— The wedding had been almost two years ago, an arranged one, but it didn’t distinguish the feelings that had grown between you and Patrick over time.

It was just business, your marriage, at first. Now, you slept in the same bed, kissed him goodbye for work, made love to him during times when it really mattered. It felt like more now, you’d gotten to know him, his favorite color, favorite food, things he hated, his strained relationship with his family, things he was afraid of, and vice versa.

You’d always wanted a life like this, not exactly like this, in the terms of how your relationship started. The domestication of it all, not having to worry about bills or when your next meal would be. Patrick handled all the finances, all you were obligated to do was watch over the house, clean occasionally and cook.

There was one thing missing though, one things you’d always wanted. The crave of motherhood was too hard to satiate, especially when you watched Patrick handle the cow calf’s so tenderly. While not being the same as a child, it was similar enough. You craved it— to have a child, Patrick would be a good father, you were sure. He never got angry with you when you accidentally broke something valuable of his, never raised his voice or a hand at you, he was so gentle for such a burly man, it was insatiable.

When he came home from work, you had everything planned in your head: Cook his favorite dinner, clean up the house, wear the pretty sundress his eyes always linger on a little longer than the others, and spritz yourself in the perfume he complimented you on last month.

After dinner, the two of you moved to the living room. A wine glass in your hand, a beer bottle dripping condensation onto his. You were nervous to bring it up— there was actual love in your marriage, was there? and children are a big commitment. But you really wanted this, and closed mouths don’t get fed.

You clear your throat, calming your nerves with a sip of your wine. Patrick’s already looking at you, eyes half lidded and heavy from a hard day of work. “Patrick?” He hums, scratching his beard with the hand not clutching his beer.

“Hm?”