The patter of rain on the roof and the crackle of flame in the fireplace are a soothing harmony of white noise, the faint smell of woodsmoke and stronger scent of hot cocoa likewise comforting and cozy. Thor accepts the towel with a small nod, rubbing the worst of the rain from his hair and shoulders while Amelia works her magic. It's achingly familiar, reminding him of a thousand memories of home: nostalgia of coming in from his own storms, the casual working of mundane magic, a warm drink waiting as reward.

He accepts the mug with gratitude, and Amelia's warm presence against his side even moreso. He loops an arm around her, fitting against one another as if they were crafted to match. The cocoa has not suffered from the reheating; if anything, it may be even better now that Thor is of a mind to appreciate it.

He's silent for a moment after she asks, trying to search his own heart for the answer. It's still reflex to rely on bluster and bravado, a habit that suits him well enough when he does not wish to speak of such things, nor question himself when he knows all too well he should. But not now, and not with Amelia, though such truthful answers often elude him. "I hope so," he says at last, watching the little orange flames dance in the fireplace, tamed to their hearth. "Though I do not know what dreams await." He musters up a small smile, looking down at her. "I might keep you awake again."