Reporter - @into-the-jeggyverse - Wc: 651

reporter - @into-the-jeggyverse - wc: 651

“Mr. Black!”

Regulus froze.

He turned, shoulders drawn tight beneath his coat. A woman in sleek navy robes with a press badge clipped to her chest pushed past a half-hearted security ward with a quick flick of her wand.

She smiled. “Regulus Black, isn’t it? Mind if I ask you a few questions? Just a minute of your time—”

“I don’t do interviews,” Regulus said curtly, already stepping back.

“But the fans are dying to know more about the man behind the legend,” she pressed, stepping in his path. “What’s it like, being married to James Potter? Is he as wild at home as he is on the field?”

Regulus’ stomach twisted.

She laughed at her own innuendo. “Is he competitive? Messy? Or does he practice catching things around the house just for fun?”

He didn’t answer. He was trying to breathe—trying to remember how to breathe through the sudden thundering in his ears. He hated this. He hated being seen. He was never meant to be a public figure, even in marriage. James understood that. James promised.

But the woman wasn’t done.

“Come on, just one detail. Where’d you two meet? Is it true he chased you for years? Or that he proposed midair? Was it a Quidditch ball or a ring he tossed you first?”

Regulus flinched, like she’d thrown it at him now. The crowd behind them blurred—cheering, chanting, whistling, calling James’ name like he was a god.

He was going to throw up. Or hex someone.

And then like magic James appeared:

“Oi! That’s enough!”

The voice cut through everything. James.

Regulus turned, relief hitting like a gust of wind.

James was still in half his gear—pads undone, gloves hanging from one hand, hair a chaotic mess from the wind and the win. He was flushed with victory and still flying high, but the moment his eyes landed on Regulus, everything softened.

He didn’t even look at the reporter.

He walked straight to Regulus.

“Sorry,” he said, not even breathless, not even pretending. “My husband doesn’t give interviews. He barely gives me answers, and I’ve been trying for a decade.”

Regulus’ laugh was small, but real. He felt James’ fingers skim the back of his hand, the smallest touch. The only one he needed.

The reporter opened her mouth again, undeterred. “James, just one—”

James turned, all charm now sharpened to steel. “No.”

It wasn’t angry. It wasn’t loud. But it ended the conversation.

He reached for Regulus properly then, tugging him close by the waist, arm slung so securely it felt like armor.

“Let’s go home,” James murmured, forehead resting briefly against Regulus’ temple. “I left the champagne chilling and the bed unmade.”

Regulus didn’t reply. Just nodded. Let himself be led past the flash of cameras, the calls of teammates and fans. Let himself breathe again.

It was only once they were safely past the warded doors, walking the empty corridor toward the locker rooms, that he spoke.

“You unmade the bed on purpose.”

James grinned. “Of course I did.”

Regulus looked up at him, finally meeting his eyes. “I hate that they talk to me like that. I hate that they think being your husband means I owe them anything.”

James’ expression gentled. “You don’t. You never have. You know that, yeah?”

“I know,” Regulus murmured. “It’s just... overwhelming.”

James pulled him closer, walking slower now, dragging them both to a stop beside a bench.

He kissed Regulus’ cheek—soft, warm, grounding. “I play for the world,” he said. “But I fly for you. And I’d give up the whole damn stadium if it meant you never had to flinch again.”

Regulus rolled his eyes, but they were glassy. “You’re dramatic.”

James shrugged. “You married me anyway.”

A beat. Then Regulus said, “I’ll unmake the bed next time.”

James’ smile turned wicked. “That’s the sexiest thing you’ve ever said to me.”