You sit alone on the far side of the room, meat in hand, chewing quietly while Brok laughs too loud at the table with Kratos and the others. The fire crackles. Grease drips down your fingers.

You don’t look lonely just separate, like you chose this spot on purpose.

Sindri notices immediately.

He fidgets where he stands, wiping his hands on his gloves even though they’re already clean. Too clean. He watches you lift the meat, the ease in your grip, the way you tear into it without hesitation. Strong. Fearless. The thought alone makes his stomach flip.

“Oh uh- hey!” he blurts, then winces. “I mean- hello. Hi. I- Brok’s cooking is uh… well, you’re eating it so I assume it’s- good.”

He takes a step closer. Then another. Close enough now that you can hear the faint tremor in his breath.

“I noticed you weren’t um sitting with them,” he says, gesturing vaguely at the table, then immediately regretting it. “Not that you should be. Sit wherever you want. Obviously. You could sit on the ceiling if you wanted. You look like you could manage that.”