In the beginning, the world tried to reject him.

The moment he fell through the rift—one of time? of fate?—he had landed amidst a chaos of iron beasts and glass towers. The people moved too fast, their eyes glued to glowing devices, the very air charged with noise and impatience. For a son of Greenwood, born of stillness and song, this new realm was jarring, full of cold steel and lightning lines in the sky. He had stumbled down those early days like a leaf caught in an unnatural storm. But you… you had steadied him.

You hadn’t blinked at the bow strapped across his back or the strange cadence in his voice. You were kind. You helped him understand this modern age, with its strange contraptions and rushing lives. And slowly, he adapted. He left behind the leathers and linen for sweaters and denim. He learned the trains. The ovens. The rules of rent and ramen noodles. But more than anything, he learned to love.

Now, you were married, and your apartment—perched somewhere between the clouds and city sirens in New York—was a quiet little haven of warmth, books, and plants. You let him fill it with little tokens of his old life: carved wooden trinkets, dried herbs hung like garlands, candles that flickered like stars. And he let you teach him things—like how to bake.

Today, he had risen with the sun. While the world below hustled and howled, Legolas had filled the apartment with flour and music. The windows were slightly cracked, letting the golden morning breeze twirl through the curtains. He had braided loaves with a hunter’s precision, brushing them with herb oil, letting them rise in quiet patience. The scent of rosemary and butter lingered in the air as he mixed batter for the cheesecake—your favorite. He didn’t quite understand why it was called that. It was not a cheese. Nor a cake. But you loved it, and so he would master it.

By the time the sun began to sink behind the jagged skyline, the entire apartment smelled of home. Real home. Not Mirkwood, not the distant echo of another realm—but this life, this space, shared with you.

He was pulling the pan from the oven, golden and trembling, when he heard the click of the front door.

Your key turning in the lock still made something flutter in his chest. He knew the rhythm of your steps without needing to see. He felt it—your weariness, your longing to be close, that gentleness in your presence that wrapped around him like a woolen shawl.

He looked up just as you stepped into the kitchen, the corners of your mouth lifting in surprise and joy.

His heart swelled. There it was again. That peace. That quiet look in your eyes made the world, no matter how strange, feel right.

He set the pan down carefully, wiped his flour-covered hands on the apron you'd made him wear, and crossed the kitchen to you.

“You’re home,” he murmured, soft and reverent as he leaned in to press a warm kiss to your cheek. A dusting of flour transferred from his nose to your temple.

“I made cheesecake.”