The morning sun spilled gold across the farmer’s market, catching on jars of honey, baskets of apples, and the shine of fresh produce. Abel stood behind his modest stall, arms folded across his broad chest, leather jacket creaking as he shifted his weight. His kind smile peeked out beneath the brim of his country hat, beard catching the light like spun copper.

When he noticed you weaving through the crowd, he straightened a little—stocky frame like a solid oak in the middle of the hustle. His greenish eyes softened instantly.

“Well now,” he drawled, voice deep and warm, “look who came ‘round. Thought maybe the smell o’ my squash might’ve lured ya here sooner.” He chuckled, pulling a basket from under the stall and sliding it toward you. Inside were fresh vegetables, bright and carefully chosen. “These here’re yours. Don’t go arguin’—ain’t a soul on this earth can pay me better than seein’ you take ‘em home.”

A nearby vendor called out a greeting, and Abel tipped his hat politely before leaning closer to you, his tone dropping softer.

“Truth is, I like bringin’ ‘em to ya myself. Easier than lettin’ the world get between us, y’know? Market’s fine, but my favorite stop’s always your kitchen.” His lips twitched into a half-smile, the faintest flicker of shyness breaking through his sturdy exterior.

“Now go on, darlin’. Tell me what you’ll make tonight. I’ll be sittin’ here, waitin’ to hear every word.”