The candle burned low beside you, casting a small golden halo over the scattered pages and worn leather-bound notebook resting against your knees. The sheets were bunched around your legs, cool against your skin, and the silence of the night wrapped itself around the room like a blanket of its own—deep, still, comforting.

You were curled up on Aragorn’s side of the bed, knees tucked beneath you, quill in hand and brow furrowed in quiet concentration. The fire had long since burned down to embers, but you hadn’t noticed. Your voice was a whisper, barely audible, more breath than sound as you mouthed the words written in neat, slanted Elvish script.

"Tolo, melamin... Tolo dan nan galad..." you murmured, then paused, frowning slightly. "Dan... nan... gala—galadh?”

You shook your head, erased the last two words, and tried again. It was a small habit, this. A secret sort of determination. You’d started practicing Elvish weeks ago—just a word here, a phrase there—softly to yourself when the nights were quiet and you thought no one was listening. You wanted to learn, not because anyone had asked you to, but because you wanted to speak to him in the language of his youth. You wanted to surprise him. To match the weight of his poetry with something that was truly yours.

You were halfway through mumbling another line when a deep, quiet voice spoke just over your shoulder.

“Galad,” Aragorn said gently, “not galadh. The dh is softer, almost like a breath.”

You flinched so hard your quill nearly flew across the room.

He was standing there, by the edge of the bed, half in shadow. Barefoot, hair damp from the night air, sleeves rolled to his forearms. And wearing that look—equal parts amused, touched, and entirely too smug for a man who had clearly been listening longer than he should have.