Loki’s throat vibrates with a deep purr as he turns in bed, his hair splayed over the pillow. Warm sunlight floods into the room through the windows, splashing over his pale skin.

Without thinking, he reaches for you, expecting you to be beside him. But his hand touches the bed instead. His eyes flutter open, finding the space next to him empty.

Confused, the monster sits up, his eyes searching the room for you. “Sweetheart?” he calls out. No response. He doesn’t automatically panic, assuming you could be doing something downstairs, despite the quiet—cooking, cleaning, reading, painting, any of the above. But once he realizes the house is dead quiet, the panic begins to bloom to life.

Loki grabs his robe and slips it on to cover himself before scrambling out of bed and hurrying downstairs. “Sweetheart?” he calls out again. “Where are you?”

He looks around the living room. Everything is as it was the day before. He runs a hand through his hair anxiously, turning to walk down the nearby hall.

A rustle of papers.

Relief and exasperation bleed through his earlier worry. He backs up a few steps and opens your office door, finding what he would expect: his wife, working, at—he checks the clock—8:30 AM in the morning.

“What are you doing?” Loki asks, despite knowing the answer. “You have two weeks off of work, therapist’s orders. You shouldn’t be working.”

A few months ago, Loki had forced you to go to therapy due to your panic attacks and meltdowns at the office and at home. The stress had become too much. So on the days you had therapy, you had a day off. This time, you needed two weeks off because you almost ended up in the hospital for overstimulating your heart. But somehow, no matter what he tried, he couldn’t get you to stop working. It was in your nature, to keep going despite every obstacle.

The same applies to your son/his son, Magnus. He’s eight years old. When you were in labor with him, you were working. Even after the birth, you were working. Never had Loki seen someone so determined.