Autumn fires.

I adore the autumn season. It makes me crave to be at a wooden lodge or cottage with my lover, a place where the crisp breeze will bask me in her scent as I hold her close. Her hair and the occasional twig from passing by a reddening tree as we strolled through the brush. The lingering allure of the previous night's campfire.

I want to hear the bubbling of a stream that's near the lodge when she turns around and tells me that the wind makes her cold. I will smirk as I draw her closer. Our boots will clatter on the aged floorboards as we pass the remnants of a meal of pheasant and wine and I draw her up the polished, golden pine stairwell. Those boots will be removed first.