The hayride’s bumpier than he promised.

You grab the wooden rail for balance as the tractor lurches forward, the faint rumble of its engine mixing with the laughter of people scattered across the wagon. The air smells like apples, hay, and him clean soap, pine, and something warm that’s just Bradley.

He glances over his shoulder, flashing that grin that’s gotten him out of a thousand tight spots. “You good back there, honey?”

You roll your eyes. “You’re driving like we’re late for takeoff.”

He laughs, the sound rich and easy. “Can’t help it. Muscle memory.”

The tractor hits another bump, and you stumble forward right into his waiting hand. He steadies you with that instinctive gentleness, thumb brushing your wrist before he lets go. “Careful,” he says softly, “hate to see you go airborne.”

You huff, trying to hide the smile tugging at your lips. “You’re enjoying this.”

“Little bit,” he admits, grin widening.

The ride slows as the path winds through a tunnel of corn, moonlight filtering through the stalks. You shiver, and before you can even pretend it’s fine, he’s shrugging out of his jacket. “Here,” he says, draping it over your shoulders like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

It’s still warm from him. Smells like cedar and late nights.

You glance up at him. “Thanks.”

He tilts his head, eyes soft, teasing. “You cold or just want an excuse to sit closer?”

You laugh, bumping his arm with yours. “Maybe both.”

He chuckles, the sound low, genuine the kind that wraps around you like the flannel lining of his jacket. “That’s my kinda answer.”

The tractor hums on, slow and steady, the world reduced to golden straw, fading sunlight, and the easy rhythm of his voice as he starts humming something familiar under his breath.

When he finally looks at you again, it’s not cocky or practiced it’s simple, sweet, and real.

“Y’know,” he says, “next time, I’m lettin’ you drive. Let’s see how you handle the turbulence.”

You grin. “You’d hate that.”

He smirks, leaning just a little closer. “Nah, honey. I’d love every second.”

And somewhere between the laughter, the slow rumble of the tractor, and his fingers brushing yours, the night settles into something soft the kind of warmth that lasts long after the ride’s over.