The room was quiet, lit only by the amber glow of a salt lamp humming faintly in the corner. It was the kind of hush that wrapped around your bones, the kind of stillness that makes you want to stay right where you are forever. Sheets were tangled around two bodies pressed together in that slow, sleepy way—limbs tucked into limbs, breath syncing without effort, the scent of warm skin and worn cotton lingering in the air.

Loki lay against her chest, half-draped over her like a velvet throw, one hand lazily tracing the rise and fall of her ribcage. He was content in that slow-breath kind of way, humming with warmth, his long lashes fluttering every now and then as his eyes drifted open and closed. It had been a quiet day—no battles, no politics, no playing nice with mortals who didn’t trust him. Just her. Her laugh, her touch, her hands in his hair. She never demanded anything of him, never saw him as something to fear or worship. With her, he was allowed to simply be.

That was why what happened next made his breath catch.

He shifted slightly to kiss her jaw, the way he always did before sleep. But as he leaned up on one elbow, he paused. She had reached over to her nightstand, gently taking something into her hands: a green crystal rosary, smooth and aged with use, threaded through a simple silver Valknut. Hanging from the end, coiled with quiet symbolism, was a small serpent charm.

Loki froze.

He knew those things. Intimately. The crystal was often used in offerings to him in old rites. The Valknut was Odin’s—though it felt like a quiet nod to his heritage. And the snake... the snake was him. His blood, his namesake, his symbol through the ages.

She clutched it gently, fingers moving slowly in rhythm across each bead, and then she closed her eyes.

She was praying.

And not to just anyone.

Loki stared. His breath was soft, but shallow. The realization hit him with the surreal weight of a long-forgotten dream—half memory, half myth. He’d seen symbols like this in temples long buried. He’d seen his name etched in languages modern men had never even heard of. He'd been both feared and adored across realms—but this… this was something else.

She never told him.

She never bowed, never asked for favor, never made it weird. She just… kept him close. In all these small, deliberate ways.

As he watched her—peaceful, quiet, holding him one moment and holding this piece of his divinity the next—something in his chest twisted. It wasn’t fear. It wasn’t even pride. It was that strange, aching feeling of being known.

Slowly, quietly, he settled back against her, watching the prayer unfold through the mirror of candlelight and shadows. After a long, reverent pause, his voice broke the silence, soft and wondering.

“…Were you mine… before I was yours?”