Freya came to consciousness slowly, as if rising from the depths of a very bad idea.

Her mouth was dry. Her head was pounding. Her limbs felt like they'd been transfigured into sacks of wet sand. And worst of all, the sun was shining. Cruelly. Mockingly.

She groaned and tried to roll over, but even that seemed like a betrayal of her own will to live.

There was a gentle shift of fabric nearby. Then a voice — low, fond, and utterly too cheerful for her current condition.

"Well, well. Sleeping Beauty rises."

Freya cracked one eye open and found George sitting on the edge of the couch, still in his rumpled shirt from the night before, a mug of tea in his hand, and the dumbest, most lopsided grin on his face.

She immediately groaned again and flopped the pillow over her head. "No. Go away."

"Nope," George replied brightly, clearly enjoying this. "You've made your bed. Now you get to recover in it."

"M'head hurts."

"I wonder  why," George said, pressing a cold wet cloth gently against her forehead. "You went full banshee last night. Tried to convince a man his umbrella was a portkey to a tropical island."

"...did it work?"

"No. He's suing."

Freya let out a whimper that might have been a laugh if she weren't so fragile. "I vaguely remember confessing something embarrassing."

George raised an eyebrow, clearly delighted. "Which part? 'I love you Georgie' every seven steps, or the bit about my majestic eyebrows?"

Freya let out a mortified squeak and tried to disappear under the blanket.

"This isn't my bed," she mumbled from under the pillow. "This is the couch."

"Yes. Because last night you declared it your throne and fell asleep proclaiming your rule over 'the entire kingdom of Georgieland.'"

A muffled, mortified sound emerged from the pillow fortress. "I hate everything."

George gently tugged the pillow away and replaced it with a cool, damp cloth on her forehead. His teasing softened as he tucked the blanket tighter around her.

"You alright?" he asked, quieter this time.

Freya blinked up at him through half-lidded eyes. Her hangover was brutal, but under that — yes, she was alright. Because he was here.

She nodded faintly.

He brushed a strand of hair off her cheek. "You scared me, Freya."

Her breath caught.

He wasn't teasing now. His thumb lingered along her temple, eyes still fixed on hers, even as she turned her face away slightly in guilt.

"I waited for you. And then I waited longer. And then I panicked. I kept thinking something happened. That maybe... maybe I'd lost you too."

Freya's heart ached. "George..."

"I know it's not fair," he said gently. "You went out with your friends. You deserved that. You've been there for me every single step. I just... I still haven't figured out how to not fall apart when I can't see you."

She reached for his hand and held it tight. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to scare you."

"I know."

"I didn't mean to get that drunk either," she added. "Apparently I confessed things."

George smiled faintly. "You told me you loved me seventeen times."

"Seventeen?"

"And then asked if I loved you back. Twice."

Freya groaned. "And did you?"

He leaned down and kissed her forehead, slow and warm. "Every time."

She smiled weakly. "I wasn't lying, you know. I do love you, Georgie."

"And I love you," he whispered.

She curled a little closer to him. "Even when I smell like firewhisky and regret?"

"Especially then," he said, resting his cheek on the top of her head. "You're very cuddly when you're hungover. Slightly pathetic, but endearing."

"You're mean," she muttered, but she burrowed against him anyway.

He shifted, carefully climbing onto the couch behind her, tucking himself around her like he'd done a hundred times before — and maybe a thousand more to come. His arms wrapped around her middle, warm and safe, his chin settling atop her head.

Freya let out a deep, shaky sigh. Her headache hadn't gone, but her chest felt lighter now.

"George?"

"Mm?"

"I'm really not going anywhere."

His grip around her tightened just a little. "Good. Because you're the only reason I got up that morning and decided I wanted to start the shop again."

Freya blinked, startled. She tilted her head back slightly to look at him.

"You never told me that."

He shrugged, eyes flicking down to her. "Didn't want to put pressure on you. But yeah. You were the first person who didn't treat me like I was broken. You just... saw me. And you stayed."

Freya reached up and cupped his cheek. "Of course I stayed. You were always going to be my favourite person, George Weasley."

He smiled, kissed her knuckles, and murmured, "Then please, Freya Nolan, never ever leave me alone with a couch again. It's never this warm without you."

She laughed — sore, exhausted, but genuine. And then she closed her eyes again, this time not because she was hungover, but because she was happy.

They lay there in silence, just tangled together, no words needed. A boy still learning to live again, and the girl who refused to let go of him.