Chapter Two

Hermione’s breaths slowed as Ron held her, the warmth of his body a stark contrast to the emptiness inside her. She pulled back slightly, her face streaked with tears and sand, her eyes red-rimmed. Ron’s jaw was marked with a faint slap, but his expression was soft, concerned. He wiped a strand of hair from her face, his touch gentle now.

“We need to talk,” Hermione said, her voice hoarse. She sat down on the sand, pulling her knees to her chest.

Ron sank into the sand beside her, his bare thigh pressing against hers as he exhaled sharply. The sun glinted off the sweat trickling down his temple. "Alright," he said, voice gravelly. "Talk."

Hermione dug her fingers into the hot sand, grains sticking to her damp palms. She could still feel the ghost of his grip on her wrist, the heat of his body when he’d held her. "We—" Her throat clicked as she swallowed. "We need to accept that no one’s coming. Not yet. Maybe not for... a long time."

Ron’s fingers twitched where they rested on his knee, his knuckles still red from where her nails had bitten in. The silence between them stretched, thick with unsaid things, broken only by the rhythmic crash of waves.

Hermione exhaled shakily, her thumb brushing over the scar on her palm—the faded D from Umbridge’s quill. “We have to stop pretending rescue is coming tomorrow,” she whispered.

Ron’s jaw tightened, his gaze flickering down to her mouth before he dragged it back up. “And then what?” His voice was rough, lower than usual.

Ron’s calloused fingers flexed against his thigh, grains of sand sticking to the damp skin. The sun burned the back of Hermione’s neck as she swallowed hard, her pulse fluttering visibly at the base of her throat.

“Then we survive,” she said, voice raw.

Hermione swallowed, the movement drawing his gaze to the flutter of her pulse. She dragged her fingers through the hot sand between them, grains sticking to her damp skin. "There’s plenty of fruit here," she said, voice unsteady. "And—and we could try fishing. Though I admit I’ve never done it before." Her breath hitched as Ron shifted closer, his thigh pressing against hers, warm and solid.

Ron’s breath hitched as her thigh pressed harder against his, the heat between them unbearable even in the ocean breeze. His fingers twitched toward her wrist again, stopping just short of touching. "Fishing," he repeated, voice rough. "Right."

Hermione let out a slow, shuddering sigh, her fingers curling into the sand as she turned her face toward Ron. "I'm sorry," she murmured, voice thick with regret. "I shouldn't have left you to build the shelter alone. That wasn't fair."

Ron’s breath caught at the rawness in her tone, his gaze tracing the way her lower lip trembled before she caught it between her teeth. The sun glinted off the sweat beading along her collarbone, the thin fabric of her blouse clinging to her curves.

"I promise," she continued, her hand hesitating before settling over his where it rested on his thigh. "From now on, we do everything together."

Ron’s fingers tensed beneath hers, his breath coming quicker now. The weight of her hand on his thigh sent a jolt through him, heat pooling low in his gut. His throat worked as he turned his palm up, lacing his fingers through hers—rough calluses scraping against her softer skin.

"You say that now," he murmured, voice thick, his thumb tracing slow circles over her knuckles. The ocean breeze did nothing to cool the flush creeping up his neck. "But what happens when we’re stuck here another month? Another year?" His grip tightened almost imperceptibly, his pulse thudding where their wrists pressed together.

Hermione let out a weak chuckle, squeezing Ron’s hand as she tilted her face toward the sun. "Merlin, Ron—we slept in the same tent for nearly a year hunting Horcruxes. At least here the weather’s decent. Remember Scotland? That bloody rain."

Ron’s laugh was rough, but his thumb stilled against her knuckles, his gaze dropping to where their fingers tangled together.

Hermione's hand tightened around Ron's, her voice steady despite the turmoil inside. "We've survived worse, Ron. We can survive this." The words hung in the air, heavy with the weight of their shared past. Ron's thumb brushed against her knuckles, a gentle reminder of the connection that had always been there, even when unspoken. The island's heat seemed to press in around them, the waves crashing in a rhythmic reminder of their isolation. Hermione's breath hitched as Ron's gaze met hers, the unspoken tension between them crackling like a live wire.

Several more days passed and no rescue in sight, the shelter looked more and more like a home everyday, a little cleaning, a little remodeling and it was much different from a beach side apartment after a few weeks. Had it not being for the fact they were stranded Hermione wouldn't have minded a little holiday here.

She did notice Ron would sometimes get a bit more withdrawn at times, she pulled him on it on day and he tried to explain it away to her, she hadn't bought his excuse and one night when he had been off she had decided to try and talk it out with her 'flat mate' as she crawled out of her magically made bed and made her way into the living area, as soon as she did she could hear a mild moaning coming from Ron's room.

Hermione froze mid-step, her bare feet silent against the rough-hewn wooden floor. The moan came again—low, strained—followed by the creak of Ron’s cot. Her pulse hammered in her throat as she recognized the rhythm, the bitten-off grunts. Heat flooded her cheeks, but she couldn’t make herself retreat. The humid air clung to her skin as she edged closer, her knuckles whitening around the doorframe.

Through the crack in the door, she saw him—Ron’s bare back glistening in the moonlight, muscles taut as his fist moved in rough, **** strokes between his thighs.

Hermione’s breath caught as Ron arched his back, moonlight catching the sheen of sweat along his spine. His hand worked faster, his grip tightening around his thick, flushed length—far larger than she’d ever imagined. A choked gasp escaped him as his hips jerked, and Hermione’s thighs pressed together instinctively, heat pooling low in her belly.

She should leave. She would leave.

But then Ron groaned, deep and ragged, and her fingers dug into the doorframe. His free hand fisted in the thin blanket beneath him, his muscles tensing as his strokes grew erratic.

Ron’s breath hitched, his hips lifting off the cot as his fist clenched tighter. “Hermione,” he groaned, her name raw and broken on his lips. Thick, pearly streaks pulsed from his tip, splattering across his stomach in heavy, glistening ropes. His thighs trembled, muscles locking as pleasure wracked through him, each pulse drawing another choked gasp.

Hermione’s nails bit into the doorframe, her breath shallow. The scent of salt and musk clung to the air, mingling with the humid night. Ron’s chest heaved as he collapsed back onto the cot, his release still dripping between his fingers.

Hermione’s breath caught in her throat as Ron’s fingers smeared the sticky mess across his stomach, his chest still rising and falling heavily. She pressed her thighs together tighter, the damp heat between them impossible to ignore. A bead of sweat trickled down her collarbone, disappearing beneath the thin fabric of her sleep shirt.

Hermione's feet moved as if of their own accord, her mind a whirlwind of shock and conflicting emotions. She barely registered the cool night air brushing against her skin as she retreated to the sanctuary of her bed. The memory of Ron's powerful form, his thick, veined cock in his hand, the way he'd groaned her name as he came, replayed in vivid detail. Her cheeks burned with a mix of embarrassment and something she dared not name. The sheer size of him, the way his muscles had tensed with each pulse, the copious streams of cum that had slicked his stomach—it all etched itself into her mind like a branding iron.

Hermione’s fingers twitched against her thigh, her breath coming in shallow gasps as the image of Ron—hard, leaking, massive—flashed behind her eyelids. Before she could stop herself, her hand slipped beneath the waistband of her pajama bottoms, fingertips brushing the damp curls between her legs. A shudder ripped through her as she touched herself, her hips jerking involuntarily.

No, no—Harry—

But her husband’s face blurred in her mind, replaced by the memory of Ron’s thick shaft glistening in his fist, the way his muscles had strained as he came. Her fingers circled her clit, slick with arousal, and a whimper escaped her lips.

Hermione's hand lingered just below her waistband, her fingers trembling with a desire she couldn't ignore. The memory of Ron's powerful form, his thick cock in hand, replayed in her mind like a spell she couldn't break. She bit her lip, the guilt of betraying Harry warring with the primal urge that pulsed through her veins. With a deep breath, she **** her hand back, curling it into a fist as she lay down, her heart pounding against her chest. Sleep eluded her for what felt like hours, her mind a battlefield of loyalty and lust.

The morning sun filtered through the palm-frond roof as Hermione busied herself rearranging the same pile of coconuts for the third time. Ron’s shadow fell across her hands—larger, warmer than it had any right to be—and her fingers stilled.

"You’ve been dodging me all morning," he said, voice rough with sleep. His bare chest still glistened from his wash at the stream, water droplets clinging to the red-gold trail of hair leading beneath his waistband.

Hermione’s throat tightened. "I haven’t—"

"Bullshit." Ron crouched beside her, the muscles in his thighs flexing.

Ron’s calloused fingers brushed Hermione’s wrist—just a whisper of contact—but it sent a jolt through her like a misaimed Stinging Hex. His brow furrowed, the morning sun catching the flecks of gold in his stubble. "Hermione," he murmured, his voice gravelly with sleep and something heavier, "please tell me what’s wrong."

Her breath hitched. The scent of salt and wild mangoes clung to his skin, mingling with the musk of his post-training sweat. She could see the pulse hammering in his throat, the way his Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed.

Hermione’s pulse roared in her ears as Ron’s fingers lingered on her wrist, his touch burning hotter than the tropical sun. She swallowed hard, her mouth suddenly dry.

“I saw you,” she whispered, the words tumbling out before she could stop them. Her gaze flickered down to his broad chest, then back up to his blue eyes—now dark with something unreadable. “Last night. I… I didn’t mean to, but I heard noises and—”

Ron’s grip tightened imperceptibly, his calloused thumb pressing into the delicate skin of her inner wrist. A slow, dangerous heat spread up Hermione’s arm as his pupils dilated, his breath hitching just enough for her to notice. The air between them thickened, heavy with salt and the heady musk of his arousal—had it always been there, or had she just now tuned herself to it?

“I’m sorry,” Ron muttered, his voice rough. “I didn’t mean for you to see that.” His thumb still pressed into her wrist, his pulse thudding against her skin.

Hermione swallowed, her breath shallow. “Is that why you’ve been distant sometimes?”

His breath hitched as his thumb traced slow circles on her wrist. "Yeah. Got a bit of a... high sex drive. Always have." The admission hung between them, raw and unvarnished.

Hermione’s fingers trembled as she turned her wrist, her palm sliding against Ron’s until their fingers intertwined. His hand was warm, rough from years of Quidditch and survival on the island, and she felt the tension coiled in his grip—like a Snitch trapped mid-flight.

“It’s natural,” she murmured, her voice barely above the rustle of the palm leaves overhead. She kept her gaze fixed on their joined hands, watching as his thumb twitched against her knuckles. “If you need… privacy, just shut your door. I won’t come in.”

Ron exhaled sharply through his nose, his pulse jumping under her fingertips.

Ron’s grip went rigid. “Did you… hear anything else?” His voice was low, strained.

Hermione’s cheeks burned. The memory of his ragged breaths, the choked whisper of her name between gritted teeth—it seared through her. She couldn’t meet his eyes. “You—you said my name,” she admitted, the words barely audible over the crash of distant waves.

Ron recoiled as if burned. “Fuck—Hermione, I’m sorry, that’s—”

She cut him off with a shaky wave of her hand. “Don’t.

Hermione waved him off, her fingers still tangled with his. “Don’t,” she repeated, softer this time. “It’s not like we haven’t been here before.” A weak laugh escaped her, tinged with the ghost of old, easier days—back when they were just teenagers sneaking kisses behind greenhouses, before vows and rings and Harry.

Ron’s thumb stilled against her knuckles, his breath ragged. “That was years ago, Hermione.”

“I know.” She squeezed his hand, then pulled away, the warmth of his skin lingering like a spell she couldn’t shake.

“It’s okay,” she murmured, forcing her voice steady even as her pulse fluttered. Her fingers flexed against her thigh, still warm from his grip. “If… if thinking of me helps you relieve stress, you have my blessing.” The words curled in the air, weighted.

Ron made a sound like a punched-out groan, his broad shoulders tensing.

Hermione’s lips brushed Ron’s stubbled cheek—too quick to linger, too soft to mean anything more than friendship. The salt-tang of his skin, the hitch of his breath as she pulled away, sent an illicit shiver down her spine. She **** a teasing smirk, ignoring the heat pooling low in her belly.

"Look, I’m going to work on the outpost we’re putting together," she said, voice deliberately light as she straightened. Her fingers lingered near his shoulder, then dropped. "If you want a bit of time… alone."