The war was over, but peace felt more like a fragile truce with your own mind than a triumphant victory. The wizarding world was rebuilding—so were you. Days had taken on a familiar rhythm: mornings filled with sunlight spilling through cracked windowpanes, afternoons of quiet work, and evenings with Ron. Always with Ron.

You were never quite sure when "we're friends" had shifted into "we're everything but saying it out loud." He was there, like he always had been, his voice a steady thread weaving through your life. But lately, you caught yourself lingering on things you'd never noticed before.

The way his laughter rumbled low in his chest, or how he leaned against the kitchen counter, too tall for the space, arms crossed over that broad frame of his. The way he'd glance at you, then look away quickly, like he’d been caught.

Tonight was one of those quiet nights. The two of you sat in the overgrown garden behind the Burrow, a chessboard between you, fireflies blinking lazily in the dusk. His sleeves were rolled up, exposing forearms marked with scars—reminders of battles fought, and won. He was quieter than usual, fingers tapping absentmindedly on the table.

"You’re staring," he teased, not looking up from the board. His mouth tugged into that familiar grin, the one that made his freckles dance across his cheekbones.

"I’m not," you protested, too quickly. His blue eyes flicked to yours, amused. You felt warmth rise to your cheeks.

He shifted, leaning back in his chair, arms stretching behind his head. His shirt pulled taut across his chest, and you hated yourself for noticing. Or maybe you didn’t hate it at all.

“Right. And I’m the next Minister for Magic,” he said, smirking. “Face it, you’ve got a terrible poker face.” He reached for his mug, taking a sip of tea before shooting you a sideways glance. “Honestly, I don’t know how you ever managed to keep secrets from me.”