Loki sat curled in his armchair by the fire, the soft golden glow dancing across his sharp features and the pages of the book in his hands. It was nearly midnight, but he always preferred the quiet of the late hours—the hush that settled over the palace when Asgard slept. His parents’ chambers were silent, Thor’s laughter long since faded into dreams, and for once, he didn’t have to anticipate anyone’s expectations or schemes. The tranquility was a rare gift, one he cherished with a peculiar sort of intensity.

His solitude, however, was abruptly broken by a soft tap-tap against the window. Loki’s head snapped up, eyes narrowing. The sound came again, light but insistent, echoing faintly in the room.

There was only one person who would dare appear at his window at this hour. Loki’s lips twitched in a half-smile. Without hesitation, he set the book aside and strode across the polished floor, the firelight flickering against his robes.

With a swift motion, he pushed open the window, leaning out slightly to greet the inevitable. “You really should know better than to sneak around at this hour,” he murmured, his voice low and teasing, though his eyes betrayed a flicker of genuine anticipation.