The storm raged outside, the wind howling through the dense trees as rain pounded against the earth. The two of you had barely made it to shelter in time—a small, half-collapsed ruin tucked away in the forest, its broken walls offering just enough protection from the storm.

You sat against the cold stone, your arms wrapped tightly around yourself as you tried to suppress a shiver. The fire Aragorn had managed to start flickered weakly, struggling against the damp air.

Without a word, he shrugged off his cloak and draped it over your shoulders. The heavy fabric was still warm from his body, carrying the scent of the wild—the earth, the trees, the lingering trace of smoke from a dozen past fires.

“You are shivering,” he said simply, settling beside you.

You exhaled, curling deeper into the cloak. “And you are always looking after everyone but yourself.”

His lips curved slightly, though his gaze remained unreadable in the firelight. “Perhaps I am simply looking after what matters most.”

Your heart stuttered at that, your fingers tightening around the cloak. Aragorn was not a man who wasted words. Every syllable carried weight, each one chosen with purpose. And this—this felt like more than a passing remark.

You turned your head, watching the firelight dance across his face. He looked exhausted, his shoulders tense even in rest. The weight of the world sat heavy on him, the burden of duty, of destiny. And yet here he was, thinking of you first.