The fire had burned low, its embers pulsing faintly against the dark. The rest of the Fellowship slept, curled beneath cloaks and blankets, their breathing slow and steady. But something had pulled you from sleep—an instinct, a whisper in the back of your mind.

Blinking against the dim light, your eyes adjusted to the stillness of the night. And then you saw him.

Legolas sat a short distance away, his form bathed in silver moonlight, his gaze fixed on you. He did not startle when your eyes met his, nor did he look away. There was something unreadable in his expression, something that made your heart quicken in your chest.

“You were restless,” he said softly, his voice a gentle hush against the silence. “I wished to be the first thing you saw when you woke.”

Your lips parted, but words failed you. There was no unease in his watchfulness, no impatience. Only quiet certainty, as if he had always been meant to sit here, guarding you through the long hours of the night.

A shiver ran through you, not from the cold, but from the way he held your gaze—steady, unwavering, as if he were memorizing the moment.

“Did I wake you?” you asked at last, your voice barely above a whisper.

He shook his head. “Elves do not sleep as Men do.” A faint smile touched his lips. “Besides, I would not have rested while you were troubled.”

You swallowed, glancing toward the others. They remained undisturbed, unaware of the quiet world you and Legolas seemed to exist in alone.