alita

Your bedroom door clicks shut a little too loudly.

That's the first mistake.

The second is Lucas’s mouth on your neck from behind, warm and distracting, while Max’s hands are already fisted in the hem of your shirt as she kisses you like she’s trying to make up for lost time.

The three of you are half-laughing, half-breathless, glued together in your bedroom—lips touching, tongues licking, hands everywhere, and the faint smell of Max’s shampoo and Lucas’s cologne mixing into something dizzying.

"Okay," Max murmurs against your mouth, grinning. "We are definitely pushing our luck."

"Mm,” Lucas hums into your neck.

“So worth it," he adds, low and smug, just before leaning in to plant his lips at the base of your ear again. One hand slides underneath your skirt, and the other reaches for Max's nipple, fingers flicking and squeezing her sensitive area with just the right amount of pressure, earning him a soft groan.

The sound she makes into your mouth doesn't give you the chance to react before—

"Y/N!" Steve calls from downstairs.

Your heart drops to your ass, blood running cold.

"Fuck!" you whisper, eyes widening with panic. The three of you scramble in silent horror.

"Hide," you hiss, already shoving at Lucas' chest.

"What—where?" he whispers back, panic flashing across his face. "You realize if we get caught, I'll be the first one he kills, right?"

You ignore him, grabbing his wrist and drag him across the room.

"What happened to Mr. So Worth It'?" Max teases lowly, an amused grin spreading across her flushed face.

You yank open your closet door so hurriedly it rattles, clothes sway on their hangers, and sneakers scattered on the floor.

"In—don't breathe."

"I'm literally always breathing," he mutters, but squeezes in anyway, ducking just as you slam the door shut on him.

"Y/N?" Steve calls again, voice carrying up the stairs, closer now. "Why does it sound like you're rearranging the whole damn house?"

Meanwhile, Max doesn't even wait for instructions. She kicks off her shoes, dives into your bed, and yanks you down with her just as the door swings open.

Steve leans against the doorframe, keys still in his hand. He squints immediately.

Your heart is pounding so hard you’re pretty sure he can hear it.

"Hey," he says slowly. "...Max. Didn't know you were here."

Max offers him an insouciant smile. "Surprise."

She's charmingly unbothered, relaxed—her effortless cool is so typical, Steve doesn't really pay her any attention.

You, on the other hand, force a tight, innocent smile, trying to look casual as you prop yourself up on one elbow. "Hey, Steve."

Suspicion sharpens his expression for a second.

"I'm gonna go grab takeout," he says, eyes flicking between the two of you. "You guys want anything?"

Max shakes her head. "I'm good, thanks."

"Yeah," you add, way too fast. "I'm good too."

Steve frowns. "Weird. You never turn down takeout."

You swallow. "Just—not that hungry."

You smile. It feels like your face might crack.

Your brother stares at you for a long beat, and you're afraid if he doesn't quit it, the uneasiness of guilt settling in your stomach will overpower you.

He squints at you.

Then his gaze drifts to your hair—messy, tangled, very obviously not the result of nothing.

"What's up with your hair?" he asks. "Was there a pillow fight in here?"

You scoff immediately. "That’s such a cliché—and a false stereotype, Steve."

He snorts. “Then, what ever happened to personal grooming?"

Your cheeks burn instantly. "Steve!" you protest, mortified.

He just laughs, already turning away. "I'm gonna be like ten minutes. Don't do anything you're not supposed to. Like closing the door if Sinclair comes over. You know to leave the door open—"

"Eight inches," you both grumble in unison.

The door closes behind him.

You don’t breathe until you hear his footsteps heading back downstairs.

Then Max bursts into quiet laughter, burying her face in your shoulder.

"Oh my god," she wheezes. "You almost blew it."

You drop back onto the bed, groaning. "I thought I was going to die."

You’re still catching your breath when the closet door creaks open.

Lucas leans out, eyes bright, grin slow and unapologetic. "For the record," he murmurs, glancing at your tangled hair, "I think it looks exactly like what happens when someone’s having a very good time."

Max lets out a small laugh.

You groan, covering your face with a pillow. "You’re awful."

"True," he says easily, stepping out and closing the closet door behind him. "But I’ll happily volunteer to mess it up again."

Max reaches out to Lucas and stands up with his help. "You are not helping."

Lucas smirks anyway—clearly pleased with himself, and grabs her by the waist.

You glare at him, but you’re smiling despite yourself. “You’re lucky I didn’t suffocate you in there.”

“Your brother’s got great instincts. Terrible timing. But great instincts.”

“Shut up and come here.” Max hooks a hand behind his neck and pulls Lucas closer, kissing him with a breathless urgency, as though they’re already out of time.

You move in on instinct, drawn by the tension between them. You stand behind Lucas, your hand sliding down his toned arm, the other tightening on Max's sleeve that she has wrapped around his waist.

You plant small, intentional kisses down his neck, making sure he enjoys every single one of them.

Still kissing Max, he tilts his head, giving you silent permission to trail more kisses down his collarbone.

You stop, and slide your hand underneath his jaw to face him to you. Breaking his kiss with Max, your lips move to his next.

"Okay—switch. My turn.” Max tells him, watching you kiss Lucas hungrily, like you can't seem to get enough of him. She loved receiving attention from you both at the same time. Who didn't? But it was always her favorite.

Lucas breaks your kiss with a frown. "You were in the middle last time. Don't be greedy, MadMax."

She rolls her eyes.

"Fine," she agrees. "But don’t skip my turn," she says, her lips moving to nip at his ear now.

You laugh quietly between them, heart still racing, the three of you pressed together again—just a little more careful this time.

It hits Max in August.

Not all at once. But slowly, just the little things. Small, stupid things.

Like the way you laugh—freely, unrestrained, like you've finally found a safe space.

Like how Lucas' hand automatically finds hers when the three of you are walking downhill.

Like how you push your hair behind your ear whenever Max looks at you too long.

Little things. Beautiful things. Dangerous things.

She hates that she thinks that way, but it's true. Because nothing about what the three of you share feels small anymore. Not after the kiss on the rooftop. Not after the secret moments you've shared hiding in your bedroom all summer. Not after laying in the summer meadow under the fireworks, feeling like maybe—maybe—she finally has a place she belongs.

That's the moment the fear starts clouding her mind.

You and Lucas show up to her trailer unannounced one summer morning.

You figure she could use a little cheering up, considering all that's happened in the last two weeks.

She opens the door to see you holding milkshakes, and Lucas holding up a mixtape. You both smile at her like she's the best part of your day. Because she is. When you're together—it is.

But something inside her breaks.

Because no one's ever looked at her the way either of you do, treated her the way both of you do—cared about her this way.

Like she's something great.

"I brought you your favorite," you say, holding out an extra milkshake. You seem so happy to just be there, eyes sparkling with excitement, smile blindingly bright, and wide, and gorgeous.

“Straw~berry,” Lucas sing-songs beside you at the doorway.

He waits for Max's reaction, anticipation in his expression. But she's distracted next by how effortlessly handsome he is with that stupid, charming grin on his face that she, oh, so loves.

Her heart swells at the sight of the both of you. She almost forgets about all the bad things.

Almost.

She takes the strawberry milkshake, and smiles, though it doesn't quite reach her eyes. Lucas catches it, head tilting slightly, but he doesn't say anything.

"How about we take this back to your place?" Max suggests, looking to you with hopeful eyes.

“I'd invite you in," she closes the door behind her, quick—almost too quick. "But my room's a mess."

You're already walking down the stairs, oblivious to Max's current state of mind. She doesn't like talking about what happened. Lucas knows that. And it's why you never push her to.

But Lucas is more attentive than you are, and sometimes instinctive concern overpowers his resistance.

"You okay, Max?" he asks, voice gentle.

She startles, looking to him. "Yeah," she says dismissively.

He stays at the entrance, searching her face for a sign of dishonesty; a small twitch of the lips. The tightening of her jaw. Anything for him to catch.

But he doesn't.

Billy's belongings are still put away in some cardboard box, locked away in a storage closet. Max's mom now sleeps on the couch sometimes—and the house smells faintly of stale beer, grief, and abandonment.

But Max doesn't tell you, and she doesn't tell Lucas.

Because she can't. Because you'd both worry, you'd ask things, and you'd care.

And caring meant letting someone see her when she's not brave.

A couple days later, the meadow hums with cicadas and bad reception.

Lucas is crouched near the edge of the clearing, radio antenna tilted at a hopeful angle like that might magically convince the signal to cooperate. The static crackles anyway—loud and obnoxious.

A couple feet behind him, you and Max sit in the grass shoulder to shoulder, your knees brushing. For a moment, everything feels impossibly still—impossibly perfect. Like a world where Max's problems don't exist.

You brush a strand of hair behind her ear, eyes glancing over her pink lips.

"How bad would it be if I let instinct win, right now?" You ask softly.

Heat creeps up her face under your gaze, her eyes going past your shoulder to glimpse at your group of friends. "Not unless you want to blow our cover."

You roll your eyes and stand, dusting yourself off. "Please. Those guys couldn't put two and two together if we put it in their faces."

Max shakes her head, disagreeing. "This is Dustin Henderson you’re underestimating, Harrington."

You straighten, eyes scanning the edge of the meadow. "Y'know what," you say loudly, already backing away. "I'm gonna go pick some flowers."

Max arches an eyebrow. "Flowers."

"Yeah,” you reply, saccharine and sharp both at once. "Because someone will appreciate them."

Your emphasis on Lucas is impossible to miss, eyes briefly glancing in his direction.

She scoffs. "Since when are you such a romantic?"

"Since my girlfriend,” you say the word gentler than the rest of the sentence, “decided she doesn't want to kiss me." You throw her the middle finger as you walk backward now, grass brushing your calves.

"Harrington, come on—"

You catch her gaze and mouth, you owe me, punctuating it with a smile, and subtle wink.

Max breaks immediately, laughing under her breath, shaking her head as she rolls her eyes.

“Unbelievable,” she mutters—but she’s smiling.

By the time you turn and disappear toward the wildflowers at the edge of the clearing, the boys are still arguing about signal range and elevation.

“Okay,” Dustin says, squinting at Lucas’s back like he’s solving a riddle. “I’m just gonna say it, because someone here clearly won’t.”

Lucas groans without turning around. “If this is about your theory on antenna physics again, I swear—”

“It’s not about the radio,” Dustin says. “It’s about you.”

Mike perks up instantly.

Lucas straightens, already suspicious. “Why is it never about you?”

“Because,” Dustin says smugly, “I’m not the one giving off deeply confusing romantic energy.”

From a distance, Max’s head tilts a fraction, catching their conversation.

Lucas sighs. “Can we not do this right now?”

“I’m having a little trouble deciphering whether you’re into little Harrington,” Dustin continues, “or Max.”

Lucas finally turns. “Who cares?”

Mike blinks. “Wow. Cold.”

"You're always hanging out with the both of them," Dustin says. "Alone."

"So?"

“All I’m saying,” Dustin presses on, undeterred, “is they both seem to like you.”

There’s a beat, and static crackles.

“Yeah, well,” Lucas says, jaw tightening, “it doesn’t matter.”

Mike grins. “Lucas Sinclair. Heartbreaker.”

Lucas shoots him a look. “You gonna help me find signal, or are you just going to narrate my love life?”

“I’m just asking,” Dustin says, sing-songy, “you gonna ask one of them out? Before senior year turns you into a mysterious jock with commitment issues?”

“Will you guys shut up?” Lucas snaps. “And try to help me? I seem to be the only one actually focused.”

Max’s stomach does a flip.

She didn’t mean to listen. Hadn’t meant to catch any of it. But now the thoughts are there, lodged somewhere uncomfortable and sharp.

People are noticing.

She risks a glance at you. You’re still smiling faintly, picking flowers unknowingly, like none of this has touched you. Like your world isn’t about to tilt.

Max looks back at the boys—at Dustin’s grin, Mike’s knowing look, the way Lucas’s shoulders are tense even as he pretends not to care.

And suddenly she can see it.

Hallways. Lockers. Whispers that start with did you hear and end with that’s weird.

She shifts slightly, pulling her knee in toward herself.

You notice immediately, reaching her side again.

Your voice is soft, “You okay?”

“Yeah,” Max says quickly. “Just—hot out here.”

You nod, accepting it easily.

That somehow makes it worse. Your obliviousness, your innocence. The gentle, reassuring smile you throw her way makes it feel like she can't breathe. Like she's guilty of something she hasn't even done yet.

“Maybe we can cool off with your favorite,” you suggest with a small smile. Ice cream. “After Lucas finishes basketball practice with Steve. You know how they are.”

Across the meadow, Lucas finally gets a faint blip of signal. He smiles despite himself, victory small but real.

Max doesn’t smile back. Nor does she plan to join you and Lucas on any evening dates of basketball practices and ice cream.

Because now all she can think is: If they’re already talking about it out here—what happens when school starts?

The waves of anxiety don't end there.

When Max gets home, it's like she's stepping into an alternate universe. When she's with you and Lucas, she smiles brighter and laughs louder.

She's distracted, and actually happy. Because when she's with you—she's in a picture perfect world. Being with you and Lucas, then coming home hits her like whiplash.

Spending time with the both of you is like consuming a drug—like riding an addicting high of adrenaline and serotonin that comes to an end as soon as she walks through the front door of her trailer home.

Because when she steps through the front door of her trailer home, her mom's passed out on the sofa, surrounded by empty cans.

She doesn't say anything, just cleans up, thinking: I can’t drag them into this. I’ll poison it. I’ll poison them.

She decides then, and it happens quietly. The way people pack away summer clothes when they know the cold is coming.

It really starts happening in pieces.

One piece when Billy died; one when her stepdad left, another when her mom stopped getting out of bed until noon. And another—the one that hurts deeply—when she remembers the rooftop kiss.

Not because she regrets it. God, no. Never that.

It’s because she finally has something good. Something soft. Something real.

Lucas’s hands warm around hers. Your breath against her cheek. All three of you whispering secrets into your bedroom walls like they belonged only to you. She has something beautiful—only now she doesn't think she deserves beautiful things.

Not anymore. Not after everything she's lost.

Not when she’s becoming someone she doesn’t even recognize.

She tells herself distance will protect you both.

Protect you, the girl she thinks about constantly; who's shown her nothing but a gentle love. Protect Lucas, who she cares about so deeply; who looks at her with that unbearable, hopeful expression she can’t lie to anymore. Protect both of you from the ugly parts of her life she can’t untangle.

She starts talking less, laughing almost never. Max closes the door before anyone else can—because losing you slowly might hurt less than losing you suddenly.

You don't question her quietness over the days, but it's become more evident, and Lucas is the first to speak about it.

He talks about respecting her space, which you both do, of course.

You still see her. Only now it's when she wants to—turning you away when you knock at her door, rejecting your invite to arcade dates, or comic and movie nights. She hasn't come out to skate with you either, not for a couple days anyway.

Sometimes she says she's helping her mom around the house, which you and Lucas can understand.

Now that the school year's started, she often says she's too busy with homework. But after a couple of times, you don't seem to believe it anymore.

It's not just your dates with Lucas. She doesn't join the party—your friends—at Mike's house anymore either.

There is one day in particular where, it's almost like, she decides to just pull away—completely.

It happens on a Wednesday.

You're attending school as a senior now, and a month has passed since the start of the school year. In the last three weeks, you've felt a major shift.

Not sudden, but slowly, the way someone falls asleep.

Heat still hangs in the hallways, lockers rattling as juniors and seniors shove past each other.

You spot Max instantly.

She’s at her locker, headphones around her neck, red hair falling over her shoulders, just like when you met her for the first time. Only now she looks small. Tired. Like she didn’t sleep. Like she hasn’t slept in days.

You brighten, despite yourself.

“Max!” you call, weaving through a cluster of upper-classmen. She hears you—you see her hear you—and her shoulders stiffen, chin lifting just slightly.

For a second she looks almost... relieved to see you.

You’re just about to lift your hand and wave—when she slams her locker shut. Hard.

Then she turns, only not toward you.

Away.

You freeze in your tracks.

She doesn’t look back, she keeps walking. Her shoulders tense, and her eyes stay forward.

She reaches the end of the hallway. And you watch her do something she's never done to you before: she walks faster. Like she’s avoiding you.

Your stomach drops sharply, like missing a stair. You call again, forced brightness cracking, “Max!”

The space between you feels like something breaking, and you stop calling. Only then, does she stop.

Just barely, but it's enough for you to catch up. She turns—not fully, avoiding your eyes.

Her voice is thin, and tired. “I— I have go, Harrington. I have a meeting.”

“What kind of meeting?" You ask.

Her jaw twitches, and you take a step closer, searching her face for an answer. But it doesn’t come. “Are you mad—did I do something?”

Max’s eyes flicker—something wounded—and she looks away sharply. “No. I just—” She swallows. “Can we… just not do this right now?”

Her tone hits harder than any shouted argument could.

Because she’s not angry. She looks tired. Done.

Before you can say anything else, she adjusts her bag, pulls her headphones up, and walks away. Not rushing. Just quietly leaving you behind in a crowded hallway that suddenly feels way too loud.

Your throat goes tight. And for the first time since the rooftop… you feel something cracking.

Lucas catches up to her behind the school that afternoon, breaking Max from her thoughts. She’s sitting on the curb near the track field, knees pulled up, staring at nothing.

He hesitates before approaching—because he knows all too well that Max hates being cornered—but instinctive concern wins. “Max?”

She flinches like the sound of his voice hurts, but he steps closer. “Hey. Can we talk?”

She shakes her head immediately, defensive. “Not now.”

“Max,” he says, softly. “Please.”

She tenses at the gentleness in his voice. Like it’s something she doesn’t deserve. Like it terrifies her.

Lucas sits beside her anyway—not too close, but close enough she knows he’s there. “You didn’t answer my calls last night.”

“I was busy.”

“No you weren’t.”

She shuts her eyes. Usually, this is where she snaps back with something sarcastic, something to push him away just enough that he’ll stop asking questions.

But right now? She just looks tired.

"I saw you walk into the counselor's office today."

“I don’t wanna talk right now, Lucas.”

His voice comes out gentle—cautious. “You’ve been pulling away... from both of us.”

Max’s eyes flick—just barely—but he sees it, a flicker of sadness.

Lucas continues, helpless. “If something’s going on, you can tell me. You can tell us. You don’t have to go through it alone.”

Her jaw tightens.

Then her voice goes tight. “I am alone.”

Lucas recoils like she just slapped him. “No, you’re not.”

“Lucas…” She finally meets his eyes, and it’s like looking at a ghost. “You and Harrington—you’re still… good. You don’t need me messing everything up.”

“What?” His voice falters. “What are you talking about?”

Max’s jaw clenches. “It’s better this way.”

“No, it isn’t,” Lucas fires back, raw. “Don’t do that. Don’t run. You don’t need to shut us out.”

She stands abruptly, and walks away from him, but Lucas follows anyway. “Max—”

“Stop!” she snaps, voice rising for the first time, eyes bright with something close to tears. “I can’t do this, okay? I can’t—talk about summer. Or—or pretend everything is fine. I just… I can’t.”

Lucas stares at her, chest heaving, every word hitting him too hard. “You don’t have to pretend,” he whispers.

She shakes her head, and he steps forward—slowly—his hand reaching for hers.

“Please,” he begs, voice cracking. “Just… talk to me. Tell me what’s going on.”

But Max pulls her hand back like his touch burns, and turns the other way. “I have to go.”

“Max!—”

She turns the corner, and doesn’t look back.

She walks away, same as she did with you, leaving Lucas alone on the field, breath shaking, holding the empty space where her hand should’ve been in his.

Later that week, the gym smells like sweat, rubber, and cheap floor polish—familiar, grounding, and suffocating all at once.

Lucas dribbles down the court, weaving past players, trying to lose himself in the rhythm. Trying not to think about how Max won’t look at him anymore. Trying not to think about how you’ve been quieter lately, like you’re trying so hard to keep it together, acting like everything’s fine for the sake of him. Trying not to think about how none of it feels like summer anymore.

He makes the pass.

“Yo, Sinclair!”

He turns, and Jason grins, more taunting than friendly. “Your girlfriends coming today?”

Lucas forces a breath. “They’re not—”

“Oh right,” Andy laughs. “Only one usually shows up now, huh? The redhead mad at you again?”

“She probably found out about the other one,” Chance adds.

“Dude’s juggling two chicks at once.”

“Redhead and Harrington’s sister."

"They're like two lesbians fighting over him."

“Careful Sinclair, leave them alone too long and they’ll start macking on each other.”

Laughter erupts. Hard, and echoing.

"Ever get in bed with the weirdo freak lesbos?”

A ball bounces once across the floor behind Lucas, but he doesn’t hear it. All he hears is blood rushing in his ears. Because it’s not funny.

Not when they're laughing at the both of you.

Not when Max won’t return his calls. Not when you’ve been sitting at lunch, picking at your food instead of talking. Not when Lucas has spent months balancing some impossible line between protecting something beautiful and hiding it from a world that wouldn’t understand.

Not when he feels like he’s losing both of you. And especially not when they’re disrespecting the both of you.

Jason claps him on the back. “C’mon Sinclair, lighten up—”

Lucas grabs his jersey and slams him into the wall before he knows he’s moved.

Every head in the gym snaps toward them. “Don’t,” Lucas says through clenched teeth, “talk about them like that.”

Jason’s shock flickers into smug amusement—until he sees Lucas’s eyes. The rage and impatience that burn in them.

“Whoa—hey now—” Jason tries to raise his hands defensively.

“Shut up.” Lucas shoves him harder. “You don’t know anything about them. You don’t know anything about me.”

“Sinclair!” Coach’s whistle shrieks through the air. “Back off!”

But Lucas doesn’t step away. His jaw is locked, his pulse hammering, knuckles prominent with his tight grip on Jason's jersey.

“Lucas!” Coach barks again. “Step off the court until you cool your head!”

Lucas releases Jason like the fabric burned him. The whole gym is staring—some of the guys and cheerleaders whispering. He wipes his palms against his shorts, breath shaking, and walks away towards the locker rooms.

His hands won’t stop trembling. Not just from anger. But from the ache and fear of it all. Because it hits him like a gut punch; first the fear:

If guys like this ever found out the truth—about what the three of you really are—they wouldn’t just laugh. They’d go out of their way to destroy it.

And then the ache hits:

He doesn't want to lose either of you. But he already feels it happening.

You're on your way to second block, and you're a little confused by all the talk going on in the hallways. People seem to be looking at you a lot more than you're used to.

You walk outside because the world feels too loud today. When you turn the corner—you freeze.

Lucas is sitting on the low brick wall outside the school, backpack at his feet, staring at the pavement like it’s the only thing keeping him upright.

He doesn’t see you at first. His knee bounces restlessly. One thumb digs hard into the heel of his opposite palm, like he’s trying to ground himself by force.

“Lucas?” your voice comes out small.

His head jerks up. And you see it.

Raw, exhausted relief—like he’s been drowning quietly and someone finally tossed him a rope. The relief that floods his face destroys you a little—seeing what looks desperately like he’s been holding himself together.

You sit beside him. Not touching. Not yet, because he looks away, jaw working.

After a quiet moment, he finally speaks.

“Coach chewed me out today."

Lucas sighs. "Jason has probably told everyone I’m psycho. A lot of people saw what I did—” His voice falters, and he shuts his mouth, seemingly upset with himself.

You wait. He’s always been able to talk to you when he’s ready.

He speaks again, quieter this time. “They were talking about you. And Max. About… us. Like it was some joke.”

You swallow, feeling your chest tighten. “So you defended us.”

“That’s not defending.” He shakes his head, eyes burning. “I snapped. I almost—if I’d actually hurt him, people would think—” He cuts himself off, breath shuddering.

Your heart sinks. You think back to that first night. The first real conversation you had with him and Max in the abandoned lot.

The night he shared his troubles, and his fears.

“I don't wanna prove anyone right. The perception they might have of me..." His head hangs in defeat.

Your hand finds his back, and you rub it soothingly. "Lucas, look—"

"That’s not the only reason I'm worried, Y/N.”

He turns to you, eyes blown with concern. "If they ever find out about summer… about what we are… they’ll tear it apart.” He shakes his head, a broken sigh escaping him. “They’d tear you apart… Max apart. I don’t want that for either of you.”

You reach out before he could bury his face in his hands. Just a light touch, fingertips brushing his wrist. Then you hold his hand.

Lucas falters—in that awful, overwhelmed way someone does when they’ve been trying not to cry. His breath shudders, and he looks at your interlaced fingers like it’s the first solid thing he’s had to hold onto all day.

And then he breaks just a little—shoulders curling inward, forehead tipping toward you, voice barely there. “I don’t want to lose either of you.”

You reach up to his face, thumb stroking once against his skin. “You're not going to. We'll get through this.”

He lets out a shaky breath—half a sob, half a laugh—and for the first time since the gym, he finally breathes like he believes it might be true.

The bell rings, and your hand cradles his face now, eyes searching his. "I'll see you in third block, okay?"

He nods at your reassurance, and you pull him in to plant a quick kiss on his lips before heading out to your next class.

The end of second block couldn't get here any faster. You don't know what happened or was said in the morning about you, but you know it was bad enough for your classmates to whisper about it without any consideration for you noticing.

You've received a handful of stares in one class period, and it's making your heart stammer so hard in your chest you think it might explode.

You seriously can't wait for third block. All you want is to see Lucas right now.

Which only brings you back to the thought of Max. You can't help it, you can’t help how bad you miss her. You miss being with the both of them. Together.

Your entire life you've felt like an outsider. An outcast. Like you could never fit in... not until you were with them.

The bell rings.

You don't want to take the main hallways to your next class. Your chest still hurts from the ugly stares and whispers of your classmates, and from the ache that came when Lucas whispered 'I don’t want to lose either of you.'

So you take the long way around the science wing—quiet hallway, lockers dented with old graffiti, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead. A hallway not many students take. You’re almost around the corner when a voice cuts through the air.

“Oh, look. Harrington."

You freeze in your tracks.

You recognize three of the basketball players from the team. They lean against the old lockers in their letterman jackets, smirking, almost amused.

The tallest, blonde one grins.

“Hey, aren’t you the one Lucas is juggling? The ‘other’ girlfriend?”

Your stomach drops, but they keep talking.

“Oh no, wait,” another laughs. “Isn’t she the backup? Since Mayfield dumped him?”

“Or maybe she stole him,” the third adds. “You know how nerd girls get when they want attention.”

Your jaw tenses, and you swallow, clutching your books to your chest. Just keep walking, you tell yourself.

But one steps directly into your path.

“Tell us, Harrington,” he says with mock curiosity, “what’s it like ruining things for Max Mayfield?”

"Bad enough she lost her brother. Then you steal her boyfriend too?"

Your heart drops to your stomach. “That’s— I didn’t— I’m not—”

“Oh, come on,” he coos. “You think people don’t see the way you follow Lucas around like some desperate little—”

“Stop,” you say, barely loud enough.

The second guy cuts in before you can say more. “No wonder Mayfield won’t talk to him. You probably freaked her out, right?”

You try to keep your hands from shaking, eyes glued to the floor.

“Seriously,” the first one laughs. "Are you trying to steal her too?”

They all laugh.

“You a lesbian, Harrington?” The other taunts, tone degrading.

Your face flushes, and your eyes sting. You try to blink away any tears that are forming.

“Or is that just part of the deal? What do they call that—" He snaps his fingers, pretending to search for the term. “—a threesome?”

The hallway swallows your breath whole. “Leave me alone,” you manage, but it wobbles and they hear it.

They laugh harder, encircling you.

But you don’t hold back, you shove past them—turning the corner too fast, blinking too fast, desperate to leave that hallway—and that’s when you see her.

Max.

Standing right around the corner. Skateboard tucked under her arm, frozen, staring.

She heard all of it. Every word.

Your chest caves, and Max’s face goes pale—then red—then you see something worse: guilt. Like she’s the one being punched.

She drops her gaze instantly.

You don't have anything to say. Barely able to even breathe.

She turns just as fast, walking the other way without a word. You feel something crack open inside you, and a tiny, awful sound escapes your throat.

And from somewhere down the hall, the guys’ laughter fades as they walk away. You run around back until you're finally alone.

You slide down the locker until you’re sitting on the floor, hugging your knees, breath stuttering, tears falling before you even realize you’re crying.

You’re alone. And for the first time in months, you feel it. You really feel it. Maybe this world really won’t let the three of you exist.

In third block, Lucas instantly notices your empty seat.

He tells himself that maybe you stopped at the nurse’s station. Or that something trivial came up. Or maybe you’re running late. But he can't convince himself of that because you're never late.

Something cold crawls up his spine, and he excuses himself from class. He checks the bathroom hallway. The back stairwell. Your locker.

Nothing.

Then he hears it.

Not loud. Not obvious. Just… quiet, uneven breathing, echoing from behind the old science wing. He turns the corner—and stops.

You’re sitting on the ground, knees hugged to your chest, back against the wall with your face buried in your sleeves.

Your shoulders shake, and something inside Lucas breaks so fast it hurts. “Hey,” he breathes, stepping forward.

“Hey—hey, baby, what’s wrong?” He crouches in front of you, trying to get a look at your hidden face.

You look up, and your eyes are red. Your breathing is uneven, and your mouth trembles when you try to speak. Lucas’s heart breaks cleanly in half.

“What happened?” he whispers, dropping to sit beside you. “Is it Max? Did she say something to you?"

You shake your head, tears now blurring your vision at the memory of Max witnessing your humiliation and running off afterward, only making the shame burn more.

"Did—did someone hurt you?”

You shake your head again, too fast this time. Like you’re trying to convince him. Like you're trying to convince yourself of a lie.

“Lucas, I— I just— I don’t wanna talk about it," You manage between hiccups.

“That’s okay,” he says softly, “you don’t have to talk. Just let me be here—” His hand lifts on instinct, gentle and familiar. The way he’s always comforted you. But when his palm brushes your cheek to wipe away a tear, you flinch and turn away.

Lucas freezes, startled and confused.

His hand hangs in the air like he touched a live wire, and everything goes quiet.

Too quiet.

“Y/N?” he whispers.

You breathe in too sharply, like the air hurts. “I can’t—” your voice finally breaks. “Lucas, please. Just leave me alone. Please.”

His stomach drops as you angle your body away from his, curling in on yourself.

This is it.

This is his nightmare. Happening in real time. Right in front of him.

He might already be losing you.

“Hey—hey, look at me—” he tries again, voice shaking now. "Did I do something wrong? Did I—?”

“You didn’t,” you interrupt, turning to meet his eyes—and your expression destroys him. “It’s me. I’m just—I’m tired.”

“Tired of… me?” His voice cracks on the last word.

Your breath catches, and it pains you that the thought even crosses his mind. You cry harder at that.

That he could possibly think he was the problem.

“No, Lucas. God. Never of you.”

He tries again, and reaches for your hand this time—but you pull it into your lap. Protective. Closed-off. Not because you don’t love him—but because you’re hurt, and more than that—terrified.

“I just…" you whisper. "I can’t do any of this right now. I can't be what you need.”

Lucas looks like you just punched the air out of him.

He sits back slightly, blinking rapidly, like he’s trying not to drown in what he’s hearing. “What are you talking about? You are exactly what I need.”

His voice grows desperate. “You always have been. You and Max— both of you—I’m not me without you—”

“Lucas—”

“There’s something you’re not telling me.” His voice tightens, eyes searching your expression.

He knows you too well.

“Did someone say something to you?”

Your silence is the answer.

And that’s when the fear goes from cold to wildfire.

“Please don’t do this,” Lucas begs. “Please don’t shut me out too. I’m already losing Max, and I—I can’t—I can’t lose you too.”

Your eyes fill again, and you break. “I’m trying, Lucas!"

“I’m trying so hard. But everything’s falling apart and Max won’t talk to me and people are saying things and I—I don’t know how to fix any of it!"

Lucas’ expression softens, at first—then cracks when it hits him.

Because you don't raise your voice. Not at him. Not at anyone.

And if you are now—it means you've been drowning in this, and he didn't see it.

“Why didn’t you come find me?” he asks, voice barely there.

“Because you’re hurting too,” you say, tears spilling over. “And I can’t be the reason you hurt more.”

Lucas is quiet for a second. Then softly, and firmly disagrees. “You’re not."

You shake your head, gaze fixed somewhere past him. You know it’s not that simple. What the three of you have—it’s heavier than you thought it would be. And right now, it feels like even being seen together could break something else.

So you don’t look at him. Because if you do—if you see his face, look into his eyes, hear his voice the way it always softens for you—you might give in.

"Just talk to me. Tell me what’s going on in that pretty head of yours.”

It almost works.

It almost pulls you back.

But the fear is louder.

“You have me. We’ll get through this together.”

You still don't look at him, because you can’t—not when his eyes are pleading you. Not when he looks at you like that. Like he still believes this is fixable. Like you're not already halfway gone.

Lucas searches your face anyway, like he’s trying to find something—anything—to hold onto.

And then it hits him.

Not all at once. Not loud.

Just a quiet, sinking realization. That you really are slipping away; because your silence tells him everything. And there’s nothing he can do to stop it.

“You don’t believe me anymore…" His voice breaks, "do you?”

You stay quiet.

And that's enough.

Lucas lets out a shaky breath, dropping his head into his hands as he sits there beside you.

And for the first time since you met him in sixth grade, Lucas Sinclair looks truly, completely defeated.

Because for the first time since the summer on the rooftop… you’re not reaching for him.

You’re pulling away.

Lucas’s meltdown at practice is still replaying in Steve’s mind when he goes looking for you.

He’d been in the gym stands when it unfolded—watching Lucas, as not only his friend, but trainer who helped him practice for the tryouts that school year. He felt an obligation to keeping an eye on his progress.

Steve was worried. And when your older brother gets worried, he acts.

He rounds the corner of the building and freezes when he hears voices. Sharp, strained—not loud enough to be a fight, but heated enough to make him stop.

Then he hears your voice.

“Max—please, just—wait.”

You’re standing near the chain-link fence, wind tugging your hair. Max stands before you, skateboard tucked under her arm, shoulders hunched.

“I said leave it alone, Harrington,” Max snaps, staring at the pavement, not at you.

“We can’t keep ignoring each other,” you plead. “You’ve been avoiding me—”

“I’m not avoiding you.”

“You won’t even look at me,” you say softly. “Not the same. Not since the summer. Not since—”

Max’s jaw clenches hard, and Steve’s eyebrows pinch together.

The summer? He freezes mid-stride, and his heart stops.

He thinks back to what the guys on the court were saying.

Then his blood runs cold. And suddenly—the walk-in.

Lucas kissing Max. Then kissing you. Max brushing hair from your face. The way your hands stayed linked... longer than friends ever would. Only he didn't realize it then. Lucas acting like he was caught committing a felony—it all snaps together like magnets.

And then—you reach for her hand.

Not as friends. Not as “girls being girls.” Not as anything Steve understands instantly.

It’s tender, and raw—like a plea.

Max’s hand jerks back like she just touched fire.

“Stop!” Her voice cracks. “Just… stop, okay? I don’t wanna do this. I don’t wanna talk about any of it. Not us, and definitely not about anything that happened in the summer.”

The word us echoes, and Steve’s stomach drops.

You look like you’ve just been hit.

“Max,” you plead. “If this is about what you heard in the hallway—”

“I mean it,” Max says, stepping back, eyes glassy. “I can’t be part of… this. Not anymore. I don’t want to be.”

That is what shuts you up. Your eyes sting, and you swallow, fighting the lump forming in your throat.

Max doesn't stay to witness your expression. Because she can't. Not when those last words to you are a total lie.

She kicks off on her skateboard—fast, almost frantic—wheels scraping harshly against concrete as she bolts away from you.

Steve steps out from behind the corner just as you turn around.

Your eyes are wet, and you freeze when you see him.

He lifts both hands slowly, the way you might approach a scared animal.

“Hey,” he says gently. “I didn't mean to intrude. I just… saw a little.”

Your chin trembles, so you look away.

Steve’s voice softens even more. “So... it's not Lucas, huh?”

You don’t know what to say.

“You and Max?” he finishes quietly. “No judgment. I promise.”

Your eyes widen—fragile and scared, and relieved all at once.

He steps closer, careful not to corner you. “Hey,” he murmurs. “You can tell me. Whatever it is… you’re still my sister, okay? That doesn’t change.”

The dam breaks, and tears spill over.

Steve catches you in his arms before you crumble completely. You bury your face against his shoulder, and he holds you like he used to when you were little and had nightmares.

His voice is low and protective. “Whatever’s going on… I’m here. Okay?”

You nod into his shirt. The first real comfort you’ve felt in weeks.

After you've settled down, you and Steve both sit on a curbside on the backside of the school. 

He shifts to face you fully. “Wanna talk about it?”

You stare at your knees. “I think…” Your breath shakes. “Everything is messed up.”

He processes your words, a quiet moment passing. “How?”

“I… I like Max.”

Steve blinks once, waiting, and patient.

You wait for anger. Or confusion. Or disgust. But Steve just nods slowly, processing. “Okay,” he says softly. “Okay. That’s fine.”

Your shoulders sag with relief. Then he adds, a little confused: “So then, you and Lucas aren't, you know… a thing?”

You sniff. “We are.”

Steve chokes on nothing. Air maybe, and then stares. “You—what?”

You laugh wetly through your tears—the smallest, saddest sound. "Or we were, at least. Before I pushed him away…"

"Because you like Max?"

Your gaze finally meets his. “I like Max... and Lucas. And they... like me too."

Steve’s mouth falls open just a little.

“Oh,” he says again, but softer this time. More understanding. More gentle.

You begin to choke up. "Well, they did. Before everything fell apart.”

Steve’s face softens in a way you didn’t expect—a way that makes you want to cry all over again. “I’m so scared, Steve.”

“Oh, kid,” he murmurs. And then he leans over and pulls you into his chest. “You’re not wrong. And you’re not weird, and you’re definitely not alone. You hear me?”

You break. Fully. Completely.

He holds you through every shaky breath, hand in your hair, voice low and steady, whispering reassuring words.

“I don’t know what to do,” you whisper brokenly. Steve sighs—long and soft, and unexpectedly understanding.

Your tears fall harder.

“Well,” he says, squeezing your hand. “Good news—you’re not alone. Big ol’ brother Steve’s got you.”

taglist ❤︎⁠ @underoospeterparker @rennluvsu @philibi3 @lightsgore @michael-loves-chickens @meddowsfav @moonymionemo @me0w-miix @deftonianfr @faerythoughts @cluelessred3 @moonm1st @edynmeyer1 @enormouslysweettribute @iloveragdollcats @lulubear12 @freevoidperfection @strawbelly32 @happytimek @downbadgirlypoo @boricuas-fic-recs @angelreneeanderson @imsleepy102 @nicolelikestoread

☆ — a/n hi!!! hope you all enjoyed <3 i was planning on making this two parts only, but this was pretty lengthy alone, so i'll have to put the rest of it in a part three. lol oops. i got a little carried away with this lumax fic. but yes, the third part will mostly be angst/comfort with a lil humor. it's been so fun writing this. so please do look forward to it! if you'd like to be tagged for the final part lmk. if you're already in the taglist above, you'll automatically be tagged in part three.

Tanhi answers with a strained screech.

You feel it through the bond—her exhaustion bleeding into your own limbs like sand filling your bones. Every muscle burns. Every breath feels heavier to breathe than the last.

You’d been flying all morning—having left the forest way before the sun could give you even a glimpse of daylight. Long before the forest woke.

Awa’atlu should be just ahead. Your dad is going to lose his mind when he finds you there.

If he finds you there.

Fuck, who are you trying to kid? You're bound to be discovered. The goal isn't to stay hidden forever. Just long enough.

Tanhi suddenly cries out—a sharp, breaking sound—and her wings stutter. “No, no—!”

Her right wing buckles.

And your world drops.

“Fuck!”

Wind roars in your ears as you yank the reins, trying to angle the fall, trying to steer—anything—but gravity doesn't care about your plans. The ocean rushes up beneath you, glittering blue and merciless, unfamiliar. Slightly—okay, very intimidating.

Tanhi slams into the shoreline with a spray of sand and splash of water, skidding hard across the wet beach. You barely have time to roll free before you crash beside her, sand filling your mouth.

For a second, the sky spins overhead in blinding white sunlight.

Then— "Identify yourself!"

You groan, shoving yourself upright and spitting grit from your mouth. “Jesus—yes, I’m okay. Thank you very much for chec—"

You barely get the words out before something slams into you, a heavy weight tackling you straight back into the sand.

"Hey! Get off me y—!”

Your protest dies when cold metal presses to your throat.

The Na’vi above you holds a dagger steady beneath your jaw, his grip firm on your wrist where he’s pinned it against the ground.

Up close, he’s… almost beautiful.

Almost. If he weren’t threatening to kill you.

His skin is bright reef-cyan, dark patterns swirling across his broad shoulders. Dark brown locs are tied halfway back, the rest falling loose around his shoulders, several strands brushing dangerously close to your nose. A few curls frame sharp cheekbones marked with intricate inked designs.

And his eyes—bright blue. Scintillating, like the ocean. Focused.

"I said," he repeats, voice low and edged with warning, "identify yourself."

You hear another voice then. "Ao'nung, let her go, man."

His gaze flickers downward first—to the hand he’s pinning. To the extra finger there. Then his lip curls downward, glowering. "No. Her kind welcomes danger."

The other disagrees, and Ao'nung glances briefly toward the voice behind him.

That's all the opening you need.

You twist sharply, sweeping his leg out from under him, flipping your weight. The next second the positions are reversed.

Now he’s the one in the sand.

Your dagger is out before he even finishes falling, the blade hovering inches from his throat.

“My kind,” you snap, breath still uneven, “has a name.”

You lean down slightly, glaring. "I am of the Omatikaya."

Even pinned down, even with a blade hovering above his throat, Ao'nung looks amused.

Actually amused—the scowl from earlier wiped clean.

His mouth curves slowly into a smirk. You immediately hate him.

"I am looking for my people. Are the Sullys here?"

He hums thoughtfully. Feigning thought. "Possibly."

There were dozens of islands out here. You could have landed anywhere.

"Are they here or not?" you demand, growing desperate. You apply more pressure into the blade on his throat, earning you a sharp inhale at your threat.

Only, his smirk only grows wider now. Clearly, still very amused. His eyes flick over you—not dismissive this time, but measuring.

The dagger. Your confidence. The stance. The way you hold yourself, expecting him to fight back.

"You are very bold," Ao’nung remarks, voice almost lazy beneath the blade. “For someone who just arrived.”

Your grip tightens. “Answer the question.”

"Or what?" He challenges. "Are you going to put that blade to use?"

"Show me to your Olo'eyktan." You demand, ignoring his question.

You study him. "Are the Sullys here?" you ask one last time.

"Maybe," he finally says, a smirk growing on his lips.

"You can remove the blade now. If I wished to throw you off, I would have already done so."

His eyes flick up to yours again, bright with mischief. "Though, I am enjoying this."

Your eyes narrow at him, the dagger not budging even slightly.

Then—a deep horn blasts across the water.

You turn toward the sound instinctively.

Big mistake. The second your attention shifts, Ao'nung surges upward. Sand explodes beneath you as he flips you back over, pinning your shoulders down again.

"You are a slow learner," he murmurs, the smirk still tugging at his mouth. You snarl, and shove against him, twisting and kicking to break his hold.

"Ao'nung!" A female voice cuts through the struggle like a breeze over water. "What are you doing?"

You glance past his shoulder. A young Na’vi woman approaches across the beach, her movements graceful, almost gliding over the sand. Her skin is the same light, luminous turquoise, freckles dusted across her nose and cheeks like grains of twinkling stars.

Ao'nung doesn't look away from you.

She examines you briefly, her gaze catching your distinct features, and recognition paints her face. Her voice is softer—sweet, like honey. "I can show you to the Sullys. If that is what you are here for," she says. "They will be at the council gathering."

"Is that what that horn was?" you grunt, still struggling beneath Ao'nung's grip.

There's no point now. Except pride.

Neither of you seems willing to give up.

She nods. "Yes. Come." Then glares at Ao'nung, commanding silently.

He looks up just in time to catch it—that's your moment.

You twist sharply, slipping one arm free and rolling sideways out of Ao'nung's grasp before he can react. You scramble to your feet and dart toward her side, baring your teeth at him in warning.

She tries to hide a smile. "Ao'nung... as future Olo'eyktan, you should tend cautiously to guests." Tsireya's eyes settle gently on you.

Your pupils blow with panic, realization painting your expression. "Forgive me," you say to him quickly.

Ao'nung stands and dusts sand from his chest, visibly annoyed. Though, the flick of amusement in his eyes confuse you. "Maybe. I will think about it."

Despite how irritating he is, you walk up to him and gently tap your finger on your forehead, gesturing to him in greeting. "I See you."

He studies you for a second before reluctantly deciding to return the greeting.

You turn toward the young woman properly now, and do the same.

She mirrors the gesture, and warmly says, "I See you."

"I am Y/N. Spellman."

Her smile brightens, and her ears flick upwards at the name. As if she recognizes it.

"I am Tsireya."

“Come,” she says again, gesturing toward the village across the water. “The council will already be gathering.”

“I’ll stay back,” you murmur quietly to Tsireya. “I’m not part of this.”

She studies your face for a moment, as if she understands more than you’ve said out loud, then nods. "I will find you after."

With that, she slips into the gathering. Ao’nung joins her, but not before looking back over his shoulder. You can’t tell if the expression that settles on his face reads as intrigued or annoyed. Regardless, you decide you don’t like him.

You remain where you are—half hidden behind a cluster of woven canoes and coral rock, the salty wind tugging softly at your braids.

You need to stay unseen.

For as long as possible.

The reef village stretches out before you in a wide crescent of pale sand and shallow turquoise water. Dozens of Metkayina gather in a tightening circle, their voices overlapping in restless murmurs.

Even from a distance, two figures command the center.

The Tsahìk.

The Olo’eyktan.

Their garments alone set them apart—intricate shells and beads, ceremonial markings painted across their skin. Authority radiates from them like heat from sun-warmed stone.

They look powerful.

Unmovable.

The Tsahìk suddenly wails—a sharp, grief-stricken cry that slices through the crowd.

“My spirit sister and her baby have been murdered by the Sky People!”

For a moment the world seems to tilt, the edges of your vision going faint and blurry as fear crawls cold and sharp through your chest. Your fingers curl into the rough coral beside you.

You force chest into your lungs in a deep breath. But your chest still feels heavy.

Quaritch.

He knows they're here.

The events in the forest replay in your mind like a raw, vivid nightmare. Just like ir does most nights in your sleep. The recoms. Quaritch stabbing you. The kidnapping of Spider.

Breathe.

You wipe the hot tears you didn't realize were falling. The last thing you needed was your family to be in danger again.

Your dad hadn't returned to the forest. Not in five days, when he had promised two.

Now you understand why.

The crowd erupts.

Cries burst from every direction—hisses, and outraged shouts, the pounding of spears striking the ground in furious agreement.

The Olo’eyktan steps forward, anger flashing across his face. “This war has come to us!” he roars, tramping his spear weapon into the ground in protest. This elicits an uproaring outrage in the clan, seemingly in agreement with his proposition to fight against the Sky People.

"Now it is here!"

The impact echoes across the beach.

The crowd explodes again—voices rising into a storm of fury and fear. Bodies surge closer together, shoulders squared, teeth bared.

They want to fight.

Your gaze sweeps the chaos—and lands on him instantly. Dark blue skin in a sea of turquoise.

Jake.

Even from here you can read the tension in his posture. The tight set of his shoulders. The way his hands flex at his sides.

“No, you don’t—”

You barely hear the words. But you know that expression. You’ve seen it a thousand times. He’s thinking the same thing you are.

This will only make it worse.

You stay hidden, watching the argument spiral—voices clashing, accusations flying. The Tsahìk’s fury burns hotter each time Jake tries to speak. Shame flickers in her words when she blames him for encouraging the tulkun to leave.

Then—movement beside Jake catches your eye. Someone steps forward.

"Listen!" The voice cuts through the chaos. "Listen to him!"

Your breath catches at the all too familiar voice.

Neteyam.

For a moment, the noise of the crowd fades into the background.

Eight months. It had been eight excruciating months without him.

You’re both nearly 20 now.

But he looks—different.

That’s an understatement.

He stands tall beside Jake, shoulders broader than you remember—squared with quiet authority, like someone used to command. His stance is steady, even beneath the weight of the clan's anger pressing in from all sides.

He no longer stands beside his father.

He stands with him.

Your pupils widen with growing admiration.

Neteyam's features are more striking than you remember. He's all sharp cheekbones with a firm jaw, freckles scattered across his face like stars against the deep blue of his skin, and piercing amber eyes that burn with fierce focus as they flicker between Jake and the restless clan.

That's when you see it.

The ink.

A bold, intricate marking stretches across the upper right side of his face—dark patterned lines sweeping across his temple and cheekbone.

Not nearly as many as Ao'nung, but the one is enough to stand out, striking all the same.

Despite the tension choking the air around you—you can't look away.

Your breath catches in your throat, the sight of him rooting you in place. The newly inked marking on his face makes you curious, but your stomach drops—both at once. It makes you wonder what else you missed out on. The feeling settles uncomfortably in your chest.

He speaks again, voice calm but commanding, helping Jake steady the crowd. Their words cut through the rising fury slowly, carefully—pleading for restraint instead of war.

Neteyam makes a point.

He holds an unfamiliar device in the air, completely silencing the clan. He explains, demands, voice coming out desperate—earning the clan's fear and surrender.

The Olo'eyktan exchanges a long glance with the Tsahik. Then orders are given.

The gathering breaks apart in restless waves as the clan disperses across the beach.

Only then do you allow yourself to move.

You slip further back along the edge of the village, weaving quietly between stacked nets and anchored canoes. Your eyes search instinctively—and find Neteyam again.

He's moving toward someone.

Lo'ak.

Your heart swells at the familiar face.

The two brothers stop a short distance away, voices low but heated. You creep closer, keeping to the shadows of the woven huts, careful not to draw attention.

Lo'ak looks older too.

Taller.

His shoulders have broadened, chest filled out much like Neteyam's.

You stare for a moment.

Jesus. What is in this water?

Their argument builds—Lo'ak gesturing sharply, frustration clear in every movement.

Neteyams steps forward, evidently more upset now. Their faces are inches away now, and you’re afraid that their argument might escalate.

You step forward, slowly from the shade.

Then—Lo'ak stops. Mid-sentence. And his eyes slide past Neteyam's shoulder.

They land on you.

Disbelief paints his features.

Neteyam frowns, and turns too.

Your heart is hammering so violently in your chest it mutes everything else around you. The pattering of the rain hitting the water, the waves of the ocean, the tumult and yips from nearby clan members—the chaos that is war, breaking out.

For a split second, everything stills.

Neteyam's eyes land on you.

And the breath leaves him all at once.

The dandelion pendant rests against your chest. The same one he returned the morning he destroyed you.

Your hair is longer now, thicker, braided perfectly and threaded with colorful beads and feathers. Forest feathers, the kind from home.

Your eyes meet his. Gentle, and fierce—achingly familiar.

For a second, Neteyam thinks he's imagining you. Some cruel trick his mind conjured after months of missing you so violently it sometimes it hurt to breathe.

But then you move. Your weight shifts slightly, raindrops catching in the beads woven through your hair.

And he realizes. You're real.

You're here.

And you're looking straight at him.

Everything else fades. The noise of the village. Responsibility. The war. None of it exists anymore.

There is only you.

Standing there after eight months of silence.

His chest tightens unwillingly, painfully. "What are you doing here?"

The words come out harsher than he means to. Immediately, your expression falters.

You start talking quickly—afraid he'll beat you to words. “I—I didn’t mean to take you by surprise. I just…" You swallow, words stumbling over each other. "I knew something was wrong when Dad's trip here was extended. And when I got here and heard what was happening—”

You take a breath that shakes.

"I thought maybe I could help." You stop yourself, swallowing hard. "I know you don't want me here," you add, quietly. "But I am."

Neteyam's expression shatters. Because that—

That is exactly what he feared. That you believed the lie. That you thought he pushed you away because he didn't want to be with you.

Like there wasn't a day that he didn't think about you.

He crosses the distance between you before you can say anything else, searching your face frantically, as if afraid you might disappear again.

“You should not be here,” he says, voice low, his eyes jumping back and forth between your own.

Your shoulders sink slightly.

“I know,” you whisper.

“But you told me once that I lived between two worlds.” Your voice trembles slightly. “M-maybe at first I did.”

You lift your chin just a little. “But here I am now. In this world.”

Your gaze holds his.

“I am Na’vi. Through and through.”

Your eyes meet his again. “You’re the one who helped me believe it.”

The words shatter him, and his expression falters. The memory crashes into him all at once.

The lie. The morning in the forest. Watching you walk away believing you were never enough.

“I lied to you,” he says hoarsely.

You blink slowly, eyes widening.

“That day in the forest… everything I said.”

His voice breaks. “I thought if I pushed you away, you would be safe.”

The space between you goes painfully still.

“And instead,” he whispers, “I have spent every day wishing I'd done something—anything. Before hurting you like that. It killed me.”

You swallow. “Neteyam—”

But he doesn’t let you finish.

Because this time, he’s the one who kisses you.

Not careful.

Not hesitant.

His lips crash into yours with months of longing and regret and love he never stopped feeling.

You freeze in shock for half a heartbeat—before your hands fist in his hair and pull him closer, deepening the kiss. It's messy and desperate and overwhelming.

Nothing like the first one.

When you finally pull apart, you're both breathless, foreheads resting together.

Your noses brushing with every shaky inhale. Neteyam lets out a soft laugh that breaks halfway through.

Tears spill down his cheeks before he even realizes they’re there. Then his thumb brushes gently across your jaw, like he’s confirming you’re still real.

“I am never letting you walk away from me again.”

You smile, tears slipping down your own cheeks. “You can’t get rid of me that easily.”

Then he grins with tears in his eyes and says, “I see you.” — still in disbelief that you actually came looking for him. “I have loved you from the moment I saw you wandering in the forest. Which nearly got you killed by the way,” he grins despite himself, and reaches out to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear.

“You shouldn’t have been out there. Just like you shouldn’t be here now, tìyawn.” (love)

You blush at the word he uses. “I could not help it. I love you so much it drives me crazy.”

His hand still cradles your face, and he’s about to pull you in for another kiss when—

“Well,” a familiar voice cuts in dryly, “I’m right here too, you know, Spellman?”

You both turn.

Lo’ak stands a few feet away with his arms crossed, eyebrows raised, trying very hard to look annoyed—and failing miserably.

Your face lights up instantly. “Lo’ak!”

You laugh breathlessly, stepping past Neteyam to run to him. He spreads his arms dramatically. “As your best friend, this is the welcome I get?”

“I missed you too, skxawng.”

Lo’ak's arms tighten around you, and nuzzles his face into the crook of your neck—your familiar scent alone relaxing him.

“Yeah, yeah. I figured.” He releases you, then rolls his eyes. “It's about time you get here. He’s been unbearable without you," Lo'ak adds.

Neteyam’s jaw tightens. “Lo’ak.”

“You were moping.”

“I was not.”

“You stared at the ocean for three hours yesterday.”

“That was thinking.”

“That was pining.”

Neteyam bares his teeth slightly, but Lo’ak only grins wider.

Before the argument can escalate, another voice slips in—soft and curious.

“So this is the girl I have heard so much about.”

You turn.

Tsireya approaches with a gentle smile, her bright eyes studying you with open interest. Her gaze flickers briefly between you and Neteyam, clearly piecing things together.

Before she can say anything else—Ao’nung steps forward beside her. He folds his arms, looking you up and down.

“How many of you aliens are there?”

Neteyam’s jaw tightens instantly, and he steps forward before you can even react, placing himself half in front of you without thinking.

His ears pin back, teeth flashing. “Watch what you say.”

Ao’nung only smirks. Tsireya sighs softly, clearly used to this.

Lo'ak begins, "You know, that is getting real old, fish lips—"

A rumbling cry echoes across the water, interrupting.

Everyone’s attention shifts toward the ocean, the mood sobering quickly.

Lo’ak's ears pin back in realization. “Fuck this. There are bigger problems.”

Neteyam’s hand finds yours instinctively.

He squeezes once. Then looks toward the horizon.

“Payakan.”

taglist 🏷️ @karma-reader @fire-0-lily @ghostlymonsoonhunter @jumimo0o0 @weirdobsessivegirl @angelreneeanderson @soncee @matt-sturnioloo @myriaminoctober @dreamygirl19 @snore-3 @justslightlymental @neuviloved @druthesigma @operahouse09 @emely-sm @ladiadia @viliwi @enhylov @kolyasposts @elibansndnd @broken---mirror @strawberrychita @jellyfrogz @xx-owl-xx @deathmybride @xxvelvetxxxx @alligator-person @grangerthequeen @sela-gypsy @itsbritneybitch713 @princess76179 @vinz-vinz @tatumrileyslover @ruruthecannibal1464 @lumilily @superlegend216 @taivantaylor @rottinghyacinth @veiraiya @amarkzxc @s1llysullyy @froggietoki @weasleylovers @silenterosionn @maraschino-bullet @waytoomanyteenagefeels @smurfetsstuff @sassy-persona @briacreations96

You’re now 18, and…

It’s official—Neteyam has had enough of Jake’s limits and restrictions.

Not long after the return of the RDA, Neteyam throws himself into his own training, shoulders tight beneath his father’s shadow. Being in a role right below Jake’s sharpens him, but you catch the moments when he looks away—like he’s afraid of failing, or being seen too clearly.

You’re the only one who catches it, because he’s mastered hiding it.

For the last three months, Neteyam has put up with a lot. More than he ever asked for or wanted. Whether it was Tarsem on his ass about the next step in becoming a full adult in the clan through his Dream Hunt—and never missing a single session of training for it, Jake nagging him about taking the younger warriors on drills in the event of possible returning human forces, or even Lo’ak giving him so much shit over every single minute Neteyam spends following him; with only the means to protect his siblings – he’s obliged, and listened to all of it without complaint.

Neteyam has never argued, never once raised his own protests about how exerting and time-consuming everything actually is on one man’s shoulders.

Yet, he wants to be out there.

Since the return of the RDA, he has never demanded nor voiced his grievances over the role his father designated him.

“Dad, I should be among those who fight. If I'm to learn, I need to be out there."

Jake looks tired, but resolute. He shakes his head and places a hand on Neteyam's shoulder.

"No, son. This mission is too dangerous. High Camp needs protecting—you're part of that defense."

Neteyam's expression falters with a flick of his tail, betraying frustration. "I'm not just shield duty, sir. Let me stand beside you. Not behind."

Still... Jake denies him.

The worst part is, he can understand all of it to an extent.

Surely, Jake holds a sense of duty as his father. He fears for his safety, particularly his younger siblings, and for that reason alone, he draws the line—enforces strict boundaries.

But over the last few months, Neteyam sees it—Jake balancing clan duty and fatherhood.

He notices the weight of the burden Jake carries alone. Neteyam just wants to help. Still, the heavy leadership, more often than not, prompts him to be cautious about exposing family to risk.

He commiserates with Jake, he does—especially given his father's past experiences. He never blames him, nor judges his behavior; more than any of his other children, he understands.

But Neteyam thinks he's shown his own capability, that he’s proven his reliability through his contribution and dedication to the clan over the years. He wants to be useful during threats, not merely kept in a safe corner.

Jake trains warriors and runs stealth raids with them. So, now that they are presently gathered at their assigned area in High Camp, Neteyam surreptitiously plops himself down in the strategy circle, accompanied by you, of course.

You lean into him, furtively glancing at Jake in the center. "You don't think he'll notice... do you?"

The last three months have been excruciating, to say the least. But tolerable, because, well—let's be honest, you're the only thing that makes this all bearable.

You're his favorite person to be around, his best friend; too many great things about you. You're clever, courageous, and persistent—even in a world that underestimates you. Steadfast and endlessly willing. The only one who meets him step-for-step—matching his fire with your own.

"No, not unless you lower your voice, Spellman."

Oh, and bonus—for him, anyway—you're ridiculously easy on the eyes. Breathtaking in a way that's distracting.

He tries not to think about it. Really, he does.

He’s always thought you were beautiful—captivating, even—first in that small, human way he noticed when you were both young. Small and fierce, and impossible to ignore.

But here, at eighteen… it’s different.

Your presence hits him harder, and he feels powerless against the way it reels him in. It’s like he can’t look straight at you—like every stolen glance risks giving him away. It’s in the way you move, the ease of your smile, the quiet confidence you've grown into.

It’s ridiculous how easily you undo him. The sight of you—laughing, determined, focused—hits with the same force it did when you were kids, only now he struggles more to hide it.

He hates how distracting it is. How he can't not look at you.

Some days he wonders if you realize how often his eyes find you without permission.

It’s astonishing, really—how someone he’s known his whole life can unravel him simply by existing beside him.

He tries to tune into the debate, ignoring the frown you throw his way. Still, he feels it, and even so, knows you do it. He rolls his eyes to the side and watches as you focus on the center of the circle—trying to gather intel just as intently as he is.

Neteyam watches you for all of three seconds before his ears perk and a smile tugs at his mouth, tail flicking once.

You feel his gaze like heat on your skin. "What? Quit staring. You'll blow our cover," you whisper.

But that's a lie, and he knows it. You and Neteyam are tucked pretty far in the back of the warrior circle that Jake wouldn’t notice you even if you shouted. Neytiri wouldn’t either, and Norm definitely wouldn’t.

The only thing giving you away is the way his eyes fluster you.

You get all... fidgety, as Kiri calls it.

Oh, how Neteyam loves that you like him.

Even with your days full—clan duties, evenings with your dad, trainings with other warriors, male warriors—Neteyam knows you like him. It’s never truly been a secret, though you’d absolutely argue otherwise.

But he loves it more than you think it is.

Because, let's be honest, how could you possibly think he doesn't know? That you've been successful in keeping it secret from him when you act the way you do? The moment that sticks with him most—the one that confirmed it without question—was when he almost kissed you.

That split-second when you didn't stop him, when you leaned into him before you realized what was happening.

And the way you panicked afterward.

He knows why you pulled away. Of course he does.

And he never held it against you. Never made you feel strange for it. He respects you—your pace, your fears, your dreams. If anyone understands the reasons behind your choices, the shadows behind your hesitation, it’s him.

He finds your flustered secrecy ridiculously amusing. Still—entirely adorable. He'll give you that.

"Did you meet Lo'ak?" he asks quietly, so as not to draw any attention. He was supposed to help you in the village, but never showed. Which, honestly, isn't much of a surprise considering his occasional flaky reputation. You didn't regard it much attention.

You shake your head, then ask, "Kiri?"

She was to help tend the wounded of young warriors Neteyam was training. Instead, Mo'at finished the job alone.

He shakes his head too.

If it were one of them, it’d be normal. They take turns being chaotic.

But both? Gone? At the same time?

That's not normal.

And Neteyam’s subtle ear-flick tells you he’s already thinking the same. "I'll go check on them," he whispers.

"No," you protest quietly, laying a hand on his forearm. You don’t want him sacrificing this moment—not again, not for the thousandth time.

Sure, Neytiri and Jake have assigned him with that responsibility. But It’s rare that you two manage to slip into the strategy circle unnoticed. Rare that he gets to be here at all, instead of wrangling siblings or running point on patrols, or getting called out to train with Tarsem.

"I'll find them," you insist. "You stay."

His ears dip once, conflicted. "Don't worry,” you assure him quietly. Before he can argue, you press a finger to your lips and slip out of the circle like a shadow.

You glance back only once. Neteyam gives you a small, solemn nod before turning his attention to Jake again.

You search everywhere—the Sully's marui, the avatar marui, the lab trailer, and the entire sweep of High Camp.

Nothing. No tracks, no belongings, not even the trace of Spider's blue body paint dried up somewhere it shouldn't be.

They're not here. So you head straight to the cliff's edge and yip for Tanhi.

Minutes later, you’re flying over the forest canopy, scanning between branches, thinking of a dozen harmless places they might be. You keep telling yourself it’s nothing—just another one of their outings.

But the worry keeps climbing.

You land at a small ledge beneath High Camp for a breather. As you dismount, your foot slips and you catch yourself with a soft laugh—and then the memory hits.

Spider, just yesterday, fumbling onto Kiri’s ikran. Lo’ak cackling from behind:

"Bro, if you can't even climb onto an ikran, there's no way you'd make it up to the Old Shack."

Your laughter dies.

No.

He wouldn't... would he?

You’re mounting again before the thought fully forms. Of course he would. You feel stupid for even doubting it.

Lo’ak has always been that way—reckless, magnetic, impossible to say no to.

Since you were kids, it’s always played out the same: he gets that spark in his eyes, some wild idea tumbling into words before reason can catch up, you glow with the thrill of it, and before you know it, you're following him straight into trouble.

He didn’t always mean to pull you in; sometimes, he just… had a way. A charm threaded through his grin, through the easy confidence that makes every bad idea sound like an adventure worth having.

You can almost hear him now—“Come on, it’ll be fine. Just trust me.” And every single time, you did.

The thought makes your chest tighten, a dull ache blooming beneath your ribs.

You nudge Tanhi into the air, the rush of wind biting at your cheeks as you climb higher. The forest stretches beneath you in endless green waves, each gust pulling the memory apart until it dissolves into raw fear.

Your fingers tighten on the reins.

He would go. He would absolutely go.

He’s probably laughing right now—dragging Spider and Kiri along, pretending he’s not terrified of what might be waiting there. That’s how he’s always hidden it: the impulsivity, the guilt, the need to prove himself—with bravado sharpened into armor.

You push Tanhi harder. "Come on... come on..."

The wind whistles past your ears, the ground a blur far below. The mountains loom ahead, sharp and unforgiving, and your heart thrums with the same rhythm as Tanhi’s wings—steady, desperate, driven by one thought alone:

Please, let me be wrong.

You crouch low, fingers brushing against the damp soil; and discover the faint imprint of bare feet.

You know they're Spider's because of it's size—flanked by indentations of similar ones, only slightly bigger—Lo'ak. And possibly Kiri.

You follow the trail until the tracks scatter around something massive and broken.

A downed Samson gunship lies tangled in vines, its hull half-swallowed by the forest.

The wreck creaks faintly in the breeze, suspended just off the ground like a trapped insect. You swallow hard, circling it—your hand tracing a path through the ferns.

Then you see them.

A set of smaller prints, pressed lightly into the mud beside the others.

Tuk.

A sharp, cold thread winds through your chest.

You press your palm to the earth, drawing a long breath. Don’t think the worst. At least they’re together…

In an area of possible danger. Ugh. You can’t help it.

Your body assists you—your new instincts heightening everything. The forest air is sharp and alive, layered with scents that feel like stories. You inhale again, deeper this time—earth, ash, faint oil from the wrecked Samson—then something else.

Something wrong.

It’s sharp in a way that scrapes the back of your throat. Not Na’vi. Not familiar.

Your heart lurches.

You find another trail, heavier, deliberate—boots. Too many of them.

Avatars?

Panic surges through your bloodstream. You don’t even think; your body just moves.

You take off through the undergrowth, feet silent against the soil—the way Neteyam taught you to move swiftly like the wind, quietly like breathing with the trees. You duck beneath branches, every muscle tuned to the rhythm of pursuit.

The forest narrows, every sound sharpening to painful clarity. You can hear your own breathing, the whisper of your braid against your back, and beneath it all—the faint echo of voices.

You slow, easing through the brush.

“Yes, sir. Moving out.”

It's Lo’ak’s voice—steady, and formal. Your shoulders ease.

You push closer, each step a whisper.

Then— “See? I told you.” Kiri.

You exhale, relief crashing through you as you step from the trees.

“Jesus,” Spider mutters, nearly jumping out of his skin at your sudden appearance.

“What the hell are you guys doing here—” your gaze lands squarely on the mind behind it all, “—Lo’ak?”

He lifts his hands in surrender, wincing. “I know, Y/N. Okay? I already called it in.”

“Good. Let’s get the hell out of here.” You say quietly and move forward, hand finding the top of Tuk’s head, her small braids brushing your palm as you herd them toward safer ground.

“You’re going to be in so much trouble,” Kiri mutters, glaring at her brother.

“Shh, Kiri. Stop,” he shoots back, tense.

“Guys, come on,” Spider urges, glancing toward the fading light.

But you freeze mid-step.

Something shifts in the air, and your ears twitch.

There, beneath the wind and rustle of leaves—a pattern of movement. Measured. Predatory. Close. Too close.

You catch the scent again, stronger now; and your pupils narrow.

“What?” Lo’ak whispers, noticing your stillness, following your line of sight.

You barely part your lips. “Something isn’t right. Tuk, hold on a sec—”

“It’s almost eclipse. Come on!” Tuk calls, short limbs pushing her ahead of everyone.

The words barely leave her mouth before it happens.

A figure lunges from the underbrush, large arms snatching Tuk off her feet.

She screams, a sound so high and raw it cuts through the trees. Her legs kick wildly, tail thrashing.

“TUK!” Kiri’s voice rips through the air.

The forest erupts.

Shadows burst into motion—avatars—their uniforms blending perfectly with the forest, and rifles snapping up in perfect sync. You startle, jolting up at the unfolding scene.

Lo’ak’s snarl splits the chaos, fangs bared as he draws a knife in one seamless motion. Spider leaps in front of Kiri, his bow drawn, hiss slicing through the air.

The four of you fall into instinctive formation—a broken half-circle around Kiri. Spider crouches low in front of her, with you and Lo’ak on the flanks. Every muscle in you coils, hearts pounding.

Your own bow is up before your mind catches up. The string bites into your fingers, bow drawn taut, breath ragged in heaving breaths.

The Recom holding Tuk drags her closer, shifting his armored bulk behind her small frame. Her eyes are wide—and terrified. His grip tightens until she whimpers.

"Put it down!"

Your voice shakes with fury, but you force the words through gritted teeth. “Lonu!” (release her; let go)

A rifle clicks. The Recom beside the one holding Tuk has his barrel leveled squarely at you. “Put it down, or I’ll shoot you!”

There are at least three of them pointing their rifles at Lo'ak. His eyes flit around the forest apprehensively, before his ears flatten against his head, and he decides to drop his bow in surrender.

He turns to the blonde beside him, ears still flat with a wary expression on his face. "Spider. Ting tseng." (put it down)

Lo'ak's gaze goes past Spider to find you next, giving you the same look, as if his eyes are warning you. You could see it.

He watches you with an intensity that speaks of his fear for your safety.

"Put your hands up!" The voice cracks like a whip.

Spider glares once more, before reluctantly giving up his position too. He lets the tension bleed from his drawn bow, and finally throws it into the ground, thudding into the thicket.

As soon as Spider surrenders, the recoms disperse.

But you?

Your fingers refuse to move.

You step back, your aim jumping between each of them, unsure who to point at. There's too many of them, and they’re grabbing each of your friends by their kuru and shoving them to their knees.

You stare at your own bow, fingers stiff around the smooth wood. Every lesson from Neteyam echoes in your mind—Never let go. Not unless you must.

But you see the rifle pressed to Lo’ak’s head.

“Put it down or I will shoot!”

You realize he’s threatening you with harming Lo’ak, and fear surges through your body.

You hiss in anger, and more than anything, defeat.

Your nose scrunches, heart hammering like war drums. Then, slowly—too slowly—you unclench your fingers, and the bow slips from your hands, landing in the dirt beside Spider’s.

Your surrender is quickly followed by the cold muzzle of a rifle pressing into the small of your back, forcing you down to your knees in the dirt.

Rough hands seize your braid, closing like iron around it; he yanks your head back, your kuru pulled taut as if to remind you how little you are. Pain sparks bright at the base of your skull. The humiliation burns hotter than fear; and you bite back a sound, chest heaving.

“Y/N! Kiri!” Tuk is crying, thrashing in the grip of the recom.

Kiri whispers to her in low, soothing tones, though her hands are trembling.

Around you, everyone’s breathing is loud, shallow, terrified. Spider twists in their grip, still hissing, still refusing to bow his head.

“Stop fighting! Don’t move!” One of them demands.

More Recoms emerge from the brush—boots crunching, and the one gripping Kiri twists her arm, yanking her forward by the wrist. She cries out, knees scraping against the thicket.

He studies it for a moment. “Colonel, check this out."

He holds it up for—who you assume is their leader—to see, and then the avatar steps through the trees.

"We got ourselves a half-breed.”

Leaves rustle, boots crunching against the ground.

The new arrival moves with the easy confidence of someone used to commanding fear. When he steps into sight, you think you recognize something about him—broad-shouldered, wearing the kind of grin that’s more threat than humor.

He stops before Kiri.

His gaze narrows on her face, eyes flicking between her and the trembling hand in the Recom’s grip. Then he grabs her chin, forcing her to look up.

For a split second, the expression on his face falters—something like recognition, maybe disbelief.

“You look a lot like somebody I used to know,” he says, the corners of his mouth curling. “We didn’t get along.”

Kiri winces, a sharp sound escaping her throat as the Recom behind her twists her arm again. Her audible pain hits your chest like a punch.

“Leave her alone!” you shout, the words bursting out before you can think.

Quaritch’s head jerks toward you, surprise flickering across his face. “And so they speak... English.”

“I said, leave her alone.” You ignore his question entirely, the words coming out low and dangerous, fangs bared in defiance.

He studies you, then crouches until you’re eye level. “Or what, cupcake? You gonna shoot me? With an arrow?"

Laughter echoes through the branches.

You meet his gaze without blinking. The air between you feels electric, thick with the smell of sweat and dirt.

“Or you’re gonna regret it.”

Something in your tone makes him pause. Maybe it’s the way your jaw sets—stubborn, and unflinching. The flash of anger in your eyes. The way you look at him like you’re not afraid.

And then—he sees it.

His head tilts, and his grin widens—unsettling in a way that nearly makes you wish you should have thought twice before throwing baleful words at him.

“Well, I’ll be damned...” He laughs, a low, rasping sound. “You Trudy’s kid?”

The name hits like a stone to the chest. You knew something about him seemed all too familiar.

Quaritch?

But, how is it possible?

He straightens, giving you a slow once-over, taking in your stance, your defiant eyes, the shape of your mouth as you fight to stay calm.

“Yeah,” he mutters, maybe to himself.

“You got her look. The attitude. The bad instincts.” His smirk sharpens into something cruel. “You’re hers alright.”

Then his voice drops, cold and venomous. “And you got her stupidity. It’s what got her killed.”

His words detonate inside you.

Every rational thought you have disappears. All that's left is the primal impulse—the pure, unthinking surge of fury.

Your body surges forward, and your forehead smashes against his face.

CRACK.

A burst of pain radiates through your skull, and Quaritch staggers back, blood spilling from his nose.

For a heartbeat, the entire forest seems to freeze.

Then his snarl splits the air. “You’re gonna pay for that, kid. Just like your mama did.”

He yanks a knife from his belt, cold steel flashing as he presses it against your throat.

“Tìsraw seyki rä’ä!” (Don’t hurt her!) Lo’ak’s snarl breaks into desperation.

“Stop!” Spider pleads.

Quaritch’s gaze flicks between the two—first Spider, then Lo’ak. His mouth twisting into a mocking grin.

“I got little Augustine and Chacón here—a handful of half-breeds.” He jerks his chin toward Lo’ak next. “Show me your fingers.”

Lo’ak doesn't hesitate. With deliberate insolence, he raises both fists—middle fingers extended.

It’s brave, stupid. Kiri tenses beside him, her tail flicking wild with anxiety she has no way to release. Spider squirms in a recom’s grip, teeth bared, but even his defiance feels hollow now.

Quaritch’s grin fades. He grabs Lo’ak by his kuru, yanking him upward until they’re face to face.

Lo’ak hisses, the sound feral with his teeth bared.

Quaritch sneers, studying him. “You’re his, aren’t you?”

Lo’ak’s nostrils flare, his jaw set. “Sorry,” he says in perfect Na’vi, “I don’t speak English to buttholes.”

Quaritch’s hand snaps forward, fingers locking around Lo’ak’s queue. He yanks—hard.

Lo’ak’s cry rips out before he can swallow it down.

Your stomach lurches—and instinct flares, bitter and hot, urging you forward before your mind can catch up. Only the sharp tug on your kuru reminds you of your helpless situation.

Still, you hate that sound, hate the way Lo'ak's body jerks under Quaritch's grip. Hate feeling useless while pain flashes across Lo'ak's face and there's nothing you can do without putting yourself at risk—or worse—risking any one of them.

“Make this easy. Where is your father?”

Lo’ak’s breath shudders, tears glinting, but he glares up at him anyway and stands his ground. He says nothing.

“That’s how you wanna play it?” Quaritch growls.

He releases Lo’ak only to seize Kiri by the hair, dragging her close, the knife flashing again.

“NO!” you and Spider both shout in unison.

"Leave her alone!" Spider adds, tone desperate.

This time, Quaritch actually looks at Spider—really looks. The young man's wide eyes, his human face among the Na’vi. Something flickers behind his placid expression—curiosity, and... recognition.

He tilts his head, eyes narrowing as he speaks to Spider. But by this point, you've tuned out of the conversation.

Your chest is like a drumbeat. Too loud. Too fast. You know what comes next—Quaritch leans harder, someone gets hurt, maybe killed, before Jake or Neytiri can even find you.

You can’t fight them. Not head-on. You know that.

But when your gaze skitters upward—past the blue figures in uniform, past the circle of rifles—you see something that gives you a small window of hope.

Past the Recom’s shadow, past the red scope lights, your eyes focus on a massive tree bole that sags overhead, thick with strangler vines—old, heavy, waiting.

The broken tree.

One perfect shot could cut right through the vines. You take another good look, trying not to give away too much—its vines are the only thing keeping it from crashing down. The recoms don’t even notice; too focused on the captives at their feet, particularly Spider at the moment.

Your heart lurches at the idea.

That tree would crush them. Not all, but enough. Enough to make a gap. Enough to give you a chance.

It’s a terrible idea, it's reckless—you know that. You have absolutely no freedom. No time. No shot. Not even a bow or arrow in your grasp. But it’s the only one you have.

You need to warn Lo'ak. If the branch is gonna hurt any one of you, it'll take him first where he's kneeled.

Almost as if hearing your thoughts, Lo'ak meets your eyes. Your gaze jumps to the trunk above, and he follows your line of vision—up to the limb, then back down to the bow inches away. He catches your entire crazy plan, and his jaw tightens; he gives you the smallest shake of his head, barely a protest you could miss if you weren’t watching.

The plea in his eyes are unhidden: Don’t.

Your options feel cruelly simple: you could try and get ahold of your bow and arrow, or sit and wait for help—wait for someone to get hurt, possibly killed.

You are not willing to take that chance. You don't doubt Quaritch's capability of harm, given his merciless history.

He killed your mother, murdered dozens—children included—and destroyed Hometree.

He's shown you in the few minutes you've spent in his presence that he will not hesitate to get answers. Whatever it takes.

Quaritch’s voice is sharper now—and he's back at Lo’ak's side, who's refusing again.

Your heart begins to hammer in your chest. He'd already made his way around the group, and he seemed set on getting his answers from Lo'ak, who didn't look like he was gonna give in.

You couldn't bare the thought of something happening to Lo'ak, or to anyone for that matter.

You don't think anymore.

You suck in a slow, deep breath.

Then—

You drive your elbow back with all the strength you have, sharp—right into the Recom’s groin. He grunts, grip faltering just slightly, but it's enough.

Instinct roars louder than thought—you twist, dropping low, hand shooting forward to snatch the bow you’d dropped at your feet.

The Recom’s hand claws for you, but you're already rising, bow drawn, aim snapping skyward.

For one dizzying heartbeat, the circle freezes.

The world narrows to wood, string, and breath.

Quaritch’s head jerks, Lo’ak waits in anticipation, and Kiri stares in disbelief.

You loose.

The arrow hisses into the canopy.

The tree shudders, shadows tilting over the clearing; the vines holding the branch snap like bowstrings, with a groan that seems to split the forest itself. You don’t breathe as the trunk finally gives way.

“Run!” you scream, voice breaking. You stagger back, clutching the bow with a tight grip.

Quaritch bellows in anger, slashing his knife at you. You stumble back then, and the Recoms barely have time to shout before—what seems like a never-ending jumble of limb and vines—come hurtling down.

Lo'ak digs his fangs into the arm of the recom to fully break free, and barely moves away in time.

The forest erupts into tumult as the circle fractures instantly—Lo’ak pulling you up off the ground and shoving Tuk ahead, Kiri scrambling on all fours, Spider slipping free in the confusion.

The trunks slams down with a deafening, earth-shaking crack, smothering the circle in chaos.

Dirt explodes, and three recoms vanish under the weight, another flung aside by the impact. Guns scatter, shouts turning to screams and chaos.

The forest that trapped you now opens like a door, and suddenly everyone is sprinting into the undergrowth, the air alive with falling branches and open gunfire.

"Don't let them get away!" You hear Quaritch demand.

Through the thunder of falling debris, you scurry through the forest.

"You're fucking crazy, Spellman!" Lo'ak shouts through the chaos of it all, glancing at you over his shoulder.

"Less talking, more running!" You shout, pushing Tuk ahead of him.

Then, arrows burst past you from the forest.

You hear her call sign first.

Neytiri.

She appears fierce and blazing; her weaponry slicing through the dust clouds and rain so that you can escape without the recoms chasing after you—hunting you.

You spot Neteyam from a distance a minute later, breathless, fully unaware of his disobedience to his father’s command to stay back.

From afar, he looses an arrow, cutting into a recom that nearly takes out Neytiri.

That was too close. You nearly thought it was over.

Then you notice a recom burst through the depth of the rainy forest, one massive arm swinging at Neteyam. His grunt rips through the trees as the blow sends him sprawling into the mud, his bow skittering from his hand.

Still sprinting, fear clams down—your chest too tight, your strides hastening; you steer in his direction instead.

Neteyam is down, unsheathing his knife from his chest band—the only next weapon he has available on him.

But the recom soldier grabs him, raising his gun, ready to shoot.

Before thought could return, you're close enough now that you lunge yourself at the recom, dagger unsheathed, and slam it into the back of his neck. The three of you land with a thud in the damp soil.

Neteyam rolls free, eyes wide as he scrambles up.

“Come on!” His hand wraps around your arm, hauling you upright, as open gunfire only seems to amplify.

You grab his bow and arrows jsut in time.

The world narrows to his grip, his urgency, the thudding of your feet in the damp soil as you sprint together into the luminous forest. Jake joins you then, taking lead, occasionally turning back to shoot at the recoms with his gun, just enough for you and Neteyam to scurry ahead.

Branches whip your face. You hear Tuk's cries above you, ahead on one of the branches as she scampers, Lo’ak’s voice sharp with panic.

You're all headed in the same direction. To safety you hope; but the escape never seems to come.

You think you might make it, that somehow the impossible has actually worked—but far behind, you hear Kiri cry out for Spider.

You turn back to look in their direction, and see Spider stumble down the height of the forest from above. You skid to a stop, heart seizing.

You watch as he crashes into the dirt.

Quaritch is there, faster than anyone. He looms out of the trees and rain, his grin sharp. He seizes Spider by the arms, slinging his limp body over his shoulder.

“No!” The word rips raw from your throat.

Neteyam halts in his tracks hearing you cry for Spider.

Without thinking, you snatch an arrow, set it, and draw until your arms ache.

Then, you let loose.

The shaft sinks into Quaritch’s shoulder, staggering him back. He groans in pain as blood trickles down his arm—but he doesn’t falter.

His eyes search the trees, following the direction of the loosed arrow, before his dark eyes catch you.

His nostrils flare, jaw tightening. You see an anger so potent you think he might come after you next. But he doesn't.

Neteyam finally catches up to join your side, and you both watch as Quaritch clasps the rope tight around his waist, and the pair lifts into the canopy.

The samson’s floodlights sear down, and vanish into the black sky.

You stay rooted, chest heaving, the bow trembling in your grip.

The forest is silent again, except for the hiss of rain and the distant whir of engines fading into the night.

Then—voices; footsteps crashing through the brush.

You turn, the sound of your own breath still loud in your ears. Jake bursts through the clearing first, gun drawn, scanning the trees with wild precision. Neytiri follows, Lo’ak and Kiri close behind, both their faces streaked with rain droplets and fear.

“Everyone okay?” Jake barks, voice sharp but trembling with adrenaline.

His eyes move from Neteyam, to you, to the treeline Spider disappeared into.

Lo’ak shakes his head, panting. “Where’s Spider?”

“They... they took him.” Kiri lets out a strangled sob, collapsing into Neytiri’s arms.

Neytiri gathers both her daughters against her, clutching them close as if she could shield them from everything still out there. Her voice cracks with reverence, whispering, “Great Mother, thank you. Thank you.”

You just stand there.

Not so much as grateful as Neytiri expressed to be.

The bow slips from your fingers, hitting the wet earth with a dull thud, and your knees buckle before you realize you’re kneeled on the ground.

It’s like the air has been punched out of you. Your palms sink into the mud. Your breath comes in shallow gasps that don’t feel like breathing at all.

“I missed,” you whisper.

No one hears it—except him.

Neteyam’s hand finds your shoulder, grounding and warm. He kneels beside you, mud splattering against his skin as he drops down to your level.

You shake your head, tears spilling hot and helpless down your face. “I missed. How could I have missed?”Your voice cracks into a broken sound, something between anger and grief.

“If I had just—if I had hit him—Spider would still—he’d still—” The words crumble, jumbling into a cry.

You don't hear Neteyam call your name, it's as if the world around you has been reduced to muffled noises.

Then it hits you.

You go lightheaded for a second, followed by a trickling sensation on your abdomen. Your hand grazes it briefly.

When you lift your hand, all you see is red.

You look at Neteyam with an expression that reads realization and fatigue—he stares back, pupils blown with panic. “You’re hurt.”

You don’t say anything. You just stare at him with terrified eyes, gaze weakening.

Then your body goes limp, a wave of drowsiness washing over you. Neteyam's strong arms are there to catch you before your body hits the ground.

"Dad! Y/N's wounded!" Neteyam shouts.

His gaze returns to you, eyes fixed in panic. "Y/N. I'm here. Keep your eyes open, yeah?"

You don't hear the words the others exchange anymore, all you see next is Neteyam's blurry face morph into blackness.

Your mind wakes before your body does—your memories a blur. Sound comes first—voices drifting in and out like waves that can't quite surface through.

“Avatars? Quaritch? How is that even possible?”

Neteyam’s voice.

“I thought the same. But it was definitely him.” You’re still groggy from your wake, unable to process their conversation. But you hear a certainty, still bewilderment, in Lo’ak’s tone.

You hear shuffling beside you, and a blanket falls onto your body. “She’s bandaged up now. I’ll go tell Norm. But you guys go home. Mom and dad must have answers.”

It’s Kiri. Her voice goes distant, and you assume she’s stepped out.

"I'm not leaving."

"Well, me neither. It can wait."

Haziness from the wake overpowers you.

Still, you process that your best friends are here; they’re all here—but you don’t hear Spider.

That’s when the memory hits you full force.

The flashbacks.

Or did you just wake from a nightmare?

“Spider!” Your amber eyes shoot open, and you sit up with a groan—pain emitting from your abdomen.

Neteyam and Lo’ak shift their attention to you, both joining you at either side.

“Where is he? Is he okay?” You glance up at Lo’ak to meet his eyes.

He looks away, ears folding—a wave of what looks like guilt washing over his expression.

Your shoulders slump, and dread washes over you.

You know Lo’ak like the back of your hand; his expression alone is all it takes for you to understand.

Still—desperate, you turn to Neteyam next, hopeful that you’re misunderstanding.

Because it can’t be, right? Because Quaritch isn’t real. He can’t be. This is all one terrible, horrifying nightmare.

“He is okay, right ‘Tey?”

Neteyam reaches for your hand first, and when you look down, that’s when you see it. A bandage wrapped around your abdomen, just above where the blanket covers you.

Your face falls, the flashbacks spinning through your head.

Neteyam squeezes your hand, garnering your attention, and you finally meet his gaze.

His eyes jump between yours, as if cautiously deciding the right approach to say his next words. But you don’t give him time to.

His gaze alone says it all, and he knows you know when your expression falters—lips quivering, tears welling. You pull away from his hand to cover your mouth.

The muscles of your lips pull into a frown, and your face contorts before letting out an ugly sob into your hands. “No, no, no.”

Lo’ak steps out of the healing marui—ears flat, gaze on the ground—before you can cry uglier than you already are.

Neteyam pulls you into an embrace, his arms wrapping around you.

You sob into his chest, your body lurching forward with each sob. “I was supposed to be better than this! This is all my fault.”

You sob between breaths.

Neteyam doesn’t try to shush you. He just pulls you closer, strong arms circling around you until your forehead presses against his chest. His heart beats steady against your ear.

“This is not your fault, you hear me?” He says firmly, finally taking hold of your tear-streaked face in his hands.

“I fucking missed, ‘Tey!” You don’t mean to push him away, but you do, so forcibly that he staggers back just slightly, but it’s enough for his face to fall.

Your heart breaks, but he doesn’t blame you. You see it in his expression.

The exertion of it makes an ache blossom in your abdomen. Your face contorts in pain, hands pressing on the wound. “Don’t you understand, Neteyam? No other warrior would have missed that shot.”

You can barely get your words out without feeling breathless, and weak. Almost fragile.

“Hey,” he murmurs, voice low and rough, slowly reaching your side again. “You did everything you could. This is not on you.”

He carefully reaches for your face, thumb wiping at the tears slipping down your cheeks.

You want to believe him. You want to drown in that steadiness, in the warmth of him, but all you can see is the moment the arrow struck wrong—all you can hear is the whirring of engines going distant as they took Spider.

“You saved everyone else." He's still holding your face, and his own expression falters with what looks like raw fear. "I don't know what I would have done if something happened to you."

The crack in his voice is enough to undo you. Because you can't imagine ever being apart from him either. The mere thought of it is agonizing.

This life is too unpredictable to wait, you realize.

You hear Jake and Neytiri’s voices swirl in disagreement not too far from the marui you rest in. Neteyam’s tail swishes briefly.

You can’t make out their words, but their voices go back and forth.

Neteyam’s ears flatten picking up on their tones.

“Go. I’ll be fine,” you urge. It’s what’s he wants to do—and you know it.

Neteyam pauses at the edge of where you lay, hand resting on your arm.

For a moment, you're struck with a sudden, unreasonable desire—for him to stay by your side—rooted by fear that once he leaves something that can't be fixed will break. It seems ridiculous—you know that—but you don't want him to leave, despite telling him to.

He smiles warmly at you, then turns away to step out the marui. You reach out before you can think better of it, fingers closing around his wrist.

"Neteyam," you say softly.

He turns back immediately, concern etched deep into his face.

There it is.

One of the things you love about him. Admire. One of the things you admire about him—Eywa, who are you trying to kid? You love him.

No more lying to anyone, especially not to yourself about it.

"What is it? Are you hurting again?" The look he gives you—the way his eyes search your face for a sign of pain, the concern in his tone.

You love how he cares so deeply, it couldn’t beat the depths of Pandora’s oceans. He's always made you feel looked after, and safe, and loved.

You know now, right in this moment, that it isn't just you.

You shake your head, and your grip tightens instead. "Will you stay with me tonight?"

Your round eyes dilate with hope. The question comes out quieter than you mean it to—barely more than a breath. Not a demand, not an expectation, just a need.

For a heartbeat, you think you've asked too much. That he'll apologize in that kind, gentle voice, reminding you of his duties in the morning.

But his expression softens completely. Like it's you who makes his resolve falter.

"Yes," he says without hesitation. "Of course."

Relief floods your chest so suddenly you exhale a breath you didn't realize you were holding.

“We’ll talk later, okay?” He looks at you like he's resisting the urge to say, or do something. But all he says is, “Rest up.” Then walks out of the marui.

Later, he settles beside you carefully, mindful of your injury.

The marui grows quiet around you, the sounds of the village settling for the day pressing in softly.

At first, there's no space between you—respectful, mindful.

You’re the one who closes it.

You shift, still half asleep, inching closer, shoulder brushing his arm. Then you curl into him like it’s instinct. He stiffens for half a second, then exhales and lets himself relax.

Slowly, tentatively, his arm comes around you—warm and solid. Protective.

Your head finds its place beneath his chin. And at first, you think your drowsiness is pushing you to act too impulsively. Like this may be too much. But his other hand settles at your back, thumb brushing small, absentminded circles like he's been doing it his entire life.

You fit. Almost perfectly.

His breathing evens out, and you can feel the rise and fall of his chest beneath your cheek, the steady strength of him anchoring you to the present—a precious moment you wouldn't trade for anything else.

And that's when the fear settles deeply in your stomach again. The fear of unpredictibiity—how a moment like this can vanish in a heartbeat.

"'Tey..."

He glances down at you, shifting underneath your weight to fix himself to a semi-sitting position. "What's wrong?"

You're staring at him now, eyes tracing his facial features—and the beauty he offers you. His amber eyes, the glowing freckles that rest on his gorgeous face, and the way his braids frame his visage perfectly.

Your jaw clenches, hesitant, and you look away for a moment. He waits patiently, in that attentive way he's always known.

When you look at him again, you don't think. Your hands reach up to his face, gently cupping his cheek, thumbs slowly brushing lines you know all too well.

When he doesn't shift or pull away, you swallow and take a deep breath.

Your gaze flicks from his eyes to his lips, your heart pounding like it's trying to escape your chest. "'I..." You don't know exactly where you're going with this. Or what exactly you're trying to say. "I think..."

"Y/N," he interrupts softly.

His fingers gently wrap around your wrist, still leaning into your touch. That's a good thing, right?

"You should rest... how about we talk tomorrow morning?"

You blink, trying to read his expression. But there's nothing for you to decipher; whatever he's thinking or feeling he's schooled away, a skill he's mastered over time—and in moments like this, you hated it.

"Hm?" He tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. "Tomorrow at sunrise. I'll take you to the sanctuary."

The sparkle of hope in his amber eyes prompts you to send a smile his way—a quiet agreement.

"Come here," he says, pulling you into his chest again. After a couple minutes, exhaustion wins. His warmth, his presence, the way he holds you like he's afraid you'll slip away—it lulls you into a deep, peaceful sleep.

The sanctuary greets you the same way it always has. With soft chirps and distant caws, filtered sunlight breaking through the canopy above in long, golden beams, untouched by yesterday’s horrors—unchanged and eternal.

That almost makes it worse.

You and Neteyam sit together where you always have as children, across the clear body of water, traced by those golden, sun-lit blossoms you grew up admiring.

Your legs brush, knees nearly touching, and the air hums with familiarity, memory layered over memory, a safe space that holds many promises shared over the years.

"I almost feel guilty sitting comfortably in such a pretty place, after yesterday," you admit quietly. "After Spider..." you trail off, and swallow, unable to finish.

You sniffle and blink back the already forming tears. “I’m sorry.” Your eyes meet his steady ones.

He shakes his head, as if saying you’re not to blame, his gaze jumps back and forth between yours, studying you.

Then his hand reaches up to cradle your face, in such a gentle way that it calms you instantly. “No,” he whispers, tone sure and comforting—telling you it’s okay to not be okay. It’s okay for you to be like this with him.

You see that familiar flicker in his eyes. Like he’s resisting the urge to say or do something, fighting against his willpower. But he doesn’t.

As if breaking from a trance, his hand falls from your face, and he leans back.

You swallow, trying to muster up the courage about what you wanted—needed—to say last night.

Neteyam sits quietly beside you, and he shifts... almost uncomfortably.

Then he stares like he’s afraid to blink—as if he’s committing you to memory, cataloguing every detail of your face. The slope of your nose. The way your lashes catch the light. The faint tremor in your mouth.

Your heart swells when you meet his eyes again.

His voice comes out low, and careful. "I… need to talk to you about something."

"Me too, 'Tey," you perk up, ears standing tall, hope sparking quickly, reckless and bright.

You reach for his hands, warm and familiar, tugging gently until you both rise to your feet.

“No,” he says, a little too quickly.

"'Tey, please let me talk first. After yesterday, I realized how quickly everything can be taken," you swallow back the fear, and memories of yesterday, his eyes steadying you. "And for a long time... I've felt safe around you. You've made me feel safe."

His breath stills—expression faltering just ever so slightly, you nearly miss it. He reins it in. “Y/N, listen—”

"It's you who's always seen me, and welcomed me, and accepted me for who I am. No matter what form I took on. Even when everyone looked at me or treated me differently. You gave me confidence, and made me feel like I could do anything—like I could catch all the stars in the night sky—so long as I have you by my side."

His gaze softens, something else flickering beneath the surface.

"You're my favorite person, and my best friend, and I can't imagine not being with you—and I—"

You shake your head, at a loss for words. You don’t think any words can describe how you feel about him.

You don't think—all it takes is one glance-over of his lips for you to kiss him—instinctive and impulsive.

Your lips crash—emotion finally overruling reason, fear and love colliding both at once.

…and he doesn't pull away.

His lips are soft—warm—when they meet yours, the way you always imagined them to be. They click together into place so seamlessly it steals your breath.

His hands come up to cradle your face, thumbs brushing your cheeks as if steadying himself, lips pressing together perfectly, passionately.

The kiss turns slow, like he’s taking every second to memorize the way your lips taste and feel against his.

His hands slide down slowly from your face to your waist, drawing you closer so that your bodies press together, and your arms wrap around his neck.

For one impossible moment, it feels right.

It takes everything in you to pull back, hands still looped around his shoulders, forehead nearly touching his.

"I've loved you for a long time. I think... I've always loved you,” you admit.

Hope blooms in your chest—fragile and radiant.

For one split moment, he looks dazed.

A moment too good to be true, because Neteyam's expression doesn't quite reciprocate yours. Something shutters behind his eyes, and the warmth doesn't fully return.

"What's wrong?"

He untangles your arms looped around his neck, and takes a step back. "I have to go."

Your heart stutters. "W-what?"

"I mean, my family. We're leaving." His jaw tightens. "The forest."

"Wait. What? Why?" Your fingers cling to his arm now. "What are you talking about?"

He explains, voice measured, like he’s reciting something he thought about all night.

You think he may have. Curiosity creeps in next. How long has he known this?

"When?" you ask, barely breathing.

"After sunrise. After the clan wakes."

“Today?”

You didn’t expect so soon.

He nods, eyes never leaving yours.

You don't hesitate, you grab his hand. "Then, I'm going with you."

"No." He says it fast, too firm. "You can't."

"Don't be ridiculous, Neteyam. Of course I'll go with you."

"I'm not asking you to come with me, Y/N."

You startle, the words stinging.

"Well, why not?" Your voice cracks, despite yourself.

"I want to be with you. Surely you didn't miss everything I just said."

But he doesn’t say anything.

You search his face, hopeful and open. "Well, you feel the same way, don't you?"

Obviously. He kissed you back. That tells you everything.

But his silence is deafening.

The light of hope dissipates from your bright eyes, and your smile collapses slowly—heart dropping hard, and pounding so loudly it drowns out the sounds of the forest.

You step closer to him, a little more desperate now. “Neteyam?"

"Before I say anything else, I need you to have this."

From his pouch, he pulls out the dandelion pendant he gifted you when you were kids. You could have sworn you'd forgotten it on your human form, so you're unsure when he took the time to grab it. But that's not the question you want the answer to right now.

"Neteyam?" you demand again.

He takes a step towards you, necklace in his hands.

When he meets your gaze, you see something flicker behind his eyes. Something like... dread.

He slips the pendant over your head, hands moving slowly... reluctantly. Like he's afraid this moment will slip through too quickly.

"What are you doing?" Your eyes search his face impatiently. But he doesn't say anything.

Then he takes a deep breath.

Like he's bracing for impact.

"This isn't going to work, Y/N."

Your heart sinks.

Then you ask the first question that pops to your head, without thinking.

"Was it the kiss?"

It was a stupid question, you know it. But you couldn't help the thought. It was your first kiss.

You thought it'd been wonderful. Perfect, even.

But his lack of reciprocity made you insecure. Which is an unusual feeling for you to harbor around Neteyam. He's always made you feel so confident in everything you do.

But now right now.

He doesn't answer your question. Instead he says, lowly, heartbreakingly, “We can’t be together. You know this, right?”

You startle, blinking.

Because, you always had the impression that you would be.

And to be devastatingly honest with yourself, you couldn’t imagine it any other way.

For a moment, you think you stop breathing. But denial crashes over you first. “Of course we can, 'Tey. Where is this coming from?”

He stays quiet, gaze softening.

"Was it Neytiri? Did she say something to you?" You sound a little wounded.

He turns away, unable to look at you.

You see his head hang for a second, but can’t see his expression—his back facing you. “My life is not safe.”

“Then, I'll fight… That doesn’t matter to me. I'll choose you anyway.”

“You could have died yesterday. You think that was the worst of it?”

You frown, shaking your head. “I am not weak.”

“Where we are going… it will be worse.”

“Then I will learn. I'll be stronger.”

He finally faces you again, and steps forward, grabbing your shoulders—not violently, but firmly. Desperate.

“This is not about strength, Spellman."

Confusion settles on your features.

“You are not Na’vi.”

You blink slowly, disbelief transforming your expression. Time freezes completely—neither of you saying anything.

There's a tilt—slow and nauseating, like the ground has quietly decided it will no longer hold you.

Your ears ring, and the forest blurs at the edges, colors smearing together until everything looks unreal, like a place you're no longer allowed to stand in. Your chest feels hollow and too full at once, like your heart has dropped somewhere it can't be reached.

You are not Na’vi.

His words echo, over and over, cruel in their simplicity.

No sharp edge to blame. No misunderstanding to cling to. Just a truth spoken carefully, gently—like that should somehow make it hurt less.

But it doesn't.

Your chest tightens, breaths shallow and sharp now. 

“You wear our skin, and speak our words. But you were not born to this. You know this.”

You think back to all the times you'd failed. Every mistake. Every rescue. Every moment he had to pull you back from the edge of death.

Even in your avatar form you failed.

You missed the shot. You failed Spider.

Sadness paints your expression, because he’s right. You do know this. You've tried so hard, all these years to escape it. But deep down, you've always known it.

Your heart can't help but wonder, and your voice trembles. “And… the kiss?”

He hesitates for a second.

"It meant nothing that would last. We both know this… It was a mistake.”

Your mind scrambles, desperate, rewinding moments like they might rearrange themselves if you look hard enough.

The way he laughs with you when no one else is around. The way his hand always finds yours without thinking. The way he kissed you back like it meant something—like you meant something. Like he’d waited years for that kiss. 

You feel stupid. Naive. Embarrassed in a way that burns all the way down to your core.

Your eyes sting.

Your throat tightens, swallowing around words you don't trust yourself to say. If you open your mouth, something humiliating might spill out—begging, pleading, asking him to take his words back.

Your heart latches onto the smallest possibility that this can't be right.

Your chest tightens as hope twists into something desperate and sharp.

You step closer without thinking about it, like proximity alone might fix this, because being near him has always made things right before.

“You… mean all of that?" Your voice fractures despite your effort to steady it. "What we have is real. Do you truly believe this was a mistake?”

For a second—just a second—you search his face for hesitation. For regret. For anything you can hold onto.

But there is none.

And the pang of grief hits you just thinking about how long he might have had these thoughts. If any of it ever was real—genuine. Sincere.

He turns away first.

Then his jaw tightens. “It was something we let ourselves believe, Y/N.”

The words land heavy, like someone just punched the air out of you. The way he said it, tone soft and so sure—that's what makes this all the more unbearable.

He faces you again, eyes steady on your broken ones.

"You will always be between worlds," he continues, softly. "But I will no longer keep trying to convince myself that it does not matter. Not anymore.”

Tears spill freely now, hot and humiliating against your cheeks. 

All the promises you’d made. To never jump into danger. The promise he made to wait for you to catch up to him in the sky.

That he would always come back to you.

And the entire time... he was silently, subconsciously, struggling to believe in you. Believe in this.

Now you see it differently. Maybe you were the only one who believed it was forever.

Your throat burns.

All this time, you were trying so hard to become something that belonged.

You changed your body, and changed your life. You changed everything.

And it still wasn't enough.

The forest feels bigger now—colder. Empty. Devoid of those promises now.

You swallow around the ache clawing up your chest. The only sound in the morning air is your uneven breathing.

Your next words come out steady, despite yourself. "I understand."

You don’t.

But you will not beg. You will not make him say it again. Because he’s made it very clear.

And so you nod once—small, and composed—as if he has just explained something reasonable.

Then you turn away, heart shattering—tears slipping silently. And you walk the other way with the quiet, unbearable certainty that you were never truly wanted.

Neteyam stands there, rigid, until you're out of sight, waiting until you're finally gone.

Because if you turned back... he'd take it all back.

He'd wrap you in his arms, and hold you, and wipe the tears off your pretty face, and tell you just how much he truly loves you.

That none of this was true, and it destroyed him, and took every ounce of strength within him, to say to you. That it’s unbearable for him to accept that he spent his entire life guarding you, only to betray you himself.

That this was the only way.

But you don't turn back. You've disappeared beyond the trees.

And for the first time in his eighteen years of life in Pandora, Neteyam collapses to his knees in the place he once promised you forever, the only sound—his breath trembling against his hands as they press over his face—defeated, shattered and unseen.

He said that you would always be between two worlds.

But it is him who will spend the rest of his life grieving the one he left behind.

thx for reading!!! ... hope you enjoyed the angst.

i know the ending seems a little unfair, but that's how the movie played out! war is unfair! displacement is unfair! but what happens to them is a part of the unfairness that war brings to indigenous, who the na'vi very clearly mirror. and i tried to depict that. this series was inspired entirely by this one second-shot of neteyam in the movie. i thought, what is he leaving behind? maybe not just a forest, not just a clan, not just a childhood, but a future that never got the chance to happen.

war displaces, war interrupts, war leaves things unfinished. and sometimes... unfinished love is one of those casualities.

now, when you see this in the movie, i hope you remember it. that i gave his glance weight. gave it reason, and that i've filled the silence behind it.

thanks for all the love!

taglist 🏷️ @karma-reader @fire-0-lily @ghostlymonsoonhunter @jumimo0o0 @weirdobsessivegirl @angelreneeanderson @soncee @matt-sturnioloo @myriaminoctober @dreamygirl19 @snore-3 @justslightlymental @neuviloved @druthesigma @operahouse09 @emely-sm @ladiadia @viliwi @enhylov @kolyasposts @elibansndnd @broken---mirror @strawberrychita @jellyfrogz @xx-owl-xx @deathmybride @xxvelvetxxxx @alligator-person @grangerthequeen @sela-gypsy @itsbritneybitch713 @princess76179 @vinz-vinz @tatumrileyslover @ruruthecannibal1464 @lumilily @superlegend216 @taivantaylor @rottinghyacinth @veiraiya @amarkzxc @s1llysullyy @froggietoki @weasleylovers @silenterosionn @maraschino-bullet @waytoomanyteenagefeels @smurfetsstuff @sassy-persona @briacreations96

Lo'ak doesn't waver.

You try again. "LO'AK! Please, stop!"

Your voice, holding so much desperation, comes out like a sob now, incoherent and weak.

You can't bear the thought of losing another brother.

Not so soon.

Not this way.

Not at all.

You’re the responsible one now. Neteyam was always the guardian—a protector. Your protector.

He never hesitated. Never chose himself first.

And that’s what got him killed.

It sounds awful to think. But not in the way it seems. He didn’t die because he was reckless. He died because he was brave. Because he loved too much to step back.

He was selfless, courageous… and irreplaceable.

Now the weight shifts.

Choices you didn’t have to make before now sit heavily on your shoulders. You don’t seem to understand how Neteyam did it his entire life. Being the second eldest was never supposed to feel like this—like stepping into a space no one can fill.

But you try anyway.

For them.

The tears are hot and fast, spilling down your cheeks as you push forward desperately—the path to your brother seemingly endless, muscles aching with every stride.

You hear Kiri and Tsireya also calling to him from the opposite side, but they're too far.

Despite all the cries for him, Lo’ak doesn't falter in his position.

Still sprinting, you watch in horror as his finger moves ready to press down on the trigger.

He screams—angry, desperate, heartbroken—into the air of the starlit sky of Pandora.

You're so close.

You think you might be too late, seeing his grip on the gun tighten one last time.

Then—

He tosses it away with so much force, you think it may go off from the impact alone.

You reach his side just in time as he falters.

"Lo'ak!"

You take ahold of his face in your hands, tears damp on your cheeks.

“What the hell were you thinking!?” You scream.

But you’re not angry.

He looks you in the eyes and knows it instantly.

He doesn’t say anything.

“Don't you ever do that again, do you hear me?" You demand, finally pulling him into your arms. His sniffles are soft against your chest. Then he brokenly says, "It was my fault."

You grab his shoulders, pulling him back to observe his expression, startled. "What?"

"Neteyam," he whimpers.

The name alone is enough to break him. He's crying now, shoulders shaking with each unsteady breath.

“It’s my fault he…” He can’t finish the sentence, small sniffles leaving him.

Kiri and Tsireya finally reach you both.

“What happened to Neteyam is not your fault,” you say softly, eyes searching his.

“Yeah?” He finally looks up at you through damp lashes. “Tell that to Dad.”

“Lo’ak.” Tsireya’s gaze softens, reaching for his hand.

“Lo’… Dad does not think that. You can't put those thoughts in your head.” You reassure, hoping your words console him.

“We need you here, brother.” Is all your younger sister says to him.

Lo’ak only shakes his head, then receives a a small group hug from both Kiri and Tsireya.

Later that night, you’re walking back home, side by side with Lo’ak—the only sound filling your ears are the waves crashing on the shoreline.

He’d spent most of the night with Tsireya by the water. Only now, he wanted to walk back home with you in company.

You’d been with Ao’nung trying to keep it together as you explained to him the events of the night. He’d been the perfect shoulder to lean on, and a gentleman of understanding when you told him Lo’ak wanted to leave with you.

His gaze stays on the sand as you walk side by side quietly.

“Do you wanna talk about it?”

“It's nothing.”

You scoff. “Please. You aimed a gun at yourself tonight.”

He shakes his head.

Your voice softens. “Come on, Lo’. You’ve always been able to talk to me.”

He turns to you and something flickers behind his eyes. It’s like his mind stills for a moment.

“I have to live with this everyday, Y/N.”

Your ears flatten with just one glance over his expression. “I… miss him too, Lo'. So much.” Your voice can’t help but quiver at the end. The grief is still so potent, heavy... new.

“That’s not what I mean.”

Confusion settles on your face. “Then, what?”

He takes a deep breath, as if to brace for impact. “The fact... that I killed my brother. It was me. If I hadn’t disobeyed Dad’s orders—”

“Lo’ak, stop—”

“No, you stop!” He halts in his tracks, suddenly frustrated. “Don’t you get it!?”

His eyes flicker with guilt, tears brimming. Saying he looks upset is an understatement—he’s angry now. But not seemingly at you.

“I ruin everything! It was my fault!”

It shatters you that the thought even crosses his mind.

But you do understand the validity of his thought process. Lo’ak and Spider were the last two people to be with Neteyam. You get it.

Still, the thought doesn’t lessen the ache in your stomach at the conclusion he’s reached.

“Lo’ak, don't that. It’s not true. You cannot do this to yourself.”

“Yeah? Well, Dad thinks it is.”

You look at him, startled. “What?”

Then your voice lowers to a whisper, incredulous. “How could you possibly think that?”

“He said it! To my face! After the clan's council gathering...” His voice softens then, “After they banished Payakan.”

Disbelief slowly transforms your face. “He… he blamed you?”

You could not seem to understand, you could not wrap your mind around it.

Lo’ak nods, tears spilling now. Like he was reliving it all over again.

Then, you feel a surge of fury, and stabbing heartache—a sense of betrayal—all at once, as you and Lo’ak near your family’s marui.

You stop and he follows. Then you turn to him, and gently take his face in your hands. “What happened to Neteyam,” you begin, brushing at the tear that slides down his face. “Is not your fault. You hear me?”

Lo’ak doesn’t say anything. His gaze stays glued on the ocean past your shoulder.

“Lo.’”

His jaw tightens, and he finally grows the courage to look you in the eye. You see it then—the flicker of guilt.

He doesn’t believe you.

“Neteyam would not have blamed you. He doesn’t blame you.” Your voice softens, hopeful. “Don’t you believe that?”

His ears twitch at the mention of your brother.

You could see the internal struggle in his expression. But he stays quiet.

Then after a moment, he says, “Still doesn’t change the fact that I’m one, big disappointment.”

You swallow, ears folding back, defeated.

You wish he could see himself the way you do. His perception has clearly been tainted. When people throw labels at you over and over again, after some time—you begin to believe those words.

And Lo’ak has fallen victim to that.

It makes your chest tighten with anger. But more than that, it shatters you.

He’s your little brother. You watched him grow into the reckless, yes, but more than that, ambitious, little warrior he’s still evolving into. He’s courageous, like your father is—and stands up for those he loves, despite the consequences. He gets that bravery from your mother. Lo’ak is so much more than he perceives himself to be.

And watching him grow up has created a soft spot for him in your heart.

It is your obligation to protect him now.

Your dad’s eyes light up when he sees you finally walk into the marui. “Hey baby girl. I was starting to worry that—”

“How could you?”

Confusion settles on his face, then flinches like you just slapped him at the tone in your voice—the sound of betrayal thick in resonance. Your dad sees Lo’ak appear from behind you, and realization washes over his features, ears folding back.

"Leave it, Y/N." Lo'ak says dismissively in a quiet voice.

You turn to him, startled.

Leave it?

He couldn't be serious. You understand that this is for Lo'ak to deal with, and you could already hear him getting upset about how this is his business. But, evidently, that didn't matter to you.

You witnessed something horrid tonight, involving your little brother, which pretty much did make it your business.

"I will not, Lo'."

"Listen—" Jake begins.

But you don't let him finish. “No! I don’t wanna hear it.”

“Lo’ak.” Your dad calls to him next.

Your younger brother can’t even look at your dad, ears flat against his head, shoulders heavy with guilt and shame.

“I don’t wanna talk right now, Dad.”

“Please, son," your dad's voice cracks. "Just... listen.”

Lo'ak only shakes his head, walking out the marui once more.

"Lo'ak. Come back," you croak, a slight desperation in your voice, the memory of tonight's nightmare flooding your mind.

He ignores you and walks past your mother, whose ears flatten in confusion, only now walking into the unfolding scene.

Your fear settles slightly when you see him join Tsireya and Ao’nung by the waves. He's not alone. That's all that matters. You let out a small sigh of relief.

"Ma'ite, what is wrong?" Neytiri asks gently.

"It's Dad." You say, voice rising sharply, tone accusing. You’ve never felt this way about your dad before.

Not once.

He made you proud. Every single day.

He was the kind of father other children spoke about—brave, steady, unshakeable. He carried the weight of the clan on his shoulders and still somehow found room for you and your siblings.

He made sacrifices without complaint. He led without hesitation, without fear.

He fought like a warrior born of Eywa herself: Toruk Makto.

And yet, at home, he softened. The edges of him dulled in the presence of his children—his five children, whom he loved more than anything else in all of Pandora.

The great leader who commanded warriors would sit cross-legged on the floor and listen to Kiri ramble about Eywa and plants and things no one else quite understood. He would wake before dawn to take Neteyam and Lo’ak on aerial hunts at their insistence, because they loved sky-racing their dad. Growing up, he always let them win. He would never admit it, of course—always blamed it on "getting old."

He would braid Tuk's hair with clumsy fingers, carefully placing every colorful bead and shell they hand-picked out together.

And when you felt insecure—rejected by the other children in the clan—he would rest his forehead against yours and remind you that your extra finger did not make you different.

It made you special.

He reminds you and your siblings that family comes first—always.

He is strength. He is safety.

You are always proud of him. Proud to be his daughter.

Only right now, you felt far from that.

You’ve never felt so disappointed. So betrayed by someone you trusted to protect all of you—even from yourselves sometimes.

And the words weren’t even said to you.

You couldn’t imagine how Lo’ak must’ve felt in that moment.

How he must feel now.

Tears brim in your amber eyes, lip trembling despite your effort to steady it. You don't want to cry. You want to hold your ground. To stand in front of your little brother the way Neteyam always did—for you, for Lo’ak, even for Kiri or Tuk when they pushed too far.

You wanted to be brave like him.

You need to be.

But you know you’ve already lost when your father steps toward you and says softly, "Baby girl, please. Don't cry. Let me—"

“You have no idea what could have happened tonight!”

The tears spill anyway—hot, furious, unstoppable.

You have always been opinionated. Expressive in ways that scraped against other people’s comfort. You never feared disagreement—that was the problem. Your mouth and your persistence often got you into trouble.

But trouble never lasted long.

Not with Neteyam there.

He had always stepped between you and whatever came next. A steady presence at your shoulder. A shield you never had to ask for.

Your mind tries not to dwell on the absence of that shield now.

Despite everything, you rarely raised your voice. Your stubbornness was usually quiet—measured, and calm. Sometimes that made it worse. It unnerved—or... irritated people more than shouting ever could.

So when your voice cracks loudly through the air like this, sharp and trembling, confusion flickers across Jake’s face.

Neytiri steps closer immediately.

"Ma’wey, Y/N." Your mother's voice is soft, and grounding—the way you’ve always known. Her hands come up to cradle your face.

Only now, it's not enough to settle your anger.

You catch her wrists gently—but firmly—and lower them away from you before taking a step back from both of them.

"No. I will not calm down,” you say, quieter now, but no less fierce. “Not when I almost lost another brother tonight."

For a split second, Jake looks like he’s been struck. Panic flashes across his features—raw and unguarded. Then his voice drops low, edged with something dangerously fragile. “What?”

"All because you blamed him." Your voice shakes, but you don't stop. "You think it was his fault, Dad? You think he's the reason Neteyam was killed?"

"Y/N." Jake warns. The wound is still open—raw, sensitive.

"We need to talk about the elephant in the room!" You fire back. "We can’t—we can’t just ignore the fact that my brother died in the middle of a war, okay?”

Jake’s expression cracks.

The leader, and warrior disappears.

“I’m sorry, Dad, but we need to talk about it,” you press, voice breaking. “Do you actually believe that because of Lo'ak... Neteyam died?”

Neytiri looks at Jake.

Your dad closes his eyes and draws in a long, controlled breath—the kind he uses before battle. "Of course not, baby girl."

He steps toward you, hand reaching instinctively—because you’re looking at him like he’s something unrecognizable. Like he’s the enemy.

"Then why would you say that to him?!" The tears don't stop from forming.

You slap his hand away.

The sound is small, but it echoes.

And something inside him fractures at the look on your face. You’re crying openly now. Not just angry—but shattered.

Jake blinks hard, fighting his own tears. You look betrayed and... wounded.

He's faced down gunships without flinching.

But this?

"I was wrong," he says quietly. The words cost him. "It was a mistake."

Your voice finally softens. But you’re not sure if it was so much of a choice, or mostly because you’re fighting off a full sob sitting at the top of your throat. "Yeah?" you whisper. "Well your mistake could have cost him his life."

The next words nearly don't make it out. "He almost shot himself, Dad."

Both Jake and Neytiri's expressions startle.

Everthing stops, and their worlds seem to pause.

The crash of the waves outside feels distant now, muffled—like you're underwater.

Jake doesn't breathe, and Neytiri goes rigid beside him.

Your Dad's breath leaves him in a sharp, broken sound. "...He—what?"

You feel for your Dad—you do. He looks like you just punched the air out of him. But you don't back down. Neteyam never did.

This is your role now.

You can almost hear his voice in your head: Be brave, tsmuke. (sister)

"He... had the gun to his head," you choke out. "I was screaming his name, Dad. Over and over. He wasn't listening.” You take a deep breath.

It's difficult for you to verbalize. It’s like you're reliving the nightmare over again. Only it wasn’t a nightmare. This happened tonight.

"He—he almost..."

Your mother's hand flies to her mouth.

Her knees nearly give out, tail going rigid behind her.

Your voice shatters. “He was so close, Dad.”

"Eywa..." Neytiri whispers, voice trembling. "My son..."

Your dad stares at you like he can't quite process the words. His face drains, jaw slackens, eyes glassy in a way you haven't seen since the night of Neteyam's funeral.

“He couldn’t think that,” Jake says faintly, as if denial might rewrite reality. “Lo’ak wouldn’t—”

"He almost did!" you snap, the fury flaring through the grief. "Because he thinks you hate him. Because he thinks he's a disappointment. A burden. Because... you made him believe that my brother's blood is on his hands!”

Jake’s composure finally fractures. He blinks away tears, expression cracking.

"That's not—" He swallows hard. "That's not what I meant. I didn't mean it."

"It doesn’t matter what you meant, Dad! It’s what you said! And it's what he heard," you say, cheeks damp with tears. “That makes all the difference. And is what could have made a huge difference tonight."

Neytiri turns fully toward Jake, eyes blazing with pain and fury both at once.

"You let him carry this alone," she says, voice shaking with restrained anger. "You let our child believe he is cursed."

"I was—!... I am grieving,” Jake whispers. “I was angry. I didn’t know where to put it. I lost my son and I—"

"And you put it on him," you cut in, quieter now, but no less firm. “That wasn’t fair.”

The anger is ebbing, and you back off now. Your father’s heard enough, and you think, that maybe, you may have been a little too harsh on him. What’s left is exhaustion. And something like regret, now that your mind is less clouded with emotion.

Jake sinks down without meaning to, crouching before finally lowering himself to the ground. He looks… distant. Disconnected. Like part of him has stepped outside his body.

"Jesus," he breathes.

His head hangs low, and he pinches the bridge of his nose. He mutters something under his breath in English—too quiet for you to catch. But you don’t need to.

You see it in him. The realization.

The great Toruk Makto—the fearless leader. Reduced to a father who nearly buried another child.

"I failed him," he says hoarsely.

Neytiri steps forward immediately, kneeling before him. She cups his face in both hands and forces him to look at her.

She shakes her head slowly. “We have all made mistakes, Jake,” she says softly. “They do not define us.”

Her voice hardens—not cruel, but resolute. “Tonight, Eywa gave us mercy.”

Her golden eyes lock with his. “Do not waste it.”

Jake nods, leaning into Neytiri’s touch.

He rises slowly from where he crouched, like the weight of it all has settled into his bones, and goes to you next.

You see him more clearly again—not just the father who said the wrong thing. Not just the leader who faltered.

But the man who buried his eldest son, and nearly lost another, with his eldest daughter pointing the finger at him accusingly, and maybe a little too cruelly.

But you were angry. Lo’ak truly believed he deserved to die—and it was unbearable.

You were just trying to protect him. Someone needed to. You didn’t mean to hurt your dad, or see him wounded way he is now.

You truly didn't mean to.

Guess you know where you get that from.

"I’m sorry," you blurt, the words rushing out of you before pride can stop them. You step forward and wrap your arms around him.

For a second, he doesn’t move. Then his arms come around you, almost like he's trying to comfort you.

Jake pulls back just enough to catch your expression. He takes a knee to match your height, then takes your face in his hands. His thumbs brush under your eyes, catching tears as they fall.

"Hey," he murmurs. "Don’t be."

There’s no defensiveness in his voice. No anger. Just an understanding, and a tremble of exhaustion. "Everything you said…" His jaw tightens, and he away briefly, swallowing. "You weren’t wrong to say it."

Your breath stutters.

"I was scared," he admits quietly. "I keep telling myself I’m supposed to be stronger... that I'm Toruk Makto. I’m supposed to lead. To protect." His voice falters. "But when Neteyam—"

He can’t finish.

His throat works around the name.

“When I lost him,” Jake continues, voice hoarse, “I didn’t know how to hold it together. I didn’t know where to put all that fear.” His eyes meet yours then—unguarded, painfully human. “So I put it in the wrong place.”

Not blame, not cruelty. Just fear, and unresolved grief.

“I thought if I was harder on him…” he exhales shakily. “If I pushed him… maybe he’d survive. Maybe I wouldn’t lose him too.”

The confession hangs between you.

You feel for him, and understand him now more than you did before.

“I never meant for him to carry that alone,” Jake says, voice breaking again. “I would rather carry it myself every day for the rest of my life than have him think for one second that I don’t love him.”

You see it now.

The guilt. The terror. The self-blame.

Not a villain. Not a failure.

Just a father who is drowning in grief and fear of losing more than he already has.

He presses his forehead to yours the way he used to when you were small. You hesitate a moment—gathering something fragile, something you hadn’t understood until now. You see it all now hidden behind his placid armor. The grief he doesn’t know how to hold. The impossible balance between leader and father—and how, sometimes, one fractures the other.

“I see you, Dad,” you say quietly.

For a moment, he just looks at you.

Then his hand comes up, cupping your cheek—warm, and steady, looking at you adoringly. His thumb brushes beneath your eye.

A moment of quiet acknowledgment lasts for a minute before he speaks again.

“I failed him,” he whispers. “But I’m not going to fail him again.”

You believe him. Because you’ve seen who he is when it matters most. Because you know your father.

After a moment, he pulls back and stands, eyes steady now. “Lo’ak…” he begins, voice still hoarse. “Where is he?”

You point toward the shore.

Jake nods once—resolute, and determined. He squeezes your shoulder before stepping past you.

“Dad?”

He turns back again. There’s no leader in his expression now. No warrior. Just your father.

“You didn’t fail him,” you say quietly. “You’re going to him.”

The words settle between you.

Something shifts in his face—relief, guilt, gratitude all tangled together.

“I am so proud of you,” he says softly, eyes full of pride.

And you realize he’s been watching you too. Doing your best in also caring for him—watching you step forward. Watching you carry more than you should have to. Watching you try to fill a space no one can truly fill.

After Neteyam, you’ve been trying so hard to be strong.

He sees you.

Jake gives you one last look—full of love, full of promise. Then he turns and walks toward the shore. You watch him go.

Not as Toruk Makto. Not as a clan leader, or a warrior. But as a father walking toward his son. A protector. A man who broke under grief—and chooses to stand anyway.

He was never cruel, only scared.

And he loves too fiercely to let fear win twice.

🪁 this is dedicated to the people who wanted to see jake’s reaction to hearing about lo’ak after we didn’t get it in afaa. left the ending open to imagination, hope you enjoyed <3