The autumn air was crisp as it swept through the room, curling around the curtains that you’d forgotten to shut. The faint glow of moonlight pooled on the floor, stretching towards the corner where Fred sat, his long legs sprawled lazily as he slouched in the armchair by the window. His sleeves were rolled up—he always did that—and his fingers toyed absently with the edge of a parchment he’d been pretending to read for the better part of an hour.

You didn’t spare him a glance, too engrossed in your own task—combing through a book that had nothing to do with what you wanted to avoid. Which was him, of course. It always was.

He hadn’t said a word since you got back from the gathering at the Burrow, which in itself wasn’t unusual. But the air between you felt heavier tonight, like something unsaid was itching to spill out. The tension wasn’t new, but this? This was something else.

It might’ve had something to do with him—Callum McGregor. The charming family friend who’d been all too eager to chat with you over drinks earlier. Fred had watched from across the room, jaw ticking and hand clenched around his goblet, while you’d let yourself laugh a little too loudly at Callum’s jokes. Not because you wanted to. But because you knew Fred was watching.

“Enjoy yourself, did you?” Fred’s voice cut through the silence like a knife, sharp and laced with sarcasm. He didn’t even look up, still feigning interest in the parchment that had been upside-down for the last ten minutes.

You frowned, glancing up from your book. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.” He finally lifted his gaze, pinning you with those warm brown eyes that always seemed to hold too much intensity for comfort. There was something simmering behind them, though—something dangerously close to jealousy.