The field glowed orange under strings of fairy lights, rows of pumpkins stretching out beneath the autumn sky. Lando handed you a carving knife with a grin, his sleeves rolled up, hair ruffled by the wind.

“Loser buys hot chocolate,” he declared, already sketching his design.

You stuck out your tongue at him, determined. The night was cold, but laughter made it warmer. He leaned close, whispering mock critiques of your crooked lines, though the way his shoulder brushed yours betrayed that he wasn’t in a rush to finish.

When both lanterns flickered to life, his revealed a surprisingly intricate design—a racing helmet, sharp and perfect. Yours, a lopsided smiley face that barely held together. You groaned in defeat, but he laughed, eyes soft as he carved something small at the base of his pumpkin: your initials, next to his.

“You can’t do that,” you protested, heart skipping.

“Why not?” His voice was low, casual, though his gaze lingered. “I like the way they look together.”