Meimua

Back in late 1999, everyone in Seoul had been terrified of the Y2K bug, fearing planes falling from the sky, power grids collapsing, and digital history erasing itself at the stroke of midnight. People had hoarded canned goods and bottled water. But midnight had come and gone, the digital clocks had rolled over smoothly into the new millennium, and life had simply moved on.

To anyone else, Jeju was a paradise of recovery. To Choi Soobin, it was just a beautiful, inescapable cage.

He had been making this exact trip every single summer for as long as he could remember. When he was five, it meant scraping his knees on rocks and catching tiny crabs in tidal pools. When he was fourteen, it meant suffering through long, damp afternoons with zero reception on his digital pager, reading old comic books until his eyes blurred. Now, at twenty-two, it felt like an annual exile.

"Make sure you grab the heavy suitcase from the carousel, Soobin-ah," his mother’s voice broke through his thoughts as the plane taxied down the runway. She was already unbuckling her seatbelt the second the chime sounded, fixing her hair in a small compact mirror. "Your father packed those heavy ginseng sets for your grandparents. Don't let them drag on the floor."

"I know, Mom," Soobin muttered, stretching his legs as much as the cramped economy seating allowed.

He pulled his embroidered baseball cap lower over his eyes, following his parents through the bustling terminal. The airport was suffocatingly alive, packed with domestic tourists in bright linen shirts, families holding hands, and couples carrying matching straw hats. Everyone was vibrating with the frantic energy of a vacation, celebrating a new century that felt safe after all.

But Soobin wasn't on vacation. He was just relocating his stress.

As they walked through the automatic sliding doors of the arrivals terminal, the Jeju summer hit him like a physical wall. It wasn't the dry, baking heat of Seoul's asphalt jungles; it was a heavy, suffocating moisture that instantly glued his oversized grey t-shirt to his back. The air smelled thick—thick with salt, rotting seaweed, and the sweet, heavy scent of overripe tangerines from the gift shops lining the exit.

His father flagged down a white Hyundai Sonata taxi, speaking to the driver in a familiar, comfortable cadence. Soobin slid into the back seat, pressing his shoulder against the door as his parents filled the rest of the space. The air conditioning in the older car hummed loudly, blowing a weak, lukewarm breeze that smelled faintly of cheap hazelnut air freshener and old cigarette smoke.

As the taxi rattled away from the neon signs of Jeju City, heading toward the quiet eastern side of the island, the landscape began to shift dramatically. The small island was a place untouched by the heavy commercial tourism that would define its future. It felt raw, ancient, and deeply quiet—an island shaped entirely by wind, water, and volcanic rock.

Soobin rested his chin in his hand, staring out the window as the modern buildings faded into the background. In their place rose the island’s signature feature: the stone. Low, meandering walls called batdam—made from porous, pitch-black basalt rocks piled loosely on top of one another without a shred of mortar—weaved through the landscape like dark ribbons. They separated the narrow dirt paths from small patches of vibrant green garlic and sweet potato fields, a striking contrast of midnight-black stone against the emerald earth.

The taxi sped past rolling, undulating slopes that bled toward the sea. The iconic oreums—the small, extinct volcanic cones that dotted the countryside—rose like soft, grassy shoulders against a sky so blue it looked painted.

Because it was June, the fierce, biting winter winds had softened into a thick, salt-heavy breeze that slammed into the side of the car. Everywhere Soobin looked, the island was blooming. Patches of wild, bright yellow canola flowers still lingered in the ditches, and the deep green leaves of the tangerine orchards hung heavy over the stone walls, the tiny, unripe green fruits hiding like marbles among the foliage.

For his parents, this road was a return to roots, a nostalgic escape from their busy lives in the capital. For Soobin's older siblings, it was an obligation they had successfully dodged this year, both of them flying off to Europe and Japan with their respective partners. Soobin, being the youngest and still stuck under the thumb of a brutal engineering curriculum at Korea University and his parents, hadn't been given a choice.

“You look like a ghost, Soobin,” his mother had told him over fried chicken in their Seoul apartment just two days ago, her voice echoing in his memory as she chatted amiably with the taxi driver. “You’ve done nothing but stare at those thick problem sets and computer text for six months.”

As the car rounded a long bend, the coastline suddenly came into view. The black volcanic cliffs met the sea with a restless, rhythmic violence. The water wasn't the murky grey of the capital’s Han River; it was a brilliant, translucent turquoise near the shore that deepened into a moody, bottomless indigo further out. There were no massive luxury resorts or crowded high-rises here yet. Instead, the coastline was dotted only with the small, brightly colored buoys of the haenyeo and the occasional weathered wooden fishing boat tied to a concrete pier.

Soobin pulled his bulky, silver Samsung folder phone from his pocket. He flipped it open with a satisfying clack, checking the tiny screen.

No signal.

He couldn't even send a text message to his classmates back at Korea University, who were likely drinking beer in Anam-dong or listening to the latest g.o.d or Yoon Mi-rae tracks on their MP3 players. He held the phone up toward the window, twisting his wrist to the left, hoping to catch a single bar of reception from a distant tower. Nothing.

He let out a soft, defeated sigh, letting his head drop back against the vinyl headrest. The sun was high, baking the road until the heat shimmered over the asphalt. The island seemed to vibrate with a quiet, overwhelming presence that reminded him, with absolute certainty, that he was trapped. Two months of this. Two months of sun, silence, and absolutely nothing to do.

When the taxi finally pulled up to his grandparents’ home, the silence of the village was absolute, broken only by the rhythmic, distant roar of the ocean and the shrill, metallic buzz of cicadas hidden in the hackberry trees.

"Our student has arrived!"

His grandfather stood by the wooden gate, his face weathered and dark from a lifetime under the island sun, but his smile was wide and genuine. Before Soobin could even set the luggage down, his grandmother emerged from the kitchen, her hands dusted with flour. She immediately reached up, her small, wrinkled hands patting Soobin’s cheeks with enough force to make his teeth click.

"Look at you," she lamented, shaking her head. "So tall, but so thin. Do they not feed you at that fancy university? You look like a beanpole."

"I eat well, Halmeoni," Soobin smiled faintly, dimples showing as he leaned down so she didn't have to strain her arms.

"He does nothing but study," his mother chimed in, dragging her own bags into the courtyard. "He needs to clear his head. He's going to turn into a calculator if he stays in Seoul any longer."

Within an hour, his parents and grandparents were settled into the main room, the sliding doors thrown open to catch the faint sea breeze. A large watermelon had been cracked open, its red flesh sweating on a glass platter. The conversation flowed easily between the adults—gossip about distant relatives, the price of garlic, the upcoming typhoon season.

Soobin sat on the edge of the wooden veranda, his long legs dangling off the side. He held a slice of watermelon, staring blankly out at the courtyard.

"Don't waste your youth staring at nothing," his grandfather called out from inside, raising his glass of barley tea. "Go wash your face. If you're bored, take a walk down to the main road. The village hasn't moved an inch since last year."

Soobin closed his eyes, the heavy scent of his grandmother’s drying radishes filling his nose, wondering how on earth he was going to survive until August.

The heavy scent of scorched rice and boiling fish stew began to drift from the kitchen, mingling with the salt-sticky air of the courtyard.

"Come inside and eat before the food gets cold," his grandmother called out, slide-shuffling across the polished wooden floor of the main room.

Soobin pulled his long legs up onto the veranda, carefully ducking beneath the low wooden doorframe to slip inside. The center of the room was dominated by a heavy, low-lying wooden table that was practically groaning under the weight of the spread. There was a steaming pot of braised hairtail fish bubbling away, surrounded by an army of small side dishes: kimchi, japchae, salted squid, and a massive bowl of cold cucumber soup with ice cubes bobbing on top.

"Sit, sit," his grandfather instructed, gesturing to a floor cushion.

Soobin managed to fold his 185-centimeter frame into a cross-legged position, his knees awkwardly high. No sooner had his butt hit the cushion than the questioning began.

"Your mother says you’re studying how to build bridges and dams," his grandfather started, scooping a generous portion of the fiery red fish onto Soobin’s stainless-steel rice bowl. "Is that true? At that big school in Seoul?"

"Civil engineering, Hal-abeoji," Soobin corrected gently, lifting his chopsticks. "We're mostly focusing on fluid mechanics and material sciences right now."

"A calculator," his grandmother summarized with a firm nod, pouring him a glass of icy barley tea. "That's what I said. But tell me, Soobin-ah, do they even let you sleep up there? Last summer you had cheeks. Look at you now, your jaw is sharp enough to slice a radish. Are you skipping meals to buy those fancy computer books?"

"No, Halmeoni, I eat three times a day, I promise," Soobin said, his dimples peeking out as he took a big bite of the savory fish. The taste was instantly nostalgic—rich, spicy, and distinctly of the sea. "The coursework is just a bit heavy this semester. I had to stay up late for the design finals."

"And what about a girl?"

Soobin nearly choked on his radish. He coughed into his fist, his face instantly flushing a light pink that matched the watermelon rind.

His mother let out a loud laugh from across the table. "Oh, Mother, don't even ask. He spends all his weekends in the library or at the internet cafe looking at blueprints. I don't think he even knows what a girl looks like anymore."

"A young man at Korea University with no girlfriend? Absurd," his grandmother clucked her tongue, leaning forward and squinting at his face as if inspecting a piece of produce. "He has a good face. Clear skin. Tall like his uncle. You should be holding hands and walking under the cherry blossoms, not staring at computer screens. What about that girl from next door? The one who used to live next door with you?"

"Halmeoni, she’s married and has a kid," Soobin said, desperately trying to steer the conversation away from his nonexistent love life.

"See? Everyone is moving fast in the new century," his grandfather chuckled, pouring a small shot of local green-bottle soju for Soobin's father. "You city boys think too much. You analyze the wind instead of just feeling it. That’s your problem. You come down here, you need to empty your head. Stop calculating."

"He can't help it, Father," his mother sighed, though her eyes were warm. "He got his stubbornness from you."

For the next hour, the small room was a cacophony of clinking metal chopsticks, loud laughter, and the relentless barrage of grandparent trivia. They wanted to know if he was able to finish his internship, if he still listened to that "noisy music," and what his plan was after graduation.

Soobin mostly kept his head down, smiling and nodding, stuffing his mouth with food whenever a particularly difficult question about his future career path arose. It was overwhelming, suffocating in that uniquely loving way that only family could manage.

By the time the table was cleared, the afternoon heat had reached its peak. The adults, heavy with food and the humid air, began to doze off. His father was already snoring softly against a wooden armrest, and his mother was flipping through a local supermarket flyer.

Soobin slid back out onto the veranda, his stomach completely full but his mind feeling more restless than ever. He pulled out his silver folder phone again. He flipped it open. Still no service. Just the digital clock staring back at him: 02:14 PM.

The whole summer stretched out before him, vast, empty, and entirely unscripted.

The mid-day heat of early June didn't just rise; it stagnated, pooling into the low valleys and stone-walled courtyards of the eastern village until breathing felt like inhaling hot steam.

Inside the house, the atmosphere wasn't much better. Five days of rural confinement had officially broken Soobin's spirit. The initial novelty of his grandmother’s cooking had long since worn off into a numbing, humid routine, and the summer heat had only intensified, settling over the coastal town like a damp, heavy wool blanket. The menu today was cold kongguksu—a thick, creamy soy milk broth that tasted heavily of toasted sesame seeds, with ice cubes loudly clinking against the stainless-steel bowls, topped with a sparse, colorful heap of thin julienned cucumbers.

Soobin sat in his usual spot near the open sliding doors, slumped over so low his chest nearly touched his knees. He dragged his chopsticks through the thick, pale white broth, swirling a single ice cube around and around with all the enthusiasm of a prisoner marking days on a dark cell wall.

"Look at him," his grandmother said, pausing with her spoon halfway to her mouth. She didn't look at Soobin; she looked directly at his mother, pointing a sharp, silver-ringed finger at his miserably slumped shoulders. "Five days he’s been here, Seon-young. Five days of moping around the courtyard like a wet dog. His father asked him to go up the oreum to check the garlic patches—no. His grandfather asked him to go out on the boat to catch some mackerel—no. He just sits on the veranda, flipping that silver plastic toy open and closed. Clack, clack, clack. It’s driving me crazy. I'm going to throw that folder phone into the water if he doesn't stop."

"I have a remote design project due right when the autumn semester starts, Halmeoni," Soobin pleaded softly, his deep voice sounding muffled in the small room. He didn't lift his eyes from the soy milk. "I'm trying to mentally draft the stress analysis for a reinforced concrete retaining wall. If my calculations are off by even a millimeter—"

"Stress? You're twenty-two, what stress do you have?" his grandfather barked from the head of the table, though his heavily wrinkled eyes were twinkling with old-man amusement as he chewed a piece of salted squid. "In my day, stress was when the summer typhoon took the thatch roof right off the kitchen and we had to sleep under a fishing tarp. You sit in an air-conditioned room in Seoul and look at numbers on a glowing screen, and you call it stress?"

They clearly don't understand the engineering jargon, Soobin thought.

"Exactly," his grandmother clucked her tongue, lifting a massive heap of fiery, red radish kimchi from a stoneware dish and dropping it straight into Soobin’s bowl, splashing a tiny drop of white broth onto his grey shirt. "You need to be out doing things. Sweat it out! Look at the Choi family’s boy down the road—Yeonjun! He’s in his second year at Seoul National University now. His mother won't stop bragging about him at the morning fish market. Says he’s studying finance up there. And the Jeon's daughter? She’s up in Seoul too, top of her class. Everyone is doing something out in the world except our KU engineer, who looks like he’s practicing to become a stone statue."

Soobin closed his eyes, taking a long, slow sip of the cold broth to keep from groaning aloud. Yeonjun. He remembered Choi Yeonjun from the summers he has spent in Jeju. Hearing that he was at SNU now just felt like a personal, calculated attack from the universe.

"He's just tired, Mother," his mother defended him weakly, though she kept her focus entirely on her own bowl, picking out a stray sesame seed. "The Seoul air is full of yellow dust this year. He's just detoxing from the city."

"Well, he can detox while being useful to his elders," his grandmother said. She set her stainless-steel spoon down against the table with a definitive, heavy clack that signaled the absolute end of lunch.

She stood up, her small knees popping slightly in the quiet room, and shuffled over to the varnished chest of drawers sitting in the corner of the main room, right beneath a framed calligraphy scroll. When she turned back around, she was cradling a heavy, highly precarious stack of thick paperbacks against her apron. The spines were deeply creased, the edges yellowed from years of salt air and thumbing, and they gave off a strong, unmistakable scent of old ink, cheap glue, and basement dust.

"Since you're determined to do absolutely nothing but catch flies with your mouth open, walk these down to the main road," she instructed, dropping the heavy stack right next to his empty bowl. The wooden table shook, making his spoon rattle. "They’re historical epics about the Joseon dynasty. Five volumes in total. And they are nearly two weeks overdue."

Soobin blinked up at the mountain of paper, his engineering brain momentarily failing to process the sight of physical card-catalog sleeves sticking out of the tops. "A book rental shop? Halmeoni, it's 2001. Who still rents books?"

"The Liu’s rental shop has been sitting on that corner since before your father courted your mother, Choi Soobin," she cut him off cleanly, giving his broad, city-softened shoulder a firm, maternal slap that echoed through the room. "And he will give me a vicious earful at the town meeting this Friday if I keep them any longer. It's just past the intersection on the main street. Dongbaek Book Rental. Go on, get some sun on those pale shoulders before you blend into the wallpaper. And don't you dare lose the index cards inside them!"

Realizing there was absolutely no escape from the matriarch of the Choi family, Soobin let out a long, defeated sigh that puffed his cheeks out. 

The heavy wooden frame of the screen door slid shut behind Soobin with a hollow clack, cutting off the immediate drone of his mother and grandmother arguing over who would handle the leftover soy milk.

He stood alone in the narrow gravel courtyard, and the blinding June sun hit him like a physical blow to the chest. The light was flat and white, bleaching the color out of the old tiled roofs. The concrete under his shoes was baking, radiating waves of dry, shimmering heat that made the horizon look wavy. He shifted the heavy weight of the five volumes, the sharp cardboard corner of Volume Three digging right through his thin grey t-shirt into his ribs. They smelled heavily of his grandparents' house.

"Dongbaek Book Rental," Soobin muttered under his breath, his thumbs catching the bottom edge of the books to keep them from sliding onto the gravel.

He nudged the rusty iron gate open with his hip and stepped out onto the narrow village path. The silence of the early afternoon was absolute, heavy, and dead. In the peak heat of the day, even the village stray dogs had crawled deep beneath the shadows of the low basalt stone walls to sleep. The only movement was the occasional shimmer of a black dragonfly, and the only sound was the crunch of his own sandals on the dirt road, drowned out by the metallic, rhythmic scream of the cicadas hidden high in the hackberry trees overhead.

He walked down the sloping path, his tall frame casting a short, blocky shadow on the dry earth. To his left, past the low-slung batdam stone walls, the vibrant green sweet potato fields rolled out in waves toward the jagged shoreline, where the turquoise edge of the sea met the dark volcanic rocks. On any other day, a tourist might have stopped to take a photo with a disposable camera, but right now, a thick bead of sweat was trickling down the back of Soobin's neck, tracing the line of his spine before soaking into his waistband.

He reached into his pocket, his fingers brushing against his silver Samsung folder phone. He flipped it open out of pure habit.

No Service.

The digital clock on the small outer screen read 01:42 PM. He let out a soft, defeated sigh, letting his head drop forward as he turned the corner onto the village's single, two-lane asphalt strip.

The main street was entirely empty, saving for a rusted blue farm truck parked outside the hardware store. He passed the tiny local pharmacy with its faded green cross sticker peeling off the glass, then the small agricultural market where a few crates of bruised, early-season tangerines sat melting in the sun. Finally, tucked tightly between a silent barber shop and a shuttered rice mill, he found it.

Above the low doorway, a hand-painted wooden sign hung crookedly from two rusted metal chains: Dongbaek Book Rental. The red camellia logo was heavily weathered, the paint flaking away in small spirals from years of salt-heavy winter storms. A small wooden chalkboard stood by the entrance, though the previous week's rain had smeared the old chalk text into ghostly, illegible white streaks across the slate.

Soobin took a deep breath of the hot air, shifted the heavy mountain of novels to his left arm, and pushed the heavy glass door open.

A small brass bell chimes overhead—a crisp, clear ring that seemed to instantly cut through the heavy, vibrating noise of the cicadas outside.

The air inside the shop was a shock to his system. It was instantly cooler, trapped behind thick, vintage concrete walls and shaded by heavy, dark green velvet curtains that blocked out the midday glare. It didn't smell like the sea or the dirt outside; it smelled intensely of ink, cheap binding glue, aged wood pulp, and a faint, lingering hint of dried lavender sachets. Shelves made of dark, mismatched timber lined the narrow walls from the floor all the way to the water-stained ceiling, packed tightly with comic books, old martial arts serials, classic literature, and endless rows of thick, bound Korean manhwa. It was small, chaotic, and completely analog.

Soobin walked carefully down the narrow aisle, his shoulder accidentally brushing against a tall stack of Slam Dunk comic books piled precariously on a plastic stool.

"Hello?" he called out, his deep voice sounding strangely loud in the small, paper-packed room.

He approached the high wooden counter at the very back of the shop. The desk was a graveyard of old-world habits: a vintage blue stamping pad, small wooden boxes filled with alphabetized index cards, a half-empty glass of iced barley tea sweating profusely onto a newspaper crossword puzzle, and a mountain of returns waiting to be sorted.

Behind the counter, half-hidden by an open copy of a thick thriller novel, sat a girl.

When the bell chimed, she didn't rush, but she didn't ignore him either. She cleanly finished the sentence she was reading, slid a pressed green bookmark between the pages to hold her place, and set the novel down with a soft, careful touch.

When she lifted her head, Soobin’s breath caught slightly in his throat.

She was beautiful, but it wasn't the sharp, artificial, heavily styled beauty of the girls he usually saw crowded around the cafes in Sinchon or the Korea University campus. Her beauty was soft, radiant, and entirely unbothered by the heavy summer heat. She had warm, clear skin that held a very faint, healthy glow from the coastal sun, and her dark hair was pushed back in a headband, a few stray, wavy tendrils framing her face and the nape of her neck. Her eyes were large and clear, crinkling at the corners into a small, welcoming expression as she took him in.

She noted his height first, her eyebrows lifting slightly in mild surprise, before her gaze drifted to his clean Seoul clothes and the massive, clumsy stack of historical fiction novels cradled precariously in his arms.

"Hi there," she said, her voice surprisingly bright, carrying the gentle, melodic lilt of a partial Jeju dialect that sounded soft rather than harsh. "Can I help you return those?"

Soobin cleared his throat, suddenly feeling very large and very awkward in his oversized clothes. "Uh. Hello. Yeah. I'm here to return these for my grandmother. Choi Sun-ja?"

"Oh, Halmeoni Choi!" Y/N smiled, and the change in her face was striking. Her whole expression softened, a small, genuine smile showing near the corner of her mouth. She pulled one of the wooden index boxes toward her, her slender fingers flipping through the alphabetized cards with practiced ease. "I was wondering when we'd get these back. She’s the only one around here who can clear through a five-volume royal court epic before the month even ends."

She reached out across the counter. Soobin quickly dropped the heavy stack down, the wood groaning slightly. As she steadied the top book to keep it from tumbling, her fingers lightly brushed against his thumb. Her skin was cool despite the heat, smelling faintly of the lavender sachets tucked into the bookshelves.

She opened the back cover of the top volume, checking the paper sleeve where the little white stamped card lived. Her long eyelashes fluttered as she did the quick math in her head, her lips parting slightly.

"Ah," she said softly, looking up at him with a look of genuine, apologetic sympathy. "They’re about fourteen days overdue. The system automatically fixes it at... seven thousand won in late fees. I'm sorry, our system is kind of strict about the old classics."

"Seven thousand?" Soobin blinked, rubbing the back of his neck, though he couldn't even find it in himself to complain because she looked so genuinely apologetic about it. "Wow. Okay. For books that look like they survived the war."

Y/N let out a small, melodic laugh that sounded like a wind chime, her eyes curving into sweet crescents. "Hey, don't insult our treasures and the late fees are basically what keeps our single lightbulb from flickering out." She gestured up to the humming fluorescent tube overhead, giving him a playful, good-natured look.

Soobin smiled faintly, his own dimples finally making an appearance as he dug into his back pocket. He pulled out his leather wallet and flipped it open, only to feel a sudden jolt of dry panic. He had spent his last ten-thousand-won bill on a pack of gum and a drink at the airport kiosk. His wallet held nothing but his university debit card and a couple of Seoul subway tokens.

"Do you... take card?" he asked, holding the piece of plastic up sheepishly.

Y/N winced slightly, her expression incredibly sweet as she pointed to a little cracked plastic basket on the desk. "Ah, I'm so sorry. We really want to get a card terminal, but my dad says the line rental costs too much. We're cash-only for payments. There's a little dog sign right there."

Soobin looked down at the hand-drawn sign, which was mostly covered by a fading cartoon sticker. He felt a sudden wave of heat rush up his throat. "I don't have a single bill on me. Is there an ATM nearby?"

"The closest one is at the agricultural coop down by the main bus terminal," Y/N said, looking out the window at the blinding, white-hot street before looking back at him with an expression of pure pity. "But it's a twenty-minute walk in this sun. You'll completely melt before you make it halfway there."

Soobin looked down at his useless folder phone, then back at her warm, expectant face. "Can I... bring it by tomorrow? I promise I'm not running away. My grandparents live right up the lane."

Y/N paused, looking at his big, anxious eyes, and then she let out a soft, comforting hum. She reached under the counter and pulled out a large ledger bound in black electrical tape, flipping to a page marked with a neat, handwritten C.

"Tell you what," she said, picking up a blue ballpoint pen. "I’ll just write down that Halmeoni Choi’s very tall grandson promised to pay it tomorrow. That way, my dad won't see a missing balance on the daily sheet, and you don't have to get heatstroke walking to the coop." She looked up, flashing him a reassuring, warm smile. "Sounds fair?"

Soobin felt his heart give a strange, unfamiliar little thud against his ribs. "Yeah. Yes. Thank you. That's... really nice of you."

"Don't worry about it," she said smoothly, writing the note in neat, elegant cursive. As she finished, she leaned her elbows on the counter, resting her chin in her hands as she looked up at him with curious, friendly eyes. "So, you're visiting from Seoul? You definitely look like a city boy."

"Is it that obvious?" Soobin muttered, suddenly self-conscious about his grey shirt and pristine cap.

"In a village where everyone wears orange sun hats and rubber boots? Yes," she teased gently, her eyes sparkling. "Very obvious."

Soobin shifted his weight from one foot to the other, his long arms suddenly feeling empty without the heavy stack of books. Through the glass door behind him, the external world looked completely bleached out by the midday sun, the air visibly shimmering over the asphalt. The mere thought of stepping back out into that stifling, salt-heavy heat made a fresh wave of sweat break out along his collarbone.

He looked back at Y/N, then glanced down at the cool, shaded concrete floor of the shop.

"Um," Soobin began, his voice dropping an octave into that soft, hesitant register he used whenever he was stepping outside his comfort zone. "Would it be okay if I... just looked around for a little bit? Your AC is really nice, and honestly, if I go back out there right now, I think I actually might melt."

Y/N’s eyes crinkled into a warm, amused line, her dimple reappearing instantly. She straightened up from her elbows, gesturing generously toward the rows of dark wooden shelves that filled the narrow space.

"Of course," she said, her voice carrying that gentle, rhythmic Jeju lilt. "Stay as long as you need to cool down. My dad spent half of last year's earnings fixing that wall unit up there, so we might as well get our money's worth out of it. Just ignore the rattling noise it makes."

"Thank you," Soobin said, letting out a genuine sigh of relief that made his shoulders drop.

He took off his baseball cap, running a long hand through his dark hair to loosen the flattened strands, and stepped into the first aisle.

The transition from the blinding exterior to the dim, paper-scented labyrinth of the shop felt like diving underwater. The air here was perfectly still, cooled by the ancient, humming machine tucked high in the corner. As he walked deeper into the narrow rows, the walls of text seemed to swallow him up, muffling the distant, metallic scream of the cicadas outside until they were nothing but a faint, rhythmic pulse.

He wandered slowly, his large frame making the tight spaces feel even tighter. He had to tuck his elbows close to his sides to keep from knocking over loose stacks of old literary magazines.

To his left were rows upon rows of serialized martial arts novels, their covers boasting dramatic, ink-brushed illustrations of swordsmen. To his right were the comic books. He ran his index finger lightly along the spines of a complete set of Full House, the glossy covers slightly tacky from years of humid summer air and the fingers of countless local kids. Further down, he found the classic literature section—thick, heavy volumes with faded gold lettering on the spines, sitting quietly in the deepest shadows of the shop.

It was entirely different from the sterile, fluorescent-lit engineering library at Korea University, where every book was bound in uniform plastic and smelled of industrial adhesive. This place felt alive, every single cover bearing the invisible history of the people who had held it before him.

As he reached the end of the third aisle, he paused, looking through a gap between two loosely packed shelves.

From this angle, he could see back to the counter. Y/N had already reopened her thick thriller novel. The soft, golden light from a small desk lamp caught the side of her face, highlighting the delicate slope of her nose and the soft. She looked completely at peace, entirely unbound by the frantic, time-crushing anxiety that seemed to dictate every single life back in Seoul.

She turned a page, the crisp slip of the paper echoing softly in the quiet room.

Soobin pulled his eyes away, a strange, quiet warmth settling into his chest.

The heavy, suffocating humidity of the afternoon finally cracked as the sun began its slow descent behind the jagged purple silhouette of Hallasan Mountain. In its wake, the sky transformed into a breathtaking canvas of deep tangerine, violet, and dusty rose, casting a warm, copper glow across the volcanic stone walls of the courtyard. A cool, salt-laden evening breeze swept in from the coast, rustling the thick leaves of the hackberry trees and bringing the first real relief of the day.

With his father and grandfather still out at the village community center dinner was a much quieter affair.

Soobin’s grandmother had set up a small, portable butane stove on the wooden veranda patio. A thick, seasoned iron grill plate sat over the blue flame, sizzling loudly as strips of thick-cut, local black pork belly rendered down, sending a mouth-watering, smoky aroma into the twilight air.

Soobin sat cross-legged on a woven mat, his long legs tucked out of the way of the hot grease. He picked up a crisp piece of lettuce, spreading a dollop of savory ssamjang onto it before adding a perfectly grilled, sizzling piece of pork and a sliver of roasted garlic. He popped the whole thing into his mouth, his eyes closing in brief bliss.

"See? I told you the island air would bring his appetite back," his mother said, turning over another strip of pork with a pair of metal tongs. Her face looked soft and relaxed in the warm glow of the sunset. "He never eats like this in Seoul. Up there, it's just instant ramyun and cold coffee over his plates."

"It's because he actually did some work today," his grandmother clucked, sitting comfortably with her legs stretched out to the side as she fanned herself with a traditional paper fan. She peered at Soobin over the rim of her reading glasses. "Well? Did you make it down to the main road without fainting, my big-city scholar?"

Soobin swallowed, wiping his mouth with a napkin. "Yeah. I returned them, Halmeoni. All five volumes."

"And? Did you see the owner's daughter behind the counter?" his grandmother asked, her sharp eyes twinkling with a sudden, mischievous curiosity that made Soobin pause mid-reach for his honey iced tea. "Did you talk to Y/N?"

Soobin’s hand hovered over his glass. Y/N.

The name sounded soft, rolling out in his grandmother's thick Jeju cadence, but it instantly brought back the vivid image of the girl from the afternoon—the way the dim golden light of the desk lamp had caught the soft curve of her nose, the scent of dried lavender clinging to the dark wooden shelves, and the bright, melodic sound of her laugh when he had stood there holding his useless debit card.

"I... I don't know," Soobin muttered, his cheeks warming slightly. He quickly took a sip of tea, hoping his mother would just mistake his red face for the heat radiating from the grill. "She didn't tell me her name. She was... really nice, though. She let me stay inside to cool down because of the AC."

His mother and grandmother exchanged a swift, knowing look across the sizzling grill. A collective, identical smirk bloomed on both of their faces.

"Oh, look at him," his mother teased, leaning forward and nudging Soobin’s arm with her elbow. "A girl lets him sit in the air conditioning for ten minutes, and our boy is already blushing."

"She really is a lovely girl," his grandmother chimed in, thoroughly enjoying the way Soobin was desperately trying to avoid their eyes by hyper-focusing on a piece of kimchi. "Her family has had a hard time keeping that shop open since the turn of the century, but Y/N works so hard to help her father. She’s smart, too. She’s starting her first year of university this August."

Soobin blinked, finally looking up from his bowl. "University? Where?"

His grandmother’s grin widened, delighted that she had successfully re-engaged him. "Right up in Seoul! She got into a good school up there… though i forgot which one was it. Her father was bragging about it at the market last week. She’s spending her very last summer here running the shop before she leaves the island."

"See? She'll be a freshman just as you're starting your final year," his mother added, nudging him again, her eyes dancing with amusement. "You two will be in the same city. Maybe you should offer to show her around Seoul. You know, since she was so nice to let you use her AC."

"Mom, please," Soobin mumbled, his dimples peeking out despite his best efforts to maintain a straight face. He felt a strange, fluttering sensation in his chest. The thought of the quiet, pretty girl from the bookshop navigating the crowded, chaotic subways of Seoul felt completely surreal.

"She told me I could pay the overdue fee tomorrow," Soobin said softly, trying to steer the conversation back to logistics, his deep voice almost lost beneath the steady, rhythmic chirping of the evening cicadas. "Since I didn't have any cash on me."

"Well, then you'd better not be late tomorrow, Choi Soobin," his grandmother warned, though her voice was entirely fond as she reached over to pat his knee. "And wear a nicer shirt this time. Don't go down there looking like a wet noodle. You have a reputation to uphold!"

Soobin let out a soft, embarrassed laugh, letting his head drop as the two women laughed at his expense. He looked out past the courtyard wall, where the very last string of golden sunlight was dipping below the ocean horizon, leaving behind a deep, star-speckled indigo. For the first time since he had arrived on the island, the thought of tomorrow didn't feel like a chore.

The morning heat arrived early and heavy, baking the volcanic earth until the air smelled faintly of hot pine and dried sea salt. Soobin stood in front of the small vanity mirror in his room, pulling a crisp, short-sleeved cotton button-down over his shoulders. He hesitated for a second before smoothing down the collar, his grandmother’s playful scolding from the night before echoing in his ears.

With crisps, seven 1,000-won bills tucked securely into his front pocket alongside his grandmother’s neat library card, he stepped out onto the sun-bleached main road.

The walk down to the book rental shop felt different today. Yesterday, he had been dragging his feet under the oppressive weight of the sun, desperate to just finish an errand. Today, despite the sweat already beginning to bead at his temples, his pace was light. The rhythmic, buzzing drone of the cicadas didn’t sound quite as grating.

When he reached the weathered wooden storefront, the heavy glass door was propped open a few inches with a smooth black basalt rock to catch whatever stray breeze rolled off the ocean. The old, boxy air conditioning unit was already chugging away, its steady, rhythmic rattle acting as a low bassline to the quiet morning.

Soobin pushed the door open, the small brass bell above him chiming softly.

The transition into the dim, paper-scented sanctuary immediately washed over him. Standing behind the dark wooden counter was Y/N. She was in the middle of stacking a fresh delivery of comic books, her hair pinned up today with a tortoiseshell claw clip that let a few soft, dark strands fall around her jawline. She wore a simple, light linen blouse that made her look perfectly suited for the coastal summer.

As the bell rang, she blinked up from the stack, her eyes landing on him. A slow, genuine smile broke across her face, her signature dimple making an immediate appearance.

"Oh," she said, her voice carrying that light, melodic Jeju lilt. "You actually came back. And you’re early."

"I promised I would," Soobin said. He stepped closer to the counter, suddenly hyper-aware of how tall he was in the low-ceilinged room. He slipped his hand into his pocket, pulling out the folded bills and the card, sliding them carefully across the polished wood toward her. "The 7,000 won for the late fee. And my grandmother’s card."

Y/N looked down at the crisp cash, then up at him, her eyes dancing with amusement. "You even flattened the bills. How diligent." She picked them up, her fingertips brushing lightly against his palm for a fraction of a second. The contact was brief, but it sent a quiet, electric warmth straight up his arm.

She opened the heavy, black-taped ledger, neatly scratching out the red ink beside his grandmother’s name with a fluid stroke of her pen.

"My grandmother told me last night that your name is Y/N," Soobin said softly, his deep voice sounding incredibly resonant in the quiet, empty shop. He rubbed the back of his neck, a faint pink hue touching the tips of his ears. "She... she speaks very highly of you."

Y/N’s pen paused for a second before she closed the ledger with a soft thud. She leaned her elbows on the counter, resting her chin in her hands as she looked up at him, her smile turning a bit mischievous. "Your Halmeoni is my favorite customer."

"Oh by the way, my dad told me this morning that your grandfather was bragging at the community center about his 'genius Seoul grandson' who goes to Korea University." she laughed, the sound bright and clear. 

She straightened up, tapping her chin thoughtfully. "August is coming up fast. I'm actually moving up to Seoul myself for university. It’s... a bit intimidating, honestly. It looks so massive on maps."

Soobin looked at her, seeing a flicker of genuine, quiet vulnerability behind her bright eyes. The confident, grounded girl who commanded this ancient bookshop suddenly looked a little small at the prospect of leaving her island behind.

"It is big," Soobin said gently, his tone shifting into something steady and reassuring. He leaned against the edge of the counter, dropping his shoulder to meet her eye level. "And it’s really loud. But... it’s not so bad once you find your own corner. If you ever get lost, or if you just need someone to show you where the good, quiet places are."

Y/N tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear, her cheeks flushing a soft, delicate pink that rivaled the Jeju sunset from the night before. She looked down at the counter, a small, private smile playing on her lips.

"I might just take you up on that," she murmured, looking back up to meet his gaze. 

The quiet, paper-scented sanctuary of the book rental shop was entirely replaced by the chaotic, sun-drenched noise of the local morning market.

The village square was a maze of brightly colored plastic tarps, wooden crates, and umbrellas flapping in the salt-heavy sea breeze. The air was a thick, sensory assault—the sharp tang of fresh-cut hairtail fish, the earthy scent of wet garlic bulbs, and the sweet, heavy perfume of summer fruits ripening under the July sun.

Y/N sat on a low plastic stool next to her mother behind a mountain of wooden crates filled with summer Hallabong oranges, her hair pulled back into a quick, practical braid to keep it off her neck in the thirty-four-degree heat.

"Smile a bit more, Y/N-ah," her mother scolded gently, sorting the fruits into neat, small pyramids. "People won't buy oranges from a girl who looks like she’s auditing a tax ledger."

"Mom, it's scorching, and we've been here since five in the morning," Y/N murmured, though a soft, dutiful smile tugged at her lips anyway. She picked up a small mesh bag, ready to pack the next order.

"Aigoo, look who it is! Seon-young’s boy!"

The loud, unmistakable voice of Halmeoni Choi pierced through the market chatter from just a few yards away.

Y/N’s shoulders stiffened slightly. She tilted her head up, her eyes scanning the crowd until they landed on a familiar, towering figure.

Soobin was navigating the narrow aisle between a vegetable stall and a dried-squid vendor, looking spectacularly out of place. He was practically a lighthouse in the middle of the crowded square, his tall height forcing him to duck under the low-hanging canvas tarps of the stalls. Today, he wore a simple, clean white t-shirt and loose navy shorts, carrying a woven grocery basket on his forearm like a clumsy armor shield. His grandmother was marching ahead of him, gripping his elbow tightly as if she were parading him through the village.

"Halmeoni, please, everyone is looking," Soobin muttered, his deep voice carrying over the noise, his cheeks already flushed a deep pink as he tried to pull his baseball cap lower.

"Let them look! A handsome boy helping his old grandmother carry radishes—there's no better advertisement for a good upbringing," His Halmeoni declared proudly, stopping right in front of the fruit stall.

Soobin officially looked up from his sneakers, his eyes instantly locking onto Y/N sitting behind the mountain of oranges. He froze, his hand tightening on the handle of the woven basket.

Y/N looked up at him from her low stool, her eyes widening slightly in surprise before a soft, amused expression washed over her face. Seeing the cool, logical engineering student from Seoul looking entirely helpless at the mercy of his grandmother was a view she hadn't expected.

"Oh, Sun-ja-ya!" Y/N’s mother greeted warmly, standing up from her crate. "Is this the famous grandson from the city? My goodness, he’s grown so tall! He looks like a movie star."

"Doesn't he?" Halmeoni Kim beamed, giving Soobin’s broad back a firm, proprietary swat that made him wince. "Soobin-ah, say hello. This is Y/N's mother, and this is Y/N. You returned my books to her the other day, didn't you?"

Soobin cleared his throat, his dimples flashing briefly out of sheer, panicked politeness as he bowed low, nearly knocking his cap against a stack of oranges. "Hello. I’m Choi Soobin."

"Hello, Soobin-ah," Y/N’s mother smiled warmly, then nudged her daughter's shoulder. "Y/N, give them the best oranges we have. Don't weigh them on the scale, just fill the bag."

Y/N stood up from her stool, her eyes meeting Soobin's as she reached for a yellow plastic bag. Up close, without the dark wooden counter of the rental shop separating them, he felt entirely too tall, his shadow completely blocking out the harsh morning sun above her.

"Hi," she said softly, her melodic Jeju lilt slipping out naturally. Her dark eyes sparkled with a quiet, shared amusement as she looked at his crimson ears. "I didn't expect to see you out here. I thought you'd be hiding from the heat today."

Soobin’s eyes shifted frantically to his grandmother, who was already deep in a passionate conversation with Y/N’s mother about the quality of the summer radish crop, then back to Y/N. He let out a quiet, flustered breath, adjusting the strap of the heavy grocery basket on his arm.

"My grandmother dragged me out at six in the morning," he whispered back, leaning down slightly so his deep voice wouldn't carry over the market roar. "She said if I stayed in bed any longer, my brain would turn into mush from my lifestyle."

Y/N let out a small, breathless laugh, a sound he had been thinking about for the past forty-eight hours. She began picking the largest, brightest oranges from the crate, her slender, fruit-stained fingers moving deliberately as she dropped them into the plastic.

"Well, you don't look completely melted yet," she murmured, leaning slightly over the crate, her eyes slanting into a teasing line. "Though I have to admit, seeing the city boy carrying a basket of radishes is a pretty good view."

Soobin rubbed the back of his neck, his dimples flashing briefly as his blush deepened. "Don't look too closely. I already dropped a bunch of green onions two stalls back."

Y/N smiled, folding the top of the heavy paper bag neatly before handing it across the crate to him. "Here. Tell your Halmeoni these are on us. And... since you're already out, are you coming by the shop later? A new batch of comic books actually came in this morning."

Before Soobin could answer her question about the comic books, Y/N’s mother cleanly cut back into the conversation. She patted his grandmother’s arm, but her keen, bright eyes were locked straight onto Soobin.

"Don't let him spend all his time locked up in that stuffy house, Sun-ja-ya," Y/N’s mother said, her voice easily carrying over the rumbling engine of a nearby delivery truck. She looked back at Soobin, her smile warm and completely open. "You know, our Y/N is moving up to Seoul this August for her first year of university. She doesn't know a single soul up there, and she’s already a bit nervous about navigating those massive subway lines."

"Mom," Y/N mumbled under her breath, her face instantly heating up to match the bright orange color of the Hallabongs in front of her. She gave her mother's apron a sharp, desperate tug. "He doesn't need to hear about that."

"What? It's true! It's a huge city," her mother declared playfully, waving a hand dismissively. She looked back at Soobin, her eyes crinkling at the corners. "Since you're already up there and you know the layout, you two should exchange numbers before the summer ends. Look after her a bit when she gets to Seoul, okay? Show her where the safe streets are."

Soobin’s entire face flushed a brilliant, undeniable crimson that traveled straight down to the collar of his white t-shirt. He rubbed the back of his neck, his dimples flashing out of sheer, suffocating embarrassment as his grandmother proudly nodded along in total agreement next to him.

"I... I can definitely do that," Soobin mumbled, his deep voice dropping an octave as his eyes flicked shyly toward Y/N. "I'm usually on campus anyway."

Y/N quickly pushed the heavy plastic bag of oranges directly into his large hands to stop her mother from saying anything else, though she couldn't hide the soft, helpless smile pulling at her lips.

The afternoon heat had been thick enough to breathe, a heavy, static weight that hung over the coastal road as Soobin took his stroll. He had ventured further than usual, his hands shoved into the pockets of his shorts, his eyes tracked on the horizon where the open sea met a line of dark, bruised clouds.

He didn't notice the sudden shift until the wind changed. A sharp, cool gust swept in from the water, smelling heavily of ozone and salt. Before he could even look for a sky to read, the heavens simply cracked open.

It wasn't a gentle drizzle; it was a violent Jeju summer downpour.

Soobin ducked his head, his long legs eating up the asphalt as he bolted toward the only structure on this stretch of the road—a small, weathered concrete bus stop jutting out against the rocky edge of the coast. He burst under the rusted tin roof, panting, his white t-shirt already dotted with heavy, dark circles of rainwater.

He wiped the spray from his eyes, shaking his head like a dog, only to freeze when a soft, clearing throat echoed from the corner of the small shelter.

"You're going to catch a cold if you stand right in the splash zone like that."

Soobin blinked, pushing a wet strand of hair from his forehead.

Y/N was sitting on the narrow, faded wooden bench built into the concrete wall. She sat up straight, her feet planted firmly on the ground and her hands resting neatly in her lap. She was wrapped in an oversized, lightweight cardigan, while her small canvas tote bag sat securely beside her.

"Y/N," Soobin said, his deep voice caught in his throat as he stepped further under the awning. "You're here too."

"I was on my way back from delivering a box of historical novels to Mrs. Jeon up the hill," she explained, shifting her legs to the side to make room on the bench. She patted the worn wood. "Sit. The wind is kicking the rain sideways. If you stand there, you'll be soaked in five minutes."

Soobin hesitated, suddenly hyper-aware of how small the bus stop was. When he sat down, the wooden bench creaked under his weight, his tall frame naturally forcing him to slouch so his head wouldn't hit the low tin roof. Their shoulders didn't touch, but the space between them was close enough that he could feel the faint, radiating warmth of her skin against the damp chill of the storm.

In front of them, the view was entirely open to the sea. The horizon had completely vanished, swallowed by a massive, gray wall of falling water that violently churned the dark blue waves below. The rhythmic, deafening roar of the rain hitting the tin roof above them created a strange, isolated pocket of absolute privacy. It felt like the rest of the island had been completely erased.

For a long time, neither of them spoke. They just watched the storm.

"Do you get rains like this in Seoul?" Y/N asked softly, her voice low but clear over the steady drumbeat of the roof. She didn't look at him, her eyes fixed on the white foam crashing against the black basalt rocks below.

Soobin turned his head slightly, watching the side of her face. The gray, muted light of the storm caught the delicate slope of her jaw and the dark, wet lashes of her eyes.

"Sometimes," Soobin replied, his voice dropping into that steady, grounding register. "But it feels different up there. In the city, when it rains like this, everyone runs into subways or department stores. You just see a sea of umbrellas and people looking irritated because their shoes are ruined. It feels... claustrophobic."

He looked back out at the vast, roaring ocean. "Here, it just feels like the island is taking a breath."

Y/N turned her head, a soft, thoughtful expression in her eyes as she looked at him. "You say very beautiful and poetic things, Choi Soobin."

Soobin’s dimples flashed briefly, a faint, flustered pink touching his ears despite the cool breeze. He idly rubbed his palms against his knees. "It's just logic. Everything has a rhythm. You just notice it more when there aren't any buildings blocking the view."

Y/N let out a small, breathless laugh, her shoulders relaxing as she swayed her legs. "I used to hate the rain here when I was little. It meant the bookshop smelled like damp paper, and nobody would come down the road for hours. It felt so lonely."

She paused, her fingers idly tracing a knot in the wooden bench between them. "But sitting here now... with you... it doesn't feel quite as empty."

The admission was quiet, slipping out so naturally into the roar of the storm that it took Soobin a beat to process it. He looked down at her hand on the bench, just inches from his own. His heart gave a distinct, heavy thud against his ribs, a sudden spike of warmth rushing through him that had nothing to do with the summer heat.

"I'm glad I took a stroll today then," Soobin murmured, his voice incredibly gentle, his dark eyes locking onto hers as she looked up.

Y/N’s cheeks flushed a soft, delicate pink, her gaze holding his for a long, breathless moment while the rain continued to wall them in from the rest of the world. A small, private smile played on her lips, and for the first time, the upcoming month of August didn't feel like a hard boundary—it felt like a continuation.

The sheet of rain grew even denser, transforming the sea into a blurred slate of charcoal and frothing white. The heavy droplets didn’t just fall; they slapped against the asphalt road, creating a low, dancing mist that hovered a few inches above the ground. The sharp, metallic scent of the rusted tin roof mixed with the deep, earthy perfume of the wet soil from the sweet potato patches behind them. Every few seconds, a particularly fierce gust of wind would drive a spray of fine, icy mist under the awning, speckling Soobin’s bare shins and the hem of Y/N’s oversized cardigan with cold beads of water.

Y/N shivered slightly, pulling the sleeves of the cardigan down completely until only her fingertips peeked out.

"Are you cold?" Soobin asked immediately, his eyes shifting down to her tucked-in frame. He instinctively shifted closer to the edge of the bench, using his broad shoulders to block the open side of the shelter where the mist was blowing in.

"Just a little," she said, looking up at him through her lashes. The sudden shift in his position brought him so close that she could smell the clean, laundry-detergent scent of his t-shirt beneath the heavy smell of the rain. "But it's a good kind of cold. It makes you feel awake."

Soobin rested his elbows on his knees, his large hands loosely clasped together as he stared at the puddles forming at their feet. Y/N watched the way his long frame seemed to take up almost the entire shelter, his presence grounding the small space against the roaring storm outside.

"How long have you actually been coming down to Jeju?" she asked suddenly, her voice cutting through the steady thrum-thrum of the rain above their heads. "I mean, I know your grandparents live here, but did you use to visit a lot when you were younger?"

Soobin turned his head slightly, a small, nostalgic smile lifting the corner of his lips. "Since I was a kid. My parents used to drop me off here every single summer vacation. I’d spend two whole months running around the docks, getting sunburned, and helping my grandfather sort his fishing nets."

Y/N tilted her head, a thoughtful expression in her eyes as she did the mental math. With him being twenty-two and a senior in university, and her turning nineteen and preparing for her freshman year, their paths felt like they should have crossed at some point on this tiny island.

"That's funny," she murmured, her dark eyes reflecting the cool, gray light of the afternoon. "If you've been coming here that long, we must have been running around the same square. But I don't remember seeing you at all until this week."

"Well, think about it," Soobin said, his deep voice carrying a soft, amused rumble. "When I was fourteen and trying to look cool riding my grandfather's rusty bicycle down by the pier, you were probably an eleven-year-old running around the elementary school playground with ice cream all over your face."

Y/N let out a bright, indignant laugh—that clear, wind-chime sound that temporarily erased the damp chill of the storm. She reached out from her long sleeve and lightly nudged his arm with her elbow. "Hey! I was a very dignified eleven-year-old, thank you very much. I was already helping my dad alphabetize the fiction section by then."

"See? We were in completely different worlds," Soobin smiled, his dimples cutting deep into his cheeks as he accepted the playful nudge. "By the time you were old enough to actually hang out at the pier, I was already in high school up in Seoul, preparing for university exams and spending my summers trapped in academy classrooms."

Y/N’s smile softened a bit, her chin drifting back down to rest on her knees as she looked back out at the churning gray waves. "I guess three years feels like a big gap when you're younger. You probably would have thought I was just an annoying kid back then."

"Probably," Soobin teased gently, though his eyes were warm as he looked at her. He shifted slightly on the bench, his shoulder brushing against hers for a fleeting second. "But we're both heading to Seoul in August now. The gap doesn't really matter anymore, does it?"

Y/N turned her head back to meet his gaze, her cheeks warming with a soft, delicate pink that had nothing to do with the cool mist of the rain. A small, private smile played on her lips, the steady rhythm of the storm creating a quiet world where it was just the two of them, finally catching up on the time they'd missed.

"Though," Y/N murmured, her voice dropping into a softer, more reflective tone as she watched a heavy droplet trace a jagged path down the concrete wall, "it's weird to think that while you were up there getting used to the massive crowds and the tall buildings, I was still right here. Watching the same tide come in and out."

Soobin followed her gaze out to the water. "Do you think you'll miss it too much?"

"I think I'll miss the quiet," she admitted honestly. She uncurled her legs slightly, letting her sneakers tap against the damp floor. "Here, if I want to think, I just walk until I hit the sand. In Seoul, where do you go when your head gets too loud?"

Soobin leaned back against the concrete wall, his head tilting up toward the dark tin roof. "You find small pockets. A quiet corner in the university library after 9 PM. A bench by the Han River when it's freezing cold and no one else wants to sit outside. Or..." He paused, turning his head to look at her profile. "You find a person who feels like home."

The words hung in the space between them, weighted and clear against the roaring backdrop of the heavy rain shower.

Y/N’s fingers stilled against the rough wood of the bench. She turned her head slowly, her dark eyes locking onto his. The playful banter from a few moments ago had entirely evaporated, replaced by a thick, magnetic stillness.

"And did you?" she asked softly, her breath catching slightly. "Did you find a person like that up there?"

Soobin looked at her—at the damp tendrils of hair framing her face, the oversized cardigan that swallowed her frame, and the steady, unblinking gravity of her gaze. His heart gave a sharp, heavy thud against his ribs.

"No," he said, his voice dropping into a low, completely honest register. "Not yet."

A sudden, fierce gust of wind rattled the tin roof violently, throwing a heavy spray of cold ocean mist right across the open front of the shelter. Y/N blinked, instinctively shrinking back from the wet chill.

Instead of reaching out to touch her, Soobin simply shifted his weight. He planted his sneakers firmly on the concrete floor and leaned forward, his broad back and shoulders acting as a physical wall against the open side of the bus stop. He caught the brunt of the cold mist across his own arm and t-shirt, completely blocking it from hitting her side of the bench.

Y/N looked up, realizing what he was doing. She looked at his damp shoulder, just inches away from her face, and then up at his jawline, which was tight with a sudden, nervous tension.

"You're going to get soaked if you keep doing that," she murmured, though her voice carried a soft, undeniable warmth.

"I'm bigger," Soobin muttered, his eyes fixed firmly on the road ahead as his ears turned a bright, furious pink. "I can take the hit."

Y/N looked down at her lap, a small, genuine smile pulling at her lips. She didn't say anything else, but she didn't shift away from his shadow, either.

Outside, the heavy bounces of the droplets were finally beginning to thin out, the violent drumming on the tin roof slowing down into a quiet, rhythmic patter. A faint, pale streak of silver light broke through the edge of the charcoal clouds, casting a glassy reflection across the wet asphalt.

"The rain is stopping," Y/N whispered, breaking the quiet space between them.

Soobin looked out at the breaking sky, his shoulders relaxing just a fraction as the wind died down. For the first time all week, he found himself genuinely wishing a Jeju storm would last just a little bit longer.

"Yeah," Soobin murmured, his deep voice carrying a quiet note of regret as he looked back down at her. "It is."

The next afternoon, the book rental shop was quiet, trapped in the lazy, thick lull of a mid-July heatwave. The heavy glass door was propped open with a brick to let in the faint, salt-tinged breeze, but the air inside still smelled deeply of aged paper, old glue, and the faint, sweet scent of the barley tea Y/N’s father had brewed that morning.

Y/N sat behind the high wooden counter, the slow whir-clunk of an old green electric fan oscillating back and forth across her face. She was idly running a stamp over a fresh stack of library cards, the rhythmic thud-thud of the rubber against ink the only sound in the room. Her hair was pulled back into a loose bun today, a few stray hairs curling at the nape of her neck from the humidity.

The shadow that suddenly blocked out the bright afternoon sun in the doorway was too tall to belong to any of the neighborhood kids.

The small brass bell above the door gave a light, familiar chime.

Y/N looked up, her hand pausing mid-stamp.

Soobin stepped into the shop, letting out a long breath as the cold air hit him. Today, he looked thoroughly dressed for the coastal heat—wearing a baggy, short-sleeved linen button-up shirt in a soft cream color, left open over a plain white tank top, paired with loose khaki shorts that hit just below his knees. 

When his gaze landed on Y/N behind the counter, a small, involuntary smile pulled at his lips, his dimples flashing briefly in the dim light of the shop.

"Hi," he said, his deep voice sounding incredibly soft in the quiet sanctuary of the room. He let the door close gently behind him, stepping onto the worn wooden floor.

"Look who it is," Y/N murmured, setting the rubber stamp down on the desk. A slow, teasing smile crept onto her face as her dark eyes locked onto his. "Hey city boy, I see your shoes aren’t muddy anymore."

Soobin rubbed the back of his neck, his ears instantly warming with a faint pink tint as he walked closer to the counter. "I scrubbed the clay off my sneakers last night. My grandmother threatened to make me sleep on the porch if I brought the hill mud into her living room."

Y/N let out a small, breathless laugh as she leaned her elbows on the dark wood of the counter, propping her chin in her hands as she looked up at him.

"Well, thank Halmeoni for saving your shoes," she said, her voice dropping into a softer, playful register. "So, did you actually come to browse, or are you just hiding from the sun again?"

"I came for the new comic books," he said softly, his dark eyes holding hers, a quiet, steady confidence behind them. 

Y/N’s lips parted slightly, her heart giving a small, unexpected skip before she quickly recovered her usual playful demeanor. She slid her chin out of her hands and stood up straight, turning toward the small rolling metal cart parked right behind the counter.

"Well, you're in luck," she said, her voice carrying a light, proud note as she lifted a thick, glossy graphic novel from the very top of the stack. "They arrived in the morning crate. I haven't even had the chance to put the plastic protective sleeves on them yet, but I figured I'd save the first read for our VIP customer."

She turned back around and set the book down on the counter between them. The cover was bright and colorful, a stark contrast to the old, sun-faded romance novels lining the walls of the shop.

"Volume four," Y/N murmured, tapping the glossy cover with her index finger, her eyes slanting into a teasing line as she looked up at him.

Soobin looked down at the book, but his eyes quickly drifted back up to her face, a warm, helpless smile breaking across his features. His deep dimples cut into his cheeks as he leaned his forearms against the cool wood of the counter, bringing himself a little closer to her eye level.

"Don't just stand there blocking the aisle," Y/N murmured, a playful glint in her eyes as she patted the empty space on the counter right next to her ink pad. "Pull up that stool from the corner. You can read right here while I go over the overdue member cards. I need someone to keep me awake anyway."

Soobin’s eyes widened slightly in surprise, but he didn't hesitate. He grabbed the high plastic stool and settled in right beside her, his long legs tucked under the ledge.

For the next hour, the shop fell into a comfortable, easy silence, completely sealed away from the humid June heat outside. Under the steady, cool flow of the air conditioner, the only sounds were the crisp slip of Soobin turning the pages of volume four and the soft rustle of Y/N sorting through the thick yellow index cards.

Slowly, the rhythmic sorting of the cards began to drag. The cool air hitting Y/N's face felt a little too comfortable, and her eyelids grew heavier with every passing minute. Eventually, her head began to droop. Giving in to the afternoon slump, she crossed her arms over the cool wooden counter and let her head rest sideways on them, drifting into a deep, peaceful sleep.

Soobin reached the end of a chapter and went to turn the page, but the sudden, total absence of any shuffling cards beside him made him pause.

He glanced over.

Y/N was fast asleep, her face nestled into the crook of her elbow. The gentle breeze from the AC vent above was catching a few loose strands of hair that had escaped her bun, blowing them softly across her cheek.

Soobin froze, his hand hovering over the edge of the comic book page. He stared at her for a long moment, his chest tightening with a sudden, hyper-aware nervousness. The shop felt entirely too quiet now. A slow, helpless smile tugged at his lips, his deep dimples appearing as he looked at how soft and relaxed she looked.

Careful not to make a sound, he gently reached out and picked up the heavy ink pad she’d left open, snapping the lid shut so it wouldn't dry out. He then slid the stack of overdue cards a few inches away from her arm so she wouldn't accidentally wrinkle them in her sleep. He didn't want to wake her, but he also didn't want to stop looking at her.

Yielding to the heavy, lazy atmosphere of the room, Soobin carefully folded his own arms on the counter, mirroring her position. He lowered his head onto his sleeves, turning his face toward her so he could quietly watch her sleep while the afternoon hours drifted away.

But the rhythmic, quiet sound of her breathing and the cool air of the shop were too comforting. Within twenty minutes, Soobin’s own eyelids grew heavy, and he drifted off right beside her.

Another hour slipped away in the quiet sanctuary of the shop.

When Y/N’s eyelids finally fluttered, she let out a long, groggy breath. Her mind was still trapped in a thick fog, her cheek pressed warm against the soft knit of her cardigan sleeve. She slowly blinked her eyes open, her vision blurry as she adjusted to the soft, shadowed light of the room.

As the blurry shapes sharpened, her breath caught entirely in her throat.

She was looking directly into Soobin’s face.

Because they were both laying flat on the wood, they were completely face-to-face, barely a few inches of space separating them.

Soobin was still fast asleep. His eyelashes were completely still against his cheeks, and a few loose, dark strands of hair had fallen over his forehead, shifting gently with the steady rhythm of his breathing. Without the nervous, shy tension he usually carried around his broad shoulders, his face looked incredibly soft and boyish.

Y/N didn't move an inch. She stayed completely frozen, her heart suddenly executing a loud, erratic thud against her ribs that felt loud enough to wake him. She just stared at him in the quiet, air-conditioned bubble, taking in the sharp line of his nose and the faint, relaxed curve of his lips.

The sharp shriek of the stool never happened. Instead, the quiet of the shop remained entirely unbroken.

When Soobin’s eyes slowly blinked open, he didn't instantly scramble back. He couldn't. His brain was still heavy with sleep, and the view directly in front of him—Y/N looking right back at him with her soft eyes—felt less like reality and more like the tail end of a very good dream.

Neither of them moved.

The space between them was so small that Y/N could feel the soft, cool puff of his breath against her cheek every time he exhaled. She stayed perfectly still, her hands tucked securely under her arms on the wooden counter, her heart hammering a fierce, loud rhythm against her ribs. She braced herself for him to jump up, to turn bright red, to apologize—but he just stayed there.

Soobin’s gaze drifted lazily from her eyes down to the small, to the tip of her nose, then down to her lips, before rising back up to hold her gaze. The shy, nervous wall he usually kept up during the day was completely gone, melted away by the deep afternoon slumber. There was only a heavy, magnetic stillness left in its place.

Slowly, the sleep began to clear from the edges of his eyes, but he still didn't pull away. A tiny, almost imperceptible smile tugged at the corner of his plush lips, his left dimple making a faint, shallow appearance against the dark wood of the counter.

"Hi," he whispered, his deep voice carrying a thick, incredibly low rasp that vibrated right through the wood between them.

Y/N’s fingers curled slightly into the fabric of her sleeves. A delicate, warm flush crept up her neck, but she didn't look away either.

"Hi," she whispered back, her voice barely louder than the hum of the air conditioner above them.

They stayed like that for a long, suspended moment—just two people level with each other on a worn wooden counter, quietly sharing the cool, shadowed air while the rest of the island baked in the June sun outside.

The heavy ticking of the wall clock seemed to slow down, marking the seconds in the quiet room.

Soobin didn't break eye contact. Slowly, carefully, as if testing whether he was allowed to, he shifted his arm forward just a fraction of an inch on the smooth counter. His large knuckles grazed the edge of her father's oversized cardigan sleeve. It was a tiny, tentative point of contact, but it sent a sharp, electric jolt straight through the sleepy haze between them.

Y/N’s breath hitched, her eyes widening slightly as she looked down at where his hand met her sleeve, then back up to his face.

The silence stretched, shifting from comfortable to a sudden, thick tension that made the cool air in the shop feel entirely too warm. Soobin’s ears began to catch up to his quiet confidence, a slow, deep pink spreading across the edges of them, but his gaze remained steady, anchored completely to hers.

Finally, the brass bell above the front door let out a loud, sudden chime as the glass door swung open.

"Y/N-ah! Are the morning newspapers still—"

The booming voice of Mr. Lee from the hardware store next door cut through the sanctuary like a thunderclap.

Soobin sat up so fast his head nearly clipped the low-hanging menu board above the register. His chair scraped back with a loud, awkward thud, his large hands immediately flying to his face to rub at his eyes, trying desperately to look like he hadn't just spent the last two hours napping.

Y/N scrambled to her feet, her face burning a brilliant, undeniable crimson as she smoothed down her skirt with trembling hands. "M-Mr. Lee! Yes! They're right here!" she called out, her voice a full octave higher than usual as she reached blindly for the stack of papers on the side desk.

Mr. Lee walked into the air-conditioned room, wiping his brow with a handkerchief, completely oblivious to the thick, breathless atmosphere he had just walked into. He looked between Y/N’s bright red face and Soobin, who was currently staring intensely at the cover of the comic book as if it held the secrets to the universe, his entire neck flushed dark red.

"Whew, it's freezing in here," Mr. Lee muttered, tossing a few coins onto the counter. "You kids look like you've seen a ghost. What's wrong, is the AC too strong?"

"No!" Y/N and Soobin blurted out at the exact same time.

Y/N quickly handed over the paper, her eyes darting sideways to Soobin, who finally chanced a look back up at her through his dark fringe. As Mr. Lee took his papers and walked back out into the July heat, the bell chiming behind him, a small, helpless laugh bubbled up in Y/N’s throat.

She looked at Soobin, whose shoulders had finally slumped in total, flustered defeat.

"Well," Y/N murmured, her dimple peeking out through the blush still lingering on her cheeks. "Did you... actually finish the book? Or did you just use volume four as a pillow?"

Soobin let out a low, embarrassed groan, burying his face in his large hands for a brief second before looking up at her through his fingers. The tips of his ears were still entirely crimson, but a shy, helpless smile broke through his flustered expression.

"I finished it," he promised, his deep voice still holding a bit of that thick, raspy edge from sleep. He cleared his throat and carefully pushed the graphic novel a few inches closer to her, his long fingers tapping the glossy cover. "Every single page. Right up until the main character got to the city."

Y/N leaned her hip against the counter, crossing her arms to try and steady the lingering flutter in her chest. "And? What did you think?"

Soobin looked up at her, his dark eyes softening as the initial panic of being caught by Mr. Lee finally began to fade. He rested his chin in his hand, looking up at her from his stool with a quiet, steady warmth that made the cool air of the shop feel incredibly still again.

"It was good," he murmured softly. "But I still think the author made a mistake."

Y/N tilted her head, her eyes slanting into a curious, playful line. "A mistake? Why?"

"Because," Soobin said, his deep voice dropping into that quiet, grounding register that always made her heart skip a beat. "He spent three whole chapters showing how terrifying and lonely the city is. But he forgot to mention that if you have the right person going up there with you... it doesn't really matter how big or loud the place is."

Y/N’s chest tightened, a familiar, bright warmth blooming all the way to her cheeks. She bit her lower lip to suppress a smile, leaning back slightly against the counter and tilting her head to look down at him.

"Is that so?" she teased softly, her voice carrying a playful, skeptical lilt despite the erratic fluttering of her heart. She tapped her lip thoughtfully with an index finger. "I didn't realize you could be such a romantic, Choi Soobin. Are you sure you weren't reading from the romance section while I was asleep?"

Soobin’s eyes widened slightly, and he instantly looked down at the counter, a helpless, bashful chuckle vibrating in his chest. His deep dimples cut hard into his cheeks as he rubbed the back of his neck, his ears flaring that beautiful, telltale pink again.

"I'm just stating a logical fact," he mumbled into his shoulder, though the soft, affectionate look he shot at her through his dark fringe entirely gave him away. "It's simple logic—"

Ring-ring!

The sharp, loud jangle of the old plastic landline telephone on the wall behind the counter cut him off completely.

Both of them jumped slightly, the sudden noise breaking the quiet, heavy tension that had settled between them once more. Y/N blinked, shaking off the spell of his gaze, and quickly turned around to grab the heavy green receiver off the hook.

"Hello? Dongbaek Book Rental," she said into the mouthpiece, smoothing down her skirt with her free hand as she tried to make her voice sound completely professional.

Soobin stayed on his stool, his shoulders relaxing as he quietly watched her back. He traced a slow, idle circle on the glossy cover of the comic book, his mind still entirely replaying the way she had looked at him just seconds before, a soft, permanent smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

A little while later, after the shop duties were wrapped up, Soobin was finally about to leave.

Y/N stepped out onto the narrow wooden porch with him, instantly greeted by the thick, heavy blanket of the evening July humidity. The village was quiet, bathed in a deep, bleeding orange sunset that cast a warm glow over the coastal road. The breeze blowing off the nearby coast carried the faint, salty tang of the sea, rustling the low leaves of the trees bordering the gravel path.

They stood near the steps, giggling and smiling softly at each other over a silly inside joke about his long afternoon nap, completely lost in their own little bubble.

"Oh, Soobin-ah! You're still here?"

The warm, familiar voice broke their bubble. Y/N’s mother was walking up the narrow path, holding a heavy plastic grocery bag in each hand. Having already met him at the bustling market yesterday, she offered him a bright, instant smile.

"Hello, Mrs. Liu," Soobin blurted out, his laughter cutting off as he quickly dropped into a rigid, perfectly respectful ninety-degree bow that nearly sent his graphic novel flying from under his arm.

Mrs. Liu set the heavy plastic grocery bags down on the bottom step with a soft, tired exhale, the crinkling sound loud in the quiet evening air. She looked between the two kids, her sharp eyes instantly catching the soft, lingering curve of Y/N’s smile and the sheer, deer-in-headlights panic that had taken over Soobin’s towering frame. A deeply pleased, knowing smile crinkled the corners of her eyes.

"I just came back from the market with three massive crates of summer radish and napa cabbage," Mrs. Liu continued, lifting a hand to wipe the sheen of sweat from her brow. "Halmeoni and I are planning to spend the entire morning putting together a big batch of summer kimchi. My back is already aching just thinking about wrestling those heavy earthenware jars around the yard."

She turned her gaze fully onto Soobin, her eyes twinkling with a thoroughly transparent, matchmaking energy.

"You have such good strength, Soobin-ah," Mrs. Liu said smoothly, her tone a perfect blend of maternal warmth and subtle calculation. "Why don't you come over around one tomorrow afternoon? Help us move the heavy jars, and you can stay for dinner. I'll make sure you get a massive plate of fresh, bossam and warm kimchi. What do you say?"

Soobin blinked, his brain momentarily short-circuiting under the sudden invitation. His heart gave a nervous, erratic flutter against his ribs—not just from the pressure of wanting to be helpful to Y/N’s mother, but at the thrilling, terrifying prospect of spending an entire day at her house. His dark eyes darted frantically past Mrs. Liu’s shoulder, silently begging Y/N for a lifeline.

Y/N stood a step behind her mother, her face burning a brilliant, undeniable crimson that rivaled the sunset. Her heart was hammering a furious rhythm against her chest as she frantically shook her head, her hands making small, desperate chopping motions in the air. You don't have to say yes! she mouthed silently, terrified her mother was going to tease them to death.

But Soobin, ever the polite, eager-to-please boy from the city, couldn't possibly bring himself to refuse. Looking down at Mrs. Liu, a helpless, incredibly endearing smile broke across his handsome features, his deep dimples cutting sharp lines into his cheeks. The tips of his ears flared a bright, telltale pink against his dark fringe.

"I would love to help, Mrs. Liu," Soobin said softly, his deep voice dropping into a respectful, gentle register. He bowed his head low, the glossy comic book still securely clamped under his arm. "Thank you for inviting me. I'll be here at one sharp."

Y/n’s mother beamed, highly satisfied with her recruitment, while Y/N let out a quiet, defeated groan, covering her burning face with both hands as the warm June evening swallowed up the last traces of the sun.

Mrs. Liu’s smile widened, her eyes crinkling into small, triumphant crescents as she picked up the crinkling grocery bags from the step.

"Wonderful," she declared, her tone thoroughly satisfied. "Make sure you come with an empty stomach, Soobin-ah. I don't tolerate light eaters in my house, especially not boys who are working hard."

"I have a great appetite, Mrs. Liu, I won't disappoint you," Soobin promised quickly. He gave another small, polite nod, his posture still impossibly straight, though a soft, boyish chuckle escaped him.

Mrs. Liu shifted the bags to one hand and gave his broad shoulder an affectionate, firm pat as she stepped past him onto the porch. "I’m holding you to that. Now, go home before it gets entirely dark. Y/N, come inside and help me unload these before the ice cream melts."

"Coming, Eomma," Y/N murmured.

As her mother disappeared inside the shop, the screen door bouncing shut with a soft clack, the heavy twilight silence settled over the porch once more.

Y/N lowered her hands from her face, her cheeks still radiating a deep, stubborn heat. She looked up at Soobin, who was standing at the bottom of the steps now, looking up at her through his messy dark bangs. The deep orange of the sunset had completely bled into a soft, dusky purple, making the shadows around his sharp jawline look incredibly soft.

"You really didn't have to say yes," Y/N said, a helpless, quiet laugh bubbling up in her throat. "My mom is going to put you to work like a rented mule, and Halmeoni will probably make you chop garlic until your fingers turn numb."

Soobin let out a low, grounding chuckle, his shoulders relaxing completely now that Mrs. Liu was out of sight. He took a half-step backward down the gravel path, but his dark eyes remained fixed on hers, holding that same warm, magnetic stillness from the counter earlier.

"I wanted to say yes," he confessed softly. His deep voice carried a gentle, honest weight that made Y/N’s heart skip a beat all over again. He lifted the graphic novel slightly, a shy, dimpled smile playing on his lips.

Y/N bit her inner cheek to hide how fiercely her heart was reacting to his words. She leaned against the wooden railing, looking down at him. "Alright. Just don't say I didn't warn you when you're carrying fifty-pound stoneware jars across the yard tomorrow."

"I think I can handle it," he teased, his eyes crinkling at the corners. He gave her one last, lingering look, his thumb tracing the edge of the book cover. "Goodnight, Y/N."

"Goodnight, Soobin. See you tomorrow."

She watched him turn and walk down the quiet coastal road, his tall, broad-shouldered silhouette slowly blending into the summer shadows. Only when he disappeared around the bend did Y/N finally turn around to head inside, a permanent, breathless smile tugging at her lips.

The sticky heat of mid-June didn't ease up even after the sun dipped below the horizon. Outside the Liu household, the cicadas kept up their relentless, buzzing chorus, while inside, the old electric fan in the corner of the dining room turned its head from side to side with a rhythmic, familiar rattle.

It was later that same evening, just an hour or so after Mrs. Liu had extended her vibrant invitation to Soobin on the porch. Now, the house was quiet again, the front door locked for the night. The family had gathered around the heavy oak table for dinner—just Y/N, her mother Meiling, her father Min-jun, and her grandmother Halmeoni.

The table was filled with a comforting, familiar spread. At the center sat a steaming platter of boiled pork belly alongside a bowl of well-fermented kimchi from their previous batch, its spicy, garlic-heavy aroma filling the warm room.

"Eat more, Y/N-ah," Her halmeoni commanded, plopping a succulent piece of pork directly onto Y/N’s rice bowl. Her sharp eyes blinked behind her reading glasses. "You’ve been looking so thin lately and you were sweating all afternoon in that shop."

"I'm eating, Halmeoni," Y/N murmured, lifting her chopsticks. Her mind was still completely preoccupied, her cheeks still holding a faint, residual warmth from the way Soobin had looked at her on the porch just an hour ago.

Meiling beamed from her seat, pouring a glass of cold barley tea for her mother. "That city boy, Soobin, really has wonderful manners, doesn't he? He didn't hesitate for a second when I asked him to help with the earthenware jars tomorrow. He's got a good heart."

Y/N kept her eyes glued to her rice bowl, biting her inner cheek to hide a rising smile. "He was just being polite, Eomma."

Meiling smiled gently, leaning forward a bit as she watched her daughter's flustered reaction. "When I saw the two of you out there on the steps... you were smiling a way I haven't seen you smile since your graduation. And that boy... heavens, I thought he was going to trip over his own feet because he couldn't take his eyes off you."

"Eomma, please," Y/N whispered, her cheeks flaring with a sudden, betraying heat as she tried to keep her voice down in front of her father and grandmother. "He’s just being nice."

"A city boy who didn't hesitate for a single second to spend his precious summer vacation moving heavy jars for an old woman, just because your mother asked him to," Meiling countered, her voice dropping into a tender, teasing register. "He has a good, pure heart, Y/N-ah. Anyone can see it. And he looks at you like you're the only quiet spot on this entire noisy island."

While the women talked, Y/N’s father, Min-jun, sat quietly at the end of the table. He smiled faintly at his wife's enthusiasm, but his eyes carried a heavy, lingering exhaustion that felt starkly out of place amid the cheerful clinking of dishes. He had been quiet all evening, merely picking at his rice, his mind clearly miles away.

Min-jun set his chopsticks down against the porcelain rest with a soft, deliberate click. The sudden, clean noise from his end of the table made the rest of the family gradually taper off their conversation.

He looked across the table at his wife, then turned his gaze gently toward Y/N.

"Meiling, Mother, Y/N-ah," Min-jun began, his voice low and raspy, carrying the gentle weight of a man who had spent his entire life surrounded by old books. He took a slow breath, his shoulders sagging slightly. "I think... after this summer, we’re going to be closing the book rental shop for good."

The room went completely still. Even the heavy clinking of Halmeoni’s side-dish bowls stopped mid-air.

Y/N’s breath hitched in her throat, a sudden, cold weight dropping straight into her stomach. She stared at her father, her fingers gripping her own chopsticks so hard her knuckles turned white. "Appa... what do you mean? Closing it? After summer?"

"We’ll stay open through June and July, Y/N-ah," Min-jun explained softly, his eyes filled with a mixture of guilt and profound exhaustion. "I want to honor the current lease until the end of the season, and it gives us time to catalog the inventory. But once the autumn hits... we won't be reopening the doors."

Meiling lowered her glass of tea, the cheerful energy completely draining from her face, replaced by a sudden, tense worry. "Min-jun, is it really that bad?"

Min-jun sighed, rubbing his tired eyes. "The rent is going up again in July, Meiling. And with the new digital reading apps everyone uses in the city now, the younger kids on the island just don't come in to rent paper copies anymore. We’ve been operating at a loss since the spring. It doesn't make sense to keep fighting it. It’s time to let it go."

Y/N felt a thick lump form in her throat, the cozy warmth of the dinner completely evaporating. Her mind instantly flashed back to the afternoon—to the quiet sanctuary of the shop, the comic book on the counter, and the deep, raspy sound of Soobin's voice telling her that the city wouldn't feel lonely if they went together.

But as the reality settled in, the ache in her chest grew even heavier. The rental shop wasn't just a place where she shared quiet, stolen moments with Soobin. It was the very backdrop of her entire life. She had literally grown up between those towering wooden shelves. She remembered hiding under the front counter as a toddler, listening to the chime above the door sound whenever a customer walked in. She remembered the specific smell of the aged paper that had comforted her through childhood fevers, and the pencil marks on the back room doorframe tracing her height over the years.

Losing the shop didn't just mean losing a summer job or a place to see Soobin; it felt like her entire childhood was being packed up into cardboard boxes. Just as she was finding her rhythm in that quiet little space, a final countdown clock had been initiated, ticking away the final days of the only world she had ever truly known.

"Are you okay, sweetie?" Meiling’s voice broke through the suffocating fog in Y/N’s mind. Her mother’s hand reached across the table, warm and laced with a deep, maternal worry that only made the stinging behind Y/N’s eyes worse.

Y/N swallowed hard, trying to force down the hot, thick lump in her throat. She looked at her father, whose shoulders seemed smaller than they ever had before, weighed down by the silent defeat of a man losing his life's work.

"I'm fine," Y/N lied softly, her voice trembling just enough to give her away. She forced a faint, watery smile, trying to comfort him instead. "August is... we still have the whole summer. We can make the most of it."

Min-jun’s eyes softened with a mixture of profound gratitude and guilt. He reached over, briefly squeezing her hand. "Thank you, Y/N-ah. I know how hard this is for you."

Halmeoni let out a quiet, rare sigh, setting her bowl down with a muted thud. For once, the sharp-tongued matriarch had no corrections, no stubborn retorts about how things used to be. She merely picked up her glass of barley tea, her gaze fixed out the window, staring into the dark June night as if mourning the loss of the neighborhood's anchor right alongside them.

Dinner wrapped up in a subdued, mechanical quiet. The clinking of porcelain felt heavy, almost sacrilegious in the silent house. Min-jun quietly retreated to the small living room, pulling out the worn leather-bound ledgers to begin the grim task of cataloging, while Halmeoni slowly headed to her bedroom, leaving Y/N and her mother alone in the kitchen to handle the dishes.

The heavy, rhythmic splash of cool water and the scrape of the sponge filled the space. Y/N stood by the old stainless-steel sink, mechanically scrubbing a ceramic side dish, her eyes staring blankly at the swirling white suds. Her mind was a chaotic storm. She kept seeing the shop—not as it was today, but in fragments of a decade ago. She saw herself skinning her knee on the corner of the fiction aisle at age seven; she saw her father dusting the top shelves while humming an old folk song. It felt like a physical ache in her chest, a slow tearing away of her identity.

"You're going to scrub the glaze right off that plate if you keep going," Meiling said softly, breaking the silence.

Y/N blinked, realizing she had been rinsing the exact same small bowl for nearly five minutes. She quietly set it on the wire drying rack and wiped her damp hands on her apron, her shoulders slumping as a long, shaky exhale finally escaped her. "I just... I can't imagine the corner without the sign, Eomma. I can't imagine what the street will look like when it's dark."

Meiling stopped wiping down the heavy oak table. She walked over to the sink, leaning her hip against the counter and looking at her daughter with a gaze full of deep, intuitive tenderness. The kitchen light cast a soft, amber glow over her face, highlighting the worry lines that had etched themselves there during dinner.

"Your father has held onto that shop for as long as he could, mostly because he knew it was your sanctuary," Meiling murmured, reaching out to gently tuck a stray lock of hair behind Y/N’s ear. "But things change, Y/N-ah. The world outside this island gets bigger, louder, and faster. It’s hard for an old book rental to keep up with the digital age."

Y/N bit her lower lip, looking out the kitchen window into the pitch-black night. "I know. It just feels like everything is disappearing at once. I'm supposed to go to the city in autumn, and now... the shop won't even be here to come back to."

Meiling smiled gently, her expression shifting slightly as she remembered the flush on her daughter's cheeks from earlier that evening on the porch. "Not everything is disappearing, Y/N. Some things are just finding their footing."

Y/N looked up, her brow furrowing slightly. "What do you mean?"

"Soobin," Meiling said smoothly, a tiny, knowing glint returning to her eyes despite the somber mood of the house. "When I saw the two of you out there... you had a look on your face I haven't seen in a very long time. And him... heavens, he looked entirely captivated. He was practically vibrating with nerves trying to be polite."

Y/N’s cheeks instantly flared with a sudden, betraying heat, the heavy sadness in her chest momentarily eclipsed by a sharp, fluttering panic. "Eomma, please. We're just friends."

"A friend who didn't hesitate for a single second to spend his precious vacation making kimchi for an old woman, just because he wants to," Meiling countered, her voice dropping into a tender, teasing register. She leaned in a fraction closer, her hand resting over Y/N’s. "He has a good, pure heart, Y/N-ah. Anyone can see it. And he looks at you like you're the only quiet spot on this entire noisy island."

Y/N looked away, her heart hammering a fierce, chaotic rhythm against her ribs. She thought of Soobin’s deep, grounding voice from the afternoon—how he had said the city wouldn't feel terrifying or lonely if you had the right person going up there with you.

"The shop closing is going to be hard," Meiling whispered, her expression turning incredibly soft as she squeezed Y/N's hand. "But don't let the sadness of losing one room make you close your eyes to the person who is trying to stand right next to you in the next one. Make sure not to stay up late, I need your help early tomorrow morning to get the basins from the storage."

By one o'clock in the afternoon, the backyard had been transformed into a full-scale battleground of spice and salt. The thick, oppressive heat was at its absolute peak, baking the gravel yard, but nobody was paying attention to the thermometer anymore.

Soobin was currently sitting on a ridiculously small, blue plastic stool that Y/N had found for him in the shed. Because of his towering height, his knees were practically pushed up to his chest, making him look like a giant bunny. He had his oversized white sleeves rolled up past his elbows, revealing the tense muscles of his forearms, which were now completely stained bright red with chili paste.

"No, Soobin-ah! Not like that!" Halmeoni barked, leaning over from her own stool and swatting his forearm with a salted cabbage leaf. "You're just slapping the paste on the outside like you're painting a fence! You have to lift every single leaf and rub the spice mix deep into the core. Gently, but firmly!"

"Ah, I'm sorry, Halmeoni," Soobin blurted out, his eyes widening in pure panic. He quickly dropped into a flustered bow, nearly losing his balance on the tiny stool. A streak of red pepper paste immediately transferred from his gloved hand straight onto his cheek, right near his dimple.

Y/N, who was sitting across from him working on her own batch of cabbage, let out a loud, breathless laugh at the sight. "Hold still," she giggled, leaning across the giant stainless-steel basin separating them. She used the clean edge of her apron to gently wipe the spicy smudge off his face. "If you leave that there, your skin is going to burn all day."

Soobin froze completely under her touch, his breath catching in his throat. Up close, the tips of his ears were burning a vibrant, unmistakable crimson that had absolutely nothing to do with the red pepper flakes. He offered her a helpless, bashful smile, his deep dimples cutting sharp lines into his cheeks. "Thanks," he mumbled softly, his deep voice dropping into that quiet register that always made Y/N's chest flutter.

"Don't distract my worker, Y/N-ah!" Meiling teased from the outdoor sink, where she was rinsing the last batch of radishes. She shot her daughter with a highly amused, knowing look. "Soobin-ah, don't mind my mother. You're doing a wonderful job. Look at how well he moved those heavy jars earlier, Mother! Min-jun’s back would have broken in half."

From the shade of the porch, Min-jun chuckled, lifting a cold glass of cola in Soobin's direction. "She's right, son. You saved my life today."

"It was really no trouble at all, Mr. Liu," Soobin said quickly, sitting up as straight as his tiny stool would allow. He turned back to the massive basin of cabbage, his expression turning intensely focused. Determined to get it right this time, he carefully lifted a crisp leaf of napa cabbage, minding Halmeoni's instructions as he meticulously massaged the bright red, garlic-heavy paste into the very core.

Y/N watched him work, the heavy ache in her heart from last night's announcement about the shop closing at the end of August momentarily lifting. The scent of fresh ginger, fish sauce, and toasted sesame filled the heavy summer air. Looking at him right now, the future didn't feel quite as lonely.

By the time the final head of cabbage was packed tightly into the last massive earthenware jar and stored away, the fierce afternoon sun had finally dipped below the horizon. The sticky heat softened into a warm, heavy twilight, and the rhythmic, familiar rattle of the old electric fan in the corner of the dining room hummed to life.

Inside, the rich, savory aroma of boiled pork belly had been drifting from the stove for the last two hours, completely taking over the house.

"Everyone wash up! The bossam is ready!" Meiling announced from the kitchen.

Soobin tried to stand up from the porch steps where he had been resting, but his long legs had been worked so hard that his knees gave a loud, agonizing crack. He stumbled slightly, a low, embarrassed groan escaping his lips as he fought to find his balance on his numb feet.

Y/N quickly caught him by the elbow, stabilizing his towering frame. "I told you Halmeoni’s boot camp was no joke."

Soobin looked down at her, a helpless, dimpled smile broke through his exhaustion. "My legs feel like jelly," he whispered, his deep voice carrying a tired, raspy edge that vibrated right through Y/N’s hand. "But I think I passed the test. Halmeoni didn't hit me with a cabbage leaf for the last hour."

"That’s practically a gold medal in this house," Y/N teased, her heart doing a familiar, erratic little skip at how close he was standing before she reluctantly let go of his arm.

The indoor dining room felt like heaven. The heavy oak table was practically groaning under the weight of the night's feast. At the center sat a towering platter of the bossam—succulent, thick slices of pork belly boiled to a perfect tenderness with ginger and soybean paste. Next to it was a large earthen bowl filled with a sampling of the fresh summer kimchi they had just spent all afternoon making.

As they all sat down, Halmeoni immediately took the chopsticks and piled a mountain of the bright red kimchi right on top of Soobin's steaming bowl of rice.

"Eat," Halmeoni commanded, though her sharp eyes were noticeably softer than they had been that afternoon. "A boy who works like a horse needs to eat like one."

"Thank you, Halmeoni," Soobin said, bowing his head respectfully before taking a massive, perfectly constructed wrap of tender pork belly, fresh kimchi, and rice. He stuffed the entire thing into his mouth, his cheeks puffing out completely as he chewed, a look of pure, unadulterated bliss spreading across his handsome face.

Min-jun laughed warmly from the head of the table, pouring Soobin a tall glass of ice-cold cola. "Slow down, son, there’s plenty more in the kitchen."

Y/N watched the scene unfold, her chest tightening with a bittersweet ache. She looked at her father, whose face looked brighter and less burdened than it had last night, momentarily distracted from the impending closure of the shop by the joy of a full house. Then she looked across the table at Soobin, who was currently receiving an earful from Meiling about how he needed to take a massive container of kimchi home to his own family.

The shop that had anchored her childhood was still going to close at the end of the summer. That reality hadn't changed. But looking at the way Soobin seamlessly fit into the loud, chaotic, garlic-scented rhythm of her family, Y/N felt the heavy, suffocating fear of the future begin to ease. The sanctuary she grew up in was slipping away, but a new one was quietly being built right in front of her.

The initial clattering of chopsticks gradually slowed down to a comfortable, relaxed rhythm as the mountain of pork belly finally dwindled. Soobin was on his second bowl of rice, looking thoroughly content despite his aching muscles.

Min-jun leaned back in his chair, swirling the amber liquid of his barley tea. He looked over at Soobin, his eyes carrying a gentle, curious warmth. "Soobin-ah, your grandmother mentioned to me at the market last week that you’re studying at Korea University. Engineering, wasn't it?"

Soobin carefully swallowed his bite, setting his chopsticks down with his usual textbook politeness. "Civil engineering, yes, Mr. Liu. I’m actually about to start my fourth year this coming autumn."

"A senior already. That’s a heavy year," Min-jun nodded with deep, genuine respect. "The campus in Seoul must be beautiful, but I imagine the coursework keeps you incredibly busy. It’s an elite school afterall."

"It can be a bit overwhelming," Soobin admitted, rubbing the back of his neck, his ears tipping into a faint pink at the praise. "The pressure is quite high, and the city moves so fast. That's why my grandmother insisted I come down to the island for the summer before my final year starts. She said my brain was going to short-circuit."

Meiling smiled warmly, placing another piece of pork on his plate. "Your grandmother is a very wise woman. Seoul is no place to be trapped in during the heavy summer days anyway." She paused, a thoughtful look crossing her face as she looked at him. "You know, Soobin-ah... did you come down to visit Jeju at all last year? Because I swear, I haven't actually seen your face around the village since the summer festival back in 1999."

Soobin let out a soft laugh, his dimples catching the light. "No, Mrs. Liu, I couldn't make it down last year because of an internship. But you're right, 1999 was probably the last time I stayed for the whole summer."

"Ah, I remember," Meiling chuckled, shaking her head fondly. "You were always attached at the hip to that little pack of boys. What happened to them? Yeonjun was one of them, right? Heavens, he was one of the smartest students Jeju had ever seen. Everyone knew he'd go far."

Soobin offered a slightly wistful, candid smile. "To be honest, we haven't really kept in touch. I know Yeonjun went up to Seoul for college, and I think Taehyun did too, but we haven't actually spoken in years."

"And what about that other one?" Halmeoni chimed in, setting her teacup down with a sharp click. "The loud one. The one who nearly knocked over my radish bins on his bicycle."

"Beomgyu?" Soobin fielded the question with a soft chuckle. "I only know through my grandmother he’s staying in Daegu right now. But again, it’s been a long time since we ran in the same circles."

Meiling tapped her chin thoughtfully, looking over at him. "And what about the youngest one of your old group? Kai, right? He was always such a shy, sweet boy. Heavens, he’s grown up so handsome now, but he's still so quiet. I barely see him around the village anymore. Ever since his close friend... the Jiang's daughter... moved away, it feels like he hasn't gone out much at all."

Soobin paused, his chopsticks hovering just inches from his bowl. He looked up at Meiling, his eyes widening in genuine surprise. "Wait... really?" He blinked, a wave of sudden concern overtaking his face. "I had no idea. I knew his friend moved, but I didn't think... I just assumed he was busy with his own life. We haven't spoken since we were kids, so I'm completely out of the loop."

"Oh, it's quite sad, really," Meiling sighed softly, shaking her head. "He completely keeps to himself now."

"They all went up to the big city, or stayed locked away," Min-jun murmured softly, his eyes drifting toward the dark window for a brief moment. The quiet melancholy from earlier touched his features. "Everyone goes up to Seoul eventually, or things change. It's where the world moves now."

Y/N watched her father, her heart giving a quiet, painful throb. She knew exactly where his mind was wandering back to the reality that their quiet little paper-book rental couldn't compete with the fast-moving, digital world anymore. She bit her lower lip, keeping her eyes fixed on her plate, terrified that her face would give away the secret she was keeping locked tight in her chest. Soobin didn't know yet that the shop was closing in August.

And ironically, August was the exact same month Y/N was supposed to pack her bags and leave for the city herself, finally starting her first year as a fine arts major.

Soobin, still looking slightly troubled by the news about Kai, seemed to sense the sudden, heavy shift in the room's atmosphere. He looked from Min-jun’s distant expression to the way Y/N was suddenly staring intensely at her rice bowl. Though he was curious, he politely tucked his questions away, knowing it wasn't his place to pry into a family's private matters.

Instead, he turned back to Min-jun with an earnest smile, trying to lift the mood. "The island has been a wonderful break, Mr. Liu. Honestly, your book rental shop has been my favorite place since I got here. It’s so quiet, and it has a warmth that you just can't find in any library in Seoul."

Min-jun blinked, pulled out of his thoughts by the sincerity in the young man's voice. A genuine, touched smile finally broke through his tired expression. "Is that so? Well... I'm glad our little shop could offer you some peace."

"It really does," Soobin murmured softly, risking a quick glance across the table at Y/N.

As the tension melted away into the fan-cooled air of the dining room, Y/N let out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding. She looked at Soobin, grateful for his quiet intuition, knowing that the heavy countdown to August was still ticking—but for tonight, the room was full of warmth.

After the final dishes were dried and tucked away into the cupboards, the heavy, garlic-scented warmth of the kitchen was replaced by the cool, salty breeze of the coastal night.

Y/N and Soobin slipped out the back door quietly, careful not to disturb her parents, who were already huddled in the living room over the store's massive ledgers, or Halmeoni, who had retired to her bedroom with a radio humming low.

They walked side by side down the narrow gravel path leading away from the house. The village was completely dark now, illuminated only by the occasional amber glow of a streetlamp and the brilliant, scattered stars overhead. The intense, oppressive heat of the afternoon had finally broken, leaving behind a soft, balmy air that smelled heavily of sea salt and wild grass.

For the first few minutes, neither of them spoke. The only sound was the synchronized crunching of their sneakers against the loose stones and the distant, rhythmic crash of the tide hitting the shoreline a few hundred meters away. Soobin walked with his hands jammed deep into his shorts pockets, his tall shoulders slightly hunched as he looked down at his feet.

"Are your legs holding up?" Y/N broke the silence, glancing up at him with a small, teasing smile. 

Soobin let out a soft, raspy laugh, his deep voice cutting cleanly through the quiet night air. He shook his head, the dark bangs that had been damp with sweat earlier now lifting slightly in the ocean breeze. "They’re still a little numb, honestly. Your grandmother really doesn't hold back. I think I used muscles today that I didn't even know existed."

He paused, looking out toward the dark horizon where the black sea met the star-lit sky.

"But it was nice. It’s been a really long time since I felt that kind of tired. In Seoul, you're just... tired from sitting at a desk or staring at school work."

Y/N nodded slowly, her fingers lightly tugged at the edge of her oversized cardigan. "My family can be a lot. Thanks for being so patient with them and for helping my dad with the jars. He really needed it."

"I liked it," Soobin said sincerely, stopping near an old wooden guardrail that overlooked the rocky shore. He leaned his forearms against the weathered wood, looking down at the white sea foam swirling below. "Your family is really warm, Y/N. At dinner, when your mother was talking about the old days... it made me realize how much I've missed since I left."

Y/N leaned against the rail next to him, keeping a comfortable, friendly distance between them, though her eyes remained fixed on the dark water. "You seemed really surprised about Kai."

Soobin sighed, a faint, troubled line forming between his brows. "I was. We really were just kids who played arcade games and threw rocks into the ocean back then. We didn't talk about our feelings or anything. When I went back to Seoul, we just... stopped calling. To hear that he's so isolated now... it feels weird. Like the village I remembered is changing, and I didn't even notice."

He turned his head to look down at her, his dark eyes searching her face in the dim light of a distant streetlamp. "Everything feels like it’s shifting. Your father looked so tired at dinner when we started talking about Seoul like the city was some kind of shadow."

Y/N felt a familiar, sharp pang in her chest. She looked away from his gaze, staring down at her own hands gripping the guardrail. The secret of the shop's closure in August felt heavier than ever, burning a hole right through her silence.

"The city is a shadow for him," Y/N whispered softly, her voice barely carrying over the sound of the waves. She took a slow, steadying breath, deciding maybe he would understand. "He's closing the rental shop, Soobin. At the end of August."

Soobin froze. He didn't say anything for a long moment, the news hanging in the dark space between them. "Closing it?" he asked quietly, his voice dropping into a lower, gentler register. "For good?"

"The rent is going up, and nobody buys paper books or rents comics anymore because of the digital apps in the city," Y/N explained, her throat tightening as she forced the words out. "We’ve been operating at a loss since spring. August is our last month."

She swallowed hard, looking up at the sky to keep the tears from spilling over. "I've lived in that shop my entire life and now... it's just going to be gone."

Soobin didn't offer any empty platitudes. He didn't tell her it would be fine, or that change was good. Instead, he slowly shifted his position, turning fully toward her. He kept his hands in his pockets, but his gaze was full of a deep, intuitive empathy.

"I'm sorry, Y/N," he said softly, his voice steady and grounding. "I know I've only been going there for a little while, but I can tell that place isn't just a store. It's... it's you. It has your peace in it."

Y/N let out a shaky, breathless laugh, looking down at her sneakers. "And the irony is, August is when I'm supposed to leave for Seoul too. For my first year of art school. It feels like everything I know is disappearing all at once, and I'm being pushed into this giant, loud city that I'm terrified of."

Soobin watched her, his expression softening until his deep dimples faintly showed in the shadows. He gave her a small, reassuring nudge with his shoulder—a familiar, comfortable gesture between friends.

"You don't have to be terrified," Soobin murmured, his raspy voice steady against the ocean breeze. "Seoul is loud, and it moves way too fast, yeah. But it's not a shadow if you have a place to anchor yourself."

He offered her a warm, genuine smile. "I'll be up there. I'm entering my final year, so I know the city pretty well by now. When August comes, and everything here closes down... you won't be entering that next chapter alone. I've got your back. I'll be right there."

Y/N looked up, meeting his eyes. The suffocating weight that had been pressing down on her chest since last night didn't completely vanish, but as she looked at Soobin the terrifying expanse of the future suddenly felt a little smaller and a little safer.

The walk back to his grandmother’s house felt longer than usual, his numb legs working on pure autopilot while his mind replayed the quiet conversation by the guardrail. The night air was peaceful, but his chest felt heavy with the realization of how fast the world was changing for everyone on the island.

As Soobin approached the front gate of the traditional courtyard house, the warm, amber light from the living room windows spilled onto the gravel. Even before he unlocked the heavy front door, the muffled sound of familiar voices and bright, collective laughter drifted outside. His parents, who had come down from Seoul to join his grandparents for a brief family visit, were clearly right in the middle of a lively late-night conversation.

He stepped inside the entryway, the cool linoleum floor a welcome relief.

He leaned against the wooden wall, sliding his feet out of his dusty sneakers. He carefully placed them on the bottom shelf of the shoe rack by the door, making sure they were aligned perfectly out of habit.

As he stood up, he fished his bulky folder phone out of his pocket. In the year 2001, getting a decent signal anywhere near the coastal cliffs of Jeju was a daily miracle. He flicked the phone open, the tiny green-lit screen casting a dim glow over his face. He held it up slightly, watching the signal indicator dance before it finally settled on a single, fragile bar.

A rapid succession of high-pitched electronic beeps suddenly pierced the quiet entryway.

Because he had been off the grid all afternoon doing manual labor, the backlog of SMS messages from his engineering friends up at Korea University had finally pushed through. His screen was flooded with a dozen unread texts—mostly his classmates panicking about upcoming registration dates for their fourth-year, or complaining about the stifling Seoul humidity while asking when he was coming back up to the city.

"Soobin-ah?" his mother called out, her voice cutting through the laughter as she poked her head into the hallway.

Seeing him standing there with his blinking phone, she smiled and waved him into the living room. "Come inside, why are you hovering out there in the dark? How was it?"

Soobin snapped his phone shut, the sharp clack echoing in the small space, and slipped it back into his pocket. He stepped fully into the warm light of the living room, offering his family a tired but genuine smile.

"It was good, Mom," his deep voice carried a soft, slightly raspy edge from the long day. "I helped move all the heavy onggi jars, and then we spent the whole afternoon making the kimchi. Y/n’s Halmeoni only swatted my arm a couple of times at the beginning, so I think I did okay."

"A couple of times?" his father teased, looking up from his newspaper with a grin. "That's a passing grade from Halmeoni Sun-hee, son. You survived."

"They even fed me a huge bossam feast for dinner," Soobin added, rubbing the back of his neck as his ears tipped into a faint pink. "They really took care of me."

His mother looked at him closely, her maternal instinct picking up on the quiet, lingering look in his eyes and the subtle exhaustion in his posture. "Well, that was very kind of them. You must be completely exhausted after all that lifting. Go wash up and get some rest, okay? Your shoulders look incredibly tight."

"I will," Soobin nodded respectfully.

He excused himself and headed down the quiet hallway toward his small room. After closing the door behind him, the distant sound of his family’s chatter faded into a soft hum, leaving him in the peaceful, cool stillness of the space.

Soobin didn't turn on the main light. Instead, he walked over to the bed and sat on the edge, staring out the window. The dark, rolling waves of the Jeju sea were visible under the starlight, and the rhythmic sound of the tide washed over the room, carrying the faint, clean scent of salt and wild grass.

He pulled his folder phone out once more, the green screen blinking with those urgent, demanding texts from Seoul about graduation, senior seminars, and the fast-approaching autumn. Up until yesterday, that had been his only trajectory—the expected, predictable path of a fourth-year engineering student.

But tonight, as he looked at those messages, a sudden, fierce ache tightened in his chest.

For the first time in his life, he found himself wishing he could grab the hands of the clock and hold them perfectly still. He didn't want the calendar to flip to August. He didn't want to pack his bags, leave his grandmother's quiet garden, or watch the paper-book rental shop close its doors for the last time. He just wanted to freeze time right here, where he was finally learning what it felt like to be a person again.

Soobin slowly closed the phone, letting the green light die out completely, and set it face-down on the desk. He leaned his elbows on the windowsill and rested his chin in his hands, watching the distant sea and silently wishing, with everything he had, that this summer would never have to end.

The heavy afternoon heat was at its peak when the little bell above the rental shop door let out a sharp, metallic jingle.

Y/N looked up from the wooden counter, where she had been using a damp cloth to wipe down a stack of old, sun-bleached romance novels. Soobin was standing in the doorway, the bright glare of the Jeju sun framing his towering figure. He looked distinctly out of place compared to his usual neat appearance.

In his right hand, he was clutching a round, translucent plastic container with a bright red lid. In his left arm, he tucked a stack of three thick comic books he’d pulled from his own bedroom shelves.

"Soobin-ah?" Y/N asked, setting the rag down. "Is everything okay? You look like you're on a mission."

Soobin closed the door behind him, the sudden silence of the fan-cooled room swallowing the distant cicadas outside. He walked over to the counter, his sneakers squeaking slightly on the wooden floor. He set the container down carefully, though his fingers lingered on the plastic lid.

"I... I wanted to ask you a favor," he said, his deep voice dropping into a hesitant, quiet register. He rubbed the back of his neck, his ears already tipping into a faint pink. "I’m going to check on Kai. My grandmother gave me his address this morning, and she practically ordered me to take this japchae over to his house."

Y/N nodded slowly, recalling the heavy, quiet look that had crossed Soobin’s face during dinner the night before when her mother mentioned the boy's isolation. "That’s really nice of you, Soobin. I’m sure he’ll appreciate it."

"The thing is..." Soobin paused, looking down at the stack of comics in his hand, his thumb tracing the worn edge of the spine. "I’m terrified of going alone. We haven't spoken in so long. If I just show up on his doorstep out of nowhere." He said letting out a helpless, self-deprecating chuckle. "I'm worried I'll scare him off. He was always so shy."

He looked back up at her, his dark eyes carrying a vulnerable, earnest appeal. "I know he doesn't know you, and it's a lot to ask... but I was wondering if you could come with me? Having someone else there might make it feel less like an interrogation and more like... a normal visit. You have this way of making spaces feel safe, Y/N. I could really use that right now."

Y/N stared at him, a warm, quiet flutter stirring in her chest at his words. It was the first time he had explicitly acknowledged the comfort she tried to provide, and seeing this tall guy look so genuinely nervous about facing a childhood friend made him feel incredibly real.

"Let me just tell my dad," Y/N said softly, a small smile breaking across her face. She stepped into the back room. 

"Let's go. Lead the way!"

The walk to the northern edge of the village was entirely different from their moonlit stroll the night before. The sun was blazing, turning the dirt paths into dusty, shimmering trails. Soobin kept a steady, protective pace beside her, holding the container flat against his chest to keep anything from spilling.

"I don't even know what I'm going to say," Soobin admitted as they turned down a particularly quiet, overgrown lane where the houses were spaced further apart. "What if he doesn't even want to see me? A sudden visit might just feel like an intrusion."

"It won't," Y/N reassured him, her voice a steady anchor against his anxiety. "Even if he's shocked at first, knowing that someone remembered him means something. Just breathe, Soobin."

He took a slow breath, nodding as they finally stopped in front of a rusted iron gate. Despite the weathered metal of the entrance, the yard inside was beautifully well-kept, overflowing with vibrant summer flowers. Neatly trimmed bushes framed rows of blooming hydrangeas and colorful wild lilies, their sweet fragrance cutting through the thick, salty afternoon air. The stone walkway was swept completely clean of dirt, creating a sharp contrast against the traditional house itself, which looked completely asleep—its heavy wooden doors and paper-screen windows firmly shut against the outside world.

Soobin swallowed hard, stepped through the creaking gate, and walked up to the low wooden porch. He hesitated for a fraction of a second before knocking firmly three times on the thick wood.

Y/N stood a few paces back near the edge of the porch, keeping her hands tucked into her cardigan pockets, intentionally giving Soobin the space to be the primary focus.

For a long, agonizing minute, there was nothing but the sound of the wind rustling the grass. Soobin looked back at Y/N, an anxious line forming between his brows, his shoulders tensing as if he was ready to turn around and apologize for wasting her time. But just as he shifted his feet, a soft click echoed from inside, and the heavy door creaked open a few inches.

Kai stood in the dim light of the entryway. Y/N’s mother hadn't been exaggerating—the boy had grown up incredibly handsome, with sharp, delicate, foreign-tinged features and large, expressive eyes. But he looked entirely fragile, his shoulders hunched inside an oversized, faded gray sweatshirt despite the summer heat. He blinked rapidly against the sudden, harsh glare of the afternoon sun, his gaze shifting from the wooden floor up to the towering frame in front of him.

Kai's eyes widened, a thick note of disbelief washing over his face. "Soobin-hyung?"

"Hey, Kai-ah," Soobin said. His voice instantly dropped into that warm, incredibly gentle register Y/N had heard him use with her grandmother—completely devoid of pressure. He offered a small, hesitant smile, his deep dimples popping out. "It's... it's been a really long time. My grandmother told me you were still here, and she made way too much japchae yesterday. I also remembered you used to read these specific comics when we were kids, so... I thought I’d bring them by."

Kai stared at the plastic container, then down at the books. His fingers gripped the edge of the wooden door so tightly his knuckles turned white. He looked completely overwhelmed, his eyes darting briefly over Soobin's shoulder to where Y/N was standing. He didn't know her, and the sight of a stranger made him instinctively shrink back into the shadows of the hallway.

Sensing his hesitation, Y/N gave Kai a small, incredibly polite nod from her spot on the gravel, keeping her expression entirely neutral and unthreatening, letting him know she was just there as a quiet observer.

Soobin noticed the shift and immediately stepped slightly into Kai’s line of sight, drawing the younger boy's attention back to him. "She’s a friend from the book rental shop down the road," Soobin explained softly, keeping his tone light. "You don't have to worry about us, Kai-ah. I just wanted to make sure you were doing okay."

The sincerity in Soobin's voice seemed to cut through the heavy, protective walls Kai had built around himself. Kai looked at the fresh kimchi, then back up at Soobin’s face—noticing the sweat on his forehead and the dirt on his shirt. Soobin had actually worked for this, just to see him.

Slowly, hesitatingly, Kai pushed the door open a few inches wider, the old hinges letting out a faint groan.

"Do you... do you want to come in?" Kai whispered, his voice small and raspy from disuse. "My mom is out, but... I can make some cold iced tea."

Soobin let out a quiet, invisible breath of relief, the tension melting from his broad shoulders. He risked a quick, grateful glance back at Y/N, a silent thank you shining in his eyes, before turning back to the younger boy. "We’d love to, Kai-ah. Lead the way."

Kai gave a small, hesitant nod and turned into the dim, cool hallway of the house. The interior smelled faintly of dried herbs and floor wax, a quiet, preserved space that felt entirely removed from the blistering mid-afternoon heat outside.

Soobin stepped over the threshold first, carefully sliding out of his sneakers at the entryway. He glanced back at Y/N, waiting an extra half-second to ensure she was following close behind, before leading the way into a modest, sunlit sitting room. The screen doors were slid back just enough to let in the scent of the hydrangeas, though the room itself remained entirely still.

"Please, sit," Kai whispered, gesturing vaguely toward a low wooden table surrounded by neatly placed floor cushions. He didn't wait for them to answer before disappearing into the adjacent kitchen, his oversized sweatshirt swallowing his frame as he moved.

Soobin took a seat on one of the cushions, his long legs folding awkwardly as he tried to find a comfortable position. He set the plastic container down neatly on the polished wood of the table. Y/N sat down a comfortable distance beside him, smoothing her cardigan over her knees.

"You did great out there," she murmured softly, leaning in just enough so her voice wouldn't carry into the kitchen.

Soobin let out a breathy, quiet laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. His ears were still a faint shade of pink. "My heart was beating so fast I thought he’d hear it. But... seeing him now, he really hasn't changed that much. He's just so quiet." He looked toward the kitchen doorway, a look of soft, brotherly concern returning to his eyes. "I’m glad I came. I’m glad you made me come."

Before Y/N could reply, the soft pad of footsteps announced Kai's return. He carried a small wooden tray holding three glasses filled with amber iced tea, condensation already pooling at the bases. He placed the tray down with meticulous care before sliding onto a cushion across from them.

For a moment, a heavy silence settled over the table. Kai kept his gaze fixed firmly on the condensation rolling down his glass, his fingers nervously picking at a loose thread on his sleeve.

Soobin, sensing the younger boy's stifling awkwardness, decided to handle the silence gently. He slid the plastic container forward a few inches.

"My grandmother wanted to make sure you got this while it was fresh," Soobin began, his deep voice incredibly soft and grounding in the quiet room. "And honestly... I wanted to come see how you were doing. I know it’s been years, Kai-ah. But when my mom told me you were still around the village, I kept thinking about how we all used to spend our summers down by the arcade."

Kai’s eyes shifted from his glass to the container, and then up to Soobin. A tiny, fragile look of recognition passed over his face. "The arcade," he murmured, his voice slightly stronger now. "The one with the broken joystick on the fighting game."

"Exactly," Soobin said, his dimples finally showing fully as he relaxed into a warm smile. " Yeonjun-hyung used to lose his mind when we ran out of coins, and Beomgyu would always try to shake the machine to get a free game until the owner chased us out. Taehyun was the only one smart enough to just sit back and watch us get in trouble."

A faint, incredibly brief smile tugged at the corner of Kai's lips. It was small, but it was there—a tiny fracture in the heavy walls he had spent the last few years building. He looked up from the table, his large eyes shifting from Soobin over to Y/N, no longer shrinking away quite as much.

"I remember," Kai whispered softly, looking back at Soobin with a quiet, lingering vulnerability. "Yeonjun-hyung always bought the melon popsicles afterward."

"Only because Beomgyu begged him until he gave in," Soobin replied gently, his broad shoulders relaxing as the ancient familiarity of their friendship began to spark back to life. He risked a quick, deeply grateful glance back at Y/N, a silent thank you shining in his eyes, before turning all his attention back to the younger boy.

The amber afternoon sun eventually dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in deep shades of purple and burnt orange as twilight settled over the quiet courtyard. The sliding doors remained open, letting in a cool evening breeze and the rhythmic, distant sound of the tide.

Over the course of the afternoon, the thick, suffocating awkwardness that had filled the room completely dissolved. As the hours slipped by, Y/N and Kai became well acquainted, the initial tension giving way to an incredibly easy, comfortable dynamic. Y/N was completely shocked to learn that Kai was actually studying marketing at a university in Busan, a choice that felt entirely unbelievable for someone so naturally shy. Kai explained that while the fast-paced energy of Busan forced him out of his shell during the semester, he usually flew straight back to Jeju during holidays, needing the absolute quiet of the island to recharge.

Listening to them talk, Soobin relaxed completely against the chair, a proud, brotherly warmth settling into his features as he watched his friend open up.

By the time the room grew dark, shadowed by the fading twilight, it was clear they had stayed far longer than intended. Realizing how late it had gotten, Soobin and Y/N reluctantly stood up to gather their things and say their goodbyes, promising not to let another long stretch of silence grow between them.

As they stepped back out through the rusted iron gate and onto the dark dirt path, a deep, peaceful contentment hung in the air. Soobin looked down at Y/N, the heavy anxiety that had locked his shoulders together that afternoon completely gone. He didn't say a word, but the soft, lingering curve of his dimples in the starlight told her everything.

They walked down the narrow, sloping path toward the shore, the sound of the ocean growing louder and heavier with every step. The sand was cool beneath their feet, slipping over the edges of their shoes as they navigated the dark beach until they found a flat, dry spot far away from the reach of the tide.

Soobin pulled his lightweight jacket off, laying it out over the sand for Y/N to sit on. Once she was settled, he sank down directly onto the sand beside her, pulling his long legs up and looping his arms loosely around his knees to mirror her posture.

For a long time, neither of them spoke. The sheer scale of the Jeju night sky was breathtaking; without the blinding neon of the city, the Milky Way was a faint, glowing ribbon of violet and silver cut right across the ink-black dome. Millions of stars flickered with a quiet, ancient intensity, casting a soft, pale light over the dark surface of the rolling sea.

"I forgot how many there were," Soobin whispered, his deep voice barely carrying over the steady roar of the waves. He looked completely mesmerized, his head tilted back as the starlight reflected beautifully in his wide, dark eyes. "In Seoul, if you look up at night, you're lucky if you see three. You forget that the rest of the universe is even up there."

Y/N rested her chin on her knees, watching him side-by-side. Sitting right next to him like this, she could feel the faint warmth radiating from his shoulder, his towering frame looking relaxed and small against the vast backdrop of the dark ocean. His expression was entirely soft, stripped of the heavy academic pressure and expectation that usually followed him.

"My dad says the stars here don't change," Y/N said quietly, turning her gaze back to the sky. "No matter how many shops close or how many people leave for the city, they stay exactly like this. I think that's why I like coming down here when I'm overwhelmed. It feels like a promise."

Soobin turned his head to look at her, his dark eyes dropping to the way the starlight caught the edges of her hair and the soft cotton of her cardigan.

"A promise of what?" he asked softly.

"That some things will always be waiting for you," she replied, turning her head to meet his eyes. "No matter how far away you go."

The space between them felt entirely charged with a quiet, heavy sincerity. Soobin didn't break eye contact. The distant, urgent texts waiting on his folder phone in his pocket felt a million miles away, completely powerless against the slow, steady rhythm of the Jeju tide and the girl sitting right beside him.

Slowly, almost unconsciously, Soobin shifted his hand on his knee, his fingers dropping onto the sand, just inches away from where her hand rested on the edge of his jacket.

"I don't think I'm going to look at the sky in Seoul the same way after this," he murmured, his voice dropping into a rare, vulnerable whisper that made her heart skip a beat. "I'll just be looking for this view. Every single night."

The silence that followed his words wasn't heavy; it was thick with a sudden, breathless weight that seemed to push the sound of the crashing waves into the far background.

Y/N didn't pull away. Instead, she kept her eyes locked on his, her breath catching in her throat as she felt the absolute sincerity radiating from him. The space between them suddenly felt entirely too small, yet agonizingly wide. Every small detail seemed magnified in the dark—the faint, steady rise and fall of his broad chest, the way his dark bangs brushed just above his eyes, and the quiet warmth radiating from his shoulder where it nearly touched hers.

Soobin’s gaze flicked down to her lips. It was a brief, fleeting look, but it stayed there a beat too long before rising back to her eyes, carrying a silent, hesitant question. He was an overthinker by nature, always analyzing, always keeping his composure, but right now, his throat visibly swallowed. The steady, predictable rhythm he usually relied on was completely gone, replaced by a restless, heavy gravity pulling him closer.

Slowly, almost imperceptibly, the distance began to shrink.

Soobin unlooped his arms from his knees, his movements deliberately slow, as if he was afraid a sudden breath might shatter the fragile glass of the moment. He shifted his weight, his large frame angling toward her on the sand, effectively blocking out the cool ocean breeze and trapping her in the sudden, concentrated warmth of his shadow.

He didn't rush. He leaned in an inch, then paused, his dark eyes searching hers in the starlight, giving her every opportunity to blink, to laugh it off, or to turn away. The scent of the salty tide mixed with his familiar, clean scent, filling the tiny space left between them.

Y/N’s fingers twitched against the sand, her heart hammering a frantic rhythm against her ribs. She didn't move back. If anything, she tilted her face up just a fraction, a silent invitation that broke through the last of his carefully held restraint.

A soft, shaky exhale escaped Soobin's lips, his gaze locking completely onto hers as his head tilted slightly, his shadow finally falling over her face entirely.

He closed the final remaining inch, his lips brushing against hers with a gentle, agonizingly slow hesitation.

The kiss was entirely low-key and quiet, yet it carried the immense weight of every unspoken thought he’d held back since arriving on the island. It was a soft, tentative pressure that gradually deepened as the initial nervousness melted away, filling the space between them with a profound, consuming warmth.

Slowly, lifting his hand from his knee, Soobin reached up. His long, slightly trembling fingers brushed carefully against her jawline before his palm came to rest against her cheek. His skin was warm, a stark and comforting contrast to the cool night breeze. His thumb swept across her cheekbone in a feather-light, reverent caress, a gesture so tender it made the rest of the world completely fade away. It was their very first kiss, and the gentle touch of his hand seemed to anchor her to him, letting her feel just how much he was treasuring the moment.

The world around them completely dissolved—there were no distant city pressures, no looming expectations, just the steady rhythm of the Jeju tide, the soft stroke of his thumb, and the solid, reassuring reality of his presence.

When Soobin finally pulled back, he didn't move far. He stayed close, his forehead resting gently against hers for a fleeting second, his breath hitching as he tried to catch it.

As he slowly sat up and the starlight hit his face, Y/N could see the sudden, frantic rush of crimson flooding his cheeks and tipping the tops of his ears. The composed, towering boy who had calmly navigated the afternoon was completely gone, replaced by someone entirely flustered. He let out a breathless, incredibly shy chuckle, his hand dropping from her cheek to rub the back of his neck as a deep, helpless dimple carved into his cheek.

"I... I've been wanting to do that day we got stuck at the bus stop because of the rain," he whispered, his deep voice carrying a sweet, sheepish note. He looked down at his lap, his fingers nervously tracing a pattern on his knee, before looking back up through his dark bangs with a quiet, happy vulnerability. "I hope that was okay."

Y/N let out a breath she didn't realize she’d been holding, a soft smile breaking across her face. "It was more than okay, Soobin-ah."

In her words, the tension completely melted from his broad shoulders. He let out a quiet, relieved laugh, his hand finally dropping from the back of his neck. Still a bit flustered, he reached down and carefully slid his hand over the sand until his fingers found hers, tentatively weaving them together. His grip was warm and firm, his thumb immediately starting a slow, rhythmic sweep across the back of her hand.

He shifted his posture, pulling his knees back up toward his chest but staying close enough that his shoulder remained firmly pressed against hers. He looked back out at the vast, ink-black ocean, the steady roar of the crashing waves filling the silence between them.

"I was really anxious about coming back here," Soobin admitted softly, his deep voice dropping into that quiet, grounding register. "I thought everything would feel too different, or that I’d just feel like a ghost walking around my old life. But today... with Kai, and now out here..."

He paused, turning his head to look down at her. In the pale starlight, his dark eyes were incredibly soft, stripped entirely of the exhaustion and academic pressure he usually carried around.

"It’s the first time in a really long time that I’ve felt like I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be."

Y/N leaned her head lightly against his shoulder, feeling the solid, comforting weight of him bracing against her. "Jeju has a way of doing that," she murmured, watching the stars flicker above the horizon. "It waits for you to realize what actually matters."

Soobin let out a soft chuckle, the low vibration rattling pleasantly against her head. "Then I guess I should thank my grandmother for making too much japchae. And for making me walk down to that book rental shop."

They sat together on the cool sand for a long time after that, their intertwined hands resting between them. The cool night air swirled around the empty beach, but wrapped in the quiet warmth of his presence, Y/N had never felt more grounded.

The night deepened around them, the temperature dropping just enough to make the warmth of Soobin's shoulder against hers feel like a shield against the chill. Neither of them seemed to notice the time passing, completely content to let the steady, rhythmic crash of the tide dictate the pace of the evening.

Slowly, Soobin lifted their joined hands, his eyes tracing the contrast between their fingers before he gently brought the back of her hand up to his lips, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to her knuckles. The gesture was so quiet and natural that it sent a fresh wave of warmth straight to Y/N's chest.

"We should probably start heading back before my grandmother sends out a search party," he murmured, though his voice held a distinct reluctance. He didn't make a move to get up, his thumb still tracing slow circles against her skin.

Y/N let out a soft laugh, shifting her head from his shoulder to look up at him. "Is the formidable village elder really going to come looking for you?"

"Oh, absolutely," Soobin said, his dimples peeking out in the starlight as he smiled sheepishly. "She still treats me like I’m ten years old. If I’m out past nine, she starts pacing the porch. And if she finds out I stayed out late because of you, she’ll never let me hear the end of it."

"In a bad way?"

"No," Soobin chuckled, his eyes softening completely as he looked down at her. "In a 'when are you bringing her over for dinner' kind of way. She already likes you more than me, I think."

With a soft, collective sigh, they finally moved. Soobin stood up first, his towering frame stretching out before he reached back down to offer Y/N his hand, effortlessly pulling her to her feet. He picked up his lightweight jacket from the sand, giving it a quick shake to clear the loose grains before draping it over one arm.

As they turned back toward the sloping path that led away from the shore, Soobin didn't let go of her hand. He kept his fingers securely locked with hers, guiding her through the dark, uneven terrain with a quiet, protective focus.

Leaving the beach behind, the vast canopy of stars seemed to follow them, casting a pale glow over the quiet village streets. The heavy, lingering doubts Soobin had carried with him from Seoul seemed to have been washed away by the tide, replaced by a simple, grounding certainty. As they walked side-by-side into the quiet night, the future felt less like an impending weight and more like an open horizon.

Four days slipped by like a quiet, sun-drenched dream, the fast-paced rush of the outside world completely fading into the background of the island.

It was a brilliant, warm afternoon. High up on a grassy hilltop overlooking the sparkling expanse of the Jeju sea, a massive, ancient tree spread its thick canopy wide, casting a perfect, dappled shadow over the ground. The gentle afternoon breeze swept up the hillside, rustling the leaves overhead and carrying the crisp, salty scent of the ocean below.

Spread out over the grass beneath the shade was a soft, oversized blanket. Underneath the canopy, Soobin was completely relaxed. He was laying down with his long frame stretched out across the fabric, his head resting comfortably right in Y/N’s lap. In his hands, he held an old comic book he’d borrowed from the rental shop, his eyes scanning the pages with an easy, unbothered focus. Every now and then, his lips would twitch into a faint smile, completely at peace.

Y/N sat propped against the sturdy trunk of the tree at the edge of the blanket, a sketchbook resting against her knees. She was wearing a light, flowing sundress that bunched up softly beneath him, the fabric cool and soft under his head. With a charcoal pencil held lightly between her fingers, she was intently focused on the boy in her lap, trying her best to sketch his profile.

She leaned forward slightly, her eyes darting from the sharp line of his jaw to the page, carefully trying to capture the soft, relaxed way his dark bangs fell across his forehead.

"Stop moving your face," Y/N murmured softly, tapping the top of her pencil against the edge of the sketchbook. "Every time you turn the page, your facial expression shifts."

Soobin didn't look up from his comic, but a deep, helpless dimple immediately carved into his cheek. "I'm barely moving. You’re just taking too long because you’re distracted by how handsome your model is."

"Keep talking and I'll draw you with giant cartoon ears," she teased, though a small smile broke across her own face as she leaned back, squinting at the paper to smooth out the shading around his eyes.

Soobin let out a soft, low chuckle that vibrated right against her legs. He finally lowered the comic book slightly, tilting his head back just enough to look up at her upside down. The pale afternoon light filtered through the leaves, catching the warm, affectionate glint in his dark eyes.

Slowly, he reached up, his long fingers gently brushing a stray lock of hair away from her face before his hand dropped back down to rest against his stomach.

"Fine, I'll be perfectly still," he whispered, his voice warm and incredibly sweet as he held her gaze. "Capture my best side."

Y/N couldn't help but laugh, the sound bright and light in the quiet afternoon air. "I'm trying, but my model keeps making faces at me."

She went back to her sketch, the soft scratch of the charcoal pencil filling the space between them. For a few minutes, Soobin actually kept his promise, remaining perfectly still as he stared back up at the comic book. The gentle breeze rustled the leaves of the ancient tree above them, sending a dance of light and shadow across the soft fabric of her dress and his stripes shirt .

But Soobin’s attention span for the comic was clearly waning. His gaze kept drifting upwards, tracking the subtle movements of her wrist, the focused knit of her brows, and the way her lips slightly parted whenever she was working on a difficult detail.

Without warning, he closed the comic book with a soft thud and set it face down on the blanket beside him.

"Okay, I'm done reading," he announced, shifting his head slightly on her lap to get more comfortable. He reached up, his large hand gently wrapping around her left wrist—the one not holding the pencil—and tugging it down until her hand rested against his chest. He loosely interlaced his fingers with hers, his thumb tracing the back of her knuckles. "Show me."

Y/N defensively tilted the sketchbook toward her chest, a playful, protective look in her eyes. "No way. It’s not finished yet."

"Come on," Soobin pleaded, his voice dropping into that soft, whiny tone he only used when they were completely alone. He looked up at her through his dark bangs, his big, puppy-like eyes practically begging. "Just a sneak peek. Let me see how the ears look."

"They're absolutely huge," she teased, but she slowly relented, angling the sketchbook down so he could look at it upside down from her lap.

Soobin quieted, his eyes scanning the rough charcoal lines. Y/N had captured him perfectly—the soft curve of his nose, the relaxed set of his mouth, and the exact way he looked when he was completely at ease, far away from the rigid structure of his life in Seoul. A genuine, incredibly tender smile spread across his face, his dimples cutting deep into his cheeks.

"Wow," he whispered, his tone shifting from playful to entirely sincere. He looked up from the paper to meet her eyes, his gaze heavy with an affection that made her heart do a sudden flip. "You're really good at this. It actually looks like me."

"Of course it does," Y/N said softly, setting the sketchbook down on the blanket next to them. She reached down with her free hand, her fingers gently combing through his soft, dark hair, brushing it away from his forehead. "I had a pretty good view."

Soobin's smile softened, his eyes locking onto hers as he enjoyed the quiet sensation of her fingers in his hair. The glittering Jeju sea stretched out endlessly beneath their hilltop, but right here under the shade of the tree, neither of them was looking at the horizon.

He leaned into the touch of her hand, closing his eyes for a brief, content moment as her fingers moved through his hair. The warmth of the sun and the steady, rhythmic rustle of the leaves overhead made the entire world feel incredibly slow.

"I don't want to go back to Seoul," Soobin murmured softly, his eyes opening just a fraction to look up at her. The playful teasing from earlier had completely melted away, replaced by that raw, quiet vulnerability he only showed her. "A few days ago, I was counting down the hours until I could leave this island. Now, I feel like I'm going to leave a piece of myself behind if I go."

Y/N paused her hand in his hair, her thumb resting gently against his temple. "You aren't leaving it behind, Soobin. You're just taking a different piece of it back with you."

Soobin let out a breathy, quiet chuckle, shifting on her lap so he could look at her fully. He reached up, his large, warm hand coming to cup the side of her neck, his thumb resting right along her jawline. The contrast of his cool fingers against her sun-warmed skin made her breath hitch slightly.

"I think the piece I'm taking back is you," he whispered, his voice dropping into a deeper, lower register that felt entirely intimate.

He didn't wait for her to answer. Sliding his hand up slightly to anchor his fingers in the hair at the nape of her neck, Soobin pulled himself up just enough to close the distance.

The kiss was slow, tasting faintly of the sweet mandarin juice they’d shared earlier and completely filled with the lazy, golden warmth of the afternoon. It wasn't the hesitant, trembling first kiss they had shared on the dark beach four days ago. This one felt certain, grounded, and deeply affectionate—a quiet promise spoken in the shade of the ancient tree. His other hand found her waist, his palm pressing against the soft, flowing fabric of her dress, pulling her just a fraction closer.

When he finally pulled back, he didn't move his hand from her neck. He just rested his forehead against hers, their breaths mingling as a soft, helpless smile broke across his lips.

He let his head sink back down into her lap with a soft, contented sigh, his long frame stretching out completely across the blanket. His fingers lazily intertwined with hers, his thumb tracing the back of her hand in a slow, comforting rhythm.

"Since we're both going to be in the city soon..." Soobin began, his voice dropping into a warm, curious murmur as he looked up at her through his bangs. "I realized we've been so wrapped up in the island that I still don't know the exact specifics. Which university are you attending?"

Y/N smiled down at him, her free hand coming up to gently comb through his soft, dark hair, brushing it away from his eyes. "Seoul National University," she said softly.

Soobin’s eyes widened, his thumb freezing against her knuckles. A sudden, brilliant look of genuine surprise and pride broke across his face, his deep dimples instantly popping into his cheeks.

"SNU?" he echoed, his voice lifting with an incredibly proud, impressed tone. He shifted his weight, turning fully onto his side in her lap so he could look at her face properly. "Wow, Y/N-ah. That's incredible. Do you know how hard it is to get into the transfer program there? You're a genius."

Y/N felt a sudden flush of warmth hit her cheeks at his unreserved praise. "It took a lot of sleepless nights and way too many iced Americanos," she admitted, laughing softly as she nudged his shoulder. "But the paperwork finally cleared last week."

"This is amazing," Soobin murmured, his eyes shining as he stared up at her. The daunting weight of returning to his own chaotic university schedule suddenly felt entirely manageable. "My campus is at Konkuk, so we’re not even that far apart. On weekends, or even after classes, I can just hop on the subway and meet you. We can study together. Or, well..." He smiled sheepishly, his cheeks turning a faint shade of pink. "I can just distract you while you try to study."

"I think you're already doing a pretty good job of that," Y/N teased, gesturing down at the sketchbook lying abandoned on the blanket beside them.

Soobin chuckled, a low, rumbling sound that vibrated pleasantly against her legs. He reached up, his large palm resting gently over her knee, the soft fabric of her dress moving slightly under his touch. "I'm serious, though. Seoul can feel really big and overwhelming, especially when you first move there. It gets so loud, and everyone is always rushing. I was genuinely dreading going back to that rhythm."

He paused, his gaze softening completely as he held her eyes, his thumb gently smoothing over the fabric of her dress.

"But knowing you're going to be there... knowing I can just call you up when the city gets too loud... it changes everything."

It was the last week of June, and the heat of the Jeju summer had settled in completely—thick, hazy, and smelling of salt and sun-warmed grass. Over the past few days, Y/N and Soobin had become completely inseparable. Every morning started with a text, every afternoon was spent exploring hidden corners of the island, and every night ended with lazy walks under the stars. It felt as if they were trying to stretch every single second of June, knowing that the real world was waiting for them once summer ended.

Today, they had claimed a completely secluded, rocky cove that Soobin knew about.

They spread their oversized blanket across a patch of smooth, dry sand nestled between the tall coastal rocks, just out of reach of the rising tide. The summer sun was blazing, making the crystal-clear, turquoise water look irresistible.

Soobin stood at the edge of the blanket, pulling his oversized cotton t-shirt over his head and tossing it onto the sand, leaving him in just his dark swim trunks. His pale skin caught the bright sunlight, and he looked out at the rolling waves with a bright, boyish grin that Y/N had come to love more than anything else over the past week.

"The last one has to buy the spicy rice cakes tonight!" Soobin shouted, turning back to flash her a mischievous look. Without giving her a chance to protest, his long legs carried him in a dead sprint across the sand, splashing fearlessly straight into the surf.

"Soobin! You always start running before you even finish talking!" Y/N laughed, quickly unbuttoning the light sundress she wore over her swimsuit. She kicked off her sandals and chased after him, the cool, shocking shock of the Jeju sea hitting her skin and instantly erasing the thick summer heat.

By the time she waded out, the water was up to her waist. Soobin was already completely drenched, his dark bangs slicked back from his forehead as he shook water from his eyes like a giant puppy. The moment Y/N got close enough, she lunged forward, using both hands to send a massive wave of water straight at him.

Soobin gasped, laughing loudly as the water hit his face. "Oh, so it's a war now?"

He didn't hold back, using his massive hands to scoop up walls of water, sending them splashing right back at her. The cove echoed with their breathless laughter and the crashing of the waves. They swam until their limbs felt heavy, floating on their backs side-by-side, watching the occasional white cloud drift across the vast blue June sky.

At one point, a sudden, larger swell caught Y/N off guard, making her lose her footing on the sandy floor. Before she could go under, Soobin’s long arms securely wrapped around her waist. With an easy, effortless tilt of his strength, he lifted her up over the crest of the wave.

He kept his hands locked on her waist even after the wave passed, holding her steady against him. The water swirled around their waist. Y/N rested her hands flat against his damped, warm shoulders, catching her breath. Soobin looked down at her, his eyelashes sparkling with sea droplets, a soft, incredibly tender smile resting on his lips. In the bright afternoon light, with the ocean breeze blowing her damp hair across her face, he looked at her like she was the only thing on the entire island.

Eventually, shivering slightly as the late afternoon breeze began to pick up, they waded back to the shore.

They collapsed onto the blanket, wrapping themselves in big, fluffy towels. Soobin dragged the picnic basket closer, his damp skin glowing in the light. He popped open a chilled container of sweet, freshly cut watermelon that they'd brought along.

Picking up a dripping piece, he held it right to her lips, his dark eyes crinkling at the corners. "Here. Fuel for the person who lost the race and the water war."

Y/N leaned in and took a bite, the sweet, icy juice a perfect contrast to the salty air. "I only lost because you have an unfair height advantage in the water," she mumbled around the fruit, making him let out a deep, rumbling chuckle.

Soobin ate the rest of the piece, leaning back on his hands as he looked out at the glittering sea, his shoulder pressed warmly against hers. "Maybe," he murmured, turning his head to look at her, his dimple cutting deep into his cheek. "But I think this whole week has been a win."

When Soobin slipped off his shoes at the entryway of his grandmother’s traditional house, the rich, savory scent of a freshly finished dinner—garlic, soy sauce, and sesame oil—still lingered heavily in the air.

He stepped inside, the dark wooden floorboards cool under his bare feet. Walking into the living room, he found his grandmother and his mother sitting together on the floor around the low wooden table, chatting comfortably. The dinner dishes had already been cleared away, replaced by a simple pitcher of ice cold water and a small plate of peeled fruit.

His mother, who had arrived from Seoul earlier that evening to help with his grandmother’s summer arrangements, paused mid-sentence. Both women turned their heads simultaneously to look at him.

"Look who finally decided to come home," his mother said, her tone a mix of mild exasperation and fondness. She scanned him from head to toe—his messy, damp hair, the slight sunburn dusting the bridge of his nose, and his oversized cotton t-shirt that smelled faintly of the sea. "We waited to eat, but your grandmother said you'd probably be out until the sun went down completely. Where have you been all day, Soobin?"

Before he could offer a carefully rehearsed, casual answer, his grandmother let out a soft, knowing chuckle. Her wrinkled eyes crinkled into wise little crescents as she poured herself a cup of tea.

"Oh, let the boy breathe," his grandmother murmured, a mischievous glint in her eyes. "He was out making the most of his summer. Though, looking at how pink his ears are, I don't think it was just the sun that kept him out so late."

Soobin’s ears instantly turned an even brighter, betraying shade of crimson. He rubbed the back of his neck, shifting his weight as he tried to look completely unbothered, though a helpless, faint dimple threatened to poke through his cheek.

"I was just... down at the cove with Y/N," he mumbled, his voice dropping an octave into that deep, shy register he used whenever he was flustered.

"We know, honey. We know," his grandmother teased, leaning forward on her elbows with a giant, satisfied smile. "You two have been practically attached at the hip all week. Since she's moving to Seoul soon too, you really should bring Y/N over for dinner. Let me cook something proper for her."

Soobin’s mother raised an eyebrow, a small, knowing smile breaking across her face as she looked at her son's utterly flustered expression. "I'd love to finally meet her, too. Your grandmother hasn't stopped talking about how sweet she is."

"She is sweet," Soobin muttered softly, looking down at his toes to hide the massive, proud smile that was currently taking over his entire face. He cleared his throat, trying to regain his composure. "I'll... I'll ask her tomorrow if she wants to come over."

Two days later—the very first day of July—the heavy summer heat had mellowed into a breezy, golden evening. Y/N stood in front of the familiar wooden gate of Soobin’s grandparents' house, her heart doing a nervous little flutter against her ribs. In her hands, she carefully held a heavy, neatly wrapped basket of fresh, plump Jeju melons and sweet mandarins—a strict mandate from her own grandmother, who insisted she couldn't dare show up for dinner empty-handed.

Taking a small breath to steady her nerves, Y/N knocked on the gate.

Almost instantly, she heard the frantic, heavy thud of familiar, long footsteps rushing across the courtyard. The wooden gate swung open, and there stood Soobin. He was wearing a soft, oversized cream cardigan over a plain tee, looking incredibly handsome, though his dark hair was slightly tousled. The moment his eyes landed on her, a massive, instantly relieved smile broke across his face, his deep dimples cutting into his cheeks.

"You're here," he breathed, his deep voice carrying a wave of nervous excitement. Before he could even step aside to let her in, his eyes dropped to the heavy basket in her arms. "Oh, what is all this? You didn't have to bring anything, Y/N-ah. I told you my grandma was cooking everything."

"My grandma would have skinned me alive if I walked in empty-handed," Y/N laughed softly, the tension instantly melting from her shoulders at the familiar sight of him. "They're fresh melons and mandarins."

"Here, let me take it," Soobin said quickly, his large hands carefully wrapping around the handle of the basket, his fingers brushing against hers with a reassuring warmth. He leaned in just a fraction closer, his eyes soft. "Don't be nervous, okay? They're already obsessed with you."

He guided her through the quiet, traditional courtyard and out into the spacious backyard.

The scene that greeted them was the absolute definition of a cozy mid-summer night. A low, long wooden table had been set up on the grass, surrounded by soft cushions. In the center, a portable gas grill was already sizzling loudly, thick, marbled slabs of samgyeopsal (pork belly) rendering beautifully and filling the air with an incredibly savory, mouth-watering aroma.

Around the table sat Soobin's entire family. His grandfather was expertly flipping the meat with a pair of long tongs, while his grandmother and mother were busy arranging an endless sea of side dishes—crisp lettuce, seasoned green onion salad, pickled radishes, and homemade ssamjang. His dad was sitting back, happily pouring cold barley tea into cups.

"Look who's here!" Soobin’s grandmother called out the moment she spotted them, her wrinkled face lighting up with a radiant smile. She immediately stood up, dusting off her linen apron. "Oh, our Y/N-ah! Come in, come sit down!"

Y/N bowed politely, a warm smile on her face. "Hello, everyone. Thank you so much for inviting me. My grandmother sent these fruits for the family."

"Oh, look at that! Your grandmother is always so thoughtful," Soobin's mother said, stepping forward with a kind, elegant smile. She took the basket from Soobin, giving Y/N a warm, approving look that instantly made Y/N feel welcome. "It's so wonderful to finally meet you, Y/N. Soobin has told us so much about you."

"Mom," Soobin groaned softly, his ears instantly turning a bright shade of pink as he guided Y/N toward the empty cushions at the table.

"What? It's true," his dad chimed in with a booming, good-natured laugh, looking up from the grill. "The boy has been spacing out and smiling at his shoes for a week. Welcome to the family dinner, Y/N. Sit, eat before the meat gets too charred."

Soobin quickly pulled a cushion closer for Y/N, sitting down right beside her. His long frame practically shielded her from any overwhelming attention, but he couldn't hide the shy, incredibly proud smile on his face as he looked between her and his family.

"Here," Soobin whispered, immediately picking up his chopsticks the second his grandfather deposited a perfectly grilled, crispy piece of pork belly onto Y/N's plate. He expertly wrapped it in a fresh lettuce leaf with a bit of rice and ssamjang, holding the perfectly constructed ssam out to her with a proud, dimpled grin. 

Y/N felt her cheeks heat up under the gaze of his entire family, but she accepted the bite, the savory, smoky flavor absolutely perfect after a long day in the salt air.

"See how well he takes care of her?" his grandmother remarked to his mother, completely delighted. "At home, he just waits for the food to fall into his mouth, but look at him now."

"Hey, I help," Soobin protested, though his ears were burning a bright, betraying red. He quickly stuffed a piece of meat into his own mouth to hide his embarrassment, his shoulder pressing warmly against Y/N's as he sat protectively close to her.

His dad laughed, pouring a fresh glass of cold barley tea for Y/N. "Don't mind them, Y/N. They're just happy Soobin finally brought a guest over who doesn't just eat all our meat and run away like his school friends do."

"So, Y/N," his mother spoke up, her voice warm and genuinely curious as she leaned forward on her cushion. "Your grandmother mentioned you’re preparing for a big move up to Seoul later this month. How are you feeling about it? It’s quite a change from the island, but at least you still have the whole month of July to enjoy the peace here."

Y/N swallowed her food, smiling politely. "I'm a little nervous because it's so big, but I'm really looking forward to it. I'm glad I still have this month to mentally prepare, though."

"Well, you don't have to worry about a thing," his grandfather chimed in, pointing a pair of long metal tongs at Soobin. "This giant boy over here knows the city like the back of his hand. If he doesn't show you around and carry your bags when the time comes, you just call us and your grandma. We'll set him straight."

Soobin swallowed his food quickly, looking at his grandfather with wide, earnest eyes. "Grandpa, of course I'm going to take care of her. I already told her I'd meet her at her campus."

His mother chuckled softly at how defensive and serious he instantly got. She looked at Y/N, her expression incredibly gentle. "It really is a relief to know you two will have each other up there when summer ends. Seoul can feel lonely, but it’s much better when you have a piece of home with you."

Under the low wooden table, out of sight of his teasing parents and grandparents, Soobin’s large hand found Y/N's. He gently slid his fingers between hers, squeezing her hand with a steady, reassuring warmth that sent a thrill straight to her chest.

He didn't say anything out loud, but as he turned to look at her, the soft glow of the patio lights catching the deep indentation of his dimple, his eyes held a quiet, happy promise for the long July weeks ahead—and everything that would follow.

"He really means it, too," Soobin’s mother added, her eyes crinkling with a soft, deeply amused smile as she watched her son's face burn a fresh, dramatic shade of crimson. She set her chopsticks down and leaned forward slightly, resting her chin in her hand as she looked across the sizzling grill at Y/N.

"You know, Y/N, it is incredibly fascinating for us to see him like this," his mother continued, her tone dropping into a warm, conspiratorial murmur. "Before you came along, this boy practically treated women like they were a different species. He would barely look a girl in the eye, let alone talk to one. If a female classmate so much as asked him for a pencil at school, he’d turn into a statue, give a tiny nod, and look like he wanted the floor to swallow him whole."

"Mom! Please," Soobin choked out, his voice cracking slightly in sheer desperation. He nearly dropped his tongs back into the cabbage dish, his entire face, ears, and neck now a uniform, vibrant shade of pink. He looked at his mother with wide, pleading eyes, silently begging her to stop exposing his absolute lack of game.

His dad let out another booming laugh, clapping a hand on Soobin's rigid shoulder. "She's not lying, son! Remember your middle school graduation? That poor girl tried to give you a bouquet of flowers and you bowed so fast and so low you nearly cracked your forehead against hers, then ran away to the car."

"I was just... polite!" Soobin mumbled defensively, hiding his face behind his large palm as he looked down at his rice bowl, his shoulders slumping. A tiny, helpless dimple poked through his flushed cheek anyway, showing he was more flustered than actually upset.

Y/N couldn't help but laugh softly, looking over at Soobin shrinking into his seat 

"It's true, Y/N-ah," his grandmother chimed in, placing a beautifully grilled, juicy piece of pork belly directly onto Y/N's plate with a fond nod. "Our Soobin has always been a quiet, gentle soul. He keeps his heart tucked away safely. So we knew you must be someone incredibly special."

The brilliant July stars were completely out by the time they finally left the warmth of the backyard. The air had cooled down significantly, carrying a crisp, refreshing breeze that rustled through the dark leaves of the village trees.

Soobin walked a little slower than usual, matching his long strides to Y/N’s smaller ones. He had his hands buried deep in the pockets of his soft jacket, his shoulder brushing gently against hers with every few steps. For the first few minutes, they just walked in a comfortable, quiet rhythm, listening to the steady chorus of the summer cicadas.

But as they turned onto the narrow, stone-walled lane that led toward her house, Soobin noticed how quiet she had become. She was looking down at her sandals, her fingers nervously twisting the fabric of her dress.

He stopped walking, turning his body toward her. "Y/N-ah?"

Y/N paused, looking up at him. In the dim, warm glow of the yellow streetlights, Soobin’s dark eyes were full of a quiet, intense focus. He stepped a little closer, taking one hand out of his pocket to reach for hers. His fingers wrapped around her small hand, his thumb tracing a slow, soothing circle over her knuckles.

"You've been really quiet since we left the house," he murmured gently. "Are you okay? Did my family overwhelm you?"

Y/N let out a small, heavy breath, the cool night air suddenly making her feel incredibly small. She looked away from him, staring at the shadows on the stone wall, before finally pulling her hand away from his grip completely.

"Soobin... hearing your mom talk about Seoul, and your grandpa... it just made it all feel so real," she said, her voice tight with a sudden surge of anxiety. "The first day of July is already here. After this month, the summer is over."

Soobin blinked, caught off guard by her pulling away. "Yeah, but we'll be heading up there together. I'll be right there to help you settle into the campus—"

"What if I don't go?" Y/N interrupted, the words tumbling out of her before she could stop them.

The silence that followed was absolute. Soobin froze, his hand remaining suspended in the air for a second before dropping slowly to his side. His brow furrowed, his entire demeanor shifting from tender comfort to complete, stunned confusion. "What do you mean, what if you don't go? Your application to SNU is already approved."

"I know, but I’m just... I’m really not so sure about Seoul anymore, Soobin," she argued, crossing her arms tightly as she looked up at him, her defenses flaring because of how scared she actually was. "I've lived on this island my whole life. Everything here makes sense to me. Seoul is massive, crowded, and terrifying. W-What if I just stay in Jeju? I could just find a university here, stay close to my family, and..." She swallowed hard, her voice cracking. "And just stay where I know I fit in."

Soobin stared at her, a rare flash of hurt and sharp defensiveness coloring his features. He stepped toward her, his tall frame cutting off the light from the streetlamp, his jaw tight.

"You're talking about completely throwing away your dream because you're scared?" he asked, his deep voice dropping into a sharper, more intense register than she had ever heard from him before. "You've been working toward this for a year. We've been talking all week about what we're going to do when we get to the city."

"It's easy for you to say it's just 'being scared'!" Y/N shot back, her frustration boiling over. "You grew up there, Soobin! You have your family, your friends, your entire life waiting for you. For me, it's starting completely over from scratch. What happens when you're busy with your own life and your own classes? Am I just supposed to sit in a tiny dorm room wishing I never left home?"

"That’s completely unfair!" Soobin said, looking genuinely wounded. He ran a frustrated hand through his dark hair, pulling at the roots as he looked away from her for a brief second to catch his breath before looking right back into her eyes. "You think I’m just going to leave you to fend for yourself? You think I view you as some fling for the summer? I was finally excited to go back to Seoul because you were going to be there. But now it feels like you're using Jeju as an excuse to pull away from me before we even get there."

The accusation hung heavily in the cool night air, the steady, rhythmic chirping of the July cicadas suddenly sounding entirely too loud in the space between them.

Y/N stared up at him, her breath catching in her throat. Seeing Soobin—who was always so compliant, so careful with his words, and so endlessly patient—looking at her with such raw, flashing hurt in his eyes made her anger instantly evaporate, leaving behind nothing but a cold, hollow ache.

"I'm not trying to pull away from you," she whispered, her voice trembling as the defensive walls she’d built up over the last ten minutes completely crumbled. "Soobin, how can you think that? You’re the best part of being here."

Soobin didn't answer right away. He kept his jaw clenched so tight the sharp line of it caught the edge of the yellow streetlamp. He took a long, heavy breath through his nose, his broad shoulders rising and falling under his cream cardigan as he tried to swallow down the sudden spike of emotion. He looked down at his shoes, then out at the dark lane, refusing to meet her eyes for a long, agonizing moment.

When he finally looked back at her, the sharp defensiveness was entirely gone, replaced by a quiet, vulnerable exhaustion.

"Because that’s what it feels like," he said softly, his voice dropping back into that deep, gravelly register. He closed the small distance she had put between them, though he didn't reach out to touch her just yet. "It feels like you’re ready to completely rewrite your entire future—throw away a dream you worked so hard for—just to stay in your comfort zone. And it makes me feel like I’m not enough of a reason for you to want to take that leap."

"It's not that you're not enough," Y/N murmured, looking down at the gravel, her chest aching. "It's just... Jeju is safe. Out here, I know who I am. Up there, I'm just nobody."

"You're not a nobody to me," Soobin insisted, stepping even closer until the warm, familiar scent of his laundry detergent and the sea completely enveloped her.

He reached out, his large, slightly trembling hand gently catching her wrist before sliding down to lock his fingers securely with hers.

"You think I’m not terrified of going back?" he admitted, a bittersweet, self-deprecating smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "Y/N, I hate crowds. I hate how fast Seoul moves. Half the time I'm up there, I just want to lock myself in my room and hide. I was dreading the end of summer because it meant going back to all of that."

He squeezed her hand tightly, his dark eyes entirely bare and full of an intense, quiet sincerity.

"But then I met you. And for the last week, every time I thought about Seoul, I wasn't dreading it anymore. I was actually excited. Because I kept imagining showing you my favorite quiet spots, walking across the campus to meet you after your classes, and having a piece of home—a piece of this—with me. If you stay here, yeah, you’ll be safe. But you’ll always wonder 'what if.' Don't let fear make your choices for you, Y/N-ah. Especially not when I'm right here ready to catch you."

The honesty in his voice cut right through the remainder of her anxiety. Y/N looked up at him, realizing that in her fear of the unknown, she had completely overlooked how much strength he was drawing from her, too.

Slowly, she let out the breath she’d been holding, her shoulders relaxing. "I'm sorry," she whispered, leaning her forehead lightly against his chest. "I'm just so scared."

Soobin let out a soft, defeated sigh, the tension finally bleeding out of his tall frame. He let go of her hand only to wrap both of his long arms completely around her, pulling her tightly against his chest. He buried his face in the crook of her neck, rocking her slightly from side to side under the warm glow of the streetlamp.

"I know," he rumbled gently against her skin, his grip tightening as if he could physically shield her from her doubts. "I am too. But we still have all of July left. Let's just focus on being right here, together, and we'll figure out the rest when the time comes. Deal?"

Y/N nodded silently against his chest, her hands gripping the fabric of his jacket. The steady, comforting beat of his heart under her cheek did more to quiet her racing thoughts than any logic could.

"Deal," she murmured, her voice muffled by his shoulder.

Soobin held her like that for a few more long moments, his fingers gently tangling in the hair at the back of her neck, just holding her steady against the weight of the future. When he finally pulled back, he didn't go far. He kept his hands resting lightly on her waist, looking down at her with a soft, slightly tired but deeply affectionate smile.

"Good," he whispered, his deep voice carrying a trace of relief. He reached up, using the pad of his thumb to gently wipe away a stray tear she hadn't realized had slipped down her cheek. "Because I can't let my mom and grandma think I made you cry on our very first official family dinner. I'll never hear the end of it."

Y/N let out a breathless laugh, swatting playfully at his chest. "You did make me cry. You were using your scary voice."

"My scary voice?" Soobin’s eyes widened in genuine shock, his head tilting back as a breathless laugh escaped him. His deep dimples popped back into his cheeks, completely erasing any lingering tension from their argument. "I don't have a scary voice! I was just... passionately communicating!"

"You sounded like a strict teacher," she teased, finally smiling fully as she looked up at him.

"I was defending my honor," he protested softly, his expression turning incredibly tender again as his gaze dropped to her lips for a brief second before locking back onto her eyes. He stepped in closer, his chest pressing against hers as he slid his hands down to find hers again, weaving their fingers together. "Seriously, though. Don't hide it from me when you feel like that, okay? Even if we argue. I'd rather know."

"I won't," Y/N promised, squeezing his large hands. "I'm sorry I took it out on you."

"Forget about it," Soobin murmured, leaning down to press a soft, lingering kiss right to the top of her head. He smelled like the smoky sweet scent of the backyard grill and the cool night air. "Come on, let’s get you home before your dad comes out here with a broom to see what's taking so long."

They walked the final few meters to her front gate in a much lighter, sweeter silence, their joined hands swinging gently between them. The anxiety about Seoul hadn't completely vanished—the city was still massive, and August was still coming and nothing was going to make time freeze—but as Y/N looked at Soobin waving energetically from the bottom of the lane, his giant, dimpled smile lighting up the dark July night, she realized the unknown didn't feel quite as lonely anymore.

The rest of July dissolved into a sun-drenched, blurry haze of the best days Y/N had ever known. True to his word, Soobin didn't let a single afternoon go to waste.

Once the anxiety of the future was tucked away, they lived entirely in the present. They spent hours down at the hidden cove, Soobin’s long legs dangling off the rocks as he watched Y/N swim, always ready with a dry towel and a warm embrace the second she shivered. They rode his scooter through the winding, emerald-green roads of the island, the salt wind whipping through their hair while Y/N held tightly to his waist. There were quiet afternoons spent on the floor of his grandmother’s porch, splitting frozen water ice bars in half, and late-night walks under the vast July stars where they talked about absolutely everything and nothing at all.

But summer, no matter how deeply you try to hold onto it, always has an expiration date.

Suddenly, it was the final week of July. The lazy, endless days caught up to them, and the reality they had successfully avoided for a month settled back into the air. Tomorrow morning, Soobin was leaving for Seoul with his parents.

That final evening, the sky over the island turned a bruised, dramatic shade of violet and gold. They didn't go to the cove or the bustling town; instead, they walked up to the ancient, sprawling tree on the hillside that overlooked the ocean—the place where so many of their quietest promises had been made.

The July breeze was warmer now, heavy with the scent of upcoming late-summer rains. Soobin sat with his back against the thick trunk of the tree, his long legs stretched out in front of him. Y/N sat between them, leaning her back securely against his chest. His large arms were wrapped loosely but completely around her waist, his chin resting gently on the crown of her head.

Neither of them spoke for a long time. They just watched the distant, tiny lights of the fishing boats out on the dark water begin to twinkle one by one.

"My bags are packed," Soobin’s deep voice finally broke the silence, vibrating softly against Y/N’s back. It sounded heavier tonight, grounded in a quiet, reluctant sadness. "My dad wants to leave for the airport at five tomorrow afternoon."

Y/N reached down, placing her hands over his arms, her fingers tracing the soft cotton of his sleeve. "It feels weird. The whole month felt like it lasted a year, but today went by in a second."

Soobin tightened his grip around her waist, pulling her just a fraction closer, as if trying to memorize the exact way she fit against him. He let out a long, slow breath that brushed through her hair.

"I don't want to go," he whispered, a rare admission of vulnerability. "I hate thinking that tomorrow night, I'll be in my room in Seoul, and I won't be able to just walk down the lane to see you. I won't be able to hear the cicadas like this."

Y/N turned her head slightly, looking up at him through the twilight. The sharp, handsome profile of his face looked solemn, his dark eyes fixed on the horizon. The fear she had felt at the beginning of the month didn't flare up this time; instead, seeing him look so reluctant to leave gave her a strange, quiet wave of strength.

"It's only for a few weeks, Soobin-ah," she said softly, reaching up to gently touch the edge of his jaw. "Two weeks will pass. And then I'll be right behind you."

Soobin turned his head, his gaze dropping to meet hers. In the dimming light, the intense, unwavering devotion in his eyes made her breath catch. He caught her hand from his jaw, bringing her palms to his lips and pressing a soft, lingering kiss against her knuckles.

And then, his gaze dropped to her lips.

The space between them seemed to shrink to nothing as he leaned down, his large hand shifting from her knuckles to gently cup the side of her face. His thumb brushed softly over her cheekbone, tilting her chin up just a fraction. When his lips finally met hers, the kiss was soft and slow, tasting faintly of the sweet summer air and carrying all the heavy, unsaid weight of tomorrow’s departure.

It wasn't a rushed goodbye, but a deep, lingering promise. Soobin sighed into the kiss, his other arm tightening around her waist, pulling her flush against his chest as if he could physically print the memory of her into his skin to carry back to Seoul.

When he finally pulled back, just an inch or two, his forehead rested against hers. Both of them were breathing a little shallower now. In the quiet dark of the hillside, with his eyes closed and his hands holding her so securely, the massive, terrifying city of Seoul didn't feel like an ending anymore—it felt like a beginning.

"Two weeks," he murmured again, his voice lower, rougher, and completely certain against her lips. "I'll see you in Seoul."

Two weeks later, the intense, sticky heat of a Seoul mid-August hummed through the glass panes of Incheon International Airport—the bustling hub for domestic flights coming in from the island.

Inside the terminal, the atmosphere was a stark contrast to the quiet, slow-paced lanes of Jeju. The late afternoon air was thick, filled with the loud hum of old-school floor fans, the clatter of analog arrival boards flipping their plastic letters, and the chatter of travelers carrying heavy vinyl duffel bags and strapped luggage.

Standing right at the edge of the metal barrier, completely oblivious to the chaotic rush around him, was Soobin.

He was hard to miss—his tall frame easily towered over most of the crowd. He was dressed casually in an oversized, faded blue short-sleeve button-up shirt and dark trousers, looking every bit like a boy straight out of a classic retro film. For the past forty-five minutes, he had been shifting his weight from one foot to the other, his large hands nervously gripping his foldable phone. Every time the heavy doors of the domestic arrivals gate swung open, his shoulders would tense, his dark eyes instantly scanning the emerging faces with intense focus.

To say he had been restless for the last fourteen days was an understatement. He had practically scratched the days off his wall calendar at home, and his room in Seoul had felt entirely too quiet without the sound of the ocean—and without her.

Then, the doors swung open yet again.

Through the crowd of arriving passengers, a familiar figure pushed through, rolling a heavy, boxy suitcase out into the terminal.

Soobin’s entire posture locked up. The moment his eyes landed on Y/N, the anxious, tense expression he had been wearing for an hour completely vanished. A massive, radiant smile broke across his face, his deep dimples carving instantly into his cheeks.

Forgetting all about his usual shy, reserved nature in public, he lifted a long arm and waved frantically over the heads of the crowd.

"Y/N-ah!" he called out, his deep voice easily cutting through the airport noise.

He didn't even wait for her to navigate past the waiting crowd. Soobin eagerly stepped over the divider line, his long strides eating up the distance between them in seconds. Before Y/N could even properly lift her hand to wave back, he was already right in front of her.

He lifted her seamlessly, his large hands anchoring firmly at her waist as he spun her in a slow, sweeping princess twirl right there in the middle of the crowded terminal. Y/N let out a breathless, surprised gasp, her hands instantly flying up to clasp tightly around his neck as the busy airport blurred around them, the retro signs and humming fans fading into a background hum.

When he finally set her back down on her feet, he didn't let go. His arms looped loosely around her waist, keeping her anchored flush against his chest. He leaned down, burying his face into the crook of her neck for a long, quiet second, just breathing her in. He smelled like his familiar laundry detergent, but underneath it was the distinct, crisp scent of the city—he really was a Seoul boy.

"You're actually here," Soobin mumbled against her skin, his deep voice vibrating straight through her.

He pulled back just enough to look down at her face, his eyes shining with an almost overwhelming amount of happiness. His dimples were cut so deep into his cheeks they looked permanent. He reached up, his large, warm hand instantly cupping her cheek, his thumb sweeping over her skin exactly the way he used to under the streetlamps in Jeju.

"I missed you so much," he whispered, completely ignoring the busy travelers navigating around her boxy suitcase. "Two weeks felt like two years. I kept staring at the clock all morning."

Y/N leaned into his palm, the last lingering trace of her anxiety about the massive city completely evaporating the moment his arms had wrapped around her. "I missed you too. Did you really wait here all morning?"

"Of course I did," Soobin said softly, his gaze dropping to her lips for a fraction of a second before he leaned down and pressed a sweet, lingering kiss right to lips. "Come on. I have my dad’s car parked in the parking lot, and I promised my mom I’d bring you straight to the apartment for dinner. But first..."

He stepped back, effortlessly grabbing the handle of her heavy suitcase with one hand while using his other to firmly lock his fingers with hers, squeezing tight.

"Let's get out of this crowd. Welcome to Seoul, Y/N-ah."

The mid-August dusk settled over Seoul not with the quiet, fading gold of the Jeju coastline, but in a sudden, electric blaze of neon and concrete. Stepping out into the city streets, the sheer, crushing scale of the capital was nothing like the island. Where Jeju was defined by the endless blue horizon and the rhythmic, grounding sigh of the ocean, Seoul was a towering maze of grey stone, steel, and a dizzying web of overlapping telephone wires cutting the sky into jagged pieces.

The air here carried no trace of salt or wind. It was thick and heavy, radiating the metallic warmth of roaring city buses, the rich, spicy steam of tteokbokki from roadside stalls, and the humid exhaust of a metropolis that never slowed down. Everywhere, a relentless sea of strangers moved with hurried, serious strides across the asphalt, their voices swallowed by the overlapping din of car horns and analog billboard lights humming to life in vibrant shades of green and red. It was loud, chaotic, and entirely overwhelming—a sprawling jungle that made the quiet, stone-walled lanes of her village feel like a distant dream.

Yet, as the rushing crowd blurred past on the wide sidewalk, the vastness of the city shrank to the space of a single heartbeat.

His large, warm hand remained firmly locked with hers, a solid and unyielding anchor against the frantic pulse of the city. Towering over the rush of commuters, his familiar presence completely blocked out the intimidating skyline, his dark eyes reflecting the glow of the first evening lights with the exact same quiet devotion from the hillside tree. With a slow, breathtakingly tender smile that brought back the soft warmth of summer, he squeezed her fingers tight, pulling her just a fraction closer to his side.

The city was massive, terrifying, and completely foreign. But as they turned together into the vibrant, crowded streets of Seoul, the unknown no longer felt like a place to get lost—it simply felt like the next place they would walk through, hand in hand.

Jeju was far behind her, and the massive, unfamiliar capital stretched out as far as the eye could see. Yet, looking up at him as the neon signs began to blur together, the lingering fear finally dissolved into the humid evening air. Jeju hadn't been her home because of the sea, the tide, or the quiet, stone-walled lanes.

She realized then that home was no longer a fixed place on a map or a quiet village frozen in time. It wasn't defined by geography at all. Home was the sound of his laugh, the safety of his arms, and the unwavering devotion in his eyes. Wherever he was, that was where she belonged.

In the middle of this massive, chaotic city, Soobin had become her home.

🫧𓇼𓏲*ੈ✩‧₊˚🎐

permanent taglist @nanilis, @flytomyro0m, @fairfootedflekk, @swangyu, @frostymatcha, @starlami, @jellyybelly, @bakudon, @twinklefairyland, @monosung, @bamgeutori, @pageraf, @wonniiz, @soohashits

You met Neteyam when your steps were still wobbly and your words mostly giggles. He was barely steadier than you—his braids just beginning, his steps a little wider—but from the moment he found you crouched near the roots of the Home Tree, you became his shadow. He toddled up with a half-eaten yovo fruit and, without hesitation, tore it in two with clumsy fingers, offering you the larger half. It was sticky and sweet, and you always remembered it as the moment he chose you. And maybe… the moment you chose him too.

From then on, it was rare to see one of you without the other. You learned to walk together, your hands often tangled as you teetered around the village. When you fell, he’d help you up, and when he tripped, you’d sit beside him until he stood again. The other adults would chuckle at the sight—tiny footsteps weaving through the forest, your matching laughter echoing through the trees. You’d nap curled beside him in the Sully’s hammock during long afternoons, Neteyam’s hand always reaching for yours in sleep, even when he’d roll away. Jake would raise a brow and smirk knowingly. Neytiri would only smile, brushing your hair back and calling you syulang, her little flower. They saw it early—what you and Neteyam would someday become—even when you were still too young to understand it yourselves.

You both remembered when Neytiri was pregnant with Kiri—Neteyam was confused at first, always poking at his mother’s growing belly and asking when the baby would “stop hiding.” You didn’t understand it either, but you liked resting your head beside him on Neytiri’s belly, watching it move as little Kiri rolled inside. When she was finally born, Neteyam was speechless, wide-eyed and soft as he held her tiny hand. “She’s mine,” he whispered to you with the quiet pride only a big brother could wear. You just nodded, understanding without needing to speak.

Then came Lo’ak. You were both a bit older—Neteyam nearly six—and you still remember when Neytiri told you he’d be getting a brother. Neteyam practically vibrated with excitement, dragging you around the village talking about all the things he’d teach his brother: how to climb, how to throw a spear, how to chase glow bugs at night. “And I’ll teach him how to protect you,” he added casually, like it was obvious. You just smiled and said, “He’ll have the best big brother.” When Lo’ak was born, Neteyam wasn’t overwhelmed like with Kiri—he was ready this time. “I’m gonna be the best,” he told you, gently adjusting the baby’s blanket like he was holding the future. He even whispered to Lo’ak that he already had a best friend—and that it was you.

Those years were full of joy. Your days were endless stretches of running through the forest, racing along vines, whispering secrets while hidden in the high tree canopies. You shared everything—fruit, beads, bruises, laughter. When Tuk was born and made the family five, you both stood over her, older now, understanding just how sacred it was to grow up surrounded by love. Neteyam pressed a kiss to her forehead, then turned to you. “I hope she finds someone like you,” he whispered, and you pretended not to hear how warm your cheeks became.

Jake often joked that you’d been adopted by the Sullys long before any ceremony could make it true. Neytiri treated you like a daughter, braiding feathers into your hair with loving fingers, scolding you just as gently as she would Neteyam. And sometimes, when she caught the two of you dozing in a sunbeam, limbs tangled and breath in sync, she’d just exchange a look with Jake—a knowing one. The kind that said, it’s always been them.

By the time you were thirteen and Neteyam fourteen, you were no longer just playmates. You were partners in everything: training, learning, dreaming. But even then, the purest part of your bond was the way you looked at each other—like somehow, in all the chaos and beauty of the forest, you had each found home.

When Neteyam turned fourteen, the village buzzed with anticipation. It was also his time—his rite of passage, the long-awaited climb to the floating mountains to claim his ikran. You weren’t allowed to go with him, though Eywa knew you tried to convince the elders otherwise. “I’ll just hide behind the rocks,” you had argued, arms crossed and defiant. But Jake only ruffled your hair, and Neytiri kissed your cheek with a chuckle. “You’ll have your turn, little one. Let him fly.”

You waited at the edge of the village the entire day, pacing, chewing your bottom lip, weaving and unweaving a small bracelet you’d started just to keep your hands busy. Every time you looked up, your eyes searched the skies, your heart jumping at the faintest sound of wings. And then, finally, you saw him.

Neteyam came soaring over the trees with the wind in his braids and the sun blazing behind him, riding the back of a fierce, sharp-beaked blue ikran. His smile was wide, radiant, full of victory. His yips of joy echoed across the forest and lit something wild in your chest. You didn’t wait. You ran—bare feet pounding across the ground, eyes stinging with happy tears—and launched yourself into his arms the moment he landed. He caught you effortlessly, laughing as you wrapped your arms and legs around him like a clingy yip-yip. “I did it,” he whispered into your neck, and you just nodded, tears soaking his shoulder. “I know,” you breathed. “I never doubted you.”

The next night, the village danced in celebration. Neteyam completed his Dream Hunt, bringing back a successful kill and presenting it with reverence. The people welcomed him as one of them—with chants, with firelight, with the steady pounding of drums. You stood beside his family, your heart full of pride. Lo’ak teased you all night, nudging your shoulder and muttering, “You’re gonna cry again, aren’t you?” And you did. But you didn’t care, you were so proud of him.

A year later, when you turned fourteen, it was your turn. And just like you had waited for him, Neteyam waited for you. He rose before the suns and flew to the floating mountains ahead of you, perched among the cliffs like a silent shadow waiting for you to arrive. You knew he was there watching, waiting, smiling. When you approached the ikran rookery, heart pounding, palms sweaty, your eyes fierce with determination, you didn’t know that far above, Neteyam held his breath with pride as he followed you below the waterfall, “you got this. Remember what I taught you.”

You tamed your ikran with grace and fire, your spirit strong and your heart steady. And when you paused. Neteyam ran up to you holding the rope around your ikran’s mouth and guided her to face the edge of the cliff. “First flight seals the bond, think fly.”

“Fly?” And just like that you took off, quickly finding a way to steady yourself in the back of your now winged companion, the grin on your face nearly split you open. He stood there on the cliff, hands cupped around his mouth as he cheered for you. You returned home flying side by side with feathers tangled in your braids and windburn on your cheeks, your soul forever changed. When you landed, Neteyam was the first to greet you. His hands framed your face, his eyes bright. “You were beautiful up there,” he said softly. “Like you were born to fly.”

You became one of the people that night, dancing beside Neteyam around the flames, your foreheads pressed together as the village sang for you. Jake lifted you into a strong embrace, calling you daughter with pride. Neytiri wept and braided a special feather into your hair. Kiri held your hand the whole ceremony. Even Lo’ak, grinning ear to ear, handed you a carved piece of bone shaped like a little ikran.

And Neteyam? He stood behind you the entire night, his hand warm on your waist, his eyes only ever on you. You were no longer just his shadow. You were his equal now, his partner. And it was written in every look he gave you.

The glances you exchanged held a different weight. Now you were fifteen and he was sixteen your bodies had begun to shift, you’d noticed it first in his arms, how they’d grown thicker with muscle from climbing, hunting, training. His chest had broadened, his voice deeper now, richer. You caught yourself watching him from the corner of your eye as he helped build or skin a kill, your stomach flipping each time his back flexed under the stretch of his bowstring. And he noticed you, too. Your hips had begun to curve, your stride more fluid. The paint across your chest during ceremonies now made his mouth go dry. You would catch him staring sometimes, pupils wide, a subtle swallow in his throat as he looked away too late. Neteyam wasn’t good at hiding it, and his siblings were relentless.

Lo’ak smirked every time you came around. “You’re staring again, big bro,” he’d nudge with his elbow, loud enough for you to hear, making your ears burn. Tuk would giggle and whisper, “You’re always looking at her,” and Kiri would grin with that knowing look and mutter, “You’ve got it bad.” Even Jake noticed, pulling Neteyam aside once with a teasing tone and a raised brow. “Keep your eyes in your head, kid. You’re not subtle.”

The heat between you two thickened during sparring practice. He’d pin you, hand against your hip to brace you, and linger a second too long. You’d roll over him to escape, but not before he noticed the way your breath caught. Your touches began to last longer, skin to skin in the most innocent ways that didn’t feel innocent anymore. Then came a moment, that humid afternoon after a hunt, when he walked behind you, offering water. You took it, brushing his fingers, and when you turned, his gaze was already on your mouth. His ears twitched, his throat moved like he wanted to speak. He didn’t. But his eyes said it all.

It started slowly, the shift in how others looked at you both. At first, it was almost laughable, how the same boys who used to pull your braid now stammered when you smiled. Or how the girls, once shy around Neteyam, now found every excuse to ask for help, compliments bubbling on their tongues.

You had grown used to the lingering stares, but what you hadn’t expected was Neteyam’s silence when one of the older hunters, Rokean, offered to walk you back to your kelku after training. You caught the flicker in Neteyam’s jaw, the way he adjusted his stance, too stiff, too still. Later, while cleaning your bowstring by the fire, he dropped down beside you with a grunt.

“Didn’t know you needed someone to walk you home now,” he said casually, picking at a loose thread on his chest strap. You paused. “Didn’t know I needed your permission either.”

His eyes flicked to you, sharp and unreadable. “You didn’t say no.” You scoffed. “I didn’t say yes, either. I was being polite.”

He leaned back, resting on his elbows, exhaling slowly. “He looked like he was ready to offer you his entire kill pile just to get you to smile again.” You turned to face him. “What’s your problem, Neteyam?”

“My problem,” he said, voice low, “is that I’ve seen the way you smile at me — and then I have to watch you give that same smile to someone else like it means nothing.” Your breath caught, heart hammering, but before you could snap back, the loud sound of laughter echoed nearby.

“Ohh nooo,” Lo’ak sing-songed, appearing from behind a cluster of trees, arms slung around Kiri. “They’re arguing again. What’s this time? Another boy tried to breathe near her?”

“Or a girl complimented his braid?” Kiri added dryly. You rolled your eyes and Neteyam looked away, lips twitching. Then came the softest voice.

“You’re not supposed to fight,” Tuk mumbled as she padded up, holding a leaf plate of fruit. “You’re supposed to love each other. Like kisses and hugs and babies.”

Both of your faces snapped toward her in horror. “TUK!” you squeaked. Neteyam choked on nothing. “What?!”

Little Tuk blinked slowly. “That’s what mama said happens when people love each other too much.”

The rest of the Sully family burst out laughing. Even Jake couldn’t hold it in. Neytiri buried her face in her hands, half-mortified, half-delighted. “You’re grounded,” Neteyam muttered, ruffling Tuk’s hair. “No, you are,” she said proudly. “You’re grumpy.”

You were trying not to laugh, your annoyance slipping away with the warmth of everyone around you. Neteyam leaned closer, voice quiet. “Still mad?” You didn’t answer, just nudged his knee with yours. He smiled. “Didn’t think so.” And though you didn’t say a word, the way your hand slipped into his as you walked off together made everyone, including Tuk, smile behind your backs.

But the jealousy went both ways, you just went as leveled headed as Neteyam. One day, you sat on a mossy stone near the gathering circle, fletching your arrows and pretending not to watch the lesson. Neteyam was helping Airi, one of the older girls in the village with her bow grip. She wasn’t exactly subtle, letting her hand brush his, laughing too loud at everything he said.

Your jaw clenched as you scraped the feather too hard, splitting it. Great. Across the circle, Kiri noticed. She nudged Lo’ak. “Uh oh. She’s got that look again.” Lo’ak followed your glare and snorted. “Poor Airi. She’s about to get shredded.” You stood, trying to keep your face neutral, and walked over just as Neteyam leaned in to adjust Airi’s arm. “Hmm,” you said lightly, arms folded. “Didn’t know bow training required that much touching.” Neteyam blinked, surprised, and then grinned. “Just making sure her stance is right.”

Airi smiled too sweetly. “He’s very helpful.”

You gave her a polite but tight smile. “He’s also very taken. Or is that part unclear?”

Airi blinked, caught off guard, her hand still awkwardly on Neteyam’s arm. “Oh—I didn’t mean anything, I didn’t think—”

“I know you didn’t thinkt.” You didn’t raise your voice, but it was firm with the same smile. “Maybe that’s the problem.” A beat of silence passed, thick and awkward. Airi gave a small, forced laugh, murmured something about needing to help her mother, and quickly walked off.

The second she was out of earshot, Neteyam let out a low whistle and crossed his arms, eyeing you with open amusement. “Damn.”

You turned toward him slowly, still tense. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?” His grin widened. “Say how hot that was?”

You shot him a look. “You didn’t stop her.”

“I didn’t even see her coming,” he said, laughing. “I was halfway through talking to Lo’ak about hunting patterns. She ambushed me.”

You huffed, still annoyed. Neteyam tilted his head, stepping closer. “You know, it’s funny.”

“What?”

“I don’t have a girlfriend.” Your eyes narrowed and put your hand to rest on your hip very sassily. “Really?”

“Really,” he repeated, voice low and teasing. “No official titles. No agreements. Nothing carved in stone.”

Your chest twisted. You hated when he did this, danced the line between teasing and truth, between almost and not quiet.

Then he leaned closer, eyes locking on yours. “But if I did? You know it’d be you.” You froze, caught completely off guard. Your lips parted, but no sound came out. From behind, a snort of laughter broke the tension, Lo’ak, of course. “You guys are exhausting.”

Kiri added dryly, “One of these days you’re both just going to explode from the tension and take the whole kelku with you.”

“I like her better than the other girl,” Tuk said seriously, tugging on Neteyam’s tail. “She’s prettier. And funnier. And nicer.” You buried your face in your hands.

Neteyam chuckled, wrapping an arm around your waist. “Can’t argue with that.” You didn’t pull away. You couldn’t. Not when he was this close, warm and solid and entirely too pleased with himself. And even though you wanted to stay mad… part of you was glowing. Because for all his teasing, you knew he meant it.

A few years passed, just like that. What started as sleepovers and sharing fruit as toddlers had blossomed into something much deeper, something no longer so easy to ignore. By the time you were seventeen and Neteyam had just turned eighteen, the change between you had settled in quietly but unmistakably.

The flirting had evolved from playful to lingering. The touches — brushing hands as you passed, his palm against your back when you ducked beneath the trees — stayed just a little too long. And the jealousy… that hadn’t faded. If anything, it had grown more obvious. You saw it in the way Neteyam went stiff whenever another boy tried to flirt with you during hunts or communal dinners. Just like how your stomach would twist when one of the village girls leaned too close to him, laughing too loud at something he hadn’t even said.

Everyone saw it — the whole family. Kiri gave you side-eyes, Tuk giggled whenever she caught the two of you looking at each other. Even Jake had exchanged a knowing look with Neytiri once when Neteyam instinctively reached for your hand as you crossed a riverbank. Still, nothing had been said. Until the night he finally did.

Neteyam had asked you to meet him just after eclipse, near the glade where you’d learned to climb as kids. You thought maybe it was another stargazing night, like the ones you often shared in silence. But when you arrived, your breath caught.

He had cleared a space in the grass and lined it with soft, glowing petals. A few hung from nearby branches — not too many, just enough to make the air feel alive with light. In the center, he stood waiting, hands behind his back, eyes brighter than you’d ever seen them.

“You remember this place?” he asked softly, watching your face. You nodded. “You dared me to climb that tree,” you smiled, pointing up. “You had to carry me down after I got stuck halfway.” He chuckled, stepping closer. “I’ve carried you through a lot since then.” Your stomach twisted in the best way.

He took your hands in his. “I didn’t know how to say it before. I didn’t want to ruin what we had. But I can’t hold it anymore.”

Your heartbeat like thunder in your chest. “I love you,” he said. Simply. “I have for years. You’re my best friend, my peace, the only thing that feels right no matter what else changes.” You stared up at him, blinking fast, your chest tight.

He smiled, breathless now. “And if I’m lucky… maybe you feel the same.” You didn’t answer with words. You stepped forward and pulled him into a hug so tight it nearly knocked the wind from him.

“I see you,” you whispered against his skin, and he melted.

When you pulled back, your eyes were glassy. “I’ve loved you too. I just didn’t know how to say it either.”

His smile was the softest you’d ever seen. “You didn’t have to. I think I’ve always known.”

And when he kissed you — slow, reverent, trembling just slightly — it felt like the end of a question you’d both been asking for years. Ever since that night under the stars, everything between you and Neteyam had shifted.

There was no more wondering, no more hesitation, no more hiding behind half-glances and lingering touches. Now you could hold his hand openly in the village, sit a little closer during meals, steal little kisses when no one was watching. But the problem was… people were watching.

It started innocently enough. A few days after you’d officially become a couple, Neytiri had walked into the family kelku earlier than expected and found the two of you curled up in Neteyam’s hammock. Fully clothed, mostly, but definitely tangled together, your hands beneath his chest wrap and his lips pressed against your neck like he had no plans to stop.

She didn’t say anything, not at first. Just blinked, paused… and then quietly backed out of the space with a small smirk that left you burying your face in Neteyam’s shoulder while he cursed softly under his breath.

“She’s going to tell everyone, “You groaned. “She probably already has,” he whispered, but he kissed you again anyway. After that, the teasing began.

Lo’ak was the first to weaponize it. He caught you and Neteyam just outside the edge of the forest, your back against a tree and your mate’s hands far too low on your hips for brotherly comfort. Lo’ak didn’t even pause — just whistled as he passed.

“Don’t mind me, just trying to avoid eye contact so I can keep my vision,” he said loudly, laughing all the way back to the village.

Then came Kiri, who found you both late one night when she came to retrieve a healing pouch from the supplies and opened the wrong curtain — only to find Neteyam halfway beneath your wrap and your legs around his waist.

“AHHHH!!” she squeaked, backing out so fast she knocked over a water basin. The two of you froze, staring wide-eyed at the closed flap.

Even Tuk caught you…Twice. Once during a morning swim, when Neteyam pulled you into his lap and whispered something you really shouldn’t have giggled at. Tuk popped out of the water like a fish, wide-eyed and innocent. “Why is your face all red?” she asked you curiously. “Did Neteyam say something naughty?”

“Go swim,” Neteyam said immediately, flustered. “Go!”

The last time you’d been caught, it had taken a full week for Lo’ak to stop whistling teasingly every time you and Neteyam so much as stood near each other. But today, the pull between you was too strong. Just a few stolen minutes behind the large cluster of flowering trees near the family kelku—it wasn’t far, but just out of sight.

Neteyam had you pinned gently to the forest floor, his broad, paint-streaked body curled over yours, propped on his elbows to avoid crushing you. One hand was tangled in your hair, the other… was not where it should’ve been, tugging your tweng slightly aside as his mouth met yours over and over. The air between you was breathless—sweet, gasping kisses exchanged like secrets.

You had your hands on his back, fingers pressing into the muscle at his sides as you whispered, “Neteyam—” Then came a very small gasp.

“Neteyam?” a tiny voice squeaked. Both of you jolted in unison. There, just a few feet away, stood Tuk, eyes huge, hands clutching her toy beads. She looked confused. Then her lower lip quivered.

“Mommy!” she screamed at the top of her lungs. “NETEYAM IS HURTING HER!!” Your heart stopped.

“Tuk, no! Wait, I’m not—” You scrambled up, dragging your tweng back into place, face burning.

Neteyam looked like Eywa herself had struck him. “Tuk—it’s not what it looks like!” Too late.

Tuk had already darted off in a blur, hollering, “MOMMY! COME FAST!” Seconds passed in a panicked blur before Neytiri burst into the clearing, bow drawn—followed closely by Jake, Lo’ak, Kiri, and an already-snorting Tuk. The scene they arrived to? You, breathless and flushed, your hair mussed. Neteyam crouched beside you, shirtless as always, hands raised like he was surrendering to the Great Mother herself.

“She—she thought I was—” he started.

“I thought she was hurt!!” Tuk insisted, tears pooling in her wide golden eyes. “She was saying ‘Neteyam—wait—’”

“Oh Eywa,” you groaned, dropping your face into your hands. Jake turned away, trying not to laugh. Lo’ak didn’t bother trying. “Bro. Again?!”

Neytiri sighed deeply and gave her son a long look. “Great mother Neteyam.”

“Oh my Eywa,” Kiri echoed, arms crossed.

Meanwhile, Tuk sniffled into Neytiri’s side, still confused. “But why was her tweng pulled down again?” You shrieked in embarrassment, as Kiri and Lo’ak started and uproar

Neteyam wrapped an arm around your shoulders and leaned in, whispering with a smug smile, “Next time… high in the trees?” You elbowed him. “Next time? There won’t be a next time.”

It had been years in the making, the two of you growing up entangled in a love that had bloomed slowly and deeply, like roots stretching beneath the forest floor. Everyone had seen it coming—long before either of you were ready to admit it. The glances, the lingering touches, the way Neteyam’s eyes always searched for you in a crowd and the way your laughter always came easiest in his presence. But still, nothing prepared you for the day he asked you to be his mate.

You’d been walking together through the forest, side by side as you always had, your fingers brushing now and then as they often did. He was quiet that day, more thoughtful than usual. You didn’t know where he was leading you until you reached that ridge above the canopy—the one with the clearest view of the floating mountains. You’d sat there many times before, watching the banshees in the distance, the sky changing colors like a slow-burning fire. But this time, he turned to you with a look in his eyes you hadn’t seen before—soft, certain, a little nervous.

“I’ve known this since we were children,” he said, his hands gently taking yours. “Even before I knew what it meant… I knew you were mine. I want to make that true in the eyes of Eywa. Will you choose me? Will you mate with me for life?”

Your heart stilled, then surged. You had loved him for as long as you could remember—through the awkward childhood years, the teasing, the jealous stares, the stolen kisses behind trees. It was never a question. “Yes,” you whispered. “Always, Neteyam.”

He exhaled, his forehead resting against yours, both of you whispering, “Oel ngati kameie.” His lips brushed yours then—slow, reverent, full of all the promises he hadn’t yet spoken aloud. There was no pressure, no rush. Just love. You would wait for the ceremony. You would wait for each other.

The engagement celebration arrived just a few days later, and the entire clan seemed to vibrate with joy. Music echoed through the trees, lightstones glowing in woven vines above the gathering space. Neytiri had helped braid your hair that morning, her hands gentle as she whispered about her own mating to Jake, about the sweetness and seriousness of the commitment you were about to take. Jake, on the other hand, gave Neteyam a mock stern look and muttered, “I’m so proud of you boy. You earned a good one. Just try to keep it in your tweng until after the ceremony, yeah?”

Kiri hugged you both, whispering, “Don’t think we haven’t noticed all the disappearing acts and stolen touches. Eywa has eyes, you know.” Even Lo’ak smirked and raised his drink in a toast. “To the two worst liars in the family.” Tuk, sweet and wide-eyed, had thrown flower petals at your feet and loudly declared, “Now you get to kiss forever!”

As tradition dictated, you and Neteyam exchanged woven bands of hand-dyed fibers, made from plants you had both gathered together during a quiet week of preparing. They were simple, but beautiful—your initials carved in tiny beads sewn into the weave. You danced beneath the moonlight, your bodies close, eyes locked, his hand warm on your waist. It felt like flying.

Later, when the songs faded and the laughter quieted, Neteyam took your hand once more and led you to your new shared kelku, tucked beneath the giant roots of a banyan tree not far from his family’s. You’d helped build it together, but tonight was the first time you saw it finished. Lightstones glowed warmly inside. Feathers and woven flowers draped along the doorway, and the bed of moss and pelts was soft and inviting.

“I wanted it perfect,” he murmured, pulling back the curtain of vines to let you step inside first. Your breath caught as you turned, meeting his gaze. “It is.”

Inside, he was gentle—so gentle. Every kiss felt like a prayer, every touch reverent. You had both waited for this night, saved yourselves for it. There was laughter and clumsy shifting, soft sighs and long-held gazes. He murmured your name again and again, like a vow. And when the moment finally came, when you gave yourselves fully to one another, it wasn’t rushed or fiery or awkward. It was sacred. Yours. Together.

He held you through it, whispering encouragement, kissing away your nervousness, moving slow and with care. You clung to him, heart pounding, breath catching in your throat when pleasure overtook pain, and you realized just how deeply he loved you.

After, you lay tangled together, your head on his chest, your hand curled over his heart. The air still held the scent of the flowers he’d hung earlier, and the sounds of the forest hummed softly around you like a lullaby. He kissed your hair and whispered, “You are my forever, yawne.” You smiled against his skin. “And you are mine.”

Outside, the stars blinked gently through the treetops, and the moon cast soft light across your new home. And inside, beneath warm furs and whispered breaths, you slept curled in each other’s arms, truly mated, body and soul.

Not long after you and Neteyam were officially mated, it happened — you became pregnant. The signs came slowly at first. Your body began to change in subtle ways: your energy dipped, your appetite shifted, and there was a soft heaviness blooming low in your belly. Neteyam noticed before anyone else, before even you. He started watching you more carefully, guiding your steps when walking through thick roots, brushing your hair away from your face when you were tired, lingering with his hand over your abdomen when you rested. He didn’t say anything for a few days — just watched, waited, and loved you all the more gently.

When you finally told him, you placed his hand over your growing belly. You didn’t have to say anything; his eyes widened, and his whole expression softened into something almost reverent. “A baby,” he breathed. “Our baby.” And then he kissed you — slow and deep and full of wonder — before pulling you tightly into his arms. “Eywa has truly blessed us,” he whispered, voice thick with emotion. “I will take care of you both. Always.”

The Sully family’s reaction was just as emotional. Neytiri pressed her forehead to yours and wept, hands cradling your cheeks as she whispered a mother’s blessing over you. Jake grinned and clapped Neteyam on the shoulder, shaking his head in amazement. “That’s my boy,” he said, laughing quietly. “Starting his own clan already.” Kiri was immediately fussing over you — bringing herbs, creating teas to ease discomfort, and weaving protective beads into your hair. Lo’ak smirked and muttered, “Great, now there’s gonna be a mini you running around,” but even he couldn’t hide the pride in his voice. Tuk was simply overjoyed. She wrapped her arms around your stomach and spoke to the baby as if they could already understand her. “I’m going to teach you all my games,” she promised seriously. “And we’ll eat fruit and swim and make trouble.”

As the seasons passed and your belly grew round with new life, you were never alone. The entire Sully family wrapped you in love and care. Clan members stopped by with gifts — soft cloth for the baby wrap, carved toys, fruits and roots rich with nutrients. Neteyam, though, was your constant. He helped you bathe in the cool springs when your back ached, carried you when your legs tired, massaged your feet when you couldn’t sleep. His hands were always gentle, reverent. He spoke to your belly each night, whispering stories, dreams, and promises. “You are already so loved, little one,” he’d say. “Your mother is the strongest soul I know. You’re safe with us.”

Then, one evening, the pain began. It started as a low pressure in your back, then came the waves — tightening, pulsing, until your body was trembling with effort. Neteyam didn’t panic. He scooped you up and brought you to your kelku, calling softly for his mother. Neytiri arrived swiftly, calm and collected. “It is time,” she said, brushing your sweat-dampened hair from your face. “Breathe, ma’ite. I will help you bring this child into the world.”

Neteyam knelt at your side, holding your hand, grounding you with his touch. “You’re doing so well,” he whispered, kissing your temple between contractions. “I’m here. I’m right here.”

Neytiri worked with the grace and strength of a seasoned mother. She guided you through each wave, spoke calmly even when your cries rose with the intensity. You gripped Neteyam’s hand, locked eyes with him, and knew — you could do this. With his love. With his strength. With your own. And then — a cry. Not yours.

Your baby was born under the canopy of night, with Neytiri lifting him gently into the air, his small limbs flailing, his voice strong and full of life. “A son,” she said, her own eyes shining as she handed him to you. “You have a son.”

Tears streamed down your face as you cradled him to your chest. Neteyam leaned close, arms around both of you, trembling with joy. “He’s perfect,” he whispered. “You did it, yawne. You gave us a son.”

The family came soon after, quiet and wide-eyed. “His name is Eylan.” Neteyam told everyone. Neytiri placed a kiss on your forehead. Jake kissed his grandson’s tiny hand. Kiri smiled with misty eyes. Lo’ak and Tuk peeked from behind the doorway until they were invited in, and Tuk gasped, clutching her mouth. “He’s so small,” she whispered. “Can I hold him?”

That night, your kelku glowed with woven lanterns, the scent of sweet herbs, and the sound of lullabies. Neteyam held you close, his son resting on your chest, and whispered, “This is our beginning. And I will love you both for the rest of my life.” Time had a strange way of moving when your days were filled with joy.

Eylan turned one beneath the thick canopy of Home Tree, surrounded by warmth, song, and laughter. His wide amber eyes sparkled with the curiosity of his father, and his tiny feet already tried to run before they could walk properly. He giggled with wild abandon, often tumbling into arms always waiting to catch him — yours, Neteyam’s, or someone from the Sully family, all of whom adored him beyond reason.

Neteyam carved him a tiny wooden ikran, polished smooth with love, and painted it with soft, natural dyes. “So you can fly even before you’re big enough to ride,” he whispered to his son, lifting him high into the air with a grin as Eylan squealed in delight. That moment was one of hundreds. Every day, Neteyam would swing Eylan onto his shoulders and run with him through the trees, climbing, laughing, teaching him the sounds of the forest and the names of the creatures they passed. “This is your home,” he would say gently, tapping Eylan’s chest with two fingers. “Here, and here with us.”

The Sully family was hopelessly smitten with him. Tuk was his favorite playmate, often letting him ride on her back like a direhorse, giggling as she neighed and galloped through the roots of Home Tree. Kiri braided tiny strings of flowers into his baby hair, whispering gentle stories of Eywa, and Lo’ak — despite pretending to be too cool — secretly carved Eylan little animals out of soft wood, sneaking them into his sleeping furs at night.

Even Jake, who was always so focused, would sit down with Eylan and bounce him on his knee, speaking to him in English and Na’vi, smiling despite himself when the baby would babble back nonsense. Neytiri taught you how to soothe him when he cried and helped you prepare his first bow — though it was mostly for show, since Eylan liked to chew on it more than anything.

And between it all — it was you and Neteyam. Your bond grew even deeper, grounded in shared parenthood, laughter, and exhaustion. Late nights swaying with Eylan between your bodies, mornings where you awoke to Neteyam cradling him on his chest, humming softly, eyes half-lidded with peace. He was the most patient, most loving father you could have dreamed of. He told you that he had never known a love like this before — not just for his child, but for you, the mother of his son.

“Eywa has blessed me more than I deserve,” he said once, eyes locked on you both while you nursed Eylan under the flowering branches of a quiet grove. “You’ve made me a father, a mate… a man.” But peace doesn’t last forever.

The Sky People returned like a storm — metal crashing from the skies, fire scorching the land. In that first wave, everyone fought. Even Neteyam, young but fierce, took to the air with his bow and his ikran to defend what mattered most. For a full year, the Sullys waged war at the edges of the forest — watching, protecting, ambushing.

You kept Eylan close, never letting him out of your sight. Neteyam came back to you every night, stained with ash or blood or both, always checking to see his son sleeping safely in your arms before allowing himself to breathe.

There were nights where he didn’t speak — only held you and buried his face in your neck. “I don’t want him to grow up like this,” he murmured once, voice breaking. “He deserves to know trees, not fire.” When Eylan turned two, Jake finally said the words that shattered your heart: We have to go.

Neteyam protested quietly but understood. “To protect Eylan,” he said, holding his son tighter that night, “we must let go of everything we’ve ever known.”

The night before you left, you and Neteyam stood hand in hand, watching your kelku — the home where Eylan took his first steps, where Neteyam carved lullabies into the walls — one last time. You whispered blessings to the trees, and Neteyam lifted your sleeping son to the stars. “Eywa, guide us,” he said. “Guide our family to where he can be free.” And with hearts both heavy and hopeful, you turned toward the sea.

The sea was not the forest — not in the way it whispered, not in the way it held you — but in time, it became a new kind of home.

Arriving at the Metkayina village had been overwhelming. The open skies and endless horizon felt like another world entirely compared to the thick canopy you had once called home. You remembered how Eylan had clung to Neteyam’s shoulders, wide-eyed and quiet, watching the turquoise waves roll beneath the woven walkways.

You had been welcomed with caution. The Metkayina were kind, but wary. Their ways were not yours. Your bodies were different. Your tongues spoke in a slightly different rhythm. But you learned — all of you.

Neytiri, though her heart still longed for the trees, adapted with quiet grace. Jake trained beside Tonowari, his voice always calm but commanding. Kiri thrived — as if she’d been born from the sea itself. Tuk learned fast, her tiny braids always dripping with salt water, and Lo’ak… well, Lo’ak found love.

Tsireya — beautiful, graceful, radiant. Her laughter was a melody that rang through the cove like birdsong, and Lo’ak fell fast and hard. It was the kind of love that snuck up on him, the way it had for you and Neteyam all those years ago. She became a sister to you, her presence a comfort and joy. Her family welcomed you all in time — friendships forged through hardship, trust, and time. Ronal eventually softened, especially when she saw the way you raised your children with the same fire and patience she held for her own.

You remembered when Neteyam first brought you to the deeper reefs. Your fingers laced, the sun cutting gold through the waves as he taught you how to dive with your whole body, how to let the sea carry you. “This is freedom too,” he’d whispered against your skin as you surfaced, breathless and laughing. “Just a different kind.” Four years passed like water slipping through your fingers, quietly, steadily.

Eylan grew into a wild-hearted six-year-old, just like his father. He was fearless in the water, nimble with his ilu, sharp-eyed and fast. He learned to dive before many of the Metkayina children his age, and Tonowari even joked once that “the forest boy must’ve been born in the waves.” Neteyam beamed with pride, always the first to cheer when his son surfaced from a dive or speared his first fish.

Your family expanded, love growing even deeper between you and Neteyam. One starlit night, under a blanket of bioluminescent light dancing across the sea, you told him you were expecting again. He cried softly, cradling your belly with reverence. “Eywa gives me everything I never knew I needed,” he murmured into your neck. “You, our sons… our life.”

From the moment Likan was born, the Sully kelku overflowed with even more laughter, love, and affection than ever before. Neytiri had been the first to hold him after Neteyam, her hands gentle and sure as she cradled her newest grandson, whispering quiet blessings in Na’vi. She marveled at how much he looked like his father—Neteyam’s strong jaw, his deep golden eyes—but with your nose and the soft curl of your lips. She pressed a kiss to Likan’s brow and then turned to you, tears in her eyes. “Ma ‘ite, you and my son… you make such beauty together.”

Jake, too, was wrapped around Likan’s tiny fingers. Even more laid-back as a grandfather than he ever was as a father, he spent mornings showing Likan carved wooden animals he made just for him, while Eylan proudly helped paint them in bright sea-colored hues. “Two boys,” he’d say with a wide grin, tousling Eylan’s hair while Likan cooed in his lap. “You and Neteyam are in for it now.” But the pride was clear in his voice, and so was the joy.

Kiri, as always, was a natural. She carried Likan around on her hip with flowers braided in his hair, telling him long stories of Eywa and forest spirits. Likan loved the sound of her voice and often fell asleep curled against her chest as she whispered the tales of Home Tree. Tuk—who had long since appointed herself big cousin of the year—took her role seriously. She made matching seashell necklaces for both Eylan and Likan, always watching over the youngest with gentle care. The first time Likan said “Tuk” in his tiny voice, she cried and wouldn’t let go of him all afternoon.

Even Lo’ak, ever the wild one, became surprisingly soft when it came to Likan. He would let the baby climb all over him, even yank on his braids, never once complaining. He carried Likan on his shoulders through the shallows, pretending to be a tulkun, while Eylan rode proudly on Neteyam’s back beside them. “You’re just lucky you look like your mama,” Lo’ak teased once, pinching Likan’s cheek. “That’s why I let you drool on me.”

And Neteyam—Eywa, Neteyam. The way he looked at his sons was enough to melt your heart every time. He was a father so deeply in love with his family that every look, every laugh, every moment spent cuddled between the boys and you in the hammock, told its own story of devotion. With Likan sleeping on his chest and Eylan curled at his side.

Now at two years old, Likan was a constant companion to Eylan — always trailing behind him, squealing as he tried to mimic everything his big brother did. Neteyam was utterly taken with them both. He carved toys from driftwood, told them stories under the stars, and swam with Likan cradled on his back while Eylan darted circles around them. You watched often from the shore, your heart full beyond words. And though the forest still called to you sometimes in dreams… the sea answered back with peace. This was your home now. Your family. Your love.

A few months later you were sitting in the sand with Neteyam, just past the tree line where the sea met the forest, your legs stretched in front of you, your back against his warm chest. His arms were wrapped securely around you, one hand gently tracing the growing curve of your belly — not yet obvious to others, but known, deeply felt.

“You’re sure?” he whispered softly into your ear, his breath warm, his voice reverent. You smiled, fingers threading through his. “I’m sure,” you murmured. “I wanted to wait to tell you until I was certain. You’re going to be a father again.”

Neteyam’s breath caught. He froze, just for a second, then exhaled a shaky laugh of disbelief, joy breaking across his features like sunlight. He kissed your cheek, your temple, your jaw, your shoulder — then rested his forehead against yours. “Three,” he whispered. “We’re going to have three.”

You both waited until that evening to tell the family. The Sully kelku was alive with laughter and light. Tuk was trying to balance Likan on her back like a pa’li, and Eylan was using a shell to make “soup” out of seawater and sand. Lo’ak and Kiri arguing about minuscule things making Tsireya laugh. Jake and Neytiri sat by the fire, smiling at the chaos around them. When you took Neteyam’s hand and stood, all eyes turned.

“We have something to share,” Neteyam said, his voice gentle but steady. You couldn’t stop smiling as he placed a proud hand over your belly. “We’re expecting again.”

Gasps echoed. Tuk squealed, running to throw her arms around your waist. Neytiri rose quickly, mist in her eyes as she cupped your cheeks, her joy immediate. “Eywa has blessed us,” she whispered. Jake let out a whoop and clapped Neteyam hard on the back. Lo’ak tackled him in congratulations, and Kiri and Tsireya wrapped you both in a long, warm hug.

Even Ronal and Tonowari sent over gifts the next day — strands of woven pearls for you, a carved bone teether for the baby, a set of tiny sea-colored wraps. The whole village celebrated. For a while, everything was peace and laughter and hope. Until the demon ship came.

It was fast — the sky people returning in brutal force. The hunting party never returned. Roa, Ronal’s spirit sister, was slaughtered along with her calf. The waves turned red. The village turned silent. Jake called for the warriors to move — and Neteyam turned to you, gripping your arms tightly.

“Stay,” he whispered, his voice low but firm. “Stay here. Watch the boys. Don’t leave the kelku, no matter what. I’ll come back. I promise.” Your heart twisted, but you nodded. You kissed him once, then again, pressing your forehead to his. “Come back to me,” you whispered.

Hours later, too many hours in your opinion passed, the sky and see had matching shades of orange when Kiri came stumbling in, “come, come, he is hurt.” She stuttered out and you didn’t need another word picking yourself up and running to the healer's mauri. Kiri close behind with Likan in her hip and Eylan clutching her hand.

The healer’s mauri was already crowded by the time you ran through the reef village. She hadn’t said much after those word—just “Neteyam” and “shot”—and that alone had been enough to steal your breath, to send your thoughts into a panicked spiral. You didn’t even stop to ask if he was alive. You couldn’t. You didn’t want to hear anything but “yes.”

Your chest was tight, your throat aching with the pressure of a scream that hadn’t yet found air. Kiri’s footsteps splashed behind you through shallow tidepools, your two sons in her arms and at her heels. You didn’t dare turn around. You were focused on one thing.

When you reached the healer’s mauri, you pushed aside the flap without hesitation—and froze. He was there. Laid out on a woven mat, bloodied and still. The wail that tore out of you was immediate, raw and unrestrained. “Neteyam!”

Jake was already kneeling beside his son, hands stained red, whispering soft prayers to Eywa. Neytiri sat with her forehead pressed against Neteyam’s hand, tears streaking her face. Lo’ak stood rigid in the corner, jaw clenched so tight it looked like he might crack his own teeth. Tuk, curled in Neytiri’s lap, was wide-eyed and quiet, too young to understand all of it but old enough to feel the fear. When you stumbled in, the room shifted instantly.

You fell to your knees beside Neteyam, grabbing his hand, sobbing so violently it was hard to breathe. “Please—Neteyam, wake up. Wake up! Please!”

Jake reached for your shoulder, trying to steady you, but you pulled away, your entire body curling over Neteyam’s as if your love alone could protect him from whatever force had done this. “Mama?” Eylan’s little voice broke behind you. You turned around sharply, wild-eyed, as Kiri entered, holding Likan on her hip and Eylan’s hand. The boys stopped short at the sight of their father.

“Mama, what’s wrong with sempu?” Eylan asked, clutching Kiri’s leg, voice quivering. “Why is he all red?” Your breath hitched. Likan looked around, confused and teary. “Is Daddy sleeping?” You pressed your hands to your mouth, eyes wide and brimming with tears. You tried to speak, but nothing came out—only broken sobs.

Kiri gently passed Likan to Neytiri, who cradled him and Tuk together, her arms trembling. Jake picked Eylan up and sat down beside you on the mat, placing the boy in your lap and anchoring your shaking hands around him.

“Breathe, sweetheart,” he said, firmly but gently. “I know. I know it’s hard. But he’s alive. He’s fighting. Look at him.”

You barely heard him. Your eyes were locked on Neteyam’s face, unmoving, pale save for the angry red of dried blood. Eylan looked up at you, his tiny hand pressing to your cheek. “Why are you crying?” he asked, sniffling. “Is Daddy gonna go to Eywa?”

“No!” you gasped out, shaking your head too fast. “No, no, baby—he—he’s not—he’s not—” You couldn’t even finish. You broke again, hugging Eylan to your chest, your other hand reaching toward Neteyam even as your entire body shook.

Neytiri passed Likan to Lo’ak, who gently bounced him as he stood, whispering, “It’s okay, little guy, Daddy’s gonna be okay.” But you could see his jaw trembling too, the way his throat bobbed as he swallowed hard. Neytiri came to you, kneeling beside you and pulling you into her arms, guiding your head to her shoulder while you sobbed.

“You are not alone,” she whispered, voice thick with emotion. “You don’t carry this alone.” Kiri had tears on her face too, but she wiped them away as she pressed a damp cloth to Neteyam’s brow. “We got to him in time,” she said quietly, mostly for your sake. “Tsireya stopped the bleeding. He just needs rest. Healing.”

Jake was silent for a long moment; his eyes locked on his eldest son. Then he reached over, brushing Eylan’s curls out of his eyes, and said, “Your dad’s the strongest person I know, kiddo. He’ll wake up. You’ll see.”

You just cried harder, holding your boy as if they were the only thing keeping you tethered to the ground. And all the while, Neteyam lay still, his hand warm in yours. A breath of life—but only barely.

You clutched Eylan to your chest, holding him so tightly he whimpered, confused, but not resisting. His round eyes flicked between you and his father’s unmoving body. His little fingers fisted in your hair as your cries began—raw, broken, guttural. You were saying his name over and over, as if it alone could tether his soul back to you. “Neteyam… please… please…”

You barely noticed Lo’ak nearby, now crouched low, arms full of Likan who writhed and whimpered and cried against his uncle’s chest. The toddler was panicking, struggling to reach for you, reaching out with one hand while he clung to Lo’ak with the other. His small voice was cracked from crying, his face wet with tears, overwhelmed by the sight of both his parents falling apart in front of him. You didn’t notice Kiri until she was right beside you. She didn’t speak.

She simply knelt, calm and sure, and slid her arms under Eylan’s small body. He resisted only briefly, but the tears on your face, the shaking of your shoulders, it frightened him. He let go of your neck and went into Kiri’s hold, his lower lip trembling as she stood and turned away, taking him to the edge of the mauri.

Only when his weight left your arms did you suddenly feel how hollow they were. You turned back to Neteyam, grabbing at his hand, kissing it, whispering to him as tears continued to pour from your chin to his bare chest. Your trembling fingers brushed his braids back from his sweat-damp face, desperate for anything, any sign—any flicker.

Likan was screaming now—soft, broken screams of confusion and fear. Neytiri appeared behind Lo’ak, arms open, and Lo’ak handed his little nephew off gently. Likan’s tiny fists pounded at her shoulder, face pressed to her neck as she rocked him, whispering softly, shielding him from the sight of his father.

The mauri entrance stirred Ronal entered first, sharp-eyed and focused, followed closely by Tsireya and two other healers. Their arms were full of salves, herbs, warm cloth. The moment they entered, the air changed urgency replacing fear. “You must move,” Ronal said, not cruelly, but firm.

“No,” you gasped, clutching Neteyam’s arm, burying your face in his shoulder. “No, I can’t—he needs me—I need to stay—”

“He will not survive if we cannot reach him,” she said, already setting her things beside him. Tsireya crossed to the other side and knelt. Her voice was softer, coaxing. “Please. Let us help him. You’ve done all you can.”

You didn’t hear yourself sob. You didn’t feel your body convulsing with every breath. But the arms that pulled you back were familiar—Jake’s. You resisted at first, claws curling into the woven mat. “No—no, please—I can’t—please, no—”

Neytiri approached, still rocking Likan, who was hiccuping against her shoulder, his little voice warbling with the last of his strength. She kissed his head and crouched beside you. “Let them save him, ma’ite. You must let go for now.”

“No, no no no I can’t,” you whispered through choked sobs. Jake pulled you back slowly, and you crumbled into him, your face buried in his chest as your hands reached blindly for your mate.

Kiri was nearby, holding Eylan close, whispering softly. Lo’ak paced beside her, running his fingers through his hair, glancing back constantly at Neteyam. Tuk stood just behind her mother, silent, holding her own tears in a tight, trembling grip. And there, in that mauri, with your heart breaking open and your sons crying for comfort you couldn’t give, you watched as the only person who could soothe your storm lay still unmoving while the healers began their quiet, desperate work. The moment the flap of the healer’s mauri closed behind you; it felt like the world fell silent—then exploded into anguish.

You dropped to the sand as if your legs no longer knew how to hold you. Jake had carried you out, his hands firm but careful, his jaw clenched with grief. He tried to speak, but you had already broken into pieces in his arms, and there were no words that could hold your weight now. Gently, he set you down and immediately turned back for Tuk, who had come stumbling out moments after, her face a pale mask of confusion.

She didn’t speak. Didn’t cry. Her wide eyes just watched her family unravel. Jake bent down, scooped her into his arms, and held her like she was the last solid thing in his life. He kissed her forehead again and again as she clung to him, asking over and over, “Is going to Neteyam okay daddy?” Jake had no answers.

You knelt just beyond the entrance, in the pale sand outside the mauri, your body trembling uncontrollably. The sobs that escaped you were unhinged—raw, cracking your chest open in a way that made Lo’ak look away, jaw tight, his own eyes shining. You gasped like you couldn’t find the air. Like breathing itself betrayed you. You clutched your stomach—your growing belly—and cried out his name.

“Neteyam! Neteyam! Please—please! Wake up! I can’t—he can’t—” The words never finished. Your throat closed around them.

Lo’ak was the one who caught you this time, sliding to his knees and pulling you into him. You fought him at first—your hands pushing against his chest, trembling with the desire to get back inside, to feel Neteyam’s warmth, to stop this nightmare. But Lo’ak held you, arms locked tight around you like a brace, grounding you when the world kept spinning. You crumpled into him, shaking violently, your sobs muffled in his chest. “He’s cold, Lo’ak. He was so cold. He looked—he looked—gone.”

Lo’ak couldn’t speak for a moment. His throat was thick, lips trembling. He closed his eyes, pressing his cheek against the crown of your head. His voice was hoarse when he finally said, “But he’s not. He’s not gone. He’s alive. Tsireya stopped the bleeding. Ronal’s working on him now. He’s gonna pull through. He has to.” Your arms clung to him like a lifeline. “I need him… I need him…”

“I know,” he whispered. “We all do.” Nearby, Kiri sat cross-legged in the sand, Eylan tucked into her lap. The little boy was crying silently now, exhausted, tears streaking his cheeks as he leaned into her chest. She ran her fingers through his hair, whispering soft reassurances even as her own face was stiff with fear. She kept glancing toward the mauri, her heart clearly still with her brother.

Likan was still in Neytiri’s arms, wailing louder now—not because of Neteyam’s absence, but because he could feel the pain in his family, see the desperation in your cries. “Mama! Mamaaaa!” he hiccuped into his grandmother’s neck, reaching his arms toward you, but Neytiri gently rocked him and whispered, “Shh, little one. Let her breathe. She’s just scared. She loves you. She loves your sempu.”

Jake, holding Tuk close, had crouched in the sand a short distance away. His face was stone, but his eyes—red and glossy—betrayed the cracks inside. He held Tuk’s small head against his shoulder as she finally started crying, her confusion becoming real fear. “Why is she screaming?” she asked. “Why can’t we go help?”

“She’s scared,” Jake said softly. “And we’re just waiting now. Giving Neteyam time to be okay.”

Kiri gently leaned her head down, pressing her forehead to Eylan’s. “Your daddy’s strong, ma ‘itan,” she murmured. “He’s going to be okay. But you need to be brave too, alright? Your mama needs you to be brave.”

You didn’t hear any of it. You couldn’t. Everything was a blur. A tunnel of sound—your heart pounding, your sobs relentless, your baby squirming in your belly as if they, too, could feel your terror. Lo’ak held you as your cries lost their sound and became breathless heaves, his own hands trembling as he wiped the tears from your cheeks.

“You can’t fall apart,” he said, but the words weren’t harsh. They were trembling. “Not yet. Not when he’s still fighting in there. You know Neteyam. He’d never leave you. He wouldn’t.”

The world was muffled behind your tears. But your ears caught the soft, broken cries of your sons again, and your heart lurched. Your lungs burned as you forced yourself to look around.

Likan was still in Neytiri’s arms, clinging tightly to her as fat tears rolled down his round cheeks. At two years old, he didn’t understand any of this—just that something was terribly wrong. He let out a pitiful whimper, burying his face in her shoulder, sniffling and murmuring, “Mama… mama, dada… where dada?”

Eylan sat quietly now in Kiri’s lap just a few steps away, tear tracks fresh on his cheeks, his little fingers curled in the fabric of her chest wrap as he looked between you and the mauri hut. His voice was quiet but clear. “Why won’t Daddy wake up?” You broke. Again. But this time it was different. This time you didn’t fall into your grief—you leaned into your sons.

Lo’ak gently released you as you dropped to your knees, arms open for Eylan. Kiri didn’t hesitate; she leaned down and let your boy shuffle into your arms. He clung to you instantly, curling against your chest, his little breaths shaky.

“I’m here,” you whispered, your voice hoarse. “I’m right here, my love.”

You felt movement behind you—Neytiri came forward and knelt beside you in the sand. Her arms eased Likan into yours, his soft, warm body curling against your other side. The moment your arms closed around him, he gave a wobbly cry and pushed his face into your neck, still trying to speak through his distress.

“Dada hurt? Dada owie?”

“No, baby,” you murmured, rocking them gently, tears still falling. “He’s going to be okay… He’s just sleeping. Just sleeping…” And then, finally, the world slowed.

The sky darkened above you as the sun dipped lower, the air thick with salt and grief. You sat there, tucked beside the mauri, your sons pressed tightly to your chest, tears still running silently down your face. The rest of the family formed around you.

Jake sat just behind Neytiri, arms wrapped protectively around Tuk, who trembled in his lap but didn’t make a sound. She stared at the entrance of the healer’s mauri like it might swallow her whole. Kiri curled next to you, brushing your hair back, her own eyes rimmed red but her touch soft, calming.

Lo’ak finally lowered himself to the sand beside you and sat in silence, head in his hands, his shoulders rising and falling with shallow breaths. One of his knees bumped against yours—close, supportive. He didn’t say anything more. No one did.

For a long time, the Sully family simply sat in a circle around you. Pressed together. Supporting each other in silence. Each face painted with pain and fear; each heart suspended between hope and horror. But together.

You clutched Eylan and Likan closer, your lips brushing their hair, whispering soft things that didn’t always make sense—just your voice, soothing, constant, loving. And in that quiet, broken moment, you remembered: you were still a family. Still together.

The night had long since fallen, the sky above painted with stars scattered like beads of light across deep ocean blue. The air was cool now, and the soft crash of waves against the reef was the only thing filling the silence outside the healer’s mauri. The Sully family hadn’t moved far — they couldn’t. Not with Neteyam still inside, still unconscious.

You were seated on the sand, legs folded, your arms wrapped tightly around both of your sons. Eylan was curled in your lap, his tiny fingers clutching the fabric of your chest wrap. He’d cried until his voice broke, then fallen asleep against you, lips still quivering in dreams. Likan, your littlest one, had cried himself hoarse in Lo’ak’s arms. When your sobs had calmed just enough to take him back, Lo’ak wordlessly passed him over, holding the back of your hand for a moment as he did, grounding you without needing to speak.

Now, Likan lay tucked across your legs like a baby ilu, one hand curled in your songcord, the other clutching his father’s discarded sash. His cheek was wet, pressed to your belly where his unborn sibling stirred gently in your womb — safe, for now. His small chest rose and fell with heavy, exhausted breaths.

Lo’ak sat directly beside you now. He hadn’t left your side since you’d been dragged from the mauri. His arm brushed yours, his shoulder nearly touching. Though he wasn’t saying much, the tension in his posture spoke volumes — hunched slightly forward, fingers fidgeting over a seashell bracelet, jaw clenched like he was fighting every wave of panic. His eyes, normally so full of mischief and light, were dim. He kept glancing toward the mauri flap like if he blinked, something would change.

Jake sat not far off, his strong arms wrapped around a sleeping Tuk. She was curled tightly in his lap, her small face still damp with tears. Neytiri had one hand on your back, rubbing slowly, her presence like a warm fire in the cold. Kiri was nearby too, legs pulled close to her chest, her gaze occasionally drifting to you and the boys, then back to the healer’s tent.

Tonowari stood quietly at a respectful distance, his wife having disappeared back inside some time ago. Aonung sat cross-legged just behind Lo’ak, giving space, but still clearly there — watching his friend, his second brother, with the protectiveness of someone who’d become family too. No one spoke.

The stillness was heavy, the kind of silence born from fear and hope and bone-deep exhaustion. But Neteyam was alive. You repeated that over and over in your mind like a prayer, like a chant to keep your heart from tearing again. Neteyam is alive. He is breathing.

You tightened your arms around your boys. Lo’ak’s hand reached over in the quiet and touched your shoulder, squeezing gently. You leaned into him for a moment — both of you needing it more than you’d ever say out loud.

The flap of the healer’s mauri finally shifted. Everyone’s head snapped up, every breath caught. You clutched your sons tighter, both still asleep against your chest and belly, and Lo’ak’s hand instinctively moved from your shoulder to your back, steadying you.

Ronal was the first to emerge. Her expression, always unreadable, was softer now — solemn, but without panic. Her hands were streaked with drying blood up to the forearms, her chest rising in quiet, measured breaths. Tsireya followed a heartbeat later, her eyes already shining with unshed tears, but her mouth curled in a small, hopeful smile.

“He lives,” Ronal said gently, looking at the circle of broken hearts around her. Your breath hitched, and Neytiri gasped softly beside you. Jake let out a quiet, choked sound and pressed his lips to Tuk’s hair, hugging her closer in his arms.

Lo’ak slumped forward, burying his face in his hands with a trembling exhale. Your heart stuttered in your chest.

“He is stable,” Tsireya continued, stepping forward, her voice softer, for you. “The wound was deep… but it missed anything vital. We have stitched it well and given him salves for pain. He is sleeping now — deeply. He may not wake for some time… but his spirit is strong.”

You couldn’t stop the tears. Silent, steady drops falling down your cheeks, soaking into Eylan’s curls. “He’ll wake up?” you asked, barely a whisper.

Ronal nodded. “Yes. In time. But he must rest. His body must heal.” Your arms tightened around your children. You nodded through your tears, leaning your head down to kiss both your sons on their brows. Neteyam wasn’t lost. Not this time. Not this battle.

Kiri let out a shuddering breath and leaned into Neytiri’s side. Neytiri took her hand. Jake looked to the sky as if thanking Eywa herself.

Aonung stepped forward and crouched next to Lo’ak, placing a firm hand on his shoulder. “Brother will be alright,” he said simply. Lo’ak just nodded, still pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes, silent tears slipping through.

Tonowari stepped forward at last, kneeling beside you. “You are welcome to stay here, all of you,” he said gently. “As long as you need. You are not alone.”

You looked up at him through your blurred vision and nodded gratefully. “Thank you… thank you…” Ronal placed a hand gently on your head — a rare, maternal gesture from her. “Soon, you may see him. Not yet. But soon.” You nodded again, your throat too tight for words, and pressed your cheek to Eylan’s little shoulder.

After that night, the one that tore the sky open above you — it was Neytiri who suggested moving Neteyam. She spoke quietly, like she might break if she raised her voice. “He should be home,” she said, eyes red-rimmed. “With you. With his sons. Where he belongs.”

And so, gently, the family helped you move him to your mauri — the small sea-shelled home you and Neteyam built with woven love and endless laughter, now filled with echoing silence. Jake carried his son’s weight like a ghost, Kiri and Lo’ak flanking either side. You stayed close, one hand on Neteyam’s chest, the other wrapped protectively around your swollen belly.

It wasn’t far from the Sully mauri. Close enough that no one ever knocked, and no one ever asked to enter. And so, your home became the heart of the family — the place everyone gathered, watched, waited. Grieved. Nights were the hardest. The soft sounds of the ocean couldn’t mask the ache.

Eylan slept between you and Neteyam, fingers always curled in his father’s braids. He would whisper, childlike and sure, “I think Daddy can still hear me. Right, Mama?” And though your heart would squeeze in pain, you nodded. “Yes, baby. He hears every word.”

Little Likan, barely two, still too young to understand, would crawl across Neteyam’s unmoving chest and giggle like nothing had changed. “Dada sleepin’,” he would murmur, laying his head down. “Shhh, baby sleeping.” Your heart cracked, over and over again.

One quiet afternoon, as you rubbed your aching belly and tried not to cry, Lo’ak sat beside you, legs crossed, elbows on knees. He watched Neteyam in silence for a while before saying, “You know, he always said he’d be the best dad. Like he wanted to prove something.”

You glanced at your sleeping mate. “He didn’t need to prove anything. He already was.”

Lo’ak smiled sadly. “I think… I think he was afraid. Of becoming like Dad. Of being too hard. Too… heavy.”

“He’s not,” you whispered. “He’s light. Always was.”

The Sully family never stayed away. Jake would come by early mornings to sit near Neteyam’s mat, just watching him with a hard jaw and teary eyes. Neytiri often brought steaming bowls of herbal broths and helped brush Likan’s hair from his eyes. Tuk curled against Neteyam’s arm every chance she got, small voice rambling about whatever creature she’d found that day.

“He’s still warm,” she said once, looking up at you with wide, hopeful eyes. “So that means he’s still in there.”

“Yes,” you murmured, brushing her hair back. “He’s still with us.”

Kiri came often too, singing over Neteyam’s still body, lighting healing oils, and wrapping arms around you when your breath caught from the pressure of the growing baby inside you. Tsireya and Ao’nung came by almost every day.

Tsireya would gently take Likan into her arms and hum soft Metkayina lullabies while you rested. “You are being so strong for your boys,” she said once, when your hands trembled too much to feed yourself.

Ao’nung was quieter, surprisingly so. He didn’t speak much, but he would bring fish, or woven toys for the boys, or sit near the edge of the mauri, his gaze flickering to Neteyam’s form with guilt and worry that never quite left his face. Once, you caught him whispering, “Come back, forest boy.”

It was your little family that held the world together. Eylan curled beside Neteyam at night, whispering stories about jellyfish and fish chases with Uncle Lo’ak. “Daddy needs to hear what he missed,” he would say matter-of-factly. Likan would climb onto your lap and ask, “Baby come soon?” then lay his tiny hand on your belly and say, “Tell Dada wake up. We waitin’.”

And you would lean into Neteyam’s chest, brushing your fingers over his jaw, whispering into the hollow of his throat, “You have to come back, ma yawne. They need you. I need you.”

Even though your world had cracked, you weren’t alone in the pieces.

Three moons had passed since the day your world cracked in two. Neteyam lay motionless on the center mat of your shared mauri, surrounded by silence and warmth and the weight of his family’s endless love. His chest still rose. His heart still beat. But his eyes… they never opened.

The boys had adapted, in a way only children could. Eylan had stopped asking when his father would wake. Instead, he stayed close, laying his tiny reed mat beside Neteyam’s every night, whispering stories into his ear about fish he’d seen, shells he’d found, dreams he’d had. “So when he wakes up, he knows everything, Mama,” he’d explain.

Likan didn’t understand. Two years old and all big eyes and chubby fingers, he still climbed onto Neteyam’s chest every morning and curled up, waiting for his father’s arms to wrap around him. Sometimes he laughed, babbling in half-sentences. Sometimes he cried. You never stopped watching.

And your belly — it was so round now. Eight months. You could feel every kick, every shift of the baby inside. Every night, you whispered to your unborn child as you stroked your mate’s still face. “Your sempu is here. He just needs more time.”

Norm and Max had come again that morning, quiet as always. They carried their strange, blinking human tools and moved around Neteyam’s mat with practiced care. They checked the IV that fed his body fluids and nutrients, adjusted the monitor that tracked his vitals. “He’s still holding on,” Norm said gently, not looking you in the eye”

“I don’t need him to hold on,” you muttered. “I need him to wake up.”

Lo’ak stood near the entrance of the mauri, arms folded tight across his chest, jaw clenched. He hadn’t left your side in weeks. He helped with the boys, helped you up when your back ached too much to rise, helped keep you breathing when everything inside you begged to scream.

That night, Eylan climbed into your lap beside Neteyam. “Mama,” he whispered, stroking your arm, “when is sempu gonna talk to me again?” You froze. Your hands tightened on his little back. “I miss daddy,” Eylan continued. “I think Likan does too. He cries sometimes for daddy.” You couldn’t hold it in. You turned your face away and let the sob break through. Eylan reached up, brushing away a tear. “Did I do something wrong?”

“No, baby. Eywa, no.” You kissed his forehead, hugging him tight. “He loves you more than anything. He just… he’s sleeping very strong.”

“Like when the fish go deep for the cold moons?”

“Exactly,” you lied, smiling through the ache. “But he’ll come back.”

Later that night, after the boys had fallen asleep — Likan curled on Neteyam’s chest, Eylan tucked under his arm — you stepped outside. The stars shimmered over the ocean, and the sound of waves broke softly against the reef. You didn’t cry this time. You just breathed.

“I’m scared,” you whispered to the sky. “He’s missing everything. Every kick. Every day the boys grow. He hasn’t even heard this baby’s heartbeat.”

Lo’ak appeared behind you quietly. “I know.” You turned to him, voice trembling. “What if I have this baby alone? What if he never—”

“You won’t,” he said, stepping forward. “We won’t let you be alone. I know I’m not him, but I swear… we’ve got you. I’ve got you.” You sank into him, tears finally returning. “I don’t want anyone else. I just want him.”

“I know,” Lo’ak whispered, pressing your head to his shoulder. “I want him to wake up too.”

Ronal came the next day, her presence as quiet and firm as ever. She set a bowl of warm herbs beside Neteyam’s mat and applied a paste along his temples. You watched as she murmured prayers and touched his chest.

“He is tethered,” she said finally, glancing at you. “You are the cord that keeps him here. Keep speaking to him.” You nodded, though your heart was so tired.

Tsireya came later, bringing new salve for your aching legs and sweet-smelling herbs for the boys. “We haven’t given up,” she said gently. “You shouldn’t either.” Even Ao’nung came by more often now. He didn’t speak much, just brought fresh fish or sat with Lo’ak near the shore when he needed space.

And still, your stomach grew. Every movement of the baby inside you brought both awe and fear. You’d lie next to Neteyam at night, his arm draped lifeless across your middle, and whisper, “They’re almost here, ma tìyawn. Please… please don’t miss this.”

But the days kept passing, and one month later, the pain came like fire—deep, sharp, and wrong. It was still dark outside the mauri when it woke you, seizing your breath and curling your body forward instinctively. You gasped, a broken cry ripping from your throat as you clutched your swollen belly. You knew what it meant. “No—no no no,” you whispered, panic rising fast. “Not now. Please not now.”

Your pain woke the boys, who both began to cry in their half-sleep—frightened, confused by the sound of your agony. “Mama? Mamaaa?”

You couldn’t even answer. You barely registered the door flap flying open, Kiri and Neytiri rushing in. Kiri dropped to your side. “It’s the baby,” she breathed, feeling your stomach. “You’re in labor.”

“I won’t do it,” you gasped, trying to stand—only to collapse into Neytiri’s arms, trembling. “I won’t—I can’t! Not without him!”

“He would want you to be strong,” Neytiri said quickly, but her voice cracked. “You have to be strong—please, for the baby.”

Tsireya and Ronal arrived next, gathering supplies and laying out a woven mat across the floor beside Neteyam’s still form. You shrank away from them, clutching your belly like it might hold the pain back.

“You need to lie down,” Tsireya said softly.

“I said no!” you cried. “I’m not having this baby without him! He was supposed to be here! He was supposed to hold my hand—he promised!” Ronal looked to Kiri, silently asking her to calm you, but before she could move, a voice cut through the panic.

“Y/n I’m surprised at you I really am, this…. this is not how I thought you’d handle this.” Lo’ak stood in the doorway. Pale. Tense. Eyes rimmed red from weeks of holding back every emotion that now pulsed right beneath his skin. Kiri opened her mouth, clearly ready to tell him to leave. “Lo’ak, maybe give her some—”

But he walked straight past her. He knelt down in front of you, gently brushing your damp hair back, speaking quietly so only you could hear. “I know you’re scared. You have every right to be. But you don’t get to quit right now.” You shook your head, voice cracking. “You don’t understand—”

“No, I do,” he said, cutting you off gently. “He was supposed to be here. I know that. And this isn’t fair. None of this is fair. But you’re not alone.” Your eyes welled up again, and you looked away.

Lo’ak leaned closer. “You’re not doing this for just you. You’re doing it for the baby. For Neteyam. For your little boys who still need their mama cause they’re crying cause you're in pain. You don’t get to quit on them. You don’t get to quit on me.” Your lower lip trembled as a contraction surged again, and you folded into it, screaming. “I know there’s a lot of things going on here we can’t control, but this, we can do this.” He caught you as you slumped forward, gently guiding you down onto the mat Tsireya had prepared. The moment you hit the floor, the room shifted.

Kiri immediately began gathering towels and boiling water. Neytiri scooped the boys into her arms, quickly passing them to Jake who waited just outside to rock them even as tears streaked her own cheeks. Ronal positioned herself at your feet, checking how far along you were. Tsireya set her hands at your side, grounding you in soft whispers.

Lo’ak didn’t move from behind you, sitting cross-legged so your back could lean into him, just like Neteyam had done for your first two births. He took your hand in his. “I’ve got you,” he whispered into your ear. “Just breathe. I’m not going anywhere.”

Another contraction came, and you screamed into his shoulder. He didn’t flinch. “I know it hurts,” he said quietly, his voice cracking. “I know everything feels like it’s falling apart, but this baby is yours and his and they’re ready. You just have to help them get here.”

“I don’t want to do it alone,” you sobbed.

“You’re not alone,” he said, pressing your forehead to his. “Look at me.” You opened your eyes—barely.

“I’m here. Kiri’s here. Mom’s here. Tsireya and Ronal are here. You are surrounded by people who love you. We’re not letting go. You can do this.” You let out a shuddering breath, nodding once. “Okay.”

“That’s it,” he whispered. “That’s all I need. When the next one comes—push. I’ve got you. I swear.”

The room shifted again—calm in the storm. Ronal nodded. “The baby is crowning. You must push.” You closed your eyes, tears falling fast, and squeezed Lo’ak’s hand as the next contraction came. You pushed. Screamed. Cried. And Lo’ak held you through every second of it.

Your chest heaved, sweat glistening on your skin as your trembling arms cradled the impossibly small bundle against your chest. She was still crying—tiny and sharp and alive. And Lo’ak… Lo’ak was still behind you, arms braced on either side of you, steadying you like a living pillar. His chest pressed to your back, chin briefly lowering to your shoulder as he whispered, “You did it.”

You couldn’t answer—not yet. Your voice was trapped in your throat, and your heart was thundering too hard, but you nodded weakly, tears falling freely down your cheeks.

Tsireya leaned close, her smile wet with emotion. “She is strong,” she whispered. “Just like her sa’nok.”

Ronal was quiet, checking your daughter’s tiny fingers, murmuring something under her breath maybe a prayer, maybe thanks to Eywa. “I’ll go tell them,” Neytiri said softly, already turning toward the mauri flap. Her hand trailed along your shoulder as she passed. “They are waiting.”

You could feel Lo’ak’s breath on the back of your neck. His voice was hoarse when he said, “She looks like Neteyam.” That broke something in your chest. You nodded, lips trembling. “I know…”

She was beautiful. She was warm and breathing and here. And yet… Neteyam still hadn’t moved. He hadn’t seen her. Not yet. You shifted slightly, and Lo’ak helped you ease backward, supporting you so that you were resting against his chest, your newborn daughter swaddled snugly in your arms. You hadn’t even realized you were still holding his hand until you felt his thumb gently stroke over your knuckles. Then the flap lifted again.

Jake entered first, quiet and slow, with a child in each arm. Tuk still clung to his side, sleepy and blinking, and beside her was your oldest—Eylan, eyes wide with worry, searching.

“Mama…?” he said softly.

Your breath caught. You sat up straighter. “Eylan,” you whispered. He ran forward before Jake could even say anything, reaching out toward you. You held out your free arm, and he climbed up next to you, careful but eager, immediately peeking down at the baby in your arms. “Is that the baby that was in your belly?”

You nodded, voice soft and cracking. “Your sister, yeah.” He gasped quietly. “She’s so small…”

“She’s perfect,” you said.

Lo’ak shifted behind you, his hands never leaving your shoulders, still there like an anchor. Jake stepped closer, kneeling with Likan in his arms. “He woke when he heard her cry,” he said gently. Likan rubbed at his eyes with a little fist, clearly still tired, but the moment he spotted you and his brother, he reached out. “Mama…”

You nodded, arms full, and Lo’ak moved for the first time, gently helping take Likan from Jake and nestling him beside you, right between you and Eylan. Both boys now tucked into your side, wide-eyed and curious. “Look,” you murmured. “Your little sister.” Likan blinked at her. “Mama Baby…” You nodded, kissing his forehead.

The flap to the mauri was still drawn open, and behind Jake came Neytiri and Kiri, the whole family drawn like a tide around you. They didn’t crowd. They didn’t speak loudly. But the space filled with warmth—blinking away the cold ache of the months of silence. Your daughter squirmed a little, letting out a tiny sneeze.

“Oh,” Eylan whispered with a giggle. “She sneezed!”

“She’s a strong girl,” Jake said with pride, voice a little rough as he tucked a few braids behind your ear. “Just like her mama. Just like her brothers.”

You looked to Lo’ak then. He caught your gaze, then leaned close enough to kiss the crown of your head. “You did so good,” he murmured. “Neteyam would be losing his mind right now.” The lump in your throat swelled again.

“I wish he could see her…”

“He will,” Kiri said gently, her voice from just beside the boys. “He’s still here. And when he wakes up, we’ll tell him everything.”

Lo’ak looked at you, his voice a low, sure thing. “We’ll tell him how brave you were. How beautiful she is. How she cried just like Likan and wriggled like Eylan when they were born.”

“And how much we missed him,” you whispered. Lo’ak nodded.

Tuk came forward then, kneeling beside the boys, and smiled at the baby in wonder. “She’s really here…” she whispered. “What’s her name?”

You paused, heart pounding. You hadn’t chosen it yet. Not without him. “I uh— I haven’t chosen one yet, Neteyam normally has finally say but this time we…I don’t know yet.” I tell the family and Lo’ak squeezed my arms softly his fingers running up and down them. “It’s okay, you’ll name her when you’re ready.” He whispered speaking for everyone.

The air in the mauri is thick with warmth, sweat, blood, and silence. Somewhere just outside, Neytiri hums to Likan, rocking him slowly. Kiri is tending to your newborn, her steps soft. Tsireya is quiet, watching the Eylan sleep, giving you space.

It’s just you and Lo’ak now. The curtain drawn. A bowl of warm water beside him, and you, aching and barely awake, lying half-curled under a blanket, eyes glazed with exhaustion. You don’t even flinch when you feel the cloth on your thigh. His touch is gentle, almost too gentle like he’s afraid of you breaking.

“…Lo’ak?” your voice cracks. He doesn’t look at you. “It’s okay. I’ve got it.”

The cloth moves carefully over your skin, down the inside of your thigh where the blood dried hours ago. Normally, this moment is sacred, Neteyam’s hands, not Lo’ak’s. Always Neteyam’s. After every birth, every hard night, every wound. It was Neteyam who bathed you, held you, kissed your shoulders in the firelight. Only him.

This feels too close. Too much. Your voice trembles. “You don’t… have to do this.”

“I know.”

“Is it weird?” You swallow. “You can ask someone else—”

“I know,” he cuts in, gently. Finally, his eyes meet yours. And the look in them — it undoes you. It’s not pity. It’s not lust. It’s something else. Raw, reverent. Careful. Fractured.

“It is weird,” he admits, voice low. “But not because I don’t want to help you.” He dips the cloth again, wrings it slowly. “It’s weird because this isn’t mine. This moment. This part of you. It’s his.” Your breath catches. He lowers his eyes, begins wiping you again — the inside of your knees, the curve of your hip. Nothing improper. But your skin burns under his touch.

“I used to wonder what it felt like,” he murmurs suddenly, “being needed like that. The way you always looked at him after the births. Like he was the only person who knew where you ended and started again.”

You say nothing. You can’t. His next words are barely audible. “Now I know. And I wish I didn’t.” The silence hangs so heavy it could break. “I’m sorry,” you whisper, tears slipping sideways into your hair.

“I’m not,” he says softly. Then after a beat, a shaky breath escapes him, and he tries to smile — the kind that barely holds. “…Though I gotta say,” he adds gently, “I never pictured the first time I’d see you naked would involve this much blood and crying.” You laugh — a strangled, wet sound. “Lo’ak—!”

He grins, but it’s quiet. Tired. Tender. “Hey. I made you laugh. That counts for something.” The cloth slips back into the bowl. He covers you gently, then sits there beside you, elbows on his knees, staring at nothing.

You watch him through half-lidded eyes. It should not feel this way. He should not have seen this much of you. Should not have touched your skin. Should not have looked at you like that. But he did. And you let him. And in the soft dark, with your mate still unconscious and your body raw from birth, you realize… You’re not sure where the line is anymore.

At first, it’s still about the kids. Lo’ak carrying Eylan when the boy is too sleepy to walk, playing with Likan in the dirt while you rest with the baby sleeping on your chest. He never complains. Never acts like it’s too much. But the way he watches you begins to change — it becomes quieter. He’s more careful. Always aware. He doesn’t hover. But he notices everything.

When your arms start to tremble from holding the baby too long, he’s already there before you ask. He doesn’t make a scene — he just crouches beside you and gently takes her from you, cradling her like she’s his own blood, offering that crooked half-smile you’ve seen a thousand times before. Except now it feels different.

When you try to eat, one hand balancing your daughter and the other too sore to lift much of anything, he kneels next to you. No teasing, no fuss. He just takes the food and feeds you with quiet patience, like it’s normal, like you’ve always done this dance. There’s a rhythm forming between you that neither of you meant to create.

“You either eat this,” he says once, “or I eat it and tell everyone you starve me.” You roll your eyes. But you open your mouth. The next time, you lean forward before he even lifts the bite. The first time it goes too far is at the river. You sit on the edge of the rocks, staring at the water, your body aching and raw, and no one else is free. You don’t even say anything. You don’t need to.

“I’ll help,” Lo’ak says, not looking at you. “Just the shallow edge. You don’t have to move much. I’ll look away.” And he does. Always.

But his hands are gentle when they brush your back. His silence is heavy. And when he hands you the cloth and cups the water for you, your hands touch — just for a moment — and your breath catches, and neither of you mention it.

He still returns to Tsireya’s arms every night. He kisses her when she brings herbs to help with your healing. He rests his head on her lap while she hums over his braids. He holds her hand when they walk together, when they sit by the fire, when she laughs too loud and he smiles just watching her. He is still her perfect partner.

But something in him has gone quiet. Especially when it’s just the two of you. He stays a little longer than he should. Touches your shoulder more than is necessary. His eyes linger when they shouldn’t. He steps into Neteyam’s absence like he was born into it, without ever being asked.

And Tsireya notices. Not everything. Not enough to accuse. But enough to pause. One evening, she watches from across the marui as Lo’ak gently lifts the baby from your lap, tucks the blanket higher on your legs, and smooths your hair away from your face. His fingers hesitate there, just for a moment, brushing your skin like it means something. Like it hurts to let go. She doesn’t say anything. Not yet.

You try not to rely on him. You hate how easy it’s become — how when you need something, when you so much as look tired, Lo’ak is already there. You try not to look for him, not to listen for his voice, but you do. And you catch yourself waiting for him, for the sound of his feet in the sand.

You hate the heat in your chest when he speaks your name gently. The soft way he says, “Eat. You need your strength.” You hate that sometimes — just sometimes — you wish it wasn’t just kindness. That it meant something more. Because it’s Lo’ak. Because you love Neteyam. Because you’re still his. Because you shouldn’t feel this.

But you lean your head against his shoulder one quiet afternoon while your boys laugh nearby. And he doesn’t move. He just lets you stay there, still and warm and silent. His fingers brush your wrist — the barest touch — like it anchors him. Or maybe anchors you. Neither of you speak. But something has shifted. Quietly. Unmistakably. And it’s getting harder to ignore.

The baby’s asleep again, her soft, steady breaths rising against Neteyam’s bare chest. You’ve bundled her there every night now — it’s the only place she seems to settle. Her little hand rests right over the bullet scar. Your fingers twitch every time you look at it.

You sit beside them; knees pulled to your chest. The lantern burns low, casting long shadows across the woven floor. The boys are asleep near the doorway, Likan curled against Eylan’s back like a fern folding in the night.

You don’t expect Lo’ak. Not this late. But the flap rustles, soft and careful, and he steps in — quiet, like he doesn’t want to wake anyone. His hair’s damp. He smells like the sea. He sees you and stops. “I thought you’d be asleep.” You give a tired shrug. “Can’t.” His eyes flick toward the baby on Neteyam’s chest. “She’s there again.”

“Every night.” You feel the breath leave your chest, sharp and bitter. Lo’ak crosses the marui, lowers himself to sit beside you. You don’t look at him. “Tsireya okay?” you ask, voice low.

“Yeah. She’s… she’s good.”

“Did she want you to stay?” A pause. “Yeah.”

“Then why are you here?” He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he leans forward, elbows on his knees, staring at the fire.

“I just wanted to check on you.”

“I’m fine.”

“You always say that when you’re not.”

You glance at him. “And what if I’m not?” He meets your eyes, steady and too soft. “Then I stay.”

You don’t say anything. Not for a long moment. The only sounds are the baby’s tiny sighs, the breath of the wind outside, the creak of the marui walls. You shift, hugging your knees tighter.

“I miss him,” you whisper. “Even though he’s right there. I miss him like he’s already—” Lo’ak turns quickly, hand reaching for yours. He grips it tight, grounding you.

“Don’t,” he says. “Don’t say it.” You look down at your joined hands.

“I’m so tired, Lo’ak,” you breathe. “Of being strong. Of pretending I don’t need help.”

“You don’t have to pretend with me.”

You exhale a shaky laugh. “You’re not supposed to be the one holding me together.”

“Maybe I want to.” His voice is lower now. There’s something in it that curls under your skin — a crack you shouldn’t notice, but you do. You turn your head. He’s looking at you. Really looking. The firelight flickers over his face, the high cheekbones, the small scar near his jaw, the dark, aching eyes.

Your voice comes out quiet. “This feels…” He doesn’t let you finish.

“I know.”

He shifts closer, slowly, like he’s not sure if he should. His fingers brush your cheek, just once. You don’t stop him. He leans in, just enough that his forehead grazes yours. Just enough to steal your breath.

“If I kiss you right now,” he murmurs, “will you hate me for it?”

Your heart stops. You don’t answer. And he doesn’t move. You sit like that — too close, too quiet — with your foreheads barely touching, your breaths syncing, your hands still joined.

“I still love him,” you whisper. It’s barely audible.

“I know,” he says again. “I wouldn’t ask you not to.”

Then the baby shifts. A small sound. A flutter of fingers against Neteyam’s chest. You both freeze. And just like that, the moment shatters. You pull back slowly, blinking fast, like coming up for air. Lo’ak leans away, breaking contact, hand sliding from yours. He looks wrecked. Like he’s been caught in something he didn’t mean to start.

“I should go,” he says.

You nod. “Yeah.”

But neither of you moves. Your hands are still touching. Just your fingers. Barely. And the silence between you tightens, not like tension, but like grief. Like hunger. Like everything you’ve tried not to feel has risen to the surface and is begging to be touched.

He looks at you. You look back. He leans in. And this time, you don’t look away. Your breath catches, but your body doesn’t flinch. His hand brushes your cheek again, fingers trailing behind your ear, so soft it almost doesn’t register. Almost.

“Lo’ak,” you whisper. Just his name. Nothing more. But it cracks.

And he breaks. He kisses you. Slow. Gentle. Terrified. He’s not rushing. He’s not devouring. He’s aching. His lips press to yours like he’s asking for permission he already knows he shouldn’t need. Like he knows it’s wrong — but more than that, he knows it’s too late.

And still… you kiss him back. Only for a second. Maybe two. It’s not passionate. Not carnal. It’s not even romantic. It’s just grief. Muted and drowning. A moment where you aren’t the woman holding everything together. You’re not Neteyam’s mate. You’re not a mother. You’re just you.

And Lo’ak is the only one who sees that. When he pulls back, he stays close — forehead against yours, breath ragged. “Shit,” he whispers, eyes shut. “I’m sorry.” You say nothing. Because you’re not. Not yet. Your chest is rising too fast. Your hand is still on his wrist. You can feel his pulse beneath your thumb.

“I didn’t mean—” he starts. “Yes, you did,” you say. Not angry. Not hurt. Just… honest. And it shatters him. He nods. “I know.”

Then a soft sound breaks the air — not from the baby, not from the boys. From Neteyam. A shift. A breath. You both turn. He hasn’t moved. Still and unchanged. But the guilt crashes into you anyway. Heavy. Sharp. You pull back completely, hands to your lap, your chest squeezing like it’s too full to breathe. Lo’ak stands up slowly. “I shouldn’t have—” You cut him off, eyes still on Neteyam. “It’s okay..” you whisper. “But I think you should go.”

He hesitates. Just a second. Then he leaves. And you sit alone in the half-light, your baby sleeping on her father’s chest, your heart pounding from another man’s lips. You don’t cry. You don’t panic. You just stare, swallowing the weight of it — knowing that something has changed. Knowing that if Neteyam wakes up tomorrow, if he looks at you the way he used to, you will never be able to tell him. But you’ll feel it.

The next morning, Neytiri was brushing your baby girl’s tiny curls back from her forehead, humming softly, when you approached. “Can you take them to Ronal for their checkups?” you asked quietly, trying not to wake your daughter. “She wants to see them today.”

Neytiri turned, giving you a look that read deeper than words. “Are you all right?” You hesitated. “I just… need a moment.”

She nodded, collecting the baby in one arm and calling softly to Eylan and Likan. Your boys rushed over, Likan clinging to your leg briefly, then letting go when Neytiri took his hand.

You kissed each of them, your heart squeezing tight as Likan babbled a sleepy, “Mama be back? “Soon,” you promised. “I love you.”

With Neytiri leading them off toward the reef healer’s marui, you turned away. But your heart stayed behind.

Lo’ak was exactly where you expected — perched alone where the reef cliffs met the sea, his feet dangling above the water, arms resting on his knees. The wind pushed through his hair, the waves whispering beneath. You approached quietly and sat beside him, not too close. He glanced sideways. “Didn’t think you’d come.”

“I had to.” He looked back out at the ocean. “I didn’t sleep. Couldn’t.” You nodded. “Me neither.” A pause stretched out. You could feel the weight between you — not heavy with love, not sweet with longing. Just guilt. Raw and too recent.

“What we did…” he said slowly, “I keep trying to explain it to myself. I know it wasn’t about love. Wasn’t even about wanting each other like that.” You watched the horizon. “We were just too tired. Too empty. We found each other in that space.”

“I still hate that it happened.” You swallowed. “Me too.” A moment passed. Then, quietly: “But I don’t hate you for it.” He looked over. “I don’t hate you either.” The wind picked up, salt brushing your skin. “I don’t want to pretend it didn’t happen,” you whispered. “But I don’t want it to happen again.” His eyes fell to the ground. “It won’t.”

“Good,” you breathed. “Because I can’t lose him. And I still feel like I’m losing myself.” Lo’ak’s hand reached out, fingers brushing yours gently.

Not holding. Just… acknowledging. “We’ll be okay,” he said. “Eventually.” Just then — a scream carried across the reef. “GET HER—GET HER NOW—HE’S AWAKE—!”

You both bolted upright. Kiri’s voice. Your heart slammed into your ribs. “Neteyam?!” you breathed. And then Lo’ak grabbed your hand without thinking, and the two of you ran. By the time you reached the mauri, the entire reef was there. Ronal. Tsireya. Ao’nung. Neytiri with the baby held protectively in her arms, boys pressed into her sides. Jake knelt by the mat.

Neteyam was sitting up. Blinking. Awake. Lo’ak skidded to a halt beside you, breath ragged. Your legs wouldn’t move — not at first. Kiri turned to you, eyes wild with tears. “He opened his eyes. He said something—he looked around, but—” You pushed through them all, falling to your knees at his side.

Neteyam looked at you, face pale, chest rising with effort. His gaze slid over you, confused but calm. You smiled through the tears. “Hi. Hey. I’m here.”

He blinked again. “Are you… the healer?” The words hit like ice water. Your breath caught. “What?” Jake turned sharply. Neytiri’s lips parted. Neteyam looked around slowly. “I… where am I? What happened?”

You didn’t feel your legs give out, but suddenly you were leaning forward, gripping the edge of the mat. “I’m—” your voice cracked. “I’m your mate. Your wife.”

He stared at you like you were speaking another language. Neytiri stepped forward, voice soft and shaking, “itan… Neteyam… this is your wife. Your children are here. You are safe.”

Neteyam’s brows furrowed. “Wife?” He looked at your baby in her arms. At Eylan and Likan — their golden eyes wide and scared. His eyes were blank. Tsireya stepped back, hand over her mouth. Lo’ak stood frozen beside you, his face twisted in disbelief, grief washing over him in a silent wave.

Neteyam’s gaze landed on him last. “Lo’ak,” he murmured. “I… I know you.” But even that seemed uncertain. Lo’ak stepped closer. “Yeah, bro. It’s me. I’m right here.” Neteyam squinted, nodding slightly. “You look… older.” And then he looked at you again. Eyes searching. Still not recognizing.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I don’t know who you are.” You didn’t break down. Not yet. But your hand slipped from the mat. And Lo’ak was the one who caught it.

The room seemed to hold its breath. Neytiri stepped forward again, her voice low and tender. “Neteyam,” she said gently, kneeling beside you, “this is [Name].” You watched his eyes flick to her, then back to you. The name hung in the air. He blinked slowly, and something passed across his face. Not clarity — but a glimmer.

“[Name],” he repeated, tasting it. “I know that name.” Your heart jumped. You shifted, leaning in, desperate for more. “Yes,” you whispered. “Yes, you do.” He tilted his head slightly, eyes narrowing as if trying to place a memory behind fogged glass.

“You had long braids even at a five-year-old,” he murmured, more to himself than anyone. “You followed me everywhere. You made me that ugly stone necklace and cried when I said it stank” A soft laugh caught in your throat, half-sob. He looked up again, blinking hard. “That was when we were… kids. That’s all I remember.”

Jake exhaled quietly through his nose. Kiri covered her mouth, face crumpling. You reached for his hand, but he shifted just slightly — not in rejection, but in confusion. He stared at your touch like it was unfamiliar. “I don’t understand,” he said again, voice cracking. “Why is everyone crying? Why do I feel like I’m… missing something? A lot of somethings?” He turned his gaze slowly toward Jake. “How long was I out?”

Jake hesitated. “Months,” Neytiri said softly, before her husband could answer. “You were shot. You almost—” She cut off. Her eyes burned. Neteyam looked down at his chest then, slowly lifting his fingers to touch the healed but angry scarring beneath the cloth. His breathing hitched.

His head snapped back up. “Months?” He looked around wildly now — at the baby, at the boys pressed into Neytiri’s side, at the reef around him he didn’t recognize. His fingers curled tightly into the bedding. “I—I don’t remember this place,” he stammered. “I don’t remember being here. Why are we not in the forest?”

“The…the sky people returned we came here because they were hunting us,” Jake said gently. “We all…live here now. Me, your mom, siblings and your wife and kids. This is our home now.”

“I don’t understand,” he said, more panicked now. “Why does everything feel wrong? Why do I know her name but not her voice? Not—” His voice cracked. “Not those kids?” Eylan whimpered softly. Likan shrunk against Neytiri’s side, clinging to her braid. The baby stirred in Neytiri’s arms and let out a soft, fussy noise — and Neteyam flinched at the sound. His eyes snapped to her. He stared.

“She’s… mine?” he asked. “Ours?” You nodded, your voice almost inaudible. “She was born while you were still… still asleep, just a couple weeks ago.” He dragged a hand down his face. “No. No, this doesn’t make sense.”

“Neteyam—” Kiri started, moving forward. “I don’t know her,” he said louder, looking at the baby. “I don’t know them. How can they be mine?”

Lo’ak tensed beside you. You could feel it in his grip. You turn to your boys who were shying away from their father saying he didn’t know them and your heart ached.

Neteyam’s breaths were picking up, eyes darting. “Why don’t I remember you?” he asked again, his voice climbing toward panic. “If you’re my mate, why don’t I feel it? Why does it feel like I’m seeing my own life from outside?”

You leaned in, your hand still lightly on his, even though he wasn’t returning the touch. “Because something happened,” you said quietly. “And we don’t know why yet. But I’m here. And we’ll figure it out.”

He stared at you for a long time. Then whispered, “I feel like I’m drowning.” You nodded, a tear falling as you brushed your thumb over his knuckles.

“So am I.” Neteyam didn’t pull away this time. He just looked at your hand on his, blinking back tears he didn’t quite understand.

And Lo’ak, still kneeling beside you, kept holding your other hand, jaw tight, not speaking a word. You sat frozen, still holding your breath, your hand gently resting on his.

Neteyam’s gaze was on you — no longer searching, just… overwhelmed. His eyes were wide. Distant. Then, slowly, carefully, he pulled his hand away. It was a soft motion. Not cruel. Not forceful. But deliberate. Your heart cracked again. He pressed his palms flat to the mat, his shoulders hunched slightly as if he were curling in on himself, trying to make sense of a world that was too loud, too big, and far too unfamiliar.

You swallowed hard and pulled your hand back, fingers trembling in your lap. Neytiri’s face shifted, like something inside her folded in half. Lo’ak’s arm brushed yours. Subtle. Silent. “I’m sorry,” Neteyam said again, still staring down. “I’m not trying to hurt anyone. I just—” he shook his head, a quiet panic rising again in his voice. “It doesn’t feel real. None of this feels real.”

Jake stepped forward then, slow and calm, crouching near his son. “Neteyam, you’ve been unconscious for a long time. Your body survived, but something’s wrong with your memory. You don’t remember the reef. You don’t remember what happened. And that’s okay. We’re gonna help you through it.” Neteyam barely nodded. He still wasn’t looking at anyone. Only the floor. A small voice broke the stillness.

“Neteyam?” Everyone turned. Tuk. She had slipped through the gathered crowd, her steps careful and quiet. Her big golden eyes glistened with tears as she crept toward the mat, holding something in her arms — a small shell toy he’d carved years ago.

She knelt near him and offered it up with a little smile. “You made this for me when I was little. Do you remember?” Neteyam looked up and froze. His brows furrowed hard, confusion blooming deep. His eyes roamed over her face, her frame, her tiny shaking hands. “I…” he blinked. “I don’t know you.” The silence snapped sharp. Tuk’s smile faltered. Her lip quivered, and she clutched the shell tighter to her chest.

“I’m Tuk,” she whispered. “I’m your baby sister.” Neteyam’s face had gone pale again. “No, I—no. I have one sister. Kiri. That’s all. You weren’t… there.” You could feel Neytiri’s body tense, just a breath away from crumbling. Tuk’s chin wobbled. “But I was. You used to braid my hair. You used to carry me everywhere when I was small—”

“I don’t remember,” Neteyam said, voice cracking. “I don’t remember you. I’m sorry, I don’t—” Tuk’s face fell, and the shell slipped from her fingers. Kiri was already moving, sweeping her into her arms and pulling her away as silent tears streamed down her cheeks. Tuk buried her face in Kiri’s neck and sobbed. Neteyam shut his eyes tight, pressing his palms to his forehead. “I’m sorry,” he whispered again. “I don’t understand why everything hurts.” Your own tears blurred your vision as you watched him — not just lost but shattered inside his own mind.

Neteyam’s breath hitched again. He stared at the place Tuk had stood, hands still braced on the mat, knuckles pale. He didn’t look at anyone now. He couldn’t. And then, like a dam breaking everything scattered. Jake stood swiftly. “I need to call Norm and Max,” he said to no one and everyone, already stepping toward the sat phone near the far wall. “If this is neurological, they’ll know what to look for.”

Ronal moved forward without a word, her face set in that unreadable Tsahìk calm. She knelt beside Neteyam and placed her hands lightly over his head and chest, lips murmuring prayers too soft to catch. Tsireya and Ao’nung stepped back to give her room, their hands linked tightly. Tsireya looked like she might cry. You didn’t move at first. You were still kneeling right where Neteyam had pulled away. Right where he’d looked at you and not known who you were.

It hit you then, all of it. The months of keeping it together. Of surviving. Of healing. Of pretending you could carry all this weight alone. It caved in without warning. Your breath snagged. Your hands trembled. And then you stood, barely feeling your legs move, and backed away. Slow. Silent. Like if you just got far enough away, maybe it wouldn’t crush you.

You didn’t stop until you reached the far side of the mauri, your back pressing against the woven wall. But your eyes never left him. You kept watching. As if sheer will could force his memories back. “Mama?” The small voice broke you. Eylan was at your side, his little hand wrapping around yours, eyes wide with confusion. Likan toddled behind him, thumb in his mouth, clinging to your leg. You sank down, arms wrapping around both of them. And then Neytiri was there too.

She knelt on the floor beside you without a word and pulled you into her arms like she used to when you were young. When you scraped your knees or cried after fights with Neteyam. She knew her son needed her in this moment, but her daughter needed her more. You clung to her tightly, your face buried in her shoulder, trying not to sob.

“I don’t know what to do,” you choked out, voice splintered. “I don’t know how to help him. I can’t lose him again. I can’t.” She stroked your hair, arms strong around you. “You haven’t lost him, ma’ite. He’s here. His heart still beats. You brought him back.”

“But he doesn’t know me,” you said. “He doesn’t remember… us.” And just behind you, Lo’ak kneeled his hand brushed your shoulder, grounding you. “I’m here too,” he said quietly. “You are not alone.” You nodded, your eyes never leaving the figure across the room. Still staring at your mate. Your love. The father of your children. Still watching the way he looked around the mauri like he was on another planet.

The mat was still where it always was, yours and Neteyam’s. But it hadn’t felt like his since the day he woke up. Now, it was you and the boys. Eylan curled into your chest, Likan wrapped around your leg, the baby in the woven basinet beside you, close enough to touch. Neteyam watched you from across the room, the firelight casting your silhouette in soft gold. You were quiet, always tired, always holding one child while keeping an eye on the others. Always doing something. And he… just watched.

He slept on a new mat, set up on the other side of the mauri. The distance felt necessary. That first night when he’d pulled away from you—when he saw Tuk and didn’t recognize her—it was clear. He wasn’t the same. He remembered his mother’s voice, his father’s hands, Lo’ak’s laugh, Kiri’s connection to the forest. But he didn’t remember you as his wife. He didn’t remember the baby, the boys. And Tuk—she wasn’t even born in his memory either. The look in your eyes when he’d asked who you were, never left him.

Since then, the mauri had been a blur of movement. Jake had sent word to Norm and Max. Ronal checked on him every day. Tsireya and Aonung kept their distance, though Tsireya’s eyes lingered sometimes when she looked at you. Kiri stayed close. Neytiri moved between you and Neteyam like she was split in half. Everyone tried to act like things were normal. They weren’t.

You never asked Neteyam to come back to the mat. You let him choose. You never tried to force the baby into his arms. Never corrected the way he hesitated when Likan reached for him. But he noticed. He noticed everything. He saw how you carried it all—how you shifted the baby with one arm while holding Likan’s hand, how you smoothed Eylan’s hair and soothed him to sleep while the others cried. You never asked for help, but you didn’t need to. Lo’ak was always there.

Lo’ak, who should’ve been carefree. Who should’ve still been the younger brother. But Neteyam saw how he moved around you like he’d done this all before. Helped you wrap the sling for the baby. Tied the back knot without needing to look. Lifted the basket out of your way without being asked. Fed Likan. Braided Eylan’s hair. Caught you when your legs almost gave out. And it wasn’t just helpful—it was natural. Familiar. Too familiar.

One morning, Neteyam watched as Lo’ak pressed a hand to your back while you sat feeding the baby, whispering something that made you exhale a tired laugh. Your head dropped forward, and he gently lifted the hair from your face. The touch was soft. The kind of soft that made Neteyam’s stomach twist.

Later that day, you stumbled again as you were going to a fussy Likan, only for a second and Lo’ak was there, catching you before you hit the ground. His hands went to your waist. You gripped his arms to steady yourself, eyes meeting in silence.

Neteyam stood up. The room shifted, just slightly. Kiri paused. Neytiri looked up. “I’ll do it,” Neteyam said, voice sharp. You turned, confused. Lo’ak blinked.

Neteyam crossed the space and reached for Likan, who had been fussing on the floor. His hands were unsure, but the moment Likan saw him, the toddler’s arms lifted in recognition. Neteyam picked him up. Held him. He didn’t even know if he was doing it right. But Likan laid his head against his chest and didn’t move. It was the first time Neteyam held one of his children since waking up. Something cracked open.

That night, he watched you sleep again. Your body curled around the baby. Eylan sprawled out beside you. Likan using your leg as a pillow. You hadn’t even noticed how your hand remained outstretched, resting on the basinet like you needed the baby within reach. You looked like a home. His home. But it felt like you were a thousand miles away.

Lo’ak came in quietly and crouched beside you. He brushed your hair back. Whispered something. You nodded. Neteyam’s jaw clenched. His fists curled in the blankets.

The next few days, Lo’ak pulled back. Let Neteyam help first. Watched from a distance more often than he acted. He never said anything about it. But Neteyam noticed that, too.

He noticed the quiet glances from Kiri when he didn’t know how to soothe the baby. The way Neytiri held both you and Tuk in the mornings. The way Jake’s eyes lingered on him with a mixture of guilt and sorrow. Everyone knew he was missing something. And they were waiting.

Neteyam was trying. Trying to remember. Trying to learn. But more than anything, he was trying to understand how he could forget you. How you could be his mate, and he couldn’t feel it. How Lo’ak could touch you like that, help you like that, and somehow it didn’t seem wrong to anyone, except him.

And still, the baby slept with her cheek to your chest. Likan wrapped his hand in your braids. Eylan reached for you when he woke crying.

Neteyam sat on the edge of the mat, stiff and quiet, watching his own hands like they weren’t his. Max crouched in front of him, scanning a pad while Norm gently rotated a small light near his temple. Every time Neteyam blinked, it felt like he was waking into a world he didn’t recognize.

You sat nearby, the baby still asleep in the shallow woven basket beside you. Eylan was curled into Lo’ak’s lap again, sucking on his thumb — not out of habit, but anxiety. Likan was sprawled across your thigh, little fingers tangled in the strings of your chest wrap.

“I’m going to ask you a few things, okay?” Norm said gently. “No pressure. Just answer what you can.” Neteyam nodded slowly.,“What’s your name?”

“Neteyam te Suli Tsyeyk’itan.” Norm smiled, “that’s good,” encouraged. “And your parents?” Neteyam looked across the room at Jake and Neytiri. “Ma sa’nok. Ma sempu.”

“Do you remember where you grew up?”

“The forest. The Omatikaya clan” He glanced around the reef mauri. “This place is… new.” Max nodded. “You came here during the war after the sky people returned. That’s okay you don’t remember yet. What about your siblings?”

Neteyam hesitated. “Lo’ak… and Kiri. I remember them.” His brow furrowed. “But that little one—” he pointed at Tuk, who stood near Neytiri, peeking out from behind her legs. “I don’t know her.” Tuk shrank back slightly, confused. Neytiri placed a protective hand on her head. “That’s Tuk,” Jake said gently. “Your youngest sister.”

“I never met her,” Neteyam murmured, voice flat. You glanced down, heart sinking. Norm didn’t let the pause linger. “And this woman?” He nodded toward you. “Do you remember her?” Neteyam looked at you for a long time.

“I know her name,” he said quietly. “I remember her from before. When we were little. She always followed me around.” You almost laughed at that, even through the ache. “But after that… nothing,” he whispered.

“Neteyam,” Max spoke up, shifting tone. “You’ve lost all memory past a certain point in your life. It’s not unusual in cases like this — trauma, brain swelling, lack of oxygen, coma…”

“I’ve been asleep for months?” Neteyam cut in, sharp as if to confirm it again. Jake stepped forward. “Yes.”

“And you’re all just… what? Waiting for me to get up?”

“Of course we were,” Neytiri said softly. He rubbed at his chest like it ached. “But I don’t even remember learning how to fight. Or fly. Or the war. I don’t remember being a husband or a father—” He stopped. Looked at the children.

“You’re telling me they’re mine, but I don’t feel it.” Lo’ak’s jaw twitched. Tsireya stepped beside him. “It’s okay to feel lost.”

“Is it?” Neteyam shot back, and his tone was more edge than emotion. Silence crept through the mauri. You didn’t move. You couldn’t. Neteyam turned to his brother, eyes narrowing just slightly. “You’ve been helping. With… them.” His gaze flicked to you. “Why?” Lo’ak blinked. “Because she needed help.”

“You seemed very close,” Neteyam said, voice careful. Lo’ak frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

You stepped in finally, firm but calm. “It means he’s scared. And confused. And this is all too much for everyone involved, especially him.”

Neteyam looked at you, jaw tense. “I just don’t understand how I’m gone for a few months, and suddenly I wake up and my little brother knows more about my life than I do.”

“That’s not what happened Nete—”Lo’ak stood, slowly setting Eylan down beside him cutting you off. “Bro, none of us wanted this. I helped because I had to. Because I love you. You think this was easy for anyone?”

You stood too, placing a hand on Lo’ak’s arm before it escalated. “Stop. Don’t fight. Please.” Jake’s voice was heavy. “We all did what we had to.”

“I’m not even mad about it,” Neteyam muttered, running a hand over his face. “I probably should be but, I just feel like I woke up in someone else’s life. A stranger’s life.” Neytiri moved to kneel at his side. “It’s not someone else’s life, ma’itan. It’s yours. We will walk with you until you find it again.”

Tsireya leaned gently into Lo’ak, whispering something that calmed him. He exhaled hard, jaw clenching, but he nodded.

Max tapped something on his pad. “We’ll give you space. The best thing now might be small pieces. Familiar things. Let him be around his family. Let him feel things before he tries to remember them. Just live, hopefully memories will resurface during daily activities which normally happens in cases like these.”

You looked down at your children. Eylan was clinging to Lo’ak’s hand. Likan was staring at Neteyam like he didn’t understand why his papa didn’t scoop him up. And your daughter, curled in her basket, let out a tiny sigh in her sleep. A sound Neteyam once swore was the best thing he’d ever heard when you had the boys. But he didn’t even flinch this time. And you had no idea how to begin again.

The next few months were both careful and chaotic — a balance of heartbreak and fragile hope, as life moved forward with Neteyam awake but not truly returned. You tried not to mourn what you lost. He was alive. Breathing. Laughing sometimes. But he wasn’t yours, not in the way he used to be.

At first, it was small things. Kiri brought out the old woven toys they used to play with as kids. She laughed when Neteyam remembered the names they gave them — “that’s O’upey, the angry monkey-bird,” he muttered one day, blinking in surprise at the memory. Tuk was still shy, unsure how to be with a brother who didn’t know her. But eventually, she began sneaking beside him during mealtimes, nudging his arm with her shoulder until he smiled down at her and shared his fruit.

Lo’ak kept his distance for a few days after that first confrontation, letting space settle between you all. But he never strayed far from the kids. Eylan still ran to him when he scraped his knee. Likan still tugged on his braid when he was sleepy. Neteyam watched this from the edge of the room, always quiet.

Neteyam had moved into a separate space near the edge of the Sully mauri which was next to the one you both shared in the previous years. He couldn’t sleep beside you, not with the weight of your shared history heavy on a mind that couldn’t recall it. So, the boys stayed with you, and the baby girl in the woven basket slept at your side. Neytiri helped every night, whispering lullabies and staying close when your arms trembled from exhaustion.

Jake took it hardest in the quiet moments. His son was there, walking beside him, training again slowly, and yet the bond between them was stunted. Neteyam asked him once if he’d been a good warrior, and Jake nearly broke, but he told him how proud he was, how much of a good person, son, warrior, husband and father he’d always been.

“He was the best,” he told Max later, voice rough. “He died trying to save us. And now he doesn’t even remember what he was saving.”

You and Neteyam began spending time together carefully. Norm had suggested building new memories to replace the missing ones. So, you started showing him the forest again — not the one you’d grown up in, but the edge of it, where vines crept low and fruit hung from branches. You told him the story of how you first met.

“You were three, just turned three and I was two years old. I was sitting in the village, and you came up to me and sat down and shared your fruit with me.” you said one day, crouched in the sand beside the mangroves. “And you just sat there with me eating the little piece of fruit you kept for yourself and after that we just…stay together.” He smiled, barely. “Sounds sweet.”

“It was,” you whispered, “and so was the fruit, I knew cause as we got older you never ate fruit that wasn’t overly ripe. It was always the sweetest u could find.” Neteyam didn’t argue. But he kept his soft smile until it faded.

Tsireya was gentle with him, like she always had been. She reminded him of reef customs, reintroduced him to Aonung, and brought him on swims through familiar coral paths. There was never judgment in her voice — only patience. You saw her watching him when he wasn’t looking. Once, you caught her eyes drift to you, and in that silence between you, there was no rivalry. Just pain shared in quiet solidarity.

Lo’ak helped where he could, but he never overstepped again. Not in front of Neteyam. Not anymore. But you felt it sometimes — the way Neteyam watched him carry Likan, or braid Eylan’s hair while you nursed the baby. It wasn’t jealousy, not fully. It was a wound. A gap in time that didn’t make sense.

One night, after a long day helping with repairs near the reef line, Neteyam lingered outside your mauri. You were inside, humming softly as you tried to get the baby down. He didn’t enter. But his voice drifted through the curtain: “What’s her name?”

You froze. You stepped toward the flap, lifting it slowly. “We haven’t named her yet,” you said. “Not fully. We were waiting”

He blinked. “Why?” Your voice cracked. “Because I choose too many names because there are a lot of pretty ones, and you are the one that normally has the final say.” He didn’t say anything. But he didn’t leave either.

Kiri was the first one to make him laugh again. She dragged him to the beach with a basket full of sea slugs and made him chase Likan, who had stolen one and was screeching with joy. When Likan fell in the shallows, Neteyam picked him up instinctively — and for one heartbeat, it felt like the past.

But when Likan called him ‘sempu,’ Neteyam stiffened. “He thinks I’m someone I’m not,” he told you later “No,” you said quietly. “He thinks you’re you. His father. And he is not wrong.”

One afternoon, the sun had barely started to dip beneath the waves when Tsireya brought Neteyam down to the shallows again. Lo’ak followed without a word, as if he didn’t want to leave his brother alone, to keep him safe. It had become a quiet ritual, easing Neteyam into the life he’d forgotten. He was polite. Curious. Observant. And completely unaware of the landmines his presence was walking over.

The beach was half-crowded with young hunters cleaning their weapons and tending to their gear. Laughter floated above the gentle surf. “Neteyam?” Soft, like a breeze. He turned, and so did Tsireya and Lo’ak.

Lina stepped out from a cluster of others, a gentle smile pulling at her lips. Her eyes were kind, the curve of her voice never sharp. She was tall and pretty, wet curls cascading down her back, bow slung across her back, fingers stained with oil from cleaning arrowheads. Neteyam tilted his head. “Have we met?”

“Yes,” she said gently, approaching but still giving him space. “We used to train together. Before… everything.” He squinted, curious. “I don’t remember.”

“That’s okay,” she replied, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “You used to say you could outswim me. You never could.” He blinked, then laughed — and it was so easy. Like he didn’t have the weight of a family he couldn’t remember pressed into his chest. Like something about her didn’t require effort. “I doubt that,” he said, smiling full now. “You don’t look like you swim very fast.”

She blushed faintly and laughed. “You said I was faster than you once. But you also said I cheated.”

“Maybe I did,” he said, eyes twinkling a bit too long on her face. “Sounds like something I’d say.” Lo’ak’s brows lowered slightly. Tsireya shifted beside him, her hand sliding into his as if instinctually — as if to ground herself. Lina lowered her eyes a moment. “You helped me build my bow. Back when my brother broke mine. You carved a seashell on the handle for me.” Neteyam looked down at the bow on her back, then back at her. “I did that?”

“You said it reminded you of a sunrise.” There was a pause. His smile softened. “I’d like to see that sunrise again.” Lo’ak’s jaw slackened, his brother had always been smooth, but he’d only ever seen Neteyam really show interest in you. Tsireya sucked in a slow breath, eyes flicking toward her mate in quiet concern. They exchanged a look — full of too much they couldn’t say out loud. Not here. Not now.

“You… want to walk the shore?” Lina offered shyly, motioning toward the far end where the cliffs curved. And Neteyam nodded. “I think I do.” The two of them wandered off, feet kicking through the foam. Tsireya turned to Lo’ak. “We need to say something.” His face was carved from stone. “Not yet,” he said, voice quiet. “She’s been through too much already.”

“She’ll notice eventually.” He nodded, jaw tight. “Then we’ll tell her eventually.” But neither of them moved. They just stood there, watching their brother disappear further down the sand — toward someone he never remembered, but now seemed to see more clearly than the people who’d loved him all his life.

It was another sleepless night. It had been a couple of weeks now since Neteyam woke up and he was no where to be found. The baby had been fussing for hours, her soft cries escalating into breathless wails. Likan stirred again, kicking off his woven blanket, eyes puffy with confusion and frustration. Eylan was curled on his side but not asleep, thumb tucked against his lips the way he hadn’t done in years. He didn’t cry anymore, he just stared at the wall and sniffled, quiet in that way that made your heart twist.

You were pacing again. Rocking the baby against your chest, bouncing on tired feet, muttering soothing nonsense into her ear. You hadn’t eaten much. You hadn’t really sat down. You hadn’t even noticed the blood on your lower back where the wrap had pulled too tight across your healing skin. The strain of childbirth, the strain of grief, the loneliness of loving someone who didn’t know you anymore — it had started to show.

And no one had said it aloud, but the mat felt emptier now than when Neteyam had been unconscious. Because now he wasn’t there, and you were alone.

The family tried, they did, Neytiri and Kiri checked in. Jake held Likan when he screamed for his father. Tsireya helped brush Eylan’s hair when he refused to do it himself. But they were pulled thin. And Lo’ak had pulled away.

You had noticed it a few nights ago, when you turned in desperation to ask him for help reaching the water jug, and he pretended not to hear you. When the boys cried for him and he sent Tuk instead. You hadn’t said anything then. Maybe you thought it would pass or that you’d just figure it out.

But tonight, the pressure snapped. The baby wouldn’t settle. You were shaking. Likan started crying. Again. And your hands were trembling so bad the cup of water you tried to pour spilled across the floor. And that’s when Lo’ak walked in.

You didn’t even hear him at first — just saw his shadow, crouched beside Eylan, checking on him. The soft whisper of “Hey, buddy,” as he tucked the boy’s arm back under the blanket. Then he turned and saw you.

You were standing near the mat, the baby clutched to your chest, your whole body strung tight. Likan was crying in the corner, and you didn’t even know what to do anymore — hold him? Put her down? Lie on the ground and cry with them? You blinked at Lo’ak like he wasn’t real. And when he reached to take the baby from your arms, something snapped.

“No.” He paused, arms mid-stretch. “What?”

“You don’t get to come in when it’s convenient for you.” Your voice cracked. “I’ve been here. Alone. You were supposed to help me. You always did.”Lo’ak’s jaw locked. “I thought with Neteyam—”

“Well, Neteyam is gone!” you hissed, too loud, the baby jerking in your grip. You rocked her faster, whispering apologies, tears burning behind your eyes. “He’s not dead but he’s gone, and I am so tired, Lo’ak. I’m tired of holding this family together with spit and prayers.”

“I didn’t know you wanted my help anymore.”

“I didn’t want to need it anymore!” Silence stretched. You were shaking. Lo’ak took a slow step closer. “He’s my brother,” he said, quietly. “And I thought… if I stepped back, maybe it would be easier. For everyone.”

“It’s not.” You looked up at him, eyes glassy and dark. “I didn’t ask for this. And I didn’t expect you to fix it. But you were the one who was there. You were the one who held me when she was born. And I know, I know I’m asking a lot of you, and I know these kids aren’t your responsibility, but I need help sometimes.” Lo’ak flinched.

The baby finally drifted into exhausted sleep. You sank to your knees beside Likan, curling him against your chest as best you could. Lo’ak just stood there, like he didn’t know if he should stay or go. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I thought Neteyam would come back and remember how to be everything you needed.” You didn’t look at him. Just whispered: “Me too.”

He knelt down beside you then, hands hovering before gently reaching for Likan, taking him from your arms. The toddler’s sobs stilled a little against Lo’ak’s shoulder.

“You should rest,” he murmured. “I’ll stay tonight.” You didn’t thank him. Not with words. But you leaned into him — just slightly — and he stayed there. Holding your child, watching you sleep with the baby curled in one of your arms. The other reaching for Eylan to try easing him to sleep. But no one said the thing hanging in the air between you. That he wasn’t the one who was supposed to be there. That he shouldn’t have had to fill the space his brother left behind.

Neteyam stayed close. His mauri was just a few steps from yours — the one you used to share — and right next to his parents’. Close enough to hear the baby cry at night. Close enough to sometimes catch the scent of your cooking drift over in the mornings. Close enough that the boys could wander to his mat and sit nearby, even if he didn’t fully understand why it made his chest tighten when they did. But he never stepped inside.

Even as the weeks passed and his strength returned, Neteyam never once crossed that threshold. Not even when he watched you from the corner of his eye, swaying the baby back to sleep just outside. Not when Eylan called out “Sa’nok, sa’nok! Look!” while holding up a fish Lo’ak helped him catch. Not even when Likan would wander over, curious and bold, standing at the edge of Neteyam’s sleeping space before being gently redirected by Kiri or Neytiri.

He stayed in the in-between. And Lo’ak, for all his own complicated grief, never once gave up on him. He came by almost every day. Sometimes with food. Sometimes with little tools or handmade knives — “You used to like this,” he’d say casually. Other times, he just sat, throwing pebbles at the sand as Neteyam stared at the sky. “You talk less than you used to,” Lo’ak muttered one day, nudging him. “You used to talk a lot. Mostly telling me I was being dumb.”

Neteyam gave a faint, crooked smile. “That still sounds accurate.” It was moments like that flickers, glimpses, that made Lo’ak hopeful.

But then there was Lina. She’d been there from the beginning, one of the few Metkayina Neteyam didn’t look at with the uncomfortable weight of “I should know you.” Because he didn’t. Not really. Not in memory. So, it was easier.

Easier to walk with her on the shore after a long day. Easier to practice knife-throwing with her and not feel like a failure when he missed. She’d laugh gently, encourage him, sometimes place her hand over his to guide the movement. She smelled like sea salt and wind. Spoke softly. Never stared at his scars. Lo’ak noticed it all.

He didn’t mention it but, he didn’t stop it either. But he started watching more closely. Not out of jealousy — no, not that. It was something closer to protection. For you. For the boys. For a version of his brother that Lo’ak still believed was inside there somewhere. And the strange thing was, Neteyam wasn’t doing anything wrong. He wasn’t cruel. He wasn’t trying to replace anyone. He was just lost. And Lina, with her easy calm and open eyes, was the only place that didn’t make him feel like he was failing someone just by existing.

Meanwhile, the nights for you stretched long and raw. The baby cried more now. Maybe she felt it — her father just a few paces away, but never close. Eylan had grown quieter, his eyes constantly drifting toward his father’s silhouette. Likan had taken to curling into your side and not letting go, even in sleep.

The family helped where they could. Neytiri especially — splitting her time between you and Neteyam, her heart torn in half. But no matter how many hands helped, you were still up at night. Still aching. And Neteyam was still outside, just beyond the flap of the mauri. Awake. Watching the stars. Not knowing why they felt lonelier than before.

One day the boys were laughing as they chased one another along the shore, their feet kicking up puffs of white sand. You watched them with tired eyes from just outside the mauri, the baby restless in your arms.

She was crying again — not a loud, piercing wail, just that miserable, fussy sound that always came in waves when she couldn’t seem to settle. You’d walked her, rocked her, hummed and whispered to her until your throat ached. Nothing helped today. You bounced her gently, pressing a kiss to her damp cheek. “I know, sweet girl. I know.”

Behind you, there was a shift in the air. You turned your head just slightly — and found Neteyam standing there. He wasn’t close. Just at the edge of the clearing, half in shadow, watching with unreadable eyes. He hesitated. “I can take her,” he said finally, voice low and unsure. “If… if you want.”

Your heart gave a soft, startled flutter. You straightened slowly, blinking at him. “You don’t have to,” you murmured. “I know,” he said. “But I want to.” You looked down at the baby in your arms. She was still fussing, fists clenched, brow furrowed like the whole world was wrong. She didn’t know her father had never held her. Didn’t know he’d been sleeping when she was born. Didn’t know he didn’t remember her at all. But somehow… maybe she felt it.

You stood carefully and stepped toward him. Your arms trembled a bit — not from fear, just the weight of the moment. You cradled her close a second longer, then gently passed her over. He took her like she was made of glass. The way his hands moved — cautious, reverent. His whole body stilled as she settled into the crook of his arm. She squirmed at first, then let out a small, sighing cry… And stilled. He looked down at her. Then up at you. “She looks like me,” he said quietly.

You nodded. “She does.” “I never held her before now?” he asked. “No,” you whispered. “You haven’t really.” He looked away, shame flickering across his face. But the baby — your baby — made a soft, curious coo and blinked up at him with slow, sleepy eyes. His mouth parted, stunned. “I don’t remember her,” he said. “But I feel like I should.” You reached out gently, fingers brushing his arm. “You don’t have to force anything. You’re holding her. That’s enough.”

He looked at you — really looked — then back down at her. “What’s her name?” he asked. You exhaled slowly. “She doesn’t have one yet. I… I couldn’t pick. I tried. But I couldn’t.” He looked at you again, a strange mix of emotion tightening his brow. “You said I used to choose.” You nodded. “Always. I would give you too many names. I could never make up my mind, and you’d just… decide. Like you already knew.” His eyes fell back to her, the tiniest crease forming between his brows. “Do you have names now?” he asked. You swallowed. “Three.”

He waited. “Sahri. Eiweya. Kiriya.” He mouthed them silently. Then, softer than breath — “Kiriya.” You blinked. “That one,” he said. “She feels like that.” She shifted in his arms, letting out a tiny sigh before nestling her head beneath his chin. You stared at them, heart thudding, something breaking and stitching together all at once. “Kiriya,” you echoed. “Then that’s her name.” He didn’t say anything else. But he didn’t hand her back either.

The beach wind had quieted, the tide soft at your feet. Kiriya’s cries had faded into soft snuffles as she dozed in Neteyam’s arms. Her tiny hand rested against his chest; her brow furrowed even in sleep — just like his.

You were watching Eylan and Likan build crooked towers of shells in the sand when Neteyam glanced over at you. “I should bring her in,” he said. You turned to him slowly, heart tapping at your ribs. “Will you stay? For dinner?” He didn’t answer right away. His eyes flicked back to the baby. “Do you want me to?” You blinked, caught off guard by the question. “Of course,” you said. “The boys would love that.” Neteyam gave a tiny nod, shifting the baby carefully. “Okay.”

At the mauri, the scent of roasted yovo drifted over fresh leaves and warm stones. Neytiri and Jake were already sitting, Tuk bouncing between them with a carved spoon in each hand. Ronal and Tsireya moved around the fire, while Kiri passed plates to everyone. Lo’ak was sitting cross-legged, peeling fruit with his knife and chatting with Ao’nung.

He looked up when he heard your voice first — then saw who was walking beside you. His eyes widened slightly. Neteyam holding the baby. Lo’ak stood up halfway, his fruit forgotten. A grin broke across his face before he could stop it. “Bro.” His voice cracked. Neteyam paused, shifting under the attention. “She was crying,” he said stiffly. “I was just… holding her.” Neytiri was already clearing a space near her side. “Come. Sit.” Lo’ak backed up, still smiling, as you and Neteyam stepped into the circle. You caught the warmth in his eyes — not surprise. Relief. Eylan barreled past you, nearly knocking over a bowl. “She’s still sleeping?”

“Still,” Neteyam said. Likan scrambled onto your lap, thumb in his mouth, then reached toward his baby sister. “Dada hold her,” he whispered, proud. “She sleep wike a bug,” he added, pressing his hand over his cheek to mimic her squish. Neteyam smiled — a real one. Quick and uncertain, but real. Lo’ak sank down beside him, nudging Eylan aside just enough to pass him a plate. “You gonna eat or just be the baby chair tonight?” Neteyam snorted. “Think she’s claimed me.”

“Good,” Lo’ak said. “She deserves it. So do you.” You looked over at him, and he gave you a small wink — not smug, just glad. Like something inside him had finally relaxed. Dinner passed in slow waves — small bites, soft laughter, cautious conversation. Kiri watched you like a mother pent up with hope. Tsireya offered seconds. And when Kiriya stirred, Neteyam didn’t pass her off right away. He held her close, tracing the fine wisps of hair over her temple. You didn’t say anything. But when he looked at you and said softly, “I like the name,” it almost broke you. “Me too.”

Afterward, when the children had eaten their fill and begun nodding off against each other, Lo’ak helped clean up. He passed behind you and murmured low near your ear: “He’s trying. I see it.” You looked back at him. “And I’m glad,” he added with a grin. “You look lighter tonight.” You pressed your fingers to your lips, almost in disbelief. So did he. Because for the first time in many weeks, you all sat under the stars together. And Neteyam stayed.

Over the next several days, Neteyam had been around sometimes, other times disappearing off to somewhere in the reef. You honestly didn’t think much about it, having your hands full with the children kept your mind occupied, and ever since the night he had dinner things have been better between you, or that’s what you thought anyways. You had no idea he was off bonding with another woman.

The first time, they were hunting along the reef ledge. Lina was leading him through narrow tunnels in the coral, glancing over her shoulder to smirk at him every few paces. “You’re too slow,” she calls over the bubbling tide. Neteyam grins, swimming harder to catch up. “I’m letting you win.”

“Oh?” she tilts her head, treading water as he nears. “You always this generous, or just with me?” He chuckles — can’t help it — and bumps her gently with his shoulder. She bumps him back.

The second time, they were drying gear near the rocks. Lina’s hair is loose, still dripping, skin shining with salt and sun. She reaches out to adjust the strap of his sling.

“Still too tight,” she mutters, tugging it just slightly. “You’ll bruise yourself.” His hand brushes hers. “What would I do without you?”

“Starve. Or bleed out,” she says, looking up at him through her lashes. Neteyam bites the inside of his cheek to hide a grin.

The third time, he finds her sitting on a flat stone, braiding thin strips of shell into a necklace. “That for me?” he asks, flopping down beside her, deliberately brushing her leg with his tail. She laughs, doesn’t move away. “You wish.” He leans on one arm. “What if I do?” She goes still — just for a second — then smiles again. “Then maybe I’ll make you one. If you catch a bigger fish than me tomorrow.”

“Easy.”

“You talk too much.”

“You like it.” She says nothing — but she doesn’t argue.

The fourth time, they were in the shallows, dusk falling in golden streaks across the ocean. She splashes him lightly, then darts away with a laugh. He chases, catches her wrist under the water, and spins her in a circle. Their laughter echoes against the reef wall. “You’re impossible,” he says, chest heaving. “You’re slow.”

“I let you go.”

“Liar.” He pulls her close again — just slightly — hand on her arm, holding her steady. She doesn’t pull away. “You gonna let go?” she whispers. He hesitates.

And that’s when they hear it. A sharp inhale. Both of them turn — and Tsireya is standing at the edge of the sandbank, staring. She wasn’t meant to find them here. Not this close. Not this comfortable. Her eyes flick between their bodies — wet, pressed too close, laughter still fading in the air. Lina steps back instantly and Neteyam’s hand drops. Tsireya’s voice is tight. “Lo’ak’s been looking for you.” He doesn’t answer so she turns and walks away.

That evening when the tide had rolled in, moonlight catching on the crests as the reef swayed in rhythm. Most of the village had gone quiet — the firelight around the Sully mauri low and flickering. Tsireya found Lo’ak by the far edge of the reef, feeding dried root to an ilu calf. His hair was damp, eyes tired. She didn’t speak at first. Just stood there, jaw tight.

Lo’ak glanced up. “Hey,” he offered, but her expression stopped him cold “What?”

“I saw them again.” He frowned. “Who?”

“Neteyam. And Lina.” Lo’ak’s shoulders dropped. “Yeah, I figured—”

“No,” she said sharply. “You don’t understand. This isn’t just awkward flirting anymore.”

She stepped closer, voice barely above a whisper. “She touched his chest today and he was touching her arm. Laughed like it was nothing. Then leaned into him like—like she wanted him to notice. And he did.” Lo’ak looked away, jaw clenching.

“She doesn’t care,” Tsireya hissed. “She knows. She knows he’s married. She knows you all told him. She knows he has children. And she still looks at him like that.”

“Neteyam doesn’t remember—”

“That doesn’t excuse her.” Lo’ak shook his head. “I don’t think he sees it the way we do.” Tsireya didn’t back off. “He doesn’t have to know everything to feel what’s right. Something in him should know. That kind of bond doesn’t disappear just because you forgot a name.”

“He’s not the same,” Lo’ak muttered. “Not yet.”

“And she’s taking advantage of that,” Tsireya snapped. Silence hung between them, thick as sea fog. “I didn’t tell her,” She said quietly. “I didn’t say a word. But I swear, Lo’ak… if Lina puts her hands on him again like that, I will.” He exhaled slowly. “Don’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because she’s already breaking,” he said, voice strained. “Every day she’s holding it together for those kids, for the family. You think watching him forget her wasn’t bad enough?” Tsireya’s eyes softened.

“She finally got him to hold the baby,” Lo’ak added. “Named her with him. The day they sat and ate with the family. First time in months. It was right before that.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “Then why is he out there with her?”

“I don’t know,” Lo’ak admitted, eyes glistening. “But I can’t be the one to break her.” Tsireya nodded once, quietly. “Then I’ll wait. But not forever.” Lo’ak stared at the stars, wondering how long he could keep pretending nothing was burning.

Neteyam sat on the warm stone, legs stretched, hands braced behind him as the waves lapped close. Lina was beside him, knees drawn up, the curve of her smile impossibly soft in the golden light. “Your shoulders tense again,” she murmured, scooting closer.

He didn’t stop her when her fingers brushed along his shoulder. “I think you like touching me,” he said, not quite teasing, not quite serious. Lina laughed under her breath. “Maybe. You’re not stopping me.” He turned to look at her — really look.

“You’re not like the others,” he said slowly. “Everyone stares at me like I’m supposed to be someone they remember. You just… let me be who I am now.”

“You don’t owe anyone a past you can’t remember,” she whispered.

“You don’t even ask questions.”

“I already know the answers that matter,” she smiled. “I like you.”

He blinked. “You don’t care that I’m—”

“Married?” she finished, almost playfully. “You don’t remember that. It’s not the same.” There was a pause. A long, heavy pause.

“I’m still—” he started, then faltered. “She’s kind. Patient. But it’s like I’m supposed to feel something I don’t.”

“You don’t have to explain anything to me,” Lina said, brushing her fingers along the side of his jaw. “You just… feel this. Now.” And then she kissed him. Not a short, confused kiss. Not unsure. This was deliberate. Gentle, but real. And Neteyam—he didn’t pull away, not right away. His hands twitched against the rock. When he did break it, it was breathless, conflicted. “Lina—” She smiled. “You can stop me next time. If you want.”

Behind a rock ledge just above them, Neytiri stood frozen. She had come looking. Something in her heart told her something was wrong. And what she heard broke her completely. Every word. “You just feel this. Now.” The kiss. She almost called him out. Almost walked forward and made her presence known. But she didn’t. She couldn’t. Not when her son — her eldest — the one she buried her soul into, kissed another woman while his mate rocked their baby just a few steps away in the village. Neytiri backed away, breath trembling, hand pressed hard against her chest. She didn’t speak. But something inside her, something sacred, began to unravel. Not for herself, but for you.

The night air was still and thick with the hum of distant ocean wind. Only the crackle of low embers broke the silence inside the Sully mauri. Neytiri sat by the hearth, her body unmoving, eyes fixed on the firelight flickering across her knuckles.

Jake entered quietly, wiping his hands with a cloth after helping Kiri settle Eylan and Likan into their sleeping mat while you tended to Kiriya. “You’ve been quiet all night,” he said, crouching beside her. Neytiri didn’t look at him. Her voice, when it came, was soft but cut with steel. “I saw them.” Jake’s brow furrowed. “Who?” Her jaw clenched. “Neteyam. And the girl.” He sat down slowly, feeling the air shift. “What girl?” Neytiri nodded once. “That Lina girl— Two nights ago. I followed him. I wanted to be sure.”

Jake’s voice dropped. “What did you see?” Her eyes lifted to meet his, burning. “They were kissing. Her hand was on his jaw. He did not stop her.”

Jake swore under his breath, rubbing his temples. “Shit.” Behind the thin woven wall, there was a scuffle of movement. Someone breathing too loudly. Too sharply. Neytiri’s ears twitched. A moment passed before Lo’ak stepped into the light, arms at his sides, face drawn in guilt. Tsireya stood behind him, hands knotted in front of her, not meeting anyone’s eyes.

“I know,” Lo’ak said before either parent could ask. “I’ve known.” Neytiri rose slowly to her feet. “How long?” Lo’ak held up a hand. “I’ve known for a while. Since before he even held the baby. I saw them. First just talking, then… more. Since he started to go to the tide pools the hunters hand out by.”

Jake’s eyes narrowed. “And you didn’t think to say anything?”

“I didn’t know how,” Lo’ak admitted. “She’s already barely holding things together. She’s feeding the baby alone. Putting the boys to bed. Waiting on him to come home. And I just—”

“You should have told us,” Neytiri snapped. “I thought he’d come around,” Lo’ak said, voice cracking. “I thought once he saw her — really saw her — saw the kids — it would all fall into place. I thought the memory flashes were working.” Jake’s jaw worked. “But he kept going back to Lina.” Lo’ak nodded. “He kept going back I guess.” Neytiri’s voice was trembling now. “And you let her believe he was trying.”

“I didn’t want to be the one to break her,” Lo’ak whispered. “She still believes in him.” Tsireya finally spoke, quiet but firm. “Lo’ak and I first saw them. I told him we should say something, but he said it wasn’t time.”

Neytiri turned away, her fists clenched. “He kissed another woman. While his mate waits. While she takes care of those babies alone.”

Jake stood slowly, running both hands down his face. “We need to talk to him.” Lo’ak looked up quickly. “Not yet. Please. He’s remembering. Not all of it, but enough that I think he’s confused. Let me talk to him first.”

Neytiri’s eyes narrowed. “And if he touches her again?” Jake answered this time, voice cold and low. “Then it’s no longer confusion. It’s a choice.” The word no one said was still thick in the air. And none of them could bear to imagine the moment you would find out.

The sky was dark, save for a stretch of stars reflected on the surface of the sea. Small waves lapped at the sand as Neteyam stood alone, arms folded, staring out at the horizon. His back was to the village, but he hadn’t gone far — not really. He could still hear the soft calls of nocturnal birds, the echo of distant laughter, the crackling of fires. Lo’ak found him there.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just stepped up beside his brother, letting the silence linger. The two stood shoulder to shoulder, the sea wind tossing their braids gently. Neteyam spoke first, barely above a murmur. “Did they send you?” Lo’ak shook his head. “No. I came on my own.” Neteyam’s jaw tightened. “I already know what this is about.” Lo’ak sighed. “Then that makes it easier.” A long pause. Then, quietly: “I saw you with her, bro.” Neteyam flinched, but didn’t turn. “You’ve been spying on me?”

“No,” Lo’ak said softly. “Just looking out. For her. For the kids.” Neteyam finally looked at him, eyes conflicted, searching. “It’s not like that.”

“You kissed her,” Lo’ak replied, not harshly, just stating fact. “And you’ve been sneaking off for weeks.” Neteyam’s mouth opened, but no words came. Lo’ak shook his head slowly. “I’m not here to yell at you,” he said. “I’m not our dad. I’m your brother.”

He hesitated, then added, “And I’m hers too. Not by blood — but I helped catch your daughter when you were unconscious. I’ve held your sons when they cried for you. I’ve seen the way she looks at you like you hung the stars.” Neteyam’s eyes shimmered with something — regret, maybe, or confusion. “I don’t know what’s happening in your head,” Lo’ak said, voice low. “I know this memory thing is eating you up. I know you’re not the same. But that doesn’t mean you get to break her in silence.”

“I didn’t mean to hurt her,” Neteyam said. “But you are,” Lo’ak whispered. “Every time you don’t come home. Every time she lies to the boys and says you’re busy, or training. Every time she feeds the baby alone. And she won’t ask you to stay, she has no idea. She’ll wait for you to come to her.”

Neteyam turned his face away. “She thinks you’re getting better,” Lo’ak went on. “She thinks you’re coming back to her. And you are, sometimes. That night on the tablet, when you smiled at her. You felt like you. That’s what’s killing her. She hopes.” Lo’ak paused, then said gently, “Is it Lina?” Neteyam didn’t answer. “She’s not your mate,” Lo’ak said, still calm. “She doesn’t know your sons’ lullabies. She didn’t carry your child. She didn’t sit at your side when you were dying.” Neteyam closed his eyes. His voice was a whisper. “I know.”

Lo’ak looked at him with something like grief. “Then why are you still going to her?” The silence hung, heavy and raw. “I don’t know,” Neteyam said. “She’s… easy. I don’t have to feel like I’m failing when I’m with her.” Lo’ak’s eyes darkened. “She doesn’t ask you to remember.”

Neteyam nodded. “She doesn’t look at me like she’s waiting to find the old me.” Lo’ak stepped closer. “She doesn’t know the old you. We do. And she does.” Neteyam looked at him, chest tight. “What if I never remember everything?”

“Then you start from where you are,” Lo’ak said. “But you don’t build something new while she’s still holding the pieces you left behind.” Neteyam turned away again, swallowing hard. Lo’ak let the words sit. He didn’t demand. He didn’t lecture. Just before he walked away, he added one last thing, soft as dusk. “You were always the one I looked up to. The steady one. The protector.” He paused. “If you can’t remember it from your own memory, remember it came from me.” And then he left his brother alone with the stars.

It’s the next morning. You’re up early with the baby, trying to braid Eylan’s hair while Likan chews on a toy. Neteyam returns from the beach. His shoulders are tense. His steps are slow. You smile when you see him. “Hey,” you say softly. “We missed you at breakfast.” He hesitates. Then: “Can we talk?” Your stomach drops. You hand Eylan the comb and step outside with him, the light warm on your skin.

He doesn’t look at you when he speaks. “I… I need some time. To think. To breathe. Things are getting clearer but… it’s a lot. Being here. With you. With the kids. With the pressure to feel everything I’m supposed to feel.” You go quiet. His words twist in your chest. “You don’t feel anything?”

He shakes his head quickly. “No— I do. I think I do. But I don’t know what’s real and what’s me wanting it to be real. Last night felt… good. You felt safe. Familiar. But then I woke up this morning and…” His hands clench. “I was terrified again. Of losing myself to a life I don’t remember.” You swallow hard. “So, you want space.” He nods. You nod too, but your lips tremble. “Okay.”

“It’s not forever,” he says, voice low. “I just need to understand who I am… on my own.” You force a small smile. “Of course. Take the time you need.” But when he leaves, heading toward the far edge of the village — you don’t know he’s going to see Lina.

you’re left standing outside the mauri with the wind in your hair and a silent ache blooming beneath your ribs. And for a long moment… you just stand there. Because what are you supposed to do? Chase after him? Beg him to stay? Demand an explanation he doesn’t even understand himself? No. You go back inside. You wipe your eyes before the kids see.

The sun had barely risen when he walked away. Soft golden light slanted through the mangrove roots, stretching long shadows over the damp earth. The village was still, caught in that in-between hush before the day began — birds just beginning to chirp, ocean breeze barely rustling the fronds above.

Inside, the air was warm and faintly sweet from the firepit’s embers. The kids were already stirring. Kiriya had begun to fuss softly in her basket, tiny fists working against the woven cloth around her. Eylan sat nearby, rubbing his eyes with the heel of his palm and yawning loudly — a tangle of half-finished braids still jutting out at strange angles. Likan lay sprawled on his belly, drooling into a woven mat and humming something tuneless to himself. You didn’t feel ready. But ready or not — you were their world. And you were not going to let them see you fall. You’ve already let them down too much as it is.

You moved on instinct. You knelt first beside Kiriya, scooping her into your arms with the ease of a mother who’d done this a thousand times, even if it still ached in your chest. She whimpered once before latching against your breast, and the tension in her small body melted almost instantly. You rocked gently, her soft suckling grounding you. “That’s it, my little star,” you whispered, brushing your nose against her temple. “Eat well. You’ve got a big day ahead.”

“Is it done?” Eylan’s voice broke into the silence, scratchy and young. “My braids?” You turned your head to him, gave a soft smile. “Not yet. Come here.” He scooted over eagerly, plopping himself down in front of you with crossed legs. “You stopped braiding it,” he said, not accusing — just observing. “I know,” you murmured. “Mama needed a moment. But I’m here now.”

You finished nursing Kiriya and shifted her gently to your shoulder. With one hand, you resumed braiding Eylan’s hair, fingers nimble even with your youngest curled against you, slowly drifting back to sleep. His hair was thick, like his father’s, and slightly wild — stubborn strands that always slipped from your grip. But you were patient. You always had been. Likan toddled over next, dragging his woven bird toy, his eyes still puffy with sleep. “Hungry,” he mumbled, pressing his face to your knee. You leaned down and kissed the top of his head. “Soon, baby boy. Let Mama finish your brother’s hair.”

“I help?” he asked, pointing at the pile of fruit. You chuckled. “You can hand me the yovo, hmm?” He nodded proudly and waddled off on his mission. By the time you finished Eylan’s last braid and tied it off, Kiriya was burping sleepily against your shoulder and Likan had managed to bring back half a yovo fruit, teeth already sunk into it. You couldn’t help the small laugh that bubbled up. “Thank you, sweet boy. Very helpful.” He beamed, mouth full.

You got up slowly, adjusting Kiriya in your sling so she could sleep tucked against your chest. The boys followed as you moved toward the firepit, preparing their breakfast from leftover grilled fish and soft yovo mash. Eylan fetched the dishes, Likan danced in circles, and you worked — stirring, plating, humming softly — while the sun crept higher outside.

There were no grand declarations. No epiphanies. Just movement. Just being present. Just… trying. Because yes, you were his wife. But you were more than that. You were their mother. Their comfort. Their rhythm. Their constant. And no matter who stayed, who left, who forgot — you would always be the one still here.

The stars were beginning to blink awake as the sea breeze curled through the village, quiet and cool. Dinner had come and gone. The children were already tucked away — Eylan and Likan asleep in their nest, Kiriya dozing peacefully in her wrap against your chest. You sat close to the firepit outside Jake and Neytiri’s mauri, cradling her gently, her small weight grounding you more than anything else could.

Kiri was plaiting Tuk’s hair beside you. Lo’ak leaned against a post nearby, Tsireya tucked against his side. Jake and Neytiri sat across the fire, quiet, eyes flickering between the flames and each other. It was Kiri who finally spoke. “Neteyam didn’t come back with you today?” You shifted slightly. “He said he needed some space. Just for a while.” Lo’ak stilled. You didn’t see his jaw tighten, but Kiri did. Jake looked up. “He told you that directly?”

You nodded. “This morning.” There was a beat of silence. You were still trying to gauge the reactions when Neytiri stood slowly, brushing off her hands. “He asked for space,” she repeated, voice carefully neutral. “From what, exactly?” You blinked. “From everything, I guess. The memories. The pressure. Me.” You looked down at Kiriya. “He’s not running. He just… needs air.”

“Air?” Neytiri said sharply. “He has all the air in the world here.” Jake put a calming hand on her leg, gently. “Ma’Tiri.” Lo’ak straightened up suddenly. “It’s not just about the memories.” Everyone looked at him. Kiri’s eyes narrowed. “Lo’ak.” But he ignored her. “He’s confused, yeah. But it’s not just about that.” “Lo’ak…” Neytiri warned under her breath. He backed off instantly. “I just mean—it’s complicated for him. You can’t judge him for needing time.” You watched him, head tilting. “You okay?” He nodded too quickly. “Yeah. Just tired.”

You didn’t press it. The odd quiet that followed said more than any of them did. You felt it but couldn’t place it — the edge in Neytiri’s tone, the way Lo’ak wouldn’t quite look at you, the heaviness in Jake’s silence. Kiri shifted closer to you, her presence warm, protective. “You’re all acting weird,” you murmured, trying to joke. “I’m the one who got asked for space. I should be the one brooding.”

“You’re handling it with grace,” Jake said finally, offering a quiet smile. “We’re proud of you for that.” You met his eyes, then Neytiri’s. Hers were guarded. Too guarded. Something was off. Still, you smile and looked down at your sleeping daughter. “He just needs time. That’s all.” No one argued with you. But no one agreed either. And as the fire crackled quietly, your heart ached with the weight of all the things left unsaid — because you were still standing in the light, and everyone else… already knew something you didn’t.

Three months later, your mornings had changed. No longer did they begin with tear-streaked cheeks or aching silence. They started now with purpose. With Eylan giggling as he tried to braid his own hair, with Likan waddling into your arms, babbling half-formed words, and with Kiriya’s soft, sleepy coos as she nursed while wrapped against your chest. You rose before the sun most days, not out of sorrow, but to reclaim yourself piece by piece.

You had begun to hunt again. The first time you picked up your bow, it felt foreign in your hands, the weight unfamiliar after moons of barely using it. But the moment your feet touched the forest floor—alone, quiet—you remembered. The strength in your arms, the rhythm of your breath, the way the jungle had always spoken to you. You didn’t go far the first time, but it was enough. Enough to remember who you were. Not just his mate. Not just a mother. But a warrior. A woman. A force.

Over time, you started to laugh again. It came slowly at first—soft smiles, half-hearted chuckles. But then, one afternoon, you met up with two old friends from your youth, both mothers now, and one cracked a joke about her toddler eating a bug. You laughed so hard you cried. You realized you missed yourself. And more importantly… you missed joy. Joy you haven’t felt since neteyam had his memories. You helped mend nets, wove baskets, joined other mothers in gathering sea fruits, and swam farther than you had since giving birth to Kiriya. You didn’t do it for Neteyam. You did it for your sons, for your daughter… and for you.

Jake and Neytiri loved you like their own. They helped when they could—watching the kids when you needed to gather, bringing fresh meat after long hunts, or simply sitting with you at night when you couldn’t sleep. They noticed your growing strength, the fire returning to your eyes, and they were proud—even if it broke their hearts that it had to be this way.

They said nothing of Lina. They didn’t have to. The pain in Neytiri’s eyes whenever she looked at her son, the way Jake sighed deeply whenever the topic of space came up—it was all there. They knew. And they hated it. But they also understood that Neteyam was lost in his own way, and anger wouldn’t guide him home. Patience might.

Lo’ak was the one who struggled the most. He couldn’t understand why his brother—who had once looked at you like you were the stars—couldn’t see you now. Lo’ak tried to hold his tongue, but it gnawed at him. Tsireya was the one who calmed him, reminding him that love can’t be forced, and healing isn’t always linear. Even Tuk knew. She had cried one night in your arms, confused and worried, asking if Neteyam would ever come back to being him. You didn’t have an answer.

The children were adjusting, each in their own way. Eylan, ever the oldest, had grown more protective, more aware growing into a man who mimicked his father without even knowing. He watched your face carefully when you thought he wasn’t looking, quietly stepping in to help with Likan or Kiriya when he sensed you needed a moment. Likan, wild-hearted and two, was all tangled curls and endless energy, bouncing between tantrums and giggles as he tried to mimic his big brother’s every move.

And Kiriya, just three months old, was beginning to show more of herself: tiny hands always reaching, eyes wide and curious, gurgling happily whenever you or her brothers came near. She loved being held against your chest, calmed instantly by your heartbeat. Together, the three of them were loud and loving and beautifully chaotic. They didn’t understand everything, but they were still happy. Still whole, because they had you.

Each night, after the children were asleep and the fire was low, you knelt and prayed to Eywa. For strength. For patience. For your mate to find his way back—not just to you, but to himself. You no longer waited by the door, hoping he would come. But you didn’t close it either. You lived. You thrived. You healed. Quietly, painfully, and steadily. And though you didn’t know it… Your light was still reaching him. Even from afar. Even in the arms of another. Something in him still remembered. And Eywa… was still listening.

Meanwhile with Neteyam, he spent his months with Lina, she always waited for him at night. Not coy. Not nervous. Prepared. Her hair was down, lips glossed with fruit oil, and her wrap — if you could call it that — barely covered anything. A soft green length of fabric tied at her hip with a loose knot that looked like a gentle breeze might undo it. Neteyam didn’t miss that. And she knew.

“Long day?” she whispered one night, slipping behind him, arms curling around his waist, mouth pressing to the back of his neck. She was tall, taller than you, where you stood at Neteyam’s chest, she stood just below his jaw. “You can relax now, you’re with me.” Her hands slid across his stomach, dipping low. He exhaled, chest tight. Sometimes, he didn’t stop her.

Her fingers found him hard, aching — always from her touch, her scent, the way she pressed into his back like she belonged there. She’d stroke him slowly, lips dragging along his jaw. Sometimes she’d murmur praise. Other times, she’d drop to her knees, hands sliding up his thighs — but every time her lips brushed against him, the sound of footsteps, a call in the distance, a flicker of light— He’d freeze. “Wait—” he’d say, hands gripping her shoulders. “Not now.” She always looked up, mouth flushed, eyes wide. “You’re always say that.”

“I know,” he breathed. “I know.” But he wouldn’t let her finish, wouldn’t let her cross that line. Even the night she climbed into his lap, completely bare under her shawl — guiding his hands to her breasts, her thighs parted over his hips, rocking gently until he gasped against her mouth — he stopped it. Her fingers had worked his tewng loose. Her tongue was in his mouth, his hands full of her heat and softness, his head spinning— Then a branch snapped outside. A child’s laugh. A shadow. He gripped her hips, breathless. “No. We shouldn’t.” She groaned in frustration, but softened, kissing him again. “You keep saying that.”

“I’m trying to do the right thing.”

“But you want me,” she whispered, grinding down again, making him stutter. “Don’t lie.” He didn’t. He never did. Because yes, he wanted her. She was beautiful. Willing. Soft and warm and slick against him. But every time they got close — too close — something pulled him back. Something inside or outside stopped him. And when he left her mauri, half-dressed and still aching, he’d collapse onto his sleeping mat and try to breathe.

That’s when the dreams began, not nightmares — memories. You. Laughing beneath him in the forest, hair tangled, your moans stifled by his kiss. And just felt it, he loved kissing you in those dreams, loved dipping his head and pressing up on your skin. You on your back, guiding him in with a sigh like you’d done so many times he just couldn’t remember them all yet. You crying with joy, his son in your arms. You pulling his hands to your growing belly. And the way you looked at him like he was your whole world. He started to wake up with a tightness in his chest. Not just lust. But longing. He’d press his palm over his heart like it could stop the ache. The confusion, the guilt. Because Lina felt good. Safe in a way. Familiar now. But when he touched her, it was never like that. The feeling of worship. Of oneness. That only lived in the dreams. And those dreams were growing stronger, more vivid, more real. Which meant, little by little… Lina was losing him.

he didn’t know when exactly the dreams had started exactly. Maybe it was after the night you looked at him with flushed cheeks, when the sunlight kissed your skin and your laughter echoed through that small space between you, when his fingers brushed yours and something deep in him shifted. Or maybe it was earlier—when Likan grabbed his tail one day on the beach toddling between his legs like he was so used to doing it. Maybe after he once again, stopped Lina from getting her desperate fuck. He wasn’t sure.

But now, they came more and more often. Vivid. Unshakable. Sometimes warm and quiet, like drifting through memories too soft to be real. Other times sharp, intense—desire threading through his body until he woke in the dark, chest heaving, skin damp with sweat, painfully aware of the ache low in his belly.

At first, he thought they were just dreams. Imaginings. Wishes. But they kept happening—so detailed, so real, down to the sounds of your voice, the way you smelled, the exact curl of Likan’s fingers around his thumb. Eylan laughing, splashing in the river as you reached for him. You smiling up at Neteyam in the forest, eyes glowing with pride and love. The feeling of carrying you into your new mauri when you first arrived at Awa’atlu, both of you still dripping from the sea. The first night Likan was born, when you placed the baby in his arms and cried into his chest, or when you both introduced Eylan to his new baby brother.

He started writing them down, carving the details into the bark of a sea tree near the cliffs where no one would look. Just in case. He needed to be sure. Needed proof. He wanted to bring them to you someday, look you in the eye and ask, Was this real? Did I carry you across the ocean? Did we love like this, this deeply, this hard?

And then there were the other dreams. The ones he didn’t know what to do with. Your hands on his chest, your mouth on his skin. The soft groan he made when your hips rolled against his. The sound of your laughter tangled in heavy breathing, the press of his hand between your thighs as your voice broke on his name. Your body beneath him, around him. Sometimes playful. Sometimes desperate. Always you.

He would wake up with his heart racing, painfully hard, breath caught in his throat. It was impossible not to imagine what it had felt like in reality—your warmth, the way you moaned when he whispered in your ear, how you gripped him when he pressed deep inside. Sometimes it left him quiet for hours. Other times, he found himself flushed, frustrated, pacing near the water’s edge, unsure if it was guilt or longing.

He never told Lina. How could he? Those dreams never had her in them. Only you. He still didn’t remember everything. He was still confused, overwhelmed, pulled in two directions. But each night when he curled beneath the woven mat in his quiet mauri, Eywa whispered a little more of his past back to him. Gently. Deliberately. Sometimes cruel in its intensity, sometimes kind in its simplicity.

The cove was half-shadowed, kissed in dusk light and the faint shimmer of tide pools. The waves lapped gently, rhythmic, soft like the hush of a whisper. Neteyam sat alone on a rock worn smooth by the sea, one leg bent, the other dangling just above the sand. His jaw was tight. His eyes distant, mind loud Lina found him there again, just as she always did, silent steps through the shallows, stopping just behind him. “You always come here when your head’s too loud,” she said softly, voice just above the waves. “I like that.”

He didn’t turn, but his shoulders didn’t tense. He was used to her now, her voice, her scent, her closeness. “I’ve been dreaming again,” he murmured, fingers drumming against his thigh. She took the invitation. Sat behind him on the rock, then leaned forward, pressing her chest to his back gently, her arms wrapping around his middle without hesitation. Her hands settled flat against his stomach. “About her?” He nodded slowly.

“I see her sometimes. The boys. The baby… Kiriya.” He said the name carefully, like it might shatter in his mouth. “It’s not just flashes anymore. I can feel the emotion of the moment. Like I was really there.” Lina rested her chin against his shoulder, her fingers tracing slow, calming shapes against his stomach. “Dreams can be like that,” she murmured. “Vivid. Powerful. Especially when you’re searching for something — for yourself. Maybe your mind is trying to fill in blanks with what your family told you.” He was quiet.

She turned her head slightly, brushing her lips just behind his ear, soft, innocent. “But here, now… none of it is confusion.” He inhaled — not sharply, but deep — and Lina felt the moment shift. She took it. She moved to sit beside him, hips pressed to his, then slowly reached for his hand and brought it to her thigh, guiding his fingers to rest there. “You weren’t dreaming when you kissed me,” she said, voice velvet smooth. “Or when we touched.” Her hand slid along his wrist, up his arm. “You weren’t someone else. You were you. And you were relaxed. Real. With me.” He looked at her now, eyes shadowed with conflict — torn. Lina’s smile was soft, never smug. She cupped his cheek with one hand, her thumb grazing his jaw.

“She may have been your past, Neteyam,” she whispered. “But I’m your present.” Then she leaned in and kissed him. It wasn’t shy not like the first few times. Her fingers slipped behind his neck, pulling him closer as she moved her body more fully into his lap. His hands hesitated — one landing on her hip, the other still limp at his side — but she coaxed him gently, slowly. Her touch was steady, persistent, like the tide eroding stone. “You don’t have to force yourself to remember someone you don’t feel for anymore,” she murmured against his lips. “What if she’s just part of the story others told you? What if you don’t fit there anymore?” Neteyam looked at her — really looked at her.

“I don’t know what fits,” he admitted, low and raw. “I just… I don’t know.” Lina kissed him again — slower this time, her fingers tangled in his hair. “Then stop trying to remember who you were,” she breathed. “Let yourself be who you are. Now.” And for a while, he let her hold him like that. Let her mouth guide his. Let her arms wrap around his neck and pull him close, as if she could remake him from memory’s ashes into something brand new. And for now — she had him. Right where she wanted him.

Lina’s fingertips danced along the cords of muscle at the back of Neteyam’s neck, so light it almost tickled. She leaned in again — not to kiss him this time, but to let her forehead rest against his. Their breathing synced in the quiet. “You’re always thinking too much,” she murmured, voice barely audible. “Even now.” His hands had stilled at her waist. She could feel the tension buzzing just under his skin. “I see it, you know,” she whispered. “The weight you carry. The questions. The guilt.” She traced down his arm slowly, then took his hand in hers, guiding it back up, placing it over her heart. “But here, with me… you don’t have to answer to anyone. You don’t have to know anything. You can just be.”

His jaw clenched, throat tight. His fingers flexed against her chest, and for a moment she thought he might pull away. But he didn’t. Lina smiled gently and leaned back just enough to look at him fully. “You told me about your dreams,” she said, brushing his hair from his face. “How they feel so real. So full. But those dreams… they’re just pieces. Fragments.” He blinked slowly, watching her lips more than her eyes.

“You said they feel like memories, but maybe they’re not. Maybe they’re just your mind trying to give shape to something you lost.” Her fingers slid up under the leather strap across his shoulder, curling against his collarbone. She leaned in again, this time pressing a kiss to his cheek, then the edge of his jaw. Neteyam exhaled hard through his nose, but his hands came down to her thighs, steadying her in place. Lina’s voice softened, velvet sweet. “But this?” She guided his hands again — down her back, over the curve of her hips — slowly rocking forward so he could feel the press of her body. “This is real. This moment. Me.”

Neteyam groaned under his breath, jaw tightening, eyes fluttering shut for a second before he opened them again. “It’s not that simple,” he said, voice rough. “Why not?” She nuzzled against his neck. “Because I feel like I’m losing my mind.”

“You’re not,” she whispered. “You’re waking up in a life you don’t remember. A mate you don’t recognize. Children who look at you like you’re someone you’re not. That’s not your fault.” She felt him tense under her, so she kissed the side of his neck, slow and soft. “You didn’t choose this, Neteyam.”

“I didn’t choose you either,” he said quietly. That made her pause. Not because it hurt — but because it told her she needed to move more carefully. So she gave a soft laugh — not mocking, but light, breezy. “No,” she agreed. “But sometimes Eywa puts the right person in your path at the right time. Someone who sees you. Who gives you space to breathe.” Her hands cupped his face gently now. “I’m not asking you to choose me. I’m just here. With you. Right now.”

His eyes flicked down — to her mouth, her neck, the way her chest rose and fell close to his. His hands were still on her thighs, but one began to trail upward slowly, as if he were testing what felt familiar. Or maybe… what felt good. Lina closed the distance again, this time kissing him with more intent — a slow burn, coaxing his mouth open with hers, one hand sliding down his chest and resting low on his stomach. She didn’t push further. Not yet. She just let the kiss carry the weight, the confusion, the need. And when he didn’t stop her, when he kissed her back and let his hands roam, when his grip tightened and his mouth opened wider — she knew. He was spiraling. Floating somewhere between desire and doubt. Between what used to be and what he didn’t remember. So she kissed him deeper, then slower. Then softer.

When they broke apart, breathless and flushed, she smiled and leaned her forehead against his again. Her fingers grazed his chest. “You don’t have to feel bad,” she murmured. “You’re allowed to want something that feels good. That feels real.” He didn’t answer. Just stared at the ground over her shoulder, jaw taut, hands still trembling on her body. “You’re not the same man you were before,” Lina whispered. “You don’t have to force yourself to go back to someone you don’t know. Maybe… Eywa gave you a second chance. A clean start.” Neteyam said nothing. But he didn’t pull away either.

And that was enough for her. Because as far as Lina was concerned — she already had her foot in the door. And every time he let her touch him, let her pull him in, let her speak softly into the cracks in his memory — He was already choosing her. Even if he didn’t know it yet.

His lips were still warm against hers. Lina didn’t move at first — didn’t dare. Her fingers lingered on his chest where she’d pulled him to her, heart thudding like a war drum in her ears. She kept her eyes on his mouth; breath caught in her throat like she’d swallowed fire. That kiss was real. That was progress. Slowly, she let out a trembling breath and smiled up at him, soft and sweet, playing the part, she’d carved out so perfectly.

“You always taste like the sea,” she whispered, voice low. “Even after all this time.” Her thumb dragged gently along his jawline, a featherlight touch meant to make him stay. To keep him close. Hers. Neteyam’s eyes flickered—uncertainty warring with something else. Want. Or confusion. Maybe both, she didn’t care which. Because he hadn’t stopped her. That was enough.

She shifted closer, knees pressing against his hips. Her fingers slipped from his jaw to the cords of muscle along his throat, brushing softly, tracing. “You don’t have to say anything,” she murmured. “I know what it feels like to be lost. You don’t owe anyone your peace.” He swallowed but didn’t answer. Just watched her. Watched the way her hands moved. The way her voice soothed. The way she filled the silence. Lina leaned in, nose brushing his. “Let me be that peace,” she whispered.

She had worked too hard for this, too long. From the moment she saw him step out off his ikran, a baby in his arms and war in his shoulders, she knew. She felt it. The weight of who he was — who he used to be. And she envied it. All of it. The love. The family. The way his mate clung to him like gravity. He never noticed her back then. Not really. But she noticed everything. She started helping with hunts she didn’t care about. Took training sessions near the Sullys. She gave him fruit, offered quiet jokes, asked him questions no one else did — just to hear him speak.

But his eyes always found their way back to her. The mate. The mother. So she stepped back. Smiled politely. Waited. Until the sky burned and blood soaked the sand, and suddenly, Eywa delivered him straight to her — broken, blank, and so beautifully lost. She had thanked the Great Mother that night. And every night since. Lina’s hand slid beneath the braid resting on his collarbone, fingertips brushing the skin just under the hollow of his throat. “I don’t ask you to be anything,” she said softly, lips brushing his cheek. “I don’t ask you to remember. I only ask you to feel what’s right in front of you.”

Her hand guided his again, this time to her hip, letting it rest there, just above the bone. His fingers twitched against her skin, but he didn’t pull away. She smiled. “You’re always tense around them,” she murmured. “Like you’re failing some invisible test. But with me… I see you breathe again.” She leaned in, barely touching her lips to his ear. “You feel like you when you’re with me.” And he did. She made sure of that. She never questioned him. Never pushed. She laughed at everything he said. She let him lead even when he didn’t know where he was going. She was patient. Attentive. Always near but never too much. She never even brought up the mate. Or the children. Not unless he did. And even then, only with a quiet smile and understanding eyes. The kind that said it’s okay that you don’t love them. You don’t have to.

Because eventually… He wouldn’t go back. Eventually, he would stop dreaming of a woman he didn’t recognize and realize how easy it was to just let her go. Eventually, he would choose the calm over the storm. And she would be there. Waiting, still smiling, still soft and still his.

Neteyam began spending more time outside during the day, often seated in the sun with Kiri or helping Jake mend a fishing net, eyes following the sway of the sea in silence. He spoke more now — slowly, cautiously — as if testing the weight of his voice in old rhythms. The boys would come up to him sometimes. Eylan offering him small gifts, Likan tugging at his tail to get attention. He didn’t always know how to respond, but he didn’t back away.

That morning, you caught him holding Kiriya again — this time with her tiny fingers wrapped tightly around his braid as she gurgled happily in his arms. He didn’t realize you were watching. But he smiled. The dreams were changing him. He’d begun writing them down — scratching notes into thin leaf parchment when he woke, tracing the edges of memory with almost frantic curiosity. He saw your face in all of them. Your laughter. Your tears. The sound of your voice calling him “tìyawn.”

And lately, he’d been seeing Lo’ak too, laughing with him, hunting beside him, helping deliver Eylan, pulling him from danger. The images weren’t clear, but the feeling was. Love. Loyalty. Trust. He needed to talk to someone. So that night, he found Lo’ak sitting on the rocks near the shore, watching the tide pull against the reef. “You got a minute?” Neteyam asked, voice rough from use. Lo’ak glanced over. “Yeah, Whatsup bro?” They sat together in the moonlight, the ocean lapping at their feet. For a long time, Neteyam said nothing. Then, “I keep dreaming of you.” Lo’ak blinked. “Uh… thanks?”

“No,” Neteyam huffed a laugh. “Not like that, skxawng. I mean… we were close. Weren’t we?” Lo’ak’s smile faded into something soft. “Yeah. You are my brother. My best friend.” There was silence between them again, warm and heavy. Neteyam nodded slowly. “I feel it. Even if I don’t remember it all yet. I feel like I trusted you more than anyone.”

“Besides your wife, you did,” Lo’ak said. “You still can.” Neteyam rubbed a hand over his face. “Everything’s so loud lately. The dreams won’t stop. And every time I look at her—” His voice faltered, but Lo’ak knew who he meant. “It’s like… my body remembers even if my head can’t.” Lo’ak swallowed, choosing his next words carefully. “You don’t have to force anything. But if you feel it… follow that.” Neteyam looked at him, searching. “You think I’m a terrible person?”

“No,” Lo’ak said without hesitation. “I think you’re lost. But you’re finding your way back.” Neteyam exhaled, the corners of his mouth twitching up. “I missed you.” Lo’ak grinned. “I missed you more.”

But further back, hidden in the shadow of the reef wall, Lina stood — her back pressed against the stone, breath caught in her throat. She hadn’t meant to follow him, not at first. But when she saw him walking toward Lo’ak, toward his family, something gnawed inside her. And when she heard what he said — that he dreamed of them, felt something for them, missed them and that gnawing turned to fear. No. No! She had worked too hard to lose him now.

She had touched him, claimed pieces of him, given him herself in every way he would allow — all to be the one he reached for in the darkness. She couldn’t compete with dreams. Not if he started believing they were real. And so, as the brothers laughed quietly under the stars, Lina stepped back into the shadows — her smile gone, her hands curling into fists. If he was starting to remember who he was… Then she had to remind him who he could be. With her.

The lanternlight inside Lina’s mauri flickered low, casting her face in a warm, amber glow. Outside, the reef was quiet, only the occasional lap of water against stone and the breeze threading through the woven walls. Neteyam stood near the entrance, silent for a long while. He shouldn’t have come. He knew that. But her voice had pulled him in again, soft and aching when she’d said, “Can we talk?”

Now he stood in the hush of her space, tense and unsure. She hadn’t touched him yet — not like she usually did. She just sat there, on the mat, her knees drawn to her chest, her head resting lightly against them. “You didn’t come yesterday,” she said quietly. His brow twitched. “I had a lot on my mind.”

“I noticed,” she said, her voice tight. “You’ve been… different.” He didn’t answer. She glanced up at him — eyes glistening. “I keep thinking I did something wrong.” Neteyam exhaled. “You didn’t.”

“Then why don’t you want me anymore?” He flinched. Lina dropped her gaze, fingers curling against her legs. “You come here, but you don’t touch me like before. You don’t even look at me the same way.”

“I never meant to hurt you,” he murmured. “I’m just—” she whispered cutting him off. “I know. Confused” A shaky breath escaped her lips. “But… you kissed me, Neteyam. You held me like I mattered. And I—I thought that meant something.”

“It did,” he said quietly. “Then why do I feel like I’m losing you?” He stepped forward, uneasy. “You’re not.” But she shook her head, blinking fast. “You are slipping away, and I can feel it.” A tear slid down her cheek, and she looked at him with trembling lips. “What did I do wrong? Why can’t I be enough?” Neteyam’s chest ached. He didn’t have an answer. His mind was too full — dreams, flashes of laughter, touches he couldn’t place, names that held weight even without memory. Lina leaned forward slowly, crawling toward him on her knees, eyes wide, wet. “Do you still want me?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper. “Or was I just… something to hold while you were lost?”

“Lina—”

“Because I was there,” she said. “I didn’t ask for anything. I didn’t push. I just stayed. I listened. I held you. And now…” She reached for his hand. “You won’t even look at me.”

He looked down at her hand in his — warm, trembling. Her fingers threaded with his, then slowly, she guided his palm up to her shoulder, pressing his hand there like she was pleading with her skin. “Touch me like you did before,” she whispered. “Like I matter to you. Even if it’s just for tonight.” His fingers twitched.

She moved closer, lifting his hand to her collarbone now, guiding his touch as if it were his idea. Her breath hitched when his thumb brushed her neck. “There,” she said. “Do you feel that?” He swallowed. “That’s me,” she murmured. “Still here. Still wanting you.” Her hands slid to his waist, her head tilted, eyes searching his face. “Let me have this. Let me keep something before it all disappears.” His heart pounded. She rose slightly onto her knees, her chest pressed to his, her breath warm on his lips. Her hands curled around his shoulders, pulling him gently, softly, until his forehead was resting against hers.

“I need you,” she whispered. “I need us.” His eyes closed for a moment, the weight of her words curling around him like vines. Guilt. Sadness. Confusion. His body responded — it always did — but his mind was a storm. And then, like always… a noise outside. Children giggling, passing by. A familiar laugh in the distance — his brother’s. Neteyam tensed. He stepped back slowly, his breathing unsteady. Her hands slipped from his skin, her face falling. “Why?” she asked, voice breaking. “Why do you always pull away?”

He didn’t answer. He just looked at her, gaze heavy with something she couldn’t quite decipher — sorrow, maybe. Or guilt. Or both. Then he turned and left. And she stayed there, staring at the doorway like it betrayed her. But in her chest, something twisted. If soft didn’t work… maybe it was time for something harder. Because she was not going to lose him. Not after everything.

The stars blinked above him as Neteyam walked the short distance from Lina’s mauri to the Sully’s. His hands were still warm from her touch, but his heart felt heavier than it had when he walked in. He hadn’t said anything on the way out. He never really did. The flicker of torchlight reached him first — then the sound of laughter, children’s voices, and the smell of grilled fish and roasted sea roots drifting through the humid evening air, home. He stopped at the edge of the mauri, just out of sight, watching.

Jake sat cross-legged with Tuk and Eylan, cutting bits of fish for both of them while they chattered excitedly. Neytiri was nearby, laughing softly at something Lo’ak had said while Kiri fed Likan, who squirmed and babbled with his usual endless energy. You sat to the side with baby Kiriya in your lap, bouncing her gently while you tried to eat with your free hand, the sling now loosened. Her little head bobbed as she cooed and reached for a piece of your braid.

The space was warm and full, lively and familiar. It felt like something he didn’t realize he’d been missing. Then Tuk spotted him. “Neteyam!” she chirped, waving hard with both arms like her life depended on it. Everyone turned. And you—your head snapped up, eyes meeting his with that small, soft smile that hadn’t changed, even through all of it. He stepped in slowly. Lo’ak shifted over without a word, patting the space between him and Eylan. “You’re late,” Jake teased. “I didn’t know I was invited,” Neteyam replied lightly, settling down between his brother and son. “You always are,” Neytiri said, smiling warmly at him.

Eylan wasted no time crawling into his lap, talking a mile a minute about the reef games he played with his friends and how he won twice but only because one of the boys cheated once and tried to pull his tail underwater. Neteyam listened. Really listened. His arm curled around the boy instinctively, his smile more genuine than it had been all day. Kiriya squealed from your lap; eyes locked on her big brother now curled in her father’s arms. Her little hands wiggled excitedly in the air. “She’s been very chatty today,” you said softly, brushing a hand over her head.

“Like you?” he replied before he could think twice. Your eyes flicked to his and your open your mouth in offense playfully, the words surprised even him. “Was that an insult? You saying I talk to much?” You laugh and so did he, a real chuckle. Then Lo’ak leaned in, smirking. “We were just talking about the clan gathering.”

“The big one?” Neteyam asked, eyes going to Jake. Jake nodded. “Few weeks. All the coastal villages are coming in for it. Singing, dancing, food — even a few races and competitions.” You grinned. “Eylan is already planning what he’s going to wear. And I’m thinking we’ll leave Kiriya and Likan with a sitter so we can all actually enjoy it.” Neteyam blinked. “A sitter?” You nodded and told him about a friend of Ronal’s who volunteered to watch them. “She agreed to watch them,” you said. “So the family can go.”

“She’s kind,” Neytiri added, “and Likan already loves her.” Neteyam looked toward Likan, who was now face-first in Kiri’s lap, pretending to be a sea creature while she dramatically scolded him for drooling on her skirt. Everyone laughed. Neteyam looked down at Eylan still cuddled into his chest. The world felt right for a moment. Lighter.

“I remember this,” he murmured softly. “This feeling,” he said more clearly. “This noise. The way everyone talks over each other. It’s warm. I remember that.” Lo’ak smiled at him, wide and proud. “You always said it drove you crazy.”

“But I liked it,” Neteyam replied. Eylan looked up. “You remember us, sempu?” Neteyam hesitated. He didn’t want to lie. “Not fully. But I dream about you. A lot.” Eylan’s eyes lit up. “What do I do in your dreams?”

“You cry a lot,” Neteyam teased, nudging him with a grin. Eylan gasped. “I do not!” Everyone burst out laughing. Likan shouted something unintelligible and flailed in agreement, as if he understood everything and Kiriya squealed again, bouncing in your lap. For the first time in weeks, Neteyam laughed — fully. Loud and real. He leaned into his brother, who bumped shoulders with him. You looked down at your baby, then at your boys, your mate sitting there like he always belonged, and you smiled.

Dinner had ended with the warm hum of laughter still lingering in the air, the scent of smoked fish and sea root still clinging to everyone’s fingers and hair. You’d barely noticed how late it had gotten until Tuk yawned with a dramatic stretch, and Eylan slumped more into Neteyam’s side, rubbing his eyes and murmuring sleepily. Likan was already asleep in Kiri’s lap, his little hand still clutching a half-eaten piece of roasted yovo fruit. Kiriya lay against your chest, blinking slowly from the sling, her fists curling into your wrap like she didn’t want the night to end. You rose slowly, brushing the side of her cheek. “Alright, bedtime,” you murmured. Neteyam was already shifting, carefully gathering Eylan into his arms. The boy sighed, nestling in with a contented little hum.

“I can get Likan,” he said, glancing toward Kiri. She smiled softly and handed over the sleeping toddler. “He’s heavier when he’s asleep. Good luck.” Neteyam gave a little huff under his breath and took him carefully, one arm under Likan’s bottom, the other supporting his back. “When did they get so big?” he muttered. “You’ve been gone a while,” Kiri said gently, then turned to help Neytiri tidy the dinner space.

With the baby against your chest and the boys in his arms, the two of you left the Sully mauri and padded softly across the sand toward your own. The stars blinked above, and the soft crash of waves against the reef formed a lullaby in the dark. Your home was quiet, warm. The fire pit glowed low with embers, just enough light to see by. Neteyam crouched and carefully lowered Likan onto the sleeping mat, then Eylan, who stirred immediately with a dramatic groan.

“I don’t wanna sleep,” Eylan mumbled. “You’re already sleeping, itan,” Neteyam said dryly, nudging him. “Am not,” came the sulky reply. “I’ll settle Kiriya,” you murmured, already tugging at the ties of her sling, her soft breath hot against your skin. “If you settle the boys—?”

“Done,” Neteyam said. It was not done. Eylan rolled onto his side, bumped into Likan, and immediately yelped, “He’s kicking me!” Likan sat up with a startled cry, wide-eyed and completely disoriented. “No kicking! No!” You sighed. “Great. Now they’re both up.” Neteyam rubbed his face. “I jinxed it.”

“Clearly.” The next half hour was a blur of soothing and shifting. Eylan wanted a different pillow — “not that one, the soft one!” and Likan kept scooting off the mat to look for a rock he swore he lost during dinner. You nursed Kiriya while walking gently in a slow loop, whispering soft lullabies, but she squirmed and whimpered, unsettled. “I think she’s overtired,” you murmured. “She gets that from you,” Neteyam called quietly from the mat. You shot him a look and he grinned.

Eventually, Eylan conked out again, curled around one of the large shell-shaped pillows. Likan was sprawled across Neteyam’s chest, one tiny hand curled against his father’s collarbone, breathing slow and deep. And Kiriya… well, she was still fussing. You sat on the edge of the mat, nursing her again, hoping this time it would soothe her to sleep. Neteyam turned his head where he lay on his back, looking at you through half-lidded eyes. “You make that look so easy,” he said softly. You huffed a tired laugh. “I don’t think my back would agree.”

“She looks so much like you when she’s angry,” he whispered. “She looks like you,” you corrected, brushing a finger down her nose. Neteyam’s voice dropped lower, warmer. “You’re really beautiful when you do that, you know.” Your eyes flicked to his. “Feeding her,” he added. “You look strong. Like a mother. Like a wife.” You felt your cheeks flush, heat crawling up your neck. “I’ve been doing it for months.”

“I know.” His gaze lingered on your chest for a moment longer before flicking back up to your eyes. “Still.” You cleared your throat. “You should get up. You’ll fall asleep like that.” He smiled rubbing a hand on Likan’s back “I might.”

“You haven’t slept here in months.” He looked down at the cozy chaos beneath him — soft woven blankets, the seashell pillows, Likan drooling slightly on his chest. “It’s nice,” he said quietly. “You made this warm. Safe.” You smiled, brushing Kiriya’s cheek. “That’s what a home is supposed to be.” He didn’t answer, but he didn’t move either. His hand rested lightly on Likan’s back, rising and falling with the toddler’s breath. “You’re good at this,” you said softly, surprising yourself. “At what?”

“Being a father. Even if you don’t remember how you got here… you belong here.” He turned his face toward you again. “You really think so?” You nod, “I do.” The fire popped gently. You switched Kiriya to the other side, and Neteyam’s eyes flicked toward your chest again before quickly looking away. “You know,” he said after a pause, “some of those pictures we saw… you looked downright dangerous.” You laughed under your breath. “Dangerous? You were looking at pictures again?”

“In a good way. Like… you knew exactly what you were doing.”

“I did,” you teased. “You liked that.”

“I do like that.” You glanced over. “Don’t flirt with me while I’m breastfeeding.”

“Why not?” he said, voice a little lower. “You’re still hot.” You laughed again, quieter this time, trying not to jostle the baby. “I can’t tell if you’re joking.”

“Neither can I.” There was a pause. Then, softer: “But I think I mean it.” And when Kiriya finally drifted off against your chest, her little lips still puckered, Neteyam reached out and adjusted the blanket around your shoulder, fingers brushing the skin just beneath your collarbone. “Thank you for this,” he whispered. You met his eyes, voice almost too soft to hear. “You’re welcome home.” The mauri was quiet, soft with the hush of the ocean beyond its walls and the occasional murmur of sleeping children shifting in their dreams. But Neteyam lay wide awake, still and silent, his arms at his sides, his head turned slightly toward you.

You were close, closer than you had been in months. Eylan lay between you both, curled into his father’s side, one hand resting over Neteyam’s chest. Likan sprawled in his usual starfish pattern across the bottom of the mat, and Kiriya had been swaddled and tucked close to your chest earlier. But now, it was the middle of the night. The stars outside had shifted overhead. And Kiriya stirred, giving a soft, sleepy whimper. You woke immediately — that mother’s instinct still razor sharp. You sat up slowly, rubbing your eyes, careful not to jostle Eylan. Kiriya let out a soft protest again, louder this time, and you pulled her into your arms, guiding her to nurse as naturally as you breathed. Neteyam didn’t move. But he wasn’t asleep. His voice came softly, almost hesitantly, like he was testing the darkness.

“If someone… forgot their whole life,” he said, “and started over… are they still responsible for what they do when they don’t remember who they were?” You blinked at the question, caught off guard. “You’re awake?” Kiriya suckled quietly, your hand stroking her soft downy hair. “That’s a strange thing to ask,” you said gently. “I know.” You could hear the tension in his voice — low and conflicted, almost uncertain. “Why are you asking?”

“It’s just…” he paused. “What if… they did something they wouldn’t have done before? Something that… wasn’t fair to the people who love them?” Your heart tightened. Your fingers stilled where they stroked the baby’s back. The air felt thicker now. In the dark, you couldn’t see him. But you knew. You knew what this was. “Neteyam,” you said quietly, “did you do something?” He didn’t answer right away. You reached out, careful not to wake Eylan, and your fingers brushed across your son’s curls before finding the edge of Neteyam’s arm — warm, steady, trembling slightly. “I didn’t know who I was,” he said finally, barely a whisper. “But that doesn’t mean I didn’t… feel. I still felt things. Wanting to be wanted. To feel like I mattered to someone.”

“And now?” He exhaled shakily. “Now I remember more every day. And I feel like I’m… two different people trying to live in one skin. The man who forgot, and the man who’s starting to come back.” Your hand stayed there, on his arm, fingers tightening just slightly. “And both of them are hurting.” He swallowed. You heard it. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.” You whisper, “I know.”

“I think I already did,” he whispered. You were silent for a long moment, and Kiriya stirred again in your arms, unlatching briefly before shifting and settling once more. You brushed her cheek and whispered, “She’s hungry again. She does that. Doesn’t like to be alone.”

“I think I understand that.” You looked at where you knew he lay. “I don’t need a perfect version of you, Neteyam. Just the one who tries.” He was quiet, but your fingers still felt his — brushing lightly over your knuckles now, just barely. “I don’t want to be lost anymore,” he said. You nodded. “Then come back. Piece by piece. I’ll wait.” And there was something in his next breath — a sound halfway between a sigh and a sob, so soft it barely made it to you. You didn’t say more.

You stayed there, in the dark, with the baby nestled against you, your fingers resting against the edge of his hand across Eylan’s little head. And somehow, even with all that had happened — the heartbreak, the confusion, the silence — it felt like you were finding your way again. In the dark, but still together.

The rain had slowed outside, just a gentle patter on the leaves now, but inside the mauri, it was still warm with your shared breath and the soft sounds of your sleeping children. Neteyam hadn’t moved since your conversation started. Likan was curled up on his chest, Eylan pressed into his side, and Kiriya was snoozing in your arms. You let a beat pass. Then you whispered, not quite able to let it go, “Is that all you did with her?” He blinked slowly. “…You mean—”

“Yes, Neteyam,” you cut in, voice hushed but clearly not done. “Because I’ve been sitting here, holding our daughter, who literally looks like a smaller, grumpier version of you, and wondering how far another woman got with my mate while I was leaking milk and chasing toddlers.” Neteyam groaned softly, covering his face with his free hand. “You really want to do this now?”

“Yes.” He peeked out between his fingers at you. “…You’re serious?” You narrowed your eyes. “Dead serious.” He sighed, careful not to jostle Likan. “She… tried things.” You raised a brow. “She kissed me. Obviously.”

“Obviously,” you muttered, nose wrinkling. “And, uh… she touched me.” His ears twitched slightly in embarrassment. You waited, blinking slowly. “Touched you how, exactly?” He gave you a long look. You didn’t blink. Neteyam cleared his throat. “With her hand.” You blinked again. “And?” you pressed, biting back a smirk. He gave a half-hearted shrug, lips twitching. “She tried to go down on me. Like… a few times.” You gave him a scandalized look, eyes adjusting to the dark. “She was very—forward,” he muttered quickly. “I never let her. But her hand… got there a couple times.”

You just stared at him and then shook your head. “Couple times, he says. Neteyam, a couple is two.” He looked at the ceiling like it held answers. “It was more than two.” You let out a soft snort. “I should throw this baby blanket at you.” He gave you a sheepish grin. “Please don’t. Likan might wake up. And I’m currently pinned under his drool.” You stared at him, lips twitching despite yourself. Then your voice turned teasing, but it held an edge. “So? Was she good at it?”

He choked. “What?” You tilted your head. “I’m asking. Was she good with her hands?” Neteyam looked like he wanted Eywa to strike him down where he lay. “I—I mean. It was… fine.”

“Fine?” He winced. “Okay, good. Whatever. It felt good. I’m not made of stone.” You leaned closer, voice lower. “Better than me?” He looked horrified. “Why would you ask me that?”

“Because I’m your wife,” you said, barely containing your laughter, “and if another woman had your favorite parts in her hands, I want to know if she did it right.” He groaned again. “It’s like you’re trying to kill me.” You shrugged, totally unfazed. “Was she better?”

“No,” he said without thinking. Then added, “Like—I mean I don’t fully remember everything with you, but I know how it felt with you. That connection. The trust. The way we… moved together. That’s not something you just replace.” You smiled a little, then asked slyly, “Did she smell good?” Neteyam paused. “What is this?”

“Answer the question.” He rubbed a hand over his face. “She smelled like seaweed and flower oil.” You wrinkled your nose. “I knew it. That woman bathes in crushed petals like she’s trying to lure in unsuspecting men.” Neteyam chuckled softly. “You were always so territorial.” You shrugged. “Yes, but I’m more protective. There’s a difference.”

“Uh-huh,” he said, lips twitching. “Was she softer than me?” His eyes slid over to you, finally catching on to the playful, wicked glint in your gaze. “You’re soft and strong. Best of both.”

“Was she prettier?”

“No.”

“Curvier?” Neteyam smiled. “No one fits against me like you do.” You paused, surprised by how much that made your heart skip. Then, in a quiet moment, you asked, “Did you want her?”

He went still. His gaze dropped to your daughter, curled on your chest. To your hand resting on the mat near his. And finally, to your face. “…No,” he said. “I was confused. Lost. And she was there. But I didn’t want her. Not like I want you.” The silence that followed was full of everything unspoken, all the weight of grief, memory, love, and longing. You exhaled. “Okay.”

“Okay?” he echoed softly. You nodded. “We’ll figure it out.” He looked at you a moment longer, then brushed a knuckle across Likan’s back. “You’re incredible, you know that?” You smirked. “Yeah, well. Your memory may be slow, but your taste is still perfect.” Neteyam laughed under his breath, and for the first time in ages, it felt like home.

The mornings felt different now. For the first time in what felt like seasons, Neteyam was back in the mauri where he belonged — where you and the children had waited for him without ever stopping. His things had been moved quietly during the early hours of his return, his arm brushing yours as he helped fold blankets, tuck them into corners, smooth over sleeping mats. The space had always been his, and yet now he treated it like a sacred gift he was trying to earn back every day.

He hadn’t gone to Lina since you told him not to — since he agreed not to. He hadn’t even looked in her direction when he passed the outer reefs. Every time guilt threatened to creep up his spine, he reminded himself that he was here because of you. Because you still loved him, still prayed for him, even when he’d forgotten everything.

He remembered more now — slowly, in pieces. The way you used to curl into his chest at night. The way Eylan would cling to his shoulders when he was younger, pressing his cheek into Neteyam’s neck. How Likan used to demand to ride on his shoulders, yelling “Up! Up!” with a chubby little hand tugging his braids. And how Kiriya’s lips curled the tiniest bit when she nursed, like she was smiling up at you in her own way.

He apologized over and over. Quietly, loudly, sometimes with tears in his eyes, sometimes with flowers braided into your hair when he thought words weren’t enough. He hadn’t slept with Lina — but it didn’t make what happened disappear. And he didn’t expect your forgiveness quickly. He just wanted the chance to prove he was worthy of it. You let him. Slowly. On your terms.

He swept the floors of the mauri. Took over the task of bathing the boys in the lagoon when they were fighting so you didn’t have to. Cooked badly — and burned things often — but he kept trying. Kiri joked once that he was trying to atone through labor, and Neteyam didn’t even deny it.

One afternoon, a few days into his return, Lo’ak came by to help him fix a crooked support beam that held up the side of the roof. The boys were napping after an afternoon of chasing each other in the sun, Kiriya nestled against your chest while you rested in the shade nearby. “Hold this steady,” Neteyam said, gripping the thick vine and pulling it taut while Lo’ak looped it around. Lo’ak grunted. “You got heavier since the war, bro. You’re not fun to lift anymore.”

“You got scrawnier,” Neteyam shot back, smirking. Lo’ak snorted. “You wish.” They worked in easy silence for a bit, sweat collecting at their temples, the weight of the sun warm but not oppressive. Then Neteyam asked casually — too casually — “So… you and my mate. You kissed her?” Lo’ak froze like someone had poured cold water down his spine. “What?” Neteyam didn’t look at him right away. He was focused on tying a knot. “She told me. Said it happened the night before I woke up.”

“You—she—oh my Eywa.” Lo’ak dropped the cord. “Bro, I didn’t mean to—she was crying, I was—Neteyam I wasn’t even trying to—I’m sorry.” Neteyam let the silence stretch. Then: “Was it… passionate?”

“Bro!” You, overhearing from the shade, couldn’t stop the snort that slipped from your nose. Lo’ak looked like he wanted to fling himself off the reef. “I mean I just—” Neteyam’s mouth twitched, trying to keep a straight face. “Should I be worried?”

Lo’ak waved his hands wildly. “There was no tongue, okay?! It was like—a sad, forehead-touchy kind of thing, and then we kissed but like—your wife kisses with emotion, okay?! I wasn’t trying to seduce her—” Neteyam was laughing now. Fully, openly. Lo’ak narrowed his eyes. “You’re the worst.”

“I’m serious,” Neteyam said between laughs. “Was it good?” Lo’ak turned to you. “Are you hearing this madness?” You were howling now, arms crossed as Kiriya snoozed peacefully, unfazed by her family’s antics. “I’m just saying,” Neteyam added, wiping his face, “if my brother kissed my wife, I at least want to know how I rank.” Lo’ak pointed at him. “You ranked. I promise. I almost got punched by guilt mid-kiss. It’s you, bro. It’s always been you.”

Neteyam’s expression softened at that. He nodded once, serious again. “I know. It’s okay. I just… I needed to hear it.” Lo’ak tilted his head. “Are we… cool?” Neteyam clapped a hand on his shoulder. “You raised my kids with her. Helped her when I was gone, kept them safe. I’m not just cool with you—I owe you.”

Lo’ak smiled. “Just don’t make me babysit all three at once again. I still have nightmares.” You grinned, watching the two brothers laugh again. The ache in your chest softened. This was what you’d missed. What had been missing. And slowly, piece by piece, the bonds were stitching back together.

The dreams were getting worse. Or… better, depending on perspective. But for Neteyam, waking up next to you every morning while you slept peacefully—with your curves tucked beneath soft cloth, your breath warm and even, and Kiriya cooing quietly against your chest—was becoming increasingly difficult. Not because he didn’t want to be there. But because he really wanted to be there.

The dreams started off soft, tender… sweet flashes of you and him tangled in the glowing forest under a curtain of bioluminescent vines, your skin glowing, your laugh echoing in his ears as you kissed his cheeks, his mouth, his neck. But then they escalated. Faster than he was prepared for.

Now they were… loud. In every sense. They were full-body, flushed-skin, back-arching, tweng-tangling flashes that left him panting awake in the dark, his hands fisted in the bedding, his chest heaving, and a very obvious situation in his lap that he had to hide quickly before Eylan or Likan stirred beside him. He thought cold water would help. He was wrong.

So, every morning, right as the first rays of dawn touched the edge of the reef, Neteyam would sneak off into the waves, slipping into the water with a hiss through his teeth, determined to let the icy ocean chase the heat from his blood. It never worked. And when he came back in, shivering, teeth chattering slightly, you always gave him the same look. This day was no different. You blinked awake slowly, brushing a hand over Kiriya’s soft little back where she lay snuggled against your chest, her lips still puckered from nursing. Then you caught sight of him, dripping wet, shoulders hunched slightly, arms wrapped around himself as he tried to warm up. You blinked again. Then smirked. “Another swim, mighty warrior?” He cleared his throat, doing his best to look casual. “Just clearing my head.”

“Sure.” You sat up slightly, brushing Kiriya’s curls from her cheek, her sleepy little eyes barely cracking open. “Did the ocean help, or just make your balls disappear?” Neteyam choked, whipping around. “Skxawng!” You were laughing before you could stop yourself, your shoulders shaking, one hand trying to cover your mouth. Neteyam was pink around the tips of his ears as he rubbed his arms. “It’s cold out there.”

“Well maybe,” you said, setting Kiriya gently down beside her brothers, who were still tangled in a sleepy pile, “you should try not torturing yourself.” He huffed. “It’s not like I can control what I dream about.” You gave him a knowing look as you moved to him, placing a thick, woven cloth over his shoulders. He flinched at the warmth, grateful. “But you can control what you do about it,” you teased. He looked at you warily. “What does that mean?”

“It means,” you said, beginning to rub warmth into his arms through the cloth, “I see you, Neteyam. You wake up every morning tense and hard like a stone pillar under that tweng. You’ve been diving into the water like some cursed, guilty little boy. But you’re not little. You’re a grown man. My mate.”

He looked anywhere but your eyes. You lowered your voice. “I know what your dreams are about.” He finally met your gaze, his voice low. “Do you?” You nodded slowly. “You talk in your sleep sometimes.” He groaned, pulling the cloth over his face. “Great.”

“Don’t be embarrassed,” you said, laughing softly. “They’re… kinda flattering.” He peeked at you with a look of dry betrayal. “You’re enjoying this?”

“Just a little.” He scowled, though it lacked heat. “It’s not fair. I remember just enough to want you, but not enough to feel like I deserve to act on it.” Your smile faded into something softer. You moved closer, fingertips brushing his arm. “You’re my husband. The father of my children. You don’t have to earn what’s already yours. You just have to come home to it.”

He looked at you for a long time, jaw tight, eyes searching your face. “I dream of you,” he said. “The way you used to kiss me. Touch me. Your voice—sounds—I didn’t know I remembered… They wake me up shaking.” Your lips parted slightly, your own breath catching. “And then I look at you,” he added, “and I just feel… pulled. Like my body remembers everything my head forgot. Every time I brush against you by accident, it feels like lightning in my chest.” You swallowed thickly, stepping closer. He glanced toward the children. “But I can’t keep waking up like this, hard as a rock, running into the ocean like a fool—freezing my balls off.”

You laughed again, unable to help it. “Do you want help next time, ma Neteyam?” His eyes darkened, lips quirking. “Don’t start, yawne. I’m barely holding on as it is.” You smiled at him with soft eyes, brushing his hair from his face. “Then maybe you should stop fighting so hard. Come back to me. All the way.”

He leaned in, almost without thinking, but then pulled back with a sigh. “I don’t want to mess this up again,” he said. “So I’ll wait until I know for sure I’m ready. You deserve all of me.” You nodded. “And you’ll get there. But maybe next time, skip the icy ocean.” He looked down at his lap, where the evidence of his dreams had finally subsided. “Good. Because my balls still haven’t recovered.” You giggled, smacking his arm. “Go warm up, skxawng. I’ll make tea.”

As you turned, he reached out and caught your wrist gently. “Hey.” You turned back. His gaze was full of everything he couldn’t quite say yet. “I love you,” he said, voice quiet. Your heart skipped. You squeezed his hand. “I know.” I giggle, “I love you more.” And as the morning sun broke through the clouds, there was a quiet promise lingering in the space between your joined hands: He was coming home. Fully. One dream, one breath, one kiss at a time.

The night was still. Quiet but for the gentle whisper of waves against the reef, and the occasional coo or sigh from the children shifting in their sleep. Neteyam sat on the mat, legs crossed, the tablet glowing faintly in his hands. You had already told him—twice—to come to bed. You were curled up at the far end of the mat, Kiriya tucked in your arms, Likan curled against your side, and Eylan’s head resting gently near yours. But still, he stayed up. Still, he scrolled.

He couldn’t stop. The images, the videos… they were you. Him. All the small things that should’ve been ordinary felt sacred now. You walking through the forest, barefoot, laughing. You trying to cut fruit with a curved blade and muttering curses under your breath when it slipped. You with the boys—smeared in mud, singing lullabies, dancing in the kitchen. Every second was a thread. And slowly, they were stitching his life back together.

Then he tapped a file. One he hadn’t seen before, the screen went black for a moment, then it lit up. It was you. Dressed in Omatikayan wedding cloth—deep forest green and rich maroon threads, handmade jewelry wrapped delicately around your wrists and ankles. Beads adorned your hair. Your face was dewy with tears. You stood inside a new home, just barely furnished, still smelling of fresh cut wood and woven palms. You looked straight into the camera and sniffled, smiling so wide it cracked through your tears.

“We’re mated.” You laughed, wiping your eyes. “I can’t believe it. I mean… I can, because of course it’s him. But I’m still—I’m married to Neteyam. The love of my life.” You giggled. “He went back to get the rest of our stuff. He wouldn’t let me help. He said, ‘Just stay here, baby. I’ll bring home our whole world.’” You glanced around, eyes full of emotion. “This is it. Our home. He built this with his own hands for us. And somehow, I get to live here with him.” The camera shook slightly as you leaned in. Your eyes were shining. Honest. “He loves me. He loves me so much. Even when I’m angry. Even when I don’t get things right. Even when I talk too much or sleep with my feet freezing cold. He never complains. He just… pulls me close. He tells me I’m everything he ever wanted.” You breathed out slowly, clutching something—your courting token—in your hand. “I never thought I’d have this. I never thought I’d get to be chosen. But he chose me. And I’ll spend, the rest of my life loving him the way he loves me. The way he made me feel like I deserve and the way I know he deserves.” The video ended quietly. Neteyam’s chest caved inward as he stared at the dark screen, frozen.

And then—It hit him. Everything. Like water crashing through a dam. The forest. The moment you first reached for his hand. The first time you slept curled up together under the stars. Your first kiss, his fingers trembling where they touched your jaw. His face pressed into your neck the night you gave birth to Eylan. You squeezing his hand, eyes locked on him as Likan came into the world. Your laughter. Your cries. The fights. The passion. The love. Every. Single. Second. He gasped—choked on air—and jerked forward as if the wind had been knocked out of him. His hands trembled violently. You stirred. He didn’t even realize how loud he’d whispered your name. “Ma—ma yawne—” You blinked awake slowly, sleep-soft and groggy. “Teyam?”

But his hand was already on your cheek, his breath hitching, eyes wide and wet as he leaned over you. And that was when Kiriya stirred—your movement jostling her. She let out a sharp cry, confused and still tired. Likan, pressed against you, whined and flailed sleepily. Eylan murmured something and turned over. You sat up quickly, trying to hush her, but Neteyam was shaking—smiling—and crying all at once, one hand over his mouth, the tablet slipping from his lap. You turned to him in confusion. “Neteyam—what—?” He was already pulling you close, chest heaving as he clung to you, half-laughing, half-sobbing. “I remember.” His voice broke. “I remember everything.” Your heart stopped. “What—”

“Everything.” He leaned his forehead against yours. “You. Our life. The boys. Kiriya.” His hand hovered over her; chest wracked with emotion. “*You were right. You’ve always been right. I was yours. I’ve always been yours.” The emotion in your chest was a storm. You couldn’t speak. You could barely breathe.

Then you heard feet, running. Kiri burst in, wide-eyed, Neytiri behind her. Jake wasn’t far. Tuk, sleepy and bleary, trailed behind holding her bow. Lo’ak came in next, tense and worried. “What happened?! Is something wrong?” Kiri’s eyes landed on Neteyam’s face—his tear-streaked, smiling face—and yours, where you trembled and wept against him. Neytiri’s breath caught. Jake’s shoulders slumped in relief. You turned to them, cradling Kiriya as Neteyam wrapped an arm around all three of his children, pulling them in.

“He remembers.” The room stilled. Kiri’s hands flew to her mouth. Neytiri was crying in seconds, turning into Jake’s chest. Tuk ran forward, hugging Neteyam’s leg. “You’re back?” He laughed wetly. “I’m back, Tuk.” Lo’ak stared, stunned, then shook his head in disbelief. “You’re such a skxawng,” he muttered, voice cracking. “I’m gonna punch you so hard later.” Neteyam only nodded, tears slipping free as he held you tighter. “Go ahead,” he whispered. “I probably deserve it.” You were sobbing now, holding onto him as he kissed your temple again and again, touching your face, your hands, your belly, like he had to feel every part of you to make sure you were real. He remembered. Everything. And from this moment on, he would never forget again.

Once the noise settled and the tears dried, the Sully family gave their son one last round of bone-crushing hugs, quiet laughter, and forehead kisses before Neytiri gently ushered everyone back to their mauri, smiling through her tears.

“I’ll see you in the morning, ma’itan,” Neytiri whispered as she smoothed his hair like she had when he was a boy. “My son has returned.” Jake gripped his shoulder with pride, his eyes red. “We’ll talk tomorrow. You’ll explain everything… after you sleep.” Kiri gave him a long, tight hug, and even Lo’ak ruffled his hair with a sigh that sounded suspiciously like relief. “You’re lucky I love you, bro,” he muttered. “You’re lucky I remember you,” Neteyam replied with a grin.

After the family trickled out, leaving only the soft glow of a candle and the quiet hum of night, you found yourself staring at the mat, where the three kids had already started dozing again in the aftermath of their interrupted slumber.

Likan had kicked off his blanket and sprawled belly-first across a woven pillow like a tiny lizard. Eylan had found his way to the spot Neteyam sat in earlier and curled up there like it was still warm, his little face slack with sleep. Kiriya, sweet and full after nursing, lay content against your shoulder, her soft breaths ghosting across your collarbone. “Stars,” you whispered, looking at the chaos. “They sleep like drunk adults.”

Neteyam let out a small, husky laugh and dropped into the mat beside you, his shoulders finally relaxed, his posture slouched in a way you hadn’t seen in months—like the weight of confusion had fallen off his chest. “You always said that” he said with a grin, brushing Likan’s stray braid out of his face. “I never understood it until now. He sleeps like he fought a tree.”

“He did fight a tree yesterday,” you said, smirking. “Lost, too.” Neteyam chuckled, glancing at you as you gently laid Kiriya down between the pillows and tucked her beside her brothers. You both stared down at them in silence.

“I missed this,” he said softly. You turned to him, laying on your side, your hand propping your head up. “You didn’t know you were missing it.” He groaned and replied “I know. That’s the part that kills me.” You reached across the mat and touched his wrist. “You came back to us. That’s all that matters.” His eyes softened. “You kept this going. All of it. The home. The kids. Me.”

“I cried. A lot,” you admitted. “And yelled. And didn’t shower nearly enough.” Neteyam grinned. “You smell fine. You always smell like… berries and sunlight and baby.” You giggle softly. “That’s either really sweet or mildly offensive.”

“Depends on the baby,” he joked. Then, after a beat, his smile faded into something gentler. “I remember what you went through. At least, parts of it. When I was shot. When you saw me unconscious. The birth of Kiriya.” You blinked. “You remember that?”

He nodded. “Not the pain. But I remember her crying. And Lo’ak’s voice. And yours.” His gaze dropped to your belly. “You were in so much pain, and I wasn’t there. And then you were holding her and sobbing because I didn’t wake up.” Tears welled in your eyes. “You remember that?” He reached over and cupped your cheek. “I do now. It all came back. I felt like I’d forgotten how to breathe without you. But the second I saw that video of you—our wedding, you talking to the camera—it was like my whole soul snapped into place.” You sniffled, trying not to cry again. “I didn’t know if you’d ever see that.”

“I’m glad I did. You were so beautiful in that video.” His grin returned, sly this time. “I remember how long it took me to take those wraps off.” You flushed. “Don’t start, Neteyam. The kids are—” He leaned closer, teasing. “All asleep. Deep, drooling sleep. We could draw on their faces and they wouldn’t notice.” You swatted his shoulder, laughing into your hand. “You’re horrible.”

“I’m yours,” he whispered, brushing your fingers aside to kiss your knuckles. You stared at him, your heart full to the brim. “You’re sure?”

“I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.” He lay down facing you, so close now your foreheads touched. “I remember every scar, every fight, every kiss, every moment I told you I loved you—and everyone I didn’t say it but showed it anyway. I remember you, yawne. All of you.” You swallowed around the lump in your throat, your fingers finding his, tangled loosely between your bodies. “You’re gonna have to prove it, you know.” He smirked. “Oh, I plan to.” Kiriya stirred in her sleep with a little grunt and both of you froze, peeking over her bundled shape. “She’s got your nose,” Neteyam whispered. You smiled. “And your attitude. She screams when her milk isn’t warm enough like I can do anything about it.” He laughed softly “She’s perfect.”

“She’s ours.” Neteyam leaned forward, gently pressing a kiss to your brow, your temple, then your lips. It was soft. Familiar. Like coming home. When you pulled apart, he yawned—finally—and tucked himself closer to you, curling behind Kiriya as you remained on your side facing him. “This side better than mine,” he mumbled. “Because it’s mine,” you teased. “I’m never leaving it again.” And you believed him. As the rain danced on the thatched roof above and your family slept safely around you, you let your eyes drift closed. Neteyam was home.

Lina paced the length of her mauri, the woven floor creaking softly beneath her bare feet. The ocean breeze no longer felt soothing—it was biting. Mocking. Her hands trembled as she set down the shell bowl, she had no intention of eating from. The scent of sea fruit made her stomach turn. Three weeks. That’s how long it had been since she’d last seen Neteyam.

No word. No visit. No trace of the man who once sat beside her every evening, tangled in her nets, tangled in her. Gone, like fog when the sun rises. And worse—worse—he had moved back into the home he once shared with you. That forest-bred thing he couldn’t remember loving. That mate who stood in her way again. She had heard it secondhand. Whispers from the market, low murmurs from children, the ripple of gossip as effortless as breath. “Did you hear? Neteyam moved back in with his family.”

“He carries the little one again, helps the boys bathe by the shore.”

“They say he remembers.”

That last part hit like a blade. He remembered. She’d dropped her basket when she heard, too stunned to care that her gathered sea herbs had spilled across the coral path. Her chest had gone tight, her vision narrowed. She hadn’t cried. No. She didn’t cry. But the burn in her throat was undeniable. He remembered. And he didn’t even say goodbye. He hadn’t needed to. You’d won. Again.

All her work, all her effort—everything she gave him: her attention, her patience, her body, her time—it had been for nothing. For a glimpse. A taste. And then gone. But Lina wasn’t the kind of woman to lose quietly. She sat that night beside her hearth, face lit by dim firelight, fingers curled tightly around a carving knife. She didn’t think about stabbing anything. Not really. Just the weight of it. The way the handle fit in her hand. She needed control. She needed something. Then the plan began to spin in her mind, fine and sharp as woven fishing line. If Neteyam remembered everything—everything—then surely, he also remembered pain. Jealousy. Doubt. The flaws. The insecurities. And maybe… just maybe, if she sowed the right seed, it would take root.

She didn’t know about your moment with Lo’ak—how could she? But that didn’t stop her from making one up. She found the right voice, trembling, sweet, just innocent enough. She whispered it first to a pair of girls near the shore. “They say she was never loyal,” she sighed. “Even when Neteyam was still unconscious. I heard Lo’ak was always around. Maybe too much.” She knew how to pick the right moments. Who to speak near, she wasn’t foolish enough to name names or say it too directly. But whispers had power in a clan this tightly knit. “Did you see how Lo’ak always carries the boys around? It’s like they’re his.”

“I thought she moved on. I heard she and Neteyam weren’t… together when the baby came.”

“She and Lo’ak used to sneak off into the woods before dinner, remember?”

Lies. Crafted with care. Not wild ones, but the kind that sounded like they could be true. And they spread. Lina watched from the rocks, arms crossed, as you passed with Kiriya in your sling and Neteyam at your side, your boys trailing behind him, clinging to their father’s fingers. You were laughing. He was smiling—genuinely smiling. Her stomach twisted. It wasn’t fair.

She had earned him. She’d been there when no one else had. When he didn’t know his name, she had whispered it against his skin. When he forgot who he was, she told him he was hers. But that version of him—blank, open, lost—was slipping further away with each passing day. So, her smile turned thin and patient, her hands laced sweetly in her lap, but her eyes stayed sharp. Scheming. She wasn’t done. Not yet.

It started with whispers — again. You had exactly, one week of peace together. But this time, the whispers were about you. At first, Neteyam tried to ignore them. He wanted to. He wanted to stay focused on the life he was building back — the family dinners, the quiet moments with Kiriya curled into his chest, the way Eylan giggled when he tossed him into the shallows, Likan’s sticky kisses, your soft sleepy smile before dawn. That was his life. But the voices got louder.

“She was with Lo’ak even before the baby came, I heard.”

“I saw them, always together, before Neteyam woke up. Touching.”

“Maybe the little one isn’t even his. Look at her eyes.”

“You think that’s why Lo’ak always helps with the kids? Guilt?”

One thing Neteyam had learned since regaining his memories: gossip in the clan was like a storm on the sea. Small at first, and then suddenly everywhere, churning, devouring, crashing over every surface. And it hurt. It hurt more than anything had in the last few months — because he had forgiven you. You had told him everything. That one kiss. That one moment of weakness. And he knew you regretted it. You had been broken. Alone. You had never stopped loving him. He knew that. But now, it wouldn’t leave his mind, the noise of it. Over and over. What if there was more? What if everyone else knew something he didn’t? He tried to push it down. Until the final blow came. “Lo’ak said something once… he said he loved her. That’s what I heard.” Neteyam lost it.

The entire family was gathered, talking near the cluster of Sully-linked mauri when it exploded. You were inside yours with the kids, nursing Kiriya down for her nap, and Neteyam was supposed to be helping Jake with spear repairs — but his voice rang out loud enough to stop everything. “You swore it was only one kiss!” Neteyam’s voice cracked like thunder, loud and hurt and furious. “One mistake! And now I’m hearing that my daughter might not even be mine?! That you and my wife—” Jake stepped in immediately, pushing a hand against Neteyam’s chest. “Hey! Hey! Watch yourself—” Lo’ak’s face twisted in confusion and disbelief. “Bro—what the fuck are you talking about?”

“You knew she was mine!” Neteyam shouted at him, ignoring everyone else, fury pouring out of every muscle. “You stood by her while I was dying, and now I’m finding out you touched her? Loved her? Are you proud of that?” Lo’ak stumbled back, face blanching. “No. What—Neteyam, I never—! It wasn’t like that! You know that!” Neytiri’s voice sliced through the air. “Enough.” But it was too late. You stepped out of the mauri then — Kiriya in your sling, wide-eyed, blinking against the noise. You looked… shattered. Neteyam saw you. The pain on your face. The hurt. The sheer shock at what he was saying. And still — still — he couldn’t stop himself. “Did you sleep with him?” he asked, low now. “Tell me right now, if you ever—” Your eyes welled up. “How dare you?” Everyone froze. You backed away slowly, turning without another word, disappearing down the sand path.

And then, a day passed. Two. You barely left the mauri, save for fetching food for the kids, helping them bathe and nap. You didn’t want to see anyone. You didn’t want to see him. Which is exactly when she came. Lina, you didn’t realize it was her before, honestly you didn’t even know what she looked like, but then she started talking. Soft-voiced. Sweet-smiled. Innocent eyes. “Oh,” she said gently, “I just… I saw you out, and I wanted to say I’m so sorry for what everyone’s saying.” You didn’t respond. She stepped closer. “It must be hard, all the lies. But if anyone’s lying, it’s not you.” You blinked, confused. She leaned in, whispering. “Neteyam lied to me too. Said he wasn’t with you anymore. I wouldn’t have ever let it happen otherwise. But… he got me pregnant. So… I guess you’re not the only one he’s been lying to.” Silence. Your vision blacked out. You shoved Kiriya’s fruit basket into Lina’s chest and bolted.

The entire family saw it. The storm that broke next. You stormed into the Sully cluster of mauri, hair wild, eyes blazing, your body shaking with rage, and before Neteyam could say a word—your fist collided with his jaw. “Motherfucker.” He stumbled back, hand to his mouth. “Wha—?!”

“You accused me of things I never did! Sleeping with your brother?! And now—NOW I find out you got the girl pregnant?! After everything?!”

“What?! Wait, what the fuck are you talking about?!” You shoved him again, sobbing, your arms flailing, “I loved you. I forgave you! I took you back, I let you in our home! And the whole time—”

“She said I what…?” Neteyam asked again. Lo’ak repeated it, slowly, disbelief still etched into his features. “She told your wife… that you got her pregnant, bro.”

“She—” Neteyam shook his head, blinking fast like he could erase the whole moment. “No. No. I never… Eywa. I never even slept with her.” You scoffed bitterly, a sharp sound that cut deeper than your fist had. “Well, she says you did.”

“I didn’t!” Neteyam barked, stepping forward, eyes pleading. “We… we kissed. She touched me, I told you that. But I never— I never laid with her.” You held up your hand, cutting him off like a blade. “Don’t. I swear to Eywa, don’t come any closer.” He stopped dead in his tracks. Jake stepped forward. “We need to get to the bottom of this. Now.”

That’s when Kiri ran up, breathless. “I heard it,” she gasped. “The other girls were talking. It’s Lina. She started the rumors. She’s the one who said the baby might not be Neteyam’s. She’s been lying this whole time. I knew it. I knew something was off—” The entire family turned quiet. Everything made sense. The rumors. The whispers. The timing. Neytiri’s face went pale with rage. Jake’s jaw was clenched like stone. And you—broken, shaking, furious—you stepped back, whispering only: “I hope she’s worth it.” Neteyam didn’t say a word.

Because for once… he had none. The silence after your final words was thick and suffocating. Your voice still rang in everyone’s ears. Kiri stood stiffly off to the side, face pale and lips pressed tight, trying to catch her breath after rushing from the far reef. Neytiri stood close to her, a trembling hand on Kiri’s shoulder. Lo’ak had his hand on your back, trying to steady you as you held Kiriya close now, her tiny fists gripping your braid, confused by all the shouting. Likan and Eylan stood by Jake’s side, wide-eyed and silent, watching everything with the sense that something very, very big had just happened.

Neteyam’s lip was bleeding. A trickle ran down the side of his mouth, where your fist had landed hard. He didn’t wipe it. He didn’t move at all. Just stood there, heart pounding out of rhythm, staring at you like he couldn’t breathe. Jake crossed his arms, staring hard at Neteyam. “Then you need to find out the truth.”

“What?” Neteyam’s eyes darted from his father to you, shaking his head. “I told you. It’s not true.”

“You think I care what you say right now?” you hissed, voice low and deadly. Kiri took Kiriya from your arms gently, but your hands didn’t fall limp — they curled into fists again. “I stood in front of your family, of my family, and defended you when you asked for space. When you forgot me. When you kissed her. When she touched you. I let it go because I loved you enough to let you find your way back. And now this?” Neteyam opened his mouth, but you didn’t let him speak.

“You accused me of being unfaithful,” you said through your teeth. “Of letting your brother touch me. Of lying about our children. You believed the rumors without asking me first, and now you expect me to stand by and let you see her again? After she says you got her pregnant?”

You took one step closer, the fire from your soul blazing in your eyes. “I don’t care what you find out. I don’t care what she says. I don’t want you anywhere near that woman again. You walk into her mauri, Neteyam, and you stay there. You hear me?” He flinched at your words like they were lashes. Neytiri finally spoke, her voice cold, quiet. “She manipulated you. Lied. Twisted her way into this family’s peace. If you don’t find the truth, she will never stop.”

“And if she’s not pregnant?” Lo’ak asked warily. “If it’s just another lie?” Jake added grimly, “Tonowari and Ronal will deal with it.” Neteyam looked torn apart. His face was pale, expression twisted with a storm of pain. “I never wanted this.”

“But you made choices,” you said softly now, quieter. It was worse than yelling. “And now you live with them.”

“I’m sorry.” You scoffed. “You believed everything she said.”

“I didn’t! Not all of it, not really,” he argued, eyes desperate now. “But I— I wasn’t thinking. I was a mess. And she— she took advantage of that—” Lo’ak cut in, jaw tight. “Yeah, we know. But the damage is done. The clan’s talking like it’s already true.”

“I don’t care what the clan says!” you snarled. “I care about my children hearing lies that their father has another family!” Jake raised his hands, trying to calm the growing storm. “Enough. Both of you. We need to figure this out. Without sending Neteyam back there.”

Neteyam looked over at Jake now, lost. “How do we find out? If she won’t talk to anyone else, and I can’t—won’t—go near her?”

Kiri stepped forward slowly. “I might have a way.” Everyone turned to her. Kiri’s eyes were steady, serious now. “She talks to someone every day. A younger girl named Aluke. She was the first to start repeating the rumors about everything — about the baby not being yours. She might’ve overheard something else. She’s not very good at keeping her mouth shut.” You narrowed your eyes. “You think you can get her to talk?” Kiri tilted her head. “If she’s anything like she was as a child, yes. If not, I’ll figure out another way.” Lo’ak nodded. “If she’s saying too much, she’ll keep talking. Maybe she knows Lina’s real intentions. Maybe she even knows it’s a lie.”

“I’ll go with Kiri,” Neytiri said, jaw clenched. “That girl said she saw the kiss between you two.” Lo’ak grimaced. “That lie ends today, too,” Neytiri hissed. Jake nodded. “Good, go.” You didn’t speak again — just nodded, sharp and stiff, and turned back toward the mauri with your children. Neteyam reached out instinctively — not to stop you, but to be near you. “Ma yawne—” You turned your face just enough to look at him over your shoulder. There was no softness in your eyes. “I meant it,” you said again, low and quiet. “If you go near her, we’re done.” He watched as you disappeared inside with Kiriya on your hip, Likan trailing behind you sleepily, Eylan still gripping your hand tightly.

The night settled in around them like a heavy blanket, no stars visible behind the clouds. And all Neteyam could think, again and again, was: ‘what if it is… and I’ve destroyed everything anyway?’

The rain had started up again just before nightfall — soft and drizzling, tapping against the woven leaves of your mauri like a lullaby meant for someone else. Not for you. Not for the mess your life had become. You sat curled up against the far wall, knees pulled tight to your chest, your arms wrapped around them as Kiriya nursed at your breast, her soft suckling the only real sound in the room. Likan and Eylan were asleep on the furs, their small bodies curled up together near the low-burning fire pit, unaware of the storm — outside or inside.

Your face was damp, and not just from the rain that had kissed your skin earlier. You’d cried so hard your ribs ached. Your stomach burned. Your soul had frayed. You didn’t look up when you heard the flap of the doorway shift. Neteyam stepped in quietly, his shoulders hunched, eyes rimmed red and jaw tight. He was breathing like he’d run here — or maybe like he was trying not to scream. He saw you and stopped mid-step. You didn’t say anything. Couldn’t. “Can I talk to you?” he asked, softly. Like you were something fragile. Like the wrong word would break you for good.

You didn’t answer. Just stared down at Kiriya, who had stopped feeding and now blinked up at you sleepily, pawing at your chest. Neteyam took it as a maybe and came closer, crouching slowly beside you, careful not to disturb the boys. “I know you’re hurting,” he whispered. “And I deserve it. I do. I just— I need you to know something. Really know it.”

You finally looked at him. Your face was blotchy, lips trembling, eyes bloodshot. His heart cracked wide open. “I didn’t sleep with her,” he said, quickly, his voice raw. “No matter what she says, or what anyone says… I swear it on Eywa. On my soul. I didn’t. I never did.” You stared at him for a moment, like you weren’t sure if your heart could risk believing him again.

“She tried,” he said. “A lot. But every time… something pulled me back. It didn’t feel right. It never did. Even when I didn’t remember everything, there was something wrong about it. And I promise, I promise baby I told you everything. Everything that happened.” Your voice cracked when it came. “You touched her.”

“Yes,” he said honestly. “I did. And she touched me. I’m not going to lie to you. But it didn’t go further than that. I never let it. I never wanted to go all the way, even when I was confused. I didn’t let her stay with me. I didn’t let her into our home. I never crossed that line.” You choked. “Then how—how could you still accuse me?”

“I was scared,” he admitted, his voice nearly breaking. “I heard what people were saying and I thought… I thought maybe I deserved it. Maybe it was true and I— I couldn’t breathe. I lashed out. And I know it was wrong. I’m so sorry.” He dropped his head, resting his forehead on your knees. “I was stupid. I let myself get pulled into something I knew deep down wasn’t real. Not like this. Not like us. And now you’re hurting. And I did that. I did that.” You finally spoke again, whisper soft. “She said she’s pregnant.”

“I don’t care,” he said quickly. “If she is, it’s not mine. It can’t be. She’s lying. She has to be. And if she’s not… she was with someone else.” You stared at him, your hand resting on Kiriya’s back. “Why would she say it, then?”

“Because she knew I was slipping away,” he said. “I stopped going. I stopped touching her. I came home. She saw. She knew I remembered. That’s why she did this. To punish me. To keep you from forgiving me.” Your bottom lip quivered. “You don’t deserve forgiveness.”

“I know. But I’ll spend the rest of my life earning it if you’ll let me.” A silence passed. The sound of Kiriya’s breath. The fire crackling. A gust of wind outside. You wiped your cheek with the back of your hand. “I don’t believe she’s carrying your child.” Neteyam’s eyes met yours, startled.

“I don’t believe her,” you repeated. “Because I know you. Even with your memory gone, I knew who you were. You wouldn’t do that. You wouldn’t give her that. You could make mistakes, sure. But that? No.” His throat bobbed. “I swear I didn’t.”

“I believe you.” Tears welled in his eyes, falling freely now. “Thank you.”

“I’m still angry,” you added quickly. “I’m so angry. I’m not ready to just… be okay. But I needed to hear it from you. That it wasn’t true.” He nodded, eyes shining. “I’ll take whatever you can give me.”

“I can’t give much,” you whispered. “I’ll still be here.” You exhaled slowly, eyes falling to the sleeping boys, then to Kiriya now curled against your shoulder. “I need you to be the father they deserve. Not the man that woman wanted you to be.”

“I will be,” he whispered. “I swear, yawne. No more lies. No more her.” Your lip trembled again. “You’re not allowed to leave us again.”

“I won’t.” He reached out, gently covering your hand with his.

The fire had burned low. The boys still slept, warm and safe beneath the woven furs. Kiriya dozed in your arms again, her soft little face pressed against your bare chest, one tiny hand curled at your throat. You rocked her absently, though your eyes stayed locked on the flames.

Neteyam hadn’t moved far. He knelt just beside you still, silent, watching the way you held your daughter. The weight of everything hung between you — grief, pain, betrayal, but also something else. The flicker of something alive. Something trying to bloom back to life in the ash of everything you’d survived.

When Kiriya let out a soft sigh, eyes fluttering fully closed, you shifted and began to lower her gently to the mat, tucking her into the blankets beside her brothers. You stroked her cheek once and then let yourself sit back — your hands trembling from the storm you hadn’t yet shaken loose. Then… Neteyam reached for you. Slow. Gentle.

His hands came to your waist first, then slipped around your back, tugging you into him. You let it happen, though your arms stayed limp at your sides, your face burying into his shoulder automatically as your body began to tremble again. Not loud, not dramatic. Just deep, silent sobs. The kind that come when the worst has already passed, and all that’s left is the exhaustion of surviving it. He rocked you gently. “Ma yawne,” he whispered, over and over. “Oeyä yawne. I’m so sorry. I’m here. I’m here.”

His hands rubbed up and down your spine, anchoring you against him, his breath warm at your temple. You clung to him then, arms looping tightly around his chest, pulling yourself into his warmth as if you could melt into him and never have to leave. “Forgive me,” he whispered, voice trembling. “Please. I’ll say it every day. I’ll say it in my sleep. I’ll never stop saying it. But you have to know — I never stopped loving you. Even when I didn’t know who I was… something in me always knew you.”

You pulled back just enough to look at him. His face was wet with tears, his eyes searching yours like he was still begging to be allowed this moment. And you nodded. “Then show me,” you whispered. “Show me, ma Neteyam.” He blinked. “Are you sure?” You nodded again, slow and full of meaning. “I want to feel you again. All of you.” He inhaled sharply, heart pounding, and then — reverently, slowly — he reached for your kuru. The moment he touched it, your chest fluttered, and your hands instinctively rose to the braid at the base of his skull. Together… you connected. Tsahaylu. And in an instant — the world shifted.

You gasped softly as everything came crashing in. The pain he’d been holding onto. The regret. The confusion. The shame. And then—underneath it, rising like the tide—the love. So much love. You felt it — how he’d carried your voice in his soul even when he didn’t know it was yours. How home had always been the sound of your laugh. How the dreams haunted him because you were in every one of them — your smile, your body, your touch. How much he missed being yours. Being Neteyam — your Neteyam. And you let him feel everything too.

The moment your belly swelled with Kiriya, and you lay awake at night just praying he’d live to see her. The quiet strength you held for your boys every day while breaking inside. The ache of being forgotten. The pain of being blamed. The unbearable longing for his arms, his voice, his eyes full of love. How you still wore his courting token in your hair every day. How even after everything — you still loved him. Still chose him. A choked breath left his throat, and he crushed you into his chest again, one hand cradling your head, the other spreading across your back.

“I can’t believe I forgot I had this,” he whispered hoarsely. “Everything. Every moment. Every promise I made. I meant them all.”

“I know,” you whispered back, your breath catching as more tears fell, softer this time. Cleansing. “I know, ma tìyawn. So did I.” He kissed your hair, your cheek, your temple, tenderly, over and over like he couldn’t stop. His hands shook against your skin. “I don’t deserve your forgiveness,” he murmured.

“You already have it,” you said quietly. “You always did. You were sick, Neteyam. Lost. But I knew you’d find your way.”

“And you waited,” he whispered. “Even when I was breaking your heart.”

“I prayed for you every night,” you said. “I loved you even when it hurt.” He pulled back and touched your cheek with such reverence it made your eyes sting all over again. “I don’t know how I ever looked at another woman when you were right here.” You let out a broken laugh, and he laughed too, just a little, brushing his nose against yours. “You’re such an idiot,” you whispered, watery and smiling. “Biggest skxawng in the clan,” he agreed softly.

You both stayed there for a long time — connected, bonded, whole — until the fire burned down to embers and the soft rise and fall of your children’s breathing filled the quiet night. For the first time in moons, you weren’t broken anymore. You were together You looked up at him, your fingers still trembling in his. Your tears had dried, but their weight clung to your chest. The soft glow of the lantern in the corner of the mauri cast golden light over Neteyam’s face, over the worry in his brow, the love in his eyes.

You had missed him. Missed the warmth of him. The way his arms felt like protection. The way his presence calmed the storm in your chest like nothing else ever could. His hand rose to brush your cheek, thumb grazing softly over the edge of your jaw. “You’re still the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” he whispered, his voice low, reverent, full of ache. Your breath caught. “You don’t have to say that just because you remember now.”

“I’m not,” he murmured. “I’m saying it because I feel it. Because I’ve always felt it.” Then he kissed you. Slowly, gently—like a prayer, like an apology, like a promise. His lips moved with care, like he was relearning the shape of you, the rhythm of your breath. You shifted carefully until you were straddling his lap, your hands slid up his arms, his shoulders, anchoring yourself to him as his fingers trailed down your sides, not rushed or demanding—but familiar.

He paused, eyes locking with yours. “Can I…?” he asked, voice quiet, but full of need. Full of reverence. You nodded, breathless, pulling him closer. He leaned in again, lips brushing your temple, your cheek, the corner of your mouth. “I want to take every doubt out of your body,” he whispered. “Every lie she told, every word I ever said that made you feel less.”

Slowly, tenderly, he slid away the fabric of your chest wrap, revealing skin he hadn’t touched in what felt like years. He kissed every place he uncovered—your collarbone, the hollow of your throat, your shoulder. His hands were careful, steady, full of quiet devotion.

“I missed you,” he said against your skin. “The way you laugh. The way you look when you hold our children. The way your eyes soften when you’re teasing me. I remember all of it now.” You breathed in shakily, fingers in his hair. “Then show me.” And he did. Every kiss was a promise. Every whisper a vow. No rush. No demands. Just the slow, sacred return to something only the two of you had ever shared. To something no one—not even memory loss, not even betrayal—could truly erase. When he finally held you in his arms, skin to skin, soul to soul, the weight you’d been carrying fell away. You weren’t just forgiving each other. You were finding your way back home.

His hands moved with a reverence that made your breath catch, as if every part of you deserved to be memorized all over again. And maybe you did—maybe he did, too. His lips traveled slowly, unhurried, pressing to every dip and curve like he was rediscovering sacred ground. Neteyam was about to lay you down onto the mat but then the Likan shifted, and you both paused looking over at him. Instead, you silently pointed to the fur rug in front of the fireplace, and he lifted you effortlessly, laying you down in front of the warmth.

When he kissed down your body, over your chest, the soft skin of your stomach, and lower, you gasped, a quiet sound that broke somewhere between relief and longing. Your fingers curled against the blankets beneath you, your eyes fluttering shut. It wasn’t just the sensation of his mouth or the trail of heat he left in his wake, it was what it meant. It was him choosing you—not out of duty, not because memory demanded it, but because his heart knew it. Because he remembered. Because he wanted to.

You felt it in the way his lips lingered. In the way his hands steadied your hips like you were something precious. In the way he paused, looking up at you with dark, reverent eyes before continuing, like asking for permission even now. Your heart thudded in your chest, overwhelming and fragile. You whispered his name. Not in desperation—but in awe. He smiled. Softly. Like he knew what this meant. It wasn’t frantic or rushed. It wasn’t about need. It was about presence. You had him again. All of him. The weight of his body, the brush of his breath, the worship in his touch. And for the first time in so long, you weren’t surviving. You were living. You were loved.

Neteyam’s lips brushed your collarbone, slow and warm, and you gasped softly half-laughter, half-need. “You’re laughing?” he murmured against your skin, lips curving into a smile. You giggled breathlessly, your fingers brushing through his braids. “It tickles,” you whispered, voice catching. “You’re not usually this slow.” He chuckled, dragging his lips to your neck. “I’ve been gone a while,” he said lowly, “I think I’m allowed to savor my wife.”

You bit your lip. “You’re lucky I missed you.” He lifted his head just long enough to meet your eyes. “Missed me? Or missed this?” His hand slid along your thigh, deliberate but gentle. You grinned. “Don’t act like you don’t know.”

“I want to hear you say it,” he teased, voice dipping as he nipped at your shoulder. “Fine,” you breathed, a flush blooming over your cheeks. “I missed your mouth… and your hands… and the way you—” You broke off with a gasp as he found a spot that made you squirm. “There?” he said with a smirk, nosing into your neck. You shoved at his chest, laughing. “You’re so smug.”

“Only when I’ve earned it.” You arched slightly, brushing your lips against his ear. “You haven’t yet.” His growl was soft but promising. “Challenge accepted.” You both laughed, your bodies close, breaths mingling. Then he stilled for a moment, his forehead resting against yours. “You’re still the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” he said, voice barely a whisper. “I thought I’d never remember what you felt like. But now… I’ll never forget again.” Your eyes stung, heart pounding. “Then don’t ever leave me again, mighty warrior.” He leaned in, brushing your lips with his. “Never,” he promised.

Your breath hitched as his mouth wandered lower, slow and reverent, and your hand found its way to his hair. “You always do this,” you murmured, voice trembling with a smile. “Do what?” His voice was low, warm against your skin. “Take your time… like you’re unwrapping a gift.” He chuckled. “You are a gift. I’ve been starving, yawntu. Let me taste what I nearly lost.” His lips kissed down and around both your breast before kissing your nipple softly, his lips dragged against the harden nub You blushed hard at his words, shivering under his touch. “You’re saying things that make my knees weak,” you whispered.

“Good,” he said, tongue darting out to give you a tantalizing, slow flick. “Because I remember now. I remember exactly how to make you fall apart.” You gasped, laughing lightly, trying to tug him back up to kiss you, but he resisted, trailing his fingers up your sides instead. “No, no,” he teased, grinning against your skin. “You said I hadn’t earned it yet.” You whined. “Neteyam…”

“Say it again.” His tone was softer now, tender. “Say my name like that.” He moved his head down after biting your nipple and tugging softly making a little mess in his mouth. “Neteyam.” Your voice cracked on it, raw and breathless. He kissed down the curve of your ribs, slow and steady. “There it is.” A pause. “You always said it like that. Like it was sacred.”

“It is,” you whispered, cupping his face and drawing him up to you. “You are.” He kissed you then — slow, searching, aching — and as he hovered above you, his forehead pressed to yours, your legs tangled beneath the covers, you felt the shift. “Do you remember this part too?” you asked shyly, teasing. He laughed softly. “I remember everything to know you used to beg.” You let out a scandalized gasp. “I did not.”

“You did,” he said with a smug smile. “Especially when I’d tease these cute nipples with my tongue and my fingers….and when I sucked on your pretty clit and stuck my tongue in this tight little hole.” He leaned down and whispered something in your ear that made you swat at his arm, breathless and flushed. His fingers ran down your body, all the way dow between your bare thighs to rub small light circles on your clit, making you whimper “Fuck…!” you said, burying your face in his neck.

“You love it,” he whispered against your shoulder. “I love you,” you corrected, breath heavy on his neck as you kissed under his ear He froze, just for a moment but didn’t stop his movements. Then his voice broke as he said, “Say it again.” you repeated, one hand over his heart. “I love you…Always.”

“Even now?” You nodded. “Especially now.” He exhaled like he’d been holding his breath for months. “Then let me show you how much I love you too,” he whispered. “Yes please…” you whisper as he worked his was down once more, smiling as he already got that little ‘please’ out of you. His head disappeared under the thin blanket, kissing and sucking the skin of your thighs, grazing his fangs and sometimes biting like he really was getting taste out of the act. Your moaned softly into the air having to control your voice now more than ever, not wanting to be interrupted. Neteyam’s hands wrapped around your thighs pulling you closer and tossing your legs over his shoulders, his breath lingered on your core making you clench around nothing before you felt his mouth on you.

His tongue worked magic between your thighs, hit the spots he had hit perfected for years, as if it was the only thing in the world he was supposed to remember. It’s been so long since felt him you didn’t realize you’d want to cum so fast, his tongue flicked up and down, side to side making you arch your back and whimpers escape from your lips. Your hands tangled into his braids tugging him closer as if his face could be anymore buried in you. He sucked on your clit making your eyes go wide and your grip tighten in his hair as you hiss into the air, “oh…oh my Eywa…” you whispered clenching your teeth and squeezing your eyes shut as he fucked his tongue into you, it only took a few sweet thrust before you were cuming on his tongue, your essence messing up his face, your thighs, and leaking down his chin to his neck as he lapped you up sweetly.

His head rose from the blanket as you were trying to catch your breath, he looked very pleased with himself. He wiped his face with the back of his hand before hovering over you again, his fingers trailing down to your core as he kissed you again letting you taste your cum on his tongue, it was sweet, like the flowers he picked for you yesterday. Your thighs twitched as his fingers made may to your hole, but you stopped him, “Ma Teyam…” you mumbled against his lips. He pulled away and looked down at you, “what is it sweetheart?”

You bit your lip at his sweet nickname and took a breath, “don’t…. don’t put your fingers in..” Neteyam tilted his head at your request, it’s been months since the last time you had sex he wasn’t to stretch you out, so it doesn’t hurt as much, and he was about to say so before you spoke again. “Want your cock to stretch me out…wanna feel it” you bit your lip and smile up at him sweetly, as if the most vile words ever didn’t just come out of you. Neteyam let his fingers pause where they were toying between your folds, rubbing against your tight hole and look he gave you was wrecked. “Oh, Great Mother…” His groan punched from his chest like he’d been struck.

You snorted through your nose, half laughing, half breathless. “Shh, the kids are asleep, ma Teyam—” You put a finger to his lips, wide-eyed. “Do not wake them.” He caught your wrist, kissed your fingertip, his voice rough and dark: “Then stop saying things that make me forget we even have children.”

He dipped his head into the crook of your neck, panting hard, his hand that was between your legs now gripped tight on your hips. “You can’t say things like that.” His voice was wrecked, trembling. You tilted your head sweetly. “Why not?” He growled, lifting his head to look at you, eyes ablaze. “Because I’m trying to be gentle, and that…” —he kissed you hard, teeth grazing your lip— “makes me want to ruin you.” You gasped into his mouth, heart pounding. His hands roamed now, slow but more desperate.

“Stars, yawntu,” he muttered, his forehead resting against yours. “You’re going to kill me.” You giggled — quiet and sinful. “You keep saying that.” He groaned again, softer this time, but no less strained. “Don’t do that, don’t laugh like that after you didn’t just say the nastiest thing to me” which made you giggle again. “You want me just like this?” he whispered, voice dipping low, dangerously low. “Want my cock in you just like that?” He asked as if he was confirming that’s what you so desperately wanted. You nodded, lips parted, breathing shallow. And the fire in him roared. “You’re playing a dangerous game.” But even as he said it, he was already gone for you.

His body shifted again, ridding himself of his loincloth now hanging, hard and heavy between his strong thighs over cunt. Before his hand could, you swiped your fingers on your tongue giving them a nice wet lick before grabbing his cock in your hand, your stroked it softly and his body tensed, “oh fuck—great mother” he cursed dropping his head down, so your foreheads touched. “That feel good baby?” You whisper into his mouth as your lips brush, but you didn’t kiss.

“S-so good…” he matched your tone, strained. “My poor husband…so touch starved..” you giggle wickedly but it was still so, so hot to him. “You missed me muntaxtan? Missed the way I touched you? Stroked your cock?” Your words were hot down his throat he couldn’t breathe, so he nodded against you, brushing your skin close, quiet, hot. Like you’d just created a whole world for this moment. “Wanna fuck me muntaxtan?” He nodded again, hand running down your body to grip his out cock over your hand, “yea? Do it…fuck me, put it in muntaxtan…” you edged him as your jaw went slack as he entered you. Slowly, like he was memorizing how ever ridge on his cock, how every bugling vein felt going into your sweet, hot, cunt.

His jaw matched yours swallowing all the moans you let out, with every inch of his thick cock stretching you open. His eyes shut to calm himself, he felt like he could cum on the spot. “Oh…Eywa” you moaned and his eyes darted open, taking in your furrowed brows and heavy panting. His cock was only halfway in at this point, and he stopped, moving back and forth giving you a few shallow thrusts, “calling for God baby? Eywa’s not fucking you, my cock is fucking you…say my name.” His voice was soft but commanding. Your legs wrapped around your waist, one over the other on his back, his tails wrapped around your ankle and yours around his thigh. Neteyam dug his cock deeper in, until he was fulling you completely, cock snug in your cock, “f-fuck…Neteyam.” You whispered into his mouth making him smile, “that’s my good girl…so perfect for me…so good at taking instructions.”

Your eyes rolled you swear you was your brain when he started to move, shallow thrusts at first, balls slapping your skin softly as you took him in. “ah, ah, ah…” you went softly moaning against him. Your hands went up and over his shoulder to his back, digging into the skin as he started to spreed up his thrust. Your moaned start to get louder but he smiled and locked your lips in his kiss, swallowing all your noises, “shh baby…gonna wake the kids and I don’t wanna stop…” his tongue invaded your mouth quickly finding dominance over yours. It was sloppy and wet; you could barely kiss him back feeling him drag his cock against your sweet spot. His thrusts continued to get faster and faster until he was pounding into you, your entire body shook with his movements, but he kept you grounded, complete covered by him.

Your back arched off the soft mat, bringing your chest closer to his. His elbows hit the mat next to you bringing himself impossibly closer. “Oh—oh just like that…please tey—teyam..” you moaned into his mouth, and he let out a grunt. “Just like that?” He repeated moving a little harder and you lost the ability to kiss completely, as you nodded against him. Then suddenly he pulled out completely, you let out a whine in frustration, but it didn’t last long, his hands moved you without a thought, pushing you over onto your side and sliding into the spot behind you, back pressed against his chest facing the fireplace. His hand moved down to grip your right thigh pulling your entire leg up into the air as he effortlessly slides his cock back into your warmth with practiced ease.

Your stomach did flips when he started fucking you again, your hands gripping his arm that ended up under your neck and around the upper half of your body and you bit down on his bicep to keep from getting too loud. Your eyes were teary at this new depth, the way he just fit so perfectly into your cunt like you were made just for him. You sniffled leaning back against him wanting to be as close as possible while made him chuckle, “keep your leg up.” He commanded and took your hand bringing it down to your lower stomach where his cock bugles out and pressing down. You chocked on air feeling his cock move in and out of you, heightened the sensitivity, it was as if he knew (which he did) that spot would over activate your sweet spot. Your eyes widened and your jaw went slack once more; you couldn’t help the moans that escaped you. But he could, he gripped your lower face turning you to kiss him again swallowing up your moans, “feel that baby?” He whispered against your lips, “that’s how good I make you feel, you love it when I pump this cunt full huh?” He asked and you nodded frantically, “yes…yes yes yes feels so good…”

Neteyam smiled into your lips once again, “fuck you’re clenching so hard baby…gonna cum on my cock?” He asked speeding up his thrust once more, he was close too he wanted you to cum with him, and when you confirmed through a heavy moan you were close, he fucked info you faster. His grip tightened and so did yours, his hand that was in your stomach moved—with yours— back around your right thigh intertwining your fingers together as he fucked you. Your release hit you like a rough wave as he emptied himself in you at the same time. Neteyam came so much while his cock was thrusting more and more cum into you, he filled you to the brim, so much so that it leaked out the sides of your cunt even though he was still inside you.

You both came down from your high, cock still snug in you, and his hand rubbed up and down the side of your body, then he stopped and wrapped around you even more holding you there against him, the way it was always meant to be. “That was incredible” you bummed out making him chuckle. “I love you muntaxtan” you whispered to him, eyes closing. “I love you more tìyawn.” He said as he kissed your skin softly.

The fire crackled softly in front of you, casting flickering gold over the quiet curve of your back. The thin woven sheet barely covered the two of you, tangled between legs and limbs as you lay tucked between Neteyam’s arms, your back to his chest. His breath brushed the curve of your neck, slow and even now, but his fingers hadn’t stopped tracing patterns into your skin. Outside, the night sang with insects and the ocean’s lullaby. Inside, it was still. Warm. Full.

Neteyam’s voice broke the silence gently, quiet and husky, his chin resting just above your shoulder. “I used to think home was a place. Forest. Sky. Clan.” You hummed softly, fingers brushing over his as they danced across your stomach. He paused, then pressed a kiss to the back of your shoulder, reverent and slow. “But I know now… home isn’t a place.” He paused. “Home is who you fight for. Who you crawl back to. Who you breathe for.” Another kiss, this one behind your ear. You felt the lump rise in your throat. He whispered it into your skin like it was prayer. “Home is You.”

You turned your face toward him, eyes full and glistening, and he kissed you. A soft, sacred kiss — not rushed, not fiery — just full of love. Of peace. Of truth. In that moment, with your body tucked to his, the fire warming your feet, and the stars peeking through the cracks in the thatched ceiling, everything was exactly as it should be. You smiled against his mouth, your voice a whisper. “And you’re mine.” He pulled you closer. Held you tighter. And there, beneath the soft songs of night and the gentle crackle of fire, the story that once felt like it shattered — finally felt whole again.

💜 Likes comments and reblogs are always appreciated.

💜I hope you all enjoyed reading this, honestly I tried to make it as realistic as possible, relationships are messy, especially when trauma is involved. So please any feedback I’d love to hear, and any ideas are welcome!

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The first time Tim met you, you were healing Bart Allen’s broken arm in the middle of a ruined parking garage while three League members argued with a sentient weather machine above your heads. Bart had taken the hit saving a child from a collapsing stairwell. He was vibrating too hard from pain and adrenaline, his words blurring into one long stream of panic.

“It’s fine, it’s fine, it’s fine, I mean it is super not fine but it’s fine because bones are supposed to be inside and this one is mostly still inside, which is a win, right? That’s a win. I’m calling that a win—”

You knelt in front of him, calm as moonlight.

“Bart,” you said. He stopped talking. Tim, who had known Bart long enough to understand what a miracle that was, immediately became suspicious. You held your hands a few inches away from Bart’s arm. “Can I help?”

Bart blinked fast. “Yes, please, because I’m trying very hard not to look and I looked three times already because my eyes are traitors.”

“Okay,” you said. “Look at me instead.”

You placed both hands around the break. Tim watched from ten feet away with a half-functional tablet tucked under one arm, blood drying at his temple and smoke staining his cape.

Warm light flickered beneath your fingers. Bart’s breathing steadied. His arm straightened. The swelling vanished. The bone shifted back into place with no visible incision, no external force, no residual damage.

Tim’s brain immediately began screaming. Because that was not possible. Or, more accurately, it was possible in at least nineteen different ways, and Tim hated not knowing which one he was looking at. Magic. Metagene. Divine intervention. Alien biology. Sympathetic energy transfer. Reality manipulation. Accelerated cellular repair. Time displacement. Wish magic. Lazarus-adjacent biofield reconstruction.

He made a list in his head. He always made lists.

Bart flexed his healed hand.

“Oh,” Bart said softly. “Whoa.”

You smiled. “Better?”

“Way better. Like, extremely better. Like, can-I-hug-you better? Is that weird? That might be weird.”

You laughed. “It’s not weird.”

Bart hugged you. You hugged him back. For one second, your face changed over Bart’s shoulder.

Only one.

Your eyes squeezed shut. Your jaw tightened. Your right hand trembled where it rested against Bart’s back. Then Bart pulled away, and you were smiling again.

Tim noticed. He did not know what it meant yet. That part came later.

At first, you were simply a variable. That was how Tim thought of you in the beginning, which he would later admit was objectively terrible and emotionally avoidant. But in his defence, he was seventeen, sleep-deprived, and had once tried to categorise his grief responses by operational impact.

So. A variable. A healer with inconsistent output cost, undefined limitations, and an alarming tendency to run toward active injury sites with no armour beyond stubbornness and a jacket with too many pockets.

You worked with everyone. Justice League emergencies. Titans fallout. Outlaws extractions. Young Justice chaos, which was its own category of medical nonsense because Kon, Bart, and Cassie could turn “reconnaissance” into “whoops, we angered a subterranean crystal cult” before lunch.

You were not officially assigned to Young Justice. You just kept showing up. Tim assumed Batman had coordinated it. Then he asked Bruce, and Bruce said, “I assumed you had.”

That was the first red flag. The second was that you never filed complete medical reports. They were accurate where it mattered: injury type, patient status, treatment applied, recovery expectations. But the sections on energetic cost, healer strain, and post-treatment symptoms were vague enough to qualify as modern art.

Fatigue. Mild drain. Temporary side effects. Resolved with rest.

Tim hated vague. Vague got people killed.

He started watching you more carefully. Not in a creepy way. Probably.

Mostly probably.

“You’re staring,” Cassie said one night in the Mount Justice kitchen.

Tim blinked and looked down at his laptop. “No, I’m not.”

“You were staring at the wall.”

“I was thinking.”

“You were thinking at the wall?”

“Yes.”

She leaned over his shoulder. “Is this about the healer?”

“No.”

His screen was open to a spreadsheet titled HEALING INCIDENT CORRELATION. Cassie stared at it. 

Kon walked in, took one look, and grinned. “Oh, it is definitely about the healer.”

Tim closed the laptop. Too late.

Bart appeared beside him in a blur, cereal bowl in hand. “Are we talking about our magic doctor? I like them. They have very chill vibes. Like if a weighted blanket became a person.”

“They are not a magic doctor,” Tim said automatically.

Kon leaned against the counter. “So you admit you’ve thought about it.”

“I think about everything.”

“Yeah, but you think about them in italics.”

Tim frowned. “That sentence has no meaning.”

Cassie patted his shoulder. “It has a lot of meaning.”

“It really does,” Bart added.

Tim stood. “I’m leaving.”

Kon pointed at the laptop. “Take your totally normal crush spreadsheet.”

“It is not a crush spreadsheet.”

“It has colour coding,” Cassie said.

“For incident severity.” Tim left.

He kept the spreadsheet. Obviously.

The problem was that the data did not fit. When you healed minor injuries, you seemed tired. Normal enough. Energy expenditure was expected. When you healed severe injuries, you disappeared.

After Bart’s arm, you missed two days of check-ins and returned wearing long sleeves despite the heat. After Cassie took a magical blade through the shoulder and you closed the wound, you did not use your left arm normally for twenty-six hours. After Kon was exposed to red solar radiation and you stabilised his cellular damage, you spent the next three days avoiding bright light and loud sound. After Tim himself got hit with a concussion grenade in Prague and you pressed your fingers to his temples until the world stopped spinning, you looked almost sick afterwards.

He remembered that one too well. He had been sitting on the floor of a safehouse bathroom, back against the tub, trying to convince himself that two of everything was better than zero of everything. His head throbbed so badly he could feel his pulse behind his eyes.

You crouched in front of him.

“Tim,” you said softly. He focused on your voice because your face would not stop doubling. “You need a scan.”

“Did one.”

“You tried to scan yourself with a cracked domino mask and a toaster.”

“It was a modified toaster.”

You looked at him for a long second. Then, inexplicably, laughed. The sound went through him like warm tea.

Tim blinked at you. “You think I’m concussed.”

“I know you’re concussed.”

“I’m fine.”

“You tried to weaponise breakfast technology.”

He considered this. Then nodded, which was a mistake because the bathroom tilted. You caught his shoulder before he could slump sideways. His breath hitched. Your hand went still.

“Is this okay?” you asked.

Tim looked at your hand. Then at your face. You had already healed Cassie that night. You looked tired, shadows under your eyes, mouth pale. He should have said no.

He said, “Yes.”

Your thumb moved slightly against his shoulder. “I can help with the concussion,” you said.

“Risk?”

“Minimal.”

He would think about that word later. For months.

Minimal. Not none.

Minimal to whom?

But at the time, his head hurt and your hand was warm and he was so tired of being another thing the team had to worry about.

“Okay,” he said.

You touched his temples. Warmth spread through his skull.

The pain dissolved. Tim inhaled sharply. His vision cleared. The nausea vanished. The world clicked back into alignment, sharp and bright.

You pulled your hands away. Your lips parted. For half a second, you looked lost. Then you smiled. “Better?”

Tim stared. “Yes.”

“Good.”

You stood too quickly. He caught your wrist.

You froze. Tim let go immediately. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay.”

“You’re pale.”

“I just healed a concussion.”

“Do you have a concussion?”

Your expression changed. Small. Almost invisible. There. That was the moment, though Tim did not know it yet. The first piece of the puzzle turning over.

“No,” you said.

Lie. Soft as a blanket.

Tim’s eyes narrowed.

You smiled again. “Rest, Red Robin.”

Then you left.

He slept for fourteen hours. You missed the morning briefing. When you came back, you wore sunglasses indoors.

Tim noticed.

The first real conversation between you happened at 4:13 in the morning in the Mount Justice medbay, because apparently nobody in the hero community had ever heard of normal social timing.

Tim was awake. This was not unusual. Tim being awake at 4:13 in the morning was so common that Bart once put a sticky note on the coffee machine reading: Good morning, Tim! Or good night? Or please sleep? Circle one. Tim had circled written no underneath.

You found him sitting on a medbay cot with three open tablets, two empty coffee cups, and a self-applied bandage around his upper arm that was objectively bad.

You stopped in the doorway. Tim looked up. You looked at the bandage. He looked at the bandage.

You said, “Absolutely not.”

“It’s functional.”

“It is offensive.”

“To who?”

“Medicine.”

You crossed the room and stood in front of him with your hands on your hips.

Tim lifted his chin. “It stopped bleeding.”

“That is the lowest possible bar.”

“It’s a practical bar.”

“It’s a basement bar.”

“Still a bar.”

You stared at him. Tim stared back. Then your mouth twitched. “You’re impossible.”

“I’ve been told.”

“By everyone?”

“Statistically likely.”

You held out your hand. Tim hesitated. Your expression softened. “May I fix the bandage? Not heal it. Just fix the crime scene you made with gauze.”

Tim looked down at his arm. Then back at you. “Yes.”

You sat beside him and began unwrapping the bandage. Your fingers were gentle. Tim hated noticing that. Not because he disliked gentleness.

Because he liked it. That was worse.

“That needs stitches,” you said.

“It doesn’t.”

“It does.”

“I can do them.”

“I’m sure you can. I can also cut my own hair. That doesn’t mean anyone should let me.”

Tim looked at you. “Do you cut your own hair?”

“Not the point.”

“It explains some things.”

You gasped. “Rude.” His mouth twitched. You smiled triumphantly. “There. Almost a laugh.”

“It was not.”

“It wanted to be.”

“You’re projecting.”

“You’re bleeding.”

“That was abrupt.”

“Useful redirect.”

He studied you while you cleaned the wound. “You do that often.”

“What?”

“Redirect.”

Your hands paused for less than a second. Tim logged it. You resumed. “Only when people ask annoying questions.”

“I haven’t asked one.”

“You were about to.”

Correct. That was annoying.

He watched you thread a suture needle. “What happens to you after you heal someone?”

You did not look up. “Fatigue.”

“Always?”

“Usually.”

“What else?”

“Tim.”

He liked the way you said his name. That was inconvenient.

“Is there pain?” he asked.

You pulled the first stitch through his skin. He did not flinch. You did. Barely. But you did.

Tim’s gaze sharpened.

“Sometimes,” you said.

“What kind?”

“The kind that happens when powers get used.”

“That is not specific.”

“It wasn’t meant to be.”

“You should document it.”

Your mouth curved, but your eyes stayed serious. “And you should sleep.”

“I document things while sleep-deprived all the time.”

“I’m aware. I’ve seen your handwriting after hour thirty-six.”

“My handwriting is efficient.”

“Your handwriting looks like a spider had a panic attack.”

Tim looked offended. You laughed.

He should have continued the interrogation. Instead, he watched you smile.

Bad. Very bad.

By the time you finished stitching him up, the medbay had gone quiet around you both. You taped gauze over the wound and sat back.

“There,” you said. “Less criminal.”

“Thank you.”

You blinked, like gratitude still surprised you. Then your face softened. “You’re welcome.”

Tim looked down at his arm. Your stitches were neat. Better than his would have been, probably.

Definitely. Annoying.

“Why are you awake?” he asked.

You leaned back on your hands. “Why are you?”

“Work.”

“Same.”

“You don’t have work right now.”

“Neither do you.”

“I always have work.”

“That sounds exhausting.”

“It is.”

You were quiet for a moment. Then you said, “Do you know how to stop?”

Tim looked at you. Your voice had changed. Still light. Still gentle. But there was something under it. Recognition.

He answered honestly, which surprised him. “No.”

You nodded like you had expected that. “Me neither.”

That was the first time Tim realised you were not just kind. You were familiar. Not because you were like him exactly. You were warmer. Softer around the edges. Better at making people feel held. But underneath that, there was the same engine. The same terrible logic.

If you could help, you had to. If you could endure, you should. If pain had to go somewhere, better you than someone else.

Tim did not know the whole truth yet. But some part of him understood the shape of you before the facts arrived.

That was dangerous too. Facts could be managed. Feelings were rude.

Your relationship with Tim developed in increments so small neither of you noticed until Kon started making gagging noises whenever you entered the same room.

There was coffee first. Tim had terrible coffee habits. This was not news. This was an established international problem. You discovered that he took coffee so strong it could reasonably be used to strip paint, then started replacing every third cup with tea.

Tim noticed immediately. He drank it anyway.

The next week, he modified the medbay kettle so it boiled water twenty-three per cent faster.

You stared at it. “Did you optimise my tea?”

“No.”

The kettle beeped. Tim looked at it. You looked at Tim.

“It was inefficient,” he said.

Your smile was slow and bright. Tim looked away.

Then there were the notes.

You left reminders on his laptop.

Eat something with protein. Your wrist brace is in the left drawer. Stop clenching your jaw. Yes, you. If this is still open after 2 a.m., I’m telling Cassie.

Tim responded with notes of his own.

Hydrate. Rest after major healing. Your supply cabinet inventory system was objectively chaotic. Fixed. Painkillers are not a personality trait.

You wrote beneath that one: Neither is detective work, beloved hypocrite.

Tim stared at the word beloved for nine full minutes. Kon found him like that.

“Oh my God,” Kon said. “You’re buffering.”

“I’m not.”

“You totally are. Do you need to reboot? Should I call Oracle?”

Tim closed the laptop. “Leave.”

“You’re red.”

“Out.”

Kon floated out backward, grinning. “Buffering!”

After notes came field coordination.

You were good in a crisis. Not just good at healing. Good. You knew how to read a battlefield by sound. You could tell the difference between fear and shock, between a civilian hiding and an enemy waiting. You listened to comms like they were music and found the one thread of pain in the static.

Tim trusted competence before he trusted almost anything else. So he started trusting you. That was where the problem became terminal. Because once Tim trusted someone, truly trusted them, he wanted to know everything that could hurt them. And you were hiding something that hurt you.

His spreadsheet grew. He told himself it was for safety.

It was. Mostly.

He tracked healing events, reported severity, your visible symptoms, absence durations, wardrobe changes, gait irregularities, medication requests, light sensitivity, hand tremors, appetite shifts, mission proximity, and what Bart called “vibe anomalies.”

Tim did not name the file CRUSH SPREADSHEET. He was not a monster. He named it MEDICAL POWER COST ANALYSIS. Kon renamed it CRUSH SPREADSHEET once when Tim left his laptop unlocked for eight seconds.

Tim changed it back. And added a password.

The first time you caught him staring at the data, you did not get angry. That would have been easier.

Instead, you looked tired.

“Tim,” you said from the doorway of the medbay office.

He froze. Slowly, he turned. You stood there with your arms folded, one shoulder leaned against the doorframe. There was a bruise fading along your jaw that had appeared after you healed a civilian from blunt-force trauma two days earlier.

Tim’s screen displayed a timeline of your symptoms. Colour-coded. Because apparently he was determined to be both invasive and aesthetically organised. You looked at the screen. Then at him.

“That’s a lot,” you said.

Tim closed the laptop. “Sorry.”

“You don’t sound sorry.”

“I am sorry you found it like this.” Your eyebrow lifted. He winced. “That was not better.”

“No, it was honest.”

You came into the office and sat across from him. The room felt smaller. Tim could hear the Mount’s ventilation system. The distant sound of Bart laughing at something in the common area. His own heartbeat.

“I’m trying to understand your limitations,” he said.

“I know.”

“For mission safety.”

“I know.”

“For your safety.”

Your expression shifted.

Tim leaned forward. “You’re hiding symptoms.”

You looked down at your hands. “Sometimes.”

“Why?”

A small smile. “Do you want the heroic answer or the honest one?”

“Honest.”

“I don’t always know how to stop helping.”

Tim had expected evasion. Not a confession shaped like a mirror.

He sat back. You looked up at him.

“People come to me when they’re in pain,” you said. “And I can take it away. How do I say no to that?”

Tim’s throat tightened. The answer should have been easy. Consent. Safety. Sustainable limits. Medical boundaries. Team protocols. All correct. All useless in the face of your voice.

“You have to,” he said anyway.

You smiled sadly. “So do you.”

He looked away. “What are you not telling me?”

Your smile faded. For a moment, something open and frightened appeared in your eyes.

Then it vanished. Soft blanket lie incoming. “Nothing that changes the outcome.”

Tim stared. “That is the most suspicious sentence anyone has ever said to me.”

That startled a laugh out of you. He wanted to keep that laugh. He wanted to solve you. He wanted, increasingly, to kiss you, which was not helpful.

“Tim,” you said gently, “there are things I’m not ready to explain.”

He hated that. He respected it. He hated that he respected it.

“Are you in danger?” he asked.

You were quiet too long. Then you said, “No more than anyone else.”

Lie. He knew it. You knew he knew it. But he nodded. Because trust meant not forcing a locked door just because you knew how to pick it. Even if your hands were itching.

“Okay,” he said.

You blinked. “Okay?”

“For now.”

A smile touched your mouth. “That sounds ominous.”

“It is.”

“Romantic.”

Tim froze. You froze. The word sat there.

Bart blurred into the doorway at exactly the wrong moment. “Hey, does anyone know why Kon is yelling that Tim’s crush spreadsheet has become sentient?”

Tim closed his eyes. You made a small sound. Laughter. Tim wanted the floor to open.

Bart looked between you both.

“Oh,” he said, delighted. “Am I interrupting tension?”

Tim stood. “Yes.”

“Cool, cool, I’ll tell everyone.”

“Bart.” But Bart was already gone.

You were laughing fully now, one hand pressed to your mouth. Tim looked at you. Despite himself, he smiled. Very slightly.

Your laughter softened into something warm. “There it is,” you said.

“What?”

“The smile.”

“I smile.”

“You smirk strategically.”

“That is different.”

“It is.”

Your eyes held his. For a moment, the hidden thing between you did not feel like danger. It felt like possibility.

Then the emergency alarm sounded. Because the universe had poor comedic timing.

The mission was supposed to be contained. Tim hated that word. Contained meant “currently not on fire.” It did not mean safe. A group of biochemists working with stolen LexCorp and H.I.V.E. materials had developed a neurotoxin designed specifically to target enhanced nervous systems. The League handled the main facility. Young Justice was assigned evacuation and containment at an auxiliary lab outside Metropolis.

Simple. Contained. Terrible words.

You came with them.

Tim objected immediately. “You’re still recovering from the last mission.”

You stared at him across the hangar. “That was three days ago.”

“You had a tremor yesterday.”

“I had too much coffee.”

“You hate coffee.”

“I was holding yours.”

“You shouldn’t have been holding mine. My coffee is a controlled substance.”

Bart nodded gravely. “It once made my molecules sing.”

Kon pointed at him. “You drank six cups.”

“I heard colours.”

Cassie pinched the bridge of her nose. “Can we please focus?”

Tim did not look away from you. “You are not cleared.”

You tilted your head. “By who?”

“Me.”

“Cute.”

Kon whispered, “Dangerous word choice.”

Tim ignored him. You stepped closer, lowering your voice. “People are going to be hurt.”

“And you are going to hurt yourself helping them.”

Your expression flickered. Tim saw it. His chest tightened.

“You don’t know that,” you said.

“I know enough.”

“Not everything.”

“No,” he agreed. “Because you won’t tell me.”

Your face closed. Immediate regret hit him. Cassie shifted uncomfortably. Kon suddenly found the ceiling fascinating. Bart vibrated in place with the desperate energy of someone watching emotional land mines blink red.

You looked away first. “I’m going,” you said.

Tim wanted to stop you. He did not. Because he had no right. Because you were not his to command. Because somewhere along the way, he had started caring enough to become unreasonable, and that was a him problem.

“Stay behind the second line,” he said.

You looked back. “Tim.”

“Please.”

That did it. Your expression softened, even though your eyes stayed sad.

“I’ll be careful,” you said.

Not a promise. Not enough. But all he got.

The auxiliary lab was already half-evacuated when they arrived. Smoke rolled from the east wing. Security alarms flashed red. Automated doors opened and closed in broken loops. Scientists stumbled through emergency exits, coughing and terrified, while local authorities tried to keep the perimeter intact. Tim’s mask display lit with toxin warnings.

“Rebreathers on,” he ordered.

Kon grimaced. “Hate when air gets spicy.”

Bart zipped through the entrance, evacuating three scientists before Tim finished saying, “Bart, wait for—”

He sighed. Cassie clapped him on the shoulder. “He heard you in spirit.”

“He absolutely didn’t.”

You moved to the triage zone, already kneeling beside a woman convulsing on the pavement. Her pupils were blown wide, veins dark beneath her skin.

Tim’s attention caught. You looked up at him. For one second, your eyes met. Then you placed your hand over the woman’s chest. Her convulsions stopped. Her breathing evened. You exhaled, sharp and controlled. Tim saw your fingers twitch. A cold thread wound through his stomach.

Inside the lab, things got worse. The toxin had not just leaked. It had been weaponised. Drones moved through the corridors, releasing bursts of aerosolised neurotoxin whenever they detected motion. Tim hacked the building’s ventilation while Cassie took out the larger drones, Kon shielded trapped civilians from falling debris, and Bart ran antidote injectors to anyone already exposed.

It almost worked. Then Tim found the server room. And the trap.

The door sealed behind him with a hiss. His mask display flashed. TOXIN DETECTED. Concentration climbing.

Tim switched filters. One second too late.

The first breath burned.

Not in his lungs. In his nerves. Pain flashed white through his body, sudden and total. His fingers spasmed. The staff clattered from his hand. The server racks blurred. He stumbled to the access panel. His hand would not obey.

“Red Robin?” Cassie’s voice crackled through comms.

Tim tried to answer. His jaw locked. The toxin crawled through his nervous system like static with teeth. Every muscle tightened. His heart hammered too fast, then stuttered. Vision fractured into overlapping panes of light.

He hit the floor. A seizure warning flashed across his mask display. Then another. Then another.

Tim’s body arched. The world became pain and code. He could hear comms, but distantly.

“Tim?” “Red Robin, respond.” “Rob?”

Kon’s voice changed. “Tim!”

Tim tried to breathe. Couldn’t. His lungs spasmed. His limbs jerked against the floor. Foam touched the corner of his mouth beneath the mask. His thoughts, usually so fast, so sharp, scattered like birds startled from a wire. He thought, absurdly, of your notes.

Eat something with protein. Stop clenching your jaw. Yes, you. Rest after major healing.

Then the door exploded inward. You stumbled through the smoke wearing a rebreather and a look of pure terror. Tim wanted to tell you to leave. His mouth would not move.

You dropped beside him. “Tim.”

He could not focus. Your hands hovered over his chest, his face, helpless for one horrible second. Then you pulled off a glove.

No. Panic cut through the toxin. No.

You touched his face. “Tim, can you hear me?” He heard you. He could not answer. Your voice broke. “I’m sorry.”

He hated those words. He hated that he understood them now.

Your hands pressed to his temples. Warmth flared. The toxin vanished. Tim’s body unlocked with a violent gasp. His heart steadied. His lungs opened. The seizure stopped so suddenly he collapsed boneless against the floor.

For three seconds, all he could do was breathe.

Then you made a sound. Small. Wrong.

Tim turned his head. You were still kneeling beside him. Your hand was pressed to your mouth. Your eyes were wide. Then your body jerked. Once. Twice. Your back arched.

A seizure tore through you. Tim’s blood went cold.

“No,” he rasped. Your body hit the floor. The rebreather slipped sideways. Your limbs spasmed against the tile. The same toxin pattern bloomed across your veins, dark and webbing under the skin.

Tim scrambled toward you. His hands shook, but they were obeying now. Yours were not.

“No, no, no.” He reached for your mask, fixed the seal, checked your airway. His training took over because if his feelings got one hand on the wheel, he would crash. “Kon!” he shouted. His voice cracked across comms. “Server room! Now!”

Static. Then Kon, panicked, “On my way!”

Your body convulsed again. Tim held you on your side, one hand braced at your shoulder, the other at your jaw.

“Stay with me,” he said. “Stay with me, please.”

Your eyes opened for half a second. They were unfocused. Terrified. But when they found him, somehow, impossibly, you looked relieved.

Tim understood then. Not as a theory. Not as a data point.

As horror.

You had taken it. The toxin. The seizure. The damage. His nervous system was clear because yours was burning.

Kon arrived in a blur, ripping the doorframe wider to fit through. He froze. “Oh, my God.”

“Get them out,” Tim ordered. Kon did not move. “Kon!”

That snapped him into motion. He lifted you with terrified care while Tim grabbed his staff and staggered after him. His legs worked. His lungs worked. His brain worked.

Because yours didn’t. The realisation nearly dropped him to his knees.

Outside, chaos blurred. Cassie shouted for medevac. Bart appeared and vanished and reappeared with medical kits, antidotes, three paramedics, and a blanket he had absolutely stolen from somewhere. You convulsed again in Kon’s arms, and Kon looked like someone had ripped his heart out.

Tim took your hand. It spasmed in his grip. “Don’t heal them,” he told the medics.

One of them stared at him. “What?”

Tim’s voice sharpened. “Don’t use energy-based healing. Don’t use magic. Stabilise only. The wound may transfer unpredictably.”

He did not know that. Not scientifically. But he knew enough to be afraid.

Bart looked at him, eyes wide. “Tim?”

Tim looked down at you. The toxin pattern was spreading. His toxin pattern. “I know what their power does."

Silence fell around them. Even the alarms seemed quieter.

Cassie’s face went pale. “What does that mean?”

Tim swallowed. Your hand jerked in his. He held on. “It means,” Tim said, voice hollow, “they don’t erase injuries.” Tim forced the words out. “They take them.”

Mount Justice had a medbay. The Watchtower had a better one. Batman insisted. Tim did not argue. That was how everyone knew it was bad. You were transported to the Watchtower within seven minutes. The toxin had burned through your body faster than it had through his, maybe because your power accelerated the transfer, maybe because your nervous system was already overloaded from previous healings, maybe because the universe was cruel and data did not matter when someone you loved was seizing on a medbay table.

Tim stood outside the glass wall and watched doctors stabilise you. Kon stood beside him, silent for once. Bart was sitting on the floor with his knees pulled to his chest, vibrating so finely he looked blurred at the edges. Cassie paced. Bruce was in the corner speaking quietly with Dr Mid-Nite, expression grim enough to bend the room around it.

Tim had your medical files open on three tablets.  Not the official ones. His. The spreadsheet. The timeline. The pattern. It was all there. It had always been there. Bruise after blunt-force trauma healing. Limp after fractures. Photosensitivity after concussions. Tremors after nerve damage. Fever after infection transfers. Vomiting after poisoning cases. Emotional withdrawal after psychic trauma. Absence durations proportional to injury severity.

He should have known. He had known.

Kon finally spoke. “So every time they healed us…”

Tim did not look up. “Yes.”

Bart made a tiny sound. Cassie stopped pacing.

Kon’s fists clenched. “They felt it?”

“Yes,” he said. “They felt it.”

Kon turned away, one hand over his mouth.

Bart’s voice came thin. “My arm?”

Tim closed his eyes. “Yes.”

“Cassie’s shoulder?”

“Yes.”

“Your concussion?”

Tim opened his eyes and looked through the glass. You lay too still beneath the lights. “Yes.”

Bruce came to stand beside him. Tim did not look at him.

“You found evidence,” Bruce said.

“Yes.”

“How much?”

“Enough.”

“For how long?”

Tim’s hand tightened around the tablet. “Months.” Silence. That was worse than judgment. Tim looked up sharply. “If you’re going to say I should have told someone—”

“I’m not.” Bruce’s gaze remained fixed on you. “You were respecting a boundary.”

Tim let out a humourless laugh. “Was I? Or was I afraid they’d stop trusting me if I pushed?”

Bruce said nothing. Tim hated when silence was an answer.

Behind them, Bart whispered, “They asked every time.” Everyone looked at him. Bart’s eyes were wet. “Before healing. They always asked. But they didn’t tell us what yes meant.”

Cassie’s face crumpled. Kon sat down hard on a bench. Tim looked back at you. Bart had found the centre of it without any spreadsheets. You asked permission to touch. Not for consequence.

The doctors worked for another hour. The toxin ran its course differently in your body. Faster in some ways, worse in others. Your healing factor fought it like a fever trying to burn down its own house. Finally, Dr Mid-Nite came out. Tim stood immediately.

“You can see them,” he said. "They are stable. Exhausted. Their neurological activity is normalising. They’ll need rest, monitoring, and no power use.”

“For how long?”

“At minimum? Weeks.” Tim almost laughed. As if anyone here knew how to rest for weeks. Bruce’s gaze sharpened, probably because he had the same thought. Dr. Mid-Nite looked between them. “I mean it. Their system is overloaded. Another major transfer could kill them.”

Kill them.

Tim nodded once. Then he walked into the medbay.

You were asleep. Pale, dark veins fading slowly beneath your skin. Electrodes at your temples. IV lines in both arms. Your hands rested on top of the blanket, still except for the occasional twitch.

Tim sat beside your bed. For a long time, he did not touch you. He wanted to. Badly. But every touch between you had become suddenly complicated by the knowledge of what your hands could do. What they had done. What you had hidden inside gentleness.

Finally, he placed two fingers lightly against your wrist. Pulse. Steady. Alive.

His shoulders dropped.

Kon appeared in the doorway. “You okay?” Tim glanced at him. Kon grimaced. “Yeah, I heard it.”

“I’m not okay.” Kon nodded and came inside, leaning against the wall. For once, he did not joke. Tim looked back at you. “They saved my life.”

“Yeah.”

“They took neurotoxin into their own nervous system.”

“Yeah.”

“I should be grateful.”

Kon’s expression tightened. “You are.”

“I’m angry.”

“You can be both.”

Tim did not answer. Kon looked at him for a long moment. “They love you,” he said. Tim froze. Kon’s eyes widened slightly. “You didn’t know?”

Tim stared at him.

Kon rubbed the back of his neck. “Oh. Uh. Never mind?”

“Kon.”

“Look, I’m not exactly Sherlock, and even I noticed.”

Tim’s brain stalled. Not helpful. Not now. Absolutely not now. But the words entered anyway.

They love you.

As a variable, it was catastrophic. As a possibility, it was worse.

Tim looked at your face. Your closed eyes. The exhaustion written into every line. The body that had chosen his life at the expense of yours.

“Don’t,” he said quietly.

Kon frowned. “Don’t what?”

“Don’t make that romantic.” Kon’s face sobered. Tim’s voice shook. “They lied. They almost died. They took my choice away.”

“I know.”

“I don’t want love if it looks like this.” The words scraped out of him.

Kon was quiet. Then he said, “Then tell them what you want it to look like.” Tim looked up. Kon shrugged, expression sad. “What?”

“Nothing,” Tim said.

“No, that was a look.”

“You said something emotionally useful.”

Kon snorted. “Rude.”

“Unexpected.”

“Very rude.” Despite everything, Tim’s mouth twitched. Kon smiled faintly, then nodded toward you. “They’re gonna wake up and feel terrible.”

“Yes.”

“Physically and emotionally.”

“Yes.”

“And you’re gonna do the Tim thing.”

Tim narrowed his eyes. “What is the Tim thing?”

“Act like if you explain the pain precisely enough, it’ll stop hurting.” Tim looked away. Kon pushed off the wall. “Just, like… maybe don’t forget they’re scared too.”

Then he left.

Tim hated how often his friends were right. It was deeply inconvenient.

You woke six hours later. Tim was running a model on his tablet when your heart rate changed. He noticed before your eyes opened.

He set the tablet down. Your eyelids fluttered once. Twice. Then you looked at him. For a moment, neither of you spoke. Your gaze moved over his face slowly, like you were checking him for damage.

Then you whispered, “Did it work?”

Tim’s heart broke with surgical precision. He leaned forward. “Yes,” he said.

Your eyes closed in relief. He almost lost his temper right there.

Instead, he inhaled slowly. Count four. Hold four. Out six. Bruce would be proud. Insufferably.

You opened your eyes again. “Are you okay?”

“No.”

Your brow furrowed. “Did the toxin—”

“The toxin is gone.”

“Then—”

“I’m not okay because you took it from me and nearly died.”

Your mouth closed. The monitors filled the silence. You looked down at your hands. “I’m sorry,” you said.

Tim had imagined this conversation many times. In every version, he was calmer. More precise. Less seventeen different kinds of devastated. He had bullet points. A structure. Ethical concerns. Medical concerns. Consent framework. Risk disclosure protocol. Then you said sorry like you meant it, and all the bullet points burned.

“How long?” he asked. Your eyes flicked up. “How long has your power worked like that?”

You swallowed. “Always.”

Tim went still. He had expected that. It did not help. “Always,” he repeated. You nodded. “So every time.”

Your eyes shone. “Yes.”

“Bart’s arm, Cassie’s shoulder, Kon’s solar damage.”

“Yes.”

“My concussion.”

You closed your eyes. “Yes.”

He stood and turned away. The movement was too abrupt. He heard your breath catch behind him.

Good. No. Not good. He did not want to scare you. He wanted to scream. He wanted to go back to every moment you had smiled afterwards and rip the lie out of the air. He wanted to hate you.

He could not. That made him angrier.

“Tim,” you said softly.

He turned back. “You said minimal risk.” Your face twisted. “When you healed my concussion,” he said. “You said minimal.”

“It was.”

“To you?” You were silent. His laugh was sharp and horrible. “That’s the entire problem, isn’t it?”

“I knew I could handle it.”

“You didn’t know that today.” Your gaze dropped. He stepped closer. “You did not know you could survive that toxin.”

“I knew you couldn’t.”

The room went silent. Tim’s mouth parted.

There it was. The logic of you.

Terrible. Simple. I knew you couldn’t. As if that ended the equation. As if his life on one side and yours on the other could be balanced without asking what the equals sign cost. He sat down slowly because his knees felt untrustworthy.

“That isn’t enough,” he said. 

Your eyes lifted. “To justify it?”

“To survive on.” Your expression broke. Tim leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “You can’t build a life out of taking whatever other people can’t survive.”

You laughed once, weak and wet. “That’s rich coming from you.”

He flinched.

“I know,” he said. That seemed to surprise you. He looked at his hands. “I know I’m a hypocrite. I know I run on caffeine and denial and contingency plans. I know I treat my body like an inconvenient transportation system for my brain.” A faint, unwilling smile touched your mouth. “I know,” he continued, “that if our positions were reversed, I’d be trying to justify the exact same thing.” Your smile vanished. He looked up. “That’s how I know it’s wrong.”

A tear slipped down your temple into your hair. You whispered, “I didn’t want you to die.”

Tim’s face crumpled despite himself. “I know.”

“I saw you seizing. I couldn’t—” Your voice broke. “Tim, I couldn’t watch that happen to you.”

He leaned closer. “And I woke up watching it happen to you.”

You closed your eyes. His anger shook. Not because it was fading. Because grief was moving underneath it.

“I thought I lost you,” he said. Your eyes opened. Something changed in your face. Softened. Tim swallowed hard. “I didn’t know if I had the right to feel that way.”

Your brow furrowed. “What?”

“Like losing you would—” He stopped, because the sentence had teeth. “Like it would break something important.”

You stared at him. Tim looked away. He had meant to say it better. Later. Maybe never. Probably never.

“Tim,” you whispered.

He shook his head once. “No. I’m not saying this because you got hurt. I’m not saying it to make this moment easier. It doesn’t make it easier.”

Your hand shifted weakly on the blanket. He looked at it. Then at you.

“May I?” he asked.

Your eyes filled again. You nodded. Tim took your hand. Your fingers were colder than normal. He hated that his first instinct was to log it. He hated that his second was to warm them between both of his. He did both.

“I care about you,” he said. Your breath hitched. “A lot. In a way that is… inconvenient.” A watery laugh escaped you. His mouth twitched. “Deeply inconvenient,” he added. “Operationally disastrous. Kon has been unbearable.”

“He knows?”

“Apparently, everyone knows.”

Your lips curved faintly. “Except us?”

“I knew.” You raised an eyebrow weakly. “I had data,” Tim corrected.

“That is different from knowing.”

“Unfortunately.”

Your smile faded. You looked at your joined hands. “I care about you, too,” you said. Tim stopped breathing. “A lot,” you continued. “In a way that is also inconvenient.”

His thumb stilled on your knuckles.

“I think,” you whispered, “I love you.”

Tim closed his eyes. He wished the words did not hurt. They should have been soft. They should have been a sunrise. A hand held in a kitchen. A confession under a quiet sky. Instead, they arrived in a medbay with toxin still fading from your veins. But they were still true. That was the worst, best part.

He opened his eyes. “I think I love you too,” he said. Your face folded with relief and grief at once. Tim leaned closer. “But I need you to understand something.” You nodded, tears bright in your eyes. “If love means you decide my life matters more than yours, I can’t accept it.” Your mouth trembled. He held your hand tighter. “I won’t.”

“I don’t think my life matters less.”

“You act like it does.”  You started to answer. Stopped. The silence was answer enough. Tim continued, gentler now. “I know why. I do. You’re surrounded by people who choose pain before help. You probably learned very quickly that if you told the truth, everyone would refuse healing unless they were unconscious.”

You looked away.

“And you couldn’t stand that.”

“No,” you whispered.

“So you made the choice for us.”

Your face crumpled. “I’m sorry.”

Tim nodded. “I know.”

“I really am... I don’t know how to not help.”

His chest ached. “I know that too.”

“What if someone dies because I ask first?”

Tim’s throat tightened.

There it was. The fear underneath everything.

Not pain. Not death.

Failure. A world where your hands could save someone and you chose not to use them fast enough.

He did not have an easy answer. He refused to offer a fake one.

“Then we make emergency protocols,” he said.

Your lips twitched through tears. “Of course you have protocols.”

“I am who I am.”

“Unfortunately, attracted to that.”

Tim blinked. A laugh escaped him before he could stop it.

Tiny. Disbelieving.

You smiled weakly. The room softened around the edges.

Then he sobered.

“We make consent directives,” he said. “Everyone decides in advance what they consent to under different circumstances. Minor injury. Severe injury. Fatal injury. Mental pain. Chronic pain. Magical effects. All of it.”

Your eyes widened. “You already thought about this.”

“I’ve had six hours and trauma.”

“Dangerous combo.”

“Very.”

You squeezed his hand weakly. “What if they all say no?”

“Then we respect that.”

Your face went pale.

Tim leaned in. “Even when it’s hard.”

A tear slid down your cheek.

“Especially then,” he added.

“I hate that.”

“I know.”

“I really hate that.”

“I know.”

“I might not be good at it.”

“I know.”

Your eyes narrowed faintly. “You’re saying that a lot.”

“Statistically, I know many things.”

There. A smile. Small, but real. Tim cherished it and then pretended he wasn’t the kind of person who cherished things.

Too late. You already knew.

“What about you?” you asked.

His smile faded. “My directive?”

You nodded.

Tim looked down at your hand in his.

This was the question.

Not theoretical. Not medical. His life. Your power. The line between them.

“If I am awake and able to consent, you ask.” You nodded. “If I say no, you don’t heal me.”

Your fingers tensed.

He waited. Slowly, you nodded again.

“If I am unconscious or unable to consent,” he continued, “and the injury is fatal or permanently disabling, I consent to transfer only if the projected risk to you is survivable.”

Your brow furrowed. “Projected by who?”

“You, if conscious. Team medic if available. Otherwise designated field lead.”

“That’s very precise.”

“I’m very precise.”

“You also put ‘permanently disabling’ in there.”

Tim looked up. Your eyes searched his. He knew what you were asking. Spine. Brain damage. Hands. Eyes. Things that could alter the life he had built around intellect and motion and the ability to protect people from the shadows.

“I don’t want you sacrificing yourself for a broken wrist,” he said.

“Tim.”

“But I won’t pretend I would handle permanent neurological damage gracefully.”

Your face softened.

“I’m allowed to be honest too,” he said quietly.

You nodded. “Yes.”

He breathed in.

“And if the risk to you is fatal,” he said, “you do not transfer. No exceptions.”

Your eyes filled. “Tim—”

“No exceptions.”

“What if—”

“No.”

Your mouth closed. His grip tightened.

“I need you alive,” he said.

Your breath caught.

Tim’s voice broke around the truth. “Not useful. Not healing. Alive.”

You started crying then. Silent at first, then not.

Tim stood carefully, giving you time to refuse, then leaned over the bed and wrapped his arms around you as gently as he could.

You clung to him weakly.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered into his shirt.

“I know.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I know.”

“I love you.”

Tim closed his eyes. His hand cradled the back of your head. “I love you too.”

The words hurt less the second time.

Maybe they always would hurt a little. Maybe love was not painless. Maybe the point was not to make it painless, but to stop using pain as proof.

Recovery, for you, was not simple.

Tim hated simple anyway. Simple usually meant missing variables.

You developed tremors in your right hand for the first three days. Light sensitivity for five. Nerve pain that made your legs jerk at random. Migraines. Exhaustion so heavy that walking from the bed to the bathroom felt like a mission report no one wanted to file.

Tim tracked all of it. You tolerated this for thirty-six hours before threatening to throw his tablet into space.

“You need objective monitoring,” he said.

“I need you to stop looking at my nervous system like it owes you money.”

“It kind of does.”

“Tim.”

He looked up. You were sitting propped against the pillows, pale but increasingly alive, wearing one of his hoodies because Kon had brought it from the Mount with a look so smug Tim considered treason.

“What?”

You held out your hand. “Come here.”

“I’m right here.”

“Closer.”

He stood from the chair and moved to the bedside.

You looked at the tablet. He looked at you.

“No,” he said.

“I haven’t said anything.”

“You have a face.”

“You have many charts.”

“They are medically relevant.”

“You have a bar graph titled ‘Tremor Severity Over Time.’”

“It’s a line graph.” You stared at him. “Not the point,” he conceded.

Your mouth twitched. He set the tablet aside. 

“Happy?”

“Getting there.”

You took his hand and tugged lightly.

He sat on the edge of the bed. Carefully. Always carefully now.

Not because he thought you were fragile. Because he knew you were hurt.

You leaned your head against his shoulder. Tim went very still.

“You can breathe,” you murmured.

“I am breathing.”

“Barely.”

He exhaled. You smiled against his shoulder.

“I’m okay,” you said.

He tensed.

You lifted your head.

“No. Wait. That’s not what I mean.” You took a careful breath. “I mean, I am in pain. I am scared everyone hates me. My hands won’t stop shaking, and I feel like my spine is full of bees.”

Tim blinked. “Bees?”

“Neurological bees.”

“Concerning.”

“Very.” Your thumb moved across his hand. “But I am alive. And I am telling you the truth.”

Tim looked at you. Something in his chest loosened.

“Thank you,” he said.

Your eyes softened. “You’re welcome.”

He reached up and brushed a strand of hair away from your face. “May I kiss you?”

Your entire expression changed. Hope, surprise, tenderness, all at once. It almost knocked him flat.

“You’re asking now?” you whispered.

His face warmed. “Timing has been difficult.”

“You confessed in a medbay after I nearly died.”

“Yes. Poor timing.”

“Classic hero romance, honestly.”

“I would prefer our first kiss not be medically supervised.”

You glanced toward the observation window where Bart was absolutely pretending not to watch. “Too late.”

Tim turned. Bart vanished in a blur.

Tim sighed. You laughed, then winced.

He looked back immediately. “Pain?”

“Worth it.” His expression sharpened. You grimaced. “Bad phrasing?”

“Extremely.”

“I’m learning.”

“So am I.”

Your hand tightened around his.

“Yes,” you said softly. “You may kiss me.”

Tim leaned in slowly. There was a strange moment before it happened where all his thoughts went quiet.

Rare. Precious.

Then his mouth touched yours.

Gentle. Careful. Warm.

Your lips were dry from medication, and your hand trembled in his, and someone outside the room made a muffled squeaking sound that was probably Bart being physically restrained by Kon.

It was perfect anyway.

When Tim pulled back, your eyes stayed closed for one extra second.

His heart performed an extremely inconvenient manoeuvre.

“Good?” he asked.

Your eyes opened. “Very good.”

“I can improve with more data.”

You laughed softly. “Did you just flirt with me using research methodology?”

“Maybe.”

“Nerd.”

“You knew that already.”

“I did.”

Your smile faded into something tender.

“I love you,” you said.

Tim pressed his forehead to yours. “I love you too.”

This time, the words did not feel like a wound. They felt like a promise being written carefully, with room in the margins for revisions.

The team meeting happened two days later. You hated it. Tim knew because you said, “I hate this,” exactly eleven times.

“It’s necessary,” he said.

“I know.”

“You don’t have to explain everything alone.”

“I know.”

“Everyone already knows the core mechanism.”

“I know.”

“You can stop saying I know if you want.”

You looked at him. He smiled faintly. Your mouth twitched despite yourself.

Young Justice gathered in the conference room. Cassie sat at the head of the table but looked like she would rather be fighting a hydra. Kon hovered instead of sitting, arms crossed, expression worried. Bart had three snacks and no appetite. Cissie had come in after hearing the truth and looked quietly furious in the way only archers and older sisters could manage.

Bruce stood in the corner. Tim had told him he did not need to attend. Bruce had stared at him. Tim had moved on.

You sat beside Tim with a blanket around your shoulders and your hands wrapped around a mug of tea.

Your hands shook. Everyone noticed.

Nobody commented.

Progress.

You explained the power. No evasions this time. No soft blanket lies.

“It doesn’t heal by erasing damage,” you said, voice quiet but steady. “It transfers the damage to me. Physical injuries are the easiest. Poison, burns, broken bones, internal trauma. Mental and emotional pain are harder and less predictable. I can’t always take those, and I shouldn’t have done it without asking.”

Raven was not there, but the weight of that truth was.

Bart’s eyes glistened. Cassie looked down at the table. Kon’s jaw flexed.

You swallowed.

“I’m sorry,” you said. “I told myself I was helping. I was helping, sometimes. But I also took choices away from you. You deserved to know what yes meant.”

Silence.

Then Bart appeared beside you and hugged you very carefully.

“I’m still mad,” he said into your shoulder.

You closed your eyes. “I know.”

“But I don’t hate you.”

Your face crumpled.

“Nobody hates you,” Cassie said, voice thick.

Kon looked at Tim. Tim nodded once.

Kon came closer, not touching yet.

“You scared us,” Kon said.

“I know.”

“And you’re banned from secret martyr crap.”

A tiny laugh escaped you. “Is that the official wording?”

“Yeah. I checked with management.”

Cassie nodded solemnly. “As management, yes.”

Tim slid a document across the table.

Kon stared. “Oh my God, is that paperwork?”

“Consent directives,” Tim said.

Bart leaned over. “There are checkboxes.”

“Of course, there are checkboxes.”

Cissie picked up a copy, scanning. “Minor injury, severe injury, permanent disability risk, fatal injury, psychic distress, chronic pain flare-ups, magical curse exposure…” She looked up. “This is actually good.”

Tim tried not to look pleased. You looked at him with soft amusement.

Kon groaned. “Do not encourage him.”

“This is helpful,” Cassie said.

“It is,” you agreed.

Tim’s ears went warm.

Bruce’s mouth twitched in the corner. Traitor.

The team spent two hours filling out directives. It was not easy. Bart said no to almost everything at first, then changed fatal injuries to yes if the risk to you was low. Cassie allowed severe injury transfers only if she was incapacitated and you had backup. Kon struggled with red sun and kryptonite exposure, jaw tight, before quietly asking if partial transfers were possible.

You answered honestly every time. Sometimes yes. Sometimes no. Sometimes I don’t know.

Tim watched the team learn to ask better questions. He watched you learn not to carry every answer alone.

It was painful. It was necessary.

When the meeting ended, Bruce lingered. Tim braced himself.

Bruce looked at the forms. Then at Tim. “This is good work.”

Tim blinked. Praise from Bruce was rare enough that it should have come with atmospheric warnings.

“Thanks,” he said.

Bruce’s gaze shifted to you. “You did the right thing telling them.”

You looked down. “Eventually.”

Bruce nodded. “Eventually matters.”

Then he left. 

Kon stared after him. “Was that Batman being emotionally supportive?”

Cassie nodded slowly. “I think so.”

Bart whispered, “I’m scared.”

You laughed. Tim smiled.

For the first time since the lab, the room felt breathable.

You recovered at Mount Justice because the team outvoted you, Bruce, and your very bad argument that your apartment was “probably fine if no one looked too closely at the mould.”

Tim privately inspected your apartment. The mould was not fine. Neither was the lock. Or the window. Or the fact that your pantry contained tea, crackers, and what appeared to be three emergency protein bars from 2018.

He made a list.

You found it. “Tim.”

“Yes?”

“Why is there a spreadsheet called Apartment Crimes?”

“Because your apartment is committing crimes.”

“You broke into my home.”

“I used a key.”

“I did not give you a key.”

“Your landlord’s lock was insulting.”

“That does not improve your case.”

“I also fixed the lock.”

You stared at him. He stared back.

Finally, you sighed. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Still invasive.”

“I know.”

“Do you?”

“I’m learning.”

You softened.

“Okay,” you said.

That became the shape of things.

Mistake. Correction.

Apology. Learning.

Again.

Tim over-monitored. You called him on it. You downplayed pain. Tim called you on it. Neither of you liked being perceived accurately. Both of you endured it for the greater good, which was apparently each other.

Some nights were harder. One night, three weeks after the lab, Tim found you in the training room. You were sitting on the floor with your back against the wall, one hand pressed to your chest, breathing through what looked like a panic attack.

He stopped in the doorway. Everything in him wanted to rush forward.

He did not.

“Can I come in?” he asked.

You looked up. Your face was wet.

After a moment, you nodded.

Tim entered and sat beside you, leaving space between your bodies.

“Touch?” he asked.

You shook your head.

His chest hurt, but he nodded. “Okay.”

You rubbed both hands over your face.

“I wanted to heal someone today,” you said. Tim went still. “In the city. There was an accident. A civilian. Broken leg, maybe ribs. Paramedics were there. It wasn’t fatal. It wasn’t even… I knew they’d survive.” Your voice shook. “But I could feel it. Not literally. Just—” You swallowed. “I knew I could make it stop.”

Tim listened.

“I didn’t,” you whispered. His heart clenched. “I didn’t because of the rules. Because they couldn’t consent. Because I’m not cleared. Because it wasn’t necessary.” Your breath hitched. “And I feel horrible.”

Tim wanted to tell you that you did the right thing.

You had. But sometimes the right thing was not comfort.

So he said, “I’m sorry.”

You looked at him.

He meant it. Not sorry as correction. Sorry as witness.

Your face crumpled.

“I hate it,” you said.

“I know.”

“They were in pain.”

“Yes.”

“And I walked away.”

“You let trained medics help them.”

“I could have done it faster.”

“Yes.”

“You’re not supposed to agree with that.”

“It’s true.”

You gave a broken laugh. Tim leaned his head back against the wall.

“I watched someone get shot when I was thirteen,” he said. You went still. “I was on patrol. Before Bruce knew. Before anyone knew. I could have intervened earlier, maybe. But I froze. Then I didn’t. I helped. They survived… I still think about the seconds before I moved,” he said. “All the time. Even though they lived. Even though I was a child. Even though I didn’t cause it.”

You looked at him. Tim turned his head.

“I think helping people can become addictive when not helping feels like guilt.”

Your mouth trembled.

“Yeah,” you whispered.

“I don’t know how to fix that.”

“That’s unlike you.”

“I know. Very unsettling.”

A faint smile touched your face.

Tim held out his hand, palm up, resting on the floor between you.

No pressure. No expectation. After a moment, your fingers slid into his.

“Does it get easier?” you asked.

“Not quickly.”

“Honest.”

“You asked.”

You leaned your head against his shoulder. This time, touch was chosen. Tim let himself lean back.

“You did well today,” he said softly.

You cried harder. He held your hand through it.

No healing. No transfer. No solving. Just pain, staying where it was and somehow becoming survivable because someone else sat beside it.

Tim had never trusted that kind of math before.

He was learning.

Your first date happened at a bookstore café because Kon threatened to plan it himself if Tim did not stop “hovering romantically in a medically depressing way.”

Tim objected to the phrasing. Not the substance.

You were still recovering, but strong enough for short outings. Tim chose a quiet place with accessible seating, low lighting, and a menu that included actual food because he had learned, under duress, that coffee did not count as a meal.

You arrived wearing a soft sweater and a look of suspicious amusement.

“This is very planned,” you said.

Tim stood. “Is that bad?”

“No. It’s very you.”

“I can be spontaneous.”

“You sent me a calendar invite.”

“It had the address.”

“It had a weather contingency.”

“It might rain.”

“It has a section titled Emotional Expectations.”

Tim paused.

You smiled. “I liked that part.”

He relaxed slightly. “Oh.”

You sat across from him.

For a while, it was almost normal.

No medbay. No alarms. No poison. Just tea, coffee, bookshelves, and your foot brushing his under the table.

Tim told you about a mystery novel with three plot holes in the first chapter. You argued that sometimes vibes mattered more than forensic accuracy. Tim reacted to this like you had insulted his ancestors.

You laughed.

He loved you so much in that moment it almost scared him. Not the dramatic kind of love from the medbay. Not the desperate kind forged under alarms and toxin warnings.

This was quieter.

You with foam on your upper lip. You stealing one of his fries. You making fun of his annotated reading list. You alive in afternoon light.

Tim reached across the table and touched your hand.

You looked down. Then up.

“Hi,” you said softly.

“Hi.”

“You’re staring.”

“Yes.”

“Any particular reason?”

“I’m trying to memorise this.”

Your face softened. “Tim.”

He looked at your hand beneath his.

“I spent a long time tracking your pain,” he said.

Your expression shifted.

He continued before the words could become too heavy. “I’d like to track other things.”

“Like?”

“Favourite teas. Books you hate. Places you feel safe. What makes you laugh. How you take care of people when it doesn’t cost your body.”

Your eyes filled.

He panicked. “Good tears or bad tears?”

You laughed wetly. “Good.”

“I need people to start labelling them.”

“Jason said that too.”

“Jason and I agreeing is a bad sign.”

“End times.”

He smiled. You turned your hand over beneath his and linked your fingers.

“I’d like that,” you said.

“Good.”

“Also, I hate mystery novels where the detective says, ‘I’ll explain later.’”

“Correct opinion.”

“And I like jasmine tea.”

“Already knew that.”

“Of course you did.”

“And I feel safe with you,” you said.

Tim went very still.

Your thumb moved across his hand. “Even when you’re overbearing with charts.”

“I can reduce chart frequency.”

“Don’t be hasty.”

His mouth twitched. You smiled back.

There, in the soft noise of the café, Tim understood something he had missed while staring at all the data.

Healing was not only the absence of pain. Sometimes healing was information offered freely. A hand held without emergency. A truth spoken before it became a wound. A spreadsheet closed because the person in front of him was more important than the pattern.

Tim looked at you and let the moment exist without solving it.

Mostly.

He did make a mental note about jasmine tea.

He was still Tim.

Months later, the next major injury came on a rooftop in Gotham. A gang war had spilled into civilian territory, and Young Justice was assisting the Bats with evacuation. It was messy but manageable until one of Penguin’s people unveiled a black-market sonic cannon designed to scramble metahuman equilibrium.

Kon dropped from the sky. Cassie staggered. Bart crashed through a billboard.

You were on the adjacent rooftop with Tim, monitoring civilians and coordinating medical evac.

The cannon swung toward the street below.

Toward a group of trapped families.

Tim moved. So did you. He got there first, because grappling lines were faster than stairs and terror.

The blast hit him sideways.

Not full power.

Enough.

His right arm snapped against the building edge. Pain flared bright and nauseating. He rolled hard, vision sparking, and landed badly enough to taste blood.

You were beside him in seconds. “Tim!”

He looked up.

You were already reaching for him.

Then you stopped. Your hands hovered. Shaking.

His arm was broken.

Obvious. Ugly. Wrong angle.

Not fatal. Not permanent if treated quickly.

Pain roared.

You were crying.

Not because of the injury.

Because you wanted to take it. Because you were choosing not to.

Tim understood all of that in the space between breaths.

He held your gaze.

“No,” he said softly.

Your face crumpled.

He reached for you with his uninjured hand. “Stabilise only.”

You nodded, tears spilling over.

“Stabilise only,” you repeated.

Your hands moved to his arm.

Not glowing. Not transferring. Just splinting. Supporting. Wrapping.

You were fast, practised, gentle.

It hurt. God, it hurt.

Tim breathed through it. You breathed with him.

The cannon exploded behind you, courtesy of Kon and what sounded like Damian shouting something rude in Arabic.

Gotham rain began to fall. Naturally.

You finished securing the splint and looked at him.

“I didn’t,” you whispered.

Tim’s chest ached. “I know.”

“I wanted to.”

“I know.”

“I really wanted to.”

“I know.”

He leaned forward and pressed his forehead to yours. “You did so well.”

You cried harder.

He kissed you there, on the rooftop, with his broken arm held against his chest and rain sliding down both your faces.

Not because pain was beautiful.

It wasn’t. Pain was awful and unfair and often badly timed.

But choice? Choice was beautiful. You had given him his. He had trusted you with yours.

Below, sirens wailed. Above, Gotham brooded theatrically.

Over comms, Damian said, “If you two are finished having a moment, some of us are still working.”

Kon laughed. “They are absolutely having a moment.”

Bart added, “A rainy rooftop moment! Very cinematic!”

Tim sighed against your mouth. You laughed through tears.

He loved the sound. He loved you.

Not as a variable. Not as a mystery. Not as a miracle with missing data.

As a person. Messy. Stubborn. Learning. Alive.

His arm throbbed. You did not take the pain. You held his hand instead. And for once, Tim let the equation remain unsolved.

Because maybe love was not proof. Maybe it was practice.

Again and again. Choice by choice. Truth by truth. Wound by wound.

You helped him stand. He leaned on you. You let him.

Neither of you called it weakness. And when the mission ended, when the medics set his arm properly and you stayed beside him without trying to steal the hurt from his bones, Tim looked at you and smiled.

A real one.

No strategy. No smirk.

Just warmth.

You smiled back.

“There it is,” you said.

“What?”

“The smile.”

Tim’s ears warmed. “I smile.”

“You do now.”

He looked at your hand in his.

“Yes,” he said softly. “I do.”

And this time, when the pain had to go somewhere, it stayed.

Not because you did not love him enough to take it.

liu kang always pretended he didn’t notice it — the way you’d reply every time someone asked what you liked most him.

you always answered too quickly to be embarrassed by it.

“his hair.”

not his kindness. not his patience. not his stupidly pretty eyes that made people weak in the knees.

his hair.

you said it with complete sincerity every single time, and every single time, liu kang would look away almost after, ears pinking softly while kung lao laughed beside him.

“you’re obsessed,” lao accused one evening.

“i am,” you answered simply, watching liu kang tuck a loose strand behind his ear. “look at it.”

liu kang nearly choked on his tea.

after that, the others began teasing him relentlessly. kung lao would grin whenever you sat staring at liu kang’s hair during meals. johnny made vulgar comments liu refused to repeat aloud. even lord raiden had once hidden a smile behind his hand after hearing you mumble dreamily that liu’s hair looked “softer than silk.”

liu kang always tried to act unaffected… but he blushed every single time.

and the thing was, you never exaggerated.

his hair really was beautiful. thick, black, endlessly soft-looking, always falling into his face during training until you instinctively brushed it away for him. you’d done that countless times by now; gentle fingertips sweeping strands from his eyes while he froze for half a second before quietly thanking you.

but you’d never really touched it before. never played with it or combed your fingers through it.

until the night you finally did.

the temple was calm, wrapped in the soft hush of evening rain, and liu sat cross-legged beside you near the open balcony doors while you spoke about absolutely nothing important. he’d just finished bathing after training, hair still slightly damp down his neck, loose and untied.

you kept staring at it.

liu noticed eventually, because of course he did.

“…what?” he asked softly, though he already looked faintly pink.

you hesitated only a second. “can i touch it?”

his entire body stilled, clearly startled. your question seemed to catch somewhere deep inside him, and for one long moment he simply blinked at you while rain tapped gently against stone outside.

“my hair?” he asked quietly.

“yes.”

he swallowed. the blush spreading across his cheeks this time was immediate and devastatingly pretty.

“oh,” he murmured, trying very hard to sound normal. “i—yes. if you want.”

you moved closer slowly, giving him plenty of time to stop you. he didn’t.

the second your fingers slipped into his hair, liu inhaled sharply — one tiny, helpless breath that made your stomach flip.

his hair was even softer than you imagined. smooth black strands slid through your fingers like water, cool from the rain-damp air, thick enough that your hand nearly disappeared in it. you carefully combed through it with your fingertips, separating sections gently, and liu immediately lowered his head.

actually lowered it.

like he couldn’t help himself.

“there?” you whispered, delighted.

“mhm.”

the sound barely existed.

you smiled a little and continued, brushing your fingers slowly from his scalp down through the length of his hair. liu’s eyes fluttered shut almost instantly.

and then he melted. there was no other word for it.

every ounce of composure he usually carried so carefully simply dissolved beneath your hands. his shoulders loosened first, then his spine, his head tipping subtly toward your touch like he was chasing it unconsciously. another quiet breath escaped him when you scratched lightly at his scalp.

“oh,” he said under his breath, sounding genuinely dazed.

you giggled softly.

“you like that?”

he gave a tiny nod without opening his eyes. his face was burning now.

it was unbearably endearing, the mighty champion of earthrealm reduced to this just because you were playing with his hair.

you gathered part of it carefully over one shoulder, smoothing it between your palms, and he shivered.

“sorry,” you whispered automatically.

“no,” he answered immediately, voice soft and strained all at once. “please don’t stop.”

that nearly killed you.

so you didn’t stop.

you sat there for what felt like hours, combing your fingers through his hair while liu leaned closer and closer until his shoulder rested against yours. sometimes he made these tiny little sounds without meaning to, barely audible hums whenever you scratched gently near the base of his neck.

by the end of it, he looked half asleep.

his head eventually tipped into your lap with complete trust, hair spilling over your legs while you stared down at him in quiet amazement.

liu kang, eyes heavy and cheeks pink, looked up at you like you were holding his entire soul in your hands.

“you’re very cruel,” he murmured sleepily.

you blinked. “what?”

“that feels far too nice.”

after that night, touching liu’s hair became second nature to you.

you braided small sections absentmindedly while he meditated, and liu would pretend to remain focused despite the obvious softness creeping into his expression. you retied his hair after training when sweat loosened it from its ribbon, fingers careful and gentle while he sat perfectly still for you every single time.

sometimes, after difficult days, he would quietly sit beside you and wordlessly hand you his hair ribbon, never brave enough to ask, just silently hoping. and every single time you smiled and took it from him, his shoulders relaxed with visible relief.

he became embarrassingly responsive to it.

the second your fingers touched his scalp, his eyes would grow heavy. if you played with his hair while he rested beside you, he practically melted against your shoulder like warm honey, all soft sighs and flushed cheeks and sleepy little hums he tried desperately to hide.

kung lao noticed immediately, unfortunately.

“you’ve turned him into a house cat,” he accused one day, while liu kang sat beside you getting his hair braided with a blissfully absent expression.

liu opened his eyes long enough to glare at him. you simply laughed and kept braiding.

and though he still blushed whenever you openly called his hair your favorite thing about him…