Running a joke shop sounded like a laugh, and it was. Mostly. But it also involved a shocking amount of paperwork, product testing that may or may not leave scorch marks on the ceiling, and an inventory system that Fred had absolutely no bloody control over. Thank Merlin he had you.

You showed up with a clipboard, actual handwriting, and a terrifying ability to locate missing stock like a bloodhound with a grudge. Fred never quite figured out how you did it—he was half-convinced you had a sixth sense for mischief. Or maybe you were just better at the boring bits than he was. That, or you actually read the labels. Either way, he was wildly in love with you for it.

Every night after the shop closed, it was like the place came alive just for the two of you. The windows still glowed soft gold, the air still smelled faintly of sugar and fireworks, and Fred swore the shelves leaned in just a little, like they wanted to hear your laugh again. It was his favourite sound. It was the kind of laugh that made his chest ache in the best way, like he’d swallowed a firework and it’d gone off somewhere near his ribs.

You always looked unfairly fit under the weird lighting—hair glowing, eyes sharp with trouble, that smug little smirk when you caught him staring. He never denied it. Wasn’t the least bit sorry. He wanted to stare. All the time. Especially when you were perched on a stool behind the till, legs swinging, flipping through receipts like they were ancient scrolls from a forgotten civilization, trying to decipher George’s handwriting (a dark art in and of itself).

Somewhere in all that mess, he realized he was happiest here. Not just in the shop—though he bloody loved the shop—but here, with you. Covered in glitter, dodging prank items, laughing until his stomach hurt. Testing things they really shouldn’t be testing inside. You made him feel like it was all worth it. The sleepless nights. The chaos. The grief he still didn’t talk about. You made the world feel lighter.

The stolen kisses were never really planned. One moment you’d be passing behind him with an armful of product lists, and the next he’d be tugging you into a shadowy bit between shelves, hands on your waist, mouth against yours like the world was ending in ten minutes and he had to memorize the taste of you.

You never complained.

Sometimes you kissed him back hard enough to make him dizzy, and his knees would nearly buckle. He’d grin against your mouth and murmur, “We should do inventory more often.” You’d roll your eyes, breathless, and he’d think gods, marry me now before I put Dungbombs in George’s bed out of sheer joy.

Some nights went quiet. You’d sit on the counter while he scribbled ridiculous product ideas, and he’d feel your eyes on him—warm, focused, like he was something more than just the loud twin with a flashy smile. He never knew what to do with that. That look. He’d make a joke, break the silence, tickle your side until you laughed, but part of him held on to it. Tucked it away. Safe.

Fred never said the serious things easily. Not the “I love yous” or the “stay with me forevers.” He wasn’t built for that kind of softness. Not out loud. But he said it with the way he touched you—carefully, reverently, like he knew he didn’t deserve you but wanted you anyway. He said it when he fixed you a cup of tea without asking how you took it, or when he replaced the dodgy stool because he knew it squeaked and you hated it. He said it every time he kissed you between shelves, surrounded by chaos and glitter and magic.

And once, when the shop was dark and the rain tapped against the window like a lullaby, and you were sitting cross-legged on the floor sorting some stuff, he looked over and said, dead serious, “If you weren’t here, I’d have accidentally blown this place to hell six times over by now.”