The soft patter of rain against the window made your flat feel warmer than ever. The gray light outside contrasted with the cozy glow of the kitchen, where the smell of sugar and cinnamon curled through the air. You were standing beside George, sleeves rolled up, a bowl of ingredients between you.

—“Right, love, you’re on whisk duty,” George said with that crooked grin, passing you the whisk. His hair was a little mussed, flour already dusting the front of his jumper.

As you started mixing, George leaned on the counter and smirked.

—“You know… now that we’re married and you’re my official shop assistant, we could make this a regular thing. Imagine—Weasley Wizard Treats. Homemade right here, then sold downstairs. Cake and Skiving Snackboxes, side by side.”

You snorted, shaking your head.

—“Right, because people definitely want to eat cake right next to something that might knock them out for a week.”

Before you could say more, you felt a sudden, cold smear on your nose.

—“George!” you yelped, recoiling slightly as you realized he’d dabbed batter right onto your face.

He was already laughing, leaning against the counter with that smug, boyish look that hadn’t changed since the day you met him.

—“You just looked like you needed a bit more sweetness.”

You tried to glare at him, but it was impossible not to laugh.

—“You’re ridiculous.”

—“Ridiculously handsome, ridiculously charming—” he stepped closer, brushing your nose gently with his thumb to wipe away the batter, “—and ridiculously in love with you.”

The rest of the baking went like that—occasional bumps of elbows, shared glances, his fingers brushing yours every time he passed you an ingredient. The flat smelled of warm vanilla by the time the cake was in the oven.

When it was done, George pulled it out, setting it carefully on the counter to cool.

—“Not bad for a pair of troublemakers,” he teased, slipping an arm around your waist as you both admired it.

While he started nibbling at a still-too-hot piece, you began setting the table in the small dining nook. Plates, forks, mugs of tea—it wasn’t fancy, but it was yours. George wandered over, still chewing, and plopped into his chair, watching you with a soft, contented smile.

—“This is the best part, you know,” he said, gesturing to the table, the flat, you. “Not just the eating—the whole… us thing.”