Your breath catches before you even realize it has.

Fred is just across the pitch, tugging off his Quidditch gear after practice, the late afternoon sun casting golden light across his skin. His jersey sticks to him, clinging to every curve of lean muscle, and when he finally peels it off—hair tousled, chest heaving—you almost forget how to stand.

Sweat rolls down the lines of his torso, tracing the defined ridges of his abs. You weren’t looking for trouble today… but clearly, trouble found you.

You try to tear your eyes away, really, you do—but your gaze lingers far longer than you intended.

Fred turns just in time to catch you staring, and a grin spreads across his face—mischievous, cocky, devastating.

“See something you like?”

Your mouth opens, but no words come out. You blink as if trying to restart your brain after it glitches.

He steps toward you, tossing his jersey over one shoulder, his grin only deepening when he sees you flustered.

“You know,” he says, voice lower now, teasing, “if you’re going to undress me with your eyes, the least you could do is say hello first.”

“Don’t flatter yourself, WeasIey,” you manage to say as you try to fight the blush that is blooming across your cheeks.

But Fred just chuckles, taking another step closer, the scent of wind, sweat, and something warm curling around you.

“Too late for that, love.”

You can't help but turn back and look at him. He's just so cocky...and so right...