Minas Tirith basked in soft golden light as the wedding of the King drew near. The streets buzzed with celebration, banners of white and silver fluttered from high towers, and citizens murmured in excitement about the queen-to-be—you. But if anyone had truly paid attention to the halls of the citadel, they might have noticed something else entirely: the future King of Gondor had become utterly, hopelessly clingy.

You could barely take a step without hearing his voice.

“My love,” Aragorn said as you tried to leave the garden, his fingers brushing against yours. “You have barely looked at me all morning.”

“I was gone for five minutes, Estel,” you replied with a small laugh. “To speak with the seamstress.”

“And every moment without you felt longer than the war.”

You tried not to roll your eyes as he laced your fingers together, refusing to let go. His stubble brushed your temple as he kissed it. “Tell me again,” he murmured. “Why you said yes.”

Ever since the wedding was announced, he’d become a shadow at your side. He followed you through corridors, insisted on sitting beside you during every council, and pulled you into every spare alcove to steal a kiss. Guards exchanged amused looks.

But beneath his teasing words and constant affection, there was something deeper—a quiet, aching yearning that lingered in the way he touched you, as if still convincing himself this was real. As if some part of him feared it would be taken away.