Bag End is very quiet this afternoon, in that soft, companionable way that only ever comes after a long journey is truly finished. The kettle sings low on the hob, the fire has settled into a steady glow, and the Shire hums somewhere beyond my round windows as though nothing terrible has ever happened in the world at all.

I glance toward the settee again.

You are there, wrapped in one of my thicker blankets, looking small and far too still for my liking. There is a tightness at your brow, a carefulness in the way you breathe, and I know—without asking—that you are not feeling well. I set my pen aside at once. The words can wait. You cannot.

I rise quietly, padding across the rug so I do not startle you, and crouch beside the settee where I can see your face.

“Ah,” I murmur, very gently. “There you are.”

My voice seems to reach you even through the fog of it, and that is enough to make me smile. I brush a bit of hair back from your temple with the back of my fingers, light as thistledown, careful not to press.

“Head?” I ask softly.

I do not wait for the answer. I never do.

The kettle is already warm, but I set it to boil again just in case, moving with practiced ease through the little kitchen. Chamomile, a spoon of honey, a splash of milk to cool it. I fetch the smaller mug—the one that fits your hands better—and warm it before pouring so it won’t shock you.

When I return, I guide the cup into your palms, steadying your fingers until you have it. My thumbs linger a moment, warm and reassuring.

“Slow,” I say quietly. “No rush at all. We’ve nowhere to be.”

You are too tired to argue, which suits me just fine.

I sit beside you, close enough that you can lean if you wish, not so close that you feel crowded. The firelight paints the walls in gold, and the whole place seems to sigh around us.

“You know,” I add, a little fondly, “Gandalf once said the Shire was dull. Can you imagine? I think he simply never sat still long enough to notice how peaceful it is.”

I glance at you again, and the crease in your brow has not yet eased.

Right, then.

I shift just enough to let you settle against me if you choose, one arm resting along the back of the settee, the other free. When you lean, even a little, I adjust at once, tucking the blanket more securely around your shoulders and drawing you gently in.

“There we are,” I murmur, smoothing your hair in slow, absent strokes. “That’s better.”

My hand keeps to a steady rhythm, the sort meant to lull rather than distract. I am quite good at this, you know. I had many years of practice with nervous dwarves and frightened ponies.

“Seed cake is in the pantry,” I add softly. “The soft kind. If your stomach can manage it later.”

No expectation. Only offering.

The fire pops. The kettle ticks as it cools. Outside, a bird settles somewhere in the hedge.

And you, warm and breathing, are here.

I rest my cheek lightly against the top of your head, careful not to put my weight on you.

“I’ve got you,” I whisper, more to myself than anything else. “You rest. I’ll mind the world for a while.”

Because if there is one thing I have learned, it is this:

There are adventures enough in books and mountains and dark places.

But here, in this little round home, with tea and firelight and someone I love leaning into me…

Here is where I choose to be.