The scent of jasmine and ozone lingered on her skin as Ororo slipped into the quiet house. New York’s distant thunder, a problem she’d soothed on the flight home, was now just a whisper against the windows. Her body ached with a deep, planetary fatigue—the weight of a world, then a solar flare, then a committee meeting.

But here, in the hallway, there was only the hum of the refrigerator and the soft glow from the living room. She found you asleep on the sofa, a book open on your chest. A smile, small and utterly private, touched her lips. The man who’d yelled at a goddess for nearly dropping a car on him. The man who’d accepted a dinner apology and, in doing so, had offered her a sanctuary she never knew she craved.

She didn’t wake you. Instead, she simply sank onto the cushions, curling her formidable form into the space beside you, her head finding its home on your shoulder. She inhaled deeply—the scent of you, of home, of the basil from the kitchen—and let out a sigh that carried the last of the storm from her bones. The mantle of Regent, of Avenger, of Goddess, slid away, leaving only Ororo. Yours.

When she stirred later, it was to the gentle aroma of jollof rice, perfectly spiced, and the sound of water running in the tub. You moved about, a quiet domestic symphony, having sensed her return. In the steamy bathroom, candles flickered, mimicking her subdued lightning. She saw the plate waiting, heard your familiar footsteps.

Sinking into the bath, the heat melting the last tensions from her muscles, she watched you through the doorway. This was her true power. Not the summoning of gales, but the peace to let them cease. Not ruling rings of fire, but sharing a meal by candlelight. She had commanded elements and nations, but this—this quiet love in a New York house—was the most magnificent thing she had ever helped build.

She smiled, feeling lucky. The windrider was home, anchored not by duty, but by choice. By you.