He turns his head a little, just enough to watch the water streaming down the windowpanes. Beyond that glass lies the other part of him, a wildness untamed by the trappings of mortal life, stirred to action at his call. Now it calls him in return, a reminder of who and what he is, as much as the woman held in his arms has done. That she knows it to be so makes him ever more fond of her, a gratitude he can never truly voice.

"I want to go out," he agrees quietly, reluctant only that they will need to let go of one another to do so. This time, when he stands, he's steadier on his feet, even when he has to bend down to lace up his boots. His coat is long enough to wear over his sleep clothes, and if anyone is still awake at this hour to see him go out thus, Thor cannot bring himself to care.

Beyond the front door lies the storm. Thor reaches for Amelia's hand, enclosing it in his own, before swinging the door open, allowing the wind to rush in. It fills his lungs with salt and petrichor, a cool dampness that speaks to him of fresh springs and seedling crops. He breathes deep, squeezing Amelia's hand, watching the patter of rain strike the earth before them, running in rivulets down the stones and pooling in the hollows.