The Burrow’s kitchen was bathed in late afternoon light, golden and soft, filtering through the crooked window above the sink. You were leaning against the worn wooden counter, idly tracing a knot in the grain with your fingertip while Charlie talked. His voice low, deep, and oddly soothing as he described life at the dragon reserve.

He was telling you about a Norwegian Ridgeback that had injured one of the handlers, and though his tone stayed casual, you could hear the worry buried beneath it. You listened closely, head tilted slightly, your brows drawn in quiet empathy.

Then Bill stepped into the room.

His boots clicked softly on the floorboards as he came to a stop just inside the doorway. He took in the sight before him. Charlie standing close, his hand gesturing animatedly as he spoke, your gaze fixed on him with that gentle, attentive look Bill knew so well. The sight made something tighten in his chest. Not anger, exactly, but a flicker of possessive unease he didn’t care to name.

He didn’t interrupt. Instead, he crossed to the counter, moving with his usual quiet grace, setting the kettle on the stove. But his eyes kept drifting back to the two of you. The way you leaned in slightly when Charlie spoke, how his tone softened when you asked a question.

Charlie eventually finished his story, running a hand through his hair and flashing you that easy, brotherly grin. “Anyway,” he said, chuckling, “the poor bloke’ll be fine. Burn salve and a few weeks’ rest, that’s all.”

You smiled warmly. “Still sounds terrifying.”

Charlie laughed. “You get used to it.” He gave your shoulder a light pat before glancing toward Bill. “You brewing tea, mate?”

Bill nodded once. “Something like that.” Charlie didn’t notice the shift in his tone, not fully, and left a moment later, boots thudding up the stairs. The kitchen door creaked shut behind him, leaving a silence that felt heavier than before.

You turned back toward the counter, but Bill’s gaze was already on you. He leaned against the opposite counter, arms folding across his chest. “You two seemed… deep in conversation,” he said evenly, though the calm in his voice carried a quiet, unmistakable tension.

You smiled faintly, trying to ease the edge you heard. “Charlie was just telling me about a dragon injury. That’s all.”

Bill pushed off the counter, closing the space between you in slow, deliberate steps. “I know,” he murmured. “I trust you.”

His hand came to rest on your hip, fingers warm and firm through the fabric of your shirt. His thumb brushed a lazy circle against your side as his gaze locked onto yours — steady, unflinching, but softer than his words.

“I trust you,” he repeated, voice lower now, “but I don’t like watching my brother keep your attention like that.”

You felt your breath catch as he leaned in, his forehead nearly brushing yours, his scent filling the small space between you.

His next words were a whisper, barely there but enough to make your pulse skip. “You’re mine. Don’t forget it.”

Your lips parted, a soft exhale escaping before you could stop it. Bill lingered there a moment longer, thumb tracing the line of your waist before pulling back. Not far but enough to meet your eyes with a faint, knowing smirk.