn't hear him. A habit he'd never fully explained, though Sirius hadn't asked. Some things were better not knowing about. Or pretending not to know.

Warm hands wrapped around Sirius's waist, pulling him back. Fingers settled on his stomach, where his shirt ended and the jeans shorts — shorts that Sirius hadn't fully removed after their passionate sex an hour ago. Remus was dressed only in loose pajama pants made of soft cotton fabric—gray, worn, with stray threads along the edges. His bare chest pressed against Sirius's back, warming him through the thin fabric of his worn t-shirt with the logo of a long-defunct rock band. Remus's scars—thin white lines, which Sirius had studied by heart over three years of their relationship—pressed against his shoulder blades.

"You're freezing," Remus murmured into his neck, his lips touching the skin behind his ear, his breath warm and moist. His voice was hoarse from sleep and recent moans, low, with that special tone that appeared only in intimate moments.

"I needed to think," Sirius replied, not turning around. He drew again, exhaled smoke into the night air, watching as gray wisps dissolved into darkness. The wind caught them, tore them apart, carried them toward the roofs of neighboring houses.

"About what?" Remus placed his chin on his shoulder, his stubble scratching Sirius's neck—a pleasant, familiar sensation. His arms clenched around Sirius's stomach, holding firmly but not pressing, fingers intertwining in a lock. "About Regulus?"

The name sounded softly, but Sirius tensed anyway—barely noticeably, shoulders rose a millimeter, breathing hitched for a fraction of a second. But Remus felt it. He always felt it. Years of work had taught him to read people better than books, to catch the slightest changes in posture, breathing, heartbeat rhythm.

"Among other things," Sirius answered evasively, tapping ash off. The cigarette was almost gone, the filter beginning to burn his fingers.

"He's safe," Remus said softly. "My people are keeping an eye on them; everything's fine. The Dolohovs are my main enemies; I'll do everything to remove them from the picture."

Sirius smiled, crushing the butt against the railing and throwing it into the darkness below. Somewhere down there it landed in a puddle—a quiet splash they didn't hear.

"Your people," he repeated with a hint of irony, turning his head to meet Remus's gaze. Amber eyes looked at him seriously, without a trace of a smile, though the corners of his lips twitched slightly. "You know, sometimes I forget that I'm sleeping with the boss of the mafia. And then you say things like that, and I remember."

He said it lightly, almost playfully, but something tightened in his chest. Three years together, and there were still moments when the reality of who Remus was crashed down like an icy wave. Remus Lupin—a man who controlled half of London's underworld, a man whose one word could destroy or save lives. A man whose orders were obeyed without question, whose name was feared by people who'd never even seen him.

And yet this same man was now standing on the balcony in worn pajama pants, holding Sirius as if this was the most ordinary moment of their ordinary life.

"Should I be afraid?" Sirius added, turning in Remus's embrace to face him, their bodies now pressed together, chest to chest. He placed his palms on Remus's bare shoulders, feeling warm skin beneath his fingers. "That one day I'll end up in someone's crosshairs? That I'll wake up with a gun barrel against my temple because I knew too much or said the wrong thing?"

He tried to speak jokingly, but his voice treacherously wavered on the last words.

The smile disappeared from Remus's face completely. His hands tightened around Sirius's waist, fingers digging into the fabric of his t-shirt, twisting it. His amber eyes darkened, becoming almost honey-colored in the dim light penetrating from outside.

"Never," he pronounced low, his voice became hard as steel, stripped of all softness. This was the voice in which he gave orders, the voice that made people freeze in fear. "Do you hear me, Sirius? Never."

He raised one hand, ran his thumb across Sirius's cheekbone, the movement surprisingly tender after that tone. His gaze never left Sirius's eyes, piercing, absolutely serious.

"You're the only person in this fucking city I trust completely," Remus continued. "The only one who sees the real me, not what I show everyone else. You think I could hurt you? You think there's anything in this world that would make me raise a hand against you? I love you"

His fingers slid to the back of Sirius's head, tangled in his long dark hair, pulling slightly to force Sirius to look directly at him.

"I'd sooner die," Remus said quietly, but absolute certainty rang in his voice. "I breathe with and only for you, baby. I'd kill anyone who tried to take you away from me."

Somewhere below, a car door slammed, someone's voices sounded muffled, dissolved into the noise of the city.

"You're completely insane," he whispered hoarsely, but his lips twitched in a weak smile.

"I know," Remus answered, and finally smiled too. "But you're still with me. So I suppose you're not in your right mind either."

He pulled Sirius closer, their lips met—slowly, deeply. His mouth was warm, the taste of cigarettes and mint toothpaste mixing on their tongues. The kiss lasted long, until both were breathless.

"Let's go inside," Remus murmured, finally pulling away, his forehead pressed against Sirius's. "It's cold. And I'm not done with you tonight."

"The head of the mafia can't go without sex?" he teased, but was already allowing Remus to lead him back into the apartment, into the warmth, into the light of the dimmed lamp in the bedroom.

"I was going to give you a break," Remus countered, closing the balcony door behind them. "But since you're acting like that..."

His hands slid under Sirius's t-shirt, fingers left hot trails on his skin, and Sirius arched into the touch, forgetting everything else—the fears, the dangers, what awaited them tomorrow.

Now there was only this night, this moment, and this man.

And that was enough.