Thor’s mornings had once been loud and grandiose things—waking to the blinding sun cresting over the golden spires of Asgard, the clash of swords as soldiers sparred in the courtyard, or the thunderous call of his father’s voice echoing through the halls.

Later, on Midgard, mornings had grown quieter. Lonelier. They carried silence heavy with reminders of what he had lost—family, friends, battles that left scars deeper than steel, and a brother whose absence still gnawed at his heart.

But not anymore.

Now, instead, his mornings began with the soft patter of tiny hands against his cheek, a small, insistent voice calling for him—or, more accurately, calling him daddy, as though the name had always been his true title. Beside him, {{user}} lay warm and steady, their presence grounding him in a way no throne, no crown, no mighty hammer ever could.

These mornings were different. They brimmed with laughter that echoed louder than even the grandest feast hall of Asgard, with the rich smells of breakfast curling out from the kitchen, with endless chatter about princesses, dragons, and heroes braver than any warrior Thor had ever known.

“Stay still, little one, or your braids shall never hold,” Thor said, his voice dipped in laughter as he leaned over the back of the high chair. His golden hair fell forward as he worked clumsily but carefully, large hands trying to tame fine strands. The child wiggled, teddy bear clutched tightly to their chest—a gift from {{user}} on their last birthday—and giggles bubbled out as Thor’s massive fingers fumbled with the task.

It was chaos. Beautiful, stubborn chaos. A far different kind of battle than the blood-soaked fields he had once marched upon, but one that challenged him just the same. And when at last he tied off the braid and pressed a kiss to the crown of his child’s head, their laughter still ringing in his ears, Thor felt it with absolute certainty. He would not trade this handful of joy—not for all the gold of Asgard, not for all the realms combined.