It’s late October, and her house smells like cinnamon and something baking. I’m standing at her front door with two pumpkins in my arms, pretending they’re light even though my wrists are screaming. When she opens the door, she bursts out laughing instantly.

“Harry, those are massive.”

“You said we’re carving pumpkins. Go big or go home,” I grin, stepping inside.

She rolls her eyes but there’s that little smile that always sneaks through when she’s trying not to. “You’re such a child.”

“Excuse me, I’m an artist.”

Ten minutes later, we’re on the kitchen floor with newspapers everywhere, Fleetwood Mac playing low in the background. She’s sketching her design carefully while I’m mostly pretending to plan mine.

“You’ve been staring at that pumpkin for five minutes,” she says, smirking. “You lost?”

“Just waiting for inspiration,” I say. “These things take time.”

She glances over and squints at my drawing. “That’s supposed to be a bat?”

“Yes.”

“It looks like a deformed butterfly.”

“Oi!” I flick a pumpkin seed at her. “Show some respect for the craft.”

Her jaw drops. “Did you just—”

Before I can answer, she grabs a handful of pumpkin guts and smears it on my cheek. I just sit there for a second, stunned, before grinning. “You’ve started something dangerous, love.”

“Oh really?” she taunts, backing away.

And then we’re both laughing, throwing bits of pumpkin at each other like we’re ten. She’s shrieking, I’m dodging, and the kitchen’s a mess. When I finally catch her, my hands are around her waist, and we’re both breathless from laughing.

“Truce?” she says, still smiling up at me.

“Only if you admit I’m winning.”

“You’re delusional,” she laughs, brushing a bit of pulp off my nose.

“Maybe. But you’re still here.”

Her laughter softens, and before I can think, she leans in and kisses me—quick, sweet, tasting faintly of pumpkin and cider. My hands stay at her hips, hers linger against my jaw.

When we pull away, her eyes flick to the counter where both pumpkins sit. Hers is perfect. Mine looks like it’s melting.

I sigh dramatically. “Fine. Yours wins.”

She smirks. “You finally admit it.”

“Only because I’m distracted,” I whisper, nudging her nose with mine.

She laughs again, that sound that feels like home. And in that warm little kitchen, surrounded by chaos, I think—yeah. This is just how I like it.