The final whistle had blown, but the pitch was still buzzing with the echoes of cheers and groans. You had watched every second of George’s match, heart in your throat as Gryffindor fell just short against Slytherin. You’d hoped for a clean victory, but the scoreboard told a different story.

George didn’t wait for the handshake. He didn’t linger with the team. With a shout of frustration, he swung his bat high above his head and stormed off the pitch, boots kicking up little clods of grass with every step.

“George!” you called, but the wind carried your voice away. You had to catch up.

Halfway to the locker rooms, you ran into Fred, who was just exiting with a towel slung over his shoulder. His grin faltered as he caught sight of your determined stride.

“He’s pissed,” Fred said, shaking his head. “You sure you want to—”

“I have to,” you interrupted, stepping past him. Fred’s warning was half amusement, half concern.

You opened the door to the Gryffindor locker room and froze for a moment. George was pacing, fists tight, the air around him almost crackling with tension. Then he yanked off his shirt, tossing it to the side. His chest glistened faintly with sweat from the match, hair sticking slightly to his forehead, and the room seemed smaller, hotter, as if the walls themselves felt the energy radiating off him.

“Bloody hell!” he hissed, running a hand through his hair, muscles taut, every movement sharp.

You noticed the way his shoulders flexed, the faint rise and fall of his chest, the way his jaw clenched. Every detail sharpening the heat in the room.

His eyes met yours, dark and smoldering, frustration and something unspoken burning in their depths.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he muttered, voice low and raw, trying to wrestle control over both his anger and whatever else was burning beneath the surface.

But you didn’t step back. You let the silence stretch, letting the tension, the frustration, and the heat between you fill the locker room, your own pulse thundering.