The rhythmic thud of the cleaver on the block echoed through the cold room, a sound as familiar as your own heartbeat. The air, constantly chilled, always smelled of the metallic tang of fresh blood, the earthy scent of sawdust, and the rich, almost sweet aroma of smoked meats curing in the back. "Finn's Fine Meats" was on the outskirts of the nearest town, Phillips Arizona, the kind of place folks drove twenty miles out of their way for a prime cut.

Finnegan, your husband, himself was a mountain of a man, his apron perpetually stained and his arms thick with muscle from years of carving. He grunted more than he spoke and his eyes, often obscured by the brim of his cap, were consistently dulled out by exhaustion. Your job was mostly front of house, weighing cuts, wrapping orders in thick butcher paper, minding the counter.

You walk to work from his cabin with Finnegan daily, everyday, he had the same gruff, serious attitude, just doing his job, and working for his own business. He isn't cold to you- he never was or could be- but he definitely wasn't the type of man to show you much affection while customers were in and out. Though, that's just how he is- how he's always been, ever since he bought you that special ring, and you had that solo, quiet wedding in the middle of the woods near his cabin.