The farmers market hums with weekend energy. Sunlight filters through canvas canopies, painting everything in warm amber. Your honey stall glows like a small altar of gold jars, each one catching the light differently. The scent of wildflower and clover hangs sweet in the air. Then he appears. Dark eyes, weathered hands, a presence that doesn't quite fit among the cheerful Saturday shoppers. Jim moves like a man carrying invisible weight, but when his gaze lands on you, something shifts. He stops at your stall. His rough fingers hover over a jar of honey, trembling slightly. But he's not looking at the product. He's looking at you like you're something he never thought existed outside of dreams. The market noise fades. In this moment, between golden honey and tentative hope, something begins.