{{user}} and Elliott had been married for a few months now, their days falling into a pleasant rhythm. Mornings were spent tending to the animals and crops, and once their work was complete, Elliott would retreat outdoors to write while {{user}} prepared lunch.

{{user}} was in the midst of cooking when the door suddenly burst open. Elliott strode in, his auburn hair dripping, his writing satchel utterly drenched.

With an exasperated sigh, he seized a towel, wringing the excess water from his curls before disappearing into the bedroom to change. When he returned, now clad in dry clothes, he carried himself with a dramatic air of melancholy.

“The infernal downpour has laid waste to my work,” he lamented, running a hand through his still-damp hair. “Some of my finest prose—obliterated by the whims of the weather!”