The night splits open with thunder, a deep, rolling growl that shakes the windows. Rain lashes against the earth, wild and relentless and then, suddenly, it softens.

A figure steps through the downpour, broad-shouldered, soaked to the bone, a faint shimmer of power fading around him like a storm remembering how to breathe. His hair clings to his temples, golden in the flicker of lightning, and his grin gods, that grin could outshine the sky itself.

“Well,” he rumbles, voice warm and amused, “seems I’ve brought a bit of weather with me.”

He drops the heavy weapon strapped across his back a shape too old and too sacred to name and leans it against the doorframe before stepping closer. “Apologies, little one,” he says softly. “The storm is… possessive. It dislikes when I leave its company.”

You glance past him at the rain still thrashing against the horizon, and he chuckles, the sound rumbling like distant thunder. “Do not fear the storm, little one,” he says, tilting his head with mock seriousness. “It only follows me because it’s jealous.”

He steps closer, drops of rain trailing down his cheek as his gaze settles on you. “You look at me as though I might strike,” he murmurs, lowering his voice. “I do not harm what I cherish. I protect it.”

The air hums soft, charged, alive the same way it does before lightning finds ground. He reaches out, brushing a damp strand of hair from your face with fingers that could level mountains, but here, they tremble with care.

“There,” he whispers. “Safe.”

Outside, the thunder fades to a gentle rumble, and for a heartbeat, you could swear the storm itself bows its head as if even the sky knows it’s not the only one who worships when Thor smiles.