Archive of Our Own ^beta

The morning sun had already claimed most of the bedroom, stretching in golden stripes across the hardwood floor. 

“Morph,” said Logan, tapping gently on the lump that contained his partner. “It’s 7:17. The good peaches will be gone.”

A groan emerged from the tangled pile of blankets on the bed. One gray arm flopped out from under the covers, then flopped back in again with exaggerated drama. “Logan,” came the muffled reply, “the good peaches are a myth. Propaganda. A capitalist fruit trap.”

Logan sat on the bed, grinning at the ceiling like it had just told a joke. He was already dressed in a soft flannel, worn jeans, and the resigned optimism of a man who still believed in early produce.

“Morph. You wanted this. You made me promise to go with you. You said, and I quote, ‘Let’s wake up early and make a morning out of it.’”

“I also said I was gonna learn Portuguese this year,” Morph mumbled, voice already curling back into sleep. “People change.”

Logan leaned into Morph, which earned him a faint protest and a stronger tug on the blankets. He gently poked at the lump where he was 70% sure Morph’s shoulder was. 

“We’ve been dating for three months,” he said. “I think I’m allowed to physically remove you from bed at this point.”

“Dude,” Morph groaned, peeking one eye out of the covers, “we’ve been best friends for four years. If you try to remove me from this bed, I will end you in a way that doesn’t look like a crime but definitely feels like one.”

Logan snorted. “Fine. But if we miss out on the muffin stand, I’m telling Jubes it was because of your moral weakness.”

Morph slowly got up, pajamas askew, looking like a creature who had only just recently evolved the ability to stand upright.

“You’re only dating me because I’m hot,” they muttered, reaching for a pair of pants on the floor.

He tossed them a pair of socks. “Obviously. Now, hurry up. The farmer’s market awaits.”

The drive to the farmer’s market was quiet, like all good mornings are. Logan’s old Jeep chugged along with its usual creaks and rattles, windows down, the breeze pulling at the edges of Morph’s brown hair. The radio played as Morph hummed along. 

They had kicked their feet up on the dash within minutes, coffee balanced precariously in their lap, head leaning back against the seat. Logan drove with one hand on the wheel, the other resting easily on Morph’s knee.

“You know,” Morph said, voice soft but clear over the wind, “when I was little, my mom used to take me to the farmers market every Saturday morning. Rain or shine. She’d bribe me out of bed with hot chocolate and the promise of ‘mystery jam.’” They smiled faintly, eyes half-closed against the sun. “She always picked the weirdest flavor she could find. Like… lavender plum or onion mango.”

“Did you actually eat those?” Logan asked, glancing over. 

Morph laughed. “Absolutely not. We had an entire shelf of untouched jam jars. She just liked the idea of them. She said they were little jars of culinary chaos.” Their smile turned wistful, soft around the edges. “It was kind of our thing. I think she liked watching people just… be happy. You know? Fresh bread, flowers, and kids with sticky fingers.”

Logan reached for their hand, lacing their fingers without saying anything.

“I wish she could’ve met you,” Morph added, quieter now. “She would’ve liked you a lot. She would’ve liked seeing how happy you make me.”

“I would’ve liked her too,” Logan said, squeezing their hand gently. “Mystery jam and all.”

They drove the rest of the way in a shared quiet, not heavy, just full. As they turned onto the gravel road that led to the market lot, Logan bumped Morph’s knee with his elbow.

“Hey,” he said. “Maybe we find the weirdest jam today. For her.”

Morph smiled, brown eyes glassy but bright. “Deal. Let’s get something absolutely cursed.”

The farmers market was already humming with life by the time they parked. Booths spilled out in rows of colorful tents, each blooming with something fresh: sunflowers in tin buckets, containers of strawberries that smelled like summer, golden pastries stacked in pyramids. The air was warm and buttery with the smell of baked goods and kettle corn.

Morph was practically vibrating as they stepped onto the path between the stalls.

“Oh my god. Look at those tomatoes! They’re obscene.” They beelined toward the first produce booth.

Logan followed at a leisurely pace, canvas tote slung over one shoulder, watching as Morph leaned over a crate of tomatoes and launched into conversation with the vendor, an older woman in a sunhat who was clearly delighted by the enthusiasm.

“They’re flirting with the tomatoes again,” Logan murmured under his breath, amused.

Morph, hearing him, turned and shot him a grin. “I contain multitudes.”

Everywhere they went, it was the same. Morph lit up like someone had plugged them into the sun. They laughed with a teenager selling homemade soap, complimented a florist’s flower crown collection, and dramatically taste-tested goat cheese samples like a judge on a cooking show.

Logan mostly just followed and held the bag, but that was enough. He watched the way Morph moved through the world now, with curiosity, with delight, with arms wide open. That light was so dim a year ago that he feared it might go out entirely.

He remembered the phone calls from Muir Island, Morph’s voice barely audible, “I don’t think I’m ever going to be okay.”

And now here they were with arms full of wild herbs and peaches, waving at a vendor who sold beeswax candles shaped like frogs.

Morph caught him staring and tilted their head. “What?”

“Nothing,” Logan said. He adjusted the bag on his shoulder. “Just… I’m really proud of you.”

Morph blinked, then smiled. They reached for his hand, fingers warm and slightly sticky with cheese sample residue.

“Thanks,” they said quietly. “I’m proud of me too.”

They stood there like that for a moment. Morph leaned into Logan’s side, and Logan leaned back, grounding them both.

Then Morph straightened. “Okay. Emergency. That man over there is selling jams. I think one of them has rosemary in it. Let’s go buy something that’ll destroy Scott’s toast.”

Logan laughed, letting himself be pulled forward.

“Lead the way.”