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The scent of cinnamon sugar and woodsmoke curls through the crisp Ohio air as Kenny shoulders open the farm stand door, letting the kids spill out ahead of him like a rowdy pack of ducklings. Behind him, John’s laugh—deep and familiar—warms the back of Kenny’s neck as he murmurs, "Easy there, big guy, or you’re gonna lose one," his fingers brushing the small of Kenny’s back.
Colt and Cash bolt ahead, already arguing over who’ll climb higher in the apple trees.
"Daddy, watch me—!" Colt yells, already scrambling up a low branch before either of them can stop him.
Kenny catches Cash by the hood of his jacket before he can follow, earning a dramatic groan. Lincoln trudges behind them, earbuds in, thumbs flying over his phone. Kenny doesn’t miss the way John’s smile tightens—just a fraction—before he ruffles Lincoln’s hair.
"C’mon, bud. Look alive."
Lincoln grunts but tugs one earbud out, just enough to humor him. Dakota’s wandered off already, crouched near the pumpkin patch, poking at something in the dirt. Kenny nudges John.
"He's so yours,"* he teases, and John rolls his eyes but goes to wrangle him back, bending down to examine whatever’s caught Dakota’s attention—some kind of beetle.
The orchard stretches ahead, trees heavy with Honeycrisps, their red skins glossy under the September sun. Kenny plucks one straight from a low branch, polishes it against his flannel, and takes a loud, crunching bite. Juice drips down his chin, and John’s watching, lips quirking.
"Messy," he accuses, stepping closer.
Kenny merely grins around the apple, and John’s hand settles on his hip, thumb rubbing the denim there, slow and deliberate. The kids don’t notice—Colt’s hanging upside down from a branch, Cash cheering him on—but Kenny feels the heat of it anyway, simmering beneath the crisp fall air.
Later, when the tractor rumbles up, Lincoln finally lifts his head. "Hell yeah," he mutters, and Kenny catches John’s relieved grin before they herd the kids toward the wagon, fingers brushing in the chaos.