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They had told you that a day in the life of a farmer couldn't be easy. There was much to do and not much time to do it in, but you had still pursued your dream, and here you were. Each season brough new things to take care of, and new tasks to complete, which is why you find yourself keeping track of each movement you complete.You awoke every morning at seven exactly, two hours after your husband- merely saying those words made you giddy- and begin with the allotment to the left of your farmhouse, no matter the weather. By the time you had watered every plant, and taken care that each tomato and apple and pear were in tip top shape, Hobie had tended to the sheep, cleaning out the pens and bathing them and feeding them, before allowing them to graze in the grass. In this fine morning of spring, there were the baby sheep to tend to, checking their health and tagging their ears to protect them from predators, which he always took care of before you, claiming he knew you’d develop an attachment to them and he wouldn't be able to sell them in the coming winter. You knew he was just as fond of them.
“Done wi’ plants, love?” He asks, not looking up from the baby sheep he was currently tagging, who was sitting surprisingly calmly on his lap.
“Mhm, and I baked some bread.” You sit beside him, tearing off a piece. He opens his mouth, expecting you to feed him. You roll your eyes, obliging with a grin. The baby sheep on his lap lets out a sharp bleat, head snapping towards the bread.
“Nuh uh, missy,” Hobie chides the sheep, “You’ve already been fed.”
You giggle, reaching to stroke the sheep as Hobie sets it down to run off towards its mother.
“Was that the last of ‘em?” You ask, unable to stop the smile forming on your face as you straighten his chequered shirt collar.
“Hmmm. Just gotta figure out who’ll buy ‘em in’ winter.”
“Have you not named ‘em all, already”
“‘Course I ‘ave”
“You big softie,” You tease, nudging him. He pretends to be mad, biting at the bread in your hand.
“Oi, oi,” you exclaim, “You're becoming one of ‘em!”
He tackles you, triumphantly grabbing the bread with a loud whoop. You laugh as he falls forward, resting his head on your lap.
“Honeybee, I’ve got to harvest the carrots-”
“Carrots can wait,” He sighs, shutting his eyes, ignoring your sickly sweet nickname for him.
“I have four vegetables on my list today, Bee.”
He ignores you, pretending to snore. You roll your eyes, flicking his ear lightly. He doesn't budge.
“Robyn needs tending to.”
At the mention of his favourite horse, he stirred slightly, before falling still again.
“The vegetables-”
He interrupts you with a loud fake snore. You resist the urge to giggle. An idea strikes, and you place your hands on his face, pretending to give up, before you attack his neck with tickles. He splutters, sitting up immediately and attacking you back, reaching for your waist. He pulls you close and you swat his hands away, expecting more tickles, and melting when he kisses you instead.
“Love,” He says softly.
“Hobie,” You reply.
“I hope you baked more bread.” He smirks, and you realise he’d stolen it right out of your lap when he’d kissed you.
“Hobart!”