The Burrow was loud. It always was — overlapping conversations, clinking cutlery, the occasional spell flying across the table when someone got too dramatic with their storytelling.

You were seated between Charlie and Bill, doing your best to follow Ginny’s story across the table, but your attention kept slipping. Mostly because of him.

Bill was casual, as always — relaxed in his chair, sipping wine with one hand, the other resting loosely on his thigh. His sleeves were rolled to the elbows, hair half-tied. Every now and then, he’d glance over at you, lips twitching like he knew something you didn’t.

You leaned in when the table burst into laughter again, taking the moment to brush your fingers along the inside of his thigh — slow, feather-light — before you whispered something bold into his ear. Nothing anyone else could hear. Just him.

He didn’t react right away. Just sipped his drink like you hadn’t just teased him under the table in the middle of dinner with his entire family two feet away.

But you saw it.

The slight shift in his jaw. The way his eyes flicked down to your mouth, then back up — slow, unreadable, like he was already planning something.

He didn’t speak for a few seconds. Just kept looking at you.

Then he leaned in. Closer this time. Voice low enough that it sank straight into your skin.

“Behave,” he murmured.

A pause. Just long enough for your breath to catch.

“Or don’t,” he added, voice barely a breath now. “Just know I’ll deal with you later.”

Then he pulled back like nothing happened. Grabbed the basket of bread, passed it to George, chimed in on a story Percy was telling about some ridiculous Ministry memo.

Everyone else kept talking. Laughing. Eating.

And you just sat there, trying not to squirm.

Because now his fingers were tracing slow, idle circles on your bare skin under the table — just above your knee.

Nothing bold. Nothing obvious.

But you could barely focus on a single word anyone else was saying.

And now you were the one distracted.