The stars stretched above us, endless and sharp, as if the whole sky had cracked open just for tonight.

Freya leaned against the stone railing, her hand still twined with mine. She wasn't watching me—thank the gods. Her gaze was fixed upward, lashes dark against the pale light, lips parted just enough to catch the curve of a breath.

I watched her anyway.

"You know," I murmured, "you're doing this all wrong."

Her brow arched without looking away. "Doing what?"

"Stargazing."

That got her attention. She turned, amused, the corner of her mouth curling. "And how exactly does one do it wrong?"

"You're supposed to make a wish," I said, tone deliberately casual, "pick the brightest star, pretend it's listening, whisper some foolish hope into the void."

Her smile widened faintly, soft but sharp. "That sounds exactly like something you'd mock me for."

I smirked. "I would. Which is why you should try it."

Her laugh slipped out, low and breathy, and she shook her head. But she did it. Her eyes flicked up, found a star near the broken dome's edge, and for a moment her lips moved, silent, carrying something too quiet for me to steal.

When she looked back at me, her cheeks had colored, faint but visible even in the silver light. "Happy?"

I leaned closer, dropping my voice. "Depends. Did you wish for something dangerous?"

She matched my gaze, steady. "Of course."

That silence again—thick, fragile, daring me to break it. I did, because I always do.

"And what did you wish for?"

She tilted her head, smile tugging at her lips. "If I tell you, it won't come true."

"Superstition," I said.

"Hope," she countered.

The word cut sharper than it should have. Hope. Dangerous, reckless, far more lethal than any chain.

Before I could retort, she leaned into me, just slightly, shoulder against mine, hair brushing my jaw. A deliberate closeness, not an accident.

Her voice dropped, softer now. "But maybe I already got it."

The world slowed. The ache in my chest, the burn in my throat—I hated it. I wanted to laugh, to mock, to tear it apart before it tore me. But I didn't.

Instead, I turned, pressed my lips lightly against her temple. A fleeting kiss, softer than anything I'd given her before.

Her breath caught. Her fingers tightened around mine.

Neither of us spoke after that. We didn't need to.

We stayed there in the broken observatory, hands clasped, shoulders pressed, the stars spilling like shattered glass above us. For once, no chains stirred, no whispers chased me.

Only her warmth. Only her heartbeat steady beside mine.

For one fragile night, I let myself believe it could be enough.

The amusement park lights flickered like fallen stars. Fairy lights strung across broken beams hummed against the dark, generators thrumming to life and painting the ruin in color.

Freya walked at my side, her pale silver hair shimmering under every glow. She didn't chatter like a child the way I half-expected. Instead, her eyes wandered over the glowing stalls, her lips curved faintly, almost reverently, as though this fractured paradise was something holy.

"Loki," she said softly, "I never thought I'd see something like this again."

"Neither did I." I squeezed her hand. "Guess miracles do exist."

We stopped at a claw machine, its prizes ridiculous—plush bats and faded teddy bears. She tilted her head, lips curving into the smallest smile.

"I want one."

"You're joking."

Her crimson eyes met mine, unflinching. "Do I look like I'm joking?"

I sighed and fished a coin into the machine. The claw dropped, missed, and clattered uselessly. Freya's expression didn't change, but I caught the flicker of amusement behind her calm exterior.

I tried again. This time the claw gripped, lifted, dropped. The plush fell neatly into the chute.

She picked it up with almost childlike care, brushing the dust from its wing. Then—without warning—she hugged it to her chest, and the faintest blush touched her cheeks.

"…Thank you," she said softly.

We rode the carousel after that. She chose a pale silver steed; I climbed reluctantly onto the one beside her. The music wheezed through cracked speakers, lights spinning in circles above us. And Freya—ancient queen, terror of countless nights—actually laughed. A low, honest sound that melted the ice in my chest.

Later, we wandered past the games, the food stalls, the neon lights. She didn't demand much, didn't cling, didn't chatter. She simply stayed close, hand in mine, every glance carrying warmth enough to silence the world.

By the time we reached the rooftop restaurant, the sky had deepened, and the city spread like a field of fallen embers. A candle burned between us, flickering against her face, and though she didn't need to eat, she still ordered. Wine, rare steak, little things that seemed more like memories than meals.

I ordered pancakes. For dinner.

Her lips quirked faintly. "Only you."

We talked. About nothing. About everything. I told her stupid stories of my past life—classes I slept through, mistakes I made, dreams I buried. She listened. Really listened. And when she spoke, she offered pieces of herself she had never shared before. Memories of battles fought, centuries endured, loneliness buried under a crown too heavy to lift.

When the plates were empty and the candle burned low, silence fell. Comfortable. Whole.

Freya reached across the table, her cool hand brushing mine. Her eyes glowed faintly in the dark.

"Loki," she whispered. "Tonight… I wished for something."

My breath caught. "And?"

Her lips curved, trembling just slightly. "You."

The words hit harder than any blade. She leaned closer, voice breaking as though it had been locked away for centuries.

"I love you."

My chest ached, raw, unguarded. And for once, I didn't smirk. I didn't deflect. I didn't run.

I lifted her hand, kissed the back of it, and met her gaze with everything I had.

"I love you too."

Her eyes widened, softened, shone. She leaned in, and our lips met across the candlelight, sealing the night with a vow that even the apocalypse couldn't break.

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