The Burrow was quiet for once.

The sun had only just started pouring in through the crooked kitchen windows, bathing the table in a warm golden haze. The smell of the countryside—earthy, fresh, and still full of dew—mixed with the soft clinking of mugs and the low hum of the coffee kettle heating up on the stove.

You were alone… or so you thought.

Wearing one of George’s oversized shirts (not intentionally—it was the only clean thing you could grab after last night), and a skirt you'd tugged on in a sleepy daze, you moved around the kitchen as quietly as possible. Your fingers wrapped around a chipped teacup as you poured the coffee, trying very hard not to overthink the soft ache in your legs, or the heat still lingering in your cheeks.

You heard a creak behind you.

George.

He looked... a little stunned to see you, even though you'd woken up in the same bed just hours ago. His hair was ruffled, like he'd just rolled out of bed, and his shirt was half-buttoned, looking like he couldn’t decide if he wanted to flee or stay. His eyes darted from your face to the shirt you were wearing—his shirt—and then quickly to the floor.

“Hey,” he said, voice a little hoarse.

“Morning,” you murmured, biting the inside of your cheek.

For a second, neither of you moved.

It was like the weight of everything that had changed between you overnight was suddenly louder than the sound of the kettle whistling.

Then came the sound of footsteps on the stairs. Quick. Familiar.

Molly.

You barely had a second to glance at George before she entered the kitchen, her eyes immediately locking on the two of you—and then, without a beat, down to the shirt you were wearing.

Molly Weasley froze.

Coffee still in hand, your stomach dropped.

Her eyes narrowed—not in anger, not in shock—but in the unmistakable, mother-knows-everything kind of way.

George looked like he wanted to disappear into the floor. His ears flushed red. “Mum—”

She cut him off with a single raised brow and a pointed glance at his shirt on you.

“Good morning, dears,” Molly said with that saccharine tone only mothers mastered when they were absolutely holding back a full interrogation.

You murmured a shy greeting, suddenly hyper-aware of the silence between you and George. And the damn shirt.

Molly moved toward the stove with practiced grace, grabbing a pan. “Hope you were both… responsible.”

George choked.

You stared at her in horror. “Mrs. Weasley—!”

“Oh, don’t ‘Mrs. Weasley’ me, dear,” she said cheerfully. “I had seven children. I know that look. And that shirt. You might as well have painted ‘I’ve just had a life-changing night’ across your forehead.”

You flushed harder than the kettle about to boil over.

George made a strangled noise and covered his face with his hand. “Merlin, just hex me.”

Molly smirked.

“Don’t worry,” she said. “No one else is awake yet. But I’d suggest changing before your brothers come down and start asking far too many questions.”

You and George both muttered some form of thanks/embarrassed apology, but she waved it off with a wink and a very suspicious smile.

As she turned away, whistling like she hadn’t just turned your soul inside out, George stepped closer to you—eyes still wide.

“Well,” he whispered under his breath, leaning down, “she took it better than I thought.”

You sipped your coffee and deadpanned, “I may never sleep again.”

He grinned, finally breaking into that usual George mischief, and kissed your cheek. “Good thing I didn’t sleep much last night either.”