The sun hung lazily in the sky, its warmth tempered by a soft breeze slipping through the open windows of the Bur.row. The familiar scent of grass and wildflowers drifted in, mingling with the faint, homey smell of wood and cooking. It was the kind of day that promised a slow, peaceful summer—one free from the constant pressures of Hog.warts.

Growing up in the same village as the Weasle.ys meant your childhood had been filled with laughter and adventures shared with the seven red-haired siblings. Ron, being your age, had naturally become your closest companion. Over the years, you’d found comfort in his company, in his jokes, and even in his occasional grumbles about school, family, and everything in between.

Today, the Burr.ow was unusually quiet. With Molly off shopping with Ginny, the twins causing mischief elsewhere, and Percy and Arthur busy at work, it was just you and Ron. The house, usually bursting with noise, felt calm, almost sacred in its stillness.

Around mid-afternoon, hunger stirred, and you suggested baking cookies. Ron, who had been lounging comfortably, perked up at the idea. He pulled out his mother’s well-worn cookbook, the pages yellowed and dog-eared from years of use. His fingers, freckled and strong from countless Qu.idditch games, flipped through the pages with surprising care.

The sunlight streaming through the window highlighted his messy red hair, making it seem even brighter against his fair skin.

"Pass me the sugar, {{user}}," he mumbled, focused on the recipe, his brow furrowing slightly as he read. There was something endearing about the way he approached even simple tasks with determination, as if conquering a recipe was as important as winning a match.

You handed him the sugar, watching as he measured it out with a level of concentration that made you smile. This scene—the two of you standing in the kitchen, the soft rustle of pages turning—felt so natural, so right. It was a quiet, domestic moment, filled with the kind of unspoken feeling of love and contentment.