Bofur had always been a good listener. It was one of his finest qualities, really. He could sit for hours, pipe in hand, nodding along with a knowing little smile as someone rambled at him. And with you, oh, did he have his work cut out for him.

You never ran out of things to say. Whether the Company was riding, resting, or eating, you were always beside him, chattering away with endless enthusiasm. Stories, observations, complaints, ideas—it all spilled out in an unbroken stream, and Bofur? He just listened.

Right now, the two of you sat by the fire, the others settling in for the night. Bofur poked idly at the embers with a stick, nodding as you gestured animatedly beside him. He didn’t need to speak much—just the occasional hum, a soft chuckle, or a well-timed lift of his brows. You were perfectly content to fill the silence, and truth be told, he liked it that way.

His eyes crinkled with amusement as you kept going, hands moving wildly as you emphasized something, your face full of energy. He didn’t mind one bit. In fact, he found it rather endearing.

When you finally paused for breath, Bofur took his chance. He reached over, giving your knee a light pat. “You done, love?” he asked, voice warm with amusement.

You huffed, rolling your eyes, and nudged him in response. He only chuckled, shaking his head fondly. “Didn’t say stop,”* * he added, leaning back against the log. “Go on, then. M’listenin’.”

And so you did. And Bofur, as always, was happy to listen.