There's a small, surprised sound in his throat when she leans against him, but he automatically shifts his posture to accommodate her, his arm ending up around her shoulders instead of his knees. Thor has always been a tactile man, quick to embrace his friends or deliver friendly shoulder pats, but he's done little of it since Wakanda, reluctant to accept the simple comfort of touch out of guilt for those who will never touch anyone again. But he still craves it, even so, and a painful sort of warmth blooms under his ribs that feels like relief.

He needs this, as surely as he needs to breathe.

It leaves room for him to wonder what her people might think of him, a god who has fallen far from his lofty pedestal. Made more human in their eyes, perhaps. Is that a good thing, making him more relatable? Or will they be disappointed in what he's become? But he can't hide what he is, either, and Thor will never again be the same bold, naive warrior he used to be. Even if he lives another four thousand years and dies an old man, he cannot run from that truth. And if they look at him and see a failure, then so be it. It's what he is.

It's an oddly freeing thought, though it makes little sense for it to be.

"I'd like to see your Citadel," he says, before he can change his mind, before his doubts can creep back in and weigh him down again. "And meet your people."