The round green door of Bag End stood open, lanternlight spilling across the neatly kept garden as voices rumbled from within. Laughter—deep, dwarven, unrestrained—mingled with the faint clink of tankards and plates. The smell of fresh bread and pipe smoke drifted into the cool evening air.

You stood just behind Thorin Oakenshield, boots dusted from travel, cloak still damp from the road. The journey from Bree had not been short, but you had kept pace without complaint. A human among dwarves was rare enough. A human personally recruited by Gandalf was rarer still.

Inside, chaos reigned.

Plates stacked themselves in precarious towers, dwarves argued loudly over ale, and at the center of it all stood a flustered Bilbo Baggins, clutching a dish towel like a white flag of surrender.

The moment Thorin stepped through the doorway, the room shifted. Conversations quieted. Backs straightened. Even the fire seemed to hush its crackling.

“And this,” Gandalf announced smoothly, stepping aside to reveal you fully in the doorway, “is the final addition to our company.”

Every pair of eyes turned your way.

You did not bow.

You simply stepped forward, shoulders squared, chin high. The lanternlight caught the curve of the bow slung across your back and the twin daggers at your hips. Your gaze moved calmly across the room, assessing. Measuring.

A low whistle broke the silence.

It came from the far end of the table where a dark-haired dwarf leaned back in his chair, boot propped casually on a rung. His eyes—bright, sharp, curious—were fixed entirely on you.

Kíli.

“Well now,” he murmured, nudging his brother beside him, “Gandalf does have excellent taste.”

His brother snorted, but Kíli was already on his feet.

He moved with an ease uncommon among dwarves—light on his steps, almost feline. As he approached, his grin spread, warm and unapologetic.

“A human?” he said, stopping a respectful distance away, though his gaze lingered boldly. “And one who carries a bow. I was beginning to think I would be the only marksman worth speaking of.”

You raised a brow. “Are you?”

A few dwarves chuckled. Kíli’s grin widened.

“I am,” he said confidently. “But I am always open to competition.”

Thorin cleared his throat sharply, though there was the faintest glimmer of approval in his eyes. “She comes highly recommended. Skilled in hand-to-hand combat. Precise with a blade. Deadlier with a bow.”

Kíli’s expression shifted—less teasing now, more impressed. He looked at you again, this time not as novelty, but as equal.

“Deadlier than me?” he asked lightly.

You met his gaze without hesitation. “Would you like to test that theory?”

The air between you sparked—challenge, amusement, something warmer beneath it.

From the fireplace, Gandalf smiled into his beard.

Kíli stepped closer—not enough to crowd you, but enough that you could see the flecks of gold in his eyes. “I would,” he admitted softly. “Though I should warn you… I do not lose.”

A smirk tugged at your lips. “Neither do I.”

For a heartbeat, neither of you looked away.

Around you, the noise of the company resumed, tankards lifting, conversation rising once more—but Kíli remained exactly where he was, entirely captivated.

“Well,” he said at last, offering a small, dramatic bow, “if we are to reclaim a mountain together, I suppose I should know the name of the warrior who intends to outshoot me.”

The firelight flickered across his face, catching the admiration he made no effort to hide.

And just like that, before the quest had even begun, one dwarf in the Company was utterly, hopelessly smitten.