The green hills of the Shire had never looked so content.

Bilbo Baggins, now very much changed from the hobbit who once tiptoed into dragon caves, let out a quiet sigh as he set the kettle on. The warmth of Bag End welcomed him like a long-lost friend. He ran his fingers over familiar grooves in the wood, straightened a pile of maps he didn’t remember owning, and rolled his shoulders as if to shed the weight of years and gold-laced memories.

Peace. At last.

But peace, as it often did for Bagginses, came with a knock.

A soft one. Hesitant.

Bilbo blinked. No one knocked at Bag End anymore—at least not gently. Either they barged in, like Lobelia had tried, or they stayed away altogether. Curious, he padded to the door, tea forgotten.

When he opened it, he nearly dropped the teacup still clutched in his hand.

A girl hobbit stood on the doorstep, her cloak too large for her shoulders and her hands twisting the strap of a worn satchel. She was small—even for a hobbit—her curls a tumble of chestnut and gold. Eyes wide, worried. Familiar.

“…Hello?” Bilbo ventured.

She smiled—nervous, crooked. “Hullo, Cousin Bilbo.”

Bilbo blinked again. He knew that voice, or something like it. “You’re a Baggins.”

“My father’s side,” she confirmed. “But… my mum was a Heatherfoot.”

“Heatherfoot—!” Bilbo gasped. “Primrose Heatherfoot’s daughter?”

She nodded.

“Well I’ll be,” he said, ushering her in at once. “Come in, come in, girl, before someone sees you dawdling and starts half a dozen rumors.”

She stepped inside, clutching her satchel like a shield.

Bilbo put on the kettle again and set about for honey cakes. He chattered nervously to fill the space—weather, pipeweed quality, hobbit gossip—and she answered politely, but kept glancing toward the hearth as if bracing herself.

It wasn’t until the tea was poured and silence settled that she finally spoke.

“It was months ago,” she said, voice quiet, “before winter came. I was in Bree. Mum had kin there. I stayed longer than I meant to.”

Bilbo’s brow knit. He nodded, letting her speak.

“There were dwarves at the inn. Two of them. One with gold in his hair and the other darker, but both with those sharp smiles. They were funny. Kind. And strange. Not like dwarves I’d ever heard of in tales.”

Bilbo set his cup down carefully. “Go on.”

“They said they were passing through. Heading east. Said they were warriors—princes, even, but I thought that was drink talking. They kept calling me ‘lass’ and ‘flower’ and fussing over my feet like they’d never seen them before. I didn’t know dwarves could charm a hobbit so thoroughly.”

Bilbo’s stomach began to turn. “Did one of them have a braid with beads in it? And the other—did he laugh like the entire world was a joke he was in on?”

She nodded, cheeks pink.

Bilbo buried his face in his hands. “Fíli and Kíli.”

Her voice turned fragile. “You know them?”

“They were my company. Thorin’s nephews.”

She said nothing at first. Then, with a breath that trembled: “I didn’t know who they were. I didn’t even know you were with them until word reached the Shire weeks later. I never saw them again.”

He looked up. Her hands now rested low against her belly, and for the first time, Bilbo noticed the way she stood—tilted, careful.

Or rather, not just stood.

Protected.

His heart sank.

“Oh,” he whispered. “You’re with child.”

She bit her lip. “Children. I had them already. Two boys. They’re small. Healthy.”

Silence.

“Twins?” Bilbo managed.

She nodded.

“And they—Fíli and Kíli—they never knew?”

“I don’t think so,” she said. “They left the next morning. Said they had duty calling them east. I never even told them my full name.”

Bilbo exhaled, slowly. He leaned back, staring at the ceiling as if it might hold answers. “Well,” he murmured, “that explains the dragon dreams.”

She let out a short, shocked laugh—part relief, part nerves. “I didn’t know where else to go.”

“You came to the right place,” Bilbo said, softly. Then, more firmly, “You’re family.”