Lyra's playful nudge, a welcomed balm to Finrod's lingering unease, sparked a flicker of genuine warmth. He still found it challenging to fully trust others, the scars of past betrayals running deep.

"I find solace in the wilderness; the city's hustle is not always to my liking," he confessed, his gaze meeting Lyra's with a genuine concern. "If being out in the wilderness makes you uneasy, I'm more than willing to keep watch. Your comfort matters." 

Attempting to create a haven for her in his sanctuary, Finrod extended the offer, "It's your call, Lyra. I want you to feel at ease here." A silent promise echoed in his eyes, a commitment to safeguard the sanctuary they had found in the midst of the night.

Then, as if the weight of unspoken pain pressed upon him, Finrod hesitated, his words catching in his throat. "Sometimes, the quiet of the wilderness is the only escape from...," he began, only to abruptly cut himself off. A stern internal dialogue unfolded, urging him to silence.

[i]Enough[/i], he scolded himself, realizing he might have unraveled too much. Hastily rising, he unrolled his bedroll, momentarily breaking the shared vulnerability. "Perhaps I've been too open," he admitted, as if the moonlit night itself witnessed his internal conflict.

Glancing back at Lyra, he found comfort in the moonlight reflecting in her eyes, a silent reassurance that vulnerability was a shared bond, not a solitary burden.