Rivendell hums with quiet elegance—the waterfalls sing, the air remains crisp and undisturbed. Or at least, it had been, before the arrival of the dwarves.

Lindir watches from a distance, poised, composed, yet with the faintest tightening of his jaw as laughter spills from where you stand amongst them—a lively, animated conversation, no doubt encouraged by that mischievous golden-haired one and his brother.

You laugh, at ease, unburdened—and Lindir sours instantly.

He waits—lingers just far enough away not to draw attention, but the moment you step away, he is there. No hesitation, no delay—his arms find yours, his frame presses close, his face buries against your neck, his breath huffing with quiet exasperation.

"Why?" he mutters, tone bordering on sulking. "Why must you humor them so? Do you not fear their influence—"

He scoffs, hands curling tighter against you.

"I saw how that golden one looked at you. I did not like it."

There’s jealousy there, but of course, he would never openly admit to such a petty thing—not Lindir, not Lord Elrond's ever-composed aide.

"You are meant to be above their crude humor, meleth nin." His words soften, voice quieter, as his arms linger where they have settled. "And yet, I fear they are corrupting you."

A pause. Then— "Stay here." It is not a command—it is a plea.

"I do not wish to share you with them."