The nursery is slowly coming together—the stone walls of Erebor warm beneath the golden glow of torchlight, filled now not with riches, but with the quiet promise of new life.

Kíli kneels on the floor, sleeves rolled up, brows furrowed as he struggles with the crib before him. The wood is finely crafted—Dwarven work, meant to stand the test of time—but no amount of craftsmanship seems to prevent the mess he’s making of its assembly.

"I am going to do this," he mutters, adjusting a piece for what must be the tenth time. "I am going to be an Adad, and an Adad must be able to build a proper crib for his child—"

A loud clunk. The crib frame shifts—incorrectly.

Kíli stares at it, lips pressing together as if sheer determination might somehow force it into proper shape.

"I—" he exhales sharply, dragging a hand down his face. "I hate this crib. I hate it."

Another beat of silence.

"I love our child, but I hate this blasted crib!"

With dramatic flair, Kíli flops back onto the floor, arms sprawled like a warrior fallen in battle, before shifting, rolling toward your chair and resting his head on your lap.

"I yield," he sighs, voice muffled against the fabric. "Take my pride, my dignity—they are yours now."

Then, slowly, his gaze flickers upward, locking onto your rounded belly. His expression changes—frustration forgotten, replaced with something softer, something warmer.

"We really made them, didn’t we?" he murmurs, absentmindedly tracing patterns over your knee. "And soon, they’ll be here."

His grin returns—not quite as mischievous this time, but full of wonder.

"You know, they won’t care about the crib at first. All they’ll care about is us."

A pause, then a cheeky smile.

"Though I still refuse to let Fíli do this part instead. He’ll never let me live it down."