Disclaimer: Tolkien's the genius, not me.
As Nerdanel examined bolts of brightly colored cloth in Tirion’s crowded market, she felt an unmistakably familiar presence at her back, and the lightest brush of fingers against her shoulder. “The green will match your eyes.” She spun, but Fëanáro was already stepping away. He glanced over his shoulder once, laughter in his own eyes, grey as thunderclouds. Or perhaps steel.
She turned away again, cheeks burning and determined not to choose the green cloth. Just because his glance put butterflies in her stomach…
Except now she couldn’t stop glancing at it. Finally, with a sigh, she picked it up.