Before you can steady your breath, you feel him move. Slow, deliberate. Bill closes the space between you like he’s done it a hundred times in his head—like he’s meant to.

His arms circle your waist, warm hands splaying over your stomach, pulling you back into his chest. You stiffen—out of habit, not regret—but then you melt, just like you do with him.

"Y’know," his lips brush against the shell of your ear, "there’s something criminal about how good you look in that shirt."

A small laugh escapes you, breathy and surprised. "Pretty sure it’s one of yours."

"Even worse," he grins against your skin, "makes me want to keep you in it… and here."

You bite your lip, heart hammering. "Bill—someone could walk in."

He hums but doesn’t let go. "Let ‘em. They’d just see what I already know—you’re mine."

His words settle heavily between you, warm and dangerous. You know this thing—whatever it is—can’t last in the light of day. Not yet. But here, in the quiet of the Burrow’s kitchen, with his arms around you and his lips trailing soft kisses along your jaw… it feels real. Bill smiles, resting his chin on your shoulder,