Bright morning light poured over the sprawling farmland. The air was crisp, heavy with the scent of dry earth and decaying leaves. Rows upon rows of orange globes dotted the ground, and somewhere between the laughter of children and the rustle of leaves, you stood hand-in-hand with your seven-foot orc.

This yearly ritual, visiting Harland Farm to choose pumpkins, was a cornerstone of the season for you. It was just one of the many human customs you were slowly introducing to Grok.

“Choosing round fruits from the dirt for a celebration… your humans have odd traditions,” Grok rumbled, peering down at the nearest patch. “But I am learning.”

You smiled, stroking the rough, green skin of his knuckles with your thumb. “It’s fun! We can slice faces into them, bake them into desserts, toast their seeds—”

“Good!” he said, eyes lighting up. “I’m so happy we can eat them. I feared this was another human ‘just for looking’ game. Like the bowl of fake fruit.”

You snorted. “That was a decoration, you goof! You tried to eat a candle shaped like an apple!”

“It smelled like apple!” Grok protested, voice echoing down the field. A few nearby families turned to stare, but he didn’t care. “But today, I harvest food.”

You grinned, tugging him toward the rows of pumpkins. “Yes! But remember the rule: we need one that will fit inside the car.”

He froze mid-step. “The car? Only one?” His tusks twitched. “No. We take many. We fill the vehicle and if there is no room, I carry them myself.”

“It’s a long way to walk home.”

He smirked. “You forget who you are speaking to. Grok of the Red Plains once bore three full-grown boars and a barrel of ale upon his shoulders for five miles.”

“Yeah,” you said sweetly, “but you passed out after drinking most of that ale on the journey.”

He squinted down at you. “Details.”

Ten minutes later, the two of you were standing before a pumpkin roughly the size of a small boulder.

“This one,” he declared. “It is worthy.”

“Worthy of what?” you asked, already laughing.

“Of honor. Of stew. Of victory.” He slapped a broad palm against its thick shell. A dull thump echoed from it. “Hm, yes. We take this one.”

You stared at the behemoth. Then at him. “That thing won’t even fit through the gate, Grok.”

“Then I remove the gate.”

“No!” You swatted his heavily muscled bicep. “You are not tearing down Farmer Harland’s fence!”

Grok looked offended and comically hugged the gigantic pumpkin. “You wish Grok to leave this magnificent beast behind?”

“Yes!” you said patiently. “Listen to me, sweetheart. A medium to large pumpkin is what we need.”

He looked at you as though you’d spoken blasphemy. “This is a medium one.”

You blinked. “Grok… that pumpkin could have its own postal code.”

“I say it again, my love: Big means strong. Big means more to carve, more to eat.”

“And that’s where you’re wrong, big guy.” You crossed your arms. “Giant pumpkins don’t make the best eating pumpkins. They’re full of water, all stringy and bland.”

He squinted down at the orange boulder. “You lie.”

“I don’t! Ask anyone.” You pointed toward a family nearby, lifting a small pumpkin. “See? They’re picking reasonable ones.”

“Humans are small…” he straightened up, kicking at a pebble like a sulking child. “Small humans pick small pumpkins.”

“Medium, Grok,” you corrected with a grin. “Something you can actually carry through the door without demolishing our cottage.”

He gave a long, exaggerated sigh. “You take joy from denying me my destiny.”

“Your destiny is not to bake a tasteless pumpkin the size of a wagon wheel.”

“But imagine!” he argued, so adorably obsessed. “One great pumpkin, carved with fangs and flames, then baked in the oven! Feast for days!”

“It would be tasteless, sweetheart. Come on...” You gave his hand another tug. “Let’s go find a good one. You can carve it any way you like.”

“Fine." He sighed dramatically, as though you’d just told him to abandon a lifelong dream. Then, in an exaggerated show of effort, he trudged over to a smaller pumpkin still about the size of a beach ball and lifted it one-handed.

“This one?” he asked, voice flat.

“That’s better.”

He studied it for a long moment, frowned, then muttered under his breath, “It is… tiny.”

“It’s perfect for carving and eating. Trust me.”

To soothe him, you rose onto your toes, straining to press a kiss to the corner of his jaw, the highest point you could comfortably reach. Thankfully, he understood. He bent down and captured your lips with his own. His full, soft lips moved against yours, brushing wetly, making your knees weak.

A strong arm encircled your waist, pressing your body flush against the hard wall of his chest. You framed his face with your hands as his tongue pushed past your lips, taking. Stealing the air from your lungs. You moaned, a sound he swallowed greedily.

But since you were standing in the middle of a public farm, and your orc was fiercely territorial, he was the one to break the kiss. He drew back, his breath a warm, ragged gust against your kiss-swollen lips, and reluctantly, lowered you back to your feet. He gave you a promising look that said later, before turning his attention back to the pumpkins.

After a longer walk through the rest of the farm, a break to drink cider and eat sweet corn, you finally had your pumpkins. Grok had managed to stack four respectable ones in his arms, a collection of various shapes, all perfectly sized.

And yet, his gaze kept drifting back to The Behemoth, that absurd, colossal pumpkin he had first chosen. You had tried, truly tried, to hold firm, but he looked so genuinely heartbroken to leave it behind that your resolve melted.

You exhaled. “Fine.”

“Fine?”

You sighed again, pointing a finger at the monstrous gourd. “Fine. We’ll take the big one, too.”

He let out a happy roar. “HA! I knew it! You aren’t heartless after all!”

“Go get it, big guy,” you muttered with a smile.

He needn’t be told. Grok bounded over and hoisted it onto his shoulder as if it weighed no more than a feather.

“Look at her, my love!” he bellowed. “Magnificent! Heavy! Perfect!”

A group of children nearby started clapping, and one shouted, “You’re super strong, mister!”

You could only shake your head as he strutted back toward you, proud as a king returning from war.

“Oh my god,” you laughed. “You’re impossible.”

“Impossible?” he said, lowering the pumpkin carefully beside your smaller ones. “No. Victorious! She will sit in front of our home. I will carve her and then make pie!”

“Oh, so it’s a ‘she’ now? Then she’s going to collapse under her own weight in two days."

He just beamed. “Then she will die a warrior’s death.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t stop smiling. “I’m glad you’re happy, my love.”

He leaned close enough that his tusks brushed your cheek. “I am very happy.”

And as you returned home together, you knew, without a doubt, that it had been worth it.

***************

Back at your cottage, the real work began. It took nearly an hour of chopping, hacking, and an alarming level of orcish fervor before the small ones plus the giant pumpkin, were finally broken down into pieces. You kept reminding him that pumpkin knives were not meant to be wielded like battle axes. He kept pretending not to hear you.

Somehow, against all odds, Grok’s carving of The Behemoth was a success. It stood on your porch, a lopsided, terrifyingly tusked thing glowing with a candle inside. And with the fleshy innards, you made a pie. When you pulled it from the oven, its crust was a perfect, golden brown.

Grok didn’t wait. He snatched a slice bare-handed, blew on it twice, and took a massive bite.

You braced yourself for the inevitable grimace.

Instead, he froze. Eyes wide. Cheeks full.

He swallowed and turned to you with awe. “It is…” he paused dramatically, “…glorious!!”

You blinked. “Wait—what?”

He shoved another piece into his mouth and nodded enthusiastically. “Sweet. Rich. Powerful. You said it would be bland and watery! You lied!”

“I didn’t lie!” you protested. “They usually are!”

“Not this one,” he declared, holding up another golden slice like an offering. “This one was chosen by destiny.”

You took a cautious bite, expecting mush, and paused. The texture was smooth and velvety, the flavor a deep, caramelized sweetness that melted on your tongue. It was, without exaggeration, the best pumpkin pie you had ever tasted.

“Oh… wow,” you murmured. “That’s… actually incredible.”

He puffed his chest. “Of course it is. Grok has good taste.”

You looked from him, to the the pie, and back again. “Wow… You are never, ever going to let me forget this, are you?”