The fire crackles warmly, filling the chamber with soft golden light. It dances across stone walls, casting shifting shadows—but none of it holds a candle to the sight before you.

Dwalin, the warrior—the fierce, battle-hardened protector—reduced to nothing more than a devoted Adad, utterly lost to the small bundle curled against his chest.

"She’s fine right where she is," he mutters, adjusting his hold, large hands cradling his daughter’s tiny form like she’s made of the most fragile glass.

Her small fingers curl around his own, gripping tight, tugging on them playfully, testing their strength against his massive hands. He lets her—lets her pull, lets her squeeze, lets her own him completely.

"You’re strong, aren’t you, love?" he rumbles, letting her fingers press against his palm as if proving something. "Stronger than me, I’d wager."

The girl giggles, delighted, grabbing at his beard, tiny hands tangling themselves in the thick braids. Dwalin lets out a dramatic sigh, though the way he smiles—soft, utterly wrecked—betrays him.

"Aye, go on then," he grumbles, already accepting his fate. "Make a mess of it. I won’t stop you."

You shift slightly, watching, waiting—perhaps for the chance to finally steal your own child from him for a moment.

"No." Dwalin says it before you even move, drawing her closer, holding her tighter—his own little shield, his own little warmth.

"Mine," he adds, gruff, utterly shameless. Then—his lips twitch, amusement flickering across his face.

"Fine, ours," he concedes. "But right now, she’s mine."