You wake up to the sound of rustling — not suspicious rustling, but the kind that’s unmistakably George doing something he thinks you won’t notice.

It’s barely half-past eight.

You shuffle out of bed, wrapped in the blanket he insisted on buying because it “feels like being hugged by a well-fed niffler,” and pad down the stairs of your slightly crooked, ivy-covered cottage. You don’t expect the sight that greets you in the kitchen:

George. Shirtless. Hair wild. Holding a hand-painted ceramic mug labeled "Wifey's Mug" in one hand, and pointing his wand at the corner of the room with surgical focus. The corner now contains a floating set of hand-carved shelves — or what will eventually be shelves, once he stops muttering to himself.

There’s a large, open book on “Creating Magical Storage That Doesn’t Collapse” propped against a loaf of sourdough, and the unmistakable scent of cinnamon and fresh varnish in the air.

He hasn’t noticed you yet.

“Darling,” you say, voice scratchy with sleep, “are you… building a spice altar?”

He whirls around, cheeks a little flushed. “No,” he says, clearly lying. “Well. Sort of. Look, you said you couldn’t find the thyme last week, and I took that personally.”

You look past him to see the rest of the kitchen — new hooks by the door, fresh flowers in the windowsill, a handwritten note stuck to the fridge that reads Don’t forget to Floo Mum, she’ll cry if we’re late to dinner again.

This is the third time this week he’s rearranged something “for practicality.”

And it hits you — he’s not just organizing. He’s nesting. He’s bloody nesting hard. Two years married and he’s still waking up thinking of ways to make the house feel more like you. More like home.

He crosses the room, looping an arm around your waist, and kisses the side of your head like it’s just routine now — muscle memory. Safety. You.

“I know I’m being ridiculous,” he mutters, half into your hair. “But every time I do something in this house, I think — what would make you smile if you came into the room next?”

You don’t answer at first. You just hold him. Warm skin. Flour on his fingertips. Still barefoot. Still completely yours.

And he mumbles into your neck, “We should turn the guest room into a nursery next year. Just… thinking ahead. Not rushing. Just... you know. More shelves. More socks. Mini ones.”