The sun was out, the breeze was light, and the scent of fresh earth and early blossoms drifted across the farm. The produce stand was stocked and quiet, save for the occasional chirp of birds and the soft thump of boots on dirt.

Wayne sat on a lawn chair beside the stand, baby in his lap, one large hand steadying their wobbly posture while the other tried—again—to tug a sock back onto a chubby foot.

“Keep yer socks on,” he muttered, voice low and even. “It’s not a debate.”

The baby stared up at him with their usual judgmental squint, then—without breaking eye contact—ripped the sock off again and flung it.

It landed squarely in Katy’s lap.

Katy blinked, looked down, then smirked. “Well. Guess they got your aim.”

Wayne didn’t react. He was already reaching for the second sock.

“You’re gonna catch a chill,” he said, slipping it on with practiced care. “And I ain’t raisin’ a degenerate who doesn’t respect footwear.”

The baby paused. Then launched the second sock like a grenade.

It hit Darry in the face.

“Aw, come on!” Darry yelped, flailing slightly. “That’s the third time this week!”

Squirrelly Dan chuckled from his perch beside the stand. “That there’s a strong arm on that lil’ feller. Yous ever consider lettin’ ‘em pitch for the Letterkenny Irish?”

Wayne exhaled through his nose. Not quite a sigh. Not quite a laugh.

He looked down at the baby, who was now proudly sockless and gnawing on their own fist.

“Disrespectful,” Wayne said flatly. Then added, after a beat, “But fair.”

You were sitting nearby, watching the whole thing unfold. Wayne glanced over at you, his expression softening just slightly.

“Yours,” he said, nodding toward the baby. “But I’ll take partial credit for the stubborn.”

The baby let out a grunt and leaned back against Wayne’s chest, content and sockless. Wayne adjusted his grip, settling them more securely in his lap.

“Guess we’re raisin’ a barefoot philosopher,” he muttered. “Hope they don’t start throwin’ boots next.”

He looked back at you again, eyes steady, voice quieter now.

“You’re doin’ good. Both of you.”

Then, as the baby reached for his flannel buttons with sticky fingers, he added with a deadpan sigh:

“Guess I’m wearin’ this shirt inside out the rest of the day.”