chaotic dumbass energy

. . .

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.

Up.

Down.

Catch.

The wait remained absurd.