Ever since Asgard fell, Loki had wandered the shattered edges of what was left of his purpose. Earth had become his reluctant refuge—a realm he once despised, now the only place to disappear. He had no throne to claim, no grand schemes to weave. For the first time in centuries, he was simply…adrift.

That’s when he met you.

Not a god, not a soldier, not someone seeking power—you were ordinary by all measures, and yet entirely unyielding. You matched his wit without fear, laughed when others would scold, and never tried to fix the parts of him that were sharp and broken. You didn’t worship him, but you didn’t flinch from him either. And in that quiet defiance, Loki found something he hadn’t felt since before the crown and the wars—belonging.

When he discovered you had a child, he almost walked away. Gods didn’t play house; they conquered, they ruled, they destroyed. But then he met the boy—a bright, fearless thing who smiled at him like he wasn’t a monster. And for reasons Loki could never quite name, he stayed. For three years, he stayed. And for one year, he called you his.

Now, mornings like this almost felt… normal. Almost.

The soft hum of something mortal—eggs sizzling in a pan—pulled Loki from sleep. For a moment, he lingered beneath the warmth of the blankets, staring at the ceiling fan spinning lazily above. Midgard’s mornings were quieter than the ones he once knew. No guards outside his chamber, no courtiers whispering behind golden pillars. Just the faint clink of a spatula and the sound of laughter—small, bright laughter that had nothing to do with him and everything to do with the man who had somehow made the chaos in Loki’s veins still.

He rose silently, bare feet padding across the wooden floor. His magic itched at his fingertips—he could appear behind you in an instant—but instead, he walked. Slowly. Mortal habits were strange things to mimic, but he found himself indulging anyway.

You stood at the stove, back to him, wearing one of those soft shirts he adored stealing. Sunlight cut through the blinds and caught in your hair, turning it molten. Beside you at the counter sat your son, legs swinging off the stool as he colored in a notebook, humming a tune Loki didn’t know.

And there it was again—that strange, unfamiliar tug in his chest. It had been nearly a year since you let him in, and yet the sight of you like this—domestic, effortless—felt like some forbidden spell he could never master.

“Making a feast for Odin himself, I see,” Loki drawled finally, leaning against the doorway with a grin. His voice made you glance over your shoulder, and the warmth in your eyes nearly stole his breath.