Chapter Seven

BANG

A sharp flash of lightning strikes somewhere out in the near ocean causing Hermione to jump in surprise as both she and Ron turn to the window to see a sudden downpour begin, the rain bouncing off the shelter's roof. Hermione sighs to herself as the moment is lost.

Hermione pulled herself up, her vision still swimming from the brandy and the interruption. The storm outside seemed to echo the turmoil inside her—thunder booming in the distance as she met Ron's gaze, his eyes burning with unspoken desire. For a moment, she wavered, the drunken part of her screaming to ignore the consequences, to let go and give in. But the sliver of clarity in her mind, however small, reminded her of the risks—no potions, no precautions, and the very real possibility of a pregnancy that would complicate everything. With a shaky breath, she turned away, her voice barely above a whisper. "I'm sorry, Ron. I... I need to go."

Hermione's retreat was met with a heavy silence, the storm outside mirroring the tempest of emotions within the shelter. Ron lay where she had left him, his chest heaving as he struggled to reconcile the desire that still burned within him and the reality of their situation. The brandy's haze lingered, but the interruption had brought a stark clarity to the moment. He knew Hermione's resolve was fragile, and the weight of her responsibilities as a wife and mother hung precariously in the balance. Yet, the primal pull between them was undeniable, a **** that had been simmering for years, waiting to erupt.

Ron exhaled sharply through his nose, the brandy bottle dangling from his fingers as he watched Hermione retreat to her makeshift bedroom. The fabric curtain fluttered behind her like a defeated flag. His cock throbbed painfully against his jeans, still achingly hard from the heat of her body pressed against him moments before.

He took one last swig, the burn of **** doing nothing to dull the hunger coiling low in his gut. The storm raged outside, rain hammering the roof in a relentless rhythm that matched the pulse between his legs.

Pushing himself up with a grunt, Ron staggered slightly—half from the liquor, half from the weight of what they’d almost done.

o0o0o0o

The following day was another unfortunately another awkward one, Ron had insisted they talk but Hermione had begged off as she needed a bit of time to reflect on her actions, the two did agree however to leave the rest of the brandy at least for the time being.

The day following that Hermione apologised for putting the talk off as they began to hash out their almost drunken fumble the other night.

The humid air clung to them as they sat cross-legged on the woven palm frond mats, knees nearly touching. Hermione twisted her wedding band—the gold warm from her skin—as thunder rumbled in the distance like a disapproving god.

"I can't," she whispered, her voice cracking as a bead of sweat slid between her breasts. "Every time I close my eyes, I see James' face when I promised to be home for his school play. Sirius still asks Harry why Mummy’s not there to read him The Tales of Beedle the Bard at night." Her fingers trembled as they traced the faint stretch marks on her abdomen, souvenirs of motherhood.

Ron exhaled sharply, his sun-bronzed fingers twitching toward Hermione’s knee before curling into a fist against his thigh. "We almost did the other night," he murmured, voice roughened by salt air and unsated need. A fat raindrop slid down the shelter’s thatched roof, its slow descent mirroring the sweat trickling between Hermione’s collarbones.

Her breath hitched as Ron leaned closer, his freckled shoulders blocking the storm’s grey light. The scent of him—sun-warmed skin, sea salt, and the musk of arousal still clinging to his clothes—flooded her senses.

Hermione's breath caught as Ron's calloused fingers brushed against her knee, sending an electric jolt through her body. "That was the brandy talking," she whispered, her voice trembling. "Okay, I admit... mainly the brandy talking." The admission hung between them, heavy with unspoken truths.

Ron's throat worked as he swallowed hard, his broad chest rising with each ragged breath. The damp air clung to his skin, highlighting the definition of his quidditch-honed muscles. His gaze dropped to her lips, then lower—to where her nipples had hardened against the thin fabric of her sun-bleached blouse.

The silence stretched between them, thick as the island humidity. A fat raindrop plinked onto Ron’s bare shoulder, tracing the curve of his deltoid before vanishing into the waistband of his threadbare shorts. Hermione watched its path, her teeth worrying her bottom lip raw.

Then Ron cleared his throat, the sound rough like driftwood scraping sand. “Hey, Hermione,” he began, his fingers flexing against his knees. “Do you ever wonder… what would’ve happened if we hadn’t broken up years ago?”

Her breath stuttered. The question hung there, shimmering like a heat haze.

Hermione’s fingers stilled on her wedding band. The silence stretched between them, broken only by the rhythmic patter of rain on the thatched roof and the distant crash of waves. Ron’s question hung in the humid air like the scent of salt and ripe fruit—heavy, unavoidable.

She swallowed hard, her throat suddenly dry despite the moisture clinging to her skin. Her gaze flickered up to meet his—those familiar blue eyes darkened with something more than just the storm’s shadow.

“Yes,” she admitted, the word barely louder than the rustle of palm fronds outside. “Sometimes I have.”

Ron's eyes locked onto hers, the intensity of his gaze making her chest tighten. He shifted closer, his broad shoulders blocking out the dim light filtering through the shelter. The air between them was thick with unspoken emotions, the storm outside mirroring the turmoil within.

"If we hadn't broken up," Ron began, his voice low and gravelly, "do you think we'd be... together?" He paused, his breath catching as he awaited her response. Hermione's heart raced as she considered the question, her mind racing through the what-ifs of their past.

"I...

" Hermione looked at him for a long moment before sighing, her fingers tightening around her wedding band. "Do you want me to be honest?"

Ron swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. The rain drummed harder against the shelter, filling the heavy silence between them. His broad chest rose with a slow breath, muscles tensing beneath sun-kissed skin. "Yeah," he murmured, voice rough. "Always."

Hermione exhaled shakily, her gaze dropping to where his calloused fingers rested—so close to her thigh she could feel the heat radiating from them.

Hermione exhaled shakily, her fingers tightening around her wedding band until the gold bit into her skin. "I honestly believe we were destined to break up, Ron," she whispered, watching a raindrop slide down the hollow of his throat. "Even taking Harry and the boys out of the equation..." Her breath hitched as Ron's knee brushed against hers, the contact sending an unwelcome spark up her thigh.

"You and I drove each other crazy," she continued, her voice cracking. "I don’t think I could ever hate you, but I would’ve come to resent you—and I know you would’ve resented me too."

Ron’s jaw tensed, his fingers digging into his own thighs hard enough to leave crescent marks in his sun-bronzed skin. The rain drummed louder, matching the frantic rhythm of his pulse where it throbbed visibly at his temple.

Ron opened his mouth to protest, but Hermione cut him off with a sharp shake of her head. Strands of sweat-dampened hair clung to her flushed cheeks as she pressed on:

"Ron, we argued nearly every day about anything and everything." Her fingers twitched toward his wrist before pulling back, nails digging into her own palm instead. "Back then, I was so uptight, and we didn’t truly understand each other. Remember? You’d go on about Quidditch strategies for hours while I tried to explain fundamental physics, and suddenly we’d be screaming over who rolled their eyes first."

A muscle in Ron’s jaw jumped.

Hermione's fingers trembled as she reached out, brushing a raindrop from Ron's stubbled cheek. "Doesn't mean we didn't have nice times as well," she whispered, her thumb lingering near the corner of his mouth. "You were my first real boyfriend, and you'll always have a place in my heart." The shelter creaked as wind rattled the palm frond roof, casting shifting shadows across Ron's face. She could feel the heat radiating from his body, smell the salt and brandy on his breath.

"But no," she continued, her voice breaking as his calloused fingers closed around her wrist. "You and I, especially back then... we would never have lasted."