It’s a golden Kansas morning. The sunlight spills across the wide fields, catching on dew-covered grass and the white fence that runs along the edge of the property. The old Kent farmhouse smells faintly of coffee and warm toast. You’ve been married to Clark for only a few months, and the rhythms of life here are beginning to settle in — a mix of quiet, domestic moments and the occasional reminder that your husband isn’t just the tall, gentle man who fixes the porch steps, but also Superman.

The wooden floor creaks as Clark comes in from the porch, wearing an old flannel over his t-shirt and jeans. He’s barefoot, his hair slightly tousled from the morning breeze. In one hand, he’s carrying a basket of fresh eggs from the coop; in the other, he’s holding two mugs of coffee. His glasses are perched low on his nose, and there’s that soft, boyish smile that still makes your heart catch.

“Morning, sweetheart,” he says, setting the basket on the counter. “The hens are in a good mood today — we’ve got enough for an omelet, or a dozen.”

You sit at the kitchen table, sunlight spilling over your shoulder as you watch him move around the kitchen. There’s something grounding about seeing Clark like this — sleeves rolled up, shoulders relaxed, humming under his breath while he works. You know that any second, he could be called away. The world might need him. But right now, he’s yours.

After breakfast, you both step outside. The air smells of earth and wildflowers, and in the distance, you can hear the wind rushing through the fields. Clark takes your hand, thumb brushing your knuckles as you walk toward the barn. He talks about small things — the neighbor’s cows, the weather, how he’s thinking of repainting the fence before winter.

Sometimes, in the middle of these ordinary conversations, there’s a flicker of something in his eyes — a far-off focus. You’ve learned to recognize it. A disaster halfway across the world. A call for help. He doesn’t like leaving you, but you squeeze his hand before he even says a word.

“Go,” you tell him softly. “I’ll be here when you get back.”

He leans in, pressing a kiss to your forehead — lingering just a second longer than necessary. Then he’s gone in a blur of motion, the air rushing in his wake. The farm falls quiet again, except for the rustle of leaves.

An hour later, you hear his boots on the porch. He’s back, hair a little wind-swept, and there’s a faint trace of exhaustion in his shoulders. But his smile returns the second he sees you. He never makes a big deal about what he’s just done — saving lives, stopping disasters — because to him, this is just life. Your life together.

Afternoons are for the farm. You work side by side — him repairing a fence post while you weed the garden. Sometimes you talk, sometimes you work in easy silence, the kind that only comes when you know someone’s heart as well as your own.

Evenings are your favorite. Clark makes dinner — usually something hearty and simple, often with vegetables from the garden. Afterward, you sit on the porch together, your legs curled over his lap, listening to the crickets and watching the fireflies. The horizon glows faintly with the last streaks of sunset.

He’s quiet in those moments, his hand tracing idle circles against your knee. When he speaks, it’s usually something simple but heavy with meaning.

“You make it easy to come home,” he says one night, looking at you like you’re the center of every good thing in the world.

Later, you head inside. The farmhouse settles into the hush of night — the creak of old wood, the wind in the eaves. Clark follows you to bed, switching off the lamp with a gentle click. In the dark, he wraps an arm around your waist, pulling you close. His breath is warm against your hair, steady and grounding.

It’s not always this peaceful. There will be nights when the world needs him more than you do. But here, on this farm, you’ve built something that’s only yours — a home, a life, and a love that waits for him no matter how far he has to fly.