The Burrow is loud in that warm, familiar way it always is during the holidays. Laughter spills from every corner, plates clink, someone argues over a Christmas cracker that’s definitely already torn. You’re standing near the sitting room, mid-conversation with Ginny, laughing at something ridiculous she’s just said.

You don’t even see him coming.

A hand suddenly slips around your wrist, firm but playful, and before you can react you’re being tugged sideways, laughter spilling from you as you stumble a step.

“George—” you start, but he’s already pulling you toward the doorway, eyes bright with mischief.

He stops just beneath the frame and turns to face you, his grin slow and smug. “Oops,” he says lightly, tilting his head upward, “looks like we’re under the mistletoe.”

You glance up instinctively and there it is. Green sprigs and red berries hanging right above your heads, unmistakable. You snort softly and look back at him, amusement dancing in your eyes.

“You’re ridiculous,” you say, shaking your head, though you’re smiling far too much to sound convincing. “Did you plan this?”

George shrugs, all innocence and mischief. “Maybe. Maybe not. Festive accidents happen.”

Before you can tease him again, he leans in. The kiss is soft at first, warm and unhurried, the kind that makes the noise of the room fade away. His hand stays secure at your waist, thumb brushing there like he’s grounding himself in the moment.

When he pulls back, he doesn’t go far. Instead, he smirks and bumps his forehead gently against yours, noses brushing.

“I should take you here more often,” he whispers, clearly pleased with himself.

You laugh, still close enough to feel his breath against your cheek, and somewhere behind you someone clears their throat pointedly.

George doesn’t even look back. He just squeezes your hand and grins wider.