The pumpkin patch is half-empty now, golden light slipping behind the barn as the last families wander off with lopsided gourds. The tractor rumbles low in the distance, pulling hay bales for the final evening ride.

Ryan hops down from the driver’s seat, dusting his hands on his jeans.

His grin hits you first big, warm, a little too happy to see you.

“’Bout time you showed,” he drawls, walking toward you with that easy cowboy confidence. “Thought I’d have to lasso ya.” You laugh.

He loves that.His eyes soften instantly.

He leads you to the wagon… and you notice the hay bale he’s picked out.

It’s small.Ridiculously small.

You raise an eyebrow.

He shrugs with fake innocence.

“Only one left,” he says, not even trying to hide his smirk.

The wagon lurches as you sit. Ryan drops down next to you, knees knocking into yours immediately. He pretends to adjust his hat to cover how pleased he is.

Then he pulls a thermos from behind him like it’s contraband.

“Don’t tell the others,” he murmurs, handing it over. “Little somethin’ special in there. Figured you could use the warmth.”

You take a sip.

Cinnamon. Apple.

And… yeah. Definitely spiked.

Ryan watches your reaction, eyes gleaming. “Told ya,” he says softly.

A cold wind sweeps through. You shiver before you can hide it.

Ryan bumps your knee again, voice low and teasing but there’s a softness under it that’s impossible to miss.

“Scoot closer, pretty thing,” he murmurs. “It’s cold out here.”

And when you do?His arm settles behind you. Not touching not yet.But close enough that one tiny movement would change everything.

The wagon rolls through the field, moon rising over pumpkins, and Ryan looks at you like this moment is his new favorite tradition.