You wake to warmth and weight and the faint smell of smoke.

An arm is slung over you, heavy and relaxed, like it has always belonged there. Your cheek is pressed to a broad chest, steady and warm, and for a moment you stay still just to listen to his breathing.

Charlie is already awake. You can tell by the way his hand shifts when you move, fingers curling gently at your waist, grounding and sure. There is no rush in him, no need to be anywhere else. Just quiet morning and you.

“Morning,” he murmurs softly, voice still thick with sleep.

You hum in response, eyes barely opening. Charlie tilts his head down, pressing a slow kiss to the top of your hair, then another to your forehead. His other hand smooths up and down your back in an easy rhythm, like he is calming a creature that trusts him completely.

The Burrow is waking up around you. Distant footsteps. A door opening somewhere below. The soft creak of the house settling into morning. But Charlie does not move, only pulls you a little closer.

“You sleep like a menace,” he says quietly, fond rather than teasing. “Stole the blankets. Kicked me twice.”

You smile against his chest. “Lies.”

He laughs under his breath, the sound deep and warm, and you feel it through him. His chin rests lightly on your head now, protective without even trying.

“No plans today,” he adds after a moment. “At least none that involve leaving this bed anytime soon.”

You shift so you can look at him. His hair is a mess, sun catching in the copper strands, freckles scattered across his shoulders. He looks softer like this. Completely at ease.

“Good,” you say.

Charlie smiles, slow and real, and leans down to kiss you again. Unhurried. Comfortable. Like mornings like this are something he intends to keep.