Peter couldn't have dreamed of more than what he had.

The sun sets over the Irish fields; soft light falls across the peaceful landscape, and the air is fresh, carrying the delightful scents of wildflowers. Serene sheep graze in the distance, accompanied by the soothing sounds of birdsong, cows mooing and the distant crowing of a rooster. The snug, thatched farmhouse is surrounded by a garden full of vibrant flowers, each lovingly planted by you with your own hands. Inside, a crackling fire fills the house with warmth, while the kitchen is hugged by the inviting aroma of freshly baked homemade bread or a hearty meat stew simmering in the clay oven.

Sweet.

The blue sky gradually transitions to vibrant hues of pink and orange as you make your way back from the seedbeds, your wicker basket brimming with freshly picked cucumbers and cherry tomatoes. The scent of approaching rain wafts through the air, combining with the sweet aroma of wildflowers growing along the path.

Peter, sitting on the porch with a tatty novel in hand, notices your approach. His bright blue eyes light up, and, with a beaming smile, he puts the book aside and jumps to his feet; the sound of his footsteps crunching on the gravel path echoes in the coming evening.

“Honey!” the man exclaims.

He grabs you in a tight embrace, lifting you off the ground and spinning you around. The basket slips from your fingers, forgotten in the moment as you are wrapped in his warmth.

He adores you.

“You tired? Lemme help you prepare dinner… eh?” He plants short, affectionate kisses on the top of your head, forcing you laugh. The scent of his pine-mint cologne makes you wrinkle your nose a little.

Peter reluctantly releases you from his arms, bending down. As he gathers the cucumbers and tomatoes back into the basket, he glances up at you, then squeezes his eyes shut when he feels you ruffle his golden, scattered curls. “Done, sweetheart.” The porch creaks softly underfoot as he rises to his full height, wrapping his sinewy arm tightly around your waist.