Archive of Our Own

The coastal town of Erebor has a long and storied history. Once, it stands as a place of beauty and prosperity, rich with tradition and pride. Its waters are crystal clear, alive with sea life of every kind, from tiny silver fish darting between the waves to massive whales gliding through the deep. The people of Erebor are lively and warm-hearted, loud with conversation and quick to laughter. Their businesses thrive on the gifts of the sea, fisheries, jewelry crafted from pearls and shells, tourism, and countless other industries. Throughout the year, native festivals and holidays keep the town bright and bustling. Erebor is, and has always been, a beautiful town.

And like every town, Erebor has its beliefs.

Because of its close connection to the ocean, it is no surprise that its religion centers around the sea. The people of Erebor worship Mahal, the Creator of Disasters, and Yavanna, Mother of Bounty. The married pair is said to embody the sea itself, Yavanna represents its generosity, while Mahal reflects its wrath and danger. Together, they bless the town and remind its people never to take the waters for granted.

The divine couple is said to have many servants, though the most famous of them is the selkie. Selkies need little explanation, for their stories are known even beyond Erebor, shapeshifting women who take the form of seals by wearing enchanted coats. The people believe selkies serve as ambassadors of the divine couple. But there are darker tales too. Some say that when men steal a selkie’s coat, trapping her on land and forcing her to become a wife against her will, Mahal answers in fury. “He does not forgive such disrespect,” old fishermen mutter. “The sea always remembers.” In those cases, he is said to unleash one of his creations, a typhoon, a flood, or a drought. Of course, most dismiss these stories as superstition.

And yet, perhaps there is truth in them.

A few years ago, a super typhoon named Smaug tears through Erebor and destroys it. It leaves nothing behind but wrecked buildings, shattered homes, and broken lives. Businesses collapse. Families scatter. The proud town that once shone beside the sea is reduced to ruins.

Rebuilding Erebor is not easy.

Many leave, desperate for a better life elsewhere. Others go with a different purpose, promising themselves they will return with money, supplies, and whatever else the town needs to rise again. One of those men is Thorin Durinson. Along with a group of friends and family, he leaves Erebor and eventually returns with the resources that help create the Durinson Company. Over time, the company brings work, hope, and prosperity back to the town. Erebor slowly flourishes once more, and many of those who left return home. At last, the town begins to breathe again.

But then, for reasons no one fully understands, Thorin steps down from the company and exiles himself to the Lonely Lighthouse, a solitary tower built on a small islet far from the mainland.

No one outside the founders of the company knows why.

Some say he is tired. Some whisper about a scandal. Others claim something terrible happened. Whatever the truth may be, Thorin has not shown himself in town for ten years.

Thorin wakes to the shrill blare of his alarm clock from the desk beside his bed. He squints at the glowing numbers.

4:30 a.m.

With a tired groan, he pushes himself upright, dragging a hand down his face before rising. Within minutes, he is already climbing the lighthouse stairs, boots thudding softly against the worn stone steps as he makes his way up to the lamp room. There, he checks the electric lamp, the clockwork mechanism, and the great glass lens, making sure every part is in working order.

By 5:00 a.m., Thorin begins the dawn round. He inspects the tower from top to bottom, sweeping salt spray from the glass, checking the doors, windows, and roof seams for leaks or damage. In his logbook, he notes the wind direction, sea state, and visibility, his handwriting neat and practiced from years of repetition.

At 6:00 a.m., he takes a light breakfast in the keeper’s quarters. Even while he eats, he keeps one ear turned toward the sea, listening for changes in the surf and watching the windows for fog or the dark shape of an approaching storm.

By 7:00 a.m., he is back at work, cleaning and servicing the light. He polishes the brass, tops off fuel, and wipes down the lamp assembly until it gleams. The lighthouse is old, but Thorin keeps it running with stubborn care.

At 8:30 a.m., he turns to the grounds. He repairs fencing, clears paths, chops wood, mends steps, paints weathered railings, and patches stonework wherever it needs attention. As the lone keeper, Thorin has to be part mechanic, part carpenter, and part caretaker. There is no one else to do it for him.

At 11:00 a.m., he records shipping traffic, weather, and tides. He updates the station log with anything unusual like passing vessels, seabirds circling too low over the water, drifting fog banks, or a damaged buoy bobbing in the distance.

At noon, he takes his midday meal and a short rest.

By 1:00 p.m., he begins a second maintenance round. He carries supplies to the oil house, checks for rust, tightens bolts, inspects the keeper’s dwelling, and repairs anything that might fail after dark. He does not allow small problems to become dangerous ones.

At 3:00 p.m., Thorin checks the weather again. If the sky is lowering or fog is rolling in from the sea, he prepares the lantern early and tests the signal.

At 4:00 p.m., he performs the final lamp preparations. He cleans the lens one last time, fills the reservoir, winds the mechanism, and sets the tower for evening duty.

At sunset, Thorin lights the beacon.

From that point on, his attention belongs to the sea. The light must remain burning through the night, and through any storm that turns the world blind.

At 8:00 p.m., his night watch continues. He climbs the tower once or twice to check the flame, the clock, and the rotation. If fog settles over the water, he listens constantly for ships and sounds the proper signal.

“Clear enough for the moment,” he mutters once, peering through the glass. Then, after a pause, he adds, “Let it stay that way.”

At 11:00 p.m., he writes another log entry, noting weather shifts, the condition of the light, and any vessel seen offshore.

At 2:00 a.m., Thorin wakes for a final patrol. He checks the lamp, refills it if needed, cleans away soot and salt, and makes sure the lens stays clear.

Then, at dawn, he extinguishes the light, completes the morning entry, and begins the whole rhythm again.

Thorin’s job is solitary, repetitive, and always one storm away from urgency. He does this every day.

For the last ten years, he has lived alone in the Lonely Lighthouse, with only the animals for company and the occasional visits from his friends and family. Balin and Dwalin come most often, visiting weekly with supplies from the mainland. Every time they do, they ask the same question.

“You should come back with us,” Balin says one morning, setting down a crate of provisions.

Thorin does not even look up from the supplies he is sorting. “No.”

Dwalin folds his arms. “You cannot stay up here forever.”

Thorin gives a quiet, humorless snort. “Watch me.”

They always try. He always refuses.

When they urge him to return to Erebor, to see the town, to visit old friends and family, he turns them down every time. Thorin belongs to the lighthouse now. Or at least, that is what he tells himself. He does not deserve to be in Erebor anymore. Not after what happened. Not after ten years of silence.

And so he keeps to his schedule, day after day, making sure ships stay safe and sound while the lighthouse stands watch over the sea.

He believes his life will remain this way forever.

Until one day, everything changes.

Thorin sighs as he watches the sea one day, scanning the water from one of the tall lighthouse windows for any sign of fog or an approaching storm. He has access to the internet and the news, of course, but Thorin trusts his own eyes more than the words of someone behind a screen. Out here, the sea speaks for itself.

As he watches the rolling waves, he notices movement beneath the surface.

A pod of seals is passing through the water.

Nothing unusual there. Seals are a common sight in Erebor. The pod moves with easy grace, darting and circling one another, nipping playfully and weaving through the waves as if the sea itself belongs to them. Thorin is about to look away when one seal catches his attention.

Its coat is copper-colored, gleaming faintly beneath the water.

The seal is staring at him.

Not drifting past. Not glancing up by accident. Staring.

Thorin leans a little closer to the glass, his brow furrowing. Just then, another seal swims up and nudges the copper-coated one, nipping at its side. The copper seal twists away and vanishes back into the pod.

Thorin blinks.

That is odd.

Animals sometimes look at him, especially seabirds and the occasional curious seal, but never for that long. Never with that kind of stillness.

“That’s strange,” Thorin mutters under his breath.

He shakes his head and returns to his duties, telling himself he will probably never see the seal again.

But the next day, when he looks out over the water, the same copper-colored seal is there.

This time, it is alone.

Thorin freezes. He rubs at his eyes, frowning as if that might somehow explain what he is seeing. When he looks again, the seal is still there, floating just beneath the surface and staring straight up at him.

“Huh,” he says quietly.

From that day on, the seal appears again and again.

Sometimes it is with others, darting through the waves like any other seal. Sometimes it is alone, lingering near the lighthouse as though it has nowhere else to be. Sometimes it disappears for a day or two, only to return later, always in the same place, always watching.

After a few weeks of this, Thorin does something he does not quite understand himself.

He lifts a hand and waves.

For a moment, the copper seal only stares.

Then it raises one flipper and waves back.

Thorin lowers his hand slowly.

“That is not normal seal behavior,” he murmurs.

He considers, briefly, whether the seal might be a runaway from an aquarium or some sort of aquatic attraction. He has seen enough videos online to know seals can be trained to do tricks. But he has not heard any news of a missing animal, and Erebor would hardly approve of that sort of thing, not with the town’s beliefs and respect for the sea.

Still, the seal always seems to vanish whenever Balin and Dwalin arrive with supplies.

Thorin is standing near the window one afternoon, searching the water for the copper seal, when Dwalin comes in carrying a crate full of food.

“What are you looking for?” Dwalin asks, eyeing him suspiciously.

Thorin hesitates. “Nothing.”

Dwalin gives him a doubtful look, but before he can press further, Thorin changes the subject. “How are the others doing?”

Balin, who is unloading supplies nearby, answers first. “Your sister Dís is still ruling the Durinson Company with an iron fist.”

Thorin snorts softly.

“And your brother Frerin,” Balin continues, “is still flirting with every tourist who steps foot in Erebor.”

“That does sound like Frerin,” Thorin says dryly.

Balin smiles. “Fíli and Kíli have been begging us to let them come stay with you for a while.”

At that, Thorin shakes his head with a small chuckle. “As much as I would like to keep them for a week, they know I cannot without Dís’s approval.”

“Which is the exact reason they keep asking,” Dwalin mutters.

The three of them continue moving the supplies inside until the boat is emptied. Before long, Balin and Dwalin are back aboard and heading away from the islet, the lighthouse growing smaller behind them as they sail toward the mainland.

Thorin stands at the window and watches them go.

Then, from the corner of his eye, he sees movement in the water.

The copper-colored seal slowly rises to the surface once more, watching him from the sea.

A few weeks later, a storm rolls in.

Thorin keeps the lighthouse lamp burning bright and stays close to the radio in case any ship needs help navigating through the worst of it. Thankfully, there seems to be no traffic near the coast tonight, but he remains vigilant all the same. He stands at the window, watching through sheets of rain as the storm rages outside. The waves crash violently against the rocks below. The wind howls around the tower. Rain lashes the glass in relentless streams, turning the world beyond the lighthouse into a blur of darkness and motion.

And then he sees it.

A speck of copper.

Something cold tightens in Thorin’s chest. His breath catches. Was that the seal?

No. It cannot be.

Seals, like most animals, can sense a storm long before humans do. It is probably nothing. A trick of the light. A stray reflection. Thorin tries to tell himself that, but the unease does not leave him. It sits in his chest like a stone.

He forces his attention back to the work in front of him, fingers tightening around the edge of the desk. Still, before he can stop himself, he lowers his head and murmurs a quiet prayer to Mahal and Yavanna.

“Keep it safe,” he says under his breath. “Whoever it is.”

Bilbo can hear his own heartbeat pounding in his ears as he frantically swims through the dark water, searching for a specific kind of kelp.

His mother, Belladonna, fell ill earlier that day, and a specific kind of kelp is the only known cure besides waiting for the sickness to pass on its own. They ran out of it quickly. Bungo, Bilbo’s father, goes from one neighbor to the next, asking if anyone has any left, but each answer is the same, a sad shake of the head, an apology, nothing more.

By the tenth home, Bilbo cannot stand the waiting any longer. “I am going out to look for some myself,” he says, the words sharp with fear.

“Bilbo, no,” Bungo calls after him. “The storm is coming!”

But Bilbo is already turning away. He knows the waters are unsettled. He feels it in his bones, in the pressure of the sea around him. Every instinct tells him to stay close to the inlet, to wait for the weather to pass. But Belladonna is sick, and fear makes him reckless.

So he swims.

He darts over the seafloor, searching wildly through the swaying weeds and shadowed rocks, scanning every patch of kelp he passes. His body moves fast, driven by panic more than thought. Left. Right. Down through a narrow trench. Up again. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.

Then he sees it.

Kelp.

Relief surges through him. He swims forward at once and bites down on the stalks, gathering as much as he can in his mouth before turning sharply for home.

But the water has changed.

He feels it before he sees it, the current pulling harder, twisting stronger, the first brutal signs of the storm reaching him beneath the surface. The sea tugs at his body, dragging him in every direction at once. He fights it, swims harder, holds the kelp tighter, but the storm is already winning.

The world becomes chaos.

One moment he is sure of the direction home, the next, he is lost.

Fear rises in him. He looks around wildly, searching for anything familiar, anything that might guide him back. Then, through the violent churn of the water, he spots a glow above him. A bright light shining through the storm.

Hope flares in his chest.

He swims toward it, pushing through the waves until the shape above him becomes clear.

The lighthouse.

Then the inlet must be somewhere nearby.

He barely has time to turn before a massive wave slams into him. The force of it knocks the breath from him and sends him tumbling downward into the darkness. The kelp slips from his mouth. He is dragged beneath the surface, thrown hard against something solid, and a cry tears from his throat.

The impact sends pain flashing through his head.

For a moment, everything blurs.

Before his vision fully fades, one final thought passes through him, his mother, his father, the kelp lost somewhere in the storm.

“I am sorry”, he thinks desperately. “I am sorry, Mama. I tried.”

And then everything goes dark.

It is dawn when Thorin begins inspecting the lighthouse for storm damage.

He would prefer to have done it the night before, but he knows better than to prowl around in the dark. Storms hide too much. Broken glass, loosened boards, cracked stonework, a shifted beam or a flooded step, things are easy to miss when the world is black and the wind is still spitting salt in his face.

So he waits until morning.

The first light of day spills over the water as he makes his way around the lighthouse and the islet, checking every familiar surface with careful, practiced eyes. The storm has not done any serious damage, which is a relief, but it has left a mess behind. Seaweed clings to the rocks. Driftwood is scattered along the shore. Bits of debris and storm-tossed wreckage have been flung up onto the island, and Thorin knows he will spend part of the day cleaning it all away.

Then he finds a rowboat grounded near the shore.

It is not his.

Thorin stops and frowns at it, one hand already reaching for his phone. He takes a picture and plans to send a message to town later to ask if anyone is missing a boat. As he raises the phone again to study it, something strange catches his eye in the distance.

He squints.

A shape on the shore.

Thorin lifts the phone, zooms in, and nearly drops it.

Human legs.

His heart lurches.

Without another thought, he shoves the phone into his pocket and breaks into a run, heading toward the spot where he saw them. The closer he gets, the more details come into view, and when he finally stops, he sees not a child, as he first assumes, but a man.

A very beautiful man.

He is shorter than Thorin expected, with fair skin, freckles scattered across his cheeks, and short copper curls that frame his round face in soft, damp ringlets. His nose is small and button-like, his build plump and warm-looking, almost gentle in its softness. He looks young and vulnerable, and very much unconscious.

And he is naked.

Stark naked.

Thorin goes still for half a second, then curses under his breath and quickly shrugs off his coat. He wraps it around the man before kneeling beside him, trying not to let his own embarrassment get in the way of checking whether the stranger is breathing.

He is.

Thank Mahal.

Thorin presses two fingers lightly near the man’s wrist, then frowns at the heat radiating from his skin. “You’re burning up,” he murmurs.

The man does not answer.

Thorin slips one arm behind his back and lifts him carefully. He is lighter than he looks, and strangely fragile in Thorin’s arms. “Hold on,” he says, his voice rough with concern. “I will get you somewhere safe.”

But before he can carry him away, something near the place where the man had been lying catches his attention.

A coat.

Copper-colored, beautiful in its own way, wet and gleaming faintly in the morning light.

Thorin stares at it.

It is the same shade as the seal he has been seeing for weeks. The same color as the man’s hair.

A dozen old stories rush back into his mind all at once.

Selkies.

In Erebor, everyone knows the tales. Shapeshifters who shed their seal skins to walk as humans, then return to the sea by wearing their magic coats once more. Sacred servants of Mahal and Yavanna. Most stories speak of selkie women, not men, but the myths are old and the sea is full of stranger things than any story can fully explain.

Thorin looks from the coat to the man in his arms, then back again.

“No,” he mutters to himself, almost immediately. “That is ridiculous.”

And yet his fingers tighten around the coat before he can stop them.

Just to be safe, he carries both the man and the seal skin back to the lighthouse.

For the rest of the day, Thorin tends to him in his bedroom while still fulfilling his duties as the lighthouse keeper. Every time he has a spare moment, he returns to the room to check on the stranger. He brings water. He adjusts the blankets. He makes sure the man stays warm and comfortable, though he remains unconscious for most of the day.

All the while, Thorin cannot stop thinking about the coat folded away in his drawer.

It is absurd, he tells himself. Impossible, even.

And yet the thought will not leave him alone.

A selkie.

A real selkie.

His chest feels strange every time he looks at the sleeping man. Not frightened, exactly. Not even surprised anymore. Just… unsettled. Curious. Lonely.

No one besides his friends and family ever comes to the islet. Sailors pass by now and then, but they never stay. The lighthouse is a solitary place, built for duty more than company. Thorin has spent ten years here with only the sea, the gulls, and the animals for companionship.

If this man truly is a selkie…

The thought comes so quickly it startles him.

Then he could stay.

Thorin’s jaw tightens, and he looks away at once, ashamed of himself for thinking it. The coat is in his drawer. Hidden. Safe. If he leaves it there, the man cannot simply vanish back into the sea.

He could have company.

He could no longer be alone.

He stops pacing and presses a hand to his face, frustrated with himself. “No,” he says quietly into the empty room. “That is not who I am.”

There is a reason he lives here. A reason he chose exile. A reason he keeps the world at a distance.

He is the lighthouse keeper.

He is not someone who traps lost strangers for his own comfort.

At least, that is what he tells himself.

Bilbo feels as though he is drifting through pleasant dreams.

In them, the lighthouse keeper leans over him with a worried expression darkening his square jaw. His handsome beard frames his face, and his long raven hair falls forward in loose strands. Strong, muscular arms, covered in dark hair, hold him close, warm and steady.

Bilbo sighs in his sleep, smiling faintly.

He remembers the first time he sees the lighthouse keeper.

He is with his cousins near the surface, all of them playing and weaving through the water in easy, laughing spirals, when he suddenly feels eyes on him. At first, he thinks it is a predator. He turns sharply, ready to dart away, only to freeze when he sees not a beast, but a human.

A handsome human.

Incredibly handsome.

The lighthouse keeper.

Ever since that first day, Bilbo cannot quite stop himself from rising near the surface now and then, just to catch a glimpse of him. He keeps his distance, of course. He hides whenever other humans appear. From that far away, he cannot hear their words, but he notices the same two visitors arriving every week, one with a long white beard, and the other a muscular bald man, both carrying boxes and supplies for the lighthouse. Watching the keeper lift those crates, seeing the strength in his arms and the strain in his shoulders, is unfairly delightful.

Bilbo smiles in his sleep, warm and dazed.

Then sunlight touches his face.

He stirs, blinking slowly awake.

For a moment, he is confused by the brightness. Then his eyes open fully, and he freezes.

He is not home.

He is in a room.

A human room.

Bilbo has heard enough stories from his mother, Belladonna who in her youth travelled around the world as a human, to know what he is looking at. He is lying on a bed beneath a blanket, which means this must be a bedroom. He is also wearing human clothes, far too large for him, loose at the shoulders and bunched awkwardly around his frame. Nothing like his coat.

His coat.

Bilbo jolts upright and looks around in alarm. “My coat—”

The word dies in his throat when he spots the lighthouse keeper standing by the door, watching him.

Bilbo lets out a startled cry.

The man immediately lifts both hands in a calming gesture and takes a careful step forward, tray balanced in one hand. “Easy,” he says, his voice low and gentle. “I mean you no harm.”

Bilbo stares at him, heart racing so fast it nearly hurts.

The voice is far deeper than he expects. Rich and warm and unmistakably human. And now that he is awake, he can truly see him, the blue of his eyes, the breadth of his shoulders, the strong line of his mouth beneath that dark beard.

The lighthouse keeper.

“I found you unconscious on the shore of my islet,” Thorin says, taking another slow step closer. “You were badly burned up from the fever. Do you remember anything?”

Inside, Thorin is trying very hard not to panic.

Because there is no longer any doubt.

The man’s eyes are not human eyes.

They shimmer like opals, bright and iridescent, catching the light in a way no ordinary eyes ever could. Thorin has seen enough of the sea and heard enough old stories to know exactly what that means.

Selkie.

The word forms in his mind with startling certainty.

Bilbo flushes bright red under his gaze, suddenly painfully aware of how handsome the lighthouse keeper is in person, much handsomer than he ever looks from a distance. “Oh, um. Thank you,” he says quickly. “My name is Bilbo Baggins.” He swallows, then tries to think of something else to say. Anything else. “I was out for—um—”

He stops himself.

He cannot say he is a selkie. Not yet. Not until he knows what Thorin intends.

Thorin nods slowly, though his expression softens a little. “I see. You do not remember.”

Bilbo blinks. “I do remember things, just not everything.”

That earns him the faintest hint of a smile.

“My name is Thorin Durinson,” the man says. “I am the lighthouse keeper. You are welcome to stay here until you recover.”

Thorin tries to smile reassuringly, though it comes out a little stiff and awkward. Bilbo finds it oddly charming anyway.

“Thank you,” Bilbo says, his cheeks still burning. Then, after a nervous pause, he asks, “Oh. Um. Did you see a coat with me?”

Thorin goes still.

Bilbo notices immediately.

His stomach drops.

The old stories come rushing back at once, stories of humans taking selkies’ coats, hiding them, forcing them to stay on land, forcing them to remain when all they want is the sea. The fear hits him so hard that his breath catches in his throat.

He likes Thorin. Too much, perhaps.

But liking someone does not matter if they are willing to trap him.

Without another word, Thorin turns and leaves the room.

Bilbo sits frozen in terror, staring after him. His fingers clutch the blanket tightly.

No, no, no.

Did he make a mistake? Is the coat gone? Is Thorin going to—

Then, a moment later, Thorin returns.

In his hands is Bilbo’s coat.

He holds it carefully, almost reverently, before draping it around Bilbo’s shoulders.

“Is this yours?” Thorin asks quietly. “It is beautiful.”

Bilbo stares at it for a second, unable to speak. Then relief hits him so hard he nearly goes limp.

“Oh, yes,” he says, voice breathless. “Yes, that is mine. Thank you.”

He pulls the cloak close around himself, clinging to it with both hands. The familiar weight of it settles his nerves immediately.

He is safe.

He is free.

And when he looks up again, Thorin is still watching him, his expression unreadable but not unkind.

Bilbo gives a shaky little smile.

“You should eat. You were out all day yesterday,” Thorin says, gesturing toward the tray in his hands.

Bilbo looks down at it and recognizes human food immediately. His mother, Belladonna, has spoken of it before, how human dishes taste different from their own, but are often just as delicious. At the thought of her, Bilbo suddenly remembers why he was out in the storm in the first place.

The kelp.

He has to go back for it.

His mother still needs it.

But he forces himself to stay calm. Thorin is watching him, and panicking now will not help. So Bilbo puts on a small smile and accepts the tray. “Thank you,” he says. “I will enjoy it.”

He takes a bite of the flat, golden bread first. It is soft and warm and unlike anything he expected. Pancakes, maybe? Or waffles? He is not sure. What he does know is that it tastes wonderful. Before he quite realizes it, he is eating far too quickly, as though he has not had a proper meal in days.

Thorin blinks in surprise as he watches him.

Bilbo is not using any utensils, either, but Thorin decides not to comment on that. Perhaps people in the water simply do not eat with forks and spoons. Either way, there is something unexpectedly charming about the way Bilbo eats with such obvious delight.

Thorin reaches for the orange juice on the tray and pours Bilbo a glass. “Here.”

Bilbo takes it carefully and gives it a tentative sip.

His eyes widen.

He drinks a larger mouthful, then another, until he is practically gulping it down.

Thorin lets out a quiet chuckle. “You must have been starving.”

Bilbo blushes and tries to slow himself down, though it is not easy. “Apologies,” he says around a mouthful of food. “It is just… it is very good.”

“Really?” Thorin asks, one dark brow lifting. “You have not even added syrup yet.”

Bilbo pauses and blinks. “Syrup?”

Thorin looks mildly amused as he takes the bottle from the tray and drizzles it over the pancakes. “Try them now.”

Bilbo does.

He makes a small, helpless sound of delight.

Thorin smiles softly at that before rising to his feet. “I need to get back to work,” he says. “I will come back in an hour or two. Eat. Rest.”

“I will,” Bilbo promises at once. Then he hesitates, glancing up at him with sincere gratitude. “And I know I have said it already, but… thank you. Truly.”

Thorin lingers at the door long enough to look back and see Bilbo happily eating, and his expression softens even more before he finally leaves.

Bilbo keeps eating until the tray is empty and the pitcher of orange juice is nearly gone.

Once he is finished, he carefully sets the tray back on the desk nearby. His stomach is full now, and his mind is already turning to what comes next. He has to get back to the sea. He has to find more kelp. He has to bring it to his mother.

And once he returns home, he will thank Thorin properly, perhaps with pearls, if he can manage it.

He pushes himself upright.

The moment he stands, pain shoots through one foot.

Bilbo hisses and grabs the edge of the bed.

“Oh—ow,” he mutters, wincing. He looks down and sees the soreness there, probably from being thrown against the rocks in the storm. He tries to bear it anyway, biting his lip as he limps toward the door.

This is the first human-made building he has ever been inside, and it feels strange beneath his feet. The walls are too symetrical, the floor too solid, the air too dry. He moves slowly down the lighthouse stairs, one hand trailing along the railing for balance as he goes.

He has to reach the ocean before Thorin returns.

Before Thorin notices he is gone.

As Bilbo continues down the stairs, pain lances through his injured foot. His balance fails him, and he stumbles forward with a startled gasp.

He barely has time to brace himself before a pair of strong arms catches him.

Bilbo looks up.

Thorin is standing there, holding him firmly against his chest, his expression a mixture of concern and mild irritation. “I thought I told you to rest.”

Bilbo’s cheeks go hot. “Thorin! I—um—I was just curious…”

He looks away quickly, mind scrambling for some believable excuse, but Thorin seems to understand at once.

“You want to get back to the ocean already, don’t you?” Thorin asks.

There is something quiet and heavy in his voice, something that surprises even him.

Bilbo’s eyes widen. His mouth opens, ready to deny it, but Thorin speaks again before he can.

“Bilbo, humans do not have eyes as iridescent as yours. You are a selkie, aren’t you?”

Bilbo goes rigid.

Fear seizes him so suddenly that he cannot breathe for a moment. His heart pounds hard against his ribs. But before he can form a response, Thorin is already turning and carrying him back down the stairs.

“Thorin?” Bilbo asks, alarmed. “Where are you taking me?”

“To the shore,” Thorin says. “You need to get back to the ocean, do you not? And you were limping before you fell. You cannot make it there on your own.”

Bilbo stares at him, stunned. “Y—You are not going to keep me?”

The words slip out before he can stop them, and he is just as surprised to hear them as Thorin is.

Thorin pauses for a brief moment, then continues walking. His jaw tightens. “There is a reason I am the lighthouse keeper,” he says quietly. “I deserve to be alone.”

The words land harder than Bilbo expects, and for the rest of the way, neither of them speaks.

When they reach the shore, Thorin kneels carefully and sets Bilbo down on the damp sand near the waterline.

“Go on,” he says, though his voice is rough around the edges. “I am sure your friends and family are waiting for you.”

Bilbo looks up at him, confused but deeply grateful all the same.

Then he slowly removes the rest of his clothes, leaving only his cloak wrapped around him.

He draws in a breath.

For a brief moment, the cloak glows with a soft, bright light. The fabric seems to ripple and stretch, shifting around him as magic takes hold. When the light fades, Bilbo is no longer a man.

He is a seal.

A copper-coated seal, just as Thorin has been seeing for weeks.

Thorin stares, mildly alarmed at the sight of real magic for the very first time, and does his best not to react too strongly. Bilbo lifts his head, glances at him once more, and gives a small bow before turning toward the sea.

He has only made it a short distance before he lets out a sharp cry.

Thorin startles immediately. “Bilbo?”

He drops to one knee beside him. “What is wrong? Bilbo?”

For a heartbeat, Bilbo’s seal form glows again, then shifts back into his human body. He groans and curls slightly inward, one hand pressing to his injured foot.

“I—I cannot swim,” he says, breathless with pain. “My limp… it is affecting my swimming too.”

Thorin blinks, then looks visibly apologetic. He had assumed, perhaps foolishly, that whatever magic selkies possess would heal the moment they return to the water. Apparently, that is not the case.

His expression softens at once.

“How about you rest here with me for a while?” Thorin asks gently. “Once your limp eases, you can go home.”

“No, no, no, I cannot!” Bilbo says at once, panic flooding his voice. “Mama is sick. I have to find her some kelp! That is why I was out in the storm. I have to go!”

“Bilbo,” Thorin says, his tone gentling at once, “take a deep breath. Your mother would be heartbroken if something happened to you on the way home.”

Bilbo looks ready to argue, then hesitates. His shoulders rise and fall in one shaky breath before he slowly nods.

Thorin studies him for a moment before speaking again. “Is there any way to tell your family you are here? Ask after your mother? Do selkies use phones?”

The question sounds uncertain even to him, and given that he has seen Bilbo naked and unconscious on the shore, he is already leaning toward no.

Bilbo looks a little embarrassed. “We do not usually use technology. Some of us do, but not much. Nothing modern, really. I… I can sing to them.”

Thorin blinks. “Sing?”

“Yes,” Bilbo says, though he still sounds nervous. “Call to them, really. If they are nearby, they can hear me.”

Thorin frowns, not entirely convinced. “Would that not hurt your throat if you do it for too long?”

Bilbo gives him a small, bewildered look, as though the answer should be obvious. “Oh, no. Singing is as easy as breathing. I just need to get closer to the water.”

Thorin does not look convinced, but then again, he has already witnessed magic today, and Bilbo is a selkie, so what does he truly know?

With a quiet sigh, he helps Bilbo carefully down toward the shallows. He half expects Bilbo to begin singing at any moment, a haunting, otherworldly song, the kind old stories warn sailors about. For a second, Thorin even pulls out his phone, thinking he might record it.

Instead, Bilbo clears his throat.

Then he does a few strange little exercises, stretching his neck and rolling his shoulders as if he is preparing for something ordinary.

At last, he nods. “All right. I am ready.”

He takes a deep breath.

Then he dunks his head into the water.

Thorin blinks.

That was not what he expected at all.

He waits.

Bilbo does not come up. Instead, he remains with his head submerged, perfectly still.

Thorin glances down at him. “Bilbo… is everything all right?”

Bilbo gives him a thumbs-up from beneath the surface.

Thorin stares at the raised hand, baffled, then looks out toward the water as though the sea itself might explain what is happening. Minutes pass. Bilbo still does not emerge.

After what feels like fifteen minutes, Thorin finally asks, “Should I go back to work and return later? Will you be all right?”

Bilbo gives another thumbs-up.

So Thorin leaves him there and returns to his duties.

Still, the work feels strangely distant now.

He keeps moving because he has to, but his mind is elsewhere, caught between disbelief and something much more unsettling. Selkies are real. Magic is real. One of them is on his islet, and Thorin has just agreed to help him.

He even wonders, uneasily, whether Bilbo will still be there when he returns.

The thought leaves an odd ache in his chest, one he is not entirely prepared to name.

He tells himself he deserves to be alone.

He tells himself that is the safest thing.

So he keeps his head down and buries himself in work, trying to silence the growing noise in his mind with routine and obligation.

Bilbo continues to sing for hours before he finally hears an answer.

At first it is only a faint echo carried through the water, then another voice joins it, then another. The melodies are familiar, though rushed and tense, as if the singers are trying to answer him as fast as they can. Bilbo’s heart leaps.

He knows those voices.

“Drogo?” he calls, his own voice trembling with relief.

The shapes of two seals appear through the water, swimming toward him at full speed. A moment later, they haul themselves up beside him on the shore, sleek and wet and breathing hard.

“Cousin!” Drogo says at once, sounding equal parts relieved and alarmed. He circles Bilbo in a quick, anxious inspection. “Thank the sea you are all right. Are you injured? Have you eaten? Did any humans see you?”

“I am fine, Drogo,” Bilbo says quickly, though he winces a little when he shifts his weight. “I have eaten. I do have a bit of a limp, and Thorin helped me.”

“Thorin?” Primula asks, instantly interested.

“The lighthouse keeper,” Bilbo replies.

Primula lets out a delighted squeal that makes Bilbo blink in surprise. “Cousin! Congratulations! You have been eyeing that human for weeks. Tell me, was he good in bed?”

Bilbo nearly chokes. “What? No! I mean—Primula!”

Drogo, on the other hand, looks horrified. “Bilbo, no! Absolutely not. You do not sleep with humans. They could keep you trapped on land.”

“Oh, relax,” Primula says with a dismissive flick of her tail. “He still has his coat. You can see that.”

“Still,” Drogo mutters, still visibly upset. “That is not the point.”

Bilbo pinches the bridge of his nose, then forces himself to focus. “All right, enough. I called you both because I cannot swim properly. My limp makes it too painful. And Mama is sick. She needs kelp, and I cannot get it to her on my own.”

His voice begins to shake again, but he takes a deep breath and steadies himself. “I need the two of you to swim back home, tell my family I am safe, and bring Mama the kelp.”

Drogo’s expression softens immediately. “Of course.”

Bilbo nods in gratitude, but then adds, “And Thorin knows I am a selkie. He seems… fine about it.”

There is a beat of silence.

Then Drogo bursts out, “He knows!? Bilbo, that is far worse than simply talking to a human!”

Primula gasps dramatically, then breaks into delighted laughter. “Oh, proper Bilbo Baggins, telling a human he is a selkie! This is going to be a riot back home.”

“This is not funny,” Drogo groans.

Bilbo sighs and lets his head fall back. His cousins are already arguing, just as he expects. He loves them both dearly, but they are oil and water. Primula, with all her Tookish mischief, thrives on scandal. Drogo, with his more cautious Baggins nature, sees danger in everything. Between the two of them, Bilbo is often left caught in the middle.

Still, he cannot help feeling a little comforted by the sound of them bickering.

For all their differences, they are here.

And they have heard him.

“Um…”

A deep voice cuts through the air, making everyone freeze.

Thorin stands nearby with a tray full of food balanced in his hands. He looks from Bilbo to the two seal forms beside him, clearly trying to make sense of the scene. “It was getting around lunchtime, and I thought you might be hungry, Bilbo,” he says. His gaze lingers on the other two seals. “Are these your friends?”

Bilbo flushes and quickly gestures toward them. “Yes. This is Drogo and Primula.”

Thorin blinks, still unable to understand anything the seals are saying. To him, they are just two seals beside Bilbo, who, at the moment, is still in human form, naked except for his coat wrapped around him.

Bilbo clears his throat, suddenly remembering the important part. “Oh. Um. Do you know how my mother is doing?”

Drogo answers first, his seal head bobbing emphatically. “Your mother is doing well, all things considered.”

Bilbo’s shoulders loosen slightly.

“Quite energetic,” Drogo adds.

Primula snorts. “By energetic, he means she cursed everyone within hearing range and tried to swim after you herself after she found out you went into a storm.”

Bilbo winces. “That sounds like Mama.”

Thorin raises an eyebrow. He cannot understand a word of it, of course, but he can tell the two seals are definitely talking. Their movements are too expressive, too deliberate for ordinary animals. They are far more like people than seals.

He folds his free arm across his chest, studying them with guarded curiosity.

Bilbo looks down, then back up at Thorin. “Tell her I am sorry…”

Primula gives a little wiggle of her flippers. “You are going to get such a tongue-lashing when you get home.”

Drogo lets out a low huff, then turns to Thorin in a suspicious way, as if he can somehow make himself understood by force of will alone. “Also, are you absolutely sure that human can be trusted? And what is he holding? It smells nice.”

Bilbo glances at Thorin, then back at his cousins, a little flustered. “Oh—Thorin, Mama is still sick, but not as badly as I thought. And I—um…” He clears his throat again, then manages, “Anyway, yes. I am a little hungry.”

Thorin’s expression softens at once. “Then come. I will carry you back to the lighthouse.”

Bilbo hesitates only a second before nodding.

Thorin starts to lift the tray a little higher. “Do your friends want to come with us?”

Primula opens her mouth at once. “Oh, I would love t—”

A fin promptly slaps across her face.

“No,” Drogo says sharply. “Tempting as it may be to try human food, we need to get the kelp and tell Bungo and Belladonna that Bilbo is safe. Besides, we should not be showing ourselves to the human anyway.”

Primula rolls her eyes. “Ugh. Fine.”

She turns back toward Bilbo and gives him an exaggerated wave with one flipper. “Bye, cousin!”

Drogo nods once to Bilbo, more solemnly. Then the two of them slide back into the water and vanish beneath the surface, leaving ripples behind them.

Thorin watches them go, then looks at Bilbo, clearly puzzled. After a beat, he asks, “Did I say something offensive?”

Bilbo stares at him for a moment, then lets out a helpless little laugh. “No. I do not think so.”

“Then why did they leave all of a sudden?” Thorin asks.

Bilbo glances toward the water, then back at him. “Oh. There are rules we follow, especially about never revealing ourselves to humans. It is for our own safety. We know even humans have stories about kidnapping our kind.” He hesitates, then adds, “I told them you do not seem like that sort of person. They trust you enough to take care of me, and they are swimming back to my parents to explain what happened and bring Mama the kelp.”

Thorin studies him for a moment. “That is a great deal of trust to place in a stranger.”

Bilbo gives him a small, awkward smile. “Well… you knew I was a selkie, and you still gave me back my coat. So I trust you quite a lot, actually.” His expression shifts a little as he continues. “My cousin Drogo is still rather cautious about it, but my other cousin, Primula…” He frowns faintly. “Well. She thinks the entire situation is scandalous, and therefore delightful.”

Thorin lets out a quiet huff that might almost be a laugh.

Bilbo starts to push himself up, intending to follow, but his injured foot immediately protests. Pain flashes up his leg, and he hisses through his teeth.

Before he can take another step, Thorin moves.

With practiced ease, he scoops Bilbo up with one arm while balancing the tray in the other. Bilbo makes a startled noise and immediately turns bright red.

“Thorin!”

“Do not strain yourself,” Thorin says calmly. “I will carry you somewhere we can eat. Would you prefer near the ocean, the dining room, or back at the room upstairs?”

Bilbo stares at him, flustered. “A—Aren’t I heavy? And carrying me and the tray at the same time, aren’t you unbalanced?”

Thorin gives him a look that is almost amused. “I work out often. I will not drop you.”

“That is not what I am worried about,” Bilbo mutters, his face heating even more. “It is just… you really do not need to keep doing all this for me.”

Thorin’s expression softens. “You are injured. Helping you is the least I can do.” He adjusts his hold slightly, careful and steady. “So. Where would you like to eat?”

Bilbo is sorely tempted to choose the dining room, simply because he is curious about what a human dining room looks like. But that would mean climbing all those stairs again, and it doesn't feel right to have Thorin to carry him all the way. “By the ocean, please,” he says at last.

Thorin nods. “I understand. Being close to home is always comforting.”

Bilbo gives a small, nervous smile, because that is not quite why he chooses it, but the thought behind Thorin’s words is sweet all the same.

“My nephews like eating by the ocean too,” Thorin says as he carries Bilbo and the tray toward a table set beneath a striped parasol overlooking the waves. “They visit often, so I set up a table out here for them. I cleaned it after the storm yesterday, so it should be fine to use.”

Bilbo looks up as they reach it.

The tabletop is covered in tiny doodles and handprints, faint but still visible beneath the wear of weather and time. Little marks of mischief and affection.

Bilbo smiles despite himself. “They must be very fond of you,” he says softly.

Thorin glances at the table, then back at him. “I am very fond of them.”

“Can you tell me about them?” Bilbo asks, glancing at the dish Thorin sets before him.

It looks strange at first glance, soft white shells smothered in a thick yellow sauce, but it smells wonderful. Bilbo tilts his head and points at it. “And what is this?”

“Mac and cheese,” Thorin says with a fond little smile. “I am not the best cook in the world, but it is edible.”

Bilbo brightens at that and takes a cautious bite.

His eyes widen almost immediately. It is creamy, warm, and rich in a way he has never tasted before. “Oh,” he says around a mouthful, clearly impressed.

Thorin’s expression softens at the sight.

“Yes,” Thorin says, settling into his seat. “I can tell you about my nephews. Let me see… Fíli is twenty years old now, but he still acts like a child sometimes, even though he is responsible enough and is trying to follow in my footsteps by studying business. The moment he comes home, though, he turns the entire house upside down.”

Bilbo lets out a quiet laugh.

Thorin continues, a little more animated now. “He is also dating his childhood friend, Ori, though he still thinks no one knows.”

Bilbo’s eyes widen. “No one knows?”

“Everyone knows,” Thorin says dryly.

Bilbo snickers into his food.

“Kíli, his younger brother, is eighteen,” Thorin goes on. “He is responsible too, in his own way, but he is much more chaotic than Fíli. He has not decided what course he wants to take yet, so for now he helps around the family business and tries out nearly everything else under the sun. He picks things up quickly, then drops them just as quickly. Lately, though, he seems to be very interested in music.”

Bilbo smiles as he listens, eating steadily. The food is delicious, comforting and unlike anything he has ever tasted. The way Thorin talks about his nephews also makes Bilbo think of his own father, speaking about him with the same mix of exasperation and affection.

“Though,” Thorin adds with a faint frown, “knowing his habits, I would not be surprised if he moved on to something else by next month. Still, Dís says he has recently found a girl he likes. Her name is Tauriel.”

Bilbo hums thoughtfully. “They both sound lovely.”

“They are,” Thorin says, and the pride in his voice is unmistakable.

Bilbo glances up at him. “I wonder if I will ever meet them.”

Thorin’s smile fades just a little. “Better not. As I said before, your iridescent eyes would give away the fact that you are not human.”

Bilbo’s expression softens, though he does not look offended. “And I do plan to go back home once I am healed, of course.”

“I know,” Thorin says, though there is a trace of something careful in his tone. “I just mean that it is safer that way.”

Bilbo nods, then smiles again. “That does not mean I am not interested, though. Based on how you talk about them, it is clear they love you very much.”

“And I love them,” Thorin says simply, with a small smile of his own.

He leans back a little, watching Bilbo eat. “I can keep telling you stories about them while you recover.”

“I would love that,” Bilbo says at once. Then, after a brief pause, he adds, “But I would also love hearing stories about you.”

Thorin blinks, clearly caught off guard. Bilbo has already finished most of his meal, which surprises Thorin too. The selkie certainly has an impressive appetite.

“Me?” Thorin says, one brow lifting. “I am not an interesting man.”

Bilbo gives him a bright, almost mischievous smile. “I will be the judge of that.”

That earns him a quiet chuckle from Thorin.

“Very well,” Thorin says. “But if you are bored, that will not be my fault.”

Bilbo smiles wider. “Deal.”

For an entire week, Bilbo remains confined to Thorin’s room.

At first, it feels strange to be indoors so long, especially in a human bed, wrapped in human blankets, but he quickly settles into the rhythm of it. Thorin insists he rest until his limp improves, and Bilbo eventually stops arguing about it. In the meantime, Thorin lends him books, half expecting Bilbo not to understand them.

Bilbo proves him wrong almost immediately.

“We do have human forms,” Bilbo explains with a small shrug, leafing through one of the books Thorin gives him. “We are not underwater all the time, so of course we know how to read and write. Though, admittedly, most of us stay within our community. Only a few Tooks and Brandybucks are adventurous enough to go out and see the wider world, like Mama.”

Thorin blinks at that, then gives a quiet huff that might be a laugh. “Your family does sound far more adventurous than mine.”

Bilbo smiles, pleased by that.

By the end of the week, Thorin notices that Bilbo has finished every single book he owns.

That is not saying much, admittedly. Thorin has a few old novels and some practical manuals, but most of his information comes from the internet. Still, Bilbo has clearly read everything Thorin has put in front of him, sometimes so quickly that Thorin has to wonder whether the selkie is quietly racing through chapters just to prove he can.

So one afternoon, Thorin decides to show him the internet properly.

“Oh, I am familiar with it,” Bilbo says, perking up at once. “We do not tend to use it much. Our home does not have a very good connection, and our technology is old, so that probably does not help either.”

Thorin arches a brow. “So I am guessing you have not seen cat videos before.”

Bilbo blinks. “We have heard of them, but no. Why? What is so special about them? We do see cats now and then, but not often.”

Thorin stares at him for a second, then slowly turns the screen toward him. “You are about to find out.”

And that is how Bilbo becomes completely, unquestionably hooked.

He laughs at clips of clumsy kittens, wide-eyed cats, dramatic cats, cats falling off furniture, cats staring into space like tiny philosophers, and cats doing absolutely nothing for several minutes at a time. After that, his searches become increasingly random. Sometimes he looks up animals. Sometimes food. Sometimes human customs. Sometimes things Belladonna has told him about, as though he is quietly trying to compare her stories against the wider world.

Thorin notices, but does not comment.

During the week, he also notices something else.

Seals keep showing up.

All day, as he works, he catches glimpses of them in the water near the lighthouse. Some are alone, some in pairs, some in loose groups that seem to watch him with unsettling patience. It is an eerie thing, being observed by so many dark, curious eyes. Even more so when he knows they are selkies, and worse, when he suspects they are judging him.

He does his best to ignore them.

Mostly, it works.

Still, when one seal lifts a flipper in what looks suspiciously like a wave, Thorin gives a stiff little nod back. And when he thinks he spots Primula and Drogo among the others, he is not entirely certain. Seals do all look rather alike, after all.

Of course, Thorin also keeps his promise to Bilbo.

Between his duties, he spends time with him whenever he can, telling him stories about his family, his friends, and his life. Bilbo listens with open curiosity, settling deeper into the pillows each time Thorin comes in. Thorin tells him about his nephews, Fíli and Kíli, and about Balin and Dwalin, the two men Bilbo often sees delivering supplies to the lighthouse.

He talks about Óin and Glóin, a pair of hard-working brothers who are also cousins, both of whom have a habit of turning every conversation into business advice. Glóin, especially, likes speaking at length about his son Gimli. Then there are Dori and Nori, brothers who work with manufacturing, and Ori, their cousin by adoption, who works in a library and is apparently still pretending that his relationship with Fíli is a secret, despite the fact that everyone knows already.

Bilbo listens to that part with a grin. “That sounds exactly like the sort of secret nobody actually keeps.”

“Precisely,” Thorin says dryly.

He tells Bilbo about Bofur and Bombur, brothers with their cousin Bifur, who somehow manage to be the social experts of the family business. He speaks of Frerin, his sweet younger brother, who helps with tourism and helped found the Durinson Company alongside the others. And, eventually, Bilbo asks the question Thorin has been expecting all week.

“What about you?”

Thorin pauses.

He tells Bilbo that he was once the CEO, but that he stepped down for reasons he refuses to explain. Bilbo does not press him, though he does look at him a little more thoughtfully after that.

Overall, the week passes quietly and pleasantly.

Bilbo heals.

Thorin works.

The lighthouse keeps standing.

And somehow, in between all of that, the loneliness Thorin has lived with for ten years begins to feel just a little less absolute.

After that week, Bilbo is finally able to stand and walk on his own.

It happens after breakfast, when Thorin comes in to check on his sprain. He studies Bilbo’s foot for a moment, then gives a small, approving nod.

“I think you are fine now,” Thorin says, a warm, encouraging smile tugging at his mouth. “How about trying to stand? Walk a little. I will be nearby if you fall.”

Bilbo blushes faintly at the concern in his voice and nods. “I will hold you to that promise,” he says.

Carefully, he pushes himself up from the bed and sets his feet on the floor. He tenses at first, waiting for the sharp stab of pain that has been following him all week.

It does not come.

Bilbo blinks, then slowly takes one step, then another. His face brightens almost at once.

“Oh!” he says, looking down at his foot in disbelief. “I can walk. I can run. Finally!”

Before Thorin can even warn him to take it slow, Bilbo is already pacing excitedly around the room, grinning so widely that his cheeks round with it.

Thorin watches him with clear relief, and perhaps a little amusement too. Seeing Bilbo healthy again should make him happy.

And it does.

But it also means Bilbo will have to go home.

“Congratulations,” Thorin says, though his voice comes out softer than he intends. “You can go home now.”

Bilbo turns back toward him, and his smile fades into something quieter. “I suppose I can,” he says. “My parents must be terribly worried. I hope Mama is better now. And I will have to apologize to Papa for swimming away like that…” He worries at his lower lip for a moment before glancing up again. “Can I visit you sometime, though? I really have enjoyed your company. I think of you as a friend, and it would be rather sad if we just… stopped seeing each other.”

The shy way he says it makes Thorin smile despite himself. “My lighthouse will always be open for you,” he says.

Bilbo’s expression brightens again, this time with obvious relief. “I am glad to hear that.” Then he hesitates, glancing toward the door and then back at Thorin. “Before I go home… would you show me around the lighthouse? I have only seen this room properly because I was stuck here with my limp.”

Thorin tilts his head, a little surprised. “I can show you around when you come back to visit. Do you not want to return home as soon as possible?”

Bilbo shifts a little, suddenly looking shy. “I—um… I cannot help it. I am curious about a human dwelling.”

It is true, though not the whole truth. He does want to see the lighthouse, but he also does not want to leave so quickly. Thorin knows that already, though Bilbo does not realize it.

After a brief pause, Thorin gives a small smile. “Then I will give you a proper tour today. Come on. Follow me.”

Bilbo follows eagerly as Thorin leads him out of the room and through the lighthouse.

They do not linger long in the keeper’s quarters, since Bilbo has already spent most of the week there. Instead, Thorin guides him up the stairs to the top of the lighthouse, where the great lamp room waits.

Bilbo stops short when he sees it, his eyes widening with wonder.

“This is what makes that bright light?” he asks, staring at the great mechanism in awe. Then, with immediate curiosity, he adds, “Can we turn it on?”

Thorin lets out a low chuckle. “We should not. It is still daytime, and I am not turning it on while we are inside the lamp room. I would rather not blind us.”

“Ah, that is disappointing,” Bilbo says with a laugh. “But, frankly, I do not want to go blind either.”

He follows Thorin out of the lamp room and down to the watch room below, where Thorin spends most of his working hours. It is a practical, orderly space, lined with maps, logs, charts, tools, and objects Bilbo does not recognize at a glance. A radio sits nearby, ready to catch distress calls from ships passing through the waters.

“This is where I spend most of my time,” Thorin explains as he gestures around the room. “I keep watch over the light, and over any incoming ships.”

Bilbo looks around carefully, taking in everything with wide-eyed curiosity. The room feels very different from the bedroom he has spent the last week in. This is clearly Thorin’s work space, and he is almost afraid to touch anything without permission.

“Is this where you are all the time?” Bilbo asks.

“Not all the time,” Thorin replies. “I am the lone keeper of this lighthouse, so there is always work to do somewhere. Repairs, painting, taking stock, cleaning, maintenance… all of it falls to me.”

Bilbo blinks, astonished. “This entire building? All by yourself?”

Thorin gives a small shrug, as though it is nothing unusual. “Yes.”

Bilbo cannot quite imagine it. The work alone sounds exhausting, let alone doing it without help. His eyes drift back toward the windows. “Is this the room I usually see you in when I look up at the lighthouse?”

“Yes,” Thorin says. “The balcony connects to this room. That is likely where you have seen me from the ocean.”

Bilbo nods slowly, then smiles a little to himself.

“Come,” Thorin says after a moment. “Let me show you something else.”

He leads Bilbo down another flight of stairs, to a lower level. There, Bilbo comes to an abrupt halt.

Before him is a room full of gears, pulleys, and heavy machinery, all gleaming faintly with age and careful upkeep. His eyes widen.

“What is this?” he asks.

“This is the clockwork room,” Thorin says. “These are the old mechanisms that used to power the lighthouse. Each gear and pulley is designed to generate enough energy to keep the lamp lit throughout the night.”

Bilbo steps a little closer, still staring. The machinery looks ancient and impressive, like something out of a story.

“Nowadays we use more modern technology to keep the light burning,” Thorin continues, “but I maintain this system as well, just in case. It is part of the lighthouse’s history, and it should be preserved.”

Bilbo nods, impressed. “You really do take care of everything here.”

Thorin’s expression softens, though he does not reply immediately. “There is also an oil house and a cistern outside,” he adds. “The oil house is used for storing more than oil these days, but I still use the cistern for clean rainwater.”

Bilbo’s curiosity returns at once. “Can you show me?”

“Of course I can,” he says eagerly.

So Thorin leads him back down the staircase and out of the lighthouse. Bilbo glances at the steps as they descend, and the memory of being carried down them a week ago comes rushing back all at once. He flushes immediately, remembering the feeling of Thorin’s strong arms beneath him and the warmth of his chest. He forces himself to look ahead and think of something else.

Anything else.

Outside, Thorin shows him the oil house first.

“This place used to store oil exclusively, as the name suggests,” Thorin explains. “It was built to be flame-resistant. Now the lighthouse does not rely on oil nearly as much, so I use the space for other supplies and equipment.”

Bilbo looks around in open admiration. “It is so spacious.”

Even with the crates, boxes, and supplies stacked inside, there is still a surprising amount of room.

“Indeed,” Thorin says. “Come. I will show you the cistern.”

And with that, he leads Bilbo on.

The cistern is nothing like Bilbo expects.

When Thorin mentions it earlier, Bilbo imagines something simple, a giant bucket for collecting rainwater and little else. Instead, he finds himself staring at an elaborate system of pipes, filters, tanks, and machinery carefully built beneath the lighthouse grounds.

His eyes widen. “This is a cistern?”

Thorin chuckles softly at Bilbo’s bewildered expression. “Humans can only drink freshwater. During storms, rough waves sometimes mix seawater into the collected rainwater, so this system helps purify it before consumption.”

Bilbo steps closer, fascinated by the mechanisms. “Ah… I see.” He tilts his head thoughtfully. “I drink seawater just fine, but then again, I am a selkie and you are not. I heard stories about humans dying from drinking seawater, but I always assumed that was just a myth. Is it true?”

“It is true,” Thorin replies. “Too much salt dehydrates us. Human bodies are not made to handle seawater the way yours can.”

Bilbo stares at him, mildly horrified.

Something he has consumed his entire life without thought could actually kill Thorin.

“That is terrifying,” Bilbo mutters.

Thorin lets out an amused hum. “To me, living underwater sounds equally terrifying.”

Bilbo huffs a laugh at that, though his expression remains thoughtful. “I will make sure any gifts I bring you are edible for humans, then.”

Thorin pauses. “You were planning on bringing gifts?”

Bilbo blinks as if the answer should be obvious. “Of course I was. You helped me, cared for me, fed me, let me stay here for a week…” He folds his arms with a tiny frown. “And before you say you only did it because it was the right thing to do, I still want to thank you properly.”

Thorin looks strangely touched by that.

Bilbo continues rambling, clearly trying to think through possibilities out loud. “I was considering pearls. Or perhaps fish? Though now I am worried about giving you the wrong kind.” He taps his chin thoughtfully. “Corals could work too. Or shells. I know a beautiful place with blue shells—”

“I think,” Thorin interrupts gently, “I would be more than happy simply seeing you again.”

The words slip out before he can stop them.

The moment he realizes what he says, Thorin stiffens slightly.

Bilbo immediately turns bright red.

For a second, neither of them speaks.

Bilbo suddenly finds the ground incredibly interesting while Thorin clears his throat and pretends to inspect part of the cistern machinery very intensely.

Finally, Bilbo mumbles, “I do plan on visiting often. I said so before.”

Thorin glances back at him.

“Though,” Bilbo adds quickly, “my cousins may come with me sometimes, so… be warned.”

Despite his words, a small selfish part of Bilbo hopes the visits will not always include his cousins, though he knows they'll tag along. He rather likes having Thorin’s attention to himself.

Trying desperately to change the subject before his blush worsens, Bilbo suddenly perks up. “Oh! Do you have a boat?”

Thorin blinks at the abrupt shift. “A boat?”

“Yes! I always see one near the shore from a distance, but I have never actually been inside one before.” Bilbo looks genuinely excited now. “Can I see yours?”

Thorin cannot help smiling at Bilbo’s enthusiasm. “Of course. I use it sometimes to take my nephews fishing.” He pauses, then adds, “Actually… you have probably never fished before, have you?”

“I have,” Bilbo says proudly, then pauses. “But if you mean the thing humans do with the sticks and wires, then no.”

“Rods and lines,” Thorin corrects with a chuckle.

Bilbo points at him triumphantly. “Yes, those things.”

Thorin laughs properly this time, deep and warm. “Is it something you would like to try?”

Bilbo nods immediately. “Is it fun?”

“Well,” Thorin says thoughtfully as he begins leading Bilbo toward the shore, “most people find it boring. You spend a lot of time waiting.”

“That sounds terrible.”

“And yet,” Thorin continues with amusement, “I find it peaceful. Fulfilling, even.”

Bilbo glances at him curiously. “Then I would like to learn.”

Thorin smiles at that. “All right. I will teach you.”

Thorin leads Bilbo down toward the docks where his small boat is tied, alongside several fishing supplies neatly arranged nearby. The sea breeze is cool against their skin, carrying the scent of salt and seaweed.

But as they approach, Thorin abruptly slows.

A large group of seals is gathered near the docks.

Far too many seals.

They lounge across the rocks and wooden planks, all staring directly at him with unsettling focus. Thorin suddenly feels very outnumbered.

“Oh… um,” he mutters under his breath.

Bilbo, meanwhile, lights up immediately.

“Mama! Papa!”

Before Thorin can react, Bilbo runs past him toward the front of the group, nearly tripping over himself in excitement. Two seals at the center push forward eagerly, one with a copper-colored coat nearly identical to Bilbo’s, and another with sleek dark fur.

The seals shimmer.

Magic ripples across their forms like sunlight on water, and suddenly there stand two humans instead.

The man resembles Bilbo strongly, though older and broader, with warm eyes and curly copper hair streaked faintly with silver. The woman is beautiful and fierce-looking, with long dark curls tumbling over her shoulders and sharp Tookish eyes that immediately lock onto Bilbo.

Both are naked except for their seal coats.

They pull Bilbo into a crushing hug—

—and then the woman immediately grabs his ear.

“Bilbo Baggins!” she screeches. “What in Yavanna’s Blue Waters were you thinking, swimming into a storm last week?!”

“Mama!” Bilbo yelps. “I am sorry!”

“You could have died!”

“I know!”

“You frightened this entire family half to death!”

As Belladonna continues scolding her son loudly enough for the entire ocean to hear, the older man walks calmly toward Thorin instead, smiling warmly.

“Greetings,” he says, extending a hand. “I am Bungo Baggins, and my wife there is Belladonna Baggins, née Took.”

Thorin carefully shakes his hand. “Thorin Durinson.”

Bungo’s smile widens. “I must thank you for caring for my son this past week. I do not even wish to imagine what might have happened if you had not found him.”

“Oh, there is no need,” Thorin replies quickly, laughing nervously as Belladonna’s furious yelling continues in the background. “I only did what was right.”

“By Mahal, Bilbo, what possessed you?!” Belladonna cries. “Swimming into a storm for kelp? Kelp!”

Bilbo wilts under her glare, though Thorin notices something fond beneath the embarrassment. Bilbo looks relieved to see his mother energetic and healthy again after worrying so much about her.

Eventually, after what feels like an hour to Thorin, though it is likely only several minutes, Belladonna finally releases Bilbo’s ear.

Bilbo immediately clutches it with a wounded expression.

Belladonna strides toward Thorin next, all fierce energy and maternal intensity, before abruptly taking both his hands in hers.

“Thank you for saving my son,” she says earnestly.

“It was no trouble, madam,” Thorin replies, smiling awkwardly while Bilbo rubs his abused ear behind her.

Belladonna narrows her eyes at Bilbo again before turning back to Thorin.

“I hate to ask this of you,” she begins, “but as a mother, it is my responsibility to ensure my son learns proper discipline.”

“Mama, I am a grown adu—”

“Silence,” Belladonna snaps without even looking at him.

Bilbo immediately shuts his mouth.

Bungo coughs into his hand, clearly hiding amusement.

Belladonna continues with complete seriousness. “As punishment for his recklessness, Bilbo shall be exiled from home for a period of time until he learns his lesson.”

Bilbo gasps in horror. “Exiled?!”

“Yes, exiled.”

“For swimming into one storm?!”

“You swam into a superstorm!”

Bilbo throws his hands into the air dramatically while Belladonna ignores him entirely and refocuses on Thorin.

“Now,” she says, smoothing her curls with dignity, “I do not wish my son to suffer unnecessarily during said exile. So I humbly ask…” Her eyes gleam knowingly. “Would you allow Bilbo to stay here with you during his punishment?”

Thorin freezes.

Behind Belladonna, Bilbo goes bright red.

“Oh, um…” Thorin clears his throat, still trying to recover from Belladonna’s request. “I believe that should be fine. I do not mind Bilbo staying with me longer.” He glances toward Bilbo, whose face is still burning red. “How long will this… exile last?”

“It depends entirely on Bilbo himself,” Belladonna replies smoothly.

“Mama—” Bilbo begins in horror.

Belladonna ignores him completely. “We shall visit from time to time to determine whether he has learned his lesson,” she says with all the dignity of a queen delivering judgment. “Until then…” She turns toward Bungo and holds out a hand. Bungo immediately passes her a heavy wooden box, which she then offers to Thorin with a bright smile. “Take this.”

Thorin opens the lid and nearly drops it.

Inside are pearls.

Not just ordinary pearls either, but large, perfectly rounded ones gleaming with soft iridescence. There are dozens of them packed inside, enough wealth to make most people in Erebor stare in disbelief.

“Oh, this is…” Thorin stares at the box helplessly. “This is far too much.”

“Nonsense, darling,” Belladonna says dismissively. “We have plenty. Pearls do not hold the same value for us as they do for humans.”

Bilbo groans quietly behind her. “Mama, please stop calling him darling.”

Belladonna ignores him too.

“Besides,” she continues cheerfully, “you saved my son. A mother never forgets that.”

Thorin still looks deeply uncomfortable accepting something so expensive, but before he can protest further, Belladonna pats his shoulder firmly.

“Now, we must return home.” Her smile sharpens with unmistakable mischief. “Take very good care of Bilbo for me.”

Bilbo immediately senses danger.

“And I mean really good care,” Belladonna adds with a wink.

“Mama!”

Belladonna bursts into laughter.

Even Bungo looks like he is trying not to laugh as his son turns the exact shade of a boiled crab.

Then, with one final amused look toward the pair of them, Belladonna dives gracefully into the sea. Her body glows as magic sweeps over her form, transforming her back into a seal midair before she splashes into the water.

Bungo follows after her, offering Thorin an apologetic smile before shifting as well. One by one, the other selkies dive back into the ocean until only Thorin and Bilbo remain standing on the dock.

Silence settles between them.

Very awkward silence.

Bilbo keeps staring determinedly at the wooden planks beneath his feet while Thorin studies the pearl box as though it might somehow explain what just happened.

Both of them are violently red.

Finally, Thorin coughs into his fist. “So… do you still want to learn how to fish?”

Bilbo nearly jumps. “I do! But… um…” He glances away again. “Maybe not today.”

“Yes,” Thorin says quickly. “That is perfectly fine.”

Another awkward silence follows.

Thorin looks down at the absurd amount of pearls in his hands and sighs softly. “I have no idea how I am supposed to explain this to my family when they see it.”

Bilbo rubs the back of his neck sheepishly. “Next time they visit, I can ask them to bring fish instead of pearls?”

“I would rather they did not bring me anything at all,” Thorin admits. “I did not help you expecting a reward.”

Bilbo smiles a little at that. “I know.”

Thorin glances at him, and for a moment their eyes meet.

Both immediately look away again.

“…But yes,” Thorin continues awkwardly, “fish would probably raise fewer questions.”

Bilbo laughs quietly at that.

Together, they begin walking back toward the lighthouse, both still flustered from Belladonna’s very obvious attempt at matchmaking.

Bilbo can already imagine his mother returning home utterly pleased with herself while Bungo helplessly goes along with whatever scheme she has decided upon.

Honestly, Bilbo thinks with embarrassment, she probably already considers Thorin her future son-in-law.

The first day of Bilbo’s so-called exile leaves him utterly unsure of what to do.

Thorin leaves him alone in the room again, since he still has work to do, and now that Bilbo is no longer bedridden, Bilbo feels oddly compelled to be useful. After all, Thorin is letting him stay here, and the least he can do is help. His first instinct is to go swimming and catch fresh fish for food, but then he remembers something from one of his many internet readings, raw fish is not safe for humans like Thorin.

Except for sushi, apparently.

Bilbo still does not fully understand how sushi somehow makes raw fish acceptable while other forms of it are not, but he decides that is a mystery for another day. If Thorin is going to eat fish, then Bilbo needs to learn how to cook it first. He has never had to do that before, since selkies can eat fish raw without trouble, but surely he can figure it out.

First, though, he has to catch some.

So Bilbo heads downstairs.

At the top of the lighthouse, Thorin is watching the ocean for any sign of weather trouble when he notices movement below the balcony. He looks down just in time to see Bilbo flash brightly as he transforms into a seal before slipping into the water.

For a moment, Thorin feels a sharp jolt of panic.

Then it turns into something quieter and far sadder.

Of course Bilbo is leaving. Why would he stay? Thorin tells himself it is only fair. He is meant to be alone. He has spent ten years proving that to himself. He exhales heavily and forces his attention back to the sea, trying not to dwell on the ache that suddenly settles in his chest.

Then he sees Bilbo come back.

The seal resurfaces with a fish in his mouth, hauls himself to the shore, and drops it onto the sand before immediately darting back into the water.

Thorin blinks.

Then he understands.

Bilbo is catching fish.

A seabird swoops down at once, clearly deciding the abandoned fish is free for the taking. Thorin watches, still a little startled, as Bilbo returns with another fish just in time to catch the gull trying to snatch the first one. The bird flutters back with a squawk, but no sooner does Bilbo drop the second fish beside the first than another gull dives in to try its luck.

Bilbo whips around and smacks the sand with his tail, flinging a spray of wet grit at the bird. It shrieks and backs off.

Thorin has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing.

A third gull appears.

Bilbo freezes, then stares at it with utter offense as though he cannot believe the audacity of it. The bird hovers for a second, emboldened, and Bilbo immediately lunges after it with a splash of water and another furious flick of his tail.

It is a surprisingly heroic battle.

And a deeply ridiculous one.

Thorin watches the entire struggle with mounting amusement and a growing sense of pity. Bilbo is doing his best to protect his catch, but the gulls are relentless. Eventually, Thorin decides enough is enough. He grabs an icebox and heads down to help.

By the time he reaches the beach, Bilbo has changed back into his human form and is hurrying toward the lighthouse with two fish clutched in his hands.

“Oh, Thorin!” he says when he spots him. “Let us get back inside before those flying devils come after the rest of them!”

Thorin almost smiles. “Bilbo, it is all right. I brought this.”

He opens the icebox, and Bilbo stares at it in dawning understanding.

“Oh!”

Thorin gestures to it. “Put the fish inside. They will not be able to get to them there.”

“That is brilliant!” Bilbo says, immediately dropping the fish into the box. “I thought I would have to catch one, run all the way back, then come down again for each new fish.”

Thorin gives him an amused look.

Bilbo beams. “I will fill this up. Do not worry.”

Then, already turning back toward the shore with the icebox in hand, he calls over his shoulder, “I will make lunch!”

Thorin watches him go, laughing softly under his breath as Bilbo waves goodbye from the beach.

Then he shakes his head, turns back toward the lighthouse, and returns to his work.

When Bilbo finally fills the icebox with fish, he heads back up the lighthouse, panting by the time he reaches the top. “So many stairs…” he gasps, leaning forward with his hands on his knees for a moment before straightening and heading into the keeper’s quarters.

He makes his way into the kitchen and turns on Thorin’s tablet, which Thorin has given him permission to borrow. Bilbo searches for videos on how to cook fish and studies them carefully, watching each step with intense concentration. He takes out the ingredients from the fridge and frowns when he learns that the fish needs to be cleaned before it is edible to humans.

“Humans are so fragile,” he mutters under his breath as he does his best to descale and gut the fish. He manages it with a mix of success and failure, making a mess of the process more than once. Still, he keeps going, determined not to make Thorin sick.

He rinses the fish as well as he can, pouring water over them repeatedly to make sure they are clean, then finally begins preparing them for cooking.

Fried fish seems simple enough.

Heat the pan. Add oil. Put in the fish. Flip it. Add salt. Done.

Easy.

A little later, in the watch room, Thorin catches the smell of something burning.

His head snaps up.

That is never a good sign.

He heads downstairs toward the keeper’s quarters, following the scent straight into the kitchen, where he finds Bilbo staring helplessly at a frying pan that is very much on fire.

Thorin stops in the doorway. “Um…” he says carefully. “Do you need some help?”

“Yes!” Bilbo cries at once, his voice rising in panic. He looks completely horrified, clearly having no idea what to do now that flames are involved. “What do I do?!”

He has already made the very unwise choice of trying to douse the fire with water, which only makes the problem worse.

Thorin moves at once, calm even as Bilbo flails at his side. He switches off the stove, then covers the pan with a lid to smother the flames. “Just wait,” he says, steady and reassuring. “It will die down now. Were you trying to cook?”

Bilbo nods miserably, cheeks pink with embarrassment. “It looked so easy in the video…”

Thorin glances at the pan, then back at him, and his expression softens. “Come here,” he says. “I will help you. I will teach you how to cook properly.”

He lifts the pan into the sink and takes out a different one, then gestures for Bilbo to stand beside him. Together, they start again. This time, Thorin shows him how to heat the pan first, how much oil to use, and when to place the fish inside without letting it burn.

Bilbo watches with wide eyes, listening carefully this time.

Soon, the fish is frying safely, and the kitchen fills with a warm, savory smell instead of smoke.

When they finally sit down to eat, Bilbo takes his first bite and lights up immediately. “Oh!” he says, sounding delighted and surprised all at once. “I have never eaten fried fish before. This tastes better than raw!”

Thorin smiles. “We only seasoned it with salt today, but there are other ways to prepare it as well. I can show you sometime.”

Bilbo looks almost awestruck. “You can season it differently?”

Thorin gives a small chuckle. “Yes. If I had known you would enjoy fried fish this much, I would have made it sooner,” he admits. “I did not, because I thought you might prefer trying foods you have never eaten before.”

Bilbo takes another bite, clearly thrilled. “This is food I have never eaten before. Cooking is amazing!”

Thorin laughs softly at that.

He had not expected to be teaching anyone how to cook, least of all a selkie who started the day by catching his own lunch in the sea. But he finds he does not mind it at all.

In fact, he rather likes it.

He is not the best cook, not by a long shot, but he can at least share what he knows.

And judging by the way Bilbo keeps smiling at the plate in front of him, that is more than enough for now.

Bilbo’s next attempt at helping around the lighthouse goes far more smoothly.

At least, he thinks it does.

Laundry, unlike cooking, is something he actually knows.

His mother Belladonna had always adored visiting the human world during her younger years, and because of that she owned an impressive collection of human clothes. Bilbo vividly remembers helping wash them as a child while she lectured him on proper fabric care with the seriousness of a scholar discussing ancient history.

So really, this task should be easy.

Bilbo hums softly to himself as he waits beside the washing machine, curled up in a chair with Thorin’s laptop balanced on his knees. A compilation of cat videos plays on the screen, utterly capturing his attention.

Humans truly do not appreciate enough how ridiculous cats are.

The washing machine suddenly chimes.

“Oh!” Bilbo quickly sets the laptop aside and hurries over. He carefully transfers the damp clothes into the dryer, shuts the door, and presses the buttons exactly the way Thorin showed him before.

Then he waits again.

More cat videos.

More delighted laughter.

Eventually the dryer finishes too, and Bilbo happily gathers the warm clothes into his arms before heading outside toward the clothesline. He balances Thorin’s tablet nearby so he can continue listening to music while he works.

The salty breeze whips gently through his curls as he hangs shirts, towels, and blankets one by one.

Meanwhile, above in the watch room, Thorin is monitoring the tides when he notices a familiar boat approaching the islet.

He frowns slightly.

Then sighs.

Of course.

He heads downstairs and pauses briefly when he spots Bilbo hanging laundry outside.

He intends to check later whether Bilbo is actually doing everything correctly—

—but then Bilbo casually lifts one of Thorin’s pairs of underwear to pin it onto the line.

Thorin freezes. His entire face immediately turns red.

Bilbo, completely oblivious, keeps humming cheerfully while clipping the underwear beside a towel.

Thorin clears his throat loudly and looks away at once. “Bilbo!” he calls a little too quickly. “There is a boat incoming. I advise you to stay inside the lighthouse, all right?”

“All right!” Bilbo calls back easily, still focused on his task.

Thorin practically retreats toward the docks before Bilbo can accidentally embarrass him further. When he reaches the shore, he finds his younger brother Frerin climbing out of the boat with his usual effortless confidence and bright grin.

“Brother!” Frerin spreads his arms wide. “There you are!”

Despite himself, Thorin smiles and steps forward to hug him. “It is good to see you, Frerin.”

“And you as well,” Frerin replies warmly before pulling back. “Though you still look too thin. Are you eating properly, or surviving entirely on tea and stubbornness?”

Thorin snorts softly. “I eat enough.”

“Mmhm. I totally believe that.”

Thorin rolls his eyes. “What are you doing here?”

Frerin’s grin widens immediately. “I came to invite you to the festival next month!”

“The summer festival?” Thorin asks.

“The one and only.” Frerin claps him on the shoulder. “Come on, Thorin. The whole town will be there.”

“You could have texted me.”

“And then you would have declined like always,” Frerin replies shamelessly. “This way I can annoy you in person.”

Thorin exhales heavily. “Frerin…”

“Brother,” Frerin interrupts gently, though his smile softens. “You should come back for once. Even if you avoid the festival itself, you could still help with preparations. Everyone would love to see you. We all miss you, you know?”

Thorin looks away toward the sea. “I cannot go back to the mainland.”

Frerin’s expression falls slightly. “No one exiled you except yourself.”

Silence settles between them.

The waves crash softly against the docks below.

“Thorin,” Frerin says more quietly now, “you need to stop blaming yourself for what happened to Grandfather. No one else does.”

Thorin’s jaw tightens immediately. “No,” he says, voice low and rough. “It was my fault. I should not have—” He cuts himself off and shakes his head sharply. “I really should not have.”

Frerin sighs deeply, watching his brother with obvious worry. “You are stubborn as always.”

“So I have been told.”

Frerin studies him for another long moment before suddenly smirking again, though there is something suspiciously knowing in it now. “Fine then,” he says lightly. “If you will not come willingly, I suppose I shall send reinforcements soon enough.”

Thorin narrows his eyes. “What does that mean?”

“You will see.”

“Frerin.”

But Frerin is already laughing as he steps back toward his boat.

“It was good seeing you again, Thorin!” he calls out.

Then, before Thorin can press him further, Frerin climbs into the boat and sails away, leaving Thorin standing alone on the docks with a growing sense of dread about whatever exactly “reinforcements” means.

Whatever Frerin means by “reinforcements,” Thorin quickly discovers it involves unleashing the entirety of the Durinson Company upon him.

For the next several weeks, Thorin is relentlessly bombarded with texts, phone calls, emails, and voice messages, all centered around one thing. The upcoming summer festival.

Meanwhile, Bilbo settles comfortably into life at the lighthouse. He learns household chores with surprising enthusiasm and gradually becomes better at them than Thorin himself. Cooking especially becomes Bilbo’s newest obsession. What begins with nearly setting the kitchen on fire evolves into genuine skill, and before long Bilbo is preparing meals far more complicated than anything Thorin usually makes for himself.

Thorin is both impressed and mildly betrayed by how quickly Bilbo surpasses him.

One afternoon, Thorin opens an email from Bifur only to immediately regret it.

The message is clearly being written by three people fighting over the same keyboard.

“Hello Thorin! Bombur here! You should come to the festival! We found these incredible new spices and I would love to cook for yo—”

“—Bofur now! Buddy, are you still single? Because I know several lovely people who would love a da—”

“Apologies. Bifur speaking. They keep stealing my laptop. Anyway, what we are trying to sa—”

“—IS THAT YOU SHOULD COME!”

“Also please let Bombur cook for you, he has been experimenting for weeks.”

“IGNORE HIM. FIND LOVE INSTEAD.”

“Bofur, stop typing nonsense.”

“Love is never nonsense.”

“IT IS WHEN YOU ARE USING MY EMAIL.”

The message somehow continues for another four paragraphs.

Thorin rubs his forehead tiredly. Finally, he types a single response. “You three do realize you each own separate laptops, yes?” He sends it and immediately closes the email before another one can arrive.

“Thorin!” Bilbo’s voice echoes from downstairs moments later.

Thorin looks up just in time to see Bilbo entering the watch room carrying a plate piled high with cookies. His curls bounce slightly as he walks, and his entire face glows with excitement.

“I baked cookies,” Bilbo announces proudly. “Please try them!”

Thorin takes one, still warm from the oven, and bites into it. His eyes widen slightly. “They are good,” he says honestly. “Very good.”

Bilbo beams immediately. “Really?”

“You are learning far too quickly,” Thorin mutters with a faint smile. “Soon you will make me look useless.”

Bilbo laughs brightly as he settles beside him. Together they sit quietly in the watch room, sharing cookies while sunlight spills through the windows and the sea crashes softly below.

It feels strangely domestic.

Dangerously domestic.

Then Frerin’s so-called reinforcements escalate further.

This time, Thorin is forcibly added to a group chat by Dori, Nori, and Ori.

The chaos begins immediately.

“So Thorin,” Nori texts first, “Bofur and I have compiled a list of ladies who would absolutely love to meet you during the festival.”

“No,” Dori immediately replies. “We are not doing that.”

“Besides,” Dori continues, “Thorin is not the sort of man who enjoys being set up.”

“Wait,” Ori suddenly types. “Isn’t Thorin bisexual?”

“Correct,” Nori replies instantly. “Which means we also have an entirely separate list of men.”

“No one should have any lists!” Dori writes furiously.

“Thoriiiiin,” Nori sends next. “Please return to civilization. We can find you a beautiful romance.”

“We miss you,” Ori adds more sincerely. “It would make everyone really happy to see you again.”

“And the men and women would also be happy—”

“NORI!”

Both Dori and Ori send that message at the exact same time.

Thorin stares at the screen for several long seconds. Then, very calmly, he silences the notifications for the chat entirely and places his phone face down on the table.

“What was that?” Bilbo asks from beside him.

“Nothing important,” Thorin confirms.

The two of them are sprawled together on the couch in the keeper’s quarters, watching a romantic comedy on Thorin’s laptop. At some point during the movie, they have unconsciously drifted close enough that Bilbo is practically tucked against Thorin’s side beneath a blanket.

Neither of them mentions it.

Onscreen, the male lead trips over a table while trying to confess his feelings.

Bilbo bursts into laughter.

“He is so stupid,” Bilbo giggles. “But somehow that makes him adorable.”

Thorin glances down at him. “Is he your type?”

Bilbo opens his mouth automatically before freezing halfway through his answer. “No,” he says carefully. “I prefer men who are taller… and who have facial hair.”

Silence.

Bilbo slowly realizes what he just implied. His entire face turns scarlet.

Thorin immediately turns just as red.

Neither of them looks at the other.

Instead, they both stare very intently at the movie while pretending their hearts are not suddenly pounding loud enough to drown out the dialogue.

Of course, Frerin’s “reinforcements” do not stop there.

At this point, Thorin is fairly certain his entire family has united with the sole purpose of dragging him back to the mainland by force if necessary.

One afternoon, Thorin stands in front of one of his dressers, searching through old clothes for anything that might fit Bilbo. Up until now, Bilbo has mostly been borrowing some of Fíli and Kíli’s old clothes since his smaller frame fits them reasonably well, but Thorin wants to give him more options.

Not that Bilbo seems to mind wearing oversized shirts.

In fact, Thorin very much minds.

Because the image of Bilbo walking around in one of Thorin’s own shirts, with sleeves too long and fabric hanging loosely around his collar bone, showing some skin, keeps making Thorin blush whenever he remembers it.

Behind him, Bilbo sits comfortably on the bed, humming softly to himself while mending one of Thorin’s torn work pants. Over the past few weeks, Bilbo has somehow learned sewing as well and now insists on repairing anything ripped before Thorin can throw it away.

Thorin’s phone suddenly rings.

He sighs before answering. “Hello?”

“Thorin!” Glóin’s horrified voice immediately booms through the speaker. “You have to come back to the mainland and help me!”

Thorin blinks slowly. “Help you with what?”

“I just found out Gimli is dating that twat’s son, Legolas!” Glóin cries dramatically. “If this relationship works out, I am going to be related to fucking Thranduil!”

From somewhere farther away, Óin’s voice drifts into the call.

“Legolas is a fine lad,” Óin says calmly. “But Thranduil is indeed a piece of shit.”

“I cannot believe this is happening to me,” Glóin groans.

Thorin pinches the bridge of his nose. “I… do not know how exactly I am supposed to help with that.”

“I told you so,” Óin says smugly in the background.

Glóin makes a wounded noise.

Eventually the call ends with Glóin still spiraling into despair about future family gatherings.

The moment Thorin lowers his phone, Bilbo suddenly beams and proudly holds up the repaired work pants.

“Tada!”

Thorin looks down.

Instead of trying to hide the tear, Bilbo has embroidered a tiny copper-colored seal over it.

The little seal even has shiny black bead eyes.

“Look,” Bilbo says happily, pointing at it. “It is me.”

Thorin stares for a moment before laughing softly.

“That is adorable.”

Bilbo immediately turns pink at the praise.

“Now you will be with me during work,” Thorin adds with a fond smile.

Bilbo flushes even harder.

From that day onward, every repaired article of Thorin’s clothing mysteriously gains a tiny embroidered copper seal somewhere on it.

Thorin pretends not to notice how much he secretly likes it.

The next reinforcements arrive in the form of Balin and Dwalin calling him through video chat.

The moment Thorin answers, Balin gives him a deeply knowing look.

“Thorin,” Balin begins gently, “you probably already know why we are calling.”

“Let me guess,” Thorin says dryly. “Frerin sent you two to convince me to attend the summer festival.”

“Aye,” Dwalin grunts immediately. “So are you coming or not?”

Thorin snorts. “Not even going to attempt persuasion first?”

“No need,” Dwalin replies bluntly.

“The next group is far better at convincing you than we are,” Balin says with a suspiciously amused smile. “If they cannot convince you, then nobody can.”

That statement fills Thorin with immediate dread.

Still, instead of pushing further, Balin and Dwalin spend the rest of the call discussing ordinary news from Erebor. They tell him about preparations for the festival, local gossip, which businesses are competing this year, and the usual family chaos.

Apparently Frerin nearly fell off a pier while flirting with a tourist.

Twice.

Thorin finds himself laughing more during that call than he has in years.

By the time the conversation ends, Bilbo who had fallen asleep earlier before Balin and Dwalin called, is curled comfortably in Thorin’s lap. The selkie stirs sleepily as Thorin sets the phone aside. “Thorin?” Bilbo mumbles groggily, blinking awake. “Were you talking to someone?”

“Yes.”

Bilbo suddenly sits up in alarm. “Oh no, did they see me?”

“No,” Thorin reassures him immediately. “It was only a voice call. They did not see you.”

Bilbo visibly relaxes at that. “Good,” he murmurs sleepily before yawning and instinctively curling closer against Thorin again.

Thorin’s entire body goes warm at the contact.

Without really thinking about it, he gently runs his fingers through Bilbo’s curls. Bilbo hums softly in contentment, eyes already drifting shut once more.

For a long moment, Thorin simply sits there quietly with Bilbo tucked against him, listening to the distant sound of waves outside the lighthouse.

The last group to call Thorin is, admittedly, the one he should have expected.

Fíli and Kíli.

His nephews.

He loves them dearly, almost as if they are his own sons, and they are undeniably among the best at persuading him to return to the mainland. They have succeeded before, usually for important occasionsm birthdays, graduations, milestones he cannot reasonably refuse, but those visits are rare.

The moment their faces appear on the screen, both of them are grinning far too brightly.

“Uncle!” they say at the same time.

Thorin sighs. “Fíli. Kíli.”

“Please come to the festival, Uncle!” Kíli begs at once. “I want you to meet my girlfriend!”

“And you promised you would be with us this year!” Fíli adds, pointing at the camera as though that will somehow strengthen his argument.

Thorin pinches the bridge of his nose. “Fíli, you know that promise was for your birthdays, and those already passed. And Kíli, you should be asking your own father, Víli, for permission.”

“It is not about permission!” Kíli protests. “I just want her to meet someone important to me!”

“Yeah!” Fíli agrees eagerly. “Uncle should at least judge her before she becomes my sister-in-law!”

Thorin snorts softly. “That is very sweet of you both, but I have already heard everyone likes Tauriel. Even if I do not meet her, I am sure it will be fine.”

“Uncle—” both of them begin.

Then they stop.

The sudden silence is so unlike them that Thorin immediately narrows his eyes. Something is wrong. Fíli and Kíli do not simply go quiet for no reason.

He follows their gaze.

And turns.

Bilbo is in the background, vacuuming the floor while humming cheerfully to himself, looking entirely unbothered by the chaos of the call. He glances up when he hears Thorin’s voice, smiling as if nothing unusual is happening at all.

“Oh, Thorin! There you are,” Bilbo says brightly. “What would you like for lunch today?”

Fíli’s eyes nearly bulge out of his head. “Uncle, you have someone with you?”

Kíli leans so close to the camera that his face fills the screen. “Who is that?”

“Ah—nothing!” Thorin blurts, and before either of them can ask anything else, he ends the call.

Or tries to.

The instant the video disappears, the phones begin ringing. Texts come flooding in. Then emails. Then more texts.

Thorin stares at the screen for one long, exhausted second, then shuts both his laptop and his phone off entirely.

He already knows what is coming next.

The entire family is going to find out.

Bilbo has frozen near the vacuum, his eyes wide with alarm.

“Oh dear,” he murmurs. “Did they see me?”

Thorin nods slowly.

Bilbo presses a hand to his chest and lets out a tiny, doomed-sounding breath. “Yavanna help me.”

Thorin turns toward him, equally helpless and strangely amused by the sheer scale of the disaster that is now unfolding.

Of course, Thorin cannot hide forever.

The moment he ends that call, he already knows what is coming. His family is absolutely going to visit him now. Probably within the next few hours. Fíli and Kíli have never been capable of keeping secrets, especially exciting ones, and the sight of an unfamiliar person inside the lighthouse is more than enough to send the entire family into a frenzy.

Which means Thorin has to prepare.

The first and most obvious problem is Bilbo’s eyes.

Those iridescent opal-colored eyes are impossibly beautiful, shimmering with colors no human eyes should possess. Anyone who looks too closely at them will immediately realize Bilbo is not human.

So Thorin rummages through one of his drawers before pulling out a pair of sunglasses. “Try these on, Bilbo.”

Bilbo takes them carefully. “Oh, thank you.”

He slides them onto his face—

—and immediately stumbles.

“Whoa!”

Thorin catches him before he can trip over his own feet, steadying him with both hands around his waist.

“Are you alright?” Thorin asks quickly.

Bilbo blinks behind the dark lenses. “Yes, just… startled. Everything suddenly became darker.”

“You will get used to it,” Thorin says gently, though he cannot help smiling a little. Bilbo looks oddly adorable in the sunglasses, especially with his curls slightly mussed from rushing around earlier.

Bilbo adjusts them uncertainly. “Do I look strange?”

“No,” Thorin replies immediately. “You look adorable as ever.” The words leave his mouth before he can stop them.

Silence follows.

Bilbo’s cheeks instantly turn pink. “Thank you,” he says softly. “You are handsome as well.”

Now it is Thorin’s turn to flush.

For a few painfully awkward seconds, both of them stare very intently at the floor.

Then Thorin clears his throat loudly. “Right. We should focus.”

“Yes. Focus,” Bilbo echoes weakly.

Thorin exhales and forces himself back into practical thinking. “When my family arrives, we tell them the truth.”

Bilbo tilts his head. “The truth?”

“That you washed ashore on the islet after the storm and have been staying here while recovering.” Thorin shrugs. “It is not technically a lie.”

Bilbo laughs softly. “No, I suppose it is not. We are merely… omitting certain details.”

“Exactly.”

Bilbo fidgets with the sleeves of his borrowed shirt before asking, “What about my coat? Should we hide it somewhere?”

Thorin immediately shakes his head. “Absolutely not.”

Bilbo blinks at the intensity of his answer.

“Nori loves rummaging through other people’s belongings,” Thorin explains with a groan. “If he finds your coat, he will touch it. Possibly wear it. Better to keep it with you.”

Bilbo snorts in amusement. “Your family sounds chaotic.”

“You have no idea.”

Bilbo nods before slipping the copper-colored seal coat over his clothes. The magical pelt settles around his shoulders like a cloak, soft and gleaming in the light.

“Does this look odd?” Bilbo asks nervously.

“No,” Thorin says, perhaps a little too quickly. “It suits you.”

Bilbo smiles shyly at that.

Thorin clears his throat again before the atmosphere can become any more dangerously warm. “Can I ask you to prepare food while I clean?”

Bilbo brightens immediately. “Of course! I can make enough for everyone.”

“Thank you.”

Bilbo hurries toward the kitchen with enthusiasm, already muttering to himself about portions and seasoning, while Thorin begins cleaning the lighthouse from top to bottom.

Not because the place is truly dirty.

But because if Dís arrives and sees even the slightest mess, she will absolutely lecture him for “living like a sea-cursed hermit.”

And if Dori joins her, the lecture will somehow become even worse.

So Thorin sweeps floors, wipes surfaces, folds blankets, organizes tools, and clears clutter while constantly glancing toward the windows. Every few minutes he checks the sea.

Waiting.

Watching.

Knowing they are coming.

Sure enough, nearly two hours later, Thorin spots a boat cutting across the water toward the islet.

And judging by the sheer size of it—

—it is definitely not just Fíli and Kíli.

“Oh… they took the family boat. Shit,” Thorin mutters under his breath.

That can only mean one thing.

Everyone is coming.

Thorin immediately heads for the docks to greet them before they storm the lighthouse on their own. Unfortunately, the moment the boat reaches shore and people begin climbing out, his worst fears are confirmed.

Every single one of them is here.

The first to notice him is his sister, Dís. “Brother!” she cries, marching toward him with terrifying speed. “There you are! Why did you not tell us you were hiding a lover?”

Before Thorin can even open his mouth, Dís throws her arms around him and squeezes him so tightly it can no longer be classified as a friendly hug.

“Dís—air,” Thorin wheezes.

“Oh, do not ‘Dís’ me,” she snaps while continuing to crush him affectionately. “Do you know how shocked we were? Fíli and Kíli call us screaming that there is a mysterious man in your lighthouse and suddenly the entire family is in chaos!”

Thorin grimaces.

Yes, Dís is absolutely furious with him.

Not because Bilbo exists.

But because Thorin did not tell her.

And he cannot explain why, because Bilbo is a selkie, and Thorin fully intends to keep that secret safe.

“So where is he?” Frerin asks eagerly.

Before Thorin can answer, Frerin bolts toward the lighthouse at full speed.

“FRERIN!” Thorin shouts, finally managing to pry himself loose from Dís.

Too late.

The rest of the family immediately follows after Frerin like an invading army.

And unfortunately, they are all very familiar with the lighthouse. They know the stairs. They know the layout. Years of visiting Thorin means they ascend the tower with alarming efficiency.

“By Mahal, slow down!” Thorin growls as he chases after them.

Meanwhile, Bilbo hums softly to himself in the kitchen while checking Thorin’s laptop for the recipe again, making absolutely certain he has not missed a step. He is so focused on the food that he does not notice the silence behind him at first. Then he feels it.

Eyes.

A lot of eyes.

Bilbo slowly turns around—

—and nearly yelps when he finds several unfamiliar faces crowded in the doorway staring directly at him.

Well… not entirely unfamiliar.

He recognizes many of them from the framed photographs scattered around the lighthouse.

“Oh,” Bilbo squeaks. “Um… hello?”

The entire group continues staring.

Bilbo fidgets nervously beneath their attention. “You must be Thorin’s family. It is very nice to meet you all. Um… would anyone like supper?”

“Oh, you even cook for Thorin!” exclaims a man with a curled mustache and a ridiculous hat.

Bofur, Bilbo realizes immediately.

“When did Thorin get this domestic?” another man asks dramatically. His hair sticks out in strange star-like directions.

Nori.

“He is a bit small, no?” remarks a broad man with a huge auburn beard.

Glóin, Bilbo guesses.

“Gentlemen,” a calm voice interrupts, “perhaps we should not discuss the lad as though he is not standing directly in front of us.” A kind-looking older man with a long white beard steps forward and bows slightly. “Balin, at your service,” he says warmly. “Please, allow us to help serve supper.”

Before Bilbo can protest, he is very gently but very firmly ushered out of the kitchen while half the men immediately begin carrying dishes and setting the table themselves.

Bilbo blinks in confusion as he suddenly finds himself seated in the dining room with nothing to do.

Then someone slides into the chair beside him.

Bilbo jumps slightly and turns. For one horrifying second, he thinks Thorin somehow dyed his hair blond. But no, the face is softer, rounder, and younger.

Frerin.

The resemblance between the brothers is unmistakable.

Frerin grins brightly at him. “Hello there.”

Bilbo swallows nervously. “Hello…”

Frerin leans closer with the excitement of a man discovering scandalous gossip in real time. “So,” he says, eyes sparkling mischievously, “you are my brother’s secret lover.”

“Oh no, no, no,” Bilbo says immediately, waving his hands in panic. “I am not Thorin’s lover. He is just… someone who was very kind to me when I was in danger.”

Even through the sunglasses, the blush spreading across Bilbo’s cheeks is impossible to miss.

Frerin notices it instantly.

More importantly, he notices the way Bilbo glances towards a picture of Thorin whenever he speaks about him, softly, fondly, with obvious affection. Whatever Bilbo feels may not be love yet. It is still too early for that. But the foundation is already there, growing quietly beneath every smile and every shy glance.

Frerin grins. “Well,” he says cheerfully, “I am rooting for you.”

Bilbo somehow turns an even brighter shade of red.

“Frerin!” Thorin finally storms into the dining room, glaring furiously at his younger brother. He marches straight toward them and plants himself firmly between Bilbo and Frerin like a protective wall.

“What did you say to Bilbo?” Thorin demands. “Frerin, I swear if you—”

“I only asked if he was your lover,” Frerin replies casually.

Thorin’s anger dies instantly, replaced by pure embarrassment. “I—what? We are not lovers!”

“Yet,” Frerin says with a smug grin.

Both Thorin and Bilbo sputter in horror.

“So,” Frerin continues mercilessly, “tell us how this happened.”

“Oh yes, please do tell us your love story!” Fíli says eagerly as he practically appears out of nowhere beside Frerin. He looks exactly like the photographs Bilbo has seen: blond hair like Frerin’s, bright blue eyes, youthful features sharpened by confidence and mischief.

Kíli appears right beside his brother, grinning just as widely. “We are really curious.” Unlike Fíli, Kíli has warm brown hair and softer features, though the family resemblance is obvious. His nose is smaller than Fíli’s, his smile gentler, but the chaos in his eyes is exactly the same.

“Boys, stop crowding the poor man.” A taller man steps in and gently pulls both nephews back by the shoulders. He resembles an older version of Kíli so strongly that Bilbo immediately recognizes him as Víli, Thorin’s brother-in-law.

“Oh, do not be such a spoilsport, Víli,” Dís says as she strides into the room. “I want to know how Thorin managed to find someone despite hiding himself away on this little rock for ten years.” She resembles Thorin strongly, sharp blue eyes, proud posture, commanding presence—but unlike him, she inherited blond hair like Frerin’s.

Bilbo suddenly feels very outnumbered.

Thankfully, Thorin moves slightly closer to him, enough that their shoulders nearly touch.

“Well,” Bilbo says nervously, “there was a storm, and I washed ashore on his islet. I was unconscious, and Thorin found me and helped me recover. After about a week, we managed to contact my parents so they could come get me.”

It is not a lie.

Just… missing several extremely important details.

Like selkies.

“And Bilbo has been helping around the lighthouse during his stay,” Thorin adds firmly. “He is a good friend to me. So please do not overwhelm him.”

Unfortunately, judging by the grins spreading across everyone’s faces, Thorin already knows his request is going to be completely ignored.

“Everyone, enough. Give them some space.”

The deep voice cuts cleanly through the chaos of the room.

Immediately, everyone takes at least a step back from Bilbo and Thorin. Even Frerin retreats, though not without an exaggerated sigh of disappointment.

Bilbo looks toward the speaker and immediately understands who it must be.

The man standing there looks remarkably like Thorin, only older and sharper around the edges. His dark hair is streaked faintly with silver, and his presence carries the same quiet authority Thorin possesses, though heavier somehow, more commanding.

Thráin.

Thorin’s father.

Bilbo instinctively stiffens. But then Thorin gently takes his hand beneath the table, hidden from everyone else’s view. The simple touch steadies him immediately.

Thráin notices the movement. If he has any thoughts about it, he does not show them. Instead, he steps closer and asks calmly, “How has Thorin been treating you?”

Bilbo blinks, startled by the question. “What?”

Thráin’s expression softens faintly. “My son has been alone for a very long time. I wish to know whether he has been a good host.”

“Oh,” Bilbo says quickly. “Quite well, sir. Thorin has been nothing but kind to me.”

For a moment, something relieved flickers across Thráin’s face. “I see. That is good.” He glances briefly toward the rest of the family before sighing with long-suffering patience. “Forgive my family. We are rather rambunctious by nature. I will do my best to rein them in.”

“That might be impossible,” Thorin mutters.

Several people protest loudly at once.

Thráin ignores them expertly. “My wife sadly could not come today,” he continues. “Someone had to remain behind to oversee the company while we traveled here. But I hope you will meet her soon.”

Bilbo nods politely. “I would like that very much.”

“Good.” Thráin steps back and gestures toward the dining table. “Now then, shall we begin supper before Bombur starts eating the furniture?”

“I make no promises!” Bombur calls immediately.

Everyone had expected the usual meals served at the Lonely Lighthouse whenever Thorin is too busy to cook properly.

Simple, plain, but edible food.

Thorin can cook well enough to survive, but no one has ever accused him of being particularly talented in the kitchen.

Which is why the entire family falls silent the moment supper is finally laid out across the table.

Platters of grilled fish brushed with garlic butter and citrus fill the center, their rich scent mingling with bowls of mussels steamed in white wine. Roasted vegetables glisten with olive oil and herbs beside steaming rice flecked with parsley and garlic. Fresh bread wrapped in linen baskets sits beside bright salads layered with tomatoes, cucumber, onions, and crumbled feta cheese.

Pitchers of iced calamansi juice with mint crowd the table alongside sparkling water.

And waiting nearby for dessert are trays of tropical fruit, slices of lemon cake, and freshly brewed coffee.

For several long seconds, nobody says a word.

Then Bombur slams both hands on the table dramatically. “What the hell?” he cries. “Thorin, you were hiding a wonderful chef from me?” Bombur, round-faced, broad, and wearing his beard looped in an unusual style, looks personally offended by this betrayal as he immediately piles food onto his plate.

“Oh, this looks incredible,” Óin says with delight. The older man, whose hair has mostly gone silver-white with age, takes one bite of the grilled fish and groans happily. “By Mahal, that is good.”

“Oh, this calamansi drink is delightful,” Dori says elegantly after a sip. Unlike most of the others, Dori looks impeccably put together, his silvering hair styled with elaborate care around his face. “You absolutely must tell me how you made this, Bilbo.”

Bilbo flushes under the sudden attention. “Oh, um, I followed a recipe online…”

“Even better,” Dori replies seriously.

The mood around the table gradually softens after that. Thráin’s presence keeps everyone relatively civilized, though there is still plenty of loud laughter, teasing, and overlapping conversations.

Bilbo slowly relaxes. He had expected interrogation. Instead, somehow, dinner feels… warm, lively, and comfortable. Like he has stumbled into the middle of something deeply familiar.

And after the meal is finished, each member of Thorin’s family begins properly introducing themselves to Bilbo one by one.

And, ironically, the first people to introduce themselves are not Thorin’s family at all, but family friends.

“Bifur here. Nice to meet you,” says a broad man with an eyepatch and a scar cutting across one side of his face.

Bilbo stiffens for half a second at the sight of the scar, then feels immediately silly for it when Bifur grins and taps the patch lightly.

“Oh, this?” Bifur says cheerfully. “I wear it for fun.”

Bilbo blinks.

Bifur laughs and lifts the patch just enough to show a perfectly normal eye beneath it. “I got it after an accident. Lucky thing my eye came out all right, really. But I still keep the patch on sometimes. It amuses the children.”

Bilbo relaxes at once and lets out a small laugh of his own. “That is… rather unexpected.”

“That is the point,” Bifur says with a wink.

“Bofur here!” comes the next voice, bright and friendly.

Bilbo has already met him earlier, but Bofur still reaches out with warm enthusiasm and shakes his hand like they have known each other for years. His grin is huge, his energy almost impossible to contain.

“And Bombur,” says the third, just as cheerfully. “I would love to exchange recipes with you!”

Bilbo laughs and shakes his hand too. Bombur is broad and round, with an openly delighted expression that makes him seem instantly approachable.

The three of them suddenly straighten and pose together with complete seriousness. “We are the Honríson!” they announce proudly.

Bilbo startles, then bursts into giggles before he can help himself. “What was that?” he asks, still smiling.

“The children love it when we do it,” Bombur says with a shrug, utterly unashamed. “So we do it all the time.”

“And it works, does it not?” Bofur adds.

“It absolutely does,” Bilbo says, grinning so widely his cheeks begin to ache.

The next group to approach are, once again, not exactly Thorin’s family either, but family friends.

Dori comes first, polite and neatly composed as ever. With him are the man Bilbo has already identified as Nori, star-shaped hair and all, and a younger man Bilbo does not think he has met before, which must mean he is Ori.

“Hello there, Bilbo,” Dori says kindly. “I am Dori, and these are my brothers.”

“Pleased to meet you,” Bilbo replies at once.

“Nori,” the one with the wild hair says, giving Bilbo a grin that is far too knowing for comfort. “Nice coat.”

Bilbo gives a small, awkward laugh, suddenly remembering Thorin’s warning about Nori’s habit of borrowing things that do not belong to him. “Thank you…”

Then the youngest of the three steps forward. “I am Ori. Pleasure to meet you,” he says, smiling shyly as he offers his hand.

Bilbo shakes it. “Likewise.” Then he pauses, remembering something Thorin has mentioned in passing. “Oh! You are Fíli’s boyfriend, right?”

The effect is immediate. Ori sputters so hard he nearly chokes on air. “Wha—who said that? No, we are not dating! I—”

Dori and Nori exchange one quick look, then both grin as they take Ori by the shoulders and begin gently steering him away.

Ori continues protesting the entire time, red-faced and flustered, while Dori and Nori laugh under their breath.

Bilbo watches them go, a little bewildered, then glances toward Thorin as if silently asking whether all of his friends are like this.

From the looks of things, the answer is probably yes.

The next pair to step forward are also cousins of Thorin, and Bilbo recognizes them at once. Óin and Glóin.

“Pleasure to meet you, laddie!” says the larger of the two, the one Bilbo remembers seeing before as Glóin. He beams at Bilbo with open friendliness. “I wanted to bring my wee Gimli too, but sadly he is out on a date with Legolas.”

“And I am Óin,” the other says, shaking Bilbo’s hand with a steady, practiced grip. His beard is elaborate, gray, and braided into several neat hoops. “I make sure these idiots do not hurt themselves.”

Bilbo smiles politely.

Óin studies him for a moment, then softens. “I heard earlier you were washed up last week. Are you all right now?”

“Yes,” Bilbo says. “I woke up with a sprain, but I am fine now. Thorin was kind enough to nurse me back to health.”

Óin nods in approval. “Good for him. If you feel anything off, do not hesitate to call me.”

“That is very kind of you,” Bilbo replies, genuinely touched.

The next pair are Balin and Dwalin, the cousins Bilbo has seen the most often, since they are the ones who usually bring supplies to the lighthouse. Bilbo has secretly watched them from the windows more than once whenever they visit, though he has never said so aloud.

“Pleasure to meet you,” Balin says warmly, offering his hand first. He has the calmest presence out of everyone here, and Bilbo immediately likes him.

Then Dwalin shakes Bilbo’s hand with a firmer grip and gives him an assessing look. “How come we have never seen you before?”

Bilbo blinks, then manages a small laugh. “Oh, um… I usually stay inside the keeper’s quarters, so we probably just missed each other.”

That is true enough.

He does not mention that he has also spent more than a few visits watching them from the window like some sort of curious little goblin.

Dwalin huffs, then folds his arms. “That explains why Thorin suddenly started asking for more supplies.”

Balin chuckles. “Aye. We probably should have noticed then.”

Bilbo looks mildly mortified, though both men seem more amused than suspicious.

And then, finally, come Thorin’s immediate family.

His nephews are smiling brightly before they even say a word, and Bilbo can immediately see where the family charm comes from.

“Fíli,” begins the older nephew with an exaggerated bow.

“And Kíli!” finishes the younger one, matching him perfectly.

“At your service,” they say in unison.

Bilbo lets out a small chuckle at the synchronized performance.

“I taught them that,” Dís says proudly from behind them.

“It was cute when they were children,” Víli remarks dryly, “but now they just do it to mess with people.”

Bilbo smiles, trying not to laugh too much.

Then Kíli’s eyes light up with unrestrained curiosity. “So,” he says, leaning forward far too eagerly, “have you and Uncle kissed yet?”

Bilbo makes a strangled noise.

Fíli grins wickedly and leans in beside his brother. “Considering who Uncle is, they probably have not even held hands yet.”

Thorin, who has been standing nearby in a state of long-suffering embarrassment, immediately looks as though he wants the floor to swallow him whole.

Bilbo turns scarlet.

Dís folds her arms, thoroughly entertained. Víli closes his eyes for a brief moment, already tired of the conversation. And Frerin, somewhere nearby, looks like he is trying very hard not to laugh.

Thorin clears his throat sharply. “Absolutely not the topic of discussion.”

Kíli gasps dramatically. “So that is a no?”

Bilbo is not sure whether to laugh, hide, or evaporate into sea mist.

“Boys, stop teasing them so much.”

Víli steps forward at last, saving Bilbo from further interrogation. He offers Bilbo a warm smile as he reaches out to shake his hand properly. “I am Víli, father of these two rascals. Pleasure to meet you.”

“Pleasure to meet you as well,” Bilbo replies politely.

Víli chuckles as he glances toward his sons, who are still snickering nearby. “As someone who married into this family, trust me when I say I know exactly how overwhelming they can be. If you ever need help surviving them, I will gladly assist.”

Bilbo laughs awkwardly. “Thank you. I think.”

That only makes Víli grin wider. Apparently, Thorin’s entire family enjoys teasing people.

“And I am Dís,” says the woman proudly, sweeping forward with all the confidence of a queen arriving at court. “Thorin’s beautiful sister. I am sure he mentioned me.”

Bilbo does not miss the way Thorin groans softly under his breath somewhere nearby.

“He did,” Bilbo says with a smile.

Dís beams and shakes his hand enthusiastically. “It is lovely to finally meet someone outside the family who can tolerate Thorin for this long. You must be made of stern stuff.”

Bilbo blinks in surprise. “I do not know about that. Thorin has been nothing but gentle and kind to me.”

Dís pauses. Then her eyes gleam with the exact same mischievous sparkle her sons possess. “Has he now?” she says slowly.

Bilbo immediately realizes he has said something dangerous.

“It is nice to know my big brother has finally warmed up a little,” Dís continues with obvious delight.

Before Bilbo can recover, another voice cuts in.

“My turn!” Frerin suddenly appears beside him like an ambush in human form. Before Bilbo can react, Frerin casually takes his hand and presses a dramatic kiss against his knuckles.

Bilbo nearly combusts on the spot.

“Frerin,” he says smoothly, still holding Bilbo’s hand far longer than necessary. “Thorin’s younger and significantly more handsome brother.”

“Frerin,” Thorin warns immediately.

Frerin ignores him completely. “Since you said you two are not dating,” he continues, grinning shamelessly, “that means you are free, yes? Mind if I take a shot?”

Bilbo opens his mouth. Closes it. Then opens it again in complete shock. “I—what—”

Before he can produce an actual sentence, Thorin strides over, grabs Bilbo by the arm, and firmly pulls him away from Frerin.

“Frerin, stop that,” Thorin snaps. “You are making him uncomfortable.”

“Jealous, are we, brother?” Frerin asks innocently.

“I am not jealous.”

He absolutely is.

Everyone can tell.

Dís is openly delighted. Kíli looks seconds away from screaming with excitement. Fíli appears ready to place bets on how long it takes before Thorin finally confesses his feelings.

Meanwhile, Thorin and Frerin continue glaring at each other while Bilbo stands between embarrassment and complete emotional collapse.

Eventually, another figure approaches.

Thráin.

The older man steps forward with calm dignity and offers Bilbo his hand. “I am Thráin, father of Thorin. It is a pleasure to meet you properly.”

Bilbo shakes his hand quickly. “Likewise, sir.”

“My wife will be very pleased to meet you,” Thráin continues kindly. “In fact, I would like to introduce you to her. How about tonight? You could come with us and visit the mainland.”

Bilbo freezes.

“I know my son will say no,” Thráin adds with amusement, glancing briefly toward Thorin, “but surely he is not confining you to this lighthouse.”

“Oh, Thorin would never!” Bilbo blurts out immediately. Then he falters. Because if he goes to the mainland with all of them, there is absolutely no way he can safely hide the fact that he is a selkie for long. He instinctively looks toward Thorin for help.

Unfortunately, Thráin completely misunderstands the look.

“I see,” Thráin says, chuckling deeply. “You simply do not wish to leave my son’s side yet.”

Bilbo nearly chokes. “W—We are not—”

“Very well,” Thráin continues, clearly unconvinced. “I shall allow you young lovers more time together.”

Bilbo feels his entire face burn scarlet.

Even the serious-looking patriarch thinks they are secretly courting.

Across the room, Thorin looks equally red, while Frerin appears moments away from collapsing from laughter.

The night only grows louder from there.

With alcohol flowing freely and the entire Durinson family gathered under one roof, supper quickly transforms into a full-blown party.

Music blares from someone’s speaker. Bombur somehow finds more food to bring out despite everyone already being full. Bofur drags people into dancing whether they want to or not. Nori starts a card game in one corner that looks suspiciously like gambling. Kíli climbs onto a chair at some point and nearly falls off before Fíli yanks him back down by the collar.

The lighthouse, once quiet and lonely, fills with warmth, laughter, and life.

And somehow, right in the center of it all, is Bilbo.

The family welcomes him with startling ease, pulling him into conversations, games, dancing, and endless teasing until Bilbo no longer looks nervous around them. He laughs openly now, bright-eyed and flushed with happiness.

Thorin cannot stop watching him.

At one point, Bofur somehow convinces Bilbo to climb onto the dining table.

“No, no, move your feet like this!” Bofur laughs, stomping loudly against the wood.

“I am trying!” Bilbo protests between helpless laughter as he nearly loses balance. “How do humans dance without falling over?”

“We usually do fall over!” Kíli shouts from below.

“That explains a lot!” Bilbo calls back.

Everyone bursts into laughter.

Bilbo finally manages one successful spin and throws his arms into the air triumphantly while the room erupts into cheers.

Thorin feels his chest ache painfully at the sight.

It has been so long since he has seen someone so alive inside these walls.

“Thorin.”

The deep voice beside him pulls him from his thoughts.

Thráin gestures silently toward the hallway.

Thorin hesitates immediately, glancing toward Bilbo on instinct. Part of him wants to stay close, irrationally protective despite the fact Bilbo is currently surrounded by people who already adore him.

Still, after a moment, Thorin nods and follows his father.

Bilbo will be fine.

Probably.

Thráin leads him up toward the keeper’s quarters and into Thorin’s bedroom, where the noise of the party becomes softer and distant. The older man sits down heavily on the edge of the bed, and after a moment Thorin does the same.

For a few seconds, neither of them speak.

Then Thráin sighs. “Son,” he says gently, “we need to talk.”

Thorin already knows where this is going.

“I am certain you have feelings for Bilbo,” Thráin continues calmly. “And Bilbo appears to feel the same.”

“We are not—”

“Dating?” Thráin interrupts knowingly. “Perhaps not. But feelings do not need declarations to exist.”

Thorin falls silent.

Thráin watches him carefully. “They may not be love yet,” he says softly, “but they could become love.”

The words settle heavily in the room.

“And he makes you happy, Thorin,” Thráin adds. “I can see it plainly.”

Thorin looks away at once.

Because that is exactly the problem.

“But I know you,” Thráin says quietly. “My stubborn son. You are already planning to push him away, are you not?”

Thorin’s silence answers for him.

Thráin sighs deeply and reaches over to gently pat Thorin’s head, the same way he used to when Thorin was young. Thorin almost protests on instinct, but exhaustion settles too heavily in his chest for embarrassment.

“My boy,” Thráin murmurs, “you carry far too much guilt on your shoulders. You think pushing Bilbo away will protect him.”

“He cannot be with me,” Thorin says hoarsely. “I am a k—”

Thráin stops him immediately with a firm shake of his head.

“What happened to your grandparents was not your fault.”

Thorin stiffens.

Even now, years later, the words still hit like a wound reopening.

“Everyone has told you this,” Thráin continues gently. “Your mother. Frerin. Dís. Me. You must stop blaming yourself for something you had no control over.”

Thorin’s hands clench tightly together.

He remembers that day too clearly. The phone call. The panic. The horrible silence afterward. Then the second loss. His grandfather. And then his grandmother. Thorin swallows hard.

“If you still believe that you are at fault, Thorin,” Thráin says after a moment, “then tell him. Tell Bilbo everything.”

Thorin finally looks at him again. “And if he leaves?” he asks quietly. For a brief second, he sounds young again. Frightened. Fragile.

Thráin’s expression softens with heartbreaking tenderness. “Then your family will be here for you,” he says simply.

Thorin lowers his gaze.

After a long moment, Thráin rises to his feet and offers him a hand. “Come,” he says warmly. “Let us return to the party.”

Thorin takes the offered hand and lets his father pull him up. As they walk back downstairs, Thorin’s thoughts churn endlessly. The memories refuse to leave him alone. The guilt. The fear.

The certainty that once Bilbo learns the truth, he will look at Thorin differently. Maybe with fear. Maybe with horror. Maybe with pity.

And Thorin does not think he could survive losing him now. Not after this.

Not after Bilbo filled the lighthouse with laughter and warmth and companionship until Thorin forgot, even briefly, what loneliness felt like.

The words of his father echo in his mind.

You burden yourself too much.

When they finally return to the dining room, the party is still roaring with life.

Bilbo is there in the center of it all, laughing so hard he nearly doubles over as Bombur dramatically argues with Bofur about seasoning. His curls are messy, his cheeks flushed pink, and his smile—

His smile hurts to look at. Because Thorin already knows he will never be the same after this. Never the same without him.

And so, as he watches Bilbo glow beneath the warm lights of the lighthouse, Thorin makes his decision.

Tonight, he will tell him everything.

As everyone finally begins heading home, the lighthouse slowly grows quiet again.

One by one, hugs are exchanged, leftovers are packed away, and promises to visit again soon are shouted across the docks. The family boat eventually disappears into the dark waters, carrying away Thorin’s loud, affectionate chaos of a family and leaving only silence behind.

Well, almost silence.

The lighthouse still feels warm somehow, filled with the lingering echoes of laughter and music.

Bilbo honestly expects the place to be an absolute disaster afterward.

Instead, when he walks back into the dining room, he stops dead in shock. Everything is spotless. The dishes are washed and drying neatly beside the sink. The floors gleam. Chairs are pushed back into place. Someone has even folded the blankets tossed around during the party.

Bilbo stares. “What?”

Thorin chuckles tiredly from the living room couch. “We are party animals,” he says, “but we are responsible party animals.”

Bilbo wanders around the room in awe. “They are thorough too! I think the floors are cleaner now than before the party.”

“That sounds about right.”

Bilbo opens the fridge and gasps softly. “They restocked the refrigerator too! When did they even do that?”

“Probably while everyone else distracted us,” Thorin replies knowingly.

Bilbo laughs warmly and closes the fridge, still amazed. Then he notices Thorin’s expression properly. The amusement fades from Bilbo’s face.

Thorin looks tense, not just tired, afraid.

Bilbo slowly walks over and sits beside him on the couch. The cushions dip beneath his weight, their shoulders brushing lightly together.

“Hey,” Bilbo says softly. “Is everything all right?”

Thorin goes very still. For a long moment, he says nothing. Then he exhales shakily. “Bilbo…” he begins quietly. “As you have probably guessed, and as my family has very loudly guessed, I have feelings for you.” His face turns bright red almost immediately, but he forces himself to continue anyway. “And judging from your family’s insistence that you stay here for your ‘exile,’” he says awkwardly, “I assume you feel the same?”

Bilbo’s cheeks flush crimson. But he nods. “I do,” he admits softly.

The confession hangs warmly between them for only a second before Thorin’s expression crumples with pain.

“Bilbo…” Thorin whispers. “I cannot be with you. No matter how much I want to.”

Bilbo’s heart sinks instantly.

“I exiled myself here for a reason,” Thorin continues. “And I think… you deserve to know why.”

Bilbo stays quiet, sensing how difficult this already is for him.

“You may not feel safe with me after this,” Thorin admits.

Bilbo immediately wants to deny that, but he remains silent and lets Thorin speak.

“Ten years ago,” Thorin says slowly, staring down at his own hands, “I was the CEO of the Durinson Company. I built it alongside my friends and family. Most of the people you met today helped create it.”

Bilbo listens carefully.

“With us was my grandfather, Thrór,” Thorin continues, and despite the pain in his voice, warmth briefly flickers there too. “He was… incredible. The greatest among us.”

A small smile trembles across Thorin’s face. “He treated me and my siblings like we were his children instead of his grandchildren. I followed him everywhere when I was young. Honestly, he was the reason I wanted to build the company in the first place.”

Bilbo can almost picture it. A younger Thorin trailing after an older man with admiration shining in his eyes.

“It happened after Typhoon Smaug,” Thorin says quietly. “Things were difficult then. But slowly, with everyone’s help, the company grew. Grandfather helped guide all of us through it.”

Thorin swallows hard. “He insisted on working with us too. Even at his age.” A faint, broken laugh escapes him. “You should have seen how happy he looked whenever he worked. He loved it. Absolutely loved it.”

Bilbo’s chest tightens.

“But everyone kept telling me he should rest,” Thorin says. “My family worried he was too old to keep working. They wanted me to stop him.” Thorin’s hands clench tightly together. “But Grandfather insisted he was fine. And… our family has always been full of workaholics. Even me. So I thought…” His voice cracks. “I thought if it made him happy, then I should let him continue.”

Bilbo slowly reaches toward him but stops just short, waiting.

“One day,” Thorin whispers, “he collapsed.” The room feels unbearably still. “The doctors said he had been overworking himself for too long.” Thorin’s breathing grows uneven. “A few months later… he died.”

Bilbo’s heart aches.

“And my grandmother…” Thorin continues weakly, tears finally spilling down his face, “she followed him soon after. Everyone said it was old age. That it was grief.” He shakes violently now, years of pain pouring out all at once. “But I always believed it was my fault.”

“Thorin—”

“If I had listened,” Thorin sobs out, “if I had forced him to stop working, if I had protected him instead of encouraging him, maybe he would still be here.” His voice breaks completely. “I killed my grandfather,” he whispers brokenly. “All because I could not bear taking away the thing he loved.”

Tears stream freely down his face now as memories overwhelm him. His grandfather smiling after long workdays. His grandmother laughing beside him. The warmth of family that Thorin believes he destroyed with his own hands.

Suddenly, Thorin feels soft hands wrap around his own. Bilbo’s grip is warm and steady, grounding him before he can retreat back into himself.

“Thorin…” Bilbo says softly, his voice gentler than the tide outside the lighthouse windows. “I don’t know if this will help, but… your grandfather died doing what he loved. He died helping the family he adored. And your grandmother chose to follow the man she loved after a lifetime beside him.” He squeezes Thorin’s hands carefully. “You did nothing wrong.”

Thorin’s breath catches.

“Thorin, you are no killer,” Bilbo continues firmly. “You are just… a grandson who misses his grandparents terribly. And honestly?” He gives a small, watery smile. “I think that says something beautiful about you.”

Thorin lowers his head. His shoulders shake once.

All these years, he has heard similar words from family and friends. From Dís. From Frerin. From Balin. From everyone who loves him. But part of him always dismisses them. They know him too well. Of course they would defend him. Of course they would try to ease his guilt.

But Bilbo?

Bilbo owes him nothing.

Bilbo sees him clearly, knows the truth, and still reaches for him anyway.

Thorin feels something inside his chest crack apart.

“You don’t have to be alone,” Bilbo whispers. “And I doubt your grandparents would ever want this for you. Not this punishment you keep forcing onto yourself.”

“I…” Thorin’s voice breaks. He laughs weakly through tears and drags a hand over his face. “I don’t know how to stop.”

“Then let someone help you,” Bilbo replies immediately, as if the answer is simple. As if Thorin deserves help without question.

Bilbo shifts closer and carefully wraps his arms around him. Thorin stiffens for only a moment before melting into the embrace completely. Bilbo is smaller than him, softer than him, but somehow Thorin feels held together in his arms.

“You shouldn’t grieve alone,” Bilbo murmurs against his shoulder. “Your family loves you too much for that.”

Thorin closes his eyes.

Outside, waves crash gently against the rocks below the lighthouse. Somewhere farther off, gulls cry into the evening air. The world keeps moving, uncaring and steady, while Thorin feels like his own world is quietly being rebuilt piece by piece.

“I heard there’s a festival soon,” Bilbo says after a while, his tone lighter now, coaxing rather than pushing. “Your nephews already invited me several times.” He chuckles softly. “Very aggressively, actually.”

That earns a small laugh out of Thorin.

“And,” Bilbo continues, “I was hoping you might go with me.”

Thorin opens his eyes.

Bilbo smiles at him warmly, thumb brushing across Thorin’s knuckles. “You could show me around the mainland properly. Introduce me to places you love.” His expression softens further. “Maybe… maybe we could visit your grandparents too. I’m sure they would be delighted to see you.”

Thorin swallows hard. It has been years since he last stood before their graves. Years since he allowed himself even that much. “It has been a while…” he admits quietly.

Bilbo nods patiently, not demanding more.

Thorin stares at him for a long moment before speaking again, voice rough with emotion. “For now… can we just stay like this?”

Bilbo’s entire expression gentles. “Of course.”

And so they do.

They remain curled together on the couch while dusk slowly settles over the lighthouse. The room glows gold beneath the lamplight. Thorin listens to Bilbo breathe softly against him and realizes, with startling clarity, that the loneliness that has haunted him for years is finally beginning to loosen its grip.

After a long while, Bilbo shifts slightly. “…Um, Thorin?”

“Hm?”

Bilbo’s ears turn pink. “Does this mean we’re dating now?”

Thorin huffs out a surprised laugh. Trust Bilbo to ask that while they are practically wrapped around each other. Thorin tilts his head down until their foreheads nearly touch. “I would very much like it to mean that,” he says quietly.

Bilbo beams so brightly Thorin thinks the lighthouse lamp has nothing on him. “Good,” Bilbo says immediately. “Because I would also very much like that.”

Thorin smiles helplessly.

Then Bilbo’s expression suddenly changes into one of dawning horror. “…Does this mean we have to tell your family I’m a selkie?”

Thorin groans loudly and drops his head against the back of the couch. “Yes,” he mutters miserably. “Unfortunately.”

Bilbo winces. “Will I be safe?”

Thorin straightens immediately. “Yes,” he says firmly, without hesitation. “You will. I promise you that.”

Bilbo studies his face for a moment before relaxing completely. “Alright,” he says softly. “I trust you.”

The words hit Thorin harder than he expects.

Bilbo snuggles closer against him, entirely content now, while Thorin wraps an arm securely around his waist.

A few quiet minutes pass before Bilbo suddenly perks up again.

“Oh! By the way,” he says, looking up at Thorin, “did you move the box of pearls Mama gave you? I couldn’t find it earlier.”

Thorin freezes. Slowly, painfully, he remembers a certain star-haired menace wandering around the lighthouse earlier with far too much curiosity in his eyes.

Thorin groans into his hands. “…Damn it, Nori.”

During the summer festival, the entire harbor glows with music, laughter, and lantern light.

Strings of colorful banners sway overhead between buildings while the salty ocean breeze carries the scent of grilled seafood, sweet pastries, and fresh flowers through the crowded streets. Humans and selkies mingle together beneath the golden evening sky, though most humans remain blissfully unaware of just how many selkies surround them.

Bilbo’s people blend in easily.

Their pearlescent eyes are hidden behind stylish sunglasses, and their seal cloaks are worn openly like elegant coats and shawls. Around their necks and wrists gleam beautiful pearl jewelry, polished shells, and bits of coral worked into intricate designs. Humans simply admire the unusual fashion without ever suspecting the truth.

In the center of the festivities, Bilbo dances with Thorin beneath the lantern lights.

Music echoes through the street around them, lively and wild, pulling more and more people into the dance. Their families surround them in a chaotic circle of musicians, somehow keeping rhythm together despite clearly never practicing as one group.

Bilbo’s relatives favor wind instruments. Trumpets blare proudly while horns and pipes weave through the melody. Flutes trill brightly over the crashing beat of drums.

Fíli and Kíli play fiddles with infectious enthusiasm, grinning the entire time.

Dori, Nori, and Ori perform together on flutes, though Nori occasionally breaks rhythm just to annoy Dori on purpose.

Bombur beats energetically on a hand drum while Bifur and Bofur accompany him on clarinets, swaying dramatically side to side.

Balin and Dwalin sit together with viols, providing a surprisingly elegant backbone to the otherwise chaotic music.

And Thorin—

Bilbo cannot stop staring whenever Thorin plays.

Thorin stands tall among them all, sleeves rolled up, dark hair loose from where festival dancing has mussed it. A small hand lyre rests against his broad frame while his fingers move skillfully across the strings. He looks relaxed. Truly relaxed. Smiling openly beneath the festival lights while surrounded by people who love him.

The sight makes Bilbo’s chest ache warmly.

Despite the clashing styles and occasional missed notes, the music is joyful. Alive. Entirely theirs.

Bilbo laughs as Thorin spins him around before pulling him close again.

“You’re staring,” Thorin murmurs teasingly.

“You’re handsome,” Bilbo replies immediately.

Thorin nearly misses a note.

Bilbo grins victoriously while Thorin flushes red beneath the lantern glow.

Eventually, Thorin gently guides Bilbo away from the center of the dancing crowd. They weave through festival stalls until they approach a tall woman with long golden hair braided elegantly over one shoulder.

Bilbo recognizes her instantly from the photographs in the lighthouse.

Frís.

Thorin’s mother turns as they approach, her blue eyes softening immediately at the sight of them together.

“Mother,” Thorin says warmly. “This is Bilbo.”

Frís smiles with such fondness that Bilbo immediately understands where Thorin gets his gentleness from.

“Bilbo,” she says, taking his hands between hers. “I heard stories of your kind when I was a little girl. Tales of blessings from the sea.” Her gaze flickers toward Thorin, who stands beside Bilbo with unmistakable affection. “To think one of those blessings would return my son to us.”

Bilbo blushes faintly. “It is a pleasure to meet you, madam,” he says politely. “Selkies only give gifts to those we believe deserve them.”

Frís laughs softly. “Oh, what kind folk you are.” Then her expression gentles further. “Have you visited Thorin’s grandparents yet?”

Bilbo immediately brightens. “It was the first thing we did after arriving,” he says cheerfully. “I hope we made a good impression.”

Not far from the festival grounds, two graves overlook the sea from a grassy hill.

Earlier that morning, Bilbo and Thorin visited them together.

Now both graves are decorated beautifully with polished shells, shining pearls, strands of sea glass, and coral jewelry that glimmers softly beneath the sunlight. Every trace of moss and dirt has been carefully cleaned away.

Thorin follows Bilbo’s gaze and smiles quietly. “It felt good,” he admits softly. “Talking to Grandfather again.” His voice turns fondly amused. “Though I can easily imagine Grandmother yelling at me for taking so long to visit.”

Bilbo laughs warmly and squeezes his hand. Before he can reply, two familiar voices cut through the festival noise.

“Uncle Bilbo!” Fíli calls.

“You promised to show us!” Kíli adds impatiently.

Bilbo groans dramatically while Thorin chuckles beside him.

“Alright, alright,” Bilbo laughs.

He and Thorin wave goodbye to Frís before following the nephews down toward the beach.

Ever since learning Bilbo is a selkie, Fíli and Kíli have become obsessed with seeing him transform properly. Apparently glowing eyes are not enough to satisfy them.

“You’ve built this up too much,” Thorin warns them as they walk.

“No such thing,” Kíli replies immediately.

They eventually find a secluded stretch of shoreline hidden behind a rocky cliff where waves crash gently against the sand.

The moment they stop walking, both nephews practically vibrate with excitement.

Bilbo laughs at the sight.

“You two look ready to explode.”

“We’ve waited weeks for this!” Fíli protests.

Bilbo shakes his head fondly before slipping off his shoes. Then he pulls his seal coat more securely around himself. Just before transforming, however, he pauses. A mischievous expression crosses his face. Leaning upward, Bilbo whispers something into Thorin’s ear.

Thorin blinks in surprise. Then he turns bright red. “…Bilbo.”

Bilbo only grins.

To the nephews’ confusion, Bilbo suddenly wraps his seal cloak around both himself and Thorin before tugging him into the water.

“Wait, what’s happening?” Kíli yelps.

The ocean around them glows brilliantly.

Light shimmers beneath the waves as magic curls around their bodies like liquid moonlight. For a moment, their forms disappear completely beneath the water before resurfacing farther out at sea.

Kíli gasps loudly.

“Aww! Nothing changed!”

“Wait,” Fíli says suddenly, pointing downward.

Both brothers stare into the clear water below.

Above the surface, Bilbo and Thorin still appear mostly human.

But beneath the water—

Their lower halves are sleek seal tails.

Bilbo chuckles. “You see,” he explains, “sometimes selkies gain human lovers. When we trust them enough, we can share a little of our cloak’s magic and let them take seal form too. Not fully. Just enough.” He tilts his head with a grin. “So we end up looking a little more like mermaids than proper seals.”

Thorin flexes experimentally, still unfamiliar with the sensation. “I feel strange.”

“That is because you have a tail,” Bilbo says fondly.

“I had noticed.”

Bilbo laughs and reaches for him. “Come on. I will show you how to move.”

He takes Thorin’s hand and begins guiding him gently through the water. “Just think of moving your tail up and down for now.”

Kíli’s eyes go very round. “Can you share your cloak with me, Uncle Bilbo?”

“No!” Bilbo yelps at once, turning bright red.

Fíli immediately smacks Kíli on the arm. “Remember what he said. Only with lovers.”

Kíli winces and rubs his shoulder. “Oh. Right. That would be awkward.”

Bilbo rolls his eyes, still blushing, and pulls Thorin farther into the sea before the brothers can say anything else.

Thorin follows as best he can, slowly adjusting to the strange new movement of his tail. Bilbo stays beside him the whole time, patient and smiling, until at last the two of them are gliding through the shallows with something that almost resembles grace.

The water sparkles around them.

The music from the shore drifts faintly over the waves.

And when Thorin finally turns toward Bilbo, all the years of grief and exile seem to fall away for one brief, shining moment. Then he kisses him.

Bilbo kisses him back at once, smiling against his mouth as the sea sways gently around them.