She could have waited for him. She could have pined for him on the sidelines in longing.
But she was not that kind of woman.
Sif wore dresses for court, but she'd always wish for cool metal and the fitted material that moved fluidly against her curves. For her, there was a time for raising goblets, and there was a time for raising swords.
She could tell Thor that she loved him, that she always had, even before Loki's treachery, and during long warm summers when they trained together as children. She'd die for him; Thor already knew this.
Sif was anything but a fool. She would not wait for Thor to notice her. He longed for the mortal woman, Jane, and perhaps Sif was grateful to Jane in a way, for changing him for the better. But Jane was Thor's past, and Sif believed that she was Thor's future.
And if she told him, it would be under Sif's terms. They were training, and they were both bloody and dirty. Their bodies were numb from aches that would pain them tomorrow, and they were too tired to notice where the sweat ended and the blood began. Thor wanted this; he wanted her to fight him, to make him forget his agony, his longing for Jane. He might never see her again, and he knew this like a dagger that could not be freed from his heart.
But here, on the battlefield, Thor belonged to Sif. He rolled onto his back, catching his breath. Sif moved, covering him. He looked at her, surprised, but too winded to deny her.
It was Sif's time to make her move. She pressed her sore lips to his, stealing his breath.
He knew, as if he'd always known, that Sif loved him, like this, forever.