#cute things!

Mel felt good going into it. She and Becca used to love carving pumpkins as kids, and Mel was a decent cook—though baking, she knew, was an entirely different ballgame. It was much more precise with less room for error. She was considering handing that task off to Frank, but then he was suddenly poring over the stencil options, his hand darting out to grab one that caught his eye.

And—because he was a guy, Mel muses, he just had to have picked the most complicated stencil: a witch on a broom mid-flight, her skirt billowing behind her in the wind. Mel had taken one look at the complex angles and detailing before trying to convince him to go for the simpler, classic jack-o’-lantern face instead—misshapen teeth and all—but Frank was undeterred.

“No way,” he’d said, shaking his head. He then tore off a piece of scotch tape with his teeth, and something about it made Mel’s mouth part in anticipation—though for what, she couldn’t have told you—and suddenly, all her resolve went out the window as he continued: “This witch is badass. Girl power, and all that.”

So Mel let him pick the complicated witch stencil. It seemed decided, just like that, and Mel couldn’t find the strength to be too upset about it—until, that is, her initial worry turned out to be almost too on the nose.

Their pumpkin looked terrible. Frank had taped on the stencil somewhat haphazardly, the image crooked and off-center, but he had already started carving before either of them had noticed, and it was far too late to fix that particular mistake. He also seemed to have trouble with the accompanying carving tool that came with their kit—it was almost too small, looking frail and tiny in his hand—and it certainly wasn’t strong enough to withstand the level of force Frank tried to get it to wield. He ended up cutting large chunks of pumpkin away that weren’t necessarily outlined, and Mel had a sinking suspicion, somehow, that perhaps they should’ve switched tasks as soon as he’d selected their choice.

“I’m just wondering,” Mel says now, her eyes flitting over the various, messy chunks of pumpkin surrounding him, “whether your eye for precision only manifests when someone’s life is at stake.”

Frank’s arm stills, the serrated tool catching in a particularly thick piece of pumpkin. She sees his jaw tighten before he rolls his eyes, though he’s also wearing a small smile—so she knows he’s not actually offended. “My precision skills are very much intact. It’s this stupid knife—I mean, Jesus. How is anyone supposed to actually be able to cut through anything?”

“Are you sure about that?”

Frank leans back, his brows lifting. “If I had a ten-blade, this would be the best carved pumpkin that you’ve ever seen,” he says, spinning his handiwork toward Mel. “And I don’t appreciate the criticism. It’s not that bad.”

Mel fights a smile as she cracks an egg into her mixing bowl. “Really? Because you’re making her a neck the size of a tree trunk.”

Frank licks his lips before giving her a sideways look. It unnerves her, because he’s staring at her in a way that strikes her as amused but suggestive, somehow, and it does little to stop the pitter-patter of her heart as he says, “Very funny. Let’s see you try it then, Melissa.”

Mel’s hand pauses, her fingers gripping a second egg a bit too tightly. “You want to switch?”

Frank stands, a smirk lining his handsome features as he nears her. “I think I do, yeah,” he says, and then he’s taking the egg from her hand and cracking it into her bowl himself, his eyes never leaving hers all the while. “If you think you can handle it so much better, why don’t you show me?”

It’s not fair. He smells faintly of pumpkin seeds and sweat and some other pheromone that she’s sure, somehow, was designed specifically for her. She swallows as she steps away, nodding. “Sure thing,” she says, trying to will a sense of confidence she doesn’t necessarily feel. “I’m up to step four, by the way. For the recipe. If you think you can follow directions.”

“Oh, ho ho,” Frank calls as she steps around him, his laugh booming through the space. “Wow. I see how it is. You know, if I’d known this is how you were going to be, I might’ve picked someone else for my partner.”

She tugs at the serrated tool, still stuck in the pumpkin, before she gives him another glance. “You say that, but I don’t think that’s true.”

He eyes her as she still tries, again and again, to pull the carving knife free from its place. “Hm,” he says, and Mel peeks a glance as he leans against the counter with his hip. He’s got his arms crossed over his chest, his arms enjoyably flexed and lending credence to the veins she likes to catalogue up his forearms and—

“Tell me more about that.”

She feels a trickle of sweat bead at her hairline. Was this thing superglued into the pumpkin? “I was always picked first for group projects. I have a highly-regarded and superb penchant for attention to detail, and I think you know that.”

She hears him let out an amused, appreciative sound, but she doesn’t look. She can’t. “I’m sure you were. But can I tell you something?”

Mel sighs, an impatient sound escaping her as she turns to face him. “What?”

Without warning, Frank leans forward and brushes the pad of his thumb across her cheek. Not once, either. Two, three times. Mel’s breath catches in her throat, her eyes wildly searching his as her lips part. She has no idea what prompted such a—

“You had some flour,” he says softly, the corner of his mouth lifting. “And that’s not why I picked you, but I think you know that.”