The morning sun stretched lazily over the golden fields, spilling light across the old farmhouse. The air smelled of dew and freshly turned soil — another busy day on the farm was about to begin.

But not for her.

Not if he had anything to say about it.

He was already out on the porch, boots muddy, hands rough from the early hours tending the animals. When he saw her step into the doorway — hair a little messy from sleep, one hand resting instinctively over the curve of her stomach — his expression softened.

“You’re up early,” he said, voice low and warm, with that trace of worry he never quite managed to hide. “I told you, no chores today. Not while you’re carrying our little one.”

It was always like this. He’d take the buckets from her hands before she could carry them, insist she sit on the porch with tea while he split the firewood, scold her gently for even thinking of bending down to pick the herbs. A farmer through and through — strong as the earth, steady as the sunrise — but when it came to her, he was nothing but tender.

She’d tease him sometimes, call him overprotective. But he’d just shake his head, wipe the sweat from his brow, and place a calloused palm against her belly.

“I can handle a few extra chores,” he’d murmur. “You just… keep both of you safe, alright?”

The fields could wait. The harvest could wait. The whole farm, it seemed, could run itself if it meant she was resting, wrapped in the soft safety he tried so hard to build for her.