The night is still, save for the distant crackle of the campfire and the hushed whispers of the wind through the trees. The others have settled into uneasy rest, exhaustion pulling them into sleep, but you remain awake, your thoughts too restless to allow such peace. You stand at the edge of the clearing, looking up at the sky, where the stars burn bright and unyielding, untouched by the chaos of the world below.

A presence approaches—silent, sure-footed. You do not need to turn to know who it is.

“You should be resting,” Aragorn murmurs, voice low and steady.

You glance at him, a small smile playing at your lips. “And yet, here I stand.”

He watches you for a long moment, something unreadable flickering in his gaze. Then, without a word, he lifts a hand, offering it to you.

Your brows lift in amusement. “And what is this?”

“A dance,” he replies simply.

You huff a quiet laugh. “There is no music.”

Aragorn’s lips twitch in the faintest of smiles. “Then we shall create our own.”

Hesitation lingers for only a heartbeat before you slip your hand into his. His fingers curl around yours, warm and certain, and he draws you closer with an ease that leaves no room for second thoughts.

His steps are sure, guiding you effortlessly across the forest floor, the movement slow and unhurried. The world beyond the trees fades into something distant, something unimportant.

You barely notice how close he holds you—until you do.

His hand rests firm against the small of your back, his touch grounding yet impossibly gentle. His other hand remains wrapped around yours, fingers warm and calloused from years of wielding a sword, yet now they cradle your own as if you are something fragile.

“Do you do this often?” you tease, your voice softer now, something fragile threading through it. “Stealing dances in the dead of night?”

Aragorn exhales a quiet chuckle, the sound barely there. “Only when the company is right.”