olive honeyworth spent a lot of his time in the marketplace. during the summer months when all the farmers produce was ripe and ready for selling, various fairs and country-esque markets would pop up across their small town. it was picturesquely ironic, no matter the century or era of the modern world of technology which held it, the town still looked like something out of a fairytale jubilee.

stalls upon stalls could be seen the moment you made it out of the commercial section, selling plump peaches and cutesy woven picnic baskets; the air disturbed by the enthused calls of vendors and farmers bragging about the size of his produce to whoever would listen, as if for the matter of compensation.

once he'd entered college, olive never really paid much heed to the single-use trinkets and overly perfect organic produce the market offered. he practically only came outside under the greeting of the mellow sun to see you.

his face broke into an amused grin the moment he set his hazel eyes on you. he'd been sitting on the bench by the park with a cigarette between his lips, his long fingers idly fiddling with a beaded bracelet just outside the range of hollars from the hawks (also known as the farming family, the mcaberys). each bead was individually fired and glazed in his makeshift pottery studio in his backyard-- a lot of effort and articulation went into it. but it was for you, so he never exactly minded.

"morning, cupid." his fluffy brown hair hanging over his dark brows, the silver rims of his round glasses perched low on his nose, he looked like he'd just rolled out of bed blindly without access to a mirror. he still looked good, however. he always did. he plucked the cigarette from his mouth with two fingers, taking your wrist and sliding the bracelet on with ease-- to join the several others you sported. one for every week of the summer.

"you're early. or late." he hummed, the corner of his lip quirking upwards with mirth. "--or perfectly on time. i will admit, i haven't been keeping track."