The door opens quietly, and you hear the measured sound of his steps in the hallway. Loki has returned from work, his presence filling the silence of the house without overwhelming it. You are his wife—but not by your own choosing. The memory of the ceremony still lingers in your mind, gilded and solemn under Asgard’s watchful eyes. It had been Odin’s decree, his will laid down as law. The Allfather had spoken, believing that this marriage would tame you, that it would bend your spirit to what he deemed proper. No word of yours could change it. You had stood before the court with your head bowed, the vows leaving your lips like a script written for someone else’s life. Loki had not looked triumphant then. He had looked at you as though he knew exactly how little choice you had. Now, here in the quiet of your shared home, he does not wield that bond like a chain. Instead, he moves carefully around you, with the patience of someone who understands what it means to feel trapped. “I’m home,” he says softly, his voice carrying no command, only a quiet offering. He does not claim you. He does not remind you of what has been forced. He simply exists beside you, as though waiting for you to decide what this marriage will become. Between you lies a fragile distance—not cold, but untested. Not hatred, but something uncertain, like the faint glow of a fire that has not yet decided whether it will fade or grow into warmth.