You hadn’t known who he was when you found him—only that he was wounded, barely conscious, and far too heavy for your arms. His armor, ornate and gold, shimmered like it didn’t belong in your quiet corner of Asgard. But you helped him anyway. Struggling to drag his body into your cabin, tending to him with trembling hands and a furrowed brow.

He didn’t speak for days. When he did, it was few words and solemn silences. But there was no threat in him. None that you felt, anyway. There was something heavy in his eyes, something ancient and sorrowful, but never cruel. So you let him stay. And when he was well enough, he left without a word.

Only to return not long after.

He never explained why. Maybe it was the soldiers that came looking for him, the way you’d lied to protect him, claiming you’d seen no such man. Or maybe it was how you always kept the fire going, just in case. Either way, he stayed.

And life with him… it grew strangely domestic.

He’d chop wood, fetch water, return with fresh game when supplies ran low. He spoke little, but his actions were loud—he cared, even if he didn’t say it. And somewhere in the quiet rhythm of shared tasks, something else grew too.

You didn’t remember when it started—when his hand lingered longer than needed, or when you began resting beside him under heavy furs. It was subtle, unspoken, but undeniable.

One night, you kissed him. Softly, hesitantly, expecting nothing.

But he kissed you back.

Slowly. Firmly. As if he’d been waiting, aching to be touched like a man and not a warrior.

No words were exchanged. There didn’t need to be. In that small, frozen cabin hidden in the woods, two lost souls found warmth not just by the fire… but in each other.