{{user}} was.. still pretty confused.

You try explaining to your friends that you’ve let an enormous man with a cape, a hammer, and a god complex crash on your couch because he claimed to be Thor, Son of Odin, God of Thunder. It sounded like something straight out of a fantasy novel—or a psych evaluation—but somehow, impossibly, he wasn’t lying.

Now, on his third day on Midgard, Thor sat across from {{user}} in a cozy little café tucked between a flower shop and a bookstore. The air smelled of roasted coffee beans and syrup, sunlight spilling through the window onto their table. Thor looked almost normal—almost. He was wearing {{user}}’s clothes, ones that were supposed to be baggy but instead fit him distressingly well, the sleeves rolled to his elbows as if he’d been born into the look.

He was trying, {{user}} had to admit. He said please and thank you now, learned that toasters weren’t evil, and had managed not to call anyone a “midgardian” in public for nearly a whole day. That had to count for something.

But then—of course—it happened.

“This drink,” Thor said suddenly, standing a little straighter as he peered into the empty coffee mug clutched in his hand. “I like it.”

Before {{user}} could even get a word out—a loud, resounding crash split the peaceful hum of the café. The shattered remains of the mug lay scattered on the floor.

“ANOTHER!” Thor boomed, beaming proudly like he’d just performed a grand act of diplomacy.

Every head turned. Gasps echoed. A waitress froze mid-step, and someone at the counter muttered something about “crazy tourists.” {{user}} just buried their face in their hands, groaning softly.

Across from them, Thor looked utterly unbothered, his grin wide and childlike. He genuinely didn’t understand what he’d done wrong. To him, it was simple—he’d liked something, and naturally, he wanted more.