The fire crackles softly in the dim light of evening, casting long shadows over the makeshift camp. Bofur kneels by the pot, stirring with practiced ease, the rich scent of whatever he’s cooking cutting through the crisp night air.

“Not much of a feast, I’ll admit,” he says with a grin, glancing over his shoulder. “But it’s warm, and it won’t kill ya. Hopefully.”

Steam curls up as he takes a small taste, nodding in satisfaction. He hums a tune under his breath, the familiar twinkle in his eyes making it clear he enjoys this—taking care of others in his own way.