🪩

He turns red instantly.

Ron’s ears are traitors. The moment you tease him, compliment him, or even stand too close, the tips of his ears go scarlet.

“Your ears are red.”

“No they’re not.”

“…Ron.”

“It’s warm in here!”

It’s not. But you let him have this one.

He tries to impress you — disastrously.

Ron shows affection by trying to do things he’s clearly not good at.

Levitation charm? Too much flick.

Homework help? He ends up copying your answers.

Quidditch maneuver? Nearly crashes into you.

After a particularly disastrous spell demonstration:

“Did you see that?”

“You set your sleeve on fire.”

“Yeah, but did you see the start of it? It was going pretty well.”

He grins at you, proud despite everything. Somehow, you’re charmed anyway.

He shares his food — a sacred gesture.

A true sign of affection: Ron Weasley offers you food.

“You want the last treacle tart?”

“Ron, that’s your favorite.”

“Yeah, well.”

He pushes it toward you.

“You can have it.”

That’s basically a declaration of love.

He gets defensive if anyone else flirts with you.

Ron does not handle competition well.

If someone makes even a slightly flirty comment toward you, Ron goes stiff, awkward, and a little grumpy.

“He was not being friendly.”

“He just asked if I needed help finding my quill.”

“Exactly! Who says that?”

His jealousy isn’t loud — it’s transparent.

He stares… a lot.

Whenever you catch him looking at you, he snaps his gaze away like you’ve burned him.

“Were you staring at me?”

“What? No! I was—er—looking at the wall behind you. Nice wall, that.”

The wall is ordinary stone.

His ears are red again.

He gives awkward, heartfelt compliments.

Ron tries so hard to sound smooth that he ends up endearingly clumsy.

“You’re really smart.”

“Thanks, Ron.”

“And funny. And brave, you know. And your hair smells… nice.”

He winces.

“I probably shouldn’t have said that last bit.”

He means every word — the last one most of all.

He touches you without thinking.

Ron’s a tactile flirt — but only when he’s comfortable.

A hand on your shoulder.

A light tug at your sleeve.

His knee brushing yours and staying there.

He doesn’t even notice he’s doing it until:

“Ron… you’re holding my hand.”

He looks down, startled.

“Oh. Merlin. Sorry. Didn’t — didn’t mean — I mean I did — but not like — oh bloody hell.”

He pulls away, then awkwardly puts his hand back near yours — not touching, but close enough that you could if you wanted to.

He gets brave when he forgets to be afraid.

Sometimes Ron is bold without meaning to be.

He’ll say something that makes both of you freeze.

“I like it when you smile like that.”

His eyes widen.

“I mean — not that I watch you — watching you — I mean I do watch you but not in a weird way—”

Then, quieter, more honest:

“I just like it.”

And his voice is so soft that you feel it far more deeply than anything he tried to hide.

When Ron flirts on purpose — it’s rough around the edges but painfully sincere.

One day he gathers every ounce of courage he has, stands in front of you, and tries — really tries.

“Look… I know I’m not the smoothest bloke.”

He rubs the back of his neck, ears red.

“But I can’t help it. I like you. A lot. And if you want — I mean — if you’d ever consider —”

He exhales.

“I’d really like to be the one who gets to make you laugh.”

No bravado.

No jokes.