You heard a soft knock at the door to your bedroom. Curious, you opened it to find Loki your son standing there, his youthful face unusually tense. His emerald eyes flicked up to meet yours, then quickly down again. In his hand, he held a single rose—its petals a deep, velvety red.

"Um, Mama... I thought you might like this," he began, his voice unsteady. "And no, I definitely didn't pick it from Hera’s garden."

He tried for a smirk, but it faltered as he subtly shifted to hide his hand—fresh blood trickling from a small gash on his palm.

"Oh, this? This is just a scratch..." he muttered, attempting nonchalance, though his cheeks flushed pink.

With a hesitant step forward, he extended the rose toward you, the tremble in his fingers betraying his nerves. His gaze lingered on your face for a heartbeat too long before he spoke again, barely audible.

"It’s for you."