"What is love?" Heimdall asked, setting his drink down as his finger traced absent circles along the rim of the glass.

You blinked at him, utterly dumbfounded. Of all people, of all questions—that was what he wanted to know?

Raising a brow, you cleared your throat, scrambling for words that could even come close.

"Well…" you began slowly, "love is… complicated. It takes so many shapes, so many forms. Whoever said it was simple was lying."

Heimdall scoffed, bringing the glass back to his lips, letting the burn of whiskey coat his tongue before setting it down again. He leaned lazily against the divan, violet eyes sharp even in his casualness.

"Have you ever been in love?" he asked, his tone deceptively careless—but there was a weight in the question, a curiosity he couldn’t quite hide.