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Ronan Lynch is definitely not stalking the beautiful boy who runs the mushroom stand. He’s not even that beautiful anyways. Sometimes, for example, he has dirt on his face that Ronan would like to brush away with his fingers, and callouses on his hands that Ronan would like to soothe, and exhaustion under his eyes that Ronan wants to kiss. Definitely not beautiful. Definitely not stalking.
This kid, get this, his name is Adam. Adam. As if he thinks he’s the first and only goddamn man ever created by God. Ronan absolutely did not discover his name by bribing Opal to swipe his dumb business card, a business card currently not living in his back pocket, corner fraying from Ronan absently thumbing it while threatening his cell phone with a glare.
And don’t even get him started on this fucker’s attitude. Ronan doesn’t let his fine features fool him, he can sense the iron and steel bristling under the surface, looking like someone who can handle a hurricane. Ronan definitely doesn’t say an extra Hail Mary every morning when he thinks that this Adam dude looks like he has a hunger that might be fed with a long make out session on his back porch under the stars with, like, candles and shit.
He is definitely not amused by Dick Gansey’s thoughtful smile and a thumb on his lip as he listens to Ronan rant about the freckled fucker that Ronan has a direct line of sight to every Saturday from 7:57 a.m. until 2:06 p.m.
Ronan certainly does not forget to breathe for two seconds when said freckled, fresh-faced fucker approaches his stand at 9 in the morning, the hands in his back pockets stretching his t-shirt tight across his chest, inquiring after his fucking eggplants and zucchini. It’s not like Adam Parrish’s hand easily wipes away the sweat glistening on the back of his neck, the lazy summer morning pulling a slow Southern drawl from his lips. Ronan Lynch is not so captivated by the sound of Adam Parrish’s voice that he forgets to listen to the actual words, something about does Ronan like pasta and is his basil good enough for pesto, and fuck of course his basil is good enough for pesto, it’s fucking magic basil, and does this guy want to buy any shit or get out of his face?
Adam smiles, and Ronan’s brain skips out for a moment and he says yeahsureyesokay until he meets the present moment and realizes he has agreed that yes Adam should come over at 6:30 p.m. and uh-huh he has a very pro-active daughter and yeah it’s great that he’s already taught her how to write her home address in case of emergencies and daddy won’t stop staring at you isn’t exactly how he would classify an emergency, but he can’t help but feel pleased all over again at having the little shithead here with him instead of not.
Adam Parrish definitely doesn’t pass the shadow of a fucking wink at him as he returns to his stand, because that would be unacceptable.
Fuck.