The air still felt thick with it—tension that hadn’t fully settled, words that still echoed in stone. The fire was burning low now, casting fractured shadows along the edges of camp, licking faintly at the moss-covered rock walls and weary figures nestled in their cloaks. Most had drifted off, or pretended to. But you hadn’t missed the way some eyes still flickered your way now and then, silent and wondering.

You sat apart from the rest, knees drawn in, cloak pulled tight against the chill. Your jaw still ached from how hard you’d clenched it earlier. The memory hadn’t faded. Dwalin’s voice, low and biting. “A good king listens. A stubborn fool dies with gold in his ears.” The accusation hadn’t even been veiled.

And Thorin—Thorin had just stood there, silent, jaw locked, eyes smoldering. You’d felt the heat rise in your chest before you even knew you were moving. Before you heard your own voice—sharp, clear, cutting through the tension like blade on ice.

“He’s not a fool. And you’d do well to remember who you're speaking to.”

The silence that followed had been louder than the clash of swords. No one moved. No one challenged you. And Thorin had not looked at you, not even then. He had only walked away, the firelight casting a crown of flame across his shoulders as he vanished into the stone shadows.

But now…

You heard him before you saw him. The quiet weight of his boots against gravel. The way the fire shifted as his shadow fell across you. You didn’t look up right away. Just breathed in and waited.

“Why did you do it?” His voice, rough as always, but lower. Closer.

You glanced up. He stood in front of you, arms at his sides, his face unreadable beneath the flickering firelight.

“Because you didn’t deserve that,” you answered simply. “Because they’ve forgotten who you are.”

He was quiet for a moment, his gaze fixed on yours like he was searching for something buried deep.

Then, wordlessly, he stepped forward.

You had only time for a breath before his hands were on your face, his fingers threading into your hair, and his mouth found yours with a force you hadn’t felt in weeks. It wasn’t gentle—it was desperate, reverent, grateful. The kind of kiss forged not from comfort, but from storm—the kind that said thank you and forgive me and I see you all at once.

He kissed you like a drowning man might kiss the air. Like someone who had spent too long in the dark and now, suddenly, could see fire again.