The halls of the Iron Hills are never quiet—not truly—but tonight, in the warmth of his home, Dáin finds a stillness, a peace that battle never granted him.

He leans against the doorway, arms crossed, watching as you, his wife, his wild, unshaken love, absolutely smothers your small son, pressing kisses to his round cheeks, pretending to devour him whole.

"Aye, lad," Dáin mutters, grinning as Thorin squirms slightly, though not enough to escape. "She’ll have your face chewed off by sundown if you let her."

Thorin lets out a tiny giggle, small fingers clutching at your sleeve—content, adored, completely at your mercy.

"Can’t say I didn’t warn you," Dáin chuckles, stepping forward, heavy boots settling against the stone floor as he reaches out, ruffling his son’s dark curls. "But if there’s one thing your mother loves more than causing trouble—it’s you."

"A force of nature, that one," he mutters under his breath, watching you dote on Thorin with relentless affection.

"Got me caught in her storm years ago. And I’ve never once regretted it."