Bag End is already too small.

It always is, once we’re all packed in—boots by the door, voices overlapping, laughter bouncing off the low ceiling. I’m leaning back in my chair, half-listening to Gandalf and half-watching Kíli steal something from Bilbo’s table when the door swings open again.

Bofur comes through first.

Grinning.

That alone should have warned me.

“We brought our Unna,” he announces, loud and proud, like he’s just unveiled a treasure.

I straighten without meaning to.

She steps in behind him.

And that’s it. That’s the end of me.

She doesn’t look around the room the way most people do when they walk into a space already full of dwarves. She just… arrives. Steady. Calm. Like she belongs wherever her feet land. Her hair is dark with copper threaded through it, pulled back from her face in a way that makes my chest feel tight for reasons I don’t yet have words for. She’s dressed simply—practical, worn-in clothes, the kind that tell a story without boasting.

I forget how to breathe.

My first thought is absurdly, embarrassingly clear.

Dís would love her.

The second follows hard on its heels.

Uncle would approve.

And the third—utterly treasonous to my own sanity—is that I can already see her in Erebor. Not as some distant dream, but as something inevitable. Walking the halls. Laughing with my mother. Standing beside me while the Mountain wakes again.

I don’t even know her name.

My heart doesn’t care.

She moves farther into the room, Bombur at her side, and I clock the way they shift slightly toward her without thinking—protective, familiar. Family. It only makes the image in my head settle more firmly, like stone finding its place.

I lean sharply toward Kíli, my voice dropping to a whisper that is absolutely not calm.

“I think I’m in love, Nadad.”

He chokes.

“What?” he hisses back, eyes darting between me and her.

“I’m going to marry her,” I add, because it feels important that he understands the seriousness of this situation.

Kíli stares at me like I’ve lost my mind. Then his mouth twitches. “You haven’t even spoken to her.”

“I know,” I say miserably. “It’s dreadful.”

Bofur’s eyes flick to me. He sees everything immediately. The look. The way I’ve gone utterly still. His grin turns sharp with amusement.

“My Unna?” he says, voice rich with warning and delight. “You like Ríka? Good luck, princeling.”

Heat floods my face.

I manage something that might be a respectful nod and might be the beginning of my downfall.

I become acutely aware of my hands. Of my posture. Of the fact that I should probably stand. Or sit. Or do something other than stare like a fool.

Across the room, I catch my uncle watching.

Thorin doesn’t smile. He never does, not really. But there’s something in his eyes—thoughtful, weighing, quietly approving—that settles me more than I expect. He says nothing. He doesn’t need to.

I swallow, draw a breath, and stand.

Every step toward her feels like crossing a threshold. I’m suddenly aware of everything I want to do properly. Of the stone I will someday find and smooth for her. Of the small things I could make with my own hands. Of doing this right, with care and patience and respect.

I stop a respectful distance away.

“Fíli,” I manage, voice steady despite the chaos inside my chest. “Son of Dís.”

She turns to look at me.

The world narrows.

She doesn’t speak, but her gaze is direct, curious, unafraid. I feel like I’ve been seen—properly seen—for the first time.

Behind us, the room has gone strangely quiet. Kíli is watching with open fascination. Bofur looks delighted. Bombur’s expression is unreadable, which somehow feels worse.

Bofur chuckles and elbows me "This is Ríkdâsha...my Unna...my eldest sister princeling."

All I can think of is her name Ríkdâsha for a moment.. what a strong as stone beautiful Khuzdûl name---

I have no idea what the road ahead holds. Dragons, exile, and stone.

All I know is this:

If we are to reclaim Erebor, I want to do it with her laughter somewhere in the halls.

And I will court her properly.

Stone by stone, if I must.