George is curled up on the sofa with you, your head resting on his shoulder, their legs tangled beneath a worn but beloved throw. The room is quiet except for the soft hum of the movie playing, some Muggle rom-com you love and he's secretly come to enjoy too, though he pretends otherwise.

Your belly rises and falls gently against him, and he’s idly stroking your arm, half-listening, half-lost in the rhythm of your breathing. It’s been weeks of you smiling and saying, "They're kicking again," and him pressing his hand to your bump, waiting and hoping, to feel it for himself. But the little one has been shy, or stubborn. Probably both.

A light poke against his arms draws his attention from the movie. He flinches, blinking, and turns his head toward you with a confused furrow of his brow. But you are focused on the screen, laughing softly at something the main character just said. You haven’t moved, and that’s when it hits him.

Eyes widening, he shifts slightly, heart pounding, and presses his palm more firmly against the curve of your belly. Another nudge, small but sure, like a tiny knock from inside. George’s breath catches.

He glances at you, a slow smile blooming, his eyes shimmering with wonder. “I felt them,” he says, barely above a whisper. “They're kicking, aren't they?” His arms tighten around you, pulling you closer.