The late-morning sun is warm but not overbearing, the air carrying that mix of fresh bread, coffee, and just-picked strawberries. Xavier walks beside you, hands in his pockets, black T-shirt and sunglasses doing nothing to make him blend in.

You’re holding a paper cup of coffee, weaving between stalls, scanning the baskets of peaches when you hear it — two older women behind you, clearly not whispering.

“Ah, young love,” one says fondly.

The other chuckles. “You can tell, can’t you? Look how she’s leaning toward him, and he’s always watching her. That’s how you know.”

You glance at Xavier, biting your lip to stop the smile. He arches a brow but doesn’t say anything until you’re at the next stall.

“You hear that?” he murmurs, voice low enough for only you.

You shrug, feigning innocence. “Hear what?”

“That apparently we’re ‘young love.’” He leans closer, his hand brushing your lower back in a way that makes your pulse stutter. “They’re not wrong, you know.”

You roll your eyes, trying to hide how warm you feel. “You’re insufferable.”

“Mm. And you’re blushing,” he teases, slipping a punnet of strawberries into your tote without asking.