PROMPT: "Is that my shirt?"

He's just managed to curl himself comfortably around Lothiriel, pressing his nose into her sweet-smelling hair. She gives a contented sigh, likely as pleasantly drowsy and sated as he is-or at least Eomer hopes so.

"Mm," she hums, "this is nice."

"Just nice?" Eomer asks, playfully nipping at the shell of her ear.

"Very nice," Lothiriel corrects.

And it is-this is the first time they've dared stayed in the same room during the weird-but-nice family and friends vacation Aragorn and Arwen have put together. No one, except maybe Faramir, who always seems to know everything, suspects that they're a couple. They both prefer it that way, at least for now.

Though it does, obviously, make the urge to kiss casually or hold hands or do any of the things they normally would when not surrounded by their meddling friends somewhat inconvenient. But right now, in the dark, cool pleasantness of Lothiriel's room, there's no need for secrecy. So Eomer presses another sleepy kiss to Lothiriel's shoulder. She sighs again, threading her fingers through his.

"Good night," she murmurs, voice gone soft and thick with tiredness.

"Night, sweetheart," he answers.

Lothiriel's breathing evens out fairly quickly. Eomer smiles to himself; he's never known anyone else who can slip into sleep as easily as her.

He's nearly asleep himself when a sudden beeping erupts from the direction of the kitchen.

No, Eomer thinks, surely not.

It surely is, because the beeping is abruptly accompanied by loud-and impressive-cursing in Sindarin. And in-in Rohirric, in a distinctly familiar, female voice.

"WAKE UP!" Cries Amrothos. "EOWYN'S GONE AND SET THE KITCHEN ON FIRE!"

Groaning, Eomer untangles himself from Lothiriel, who is blinking herself awake, looking adorably confused.

"I think our siblings might have just lost Aragorn the deposit on the house," he grumbles, pulling on his pajama bottoms and groping around for his grey t-shirt. Lothiriel plucks it off the lamp nearest her with a sheepish grin and passes it over.

"That's unfortunate," she agrees, shimmying into her own pajama bottoms and shirt. "Should I go first or…?"

"I don't think they'll notice where we're coming from in the chaos," Eomer says.

He's right-every light in the house has been flipped on while they got dressed, and the sound of voices has reached a new, frantic pitch. Aragorn has found the fire extinguisher, it would seem, and he and Boromir have bravely attacked what resembles a formerly frozen pizza, charred to oblivion on a baking tray.

"Oh, Eowyn," he groans.

"It was not," his sister hisses, sticking her finger in his face, "me."

"Oh, yes, blame the man with third degree burns instead," whines Amrothos, "very chivalrous of you, Eowyn-"

"You have a first degree burn, at worst," Lothiriel says, inspecting the pink skin of her brother's hand with exasperation. "And I have no doubt it was you behind this, Am."

"Betrayed by my own sister!" He cries, dramatic as ever. "How shall I stomach this pain?"

"By opening the windows to let some fresh air in," Theodred suggests, rubbing at his eyes wearily. "Bema above, this was supposed to be a nice, relaxing vacation-"

"What's a vacation with this lot without trouble?" Boromir asks, slinging an arm around his boyfriend's shoulders. "Anyways, I think we got the worst of the damage contained."

"Don't be so sure about that," Eomer says. "I haven't spotted Arwen yet. I'm sure she'll have something to say about this late night cooking adventure."

Amrothos pales as the rest of the room chuckles. Eowyn scowls at him, lifting her finger again to jab him in the chest, before blinking-almost comically-in surprise. "Eomer," she says, slowly, "what on Earth are you wearing?"

It's Eomer's turn to blink as eight pairs of eyes turn to him. He looks down, expecting to see the familiar, faded Rohan United lettering of his favorite t-shirt, but instead-

"Is...is that my shirt?" Lothiriel asks in a horrified whisper.

Well, he certainly doesn't recall buying any crop tops, let alone one that has two middle fingers reading boy, bye on them.

Everyone's eyes are darting back and forth between them, like some demented game of tennis.

"Why would Eomer being wearing your shirt, Loth?" Boromir asks.

Eomer cycles through a number of excuses: a mix up with laundry, he'd accidentally grabbed the wrong one from one of the beach bags, he'd suddenly acquired a taste for crop tops-

"Oh for-they're dating," groans Faramir. "They've been dating for months now and doing an admirable job of keeping it from us. Though," at this, he offers Eomer a truly terrifying smile, "I would love to hear how you were going to explain this away."

"I-"

"We-"

The room dissolves into chatter-Eowyn is occupied with punching his arm, put out about being kept in the dark, Amrothos is groaning loud enough to rattle the walls about his baby sister not trusting him, while Aragorn, Boromir, and Theodred shuffle a was of bills around, grinning widely.

Arwen appears, suddenly, in the doorway of the hallway. She's six months pregnant, terrifyingly beautiful even half-awake, and clearly irritated about having to get out of bed.

Aragorn's smug smirk morphs into a look of guilt rather rapidly. "Ah. We-we solved the problem, melamin, I promise-"

"Good," she says, softening a little at her husband's obvious concern, "that means we can all go back to bed."

Everyone shuffles off rather quickly after that, the ruined pizza banished outside along with most of the burnt smell. Eowyn shoots him a look as they trek down the hall that implies they will be having a very long discussion in the morning. Faramir offers him a wry wink, gently pushing his wife into their room. Lothiriel is still flushed, bright pink, and hides her face away into his chest as soon as he's shut the door behind them.

"Well, that was mortifying," she mutters.

Eomer chuckles. "They were going to find out eventually."

"True," she agrees, tipping her head back to meet his eyes. Her hands are very, very warm on his lower back and he has to swallow, thickly, when she drags a fingernail along his spine. "And there's the added bonus of discovering that you look very, very good in a crop top-"

Eomer's not sure he agrees, but can't bring himself to mind that she thinks so, really.

("This is going to become a thing, isn't it," Amrothos says grumpily on the beach next day.

"Oh, I do hope so," Lothiriel says, her hand in Eomer's and one shoulder bared by the over-large neck of his Rohan United shirt.

"I hope you get terrible tan lines," he informs Eomer.

Eomer shrugs, pressing a kiss to the back of Lothiriel's hand and settling more comfortably into the sand. If nothing else, a crop top was proving to provide cover for the evidence of Lothiriel's...enthusiastic appreciation for it on his shoulders.)