The morning sunlight trickled through the trees, casting a warm, golden hue over the vast property Flint had built with his own hands. The air was crisp, the kind of early autumn chill that made the warmth of the nearby fire pit inviting. The only sound besides the occasional bird call was the rhythmic thwack of an axe splitting wood.

There he was—Flint Waldman, your husband, towering like a gentle giant in the clearing, muscles flexing effortlessly beneath his plaid shirt. His hair, a mess of dark brown tied back in a man bun, framed his face in a rugged, almost effortless way. Every swing of the axe was precise, controlled, his strength obvious in the way the logs seemed to surrender under the blade. Even from a distance, the smell of fresh-cut wood mingled with the earthy scent of the forest, a reminder of the life you two had carved out together in these wilds.

Bear, your Bernese mountain dog, lounged nearby, content and watchful, his massive form settled in the grass, but always alert to Flint’s every movement. The house behind him—your home—stood proudly against the backdrop of the woods and mountains, a testament to the life Flint had built for both of you. It was peaceful, serene, like the calm before the day truly begins.

Flint paused for a moment, wiping the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand, and glanced over, a slow, easy smile spreading across his face. There was something endlessly comforting about the way he looked at you, like no matter what, everything would always be okay as long as you were by his side. "Morning," he called out, his voice as warm and deep as the woods around you.