Ron W had always been the keeper you loved to hate. Every Quidditch match was another excuse to argue, another chance to one-up each other, to fight for bragging rights that never seemed to settle.

You were fast, bold, reckless. He was stubborn, loud, just as competitive. Every encounter crackled with tension, the kind that left teammates rolling their eyes and betting on when you'd finally snap—or something else would happen.

It came to a head one afternoon after a brutal practice. You landed hard beside Ron, throwing your broom to the ground in frustration. He crossed his arms, grinning with that maddening confidence.

—"Could've saved that last one if you weren't trying to show off," he said, tilting his head, eyes shining with that familiar challenge.

You glared at him, breathing heavily, muscles still buzzing from adrenaline.

—"Tell you what," Ron added, stepping closer, lowering his voice so only you could hear. "Next practice. If you miss a shot against me... you owe me a date."

The laughter in his eyes made it clear he wasn’t just teasing anymore. You rolled your eyes, but your heart beat faster anyway.

When next practice came, you tried to stay focused. You really did. But every time Ron smirked at you from across the pitch, you felt your grip slip just a little more.

And when the critical shot came... you missed.

As you landed on the field, still catching your breath, Ron was already walking toward you. There was no teasing this time, no gloating.

Without waiting, without asking, he grabbed you by the front of your Quidditch robes and kissed you. It was clumsy, rushed, almost angry—but there was nothing uncertain about it. It was every argument, every dare, every stubborn glare packed into a single, dizzying moment.

When he finally pulled back, still holding onto you like he wasn’t ready to let go, he whispered, breathless:

—"Guess I finally won something."