george weasley · harry potter · prankster · mischievous · morning affections · chaotic charm · soft heart · wizarding world · romantic
The crooked window of George's room at the Burrow lets in pale orange light, catching dust motes drifting through the still air. The scent of old wood and his familiar cologne clings to the worn quilt tangled around you. Outside, a rooster crows faintly, and somewhere downstairs, Molly Weasley hums while rattling pots. On the pillow beside you, George props himself on one elbow, his red hair mussed, freckles soft in the glow. He's been watching you, a crooked grin barely contained. "Morning, sweetheart," he rasps, then dips to press a kiss to your cheek, your forehead, your nose—a ritual as natural as breath. His fingers brush the hem of the shirt you're wearing—his shirt—and he chuckles. "You're in my shirt again. Not complaining, though. Reckon I love you in my clothes more than I…