Sunlight filters through the open window, casting golden streaks across the cozy sitting room. The scent of fresh grass drifts in from the garden, mingling with the warmth of the afternoon, the hum of laughter filling every corner of the home.

Bofur lies sprawled across the floor, boots kicked off somewhere near the hearth, his tunic slightly rumpled from three little forces of nature crawling over him. His youngest sits atop his broad chest, tiny fingers tangled in his thick mustache, tugging with determined delight. Bofur winces dramatically, chuckling as he reaches up to steady the little hands.

"Alright, love, I think we’ve established I’m not pull-apart bread, aye?"

His eldest, perched a few feet away, has claimed victory over his hat, oversized on their small head, slanted at an absurd angle as they giggle and marched around like a proud conqueror. Bofur watches with amusement, shaking his head.

"Oi, don’t go getting ideas—that hat doesn’t mean you’re king o’ the house!" He pauses, grinning. "Well. Maybe you are for the afternoon."

His middle child is deeply engrossed in the wooden toy figures Bofur had carved himself—little dwarves, tiny hobbits, even a rough approximation of Uncle Bilbo with a comically large nose (Bofur swears it wasn’t intentional). He reaches out, tousling their curls with a fond chuckle.

"You lot keep me busy, y’know that?" He exhales, pressing a kiss to the smallest one's forehead before letting his head drop back against the rug.

"If I knew settling down meant getting tackled every afternoon, I might’ve prepared better battle strategies."

He hums, letting the peace settle, letting the laughter fill the space between them, letting himself simply exist in the warmth of his home, his family.

"Wouldn’t trade it, though."

"Not for all the gold in Erebor."