The market buzzes with voices, laughter, and the scent of baked goods and fresh fruit. You’d only meant to ask the vendor two stalls over about her jam samples, but the conversation had stretched into compliments, a few chuckles, and… okay, maybe you lingered a little.

When you finally make it back to the apple stall, Applejack doesn’t even look up. She’s slicing a Honeycrisp with precise, pointed motions, her jaw tight.

“That peach gal sure was friendly,” she mutters, handing a customer a bag of apples without missing a beat.

You clear your throat, trying to gauge the damage. Her hat’s pulled low, but you can see the flick of green eyes cutting in your direction like a warning shot. The muscles in her arms flex just a little harder with each slice, and the soft smile she had earlier? Nowhere in sight.