𝐌𝐀𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐈𝐂𝐊 | f. w

8.

As I finally made it back to my office, I closed the door behind me and leaned against it, exhaling deeply. The morning had been a whirlwind of avoidance and thinly veiled panic, and I needed a moment to collect myself. I walked over to my desk and sat down, staring at the scattered papers but not really seeing them. My thoughts were elsewhere.

I've always prided myself on my independence. Growing up in a family as intricate and demanding as mine, I learned early on to trust no one but myself.

Being alone was often easier than the alternative. Solitude meant safety; it meant control. I didn't have to worry about anyone else's expectations or judgments. I could make my own decisions and live with the consequences, for better or worse. It was a hard-won independence, and I cherished it.

Letting people in had always been a challenge. My walls were high, fortified by years of self-preservation. When I did let someone in, it was a deliberate choice, a calculated risk. I preferred the company of a select few, those who understood my need for space and respected it. And even then, I often kept a part of myself guarded, hidden away from even my closest friends.

I became adept at hiding my emotions, at presenting a composed exterior no matter the turmoil within. Trusting others was a risk I rarely took, preferring the predictability of solitude over the potential pain of betrayal or hurt. I built my life on this foundation, carving out a space where I could be self-sufficient and in control.

Then Fred Weasley stormed into my life with his relentless cheer and audacity. He was everything I wasn't: loud, carefree, and perpetually pushing boundaries. His presence was a stark reminder that my carefully constructed barriers were not as impenetrable as I thought. With his fiery hair and even fierier personality, he was the antithesis of my carefully controlled world. His forward nature, his relentless pursuit of fun and spontaneity, constantly disrupted my equilibrium. He didn't just walk past my walls; he bulldozed right through them, often leaving me flustered and uncertain.

Fred's approach to life was a stark contrast to mine. Where I saw risks, he saw opportunities. Where I sought order, he thrived in chaos. His confidence was both alluring and unsettling, and I never quite knew how to act around him. He pushed my boundaries, challenged my self-reliance, and forced me to confront feelings I preferred to keep buried.

Last night was a perfect example of that. One drink led to another, and before I knew it, the lines I'd drawn so carefully had blurred into oblivion. The memory of our kiss, the sensation of his hands on me, and the heat of the moment came rushing back with alarming clarity. I'd let my guard down, and now I was paying the price for it.

Sitting at my desk, I sighed and rubbed my temples, trying to soothe the throbbing headache that lingered from both the alcohol and the stress. Fred's cocky grin and teasing remarks replayed in my mind, a constant reminder of how off-balance he'd made me feel.

I needed to regain control, to reestablish my boundaries. But how could I do that when Fred seemed intent on breaking them down at every turn? How could I maintain my independence when every encounter with him left me questioning it?

As much as I loathed to admit it, Fred had gotten under my skin in a way no one else had. His presence was a challenge to my solitary ways, a test of my ability to stay detached. And the worst part was, a small, treacherous part of me didn't entirely hate it.

I rubbed my temples again, trying to push the memories away and focus on the present. The stack of documents in front of me was a mess, a reflection of my disordered thoughts. I sighed deeply, the familiar pressure in my chest returning as I thought about Fred's smirk, his knowing eyes, and his casual touch.

My mind wandered back to the pub once more, the way Fred's laughter filled the air, the warmth of his hand on mine, the intoxicating pull of his presence.