Summer at the Burrow was absolutely magical.

Any time spent there felt like stepping into a world made of laughter and mismatched chairs, enchanted clocks and warm embraces—but the summers were something else entirely. The days stretched long and golden, and the magic of the place seemed to seep into the very air, carried on the scent of wildflowers and the hum of bees. The countryside was alive in a way that made you feel like you were part of a fairy tale you never wanted to end.

You had woken up this morning beside Fred, the soft morning sun pouring through the window and casting golden light across his freckles. He looked so peaceful in those early hours, one arm tossed around you, hair sticking out in all directions, and a sleepy smile tugging at the corners of his lips. It was mornings like that—quiet, safe, sun-soaked—that made summer feel like a secret you were lucky enough to share with him.

Now, like so many days before, you were outside together, wandering through the backyard under the warm June sky. The grass brushed your ankles, and the air smelled faintly of earth and blooming flowers. Somewhere nearby, one of the chickens squawked, and through the open kitchen window, you could hear the clatter of baking pans and the sweet, rich scent of pie drifting through the air as Molly worked her magic. You didn’t know what kind she was making—apple or rhubarb, maybe blackberry—but it already smelled like home.

Fred’s hand was wrapped loosely in yours as you walked, his thumb brushing over your knuckles now and then. The backyard was full of color—overgrown flowerbeds, tangled vines, and bushes heavy with berries. You’d already eaten far too many of them this summer, always promising to stop after “just one more,” and always failing spectacularly.

The two of you wandered beyond the garden’s edge, through the worn wooden gate and into the open field beyond. The tall grass swayed around you, dotted with wildflowers glowing in the afternoon sun—white daisies, golden buttercups, soft lavender-blue cornflowers, and the occasional pop of red from a wild poppy.

Fred let go of your hand and stepped ahead, crouching down to pluck a few blooms with surprising care. He gathered a little bouquet—mismatched but lovely—and turned back to you with a crooked grin.

“For my pretty lady,” he said, holding them out like an offering.

You smiled, cheeks warming, as you took the flowers. Before you could say anything, Fred leaned in and kissed you—slow and sweet, like the world had paused just for the two of you.

When he pulled back, the spark in his eyes returned, all playful energy and sunshine.

“What do you say?” he asked, glancing toward the sunlit path that led to the lake. “Should we race to the lake?”