The sun shone softly over the Shire that morning, draping the hills in golden light and warming the grass under your toes. The sky stretched wide and open above you, 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 were lying 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 between you, apples in your pockets, laughter always close at hand.

You had known Frodo for years, ever since you were small and tumbled around Bag End chasing butterflies and stories. He had always been kind. Gentle. The sort of person who listened with his whole heart. And lately, he had begun to look at you differently.

Or perhaps you’d just begun to notice.

He had always insisted on walking you home, even when it wasn’t far. He brought you books he thought you’d like, flowers he said reminded him of your laugh. And the townsfolk had noticed, too.

At first, you’d ignored it.

But then came the louder comments. The questions. “Have you and Mr. Baggins been courting in secret?” “Does he share his bed as freely as his books?” You hadn’t understood the bitterness in their voices—hadn’t realized how cruel words could sting until they were said with sweet smiles and sharp eyes.

You’d stopped going into town for a while after that

You sighed, closing your book and resting it on your stomach. “Lobelia gave me the look again this morning,” you said lightly.

Frodo glanced sideways at you, brow knitting. “Which one?”

“The one that says, ‘There goes the harlot corrupting our Baggins boy,’” you said with a huff, staring up at the sky.

He sat up slightly, propped on one elbow. “That’s ridiculous.”