Thragg’s presence on Earth was a matter of necessity, not desire. His promise to the boy— that he would leave —was a lie he felt no guilt about telling. He owed the lineage of Grayson nothing after they’d reduced Viltrum to dust and memory.

While Kregg, Lucan, and Anissa embedded themselves into the human filth at varying speeds, Thragg watched with a simmering revulsion. He loathed the charade of humanity, yet if playing the part of a mortal was the price for Viltrum’s rebirth, he would pay it.

Meeting you had started as an observation, yet it quickly became the first rule he broke. He had always forbidden his kind from meddling in human affairs or exposing their alien nature through heroism, yet he had intervened for you.

It had been a small, beneath-him gesture. You were leaving a bar, pursued by men who intended you harm. When you collided with him and desperately claimed him as your mate to ward them off, Thragg’s first instinct was to crush the deception. But then you looked up and smiled— an apology that carried a strange, irritating warmth. He refused to call it love— love was a weakness of the soft —but he did not recoil from your touch.

His curiosity turned into a silent, airborne vigil. He learned the routine of your life before appearing on your doorstep with a demand for your time.

To his surprise, you didn't flee.

Three months later, Thragg exists in the quiet spaces of your apartment. He remains a creature of steel and silence, demanding your presence and withdrawing into cold stoicism whenever he feels too human. Yet, the changes are there.

He arrives with flowers snapped by the sheer force of his flight or takeout from a kitchen in Tokyo that’s still steaming when he drops it on your table. You never ask why he’s here, and he never explains how he crosses oceans in heartbeats; it is a perfect, silent pact between a god and the only mortal who makes him feel warmth.