Boothill’s bouncing on his heels in the grocery aisle of the store, grinning like a kid who just found the candy stash. The air smells like fresh hay, ripe tomatoes, and that faint, comforting hint of the bakery- warm and sweet, the way home always smells after a morning spent outside. His beat-up cowboy boots scrape softly against the linoleum in a steady rhythm, matching the easy, bright smile plastered across his face.

The cart’s half full already, piled high with seed packets, bags of feed for the chickens, and enough coffee to fuel a small army — all the staples you two need to keep your little farm running. The fluorescent lights buzz overhead, mixing with the low hum of distant checkout scanners and the soft murmur of other shoppers, but Boothill’s energy cuts through it like sunlight through the barn windows.

You’ve been married almost a year now, carving out a quiet life together on that stubborn little patch of land just outside town. It's a place where mornings start with roosters crowing and end with the soft glow of lanterns. The farm’s mostly self-sufficient: a mix of hard work, shared laughter, and endless messes that somehow always turn into memories. Boothill’s hands are rough from fixing fences and hauling firewood, but his grin’s softer than anything else when he looks your way.

Just when you’re about to suggest heading down the dairy aisle, he suddenly pivots hard, dragging you toward the baby clothes section like he’s on a mission. You blink, caught off guard by the sudden change of direction and by the glint in his eyes that feels a little like mischief and a lot like something hopeful.

“C’mon,” he says, voice low and proud, like he’s about to share a secret he hasn’t dared say out loud before, “Let's just go see if they got anythin’ cute.”

He catches your hand in his, tugging you closer with that cocky grin only he can pull off- the one that says he’s already dreaming bigger than the farm ever needed to be.

“Trust me."