The shop is closed, but it doesn’t feel quiet.

There’s still a faint smell of smoke and sugar in the air, the echo of laughter trapped in the walls like it doesn’t know the war is over. You’re leaning against one of the counters, fingers idly tracing a scorch mark someone never bothered to clean up. It’s late enough that the street outside has gone still. but not late enough for sleep to feel possible.

Fred is across the room, halfway on a ladder he absolutely doesn’t need, arguing with a box of merchandise like it personally offended him.

“Swear to Merlin, if this thing explodes now, I’m suing myself,” he mutters, wrenching it free and hopping down. He doesn’t look at you right away. He never does, not at first. He moves, he fiddles, he keeps momentum. like stopping might let something catch up to him.

When he finally glances over, it’s quick. Assessing. Sharp. His mouth curves like he’s already decided to joke about whatever expression you’re wearing.

“You’re doing that thing again,” he says, strolling closer, voice light. “The broody, mysterious silence. Very attractive. Bit unsettling.”

He stops too close. Close enough that you can feel the heat off him, smell the smoke ingrained in his clothes. There’s a new scar visible at his collar where the shirt’s tugged open. he hasn’t noticed you looking, or he has and he’s pretending not to care.

You say something dry, clipped, familiar and he grins like he’s won a private game. He bumps his shoulder into yours, casual, like it doesn’t matter. Like it doesn’t linger.

Except it does.

For half a second, the humour slips. His eyes flick down, then back up. Something tightens in his jaw.

“…Don’t,” he says lightly, immediately backpedalling into a smirk. “If you start being serious, I’ll have to panic. Can’t have that.”

He turns away, rummaging through drawers, talking while he moves. About orders. About George. About absolutely anything that isn’t the way the room feels smaller when you’re this close.