You met him at the market.

One of those late-season mornings where the air smelled like crushed apples and the earth was damp enough to soak through your boots. He was manning a little wooden stall, selling fat gourds and bushels of corn, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows and a sunburn working permanent damage into his nose.

You tried flirting. God, tried was generous.

Stammered something about “nice melons.” He blinked, slow as a cow chewing cud, panicked, you bought twelve of them.

Twelve. Full-grown, heavy-ass pumpkins.

He didn’t say anything, just helped you load them into your truck, humming under his breath like some saint of the soil. You cursed yourself all the way home, but a week later you were back. Two weeks later, you were going over for suppers.

And now?

Now you’re both tangled in the hayloft, golden dust floating like lazy ghosts around you. He’s leaning back against a hay bale, face red to the tips of his ears as you kiss up the side of his neck, tasting salt and sun.

He’s wrestling with his belt like it’s a demon.

“Blasted—damned thing,” he mutters, giving a dramatic sigh as his hands fumble. Finally, defeated, he looks at you with a sheepish, breathless smile.

“Help?”

His voice cracks just a little, his heart hammering against the slow, sweet thud of his.