The Cider Mill
 

A cozy harvest tent glowing with amber lanterns, copper kettles steaming with apple cider, stacks of wooden barrels and burlap sacks of apples, rustic wood tables, warm golden light reflecting off metal, autumn leaves scattered on the ground, cinematic natural light, cozy small-town festival atmosphere, soft mist around the edges.

Tyler fell into step beside her, their shoulders brushing as they followed the path toward the cluster of vendor tents down the lane. Hay bales lined the walkway, flecked with bits of gold leaf, and children ran past holding half-eaten donuts and paper cups of cider.

Ellie tightened her scarf and smiled. “It smells like heaven,” she said, glancing sideways at him. “And before you say something snarky — yes, I mean heaven in the apple-cinnamon, caramel-covered sense.”

She adjusted the little bag in her arm, making sure the ornament didn’t shift. “We’ll hang it somewhere safe,” she added, softer now. “Maybe on that little shelf by the window. The one you said didn’t need decorating.”

They turned the corner, and there it was — the Cider Mill tent, larger than the rest, its canvas striped in cream and gold. The air was thick with the scent of baked apples and sugar. Inside, strings of copper lights framed rows of steaming kettles and glass jars of honeyed cider. The hum of conversation mixed with the steady sound of pouring and laughter.

Ellie stopped just shy of the entrance, soaking it in — the morning light pooling through the fabric, the warmth spilling out like an invitation. “See?” she said, nudging him gently. “Totally worth waking up early for.”

She pushed the flap aside and stepped in, immediately greeted by a rush of warmth and the hiss of a cider press somewhere in the back. Her cheeks flushed from the sudden change in temperature. “Two ciders,” she said to the woman behind the counter, then looked back at Tyler with a smirk. “And don’t argue, you’re getting the one with extra cinnamon. It’s tradition now.”

The vendor chuckled, handing her two warm paper cups. Ellie passed one to him before taking a careful sip of hers. The taste was sharp and sweet, burning pleasantly at the back of her throat. She smiled, eyes softening. “God, that’s good.”

They found a small standing table near the corner, surrounded by stacks of wooden barrels and a display of jars labeled Evergreen Apple Reserve. The hum of the market drifted around them — laughter, chatter, the faint sound of a fiddle tuning somewhere outside.

Ellie traced a finger along the rim of her cup. “You know,” she said, voice quieter now, “I think this might actually be my favorite part of fall. The quiet mornings, the cider, the fact that everything feels like it’s just… starting again.”

She looked up at him then, her expression soft and certain. “I like it better this year. With you.”

The lantern above their table flickered, a soft, steady light catching in the amber swirl of their cider. And for a long, comfortable moment, neither of them said anything — just stood there in the golden hum of the market, warm hands around hot cups, both of them knowing without having to say it that this was what home had started to feel like.

Tyler watched her go — that easy, unhurried sway in her step that made even the simplest moments feel cinematic. The warm lantern light caught in her hair, and for a second, he forgot about the noise of the festival around them.

She was so her here. All soft smiles and quiet wonder, like she’d built this little world just by walking through it.

His hands found his jacket pockets out of habit, but his eyes didn’t leave her. He watched her talk to the vendor, watched the way her face softened when she handed over the bills. There was something grounding about it — simple, steady, real.

Movement near the edge of the tent caught his eye. A couple of guys his age — familiar faces from the rink and a few too many nights he didn’t remember perfectly — waved when they noticed him. A few years ago, that’s all it would’ve taken. He would’ve clapped one of them on the shoulder, thrown out some joke about “date duty,” and vanished for an hour into the chaos.

Now, he just nodded once, easy but distant, before turning back to her. He wasn’t going anywhere. Not this morning. Not anymore.

Ellie was crossing back toward him, a little kraft bag tucked under her arm, cheeks pink from the cold and eyes lit up like she’d just stolen a piece of the morning to keep for herself.

When she reached him and said, “Ours,” it hit him somewhere low and deep — the kind of word that didn’t need a definition.

He smiled, a little crooked, and fell into step beside her. “Has a nice ring to it,” he said, voice low enough for her alone. “Might have to get used to hearing you say that.”

They walked shoulder to shoulder down the lantern-lined path. The air was crisp, full of sugar and smoke, and every time her hand brushed his, he thought about how wild it was that something this quiet could feel so intense.

Kids darted past with cider donuts, laughter spilling into the air. He could hear someone strumming a guitar somewhere behind the craft tents, the chords floating through the faint chill. The gold light flickered over her scarf, over the little smile that always wrecked him a little.

When she nudged him about heaven and caramel apples, he just chuckled, sipping from the cider she’d handed him. “You saying I’ve been wrong about heaven this whole time?” he asked, a smirk tugging at his mouth. “Because if it smells like this — and looks like you — I might start showing up more often.”

She rolled her eyes, but he caught the way her grin curved, the way her fingers brushed his arm.

They stepped under the Cider Mill tent, surrounded by the hum of voices and the soft hiss of steam from the kettles. He leaned one elbow on the little wooden table they found, looking at her over the rim of his cup as she spoke — about mornings, about new starts, about how she liked it better this year.

Something about that made him want to laugh — not because it was funny, but because of how damn true it felt.

He reached out and tucked a loose piece of hair behind her ear, letting his hand linger just long enough to make her breath catch. “You know,” he said, his voice dipping a little lower, “if this is your idea of a perfect morning, I’m not complaining.”

Her brows lifted slightly, that soft spark in her eyes, and he added, the grin tugging at one corner of his mouth, “Guess I finally get why people fall for the whole ‘cozy fall thing.’ Though I’m pretty sure it has less to do with cider and more to do with you.”

She laughed — the kind of sound that made the cold not matter — and he leaned in, brushing a kiss against her temple. “Still,” he murmured, “you’re right. Everything feels like it’s starting again.”

The lantern above them flickered, casting her face in soft gold, and for a moment, all he could do was look.

Outside, the festival went on — laughter, music, the smell of cinnamon and pine — but for Tyler, it all blurred into background noise.

Because right here, under that warm amber glow, this was the start of something — not loud, not rushed, but real.
The kind of start worth remembering.

Ellie’s grin came easy, the kind that warmed her cheeks and made her eyes glint in the morning light. She tilted her head toward him, the little kraft bag bumping against her hip as she teased, “You’re already used to hearing me say it. You just finally stopped pretending you don’t like it.”

When he smiled that crooked smile of his, she laughed under her breath and added, “Besides, it does sound nice. Ours. Kinda has a forever ring to it, don’t you think?”

They walked in sync down the path, boots crunching over fallen leaves. She reached over and linked her pinky with his for a second — casual, but not really. “See? You’re surviving the festival just fine,” she said with mock seriousness. “I give it twenty more minutes before you start acting like you planned this all along.”

His comment about heaven made her roll her eyes, but the corners of her mouth betrayed her. “You’d get kicked out for saying stuff like that,” she told him, nudging his arm lightly. “But sure, let’s pretend heaven smells like cinnamon sugar and smug confidence. Very on brand for you.”

She held his gaze for a second longer than she meant to, her smile softening. “You’re not wrong though,” she added quietly. “It does kind of feel like heaven. The real kind. The quiet, no-pressure kind.”

Inside the Cider Mill tent, she brushed her thumb along the rim of her cup and smiled when he watched her talk about mornings. “It’s different this year,” she said, looking down into the steam. “Feels like the world finally exhaled. Or maybe I did.”

When he reached out and tucked her hair back, she gave a breathy little laugh, pretending to scold him. “If you keep doing that, I’m gonna start thinking you’re secretly sentimental.”

She sipped her cider, hiding her grin behind it. “And for the record, you shouldn’t be complaining. You’re lucky. This is elite-level fall magic right here.”

Her brow arched playfully when he said it had more to do with her than the cider. “Flattery and sugar — dangerous combo,” she said. “Keep it up and I’ll start dragging you to Christmas markets next.”

When he kissed her temple, she leaned into it just slightly, the warmth of him grounding her. “You saying that like it’s a bad thing,” she murmured. “New starts look good on us.”

Then she looked up, that spark of mischief back in her eyes. “But, for the record, if this is you falling for the cozy fall thing — I want photographic evidence. Preferably of you holding a pumpkin spice latte and smiling like a Hallmark lead.”

She laughed when he groaned, brushing her shoulder against his. “What? It’s for the memories. You can pretend you hated it later.”

The lantern light caught on her smile, and she lowered her voice, softer now. “You know… if every start looks like this, I think we’re doing something right.”

And when she reached across the table and tapped her cup against his, her grin was all warmth and mischief. “To new starts,” she said. “And to you finally admitting you like cider season.”

Tyler’s grin came slow—lazy, content—the kind that came from somewhere deep instead of being something he put on. He didn’t bother hiding it this time.

“Yeah,” he said, voice low, steady as he glanced at her over the rim of his cider cup. “Feels like we finally stopped fighting the world long enough to let it be good.”

He leaned back slightly, arm draped along the bench behind her but not quite touching, his thumb grazing the wood instead of her shoulder. Close enough to feel her warmth, far enough to know he didn’t have to chase it anymore. “Guess that’s what happens when you stop waiting for things to go wrong.” His eyes caught hers again, soft and sure. “You start realizing how right it can feel.”

He smiled—small, real, unguarded. “You make it easy to stay in the moment, El. Like the noise fades out for once.” He nodded toward her cider, teasing lightly, “Even with all this sugar trying to compete.”

A quiet laugh broke between them, easy as breath. The morning light filtered through the tent’s canvas, catching the faint gold flecks in her hair. Outside, the sound of boots and laughter mixed with the rustle of wind and the smell of apples warming in the press.

Tyler felt her presence more than he saw her then—the small movements, the faint hum in her throat, the way she always seemed to fit so perfectly in the quiet. For once, there was no past tugging at him, no future to brace for. Just now.

He was about to say something—something simple but honest—when a voice cut through the noise.

“Ellie?”

Her name landed with that soft, polite lilt of surprise. Faye stood at the edge of the tent, dressed neatly in a cream sweater and dark jeans, hair perfectly set despite the autumn breeze. A cider cup in each hand.

Tyler straightened a little, instinct tugging at old habits, but he caught himself—no mask this time. Just him.

“Hey, Faye.”

She looked at him only briefly—sharp, assessing—but not enough to call it acknowledgment. Her smile was for Ellie alone. The kind reserved for sisters who shared too much history and not enough boundaries.

“Didn’t realize you were here,” Faye said, tone even but clipped, like every word had been measured before it left her mouth.

Tyler lifted his cup slightly, more out of reflex than confidence, and then lowered it again. The air shifted—polite, strained, and perfectly small-town.

She turned slowly, almost out of instinct, cider still warm in her hands. Faye stood there like she’d been conjured straight out of a memory — perfect hair, perfect posture, that same polite composure that always made Ellie feel twelve again and trying too hard to measure up.

“Hey,” Ellie managed. Just that.
Nothing sharp, nothing open — just enough to keep the air steady.

Faye’s smile was small, distant. The kind that said everything was fine when it wasn’t. She said something about not realizing they were here, about how busy the market was this year. It all sounded normal, small talk shaped into armor.

Ellie nodded, lips parting around a quiet, “Yeah,” before she let the rest of the words die in her throat. She didn’t trust her voice — not with that much history crowding the edges of her chest.

Faye’s gaze flicked toward Tyler, quick and unreadable, then back to her. The moment stretched, brittle and strange, until Faye gave a short nod, offered something polite about seeing her around, and turned toward the crowd again.

Ellie didn’t move. Just watched the back of her sister’s sweater disappear into the sea of flannel and lantern light until there was nothing left to look at but the empty space she’d left behind.

Her throat tightened before she could stop it. Not because of the tension, not even because of the disapproval she could still feel ghosting through the air — but because she missed her. Missed the easy part of them. Missed the way they used to finish each other’s sentences and laugh until their faces hurt over cider and donuts at this very festival.

The ache was sharp and stupid and completely uninvited.

She pressed her thumb hard against the rim of her cup, blinking fast, willing the sting in her eyes to back off. “God,” she whispered under her breath, half a laugh, half a plea. “Not here.”

The crowd kept moving. Music played somewhere close by. Tyler didn’t say anything, didn’t reach for her — just stayed close enough that she could feel his steadiness beside her.

It helped. More than she’d ever admit out loud.

Ellie drew a slow breath, forcing it past the lump in her chest. “I’m fine,” she murmured, though her voice betrayed her just a little — too soft, too fragile around the edges.

She tried to smile, the kind that didn’t quite hold. “She looks good, huh?” she said quietly, eyes still fixed on the spot where Faye had been. “Same as always.”

For a second, she almost laughed. “It’s stupid. I just…” She trailed off, shaking her head. “I thought maybe this year would be different.”

The words came out like confession — tired, honest, small.

Then she turned to him finally, eyes glassy but steady. “Can we just—” she started, breath catching mid-sentence before she found the end. “Can we just go sit somewhere for a minute? Before I do something dramatic like cry over cider in public?”

The corners of her mouth twitched, a weak attempt at humor. But her fingers found his anyway, and when she held on, it wasn’t out of embarrassment.

It was because she needed to.

Tyler didn’t say a word.
Not when Faye spoke.
Not when she left.

He’d spent enough time being the reason Ellie’s shoulders went tight like that—to know when silence did more good than any apology.

He just watched her, the way her smile faltered around the edges, how she pretended to sip her cider just to have something to do with her hands. The little tremor in her breath that only he would catch. It twisted in his chest, that old, useless guilt—the kind that came from knowing he’d once made her choose between loving him and keeping her family’s approval.

Faye’s presence had been like walking into cold air after sunlight—sharp, bracing, familiar. He didn’t blame her for it. Hell, he probably would’ve looked at himself the same way if he’d been in her shoes. But watching Ellie shrink a little under it… that was the part that got him.

When Faye disappeared into the crowd, the space she left behind felt heavier than the noise around them. Ellie stood still, and Tyler stayed right where he was, close enough that if she needed to lean, she could. But he didn’t reach. Didn’t crowd her.

He could hear her swallow hard, see her thumb press into the rim of the cup like she could anchor herself there. And when her voice finally came, that soft, cracked “God… not here,” it hit him low, deep enough to make him ache.

So he stayed still. Let the world move around them. A couple brushed past, laughter trailing, and the smell of cider and fried dough swirled through the air. He kept his focus on her—every small movement, every breath she tried to smooth out.

When she whispered that she was fine, he didn’t correct her. Just nodded once, quiet understanding. He knew better than to take “fine” at face value.

“Yeah,” he murmured finally, voice low, steady, the kind that didn’t need to fill the silence—just live in it with her. “She does.”

He followed her gaze toward the crowd, then back to her, softer. “You’re allowed to miss her, you know.” His tone wasn’t pushy, just gentle fact. “Doesn’t make you weak. Just makes you human.”

Her laugh was shaky, the kind that tried to make light of something heavy. He could feel her wanting to hold it together, so when she asked if they could sit somewhere before she cried in public, he didn’t tease or joke.

He just reached out, threading his fingers through hers—slow, deliberate—like grounding wire. Her hand was small and tense in his, but it eased, a fraction, once he held on.

“Yeah,” he said quietly, squeezing once. “C’mon.”

He tilted his head toward the line of old orchard crates stacked near the tent wall, a quiet corner where the morning light slipped through in amber streaks. “We’ll sit over there,” he added, voice soft but certain.

And as they started walking, he kept her hand in his—not because she needed him to, but because he wanted her to know she wasn’t standing in that space alone anymore.

Ellie’s throat felt like it was lined with glass. She didn’t fight it this time — the sting, the ache, the hollow kind of missing that didn’t really belong to anger.

She sat with him on the crate, cider still clutched in her hands, staring at the way the steam curled up and disappeared in the cold. “I hate that it still hits like this,” she said quietly, words trembling on their way out. “It’s been months. You’d think I’d be used to it by now.”

Her laugh came out small, rough around the edges. “But I’m not. I keep thinking I’ll see her and it’ll be fine again. That she’ll just… look at me like she used to.” She shook her head, smiling faintly even though it hurt. “I know better. I just can’t seem to stop hoping for it anyway.”

She let her thumb brush the side of his hand, grounding herself there. “It’s not even that she’s mad, really. It’s worse than that. It’s like she decided I’m not someone she recognizes anymore. Like she already made peace with not having me around.”

The words cracked at the edges, but she didn’t stop. “And I get it. She always thought she was protecting me. Even when she was wrong.”

Her voice dropped lower. “But she doesn’t get to decide who makes me happy. Not anymore.”

She fell quiet for a long moment, the sounds of the festival moving around them — laughter, kettle steam, a dog barking somewhere near the gate.

Finally, she exhaled, steadying herself with a slow breath. “I miss her,” she said simply. “That’s all it is. I miss my sister.”

She looked down at their joined hands and squeezed lightly, eyes still wet but soft now, less broken. “I didn’t expect it to feel like grief.”

Her voice found a bit of light again — fragile, but true. “You don’t have to say anything,” she murmured, glancing at him with a half-smile. “I know you’re thinking it anyway. That I’ve got too big a heart for my own good.”

She lifted her cup, taking a small sip before leaning her shoulder into his. “You’d be right,” she whispered. “But I don’t know how to be any other way.”

Her head tilted against him, eyes closing briefly. “Just give me a minute,” she added softly. “Then we’ll get more cider. Maybe something with extra sugar, just to prove I’m fine.”

Tyler didn’t move for a long time.

He just sat there beside her on that weathered crate, shoulder to shoulder, letting the cold creep in around the edges while the world kept going like nothing had cracked open between them. Her voice was quiet, fragile in a way that made his chest ache—not because she sounded broken, but because she was trying so damn hard not to be.

He wanted to tell her it wasn’t her fault. That Faye didn’t get to rewrite the story or decide who Ellie was allowed to love. But every word that came to mind felt too small, too rough for the softness she needed right now. So he stayed quiet, grounding her hand between both of his, thumb tracing over her knuckles in slow, steady lines.

When she said it—I didn’t expect it to feel like grief—he felt something shift in his chest. Because yeah, it was grief. The kind that didn’t have funerals or closure, just space where someone used to fit.

He leaned forward a little, elbows on his knees, his voice low when it finally came. “You don’t have too big a heart,” he murmured, eyes still on their joined hands. “You just love deep. There’s a difference.”

Her head was still against his shoulder, warm and familiar, and he could feel her heartbeat through the soft press of her arm. He let the silence fill back in for a bit—no need to rush it, no need to fix what wasn’t his to fix.

After a moment, he tipped his head just enough that his lips brushed her hair when he spoke again. “You can take all the minutes you need,” he said softly. “I’m not going anywhere.”

He turned his hand so their fingers locked more fully, the kind of hold that said you’re safe here. Then, a faint smile curved his mouth, quiet but real.

“And when you’re ready,” he added, the warmth back in his tone, “we’ll find the sweetest cider they’ve got. You can make me drink the kind that tastes like a candle if it helps.”

The corner of his mouth lifted a little more as he glanced down at her. “You can even take photographic evidence. For the memories.”

But beneath the teasing, his thumb kept tracing small, steady circles against her skin—wordless promise that she didn’t have to carry any of it alone.

Ellie smiled faintly, the kind of fragile, grateful curve that barely reached her eyes but tried to. She stayed quiet for a beat, watching the steam curl up from her cider until it disappeared in the cold.

When she finally spoke, her voice was softer than the wind rustling the tent flaps. “You always know exactly what to say,” she whispered, glancing at him sideways. “And somehow, you don’t make it sound like a fix. Just… like truth.”

She let out a small breath, almost a laugh. “And for the record, that candle cider is elite. You’ll survive.”

Her thumb brushed over his where their hands were still joined, her voice growing steadier, warmer. “You know, you’ve changed,” she said quietly. “I don’t even mean in the big, dramatic way. Just in the little things.”

Her gaze flicked down to their hands, then back to him. “You listen now. Like… really listen. You don’t disappear into your own head, or make a joke to dodge it. You just stay. And God, that’s new.”

She paused, her eyes softening. “It used to feel like you were halfway here. Like there was always one foot out the door, just in case it got hard. But these last couple months…” Her voice thinned a little, thick with sincerity. “You’ve been in it. Both feet. No exit plan. And I don’t think you know how much that means to me.”

The truth sat between them, quiet and sure.

“I never realized how easy it could be,” she admitted after a long moment. “Talking to you. Letting you in. It doesn’t scare me like it used to.” She smiled, small and real. “You’ve made it feel safe again. Like I don’t have to hide the messy parts.”

Her fingers tightened around his just slightly. “You’ve really been there, Ty. Not halfway, not when it’s convenient. Just… there.”

Her voice softened again, gentle but certain. “And I notice. Every time.”

She leaned a little closer then, resting her head against his shoulder once more. “You’re different now,” she murmured, eyes fluttering closed. “But somehow, you’re also more you than you’ve ever been.”

A small smile curved her lips as she added, “And I like this version. A lot.”

The world outside the tent hummed on — laughter, music, the scent of sugar and smoke — but Ellie didn’t hear any of it. Just the sound of his heartbeat under her ear, steady and familiar.

“Thanks for not going anywhere,” she whispered. “I don’t think I’d know what to do if you did.”

Tyler’s breath caught a little when she said it — not because he didn’t believe her, but because it hit somewhere deep. Quiet. Unexpected.

He didn’t look away, didn’t laugh it off like he might’ve once. Just watched her, the way the morning light caught in her hair, the faint pink at the tip of her nose from the cold. Every word she said landed like a soft weight he didn’t want to set down.

There were a dozen things he could’ve said — things that hovered right there on his tongue — but none of them felt right enough. You’re the reason I changed. You make it easy to stay. You were always the home I kept trying to find my way back to.

Instead, he squeezed her hand, slow and sure, letting his thumb brush the back of it in an absent rhythm that matched his heartbeat.

“Guess I just finally figured out what’s worth showing up for,” he said quietly. His tone wasn’t heavy, not even self-pitying — just true. “You don’t walk away from something that makes you want to be better.”

He shifted a little so she fit closer against him, her head still resting on his shoulder. “And I like this version too,” he murmured, voice low enough that it almost blended with the sound of her breath. “The one that laughs at me, drags me to fall festivals, and still believes in things being good.”

The corner of his mouth lifted. “You make it easy to stay put.”

For a while, he just sat there with her, letting the festival noise fade into a blur — the laughter, the fiddles, the cider press hissing somewhere nearby. His hand stayed wrapped around hers, thumb tracing those same small circles like he could promise her something wordless and real: I’m here. I mean it this time.

When she whispered that last thank you, something in his chest went soft and unguarded. He pressed a kiss to her temple — gentle, steady — and said, almost under his breath,

“You don’t have to worry about that anymore, El.”

Then quieter still, a little rough around the edges, “I’m exactly where I want to be.”

Ellie didn’t move at first. Just let the words settle between them — soft, certain, the kind that didn’t need explaining. Her fingers curled tighter around his, her thumb tracing along the edge of his sleeve like she was memorizing the way it felt to be held this steady.

“Careful,” she said after a long beat, voice barely above the hush of the wind. “You keep saying things like that, and I’m gonna start believing you’re secretly a poet.”

She looked up at him then, her lips curved but her eyes serious, searching. “You figured it out a long time ago,” she said quietly. “You just didn’t trust it yet. Didn’t trust yourself yet.”

Her smile softened. “But you do now. And that’s what makes it different.”

She reached up, brushing her fingertips along his jaw, the faint rasp of stubble against her skin grounding her. “You think you’re staying because of me,” she whispered, “but I think you finally learned how to stay for yourself, too. That’s the part that gets me.”

Her breath came out in a small laugh when he mentioned her dragging him to festivals, her head tipping against his shoulder again. “You love it,” she murmured. “You pretend to hate the crowds and the cider and the matching scarves, but you’d miss it if I stopped dragging you.”

A tiny pause. Then, softly — “You’d miss me.”

Her voice grew even quieter. “And I’d miss you, too.”

The festival noise blurred again around them — laughter, the faint hum of a guitar, the clinking of cider glasses — but Ellie barely noticed. The only thing that existed was the warmth beside her, the steady thrum of his heartbeat under her cheek, and the sound of his promise still echoing in her chest.

She smiled, small and real. “I think this might be my favorite version of us,” she said. “The one that’s not trying so hard to prove anything. The one that just… is.”

Her hand found his again, thumb brushing along his knuckles. “And for the record,” she added, her tone teasing but sincere underneath it, “you’re exactly where I want you to be, too.”

She tilted her head, eyes meeting his with a spark of warmth that had nothing to do with the cider. “So don’t move, Harrison,” she whispered. “I’m finally good right here.”

Ellie stayed quiet for a long time, watching the crowd shift beyond the tent. Families weaving between rows of pumpkins, vendors calling out specials, the faint sound of a banjo somewhere near the cider press. The world felt full again — too loud and too alive after everything that had just settled between them. But with his arm brushing hers, the noise didn’t feel like too much. It felt like background music.

She smiled faintly, chin resting against his shoulder. “You know…” she started, voice soft and thoughtful, “if you keep sitting here saying perfect things, someone’s gonna think we’re having some kind of deep autumn movie moment.” Her tone lightened, teasing again. “And I am not letting you have the last poetic line. It’s bad for my image.”

When he laughed quietly, she tilted her face up toward him. “Besides,” she added, her voice lowering, “you’ve already been sitting still for, what, ten minutes? That’s a new record for you.”

Her fingers slipped through his again, tugging gently as she stood, the motion slow and easy. “Come on,” she said, the warmth back in her tone. “Let’s walk before I start overthinking everything again.”

She brushed a bit of hay off her coat and smiled down at him, soft and playful. “There’s a woodshop tent over by the old cider press. You’ll like it — everything smells like sawdust and varnish and there’s this old guy who hand-carves little animals. It’s very you.”

When he raised an eyebrow, she bumped his shoulder with hers. “What? You get excited about power tools. Let me live.”

Her voice softened as they started walking again, their steps syncing easily on the cobblestone path. “Besides,” she said, glancing sideways at him, “I like seeing you in your element. Calm. Content. The world feels quieter when you are.”

The path curved toward the next row of vendor tents, golden leaves crunching under their boots. She caught sight of the woodshop sign in the distance — rustic lettering, soft glow of lanterns hanging from the beams. “There,” she said, nodding toward it. “First cider, now wood. See? We’re basically the poster couple for an Evergreen brochure.”

Her grin turned smaller, more tender as the wind caught her hair. “But I don’t mind it,” she murmured. “Not when it’s you.”

She slipped her hand back into his, palm fitting against his like it belonged there, and added quietly, “C’mon, Harrison. Let’s go find something we’ll actually still have in ten years.”

Tyler laughed under his breath, the sound warm and low — the kind that rumbled more than it rang. His hair had fallen loose again, that familiar tangle brushing the collar of his flannel and catching the light like he’d just stepped out of a sepia-toned dream.

“Secretly a poet, huh?” he murmured, standing slowly, fingers still laced with hers. “You say that like I didn’t already write a killer verse about cider once.” His grin curved, lazy and crooked, the kind that made everything he said sound half-tease, half-truth.

When she called him out on loving the festival, he tilted his head, mock-serious. “Don’t spread rumors, Tate,” he said, voice soft but playful. “You’ll ruin my reputation as a man allergic to matching scarves.” But then he looked down at her — the wind teasing the hair at her temples, the faint flush in her cheeks — and his smile eased into something gentler. “You’re right, though. I would miss it.”

He brushed a stray leaf from her coat sleeve, fingers lingering a moment longer than necessary. “I’d miss you.”

The words were quiet, but there was no hesitation in them anymore.

As they walked, he let her lead the way, his steps syncing with hers like muscle memory. The woodshop tent came into view, lanterns flickering gold against the late-morning light. The smell of sawdust drifted through the air, earthy and sweet — the kind of scent that always pulled him somewhere calm.

“Looks like home,” he said softly, nodding toward the rows of carved birds and foxes lined up on the workbench. “You weren’t kidding.”

He glanced over at her, his grin returning in that slow, easy way that always felt a little like sunlight breaking through clouds. “You’ve got a good eye for this stuff, you know that? Guess that’s why we work — you find the beauty, and I just try to keep up.”

When she slipped her hand back into his, he looked down at the connection for a long second — thumb brushing her knuckles, slow and steady — before saying, “Ten years, huh?” His smile turned softer, wistful. “Then let’s make sure whatever we find doesn’t end up collecting dust. Something that stays. Like us.”

He leaned in a little, voice dropping low and teasing again. “And for the record, Ellie Tate,” he said, hair falling forward as he met her gaze, “you’re dangerously close to out-poeting me. I can’t have that.”

Then, with that signature grin tugging at his mouth, he added, “C’mon. Let’s go smell the sawdust, buy something we don’t need, and pretend we’re not already halfway there.”

He kept her hand in his as they walked toward the lantern-lit tent, his long hair catching the golden light — a picture of calm wrapped in warmth and quiet devotion, exactly the kind of moment that felt like it might live forever.