You’d woken earlier than you meant to, the Burrow unusually quiet for once. Most of the Weasleys were still sleeping in, which made sense—it was the holidays, after all.

The kitchen was already warm when you came downstairs, the windows fogged from the cold outside. You stopped just shy of the doorway, because the sight before you made you pause.

Fred. In an apron.

Flour streaked his cheek, and there was more on the counter than in the bowl he was working over. Mrs Weasley stood beside him, hands on her hips, as Fred tried to knead dough with far more force than necessary.

“Honestly, Fred, gently,” she said, swatting at his arm with a wooden spoon. “You’re not trying to beat the dough into submission.”

Fred shot her a grin that was all mischief. “But Mum, how else will it know who’s boss?”

Mrs Weasley rolled her eyes but didn’t bother arguing. She was already stirring something else on the stove.

Fred glanced up then, spotting you hovering in the doorway. “Morning, sleepyhead. You’re just in time to witness my transformation into a domestic god.”

“Domestic menace, more like,” Molly muttered, but there was no real bite to it.

You slid into a chair at the kitchen table, resting your chin in your hands as you watched him wrestle the dough into something vaguely scone-like. He caught you staring and, of course, threw you a wink, nearly dropping his rolling pin in the process.

By the time the tray went into the oven, the kitchen smelled of butter and sugar, warm and sweet against the cold drifting in from outside. Molly left to check on something in the sitting room, muttering about needing to tidy before Arthur came back.

That left you and Fred alone. He leaned against the counter, brushing flour from his hands and just smearing it worse. “When these come out,” he said solemnly, “you’re trying one. I expect full applause, standing ovation included.”

The scones came out a little uneven, edges too crisp, but golden all the same. Fred piled two onto a plate and slid them across the table to you. “For you,” he said, like it was some grand offering. “Best one of the batch — I made sure of it.”

You arched a brow. “How exactly does one ‘make sure’ of that?”

“I taste-tested three. For quality control.”

You laughed, breaking the scone in half. You took a bite, trying not to show how much you loved it — and failing miserably.

Fred leaned one elbow on the table, watching you like your reaction was more important than the food itself. When you finally swallowed, he grinned.

“Good, yeah?”

You nodded, smiling despite yourself. “Yeah.”

Fred’s grin widened, a little triumphant but softer than his usual smugness. Instead of looking away, he reached over and brushed a crumb from the corner of your mouth with his thumb, casual as anything.

“Thought so,” he murmured.