You don’t know who you became.

Somewhere between Ginny’s wild cackling and the shriek of victory echoing through the Burrow’s kitchen, the competitiveness had taken over—completely, utterly, embarrassingly. You always tried to stay cool during game nights, brushing them off with a casual “they’re not really my thing.” But the truth? You didn’t trust yourself. Not when it came to the thrill of a win, especially not when George was playing too.

It was meant to be a lighthearted evening. Weasley family game night had become a tradition now that you were staying at the Burrow, usually falling on weekends when Bill and Fleur visited or when Arthur could steal time away from the Ministry. A chance for everyone to come together, to laugh, to unwind.

You hadn’t expected to get roped in. But the second Ginny clapped a hand on your shoulder and declared you hers, George’s protest was cut off by her victorious smirk. “First come, first serve,” she sang. You shot George a smug little shrug and took your seat beside her at the table.

It started with harmless teasing. Jokes and jabs flying back and forth. But before long, something shifted. You caught George’s eye from across the table, his knowing smirk, the sparkle of mischief. It only spurred you on. And then, the move. The one that obliterated his entire progress in the game, wiping out his lead and handing the win to your team on a silver platter. Ginny howled with laughter, nearly toppling off her chair. “Didn’t know you were ruthless,” she snorted, nudging you. “Definitely having you again next round.”

You tried to laugh it off, feigning innocence. But George’s expression said it all, stunned, impressed, and maybe just a little turned on.

The night wound down. Someone put the kettle on. Molly was handing out tea, Arthur flipping through the wireless. The others drifted off one by one, voices fading into distant rooms and quiet upstairs footsteps.

You were still standing near the hearth when you felt him behind you.

George’s hands slid around your waist, his chest pressed against your back as he leaned in close. His voice was low and rough against your neck, "You were someone else tonight.”

You flushed instantly, turning just slightly, mortified. “Sorry,” you murmured, gaze dropping.

But then his lips brushed your skin—slow, deliberate, soft kisses trailing just below your ear, down your neck.

“Don’t apologise,” he whispered, voice barely above a breath. “It was hot.”

His arms tightened around you. And in that moment, the game was long over—but you’d never felt more like a winner.