Forget Me Not || George Weasley

Chapter 53

{{mature warning!!}}

Steam fills George's bathroom.

It's warm, the cloud over his shower causing his lights to glow like the stars that fight against the sun's rays in the early morning, desperate to stay in the sky despite the moon's desire to sleep.

George smiles at the soft light, clenching his eyes shut and dipping his head under the water. The sound of the shower, the warmth of the steam, the knowledge that on the other side of the door is a rather enticing witch. All of it causes his smile to grow until he's certain that he looks like an absolute nutter.

He rakes his hands through his wet hair, a feeling akin to that warm glow growing in his stomach when he contemplates stepping out of the shower and waking Olive to join him. Merlin, he couldn't get enough of her.

Something had changed the night before, and it wasn't just his furniture. If he'd realized the kind of 'thank you' he'd receive in response to a new couch he would have gotten rid of it as soon as he'd understood his feelings for the ice cream witch. But that wasn't it either. Trust. Olive had given him a piece of it last night, extended it like a precious jewel that she wasn't sure he'd want to take. He'd take it all, take anything. He wanted to ask more, to ask what she was trying to make sense of. But he knew from the way her scar had looked so red and her cuticles picked away at that she was telling him as much as she could. He wouldn't push yet. Not when this little glimpse into the potential for uninhibited honesty and faith and trust was so special. He didn't want to scare her off.

He can't help but wish that the soap he was using was one of her fancy ones. Even the raspberry kind for her hair that he's certain has some sort of sparkly something in it. Raspberry.

That warm feeling grows more intense, George's heart rate picking up. His new couch was certain to smell like raspberry now having had her hair splayed out over the cushions last night. His throat grows tight, his fist clenching at the memory of Olive whispering his name in a voice that was as hot as the water running down his body.

He curses lowly, shaking his head in an attempt to rid himself of the lusty fog growing heady in his mind. The panic he'd felt buying a couch the color he'd associated with misery for so long had been worth it. Seeing Olive cry over that sodding couch was the most heart breaking yet healing thing he'd ever witnessed. She was so fucking sweet. So sweet.

She'd been worried about sleeping next to him, scared that he would be bothered by the minty smell of the salve her healer had given her for her scar. She'd turned as pink as her trainers when George had kissed her until his own lips tingled from the healing salve. He'd promised to behave after using his thumb to smooth the healing ointment over her scar after she'd applied it for the third time. Merlin. Sweet didn't even begin to cover it.

He reaches for the tap, reluctantly turning it off and wrapping a towel around his waist. There was work to be done today, orders to be filled and shelves to be stocked. But when the cloud of steam follows him into his room, something warmer than the water he'd been soaking in seeps through his skin. Something warm and sweet and scary. He bites down hard on his lower lip to keep from grinning at the sight of Olive Murphy.

She's sprawled on her stomach, her hands hidden under the pillow that he was certain smelled of fresh raspberries now. Her hair spills around her, the curls tangled and softening into waves of gold. His eyes rake down her back, the sheets slung low on her bare body and draped like the finest silk gown. Fuck.

George chews anxiously on the side of his cheek, glancing at the clock that warns him the he should be opening the shop soon.

His eyes slide back to his bed far too easily, to where the sheets shift with every steady inhale and exhale. Olive moves slowly, a quiet sigh escaping her that sounds so content it makes his stomach erupt in butterflies. The blankets unfortunately are not as sweet as the ice cream witch and have moved even lower, showing off the dimples at the base of her spine. Traitorous blankets. George nearly groans at the sight. He glances at the clock again. Work. He had work to do. Work had been his saving grace for the last two years, the thing he enjoyed the most. Work had been something he could hold onto, something that still belonged to him and his brother. But when he glances away from the clock towards the tempting ball of sunshine in his bed, he find himself mumbling, "A few minutes won't hurt."