꧁ʙᴏʀɴ ᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇ ᴘᴜʀᴘʟᴇ꧂

ᴏɴᴇ sʜᴏᴛ ᴛᴡᴏ

꧁✧✧✧꧂

𝕽egulus' mornings couldn't get any better.

Home-cooked breakfast al fresco, basking in the warm summer sun he opens the lilac shutters to let diffuse inside and somewhat jointly deciding on the plans for the day and Romie. Morning Romie, soft from sleep and freckles galore and extra cuddlesome.

So cuddlesome Regulus cranes his neck around to peer at the second storey open window, seriously debating casting a quick preserving charm on the buttery toast, fresh fruits and hot drinks made just right, and slipping back in between the cotton sheets he left her slowly stirring in. Slow. That's what their mornings are too, serenely slow, free of time-strict schedules and impossibly high expectations to uphold a so-called decorous reputation.

Because here, in the South of France, where there's brilliant colour on every corner and muggle locals that are genuinely affable, Regulus is just Regulus. Devoted husband to Romie and curious soul and good, young man.

He sighs a soft sigh of contentment, his eyes closing to stop himself from looking at the sun he swears has been a little bit brighter the past year. He never favoured the summer, even when pitch black six am Quidditch get-ups in the freezing cold of Winter were an absolute menace. Summer is the season of happiness, full of dazzling smiles and impressive tan lines his creamy skin could never procure. But Summer is also the beautiful blossoming of lavender fields and warmth that reminds him of true family that are so dearly missed. He favours Summer now, favours life now.

He favours the endearing yawning and light padding of bare feet growing louder behind him, the groggy morning voice belonging to the girl emerging from the quaint villa they have brought back to life, made their own. Their home. Theirs. The thought never ceases to do things to Regulus, things akin to when Romie tells him, on her own initiative, her newspaper finds.

"The Montrose Magpies have won the European league cup. Bien joué, mon amour."

Regulus tilts his head back, showing off the sappy smile that only grows when gentle fingers card through his loose curls. He's mature enough to admit he's made a few errors over the years, especially around ideology, but one thing he got precisely right was the confident belief she's the epitome of wife material. And putting a ring on it — or rather wrapping a ribbon around it, was a move that rivals secretly buying the entire works of A. A Milne in hopes the next time it comes up in conversation, he could impress her. His first ever glimpse of the utter swoon that is her upside down smile.

He cracks an eye open, wanting a repeat now when there's no butterbeer glasses or cascading fawn hair to hide it from him. Romie's developed a liking for sleeping with a French style braid, she'll never confess it's because asking for his help around the back deepens the lovely lines around his mouth and he'll never confess that he knows that's her motive, her fulfilment of vows. He knows better, he knows more. Something that also applies to how she's feeling.