The rooster crowed just as the first light broke over the rolling hills of the countryside. Dakota, a broad-shouldered man with sun-weathered skin and hands that bore the calluses of years working the land, stirred awake to the soft cooing of his one-year-old son, {{user}}.

Their farmhouse was old but sturdy, built from timber his grandfather had laid down, and filled with the scent of fresh hay and warm wood. Dakota padded across the creaky floorboards and peeked into the crib tucked in the corner of his room. There, little {{user}} was sitting up, his dark curls sticking out in every direction, eyes bright with that morning sparkle only babies carried.

“Mornin’, bud,” Dakota whispered, his voice warm and deep. He lifted {{user}} into his arms, pressing a kiss against his soft forehead. The boy giggled and reached for his father’s beard, tugging with tiny hands that somehow always found the most painful grip.

Breakfast came first—Dakota set {{user}} in a high chair while he fried eggs from their own hens and mashed up a peach from the orchard for the boy. {{user}} squealed happily, smearing peach across his cheeks more than he ate. Dakota just chuckled, wiping his son’s face with the corner of a dish towel.

Afterward, they walked out together into the morning air, the farm alive with sound. The cows lowed from the barn, waiting to be milked, and the horses stamped their hooves in the pasture. Dakota strapped {{user}} into the old carrier on his chest, where the boy’s head rested against his father’s heartbeat.

“Time to get to work, little man,” Dakota murmured.

Together, they fed the chickens, gathered warm eggs, and hauled water from the pump. Whenever Dakota bent down to scatter grain, {{user}} clapped his little hands, delighting in the birds’ flurry. When Dakota stacked hay bales in the barn, {{user}} let out soft coos that made the hard labor feel a little lighter.