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She comes back to base late in the evening, exhaustion mirroring her posture as she makes her way through to the command center, telling Alma and Priya about the meeting with Kaānat. Itās as they fear, he wonāt play ball, as the humans like to say, and one of the female Naāvi sent her on a hunt with one of the Aranahe to prove herself.
āItās so stupid,ā she says, rubbing her temples, white face paint smearing as she does. āIāve already hunted a titanothere. And theyāre sending me to hunt a sturmbeest.ā
āMaybe itās not about the size?ā Priya offers nervously, fiddling with the tablet in her hands.
āBut itās the principle,ā she retorts. āIāve already proven to hunt something bigger and stronger. Why this?ā
Alma, ever the peace-keeper, rests a hand on her shoulder. āJust, follow what they say. Youāll gain their respect if you do.ā
She huffs, rubs her temples again and sighs. āFine. If this is what it takes.ā She nods to the two of them and leaves, walking around to the gear bench where she sets her bow and rifle down, staring at them.
āI see you wasted no time finding better gear,ā a voice says from behind and she looks over her shoulder, seeing Soālek restringing a bow.
She looks down at herself, realizing that yes, she did find better gear, only after Nefika practically stripped her naked and shoved the Aranahe warrior gear into her arms, prodding her along to a secluded area to change. Straps and braces of tanned hide, teal and lavender weaving, bright purple feathers with matching stones of yellow and fuchsia. A perfect fit, tight in a way sheād never experienced when it came to clothing, but it felt right.
Her cheeks warm, darkening as her bioluminescent dots flicker to signal her fluster. āNefika, one of the Aranahe,ā she starts. āShe, um, was kind enough to offer me some gear. With more color, as she said.ā
āAh, Nefika,ā Soālek says. āQuiet the gossiper, that one. Pulls strings from behind everyone.ā
āIāve noticed,ā she laughs softly, walking over to sit down beside him. Enough space that he has his own, but close enough to smell the scent of sweat, oil, and the muskiness of the trees. A scent that makes her heart beat a little faster, stomach flipflopping. āThat hunt Iāve been sent on,ā she murmurs. āYou said you shouldāve shown me yourself.ā
He nods. āI should have. I did not think they would send you on a hunt.ā His eyes meet hers. āI am still of the mind that Kaānat should respect your Sarentu heritage.ā
āItās been over thirty years since anyone has seen the Sarentu,ā she mutters. āWhat is there to respect about a dead clan?ā
His expression darkens. āMuch.ā
She suddenly remembers that Soālek himself comes from a dead clan. āI apologize,ā she hurries. āI didnāt mean it like that.ā
āI know what you meant,ā he replies. āBut it still stands. Your people were one of the greatest clans. Brave, kind, caring. They listened without judgement, solved errors, provided peace and clarity. They were what the Sky People would call āpeacekeepers.āā
Thinking back on her TAP education, she counters, āYeah, but Sky People peacekeepers usually kept the peace by killing. Not by being diplomatic.ā
āI love that you think your people shied away from a fight.ā He looks at her. āDiplomacy is not the only way to keep peace. Is it the best way? Possibly. But your ancestors were known to stop problems before they started.ā
āI thought our people wereā¦yāknow, pacifists. Hated violence in any capacity.ā
āReluctance to fight doesnāt mean you donāt. It just means itās a last resort.ā
She looks down at her hands. They used to be a lot smoother, now rough and calloused from using her bow and guns. āIt seems to be my only resort.ā
āā¦sometimes we must fight to make a change. It does not mean we will fight forever.ā
Her eyes met his. āHow did you do it?ā she asks softly. āWhen you had nothing left. How did you go on?ā
Soālek pauses, his eyes lowering to the bow in his hands; he runs his thumb along the smoothness of the wood. āLike you, I spoke with my ancestor through Eywa. I took his journey. It brought me here.ā When she doesnāt say anything, he looks up to see her staring at him with a deadened expression. āWhat.ā
āThatās it?ā she says. āNo emotional revelation? No dramatic declarations? Just āit brought me here?ā Thatās it?ā
He rolls his eyes with a grunt. āYour people are the storytellers not mine.ā
āOh, thatās the easy way out,ā she grumbles.
Soālek shares a rare laugh, lips turning up in a soft smile. āMy journey was long and arduous. I spent many years on it. Met many clans. Many times, I wanted to quit. Many times I wanted to die. Many times, I almost did. I kept going because I believed that it was not done yet.ā
āUntil here?ā
āUntil here.ā
She pulls her knees to her chest, looking at him as she rests her chin on her elbows. āIām glad youāre here.ā Her voice lowers into a whisper. āYou make me feel more normal. Make me remember who I am.ā
āThe Sky People have taken much from you,ā he says softly. āBut they can never take who you are away.ā He sets his bow aside on the rack and looks at her. āYou should rest. It will be night soon.ā
She heaves a sigh and deflates. āBut Iām not tired yet.ā
āYou are. Even I can tell.ā He nods to her weary posture. āThere will still be a hunt tomorrow. Go rest.ā
āHmmā¦ā her hum is low in her throat, a signal of her displeasure. āWill you teach me?ā
Soālek looks at her. āTo hunt?ā he grunts. āI thought that Aranahe was teaching you.ā
āI thought you wanted to teach me,ā she says, voice dripping with teasing as she adds, āAre you jealous?ā His gaze narrows as he looks at her pointedly. āItās okay, Soālek, I promise I wonāt let him keep me out past curfew.ā
He lets out a noise of displeasure, waving her off. āGo on. Rest.ā
āTeach me to hunt.ā
āNo.ā
āPlease?ā
Soālek sighs. āYou will not rest until I concede, will you?ā
āNope,ā she says, popping the āpā in the word.
āFine. We will start early tomorrow morning.ā
She smiles triumphantly, flashing her canines, and it lights up his chest in a way he hasnāt felt in a truly long time. āThank you, Soālek.ā
He looks away, pretends to be busy with another piece of gear. āYouāre welcome. Now, goāā
āGo rest, I know, I know,ā she exasperates; she stands, glancing down at him. āWill you be awake a little while longer?ā
āI have some things to take care of,ā he replies.
She nods, turning to walk off, then she stops and turns back again. āSoālek?ā
He looks up at her from the floor. āHm?ā
āThose clans you met when you were on your journey?ā he nods. āWhy didnāt you join any of them?ā
He blinks, thinking on it a moment. āI often ask myself the same question when many times I was offered a place amongst them.ā
āAnd your answer?ā
āIt wasnāt where I was supposed to be. Not yet at least.ā
She takes her bow and rifle from the workbench, looking back at him. āWell, if you ever come around to where youāre supposed to beā¦the Sarentu would welcome you with open arms.ā
His eyes widen a fraction, voice gentle as he replies, āIā¦will certainly think on it.ā
Her eyes soften as she smiles kindly, making his stomach flutter, before she bids goodbye and goes to find the rest of her clan for the evening.
Summary : Soālek is more than a decade older, a mentor and protector who has taken the Sarentuās survival upon himself. Wanting Tamptey feels like a failure of restraint, something he tells himself he cannot allowāno matter how often their closeness slips through the cracks. As she grows more certain of what she feels, he convinces himself that distance is the only way to keep her safe, even if it means walking away from something neither of them has named yet.
Authorās note : I wasnāt planning on writing another fanfic, but Soālek content is practically nonexistent, and at some point you stop waiting and start writing. Iāve seen people argue that because heās a mentor, romance with the Sarentu is impossible. That assumption stuck with meābecause what if thatās not a barrier, but the heart of the story?
*For this story, the Sarentu is written as female and is addressed as Tamptey. Thatās what I feel most comfortable writing, and I wanted her to feel like a character readers could still identify with rather than a blank placeholder. She also is 21+ cause dont think their age was really specified anywhere and Soālek is 30+ so making her barely 18 feels wrong. I havenāt played any of the DLCās yet so it kinda takes place somewhere in there i guess, but for sure after the event of the main game.*
Before anyone asks: yes, this was heavily influenced by a scenario I built on Chai. Itās a free, non-monetized fanfic. Take it or leave it, but donāt bother me about it. Thanks.
What heād first noticed was how you always seemed to be trying to get his attention. Either by calling him names, making fun of his ikranās riding skills, or finding anything you could comment on. At first, he thought nothing of it, assuming it was simply your way of filling the silence, restless youthful energy with nowhere else to go.
You were Sarentu. Curiosity came with the name.
Besides, he told himself, you treated everyone the same way. Loud, fearless, unfiltered. There was no reason to think you meant more by it.
And even if you didā¦
He shut that thought down before it could settle.
He had taken it upon himself to teach you. Having known the silence left behind by a fallen clan, he could not stand to watch other people walk the world without roots or memory. He taught you the ways of the Naāvi as he had once been taught, carefully, deliberately, with respect for what had been lost.
You were not just students to him. You were a reminder.
Of what had been taken.
And of what still needed protecting.
Soālek kept his distance.
Or at least, he tried to.
āāāāāāā-
You noticed.
And instead of pulling away, you tried harder.
You said his name more often than necessary, always with that slight lift in your voice that made him turn before he could stop himself. You stayed closer during patrols, matched his pace even when the path widened enough to give him space.
When he corrected your form, you exaggerated the mistake, just enough to make him look twice. When he pretended not to hear you, you spoke louder, never disrespectful, only persistent.
It wasnāt defiance.
It was curiosity sharpened by attention withheld.
He noticed too.
And every time he did, he reminded himself that distance was not cruelty. It was protection.
Still, the effort it took not to respond weighed heavier with every passing day.
Then he made a mistake.
It was small. Small enough that no one else would have noticed.
You had stumbled on loose roots during training, more annoyed than hurt, and before you could regain your footing his hand was on your arm, firm, steady, familiar. He caught you easily, as if he had been ready for it.
Too ready.
The moment stretched.
His grip did not loosen right away. His thumb pressed unconsciously into your skin, grounding you in a way that felt instinctive rather than deliberate. When he realized what he was doing, he pulled back as if burned.
āBe careful,ā he said, voice too controlled, gaze already turned away.
But it was enough.
Enough to tell you that you hadnāt imagined the distance. Or the hesitation. Or the way his attention sharpened when he thought you werenāt looking.
He had felt it too.
And that knowledge settled quietly in your chest, warm, dangerous, undeniable.
He said nothing after that.
Training continued, the rhythm familiar, the forest settling back into itself as if the moment had never happened. His instructions were precise, his tone steady, but he no longer stood as close as before.
You didnāt comment on it.
You pushed harder instead.
You took risks you knew heād notice. Longer jumps, sharper turns, movements just reckless enough to draw his attention without crossing into danger. When you landed cleanly, you didnāt look back right away. You waited.
Sometimes you felt his gaze on you.
Sometimes you didnāt.
Either way, you never called it out.
Later, as the others drifted away and the forest dimmed into its quiet glow, you stayed behind under the pretense of gathering your things. You moved slower than necessary, aware of him nearby, aware of the space he kept between you.
You wondered, briefly, what would happen if you closed it.
The thought made your chest tighten.
Confidence had always come easily to you in other things. Hunting. Training. Survival. Romance was different. Romance came with the risk of being seen, and worse, of being turned away.
So you said nothing.
You brushed past him instead, close enough that your arm nearly grazed his, close enough that you felt the pause in his breathing even though he did not move.
You walked on as if you hadnāt noticed.
Behind you, he remained still.
And for the first time, distance felt less like protection, and more like something he was losing control of.
And so it went on.
Longer than you had expected.
Days folded into weeks, weeks into seasons shaped by conflict and rebuilding, by victories that never came without cost. You learned the land as it revealed itself to you, patiently, reluctantly, and you learned yourself alongside it. What it meant to be Sarentu, still standing in a world that had tried to erase you.
Through all of it, he remained close. Not beside you, not quite, but never far. He taught when teaching was needed, watched when words were unnecessary, kept his distance with a care that never felt accidental.
And you did not speak of it.
Not to anyone. Not in confidence, not in jest. Whatever lived between you stayed unnamed, held carefully behind your ribs. You imagined the concern it might draw, the quiet warnings dressed as kindness. Someone would tell you that you were young, that admiration could be mistaken for something deeper. Someone would remind you of his age, his role, the lines that existed whether you acknowledged them or not.
And Riānelaā¦
You trusted her. You always had. But you feared the softness that might enter her voice, the way she might urge caution, tell you that you deserved someone unburdened by responsibility, someone who could meet you without hesitation. Even if she would never forbid it, the thought was enough to keep you silent.
So you carried it alone.
Quietly. Carefully.
You teased him when it felt safe. You tested nothing you could not retreat from. You learned when to push and when to wait. Confidence came easily to you in other things, training, survival, leadership, but this felt different. This felt fragile.
And then, after the fighting eased, after the first chapter of the Sarentuās return had been written in loss and perseverance, something shifted.
Not all at once. Not enough to name.
Just enough to feel.
The distance he kept no longer felt steady.
And for the first time, it seemed less like protection, and more like something that could not be held much longer.
āāāāāā-
The shift came on a night meant for celebration.
Fires burned brighter than usual, their glow reflected in beads of color and painted skin. Laughter carried easily through the clearing, voices rising and falling with the rhythm of drums and song. The air smelled of smoke, sweetness, and fermented fruit passed freely from hand to hand.
You stayed near the edge at first, watching. It felt strange to celebrate after everything, after loss so fresh it still lingered beneath the joy, but the others welcomed it anyway. Survival, they said, was worth honoring.
You accepted a cup when it was offered. Then another.
The warmth settled low in your chest, loosening something you hadnāt realized youād been holding so tightly. You laughed more easily. Moved more freely. The night felt softer for it.
He noticed.
You could tell by the way his attention kept finding you through the crowd, drawn back no matter how deliberately he turned away. He stood apart, as he often did, watchful, restrained, but the noise and closeness left fewer places to retreat.
When someone pulled you into the circle of dancers, you went without hesitation. Your movements were unpracticed but fearless, laughter slipping free as you stumbled and recovered, letting the rhythm guide you instead of discipline.
You caught his gaze then.
He looked away too late.
Later, much later, you found yourself beside him without quite remembering how. The crowd pressed close, voices overlapping, shoulders brushing. Someone handed you another cup. You drank, then passed it to him without thinking.
For a moment, he hesitated.
Then he took it.
The silence between you felt different here, less deliberate, more fragile. He stood closer than he had in weeks, close enough that you could feel the warmth of him through the movement around you.
When someone bumped into you from behind, it was his hand that steadied you. Firm. Familiar. He did not pull away right away.
The world did not stop.
The drums did not falter. The laughter did not quiet. But something in the space between you shifted, unmistakable and dangerous in its subtlety.
You were suddenly aware of how close he stood. Of the warmth at your side, solid and grounding. Of his hand still at your arm, steady where the crowd jostled and swayed.
You wanted.
Not recklessly. Not foolishly.
You wanted closeness.
The kind that came without explanation. The kind that didnāt demand words or promises, only presence. You wanted to lean into the space he occupied, to rest your head against his shoulder just once, to feel anchored to something older and steadier than the chaos still echoing in your chest.
The wanting surprised you with its intensity.
You had faced danger without fear. You had faced loss without breaking. But this quiet longing felt far more dangerous than either.
You shifted slightly, just enough that your arm brushed his. The contact was brief, accidental in appearance only.
He inhaled sharply.
His hand tightened, not pulling you closer, not pushing you away. Just holding.
You did not look at him.
If you did, you feared you would not look away.
When the song ended and the crowd shifted, you found yourself reluctant to move. As if stepping back would mean admitting how much you had wanted to stay.
When he finally let go, the absence felt immediate. Sharp.
You forced yourself to breathe. To smile. To rejoin the noise as if nothing had changed.
But something had.
You had tasted closeness now.
And the space he kept no longer felt merely frustrating.
It felt unbearable.
And then the night ended.
One by one, the fires dimmed. Laughter softened into murmurs, then into silence as people drifted away toward rest. The celebration loosened its hold on the clearing, leaving behind smoke, embers, and the quiet weight of everything that had not been said.
You walked back with him.
Not together, not deliberately, but your paths aligned, footsteps falling into an unspoken rhythm that felt too familiar to be coincidence. The alcohol had dulled the edge of your thoughts, but not enough to quiet the awareness thrumming beneath your skin.
You were careful now.
Careful not to drift too close. Careful not to test the space again while the night still lingered in your blood. Wanting closeness was one thing. Being shut down for it was another.
He said your name once, low and steady, as if grounding himself as much as you.
You looked at him.
Only for a moment.
His expression was unreadable in the low light, controlled, composed, but strained in a way you had learned to recognize. He stopped walking. You did too, heart tightening as the distance between you stretched and held.
āYou should rest,ā he said.
Not unkindly. Not coldly.
Carefully.
You nodded, swallowing the words that rose instinctively to your tongue. Confidence deserted you here, in the quiet aftermath, where rejection would echo louder than it ever could in celebration.
āGood night,ā you said instead.
He inclined his head. āGood night.ā
You turned away before you could hesitate.
Behind you, he did not follow.
And yet you felt him there. Standing still. Watching. Carrying the same weight you were.
The closeness you had tasted lingered long after the warmth faded, sharper now for having been withdrawn.
Whatever had shifted could not be undone.
And whatever came next would demand more restraint than either of you had left to give.
Morning came too soon.
The camp stirred gently, light filtering through leaves still heavy with dew. Voices were low, movements unhurried, the kind of quiet that followed a night spent letting go. You woke with the dull ache of exhaustion, and the sharper awareness of everything that had happened.
Or hadnāt.
The warmth from the celebration was gone, leaving something tighter behind. You sat up slowly, grounding yourself in routine. Breathe. Stretch. Focus. Confidence was easier when there were tasks to fill your hands.
You told yourself it would feel the same once you saw him.
It didnāt.
He was already awake, already moving with purpose, speaking to others with the same calm authority he always carried. From a distance, nothing had changed. He looked composed. Untouched by the night before.
And that hurt more than you expected.
You hesitated, just briefly, before approaching. The space he kept yesterday felt wider now, deliberate in a way it hadnāt been before. When his gaze finally found you, it was steady, but careful. As if he were measuring something he could no longer ignore.
āYouāre up early,ā he said.
His voice was neutral. Controlled.
You nodded. āDidnāt sleep much.ā
He paused. Just long enough to notice. Not long enough to comment.
āWeāll train later,ā he said instead. āWhen youāve rested.ā
The words were familiar. The tone was not.
You smiled, easy and practiced, even as your chest tightened. āIām fine.ā
He studied you for a moment, your posture, your eyes, the way you held yourself together. Then he looked away first.
āSee that you are,ā he replied.
And just like that, he was gone.
The absence settled heavier than the night before.
You hadnāt imagined it. The closeness. The hesitation. The way his restraint had wavered just enough to be felt. But daylight demanded distance again, and he answered it without question.
You exhaled slowly.
Confidence didnāt disappear. It just faltered.
Not because you regretted wanting him, but because wanting him meant accepting that he might never choose you back.
Still, as you watched him move through the camp, aware of you even when he refused to look your way, one thing remained painfully clear.
Whatever had shifted last night had not faded with the dawn.
It had only grown sharper.
It didnāt help that he was handsome.
You stopped the thought before it could fully form, as if naming it might make it worse.
But you knew it anyway. Everyone did. Soālek drew attention without trying. The way he carried himself, quiet and unyielding. The sharp lines of his face, softened only when he thought no one was looking. The stillness that made others lean in, instinctively aware they were standing in the presence of something dangerous and deliberate.
You had seen the looks.
Naāvi lingering too long in conversation. Smiles offered carefully, testing. Curiosity disguised as respect. It never turned into anything, not openly, but the possibility of it lingered in a way that made your chest tighten unexpectedly.
You told yourself it shouldnāt matter.
You had no claim. No right to wonder.
And yet, the thought crept in anyway. That there might be someone else. Someone older. Someone whose path aligned more easily with his. Someone who did not stand at the beginning of everything, still burning with unfinished anger and unfinished grief.
You had heard the story once, only fragments of it. A woman he might have settled beside, had the world not been torn open. Someone he could have chosen, if he had not chosen vengeance instead.
You did not resent her.
If anything, the thought made you ache in a quieter way. He had been offered peace once and turned away from it, not because he didnāt want it, but because letting go had felt like betrayal.
You would never ask that of him.
And that, perhaps, was what frightened you most.
Not that there might be someone else, but that he might look at you and assume you wanted what she had once represented. That he might think closeness would come with expectation, with the hope that he would lay his weapons down, choose stillness, choose something gentler than the path he was still walking.
You didnāt.
You had your own battles left unfinished. The RDA still cast its shadow, and you could not allow it to stretch any further across Pandora. There were things you needed to see through, anger you had not yet learned how to release.
You were not looking to be settled.
But you feared he might believe otherwise. That being with you would mean distraction, softness, a pull away from vengeance before he was ready to let it go.
You did not want to be that.
So you kept your distance, even as the wanting lingered.
Days passed.
Not quietly, but steadily. Training resumed its familiar rhythm, patrols filled the hours, and the camp settled back into the work of survival and rebuilding. On the surface, everything returned to normal.
Between you and him, nothing was spoken.
He remained careful. You remained observant. The closeness of the celebration was not repeated, but neither was it forgotten. When your paths crossed, there was a pause, a fraction of a second where something unspoken passed between you before discipline reasserted itself.
You noticed the way he adjusted his route when he saw you first. The way his voice softened when he corrected you, even as he kept his distance. The way he listened more closely than he used to, as if weighing every word you said.
You did not test it.
Not now.
Confidence returned where it always did, in motion, in purpose. You threw yourself into your training, into the work that needed doing. The RDA was still out there. Pandora still needed defending. Whatever lived between you and him would have to wait.
But sometimes, when the day grew long and the forest quieted, you felt his gaze on you from across the clearing.
And sometimes, when you looked back, he did not turn away.
Nothing changed all at once.
But nothing stayed the same either.
________________
It happened without warning.
An RDA patrol pushed farther than it should have, cutting through territory that should have been quiet. The alarm came too late to be gentle about it. Shouts, movement, the sharp crack of weapons tearing through the forestās breath.
You didnāt hesitate.
You never did.
You moved on instinct, heart pounding, body already in motion as training took over. The world narrowed to sound and movement, to cover and return fire, to the fierce, burning clarity that came with knowing exactly what you were fighting for.
You didnāt see him at first.
You felt him.
His presence cut through the chaos, unmistakable, grounding. A hand at your shoulder, a sharp command in your ear, guiding you out of a line of fire just before the impact split the tree where youād been standing.
Then it went wrong.
A misstep. A blast too close. The ground vanished beneath you, pain blooming hot and blinding as you hit hard. The sounds around you blurred, muffled by the ringing in your ears.
You tried to push yourself up.
You couldnāt.
He was there instantly.
Not careful. Not distant. Not restrained.
His hands were on you, checking, steadying, shielding your body with his own as if the rest of the world had ceased to exist. His voice broke through the haze, low, urgent, threaded with something raw you had never heard from him before.
āStay with me,ā he said.
Not an order.
A plea.
The fighting moved on around you, the danger pushed back by others, but he did not leave. He stayed crouched over you, breath uneven as he assessed the damage with hands he did not try to steady.
āYouāre hurt,ā he said, and the words sounded like an accusation he was leveling at himself.
You managed a breathless laugh. āIāve been worse.ā
His jaw clenched. āDo not joke.ā
He lifted you then, without asking, without hesitation, holding you close against his chest as he carried you away from the smoke and noise. You felt the strength in him, the tension barely contained, the way his grip tightened as if he were afraid to loosen it even for a moment.
When the fighting finally moved away, when others reached you, voices overlapping, hands taking over, you were barely aware of it. Pain pulsed through you in dull waves, the world slipping in and out of focus as adrenaline drained too quickly from your limbs.
You felt him shift, sensed the space opening between you before you could see it.
Panic flared, sharp and immediate.
You reached out without thinking.
Your fingers caught in the fabric at his wrist, clumsy and weak, but insistent. Grounding. The way one reaches for something solid when the world wonāt stay still.
He froze.
You werenāt trying to pull him closer. You werenāt asking for anything at all. You just didnāt want him to leave. Not yet. Not while everything still hurt and nothing felt real.
His breath stuttered.
For a heartbeat, he stayed exactly where he was. Close enough that you could feel the tension in him, the way his control held by threads already frayed. His other hand hovered, uncertain, before settling back at your shoulder, steady again, protective despite himself.
He did not look at you.
He did not say your name.
But he didnāt pull away either.
Only when others insisted, when the moment demanded movement and reason, did he carefully loosen your grip, guiding your hand back to your chest as if afraid of hurting you again.
He rose then, turning away too quickly, already retreating behind orders and motion and distance.
You watched him go through the blur, your body aching, your mind slow but certain of one thing.
Whatever had driven him to you in that instant had not been duty alone.
And whatever he was running from now, it wasnāt the danger.
______________
You woke slowly.
Not all at once, but in pieces.
The steady hum came first. Then the ache, deep, persistent, threaded through your ribs and shoulder in a way that made breathing feel deliberate. The air smelled wrong. Clean. Metallic. Not forest.
You opened your eyes.
The ceiling above you was unfamiliar, too smooth, lit by a dull, steady glow. Resistance quarters. The med bay. The realization settled with a quiet weight.
You had been out longer than you thought.
Your body felt heavy, sluggish, wrapped and restrained in places you didnāt immediately want to test. Someone had done thorough work. Careful work.
Your first thought wasnāt of the pain.
It wasnāt of the patrol, or the blast, or the way the ground had disappeared beneath you.
It was him.
The way his hands had been on you, steady, certain, unhesitating. The sound of his breath near your ear. The way youād reached for him without thinking, fingers closing around his wrist like it was the only solid thing left in the world.
Your chest tightened.
You didnāt know if heād been there when you were brought in. Didnāt know if heād stayed. Didnāt know if heād left the moment others had taken over, retreating back into distance the way he always did.
The not knowing hurt more than the injury.
You swallowed, throat dry, and shifted carefully, wincing as your body protested. The movement tugged at bandages, grounded you again in the present. Alive. Mended. Still here.
But your thoughts drifted stubbornly back to him anyway.
Had he come to see you?
Had he stood just outside the doorway, silent and watchful, before deciding it was better not to be there when you woke?
You stared up at the ceiling, listening to the quiet pulse of the room, and felt that same ache bloom again. Not sharp, not panicked. Just deep and persistent.
Whatever had passed between you on the battlefield had not faded with unconsciousness.
If anything, it felt closer now.
And you didnāt know what scared you more.
The hope that heād been there while you slept.
Or the fear that he hadnāt dared to be.
You didnāt hear her come in at first.
Soft footsteps. The faint rustle of fabric. A presence youād known your whole life before you even opened your eyes again.
āYouāre awake,ā Riānela said gently.
You turned your head toward the sound of her voice, relief and something tighter settling in your chest at once. She was standing near the doorway, arms folded loosely, expression careful in that way she used when she was trying not to overwhelm you.
āHow long?ā you asked, your voice rough.
āA few days,ā she replied. āYou scared us.ā
You swallowed, gaze drifting past her to the doorway, to the empty space beyond it.
Riānela followed your eyes.
She hesitated. Just a fraction.
āSoālek was here,ā she said.
Your breath caught before you could stop it.
āJust before you woke,ā Riānela added softly.
The words landed heavier than you expected. Not because heād been there, but because he wasnāt now.
āHe left,ā she continued, watching you closely. āWhen the med team said you were close.ā
You nodded once, too quickly, as if that explained something. Or excused it.
Riānela stepped closer, lowering herself onto the edge of the chair beside your bed. She didnāt touch you. She didnāt need to.
āYouāve both been distant,ā she said after a moment. Not accusatory. Just observant. āWith each other.ā
Your fingers curled slightly against the blanket.
āI noticed it before the patrol,ā she went on. āAnd after.ā
You kept your gaze on the ceiling, pulse steady but loud in your ears.
āDid something happen?ā Riānela asked.
The question was careful. Open. An offering, not a demand.
You considered lying.
The words rose easily. No. Itās nothing. Youāre imagining it.
But your chest tightened instead.
āI donāt think so,ā you said finally.
It wasnāt a lie. It just wasnāt the whole truth.
Riānela studied you for a long moment, eyes soft, thoughtful.
āThen something almost did,ā she said quietly.
You closed your eyes.
She exhaled, slow and measured, and reached out at last, resting her hand lightly over yours. Grounding. Familiar.
āYou donāt have to tell me,ā she said. āNot now. But I need you to know, whatever this is, Iām worried about you. About both of you.ā
You opened your eyes again, blinking back the sudden sting there.
āHe didnāt do anything,ā you said quickly. Too quickly.
Riānelaās thumb brushed once over your knuckles.
āI didnāt say he did.ā
Silence settled between you, thick but not unkind.
After a moment, Riānela stood.
āRest,ā she said. āIāll tell him youāre awake.ā
You stiffened.
She noticed. Of course she did.
āOnly if you want me to,ā she added gently.
You hesitated.
Then nodded.
Riānela gave you a small, knowing smile, not triumphant, not relieved. Just understanding.
As she turned to leave, she paused at the doorway.
āFor what itās worth,ā she said without looking back, āhe didnāt leave because he didnāt care.ā
The door slid shut softly behind her.
You lay there, staring at the ceiling again, heart beating slow and heavy.
Knowing that whatever space had opened between you and him was no longer empty.
It was waiting.
He didnāt come.
Not that day.
You waited longer than you meant to, listening for footsteps that never reached the doorway, watching the light shift across the smooth walls of the med bay until the waiting itself began to feel foolish. You understood why. His restraint had always been deliberate, chosen.
That didnāt make it hurt less.
Or irritate you any less.
Understanding didnāt erase the sharp edge of it, the way he could pull back so completely, as if nothing had passed between you at all. You clenched your jaw, forcing the thought away before it could spiral into something messier.
When you were finally cleared to leave, you didnāt linger. The air inside felt too still, too controlled. You needed space.
Outside, the sky stretched wide and pale, the wind cool against your skin as you drew in a long breath. The ache in your body was manageable now. Dull, familiar. The ache in your chest was not.
You tilted your head back, eyes closing briefly.
I wish you were here, you thought, not for the first time. Your sisterās absence pressed in suddenly, sharp and unwelcome. You imagined what it would be like to speak to her again, to hear her laugh at your frustration, to offer some infuriatingly simple insight youād pretend not to need.
Or at least to feel her through Eywa.
But the connection remained quiet. Distant. Whatever comfort you sought there didnāt come.
You exhaled, opening your eyes.
Thatās when you spotted him.
Teylan sat a short distance away, hunched over a mess of cables and salvaged parts, fingers moving quickly as he coaxed something stubborn back to life. The soft glow of his screen reflected in his eyes, his focus absolute.
The sight of him grounded you in a way you hadnāt expected.
You changed direction without overthinking it.
āYouāre going to fry that,ā you said mildly, stopping near him.
He startled, then relaxed when he recognized you. āHey, youāre up,ā he said, relief flickering across his face. āGood. Thatās⦠really good.ā
You smiled faintly, lowering yourself beside him with a careful wince.
Teylan didnāt ask questions right away. He never did. He simply adjusted his workspace to give you room, the quiet companionable kind of presence that didnāt demand anything from you.
After a moment, he spoke again. āI noticed things have been tense,ā he said, eyes still on his work. āBetween you and⦠well.ā
He didnāt finish the sentence. He didnāt need to.
You appreciated that.
āYeah,ā you said, more honestly than youād planned.
He nodded once, accepting it without prying. āYou donāt have to explain,ā he added quickly. āJust figured Iād say I noticed. In case you thought you were hiding it better.ā
A huff of laughter escaped you before you could stop it.
āGreat,ā you muttered.
Teylan glanced at you then, expression thoughtful but kind. āIf it helps,ā he said, āIām very good at not telling people things they donāt need to know.ā
You looked at him fully now.
That was the difference, you realized. With Riānela, there was care, and expectation. A sense that sheād want you to do something with whatever truth you shared. Teylan wasnāt like that. He listened without steering. Without fixing.
āI justā¦ā You stopped, breath catching unexpectedly. You tried again. āI think I need to say it out loud before it drives me insane.ā
Teylan set his tools aside, turning toward you completely. āOkay,ā he said simply.
No judgment.
No pressure.
You drew in a slow breath, the weight of everything pressing close as the words finally edged their way forward.
You stared at the ground for a moment longer, jaw tight, fingers worrying at the edge of a loose strap.
āā¦I like him,ā you said finally.
The words landed awkwardly between you, too small for how heavy they felt.
You let out a quiet breath, almost a laugh. āMaybe,ā you added quickly. āI donāt know. It sounds stupid when I say it like that.ā
Teylan didnāt interrupt. He didnāt even look surprised. He just waited.
āI thoughtā¦ā You stopped, shook your head. Tried again. āI thought he liked me too. Not the same way, maybe, but something.ā
Your throat tightened.
āAnd now I donāt know,ā you admitted. āMaybe I read it wrong. Maybe I wanted it to be there so badly that I convinced myself it was.ā
You glanced at Teylan then, searching his face for anything. Judgment, disbelief, concern.
He gave you none of it.
āHe didnāt come,ā you added, quieter now. āAfter. And I get why. I do. But it stillā¦ā You broke off, exhaling sharply. āIt still hurts.ā
Teylan nodded slowly, as if that alone made sense of everything.
āThat doesnāt sound like nothing,ā he said gently.
You huffed. āIt feels like nothing. Or worse, it feels like something that isnāt allowed to exist.ā
Silence settled again, but it wasnāt heavy. It was the kind that made room for honesty.
āI donāt want him to change,ā you said after a moment. āI donāt want him to stop being who he is, or doing what he thinks he has to do. I justā¦ā
Teylan leaned back slightly, considering you with that thoughtful focus he usually reserved for broken tech.
āFor what itās worth,ā he said, āyou donāt sound wrong.ā
You blinked.
āYou sound unsure,ā he continued. āAnd scared. And frustrated. But not wrong.ā
You let your shoulders drop, just a fraction.
Saying it out loud didnāt fix anything.
But it made the ache feel less lonely.
Teylan was quiet for a long moment after that. Not the awkward kind, just thoughtful, like he was turning the words over in his hands, checking their weight.
āYou know,ā he said eventually, eyes dropping back to the half-assembled device beside him, āsometimes when something short-circuits, itās not because it wasnāt meant to work. Itās because too many safeguards kick in at once.ā
You snorted softly. āYouāre comparing my feelings to broken tech now?ā
A corner of his mouth lifted. āIām saying⦠I donāt think this is you imagining things.ā
You tensed despite yourself.
āIāve seen the way he watches you,ā Teylan went on, carefully. āThe way he reacts when youāre in trouble. Thatās not nothing. And itās not the kind of thing someone fakes without realizing it.ā
You looked away, jaw tightening. āThen why does he keep pulling back?ā
Teylan shrugged lightly. āBecause heās very good at control.ā
That landed harder than you expected.
āAnd because,ā he added, glancing at you now, āsome people think wanting something means theyāre supposed to give it up.ā
You swallowed.
āI donāt want to push him,ā you said quietly. āI donāt want to corner him into saying something heāll regret.ā
āI know,ā Teylan said. āThatās kind of obvious, actually.ā
You gave him a look.
He lifted his hands in surrender, a faint smile tugging at his mouth. āI mean that in a good way. Youāre not reckless about this. Youāre careful. More than people think.ā
You glanced back toward the camp, watching a pair of Naāvi pass by, their voices low, their laughter easy. The normalcy of it all felt distant, like something happening behind glass.
āI just donāt want to be another thing he has to choose against,ā you said after a moment. The words surprised you with how easily they came. āNot his duty. Not his anger. Not what he still needs to finish.ā
āYou donāt sound like someone asking to be chosen over anything,ā he said. āYou sound like someone trying not to get in the way.ā
That stung. Not because it was wrong, but because it was close.
āMaybe,ā you admitted. āAnd maybe thatās the problem.ā
He tilted his head, considering you the way he did a stubborn piece of tech, patient, curious, without judgment.
āFor what itās worth,ā he said, āpeople who are truly a distraction usually donāt worry about being one.ā
You let out a slow breath, shoulders easing just a fraction.
The silence that followed wasnāt heavy. It didnāt demand answers. It simply existed, giving you space to sit with the truth youād finally spoken out loud.
You didnāt feel braver.
You didnāt feel clearer.
But you felt less alone with it.
And for now, that was enough.
__________________
He knew she was awake.
The knowledge had come to him secondhand, quietly, as most things did. A brief word passed between the resistance medics. A change in the way people moved around the quarters. The absence of urgency where there had been fear days before.
Tamptey had survived.
Relief had hit him hard enough that heād had to stop moving for a moment, breath locked in his chest as if the forest itself had closed around him. He told himself that was normal. Relief was expected. Relief meant nothing.
He did not go to see her.
He told himself he was giving her space. That waking to questions, to watchful eyes, to his presence so close after what had happened would be unfair. He told himself that distance was still the safest choice, for her, for him, for the fragile balance he had already failed to keep once.
That lie was easier than the truth.
The truth was that he did not trust himself to stand beside her bed and keep his hands to himself. Not after the way he had held her. Not after the sound she had made when sheād reached for him, dazed and hurting, fingers closing around his wrist like instinct alone had chosen him.
He had felt it then.
Not desire, not only that, but something deeper and far more dangerous. The certainty that if he stayed, if he allowed that moment to stretch even a heartbeat longer, restraint would become impossible.
So he had left.
And now, knowing she was awake, knowing she would notice his absence, the decision sat heavier than any wound he carried.
He kept busy instead. Too busy.
Patrol routes recalculated. Equipment checked twice. Orders given with clipped efficiency. He listened to briefings without hearing them, his attention snagging on details that didnāt matter while the ones that did stayed just out of reach.
At one point, he saw her from a distance.
She was outside the quarters, moving carefully but steadily, her injuries still evident in the way she favored one side. She was talking to Teylan, her posture relaxed in a way he had not seen in days. Not guarded. Not waiting.
The sight tightened something sharp and unwelcome in his chest.
He looked away immediately.
It was not jealousy, he told himself. He had no claim to that. It was only awareness. Concern. The kind that came naturally when one had taken responsibility for anotherās safety.
And yet he remembered the warmth of her against him. The way his body had moved without permission, without hesitation. The fact that for those few moments, the world had narrowed to her and nothing else.
That was the mistake.
Soālek exhaled slowly, grounding himself in the familiar weight of his gear, the steady rhythm of his breathing. Vengeance had given him clarity once. Purpose. It still did. But now there was something else threading through it, something that did not belong to anger or duty.
Something he had no name for.
He told himself he would speak to her later. When she was stronger. When his control was firmer. When the space between them felt safe again.
He had told himself that before.
And for the first time, he wondered if waiting, if choosing distance again, might cost him something he would not get back.
He hadnāt meant to stop.
Heād been moving between the quarters and the edge of the camp, mind occupied with routes and supplies and anything that wasnāt the persistent pull toward the med bay. He told himself he was only passing through.
Then he saw her.
Tamptey stood a short distance away, shoulders relaxed despite the stiffness that still lingered in her movements. She was leaning against a crate, head tilted as she listened. Teylan sat beside her, tools forgotten for once, his attention fully on her face.
Soālek slowed before he could stop himself.
He caught only pieces. A few words carried on the air. Not enough to form a conversation, only tone. Low. Familiar. Unhurried.
Tamptey laughed.
The sound struck deeper than it should have.
It wasnāt loud or careless. It was soft, brief, the kind of laugh that slipped out when someone felt safe enough to let it. He hadnāt heard it since before the patrol.
He looked away too late.
She leaned in slightly, unconsciously, as if the space between them no longer required thought. Teylan said something he couldnāt hear, and she answered just as quietly, her expression open in a way Soālek hadnāt seen turned toward him in days. Maybe longer.
The tightness in his chest sharpened.
Teylan was easier.
Gentler. Unburdened by the things Soālek carried like scars beneath the skin. He listened without weighing every word, without measuring distance or consequence. He stayed where Soālek had learned to step back.
And he was younger.
Closer to her in ways Soālek could not be, not just in years, but in where he stood in the world. Unmarked by decades of loss and choices that could not be undone. Whatever Teylan offered her came without hesitation, without the gravity that seemed to follow Soālek wherever he went.
That mattered more than he wanted to admit.
She deserved ease. Someone who did not pause before smiling back, who did not carry the weight of mentorship or memory between every shared moment. Someone who could meet her where she was, instead of standing a lifetime ahead and trying not to look back.
Perhaps this was for the best.
The thought settled cold and deliberate in his chest.
If she found comfort with someone nearer her own age, someone who could listen without retreating, then that was not something to resent. It was something to allow.
He had known from the beginning that the space between them was not only silence.
It was years.
Soālek forced his feet to move again.
This was what restraint looked like, he told himself. Letting go before something fragile was damaged beyond repair. Stepping back so she could step forward, without him in the way.
He did not look back.
And he did not see the moment her laughter faded, or the way her shoulders tensed afterward, or how her gaze dropped to her hands as if something unspoken still weighed there.
He walked on with the quiet certainty that he had done the right thing.
And the growing fear that it had already cost him something he would not get back.
Soālek walked on, disappearing back into duty and distance, carrying the quiet certainty that restraint was still the safest choice.
He did not see her again that day.
And you did not go looking for him.
Instead, you sat with Teylan a while longer, listening to the soft whir of unfinished machines and the distant sounds of the camp settling into evening. When you finally stood, your body still aching, you felt steadier than you had that morning.
Not healed.
Just steadier.
You told yourself that if Soālek wanted to come to you, he would. That if he needed space, you could respect that, even if it hurt. You had survived worse than unanswered feelings. You had survived silence before.
Still, as you made your way back toward the quarters, you caught yourself glancing once over your shoulder.
Just in case.
He was not there.
Across the camp, Soālek paused at the edge of the clearing, listening to the familiar sounds of life continuing around him. He told himself that this was how things were meant to be. That distance was not loss, but protection. That some paths were not meant to run alongside each other, no matter how briefly they touched.
And yet, his thoughts returned to you anyway.
To the way you had looked laughing moments before he turned away. To the feel of your weight against him when instinct had overridden every careful rule he lived by.
Both of you moved forward that night believing the same thing.
That if something real existed between you, it would survive silence.
And if it did not, then letting go now was kinder than holding on too long.
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