The sun was dipping low over the fields behind the Burrow, painting the sky in warm streaks of gold and rose. Fireflies had already started to flicker in the tall grass, and the air smelled faintly of earth and smoke from Molly’s kitchen window. You and Bill walked the familiar path back from dinner, hands intertwined, the soft rhythm of his thumb brushing against your skin a comfort you’d long grown used to.

“I love you,” he said easily, the words carried by that calm certainty that always seemed to surround him. His voice was steady, grounded — as if nothing in the world could ever shake it.

Normally, you’d say it back without thinking, a reflex born from love and routine. But tonight, all that came was a faint smile. You squeezed his hand once, but no words followed.

Bill slowed his steps until you both came to a stop beneath the old willow near the garden fence. The evening was quiet except for the hum of crickets, the moment stretching heavier with each passing second.

He turned to face you fully, fingers still laced with yours. “You didn’t say it back,” he said softly. There was no accusation, just that quiet steadiness he always had — though now it trembled faintly at the edges.

When you didn’t answer, he lifted his hand, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear. His touch was gentle, but his eyes searched yours with careful precision, like he was afraid of what he might find.

“Talk to me,” he murmured. “Did something change?”

For a man who’d faced curses, werewolves, and war, Bill had always been your calm in the storm. But now, standing there in the fading light, his composure seemed to falter. There was a fragility in his stillness, a crack in that quiet confidence, as if your silence alone was enough to undo him.

He didn’t press again. He just stood there with you in the soft twilight, thumb still brushing over your hand, waiting for a truth he wasn’t sure he wanted to hear.