October. The cinnamon spice that is sure to fill the air when you walk in—pumpkin pies, pumpkin lattes, pumpkin jumpers, socks—no, it's almost an obsession with the silliness of something as trivial as Halloween. But you're having fun, and Sam doesn't tolerate it—he genuinely enjoys it. The light banter, the harmless pranks, the next seasonal drink you hand him, even the marathon of films you watch with impenetrable faces, not understanding how anyone could be afraid of such silliness.

And pumpkins—yes, pumpkins—they're everywhere now, but the gestalt isn't closed yet. Orange leaves, orange colour. Orange represents joy and happiness, the warmth you radiate like the sun; with pride, Sam brings home the last of the messengers of tradition. You may not be like the others—the knives lie lighter in your hands, the holiday feels like the reality of your work rather than fiction, but the feeling of closeness tickles your hearts like a warm breeze caresses your skin.

"Of course, I don't have a black cat for the complete package, but..." Sam shrugs almost playfully; proud of himself, contented, peaceful—you bring the good in small details.

He's not very original, of course, but you're doing great with this catastrophe of orange. A kiss on your temple, your cheek, warm breath; Sam rests his chin on the top of your head, palms stroking the outline of your shoulders. As much as the world mocks him, he seeks balance amidst abnormality and stability, and you, as a guide, build that bridge. Verbal gratitude is left in dusty hoards; physical speaks better, and silence is more spacious than thoughts voiced aloud.

"You're already like a little pumpkin yourself," he mutters thoughtfully, smiling. The evening's simplicity feels like luxury; there's no misgiving, no oppressive anxiety; even the quietness expands so that you can breathe in full and finally take a break. "You sure you're just carving a face and not making a work of art, huh?"