You Make Me Feel Like I’m Home
- Summary: Late at night at the Burrow, Fred Weasley lies half-asleep beside you, murmuring, “You make me feel like I’m home.” In the stillness between breaths and the soft warmth of tangled sheets, you realize, he’s not just your love; he’s your safe place too.
- Pairing: Reader x Fred Weasley
The night was quiet in that rare, golden way the Burrow sometimes managed the kind of stillness that felt earned after a long, chaotic day.
The fire downstairs had burned low, casting lazy orange light against the crooked walls, and the air smelled faintly of smoke and cinnamon. You’d been up late with Fred, sprawled across his bed, talking about everything and nothing the shop, the twins’ latest prank, the future that seemed to stretch endlessly ahead of you both.
Now, hours later, your voices had faded into comfortable silence.
Fred lay on his side, one arm draped over your waist, his face pressed into the pillow so only the messy tuft of red hair at the top of his head was visible. You were tucked against him, your head resting on his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat.
It was one of those nights where time didn’t feel, real where the world outside could’ve fallen away, and you wouldn’t have noticed.
You felt the rumble of his voice before you heard it.
“Y’know,” he mumbled, words muffled and heavy with sleep, “you’re terrible for my productivity.”
You smiled into his shirt. “Am I now?”
“Mhm,” he hummed. “Was supposed to be designing new product labels… ended up designing ways to get you to stay longer instead.”
You laughed quietly. “You’re ridiculous.”
He cracked one eye open, the faintest of grins tugging at his lips. “You say that like it’s news.”
You shifted to face him, your legs tangled in the sheets, and his grin softened into something real. His freckles caught the dim light, scattered across his cheeks like constellations. He looked impossibly young, like this peaceful, sleepy, almost boyish.
“I like this,” you admitted softly. “Just… this.”
Fred’s eyes searched yours for a long moment. The teasing faded from his face, replaced by something gentle, almost fragile.
“Yeah,” he said quietly. “Me too.”
You watched the flicker of the firelight dance over his features, and something inside you ached. You knew how often he carried the weight of laughter, how he turned jokes into armor. But here, in the dark, he wasn’t the jokester. He was just Fred.
Your hand brushed against his, fingers tracing the roughness of his palm — a reminder of the work, the pranks, the constant motion. But tonight, his touch was still. Warm. Human.
He exhaled slowly, eyes fluttering shut again. “Merlin, I’m knackered,” he murmured, voice slurred from sleep.
“Why not?” you teased, smiling against his chest.
He paused for a long moment. And then, in that hazy, half-conscious way that comes only when you’re too tired to lie, he whispered,
“You make me feel like I’m home.”
The words hung between you, soft and weightless, but they landed with the force of something true, something that reached past laughter and flirtation and every wall either of you had ever built.
Fred shifted slightly, his face still half-buried in the pillow. “Did I say that out loud?”
You smiled faintly, heart twisting. “Yeah, you did.”
He groaned, turning away with mock embarrassment. “Bugger. Don’t tell George. I’ll never hear the end of it.”
You laughed quietly, tugging him back toward you. “Don’t worry,” you whispered, your lips brushing the edge of his jaw. “It’s safe with me.”
He hummed something sleepy and incoherent, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead before sinking deeper into the pillow. His breathing evened out within minutes, slow and steady, the weight of him warm and grounding beside you.
But you couldn’t sleep yet.
You lay there, tracing absent circles on his arm, listening to the faint crackle of the dying fire. His earlier words echoed in your mind, you make me feel like I’m home.
Fred Weasley, the boy who lived in motion, who thrived in noise and laughter and mayhem finding, home in you.
You turned your face toward him, whispering into the quiet, “You’re my home too, you know.”
He didn’t stir, but his hand twitched slightly in his sleep, fingers tightening around yours as if he’d heard you anyway.
And as the last bit of firelight faded into darkness, you let your eyes close, heart full, breath steady, wrapped in the warmth of the boy who made the world feel safe again.
