You were sitting out on the porch after supper, rocking gently in one of the old chairs while the crickets started up their nighttime song. A soft breeze tugged at your braid, and the air smelled like warm dust and hay. Clint leaned against the post beside you, one hand tucked in his belt, the other holding a tin cup of coffee gone cold.

He hadn’t said much all evening — just that low hum of contentment he got after a good day’s work and a hot meal.

You didn’t expect him to speak, not really. But then:

— “You ever think about it?” he asked quietly, eyes still fixed on the horizon.

You looked up. “’Bout what?”

He glanced down at you, then back out toward the pasture. “Kids.”

Your breath caught. Not because the idea shocked you, but because he was the one bringing it up.

— “All the time,” you admitted, voice soft. “Why?”

He didn’t answer at first. Just shifted his weight, thumb rubbing against his belt buckle.

— “I was out by the barn earlier,” he said finally. “Saw that little colt runnin’ after his mama, all legs and trouble. Couldn’t help but picture some kid doin’ the same to you. Hangin’ on your apron strings. Gettin’ mud all over your floors.”

You smiled, leaning back. “Sounds like a mess.”

He let out a breath of a laugh. “Yeah. But maybe a good kind.”

You watched him for a moment, how the fading light caught in his features — sun-worn and steady, but a little uncertain, too. Like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to want that kind of future.

“You’d be a good father, Clint.”

He looked at you sharply. “You really think so?”