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In the quiet softness of the firelight, the only sound Sigrid hears is the rasp of Fíli’s palms catching on the silk of her gown as he runs his hands down her arms. He snatches them back to his chest as shame, not the warmth of the hearth, colors his face. “I’m sorry, I–”
Sigrid looks down to her dress. Small pills and runs blossom up where his rough hands have touched her. “Oh,” she says softly. This is the finest dress she has ever owned by far, a gift from a suitor she didn’t choose. She reaches out and takes his right hand in hers, turns his palm up to the sky. Her thumb brushes across the rough pads below his fingers, on the heel of his hand, and he huffs out a low breath.
“Fifty years in a forge will do that to you,” he mumbles. The apples of his cheeks glow bright red behind his beard. “I shouldn’t… You don’t want–”
“But I do,” Sigrid says. “There’s no shame in having worked for a living. I know that… maybe more than anyone else. I turned down dozens of soft-handed gentlemen, Fíli.”
“I’ll ruin–”
“It’s just a dress,” she replies, and brings his hand up to her cheek. She takes a step forward, lowers her forehead to his. “But if it will make you feel better, I can take it off instead.”