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Summary
Elowyn has always thought March was pretty.
He would hate her for saying it, would scowl despite the blush spreading across his cheeks and tell her to call him something else. But he is. March is pretty when he stands at the anvil with his brow furrowed in concentration, skin sheen-damp, the muscles in his forearms shifting as he turns stubborn metal into something better and stronger than it was before. Pretty when a strand of that hair falls into his eyes and he impatiently shoves it back with the back of one wrist, leaving a faint smear of soot across his forehead without noticing. Pretty in those rare, unguarded moments when affection catches him off guard—when she says something soft and his ears go pink and he looks away as if the nearest wall has suddenly become fascinated. Prettiest of all, she used to believe, on the rare and special occasions when he laughs fully, the sound bright and startled and almost boyish, like it has escaped before he could stop it.
But none of that compares to this.
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The farmer makes March sob and whine into his pillow. That's it, that's the fic.