.

The first time Aang got you out of the house to teach you, he was all smiles.

Bright and hopeful, excited to share something that mattered to him. You don’t think you’d ever seen him look that happy, especially by the fourth attempt.

Airbending.

The others thought you might pick something up eventually. Water, earth, maybe even fire, but nothing ever came of it. And deep down, you knew nothing ever would.

You weren’t a bender.

You weren’t going to wake up one day and move the ground beneath your feet, or shift water with your hands, or throw fire. It wasn’t something you could learn. It wasn’t something anyone could promise you. You weren't born to be able to bend.

But Aang didn’t let it go.

And you didn’t have the heart to take that from him, no matter how much it pained you.

So you let him pull you out of the tower you’d been calling home for years now and take you to the Southern Air Temple.

You’d been there before, back when it was you, Katara, and Sokka, following him around while he showed you around. You’d seen far greater things, but the temple in ruins always settled heavily in your heart. It felt different now. More overgrown. Quieter.

Still beautiful though.

And you knew how much it meant to him.

You ran your hand along one of the columns as you walked, the stone cool under your fingers. You wondered if he ever thought about what this place used to be. If being here made it harder or easier.

“Okay,” Aang says, clapping his hands together as he turns to you. “Airbending. My area of expertise.”

His grin widens. And just like that, he looks like himself again.

You cross your arms loosely, raising a brow at him. “Confident?”

He moves past you, then circles back, positioning himself a few feet away. His posture shifts without him thinking about it. He looks lighter on his feet, shoulders relaxed, arms loose at his sides.

“I have to be,” Aang says easily. “I’ve only been doing this my whole life.” He steps back a little, giving you space. “Besides, you've made it through three trials. You haven't given up.”

“Three failures,” you correct.

“Three attempts,” he says, like it matters.

You sigh, finding your sandals more interesting, the dirt beneath them crunching with every press-down you make. You're pulled out of the hole you begin making up in your mind when Aang claps loudly again. The crack had made you flinch.

“Okay! Airbending isn’t about forcing anything,” he starts. “That’s why it’s hard to explain. You don’t grab it like the earth beneath your feet, or push it like fire. You… move with it.”

You nod, even if you don’t fully get it.

He gestures for you to stand straighter. “Feet apart. Don't stand too stiffly. You don’t want to lock yourself in place.”

You adjust, trying to copy him.

“Good,” he says. “Now, don’t think about making something happen. Just focus on what’s already there.”

“The air,” you say.

“Yeah.” He gives a small nod. “It’s everywhere. You don’t need to have a source like water or earth. You just… connect to it.”

You take a breath, slower this time.

Behind him, the wind moves through the open temple, brushing past the columns, slipping through broken archways. You can feel it on your skin, faint but constant.

“Okay,” he says. “Follow me.”

He steps into motion, slow and controlled. His arms move in a wide circle, like he’s tracing something invisible.

You mirror him. At least, you try to. Your movements feel heavier. Less natural. Like you’re thinking about every step instead of letting it happen.

“Loosen up,” he says gently. “You’re resisting it.”

“I’m not trying to,” you mutter.

“I know...”

You exhale, forcing yourself to relax your shoulders. Your arms follow his again, slower this time, less rigid. You shift, trying to follow what he’s doing again.

“Better?”

“Yeah. That’s good,” he says. “Now just…move your arms. Slow at first.”

You copy him, lifting your hands and pushing them forward in the same motion he just showed you.

Nothing happens.

You try again.

Still nothing.

Aang doesn’t say anything right away. He just watches on, further heightening the fact that you were aware he was observing your every move.

“Try not to think about it too much,” he says after a second.

You let out a small breath. “That’s kind of hard not to, especially when I’m trying to make something happen.”

“I know,” he says. “But if you focus on making it happen, it won’t.”

You glance at him. “That doesn’t sound very helpful.”

He laughs. “It’s true, though. Don’t think on it too much.”

You shake your head a little, but you try again anyway. This time slower.

Less stiff, more loose.

Going with the flow.

For a second, it almost feels right.

Almost.

“Now shift your weight,” he adds. “Don’t stay rooted. Airbenders don’t stand still if they can help it.”

You step lightly to the side, copying the way he moves. He’s already adjusted, already onto the next move before you've barely finished the previous action.

You’re a step behind. Always a step behind. Never able to keep up with the rest of them.

“Okay,” he says. “Now guide it.”

Your arms move through the air, and for a second, you almost think you feel something pulse within your palms.

But it’s gone before you can figure out what it might be.

Probably nothing to be honest.

You drop your hands with a huff. “Yeah. Still nothing.”

Aang steps closer, not an ounce of discouragement on his face. “That’s okay. It takes time. With more practice, you're bound to get something out of it. It gets easier. Trust me.”

“For you maybe,” you say. “You’ve been doing this since you were a kid.”

“Yeah, but that doesn’t mean you can’t learn something from it.”

You give him a look. “Aang, I can’t move a leaf, I couldn't shift the water from the stream, I couldn't move the stupid pebble that Toph had me attempt to move. Zuko even tried having me light the fire for the camp we set up. We almost froze. I can't move anything!”

“Not yet,” he corrects. Oh, how you wonder where he gets his patience and his calm from? Something you were surely running out of.

You sigh, but there’s no real frustration behind it. Yet, anyway.

He hesitates for a second, then moves behind you. “Can I?” he asks.

You nod. His hands hover near yours before settling lightly over them. Gentle, warm to the touch.

“Let me guide you,” he says.

You feel him push your arms through the same motions as before. Slower this time. More steady.

“Breathe,” he adds quietly. The warmth of his words tickles your ear.

You try to match his pace, his breathing. Inhale. Exhale. Repeat.

The air moves around you, brushing past your arms, your face. You can feel the wind, how it responds to him. The subtle breeze he lets swim in and out through your hair.

“Feel that?” he asks.

“Yeah.”

You almost laugh at the sensation, but you keep going. Letting your hands move with his instead of trying to lead on your own.

For a second, the motions feel easier. Like you’re not working as hard to exert them, act them out.

There's barely anything happening. Most of which is done by Aang. But the air in front of your hands stirs.

You pause.

“Did you—”

“I saw it,” Aang says quickly, a little quieter now. “Keep going.”

Your focus breaks.

And just like that, it’s gone. You let your arms fall.

“Of course.” You huff in defeat.

Aang doesn’t move away right away. “You felt it, though, right?” he asks.

“Barely.”

“It’s still something.”

You turn your head slightly, glancing back at him. “It only worked because you were helping. I’m not even sure that was me just now.”

“Maybe,” he says. “Or maybe you just needed to stop trying so hard.”

You don’t answer that.

After a second, his hands drop away from yours. You miss the warmth of them in an instant. The lack of his touch makes you want to pull him close again.

“Do you want to try again?” he asks. Chin dipping to try and get your eyes to meet his own. They don't. He looks down at the ground before waiting for your response.

You look at your hands, then back at him.

“Maybe later, if that’s okay.”

"It's okay. We can take a break."

-

The hill you found and settled on feels nice and cool underneath your touch as the sun dips.

Long shadows stretch across the mountains, swallowing the land around them, making it quieter. Emptier. At peace.

You and Aang sit side by side, and you disturb a patch of grass by pulling grass stems from the ground. You'd guess your anxiety was to blame for impulsively messing with perfectly good grass. Aang had lain back, eyes darting up at the sky. His thoughts wandering, you'd guess as much, seeing as his fingers stopped tapping against his stomach.

For a while, neither of you speaks.

The wind moves gently through the open air, brushing past softly, reminding you of the reason for being there in the first place. You figured Aang could've been reminded of home. Of everything he lost, but who were you to speak for him?

Aang exhales slowly.

“It’s weird,” he says.

You glance at him. “What is?”

He doesn’t look at you. Just out.

“The sky. The temple, all the antiques we keep finding. Everything.”

His fingers curl slightly against the grass as he sits up.

“I used to think the temples would always feel full,” he admits. “Like, no matter what happened… I could come back, and it’d still feel like home. Still… alive.” There’s a pause. “But it only reminds me of how everyone I've ever known...is gone.”

That lands heavier than anything he’s said all day.

You don’t interrupt. You just listen.

“They’re gone,” he continues, voice quieter now. “The monks. My friends. Gyatso. The stories they all used to tell, the way we used to celebrate, the food we would eat… even the stupid games we played.” A soft, broken laugh slips out of him. “I’m the only one left who remembers any of it.”

Your chest tightens.

“I don’t even know if I remember it right anymore.” He finally looks down at his hands. "I keep thinking that if I die, my culture dies with me. What if I forget something important?” he whispers. “What if it all just… disappears with me? No one but me can carry on my past. My whole life rests in my hands.”

There it is. His fear. It hits you harder than you expected. Because for once, this isn’t about being the Avatar.

This is just a boy, a man now, sitting in the ruins of his home, terrified of being the last voice of his people.

You don’t think. You don’t weigh your next words. You just… say it.

“Then I’ll carry it with you.”

Aang freezes.

You don’t stop.

“I’ll learn it,” you add quickly, heart racing now. “All of it. The stories, the traditions... Whatever you remember, I’ll remember too. I won’t let it disappear.”

He’s staring at you now.

Completely still. Like he’s not sure he heard you right.

“And if you’re worried about it ending…” You hesitate, then push through it anyway, the words tumbling out before you can stop them.

“I’ll give you a legacy.”

The silence falls heavily on you both. You look out into the valley, feeling the wind settle.

And the second it leaves your mouth, you second-guess your words.

Oh.

Oh no.

Your breath catches. “I-I didn’t mean—”

Aang’s expression changes.

“You’d… What?” he asks softly.

You shake your head quickly, heat rushing to your face. “I didn’t mean it like that, I just mean, I mean I did, but not—” you let out a nervous breath, stumbling over yourself. “I just meant I’d help. However you needed, I—”

“You’d give me children?” he interrupts.

That stops you. Your mouth opens agape, then shuts.

His voice is so quiet you almost miss it. You look at him properly now. Really take in the man before you. Give him children? You'd be stupid not to want a family with him.

Something in your chest settles warmly.

“Yeah,” you say, softer this time. “If you wanted me to. The only thing I could really give back.” You release a nervous laugh.

Aang’s eyes search yours, like he’s trying to find any sign of hesitation. Doubt. Anything that screamed that you were just trying to make up for what you lacked in, but you weren't

There isn’t any. Because you meant it. Even if you didn’t take into account how much you did until just now.

“You don’t have to do that,” he says, but there’s no strength behind it. No real push. No malice. Just a hint of genuineness.

“I know,” you reply. A beat. “I want to, though.”

That hits him harder than anything else.

You see it in the way his breath stutters slightly, the way his shoulders drop just a fraction, like something inside him is loosening up for the first time all day.

“You’d really…” he starts, then stops, swallowing. “…you’d learn everything?”

You nod. “Everything you’re willing to teach me.”

For a moment, he doesn’t say anything. Then his hand reaches for yours. Slowly, hesitant. Like he’s still asking permission to touch you, when he has every right to. When you don’t pull away, his fingers tighten slightly around yours.

“That means a lot to me, Y/n,” he admits, voice barely above a whisper. "I never even considered the idea of having children right now.

You smile, just a little. “I figured. It looked like your heart stopped for a second there.”

A soft huff of breath leaves him. almost a laugh, but not quite.

The wind returns, gentle once more, curling around the two of you as if it felt the heaviness settle between you. Like it had listened in.

Aang glances down at your joined hands, then back up at you.

For once, he doesn’t try to turn it into a joke right away. He just looks at you.

Like he’s still catching up to what you said and what it means. Not just the words, but the fact that you meant them. That you said them so easily, like it wasn’t something huge you placed in his lap.

It was.

You can tell by the way he keeps holding your hand, squeezing every now and then, like letting go would break up the moment too fast.

“I don’t know what to say,” he admits after a while.

You let out a small breath through your nose. “You don’t have to say anything.”

“I feel like I should.”

“You don’t have to.”

His mouth twitches a little at that, but it fades just as quickly.

“I just…” He looks away for a second, out at the valley below, at the fading light and shadows. “I’ve spent so much time thinking about what I lost that I never really thought about what could still happen. What I could still have.”

Your thumb brushes lightly over his knuckles before you can think better of it. Aang notices. His shoulders loosen again, but not enough.

“You make it sound simple,” he says.

“It’s not simple.”

This turns his attention back on you.

“It’s just not impossible either,” you say quietly. “There’s a difference.”

He studies your face for a second, and you can almost see the thoughts moving behind his eyes. Aang was never very good at hiding what he felt, but this is different. He's less open. More careful. Like he’s afraid of letting this conversation go in the wrong direction. Of making you angry.

“You'd really give me children?” he asks again.

Not because he didn’t hear you the first time. Because he needs to.

You nod once. “Yeah.”

“And learn all of it?”

“Yes.”

“The stories, the customs, the food, the prayers, the weird games—”

You smile a little. “You’re really trying to sell it now.”

That earns a breath of a laugh. Then he goes quiet again.

“Even if you can’t bend?”

There it is. You had a feeling it would come back to that.

You look down at your lap for a second before answering.

“Especially then.”

Aang frowns. You take a breath.

“I can’t give back from the lack of bending,” you say. “I know that. I know I’ll never be part of your culture in the same way you were born into it.” You pause, picking at a blade of grass near your knee. “But that doesn’t mean I can’t love it because it matters to you. It doesn’t mean I can’t help keep it alive. This could be one of the only things I can give back.”

His face changes at that. Softens. Something about those words gets through to him in a way the other words of the gang couldn't. Maybe it's because he knows you’re not saying it to make him feel better.

You’re saying it because you’ve already decided.

“I don’t want you to think this is all you’re good for,” he says after a moment.

You look at him, caught a little off guard.

“What?”

He turns toward you more fully now, his hand tightening around yours.

“The only thing you could really give back?” he repeats softly, using your own words. “Don’t say it like that.”

Heat crawls up your neck in half embarrassment, and half of something else.

“I just meant—”

“I know what you meant.” His voice stays gentle, but there’s something firmer in it now. “But you make it sound like you have to make up for something.”

You open your mouth, then close it. Because there isn’t a clean lie waiting to spill past your lips. Aang notices that too.

“You don’t owe me a legacy,” he says. “And you don’t owe me children just because you can’t bend.”

Your throat tightens a little.

“I know,” you say, but it comes out softer than you intended.

He watches you for another second, then shifts closer, close enough that your heads are leaning against each other.

“You don’t have to try and even the score for what you think you're lacking in,” he says. “Not for me.”

His words land hard. Too hard.

Because some part of you had thought exactly that, even if you didn’t want to say it out loud. That if you could never stand beside the others in the way they did, through bending, through power, through something useful, then maybe you could still give him something that mattered.

Something lasting.

You stare down at your lap for a second, blinking against the sting behind your eyes.

“I didn’t mean for it to sound like that,” you say quietly. “I’m not trying to make up with children for my lack of bending with you.”

“I know.” He says it immediately. Reassurance following his understanding. “I know you’re not.”

It helps. His words. A little.

You breathe out slowly.

“I just hate that I can’t help out sometimes,” you admit. "Heck, even Sokka is out there being a hero... But what can I do?"

Aang goes still. Because he finally understands what’s underneath all of the hurt you've bottled up inside of yourself.

The discouragement after every attempt. The way you'd look away from everyone's eyes after every attempt. The way you'd say it’s fine, when it clearly wasn't.

He shifts again, this time dipping his head enough that he can see your face better.

“What can you do?” he repeats quietly. And it's just him, sitting with the question instead of brushing it off.

You don’t answer right away because you’ve already answered it a hundred times in your head. Nothing, was always your response. He frowns as though the crease in your forehead gave you away.

“You think being a hero is just about bending?” he asks.

You give a small shrug. “It helps.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

You glance at him, a little caught. He doesn’t look away.

“You think Sokka is a hero, but he can't bend?” Aang presses.

You hesitate. “Yes, but—”

“But what?”

You sigh, frustrated now. “But he still does things, Aang. He fights. He plans. He actually contributes when something goes wrong.” You shake your head a little. “When things get bad, I’m just… there.”

The words come out flatter than you meant them to. Like you’ve said them before. To yourself. Too many times.

Aang’s expression tightens.

“You’re not ‘just there,’” he says.

You don’t argue. You don’t agree either. You just look away again.

“Do you remember the canyon?” he asks suddenly.

You frown slightly. “What about it?”

“You were the one who figured out how to settle the feud between the Gan Jin and the Zhang tribes,” he says. “You made them work together to get us out of being eaten by those canyon crawlers.”

“Wasn't that you—”

“And the village near the volcano?” he continues. “You were the one who convinced the villagers that they needed to evacuate.”

You shake your head. “That’s not—”

“And when Appa got hurt,” he adds, quieter now, “you stayed with him the whole night. You looked over him, you lost sleep over it too.”

You go still because you do remember that memory.

You remember thinking it didn’t count. That it wasn’t enough.

“That’s not fighting, though,” you say, softer now.

“No,” Aang agrees. “It’s not.”

He leans in just slightly, not crowding you, just enough that you can’t ignore him.

“But it’s helping.”

You swallow.

“It’s paying attention,” he continues. “It’s seeing things the rest of us miss because we’re too busy trying to win something.”

His voice softens. “And it matters.”

You look at him again because he’s not trying to make you feel better.

He’s not reaching just to say something nice. He means it.

“But when something actually happens—” you start.

“You’re there,” he says, cutting in gently this time. “You don’t run. You don’t hide. You stay.”

Your chest tightens.

“That’s not nothing.”

The wind shifts around you again. You look down at your interlocked hands.

“It doesn’t feel like enough sometimes,” you admit.

Aang nods. “I know.”

That catches you off guard.

“I get that, trust me,” he adds. “I’ve felt that too.”

You blink at him. “You?”

“Yeah.” A small, almost self-conscious smile tugs at his mouth. “Being the Avatar doesn’t automatically make you feel invincible.”

You let out a quiet breath. That… comforts you more than you expected it to.

Aang studies your face for another second, then reaches out again. This time, slower, more deliberate, as he nudges your right cheek with his left hand, before pressing a gentle kiss on it. You don’t pull away.

“I'm sorry if we made you feel that way. You don’t have to be like the rest of us to matter,” he says.

You let that sit. It doesn’t fix everything. But it settles the war that was waged inside you anyway.

“You really believe that?” you ask.

He nods.

“I wouldn’t be sitting here with you if I didn’t.”

That makes you look at him again. A small, uneven smile pulls at your lips.

“You’re really bad at letting people wallow in their self-pity,” you mutter.

He smiles back, softer now. “Yeah,” he says. “I’ve been told that.”

You huff out a quiet laugh, shaking your head.

"Why do you keep talking like bending is the only part worth carrying on?”

That shuts you up again.

He’s not angry. If anything, he sounds a little sad. A little frustrated that you still can’t see what he’s trying to tell you.

“My people weren’t just airbenders,” he says. “They were monks, teachers, healers. They made toys for kids and baked fruit pies and played games and told stories they’d told a hundred times before.” A small smile pulls at his mouth. “They were annoying sometimes. And stubborn. And really nosy.”

A laugh slips out of you before you can stop it. Aang smiles a little wider when he hears it.

“My culture didn’t live in bending alone,” he says. “It lived in how we treated people. What we believed. How we lived.”

He looks down at your joined hands. “And you’ve been trying to understand that part of me since the day we met.”

Your heart settles.

“So no,” he says softly. “You wouldn’t be giving me the only thing you could offer.”

You swallow.

“Aang…”

“You’d just be giving me more of you.”

His words are so simple they almost hurt. You don’t know what to do with them. So for a second, you do nothing. Then your hand tightens around his. His eyes flick down to it, then back to your face.

You shake your head a little, a laugh leaving you, thin and shaky. “You always know how to make me feel stupid in the nicest way possible.”

That finally gets a real laugh out of him.

“You’re not stupid.”

“Mm.”

“You’re not.” He presses firmly, gently.

You look over at him. “I heard you the first time.”

“Good.”

The breeze picks up around the two of you, cooler now that the sun has dropped. It lifts a few strands of your hair and brushes the fabric on his sleeves.

Aang leans back on one hand, still facing you.

“I think I’d like that,” he says after a while.

You blink. “What part?”

He smiles, small and careful. A beat. “All of it.”

Something in you eases. Not all the way, but enough to let you breathe easier.

“Even if I can't bend?”

He tilts his head, brows furrowing in feigned shock. “You can't bend!”

You let out an offended noise and shove at his shoulder.

He laughs, catching your wrist before you can do it again.

“I’m kidding,” he says.

“You’re not.”

“Okay, maybe a little.”

You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling a lot brighter now, and he is too, and the heaviness from a minute ago doesn’t feel quite so sharp in your chest.

He keeps hold of your wrist for a second longer than he needs to. Long enough for the mood to shift again. Just slightly.

His smile fades first, not into sadness, but something more aware. Serious. You felt it too. The tension.

The way he raised his hand and his thumb brushed once, almost absentmindedly, over the side of your face.

“Aang,” you say softly.

His eyes avert from your lips, falling on your softening gaze.

You lost your train of thought, the words you wanted to say falling off the tip of your tongue. Maybe it was nothing. His name just felt easier than everything else sitting between you.

His eyes search your face anyway.

“Yeah?”

You shake your head, but not because you want to take it back.

“Nothing.”

His mouth curves faintly. “You sure?”

“No.”

He studies you for another moment, then glances out at the valley again.

“You want to stay here tonight,” he says. “If you want, of course.”

You lift a brow. “You mean avoid going back and getting interrogated by Katara?”

“That too.”

You smile. “Tempting.”

“Very. It’s quiet here.”

You look around. The grass. The temple in the far distance, worn down but still standing strong, like Aang.

“It is.”

Aang nods, then looks back at you. Letting the quiet air take over as he took in his favorite view. You. Who went back to pulling at the patch of grass you disrupted, he can't help but let his smile grow.

“I love you.”

There it is again. His plain honesty. It always got the best of you. You feel your face heat up, but there’s no point in pretending you didn't hear him.

“I love you too,” you say, expression timid, but still facing the ground.

His heart beats faster. This was it for him. You were it. All he'd ever want, so long as the universe allowed you and him to last. To be.

His shoulders drop. His mouth softens. He looks younger for a second, and older too. Like the boy and the man he’s still becoming are both sitting right here beside you. Making your head spin and your heart full.

The wind curls between you again. Gentle. Familiar.

And this time, when the silence returns, it doesn’t feel empty.

It feels full.

Aang glances at your joined hands once more, then back at you, his expression almost shy despite everything you’ve just said.

"So you really want children with me?"

"Yes, Aang." Your grin grows as you stifle a laugh.

“Do you want to start...on our legacy?” he asks.

You smile.

“Right now?” you ask.

Aang freezes. “Right now?”

You shrug, biting back another laugh. “You’re the one who asked.”

His brain immediately starts short-circuiting.

“Okay, wait, hold on—” he lets go of your hand just to gesture wildly, before stopping again. “I didn’t mean like right now, right now, I meant like, someday right now. Future right now. Not, this exact moment on a hill—”

You’re fully laughing now.

“Aang—”

“No, because there’s—there’s steps!” he insists, pointing at the ground like the steps might appear if he believes hard enough. “There are definitely steps. We skipped all of them.”

“You asked!”

“I didn’t think you’d say yes that fast!”

You tilt your head. “You wanted me to say no?”

“No!” he says immediately. “No, definitely not that either, just, maybe a warning? A little preparation time?”

You grin. “You’re panicking.”

“I am not panicking,” he says, voice an octave higher than usual. “I am calmly evaluating a very big, important, life thing—”

He stops. Looks at you. You’re still smiling at him like this is the best thing that’s ever happened.

“You’re serious, though,” he says, quieter now.

You nod. “Yeah.”

That does it. He exhales, shoulders dropping, all that frantic energy softening just a little.

“Okay.”

A beat.

“Okay,” he repeats, like he’s trying to convince himself he’s got this.

Then.

“Not right now, though,” he adds quickly.

You laugh. “Not right now.”

“Good,” he says, relieved. “Because I think I’d pass out.”

“You’d pass out?”

“Immediately.”

You bump his shoulder. “Avatar, master of all four elements… defeated by the talk of children.”

He points at you. “You’re the one who started it!”

“You asked!”

“And I regret nothing,” he says quickly, then pauses.

You laugh again, leaning your head against him. He relaxes this time, letting your head rest against his shoulder, still a little flustered but smiling anyway.

“We can start with the easy stuff,” he mutters.

“Like what?”

“Like… teaching you those games I used to play here,” he says. “Much safer.”

You hum. “Yeah, probably a good place to start.”

“Definitely a good place to start,” he agrees.

A beat.

“Still saying yes, though.”

You offered him the smallest smile you could muster and whispered, “Please, come into the light. I wish to see the face of the one who saved me.”

It became a code. Your gentle call that told him you are safe with me.

You told him then that you owed him your life. When you asked how you might repay him, he had hesitated the way only Adam hesitates; almost frightened of his own voice.

He asked for a friend.

So you granted it.

Night after night, beneath the moon’s silver eye, you met him in the forest beyond your father’s gardens, arms full of novels, philosophy, and whatever academic curiosities you thought might delight him. And he always listened, knees drawn up, shoulders hunched, great hands folded as if unsure where else they ought to rest.

Tonight, you arrive early. A soldier had stopped you on the path back to the manor, handsome in a polished sort of way. He flirted boldly, bowing far too close, fingers brushing yours as he tucked a stray curl behind your ear.

You had smiled simply to be polite.

But in the trees behind him, unseen even by you, Adam watched.

He stood stiff as a plank. Unblinking. Arms tight at his sides. A strange, smouldering something burning low behind his dark eyes. He did not understand the word for it.

He only felt… wrong.

Later that night, the soldier forgotten, you step into your forest clearing and speak softly into the shadows, “Adam… come into the light.”

A breath.

A rustle.

And then he emerges, immense and hesitant, because he knows the code is only spoken when it is you approaching him.

You sit together beneath your usual tree. You finish reading to him and close the book upon your lap. The night hums. The air is velvet.

He is too quiet.

His voice breaks the silence.

“Why did your face alter,” he asks slowly, “when that man laid his hand upon yours?”

You blink. “…My face?”

He nods, gaze following the ground like he fears he has overstepped. “It moved. I know not the term for it. Yet… it changed.”

You let out a soft, sheepish laugh. “How so? What manner of expression did I wear?”

Adam considers the memory with earnest seriousness, brow furrowing.

“You appeared… startled. And warm,” he says carefully. “As though your breath escaped you.” He looks up, eyes gentle, confused. “Does touch compel such a feeling? When the one touching is… desired?”

The laugh dies in your throat.

Your heart seizes. Because you want him. You want him in ways you barely allow yourself to think, let alone admit in the open air.

His voice lowers. Almost frightened. “Tell me… what is it like, to be wanted?”

You freeze.

He is looking at your mouth. Or perhaps you are looking at his. You cannot tell, because the world goes silent except for your pulse.

Your breath hitches and you lean—

No.

No.

You scoot away from him so abruptly the leaves whisper under you, because you nearly did something catastrophically foolish.

His head lifts.

“I see you look at me, at times,” he says, tone soft as moss, deeply innocent. “It confounds me. Am I… displeasing to behold?”

You choke on nothing.

You are caught between You’re beautiful and I must throw myself into a swamp immediately.

He misreads your silence. Of course he does.

“I meant no insult,” he murmurs quickly, shoulders curling inward, as if trying to make himself smaller. “I am aware my form is… strange. I am—”

“Oh heavens,” you cry, hands flying up. “I think you’re beautiful! Inside and out. Must we suffer through this?”

He startles like you’ve hurled a stone at him.

“Beautiful?” he repeats, voice a low, incredulous echo.

You bury your face in your hands. “Yes. Beautiful—Handsome. Maddeningly so. Would you stop looking so wounded? You unsettle me, Adam. You unsettle me dreadfully.”

He moves then. Slowly. Cautiously. Like approaching a wild creature that might flee.

His fingers brush yours.

Barely.

Traced with hesitance, reverence, fear, longing, everything he does not yet have language for.

“Then… why did you draw away from me?”

Because his touch sets your world on fire. 

Because you want him with a weight that makes the earth seem too small. 

Because if you stay close, you might do the very thing you are terrified he will not want.

You swallow, voice a thin whisper.

“Because had I remained… I fear I would have forgotten myself.”

His brows pull together. “Forgotten… in what fashion?”

You meet his eyes.

They widen.

Very gently, he lifts your hand between both of his, treating it as though it is the most precious thing in creation.

“I wish,” he says quietly, “to understand such a fashion.”

Your breath leaves you in a rush.

You do not kiss him. But you lean just close enough that he feels the tremble of the need you carry for him alone.

And his thumb strokes once, reverently, across your knuckles.

“Would you show me?” he asks, voice unsteady. “What it is… to be wanted?”

The forest holds its breath.

You lift his hand to your lips and whisper, “Put your lips on mine, and I will show you.”

Then he leans in.

Very carefully. Very slowly. Like a man approaching fire with the knowledge it may burn him… yet choosing it anyway.

His lips touch yours.

A tremor goes through him so sharply you feel it in your bones.

This is his first kiss—You can sense it in the hesitant brush of his mouth, the fragile uncertainty of his breath, the reverence in the way he barely dares to touch.

You kiss him gently at first, soft and coaxing, because you do not wish to startle him, do not wish to overwhelm him. Your fingers find the side of his jaw, guiding him, telling him he is welcome in this closeness.

He answers you with a broken exhale.

Then his hand rises—slow, trembling—and he cradles your face.

His palm is broad, slightly cold, shaking as though the moment itself is too precious, too impossible to hold steady. He cups your cheek as though you are something divine, something he fears the world might take from him at any second.

You deepen the kiss by a bare breath, only enough for your lips to mold softly against his—and a sound escapes you.

A quiet, helpless little hum.

He startles.

His entire body jerks back as if struck.

Adam tears away from your mouth, eyes wide, chest heaving, gaze fixed shamefully on the ground.

“I… I did not mean—” He swallows, throat working. “Did I hurt you? Forgive me, I did not know… I thought… I feared I—”

His breath stutters, the words entangled in panic. “Your sound—I feared it was pain.”

Your heart breaks and swells all at once.

You reach for him carefully, your fingers brushing the back of his knuckles.

“Adam,” you whisper, soft but sure. “Look at me.”

He hesitates, shoulders drawn tight, but he obeys.

His eyes lift, and the fear in them is a living thing.

You cradle his face with both hands, mirroring how he had held you moments before, and your voice steadies.

“You could never hurt me.”

His breath shudders. “But you—”

“That sound,” you murmur, leaning close enough that your words warm his lips, “was not pain. It was… pleasure. It was want.”

His eyes flicker.

Understanding comes slowly, uncertainly—yet with a hunger that feels older than his bones.

You draw him nearer again, your lips brushing his as delicately as flower petals.

“This is wanted,” you breathe. “This is me… wanting you.”

He makes a low, astonished sound—and when he kisses you again, it is still gentle, still careful…but fuller. Warmer.

A trembling, reverent claiming from a man who has never dared to claim anything.

One of his hands stays on your cheek, shaking; the other settles at your waist, large enough to span nearly its whole curve, holding you.

Your lips move together slowly, sweetly, with a rising thrum of passion beneath the tenderness.

Not urgent. Not rushed. But something blooming—deep, molten, inevitable.

Every breath, shared. Every tremble felt. Every inch of him learning you.

And every inch of you, melting.

When you part, the air is warm between you, his forehead resting almost shyly against yours.

He whispers, voice barely more than a breath, “Is… is this what it is to be wanted?”

Your smile answers before your words do.

“Yes,” you whisper. “This is precisely what it is.”

And he breathes you in like a man starved.

You barely have time to savor the trembling stillness between you before he leans in again—less hesitant this time, more drawn, as though something inside him has unlatched and will not be shut again.

His mouth finds yours with new hunger. Still gentle…but no longer timid. A firmer press. A seeking. A wanting he has no name for, yet feels with every part of him.

His hand cups your jaw fully now, his thumb grazing the corner of your mouth in a motion that feels almost—possessive.

Your breath catches.

You kiss him back with equal fervor, lips parting for him just enough to draw a quiet, startled sound from his throat. He answers with a soft growl of need, the faintest hint of bite in the way he pulls you closer—your bodies brushing, your pulse thundering.

It is slow and deep and dizzying.

A kiss that tastes like discovery and hunger and that first spark of something far too dangerous to name.

Your fingers curl into the fabric of his jacket.

His other hand hesitates at your waist—then grips, warm and trembling, pulling you the slightest fraction nearer. The kiss deepens again, heat rising, your lips molding, parting, meeting with a rhythm that feels older than breath.

You make another sound—soft, wanting, shameless.

He echoes it, a low, rumbling answer in his chest that sends shivers down your spine.

You are just about to lose yourself entirely in the press of him—When a voice in the distance calls your name.

“My lady? My lady—are you in the gardens?”

You freeze.

Adam stills instantly, every muscle locking beneath your hands.

Another call. Closer this time. “My lady!”

You breathe out against his mouth, reluctant, trembling.

He draws back only a few inches, eyes wide and dark, the left iris glinting, lips parted, confused and almost wounded by the interruption.

You rest your forehead to his, breath warm between you.

“Adam…” you whisper, already aching for the kiss you have no choice but to leave behind.

His hand stays on your waist, gentle, uncertain. Yours lingers on his cheek.

The voices draw nearer.

You swallow, whispering, “I will see you again soon. Wait for me.”

He nods once.