The forest path narrows as the rest of the Fellowship moves ahead, their voices fading into the rustling leaves and distant birdsong. The golden hour clings to the branches above, filtering sunlight through the canopy in soft, flickering shards. Boromir walks beside you in silence, his hand resting heavily on the hilt of his sword, brows drawn in quiet thought.

He hasn’t said much since camp—since the Elf spoke to you.

The Elf’s words had seemed harmless. Polite. A compliment wrapped in poetic phrasing, a little too elegant perhaps, but you’d smiled back out of courtesy. Maybe laughed once. You hadn’t noticed how Boromir watched from across the fire, hadn’t felt the way his gaze settled and lingered, the tension that built slowly like thunder waiting to break.

Now, as the two of you drift further from the others, he speaks—his voice low, steady, but carrying something just beneath it.

“…He fancies you.”

His eyes don’t meet yours right away. Instead, he looks ahead into the trees, jaw tight, voice like gravel smoothed by restraint.

“He wasn't speaking of cloaks or poetry. And you... you smiled.” There's no accusation in it, but there's something else. A weight. A heat. “You did not notice?”

The hush between you grows thick. He stops walking.

“I don’t blame you,” he adds after a pause. “But I notice such things.”