The Burrow is loud in that familiar, comforting way. Fire crackling, laughter spilling from the kitchen, the faint clatter of dishes and the hum of holiday magic stitched into every corner of the house. You and Charlie weave through the living room together, careful not to trip over scattered wrapping paper or some prank items left by the twins.

He’s just said something that makes you laugh when he suddenly stops in the doorway.

You nearly bump into his chest.

He tilted his head, eyes flicking upward, a slow grin spreading across his face. “Look up,” he said.

You followed his gaze and there it was. Mistletoe, tied with a slightly crooked ribbon, hanging right above you both.

You let out a soft laugh, shaking your head. “Of course.”

For a moment, neither of you move. The noise of the Burrow fades into the background, the clink of mugs, Fred and George arguing somewhere down the hall, Molly’s voice calling out reminders that no one is allowed to nick the mince pies early. All of it dulls until it’s just the two of you, standing close, sharing that unspoken pause.

Charlie’s expression softens.

Then he leans in slowly, giving you time, letting the moment stretch just enough to feel real.

Your lips meet. Gentle at first, warm and unhurried. He deepens it just slightly, one hand settling against your back, firm and steady, grounding you without breaking the tenderness of it. There’s something quietly reassuring in the way he holds you, like he always does, protective without being possessive.

When you pull back, he lingers close, forehead almost brushing yours. His thumb lifts to tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear, the smirk returning as his eyes flick up to the mistletoe above you.

“Think we might need a few more of these before Christmas,” he says, voice low and amused.

You laugh softly, still close enough to feel his warmth, and he squeezes your hand as the noise of the Burrow rushes back in around you. Cozy, chaotic, and perfect.