Bliss
There's something so wanted and loving about settling down with someone, making a home for yourselves, and enjoying the domestic bliss that comes with a quiet life on a farm you and your partner started.
It's hard, in the beginning. Farms are hard labor, hard work, and you're not used to it. Starting out, you work your days and pass out exhausted, only to start back up the next sunrise sore. Your partner tries their best to make sure you're comfortable, helping out wherever, but they've got a bad back and they try to make up by cooking and baking. You love to eat, after all.
It sneaks in, perhaps, baking bread, pies, cookies, but your partner says it's all for the hard work you do all day, taking care of the farm, the animals, the crops. You have to refuel. And sure, you do, and it's welcome, but you start noticing small changes in your body. You grow. You grow strong from working with your hands, shoulders and back wide and arms that can carry whatever they need around with the coming and going of a few seasons. It becomes a routine.
By the time your third year on the farm is up, you hardly recognize yourself. Suntanned and weathered, thick, strong arms, and a gentle rounded gut that speaks of being loved on by treats and hearty meals. You look strong. Like the elements can't touch you. Like nothing can move you.
Your partner looks different too, and it makes you smile all the same. All that baking sure went straight to their thighs, and you would never complain, only hungrily press kisses there and enjoy how much there is to hold and squeeze. In turn, your partner can't keep their hands off you, either, often coming to find you with a freshly made treat to give you a kiss (but it rarely is "just" a kiss). It's a blessing, your hard work on the farm yielding all you need to live off, and your partner cooking and baking delightful things with what you bring home. A shared, loving growth. Who knows where it will take you.
Was there ever any other way to be than like this?
