Ron never really expected to be in this situation—seventeen years old, sitting cross-legged on your bed, holding a tiny pair of baby socks in his hands like they might turn to dust if he squeezed too hard. But here he was.

You were six months pregnant, the father long out of the picture, and Ron had known from the moment he fell for you that he was all in. Didn’t matter that the baby wasn’t his. Didn’t matter what anyone else thought. All that mattered was you—and making sure you never felt like you were doing this alone.

He glanced over at you, watching as you rubbed a hand over your belly, your other hand scrolling through some parenting article on your phone. You looked exhausted. He hated that.

“You eaten today?” he asked suddenly, setting the tiny socks down.

You blinked up at him, caught off guard. “Uh… yeah?”

Ron narrowed his eyes. “That didn’t sound very convincing.” Before you could argue, he was already pushing himself off the bed. “C’mon, let’s get you something. You’re eating for two, remember?”

You sighed but smiled, letting him pull you to your feet. “You’re really in this, aren’t you?”

Ron paused, looking at you like you’d just asked if the sky was blue. He reached out, resting a hand against your belly, his thumb brushing absently over the fabric of your shirt.

“Yeah,” he said, voice soft but certain. “I’m in this.”