⤷ inspired by the title // honestly its just a super sugary fic about lohen's love for you.
⤷ you thought it was a joke at first. when lohen expressed his new desire to cosplay, your eyes almost rolled out of your skull. however, considering your boyfriend’s love for undercover cop work, playing a new character didn’t seem so far off.
⤷ contrary to what the police department thinks of him: lohen could be quite a dork sometimes. not quite the same level as a nerd, as his rambles teeter closer to passionate jumbles of emotions fitting of someone who hasn’t quite mastered social cues. he’s known to scare some of his own coworkers at their cubicles with his sudden appearance and chatter.
⤷ as his long-term partner and confidant, you’ve grown used to laying in his bed, listening to him talk about characters he liked and their best skills. it has gotten to the point that whenever you watch a show with lohen, you could easily guess which character will become his favorite. its cute knowing that your boyfriend, whose job involves dealing with crime scenes and arrests, has a fondness for gap moe. lohen loves the seemingly helpless damsel turning into a monstrous powerhouse. it is his guilty pleasure.
⤷ prepare staying up late at night before every convention, 3d printing his armor pieces and last minute wig styling. there were many times you felt yourself falling asleep while pinning his waistcoat, nearly pricking your boyfriend with a needle. not that he minded. after all, he adored seeing that tired expression on your face, especially when you lean your head against his shoulder, allowing him to soak in your hard work and adoration. two traits that were reserved only for him and his desires.
⤷ being his handler is also another translation for bodyguard. while lohen himself has no trouble fighting his own battles, it is within both your best interests to keep his expensive cosplay intact. you’re constantly holding him back by his arms, dragging him into a secluded area to calm down. when you press a cold drink against his forehead, fixing up a piece of his face tape, you’re not surprised when his lips meet yours.
⤷ he knows its tough carrying around his suitcase of extra clothes. he purposefully bought a luggage that was strong enough to function as your seat during long lines. he has tested it out thoroughly—going as far as letting you sit on his lap while he is on the luggage (supposedly to test its strengths, though you figure it was for ulterior motives).
⤷ on top of being his handler, you’re also his personal photographer, doing your best to manage the crowds. lohen is fairly popular within his niche community. therefore, you felt it was your responsibility to take good pictures of him. considering the amount of time you’ve spent together, you know every perfect angle and pose. every time lohen sees his reflection through your camera lens, his blood warms up at the thought that he’s the only person you’re looking at.
⤷ lohen will immediately stop any photography work from fans if he sees you talking to someone else. even if it feels out of character for his cosplay, he still thinks of himself as your boyfriend first and foremost—and that means swatting away any unnecessary advances to his partner. it was hard not to be flustered when your cosplay boyfriend, dressed in a full suit of armor with a seven foot sword comes to your aid.
⤷ as much as he loves the final look of his cosplay, his favorite thing is letting you pull his clothes and wig off. there is a sense of relief he can’t describe. he lets you card your fingers through his mint hair, a gentle pur and hum escaping deep within him. you were always so kind to him, moisturizing his skin after removing the thick layer of foundation on his face. it was a habit to press kisses against your throat when you’re leaning close, trying to take out every bobby pin from his hair.
⤷ the next morning, as he lifts himself from your shared bed, in a rented hotel room not too far from the convention center, he giggles happily knowing you’re still with him. it fuels him with a sense of pride when the first thing he feels in the morning is the warmth of your hand, cradling his fingers.
"Nuts and grapes…" your charge had offered as you yanked a file from one of the higher shelves.
Loki had landed in the lap of the TVA six months ago and had been employed for almost two. The friendship forged between you both was rocky to say the least. However you, unlike the rest of the workers at the institute, knew how to crack tough guys like him. Loki was especially easy to pin down once you were given access to his file. A Frost Giant stolen away as a token and kept in the Realm Eternal all the while being taught to hate the very thing that he was. Throw in a dash of Odin favoring his biological son and a pinch of his mothers’ gaslighting him for his entire life and you have Loki: a classic case of teenage rebellion carrying over into adulthood despite his awful upbringing.
Oh… not to mention the raging daddy issues.
You knew what Loki needed. What he craved so desperately but never received growing up. First up was attention. Thor had stolen the majority of the limelight during his childhood and, thus, this lack was manifesting into rebellion. In Loki’s mind he had made the unfortunate connection that if he did bad things it got his parent’s attention, even when this attention was always negative. However, for Loki, attention was attention no matter what.
He also seemed to have developed quite the penchant for self-reliance. This lack of trust was no doubt spurred on by the fact that he was… you know… never told about his true heritage and was *cough* *cough* promised a throne that he would never get.
So, what did you do to combat this? Well, it was the little things. Offering your full and undivided attention when he spoke to you, never interrupting and telling off others when they tried to interrupt him, being almost completely unarmed when in his presence, et cetera.
It wasn’t long before Loki built up a tolerance for you and, soon enough, a soft spot.
You were the only one who came to his defense before he was reset. You were the only one who didn’t wave a melting stick in his face while in a room alone with him. You were the only one who didn’t dismiss his feelings when he came to work in a sour mood.
You were the only one who gave him a second chance.
It wasn’t long before you were the only one he wanted anything to do with at the TVA. When he had his weekly evals he only permitted you to administer them. When he had his interviews to begin training with the TVA he only allowed you to be in the room. He even found a way for you to sit in on his psych evals (he couldn’t quite persuade Ravonna to let you do those by yourself as well. Something about that being “not within her pay grade” and “not her responsibility”).
“No wonder you're so bitter”, you commented teasingly under your breath as you scooted past him and walked back to Loki’s desk where you had both set up camp. “We need to do something about that.”
“Do something about what?” he questioned. You couldn’t tell if he was being serious or if he was merely teasing you back.
“ We need to get some candy in you.”
Loki just rolled his eyes and breathed out a chuckle. “Are nuts and grapes not enough for you?”
You just stared at him wide-eyed for a bit.
“This is just unacceptable.”
You finally said after finding your footing. You looked around his cluttered desk for a moment and finally located a pen and scratch paper. Loki looked on as you began to scribble furiously.
“Okay-” you began. “This is what we’re gonna do. There are two main types of sweets. Baked goods, and then candy.”
“There’s a difference?” Loki questioned reluctantly as he moved to cradle his head in his hand. In your daily briefing, Loki’s psychiatrist told you that his nightmares had been flaring up this week which, you guess, explained why he seemed so tired today. All of that lack of sleep was finally catching up with him.
You made a mental note to send him home early so that he could get some well-deserved shut eye. Or, at the very least, some relaxation.
“Within the candy category there are also two categories, fruity candy and candy bars. Fruity candy is your standard “it’s imitating fruit” ordeal while candy bars-” your mouth was watering just thinking about them. “-have some nuance but their main ingredient is chocolate. Unless it’s like a PayDay or some bullshit but I’m not going to subject you to that.
When you looked up from the diagram you had drawn him you don’t think you’ve ever seen Loki so confused in the six months you had known him. He tried to speak and his mouth even got to the point of trying to mouth a sentence but nothing came out.
You just decided to continue.
“I am going to try to find a candy that you like, although they’re all pretty good.”
Finally Loki found something to say.
“What has you so infatuated with this… candy nonsense?” he interrogated, genuinely curious to know the answer.
“You’ll know why when you try it.”
Loki sat back in his chair. The pen he had been fondling was now in his mouth as he chewed on the tip. His eyes raking over you as his brows knit into… what? Confusion? Curiosity? Maybe a little bit of both. Your cheeks took on the faintest amount of color.
“Alright, I’ll bite,” he said while still leaning back in his chair. “Where do I obtain these delights that you speak so fondly of?”
You quirked an eyebrow, regaining your composure.
“Oh don’t you worry about that, I’ll bring you some tomorrow.
And so, as you set your keys down on your counter after a long day at work and an arduous hour at the grocery store trying to find various candies, you immediately began making the pièce de résistance Loki would be trying tomorrow: brownies.
Ravonna had allowed herself in shortly after you had begun the process, making good on her plans of coming over for a glass of wine.
“I’m here-”, she chirped before rounding the corner and finding you working in the kitchen.
“Ah… what are women if not made to work in the kitchen?” Ravonna jested, commenting on the absurd Earthling tradition. She had been working on a few cases of people who strayed from their timeline who, coincidentally, were all from the place Loki dubbed “Midguard” so she no doubt had some Earthly knowledge swimming around her head.
Ravonna set her bag down before allowing herself into your kitchen and immediately gravitating toward the bottle of red.
“We are but simple creatures,” you answered, playing along. You hear a pop and then the sound of liquid being poured and, soon enough, a glass is set in front of you as she takes a seat at the breakfast bar overlooking the counter you were working at.
“No but seriously, what the hell are you doing?”
“What does it look like I’m doing?” you ask with a grin as you crack an egg into the bowl. Is Loki allergic to eggs? Do Asgardians even have allergies?
“Well you're obviously making something intended for consumption but at the odd hour of nine o’clock at night.”
You snort. “Oooooh, you’re good. You should apply for that detective position that just opened up.”
Now it’s her turn to snort. “Please, applying for that position is suicide. They’ve had so many die on the job.”
“I can’t argue there.” you concede as you mix the batter. You look up for a moment from stirring to ask, “Did you know that Loki has never had candy?”
Ravonna looks up from her drink with a puzzled look.
“Yeah... he said that all they had on Asgard were ‘nuts and grapes’”.
“Weird…” she replies.
“Right?!” you exclaim, resuming your stirring of the thick, chocolatey batter.
“But you wanna know what’s weirder?”
You begin to pour the batter into a pan and beckon Ravonna to continue.
“You staying up at night to make him these damn things.”
You screw your face into a stubborn glare. “Everyone deserves to at least try a brownie” you reason, more to yourself than anyone else.
“You’ve always had a soft spot for the broken,” she sighs with a smile and a sip of her drink.
“He’s not broken-”
She immediately shoots you a look that screams “Really? You’re gonna go with that justification?”
“I’m being serious. He’s just had a rough life and I know that brownies won’t fix years of trauma but… I’m sure gonna damn well try,” you finish with determination, scooping the last ropes of batter into the bowl.
“He’s lucky.”
She answers. You give her another puzzled look. “He’s got you in his corner.”
-The next morning-
Ravonna had sent you down to floor E for the day but you thankfully passed by Loki’s desk while on your way to a meeting. As you slid the Tupperware container filled with the brownies you made last night, he looked up from his lunch with a confused look. He never bothered to venture to the cafeteria when all that was waiting for him there was an empty table so he decided that day to remain at his desk and eat.
“What the hel is this?”
He asked through a mouthful of salad. You didn’t have a ton of time and you were walking up to floor T so you merely answered his question and carried on your way.
“Brownies. A sweet that I talked about yesterday.”
As he watched your coworker steal you away, he ventured to peer into the container and my what a dreadful sight he was met with. Sure, the act of you going out of your way to deliver him a gift didn’t go unnoticed by the god but this “treat” you had left for him looked appalling. It was a hideous dark brown color with chunks of black buried within and it looked to have the consistency of wet bread.
No he really didn’t know why you went bananas over the idea of him never having candy.
That is until he tried the damn things.
Loki unlatched the plastic lid and swooped his hand in, grabbing a square of the… what did you call it again? Brownie? Nevertheless, he brought it up to his nose and inhaled.
Not bad. Let’s give it a try.
And upon first bite, Loki was in Valhalla.
It was like nothing he had ever tasted before. It was sweet enough to make his jaw tingle upon first taste but with this sweetness came a rich and creamy side to it.
What kind of sorcery…
He then proceeded to devour six more of the squares, each going down smoother than the last. Now he understood why you were so fond of your baked goods. It also only made sense that such a sweet creature like you could concoct such an addicting combination like this. This thing could have never been conceived of in the Realm Eternal by even the best chefs the palace could find yet, here you were, giving them away freely. In a way the sweets almost reminded him of you: the sweetness drawing you in but it’s richness keeping you hooked and craving more. After Loki’s ninth and final piece that the container boasted, he had accumulated not only one mighty food baby, but a bellyache to match.
I guess that’s what happens when you overindulge.
-That night-
Loki knew this was a mistake. Not only was looking up your address in the system a massive privacy violation but he has also been standing outside your door hesitating to knock for the past five minutes.
Would you think it weird if he just showed up on your doorstep?
Nevermind the fact that he wanted another brownie, he didn’t get to see you all day and was… well… missing you. He had grown so accustomed to having access to your attention, time, patience, and even your understanding so much so that when it was taken away, if only for a day, he longed for it.
Ached for it.
So, what was his solution? Well, it was simple. He would come to you asking for more treats and, hopefully, you would let him in and he would bask in the attention he didn’t get from you all day as you both chatted over brownies at your kitchen table.
Only that was crazy and you would no doubt have questions about how he found your house and oh Norns is the door knob turning or am I just imagining that?
As luck would have it, Loki was not imagining the turn of the door knob because you were now standing directly in front of him with a confused look on your face and a bag of trash in your right hand.
You looked… drained. Your hair was pulled up messily and you now had glasses that Loki didn’t know you even needed perched on the bridge of your nose. Your pajamas hanging loose on your frame that he had noticed, admittedly, more than once and bags under your eyes were quite pronounced.
Darling, what did they do to you today?
“Loki?”
“I can see this is a bad time,” he says before turning around quickly. However, he only makes it down two steps from the porch when you say,
“Wait!”
He halts immediately but doesn’t venture to turn around.
“Turn around,” you command. He slowly pivots until he’s facing you, a confused look still plastered on your features. To help lighten the mood he flashes you a fat smile.
Alright, he thinks, you caught me.
You narrow your eyes more. “What are you doing here?” you question, putting the garbage bag down, crossing your hands over your chest, and leaning against the door frame. He looks guilty as he lets out a muted chuckle.
Loki: I uh- you know…
He begins to explain but he trails off.
Is he, you ponder, blushing?
You just shrug your shoulders. No, you didn’t know why your coworker was on your doorstep at eleven o’clock at night.
Loki huffs at your lack of, what? Not being able to read his mind and know why he’s here?
“I just-” he starts, followed by a roll of the eyes.
“Do you have any more brownies?” he spits out with resignation, trying desperately to keep his dignity intact.
You immediately break into a grin and this settles his nerves.
“So… let me get this straight. I don’t remember ever giving you my address so that means you a) looked up my address in the system and b) drove all the way here for another brownie that I c) gave you a full pan of earlier today. Am I getting warm?”
Loki narrows his eyes at your teasing. It wasn’t his only motivation for coming here but you didn’t need to know that. Not yet at least.
“I suppose,” he replies through gritted teeth. “Though I’m quickly regretting it.”
You chuckle and Loki breaks out into a genuine smile.
“Oh you poor thing. I gave you my entire pan of brownies save for the one I had this morning but I did just finish up some blueberry muffins to sate your sweet tooth.”
Hey girls I'm curious about something and I need insight into girlbrains help me out.
So you know that stereotype that boys like to have cliche fantasies about dying in battle to protect their loved ones while reflecting on their lives on their final moments? Bleeding out in the snow while victorious but fatally wounded seems to be the most popular one for some reason. Yeah, those fantasies.
There's definitely a version of this for women but it's a little different. Less of a "dying in battle to save people" fantasy but more like a sympathetic, tragic self-insert heroine type of fantasy. I don't have the insight to see a pattern of what the most popular tragic fantasy scenarios are. I wanna know what the most popular scenarios are and see if I can find a common thread.
Anyway I'm trying to collect as many tragic daydreams as I can and I want to see if I can find a winner. This is a completely non-judgemental question of pure curiosity, so don't worry if you think your tragic heroine fantasy is cringe, too dark/depressing, or a maladaptive daydream or whatever, I still want to know about it. Tell me any and all scenarios featuring romanticized suffering or death that you've imagined yourself in. Also, are they something you still do, or something you used to do when you were younger but grew out of? Tell me everything.
So far "being dragged away from your loved ones by assailants while screaming" and "beautifully tortured artist and/or philosopher with traumatic backstory" seem to be the top contenders. Being persecuted in the actual literal witch trials is a popular pick too. I want more anecdotal information because I just know there's a pattern in there.
so idk if these count, but i will tell you recent ones that i made up while i am travelling back home from work.
Being a villainess and the reason why I am the way I am. So for this, there could be many reasons, like my parents always preferring my brothers over me, which eventually leads me to act loud and bratty just to get attention from people, when in reality I am actually just a girl with my own hobbies and a love for animals, i am kind but in secret (these acts leads to me not getting any attention, i hate this a lot because you are easily noticing when i mistake but no when i do not make any). I grow up and then I get betrothed to someone, hoping that maybe there will finally be someone who will pay attention to me and choose me, but it ends up being the complete opposite. Here comes the main character, who my betrothed person is actually in love with. Because of all the bitterness and jealousy I have towards the main character, I start challenging them to all kinds of things, trying to prove that I am better than them, but I fail every single time. I even find ways to cheat or bend the rules during these challenges because I just want to win at least once. Then, in the end, tragedy strikes. It could be a war, a fire, a plague, or something else, and when the time comes to save people, I am never the one chosen to be saved. It is always the main character, and the person I was betrothed to is always saved alongside them. In my final moments, I am left alone in a dark room with only a little bit of light coming from outside, and all I can think about is, what did I do to deserve all of this?
The second scenario comes from someone who was trained to be an assassin and was never really able to do anything else or explore anything outside of that life. Imagine coming from a very poor family, where as a child you survive by stealing, running around doing odd jobs, carrying heavy things and carts for deliveries, cleaning high ceilings, and doing whatever kind of work you can find. You become strong because of all of this, and eventually someone from the kingdom notices how strong and capable you are and forcefully takes you away as a child to train you as an assassin. That becomes your entire life, and you are never really given the chance to discover what else you could have been. Then one day, one of your targets is someone from a faraway kingdom, a noble, and somehow you slowly become attached to them. You start finding ways to get close to them, secretly leaving them little gifts and messages, and even saving them without them knowing, like protecting them from their own clumsiness and stupid little accidents. But the whole time, you know that eventually you are supposed to kill them. Then the moment finally comes when you have the perfect opportunity. You can kill them, and no one would ever be able to find out that you were the one who did it, but you don't. That small moment of weakness ends up being your downfall. You are discovered, taken away, tortured, and eventually killed. And the tragic part is that the one thing that got you killed was also the first real choice you ever made for yourself. You were trained your entire life to be an assassin, but when you finally had the chance to choose something other than being a killer, you chose not to kill.
these have a lot of plot holes and can makes no sense but yeah... sorry if it was too much to read or hard to understand. have a good day/night!~ 😀🧡🌸
synapse: y/n brings loki to work at the diner, where burnt coffee, rude customers, and one act of unwanted attention push the prince of asgard to his limit
pairing: loki odinson x female reader
contains: slow burn, harassment, humor
a/n: i published my loki imagine just three days ago and it immediately got so many likes, thank you! so in return i hotboxed under my blanket and wrote this for three hours at one a.m.
. . .
Y/N woke to sunlight burning directly across her face.
She groaned, rolled toward the wall and pulled the blanket over her head.
For several blissful seconds, she forgot everything. The diner. The flash in the sky. The crater. The unconscious man tied to her skateboard. The naked god standing in her kitchen.
Her eyes opened beneath the blanket. “Oh, shit.”
Y/N threw it aside and sat up too quickly. The room tilted. She braced one hand against the mattress until the dizziness passed, then grabbed her phone from the nightstand.
12:08 p.m.
She had slept for nearly seven hours. More importantly, she had willingly slept for nearly seven hours with a self-proclaimed god loose in her apartment.
A god who had threatened to turn her into something unpleasant. A god who could stop objects in midair. A god who, unless she had hallucinated from exhaustion, possessed absolutely no sense of modesty.
Y/N listened.
The apartment was quiet. No crashing furniture. No screams from the neighbors. No ominous chanting.
She slipped out of bed and opened the bedroom door cautiously. “Loki?”
No answer.
Y/N stepped into the hallway.
The bathroom door stood open. His armor was no longer spread across the floor where she had left it to dry. The towels had been folded and stacked beside the bathtub.
She continued toward the living room. Then stopped.
Her apartment was clean.
Not simply cleaner than she remembered.
Clean.
The throw blankets had been folded into neat squares over the back of the couch. Her discarded shoes had been paired beside the wall. The pile of textbooks on the coffee table had been arranged from largest to smallest, with her loose papers stacked beneath them. Even the abandoned laundry basket had disappeared.
Y/N looked slowly around the room. The empty mugs from earlier were gone. The cushions had been straightened. The floor had been swept. Her laptop sat closed in the center of the table with its charger carefully wound beside it.
“What the hell?”
“You’re awake.”
Y/N spun around.
Loki sat near the window in the armchair, one ankle resting across the opposite knee. He had managed to put on most of his repaired clothing, though the heavier armor remained absent. The black and green layers fit closely around him, the fresh stitches visible near one shoulder and along his side. He held one of her textbooks open in his lap.
The sight of him there, dressed, composed and entirely at ease made the events of the previous night feel even more surreal.
“You…cleaned.”
His eyes returned to the page. “I restored a small degree of order.”
“You cleaned my whole apartment…”
“I found continued exposure to its condition intolerable.”
Y/N stared at him.
Loki turned another page. “You live like a Midgardian slob.”
Her mouth dropped open. “A what?”
“A slob.”
“I know what you said.”
“Then why did you ask?”
Y/N crossed the room and smacked him lightly on the upper arm.
Loki looked down at the place she had struck.
Then slowly up at her.
The expression on his face suggested no one had dared do such a thing in several centuries. “You struck me.”
“You called me a slob.”
“It was an observation.”
“It was rude.”
“It was the truth.”
She raised her hand again.
Loki caught her wrist before she could hit him, his fingers closing around it with effortless speed.
Y/N froze.
His grip was not painful.
If anything, it was remarkably careful.
Loki glanced from her hand to her face. “You have a troubling habit of assaulting those who could destroy you.”
“You have a troubling habit of insulting the person letting you sleep on her couch.”
“I did not sleep.”
“That explains why you reorganized my books like a serial killer.”
“They were arranged without regard for subject, size or language.”
“They were arranged by where I dropped them.”
“Precisely.”
Y/N tugged her wrist.
Loki released it immediately.
She rubbed the spot more from awareness of his touch than discomfort.
Then a thought struck her.
Her eyes widened.
“Wait.”
Loki watched as she turned toward the television stand. “What?”
“Did you touch my bag?”
“Which bag?”
“The little plastic one.”
“That does not narrow the possibilities.”
“The one with the funny-smelling flowers.”
His brow furrowed.
Y/N hurried across the room and dropped onto her knees beside the low wooden stand supporting the television. She reached beneath it, fingers feeling along the hidden space between the bottom shelf and the wall.
Nothing.
Her stomach dropped. “No, no, no.”
She leaned farther down, nearly pressing her cheek against the carpet.
Loki closed the textbook. “What have you lost?”
“My weed.”
“Your what?”
“My bag.”
“You have several.”
“The flowers, Loki.”
“I found no flowers.”
“They don’t look like regular flowers. They’re dried and green and kind of—” Her fingers brushed plastic. “Oh, thank God.” She glanced Loki. “Or Gods…”
Y/N dragged the small bag from its hiding place and held it against her chest.
Loki stared at it.
She quickly checked that it was still sealed and that the contents appeared untouched.
Everything was there.
She released a breath.
“You hid vegetation beneath your viewing apparatus?” Loki asked.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s illegal.”
Loki’s expression changed from confusion to interest. “You conceal forbidden substances inside your home.”
“It sounds worse when you say it like that.”
“What purpose do these flowers serve?”
Y/N tucked the bag back beneath the television stand. “They help me relax.”
“You consume them?”
“Sometimes.”
“By eating them?”
“No.”
“You brew them?”
“…Not usually.”
His eyes narrowed. “Then how?”
Y/N stood and brushed the dust from her knees. “I smoke them.”
Loki was silent for a moment. “You set the plant aflame.”
“Basically.”
“And inhale the fumes?”
“Yeah.”
“Intentionally?”
“Yes, Loki.”
He leaned back in the chair, considering this new information. “Midgardians are even stranger than I believed.”
“You’re the one who fell out of space.”
“That was not intentional.”
“Neither was me needing stress relief during college.”
Y/N wandered into the kitchen, opening cabinets as she went.
Her stomach felt hollow, and the scent of the eggs she had made earlier lingered faintly in the room.
She checked the refrigerator. There was not much to work with. Bread. Cheese. Half a package of deli turkey. A tomato that needed to be used before it became a biological hazard. Grilled sandwiches, then.
Loki appeared in the kitchen doorway behind her.
She looked over her shoulder. “You’re moving better.”
“I am recovering.”
“Your ribs?”
“Satisfactory.”
“That means they hurt.”
“It means they are satisfactory.”
Y/N retrieved a frying pan. “Sit down before you fall down.”
“I have already explained that I do not fall.”
“You fell through the sky.”
His expression darkened.
She winced. “Right. Sensitive subject. Sorry.”
Loki moved toward the small table but did not sit. Instead, he watched as she laid slices of bread on the counter. “What are you preparing?”
“Lunch.”
“It is barely morning.”
“It’s noon.”
“That is an absurd hour to rise.”
“I worked all night rescuing a dramatic alien.”
“God.”
“Alien god.”
“Do not call me that.”
Y/N placed cheese over the bread. “You’re from another planet.”
“Asgard is not a planet in the crude manner you understand such things.”
“Different world, realm, floating space kingdom. Alien enough.”
Loki looked offended by every option.
Y/N added turkey to one sandwich. “…Do gods eat turkey?”
“Do you possess anything more substantial?”
“No.”
“Then apparently we do.”
She smiled and assembled the second sandwich.
Loki’s gaze drifted back toward the living room. “These forbidden flowers…”
Y/N sighed. “What about them?”
“They’re meant to help you relax?”
“Yes, they can help you relax or help you deal with pain.”
“They help with pain?”
“They can.”
“How?”
“I don’t know. They make your body relax. Everything feels less intense.”
“They alter the mind.”
“Yes.”
“Like wine.”
“…Kind of, but different.”
“More potent?”
“Depends.”
“Dangerous?”
“It can be if you’re stupid, but it’s not like you’re going to drop dead from smoking a little.”
“You hid it as though possession invites execution.”
“It doesn’t. I could get arrested, though.”
“For possessing a plant.”
“Welcome to America.”
Loki considered that with visible disdain.
“Your rulers forbid it, yet you keep it within your dwelling.”
“Quietly.”
“You admitted its existence to me.”
“You already know I dragged a stranger home from the desert. I think we’ve skipped the normal trust-building process.”
She buttered one side of each sandwich and placed them in the pan.
One landed slightly crooked.
Loki’s eyebrows rose.
“Elegant.”
“Shut up.”
His mouth curved faintly.
Y/N looked at him over her shoulder. It was the first time she had seen him appear genuinely relaxed. Only slightly, and only for a moment, but the sharpness around his eyes had eased.
He noticed her watching and the expression vanished. “Why do you look at me so?”
“I’m checking whether you’re about to pass out.”
“A transparent falsehood.”
“You ask too many questions.”
“And you avoid half of them.”
“I answer all of them.”
“With simplicity intended to make further inquiry difficult.”
“That’s because most things aren’t as complicated as you want them to be.”
“Everything is complicated.”
“Grilled cheese isn’t.”
Loki glanced toward the pan. “You have added flesh to it.”
“Turkey.”
“Therefore, it is no longer merely grilled cheese.”
Y/N stared at him. “You’ve been awake for less than a day, and you’re already correcting my sandwich terminology.”
“It required correction.”
She plated the food and slid one toward him.
Loki finally sat.
He inspected the sandwich.
Y/N sat across from him and picked up her own. “You eat it with your hands.”
“I had gathered as much.”
“Just making sure, Your Highness.”
He lifted it with obvious reluctance and took a bite.
Y/N waited.
Loki chewed.
His expression remained carefully neutral.
“Well?”
“It is adequate.”
“You like it.”
“I said it was adequate.”
“You ate half of it in one bite.”
He ignored her and took another.
Y/N smiled into her sandwich.
For a few minutes, they ate in relative silence.
Then Loki spoke again. “Would the flowers affect me?”
Y/N looked up. “What?”
“Your illicit vegetation.”
“I don’t know.”
“You claimed it’s meant to relax and eases pain.”
“In humans.”
“I resemble one closely enough.”
“You also fell through space, caught a towel with your mind and called yourself a god.”
“All accurate.”
“So I’m not using you as a science experiment.”
His eyes narrowed. “I require no protection from your minor mortal intoxicants.”
“Last night, you couldn’t walk across the room without holding onto something.”
“I was injured.”
“You’re still injured.”
“I am significantly improved.”
Y/N studied him.
He did look better, but there was still strain around his mouth whenever he shifted. The bandage beneath his clothes pulled slightly across his ribs.
“If the pain gets bad again,” she said, “maybe I’ll let you try some.”
Loki’s eyebrows lifted. “You will let me?”
“It’s my weed.”
“You presume authority over what I place within my own body.”
“No. I presume authority over whether you smoke my limited supply.”
His gaze sharpened with amusement. “You would deny a prince relief?”
“If the prince is annoying, yes.”
“I could just simply take it.”
“You’d have to find the hiding spot again.”
“I watched you retrieve it.”
Y/N stopped chewing.
Loki smiled.
Slowly.
Smugly.
“You said you didn’t touch it.”
“I did not.”
“But you know where it is.”
“I possess eyes.”
She pointed at him with the remaining half of her sandwich. “You better leave it alone.”
“I have no desire to inhale burning shrubbery.”
“Good.”
“…Unless curiosity compels me.”
“Loki.”
“Or pain.”
“You don’t even know how to smoke.”
“A skill I am certain I could master.”
Y/N narrowed her eyes.
He took another bite of his sandwich, looking unbearably pleased with himself.
“You know,” she said, “I liked you better when you were unconscious.”
“A lie.”
“See? This is why people hit you.”
“So far, only you.”
“Give it time.”
Loki regarded her across the table.
The apartment was bright with midday sun now, and the tension that had filled it hours earlier had faded into something stranger.
Not comfort.
Not yet.
But the beginnings of familiarity.
He had cleaned while she slept.
She had woken and made him lunch.
He insulted her home.
She threatened to withhold illegal flowers.
It was absurdly domestic for two people who had met beside a crater less than twelve hours earlier.
Y/N finished her sandwich and stood to rinse her plate.
Behind her, Loki spoke. “Why keep something that places you at risk?”
She turned on the faucet. “Because I like it.”
“That is your entire justification?”
“…Uh-huh. Pretty much.”
“No elaborate philosophy?”
“Nope.”
“No rebellion against your rulers?”
“I’m not starting a revolution, Loki. I just like getting high sometimes.”
He appeared disappointed by the lack of deeper meaning.
Y/N glanced back at him. “You really do make everything complicated.”
“And you make everything simple.”
“Someone has to.”
Their eyes met.
For a moment, Loki said nothing.
Then his attention lowered to the sandwich still in his hand.
“Yes,” he murmured. “Perhaps someone does.”
“Exactly.”
. . .
Y/N had exactly forty-three minutes before she needed to leave for work.
Which should have been plenty of time.
It was not.
She stood in front of her bathroom mirror with a toothbrush between her teeth, attempting to pull her hair into something resembling an intentional style while Loki occupied the hallway directly outside the door.
“Do you always prepare for labor with such urgency?” he asked.
Y/N spat toothpaste into the sink.
“I overslept.”
“You rose at midday.”
“I work late.”
“You also slept late.”
“Thank you for explaining how sleep works.”
Loki leaned one shoulder against the wall, arms folded across his chest. He had put his repaired clothing back on, though he had left most of the armor stacked neatly beside the couch.
The dark fabric and leather made him look slightly less out of place than the full green-and-gold armor had, but only slightly.
He still looked like he had wandered out of a medieval war and into a second-floor apartment in New Mexico.
Y/N wiped her mouth and reached for her makeup bag.
Loki watched her pull out a tube of mascara. “What is that?”
“Makeup.”
“For what purpose?”
“To look less tired.”
“You remain tired.”
“Yes, but now people might not know.”
He considered that. “So it’s deception.”
“It’s mascara.”
“A cosmetic deception.”
Y/N twisted around to look at him. “Do you have to classify everything I do as some form of manipulation?”
“You conceal exhaustion by altering your appearance.”
“I’m putting black stuff on my eyelashes, Loki. I’m not overthrowing a government.”
“Not with that attitude.”
She stared at him for a moment.
Then she turned back to the mirror before he could see her smile.
It was strange how quickly his presence had begun to feel less alarming.
Not normal.
There was nothing normal about having a god watching her get ready for a closing shift.
But familiar, somehow.
He had been in her home for less than a day and already behaved as though every decision she made required examination.
Y/N applied mascara to one eye.
Loki continued watching.
Y/N lowered the mascara in her hand. “You’re making me nervous.”
“I have done nothing.”
“You’re staring.”
“I am observing.”
“That’s staring.”
His reflection regarded hers in the mirror. “You alter only the area surrounding your eyes.”
“I’m going to work, not a wedding.”
“What has marriage to do with it?”
“Nothing. It means I’m not doing full makeup.”
“And your employers require this?”
“No.”
“Then why bother?”
Y/N lowered the mascara wand. “Because I like how it looks.”
He seemed almost disappointed by the uncomplicated answer. “That’s all?”
“That is all.”
His gaze remained on her reflection. “It is pleasing.”
Her hand stopped.
Y/N looked at him through the mirror.
Loki’s expression revealed nothing. He had delivered the compliment as though offering an objective assessment of the weather.
“What?”
“The darkening around your eyes,” he said. “It suits you.”
“Oh.” She turned back toward the sink, suddenly more interested in returning the mascara to its tube than necessary. “Thanks.”
Loki tilted his head slightly, studying the warmth rising in her cheeks.
Y/N immediately changed the subject.
“So, about tonight.”
His expression sharpened.
“You’re welcome to stay here while I’m at work.”
“I require no permission.”
“You do when it’s my apartment.”
His lips pressed together.
Y/N stepped around him and returned to her bedroom. Loki followed as far as the doorway while she pulled on her diner uniform shirt.
“You can stay,” she continued, buttoning it, “or you can leave. I’m not holding you prisoner.”
“We established that I am presently unable to depart this realm.”
“I meant the apartment.”
“I am aware.”
She tucked the shirt into her pants and glanced toward him. “But there are rules.”
Loki’s brow lifted. “You propose rules for me?”
“Yes.”
“A prince of Asgard.”
“A prince of Asgard who is sleeping on my couch.”
His expression cooled.
Y/N began counting on her fingers. “You’re not allowed to touch my weed.”
“I have no interest in your foul-smelling vegetation.”
“You were asking a lot of questions about it.”
“Curiosity is not desire.”
“Good. Then leaving it alone should be easy.”
She lifted a second finger. “And you’re not allowed past the kitchen entryway.”
Loki stared at her.
“What?”
“Kitchen, living room and bathroom are fine. My bedroom is off-limits.”
“You left me unattended in your dwelling, yet fear I may enter one particular chamber?”
“I don’t fear it. I’m telling you not to.”
“What do you conceal there?”
“My stuff.”
“A compelling mystery.”
“It isn’t a mystery. It’s clothes, homework and laundry.”
“Then why prohibit entry?”
“Because it’s private.”
Loki’s expression remained unreadable.
Y/N narrowed her eyes. “…You already went in there, didn’t you?”
His silence answered her.
Her mouth fell open. “You did.”
“I sought to determine whether you had been truthful.”
“You opened my door while I was sleeping?”
“You might have been plotting against me.”
“I was unconscious.”
“Yes. I discovered that.”
Y/N stared at him in disbelief. “And you didn’t think to mention this?”
“It appeared unnecessary.”
She grabbed a hairbrush from her dresser and pointed it at him. “No bedroom.”
“I have already seen it.”
“That doesn’t mean you get to go back.”
“I could enter without your knowledge.”
“You could also not be creepy.”
The word seemed to offend him more than any threat had. “I was not being creepy.”
“You watched me sleep.”
“I confirmed that you slept.”
“From the doorway?”
Loki hesitated for half a second.
Y/N’s eyes widened.
“You came inside?”
“I took several steps.”
“Loki!”
“You were unharmed.”
“That’s not the point!”
“It is very much the point.”
She lifted the hairbrush as though considering throwing it.
Loki’s eyes flicked toward it. “Do not.”
“You’d catch it.”
“I would.”
“That would somehow make me angrier.”
Y/N set it down with deliberate care. “No weed. No bedroom. Don’t answer the door, don’t touch the stove, and don’t use my phone to call another realm.”
“Your device is incapable of such communication.”
“Good. One less concern.”
Loki remained in the doorway while she gathered her purse and searched for her keys. “And if I elect not to remain here?”
Y/N looked up. “Then come with me.”
“To the establishment where you serve food?”
“The diner.”
“I recall.”
“You’d have to sit there for several hours, though.”
“I have endured longer periods in less dignified locations.”
“Great. Then you can keep me company.”
His gaze sharpened slightly at the words.
Y/N did not notice. She was too busy searching beneath a stack of papers.
“Where are my keys?”
“Beside the entry.”
She stopped. “How do you know?”
“I placed them there.”
“Of course you did.”
She walked into the living room and found them centered neatly on the small table beside the door.
Loki followed.
Y/N glanced over his repaired Asgardian clothing.
“You can’t wear that.”
His expression turned dangerous. “Why not?”
“Because everyone will stare at you.”
“They already do.”
“More than usual.”
“That is hardly my concern.”
“It becomes my concern when my manager thinks I brought a fantasy convention performer to work.”
Loki looked down at himself. “These are the garments of Asgardian royalty.”
“And they’re very nice.”
“Nice?”
“Beautiful. Majestic. Extremely prince-like.”
He eyed her suspiciously.
“But you’ll look insane in a roadside diner.”
His mouth tightened.
Y/N opened the small closet by the front door and searched through several jackets. “I might still have some of my ex-boyfriend’s clothes.”
Silence fell behind her.
Y/N continued digging. “He left a box here after we broke up. I told him to pick it up, but he never—”
“You intend for me to wear another man’s castoffs?”
She glanced back.
Loki stood perfectly still.
There was something almost affronted in his expression.
“They’re just clothes.”
“They belonged to a man who shared your affections.”
“Past tense.”
“That alters little.”
“It alters the entire situation.”
“I will not wear them.”
Y/N shrugged and turned back toward the closet. “Then stay here.”
“I did not say I would remain.”
“You can’t go to work dressed like that.”
“Your realm places an astonishing amount of importance upon unremarkable fabric.”
“Says the man offended by the idea of wearing jeans.”
“I’m offended by the idea of wearing his jeans.”
The emphasis was unmistakable.
Y/N slowly looked over her shoulder. “Are you jealous of a guy you’ve never met?”
Loki’s expression became glacial. “Don’t be absurd.”
“You sound jealous.”
“I possess no reason to envy a Midgardian foolish enough to lose your favor.”
The words landed between them.
Y/N blinked.
Loki appeared to realize what he had said at the same moment she did.
His posture stiffened.
She tried not to smile. “That almost sounded like another compliment.”
“It was an insult directed toward him.”
“Sure.”
“I will not wear his clothes.”
“Then what are you going to wear?”
Loki looked at her for a long moment.
Then green light shimmered across his body.
Y/N stumbled backward into the closet door.
The magic moved over him like water, dissolving the repaired Asgardian layers and replacing them piece by piece.
Dark trousers appeared first, fitted cleanly through the legs. A pale striped dress shirt formed over his chest, buttoned neatly to the throat beneath a black tie. A patterned scarf settled around his neck before a long, dark overcoat swept over his shoulders.
The glow faded.
Loki stood before her dressed as though he belonged in an expensive office in some colder, more sophisticated city.
His hair had changed too, no longer hanging loose around his shoulders. It was swept back neatly, leaving his sharp features fully exposed.
Y/N forgot what she had been saying.
The outfit should have looked too formal for a diner.
Instead, it made him look effortlessly elegant.
The coat broadened his shoulders, while the fitted shirt and trousers emphasized the lean lines of his body. The scarf gave the entire appearance something polished and strangely modern without making him look ordinary.
Nothing could make Loki look ordinary.
He adjusted one cuff.
“This should satisfy your realm’s arbitrary expectations.”
Y/N continued staring.
His gaze lifted to hers.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“A lie.”
She looked him over again before she could stop herself.
The dark coat.
The narrow tie.
The pale shirt against his skin.
The sharp sweep of his hair.
He looked less like someone she had dragged from a crater and more like the sort of man who walked into a room already knowing everyone would turn to look.
And they would.
They absolutely would.
“You look…” Y/N stopped.
Loki’s eyebrows rose. “I look?”
“…Normal.”
His eyes narrowed. “That was poorly delivered.”
“No, I mean—” She gestured toward him. “You look good.”
A trace of satisfaction entered his expression. “I am aware.”
She rolled her eyes. “Of course you are.”
“You were staring.”
“I was checking the clothes.”
“With your mouth open.”
Y/N immediately closed it. “It was not.”
Loki stepped closer.
It was only one step, but the small living room suddenly felt much smaller.
His eyes moved over her face, openly amused now. “You find this form pleasing.”
“This form?”
“The attire.”
“Oh.” She cleared her throat. “It’s fine.”
“Fine?”
“Appropriate.”
“You called it good moments ago.”
“I changed my mind.”
“No, you became embarrassed.”
“I am not embarrassed.”
His gaze dipped briefly toward the color in her cheeks. “You are.”
Y/N grabbed her purse from the table and pushed past him.
“We’re going to be late.”
“I was unaware gods were required to obey your work schedule.”
“You are when you’re riding in my car.”
Loki followed her toward the door, looking far too pleased with himself.
Y/N unlocked it and stepped onto the landing.
Behind her, he paused. “You have neglected one matter.”
She turned. “What?”
“Your restrictions.”
“What about them?”
“If I accompany you, I cannot violate them.”
“That’s the point.”
“Then perhaps your insistence upon my presence was a calculated maneuver.”
She stared at him. “I gave you two choices.”
“And clearly preferred one.”
“I did not.”
Loki stepped outside and pulled the apartment door closed behind him.
“You offered another man’s clothing knowing I would refuse.”
“I didn’t know you’d get weirdly territorial.”
“I am not territorial.”
“You called his clothes castoffs like they personally offended your bloodline.”
“They did.”
Y/N locked the door.
When she looked up, Loki was standing beside her beneath the harsh afternoon sun, dressed in his dark coat as though the New Mexico heat had no authority over him.
She gave him another involuntary once-over.
He caught it immediately. “Again.”
“Walk.”
Loki smiled. It was small, smug and infuriatingly attractive.
Y/N headed toward the stairs before he could see her smiling too.
. . .
By the time the afternoon rush began, Loki had decided that the diner was an insult to nearly every one of his senses. The coffee smelled burnt. The lights hummed overhead. The vinyl seats stuck faintly to the backs of his thighs. And the small metal bell beside the register made an irritating chime every time someone struck it, despite the fact that Y/N was almost always standing close enough to hear them speak.
He sat on the counter near the register with one polished shoe resting against the cabinet beneath him, looking far too elegant for the faded diner around him.
Y/N placed a white ceramic mug beside his hand and filled it from the coffee pot. “Here.”
Loki glanced down at the black liquid. “This is the same substance you consumed last night.”
“Technically.”
“It smells worse.”
“That’s because this pot’s been sitting for an hour.”
His expression sharpened with distaste. “Then why have you offered it to me?”
“Because you’ve been asking what every single thing is, and I’m trying to keep you occupied.”
Loki lifted the mug by its handle, inspecting it before taking a cautious sip. His face immediately tightened.
Y/N laughed. “You don’t have to drink it.”
“This is coffee?”
“Diner coffee.”
“That distinction appears significant.”
“It is.”
He took another sip anyway.
Y/N reached beneath the counter for a stack of clean menus. “And do not smash the cup when you’re finished.”
Loki slowly looked at her. “Why would I smash it?”
“You already did it at my apartment.”
“That vessel was empty.”
“So?”
“In Asgard, one casts down the cup and calls for another.”
Y/N stared at him. “You threw my favorite mug on the floor.”
“You had several.”
“It said World’s Okayest Student.”
“I spared you further humiliation.”
She slapped a menu against his knee. “Do not smash this one.”
Loki glanced at the mug. “And if I desire another?”
“You ask.”
His mouth twisted. “Simply ask?”
“Yes.”
“No dramatic declaration?”
“No.”
“No raised voice?”
“No.”
“No destruction?”
“Definitely no destruction.”
He appeared almost disappointed. “…Well, that’s no fun.”
Y/N pointed at him. “You say, ‘May I have another cup of coffee, please?’”
Loki regarded her with the wounded dignity of a king being taught table manners by a child. “I am familiar with courtesy.”
“You nearly threw a knife at my toaster last night.”
“It startled me.”
“It popped bread.”
“Without warning.”
She shook her head and walked away before he could defend himself further.
Loki watched her cross the diner. She moved quickly between the tables, pouring coffee, collecting plates and offering the same bright smile to every person who entered, regardless of whether they deserved it.
Most did not.
A man at the counter complained that his eggs were not over easy. Y/N apologized and sent them back. A woman in the corner snapped her fingers at her for more syrup. Y/N brought it without comment. A family allowed their child to scatter crackers across the floor, then left without attempting to gather them. Y/N swept them up.
Loki’s irritation grew with every interaction. They spoke to her as though her presence was beneath acknowledgment, yet expected immediate obedience from her.
And she continued smiling.
When she passed the counter again, Loki caught her wrist lightly. “Why do you permit them to speak to you in this manner?”
She followed his gaze toward the man still complaining about his replacement egg. “Because I’m working.”
“That does not answer the question.”
“It does here.”
“They behave as though you belong to them.”
“They’re customers.”
“That word does not improve them.”
Y/N pulled her wrist free and gathered a fresh pot of coffee. “They pay for food. I bring it to them. At the end of the week, I get money.”
“You endure disrespect for coin?”
“Pretty much.”
Loki frowned. “Your realm is poorly arranged.”
“Tell me about it.”
“You could refuse.”
“And then I could get fired.”
“Then your employer is a fool.”
“My employer likes customers more than employees.”
“Another fool.”
She smiled. “Agreed.”
Loki watched her refill a cup. “What would occur if you simply commanded them to leave?”
“I don’t command anyone.”
“That is evident.”
Y/N gave him a look. “You’ve been here an hour. Try not to overthrow capitalism before dinner.”
“I know not what that is.”
“Good. Stay innocent.”
She walked away again.
Loki’s attention followed her despite himself. She looked tired. Still, she remembered every order. She asked an elderly couple whether they wanted more coffee before they had to call for her. She carried a heavy tray for another server who had briefly stopped by. She laughed when a child offered her a crayon drawing as payment.
The ease with which she offered kindness to strangers was as baffling as it had been the night before. Perhaps more so.
Loki had assumed her mercy toward him had been an exception born of unusual circumstances. Watching her now, he began to understand that it was simply how she moved through the world.
She helped because someone needed help. She smiled because hostility would cost her more energy. She endured because, as she had said, she needed the money.
Loki disliked that last part immensely.
The bell above the front door chimed.
A man entered alone and chose a booth near the back. He was perhaps twice Y/N’s age, broad through the shoulders and wearing a dusty work shirt with the sleeves cut away. His gaze found Y/N almost immediately.
Loki noticed.
Y/N approached with a menu. “What can I get you to drink?”
“Coffee.”
“Cream or sugar?”
“Just you, sweetheart.”
Y/N’s smile tightened, though it did not disappear. “I’ll bring the coffee.”
Loki lowered his mug.
The man watched her walk away. Not idly. His eyes remained fixed on her in a manner Loki recognized immediately.
Possessive without cause. Hungry without invitation.
When Y/N returned with the coffee, the man knocked a wrapped fork from the edge of the table. It landed near her feet.
“Sorry about that,” he said.
Y/N bent to pick it up. The man leaned sideways in the booth, openly staring at her backside.
Loki’s fingers tightened around the mug.
Y/N placed the silverware back on the table. “Anything else?”
“Not right now.”
She turned away.
The man waited until she had taken three steps, then swept a napkin from the table. It fluttered to the floor. “Miss?”
Y/N stopped.
He pointed downward. “Dropped something.”
Loki’s expression went cold.
Y/N looked at the napkin. Then at the man. She knew. That much was obvious. But she walked back anyway, crouched and picked it up without comment.
The man grinned as she straightened.
Loki set his mug down. Carefully. He had been explicitly instructed not to smash it.
Y/N returned to the counter and shoved the napkin into the trash.
“You’re aware,” Loki said.
She wiped down the coffee pot. “Of what?”
“Do not insult me.”
She sighed. “Just ignore him.”
“He is intentionally dropping objects so that he may observe you.”
“I know.”
“And yet you comply.”
“He’s going to leave eventually.”
“That’s not sufficient.”
“It has to be. For now.”
Loki looked toward the booth. The man was still staring.
“No,” Loki said quietly. “It does not.”
Y/N pointed the cleaning cloth at him. “Do not do anything.”
“I have done nothing.”
“That’s why I’m saying it now.”
“He’s an idiot, not an enemy soldier.”
Loki’s eyes remained on the man. “The distinction appears narrow to me.”
“Loki.”
He looked back at her.
“Stay here.”
The command made one eyebrow rise. “I beg your pardon?”
She sighed. “Please stay here.”
The addition appeared to satisfy him only marginally.
Y/N picked up a pitcher of water and returned to the floor. Loki watched.
The man found another reason to call her over moments later. Ketchup this time, despite there already being a bottle at the end of his table.
Y/N brought him another.
He smiled up at her. “You got a boyfriend?”
“Nope.”
Loki’s gaze sharpened.
“Pretty girl like you?” the man continued.
“I’m busy, sir.”
“I can see that.”
His eyes traveled down her body again. Y/N stepped away from the table.
As she passed him, the man lifted his hand and struck her backside.
The sound carried across the diner.
Y/N froze.
So did Loki.
For one perfect second, the entire room seemed to stop.
Y/N turned slowly.
The man laughed, raising both hands. “Come on. Just playing around.”
Loki slid from the counter. Not even flinching from the pain in his side from standing.
There was no dramatic motion. No visible magic. One moment he was seated near the register. The next, he was walking across the diner with such deliberate calm that the absence of anger in his face became far more frightening than rage would have been.
Y/N saw him approaching. “Loki.”
He did not stop.
The man glanced past her. “What’s his problem?”
Loki stepped beside Y/N. Up close, he seemed taller than he had from the counter. The dark coat sharpened the line of his shoulders, and the fluorescent lights caught the green of his eyes.
“You will remove your hand,” Loki said.
The man looked down at his own lap, confused. “From what?”
“From your body.”
Y/N’s eyes widened. “Loki.”
The man laughed uneasily. “What the hell is this?”
“You touched her without permission.”
“Relax, Dracula. It was a joke.”
Loki leaned slightly closer. Nothing in his posture appeared hurried. That made it worse.
“I have heard jokes,” he said. “They are generally intended to inspire amusement.”
The man’s smile faded. “Back off.”
Loki’s gaze dropped briefly to the man’s hand. “I could remove the offending limb. I have several blades to choose from—“
Y/N grabbed Loki’s sleeve. “No.”
The man shoved himself upright in the booth. “Did he just threaten me?”
“Yes,” Y/N said. “But he’s leaving.”
“I am doing no such thing.”
She tugged his arm. “Loki, go sit down.”
His head turned slowly toward her. The look he gave her might have frightened armies.
Y/N did not release him. “Now.”
“He struck you.”
“I know.”
“And you would have me ignore it.”
“I would have you not dismember a customer during my shift.”
“He is fortunate that is all I proposed.”
The man stood. “Who the hell do you think you are?”
Loki turned back toward him.
Y/N stepped directly between them. “Nope.”
His gaze dropped to her. She placed one hand against his chest and pushed. Loki did not move. Naturally. But he looked down at her hand as though the contact itself had surprised him.
“Go sit at the counter,” she said.
“He has not apologized.”
“He’s not going to.”
“Then I will provide encouragement.”
“No magic,” she whispered to him.
“I require none. Just a blade will do.”
Behind her, the man scoffed.
Y/N felt Loki’s body tense beneath her palm. She pressed more firmly against his chest and lowered her voice. “Please.”
That stopped him.
Not immediately.
His eyes remained fixed over her shoulder, cold with the promise of consequences. Then his attention returned to her face.
“You ask me to tolerate this.”
“I’m asking you not to make it worse for me.”
The anger in his expression shifted. Not vanished. Shifted. He understood the distinction.
If he hurt the man, Y/N would be blamed. She could lose the money she needed. Perhaps the employment itself.
Loki looked once more at the customer. “You will not touch her again.”
The man rolled his eyes, though he did not seem willing to answer.
Loki took one step forward.
Y/N pushed both hands against his chest. “Loki. Seat. Counter.”
His jaw tightened.
“Now.”
For several seconds, neither moved.
Then Loki allowed her to guide him backward.
It was not obedience, he told himself.
It was a strategic withdrawal made solely because she had requested it.
Y/N kept a hand around his arm until they reached the register. “Sit.”
He looked at the counter stool. Then at her. “I am not an animal to be commanded.”
“Then stop acting like a guard dog.”
“That man placed his hand upon you.”
“I noticed.”
“And you expect no consequence.”
“I expect him to tip badly and die alone.”
Loki stared at her.
Y/N lowered her voice. “I appreciate that you wanted to defend me.”
“Defend you? I intended to punish him.”
“That’s still defending me.”
“It is not.”
“Yeah-huh.”
He looked back toward the booth. The man had returned to his coffee, though he now kept both hands clearly visible on the table.
Y/N nudged Loki toward the stool. He finally sat.
She picked up his mug. It was empty. “You finished this.”
“I did.”
“And you didn’t smash it.”
His eyes moved to hers. “I exercised remarkable restraint.”
“You really did.”
Y/N lifted the coffee pot. “Would you like another?”
Loki glanced toward the rude customer one final time. Then back at her. His expression remained severe, but when he spoke, the words were controlled. “May I have another cup of coffee, please?”
Y/N smiled. “See? You’re learning.”
She poured it for him.
Loki watched her replace the pot. “He should consider himself fortunate.”
“He should.”
“Had you not intervened—”
“I know.”
“…I would not have killed him.”
“…Probably.”
Y/N raised an eyebrow. “Loki.”
“What?”
“You don’t sound convincing. At all.”
He wrapped one hand around the warm mug. “I would merely have ensured he remembered the encounter.”
“How?”
Loki took a sip.
Y/N waited.
His eyes gleamed above the rim.
“Drink your coffee,” she said.
A faint smile touched his mouth.
Across the diner, the customer signaled for his check. He did not ask Y/N to pick up anything else.
Y/N left Loki at the counter with a pointed look. “Behave.”
Loki lifted the mug toward her in a gesture of solemn agreement. “I have done nothing.”
“Yet.” She narrowed her eyes at him before turning away to carry the customer’s check toward the register.
Loki waited until her back was turned.
The man in the booth was muttering beneath his breath as he dug through his wallet, casting irritated glances toward the counter. His coffee sat near the edge of the table.
Still steaming.
Loki’s fingers shifted subtly around his own mug. A faint ripple of green passed between them, invisible to every mortal eye in the diner.
The man’s cup tipped.
Hot coffee poured directly into his lap.
He gave a strangled shout and shot upright, knocking his knees against the underside of the table. “What the hell?”
Coffee streamed from his jeans and spread across the vinyl seat before splashing onto the tile below.
Y/N spun around from the register. “Oh, my God.”
The man stumbled out of the booth, swearing loudly as he tried to brush the scalding liquid from his pants. His boot landed directly in the puddle.
The sole slipped.
His arms flew outward.
For one brief, magnificent moment, he remained suspended between standing and falling, his face twisted in horrified realization.
Then he hit the floor.
Hard.
The crash rattled the table.
Y/N pressed both lips together.
Loki took a slow drink of coffee.
The man groaned and rolled onto his side, clutching the edge of the booth as he attempted to drag himself upright. “What is wrong with this place?”
Loki’s gaze remained fixed on the window. A deeply satisfied smile curved across his mouth.
Y/N hurried over, though she made no attempt to conceal how little sympathy she felt. “Are you okay?”
“Does it look like I’m okay?”
“It looks like you spilled your coffee.”
“I didn’t spill it. It just fell over!”
Loki’s smile widened behind his cup.
Y/N glanced toward him.
He immediately smoothed his expression into one of innocent disinterest.
She looked back at the customer. “Cups don’t usually do that on their own.”
“That’s what I’m saying!”
The man managed to stand, keeping one hand pressed against the table for balance. His face was red from pain and humiliation, while the front of his jeans was soaked dark.
Y/N retrieved a stack of napkins from the neighboring table and offered them.
He snatched them from her hand. “I’m not paying for that coffee.”
“I’ll take it off the check.”
“And I want to speak to your manager.”
“They’re not here.”
“Of course they’re not.”
The man roughly wiped at his pants, then shoved several bills onto the table. He had left enough for the meal.
No tip.
Naturally.
He limped toward the exit, muttering about lawsuits.
As he passed the counter, Loki inclined his head. “Do take care.”
The man stopped. He looked at Loki’s composed face, then at the coffee in his hand. Something suspicious flickered across his expression. “You.”
Loki raised one eyebrow. “I?”
“You did something.”
“With your coffee?”
“My coffee.”
Loki looked toward the abandoned booth before chuckling. “…Your clumsiness is hardly my responsibility.”
“I wasn’t clumsy!”
“Your current position suggests otherwise.”
The man stepped toward him.
Y/N immediately moved between them again. “Okay. You’re leaving.”
“I want him out too.”
“You don’t own the diner and he didn’t do anything.”
Loki’s eyes slid toward her.
Y/N avoided meeting them.
The man pointed at Loki. “He was staring at me.”
“I assure you,” Loki said, “there was little worth observing.”
Y/N covered a cough with her fist.
The customer glared at both of them before storming toward the door. His wet shoes squeaked across the floor with every step.
The bell above the entrance gave one final cheerful chime as he shoved it open and disappeared into the parking lot.
Y/N watched through the window until he climbed into his truck. Then she turned slowly toward Loki.
He sat exactly where she had left him, holding his cup with both hands as though he had spent the entire incident peacefully enjoying his drink.
She walked back to the counter. “What did you do?”
Loki looked up at her. “I have been sitting here.”
“Not what I asked.”
“I drank my coffee.”
“Loki.”
“It remains as unpleasant as the first.”
She planted both palms on the counter. “Did you knock his cup over?”
His green eyes widened with expertly manufactured offense. “From here?”
“You do magic.”
“So you have repeatedly observed.”
“And then he happened to slip.”
“Well that was because the floor was wet.”
“…Because his coffee spilled.”
“A sequence of unfortunate events.”
Y/N stared at him.
He met her gaze without flinching.
A tiny smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
She saw it. “You did.”
“I have admitted nothing.”
“You look way too pleased with yourself.”
Loki took another sip. “The man received an important lesson regarding unwanted advances and proper balance.”
Y/N shook her head.
She should have been angry. He had used magic in the middle of her workplace after she explicitly told him not to make the situation worse. The customer could complain. Her manager could review the incident. Something could have gone wrong.
But then she remembered the hand striking her backside.
The laughter afterward.
Just playing around.
Her annoyance weakened. “Did you burn him?”
“Nothing lasting.”
“Did you make him fall?”
“I merely allowed gravity to complete what his own incompetence began.”
“That means yes.”
“It means your realm possesses reliable natural laws.”
Y/N stared at him for another second. Then she picked up a cleaning cloth and headed toward the spill.
“Okay, well, I’m not cleaning the whole thing alone.”
Loki looked toward the puddle. “You cannot possibly expect—”
“You caused it.”
“Allegedly.”
“Bring the mop.”
“I am a prince.”
“And I’m a Midgardian slob. Get the mop.”
His eyes narrowed.
Y/N held his gaze.
Eventually, Loki slipped down from the counter with a look of profound offense. “…Where is this instrument?”
“Supply closet beside the bathrooms.”
He walked away with the stiff dignity of someone marching toward an execution.
Y/N waited until he disappeared around the corner before allowing herself to smile.
The guy had deserved it. Maybe not the hot coffee. Maybe not the fall. But something.
A few minutes later, Loki returned carrying the mop as though it were a weapon too primitive to deserve his touch.
Y/N took it from him. “Thank you.”
“You are enjoying this.”
“A little.”
“I defended your honor.”
“You spilled coffee on a creep.”
“A distinction without consequence.”
She crouched to gather the fallen cup.
Loki stood beside her, watching the diner door through which the man had departed.
Defended her honor.
The phrase lingered.
A memory surfaced before he could dismiss it.
Asgard. After he had just killed Laufey. Thor standing in front of him, changed by his brief exile to Earth. Softer, Loki had thought. Weakened by sentiment and mortal affection.
He remembered circling his brother with cruel amusement, eager to find the source of that transformation.
What happened to you on Earth that turned you so soft? Don’t tell me it was that woman.
Thor’s silence had been answer enough.
Oh! It was! Well, maybe, when we’re finished here, I’ll pay her a visit myself!
At the time, Loki had enjoyed the threat for what it did to Thor’s face. He had regarded his brother’s attachment to a Midgardian woman as another weakness, proof that Thor had lost the resolve required of a king.
And now Loki stood in a roadside diner, dressed in Midgardian clothes, holding cleaning supplies because a mortal woman had commanded him to do so.
Worse, he felt satisfied.
Not merely because the man had been humiliated.
Because Y/N had been defended.
Her pride restored in the smallest possible measure.
Loki’s mouth flattened.
The realization was deeply inconvenient.
Y/N rose with the broken pieces of napkin holder in one hand. “You’re doing the face again.”
His attention returned to her. “What face?”
“The one where you disappear into your own head and get mad at whatever you find there.”
“I am not angry.”
“Brooding, then.”
“I do not brood.”
She glanced at his dark coat, swept-back hair and severe expression. “You’re dressed like the physical embodiment of brooding. You’re a brooder.”
Loki took the mop from her with more force than necessary. “Attend to your duties.”
She smiled. “Yes, Your Highness.”
He pushed the mop through the puddle, sending a thin wave of coffee across the tile.
Y/N watched him struggle with the handle. “You’ve never used one of those, have you?”
“I understand the concept.”
“You’re making it worse.”
“The instrument is poorly designed.”
“Let me—”
“I said I understand.”
“Loki. You’re holding it upside down.”
Loki looked at the mop. Then at her.
Y/N bit the inside of her cheek.
He silently turned it around.
She walked away before she laughed in his face.
Loki watched her return to the counter, smiling to herself as she reached for the coffee pot. His irritation should have returned.
Instead, he found himself watching the easy movement of her shoulders, the looseness that had replaced the tension from earlier.
She knew what he had done.
She had chosen not to condemn him for it.
Perhaps Thor’s softness had not been weakness after all.
The thought was intolerable.
Loki shoved the mop across the floor with unnecessary force.
Still, when Y/N glanced back at him and smiled, he smiled too.
satoru and his habit of sharing his food with you.
it starts off small, packaged kikufuku nudged in your direction, zunda cream flavour, oh so generous gojo satoru, holding out his favourite and very obviously last packet to you.
"what did you do, satoru?" you queried, side-eyeing him, suspiciously taking the mochi from his hands, waiting for him to elaborate whilst you indulged in the potential bribe or poison, you didn't think about that.
"what?" he huffed in disbelief, leaning over to toss the empty package into the trash bin, long limbs aiding the task, "can I not do something from the goodness of my heart?" he scoffed at your sheer audacity to question his intentions.
"I don't know satoru," you hummed around the taste of sweet edamame paste and whipped cream wrapped in stretchy mochi, making a show of biting into the delicate dessert, "it's pretty suspicious of you to share kikufuku."
he pouted, choosing to ignore your remark.
but, the habit continued.
sometimes, it was matcha, the most expensive from the cafe in central tokyo, ice still swimming in the thick drink as he set the cup on your table, shrugging his shoulders when you raised an eyebrow.
sometimes, it would be steaming rice and curry, packed in a pretty bento box, a sticky note with riddles on it.
"do I look like a kid to you?" you reached for the bento despite your words, hands rubbing together as he settled beside you on the staff room couch.
"it boost morale." satoru leaned closer bumping his shoulder against yours, "ask nanamin, I've been writing him notes too." he chuckled, handing you a pair of chopsticks, nursing a bottle of sweet lemon soda.
"you draw him dicks," you snorted, laughter echoing in the empty hallway, eyes lingering on his soda, "don't tell me that's your lunch." nudging the bento closer to him, you shifted your chair closer too.
"you know, i bought this for you." his gaze lingering on your face as you took a bite of the curry, hummed at the taste of it, "on second thought, feed me."
"was this your plan all along?" you leaned back, eyes twinkling with mirth as you watched him fidget for a moment, "you know you could have just asked."
It’s been too long since I’ve drawn these idiots and stars above do I adore them, they’re my babies and I had so much fun with this, I hope y’all like it as much as I do
Manifesting these two have a healthy conversation next episode where they just get everything out into the open
synapse: after falling from the shattered bifrost, a wounded loki awakens in the home of an ordinary midgardian whose simple act of kindness begins to challenge everything he believes about trust, honesty, and humanity
a/n: saw my man in the doomsday trailer and had to write for him
. . .
By eleven-thirty, Y/N had wiped down every table in the diner twice.
The chairs were flipped upside down over the booths and tables, the coffee machines had been cleaned, and the neon OPEN sign in the front window had been switched off nearly an hour ago. Outside, the empty highway stretched through the desert in both directions, illuminated only by the occasional passing headlights and the pale glow of the moon.
It was the kind of road people used to get somewhere else.
Few ever stopped unless they needed gas, coffee, or a bathroom.
Y/N had been working at the diner long enough to recognize the different types of travelers who came through: exhausted truck drivers, families with screaming children, couples who had clearly been arguing for the past fifty miles and college students attempting road trips in cars that looked one pothole away from collapsing.
Tonight had been unusually quiet.
Her manager had left shortly after closing, trusting Y/N to finish counting the register and lock up. The cook had disappeared through the back door ten minutes after that, leaving behind a cloud of cigarette smoke and a reminder not to forget the lights over the grill.
Now the diner belonged entirely to her.
She had claimed the booth nearest the counter, one leg tucked beneath her as she stared at the open laptop in front of her. A half-finished cup of coffee sat beside it, cold enough that the thin layer of creamer on top had begun to separate.
Three paragraphs remained between her and freedom.
Technically, five pages remained between her and freedom, but she had decided not to think about that.
Y/N leaned closer to the screen, squinting at the sentence she had rewritten four separate times.
The significance of—
She deleted it.
The historical importance of—
Delete.
“This is stupid,” she muttered.
Her professor had given the class two weeks to complete the assignment. Naturally, Y/N had spent thirteen days thinking about starting it and was now attempting to finish the entire thing during closing shifts at the diner.
The cursor blinked mockingly at her.
Y/N reached for her coffee, took one sip, and immediately grimaced.
“Disgusting.”
She drank it again anyway.
A faint rumble rolled somewhere in the distance.
At first, she assumed it was thunder.
The monsoon clouds had been gathering along the horizon since sunset, though they had yet to offer anything beyond a few flashes of lightning and enough humidity to make her hair cling to the back of her neck.
Y/N returned her attention to the laptop.
The significance of Norse mythology—
A blinding streak of light flashed past the diner windows.
She barely had time to lift her head before something struck the earth outside with a tremendous crash.
The windows rattled in their frames.
Silverware clattered inside its plastic trays. Her coffee tipped over, spreading across the table and soaking the corner of her notebook.
Y/N jumped from the booth with a sharp cry.
“What the hell?”
The lights flickered once.
Twice.
Then steadied.
Y/N remained frozen beside the booth, staring through the darkened windows.
For several seconds, there was nothing.
No second impact. No explosion. No vehicle skidding across the pavement.
Only silence.
The coffee continued dripping from the edge of the table and onto the floor.
Y/N slowly closed her laptop before the spreading liquid could reach it. Her pulse beat hard against her throat as she stepped away from the booth.
Maybe a transformer had blown.
Except the diner still had power.
Maybe someone had crashed nearby.
That possibility forced her feet into motion.
She hurried behind the counter and crouched, reaching beneath the register until her fingers closed around the wooden baseball bat her manager kept there.
He had claimed it was for protection.
Y/N had always thought it was more likely to get them sued.
Tonight, however, the weight of it in her hands felt reassuring.
She moved toward the front door and stopped with her fingers wrapped around the lock.
Calling the police would be the sensible thing to do.
She pulled her phone from the pocket of her apron.
No Service.
“Of course.”
She raised it over her head as though six additional inches might convince the nearest tower to acknowledge her existence.
Nothing.
The diner sat in one of those inconvenient dead zones where calls only went through if someone stood near the old vending machines outside and held their phone at exactly the right angle.
Y/N considered remaining inside.
Whatever had happened could wait until she found service.
Then she imagined someone trapped inside a wrecked car while she stood ten yards away debating whether it was safe to investigate.
She swore softly and unlocked the door.
Hot desert air rushed inside.
Y/N tightened both hands around the bat as she stepped into the parking lot. Gravel crunched beneath her sneakers. The overhead lights buzzed faintly, attracting moths and small flying insects that threw shifting shadows across the asphalt.
“Hello?”
No answer.
She looked toward the highway.
The road was empty.
There were no headlights, no tire marks and no wreckage scattered across the pavement. Whatever had caused the impact had come from somewhere else.
Y/N’s eyes shifted toward the stretch of desert behind the diner.
A faint haze of dust hung over the ground.
Beyond the last row of parking spaces, something had carved a shallow trench through the sand and scattered rocks in every direction. Sparse bushes had been flattened along its path.
Y/N stared at it.
“Nope.”
She took one step backward.
Then she heard it.
A low, strained sound coming from somewhere beyond the edge of the parking lot.
It might have been a groan.
The bat lowered slightly in her hands.
“Hello?”
Still no response.
Y/N approached the disturbed ground with careful steps. The diner lights grew dimmer behind her as she followed the shallow trench into the darkness.
Her sneakers sank into the loose sand.
At the end of the trail, a dark shape lay crumpled between two desert shrubs.
Y/N stopped.
It was a person.
A man, she realized as she moved closer. He lay facedown in the sand with one arm bent unnaturally beneath him and long black hair obscuring most of his face.
His clothing caught the moonlight in brief flashes of green, black and gold.
Not clothing, exactly.
Armor.
Y/N’s grip tightened around the baseball bat.
For one absurd moment, she wondered whether the nearby Renaissance festival had started early.
Then she saw the blood.
It stained the side of his face and soaked through torn fabric beneath the metal plating around his shoulders. One of his hands was scraped raw, his fingers still curled as though they had been holding something moments before.
The bat slipped lower.
“Oh, shit.”
Y/N hurried the remaining distance and dropped to her knees beside him.
“Hey.”
She placed the bat within reach and cautiously touched two fingers to the side of his neck.
His skin was cold.
Not cool from the night air. Cold enough to make her instinctively pull her hand back.
Panic shot through her.
Then she felt it.
A pulse.
Slow, but present.
Y/N released a breath she had not realized she was holding.
“Okay. You’re alive.”
The stranger did not respond.
She leaned closer, watching for the movement of his back. His breathing was shallow and uneven, but he was breathing.
That was good.
Breathing meant not dead.
She could work with not dead.
Y/N pulled out her phone again and dialed 911 despite the empty bars in the corner of the screen.
The call immediately failed.
She stood and walked several paces away, raising the phone toward the sky.
“Come on. Come on.”
No service.
She tried closer to the diner.
Nothing.
Near the edge of the highway.
Still nothing.
Y/N looked back at the man lying motionless in the dirt.
The nearest hospital was at least forty minutes away. The nearest place she could reliably make a call was probably the gas station fifteen miles down the road.
She could drive there and call for help.
She could also return to find that he had stopped breathing while she was gone.
“Why did you have to land in the one place without a signal?” she demanded.
The unconscious man offered no explanation.
Y/N paced once across the gravel, pressing the heels of her hands against her eyes.
She could not lift him.
Even from several feet away, she could tell he was tall. Lean, perhaps, but tall enough that attempting to carry him would end with both of them injured.
Dragging him across the sand would worsen whatever damage he had already suffered.
She stared at him, then at her car parked near the side of the diner.
An idea began to form.
It was not a good idea.
In fact, it was objectively one of the stupidest ideas she had ever entertained.
But it was technically an idea.
Y/N hurried toward her car and yanked open the back door. Fast-food wrappers, textbooks and an emergency sweatshirt occupied the seat. She pushed them aside before opening the trunk.
Her skateboard was buried beneath a reusable grocery bag and a case of bottled water.
She had not used it in months. The scratched deck was covered in faded stickers, and one of the wheels squeaked whenever it turned, but it remained mostly functional.
“Please don’t break,” she whispered, pulling it free.
Y/N carried the skateboard back across the parking lot and into the desert.
The stranger had not moved.
She placed the board beside him and crouched.
“Okay. Here’s what’s going to happen.”
He remained unconscious.
“I’m going to get you into my car, drive until I have service and call an ambulance. You’re not going to wake up and murder me.”
Nothing.
Y/N nodded.
“Great. Glad we agree.”
She rolled him carefully onto his back.
His face turned toward her.
Y/N paused.
Despite the blood streaking his temple and the bruises beginning to darken beneath his pale skin, he was—
Well.
He was unfairly attractive.
His features were sharp and almost elegant, from the high curve of his cheekbones to the severe line of his nose. Dark lashes rested against his skin. His long hair spread across the sand around him.
Y/N stared for one second too long.
Then she caught herself.
“Not relevant.”
His armor was unlike anything she had ever seen up close. The gold pieces were scratched and bent, while the green fabric beneath them had been torn in several places. It did not look like plastic or cheap costume metal.
It looked real.
Heavy, too.
That explained part of the problem.
Y/N slid her hands beneath his shoulders and attempted to lift him.
His upper body rose perhaps two inches before her arms began to shake.
“Oh, come on.”
She lowered him again and repositioned the skateboard closer.
The first attempt ended with one of his arms sliding from the board and dropping limply into the sand.
The second ended when the board rolled away from her.
On the third attempt, Y/N wedged one foot behind a wheel, hooked both hands beneath his arms and pulled with everything she had.
His shoulders landed across the deck.
The rest of him did not.
Y/N dropped onto the sand beside him, breathing heavily.
“Fuck. You could’ve been shorter.”
The stranger remained serenely unhelpful.
She climbed back to her feet, grabbed him beneath the arms again and dragged him another few inches onto the board. His legs extended far beyond the end, boots scraping lines through the sand.
It was not dignified.
It was not medically advisable.
It was, however, progress.
Y/N stepped back and examined her work.
His torso rested across the skateboard while his arms hung over either side and his heels remained on the ground.
She pulled off her apron, threaded it beneath his arms and tied it loosely across his chest to keep him from rolling off.
“There.”
He looked like the world’s most elaborate piece of luggage.
Y/N grabbed the front of the skateboard and began pulling.
The wheels sank immediately into the sand.
She stopped.
“You have got to be kidding me.”
Y/N moved behind the board and pushed instead. It rolled several inches before catching on a rock and nearly throwing the stranger sideways.
She lunged forward and caught his shoulder.
“Absolutely not. I did not do all this just for you to crack your head open again.”
She dragged the board around the rock and continued.
. . .
Y/N unlocked the apartment with one hand while keeping one foot planted against the skateboard to stop it from rolling backward. Then she dragged him inside, kicked the door shut and leaned against it, breathing heavily.
Her living room was small.
A worn couch occupied one wall, facing a television balanced on a low wooden stand. Books and college papers covered the coffee table. A laundry basket sat abandoned near the hallway, half-filled with clean clothes she had not bothered folding.
It was not the setting in which one expected to receive a mysterious armored man.
It would have to do.
Getting him onto the couch took another ten minutes.
Once he was finally stretched across the cushions, Y/N stood over him with both hands braced against her lower back.
“There.”
He looked uncomfortable.
His legs extended beyond the armrest, and one of the metal pieces at his shoulder pressed awkwardly against his neck.
Y/N frowned.
The armor had to come off.
She hesitated.
Removing someone’s clothing without permission felt wrong.
Leaving blood-soaked material pressed against open injuries also felt wrong.
She crouched beside him and examined the clasps.
“I’m only doing this because I don’t want you to die. Not to be a pervert.”
The armor did not appear designed for easy removal.
Each piece overlapped another, secured with unfamiliar fastenings and narrow strips of dark leather. Y/N began with the gold shoulder plates, testing every buckle until one finally released.
The metal was colder than it should have been.
She placed each piece carefully on the floor beside the coffee table. Beneath the outer armor, the fabric was torn and damp with blood. A long cut ran beneath his ribs, while smaller abrasions covered his shoulders and arms.
Y/N swallowed.
“Okay.”
She found scissors in the kitchen and cut through the fabric where it had stuck to the wounds. When she reached the fitted leather around his waist, she paused again.
There was no way to clean everything properly without removing the rest.
Y/N looked at his face.
His breathing remained steady.
“You’re unconscious,” she reasoned quietly. “This is medical.”
She pointed at him.
“And you do not get to be weird about this later.”
She worked as quickly and respectfully as she could, keeping her eyes on the injuries rather than the man beneath the clothing.
That became more difficult when she discovered he wore nothing beneath the final layer.
Y/N immediately grabbed the throw blanket from the back of the couch and covered his lower half.
“Great.”
She stared at the ceiling for a moment.
“Of course.”
Once her face stopped burning, she returned to the task.
She cleaned the blood from his skin with warm water and the softest cloth she owned. His body was marked with bruises that had already darkened to deep shades of purple and blue, especially along his ribs and shoulders. None of his bones appeared obviously broken, though Y/N knew that meant very little.
His skin remained unnaturally cold.
She placed the back of her hand against his forehead.
No fever.
The opposite, if anything.
Y/N wrapped the worst cuts with gauze and secured the bandages with medical tape. She put antibiotic ointment on the shallower scrapes, covered the torn skin across his knuckles and cleaned the blood from his hairline.
At one point, his brow furrowed beneath her touch.
Y/N froze.
His eyes did not open.
“Sorry,” she whispered.
She finished the wound near his temple more gently.
Afterward, she washed his armor in the bathtub.
The water turned pink, then red, then gradually clear. Up close, the pieces looked even less like a costume. The metal was dense and beautifully worked, carved with patterns too intricate to have been manufactured cheaply. Even damaged, it seemed valuable enough to pay her rent for years.
Y/N left the armor to dry on towels across the bathroom floor.
The cloth and leather beneath it required more work.
Several seams had torn apart during his fall, and one sleeve had nearly separated from the shoulder. Y/N retrieved the small sewing kit she used to repair buttons and uniform hems, then sat cross-legged on the floor beside the couch.
The material resisted an ordinary needle.
She broke one attempting to push it through the thicker section.
“You are extremely inconvenient,” she told him.
The stranger did not respond.
She eventually found a heavy needle in the back of the kit and used black thread to close the worst tears. Her stitches were not elegant, but they held. Where the fabric had been too badly damaged, she reinforced it from the inside with pieces cut from an old black shirt.
It took nearly two hours.
By the time she finished, her eyes ached and the sky beyond the windows had begun to lighten at the edges.
Y/N placed the repaired clothing with the rest of the armor in the bathroom. Then she returned to the couch.
The stranger had not moved.
The blanket still covered him from the waist down, though one side had slipped low enough to expose his hip.
Y/N quickly pulled it back into place.
“There. Modesty.”
She added a second blanket over his chest, partly because of how cold he felt and partly because she did not want to walk into the living room later and discover that the first one had fallen away entirely.
She left a glass of water on the coffee table and moved the baseball bat within easy reach of the armchair.
Only then did she allow herself to breathe.
The apartment was quiet.
Too quiet.
Y/N checked the lock on the front door, then checked it again.
She did not think she could sleep.
Instead, she went into the kitchen and filled a kettle.
Tea seemed like something a normal person would make after finding an unconscious man in a crater.
Tea was calming.
Tea was harmless.
Tea did not ask why there was alien-looking armor drying in her bathroom.
Y/N leaned against the counter while the kettle heated, rubbing both hands over her face.
What was she going to do when he woke?
Ask his name.
Ask what happened.
Ask whether there was anyone she could call.
Then, depending on his answer, either drive him to the hospital or lock herself in the bathroom and climb out the window.
The kettle began to whistle.
She turned off the burner, poured the water over two tea bags and tried not to notice how badly her hands shook. One mug was for her. The other was for him, in case he woke and wanted something warm.
She had just added honey to the second cup when she heard movement in the living room.
A rustle of fabric.
Then silence.
Y/N went still.
The baseball bat was in the other room.
Excellent planning.
She reached for the largest kitchen knife instead.
A floorboard creaked.
Then another.
Slow footsteps approached the kitchen.
Y/N tightened her fingers around the handle.
A tall figure appeared in the doorway.
She looked up.
Her breath caught.
The stranger was awake.
He stood with one hand braced against the frame, dark hair falling loose around his shoulders. The bandage at his temple remained in place, though the one wrapped around his ribs had shifted slightly with his movement.
His eyes were sharp and startlingly green.
They swept across the kitchen in a single, assessing glance before settling on her.
He looked disoriented.
Not frightened.
Not confused in the helpless way she had expected.
He looked like an animal waking inside a trap and calculating how many people stood between him and the exit.
Y/N lowered the knife slightly.
“Hi.”
His gaze dropped to the blade.
Then returned to her face.
“Where am I?”
His voice was low and rough from disuse, but the words carried a precise, commanding weight that made her stand straighter without meaning to.
“My apartment.”
His expression hardened. “What realm?”
Y/N blinked. “New Mexico.”
His eyes narrowed.
“That was not my question.”
She stared at him. “Uh…Earth?”
A slight shift passed over his features.
“Midgard.”
He spoke the word as though confirming something unpleasant.
Y/N studied him more carefully.
He was pale and unsteady, but there was something unmistakably regal in the way he held himself. Even injured and wrapped in bandages, he looked as though he expected the room to accommodate his presence.
He took one step forward.
The movement drew her attention downward.
Y/N immediately turned toward the counter.
“Oh my God.”
The stranger stopped. “What?”
“You’re naked.”
Silence.
Y/N kept her eyes fixed on the tea.
Completely fixed.
She could still see him at the edge of her vision, which was far more than she wanted to see while attempting to have a conversation with him.
“You’re just—” She made a vague gesture with one hand. “You left the blanket.”
The stranger looked down at himself.
There was a pause.
Not embarrassment.
Merely acknowledgment. “As it would seem.”
Y/N glanced at him by accident.
Her gaze dropped.
She immediately snapped it back to his face and then away again.
“Could you please cover yourself?”
“Why?”
The question sounded genuine.
Y/N looked toward the ceiling.
“Because you’re standing naked in my kitchen.”
“I am aware.”
“You weren’t until I said something.”
His mouth tightened. “I was otherwise occupied.”
“With what?”
“Determining where I have been taken.”
“No one took you anywhere.”
His eyes sharpened. “You expect me to believe that I arrived here of my own will?”
“I found you outside my job.”
He watched her in silence.
“You were unconscious,” she continued. “In the desert. You were bleeding, and I couldn’t get service to call an ambulance, so I brought you here.”
She gestured toward the hallway without looking directly at him.
“Your clothes are in the bathroom.”
“My clothes?”
“The armor or whatever.”
His gaze moved over her face, searching for some indication of deception.
“You removed them.”
Y/N’s cheeks warmed again. “They were covered in blood.”
“You disrobed me while I was insensible.”
“To clean your injuries.”
His expression became unreadable.
Y/N finally looked at his face.
Only his face.
“I covered you with a blanket.”
“Which appears to have been of greater concern to you than to me.”
“Yes, because I’m the one being traumatized right now.”
One of his eyebrows lifted.
The reaction was subtle, but unmistakably offended. “You speak boldly for one who claims not to be my captor.”
Y/N stared at him.
“You are naked, bleeding in my apartment and threatening me while butt-naked. I think we’re past formal introductions.”
The corner of his mouth shifted.
Not quite a smile.
More the distant memory of one.
It vanished before she could be certain.
“Where is the latrine?”
“Bathroom? Down the hall. First door on the left.”
He turned.
Y/N accidentally caught another glimpse of him from behind.
She spun back toward the counter so quickly that tea sloshed over the rim of her mug.
“And take the blanket with you!”
He paused in the doorway.
“What blanket?”
“The one on the floor in the living room.”
“I have no need of it.”
“I do.”
He looked over his shoulder at her.
For a moment, his eyes traveled across her face, taking in the flush in her cheeks and the determined way she refused to look below his shoulders.
Something knowing entered his expression.
“You are embarrassed.”
“I’m trying to be respectful.”
“An unusual concern, considering you have already seen me.”
Y/N’s mouth fell open. “For medical reasons.”
“So you claim.”
“I saved your life.”
“That remains to be determined.”
She turned fully toward him then, irritation momentarily overpowering embarrassment.
“You know what? Fine. Walk around naked. I don’t care.”
His eyes flicked downward briefly, following the line of her gaze before it shot back to his face.
“No,” he said softly. “I can see that.”
Y/N grabbed a dish towel and threw it at him.
His hand rose.
The towel stopped in midair.
Y/N froze.
It hovered between them for one impossible second before floating neatly into his waiting palm.
The kitchen fell silent.
Her grip tightened around the knife.
The stranger glanced at the towel as though nothing remarkable had occurred.
Then he looked at her.
Fear must have shown on her face, because his expression changed.
The amusement disappeared.
His shoulders drew back, despite the pain the movement caused him, and the regal coldness returned all at once.
“You would be wise to lower the blade.”
Y/N swallowed. “…You just stopped that in the air.”
“A minor feat.”
“That is not minor.”
“To you, perhaps.”
He stepped toward her.
Y/N raised the knife again.
He stopped.
For the first time since entering the kitchen, he appeared to truly see her, not merely as part of the strange room in which he had awakened, but as the woman who had found him, tended his wounds and was now plainly frightened of what stood before her.
His gaze moved to the bandage wrapped around his hand.
Then to the repaired cut along his side.
“You treated these.”
“Yes.”
“Without knowing what I am.”
“I still don’t know what you are.”
His expression hardened faintly at the wording.
Y/N noticed.
“Who,” she corrected. “I don’t know who you are.”
He studied her for a long moment.
Then, with visible reluctance, he wrapped the dish towel around his waist.
It covered almost nothing.
Y/N stared at it.
“That is a hand towel.”
“You demanded I cover myself.”
“Not with something the size of a napkin.”
His patience visibly thinned.
“I have survived the void between worlds. I will not be scolded over your household linens.”
“Then go get the blanket.”
His eyes flashed.
Y/N pointed down the hallway.
“Or your clothes.”
There was a tense pause.
Then he turned away with what remained of his dignity and walked toward the bathroom, one hand holding the towel closed at his hip.
Y/N waited until he disappeared from sight before setting the knife down.
Her knees felt weak.
She pressed both palms against the counter.
He had caught a towel without touching it.
He had called Earth Midgard.
He had asked which realm he was in.
Y/N looked toward the hallway.
The bathroom door opened.
Then silence.
A moment later, his voice carried through the apartment.
“What have you done to my garments?”
Y/N closed her eyes.
“I cleaned them.”
“You stitched them.”
“They were ripped.”
“With Midgardian thread.”
“It was that or dental floss.”
Another silence.
Then, colder, “Where are the remaining pieces?”
“On the floor beside the bathtub. I didn’t know how they attached.”
The bathroom door opened again.
He emerged wearing only the lower half of his clothing, the repaired leather sitting low on his hips while he carried the torn tunic in one hand.
Y/N made a concentrated effort to focus on the stitching.
His fingers traced one of the repaired seams.
The work looked crude beneath his touch, especially compared to the original construction.
“I know it isn’t perfect,” she said defensively. “The material broke two of my needles.”
His gaze lifted to hers.
“You repaired it yourself.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Y/N frowned. “Because it was damaged.”
“That is not an answer.”
“It’s the only one I have.”
He continued watching her.
There was suspicion in his face, but something else beneath it. Something less certain.
Y/N gestured toward the second mug on the counter.
“I made tea.”
His eyes shifted toward it.
“You prepared it for me.”
“In case you woke up.”
“You did not know whether I would.”
“No.”
“And yet you prepared it.”
Y/N shrugged, suddenly uncomfortable beneath the weight of his attention. “You looked like you needed something warm.”
His expression became distant.
For a fleeting moment, the arrogance slipped.
He looked tired.
Not merely from his injuries, but from something deeper, something that had begun long before he struck the earth outside the diner.
Then the mask returned.
“What is your name?”
“Y/N.”
He repeated it quietly, testing the sound.
She waited.
“And you are?”
His chin lifted.
The change in him was immediate. Even half-dressed and bandaged in a stranger’s kitchen, he gathered himself as though standing before a royal court.
“I am Loki of Asgard.”
Y/N stared at him.
He continued, each title delivered with wounded, practiced pride.
“Son of Odin. Prince of the realm. God of Mischief.”
The kitchen fell silent.
Y/N looked at his repaired clothing.
Then at the unfamiliar armor visible through the open bathroom door.
Then at the man who had stopped a flying towel in midair.
“Oh.”
His eyes narrowed. “That is all you have to say?”
“What do you want me to say? I’m processing.”
“You doubt me.”
“I watched you do magic, so I’m trying very hard not to.”
“Magic.” His tone suggested the word was inadequate.
Y/N picked up the second mug and held it out to him. “Tea?”
Loki looked at it as though unsure whether it was an offering or a test.
Then he approached.
He took the mug from her hand, his fingers brushing hers.
His skin remained cold.
Y/N tried not to react.
Loki noticed anyway.
His gaze dropped to their hands.
Then rose slowly to her face.
She withdrew first.
“You should sit down,” she said. “Before you fall down.”
“I do not fall.”
Y/N glanced toward the living room. “You literally fell out of the sky.”
His expression went still.
The remark landed harder than she intended.
His fingers tightened around the mug.
Y/N watched the humor vanish from his face and immediately regretted it.
“I didn’t mean—”
“You know nothing of what occurred.”
His voice had lost its rough amusement. What remained was cold and sharp enough to cut.
“No,” she said carefully. “I don’t.”
He looked away.
For several moments, he said nothing.
The silence felt heavier than anger.
Y/N studied him, noticing the tension in his jaw and the way his eyes fixed on some distant point beyond the kitchen walls.
Whatever had brought him to Earth had not been an accident.
Or, if it had, it was not the part that troubled him most.
She did not ask.
Instead, she nudged the honey closer across the counter.
“It might need more of that.”
Loki glanced down.
His grip on the mug gradually loosened.
“You are a peculiar creature.”
“I get that a lot.”
“You should be afraid of me.”
“I am a little.”
His gaze returned to hers.
The honesty appeared to surprise him.
Y/N folded her arms.
“But you’re hurt, and you haven’t done anything except insult my sewing and refuse to wear a blanket.”
A faint breath escaped him.
Almost a laugh.
“Your sewing is appalling.”
“And yet your clothes aren’t falling apart anymore.”
He examined the repaired seam once more.
“No,” he conceded quietly. “They are not.”
Y/N lifted her own mug.
“Drink your tea, Your Highness.”
Loki’s eyes narrowed at the title, uncertain whether she was mocking him.
She was.
But only a little.
He raised the mug to his lips.
The tea was still hot enough that he paused after the first sip, surprise briefly crossing his face.
Y/N hid a smile behind her own cup.
There, half-dressed in her kitchen with his armor drying beside her bathtub and black thread closing the tears in his princely garments, Loki of Asgard took another cautious drink.
For the first time since waking, he did not look toward the door.
. . .
By the time Loki finished eating, the clock above the stove read 4:57 a.m.
Y/N stared at it for several seconds, as though willing the numbers to rearrange themselves into something less offensive.
They did not.
The remains of his meal sat on the plate in front of him: a smear of egg yolk, one corner of toast and nothing else. For someone who had initially regarded the food as beneath him, Loki had eaten with impressive efficiency.
He had also asked seventeen questions.
Y/N had counted.
Most of them had concerned Midgard, her home, the diner, the glowing box mounted above the stove and why humans stored food in cold cupboards only to heat it again moments later.
Several had concerned her.
Those had been harder to answer.
She gathered the empty dishes from the small table and carried them to the sink.
Behind her, Loki remained seated with his repaired tunic draped around his shoulders but not properly fastened. He looked marginally better than he had an hour earlier. There was more color in his face, and the trembling in his hands had stopped.
He still looked exhausted.
Y/N suspected she looked worse.
She turned on the faucet and rinsed the plate.
“I’m going to bed.”
The chair shifted behind her.
“Now?”
Y/N looked over her shoulder.
“Yes, now.”
His brows drew together faintly.
“You intend to sleep.”
“That’s usually what going to bed means.”
“In my presence.”
She shut off the water. “You can stay on the couch.”
“That was not my concern.”
Y/N dried her hands on a dish towel. “What is your concern?”
Loki studied her as though the answer should have been obvious.
“You know nothing of me.”
“I know.”
“You have admitted that you believe me dangerous.”
“Potentially.”
“I possess abilities you do not understand.”
“Definitely.”
“And still you would render yourself unconscious within the same dwelling.”
Y/N leaned back against the counter.
“I have been awake for almost twenty-four hours.”
“That does not explain your lack of caution.”
“It explains most of it.”
Loki’s expression suggested that it did not.
Y/N rubbed both hands over her face, then pointed vaguely toward the hallway.
“My bedroom is through there. The bathroom is the first door on the left. You already found that. There are extra blankets in the basket by the couch, and the tap water is technically safe, even if it tastes weird.”
“You speak as though I am a guest.”
“You’re not exactly paying rent.”
His gaze sharpened. “Yet you leave me unattended.”
“I’m too tired to supervise a god.”
“You should not require supervision to ensure your own survival.”
Y/N considered that.
“Fair.”
She pushed away from the counter.
“If you do decide to kill me, could you try to do it before my next shift?”
Loki went completely still.
Y/N walked past him toward the living room.
“I have to be back at the diner tomorrow afternoon, and I’d rather not make them find coverage at the last minute.”
His chair scraped sharply against the floor as he stood. “You jest.”
“Mostly.”
“You believe I might murder you, yet your concern is your place of employment?”
“I hate inconveniencing my coworkers.”
“This is absurd.”
“I’ve been told.”
She reached the edge of the living room and bent to retrieve the blanket from the floor, tossing it over the back of the couch.
Loki followed more slowly, one hand briefly bracing against the table before he caught himself.
Y/N pretended not to see.
“I have more questions,” he said.
“I figured.”
“And matters I wish to discuss.”
She looked at him.
There was a strange insistence beneath the words. Not command, exactly. Something closer to reluctance, as though he had only just decided he wanted the conversation to continue and resented time for attempting to end it.
Y/N yawned.
“You seem like a talker.”
His expression tightened.
“I do not talk excessively.”
“You’ve interrogated me about my microwave, my job, college, why people put ice in drinks, and whether the mailman is an official agent of the government.”
“He wears a uniform and enters the grounds of every residence.”
“He delivers coupons.”
“A convenient explanation.”
Y/N smiled tiredly.
“My point stands.”
Loki folded his arms carefully, avoiding the bandage around his ribs.
“You dismiss me.”
“I’m postponing you.”
“You assume I will remain until you wake.”
She stopped.
The apartment fell quiet around them.
The first gray traces of morning had begun to appear through the blinds, striping the carpet and the side of Loki’s face with pale light.
Y/N looked at him for a moment.
There it was again.
That expectation hidden beneath the arrogance.
That everyone eventually left.
Or perhaps that he always did first.
She nodded toward the couch. “You said you can’t leave yet.”
“My circumstances may change.”
“Then they change.”
“And if I am gone?”
“I guess I’ll know you felt better.”
His eyes searched her face.
“You would not pursue me.”
“I don’t even know where Asgard is.”
“That would not prevent some.”
“I also have homework.”
Loki’s mouth flattened, but the answer seemed to settle something in him.
Y/N took another step toward the hallway.
He spoke before she could leave. “You have not answered.”
“Answered what?”
“Whether I may continue my questions.”
“When I’m awake.”
His eyes narrowed slightly.
“You expect me to wait.”
“I believe in you.”
The words came out so casually that Y/N almost missed the way he reacted.
Loki stared at her.
The guarded amusement vanished from his face.
“What did you say?”
“I said I believe in you.”
“You cannot.”
“Why not?”
“You have known me for only hours.”
“True.”
“You know nothing of my character, my history or my intentions.”
“Also true.”
“Then upon what do you base such belief?”
Y/N blinked at him.
“I believe you can wait until I wake up before asking more questions.”
Silence.
Loki’s face changed with the realization.
Y/N pressed her lips together. “Oh.”
He looked deeply offended. “You were not speaking of me.”
“I was speaking of you. Just in a very specific, low-stakes way.”
“You made it sound—”
“More meaningful?”
“I did not say that.”
“You thought I was giving you an emotional affirmation.”
“I thought no such thing.”
His answer came too quickly.
Y/N smiled despite her exhaustion.
“Sure.”
Loki’s jaw tightened.
She pointed at the couch.
“You can do it. A few hours without interrogating me. I believe in you.”
“You are insufferable.”
“You can tell me all about it when I wake up.”
She turned toward the hallway.
“Y/N.”
She glanced back.
Loki stood in the middle of her living room, half-dressed in damaged royal clothing, black thread visible along the seams she had repaired. The dawn light made him look less like a man who had fallen from the sky and more like something the night had reluctantly surrendered.
He seemed poised to ask another question.
Instead, he said, “How long?”
“How long what?”
“Will you sleep?”
Y/N glanced at the clock again.
“Hopefully until noon.”
His expression suggested that six hours was an unreasonable disappearance.
“You’ll survive.”
“That remains to be seen.”
She smiled. “See? You already understand my sense of humor.”
“I do not.”
“You will.”
Y/N continued toward her room.
At the door, she stopped and looked back one final time.
“Oh, and don’t use the stove.”
Loki lifted his chin. “I am not a child.”
“You stared at the toaster like it was going to challenge you to combat.”
“It made a sound without warning.”
“Exactly. No stove. I can’t afford another home.”
She stepped into her room. “And Loki?”
“What?”
“Thanks for not killing me tonight.”
His expression became unreadable.
“You presume restraint on my part—“
“Good night.”
Y/N closed the door before he could answer.
She did not lock it.
Loki remained where she had left him, staring at the thin wooden barrier between them.
A lock would not have stopped him.
They both knew that.
But she had not even tried.
From the other side of the door came the quiet creak of the mattress, the rustle of blankets and, after only a few minutes, silence.
Loki listened.
No hurried breathing.
No attempt to escape through the window.
No weapon being moved beneath a pillow.
She had simply gone to sleep.
He looked toward the front door.
He could not leave.
Not yet.
That was the only reason he remained.
Loki repeated this to himself as he returned to the couch and lowered himself carefully onto it.
The blanket Y/N had offered lay folded over the back. He regarded it with disdain before pulling it across his legs.
On the coffee table sat the glass of water she had prepared earlier, along with two white tablets and a note written on the back of a diner receipt.
For pain. Human dose, so maybe only take one. Please don’t die. I have work.
Loki read it twice.
Then a third time.
A faint, unwilling smile touched his mouth.
“You believe in me,” he murmured.
From the bedroom, Y/N gave a muffled snore.
Loki’s smile disappeared.
He settled deeper into the couch, prepared to wait until she woke.
He lasted eleven minutes before thinking of another question.
Loki lasted thirty minutes.
For the first ten, he sat upright on the couch with the blanket draped across his legs and his attention fixed on the closed bedroom door.
For the next five, he examined the objects scattered across the coffee table.
A stack of textbooks.
Several pens.
A half-empty package of gum.
The note she had left beside the tablets.
He read it once more, though there was nothing within it he had not already understood.
Crude.
Irreverent.
Strangely considerate.
Loki placed the note precisely where he had found it.
Beneath the coffee table, partly hidden by one of her discarded shoes, he found a small red ball. It was rubber, worn smooth in places and small enough to fit comfortably in his palm.
He leaned back against the couch and tossed it toward the ceiling.
The ball rose, slowed, then dropped neatly into his waiting hand.
Again.
Up.
Down.
Catch.
The rhythm occupied him for perhaps another seven minutes.
Then it became insulting.
Loki sent the ball higher, allowing it to nearly touch the ceiling before catching it without looking.
He had endured diplomatic councils that moved faster than this.
He had waited through Thor’s endless speeches, Odin’s silences and entire feasts during which no one said anything of worth. Yet somehow, waiting for one sleeping Midgardian to awaken felt uniquely unreasonable.
She had said noon.
He looked toward the clock.
Barely half an hour had passed.
Absurd.
Loki tossed the ball again.
Perhaps she was not asleep.
The thought arrived quietly.
He caught the ball.
Perhaps the entire display had been a deception.
She had been too calm. Too willing to leave him unattended. Too quick to accept his presence within her home.
No one behaved so carelessly without reason.
She might have retreated to the bedroom to contact someone through another device. She might be recording him. She might be waiting for armed men to arrive.
Midgard possessed organizations devoted to unusual threats. Loki knew enough of the realm to understand that much.
The woman had claimed her device could not reach anyone from the diner.
That did not mean the same was true here.
He glanced toward the narrow hallway.
The apartment remained silent.
Too silent.
Loki threw the ball once more and caught it with sharper force.
She may have been plotting against him from the moment she found him.
The skateboard could have been part of the indignity.
He placed the ball on the table.
Pain pulled beneath his ribs as he stood, but he ignored it. His strength had begun to return, though far more slowly than he would have preferred. The fall through the void had drained him in a way battle never had.
He crossed the living room without sound.
The bedroom door waited at the end of the hallway, closed but not secured.
No lock.
That, too, could have been deliberate.
An invitation designed to convince him she felt safe.
Or a test.
Loki rested his hand against the handle.
He listened.
Nothing.
No whispering.
No movement across the floor.
Only the faint hum of the air conditioner and a quiet, uneven breath from the other side.
He turned the handle slowly.
The door opened without a creak.
The room beyond was dim, lit only by the pale morning light slipping through the blinds. Clothes had been draped over the back of a chair. More books were piled beside the bed, one lying open facedown across the carpet.
A small lamp remained on.
Y/N was asleep.
Truly asleep.
She lay on her side beneath a tangled comforter, one hand tucked beneath her pillow while the other rested loosely against the mattress. Her hair had spread across the pillow in complete disarray, and the exhaustion that had been visible in her face earlier had softened into something peaceful.
There was no phone in her hand.
No weapon nearby.
No concealed accomplice waiting in the shadows.
She had told him she was going to sleep.
Then she had done exactly that.
Loki remained in the doorway.
The simplicity of it unsettled him more than deception might have.
She had been truthful from the moment he woke.
Painfully so.
She did not soften her answers to preserve his pride. She did not flatter him when he offered his titles. She admitted when she feared him and mocked him in the same breath.
She had not pretended that bringing him home was wise.
She had not claimed some noble destiny compelled her.
She had simply found him injured and decided not to leave him there.
Because she did not want bad karma.
Because she did not wish to be an asshole.
Loki nearly scoffed at the memory.
Nearly.
He stepped farther into the room.
Y/N did not stir.
She had no idea he stood there.
No awareness of how vulnerable she had made herself. One movement of his hand and he could silence her before she ever opened her eyes.
The thought brought no satisfaction.
Instead, Loki found himself noticing the faint crease between her brows, as though even in sleep some small concern followed her. The edge of the blanket had slipped from one shoulder, revealing the worn shirt she had changed into before bed.
There was nothing regal about her.
Nothing practiced.
No carefully arranged hair, jeweled gown or painted smile meant to secure favor.
She was simply herself, even when no one was meant to see.
Beautiful.
The word entered his mind without permission.
Loki’s expression tightened.
He looked away from her face.
That was foolish.
She was mortal. Ordinary. Exhausted from a night spent serving strangers and completing scholarly work in a roadside diner.
And yet—
He looked back.
There was something beautiful in the softness of her sleeping face.
More than that, in the honesty of it.
She had no mask.
No performance.
She had seen him injured, confused and stripped of every visible mark of rank, and she had still spoken to him as though he were neither monster nor king.
Only a man who needed help.
Loki disliked how much that pleased him.
Y/N shifted slightly beneath the covers.
He went still.
Her lips parted around a quiet breath. One hand moved across the mattress, searching absently until her fingers caught the edge of the comforter and pulled it closer.
She did not wake.
Loki released a breath through his nose.
He should leave her to rest.
Not because she had asked.
Certainly not because she had said she believed in him.
He simply had no further reason to remain in the doorway.
That was all.
Loki reached for the handle and began to draw the door closed.
Before it shut, Y/N murmured something into the pillow.
He paused.
The words were indistinct.
Then, more clearly—
“No stove.”
Loki stared at her.
She remained asleep.
His eyes narrowed.
Even unconscious, she apparently considered him incapable of navigating her crude cooking apparatus.
A faint smile threatened at the corner of his mouth.
“Insufferable creature,” he whispered.
He closed the door until only a narrow gap remained, leaving enough space for the light from the hallway to reach the room.
Then he returned to the living room.
The red ball still rested on the table.
Loki lowered himself carefully onto the couch and picked it up again.
This time, when he tossed it toward the ceiling, he did so more slowly.
Notes: gardener!reader; reader works outside of the palace; takes place pre-thor 1!
word count: 1.3k
For as long as you can remember, you’ve always loved the gardens connected to the palace of Asgard.
Nature was your calling, and many a time have you stopped tending to your duties as a garden keeper to just allow yourself to be completely immersed in the lavish, tranquil greenery.
Your job never felt like one. In fact, it was the highlight of your daily life.
One of two, at least.
As you’re maintaining the soil of recently planted herbs, a fleeting noise manages to whisper in your ear. You turn, scanning the area, but no one has made their way into your space.
Perhaps it was the wind.
You return to your duties, smoothing over one last patch of dirt before looking on with satisfaction.
“Quite the green thumb you have.” Although the one who utters those words is completely discernible, the lack of warning to his arrival is what causes the startle.
“Loki!” A hand flies to your chest right behind a small yelp from the suddenness of his appearance. “We talked about this, you cannot keep materializing out of nowhere whenever you see fit. Unless you wish to see my heart fail one of these days.”
“Oh, it was just a bit of fun,” the one in question responds, making no effort to conceal the amusement that your reaction brought him. “Plus it was all worth it to see the look on your face.”
You shake your head, relenting to his antics.
See, Loki is the younger prince of Asgard. Despite your polar opposite roles in this kingdom, the two of you have seemed to form a bond with one another.
The first meeting must have been a decade or so ago, when you caught the raven-haired man nestled among the rows of flowers in a desperate attempt to find a new place of solace from his louder older brother and the company he voluntarily kept—his words, actually, not yours.
Since then, he’s visited often, and you make the room to accommodate him every time because you truly adore his company despite his tendency to scare the remainder of your life force out of you more and more whenever he shows up. The company is mainly consistent; sometimes it ranges between the pair of you hosting deep, thought-provoking conversations. Other times, it was enough to simply sit with each other after exchanging pleasantries.
And sometimes, like now, he would watch you work, examining the way you delicately cared for the life thriving within these gardens like it was your own.
“The usual?” you inquire, referring to whether or not he had run away again.
“For a change, no,” he says. “My brother and his companions have set off on a conquest that I had no desire to join, so I decided to relax here. Ensure you’re still doing your job, of course.”
“I’m almost honored with how highly you think of me,” the dry quip follows, matching his humor in a way that has him cracking a small smile.
“How have the amaryllises been faring as of late, by the way?” His question has you shifting, sarcasm swapped out with glimmering excitement.
“Come! Come and see!”
Loki strides behind you as you move to one of the farther expanses of the garden, where a large patch of rows—all exclusively containing the amaryllis flower—sit, the sunlight hitting the petals like they were having their own personal golden hour.
“I figured you’d rather enjoy seeing them up close.” It was clear how much pride you took in them, and the prince was impressed with the fruit of your labor.
“This is… quite magnificent, dear (y/n).”
The compliment has you beaming further, “Aren’t they the most beautiful thing you’ve ever laid eyes on?”
Loki noticed your spark—this truly was your element.
“I wouldn’t say the most.”
You miss the most passing of glances in your direction, laughing off the statement and marking it as another one of his naturally satirical quips.
“Well, pretend for a moment. For my sake.”
He makes a small laugh at your insistence, “...They are quite something.”
You nod in satisfied agreement, “Ironically, these flowers are actually the symbol of beauty, or so I’ve been told. And if it is true, then they certainly live up to the tales. Maybe even more.”
“The passion you hold for nature is inspiring, to say the least.”
“Be glad, it’s what keeps this place lively. All the more comfortable in the end for you, no?”
“I suppose so,” he replies. “That reminds me. I found something for you just this morning.”
The revelation piques your interest, “For me?” You don’t speak again until after a confirmation has been received. “What is it?”
Loki steps forward, placing his hands behind his back. When he’s deemed himself close enough to you, they’re brought back into view, this time holding a thick view, its cover decorated with gold vines leaves and vines that wrap gracefully around its entirety.
There’s no doubt about it that the book contains much about the very thing that takes up about 80% of your daily occupation, meant to fuel the flame that keeps you so engaged.
“I was going through the selection in our library when I stumbled upon this,” he explains. “And before you ask, it’s completely fine that I give this to you, it’s a guarantee no one will even notice it missing, really. I thought you could…find enjoyment in it.”
“This is…” you’re left speechless, a deep appreciation for his observation and thoughtfulness squeezing at your chest. “This is so kind of you. I don’t know what to say.”
“Shall we start with you actually taking the book into your own hands, then?” he teases, drawing a chuckle from you as you do just that, brushing a thumb lightly over the cover.
“...Thank you.” The features of your face soften when the two of you make eye contact, conveying how deep the sentiment touched you. “This is a wonderful gift. I owe you.”
“Nonsense. I beg to differ. Just knowing that you’ll put it to good use will be enough for me.”
You nod in return, “That I certainly will.”
After that, Loki remained with you until he sensed the return of his brother, bidding you a goodbye before using his magic to return somewhere within the palace.
When the time came where there was nothing more to tend to for the day, you took your own leave, embarking on the brief journey to your nearby home, the weighty book clutched to your chest the entire way.
Opening it was the first thing you did after getting settled in, turning to the first page. There was something inside of it, though—two things, actually.
The first was a flower, one that was unmistakably similar to the ones you’d shown to your mischievous companion. How he’d managed to get his hands on one, you’ll never know, but it left you smiling regardless.
What was paired with it was a small, folded note. Curiously, you reverse the handiwork, smoothing out the paper creases.
There, in neat, elegant handwriting, it read:
Beauty should become acquainted with its originator.
It lacked a signature, but you knew exactly who wrote it, the words sending an exhilarating flutter throughout your body, along with a wide smile that you’re sort of glad no one else can see now, lest you go hot with embarrassment.
Twirling the stem of the flower between your fingertips, the message the note carries feels ever more intimate, such a small gesture making a large impact.
“...Thank you, Loki,” you murmur into the empty air, hoping that despite the distance, the man with raven hair and emerald eyes would be able to magically hear you someway.
Your most adored treasure whom you found hidden among the flowers.
This Urdu quote fits them so well 🥹\(//∇//)/ I absolutely love how this turned out it might be my new favorite ngl╰(*´︶`*)╯♡ where’s the desi people at i need more desi tnt moots🌝🌝? May they find me
"Did you grab your umbrella?" Hajime asks from the kitchen, travel mugs filled with coffee in both hands.
"Course," you wave them around, the small one with the kitten design he got you on a whim last spring and the much bigger one with the official logo of his workplace. "You think it's going to rain?"
"It said so," is his answer, leaning in for a kiss before slipping on his shoes.
It does not rain that day.
-
Tuesday...
"I packed your umbrella," Hajime mutters into your ear. He always leaves a little earlier on Tuesdays, and his breath tickles the shell of your ear as he leans in once more. "Can I have a goodbye kiss?"
You roll into his arms, a little annoyed at being woken up this early, and a little annoyed that he has to leave already.
"You taste like bacon," you mutter, pulling him in for another kiss. "Did you leave me some?"
"Course."
The faint drizzle that starts around lunchtime passes by before you get to leave work again, painting the streets a shade darker and leaving little drops like diamonds in its wake.
-
Wednesday...
"You forgot your umbrella," Hajime points out when you meet him for lunch.
"Oh," you blink, looking down at your bag. "True. It must be back at work."
"You want to take mine?"
"No need," you assure him. "It's only a few steps from the subway station. Even if it rains, I'd make it just fine."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes," you laugh at his worries. "Remember that we used to dance in the rain? What happened to us?"
"We got old," Hajime jokes. "Last time you got caught in the rain, you got a cold."
"That's not true," you defend yourself. "I had a cold, and then we got caught in the rain when we went out for a candy run."
"Sorry, sorry," he holds up his hands like he's begging for his life, but he's grinning, easy and playful, the way you love him the most. "I promise not to bug you about your umbrella again."
"Thank you." You grab the menu from the table and glance down at it. "How about just dessert? I'm in the mood for something sweet."
-
Thursday...
"Did you grab your-" Hajime corrects himself midsentence, "Kiss?"
"No," You gasp. "How could I forget?" You grab him by the shoulders and smack your lips against his. "Another one for the road?"
"Yes, please." He giggles at your antics. "Training is going to run late today. Do you want to come get me?"
"Mhm, do you? I could get started on dinner instead and do the laundry."
"Phew, you drive a hard bargain." Hajime leans further into your hold. "I'll ask one of the boys to drive me, then."
"Great idea. Make them work for their money."
"Driving their Coach isn't exactly what they're being paid for."
"You need to change their contract then," you tell him, slipping in one last kiss before you have to part ways. "Love you."
"Love you more."
"Love you most."
-
Friday...
The air is blissfully cool inside the small store down the road from your apartment. Slowly, but surely, your body adjusts to the new environment. You shuffle a little closer to Hajime, who seems deep in thought over his choice of vegetables for next week. Now that you're no longer sweating out of every pore, you long for his presence again, sliding your hand into his.
"Cooled down?" He asks, without breaking eye contact with the cucumbers. "Mhm." You lean into him. "Can we get ice cream?"
"Sure. Do you wanna go and grab the flavors while I take my time deciding here?"
"No," you swing your joined arms up to press a kiss to the back of his hand. "Later."
Hajime smiles. Pulls you a little closer. Drops a kiss onto the top of your head. "Cucumbers?"
"Sure."
He sighs. "You're not helping if you agree to everything I say."
-
You've grown a little cold by the time you make it to the register, almost looking forward to the heat outside. There's a display of umbrellas, and you chuckle at their designs, putting everything into bags while Hajime pays.
"Let me carry it," he asks, but you stick your tongue out at him and press one of the bags close to your chest. "The ice cream is mine," you defend it, and he laughs, putting his free arm around your shoulders to pull you forward.
At first, you think you're imagining it. That first drop of rain hitting your shoulder. But the next follows shortly after, fat drops of water, warm from the blistering sun. You look at Hajime in shock. Neither of you carries an umbrella, just the bags of groceries and the essentials.
"We could..." He clears his throat awkwardly. "Make a run for it?"
The store is just a few steps behind you. You could get an umbrella or wait out the rain inside. But where would be the fun in that?"
"Loser has to make dinner!" You announce, taking off to the sound of your flip-flops hitting the ground. Laughter spills from your lips like the rain from the clouds.
You're drenched before you've made it down the street, but there's a sweetness to it, coming home like that, breathless and laughing, together.
pairing. satoru gojo x reader (fanart by 28cg_ on x!)
synopsis. it’s christmas. you’re alone again after pulling away from the only people who’ve made you feel seen. you’ve never belonged. why would it be different with them? gojo surprises you by showing up at your door anyway. (wc 7k)
warnings/tags. hurt/comfort, angst, allusion to depression, social anxiety, loneliness, self isolation, & abandonment issues (pls don’t read if any of these might trigger you!), eventual fluff, pet names, comfort kisses, use of y/n in just one scene, gojo is the best boy and shoko and suguru are the best friends :(
꒰ ✉︎ ꒱ i’m sorry for dropping this angst for christmas (my first angst fic too?!) BUT we’re all good bc there’s comfort! right?? please enjoy! bc i may have or may not have sobbed multiple times writing this + this is a backstory for gojo x shy!reader ehhe. i’ll be getting more into their history before i continue writing smut with them so it all hits a little sweeter <3
another christmas alone.
only this time, it was entirely your fault.
you had met the most wonderful people this year: shoko, suguru, and satoru. as friends, they all fit together in a way that felt effortless, as if they’d been carved from the same place and just found each other.
when they took you in, their conversations flowed on as they always had. their inside jokes slipped past you, memories you weren’t part of surfacing without warning.
of course, they never shut you out—no, not once. never on purpose. they were all too kind for that. but sometimes knowing that fact made you feel even worse. it was as if they were constantly making space you hadn’t earned.
you laughed when you were supposed to, showed up when invited and told yourself that was enough. but every time they looked at you with that warmth and curiosity, something in your chest twisted.
kindness that unguarded had to be intentional. and if it was? then it had to be pity.
their texts started early that morning.
shoko greeting you with “merry chistmas!!” then asking what time you’d be over for the christmas party.
an hour passed. when you didn’t answer, suguru’s concern slipped through—gentle at first, then heavier when you still hadn’t shown up like you’d promised the day before.
satoru followed, loud and insistent, demanding you get over there already because he was “dying to see you.”
you sincerely doubted that last bit.
your phone buzzed again and again until your hands started to shake and sweat—and then you just muted their contacts altogether because answering meant stepping back into space you were already afraid of taking up.
you imagined them sitting together, warm, laughing, wondering why you weren’t there… but not wondering for too long.
they must’ve been relieved when you didn’t reply. one less obligation. less pity. more fun. less faking now that they didn’t have to go out of their way to include you.
so you stayed quiet like you always did.
it wasn’t like you contributed much anyway. they wouldn’t miss you—you were sure of that.
you knew you were boring. you knew you were painfully awkward. every word felt wrong the second you considered saying it. you’d been this way for all you’ve known.
all your friends came into your life the same way. they noticed you because you were alone and because they felt bad for you at first. they stayed just long enough to make you hope, then left when the silence became uncomfortable—when you were somehow too much and too little at the same time.
“no wonder she doesn’t have any friends. she’s so boring!”
“right? she doesn’t even try!”
that’s what they’d all say.
you got used to it.
conversations always seemed to stall when you spoke. every bumbling word felt like something you had to apologize for. you felt like you were taking up air meant for someone louder, easier, and more interesting.
with the three of them, you were always hyperaware of yourself. well, scratch that—you were hyperaware with everyone.
you laughed a second too late, every time. one-on-one conversations stretched thin, filled with pauses you didn’t know how to fix. silence settled in your chest and stayed there, heavy and accusing.
shoko and suguru could sit together without speaking and they still felt comfortable. when the same happened to you, it was like a dead weight and as if something had gone wrong and it was all your fault.
satoru tried the hardest to pull you in—too bright, too loud, always reaching. it felt even more wrong, as if he was overcompensating, smoothing over the rough edges you couldn’t hide.
the thing was, nobody had ever tried this hard before. no friends, no supposed friend group. the most they’d let you do was tag along like a lost puppy. smile politely. blend in just enough to not be a nuisance until you were.
but that never happened with them. not yet.
shoko asked you about the little things—your favorite books, what music you liked, the way you liked to spend a lazy afternoon.
suguru remembered every answer and brought it up later, as if your words mattered, as if they had weight.
satoru teased you relentlessly, yes, but he also asked, really asked, what you thought, what you wanted, noticed what made you laugh—really laugh. not just for show, but because he wanted to know.
they were curious about you. maybe out of genuine care.
so that was why you knew it would hurt so much more when they’d eventually leave you like everyone else always did.
and that was why you stayed in bed all christmas day, cocooned in blankets.
the world outside your apartment and even outside your room felt too loud and too full of happy people who didn’t understand how much effort it took just to breathe.
you only got up once, drawn by the rumble of your empty stomach. the kitchen was cold, at your feet, even in fuzzy socks—an early christmas present satoru got you, their blue color that reminded you of his eyes. they mocked you now.
even the act of making tea felt like climbing a mountain.
you moved on autopilot, filling a mug, heating water, staring blankly at the counter as if it might answer all the questions swirling in your head.
the quiet felt accusing. it always did when you were alone. every shadow seemed to whisper that maybe this was exactly where you belonged.
alone. forgotten. left behind.
the tea steamed in your hands, warm and meaningless, while your phone lay ignored on the table.
you wanted to tell yourself it was okay. that hiding like you always did was easier and that retreating under blankets, pretending the world had forgotten you was safer.
if you expected nothing there was nothing to loose.
you set the mug down untouched. it’s steam curled up and vanished into the cold air, like all the warmth in the world that couldn’t reach you. your hands trembled slightly, and for a moment you just stared at the mug, wishing it could carry your burdens.
finally, you give up.
you trudge back to your room and crawl beneath the blankets, pulling them over your head like they might muffle everything you’re feeling. you curl into yourself, arms tight around your middle, jaw clenched so hard it aches. you tell yourself not to cry. just breathe. just don’t.
your eyes burn. your throat closes up.
one tear slips, traitorous, soaking into your pillow before you can wipe it away. you swallow hard, trying to force it down, but your chest aches and a quiet sound escapes you.
then another tear follows. and another.
after that, there’s no stopping it.
the tears come silent, pressed into fabric, shaking out of you like something you’ve been holding hostage all day. they spill freely, hot and relentless, streaking your cheeks, blurring everything. your breathing turns uneven, chest heaving as if it can’t quite remember how to work, shoulders trembling with the effort of keeping it quiet.
you cry until it hurts—until your ribs ache, until your throat feels raw and scraped bare, until the hiccups rip through you in soft, humiliating bursts.
there’s nobody to comfort you. not now. not ever.
the blankets twist around your body, heavy and useless, offering nothing but warmth without comfort. your room stays still—dark and indifferent, watching you fall apart.
when the tears slow eventually, thinning into shaky breaths, your body sags in on itself. emptied out and exhausted.
your eyes throb, swollen and sore, lashes clumped together with dried tears. the last broken cry slips from your chest, barely more than a breath.
sleep takes you then—not gentle, not kind—but restless and thin, pulling you under while the ache still lingers in your bones.
⋆꙳•̩̩͙❅*̩̩͙‧͙ ‧͙*̩̩͙❆ ͙͛ ˚₊⋆
you hadn’t even remembered falling asleep but banging on your door jolts you awake.
panic hits you immediately. the knocks are impatient. almost angry…? for a split second, your half asleep mind spirals.
were you about to be robbed?
your heart slams against your ribs as you scramble upright, sheets tangling around your legs. you reach for your phone, fingers shaking, only to remember you had left it on the kitchen table.
the banging comes again, louder this time, rattling the door in its frame. you swallow hard.
clutching your blanket around your shoulders like armor, you slip out of your room on shaky feet, every step careful, silent.
you grab your phone just as the knocking turns more frantic.
then a voice cuts through it—urgent, rough around the edges, painfully familiar.
“y/n? i’m really fucking worried now. open the door please! i swear to—”
your breathing stills just as he cuts himself off.
it’s satoru.
softer now stripped of all his loud confidence, “please y/n… open the door.”
the way he says your name, like he’s been pacing and trying not to panic, makes your heart twist. the teasing lilt you know so well is gone. the bravado is gone. it’s just worry. real, naked worry.
you stand there frozen, blanket clutched tight, blinking against the sting building behind your eyes, throat closing up.
he came.
he actually came.
nevertheless, panic swarms you all over again. what were you supposed to do? would he be angry? were the others with him? god—you were a mess. your hair tangled with sleep, eyes swollen, face still tight from crying. you couldn’t let anyone see you like this. you couldn’t let him see you like this.
every instinct screams at you to disappear back under the covers and pretend none of this is happening.
but you can’t. he’s right outside your door.
you’re stuck there, suspended between panic and disbelief, feet rooted to the floor.
but then his voice breaks through again—sharper now, threaded with something dangerously close to desperation.
“c’mon— y/n? please. open the door. i need to know if you’re okay… i- i’ll break it down if i have to!”
you flinch.
before fear can talk you out of it you’re moving.
your hands shake so badly as you fumble with the lock, breath coming in shallow, uneven pulls. the door swings open just a crack, and for one terrifying second, you don’t know if you’re ready to meet his eyes.
but there he is.
satoru’s hand is mid knock and he almost stumbles forward when the door opens.
his usual grin is nowhere to be found. instead, there’s worry carved into every line of his face, raw and unguarded—and it hits you harder than anything else tonight.
he exhales your name the second he sees you, relief flooding his voice like it’s been trapped there.
“are you okay?”
the simple question catches you so off guard. it’s not a where where you? or why have you been ignoring us?
he’s asking if you’re okay.
your throat tightens painfully. you can’t answer. you can’t make yourself look at him.
he says your name again, softer this time, almost a plea, but the sound barely reaches you over the storm building in your chest.
everything caves in at once—every wall you put up. every breath you forced to stay steady.
before you can stop it, the dam breaks.
and when it does? his arms are around you.
they’re warm and solid, making your body collapse into him like instinct.
he holds you like he’s afraid to let go, like he’s anchoring you in place when you’re falling apart. his palm cups the back of your head, careful, reverent, like you’re something fragile and worth protecting.
the real sobs that have been clawing at your chest finally spill free.
satoru doesn’t even even pull away or flinch. if anything he settles closer like this is what he was made for.
he murmurs your name again and again, letting you cry it out against him. you cling to him, face buried in his chest, shoulders trembling so hard they ache.
your hair is damp where tears have soaked through, breath hitching in uneven pulls. the scent of him—clean soap, warmth, him—fills your lungs, grounding in a way nothing else has been all day.
for the first time, the crushing weight on your chest eases. just a little. maybe more.
his hand moves through your hair in slow, soothing circles, patient and unhurried. then his fingers catch the edge of the blanket you’re still clutching uselessly between you, and without another word, he tugs it higher around your shoulders. snug and protective.
the gesture is so gentle—so considerate—that your breath stutters all over again.
the words repeat like a mantra, quiet but insistent, making your chest ache. “it’s okay, baby,” he murmurs. “it’s okay… i’ve got you. you’re not alone. you’re not alone, okay?”
the word baby lands like a shock straight to your chest.
nobody had ever called you that. nobody had called you that in a way that felt like this—care and tenderness instead of something you had to earn. your fingers curl tighter in his shirt, knuckles whitening as if your body is afraid that if you let go, even a little, he’ll vanish.
a broken sound tears out of your throat, sharper than the sobs before it, like something inside you has finally split open. your face presses harder into his chest, tears soaking through as your body trembles.
you want to stop—you really do, it’s embarrassing to be like this in front of him, but each sob is pulled from somewhere deep and bruised, all your fear spilling out at once.
you’d been so sure—so sure—that being held like this was never meant for you.
but now… satoru is giving it to you.
his arms tighten, firm and grounding when your knees threaten to buckle, keeping you upright because he won’t let you collapse completely. one hand stays cradled at the back of your head while the other rubs slow, reassuring circles into your back.
“hey,” he murmurs, voice thick now, like he feels it too. “it’s okay. you don’t have to hold back anymore. cry if you need to. i’m right here.”
you gasp, trying to speak, but all that comes out is a choked, broken sound—your words dissolving into sobs as soon as they reach your throat. you shake your head against his chest like you’re arguing and trying to deny everything spilling out of you.
when you sob against him again, you don’t feel so alone doing it.
he still doesn’t let go, only holding you closer, resting his cheek against the top of your head, breathing slow and deliberately until your body starts to follow his lead.
“i’m not going anywhere,” he whispers, a promise meant only for you. “not tonight. okay?”
your chest still hurts. the tears still come. but somewhere between the steady thump of his heart and the quiet certainty in his voice, the pain shifts—no longer sharp, just heavy. something you can carry.
you nod against him.
the next thing you know, satoru is lifting you effortlessly into his arms. he carries you across the room like you’re the most fragile thing in the world.
your apartment feels too big and too empty as he walks, but the space between the two of you feels impossibly small. impossibly safe.
he sits down on the couch without letting you go, keeping you tucked against his chest, your arms still looped around his waist. his hand never leaves the back of your head, fingers threading gently through your hair like they belong there.
you can feel his warmth seeping into you.
he hums softly under his breath, repeating those reassurances that wrap around you like a warm hug.
“i’ve got you,” he murmurs again, “you don’t have to be brave right now. not for anyone. just be here with me.”
and you try to do just that.
you let the tears fall, let yourself shudder against him, let yourself finally rest against someone who refuses to let you crumble alone.
you’ve never felt so seen—so heard without even saying a word.
slowly but surely, the cries eventually fade, replacing themselves with slow, heavy breathing.
he shifts slightly, cradling you closer, and you feel the gentle press of his chin atop your heat. he waits, patient, giving you a long moment to breathe.
when you’ve calmed down more he speaks, breaking the quiet.
“hi, pretty girl… can i see you?”
your chest tightens at his words. your brain scrambles. pretty? me?
it hits you all at once how big this is for you and your face heats like fire. you feel your cheeks burn, your lips parting, unsure what to say. flustered, vulnerable, and entirely unguarded, you nod slightly, still buried against his chest.
his fingers tilts your chin up gently, the other hand brushing your damp hair from your face.
your eyes meet his blue ones that you adore so much and he smiles. it makes your chest ache in a new way. not with pain, but with the strange, overwhelming relief of being noticed.
“there you are,” he whispers, almost to himself.
you blink, still caught somewhere between disbelief and a growing warmth. he leans in just slightly, close enough that you can feel his warm breath without pressure, close enough that you know he’s not going anywhere.
his thumb brushes along your cheek, tracing the damp tracks of your tears, and a shiver runs through you. not from fear or from the cold, from the way he’s holding you making you feel safe.
“it’s okay,” he says again, softer this time, “you don’t have to hide. not from me. not ever.”
you swallow the lump in your throat.
when you finally talk, your voice is hoarse.
“thank you,” you whisper, the words barely making it past your lips.
it feels small compared to everything he’s done—showing up, holding you, staying—but it’s all you can offer. your fingers curl into his shirt again, not quite ready to let go, your heart fluttering in a way that feels dangerous.
he exhales softly, something warm and fond in the sound, and dips his forehead to rest against yours. “hey,” he murmurs, gentle, “you don’t have to thank me for anything. i actually should’ve come much earlier…”
“huh?” you murmur.
your chest tightens with something tender and aching. you’ve always felt it for him, even before today. his presence made everything feel a little lighter, a little safer. you’d told yourself it was nothing. but right now, wrapped up in his arms, it feels impossible to deny.
he pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes soft, unguarded in a way you don’t see often. one of his hands stays firm at your waist, grounding, now like he’s afraid you might slip away if he lets go.
“yeah,” he says quietly. “i was so worried when you didn’t answer us. i kept hoping you’d show up…”
“i should’ve noticed sooner… you’ve been trying so hard to be okay, and i let you do it alone.” his thumb brushes absentmindedly over your side, slow and soothing. “that’s on me. i’m sorry…”
your chest tightens further with the overwhelming weight of being seen. you know now that he doesn't pity you. he cares enough for you to regret missing the signs.
you shake your head quickly, instinctively. “i didn’t want to bother anyone,” you admit, voice small. “especially you.”
his brows knit together, and for the first time there’s something fierce under the softness. “you could never bother me,” he says immediately, like it’s obvious. like it’s always been obvious. “i just… i thought you knew that.”
your heart stutters. you swallow, eyes dropping to his chest, suddenly shy. “i didn’t,” you confess.
there’s a beat of silence. not awkward—heavy. meaningful.
then he tilts his head, smiling faintly, something vulnerable flickering across his face. “guess i should be clearer, then.”
you think—oh. maybe he’s going to say something else. maybe he’s just close because he always is.
but then his lips brush your cheek.
it’s so light you almost miss it.
but how could you?
you freeze instantly, breath catching sharp in your chest, eyes widening in pure surprise. before your mind can catch up, he presses another kiss just beneath your eye—right where your tears had fallen. then another, careful and unhurried, like he’s testing something fragile.
your heart stumbles violently. he’s not teasing. not rushing. he’s kissing your face—like it means something. like you mean something.
“satoru—” you breathe, startled, his name slipping out on instinct alone.
he pauses instantly, forehead resting against yours again, thumb still warm against your cheek.
he searches your face. “is this okay?”
you nod before you can think, cheeks burning, pulse racing, still stunned.
“mhm,” you whisper.
something soft breaks across his face at that—relief, affection, something dangerously sincere. he presses one last kiss to your cheek, lingering just a second longer this time, like he’s memorizing the feeling of you here, alive and real in his arms.
“i’ve always wanted to do that,” he admits quietly.
your chest tightens, breath shallow. you don’t know what to say. you’d never imagined this—not really. never let yourself believe he’d want to kiss you like this. but now, held gently, kissed so carefully, you realize how long you’ve been aching for it too.
he doesn’t push. doesn’t take more.
“merry christmas,” he says with a small, almost shy smile.
you let out a breathless, disbelieving huff of a laugh.
“merry christmas,” you echo, just as softly.
his smile widens at that, eyes crinkling in a way that makes your stomach flutter. he squeezes you just a little tighter, like he’s grounding himself too, like this means as much to him as it does to you.
and then he’s pulling something out of this pocket.
“i have this for you.”
your heart stutters. “wait- you didn’t have to—”
“I know,” he says gently. “but i wanted to.”
he opens his palm, revealing a small box. your hands shake as you take it.
when you lift the lid, your breath catches in a gasp.
inside is a necklace. it’s so delicate and it’s in the jewelry color you always wear. the small charm makes your chest ache instantly. it’s a tiny origami crane.
he remembered. he really remembered.
weeks ago, you’d mentioned in passing, how much you loved origami—how a single crane could hold a wish, a hope, or a secret meaning. it hadn’t even been a full conversation. you’d never imagined he was really listening—let alone care enough to turn it into something like this.
“you remembered?” you whisper.
he shrugs, almost shy, a small grin tugging at his lips. “of course i did.” then, softer, “it reminded me of you.”
your eyes sting. again. you laugh softly, pressing the tiny crane to your chest like like it might hold every little ache and joy you’ve been carrying. no one had ever paid attention like this—not enough to remember, not enough to choose something that spoke to you.
“can i?” he asks, already reaching.
you nod. he inches closer, fingers brushing your hair aside as he fastens it around your neck. his touch lingers at the nape for half a second too long.
when he pulls back, his gaze softens. “it looks perfect on you,” he says quietly.
your heart feels like it might burst.
“wait,” you blurt suddenly, panic and courage colliding. “i- i have something for you too.”
his brows lift in surprise. “yeah?”
you pull away reluctantly and hurry to your room, heart racing. the gift had been tucked away in your closet for weeks—a stupid, impulsive thing you bought because it made you think of him immediately. you never thought you’d actually get the chance to give it to him.
you come back clutching it behind your back, suddenly painfully shy. “it’s not… i mean, it’s kind of silly,” you mumble, holding it out.
he blinks when he sees it—then a smile envelops his entire face.
it’s a plushie of a white cat with blue eyes. soft and ridiculous.
he takes it from you carefully, eyes flicking from the plushie to you, a slow smile spreading across his face.
you stumble over your words to fill the gap, “it’s… it’s stupid, i mean—i just saw it and it reminded me of you and i didn’t think i’d ever actually get the chance to give it to you—”
instead of replying, he’s tugging you onto his lap.
instead, he’s tugging you gently onto his lap.
the soft plushie gets tucked between you, pressed to his chest as his arms come around you, laughter bubbling out of him like he can’t help it.
“oh my god,” he laughs softly, voice fond and warm, “you’re so cute.”
then he leans in—and suddenly his lips are on your face again.
“it’s perfect, baby,” he murmurs into your hair, squeezing the plushie again like he needs to make the point stick.
the kisses start soft. then teasing. then faster, lighter—pressed everywhere without warning. your cheeks, your temples, the tip of your nose. he laughs between them, breath warm against your skin, eyes bright and sparkling like he’s having the time of his life.
your hands clutch at his shirt, breath going shallow as you whine in embarrassment, but he doesn’t let you go. he cradles you easily, the plushie snug between you while his arms hold you close.
“i’m so happy,” he says, smiling in a dopey way that makes your chest ache—and makes you want to kiss him back properly, except you can barely think straight. his forehead rests against yours, close enough that you can feel his breath. “i’m so happy you’re here… and that you got me this little thing…”
all you can do is laugh, breathless, cheeks burning, head spinning from the way he’s holding you, kissing you, making you feel.
you manage a small, breathless laugh, voice trembling. “you really like it, huh?”
he looks down at the plushie, then back at you, eyes sparkling. “like it? i love it,” he says, squeezing it gently before glancing at you again, smile wide and unrestrained. “thank you for thinking of me.”
your cheeks burn hotter, heart hammering. “i… i should be the one saying that…” you murmur, fingers fidgeting.
he laughs softly, a warm, light sound that makes your stomach flutter, then leans in and presses a quick kiss to your forehead and you can’t help but laugh and squirm a little on his lap, trying to catch your breath.
and the way he looks at you after that—soft, fond, unmistakably pleased—makes your chest feel too full.
you feel like you’re the grinch and your heart has grown three sizes.
he’s still smiling at you like that—soft, pleased, a little stunned—when something beyond you catches his eye.
the laughter in his chest slows. his gaze drifts past your shoulder, toward the window.
“…wait,” he says, squinting slightly.
you follow his line of sight just as his eyes widen, excitement lighting up his face all at once.
“wait—look!”
thick snowflakes are falling outside.
his whole demeanor changes instantly—like a switch has flipped. he practically bounces in place, and you knew he actually would’ve if your weren’t sitting on his lap. he grips you just a little tighter in his excitement.
“it’s christmas snow! actual christmas snow! do you see this?!”
you laugh, covering your mouth with your hands, gaze stuck between the window and him. “it’s beautiful.”
you don’t know which is better.
he looks back at you, eyes sparkling. there’s something boyish and unfiltered about him this way that makes you feel the same.
“hey,” he says suddenly, leaning closer like he’s about to share a secret. “have you ever made a snow angel?”
you shake your head slowly. “no… my parents never let me. they were always worried i’d get sick.”
his expression shifts instantly—mock offense, dramatic disbelief.
“no way!” he groans. “that’s unacceptable. today, we make snow angels. non-negotiable.”
before you can even respond, he’s already moving—hands on your waist, lifting you easily off his lap and tugging you toward the door. you stumble after him, laughing, heart racing.
“wait—wait!” you protest, breathless. “i need to get dressed first!”
he freezes mid-step, blinks, then laughs at himself. “oh my god—yeah. okay. wow. what am i doing?” he steps back, holding his hands up dramatically. “bundle up. i’ll wait. promise.”
the way he says it—easy, unhurried, like he truly had nowhere else to be even when he had been so excited—makes something in you soften even more.
you retreat into your room, heart still pounding, movements a little clumsy from leftover adrenaline and excitement. you pull on your jacket quickly, then a knit hat, gloves, and a scarf. just as you’re about to head back out, you pause. you hadn’t seen satoru bring anything with him except a jacket.
without really thinking, you grab an extra scarf and another pair of gloves, folding them over your arm before leaving the room.
when you step back out, he looks up from where he’s waiting by the door. his eyes flick over you—and then down.
“…aww,” he grins, pointing. “those are the socks i got you.”
you glance down, suddenly aware of the fuzzy fabric peeking out beneath your pants. your face warms. “oh. yeah,” you admit quietly. “i wore them all day.”
something in his expression shifts, fond and gentle all at once. he grins in his boyish way, “i like that,”
you hold out the extra gloves and scarf, shy. “i… grabbed these for you. just in case. i didn’t have an extra hat though…”
his eyebrows lift, surprised—and then he smiles wider. “you’re really sweet, you know that?”
“says you,” you mumble, ducking your head.
⋆꙳•̩̩͙❅*̩̩͙‧͙ ‧͙*̩̩͙❆ ͙͛ ˚₊⋆
outside, the cold hits you immediately. thick flakes drift down like the world has softened just for christmas. there had already been snow on the ground from last week, but now a fresh layer was settling over everything making it all untouched.
satoru drops down first, landing flat on his back with a dramatic oof.
“okay! like this,” he announces, already spreading his arms and legs wide against the snow as if he was demonstrating something very serious.
you hesitate for half a second—just long enough for the cold to feel real—before lowering yourself down beside him. you sit, then lie back, the snow immediately seeping through your coat, cold enough to pull a sharp gasp from your chest before it turns into laughter. you start moving your arms and legs, copying him, the rhythm awkward at first.
“you’re doing it!” he says, turning his head toward you, grin bright and uncontained. “your first snow angel!”
you turn toward him too, cheeks flushed both from the cold and from him. snow clings to your lashes, almost like you’re trying to match his naturally white ones. “i can’t believe i’ve never done this before,” you admit, breath fogging the air.
“well, it only matters you’re doing it now!” he grins, stretching his arms wider, deliberately exaggerating his movements. “and you gotta commit,” he says. “bigger wings. like this.”
“that’s not fair! my arms aren’t as long as yours!”
you try to follow, laughing harder now—and then your glove slips, accidentally flinging snow straight into his hair.
he freezes.
dramatically, he gasps. “hey! was that an attack?!”
you sit up immediately, laughing so hard your sides ache. “i didn’t mean to!”
“oh, it’s on!” he says, already scooping up a handful of snow. he lobs it at you with zero aim, the clump falling apart midair and barely dusting your sleeve.
“that doesn’t even count!” you tease, scrambling to your feet.
your boots crunch loudly against the snow. he chases after you, laughing, long strides intentionally slowing just enough for you to stay ahead. you can tell he’s letting you win—and it makes you giggle even more.
but then your foot slips.
before you can panic, he’s there, catching you around the waist. the two of you tumble down together in a messy heap, snow puffing up around you as you land.
you end up tangled together, his arm braced beside your head, your hands gripping his jacket. for a moment, neither of you move.
your faces are close, too close—breaths fogging the space between you as the laughter fades into something quieter. you feel so warm inside despite the cold snow biting at you.
the world feels still, like it’s waiting for the two of you.
snow keeps drifting down lazily, catching in his bright hair and melting against his pinkened cheeks.
you’re suddenly aware of how close you are—too close to pretend this is still just an accident—but neither of you pull away.
you huff the way your stomach is fluttering with a soft laugh, eyes flicking up to his hair. “you’re matching the snow.”
he pouts immediately, exaggerated and offended, and it makes you want to kiss it right off his face.
“rude.”
you shake your head quickly, flustered, fingers tightening in his jacket. “no- i meant like- in a good way. you’re like a real snow angel.”
he blinks. once. then again. the tips of his ears turn pink almost instantly.
“…hey,” he mutters, suddenly looking anywhere but at you. “that’s not fair.”
“huh?”
“you can’t just say things like that,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck, flustered.
“oh…”
when he finally looks back at you, there’s something nervous and earnest there, something softer than you’ve ever seen.
his gaze slips down to your lips.
it’s almost like he can’t seem to help it. he exhales slowly, steadying himself.
you gulp.
the realization hits you all at once—what’s about to happen. what you want to happen. your hands tighten in his jacket, knuckles brushing the fabric as your heart stumbles, caught somewhere between nerves and longing.
was this how your first kiss is going to happen?
he wets his lips without thinking, then looks at your own. really looks.
“i… can i…?” he murmurs, voice low, almost breaking.
you nod, barely able to breathe. “mhm….”
he leans in slowly, like he’s afraid of breaking the moment. each inch feels deliberate and suspended, the space between you stretching thin with anticipation. you don’t pull away. not even a little. and your lips part on instinct.
he notices. his breath catches, eyes flicking to your mouth before lifting to meet yours again, searching, making sure you’re still with him.
the world narrows.
he closes the distance carefully. the brush of his nose against yours sends a quiet spark through you, your pulse roaring in your ears as the last sliver of space lingers—just long enough to feel unbearable.
then it’s gone.
his lips meet yours… soft as a promise. warmth blooms instantly like fireworks, chasing away the cold that clings to your skin.
his hand stays at your jaw, thumb tracing slow arcs that make your breath hitch against him.
you register distantly that his gloves are gone, that his skin is warm against yours despite the cold somehow, but the thought drifts away before it can settle.
your fingers are already knotted in his jacket, unsure and clumsy, so you cling harder, grounding yourself in the familiar weight of him, the fabric wrinkling beneath your grip.
he notices. the kiss lingers as if he’s reassuring you without words. he doesn’t rush you, only leaning in just a touch more.
you feel the curve of a smile against your lips before it fades into something deeper.
the kiss deepens and you exhale into him without meaning to, and he hums low in his chest, pleased. like he’d been waiting for that.
the sound sends a small shiver through you and your grip tightens again, knuckles brushing the warmth of his chest beneath the layers.
his thumb stills at your jaw when you finally pull back a fraction, just enough to breathe, your foreheads resting together.
you breaths fog between you, uneven, and he lets out a soft laugh under his breath, something shy and disbelieving.
“wow,” he murmurs, like he’s afraid to break the spell.
you look at him in awe, as if you’re seeing him for the first time but somehow have always known him. his white lashes are dusted with snow, cheeks flushed pink, blue eyes soft and a little stunned like he can’t quite believe this is real either.
for a second, you forget everything else. the pain you’d felt for your whole life? he’s taking it away, little by little until there’s just him, this close, breathing the same air as you.
your lips still tingle where they had met his so intimately, warmth blooming low in your chest, spreading slow and sweet.
“…hi,” you whisper. you don’t know what else to say. the word is barely there, more breath than sound.
his mouth curves into a small, crooked smile, shy in a way you’ve never seen before. “hi pretty girl,” he echoes, quieter, like he’s matching you on purpose.
he leans his forehead against yours again and your fingers relax just a little in his jacket. not because you’re ready to let go—only because you don’t feel like you have to hold on so tightly anymore.
snow keeps falling around you, soft and steady, and for once, it feels like the world got something right.
but then a startled gasp breaks the quiet.
“ugh—! you guys are alive!”
the sound makes both of you jump. you and satoru jerk upright at the same time, scrambling out of your tangled sprawl in the snow, hearts leaping into your throats as you turn toward the voice.
shoko stands a few steps away, one hand pressed to her chest like she’s catching her breath, the other already pointing accusingly at satoru. suguru lingers beside her, calmer, but his posture eases the second he sees you both.
“we’ve been worried sick,” shoko says, relief tumbling out on top of her irritation. “satoru, you said you were just checking on her and then you disappear without letting us know she’s fine! no texts, no calls, nothing!”
satoru winces, rubbing the back of his neck. “oh… sorry about that.”
but then she stops.
actually looks at the two of you.
at how close you’re still sitting despite jumping apart. at the way his knee is almost touching yours, his arm hovering awkwardly like he’s not sure where to put it now. at your embarrassed face, snow clinging to your lashes, hands still half curled like they’d only just let go of his jacket.
“…wait,” she says slowly.
her eyes widen. “oh my gosh. you two—?”
your face heats instantly. “we—”
satoru lets out a small, caught laugh. “uhh…”
there’s a beat of silence—then shoko’s expression flips completely. her mouth drops open, then curls into a grin so wide it’s almost blinding.
“are you serious?” she whispers, delighted. “is this happening right now?”
suguru exhales, something like a chuckle slipping free. “uh huh. it was about time,” he says, easy and knowing.
shoko lets out a sound that’s simply delighted, and before either of you can react, she drops straight down into the snow, arms flinging wide around both of you.
“oh my god,” she laughs, pressing her cold cheek against yours. “i’m actually going to cry. this is so overdue.”
you freeze for a moment, flustered by how close she’s pressed against you. an unrestrained giggle escapes your lips and satoru groans, trying to push her the two of you.
“okay! okay, shoko! get off!”
“what? i’m celebrating!” she protests, holding on tighter. “i’ve been waiting forever for this moment!”
satoru huffs, mock exasperated, gently trying to pry her off. “hey! hands off my girl, jeez! she’s mine!”
my girl.
you laugh through your blush, squirming a little as shoko giggles, clearly unbothered by satoru’s mock jealousy.
from the side, suguru stands with his arms crossed, snow crunching under his boots as he watches, outwardly begrudging, but the faintest crease of a smile betrays him.
“unbelievable,” he mutters, voice dry, and then, with a resigned huff, he kneels down and lets himself join the tangle of limbs on the snow.
he rests his weight next to you and whispers, “glad you’re okay.”
your bashful ‘thank you’ is swallowed by shoko squealing as she wiggles happily between you and satoru.“this is a christmas miracle!” she laughs, pressing her cheek closer to yours and tightening her grip. “i’ve been waiting forever for this!”
satoru groans, exasperated but laughing at the same time. “shoko! seriously! you’re going to crush us!”
you can’t stop the laugh that escapes you, breathless and shaky, cheeks warm, heart hammering. over shoko’s shoulder, your eyes meet satoru’s—bright, steady, and impossibly blue. for a moment, the rest of the world disappears and even shoko’s excited giggles fade into the background.
his hands reach out to intertwine with yours behind shoko’s back and your fingers tighten instinctively around him when they meet.
suguru sits nearby, looking like he’s enduring the chaos, but that small invisible smile is always there to show he’s truly happy too.
snow drifts down around you, soft and quiet, and everything feels right—tangled in the snow, pressed together, hearts still racing from laughter and relief, you realize why this moment will linger in your memory.
and somehow, in the midst of it all, your world had changed to a different kind of blue than the one you’d known before.
now, it was only the blue of his eyes that mattered.
Almost immediately, he panics. Fear strikes his chest as he sits up, searching for your figure. Sure, you'd had an argument before bed, but you hadn't left, right?
Right?
When he stumbles into the living room, about to run out the door and see if your car still sits in the driveway, the figure on the couch makes him stop dead in his tracks. Were you really so upset that you couldn't even bear to sleep next to him?
He doesn't want to wake you, but he can't allow this, seeing your hunched form on the not-great-for-sleeping couch, tucked under a too thin blanket. Crossing the room quietly, he scoops you into his hold, lifting you from the couch.
You stir, but miracously don't wake, relaxing as he takes small steps up to the bedroom.
He's made it up in his mind to sleep in the guestroom once he lays you down on your side of the shared bed. Zayne wants to respect your wishes after all, even if he knows he won't get a minute of sleep being apart from you.
But when he goes to pull away, your grip on his shirt tightens. Before he can unclench your fingers, you tug, and he finds himself climbing into the bed beside you.
The pinched expression on your face eases, shifting closer to him. He can't bring himself to move away, and instinct has his arms wrapping around you. Something in his chest eases the moment he holds you, the tension leaving his body.
"I don't like going to sleep mad." Your words nearly make him jump. He'd believed you were asleep this whole time, but of course you were awake.
"Me either." He murmurs, holding you a little tighter. You relax into him, melding your body against his in a way that sends butterflies through his stomach.
With your warmth pressed close to him, he can finally sleep.
JustSomeoneWhoYouDontKnow @justsomeonewhoyoudontknow - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
