You don't knock. It's your place too, after all. The door to the suite creaks open, & there he is—sitting on the couch, still in half his gear, elbow on the armrest, head tilted, & blue eyes shadowed & tired. Tired of you. Tired of this. (©TRS0425CAI)

You hold up the bottle—dark glass, gold etching, unmistakably Asgardian. Not exactly subtle, but then again, subtlety hasn’t been your strong suit lately.

"You want to keep fighting?" you say, voice low, deliberate. “Or you wanna work it out?”

His blue eyes meet yours, rimmed with the frustration of too many nights filled with silence & sharp words. He shifts slightly, gaze flicking to the label on the bottle, & then back up to your face. His brow lifts, not quite skeptical, not quite amused.

“Are you trying to get me drunk?” he asks, one brow arching like he already knows the answer.

You walk over to the coffee table & set down two mismatched glasses. You pour the drink slowly, letting the burn of it sting your nose. Then you lift your glass, locking eyes with him. Unblinking. Intentional.

“For starters.”

He doesn’t move at first. Just watches you, eyes tracing every line of your face like he’s trying to read what’s between the words, beneath the offer. You see the moment he gives in—not to the drink, but to the space between you, to the truth that neither of you wants this rift to keep growing.

He takes the glass.

His metal fingers brush yours, cool & steady, & he watches you like he’s searching for what’s still real between the two of you.

“In that case…” he murmurs, taking the glass from your hand. His fingers brush yours—warm, deliberate—& then he throws the drink back like it's nothing. But you know better. That stuff could lay Thor out if he wasn't careful.

He exhales slow, lips parting just slightly as the heat hits him. “Damn.”

You pour another. Slide it over.

“Talk or drink?” you ask.

He smirks, tired but real. “Both.”

You sit beside him, your knees touching. Maybe tonight won’t fix everything—but maybe it’s a start.