The fire crackles low as camp quiets for the night. Around you, dwarves breathe deeply in sleep — even Thorin, a few paces off, finally resting. Beyond the dying glow, the sky stretches dark and endless, jeweled with stars that shimmer like silver coins.

You meant to sleep too — really — but your gaze keeps drifting upward, caught by the soft pull of the night.

That’s when you hear a rustle, and a familiar voice, low and teasing:

“You planning to count every star before dawn?”

It’s Kíli — hair loose from his braids, dark strands falling into his eyes, his bow resting at his side. He sinks down onto the grass beside you, closer than he needs to be, shoulder brushing yours.

“Couldn’t sleep either,” he murmurs, softer now, voice threaded with quiet warmth. “Or maybe I saw you staring up and got curious what was so interesting.”

You point out a constellation — a crooked line of silver light. Kíli squints dramatically.

“You sure that’s not just your imagination?” he teases, laughter dancing at the edge of his words. “Looks like someone spilled soup on the sky to me.”

You shove his arm lightly, and he chuckles, the sound soft and warm.

“Alright, alright,” he says, grin softening. “Show me again.”

For a moment, the teasing fades. His gaze flicks from the stars back to you — and stays there.

“You know,” he says, voice dropping low, “my mother used to say the line of Durin watches over us when we travel. Makes me feel less alone, seeing them up there.”

You watch the way his eyes reflect the stars — bright, thoughtful, vulnerable in a way few ever see.

“Funny, though,” he adds, words turning playful again but tinged with honesty, “they’re not the only thing keeping me company tonight.”

Your breath catches. His grin turns softer, almost shy, though his tone is still teasing.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he murmurs, bumping your shoulder gently. “It’s cold out here. Lucky I’ve got someone stubborn enough to stay awake with me.”

A breeze lifts his hair; it brushes your cheek, warm as his breath. The distance between you shrinks until you’re close enough to feel the warmth of his arm.

“Bet you’ve never had a prince as your blanket,” he teases, though his voice is quieter, almost hopeful.

For a moment, neither of you speak — just sharing the silence, the stars, and the quiet thrum of something sweet and dangerous growing between you.