If You'll Have Me | George Weasley

Chapter 10

SHE WOKE UP ALONE that morning. The couch where he had slept was vacant, the blankets in ruins as they hung half off the couch and half on the floor, and a barely drunken cup of tea sat upon the table. The steam had still been rising heavily from the surface.

She wasn't sure what time it was, or where George had gone, but she decides to get up before he returned. Before the awkwardness settled in with the remembrance of what had happened the night before—His lips against hers, his fingers digging into her thighs... She couldn't shake away the thought of it all as she makes her way to the bathroom.

She waits for the shower to heat up, and catches a glimpse of herself through the fog that masked the mirror, cursing at the purple marks that decorated her neck; Yet another reminder as to what happened the night before.

And as the water trickles down her spine, she feels the ghost of his hands on her, retracing every spot that he had touched and kissed. It almost didn't feel real, to know that they had done such a thing, and the idea of seeing him made her feel unnerved. It was good—The way that he knew exactly what to do, and how. And Eleanor couldn't recall a single person that came before him who had made her feel that way. That was what terrified her.

George was a friend. One who understood her in the ways that the rest of them didn't. She adored Hermione, Harry, and the rest of his siblings, but she hadn't opened up to them in the way that she had with him. Because the conversation between them flowed almost too naturally, too comfortably, and now she was burdened with the fear that she might've ruined all of that between them.

He had been in the kitchen while she dressed, leaning against the counter with a mug in his hand, eyes fixated on the view outside. He was unsure of what exactly he was looking for in the midst of the unkept grass, and perhaps there wasn't anything to look for, but it offered some sort of distraction. Because even he wasn't sure what to make of it all, or the emptiness of the couch when he returned from his bedroom.

That is, until he hears her footsteps against the stairs, and sees her face. The sheen of the sun cascading against her soft features as she makes the final step, entering the kitchen with sleepiness in her smile.

"Morning." He says, raising his mug to his lips.

It was an effort not to look at him and feel weak in her knees. To hold herself together as he stood there in his grey sweats, ember hair brushed lazily out of his face. All of what she planned to say slipped from her mind. Softened into dust and then drifted away. 

"Hey." She says instead, and asks for the time just to keep the crushing silence at bay.

"Early. Eight, I think?" He glimpses at the clock for confirmation, and then nods. "Couldn't sleep either, eh?"

"Not really." Though that was an understatement. She had hardly slept at all.

"Hm." He hums in response, standing straight from where he had been leaning against the counter. "There's some tea here, if you'd like."

She thanks him, reaching to the open cabinet for a mug. The Weasley's had a wide variety of cups and mugs to choose from, making her decision all the more difficult. She was torn between choosing the yellow one, and the blue one with flecks of white embedded into the paint, but she eventually decides on the yellow. It was already sunny outside, and despite her confusion about what had happened the night before, she was in a good mood. Happy.

George chuckles from behind her, taking one more sip of his tea. "Why so tense? Tough decision choosing a mug?"

"No." She smiles. "Just... Tired." Is all that she can manage, butterflies fluttering in her stomach as he takes one step closer to her.