The kitchen smells like cinnamon and chaos.

You’re standing at the counter, elbow-deep in pumpkin guts, and he’s right beside you sleeves rolled up, hair tied back, concentration furrowed like he’s defusing a bomb instead of carving a jack-o’-lantern.

“Okay,” you say, biting back a laugh. “You don’t have to scoop it like you’re interrogating it.”

He looks up, smirk already forming. “Yeah? You wanna tell me the proper technique, sweetheart?”

“You could try not breaking the spoon.”

He glances at the bent utensil in his hand and chuckles a sound warm enough to make the rain outside seem far away. “Wasn’t the spoon’s day, I guess.”

You roll your eyes, tossing him a towel. “Here. Try wiping that look off your face.”

He catches it with the metal hand, surprisingly gentle and wipes at the streak of orange across his cheek, only to smear it worse.

When you start laughing, he freezes, mock-offended. “You laughin’ at me or with me, doll?”

“With you,” you manage, still laughing. “Maybe.”

He narrows his eyes, then grins, swiping a streak of pumpkin across your cheek in retaliation. “Now we’re even.”

You gasp, half-laughing, half-shocked. “Oh, it’s on.”

“Careful,” he warns, backing up slowly, smirk tugging wider. “You start somethin’ with me, you better finish it.”

The next thing you know, there’s flour flying, laughter echoing, and him pinning you against the counter with a breathless grin. The world’s small again just the sound of your heartbeat, the warmth of his hand cupping your jaw, and that look in his eyes that says he can’t believe he ever forgot how this feels.

“Guess,” he murmurs, voice low, “I don’t hate this pumpkin thing as much as I thought.”

You smile. “Told you.”

He leans in closer, thumb brushing the bit of orange on your chin. “You win, doll. But don’t tell anyone. Ruins my image.”

And for a man who’s fought too long to find peace, this soft hands, pumpkin seeds, laughter is the kind of battle he doesn’t mind losing.