Autumn is always the best season, no matter the circumstances. The leaves scrape against the base of your home, the breeze draws a trail of goosebumps along your arm, as your fingers wrap around your warm coffee cup, the steam swirling up to your nose. It’s a pleasant mix that either of you couldn’t get enough of. However, recently he’s been obsessed with having a baby around this time of month, going on endless rants about why babies are the cutest when they begin to waddle around, or how their giggles are heavenly, or how adorable their mistakes are.

You both walk down the prominent path in the local pumpkin patch, leaves crunching breath your shoes, toddlers pulling their parents by the finger, babies crawling and collapsing over the massive pumpkins that straddle the path. You both hold a hot cup filled with hot tea and lemonade that hook you by the nose with its scent. The tea bags, peppermint, lemon-ginger, and turmeric, mixed with lemonade was his idea, and it worked out beautifully. These were the moments you craved: wrapped beneath his arm, a thick scarf around your neck, the beams from the sun above massaging your scalp. He hardly came out of his studio, and when he did, it was to eat or run out to buy more art supplies, so you savored every moment.

The sky is warm with blues and oranges, the breeze raking through your locks. He sighs and takes you by the hand, pulling you with a gentle tug to a large squash leaning against a pumpkin. He points like a kid in a candy store, “That’s us.”

“That one’s me,” He points to the large squash, “that one is you,” he grins daftly, referring to the small pumpkin.

You tilt your head and smile, “and that diminutive one?”

He slides a hand over your stomach, his face burrowing into your neck, clinging to you, “that’s our baby.”