Summary: He's always assumed that because Rose refers to him as a friend, she doesn't want to be anything more than that.
Fire. And chocolate. That's what she reminded him of. The flaming locks of her auburn hair sparkled and shined in the sunlight, like sparks jumping from a warm fireplace in the winter. Her eyes (milk chocolate) swirling like a shared mug of hot cocoa in the fall after a boring, uneventful day. Her smile, though, was what he cherished most. A small curve of her lips from reading a particularly good part in a book, a grin as wide as the Chesire Cat (Rose had forced him to read Lewis Carrol. She didn't know that he had enjoyed every second of it because of her close proximity) when she had done something devious with Roxanne and Lily, a grin of exhilaration from an invigorating Quiddich match. Her laugh, a perfect example of good times and memories and happiness.
But he wished for something. Wished hard at every available opportunity. He wished she would stop calling him "friend". It hurts every time she says it oh-so-casually, as if there was no chemistry between them. It hurt, like a tiny hammer tap-tap-tapping away on his already-cracked heart. It cracked just a little bit more every time they met someone and she nonchalantly puts her arm around him. "This is my best friend, Scorpius." she says. "Best friend" hurt worse. The scars on his heart would never mend, it broke every time she said it. Because everyone knew that best friends don't have relationships. If it ever fell apart, their friendship would be ruined.
He wasn't going to risk it.
But then everything changed when she did. When she put every thing on the line for him, for them.
Now his heart is mending and she smiles everyday. She smiles because of him. She's unknowingly fixing the heart that she broke so flawlessly, unwittingly. He is now finally proud to say that the word "friend" is no longer used to describe him, nor will it ever be, according to the ring on her finger.
