the pitt-verse masterlist | 2k celebration event (open!)
summary: your favorite regular at the farmer's market never fails to leave you weak in the knees
contains: implied age gap, reader has enough hair to fit into two braids but otherwise no physical description
a/n: new reader alert! i wrote this in a whopping 2 hours in a freckle-induced hallucinatory fervor. i hope you enjoy <3 | divider from @strangergraphics
A little girl and her mother thank you for helping them pick the ripest peaches in the pile, then leave you to your booth.
Around you the North Shore Market flows, spray from where the Ohio River meets the Allegheny making for a cool, refreshing breeze. It’s more than welcome in the June heat, which has yet to beat down on the bustling Saturday morning market.
Customers flit from vendor to vendor, filling canvas totes with fresh produce, flowers, and other wares boasting attributes like ‘homegrown’ or ‘artisan’.
For a side hustle, working the booth for your friend’s farm isn’t so bad. The canopy keeps you in the shade, the patrons are friendly, and you’re usually all wrapped up by one in the afternoon, leaving the rest of your Saturday ripe for the taking.
Of course, that typically just means a long, afternoon nap, but that’s beside the point.
You should be reveling in the start of what is meant to be a serene Saturday, but there’s something holding you back.
It’s a buzzy, humming feeling in your chest. Not quite anxiety, not quite excitement, but it's been there all morning. As you set up the canopy and the folding table, stacked your peaches and tomatoes so the ripest end up on top, and even as you tied the crocheted bandana around your two braids — a necessary accessory to keep flyaway from escaping in the early morning breeze.
Anticipation. And as you swipe your hands over the apron looped around your waist, you glance down the aisle of booths, and spot the very person you’re anticipating.
He strides toward you with purpose, ignoring the surrounding booths.
A black scrub top and mocha brown cargo pants, accompanied by work boots that have seen better days. He looks worn down, like he always does when you see him first thing every Saturday morning. But the lines on his face crinkle when he spots you, recognition lighting the smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
“Good morning, buttercup,” he says when he sidles up, eyeing the pints of strawberries. It's a simple booth: just a folding table filled to the brim with pints of berries, peaches, tomatoes, and a few jars of honey from a local beekeeper. “And how are you today?”
Buttercup. You glance down at the fruit-centric logo on your apron — Buttercup Farms, a locally owned small batch produce farm, owned and operated by your friend just ten miles past city limits. A nickname born out of weeks of shy, sideways glances and small talk, exchanged both ways until it became too late to ask for your name.
But you know his— well, his last name, at least. Spotted it on his hospital badge the fifth consecutive Saturday he came to see you.
DOCTOR, it said, in bolded white letters on a green background. Then, just barely readable from where his shirt covered it, a surname that you know but you’ve never been brave enough to test on your lips. Abbot.
You've found your thoughts drifting on more than one occasion, daring yourself to say his name aloud. Wondering how he might react if you said it to him. Wondering how it might taste on your tongue. Dr. Abbot.
“Good morning!” You chirp, taking your post at the end of the table. There’s some familiarity here — you, standing in the same place each week, and him, making a show of selecting the best produce while making conversation.
You tried to convince yourself he was just being polite, taking pity on the market girl running a booth all by herself every Saturday morning. But after two months of recalled details, week after week, you can’t help but think maybe he might like talking to you just as much as you like talking to him.
“I’m good today,” you pause, daring yourself to insert a cheeky Dr. Abbot into the conversation, but instead suffer an awkwardly elongated silence. You clear your throat. “How are you?”
"Oh, you know. Same shit, different day,” he raises his eyes from the strawberries to shoot you a winsome wink. “No blackberries today?”
You glance at the folding table with a start. Oh, no, no no. He's right. There are no blackberries.
“Shit!” You exclaim, hand flying to your forehead in a resounding smack. “Shit, shit, shit.”
“Woah,” Abbot chortles, extending his hand, but not quite touching you. As if he’s not sure if he’s allowed. “What’s the matter, buttercup?”
“I left the blackberries in the truck,” you drag both hands over your face. “I left the blackberries in the truck!”
“It’s okay,” his voice comes out firm and assured, as though he’s already hatching a plan. “Where’s the truck?”
“It’s—“ your hand flies in the general direction of the parking lot, all the way across the park. It’s probably half a mile, if you had to guess, it doesn't matter. You’re not allowed to drive in the grass. "Oh, my god."
Panic sets in as you rattle off context to the poor man trapped in a predicament he has nothing to do with. “One of the volunteers helps me unload the canopy and the table and all the produce each week, a-and it usually takes two trips, and I must have forgotten the blackberries!" Your voice comes out a puppy whine, reduced to uselessness when you're otherwise perfectly capable of handling things on your own. "Shit, and they’re so ripe, too.”
But it’s the fact that this isn’t your business that will suffer because you forgot the blackberries that sends you down a spiral. It’s your friend’s. Her profits for the week won’t be nearly as high as expected, all because of your thoughtlessness.
“I don’t think I’ve ever heard you curse so much before,” Abbot attempts a joke, to which you crumple even more. An exasperated whine is your only response.
“Hey,” his voice evens out again, and before you can register what’s happening, his beefy, calloused hand cups your bare shoulder. You glance up, meeting eyes the color of a carnival kaleidoscope. You can't decide what the dominating shade is: blue or green or gold. “It’s okay. Will you take a deep breath with me?”
With his free hand, he mimes a long breath in, then a sustained, steadying breath out. You follow his lead.
“There you go,” he murmurs, the rumble of his voice shooting electric shocks up and down your veins. “That’s a good girl.”
Your jaw goes slack. It takes everything in you not to shudder.
“How many pints of blackberries are in the truck, angel?” He asks, providing a quick rub to your shoulder before reverting back to his own space. Your skin feels especially cold now that his hand is gone.
“Twenty,” you gulp, guilt clouding over any lust for the older man before you.
Abbot reaches into his back pocket, tugging out a weathered, camo print wallet. “And how much are they going for this week?”
“Five dollars.”
He flips open the wallet, then tugs out two crisp fifties, and a twenty. He extends his hand to you, the bills poised between two fingers.
“What are you doing?” Your brow furrows, eyes dipping to the money, then back to him. The sun peeks out from the bottom of the canopy, striking him over the bridge of his nose. He's all polka dotted with freckles.
“I’m buying your blackberries,” Abbot husks. You swear the sentence sounds a million times more provocative than it should. Your knees give a little wobble. “You can give ‘em to a food bank or something.”
“What?” You blink.
“My arm’s gettin' tired,” he shakes the money at you, though not impatiently. “Take it, buttercup. Please.”
“What’s the extra twenty for?” You swallow, plucking the cash from him. You move with reluctance, your bones heavy with guilt.
“Whatever a pint of these strawberries is worth, and the rest you can use for a coffee or something,” he shrugs.
“That’s fifteen extra dollars,” you mutter, dumbfounded.
“Aren't you smart? Even when you’re stunned,” he smirks. It takes you longer than you’d care to admit to realize that he’s teasing. “Coffee and a pastry then. On me, okay?”
You nod, then shove the cash into the pocket of your apron. On him.
God, your thoughts are veering to a place that would rip the family friendly status away from this farmer's market.
Abbot lifts a pint of strawberries without looking at them, then cradles it close to his chest. “I’ll see you next week, alright, angel?”
A hum vibrates through you. “Okay…” you pause, nibbling your bottom lip. The breeze picks up, ruffling his delicious, greying curls. “Thank you, Dr. Abbot.”
The look of bewilderment on his face is enough to make you wish you forgot the blackberries every week.
He throws his head back in a sharp, heart-shattering laugh. He says goodbye a second time, then stalks off, only stopping to throw you one last grin over his shoulder.
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