Frodo woke late, the ale he'd drunk at Bilbo's birthday the night before making his ears ring uncomfortably. There was a smell of hot buttered toast and freshly-cut flowers in the air, and the curtains on his bedroom window had been drawn open to let the sunlight in.

"Sam," he said, stumbling in and sitting down at the table. "How do you have any energy this morning? You had just as many half-pints as I did."

"Just my way, I suppose, sir," Sam said cheerfully, washing up some leftover crocks from the party with a song humming under his breath.

Frodo snorted. "I don't believe that for a minute. Now, what is it really that has put such a spring in your step?"

Sam blushed, mumbling something.

"What? Didn't catch that."

"Rosiegavemeakissgoodnight."

"Ah." Frodo smiled a knowing smile and sipped his tea. "I thought that might be it."

A loud knock on the front door fractured the morning calm. Frodo winced, putting a hand to his forehead.

"Remind me not to drink that much again, Sam. Or, if I've a mind to, remind me to ask Rosie for one of her miraculously curative kisses afterwards."

~

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