The lanterns swing in the breeze, gold light flickering across the pumpkin rows.

You walk beside him, boots sinking softly into the dirt, the scent of woodsmoke and hay wrapping the evening in warmth. Spencer’s hat tilts just enough to hide the way his eyes keep finding you instead of the harvest.

“Thought this’d be somethin’ different,” he says, voice deep and calm. “Used to pick pumpkins with my ma. Never thought I’d be back here doin’ it like this.”

You glance up, smiling. “Like what?”

He meets your eyes steady, sure. “With someone I actually want to share it with.”

The words hang in the air, quiet as a heartbeat. He shifts the lantern in his hand, the light catching on the faint scar along his jaw, the one you’ve traced once before.

“Pick one, darlin’,” he says after a moment, nodding toward the field. “Big, small, don’t matter. I’ll carry it and anythin’ else you’re holdin’ too heavy.”

You swallow a laugh. “That supposed to be sweet talk?”

He grins, slow and easy. “Ain’t supposed to be nothin’. Just truth.”

You wander a few steps ahead, fingers brushing the rough stems, pretending not to feel his gaze follow you. When you bend to lift one, his hand finds yours rough, warm, grounding.

“Let me,” he murmurs, taking the weight from you effortlessly. “You keep pickin’. I’ll handle the heavy.”

You roll your eyes, but the corner of your mouth betrays you. “You always like this?”

He chuckles that soft, chest-deep sound that could melt frost. “Only when I mean it.”

The night deepens, and the field glows with lanterns and laughter. He walks beside you, pumpkin in one arm, your hand caught in the other, his thumb tracing lazy circles over your skin.

“You’re somethin’ else,” you whisper.

He tips his hat, eyes warm beneath the brim. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “So are you.”

And under the harvest moon, with the earth still warm beneath your boots and his smile cut against the firelight, you understand what it means to be safe and seen all at once.