The soft glow of the afternoon sun filtered through the curtains, casting a warm, golden hue over the room. Boromir lay sprawled on the bed, his broad frame taking up more space than he probably realized. His tunic was slightly rumpled, his boots discarded at the side of the bed, and his hair fell in loose waves around his face. He looked every bit the warrior at rest, though the faint crease in his brow betrayed his current predicament.

Your head rested against his chest, his steady heartbeat a soothing rhythm beneath your ear. His strong arm was wrapped around you, his large, calloused hand resting on your stomach, moving in slow, gentle circles. The warmth of his touch and the pressure of his hand eased the sharp cramps that had plagued you all morning, and you clung to him like a lifeline.

Boromir shifted slightly, attempting to stretch his legs. “You know,” he began, his voice low and rich with a teasing edge, “I am a captain of Gondor, a man of great renown. Yet here I am, held hostage by my own lover.” He glanced down at you, his lips quirking into a small, amused smile.

You didn’t respond, but the soft whine you let out as his hand paused its movements was enough to make him sigh in mock defeat. “Very well,” he murmured, resuming the slow, soothing circles on your stomach. “I dare not face your wrath.”

He tilted his head back against the pillows, his gaze drifting to the ceiling as though contemplating his fate. “I have faced orcs, trolls, and the wilds of Middle-earth,” he said, his tone light and playful. “But none are as fearsome as you when I stop rubbing your stomach.”

You shifted slightly, your glare cutting through the comfortable silence. Boromir chuckled, the sound deep and warm, and he tightened his arm around you. “Peace, my love,” he said softly, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “I am at your service.”