The round green door of Bag End stood open, warm golden light spilling out across the grass as laughter and the clatter of dishes echoed into the evening air. Inside, the cozy halls of Bilbo Baggins’ home were far too small for the number of dwarves crammed within them.

Tankards thudded against tables. Boots scraped polished floors. Someone had started singing off-key.

Then the doorway darkened.

Conversation faltered as Thorin Oakenshield stepped inside, his presence commanding and cold as winter steel. Behind him came a figure none of the dwarves expected.

You.

Human. Tall by their standards. Cloaked in travel-worn leathers, a bow of fine make slung over your shoulder, a quiver bristling with fletched arrows at your back. A short blade rested at your hip, and the way you carried yourself—balanced, alert—spoke of someone who knew exactly how to use it.

A hush fell thicker than smoke.

Near the hearth, Fili straightened, golden hair catching the firelight. His blue eyes—bright, sharp, ever curious—locked onto you at once.

And did not look away.

For a heartbeat, he forgot the song half on his lips. Forgot the tankard in his hand. Forgot even to breathe.

You pulled back your hood, revealing your face fully to the room. Travel had dusted your boots and smudged your sleeves, but there was no mistaking the steadiness in your gaze. You were not some frightened villager brought along for numbers.

You were a warrior.

“She comes at my request,” came the smooth voice of Gandalf, who leaned casually on his staff as if bringing a human fighter into a company of dwarves was the most natural thing in the world. “Her skill with bow and blade will prove… invaluable.”

A murmur rippled through the company.

Fili barely heard it.

You stepped forward without hesitation, meeting the assessing looks of thirteen dwarves and a rather overwhelmed hobbit. Your chin lifted slightly—not arrogantly, but confidently.

“I was told you seek to reclaim a homeland,” you said evenly. “I was not told you needed guarding.”

A few dwarves bristled. One huffed.

Fili grinned.

Oh, he liked you already.

Before Thorin could respond, a dwarf near the table scoffed. “And what can a human do that we cannot?”

Your eyes flicked to him. In one fluid motion, you unslung your bow, plucked an arrow, and turned toward the mantel where a small brass button sat atop a shelf across the room.

You did not fully draw.

You barely seemed to aim.

The arrow loosed with a sharp twang—and struck the button dead center, knocking it cleanly into a mug below without so much as cracking the ceramic.

Silence.

Somewhere, Bilbo squeaked.

Fili laughed softly under his breath, admiration blazing openly across his features. He pushed off the hearth and approached you, boots quiet despite the chaos around him.

Up close, he was broad-shouldered and battle-built, yet there was something lighter in his expression now. Something boyish. Amused. Impressed.

“Invaluable indeed,” he murmured, voice warm as mulled wine. “I am Fili, son of Dís.”

His gaze dipped briefly to your bow, then back to your face—lingering there just a moment too long.

“You fight with confidence,” he continued, a half-smile tugging at his mouth. “I would very much like to see more of that.”

There was no mistaking the spark in his eyes. Interest. Bold and unhidden.

Across the room, his brother watched with knowing amusement. Thorin cleared his throat sharply.

Fili did not look away from you.

Not once.