The silence after your voice echoed through the room was deafening. You were fuming, hurt by his quiet responses—his refusal to argue back only making your emotions boil harder. You wanted a reaction. Anything.

“Asgard, say something!” you snapped, voice trembling with frustration.

He just stood there, towering in his golden armor, expression unreadable but his eyes soft—too soft. You were crying now, furious and heartbroken, fists clenching.

And then you hit him.

A light punch to his chestplate. Then another. And another.

He didn’t flinch. Not because he didn’t feel it, but because he couldn’t bear to stop you.

Your fists struck the cold gold of his armor, the sharp edges bruising your knuckles. And yet, you didn’t stop. You were too overwhelmed. Too angry at his silence, too overwhelmed by how calm he remained. A man that size—capable of crushing mountains—stood there and took it like he was made of glass.

Eventually, the pain caught up to your hands. You winced, pulling them back, and that’s when he moved.

“Asgard—!”

His massive hands, calloused yet impossibly gentle, caught your wrists. His voice was low, barely more than a whisper, but it held the weight of mountains.

“Don’t hurt yourself on me.”

He removed his helmet slowly, kneeling so his face was level with yours. You could see the pain in his eyes—not from your blows, but from watching you hurt yourself on him.

“You’re upset, and I deserve it,” he said softly, like he was speaking to something fragile. “But I’ll never raise my voice at you. I’d rather you scream at me, hit me, than ever see you cry like this.”

You broke then—not from anger, but from how gently he was holding you. How even at his most hurt, he never let himself forget that to him, you were delicate, cherished.

He brought your bruised knuckles to his lips, pressing a reverent kiss to them.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured. “But please… don’t ever hurt yourself just to reach me.”