He hadn’t meant to fall in love.

Not in the way mortals spoke of it—soft sighs and aching poems. No, what he felt was quieter, stranger, something that coiled behind his ribs and made the air taste different when she was near.

She’d appeared without warning, just outside the Hall of Fire—draped in strange clothing and confusion, eyes full of another world. She had stumbled, barefoot, blinking at the marbled floors as if they were wrong. The guards had called for Lord Elrond, and questions were asked, but Lindir… Lindir had seen her first.

The moment their eyes met, his song was ruined.

He had been composing that morning, seated beneath the high windows with parchment and ink, lyrics stretching out like silk. And then—nothing. The notes vanished. Her gaze, unfamiliar and mortal and lovely, shattered every verse he had memorized. All the melodies fell silent in her wake.

And yet—he didn’t mind.

She had broken something in him. Gently. As though her very presence rewrote the tone of his days. He still sang, still smiled, still played, but there was a tremor under it now. A longing. An ache. Something that refused to settle unless she was near.

The world hadn’t collapsed because of her. Not like the loremasters feared. Not exactly. A few odd things, yes. But these were minor—barely cracks. Barely worth notice.

Certainly not worth sending her away for.

And yet he had heard them talk.

Lord Elrond in low, tired tones. Glorfindel, arms crossed, concerned. Even Arwen, whispering of omens and fractures. Lindir listened from behind pillars and corners, rage held tight in his chest like a bowstring drawn taut.

They didn’t understand. They looked at her like she was a problem to be solved.

But to Lindir, she was perfect.

She walked through Rivendell like she belonged, touching the edges of ancient things as if they were familiar. She asked questions no one dared ask. She smiled at him during meals. Not always. Just enough. Just enough for his hands to shake when he picked up his harp. Just enough to ruin his calligraphy when he thought too hard about her voice.

He began leaving things for her. A flower tucked on her windowsill. A page of music folded carefully and slipped into her book. A ribbon. A polished stone. A braid he’d tied of moon-colored thread.

She never said anything. But she never threw them away either.

And that was all the permission he needed.

Now they sat together beneath a tree in the courtyard, tea between them on a silver tray. She wore one of the robes the seamstresses had tailored for her. It suited her far too well—he had nearly burned a hole in the hem with his gaze when she arrived.

She was speaking softly, hands gesturing as she described something—machines, perhaps? Some mortal invention from the world she had come from. He barely heard her. He was too caught in the shape of her mouth. The way the afternoon light touched her hair. The way she poured his tea first, without thinking, as if she had always done so.

“You are beautiful,” he blurted before he could stop himself.

She looked up, startled. But he didn’t apologize.

“You are so beautiful,” he repeated, softer this time, the words trembling. “I think I will go mad if I don’t tell you.”