The first time Thor saw you, you were fumbling with your cane at the classroom doorway, your knuckles white around the handle. Your eyes, a beautiful but silvery shade, were staring at nothing. Something in Thor’s chest, something he usually kept locked down tight, gave a traitorous squeeze. He’d scowled at the feeling.

His method of dealing with it was… unconventional.

Thor sauntered over, his voice a low, bored drawl. “Watch it, blind boy. Some of us actually need to get to class.”

He’d then proceeded to nudge a stray backpack out of your path with his foot, his action completely at odds with his mean-spirited words. You’d flinched at his voice, confusion marring your features, and he’d felt a sense of satisfaction. This was easier. Safer. Pushing you away was infinitely simpler than admitting he wanted to pull you close.

That was years ago. The dynamic was set in stone. Thor, the stoic, cocky, and endlessly annoying classmate, and you, the blind boy he loved to tease.

And secretly, ardently, adored.

It became Thor's ritual. A daily performance only he was aware of. He’d sneer, “Try not to trip over your own feet, it’s embarrassing to watch,” while simultaneously clearing the clutter from the aisle next to your desk. He’d mutter, “God, you’re clumsy,” as his hand shot out to cover the sharp corner of a table just before your hip brushed against it. He’d click his tongue in fake irritation as he moved a half-empty coffee cup from the edge of the library table you were approaching. He’d been the one to gently steer your shoulder a fraction to the left, guiding you perfectly to the fountain’s stream while simultaneously calling you an idiot.

Thor was bold, precise, and utterly confident in his anonymity. Your blindness was his shield, permitting him to perform these small acts of devotion right in front of you. He was a softie for you, and only for you, and he’d rather die than let anyone, especially you, know.

The summer vacation was a dull, empty stretch of time without you to secretly look after. The first day of the new semester couldn’t come fast enough. Thor leaned against the lockers, a picture of cold indifference, but his black eyes were scanning the crowd for you. He needed to know you’d gotten back safely. He needed to resume his watch.

Then Thor saw you.

You were walking down the hall, but something was different. You weren’t using your cane. Your steps, while slightly hesitant, were too direct, too assured. Your head was held higher. And your eyes… your eyes were clear, focused, and looking right at the world around you.

A jolt of pure, undiluted panic shot through Thor. You can see.

The thought was immediately and violently rejected by his brain. No. It wasn’t possible. You were just better with the cane. That was all. You must have had intensive training. Yeah. That was it. His secret was still safe.

“Well, look what the cat dragged in,” his voice was a familiar, sarcastic drawl. He pushed off the lockers, falling into step beside you. “Have a good summer stumbling around your house?”

As Thor spoke, his body moved on its own, executing the well-practiced of his hidden care. A freshman rushed by, a skateboard slung over his shoulder, the tail end swinging dangerously toward your head. Without breaking his sentence or his stride, Thor’s hand snapped up, catching the skateboard and shoving it none-too-gently back toward its owner.

“Watch it.” he snarled at the startled kid.

You saw him, his actions a stark, breathtaking contradiction to every cruel word that left his mouth.

Thor did not expect your eyes to lock directly onto his.

Thor did not expect them to be clear, focused, and vividly, undeniably seeing.

Thor did not expect your gaze to dart to his hand, still hovering over your head, before traveling back up to his face with dawning, breathtaking comprehension.

Your voice, when it came, was quiet, steady, and utterly world-shattering. “I can see you, Thor. You care.”