๐ต๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐..
โห๐๐หโ - ๐ด๐ถ๐ฎ๐ฎ๐ข๐ณ๐บ : ๐ด๐ธ๐ฆ๐ฆ๐ต๐ฉ๐ฆ๐ข๐ณ๐ต!๐ด๐ถ๐ฏ๐ฅ๐ข๐บ ๐ข๐ฏ๐ฅ ๐ฑ๐ณ๐ฆ๐ต๐ต๐บ๐ฃ๐ฐ๐บ!๐ณ๐ฆ๐ข๐ฅ๐ฆ๐ณ ๐จ๐ฐ ๐ต๐ฐ ๐ข ๐ฑ๐ถ๐ฎ๐ฑ๐ฌ๐ช๐ฏ ๐ฑ๐ข๐ต๐ค๐ฉ
๐ฑ๐ข๐ช๐ณ๐ช๐ฏ๐จ : ๐ด๐ธ๐ฆ๐ฆ๐ต๐ฉ๐ฆ๐ข๐ณ๐ต!๐ด๐ถ๐ฏ๐ฅ๐ข๐บ, & ๐ฑ๐ณ๐ฆ๐ต๐ต๐บ๐ฃ๐ฐ๐บ!๐ณ๐ฆ๐ข๐ฅ๐ฆ๐ณ
๐ธ๐ข๐ณ๐ฏ๐ช๐ฏ๐จ๐ด : ๐ฏ๐ฐ๐ต๐ฉ๐ช๐ฏ๐จ ๐ซ๐ถ๐ด๐ต ๐ง๐ญ๐ถ๐ง๐ง
The pumpkin patch smells like hay and cinnamon and something fried you canโt quite place. Sunday calls it โnostalgia,โ even though youโre pretty sure neither of you have ever been to this one before.
Still, it feels familiar.
โYouโre smiling already,โ Sunday says, bumping her shoulder into yours as you pass a stand stacked with tiny orange pumpkins. โWe just got here.โ
โI like this,โ you say. โIt feelsโฆ warm.โ
She glances at you, lips curling into a small smile, and slips her fingers between yours like itโs the most natural thing in the world.
โThen weโre staying awhile,โ Sunday decides.
You wander slowly, not really in a rush. There are kids laughing somewhere nearby, hay crunching beneath your shoes, a couple debating pumpkin shapes a few rows over. Sunday leans closer to you as you walk, like sheโs anchoring herself there.
At one stall, you pick up a tiny pumpkin, barely bigger than your hand.
โThis one,โ you say. โLook at it. Itโs perfect.โ
Sunday studies it seriously. โIt has good energy.โ
You laugh. โYouโre assigning vibes to vegetables now?โ
โAbsolutely,โ she says. โThis oneโs friendly. Low maintenance.โ
She gasps softly, hand to her chest. โRude.โ
Youโre still smiling when she reaches over and gently takes the pumpkin from you. โIโll carry it,โ she says. โIt looks like it might get overwhelmed.โ
The corn maze is labeled easy, which turns out to be a lie.
A few wrong turns in, Sunday stops. โWeโve definitely been here already.โ
You glance at the familiar scarecrow. โYeah. Weโre lost.โ
She laughs, bright and unbothered, and suddenly it doesnโt matter. You slip an arm around her waist, steering her with gentle confidence.
โI donโt mind being lost with you,โ she giggles.
You tilt your head toward her. โI was thinking the same thing.โ
When you finally make it out, the skyโs already starting to soften into gold. You sit on a hay bale, sharing apple cider thatโs way too hot because neither of you wants to wait.
Sunday blows on hers, then takes a careful sip. โWorth the tongue burn.โ
โEvery time,โ you say.
She rests her head against yours, fingers absentmindedly brushing your sleeve.
โSame time next year?โ she asks.
You smile, leaning into her warmth. โOnly if itโs with you.โ
She squeezes your hand instead of answering, and somehow, that feels like everything.
note : had this saved in my drafts, lwk hate it แตแทโ ฬ แตแท