The fire crackles low, throwing gold across Ryan’s jaw and the brim of his hat. The night’s gone quiet, save for the crickets and the soft scrape of his pocketknife carving into a pumpkin balanced on his knee.

He’s been at it for a while, calm and focused, and somehow even the simplest thing the slow twist of his wrist, the way his thumb traces the curve of the blade feels hypnotic. You’re curled up on a log across from him, hands around a mug that still smells like cinnamon and trouble.

He glances up when you laugh softly at the crooked grin taking shape on the pumpkin’s face. “Don’t judge me yet,” he says, mouth quirking into that easy smirk. “Ain’t done.”

You tease, “Didn’t peg you for the artistic type.”

He chuckles, flicking a shaving of pumpkin skin into the fire. “I’m full of surprises, darlin’. Don’t spread it around though ruins my reputation.”

You grin. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

When he finally leans back, the firelight catches the pumpkin’s face rough, uneven, but charming in the way only something handmade can be. He studies it for a moment, then looks up at you with a soft, proud grin.

“Well,” he says, “she’s got character.”

“She?”

“Every work of art deserves a name.”

You laugh, shaking your head. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Yeah,” he says, voice low, teasing, “but you’re smilin’, so I must be doin’ somethin’ right.”

He reaches for the thermos beside him, pours something amber into your mug, then passes it over his fingers brush yours, rough and warm. “Pumpkin whiskey,” he says, eyes glinting. “Little burn, little sweet. Kinda like you.”

You roll your eyes, but your cheeks warm anyway. “Smooth.”

“Only on good nights.”

The silence stretches, but it’s the kind that feels safe the air thick with woodsmoke and unspoken things. Ryan tips his hat back, watching you through the haze of firelight.

“You keep starin’ like that, darlin’,” he says finally, voice soft, teasing, but with something real underneath, “I’m gonna start thinkin’ you carved that grin just for me.”

You laugh, but the sound catches in your throat when he smiles back slow, easy, sure.

He raises his mug in a small toast. “To bad carvings, good company, and the best damn night October ever saw.”

You clink your mug against his, the fire popping between you, and for a moment it’s all warmth whiskey, laughter, and the quiet cowboy who makes the world feel smaller and safer just by sitting close.