"Stay." Thor's grip is painfully tight, desperate to ground you in this universe and prevent you from leaving for another.
"Thor—"
"Just a moment longer," his other hand releases Mjolnir, leaving it to fall to the ground and taking your other hand, "I have been unfairly deprived of you." He lifted your hands to his lips and pressed kisses to the palms, uncaring of the power that threatened to burn at his being. "Please."
You falter, and he sees it. "One night."
"One week," he barters, "A month, perhaps a year?" What difference would it make to Eternity? His thoughts are bitter on the subject of the embodiment, but he didn't want to sour his first sighting of you in a near century.
His hand is rougher than when he'd last held you, the gold prosthetic was somehow as rough, and mirrored the grooves of his palm. Which you find yourself as familiar with as the touch of his lips on your skin. "A year," you agree, hardly fighting as he guides you back to Asgard.