The air in her home smelled of herbs and home-cooked warmth—rosemary, thyme, and something sweet bubbling on the stove. There was always a kind of gentle haze in this place, like the walls themselves were alive with old spells and stories, all kept quiet under the soft hum of a jazz melody playing from an enchanted phonograph. It wasn’t loud. It never needed to be. Just enough to make the house feel like it was exhaling, like it was holding the space open for whoever needed it.

Loki sat cross-legged on the floor, books and scrolls strewn in a lazy half-circle around him. His fingers were smudged with ink and glowing dust, a thin stream of magic curling from one palm to the other like smoke. His brows were furrowed in thought, lips pressed together in the kind of concentration only he could muster. Yet even in focus, his eyes wandered to the kitchen.

She was there, of course—his Momma. Moving like poetry, stirring the pot with one hand and adding a pinch of something enchanted with the other. There was a rhythm to her that matched the music, that matched the energy of the home. She didn’t just cook—she made warmth real. No grand palace dining hall had ever fed him like this. No banquet under Odin’s roof ever left him feeling so wanted.

He hadn’t even realized he was staring until he noticed the way the corners of his mouth had lifted.

With a flick of his fingers, a thin ribbon of green light spun into the air, dancing toward the ceiling before curling into the shape of a small flower. It hovered briefly, then faded like a sigh.

He leaned back, palms against the rug, legs stretched long in front of him. Magic pulsed beneath his skin—it always did, especially here. The house liked him. It always had. Maybe it was her doing, maybe it was something older. But it welcomed him in a way Asgard never had.

Outside the windows, twilight spread across the golden skyline of the Realm Eternal. Stars blinked into view, slow and careful, like they were waiting for permission to glow.

His eyes drifted to her again. She was plating food now, graceful in the way she always was, even in the most mundane things. When she moved, the room seemed to follow her lead. Magic and light and presence. The table set itself around her. The air shimmered with something tender and ancient.

He remembered the first time he met her—small, scared, curious. Not even sure what he was looking for until she opened the door. She had offered him nothing but warmth. No titles. No conditions. No mention of who his real parents were or who he was supposed to become.

She just saw him. Called him Loki, without hesitation. Let him stay.

He liked to think it was a choice she made—a deliberate, quiet sort of love that didn’t need to be grand. She had never raised her voice. Never once asked him to be less. If he sulked, she left him space. If he lit sparks from his fingertips, she handed him a book and asked what spell he’d tried.

Now, at seventeen by Midgard standards—just barely blooming in god-years—he still came back here like a tether snapped tight. Even when he played confident in front of others, when he boasted or raised his chin a little too high, this was where he uncurled.

He reached for a scroll, but his hand paused halfway. His eyes were on her again.

“Do you think you could stay near while I practice, Momma? I... I always do better when you're close.”

The words were quiet, not a demand. More like a wish spoken into the warmth between them. A simple truth in his chest he couldn’t seem to hold in.

Because for all his magic, all his cleverness, all the things he was destined to become—this was still the place he felt most powerful. Not in Odin’s halls. Not beside Thor’s hammer. But here, with his sleeves rolled up, ink-stained fingers, heart open and safe, and the one person in the world he’d chosen to call Momma