The gravel driveway crackled like dry corn husks under the tires of your dad’s pickup as you hauled another crate of small pumpkins toward the farm stand. The air smelled like woodsmoke from the burn pile, cool earth, and the sugary cinnamon your mom always put in her cider. It was late afternoon in early October—right when the sun dipped low and everything turned gold, orange, and honey-warm.

Your family’s annual pumpkin patch weekend was only two days away, and the place was already buzzing. Your mom stood near the folding tables, organizing jars of homemade jam—apple butter, blackberry, strawberry rhubarb—while arguing with a misplaced price sign. “This should say ‘two dollars,’ not ‘20,’ unless we’re selling jam made of gold,” she muttered, sharp but affectionate as always.

Your dad was out by the tractor, checking the hitch on the hayride wagon. You could hear him humming over the clinking of metal, a low, easy tune that meant he was in a good mood. The whole farm held that kind of energy in autumn—ripe, busy, alive.

You brushed a curl of hair out of your face and set the crate down beside the others, dusting off your hands. The sky was streaked with sherbet colors, the wind carrying the rustle of drying corn stalks. Somewhere in the distance, a dog barked. Somewhere closer, you heard the sputtering cough of a van engine desperately trying to die.

You smiled before you even turned.

Eddie Munson’s beat-up van rattled up the drive like it was held together by guitar strings and hope. It lurched once, growled, then finally chugged into a parking spot beside the barn. The door popped open and Eddie stumbled out, curly hair wild from the wind, denim jacket covered in band patches, fingers stained faintly with guitar resin.

He took one look at you and grinned so wide it crinkled the corners of his eyes.

“Pumpkin Girl!” he announced, arms flung wide like some triumphant, slightly chaotic hero. “Your knight in shining leather has arrived.”

“Leather doesn’t shine,” you said, walking toward him.

“It does when it’s been rained on and prayed over,” he retorted, and then he was wrapping you up in a hug that smelled like cigarette smoke, warm cotton, and faint motor oil. He kissed your forehead, lingering there just a breath too long. “Missed you.”

Your mom glanced over from her jam display, eyebrows raised, lips twitching. “Eddie! You’re early!”

“Ma’am,” he said, straightening like he was saluting a general. “I was informed there’d be heavy lifting. And cider.”

Your mom snorted. “Grab those crates by the shed, then we’ll talk about cider.”

Eddie shot you a mock-offended look as she walked away. “I come here out of love, and she puts me straight to work.”

“She loves you,” you whispered, bumping your shoulder against his. “She made a batch of donuts this morning and said ‘that boy will eat half of them.’”

He gasped dramatically. “She knows me too well.”

You took him toward the barn, the two of you weaving through rows of pumpkins in every shape and size—small squat ones, tall smooth ones, warty ones that Eddie insisted were “objectively the coolest.” He picked one up thoughtfully. “This one looks like it’s seen things. I respect that.”

“You can carve it later,” you teased.

“Hell yeah I will. Metal pumpkin.”

Your dad jogged over, wiping his hands on a rag. “Eddie! Appreciate you coming, son.”

Eddie brightened at the word son—he always did, like it planted something warm in his chest. “Wouldn’t miss it, sir. Tell me what to lift and where to put it.”

And then the three of you got to work: stacking hay bales, carrying crates of pumpkins to the stand, hanging a hand-painted sign your mom made (“U-Pick Pumpkins! Hayrides! Cider!”), and helping your dad wrangle a particularly stubborn bale that kept sliding off the stack. Eddie made a big show of flexing dramatically every time he picked something up, earning an exasperated laugh from your dad.