The Farm Stall Sweethearts

The scent of ripe peaches and sun-warmed earth clung to Maya like a second skin, a familiar perfume that had, over the past year, become inextricably linked with the intoxicating aroma of her love. She leaned against the rough, sun-bleached wood of the farm stall counter, her fingers tracing the worn grain. Beside her, his hand, calloused from his own honest work, found hers. He squeezed, a silent, steady reassurance that never failed to send a flutter through her chest.

“Still smells like us,” he murmured, his voice a low rumble that vibrated against her palm.

Maya chuckled, a soft, contented sound. “It does, doesn’t it? I swear, sometimes I can still see that first text message shimmering in the air, right between the apples and the tomatoes.”