The Burrow is loud in the way only the holidays can make it—voices overlapping, fire crackling, laughter drifting from every room. You’re carefully making your way from the kitchen to the living room, arms full as you juggle a tray of steaming drinks, trying not to spill a drop.

You step through the doorway and pause.

Right above you, tied with a crooked bit of red ribbon, hangs mistletoe.

“Oh,” you murmur, half to yourself.

Before you can step back or rethink it, a steady hand comes in beside yours. Another, warm and sure, settles on the edge of the tray, easing the weight.

“Careful,” Bill says softly.

You glance up. He’s closer than you expected, shoulders brushing yours as he helps steady the drinks. For a second, neither of you move.

Then his gaze flicks upward.

He notices the mistletoe, and you see his eyes widen just slightly before a small, amused smile curves his lips. “Well…” he says, voice low and warm.

You raise an eyebrow, heart doing a quiet little stumble. “Guess we have to, then?”

He lets out a soft chuckle, lowering his voice even more. Carefully, he eases the tray from your hands and sets it aside, giving you his full attention. One hand comes up to your waist, steady and warm, the other brushing a thumb along your jaw as he leans in.

The kiss is gentle, unhurried, a familiar warmth that settles deep in your chest. It’s over almost too soon, but it lingers in the quiet space between you.

When he pulls back, Bill runs a hand through his hair, that easy, affectionate smile still there as his thumb brushes your side.

“Not complaining about this at all,” he says softly.

And for a moment, with the Burrow humming around you and mistletoe still swaying overhead, you don’t think you are either.