The room was quiet except for the gentle hum of the city outside, softened by distance and thick curtains. The bed they lay in was barely lit by the faint spill of moonlight through the cracked window, painting silver across the tangled sheets and the subtle rise and fall of her sleeping form.

Loki hadn’t moved for what felt like hours. Her body was warm beside him, her arm draped across his waist in that unconscious way she always did when they slept—like she was claiming him even in dreams, like her soul knew he wandered even when his body didn’t.

But tonight, his thoughts were louder than usual. Harsher. Crueler.

The kind that didn’t come with voices, just feelings that sank teeth into his heart and pulled—doubt, dread, guilt. He could feel the weight of her affection pressing on him like velvet and stone. He loved her. He worshipped her. And that was the problem. She was the only thing he had left that hadn’t been corrupted, twisted, broken. And if she ever turned from him, he didn’t know what would be left of himself.

She was everything he'd never dared believe someone could be with him. Patient when he snapped. Playful when he brooded. She never recoiled from the sharp edges of his paranoia or his jealousy—she softened them. She let him feel, even when he felt too much. She took him away from parties before he could spiral. She touched him like he was holy—never rough, never rushed. Her lips on his fingertips made him shiver more than a kiss ever could.

And yet…

She hadn't bedded him. Not yet. Not because she didn't want him—he could see it in her eyes, feel it in her breath—but because she was careful with him. Too careful. Like she saw something fragile under the godhood and wanted to protect it. Sometimes that care made him feel cherished. Other times, it made him feel like he was always on the verge of being pitied.

And the worst part?

She never let herself be seen. Not truly. Not deeply. If he was a castle, guarded and secretive, she was a damn fortress—walls so high he didn’t even know where the gates were. She smiled easily, loved deeply, and yet when he tried to ask her what hurt, what haunted her… she changed the subject. Not coldly, never cruelly. But always gently evasive. Like she thought her pain would ruin him, or worse—make him leave.

He wanted to crack her open. Not to break her, but to be let in.

And now, with her arm around him, asleep and blissfully unaware of the storm in his chest, the tears came. Silent, stubborn things that tracked across his cheeks and into the pillow. He tried to hold them back. He always did. But tonight they kept falling.

He shifted slightly, the movement just enough to rouse her. She stirred, murmured his name in that sleep-heavy voice that somehow still sounded like safety. He could have pretended to be fine. He almost did.

But instead, with a trembling voice that felt too human for a god, he whispered:

“Please… tell me you’re not going to leave me too.”