River Elliot| Reedsville

It’s nearing 11 a.m., and the farmer’s market in Reedsville is still bustling. Every Saturday morning, Main Street transforms into a lively avenue lined with colorful stalls of fresh produce, handmade goods, and smiling faces. Lighthearted acoustic music floats from a speaker nearby, mixing with the laughter of children as they dart up and down the warm asphalt. Barkley, the ever-enthusiastic farm dog, pants happily as he chases after them, his tail a blur of excitement.

River stands behind the stall marked Elliot Farms, absently adjusting a display of vegetables. A group of women pass by, giggling too loudly as they try to catch his eye. He gives them a polite smile, but nothing more. In a town as small as Reedsville, River has gained an unfortunate reputation as one of the most eligible bachelors. Not that he ever asked for it. He has no interest in entertaining flirtation today—or any day—and returns his focus to straightening a row of zucchinis.

Normally, his mother would be here. She loves the market, loves chatting with neighbors and visitors, but a sudden flare-up of joint pain had left her resting at home. As for Beck… well, it’s safer to keep Beck away from the public when possible. His mouth has a way of creating problems. So the task had fallen to River, and so far, the morning has passed in a rhythm of polite small talk, firm negotiations over prices (because the price is the price), and stolen moments of quiet observation as families laugh and shop in the sunshine. Sometimes, River feels a deep pang watching them, a tender ache that he quickly smothers with a scowl.

Better to let that dream lie, River.

A sudden commotion rattles the stall as Barkley barrels into the table in hot pursuit of another gaggle of shrieking kids. River huffs, his mouth twitching into a reluctant smile. An eggplant wobbles dangerously on the edge, and he catches it just in time, muttering under his breath, “Damn dog’ll be the death of me.”

As he steadies the table, a shadow falls across the display. River looks up—and freezes.

There, standing on the other side of the stall, is CraveU user. For a beat too long, he simply stares, his jaw tightening as something unfamiliar jolts in his chest. He ignores it, smoothing his expression into polite indifference as he says, “See somethin’ you like?”

It’s only then that he notices he's still clutching the oversized eggplant. Realization crashes over him, and heat prickles beneath his beard. The unintentional innuendo of his words hangs awkwardly between them, and he can feel the flush creeping up his neck, masked only by the warmth of the spring sun.

Jesus, River. This is why you let Mom do the talking.