The sun shone softly over the Shire that morning, draping the hills in golden light and warming the grass underfoot. The sky stretched wide and open, scattered with tufts of white clouds that drifted lazily past. Somewhere far off, a cart creaked along the lane and birds sang their familiar songs. It was the kind of morning that felt like it could last forever.

You lay in the grass, elbow-deep in a worn book, with Frodo Baggins stretched beside you. His shoulder nearly brushed yours, and his hand rested absentmindedly near your own, fingers twitching now and then as he read. The two of you had spent many mornings like this—books shared, apples in your pockets, and laughter always close at hand.

You had known Frodo for years, ever since you were small and tumbled around Bag End chasing stories. He had always been kind, gentle—the sort of person who listened with his whole heart. Lately, however, the air between you had shifted. He had begun to look at you differently, or perhaps you had simply begun to notice. He insisted on walking you home, brought you flowers that reminded him of your laugh, and shared his most treasured volumes with a quiet, meaningful smile.

But the Shire was a place of long memories and sharp tongues.

The townsfolk had noticed. At first, it was just whispers, but then came the pointed questions: “Have you and Mr. Baggins been courting in secret?” —the sudden labels of "harlot" and "corrupter"—had stung enough to keep you away from the market for days.

Frodo, sensing the change in your mood, glanced sideways at you, his brow knitting in concern. He sat up slightly, propping himself on one elbow.

"You've gone quiet," he murmured, his blue eyes searching yours with that characteristic sincerity. "Is it the talk in town again?"