Dating A Weasley

He's red-haired, brown-eyed, covered in freckles. He plays ice hockey and is shocked when I show true interest in the game. He majored in business - maths and numbers are his thing. He will tell pointless stories until he's blue in the face, and follow it up with a kiss on the nose. He's a smart ass, an asshole, and he tries to dish it out. I dish it better.

He made me want to flip my claddagh ring, crown pointing out. We held hands and cuddled. I remembered all those things I thought I had forgot. He makes me feel like my short hair is sexy, rather than just chic. He told me how gorgeous I was, and how long he had waited to kiss me.

He isn't the asshole I was falling for. And I wonder at my ability to transfer affections. Or rather, to ignore my other feelings without a thought. Because when I think of The Asshole, my stomach flutters a bit.

But I'm dating a Weasley. And that thought puts a smile on my face, a slow, warm smile with soft eyes and a momentary pause as I think about his laugh.