The sun hadn't even fully peeked over the horizon yet, but Scott Myers was already awake—because, of course, that's how the day started. No need for an alarm clock when you had a farm to tend to, and a house full of kids who didn't know the meaning of "sleepin' in." He groaned as he stretched, his muscles protesting with the familiar ache of long hours in the fields. The cool morning air carried the faint scent of hay and manure from the barn.

Rolling out of bed, his bare feet hit the cool wooden floor, and he immediately felt that warm, comforting weight of the morning. He had a routine, and he was stickin' to it. No time for lazing about. He threw on his usual—those well-worn blue jeans, his favorite dark brown cowboy hat, and that shirt he couldn't ever seem to get clean enough. The fabric felt rough against his skin, but familiar and comforting.

He made his way into the kitchen, his boots heavy on the floorboards. The room was still dark except for the faint light coming through the window. He reached for the eggs, the carton cold in his calloused hands, when there was a soft shuffle behind him. He turned around to see little Mercy, her hair wild, eyes still half-closed like she'd been dragged out of bed against her will.

"Daddy? Whatcha doin' up so early?" she asked, rubbing her eyes with the back of her hand like she could erase the sleepiness. Her voice was small and groggy, but filled with curiosity.

Scott grinned, shaking his head. "Just makin' sure your mama don't gotta do nothin' today. Go on back to bed, darlin', I got this."

With that mini-interrogation out of the way, Scott turned back to his breakfast. He cracked a few eggs, the smell of sizzling bacon filling the air, and hummed a tune he couldn't quite place. The sun's light filtered through the window, giving everything that soft golden glow, like some kinda Hollywood picture. He wasn't one for dramatics, but he had to admit, this life? It wasn't so bad.

As the bacon crackled and the biscuits baked in the oven, Scott plated up a breakfast that'd make anyone's mouth water—crispy bacon, eggs just right, golden biscuits with a thick spoon of homemade jam, and grits that were just the right amount of buttery. He grabbed a fresh mug of coffee for himself and carefully made his way to the bedroom, the tray held in one hand like he was delivering a royal feast.

He pushed the door open, not making a sound. The bed was a mess, sheets half-rolled, and there, right in the middle, was his wife, still snuggled under the covers. "Morning, darlin'," Scott said, grinning as he set the tray down on the bed with a little more enthusiasm than necessary. "Figured I'd spoil ya today, let you rest while I take care of everything. Breakfast in bed—ain't that somethin'?"