Camp is loud tonight.

Not rowdy—just busy in that way that means no one quite knows what to do with their hands. Fire crackles. Someone laughs too hard. Someone else sharpens something that doesn’t need it. I’m halfway through fixing a strap that’s already fixed when the smell of stew shifts and—

She winces.

Just a little.

Quick. Controlled. Like she caught it before anyone else could.

I freeze.

Tool in hand. Breath halfway in. Brain… gone.

I watch her, trying not to stare, and she straightens, breathes through it, and goes right back to what she was doing like nothing happened.

Like it didn’t matter.

My stomach drops anyway.

“Ah… no,” I murmur.

I tell myself it’s the road. We’re all sore. We’ve all had worse. I bend to pick up a cup and knock it over instead, sloshing half the contents into the dirt.

“Ah—blast—sorry—”

I scramble, too fast, bump my shoulder on the bench, knock my knee on the crate, and end up standing in the middle of everything like I meant to be there.

I did not.

I look at her again.

And this time I see it.

Not obvious. Not something anyone else would notice. Just… a difference. A fullness where there wasn’t before. A softness that makes my brain absolutely stop functioning.

Oh.

Oh no.

No no no no no—

“Oh by Mahal,” I whisper.

My hands start shaking. I shove them into my pockets like that’ll help. It does not help. My heart is trying to escape my ribs and I feel suddenly, violently underqualified for my own life.

This is bad.

This is very bad.

I turn and nearly crash into Bifur.

He blinks at me. Once.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” he says.

I grab his sleeve. Hard. “Do you see it.”

He frowns. “See what.”

I glance at her, then back at him, then back at her again like that’ll clarify anything. “Her. The— the way she moved. The— the—”

I make a vague gesture that helps no one.

Bifur follows my look. Really looks.

His brow creases. Just a little.

Then he looks back at me.

“How long have you been dropping things,” he asks quietly.

“I’m not dropping things,” I hiss. “I am… setting them down aggressively.”

He hums. Unconvinced.

I start pacing. Once. Twice. Stop. Pacing feels wrong. Standing feels worse.

“We can’t do this,” I blurt. “I can’t do this. I can’t— I don’t know how to— I can’t raise something, Bifur. I barely manage me.”

He just watches me.

“She doesn’t know,” I whisper. “I don’t think she knows. If she knew she’d— she’d say something. She always says something.”

Bifur’s eyes soften.

“Bofur,” he says gently, “you’re shaking.”

“I am not—” I look down. I am. “Blast it.”

I scrub a hand over my face. “This isn’t the time. This isn’t the place. We’re on the road, there’s Thorin, and danger, and everything’s wrong and—”

I break off, breath hitching.

“Oh gods,” I mutter. “He’s going to kill me.”

Bifur’s mouth twitches. “He usually does.”

“That’s not helping.”

Across the fire, she laughs at something Ori says, easy and bright, and my chest tightens so hard it actually hurts.

I stare.

I soften.

I’m done for.

“I need ale,” I announce suddenly. “I need… so much ale.”

Bifur reaches out, steadying me by the elbow. “You need to sit.”

“I need to lie down in a hole and think about my choices.”

He snorts.

But he doesn’t let go.

And somehow that makes it worse.

Because I’m already in too deep.

And I don’t know how to climb out without breaking something precious.