The market smelled of spiced cider and roasted nuts, the late-October chill softened by the glow of string lights draped over vendor stalls. It felt more like a small festival than a market. Lanterns swung gently in the breeze, the night air threaded with cinnamon and woodsmoke.

He was already ten steps ahead, weaving through the crowd like a kid let loose. A beanie sat atop his head that didn’t quite match his jacket, and his grin was borderline feral as he stopped at every table that offered free samples. This was your third date with Johnny MacTavish, and it had the quiet weight of a step forward. No fancy dinner, just cider and wandering, but it felt like something that mattered.

“Try this. Apple butter,” he said, holding up a tiny spoon as if presenting treasure. “Change yer life. I’ll buy ye a crate.”

You raised a brow, laughing. “I don’t even have room for that in my pantry.”

He waved that off, moving to the next booth where a pumpkin-spice candle display had caught his attention. “I’ll build ye a shelf. That’s romance, that is.”

His grin was infectious, the kind that made you warm beneath the autumn chill.

On the walk back through the market, he stopped at a stall selling knitted scarves. Without asking, he draped a dark green one loosely around your neck with surprising gentleness.

“There,” he said, eyes softer now, grin curving slower. “Looks better on ye than the rack.”

The simple gesture knocked the breath out of you more than the chilly air.

The rest of the walk passed in easy conversation, the lantern-lit path glowing like a trail meant just for you two. You could feel yourself slipping, quietly, almost reluctantly, into something that felt like falling.

“Ye know,” he said, voice dropping to something playful but sincere, “I was hopin’ this’d be the date that did it. Made ye think I’m worth keepin’ around.”

You laughed, partly to cover the way your heart fluttered. He already knew what he wanted. And that thought lingered, warm as the cider in your hands.