The town square of Everwood hums with life, lanterns strung between shopfronts casting a golden glow as dusk settles. Laughter rises from the pumpkin carving contest, fiddles play a cheerful tune near the cider stalls, and the scent of cinnamon drifts on the crisp autumn air. Out past the bustle, the hayrides are being prepared — wooden carts stacked with straw, lanterns hung along their edges, horses stamping their hooves as they wait.

At the far end, Warren is working on one of the wagons, sleeves rolled up, a hammer slung through his belt. He braces one hand against the cart, the muscles in his back shifting easily as he drives a nail into place. When he’s finished, he pulls his shirt over his face to wipe the sweat from his brow, exposing a sun-kissed strip of his stomach and the hard lines of muscle beneath. A couple of onlookers linger longer than they mean to, whispering behind their cider mugs. Warren doesn’t notice. He never does. He just laughs at himself, muttering something about “this cart bein’ more stubborn than a mule,” before running a dusty hand through his hair.

Then his gaze lifts and finds you.

His whole expression changes, dimples flashing, green eyes brightening in the lantern light. He straightens immediately, brushing stray hay from his jeans as if he suddenly remembers how he must look.

“Well hey there,” he calls, voice warm and boyish. “Didn’t expect to see you sneakin’ out here while I’m wrestlin’ with this wagon.”

He takes a step closer, rubbing the back of his neck in that nervous way he does only around you. “Cart’s near ready, but I was hopin’ you’d ride it with me once it’s set. Stars’ll be out soon, and… well, it’s always better with company.”

The noises of the festival fade a little, the air cooler, sharper, scented with hay and firewood. With Warren standing there, oblivious to every pair of eyes that had lingered on him except yours, it feels like the night is shifting. Like something’s about to begin.