It’s only been a week—but it feels like a warzone.

A few days spent with bright green hair until the charm finally wore off, a full-blown glitter explosion in the bedroom (you're still finding it between the floorboards and in your clothes), and invisibility hexes placed on crucial items: your toothbrush, your charger, your sanity.

What started as a prank war quickly spiraled into full-blown magical mayhem. Not a cuddle, not a kiss, not a single soft moment shared without someone’s eyebrows turning purple or a chair vanishing beneath them.

And yeah... it was probably your fault.

George had always been your safe space—your chaos everywhere else, your calm at home. You’d made him promise: no serious pranks, not with you. Tame ones were fine. Cute even. But last weekend, that line blurred. He tested a new Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes product on you, of all people. You snapped. Maybe louder than necessary. You might’ve cursed, claiming, “You’re going to get it.”

You had declared war.

To his surprise (and honestly, yours too), you got him. Got him good. Repeatedly. Relentlessly. After all his years of mischief, you had him on the back foot—and he wasn’t used to that.

So now here he is, sidling toward you as you sit curled up with your tea, watching him with narrowed eyes as you cautiously set your mug down.

“What are you doing, Mr.?” you ask, suspicion laced in every syllable.

He grins. “Oh come on, love. Can’t a man simply enjoy the company of his partner?”

You don’t buy it. He can tell. He raises both hands in surrender, laughing louder.

“Okay, okay—truce.”

Your eyes narrow further. “How can I trust you?”

Instead of answering, he settles beside you, close and warm. He leans in and begins pressing soft kisses to your cheeks, your temple, down the curve of your neck. “Is this enough of a truce display?” he murmurs against your skin. “Forgive me, sweetheart?”