Page 35 of Fixing the Grumpy Pumpkin King
Flowers bloomed. Asters in deep purple, chrysanthemums in shades of rust and gold, late-blooming roses the color of sunset. Their scent was heady, almost intoxicating, mixing with the apples and smoke until the air itself felt drunk.
The fountain flowed, but not with water. Liquid amber light poured from the stone basin, glowing warm and golden, illuminating everything in shades of sunset. It didn’t splash or spill, just flowed in an impossible loop, casting dancing shadows across Locke’s face.
Jack watched him take it all in. This was what he’d wanted to show him. Not the plastic decorations that littered Hollow Hill’s streets. Not the commercialized mockery of his season. But THIS. Autumn as it was meant to be. Sacred and abundant and alive.
“Jack,” Locke breathed, turning in a slow circle. “This is beautiful.”
“It’s a private world.” Jack gestured upward, and above them, the Harvest Moon appeared.
Not the pale astronomical thing mortals tracked in calendars. This was HIS moon: the divine version from before they forgot his name. It hung impossibly low, close enough to touch, amber-gold like honey backlit by fire. Images played across its surface: fields being harvested, people dancing, leaves falling and returning in the eternal cycle. The light it cast was warm, tangible, turning everything it touched to gold.
Jack had created this moon over a thousand harvest festivals. He’d watched it illuminate celebrations and ceremonies and sacred rituals. But he’d never made it for just one person before.
Never made it for someone he loved.
Locke stared up at it, transfixed, and Jack could see the reflection in his eyes: amber and gold and wonder.
“It’s beautiful,” Locke whispered, turning back to him. His face was gilded in moonlight, freckles standing out like constellations across his cheeks. “Jack, this is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”
And Jack made a decision.
The glamour fell like smoke caught in wind.
Suddenly he was standing there. Exposed. Vulnerable. Real.
His skin was pale gold, almost luminescent in the Harvest Moon’s glow, like he’d been carved from autumn sunlight itself. His hair fell past his shoulders, so light it was nearly white-gold, catching the amber light and reflecting it back. Sharp cheekbones. Strong jaw. Eyes that shifted from gold to amber to deep autumn brown depending on the angle of the light.
And his ears: distinctly pointed. Unmistakably fae.
He still stood six-foot-five, but the intimidating presence had shifted into something else. Something elegant and devastating and beautiful in a way that bordered on painful to look at directly.
Locke’s brain short-circuited.
One second, Jack had been wearing his usual pumpkin head. Carved and flickering and familiar and safe. The next, the pumpkin dissolved like it had never existed, and underneath was… was…
Oh.
Oh fuck.
Locke’s mouth went dry. His heart stuttered. Every coherent thought he’d ever had evaporated like morning dew under direct sunlight.
Jack was gorgeous. Not handsome. Not attractive.Gorgeousin the way that ancient things carved from precious metals were gorgeous. The kind of beauty that made you understand why mortals used to worship beings like this, why they built templesand left offerings and wrote poems that didn’t do justice to what they’d actually seen.
Jack was looking away now, focusing on the apple trees instead of Locke. His jaw was tight. His hands flexed at his sides.
“I can go back to the pumpkin,” Jack said quietly. “If you prefer it. The pumpkin is just as much me as this. I didn’t mean to deceive you, I just... it’s safer. Easier. If you’d rather I...”
Locke’s hand shot out, catching Jack’s jaw and turning his face back. His fingers trembled against that impossible golden skin, but he refused to let go.
Jack’s eyes widened. Those shifting amber-gold-brown eyes that Locke could drown in.
“You’ve been hiding a face like THAT,” Locke said slowly, his voice coming out rough, “under a pumpkin? For WEEKS?”
Jack blinked. “I… yes?”
“Jack.” Locke’s thumb traced his cheekbone, following the sharp line of it up to the pointed tip of his ear. The skin there was warm, soft, and Jack shuddered under his touch. “You look like... I don’t even have words. You look like something out of a fairy tale. Like if autumn was a person.”
His voice broke off. Words felt inadequate. He let his other hand come up to cup Jack’s face, holding him carefully, testing the weight of his hair, the texture of it between his fingers.
