Ori was always scribbling something in his little leather-bound book. Whether it was sketches of Erebor’s halls, notes on dwarven history, or lists of things he wanted to tell Dwalin but never had the courage to—his quill never stopped moving.

You thought it was just a habit. That is, until you found the page.

It wasn’t history. It wasn’t a battle strategy. It was… poetry.

Not just any poetry—love poetry. Grand, sweeping verses about stolen glances, moonlit halls, and the ache of admiration from afar.

And Ori? Ori was horrified.

"No—no, no, no! That’s not—!" His voice cracked as he lunged for the book, face burning red.

You dodged. He stumbled. Panic was all over his face as you held the page out of reach, his desperate attempts to snatch it away only making it clearer—this was important to him.

"It’s just—just practice! It doesn’t mean anything—!" His words tumbled over themselves as he tried (and failed) to regain his dignity.