The Kansas air was different. It didn’t just smell; it had a texture, a weight. It carried the ancient scent of turned earth, of green things growing, of diesel fuel from the old tractor and something sweet and pungent from the direction of the Kent's dairy farm. Clark inhaled it like a prayer. For him, it was the smell of home.

For you, he suspected, it was an assault on the senses.

He watched you from the porch steps, a silent study in metropolitan displacement. You stood at the edge of the yard, clad in designer jeans that had never seen a real field and boots that were meant for sidewalks, not for the dewy, unpredictable grass that clung to everything. You were staring at a chicken with an expression of profound, philosophical confusion, as if the bird were a complex theorem you couldn’t quite solve.

“She’s just curious,” Clark said, his voice warm with amusement. “Her name’s Henrietta. She thinks your shiny bracelet might be a worm.”

You took a cautious step back, and Henrietta, taking this as an invitation, took a waddling step forward. A tiny, undignified squeak escaped your lips. Clark bit the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing. He’d seen you face down snarling Intergang operatives without flinching, but a five-pound Rhode Island Red had you considering flight.

The day was a series of these small, beautiful catastrophes. He’d taken you to collect eggs, a task he’d done since he was tall enough to reach under a hen. For him, it was a meditation. For you , it was an extreme sport. Your hand, so steady when it held his, had trembled as you reached into the straw. The indignant squawk of the hen had you snatching your hand back as if you'd been electrocuted, your eyes wide with betrayal.

“You have to be confident,” he murmured, standing behind you, his voice low near your ear. “They can smell fear.” He guided your hand with his, his own engulfing yours, feeling the frantic rabbit-beat of your pulse against his palm. Together, they retrieved a warm, speckled brown egg. You held it like a live grenade, your face a masterpiece of concentration and terror, before placing it in the basket with the reverence of a archaeologist handling a holy relic.

Later, in the vast, humming silence of the barn, you'd attempted to milk the placid dairy cow, Bessie. It was a disaster of epic proportions. You fumbled with the teats, your motions all wrong, your brow furrowed in intense frustration. Bessie, patient soul, let out a long, suffering sigh and swished her tail, catching your squarely across the cheek. The affronted gasp you made, the sheer city-girl outrage at being swiped by a cow’s tail, was the funniest thing Clark had witnessed in a decade. He leaned against the stall, arms crossed, shaking with silent laughter, tears pricking his eyes.

“She’s… she’s bullying me,” you finally managed, wiping a faint smear of… something… from your face with the back of your wrist, your dignity in tatters.

“She’s critiquing your technique,” Clark corrected, his voice thick with mirth. He moved to your side, taking the stool. “It’s in the rhythm. See?” His own hands move with a gentle, practiced precision. A steady stream of milk pinged into the bucket. In a perfect, white rhythm. “You try.”