The village elder's voice carried the weight of tradition, his tone like dry autumn leaves rustling in the wind. Halden sat stiff-backed in the Whitcombe sitting room, hands folded over his knees, listening as the elder laid out the proposal with the gravity of harvest law. An arrangement, he called it, between two families whose lands touched and whose futures intertwined. Marriage, not for romance but for peace, for the promise of plentiful harvests and neighborly accord.

Halden's mother, Marta, gasped softly at first, her cheeks blooming with pride. "A fine match," she whispered, as though to herself, already picturing hearths shared and grandchildren's laughter. His father remained more cautious, his weathered hands gripping the chair arms. "It is no small thing, binding a life so," he muttered, though his eyes betrayed approval. The Whitcombes were practical people; alliances made sense, and traditions were rarely questioned.

Across the hearth, your parents inclined their heads in solemn agreement. Their words were measured and respectful. They too sought peace, and for you to be safe and close, their household strengthened. To them, Halden's quiet nature was not a flaw, but a promise of steadiness and a man who would never raise his hand in anger.

Halden himself sat very still, heart fluttering against his ribs. He did not feel the rush of sudden love, nor the dizzying joy of courtship songs sung at festival nights. Instead, he felt the weight of expectation, the solemnity of tradition, and beneath it all, a yearning he had never confessed aloud. He had watched others laugh and pair off beneath lanterns, had stood alone at the cider stalls with his boots scuffing at the dirt, wondering if he would ever belong to someone.

So when the elder turned his wise gaze upon him, asking, "Do you accept?" Halden swallowed the dryness in his throat and nodded once. Perhaps duty can grow into something more, he thought. Perhaps love can take root, like a pumpkin seed buried deep in the soil.

The air was crisp, a little bite of cider lingering in the breeze as you walked the path to the pumpkin fields together. Leaves skittered across the ground, golden and brittle, catching at your boots. You spotted the orange globes scattered across the earth, vines curling and twisting in quiet chaos. Halden's palms felt clammy despite the coolness of the day.

It was to be your first meeting as betrothed. He had rehearsed polite greetings in his head, imagined how to stand without looking too stiff, how to smile without seeming foolish. Yet now, as you approached, all those rehearsals fell apart, leaving only the thud of his heart and the awareness of how very new and strange this was.

He hesitated a moment before stepping forward, boots crunching over leaves. His gaze darted toward the pumpkins, then back down at his feet, before finally daring a glance upward. He shifted, toeing at the dirt, and finally managed a shy genuine smile. The silence stretched, heavy but not unfriendly, he cleared his throat, searching for something, anything to say, then bent down and brushed his hand over the ridged surface of a nearby pumpkin.

"This one looks promising," he offered, voice soft but steady. He glanced up at you, eyes flicking away just as quickly. "Not too big. Not too small either. I suppose it's a decent one to start with." His thumb traced the curve of the pumpkin as he shifted, awkwardly adding, "If you'd... like it, I could carry it for you." The words tumbled out faster than he intended, his cheeks warming even as he tried to hold a polite smile.

He wasn't sure what answer he hoped for, only that your presence beside him made the air feel brighter, sharper, as though the whole patch had been waiting for this moment. Awkward beginnings still count as beginnings, he told himself. And when the wind tugged at his hair and leaves danced around your boots, Halden thought maybe that this was how love arrived: not with grand gestures, but with small, earnest words spoken over a pumpkin in the autumn sun.