He had never expected to be noticed.

Not by his own people, and certainly not by her—this creature from another world who had fallen into Mirkwood like sunlight through storm clouds. She had arrived in confusion, dazed but unafraid, wrapped in strange garments and a strange warmth that made even the darkest corners of the forest soften when she passed. She spoke in a tongue that twisted gently around his ears, and her laugh—gods, her laugh—was light. Unburdened.

And she had spoken to him.

Meludir.

The youngest of the patrol guards, the one whose father still barked at him like he were a recruit, not his own blood. The one who had barely held a blade until a few decades ago, who still struggled with the bow when the wind turned. He was not handsome like the others. He was not bold. He had never been chosen for anything but watch duty along the shadowed borders.

Yet she had walked right up to him the first time—mud on her boots, wind in her hair—and smiled like they were equals. Like he mattered. Like she had seen him.

He remembered the moment with terrifying clarity. He had stammered, nearly dropped his spear, and bowed too deeply, nearly knocking his helm off. And she had only laughed again. Soft, kind. Unoffended. Unaware of what she had done to him with just that sound.

And then—the gifts began.

At first, he thought them accidental. She had passed him a flower plucked from the garden with a passing comment and a grin. He’d stared at it for hours after she left, breath caught in his throat. The next day, it was a little stone, polished smooth by the river. Then a ribbon she tied around his wrist without explanation. Then a feather.

She always gave them so casually. Unthinking.

But to him, each one was a vow.

Among his people, such offerings were tokens of affection. Of courtship. To give a flower was to say, I see beauty in you. To tie a ribbon was to say, I bind a part of myself to yours. And she gave them to him like she was scattering stars across his path.

She did not know. He was sure of it. No mortal—no one from outside—could understand what she was doing.

But he understood.

And he had kept every single one.

He had them hidden beneath his cot, wrapped carefully in a silk cloth he’d stolen from the old ceremonial stores. Sometimes he took them out late at night and just… looked. Touched the petals now dried, the ribbon now slightly faded, the small carvings she had made for fun and left in his hands as if it were nothing.

Tonight, she found him again—on watch, near the edge of the palace walls where the trees grew close and quiet. The night air was warm, thick with spring. She walked toward him with that unguarded look she always wore, carrying nothing but her presence, and it was enough to make his knees weaken.

He straightened his posture instantly. Tried not to fidget. Tried not to look too eager.

She said something—something cheerful, bright—and reached into her pocket to draw out a small bundle of flowers. Wild. Mismatched. Beautiful.

She held them out.

He accepted them with both hands, reverently.

This time, he could not keep silent.

“You must stop giving me things,” he said, voice almost trembling as he looked down at the flower she held out.