You tucked your hands into the sleeves of your sweater, letting the cuff cover your fingers as you walked beside Matt Sturniolo. The air was crisp in that perfect fall way, cool enough to make your cheeks pink but not cold enough to rush. Leaves scraped along the sidewalk in little spirals, and every step sounded like a soft crunch where the path was dusted with orange and gold.

Matt kept glancing over like he was making sure you were still right there, matching his pace without even thinking about it. “This is the best weather,” he said, voice relaxed, like he’d been waiting all year for it. You smiled, and it felt easy. It’s the kind of afternoon where even silence feels like company.

They passed a row of trees that looked like they were on fire, branches heavy with color. A gust came through and sent a whole handful of leaves tumbling down, and Matt laughed when one landed on his shoulder like it chose him. You brushed it off, and for a second your hand lingered there, steadying him the same way the moment steadied you.

Somewhere nearby, a house had a cinnamon smell floating out through an open window. Matt pointed it out like it was a landmark. “If we find cider after this, I’m blaming you,” he teased. You rolled your eyes, but your grin gave you away.

They cut through a quieter street, the kind with porch swings and pumpkins lined up like they’re on display. Matt talked about random things, stories that jumped around the way they always do when you’re comfortable, and you listened, laughing at the parts that deserved it and nudging him when he got dramatic. The sun dropped lower, turning the world warm and amber, and you realized you didn’t want the walk to end.

By the time they reached the park, the sky was fading into soft pink, and Matt slowed down like he was saving the last stretch. You stepped closer, shoulder nearly brushing his, and the two of you kept moving forward through the falling leaves like it was exactly where you were supposed to be.