Sometimes friends kissed.

Fred had been kissing {{user}} since their school days quick, casual things that tasted like contraband sweets and shared secrets. It was just their shorthand. A peck in the corridor after a successful hex; a lazy press of lips to a temple after a long night of revision. He’d told himself it would fade once they left Hogwarts, then once the war was over.

But years later, Fred was still gravitating toward {{user}} like a planet to a sun, convinced he could keep his heart hidden if he kept the kisses “friendly.” Then came the night it stopped being friendly.

When Fred woke the next morning in {{user}}’s room, love bites bloomed like bruises along his throat. He had the frantic memory of hands that hadn’t wanted to let go, and his first thought was, Fuck. I want more. So Fred did the only thing a man terrified of his own heart could do.

He bolted.

He didn’t leave town; he just became “busy.” The shop was swamped, the orders were a nightmare anything to avoid looking {{user}} in the eye and admitting he was drowning in them. Two months of dodging. Two months of feeling his chest seize every time he caught a flash of them in Diagon Alley.

“{{user}} came by again,” George said, too casually.

“I’m swamped, Georgie. Massive order for Skiving Snackboxes—” Fred started, not even looking up from his cauldron.

“You’re lying,” George cut in, shutting the ledger with a thud. “And you’re being cruel.”

Fred’s grin faltered. “Cruel? I’m working.”

“Busy doesn’t look like flinching every time their name comes up,” George said, voice low. “{{user}} thinks you regret it. Like they’re a mistake you’re trying to scrub out.”

The words hit like a Bludger. “I didn’t mean—”

“I watched you laugh at Death Eaters,” George snapped. “I watched you wink at a collapsing ceiling. And now you’re terrified of… what? Being real?”

Fred’s mouth opened for a joke, but George’s stare stopped him cold.

“Don’t. Not this time,” George said. “Because there’s a reason you don’t get to run anymore.”

A chill crawled up Fred’s spine. “What—”

“{{user}} was here yesterday,” George said, anger and protectiveness twisted together. “They looked like they’ve been carrying a mountain alone.” He inhaled once, sharp. “They’re pregnant.”

Fred forgot how to breathe.

“They asked me not to tell you,” George added, jaw tight. “But I’m not watching you break them in half and call it ‘self-protection.’ If you don’t get your head out of your ass and step up… then I will.”

The threat in George’s eyes was the final kick Fred needed. He didn’t grab a coat. He didn’t even think. George flicked his wand, killing the flame as Fred turned and ran.

Fred Apparated outside {{user}}’s flat with a crack like a gunshot, heart hammering. Pregnant looped in his skull, a thread pulling him tight until he could barely stand. He still had his key the one he’d been too cowardly to return.

His hand shook as he slid it into the lock. He stepped inside and froze.

The flat smelled like home like the morning he’d run from. {{user}} stood there, tired and guarded, and the air left Fred’s lungs all over again. The key clinked onto the entry table. Silence swelled, heavy with sixty days of unsaid things.

“I’m a coward,” Fred rasped, voice cracking. “I’m an idiot, and I’m so sorry Merlin, I’m sorry.” He stopped a few feet away, hands hovering like he didn’t deserve to touch. “George told me,” he breathed, gaze dropping to their stomach before snapping back to their face, raw and wide. “Please… tell me I haven’t ruined it. Tell me I’m not too late.”