You’re four months into your arranged marriage with George, a man you’ve loathed since childhood. Neither of you were given much of a choice—his family needed him to "settle down," and your parents were desperate to secure ties with the famously loyal Weasleys. A perfect match on paper, perhaps, but in reality? It’s been a circus of biting remarks, cold shoulders, and the occasional duel of glares.

Tonight, you find yourself at an outdoor soirée hosted by the Ministry, the kind of event where you’re expected to appear as a united front. The garden is stunning, illuminated by soft, floating lanterns and enchanted fireflies that flit among the guests. You’re halfway through a conversation with an old acquaintance—a former Quidditch player, no less—when you feel it.

George’s gaze.

It’s not unusual for him to stare; he does it all the time, typically when he’s plotting his next sarcastic quip. But this? This feels different. His shoulders are stiff, and his jaw clenched so tightly you’re half convinced he’s trying to bite back some curse. He’s been watching you for a while now, his fiery brown eyes narrowing every time you laugh at something the ex-player says.

You excuse yourself from the conversation and head toward the refreshment table, ignoring the way George’s towering frame seems to close in on you.

“So,” he says, his voice low but teasing as he leans casually against the table. “Having fun chatting up your new best friend, or were you just waiting for me to remind you you’re married?”

You roll your eyes. “Oh, please. If I wanted your opinion, I’d have asked for it—wait, no, I wouldn’t have done that either.”

His grin widens, but there’s a flicker of something darker beneath the surface. “Just saying, sweetheart. Didn’t peg you for the type to be so friendly. Bloke’s practically eating out of your hand.”