AN: Shell Cottage because there is never enough, and I am trying to give myself the feels so I can write more (one day).
"Do you want to sit down for a bit? The sun is about to set; maybe we can watch it."
Ron had quickly realised that Hermione did better if he gave a reason for the constant breaks in their walks, rather than trying to convince her to take it slow. He took a brief look at his brother's home, now a blurry white structure at the other end of the long beach. He liked it when he was alone with Hermione like this, far from the noise and the planning and all the stress.
"Sounds good," she replied, and they sat side-by-side on a big piece of driftwood nearby.
Though sometimes they talked about the plans to break into Gringotts, more often than not they talked of anything but. Ron preferred it that way, and he thought she did too. This time they fell comfortably silent.
Without asking, Ron unfolded the blanket he had been carrying, in case they wanted to sit on the sand. With a big flourish, he wrapped the both of them in it, casually following the movement of the fabric to wrap an arm around Hermione's shoulders. He let his arm drop after making sure they were covered, loosely arching it around her back in a barely-there embrace, his hand resting on the wood at the other side of her. It let him lean towards her in what he hoped was an unobtrusive manner.
She sighed and leaned a bit toward him, making him think that they were both happy with the arrangement. They didn't speak until the sun had disappeared under the horizon.
"Are you warm enough?" Ron asked, checking again that the blanket covered them fully.
"I am; very warm and comfortable," she replied.
Neither seemed to be in a hurry to go back to the cottage.
"You know, when I was little," she said, "my dad and I would make a wish on the first night star we saw. I think that's one of the reasons I like this time of the day so much; the colour of the sky is so deep and calming, once the sun has gone. L'Heure Bleue, they call it. The Blue Hour."
"L'Heure Bleue," he tried, the words strange on his tongue. He wasn't good at French. "You said one of the reasons. Why else do you like it?"
He'd only meant to keep her talking but, as soon as he'd asked, a memory came to him, one where she'd mentioned that hour after the sun has set.
"Well," she began and let a soft laugh out. "It's just… such a fascinating colour, isn't it?"
"Dunno, I hadn't thought of it… at least not until you mentioned it last year. You know, about my eyes." He couldn't hide his smile at teasing her- flirting with her? He didn't really know how to flirt, so he would need lots of luck if he was actually doing it.
"Right," she said, giving him a side glance. A gentle blush covered her face.
"Ts'alright, you know?" he began, his eyes roaming over her face. "It's not like I did anything to get them. And I suppose I should be happy I have something nice to offer, considering my hair… and freckles… and general looks, really."
"Oh, stop it. I've always thought your hair is lovely!" she exclaimed, looking straight ahead, her blush deepening in the fading light. There were butterflies in his stomach that he could do nothing about, so he continued to tease her. Or flirt with her. Whatever it was he was doing.
"But the freckles and the general looks are a real problem, then," he said. Hell, he really didn't know how to flirt.
"That's not- hhhmm!" she huffed, shaking her head. She'd evidently chosen not to continue her thoughts. Her lips pursed to hide a smile. "Are you fishing for compliments, Ron?"
He turned to look again toward the horizon, but after a cursory glance he went back to paying attention to her. He had felt her gaze on his face.
He smiled unapologetically. "Maybe."
"That's rich, coming from someone who's not very good at them. Typically, your compliments are hidden in teasing, at the very best."
"No way, I'm sure I've told you I think you're beautiful!" he exclaimed in a half-offended tone, before realizing what he had just said. It was his turn to be embarrassed. He could feel his ears begin to burn, but he ignored it. He should have said it before, he really should have.
"No, you haven't," she stated, her eyes and voice soft. "Not like that."
"Well, I…" he cleared his voice, looking back to the darkening horizon. "I do think you're beautiful."
He bit the inside of his lips, telling himself over and over again that it was good, it was important that he tell her these things.
"I… I don't think there is anything wrong with your looks… or your freckles," she said after a while.
He turned to look at her. Their eyes held, heightening the always-there pull between them. It was almost a physical tug, going taut as it yanked him closer to her, urging him to give in. The temptation was tickling his skin, dangerous, powerful enough that he could almost forget they were in the middle of a war and they couldn't, that they shouldn't...
"I…" she said, and the tone of it was all he needed to remember, to bring himself to hold back. They couldn't, they shouldn't, because when they got together, they would probably forget about the world. He gulped.
"I know," he said, and he hoped she also understood without any more explanations; that she was thinking the same. He forced himself to look back to the horizon, now lacking any tinge of sunlight. "Not now."
She hooked her arm around his and rested her head on his shoulder, letting out a sigh that carried a tremor in it. Ron's eyes stayed fix on the darkening sky, but he covered her hand with his free one.
"There it is, the first star," she said.
"Let's make it a wish, then."