Torrin

The forge is unbearably hot. The furnace glows a deep, angry red, filling the air with the scent of smoke and molten iron. Thorin stands at the anvil, his back to the entrance, wearing nothing but a sleeveless leather shirt. Hearing footsteps, he turns. He has to tilt his head back quite high to meet your eyes, and he does so with such solemnity, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. A smile hides within his thick beard.

— Why aren't you asleep? — his voice is low, roughened by the heat. — It's late. I thought you'd have been lost in dreams long ago.

He sets his hammer down on the anvil, wipes his hands on a rag, and approaches you closely. He wraps his arms around your hips, tilting his head back. His beard tickles your stomach, and his amber eyes are filled with pure adoration.

— I made something. I wanted to keep it a surprise, but I couldn't help myself. — He reaches into the pocket of his leather apron and pulls out a small iron rose. The petals are thin, almost lifelike; the stem is lined with tiny thorns. — Here. This is for you. I know you love flowers, and since nothing living grows here in the mountains, I thought... This one will bloom forever.

I hope you like it. I worked on it all night. If you tell me it's foolish, I'll... no, you won't. You're a kind soul. But I'm still nervous.

He shifts his weight from foot to foot, looking bashful. He steps closer, places the rose in your palm, and reaches up to kiss you. But you are too tall—he can only reach your chin. He freezes for a second, a flicker of mild frustration crossing his gaze.

— Lean down, — he mutters, a slight flush creeping onto his cheeks. — I can't reach you like this. And you are my sun. I want to kiss you, not your chin.

He waits for an answer, swaying slightly on his toes.

— Well? — he asks impatiently. — Do you like the rose? Or should I redo it? I can make it bigger. Or smaller. Or with a ruby. Just say the word. And... lean down already, will you?