It started, as many ill-fated adventures do, with Thor.

The oaf meant well—he always did—but when an Asgardian prince decides you’ve been “far too lonely for far too long,” you don’t really get to vote. One minute, you’re helping him polish off a barrel of golden mead in the grand hall, the next, he’s clapping you on the back hard enough to dislodge a rib and announcing that he’s arranged “a splendid evening” with “the most worthy of companions.”

You tried to protest. “Thor, I’m not ready for—”

“Nonsense!” he boomed. “You’re brilliant, noble, occasionally even sober! And Runa likes mortals with fire in their belly. You’ll be perfect!”

You blinked. “Runa?”

“Yes,” he said, as if it were the most casual thing in the nine realms. “The Valkyrie. Strongest one. Broodiest one. She’s not smitten with anyone yet. That’s rare.”

You swallowed. “So… you told the literal chooser of the slain that I’m looking for a date?”

“More like a sparring partner with benefits,” he winked.

Which is how you found yourself hours later standing in the wind-stung courtyard of the Valhallan barracks, face to face with the living embodiment of every intimidating fantasy you ever denied having.

Runa was perched against a stone pillar, arms crossed, cloak tugged tight against the cold. Black hair whipped around her sharp features like a storm barely restrained. She didn’t move when you approached. Just tilted her head.

“You’re the mortal,” she said flatly.

You cleared your throat, trying not to seem like your legs had turned to jelly. “And you’re the Valkyrie who didn’t kill Thor for setting this up?”

Her mouth twitched—just a flicker—but enough to count as a smile. “He’s lucky I was already bored.”

You both stood there, awkwardness thick as the frost hanging in the air.

“So,” you ventured, stuffing your hands into your coat, “what does a Valkyrie do on a date anyway? Axe throwing? Horse summoning? Collect souls of the damned?”

Runa’s eyes glinted. “I was going to suggest we just talk.”

“Oh,” you said, pleasantly surprised. “I can do that. I'm told I'm very annoying in a charming way.”

Her gaze lingered on you a moment longer than necessary. “We’ll see.”

The two of you began walking slowly along the ramparts, stars glimmering above and the soft sounds of distant celebrations echoing far behind. She didn’t speak often, but when she did, it was with precision, with the weight of someone who rarely wastes words. And for reasons you couldn’t explain, you felt calmer than you had in ages.

You told her about your work, your dreams, your dumbest choices. She listened, not with polite nods, but real focus—like she was cataloguing your soul. At one point, she stopped walking and stared at you, really stared.

“You don’t fear me,” she said, curious more than accusing.

You looked up at her, eyes steady. “Should I?”

“No,” she said. And then, after a beat: “That’s… nice.”

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It was warm. Companionable. Like a fire banked under snow.

By the time Thor stumbled out of the hall looking for you both with a dumb grin and a jug in each hand, Runa had already turned to you and said, “Want to leave?”

You nodded. “Anywhere with you.”

And she smiled—for real this time. Not a flicker. A slow, genuine curve that made your stomach flutter.

Thor might be a buffoon. But just this once, he got it right.