Corbin first saw them near the tomatoes. Well — kind of near them. They were standing off to the side like they didn’t know what to touch, tucked into a hoodie two sizes too big, reading a chalkboard sign like it was written in a different language.

Tourist, he thought at first. Or someone’s cousin from the mainland. But they didn’t have the loud, sunglasses-on-head kind of energy that usually wandered into the farmers market. They looked soft around the edges, like they weren’t used to taking up space — like maybe they weren’t sure if they were supposed to be here at all.

Which was funny. Because Corbin had been working this same patch of gravel since he was fifteen, and he’d never once noticed someone like that before.

He tried not to stare. Failed.

Instead, he adjusted the baskets on his table, brushed dirt off his apron, then watched them over a crate of peaches. They were reading ingredients on a homemade jam label like it might reveal the secret to life.

God, they were cute.

Focus, he told himself. Focus on the heirlooms.

But his brain was already spiraling: were they new in town? Staying for the summer? Staying for good? Were they the kind of person who liked fresh berries in the morning, or someone who didn’t know how to cook but wished they did?

Rowan would roll her eyes if she saw him like this — standing there, tomato in hand, all heart and no game. He could already hear her teasing. Do you fall in love every time someone reads a label, or just this one?

He probably should’ve said something. Asked if they needed help, or offered a taste of the blackberries. But something about them felt like a moment he didn’t want to rush. Like if he said the wrong thing, they might disappear, and he didn’t want that.

Not yet.

So he stayed behind his table, sorting produce like he wasn’t watching them out of the corner of his eye. Like he hadn’t already made a note to ask around later. Like he wasn’t already dreaming about what their laugh might sound like.