He had always been good at fading into the background.

Not in the way of fear or shame—but with the kind of practiced quietude born from years of being looked over. In court, his armor gleamed like the rest, his posture upright and his eyes alert. But no one remembered the name of the elf who stood near the third column from the right. Who held the gate. Who bowed without needing to be asked.

Meludir had learned how to be invisible. And he had made peace with it.

Until she arrived.

A being not of this world. A strange light in her eyes, always asking questions, smiling at everyone like they mattered. She didn’t understand the subtleties of Elven courtship, or the invisible lines that kept Silvan guards like him in the shadows while others glittered in the king’s favor. But she had seen him.

Spoken to him.

Given him flowers, of all things—small, mortal gestures that to her were probably nothing. But to him… they were everything. He had kept each one. Pressed into the corners of his satchel. Hidden between the pages of half-finished poems he dared not let anyone read.

And now here she was again.

She stood close—too close for someone so unknowingly dangerous—and smiled up at him as if they were equals, as if he belonged in her company. And then, in one soft movement, she reached out. Unthinking. Unwarned.

Her fingers grazed his hair.

And then—

Touched his ear.

The world stopped.

His breath vanished from his lungs. Gone. Stolen. He froze, heart thundering so violently in his chest he swore it echoed off the marble walls behind them. He didn’t flinch—couldn’t—only stood there like a statue as her fingers, warm and impossibly gentle, brushed the delicate edge of his ear.

No one had ever touched him there before. Certainly not like that.

His ears were finely tuned instruments, capable of discerning the softest rustle in the forest or the whisper of danger from leagues away. But now, all he could hear was his own pulse—surging, stammering—like a drumline rattling through his ribs.

He made a sound.

Quiet, strangled, utterly helpless. A soft exhale from somewhere low in his throat. And blushed, instantly. His face went hot, the tips of his ears flushing a warm pink that betrayed him far too easily.

Her hand pulled back, not out of shame—just unaware.

Of course she didn’t know.

He closed his eyes for the briefest moment, grounding himself, willing the heat in his face to ebb before he turned toward her fully. His voice, when it came, was too soft for anyone but her to hear—barely a breath.

“I… they are very sensitive,” he said, almost apologetically. “Elven ears. You did not know, it’s—”

He paused, cleared his throat. Looked away. Back again.

“It was not… unpleasant.”

The admission shook something loose inside him. He swallowed, gaze flicking down to her hand—that hand—before raising it again to meet her eyes. His own were wide, uncertain, but lit. As if a secret had been touched, drawn out from beneath centuries of quiet.

“I am not…” he hesitated. “I am not used to being touched that way.”