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(Y/N)'s eyes would light up like a thousand-watt bulb whenever she talked about it. Her voice would soften, a dreamy lilt entering her words, painting pictures of rolling green hills and simpler times. Her dream wasn't grand. Just a small hobby farm. Nothing sprawling, just enough.
"A couple of Highland cows," she'd say, her gaze distant and fond. "They look like emotional support rugs, honestly. Just big, fluffy, grumpy-looking softies." Then came the fancy chickens, "with poofy heads, you know? Like little feathered clouds." And maybe, just maybe, if the stars aligned, some alpacas. Definitely a tiny orchard, and a garden where she could grow zucchini the size of toddlers.
Johnny MacTavish was 100% in. His reasons were simple, profound, and entirely lovestruck. He was in because she was undeniably, vibrantly happy when she talked about it. The pure joy radiating from her was infectious, a balm to his often-turbulent world. And if her happiness required him to, say, learn how to milk something, or wrangle a feathery menace, then so be it.
"Aye," he'd declare, his eyes twinkling, "I'll raise a bloody capybara if it makes you smile, lass. Just tell me what needs doing."
He was hopelessly, wonderfully gone.
Johnny, fueled by pure devotion and a touch of naiveté, decided to get a head start. He wasn't one to sit idly by when a dream was on the line. Secretly, late at night, hunched over his laptop, he started digging.
First, land prices. Rural Scotland. Seemed simple enough. Except "simple" in this context meant "astronomical." His brow furrowed. Then came the alpaca breeders. He opened a new tab, optimistic. Moments later, his jaw went slack. Alpacas, he discovered, cost more than his prized motorbike. A lot more.
He scrolled down, feeling a cold dread seep into his bones. Highland cows. "Minimum of two for companionship," the website stated. £5,000 a head. "One cow is five grand?!" he muttered, disbelief etching lines into his forehead. "And it needs a cow friend? This isn't a bloody date, it's a financial commitment!"
Next, the chickens. "Organic heirloom chicken feed." He clicked on the link. £38 a bag. "Are these chickens gilded?!" he whispered, aghast. "Do they lay Fabergé eggs?! For that price, they better be laying golden ones!"
The chicken coops. He'd envisioned a quaint, rustic affair. Instead, he found architect-designed, insulated palaces with automatic feeders. They cost more than his first flat, the one he'd practically lived in on noodles.
And then, the final, crushing blow: tractors. He'd just needed a small one, surely? A gentle Google search revealed prices that made his eyes water. "Tractors??? ARE HOW MUCH???"
Johnny was in crashout stage 1. He stumbled away from the laptop, ran a hand through his hair, and then, with a defeated groan, collapsed face-first onto the couch. Muffled numbers escaped his lips. "Five grand… for a cow… plus its friend… sixty quid for fencing… a bloody tractor…" He actually googled "how much you can sell a kidney for in Scotland." The answer wasn't encouraging.
(Y/N) knew something was fundamentally off. Johnny, usually a whirlwind of energy or a picture of relaxed contentment, was a walking stress ball. He was pacing the small living area like a caged lion, muttering to himself. His cooking, usually a comforting ritual, had become intense, almost aggressive stress-baking. The kitchen looked like a flour bomb had gone off, and he kept muttering about "yield curves" and "depreciation."
He also developed an alarming obsession with home improvement shows. He would sit, transfixed, glaring at the TV. "Property Brothers?" he'd snarl, pointing a remote like a weapon. "The enemy! They make it look so bloody easy! Where's the section on needing a second mortgage for a single chicken coop?!"
The final straw came when she found his laptop open. On the screen, in vibrant, horrifying detail, was a spreadsheet titled: "Emergency Alpaca Financial Rescue Plan.xlsx." It was filled with columns of figures, frantic calculations, and an alarming number of question marks.
Eventually, she decided to put him out of his misery. She sat beside him, gently closing the laptop. "Are you… budgeting, Johnny?" she asked, trying to keep her voice straight.
He threw his hands up in despair. "I'm trying to buy you a farm, woman! A happy, fluffy, cow-filled farm!"
(Y/N) blinked. "With what money?"
Johnny just buried his face in his hands. "I DON'T KNOW!" he wailed, his voice muffled by his palms. "I thought… I thought it would be like, a tenner and a couple of chickens! Not a second mortgage and a lifetime of selling tactical vests on eBay!"
(Y/N) couldn't hold it in any longer. A soft giggle bubbled up, then a full, hearty laugh. She gently took the laptop from his lap, setting it aside. She reached out, taking his hands in hers, her thumbs stroking his knuckles.
"Johnny," she said, her voice warm and sincere, "I love the dream. I really do. But I don't need it to be real to love you."
He looked up, his eyes a little red-rimmed. "But… the cows. With the bangs."
"Honey," she continued, her gaze soft, "I'd take a small garden with a single, ugly goat. I'd take a rented plot at a community garden with the most miserable, bald chickens you can find. I'd even take just a window box with some basil and a single, wilting petunias as long as I have you." She leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to his forehead. "I didn't fall in love with a tractor. I fell in love with you."
Johnny sniffled dramatically. "But I wanted to get you cows with bangs…"
(Y/N) grinned, reaching up to playfully ruffle his own perfectly coiffed hair. "You've got bangs, Johnny. I'm set."
A watery smile touched his lips. "Right."
They sat together, the silence comfortable now, no longer filled with the ghosts of expensive alpacas. Slowly, together, they started making a new plan.
"So," she began, "how about we start small? A raised bed garden next spring. Get our hands dirty, see how we like it."
"Aye," he agreed, his eyes regaining some of their usual sparkle. "And chickens… maybe when we actually figure out how not to accidentally bankrupt ourselves on feed."
"Farm later," (Y/N) said, squeezing his hand. "Or never. As long as we're happy."
"We're happy," Johnny affirmed, a warmth spreading through him. "Even without the bespoke chicken coops."