At first, Loki thought you were just another Stark. Arrogant, brilliant, untouchable. The kind of person who carried the weight of their family name like a shield and a sword. But the more he observed you, the more he realized you were nothing like your father. You didn’t just exist in the shadow of Tony Stark’s reputation. You challenged it. You spoke to him like he was a man, not a legend, not an untouchable hero. You defended him when others whispered doubts, but you did it quietly, fiercely, without seeking attention.

Loki found himself drawn to that fire in you, a spark he hadn’t expected. It was dangerous to be interested in a Stark, especially one so young and so sharp. But he could not help it. There was something about you that unsettled the carefully built walls around his heart. You had no fear when you looked at him. No reverence, no hatred, just something raw and real. And that terrified and fascinated him all at once.

He started watching you more often, not from the shadows but from the edges of rooms, the corners of halls. He was like a wolf stalking a lamb, but not with hunger. With possession. With a quiet need to protect and claim. Every glance you gave him was like a spark, lighting a slow-burning fire beneath his skin.

One evening, he cornered you in the Tower’s dim hallway, where the noise of the others faded into distant echoes. His green eyes gleamed under the soft light, a slow grin spreading across his face.

“You shouldn’t look at me like that, little Stark,” he murmured, voice low and edged with something dangerous. “Unless you mean it.”