No, he is definitely seeing this correctly. “...Harley?” Thor pushes himself up from the couch, bracing his flesh-and-bone hand against the back of it to keep him from losing his balance. Just how long was he sitting there this time, he doesn’t know, but his eye feels gritty and sore, and he rubs at it with his metal fingers. “You... came to make me food?”

It’s a stupid question, obviously, but he doesn’t know how else to respond as he watches her unpack groceries and a frying pan onto the little kitchen counter next to the living room. His kitchen has seen little regular use, though he does have a few dirty dishes sitting in the sink, and the fridge has almost nothing in it. The pantry is better, with dry goods and labeled cans taking up about half the available space.

No need to ask how she knew to come here, at least. Loki’s concern for his brother had been almost tangible, these past few months, and Thor might be lost entirely without him. But even Loki has his limits, and they have been sorely pushed since the assault on the Statesman. Thor would never begrudge him getting others to help, others to ease the immense burden he has been shouldering since the massacre. Even if that just means making omelets for wounded kings, apparently.