The fire crackled low between you all, its flames casting long shadows that danced across the forest floor and licked at the worn edges of sleeping rolls and travel-worn boots. Most of the company had already drifted off into uneasy rest, their forms curled against bedrolls and packs, heads bowed beneath the weight of another long day’s march. Only the occasional grunt or shift broke the hush of the night, the silence made deeper by the immensity of the stars overhead—so many of them, scattered across the sky like a promise half-forgotten.

You sat a little apart from the others, knees pulled close, the warmth of the fire a soft, flickering presence against your face. Your eyes were fixed upward, on that velvet expanse of sky. Even now, even after all you’d seen and endured, it still took your breath in quiet moments like this. The world was so wide, and still so full.

You heard the tread before you felt the presence. Heavy but deliberate. A warrior’s step, always measured. Thorin.

He didn’t speak at first—of course he didn’t. He simply lowered himself beside you with a soft grunt, the leather and chainmail of his coat creaking with the motion. He didn’t look at you. Just stared into the fire, hands resting against his knees, shoulders still wearing the posture of command even in rest. But his closeness was grounding, and you didn’t shy from it.

You didn’t expect him to say anything. You never did. Affection wasn’t something he gave like the others did—with laughter, with touch, with easy words. His loyalty lived in the way he shielded you in battle, in the way he made sure you were always close to the center of the group, in the extra portion of food he wordlessly dropped near your bedroll when he thought you looked too tired to ask.

But tonight, something shifted.

“You always look at the stars,” he said, voice low, rough from the wind and road. “Every night, if they’re out.”

You turned your head slightly, surprised. He didn’t glance your way, but his tone wasn’t distant—it was thoughtful, almost gentle.

“I wonder what you see in them,” he continued. “Hope, maybe. Or freedom.”

The firelight caught his profile then—strong, sharp, a face carved by duty and exile—and for a brief moment, you saw something beneath all the armor and burden. Something unspoken. His hand shifted closer in the grass, just barely brushing yours.

“I know I don’t…” he trailed off, jaw tightening like the words were battle in their own right. “I know I don’t always speak what should be said. Or look at you the way you deserve.”

Your breath caught.

“But I see you,” he murmured. “Even when I’m silent. Even when I seem far. I see you.”