The sky had been threatening rain all morning, but you and Ron had ignored it — wandering out past the garden, through the orchard, and down the little path near the edge of the paddock. You’d been tossing apples to gnomes, laughing at how Ron flinched every time one hissed at him, when the first raindrop hit your shoulder.

“Just a drizzle,” Ron said confidently.

Five minutes later, it was pouring.

You both sprinted toward the house, Ron’s hand wrapped tight around yours as he pulled you under the crooked awning by the back door, both of you breathless and laughing, dripping puddles onto the porch.

“You’re soaked,” he said, though he wasn’t doing much better. His hair was plastered to his forehead and water ran down the curve of his neck.

“So are you,” you replied, blinking rain from your lashes.

He opened the door for you and let you go in first. The Burrow was warm — too warm — and the difference made the cold of your clothes bite. You shivered slightly, teeth almost chattering as you toed off your shoes.

Mrs. Weasley gave a startled sound as she saw you.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake—Ron, fetch her something dry before she catches cold!”

Ron nodded and tugged you gently toward the stairs. “C’mon, I’ve got something you can wear.”

You followed him up to his room, still dripping. He didn’t say much, just rummaged through a drawer until he found it — a soft, well-worn maroon jumper with the faintest “R” stitched into the front. He tossed it over to you with a crooked smile.

“It’s old,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “But it’s warm.”

You peeled off your wet outer layer in the bathroom and pulled the jumper on. It was warm — smelled like sun and soap and just a little like him. When you padded back into the room, Ron was sitting on the edge of his bed, rubbing a towel through his damp hair.

He looked up — and paused.

The silence stretched, just for a second. Then he blinked, and smiled softer this time.

“Looks good on you.”

You tried not to smile too much. “I might not give it back.”

“Was kind of hoping you wouldn’t.”

He said it like it wasn’t a big deal — like it was just a sweater. But when you sat down beside him on his bed, your shoulder brushing his, you felt the shift in the air. His fingers twitched slightly, like he wanted to reach for your hand but wasn’t sure if he should.

So you did it first. Slipping your hand into his like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Outside, the rain kept falling. But in that quiet room, with the smell of summer storm and old wood, everything felt calm.

And warm. Just like his sweater.