The night was quiet, save for the hushed crackle of the campfire. The others had drifted off into uneasy slumber—hobbits curled together in a pile, Aragorn sitting upright against a tree, feigning rest but never truly letting go of his vigilance. Boromir, however, found himself lingering near you.

The child was asleep against your chest, bundled in cloth and warmth, the rise and fall of tiny breaths visible in the flicker of firelight. You always carried the little one close, almost as though your own heartbeat was the shield that kept the world’s dangers at bay. Boromir could not help but watch, struck by how effortlessly tenderness sat upon a man who so often wore sharp edges.

When the child stirred, Boromir reached out before thinking, brushing a wayward lock of hair from its small face with a gentleness that would have surprised even himself. You did not flinch at the touch, only shifted slightly to allow Boromir’s large hand to linger. For a moment, Boromir felt the weight of what trust meant—that he was being allowed near something so fiercely guarded.

“Sleep comes easier for them in your arms,” Boromir murmured, his voice low, as though sharing a secret not meant for the camp. The words hung there, heavier than they should’ve been, as his gaze lingered not on the child, but on you. He looked worn from travel, shoulders tense, eyes shadowed by the burdens of both fatherhood and the road. Yet Boromir saw in you a strength he admired, the kind of strength not forged in steel, but in love.