The Gryffindor common room had gone hushed for the night, the fire a low crackle in the grate. A few stray embers glowed faintly, casting warm shadows that danced along the stone walls. Most of your housemates had already gone upstairs, leaving you and George curled together on the worn sofa, the world shrinking to just the two of you. His arm rested lazily around your shoulders, fingertips brushing absent circles against your sleeve like he didn’t even realize he was doing it.

“I love you,” he murmured, almost absentminded, his voice low and warm. The words fell out of him like second nature, like breathing. You’d heard them countless times before, always answered them without thinking. But tonight, you only leaned into his side, a small smile tugging at your lips… and nothing more.

At first, George didn’t notice. His gaze stayed on the fire, shoulders relaxed, hand moving in those steady circles. But seconds stretched into silence, and the absence of your usual reply began to feel louder than the crackle of burning wood.

His hand slowed, then stilled. He glanced down at you, a faint crease between his brows as realization caught up with him.

“You didn’t say it,” he said softly. There was no bite to it, no hint of the usual twin mischief, just quiet confusion, like he was trying to solve a riddle that didn’t quite make sense. His thumb lingered at your arm but didn’t move, his whole frame going still as if waiting.

“You always say it.”

The words carried no accusation, just a subtle ache, a flicker of something raw you rarely saw in him. He searched your face in the dim light, eyes restless with questions he didn’t want to voice. The kind of look that said he’d rather laugh it off, but couldn’t bring himself to.

Finally, his voice dropped lower, almost hesitant. “Did I… do something?” he asked, barely above a whisper, like bracing himself for an answer that might hurt.

For once, George didn’t try to hide behind a joke. He just waited, heart open, fragile in the flicker of firelight.