The unforgiving words murmured into his hair when he leans close - "Whose fault is that, exactly?" if he misses her - are decidedly at odds with the way she laces her fingers through the hand that takes hers, claims his space as her own and breathes out like it's something she's been holding. In the past few years they've been apart more than they haven't been, and it is a little bit harder every time. A little bit harder every time someone falls and she's selfishly glad it wasn't her, it wasn't him; every time she isn't sure it won't be, the next.

The long silences, the distance. The both of them deciding where to stand, and not budging.

And it can't be set aside forever, so, when she straightens and nudges Hardie closer to the bench to keep out of passing foot traffic:

"What are you doing here, Thranduil?" because as much as she might like it to be to see you, my lady, it won't be. The resignation to that is as evident as it is apparent she really does want to know what's going on.