The first thing you feel is warmth.

Not just the weight of blankets or the sun filtering through the crooked bedroom window, but the warmth of a body you know like home. His hand rests gently on your hip, fingers tracing soft circles just below the hem of the oversized shirt you stole from him last night—his shirt, worn and comforting against your skin.

You’re not even fully awake yet, and he’s already finding you, like he does every morning.

“Still asleep, darling?” Fred murmurs, close enough that you can feel his breath against your cheek.

You let out a soft, wordless noise, the closest you come to answering.

He chuckles, low and affectionate. “Mm, I’ll take that as a maybe.”

And then it begins — his morning routine.

A kiss to your cheek.

One to your temple.

Another, longer, right on your nose.

It’s impossible not to smile.

Fred WeasIey was a flirt from the start. All winks, teasing jabs, and clever remarks that left you rolling your eyes and fighting a grin. For a while, you thought that was all there was — quick hands, quicker wit. But somewhere along the way, beneath all the cheek and mischief, you found him — the real Fred.

The one who listens without interrupting, who kisses you in the middle of your worst days and makes it all feel light again. The one who makes jokes just to hear you laugh. The one who calls you darling like it’s second nature and somehow makes every room feel a little warmer just by being in it.

Because Fred doesn’t just love loudly — he loves deliberately.

Every morning with him is a string of sleepy kisses, tangled limbs, whispered jokes you barely catch. He’s charming in the way that makes you feel like you’re the only person in the world. And no matter what kind of day you're waking into, he lifts you with him — high, safe, and entirely loved.

He shifts to lean over you now, brushing hair from your face with careful fingers, his brown eyes soft and golden in the early light.

“You’re gonna have to get up, sweetheart,” he says gently, though his grin is unmistakable.

“No,” you mumble, curling closer to him. “Too warm. Too comfortable.”

“Too in love with me to move — I get it,” he replies breezily, pressing a kiss to your cheek.

You peek up at him through sleepy lashes. “How long have you been awake?”

“Long enough,” he says, a little smug, a little soft. “Mum’s downstairs. She’s already made scones. Asked about you by name. Twice.”

You blink slowly. “She did?”

He nods, eyes crinkling at the corners. “Mmhm. So you better get up before she comes up here herself. And trust me, love — I will absolutely let her.”

You groan into his chest, burying your face there, and he laughs softly.

“Come on.” He brushes a kiss to your forehead. “Up you get.”