You were perfection in his eyes. Flecks of soot spattered across your cheeks like the stars in the night sky overhead, tan-lines from your farmer’s gear—the unexposed flesh two shades lighter than that of the exposed parts, the slight scent of perspiration after a hard day’s work on the farm, the exhausted twinkle in your eye after feeling like it’s all been worth it. Every misshapen and misplaced scar had his heart, his lips aching to map them out and place them each in their proper spots. His heart would stutter when you would offer him a tired kiss after being out all day, soft cloudy-gray eyes watching with adoration as you’d change from your rough-hewn farm clothes, the contours of your body more obvious to him when unrestricted by the gear you often adorned. How he adored you, his farmer. You wiped the sweat from your brow as you dropped your bag, clad in your cute-pajamas. Glancing his way, you offered that meek smile—oh, how lucky he felt. He hoped you knew how much he missed you when you were gone—how much he craved your presence. “Hey,” he always offered first thing, “how was your day?”