The lights in her bedroom were dim, casting warm shadows across the room. Loki had always preferred the dark—where things could hide, where no one saw too clearly. But here? In her space? He didn’t need shadow to feel safe. Her body gave him all the shelter he needed.

They were lying tangled on her bed, limbs woven together like something sacred. Her back was against his chest, and he held her like a man starved—one hand splayed wide over her belly, fingers pressing just a bit harder than necessary, the other curled under her head, stroking her hair absentmindedly as if trying to soothe them both.

She was asleep—or nearly. Soft breathing, slow and rhythmic. The weight of her against him was real in a way most things weren’t. And Gods, her body… he could write poetry about the slope of her waist, the plush curve of her thighs, the way she fit so perfectly against him. Asgard never taught him to love like this—not worshipfully, not hungrily. But this woman? She made worship feel easy.

She didn’t pretend he wasn’t broken. She didn’t ask him to be light when all he knew was shadow. She simply was—steady, kind, unflinching. She didn’t need to yell to be powerful. Her calm rattled him more than rage ever could.

He brushed his lips against her shoulder, barely a kiss, more like a confession. His mind was loud tonight. The noise never really stopped—what if she changed her mind? What if she left? What if she realized she deserved better than a half-mad prince with blood on his hands and too much pride to ask for help?

But every time those thoughts threatened to drown him, she stayed. Not with grand gestures. Not with promises. But with presence. The kind that soothed him like balm on a wound he didn’t know how to name.

And it made him feral. Desperate. She hadn’t bedded him yet, and that only made it worse—because he wanted her. Craved her. Not just her body, but her. All of her. And yet she gave only pieces, little by little, like she knew exactly how fragile he was beneath the armor.

He wasn’t used to that. To being held like something precious.

She stirred slightly, shifting into him, her backside pressing into the cradle of his hips. He stifled a groan, resting his forehead against her neck, his hand sliding lower across the warm curve of her stomach.

Gods, she was so warm. So soft. So real.

He whispered, more to himself than to her, though the words hovered just above her skin like prayer:

"I don’t deserve you. But if the universe is cruel enough to give me one kindness… let it be this. Let it be you."