It was almost like a dichotomy of thought existing simultaneously inside of George's very confused head. Roxy was a brilliant daughter who for some terribly obscure and possibly undeniable reason (not that denying it was necessarily the desired objective, but more in that it was set in stone as the sun would rise and set without question) loved him as her father even though he was barely out of his teens. He wasn't at all the George Weasley she knew -- and he couldn't be.
And he didn't want to be. Or did he? But wanting to be that George meant wanting someone else to die. That was the only connection he could make between his life now and his life as Roxy knew it -- one crucial part, one crucial person, was missing. The reason he had made this entire village was to present that one person from ever going missing.
Oh. But she had definitely just asked him if he liked it and here he was pondering existential questions which were rather inapplicable anyway because he and Fred weren't leaving the village. He could have his cake and eat it too, couldn't he? Selfish, definitely, but could it really be that bad for him to stay here?
A little voice in the back of his head started to whisper something, but he silenced it quickly. Malfoy was bloody well wrong. If he was lucky, only a few seconds had passed in between when she had asked him a question; he didn't want her to think he wasn't paying attention.
"Yeah," George responded, pulling himself back and away from all that. "Of course I do; you made it for me. Thanks, Roxy. C'mere." He held one of his arms out for a hug.