“It was never a question of whether you were worthy to be part of my world, Jane. It was a question of whether I was worthy to be part of yours.”

The palm beneath his was wrinkled, slightly rough in some places, but it was still the same.

The same hand he’d held in Svartalfheim in an effort to calm her from Malekith’s attacks.

The same hand he’d reached for in an effort to explain his sudden presence in Midgard; the same hand he’d grasped and pressed to his lips the moment she told him she loved him.

The same hand he gripped to tell her, and only her, that he was nervous.

The hand that had the wedding ring he’d given her the day they married.

Her hand.

Even forty years later, he could remember the times they’d shared together, both the good and the bad, just by holding her hand. A simple gesture that spoke volumes; it told her he was there. And he was never, ever letting go.

A lifetime of memories. Memories he would never forget.

Now, he kissed her hand lightly, his green eyes meeting her doe eyes, smiling.

                             ”Always and forever, Jane Foster.”


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