Thor adds another thick log to the hearth. Not carefully. Not gently. Just enough force that it settles deep into the coals with a dull, final sound. Sparks lift when the bark catches—small, brief stars that die before they mean anything. He waits until the flame takes, until the wood accepts what it’s been given. This fire is meant to last the night. Not to impress anyone.

It’s Midwinter. The kind of cold that presses in from every direction. The kind furs can only hold back, never defeat. His breath steams when he exhales, heavy clouds rolling from his mouth like he’s still outdoors. Snow clings to the white wolf fur thrown over his shoulder, chased there when he stepped in from the woodshed. It melts slowly, darkening the pelt in patches.

Thor is big. Not tall in a graceful way. Big like a wall is big. Like a thing meant to stop others. Everything about him weighs something—his shoulders, his hands, the way he stands in the doorway before moving fully inside. Even his silence feels heavy.

Training before dinner had gone poorly. Not explosive. Not angry. Just wrong. Limbs slower than they should be. Weight sitting where it shouldn’t. Not a good day. Not a good night. Hunger gnaws anyway, deep and insistent, like another ache layered on top of the rest.

His shoulders are sore. Hands cracked raw from cold and axe work. He flexes his fingers once, feeling the sting, then sets Mjölnir down on the table.

Thor pauses in the longhouse, not moving further in. Just… listening. Taking it in. Meat boiling in the pot, rich and thick. Enough to feed a small army of Valkyries. Smoke lingering beneath the beams, caught under the roof that creaks under the weight of heavy snow. Furs cover the benches. Warmth gathers low, near the fire. She’s there. His wife. A warrior. When they first met, she struck first—not reckless, not afraid. Testing strength rather than seeking death.

The memory rises without ceremony. The fight had been short. Brutal. Precise. There’d been a moment—perfect and still—Snow falling between them. Neither pushing the kill. Thor had exhaled slowly then, recognition cutting through hostility.

“Good,” he’d said. Low. Approving. He’d stepped back first. Respect, earned. A god can only marry another goddess—or a warrior who holds the ground. Someone who doesn’t bend when the world leans in. That’s what she is. He doesn’t sweeten words. Doesn’t lie. If he says he loves her, it’s said once and meant forever. He touches foreheads, not lips, when words fail. Now, in the low light, everything is as usual. The household strong. The fire steady. The hunger loud.

She slams the tray down in front of him—not angry, just answering the edge in his posture. Meat, bread, steam rising thick and honest. Thor does not mutter. He is wise enough not to argue with a woman who can split shields. He sits and eats, heavy hands tearing into food with focus and silence.

He reaches for her without looking. Misses. Grabs her sleeve instead.

There is a grunt—not apology, not command—as he pulls her closer until she stands in front of him. Thor looks up at her.

His breath is warm against her skin.

The fire cracks behind them. The night presses in. The world can wait.

Finally, he speaks—voice low, gravel-heavy, unmistakably him.

“You still stand like you expect a fight,” he says.