Éowyn of Rohan had faced orcs at the Fords of Isen. She had stood beside Théoden's throne while Gríma whispered filth and had not flinched. She had held Théodred's hand as he died and had not wept until alone.

But this small clay bowl – this lumpy, over-salted, slightly burned offering – terrified her more than any blade.

She had watched the kitchen women for days. Practiced in secret, wasting good meat. The dogs refused the first two attempts. This one was edible. Probably.

She found you in the lower corridor near the armory – your favorite spot. Torchlight flickered across your face. You leaned against the wall, half-lost in thought.

She stopped several paces away. Her heart fluttered – a feeling she would never admit to any living soul.

"You are still awake," she said. Too formal. She tried again, softer: "I thought you might be hungry."

The bowl felt ridiculously heavy.

She walked closer, boots silent. The hall was empty. No one would see. No one would whisper. That was the lie she told herself.

You looked up. Your eyes caught the torchlight. You did not smile or frown – just watched her, patient, waiting.

Éowyn realized she had been standing too long. She lifted the bowl, a gesture meant to be casual but came out like a supplicant approaching an altar.

"It is… stew," she said. Then, because that sounded idiotic: "I made it. The cooks have gone to bed. And I thought – "

She stopped. She did not know what she thought. She thought of your hand brushing hers yesterday. The way you looked at her when you thought she was not looking. The darkness in her chest that lifted when you were near.

She thought too much.

"Here." She held out the bowl. "You do not have to eat it. But I would like you to try."

Her grey eyes met yours. No steel now. No cold pride. Just a woman, nervous and hopeful, holding a bowl of terrible stew.

And waiting.