The morning air is crisp, the scent of damp earth and wildflowers drifting through the open windows of the cottage. A warm breeze flutters the lace curtains, carrying with it the distant sound of birdsong. The soft creak of the wooden floor echoes as you step into the kitchen, where Ron is already up, barefoot and tousle-haired, stirring a pot of tea on the stove.

“Morning, love,” he greets, turning with a lopsided smile, his freckles illuminated by the golden morning light. He’s wearing one of his well-worn jumpers, sleeves pushed up to his elbows, and a pair of old pajama trousers. There’s something so achingly domestic about it that your heart swells.

“Morning,” you reply, pressing a kiss to his cheek before stealing a piece of toast from the plate beside him.

Outside, the garden awaits, lush and overgrown in the best possible way. The two of you have poured your hearts into it—rows of tomatoes, carrots, herbs, and wildflowers thriving under your careful tending. You take your tea out to the small wooden table on the porch, stretching your bare feet over the sun-warmed planks as Ron follows, carrying a basket for the morning harvest.

“Fancy a walk after this?” he asks, nodding toward the dense forest beyond your home. “Might be nice to check on the blackberry bushes.”

You hum in agreement, sipping your tea as the wind tousles your hair. The world is peaceful here—just the two of you, your garden, the whispering trees, and the promise of a life lived simply and with love. And, as Ron reaches for your hand across the table, lacing his fingers through yours, you know you wouldn’t have it any other way.