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Your gaze traced up from the muscles on his arm up to his angled jaw. His presence here, during a Mangkwan raid, was a familiar insult. Two years ago, on a similar night, you grappled with him in a combat, failing to truly hurt him which you think he deserves for sabotaging your clan’s raid. You remembered the clash of your blade against the blade of his knife at his forearm. He’s extremely strong and hss surprising speed for a warrior of his size, so you learned not to underestimate him.

A low hiss escaped your lips at the sight of him and you lunged without thinking. He turned to you, his eyes widening a little before reacting to meet you halfway, his dual blade fist knife at the ready. You spinned your staff, hurling the blades closer to him. He was taller, a wall of muscle even before, but you were more agile, your quickness a match for his brute strength. The blade that extended to his forearm parried a thrust of your blade. You danced around him, seeking an opening, and smiling like a predator eyeing its meal.

His sharp eyes tracked your every move before shifting, a fluid grace that belied his size, blocking your strikes instinctively. You faked a high strike, then dropped low, sweeping your staff in a wide arc. He jumped, agile as a viperwolf, but you were already twisting, bringing the staff up, the curved hook of the blade catching his shoulder. He grunted, pulling back, but not before the jagged edge bit deep. A line of crimson bloomed on his shoulder.

“Still too slow,” you murmured, a triumphant glint in your eyes.

He huffed, his eyes glowing with playful mischief. You narrowed your eyes, annoyed, so you pressed your advantage, a flurry of strikes to force him back and back until his heel caught on a fallen branch. He stumbled, off balance but he immediately found his footing. You pushed him, hard, your hand pressing againg his chest when you heard Vakrep’s roar cut through the air as he called your name. You glanced over your shoulder, then back at Neteyam. His eyes were fixed on you, a strange intensity in their depths.

You pushed him again. “Go!” you hissed, your voice low and urgent.

He didn't move, just watching you, his breathing ragged. You turned, sprinting towards your party, leaving him standing there in the middle of the burning village. You risked a glance back and saw that he was still there, a lone, blue figure, watching you disappear into the smoke and fire. You remembered years ago... That same moment when you looked back and he was just standing there, watching you run away.

A few moons later, the training grounds was filled with the sounds of blades clashing. You moved among the young Mangkwan, correcting stances, demonstrating blocks, your double-bladed staff a natural extension of your arm. The red blades flashed as you carried it with controlled precision, sparring with a young Mangkwan, barely a man, his eyes wide with concentration. He lunged, a predictable move, and you flowed around him, the flat of your staff tapping his side.

“Dead,” you said in a bored tone. “You’ll die quick if you’re too eager.”

He nodded and you continued, ensuring to fulfill your role of honing their skills, keeping in mind the philosophy that pulsed in every Mangkwan’s vein: only the strong survive. Those who are too weak to hunt, those who are too injured to recover, are left to death for the taking, left to rot as lessons to others.

You remembered Säyim’s frail hand, her hunting days long behind her. Kekihe, her granddaughter, was no more than a foal. They were what this clan sees as disposable, marked for abandonment. Your heart silently rebelled to your own people’s words. Säyim and Kekihe are your life. A family you found in the chaos.

Your eyes caught Vakrep standing on the sidelines. His eyes, as always were on you, the possessive glint in his eyes making your skin crawl. He raised a hand by the time your current trainee wws done.

“I’ll spar with you next,” you heard him say, the sound followed by the snickering of his foolish crew behind him. “I miss... touching you.”

You gritted your teeth, your hand itching to wound him for the disgusting meaning behind his words, reinforcing the talks he spread about having bedded you which held no truth in them. “You talk too much,” you spat, your hand gripping your staff.

His lips curled into a sickening smile, stepping closer to you. “Just a friendly bout, yerik. Do not embarrass me or else—”

You didn’t wait for him to finish. You lunged, spinning your staff, until one of its blades cut an arc across his chest. He jerked back, the tip of your blade catching only the thick woven strap of his knife sheath. His crew’s laughter died down instantly.

“Careful,” he gasped, his smirk faltering as he scrambled to draw his own knife. “You’ll ruin the fun before we’ve even started.”

“The fun starts when you stop breathing,” you hissed, circling him but he moved fast, too.

His low growl rumbled behind you, making you spin, sending a wide, sweeping kick that he evaded. He grinned at you, a predator’s flash of teeth, his eyes hungry. “The yerik fights like a nantang... Always so compelling,“ he sneered, lunging.

You ignored him as you twisted, his grip only grazing your shoulder. You delivered a sharp jab to his ribs, and he grunted, stumbling back, but only for a moment. He came at you again, faster, stronger. He aimed for your head, but you blocked, the jarring impact travelling up your arm. You saw an opening, and you swept his legs out from under him, sending him butt first in the dust. Before he could recover, your staff was already descending on him, the tip of the red blade pressing against his throat while your foot kicked his chest. He looked up at you, his eyes burning with renewed obsession, not anger nor defeat.

“One day, yerik,” he rasped, his voice dark with promise, “You will be mine.”

You hissed at him. “In your dreams, you disgusting dust.”

You were planning to push your blade further on his throat if only a young Mangkwan didn’t arrive, calling you. “Varang calls for you. At the ops center.”

The ops center. You had been there only once since the last year when Varang joined forces with the sky people, finding the alien smell and cold metals really unsettling. You can’t tolerate sky people either with the way they look at your people as though they were tools to use when necessary or mere animals to be tolerated.

The place was filled with machinery and the glare of foreign light that could take the form of anything. Quaritch stood before one, his face etched with grim determination. Varang, her regal posture unwavering, stood beside him, her eyes holding a glint of something you couldn't quite decipher. Meanwhile, General Ardmore stood in the middle.

Quaritch gestured to the shimmering hologram. It showed a desolate landscape, a half-built RDA outpost, then a sudden, explosive eruption. Dust and debris filled the air, and through it, a flash of blue, an ikran flying through the chaos. Its rider, impossibly precise, was disabling machinery and killing sky people. The footage zoomed in, revealing a face, grim and focused. Neteyam.

You watched, a strange awe blooming in your chest for his sheer audacity. He was a force of nature, a single warrior dismantling an entire armed installation. He was everything the Mangkwan revered in a fighter. Too bad, he’s the enemy.

“You looked as if you’re impressed...” Varang’s voice cut through the hum of the machines. Her eyes, narrowed, watched you from across the room.

You turned to her, shrugging, a deliberate nonchalance you didn't actually feel. “He’s not one to be underestimated.”

General Ardmore snickered, a humorless sound. “She’s right. Sully’s boy is one hell of a man. Who among us here will happily march into a hell pit as easily as his boy has?”

Quaritch huffed, a gust of irritation. “He underestimates and embarrasses us, Ardmore. He will continue to think we are assailable if we just let him be—”

“But we are, Quaritch.” Ardmore cut him off, her voice sharp. “If he could come riding that banshee and disable an entire armed outpost with his primitive weapons, then we are assailable, and that is embarrassing. We will put an end to this, once and for all. And I hear he is also a concern for the Mangkwan?” She turned her gaze to Varang.

“He is. He has sabotaged many of my people’s raids in the past years.” Varang’s voice was laced with venom. She strode towards you, her movements deliberate, her eyes never leaving yours. She reached out, her fingers cupping your face, tilting your chin up, presenting you to the sky people as if you were a prize. “This is who I’m talking about… my most beautiful warrior and the most skilled in combat.”

“She is beautiful,” Ardmore agreed, her eyes sweeping over you. “We will send her, at your approval.”

Your eyes snapped back to Varang, a knot tightening in your stomach. Send you? To what? Varang offered them a sly smile, a chilling curve of her lips. “I approve.”

Your breath hitched. “What’s going on?” The words were a strained whisper.

Varang’s hand, surprisingly gentle, moved to your braids, her fingers tracing the simple headdress you wore, a lone red stone framed by two viperwolf teeth, marking your high rank intl the clan. “We will send you to that damned son of Toruk Makto, daughter. You will kill him… Avenge your brothers and sisters that fell in his hands... Think you could do that for me... For us?” Her smile remained, but now it held an uncanny quality that sent a shiver down your spine.

Fear, cold and sharp, pricked at your resolve. You swallowed, trying to steady your voice. “And what if he kills me instead?” The question hung in the air, a challenge Varang rarely tolerated. Her people followed without question, without doubt. To hesitate was to border on betrayal. You saw the impatience flicker in her eyes as she eyed you darkly.

“Then you die.” she declared nonchalantly. “It is something you must do for the people.” Her voice hardened, leaving no room for argument.

Quaritch then stepped forward, his voice a rumble, outlining the details. They told you about the annual convention of the clans which you already know about, a gathering of all the chieftains, discussing peace and trade among each other. They introduced you to a Li’onan man named Taryu who you were told is an RDA mole, infiltrating events such as that to learn the movements of the clans.

He would accompany you along with Trojan, a recombinant soldier under Quaritch, to ensure your entry in the convention. Taryu, a traitor to his own kind, explained that Neteyam would be there this season, to accompany his father, Jake Sully, as next-in-line to the Omatikaya leadership.

You listened to everything they were saying, registering nothing because your mind is reeling. You have to kill Neteyam. At the convention. You pictured the bustling gathering, the chieftains, their heirs, the throng of people. You couldn't just attack him there. You’d be dead before your blade even found him. Or perhaps, you would succeed, only to be cut down moments later. A cold dread settled in your gut. You couldn't die. Not now. Not when you have Säyim and Kekihe depending on you.

You walked back to the yurt you share with Säyim and Kekihe, the familiar scent of leaves burning greeting you as you entered. Kekihe, barely eight seasons old, played with grass, pretending to weave them together, her forehead furrowed in concentration but as you entered, her head snapped up.

“Sister!” she grinned, her happy face looking up at you as if you hung the stars yourselves.

Säyim sat by the low fire, roasting yerik meat wrapped in leaves. She smiled up at you, her eyes filled with adoration making you finally smile. Her eyes betrayed her true feelings though, reflecting her worry for you as she signed. You understand the familiar movement of her hands, remembering what you had to do.

You moved to the fire, warming your hands and staring at the embers. “Varang wants me to go to the convention,” you said, your voice flat. “I will be gone... Maybe a few days. I’ve checked our provisions. You two should be alright until I’m back.” You smiled.

Säyim’s hands, gnarled but strong, flew to your arms, gripping them tightly. Her eyes pleaded, her mouth unable to form the words. She shook her head, signing with frantic gestures, a language only you could understand, yet sometimes don’t. Right now, you're refusing to understand. She understands without you telling her what your mission will be. What will a Mangkwan do at the convention anyway? She drew a line across her throat, then pointed to you, then to Kekihe. A shudder ran through you. She was warning you.

“I will be alright,” you tried to reassure her. “I’ll be back.”

But she wouldn't let go, her grip tightening, her signs growing more desperate. Her hands signed the sign for Varang, then a knife, then your neck. She was furious, her distress visibke. You had to calm her, murmuring reassurances you didn't believe yourself. You understood her fear: Varang is sending you to your death. But the deeper meaning of her signs, the truth she tried to convey about your parents, remained just out of reach, a truth you weren’t able to grasp.

You left the yurt before the sun even rose, the weight of Säyim’s unspoken words and Kekihe’s innocence pressing down on you. You had always known Varang’s ruthlessness. You had seen Mangkwan warriors, out of their blind fanaticism of her, sacrifice themselves for her and... Now, she is asking for your life. The thought of Neteyam, the warrior you secretly respected, the one you were now commanded to kill, twisted in your gut. It is not always that you admit fear... But right now, you are scared.

The journey to the convention was a blur of discomfort. Trojan, a hulking figure wearing your skin with the dead eyes of a sky person, accompanied you and Taryu who led the way. He didn’t only ensure your entry in the covention, he also secured your place among the female performers, a group of young women from various clans, their faces painted with bright, intricate designs.

You stood among them, your own face free of your clan’s ash and paint. Taryu explained that it was part of the disguise, to appear harmless, a simple girl among many young women. You watched them prepare, their laughter light and unrestrained, and a pang of something akin to longing pierced you. You wondered what it would be like, to be one of them, a normal girl, unburdened by the weight of Varang’s ambition, of your clan’s harsh creed. You were twenty, past the age when most women mated, yet no man in the Mangkwan had ever stirred your heart, nor even truly captured your attention. You imagined a simpler life with Säyim and Kekihe, a different path, away from the hardness of your own people. The thought felt traitorous, but in that moment, anger at Varang overshadowed all else.

The performance began. The drums pulsing, vibrating through the ground. You moved with the other dancers, your body flowing, your limbs graceful as you danced, a mask of serenity plastered over your face, belying the turmoil inside you. You tried to lose yourself in the movement, to forget the knife strapped to your thigh, the mission.

As you spun, your eyes, almost instinctively, drifted towards the dais where the clan chieftains and their heirs sat. And then you saw him. Neteyam. You stopped breathing as your heart gave a lurch, a frantic drum against your ribs. From where you are, you can feel his eyes in your direction but you couldn’t be so sure. You are confident he won’t recognize you without your paint, after all, he’s only ever seen you clad in it.

Yet, your stomach clenched, tearing your gaze away, focusing on the dance, on the rhythm, on anything but him. But every time you stole a glance, his eyes were still fixed on your direction. Even when he turned to speak to those beside him, his eyes seemed to return to you, a silent, unwavering focus.

The performance ended. The dancers dispersed, mingling with the crowd and you found yourself wandering, inspecting the stalls that belong to each clan, displaying their unique crafts and delicacies. You accepted every offer of fermented fruit juice, the potent liquid a welcome distraction that helps numb your nerves. You moved through the throngs of people, your senses overwhelmed by the sights, sounds, and smells of a world so different from the ash lands of the Mangkwan or the metallic and asphalt of Bridgehead.

A young man, his face painted with the markings of the Tayrangi clan, began to speak to you, offering another bowl of juice. “That is the sweetest I’ve ever tasted. I saw you trying the juices, you might like that,” he said.

You took it before he even finished talking, nodding performatively, barely listening, your eyes still flicking towards the dais. Neteyam was still there, engaged in conversation. He hadn’t approached. A strange mix of relief and disappointment washed over you.

You lifted the bowl to your lips, the sweet liquid a comfort. The young man rambled on, his voice a pleasant tone that you conveniently tuned out, you didn’t even notice when he abruptly fell silent. In your peripheral vision though, you saw a towering form approach.

“Neteyam,” the young man greeted, touching his forehead. “Oel ngati kameie.”

A deep voice, resonant and familiar, cut through the din as he returned the greeting. You remained focused on your bowl, pretending not to notice the imposing presence even when you felt his eyes on you, a warmth that prickled your skin. You are so nervous.

“What is there to enjoy?” you heard Neteyam ask the young man. You stepped back a little, giving them space. You peered up, and your eyes met his. He touched his forehead, a formal greeting, then his gaze dropped to the bowl in your hand. “What are you drinking?” The casual question was directed at you, his eyes, dark and intense, never leaving yours.

“Swoa…” you answered, a slight tilt of your head, a carefully practiced innocence. You lifted the bowl slightly so he’d look at it instead of you.

His lips parted in a small smile before reaching out, his large hand covering yours as he gently grabbed the bowl. He didn’t take it fully from your grasp, but rather brought it to his lips while you're stil holding it, his eyes still locked with yours as he sipped.

“Sweet,” he said, his voice a low murmur.

The young man from earlier, sensing the shift in attention, had quietly slipped away, unwilling to challenge Neteyam’s obvious interest. You tilted your head. “And if it’s poisoned?”

A small smile sliced across his lips, revealing a flash of white teeth. “Is it?”

You narrowed your eyes. “It could be, and you drank straight from it.” Your usual biting tone slipped before you finished the remaining liquid in your bowl. Your gaze snagging on the white scar on his shoulder, a stark line against his blue skin. Your scar. Your handiwork. A smirk touched your lips before meeting his eyes again, seeing him still watching you, a knowing glint in their depths.

“It would be worth it then,” he retorted, his voice playful, a challenge. “For a man to stare at a woman as beautiful as you as he dies?” He received his own bowl of fermented juice from a passing server, his eyes never leaving yours.

You huffed, a small, disbelieving sound. “You are stupid.” You hadn’t expected this. The serious, formidable warrior you had fought was replaced by this charming, stupidly reckless man. “Do we know each other?” you pretended to ask, your eyes searching his face.

A boyish smile broke across his face, transforming his features. “My name’s Neteyam,” he said, his voice a warm rumble. “Yours?” His question was breathless, as if he hung on your answer.

You considered lying, inventing a name, a clan, a false identity. But a strange impulse, a sudden defiance against Varang’s machinations, pushed your real name from your lips.

He repeated it, testing the sound on his tongue, a soft reverence in his voice. He smiled, a genuine, open smile. “I think I could have imagined that you have a name very fitting.”

You rolled your eyes, a small, genuine laugh escaping you. He was a smooth talker and undeniably charming that you found yourself amused despite the gravity of your mission. You wandered with him through the bustling convention, moving from stall to stall, exploring the various clans’ offerings. He pointed out different customs, shared observations, his voice steady and pleasant, as if he’s used to talk about nearly everything, a true diplomat. Meanwhile, you accepted every offer of fermented juice as though they were bowls of courage sent your way. By the sixth bowl, he caught your hand before you could even lift it to your lips.

“Planning to get drunk?” he asked, his grip firm but gentle.

You looked at him, shaking your head. “Just trying to relax.”

“You don’t like festivities?” he asked, his hand hovering at your waist as you navigated the crowd.

You shook your head again. Mangkwan gatherings were rarely joyous affairs, more often rituals or raucous snuff parties orchestrated by Varang. You found little pleasure in the addicting fumes. You had experienced how it dulled the senses and twisted the mind, and Varang herself rarely indulged in it. You prefer having your wits about you every hour of the day.

“Would you like to explore the woods instead?” he asked, his voice casual, as though there was no meaning in there at all, but perhaps, there was truly none. Neteyam loved festivities, but he also loved peace and quiet which he often found in the woods back home.

You, however, snapped up like syíl hearing a movement. This is it. The opportunity you had been seeking. Get him alone. Render him vulnerable. You fought the urge to narrow your eyes, to let your true intentions show. Instead, you offered him a small, shy smile. “If you want.”

You walked into the forest, the sounds of the convention fading behind you. Bioluminescent flora illuminated your path, casting a glow on the towering trees. You reached out, your fingers tracing the glowing leaves as you two walked. The air here was clean, damp, and alive with the scent of growing things, very different to the metallic smell of Bridgehead and the choking ash of your homeland. You breathed deeply, trying to calm the frantic beating of your heart. You were about to do something you had never done before, something that felt both terrifying and exhilarating.

You stopped by a large pitcher plant, its leaves shaped like a goblet. You pulled it down gently, arching your head back before catching the cool, pure water that trickled from it. Some droplets rolled down your chin as you swallowed, rolling down your neck as you faced Neteyam, offering him another shy, innocent smile, part of the act, part of the lure, which proved to be effective because his eyes, dark and dilated, watched you, captivated. He lifted a hand, his thumb brushing away a drop of water from the corner of your mouth.

You stepped forward, boldly, emboldened by all the fermented juice you drank. You rose onto your toes, your lips brushing his, a light touch. You watched his face, saw his eyes drop to your lips, then lock with yours.

“Yeah?“ his deep voice grumbled.

He watched the playful glint in your golden orbs before moving. His arm snaked around your waist, pulling you close, molding your body against his. His other hand cupped your neck and jaw, his thumb stroking your cheek. His lips descended on yours, hard and searching, a fierce hunger that stole your breath. You staggered back, until your back met a tree. You pulled him closer, your fingers tangling in the braids at the nape of his neck, your other hand pressing against the solid wall of his chest. The sweetness of the fermented juice, the taste of him, filled your mouth. He kissed you with a desperate intensity, as if the world would end with the next breath.

His hand slid down your back, a warm caress. You tensed, a fleeting worry that he would feel the scarifications that marked your skin. But he didn’t pause, his fingers trailing lower, past your waist, cupping your ass to lift you.

You wrapped your legs around his waist, your arms tightening around his neck, pulling him deeper. He broke away, only for a moment, his breath ragged, his eyes scanning the surrounding forest probably to look for a place. He kissed your neck, the sensation sending shivers through you, as he walked a little deep away from the main path, finding a private clearing.

The soft moss yielded beneath your weight as he lowered you down. The bioluminescent plants cast a dim glow around you, treating you to a view of his sculpted body as he loomed over you, a mountain of muscle and intent. His eyes held yours as he lowered himself, his lips claiming yours once more.

You wrapped your arms around his shoulders, while his calloused hand found your breast, giving it a possessive squeeze that made you breathily sigh. He pulled back, his gaze lingering on your face before dropping to the pink feathers adorning your chest. A deft movement, and the top was tossed carelessly to the side, leaving you exposed to the cool night air.

You gritted your teeth, watching his face carefully, trying to see if you’ll see change in them. Three parallel lines of scarification bumps formed a V-shape across your shoulder blades, meeting at your cleavage. They connected to the same patterns on your upper back, the unmistakable tradition of the Mangkwan. You waited and yet he didn't flinch, didn't question, only dipping his head low before you felt his warm lips trace the line of your neck, down to the raised bumps of the scarifications on your shoulders. He kissed them, then licked, a slow, deliberate exploration that made your breath hitch. His eyes, dark and hungry, flickered up to yours as he captured an engorged nipple. You moaned at the foreign, exhilarating sensation, cradling his head as he suckled on them.

He moved further down, his lips tracing another series of vertical lines of scarification on your abdomen, leading to the delicate V-shape of your lower belly. He kissed and licked, a low hum rumbling in his chest, as if it all made it feel better for him. His fingers, gentle yet firm, found your tail, a soft caress that made you arch your back. Then, his lips brushed against the long scar on your inner thigh, a tender kiss as he untied the simple knot of your loincloth. More loving kisses followed the length of the scar as the fabric fell away.

You felt yourself pooling between your legs, a hot flush of embarrassment rising in you. You had touched yourself countless of times before, even explored with your wooden phallics, but this… this was different. His eyes met yours, a silent question in their depths. You groaned, a guttural sound, and he laughed, a deep, rich rumble.

“Relax...“ he kissed your inner thigh before dipping his head, his tongue lashing out. Consecutive hard sucks followed and you couldn't help but moan louder, your hips bucking instinctively. Your imagination, it seemed, had been utterly inadequate. It hadn’t prepared you for the possibility of this.

Weak from his ministrations, your body thrummed, your mind barely conscious as your eyes focused on him. He was untying his own loincloth, his eyes darkly caressing your naked form. You bit your lip, pressing your feet against his lower abdomen, a silent command. He allowed it, smirking at you as he fully freed himself. Your gaze dropped, your breath hitching. He was long and thick, humbling your wooden toys by a mile. Daunted, you couldn't hide the apprehension in your eyes. He saw it, and a primal glint ignited in his own.

He grabbed your ankle, his large hand caressing your leg, tracing your calf, up to the underside of your knee. Then, with a firm clasp, he spread you wider. You couldn't even fake bravery as he lined his cock against the tight opening of your pussy, a soft nudge. You bit your lip and he lowered his head, capturing your mouth in a soft kiss, a good distraction. You moaned into his mouth as the wide head of him slipped inside you. It was uncomfortable at first, a stretching fullness you’d never known and when he eased more of himself in, the feeling intensified, making you feel so full.

He groaned, burying his face in your neck. You cradled his head, your fingers tangling in the strands of his braids. He pressed a hard kiss against your neck, and a scream tore at your throat when he plunged the rest of his length into you, burying himself balls deep.

You clutched his shoulders, your fingernails digging into his skin. He lifted his head, his eyes scanning your face, concern etched into their depths.

“Hurt?” he rasped.

It did, but it thrilled you. You shook your head. “Continue,” you ordered, squeezing his shoulder. His eyes caressed your face, lingering. You watched for a flicker of recognition again, for his gaze to fall on the vertical lines of small scarifications that lined your nose.

“You are so beautiful...” he mumbled instead, his voice thick with desire. He kissed you, then began to move, slow and deliberate at first, then building in rhythm. “So fucking tight.”

You cupped his jaw, gently holding his face, willing him to stare into your eyes as he moved inside you. He did. Both of you were in a trance, the clearing filled with your moans and his groans. A guttural sound ripped from his chest when you kissed him softly, your lips brushing his as he drove into you.

“Fuck,” he weakly breathed, a low chuckle rumbling from deep within him.

He moved with relentless rhythm, pushing you higher and higher until both of you shattered in an explosive climax. He kissed you as you came down, his thrusts shallow now, a gentle rocking. Then, he rolled on his back, pulling you with him, so you wouldn't bear his full weight. His hand, warm and heavy, caressed your back. After a while, you propped a hand on his chest, pushing yourself up. He watched you with dark, dilated eyes, his hand falling to rest on your waist.

“Again?” he asked.

You bit your lip, then slowly, began to move on top of him. A moan escaped you as your clit repeatedly grazed against his pelvis. You quickened your pace, your hand reaching out, searching. Your fingers closed around the familiar hilt of your knife, lying discarded on the moss next to your loincloth.

In a snap, you brought the blade to his throat. His expression didn’t change. His eyes, still dilated with raw desire, locked onto yours. His thumb, resting on your waist, continued its slow caress.

“Do it,” he whispered, his voice a low rasp.

You stared down at him, fear gripping your heart. This was never truly in you. Killing never brought you pleasure, nor was hurting people and animals. You do your duty for the clan but you don’t hurt people if you can help it, but you know that doesn’t make you a good person because at the end of it all, you still brought unimaginable horror to many people. Varang. She had forced your hand, given you no choice, treating you as a tool to use. Your whole life, you had always acted on her behalf, but this… this you couldn't do.

You have always considered this a weakness. You carried something most Mangkwan lacked: mercy. Why couldn't you just kill him? Prove your loyalty to Varang, to the people. But also, why should you? Why prove yourself to the leader who had sent you to your death?

You blinked, your hand, still holding the knife, loosening its grip on his neck. He felt it. So, without breaking eye contact, he slowly, carefully, moved his hand up, covering yours. He gently unclenched your fingers from the knife. When you released your hold, he took it, tossing it away with a soft thud. His hand, now free, hooked around your nape, pulling you down into a searing kiss. Shame and relief washed over you. Shame that he kissed you despite your attempt, and relief that he did. It was strange.

Both his arms now wrapped around you as he kissed you, his hips adjusting between your thighs. A broken cry tore from your throat as he began to thrust from below, his hips slapping against yours with desperate speed. You could barely form a complete string of moans. You didn't know you could be so turned on by the act of being caged in his strong arms, used for his pleasure that you climaxed again, a helpless, shattering release, while Neteyam chased his own, continuously slamming into you. By the time he finished, you were limp in his arms, breathing heavily, unable to move.

At some point, you drifted into a brief, light sleep, but then a jolt brought you back, finding him cleaning you up with a soft leaf. You scrambled away, your eyes hard and sharp, a stark contrast to the softness in his. You grabbed your loincloth and top, dressing quickly. He did the same, rising to his feet as you did.

“You okay?” he asked, watching you carefully as though you were a wild viperwolf he’s trying to calm down.

You hissed at him. “What do you want to hear?“

He tilted his head. “Reviews?” he asked, his voice playful and full of meaning.

Your eyes narrowed. “You are stupid,” you said, continuing to tie your loincloth on your tail.

He chuckled, stupidly amused with your words. “I know you, you know,” he said, his gaze lingering on your face. “You gave me this.” He pointed to the white scar on his shoulder. You glanced at it, a faint line on his dark skin. He felt a little foolish for pointing it out. It was shallow, shamed by the scars you bore, the ones he had just kissed. He couldn't even imagine the wounds they used to be.

You stared at him. “And yet you came up to me, you idiotic man.”

His eyes swept over your body, gaze so full of meaning you felt an urge to slap him. His eyes lit up though, a flicker of realization. “Were you supposed to be in disguise?” he whispered, genuinely curious.

Dumbfounded, you tilted your head. The answer was plain on your face and he scrambled for words. “I am Mangkwan.” you said, slowly, to get it into his thick head.

“I know. I just told you I know you,” he said as a matter of fact. You realized now. Why he hadn't been bothered by your scars because he knew you, he knew what you are. And still went there with you.

You huffed a frustrated breath. “You are one stupid man. You are an idiot.” You hissed at him. You imagined the corpse he would have been now if Varang had sent a different Mangkwan.

He stared at you, his eyes still dazed. He didn't seem to care what you said. He held out your knife, the blade facing him.

Another groan tore from your throat. You snatched the knife from him. “You ought to be careful next time. You were really easy,” you said, narrowing your eyes to mock him. “If I had wanted to kill you, I would have done it already.”

He tilted his head, his eyes darkening, hot on you. “I have no doubt,” he said, a note of pride in his voice. “And there is no next time, neither was there a last time. I’m not that easy.”

You couldn't help but laugh, a sharp, disbelieving sound. He seemed to realize what he had just said, because he smoothly looked away, his hand lifting, as if to rub his nape, before awkwardly dropping it. “Saving face, Sully? I got you there in record time.” You savored the newfound power, a delicious, unexpected sensation.

He stared at you, silent, but you could almost hear the gears grinding in his mind.

“What?” you snapped, confused by his unwavering gaze.

“Just... So this is how you look without your paint,” he said, his voice soft.

Your face crumpled in annoyance. He didn't take you seriously, and it was your own fault. You hissed at him, turning to walk away, feeling his hot gaze follow you and then the thud of his footsteps. Before you reached the edge of the woods, his hand caught your elbow. You tried to shake it off, but he pulled you back, a spring toy snapping into him. Your palms pressed against his broad chest as your body almost slammed against his.

“I want to see you again,” he said, his voice deep.

Your nose almost flared. “I have no reason to see you again,” you hissed, freeing yourself from his grasp. “Be thankful to your goddess that I showed you mercy.”

He watched you walk away this time, his eyes still glinting with a strange mix of amazement and amusement. You returned to the convention, searching for Taryu when a sharp clap was heard. Trojan stepped into view, a sneer twisting his features. You gritted your teeth at the sight of him.

“Impeccable performance,” he drawled, his voice laced with mock admiration. “You didn’t waste time, huh? Varang didn’t tell us we had a hustler on our side.”

You stood impassive, giving him nothing.

“I wasn’t even needed here. You did everything on your own. Got yourself out there and lured that damned demon effortlessly,” he continued, shaking his head. “You must be really hot by Na’vi standards. I mean, you look delectable to me as it is, and I’m a human.” His eyes raked over you.

You chuckled with disdain, the sound mocking his words, especially because he wore a Na’vi body. “I don’t expect anything from you anyway. Now, are you going to patronize me for doing all the work, or will you shut up soon?”

He laughed, a harsh, grating sound. He bowed his head mockingly. “Shutting up soon, but I need to know what happened. Where is the demon’s corpse?“

Demon. You wanted to roll your eyes. “I did not kill him. It’s not a job for me to do,” you said, nonchalantly.

“What?” He said, stepping toward you. You stood your ground, watching him with dark eyes, daring him to come closer. “You had the chance, and you did not?”

“How many chances did the RDA have to kill that man? Probably uncountable, and yet he remains breathing. Is there really no honor in you sky people that you had to resort to underhanded tactics to kill a single man?”

“You are in no position to talk about honor, Mangkwan,” he retorted, his voice sharp. “You know nothing about politics and strategies. The RDA won’t waste resources and soldiers just for the life of one man.”

“Then the RDA must bear the losses that one man brings them,” you countered.

“I saw you disappear into the forest with him. Ah, I know,” a snicker escaped him. “He fucked you. And you decided you won’t kill him—”

You hissed, unsheathing your knife, and before he could even blink an eye, you had the blade pressed against his throat. His eyes widened, primal fear flashing in their depths.

“Do not test me, demon,” you threatened, your voice a low hiss.

He took a short, sharp breath, afraid to move his head, lest you dig the blade deeper. He raised both hands, stepping back slowly, watching you as if you were a wild animal. “I’ll relay what happened to Quaritch. Await your punishment from your deranged leader.”

The travel back to Bridgehead City was surprisingly calmer than your travel to the convention. You didn’t know why, but you couldn’t find your anxiety yet, even as you know that Varang will surely deal with you. The sterile air of Bridgehead that welcomd you made you wince. It scraped at your nostrils, it was a stark contrast to the humid forest you had just left.

Quaritch and Varang waited in the ops center, the room humming with the low thrum of machinery, banks of glowing screens casting an eerie blue light on their faces. Varang’s eyes, bright and predatory, settled on you as you entered. A wicked smile stretched her lips. You braced yourself, each step a march toward an inevitable punishment.

“It is swift. Just as I expected from you, daughter.” Pride laced her voice, a sickening sweetness that made your gut clench.

Trojan snickered, the sound grating. “She didn’t kill that devil incarnate, Quaritch. She had the chance though, he got lured right into her trap without her trying but still, that ingrate didn’t kill him.”

Varang’s smile vanished, her eyes snapping to you. “Is this true?”

You met her gaze, a chilling fear crawling up your spine, but you refused to shrink. “Yes.”

Her hand clamped onto your forearm. “And you didn’t kill him, why?”

Trojan snickered again. “Good question—”

You hissed at him, cutting him off mid-sentence. Quaritch, a flicker of amusement in his eyes, raised a hand, silencing Trojan with a glance. You turned back to Varang, your voice low, controlled. “He would kill me if I tried to. And truthfully, I do not want to die.” You lied. “If the sky people want him dead, then they should come for him.” You shifted your gaze to Quaritch, a challenge in your eyes. “Or do you fear him, Colonel?”

Varang’s grip on your forearm tightened, her nails digging into your flesh. “How dare you question Quaritch?” Her voice cracked like a whip. You clamped your mouth shut and she turned to Quaritch, a placating smile returning, though it didn't reach her eyes. “I will deal with her.”

She dragged you out, her grip like iron as you walked past the many machineries and tanks until you reached the place allotted for the Mangkwan. A few children played near the entrance to the living quarters, their laughter a contrast to the dread building within you. Kekihe called your name, her voice filled with innocent joy but Varang’s angry hiss silenced her, and worry morphed her face before her small features twisted in fear. Your forehead furrowed, a pang of hurt piercing through you as you watched how scared she was. You forced a smile, happily waving a hand, a silent assurance to soothe her.

Varang shoved you into her yurt. You stumbled, landing hard on the ground. You knew better than to rise, remaining kneeling, your head bowed, as her fury descended on you.

“You brought me shame. You embarrass me to our allies!” Her eyes, wide and furious, burned into you. “Why did you not kill him?” she bit out, each word sharp.

“Olo’eykte, I already said—”

“I do not care about what you do not want or whether you do not want to die,” she cut you off. “My order was for you to kill the son of Toruk Makto.” Every word was emphasized, punctuated by the deceptive touch of her hand on the thick plait of braided hair behind your head. Your breath hitched, closing your eyes, knowing what would come. “And yet you failed me.”

A beat of silence and then a pained scream tore at your throat as she forcibly connected her kuru to yours. Your back arched, muscles spasming as you threw your head back, a primal shriek echoing in the yurt. White-hot pain seared through your mind, a thousand needles piercing your consciousness. The memories, long buried, erupted. Varang’s voice, cold and sharp, echoed in your head. You were much smaller, being punished for something you can't even remember anymore.

Your body felt like it was burning, every nerve ending aflame. You couldn’t even see her clearly, your vision marred with streaks of white as desperation clawed at you, a desperate need to be freed from this torment.

She grabbed your jaw hard, her fingers digging into your cheek. “I would kill you right now for this misdeed. Tell me why I shouldn’t.”

Your body convulsed, gasping for air, the world spinning. You forced words past your burning throat. “I have been loyal to you, Olo’eykte, my whole life.” That was the truth. You realized now how it was only ever driven by fear and never respect and devotion for her. You wished you could say more, explain the impossible choice she had forced upon you, but your mind was reeling.

She groaned, a sound of frustration, before pulling her kuru violently. You stumbled on the floor, chasing your breath, jolts of pulsing pain attacking your body. “You do not want to kill him… but you are not scared of him.” She said, her voice laced with a strange realization, interpreting what she had read from your raw emotions. She narrowed her eyes at you, then pushed you away. “Get out of here!”

You crawled out of her yurt, gasping, your limbs trembling. Kekihe waited in the distance, her small frame hunched, tears streaming down her face. She ran to you, throwing her arms around your waist, burying her face in your hip, her sobs muffled against your skin. Anguish seized your heart as you kneeled. The physical and mental pain inflicted on you barely made you cry, but as Kekihe cries for you, only then did your tears fall.

You stroke her hair, assuring her you were okay, your voice rough with unspoken pain. “Do not cry loudly,” you whispered, your eyes darting back to Varang’s yurt, “She might hear you.”

You returned to the yurt you shared with Säyim and Kekihe. Säyim sat by the low fire, her eyes fixed on the entrance. Kekihe, still sniffling, recounted what she witnessed. Säyim’s face contorted, groans of rage tearing at her throat. You assured both of them you were fine, though your body throbbed and your spirit felt raw.

From that day forward, you had fallen from Varang’s favor. In turn, you had lost your last shred of respect for her. You didn’t even know if you had ever truly respected her at all, or if you had simply done what you thought necessary to keep yourself, Säyim and Kekihe, safe from her wrath.

You continued your duties, a silent rebel within her ranks. You trained young warriors. You hunted, venturing further from Bridgehead, seeking the clean scents of the forest. You hunted for Säyim and Kekihe, for the vulnerable. If the hunt yielded more than enough, you shared with others, another act of defiance against the selfishness Varang has ingrained in her people.

A moon had waxed and waned since your encounter with Neteyam. And now, you hunted in a forest an hour’s flight from Bridgehead. You had washed away the ash and paint, leaving your skin bare, a conscious choice for a safer hunt. You knew the risks; others had paid with their lives for being Mangkwan in these territories.

You were stalking a small yerik when you heard a sudden, rhythmic thudding on the ground, followed by heavier ones. A blur of blue followed by the monstrous, hulking form of a palulukan, its massive mouth opened, snapping inches away from the person’s head. Without any hesitation, without even a thought, you released your arrow. It whistled through the air, but the palulukan, a creature of pure instinct managed to evade it. The arrow flew past its head, embedding itself harmlessly in a tree trunk further back.

You missed it, but your shot had done a different job. The palulukan, its momentum still carrying it forward, halted mid-stride, its massive head swiveling until its eyes fixed on you. Your breathing hitched at the same time an enraged bellow ripped from its throat. It coiled and then it launched itself, a terrifying, unstoppable force, directly at you. You stepped backward, nocking another arrow, and sending it flying. The forest, so peaceful moments before, now screamed with danger.

“Run!” A deep, resonant bellow, full of urgency and power, cut through the din.

But you didn’t run. You aimed another arrow, holding your breath, scared but still defiant. The palulukan closed the distance between you two in terrifying strides. You released the arrow. It struck the beast’s shoulder, but it merely enraged it further. There was no more time. The palulukan was almost upon you. You turned, finally, to flee, running as fast as you could but your foot caught on a gnarled root, sending you stumbling. You cried out and fell hard on the ground. You felt a jolt of agony splintering up your foot. You sat there, watching in sickening slow motion as the massive palulukan zoomed forward. You fumbled for one of the separated blades of your double-bladed staff, preparing for a desperate, final stand.

This was it. You’re going to die. But at least, it would be in the mouth of a palulukan.

But you heard a whistling sound, and then a thud. The palulukan’s charge faltered. It staggered, a guttural roar tearing from its throat, then it collapsed. An arrow, fletched with large green leaves, jutted from its chest, buried deep. The beast’s momentum carried it forward, its massive body plowing through the soft ground, sending a cloud of dust and leaves flying in the air until its snout came to rest mere inches from your outstretched foot.

Silence descended, broken only by your ragged breathing. You sat there, heart hammering, disoriented, the scent of dust thick in your nostrils as you heard heavy footsteps thud closer, purposeful and swift, followed by an angry, “What were you thinking?!”

You snapped your head up, indignation burning through the pain. How dare he yell at you after you had just saved him, and gotten yourself injured in the process? A tall, broad figure emerged from the tree line. Your lips parted, a huff of disbelief escaping you. Neteyam. His face, initially contorted with anger, softened, a quick wave of concern washing over his features as his eyes landed on you. You would laugh at the swift change if you weren’t so thoroughly enraged.

You hissed at him. “How dare you get mad? I saved you!” You gestured wildly to your throbbing foot. “And now, I’m hurt!”

His eyes widened a fraction, traveling from your face to your ankle. “You’re hurt?” he repeated, already scrambling to your side. He knelt, his large hands gently assessing your now swelling foot. “Fuck, you sprained it.”

You raised a brow at the foreign word. You tried to move your foot, to pull yourself up, but a jolt of excruciating pain shot through your leg. He groaned and gathered you into his arms, lifting you easily as thought you weigh nothing, and set you down on a nearby rock, kneeling in front of you once more.

He carefully pressed down on your ankle, and you hissed. He looked up, his eyes filled with concern. “Hurt?”

You bit your lip. “Nothing I can’t handle.”

He sighed, a deep, rumbling sound. “I won’t allow you to strain your foot further if that’s what you’re planning to do.” His eyes dared you to challenge him. “I’ve got you. Don’t worry.” He opened his satchel, pulling out a flat, intricately carved container.

“As you should, that happened because of you,” you said, watching him open the container, dismissing the fact that it was your decision to intervene.

He held your foot gently, applying a dollop of thick, minty balm to your ankle. “I’m sorry,” he looked up again, his expression earnest. “I didn’t mean for this to happen.”

A prickle of guilt pierced your thick shell. You had blamed him, but he had saved you too. You pushed your lips forward. “I know,” you said in a small voice. “Sorry.” A word you rarely utter.

He lifted his head, a small smile gracing his lips. When your eyes met, he leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to your lips. You stared at him as a strange, ticklish warmth spread through your chest. You forced a cough, looking away.

“What’s that balm made of? It’s cool,” you asked, changing the subject.

“Dapophet and spice bell, mixed with the nectar of a hatchet bee,” he told you, still smiling softly. “We need to be somewhere safe before it darkens.” He easily gathered you into his arms again.

He walked and you looked around, taking in the unfamiliar forest. “Do you know these woods?” you asked.

“Not much, but I saw a falls over there. That’s where I was planning to jump to escape the palulukan,” he said.

You remembered his calm demeanor earlier, the absence of panic. He had a plan. He wasn’t even fazed by having killed a palulukan, as though it were a small achievement among many. He found a small grotto near the falls, a hidden alcove veiled by hanging vines. He gently placed you down on a soft, mossy stone bed.

“I’ll go get more herbs and food,” he said, leaving his satchel beside you.

When he returned, he already has a string of iridescent fish, a bundle of fresh herbs, and an armload of wood for fire.

“I’ll help you start it,” you said, carefully trying to slide off the stone bed. But he intercepted you, his hands firm on your waist, settling you back down. You almost hissed at him, but bit back. “In my clan, I am a priestess of fire,” you told him in a biting tone.

He smiled, a genuine, easy smile. “Relax, spitfire, I believe you.” He smirked. “But I have to wrap your ankle with poultice. We’ll start the fire later.”

You pushed your lips forward, watching him work. He crushed the herbs with a smooth stone, his movements precise and practiced. You thought of your clan, how no man, not even most of the women, knew anything about tending to injuries. They left the weak to die. And here was this man, a fearsome warrior, yet so gentle, and knowledgeable in the matters of healing. No one had ever cared for you so tenderly and you felt something tug at your heart. No one had ever let you be the weak one.

He meticulously wrapped your ankle with a woven fabric, securing the poultice in place. Then, he helped you down. “Now we can start the fire,” he said, scaling the fish with practiced ease.

You struck a spark, coaxing a flame from the dry tinder. He watched, fascinated, as the fire caught, growing quickly under your ministrations. “How did you do that?” he asked, genuine wonder in his voice.

“We worship the fire,” you said, your tone clipped, a hint of pride in your voice. “We call to it as you call to your Eywa.”

He stared at you, his expression thoughtful and then he nodded. “I understand.” he said with no hint of prejudice and judgment that you held his gaze for a long moment, a strange warmth spreading through you.

You ate the roasted fish together, the silence comfortable, punctuated only by the crackle of the fire and the murmur of the waterfall outside your grotto.

When it was time to sleep, he sat on the ground, sharpening his arrows on a smooth stone, despite the ample space on the stone bed beside you. “Don’t you want to lie beside me?” you asked, your voice softer than you intended. His head snapped up, his eyes wide as they met yours.

“I want to, of course,“ he answered quickly, like a yerik being offered food. “I mean, if you want me to… then…” he stammered, so unlike the fierce warrior in the battlefield.

You raised a brow, stifling a laugh at his unexpected decency. “Well, I feel sorry that you have to sleep on the cold ground… when there’s plenty of space beside me… here, on the mossy bed.” You yawned, stretching as you turned to your side, your tail moving lasciviously.

He stifled a smile, his eyes watching your tail. You watched him stand, biting your lip, a small, private smile blooming on your face as he lay down beside you, filling your back with warmth. You fell asleep so quick it was almost record-breaking and when you woke up, sunlight is already filtering through the vines that serve as a curtain for your grotto. You were cuddled to Neteyam, his arm wrapped around you and your cheek pillowed on his chest.

You were so surprised that you jolted awake, moving back faster than you could think. Neteyam’s eyes flew opened, panic already flashing in them watching you fall off the stone bed. His arm shot up immediately though, catching you mid-fall and pulling you back to him.

“Shit,” he breathed and you frowned at the foreign word. “Eywa, she’s a little disaster.”

Your frown deepened. “I was surprised! I didn’t allow you to hug me!” you pushed him away.

He chuckled, sitting up and gently grabbing your leg, you’d kick his hand away if only it wasn’t your injured foot that he was cradling. “I’ll unwrap it, let’s check how your foot is doing,” he said, his voice still thick with sleep.

You’d retort with something smart but you were distracted with his gravelly deep voice, ended up just watching him unwrap it. There was a vibrant bruise of purple and green, but the swelling was already receding. You tried to rotate it but there was still pain, making you wince.

“Stop straining yourself,” he groaned, fixing you with his best stern look, but when you didn’t hiss or bite back, his finger lifted to boop your nose. “We’ll rewrap your sprain with poultice and I’ll get us some food,“ he said, already moving as if he’s being timed.

Days bled into one another and surprisingly, you were never bored except when you’re alone because he’s out to hunt. One afternoon, he came back with a variety of fruits, some of them you never even knew existed. The sight of them alone excited you, but when he presented a small, intricately woven cord, your attention was snagged immediately. You felt like a kid being presented with many, many gifts. Dangling from it, polished to a dull sheen, were several palulukan teeth.

“This is beautiful,” you said, peering up at him, “I like it.”

He tilted his head, smiling. “It’s yours.” He parted both ends of the woven cords and you leaned forward to offer your neck.

You touched the centerpiece. A fang, much longer and more curved than the others that surround it. Your eyes caught the leaf that cradled more palulukan teeth and your hand reached for it. “Can I have this?” you asked, your voice softer than you intended.

He nodded, his finger brushing the fang sitting on your sternum. “Sure. I have nothing to do with it anyway.”

You raised a brow, a flicker of amusement dancing in your eyes. “How about bringing it back to your clan as proof of your might?” Even among the Mangkwan, felling a palulukan was a feat. Such a kill warranted celebration, proof of a warrior’s prowess.

He blinked, genuinely perplexed. “Why would I need proof?”

You pushed your lips forward. Of course. The warrior who dismantles entire armed outposts with only his bow and arrows required no tangible evidence of his strength. You simply shook your head, a small smile playing on your lips.

Mornings often found you curled against his side, just like your first morning together. In your defense, the chill of the forest is not to be underestimated. Whenever you cuddled closer, he would stir, a low hum in his chest, and without a word, his arm would wrap around you, pulling you deeper into his warmth. A quiet triumph blooms in his chest each time you woke entangled, your body not recoiling, no sharp hiss escaping your lips. One time, you even snuggled closer into him even when you're already awake.

By the fire at night, you spoke of nothing else but your own people. He spoke of his family, his voice soft with affection as he told you stories about his siblings, while you listened, painting mental pictures of what they might look like.

“How old is your brother Lo’ak?” you asked again, thinking you missed a part because he mentioned a little sister around Kekihe's age.

His eyes snapped at you. “He's mated,” he answered.

You frowned. “And? That’s not what I asked,” you rolled you eyes, biting into a juicy fruit.

“He’s a year younger... But mated already,” he said as if he really needed to add that fact. “He beat me to it.” he added smoothly.

You raised a brow, both understanding and not understanding what he’s trying to say. Yes, he is unmated, but you don’t know how that is any of your business.

“You hunt on your own?” he asked, his fingers absently weaving through your hair. The question came after you mentioned your various solo journeys before this one.

“Everyone in my clan must sustain themselves on their own. Most of them hunt only for themselves,” you told him.

He tilted his head. “What of the old and the young? Who feeds them?”

“The young depend on their parents,” you replied. You remembered scrambling for scraps, foraging for berries in the ashen woods an hour’s walk from the village when you were young. No one hunted for you so you learned to hunt young.

“What about orphaned children? Surely, there are some of them, with how frequently adults in your clan die…” His voice held a gentle probe, a curiosity that bordered on concern.

You pushed your lips forward, in awe of how he hit the nail right on the head. When you were young, you couldn't understand the fact that adults could watch you starve and do nothing... And here he is, perhaps years late, thinking about children like you were.

You sighed. “They either get adopted or die… I have one, her name’s Kekihe.” A soft smile touched your lips at the memory of the bright-eyed child.

“You have an adopted child?” he asked, his voice laced with an almost boyish curiosity.

“Not adopted, not really… I live with her and her grandmother, Säyim,” you clarified. They are your family now. Their presence is a balm in your hard existence.

He nodded, a thoughtful expression settling on his face. “And now, you cannot hunt because of your foot,” he mused, a flicker of worry in his eyes. “I will hunt for you. You can’t go home to them with nothing.” He said, determined.

While he’s out hunting every day, you worked on weaving a choker for him. You used your red dye, stringing small, polished beads onto a fine sinew. The palulukan fang, black and sharp, is its centerpiece. The days continued to melt, and with each passing one, your ankle gained strength. A dull ache with every step remained but the sharp pain had receded. One afternoon, after you were finally done with the choker you were creating, you let the pull of the water outside your grotto win you over.

You were on the upstream of the waterfall, surrounded by large rocks before the actual fall and you felt relief that yiu were not tempted to jump over. You shed your top and loincloth, the cool water making you shiver as you submerge yourself further in the icy water. You floated on your back, watching the sky filtered by the canopy above 

Neteyam arrived then, a huge yerik slung effortlessly over his shoulder. You maneuvered to stand, the water swirling around your hips, looking up at him. “My foot doesn’t hurt that much anymore,” you told him and you were surprised at how sad you sounded. “The water’s cold and it helps.”

He nodded, his gaze sweeping over you, and you felt a strange triumph when you see the subtle downturn of his lips, mirroring your sadness. He lowered the yerik to the ground, its bulk settling with a soft thud. Your eyes followed him as he walked towards the stream, his movements fluid. He untied his loincloth, the simple act sending a jolt through you. Your breath hitched, watching the fabric fall away, revealing his cock, already hard and thick.

He submerged himself, the water rippling around him, and swam under the surface, emerging a few feet away. A sly smile curved your lips as you moved towards him. His eyes, dark and dangerous, watched your every move. You scooped water onto your hand, casually reaching for his shoulder to wash away the remnants of blood from his hunt. You caressed the scar you’d given him, your fingers tracing the raised skin before leaning in, pressing your lips to it. A deep rumble escaped his chest and you smiled, your own desire mirrors the heat in his eyes as you continued to wash the blood from his arms, appreciating the taut lines of his form.

“Did you wander far? Where did you catch the yerik?” you asked, your voice a low murmur.

His hands found the curve of your waist, settling there, his grip firm. “Not that far. It was alone near the river where I fish,” he answered, his voice a low growl.

You peered up at him, finding his eyes dilated, fixed on your face. “It was huge.” One of your hands drifted down to his abdomen, tracing the hard planes of his muscles, your gaze never leaving his.

You rose onto your tiptoes, and he eagerly lowered his head, meeting your lips. He groaned as your mouths finally met, his hand cupping your jaw, tilting your head back to plunder your lips, demanding and possessive. Your hands caressed up, hooking your forearms around his nape. One of his hands slid up, kneading your breast, as his lips traced a path down your jaw, along your neck, and onto your shoulder. You cradled his head, your own head thrown back as he kissed your scarification bumps reverently.

His other hand scooped you by the ass and you wrapped your legs around his waist, your hips instinctively arching. He laid you down on a smooth, moss-covered rock by the stream, the cool stone a contrast to the heat of his body. He loomed over you, kissing your lips again before his mouth trailed down your neck, across your shoulder, over your chest, and finally to your belly, his lips pressing soft kisses to each scarification. You spread your legs wider, a silent invitation as he made his intent clear, he kissed the long scar on your thugh tenderly before his mouth found your pussy.

Your breath hitched and your hips bucked involuntarily, grabbing a handful of his braids, pushing him down further, gaining a deep groan from him. He kissed and licked, a relentless assault on your softness, until you were writhing, stimulated to the brink. He rose then, your body trembling as you weakly watch him, one hand grabbing your breast, squeezing.

He watched you, his eyes dark with raw desire, propping a hand on the rock beside you. He kissed you softly, a tender brush of lips, before pressing his forehead against yours. “Do you want me, my fire?” he asked, his voice low and thick with arousal.

You moaned, a soft sound in his ears. “Yes…”

He pressed a hard kiss against your lips, then gently took your hand, guiding it to his cock. “Put me in you then…”

You whined, a frustrated sound, lifting your head to kiss him, but he pulled back an inch, evading your lips. You groaned, glaring at him as you circled your fingers around his thick cock, the smooth, hot skin making you moan. You spread your thighs wider, lifting your hips slightly, your hand moving up and down his length in a slow caress.

He watched you, biting his lip, a raw, animalistic expression. You breathed shakily, guiding the wide head of his cock into your softness, whining as you move your hips, swallowing him slowly, inch by agonizing inch. He claimed your lips, kissing you deep and hungry, his tongue tangling with yours. Your scream was muffled by his kisses as he plunged the rest of his length into you in one swift, desperate motion, holding your hips in place. You clutched at his shoulders, your fingers digging into his flesh, your other hand leaving angry red scratches on his back. Like the first time, a sharp ache blossomed, but it was quickly overridden by a profound, delicious stretch.

“Hurt?” he asked, his tongue tracing the curve of your lip.

“No. So good…” you mumbled, kissing him again, losing yourself in the sensation.

You made love, there by the stream, and when he carried you back to your grotto, he didn’t let go of you. Later, as you lay tangled on the stone bed, the cool air caressing your heated skin, you felt him kiss your hair, inhaling your scent, a deep, contented sigh rumbling in his chest. You nuzzled deeper into his neck, the scent of him filling your senses.

“I made something for you,” you mumbled, your hand idly caressing his chest.

He kissed your temple. “Yeah?” He pulled back slightly, his eyes searching yours.

You smiled softly, and his heart lurched, a warmth spreading through his chest as if you were the very source of fire, a true fire priestess. He couldn’t resist, his lips finding yours again. You chuckled, untangling yourself to reach for the choker you’d made.

“I only have red dye with me… so the beads are red,” you said, lifting the choker into the air, a small frown on your face. “Sorry.”

He sat up, his large hands covering yours as he touched the choker. “Do not say sorry,” he said, his voice firm, his eyes reprimanding you. “This is beautiful, baby.” His fingers traced the smooth black fang centerpiece. “Red is beautiful.”

“It is the color of Mangkwan…” you pointed out, as if that alone were reason enough for him to dislike it.

“It is your color,” he corrected, his earnest eyes fixed on yours. He remembered the fierce beauty that had captivated him years ago, the first time he ever saw you in an ambush of a Mangkwan raid. Truthfully, he’d sabotaged the Mangkwan raids that followed that just to see you again. He hadn’t, until months ago, when you’d wounded him, leaving him with a scar that he now wore with pride.

He removed the choker he was already wearing before leaning in toward you. You understood, kneeling to reach behind him to tie the choker around his nape. His hands settled on your waist, and his lips found your chest, pressing a kiss to your scarifications. You sat back on your heels, your fingers touching the beads at his neck.

He stared at you, his eyes soulful. “We will see each other again,” he said, his voice low.

You gave him a haughty look, a playful glint in your eyes. “That sounds more like an order than an entreaty.”

His eyes widened, humor dancing in their depths. “Well, baby, I am not above begging.” He took your hands, his earnest gaze locking with yours. “I beg of you, my fire, say you will see me again and save this warrior from his misery of constantly missing you…” He brought your hand to his chest, pressing it over his beating heart.

A sly smile cut through your lips. You pushed gently against his chest. You’d thought about it countless times in the past days, the desire to see him again, the quiet hope that he would want the same. “You’re being dramatic,” you rolled your eyes. “I will see you.”

He smiled then, a triumphant flash, bringing your hand to his lips and pressing a kiss to your palm. “Always so merciful.”

“Will we see each other here?” you asked, slowly lying back down on the stone bed.

He watched you, his eyes darkening, his hand pressing against your lower abdomen, a slow caress. “I’d go to you, my fire, if you wish.”

You rolled your eyes again. “Sure, if you can make it to Bridgehead,” you smirked, raising your hands above your head, your round breasts offered to his gaze.

His eyes darted down, his hand travelling up, covering one of your breasts, massaging gently. “Is that a challenge, baby?” he asked cockily.

You turned serious, the playful facade dropping. “Don’t even try, Sully. You would never step in a place where every single person wants your head.” Your teeth gritted, the warning sharp.

He tilted his head, a thoughtful hum escaping him. “Someone doesn’t want me to die,” he mused, pinching your nipple, a jolt of pleasure making you moan.

You kicked him lightly with your uninjured foot. “You just said you want to meet me again. What else will we do but fuck? Who will fuck me if you’re dead?”

He laughed then, a boisterous, manly sound that filled the grotto. His smile, deceptively handsome and lopsided, held a glint of mischief as he looked at you. “Only I get to make you feel like this, baby. Only me.” His hand clamped around your inner thigh, spreading your legs apart.

You raised a brow, watching him rise onto his knees, positioning himself between your spread legs. He lowered himself, his mouth claiming yours in a hard, demanding kiss. You closed your eyes, your arms wrapping around his nape, pulling him down to you.

Having to leave that little pocket of forest you two carved out as your own held a surprising reluctance in you. You felt like you didn’t want to leave, but your foot, though still a little tender when you give it your full weight, was mostly healed. Besides, Säyim is definitely worrying. He watched you with silent intensity as you lathered your skin with ash, then applied the black and red paints to your face and forearm, transforming yourself back into the Mangkwan you are. To an outsider, his devotion would be glaringly obvious. He’s a man completely ensnared. Yet, you still thought him foolish for being here, being with you.

You looked at up at him when he leaned forward, dipping his thumb into your red dye, then, with a careful touch, painted the horizontal line from beneath your nose, down to your lips and chin, as if telling you he knew exactly what your signature face paint looked like. When you’re ready, he helped you tie the yerik he’d caught onto your ikran, adding many fruits and strings of fresh fish with it. One would think you were sent out to get food for a whole village.

“That is a lot,” you said, patting your ikran’s head.

“You can do what you wish with it,” he said, pulling you close by the waist and inhaling your scent, making you feel conscious about the ash but he didn’t seem to care at all. “I want to give you everything you need.”

You peered up at him, your eyes glinting with promise that you’ll return the favor... someway else. Varang, the Mangkwan, and the RDA, they all seemed distant, fading in the background. You had never felt this way before, this intoxicating mix of joy and warmth. You had never truly rebelled, not like this, and for the first time in your life, you wanted to chase this feeling Neteyam ignited within you. For once, you wanted to choose yourself.

You flew back to Bridgehead, your heart still alight with joy, a warmth that had settled deep within. But the warmth quickly dissipated, replaced by a cold dread, when you heard Vakrep’s voice behind you as you were discharging the yerik from your ikran’s back, the heavy carcass thudding to the ground.

“Where were you?” he asked, his voice a low sneer.

You snapped a sharp glance at him, your eyes narrowed. “Hunting. What is it to you?”

His eyes, creepy and always invasive, swept over your body. “You killed a palulukan?” he asked, a curious glint in his gaze as he noticed the necklace around your neck.

“Again, what is it to you?” you retorted, dragging the yerik further, then lifting the strings of fruit.

He stepped forward, closing the distance. “It is my business to know where you are going. One day, Varang will give you to me,” he said, his fangs on display, a predatory smile stretching his lips. “So you better watch your actions… and keep yourself untainted. For me.”

You winced, a visceral wave of disgust washing over you. You hissed, a low, guttural sound. “I would kill you before that happens.”

He snickered, a harsh, grating sound. “I’d like to see you try, but you have no choice. You know that. You are a strong warrior, as am I… Varang will ensure the future of the Mangkwan through us.”

You gritted your teeth, watching him turn and retreat.

Meanwhile, at the Omatikaya hometree, Neteyam was enveloped in his mother’s embrace. He had been gone for weeks, but her initial worry, softened into relief as she scanned his uninjured form. Her eyes, however, caught on the choker at his neck.

“Palulukan… you killed a palulukan?” A smile of fierce pride broke across her face. “Where?”

“Western rainforest… it chased me,” he said, a flicker of a smile playing on his lips, and for a moment, Neytiri was reminded of the boy he once was.

“Red beads? Beautiful… It is a strong color,” she mused, her fingers tracing the beads. “It suits you, son.”

Neteyam looked at his mother, his eyes alight with an emotion that surprised even Neytiri. “Does it?” he asked, his voice soft, almost vulnerable.

She chuckled, her hand reaching up to rest on his head, a gesture of affection despite his towering height. “It does.”

The happiness radiating from him, a palpable aura, did not escape Neytiri. Nor did the sight of his thumb, faintly reddened with dye. She watched her son move through the winding ramps of Hometree, a lightness in his steps, as though he floated on air, buoyed by an invisible joy.

The forest, just as it stood witness to thousands of Neteyam’s ancestors, seems to hold the secret of your clandestine meetings, too; hearing the sounds of shared laughter that mingles with the whisper of the waterfall, saw how the mask of the perfect son slips from Neteyam’s face, replaced by vulnerability he only ever allowed you to see. It was a stark contrast to the one he shows when you two were in a spar though. He is a competent fighter and you’ve known that in the two times you faced him in a ground combat, but you had a hunch that he’s holding back which you take as insult.

“Mawey, baby. This is just a game,” he said, sidestepping you, his hand catching your wrist with ease.

“Scared?” you shot back, twisting out of his grip, a kick sent at his side, but he blocked it, a surprised grunt escaping him.

“Fuck, you kick like a direhorse,“ he said, chuckling as he flicked his hand to shake off the faint pain that blocking your kick brought. You circled him, eyes narrowed, a predatory glint in their depths. “Respectfully.” he added with a boyish smile.

You raised a brow. “Don’t hold back on me, Sully,” you said, smirking.

He tilted his head and you could tell he’s accepted your challenge because  you felt the full force of his strength. He was faster, stronger, and his reach longer but you were able to find gaps. You were smaller, sure, but you were more agile and ferocious, your skills honed by countless unrestrained fights.

“You fight as if you want to kill me,” he said after the spar, pinning you against a tree, his chest heaving, a sheen of sweat on it. Your own chest rose and fell rapidly, your eyes locked with his as your lips curved into a smirk. He groaned, cupping your chin and tilting your head up to kiss you hard.

You hummed against his lips, kissing him back. “What if I am?” you mumured against his lips before giving him consecutive pecks.

He laughed, a genuine, booming sound that echoed through the trees, angling his head to kiss you softly. “Will die happily, baby,” he whispered, kissing you again, this time, deeper.

You allowed yourself to melt into his kiss, hooking your arms around his nape at the same time his large hands spanned your waist, both your hearts beating against your ribcages in sync, both seeking release and desiring to tangle around each other, just as you two later were. As your meetings continued and occured as frequently, Neteyam’s absences did not go unnoticed by his clan. In the great communal space of Hometree, the elders and warriors often glanced at the empty place beside Jake Sully. Jake, who had already had a hunch about what Neteyam is doing, remained silent.

The clan had pushed his son to mate, to choose a woman from among them the moment he’d come to adulthood, but Jake had never seen Neteyam show interest in any Omatikaya woman, but these frequent disappearances and slipping back into Hometree late into the night, with that stupid smile on and a lightness in his steps, Jake could only assume.

He shook his head to himself, his lips curling in a private smile. Let the boy find his own path. For this, he often covered for his eldest son, a silent acknowledgement of how Neteyam, who had carried most of the clan’s burdens against their enemies for years, deserves this, more than ever.

“I sent him on patrol,” Jake would state, his voice carrying an authority no one dared question.

One night, Neteyam returned late from a meeting with you, having been away for over a day. He stepped into the Hometree just as the council meeting was concluding.

“You are not in attendance again!” Neytiri’s voice was sharp with concern and annoyance as she reprimanded her son. Her eyes held a steely glint. “Your father covered for you, but this cannot continue.”

Neteyam stood straighter. He had just parted ways with you, your scent still lingering on his skin, the memory of your laugh a warm ember in his chest. His head bowed a little, offering no argument. “My apologies, Mother. It will not happen again.”

“You are late for the council meeting! Late for your duties! What is so important that it pulls you from your responsibilities?” she continued and Jake could almost imagine her breathing fire.

Neteyam’s head remained bowed and Jake knew his son won’t talk back, unless he’s in a position that allows him to defend himself. Jake, taking initiative, put both his hands on his mate’s shoulders, gently pulling her back.

“Mawey, baby, mawey. Give the boy some slack, he’s always working hard,” he nod his head toward his son before pressing on Neytiri’s shoulders. “He is still just a young man.”

Neytiri’s shoulders slumped, realizing that Jake is saying nothing but the truth. No one works harder than Neteyam, and it made her feel guily that she’s expecting so much from him. “I’m sorry, son. You may go and rest now.” she said, reaching up to put a palm over her son’s head.

Neteyam nodded, excusing himself to both of them and walking away. Jake watched his son, seeing the faint smile that touched his lips. The heavy burden Neteyam carried for this clan seemed to lift from his shoulders when he returned from these secret rendezvous. Jake once again smiled to himself, a silent understanding passing between father and son.

You dodged Neteyam’s weapon, spinning as you bring your own twin-bladed staff around in a wide arc. He blocked, his blade thudding against yours. You pressed the advantage, sending a flurry of strikes, each aimed at each opening you can see. He parried, his brow furrowed in concentration, a smile playing at the corner of his lips.

“Too slow, Sully,” you hissed, feinting left, then dropping low, sweeping your staff at his legs. He hopped, a grunt escaping him, but you were already up, disarming him with a swift flick of your wrist. His knife fell to the ground. You pressed the tip of your own to his throat.

He laughed, a deep, rumbling sound. “Always a cheat, my fire.” He didn’t move, eyes glinting with admiration.

“Always a fool for falling for it,” you countered, pulling your staff back. You offered him his weapon.

He took it, his fingers brushing yours, his fingers lingering. “You make it too easy to be a fool.”

You narrowed your eyes. “I’m starting to think I only managed to wound you because you allowed me.”

A smirk appeared on his handsome face. “I didn’t, but I was definitely distracted.”

You explored the forest, with him pointing out plants, describing their properties, their uses in medicine or sustenance, and you find it funny that he knows so much.

“This one, its sap can soothe burns,” he explained, his finger tracing the broad petal of a healing rose. “And this, its berries, when crushed, make a potent pain reliever.”

“Are you sure you’re not your people’s tsakarem?” you asked, chuckling.

He grinned. “My grandmother knows a lot about healing. Healers, under her supervision, teach the kids the basics. Just in case a situation calls for it,” he said.

You tilted your head, remembering what an expert he was at tending to your injured ankle, seemingly knowing exactly what to do. You smiled, thinking of a people making it a norm to teach the children how to care for one another.

You held his weapon, examining its weight and its design. You’ve never seen a weapon like it before. The handle was beautiful, fashioned after the sloping head of a direhorse. You adjusted your grip around it, remembering how he held it in a perpendicular angle, his hand fisting around the hilt. A short, pointed blade jut forward, it’s the blade he used to puncture that sky person’s metal suit by delivering punches.

On the other side, a longer blade extended down, covering your forearm. This is what he used to wound your fellow Mangkwan with a twist of his hand, slashing at the chest. It has dual blades, customized especially for him, and extremely deadly. “This is a beautiful weapon,” you commented.

He smirked. “It was my Uncle Tsu’tey’s. He was the Olo’eyktan before my father... He fought with my parents in the battle of the Ayram Alusing.”

You smiled at the thought. Every battle he’s fighting is guided with the weapon of an Olo’eyktan and warrior who fought for their people. You wondered about your parents. Mangkwan warriors like yourself... who both died before you could even remember them.

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

You leaned against a tree, your top askewed and your breathing ragged as streaks of white marred your vision from the mind-blowing orgasm he just gave you. You felt his mouth on one of your nipples and your fingers tightened around his cock. “Shit...”

He chuckled at the word you used, sending delicious vibrations on your breast as he sucked on it, his fingers caressing your still-sensitive pussy. Your hand trembled as it continued moving up and down his length and when his lips traced up, you lowered your head to catch his lips and kissed him. You can feel him smiling against your kiss and you reared your head back to look at him.

You bit your lip before dipping your head to press an open-mouthed kiss on his neck, gaining a breathy chuckle from him. A renewed flame burned within you as your lips traced a path down his chest and to his abdomen, your hand still pumping his cock. You peered up at him, meeting his eyes as your lips hovered near his hard length. He raised a brow, his eyes dilated and hot on you.

“I want to kiss you here...“ you whispered and you felt him physically tremble as his hand grabbed you shoulder firmly.

Many moons unfolded this way. The days you met were punctuated by him teaching you how to hunt better in the forest, by both of you challenging and pushing at each othe’s limits in combat, and by that one activity inside your grotto that you unanimously decided was best for leaving the two of you breathless. It was clear to him where this is going, he knew the odds he needed to beat to get there, and his body was already vibrating with energy when he thinks about what he is capable of doing, for you.

You, on the other hand, found yourself more and more learned about the nuances of his smile, the way his eyes crinkled when genuinely happy or amused. Unaware, you mirror his gestures—a hand on his arm, a soft brush of your shoulder against his, and your fingers always finding his skin. The sound of his laughter seemed to have carved itself in your heart, reminding you of warmth when you’re back at the concrete and metallic labyrinth that was Bridgehead where a different kind of tension has settled over your people.

The children had been sick. It doesn’t take one to be so smart to conclude that the nearest river that had been the Mangkwan’s source of water had been polluted with the RDA’s hazards. The last time you went there to collect water, you observed its waters shimmering with an unnatural sheen. You are still Varang’s unofficial tsakarem, having been taught about the various toxins and hallucinogens, but the very little you know about actual healing, you learned from Neteyam.

He knows the basic benefits of each flora you see in the forest and he’s helped you gather herbs for the sick when you told him what has been going on. If only the situation wasn’t so dire, you would find it comical how quickly he acted when you asked, as if it wasn’t in his mind that it was the Mangkwan you were talking about.

You moved between the sick in a makeshift infirmary made of whatever fabrics the Mangkwan has gotten from previous raidings. The children, usually so vibrant, lay listless with eyes glazed and breaths shallow.

“His fever burns all day long,” a mother pleaded, her child writhing on a mat.

You pressed a cool, damp cloth to the child’s forehead, offering a sip of boiled water mixed with crushed bark. “Keep him warm. He needs rest.” You showed her how to mix the herbs, how to make the poultice. You taught the other women, too, their faces grim at first but then began to help, their hands clumsy but willing.

The river, Varang had declared, was merely a form of cleansing when she graced the makeshift infirmary with her presence. “No, this is not natural. The river is contaminated, Olo’eykte—”

“It is weakness,” she told you, her head snapping at the growing number of sick wth disdain. “Here... Only the strong survive.”

“They are children, Olo’eykte. Some are women. They are the future of our clan—“

“I do not wish for the future of this clan to be on the shoulders of children who fall sick over river water,” she said. “My people have endured worst.“

You kept your mouth clamped then, nodding, knowing that you cannot change her mind. She saw the plague not as a threat, but as a culling, a way to purge the clan of its lesser members. But you saw the fear in the eyes of the mothers, the desperation of the fathers, in the children’s small bodies being wracked with sickness.

Each of your hunt became even more desperate. You distributed food among the sick, among the families whose hunters were too weak to stalk game. But it was never enough. The sickness continued to spread, some children had died and though deep ache tug at your heart at the sound of their mothers wailing, you stayed behind to offer whatever comfort you could give.

You were walking with the bowl of fresh herbs you gathered in the nearest forest when you saw young raiders running to the roost. You grabbed one by the arm and saw him visibly catch his breath. “Are you raiding?“

“Vakrep is leading us to Zeswa. Said we need their medicine—”

“You are raiding the Zeswa?“ you asked in a hard tone, and when he nodded, you let go of his arm and rushed to the infirmary.

You set the bowl down and quickly instructed the women on what to do before making your own way to the roost. You felt ashamed at what you’re feeling, the urgency to stop them from doing what you have done, and even led, for years. Were you as beyond saving as Vakrep? Have you done so much evil already that it voids your right to call out the wrongdoing of your own people?

You launched your ikran into the sky, the wind whipping at your face as you flew over quickly changjng landscape until you reached the clouded forest, seeing the Mangkwan raid party right away despite the thick fog. You dove without thinking, intending to intercept and to reason.

But then there were others there, too. Omatikaya warriors had gotten here faster than you did. You jumped off your ikran before it even fully landed on the ground but an arrow flew, and you felt a searing pain in your calf, a gasp tearing from your throat. You staggered, almost landing hard on the nearest tree, the breath knocked from your lungs.

“No!” a familiar voice bellowed. Neteyam.

A dark shape moved over you. Not Neteyam, but Vakrep, scooping you up in his arms, pulling you away from the chaos.

“My leg!” you hissed, struggling against him, but the pain flared.

You heard the clash of weapons fading behind you as he carried you to where the ikran are waiting, slumping you on the back of his ikran before launching into the sky. Back in Bridgehead, the outrage simmered. Warriors, their faces grim, gathered before Varang’s yurt. Their families, gaunt and trembling, stood behind them.

“Our children are dying, Olo’eykte!” a warrior cried, his voice raw with grief. “The sky people poison our waters! What will we do? What will you do?”

Varang emerged, her eyes already cold. “You whine like pups. This is much like the fire that burned our people years ago... Nothing can stop it, but only the strong endure.”

“The strong die in their sleep from fever!” another shouted. “Their bodies swell! This is not like the fire that burned our people, this is the sky people’s poison!”

She waved a dismissive hand. “Weakness. Your bodies are simply not fit for this land. It is your own failings, and if this weakness among you continues, I will have to deal with all of you.”

A collective silence. The warriors exchanged glances. The respect, once absolute is now flattering, replaced by resentment. You watched from the edge of the crowd, your bandaged leg aching. This was not the Varang you had known, the fierce leader who commanded loyalty. This was a tyrant, blinded by her own twisted belief.

A day later, you walked toward your grotto despite the ache in your leg. Your pride simply cannot take the limping. Neteyam was already there, restless as he paced the clearing, but the moment his eyes landed on you, he ran, pulling you into a crushing embrace. His breath hitched against your hair, ragged.

“Fuck, I’m so sorry, baby,” his voice thick with stress, with anger. He lowered himself, his large hand gently touching the wrapped wound on your leg.

“Do not worry,” you murmured, squeezing his arm and pulling him up. “That was just a near-miss. It’s nothing I can’t handle.”

He rose, his eyes blazing, a raw anguish on his face. “Stop saying that.” His voice was a low growl. “Stop saying you can handle everything, especially when I’m here. I’m here for you. You should have told me what you needed, what your people needed, and I would have handled it.”

You smirked, but it was a genuine curve of your lips. You cupped his jaw, your thumb tracing the sharp line of his cheekbone, then rose on your toes to kiss him softly. “I know,” you murmured against his lips. “I know.”

He leaned into your touch, his eyes closing for a moment, then opening to devour you. His hand found the small of your back, pulling you flush against him. He lifted you, your legs wrapping instinctively around his waist, and carried you into the grotto, laying you gently on the soft stone bed.

He moved over you, his body a familiar weight, a comforting pressure. His lips found yours, a deep, hungry kiss that stole your breath, erasing the pain, the anger, the fear. You surrendered, as you always did with him, your body yielding to his, trusting him implicitly. He stripped away your loincloth, his eyes dark with desire, tracing the lines of your body with reverent hands. His mouth followed, a trail of fire from your lips, down your neck, across your shoulders, lingering on the scarifications etched into your skin. You arched into him, your hips rising to meet his, a low moan escaping your throat.

His fingers danced between your thighs, teasing, swirling, until you were slick and ready, your core aching for him. He entered you slowly, a deep, satisfying stretch that made you gasp, then moan as you wrapped around him, pulling him deeper still. He moved, driving into you, his hips pounding against yours, and you met him, thrust for thrust. You felt his control slipping, and you held him tighter, meeting his thrusts until he cried out your name, his body shuddering against yours as he spilled himself into you.

You lay tangled, the warmth of his body a shield against the cool air of the grotto. Your fingers traced the lines of his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart.

“What causes the sickness?” he asked, his voice a low rumble against your hair.

You sighed, your suppressed anger bubbling to the surface. “The sky people. Their waste poisons our waters.” You paused, then continued, the words tumbling out, raw and bitter. “Varang won't believe us. She calls it weakness. She says they are a drain, that they will only drag the clan down.” Your voice cracked, a tremor running through you. “She has dictated my life. My whole life. She sent me to my death, sending me to you.”

He pulled you closer, his lips pressing against your forehead. “I couldn’t have killed you, baby.”

“You were so stupid,” you whispered, a soft laugh escaping you. “If it had been a different Mangkwan, you would have been dead.”

“If it had been a different Mangkwan, I wouldn’t have been there with her,” he said, his voice firm. “I wouldn’t even come up to her.”

“You say that now...”

“I’m saying it because it is the truth. I told you I know you, didn’t I? It was an easy conquer because I have wanted you for so long.” he said, his voice raw.

You stifled a smile, propping yourself up on an elbow, looking down at him. “Is that what happens when anyone wounds you? Then I am the only one allowed to wound you.” Your eyes darkened, a possessive glint in them.

“It wasn’t because you wounded me,” he said, his voice a little resigned. “It was… years ago.”

Your forehead furrowed. “That was a long time ago.”

“Yeah.” He croaked, as if he’s accepting the fact that he’s been devoted for years, even without any assurance. And then he remembered... “Who was that man? The one who… carried you away?”

You blinked, confused for a moment. “Vakrep.”

“Who is he to you?” he asked, his voice tight.

“He is a nuisance,” you said in a biting tone.

“He likes you.”

A wave of disgust washed over you. “He does not. He is fucked in the head, as you say. He doesn’t like. He thinks he owns everyone.”

“And does he think he owns you?”

Your eyes darkened further. “I don’t care what he thinks. Do not worry yourself about him.” You pressed your palm against his chest, a silent reassurance. “I am here with you, Neteyam.”

He caught your hand, holding it, bringing your fingers to his lips, kissing them softly. His eyes searched yours, and your heart ache when you saw the silent question and desperate plea for something in them.

At Bridgehead, the whispers grew louder. The Mangkwan, once united under Varang’s cruel rule, now questioned. You sat beside Kiren’s child, applying a fresh poultice to his swollen glands. Kiren, a seasoned warrior, sat beside you, his face etched with worry.

“Our people sicken,” Kiren said, his voice low, almost a whisper. “Varang turns her back, just as Eywa had. She sees only weakness.” He looked at you, his eyes holding a fierce, desperate hope. “You heal them. You hunt for them. Many warriors… they follow you. Would you lead us, warrior? Against her?”

You looked at the child, then at Kiren. A new life. A better life for Kekihe, for Säyim, for all of them. The thought sparked, a tiny flame in the darkness. “I... I will think on it,” you said, your voice trembling. “I will get back to you.”

But you never got the chance.

The next morning, a guttural scream, filled with horror, tore through the camp. You ran outside, your heart seizing in your chest. Kiren. His body, mangled, twisted, tied to a post. As they would an animal regularly tortured during rituals. His face, frozen in terror.

Your people’s faces were impassive, blank masks. None showed what they truly felt, save for Kiren’s mate, who knelt in front of his body, her wails tearing through air. Some, you noticed with a sickening lurch, even celebrated, their smiles cruel. Across from you, Vakrep stood, a smug smile on his face. He bowed his head, his eyes meeting yours, as if he knows that you know why Kiren is dead.

A hush fell over the crowd and you saw Varang, strutting into the circle, her head held high. Her eyes, predatory and sickeningly filled with pleasure, swept over Kiren’s broken form.

“Let Kiren serve as a cautionary tale among you, my beloved people.” Her voice was gentle, silken with lie, yet her smile was evil. “Do any of you know what he did to deserve this?” She paused, letting the silence stretch. “He was treasonous. He was planning to oust me. Would you like that? Would you like the leader that rose above Eywa’s misdeeds against us and built this clan from the ashes it was reduced to, to be cast out?”

The crowd shook their heads, the face of subservience. No one was brave enough to challenge her, not now, not after this.

“I thought so, too.” Her smile widened, a cold, sharp thing. Her head swept across the crowd, her gaze lingering, searching. Then her eyes found yours. A sudden sharp dread washed over you. She smiled. And you know it was not a good thing at all.

By midday, the children Kekihe often played with ran toward the makeshift infirmary, their small voices shrill with panic. “Varang took Kekihe!”

Fear, raw and primal, seized you again. You ran, despite your still healing leg, toward Varang’s yurt, but you were stopped by Säyim, her face streaked with blood, her worldless cries tearing at your heart. You pulled her into a desperate embrace, but she was signing frantically, a whirlwind of frantic gestures you couldn’t fully understand. You saw Vakrep behind her, his smile sick and smug.

You unsheathed your knife and walked toward him. Säyim held you back, her grip surprisingly strong, her eyes wide with terror as she continued to sign, her body trembling. “What did you do to her?!” you screamed at Vakrep, your knife held tightly, ready to strike.

“Varang’s orders,” he said, his voice smooth, unconcerned. “I told you, yerik. The day would come. I was counting.” He smirked.

You gritted your teeth, a growl rumbling in your chest, and lunged. But before you reached him, warriors, much stronger and bigger, held you back. You thrashed, your rage roaring within you. Vakrep turned his head to an emerging figure, silently ordering his warriors to let go of you when he saw Varang. The warriors pushed you toward Varang, and when you saw her serene face, your anger flared anew.

“We must come to an agreement, daughter,” she said, her voice soft, smiling. She turned her back, entering her yurt.

You followed, your breath heavy, expecting to see Kekihe, but the yurt was empty. “Where is Kekihe?” You hissed.

“She is somewhere… safe.” Varang smiled, achillingly calm expression, not minding your tone. “She will train under me. Just as you had, daughter.” Her meaning was clear.

“Do not hurt her,” you begged, your voice breaking, a desperate plea. You remembered the pain of your own childhood, the brutal training, the constant fear, the torture. Kekihe could not go through that. You refused to let it happen.

“Of course,” Varang said, her face twisting into a pretense of worry. “I would never. But of course, this is all on you, sweetling. If you are good to me, I am good to her. Do you understand?”

You took a sharp breath, your chest tight with dread. You nodded.

“You will mate Vakrep.” She threw the curveball, and you felt like a knife was twisted in your gut. “You agree?” Your eyes snapped to hers, disagreement blazing in them. She saw it, her smile faltering for a moment. “Säyim and Kekihe… I see you care for them deeply.” Her fingers, played with your kuru, a subtle threat as she repeated, “You agree?”

You swallowed hard, your throat dry. “I… I will think about it—”

She tugged, a sharp pull on your kuru. “Do. You. Agree?”

You took in another sharp breath, the air burning in your lungs. “Yes,” you breathed out, tasting ash in your mouth.

She grinned, an uncanny sight. “Just as I thought you would.” She nodded, dismissing you.

You slipped out of Bridgehead the next day, a ghost in the pre-dawn gloom. The forest, once a sanctuary, now felt like a trap. You wanted to run, to flee this place, this fate. But Säyim and Kekihe were constantly on your mind. They depended on you. What would Varang do if you didn’t come back? Besides, you and Neteyam… it wasn’t like that. You couldn’t burden him with your woes, your twisted life. He deserved someone free, someone who wasn’t the enemy of his people. Perhaps, who you were better off with, was Vakrep. Someone who had done things as unimaginable as you had done.

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

The fire cracked in the grotto, its flame mirroring the tremor in your hand as you traced the cracks of his chest. The words clawed at your throat and every breath tasted like ash, watching him with his eyes closed, a ghost of a smile lingering on his lips, both sated and sleepy. It made your coming betrayal feel like a physical blow against your chest.

“We need to stop this.” You whispered.

His eyes, though heavy with sleepiness, snapped open. A frown touched his brow. “What?”

“This. Us.” You gestured vaguely between your bodies, still entwined. “It has to end.”

He pushed himself up fully, sitting upright, the glow of the bioluminescent moss in the grotto allowed you to see his raw, vulnerable look. “Why?”

You sat up, too. “Things always end, Neteyam.” You wrapped your arms around your naked from, creating a wall between you. “Nothing lasts.”

He reached for you, his hand warm against your bare shoulder. “This doesn’t. Not us.” His voice was low, edged with a tremor of its own. “Where is this this coming from?”

You flinched away from his touch. “Neteyam, this isn't serious. You know that, don’t you? We are two young people who find pleasure in each other’s company. There are no strings. That’s all we are.”

He snatched his hand back as if burned. His jaw tightened. “Bullshit,” he said in a growl. “What if I want to be tethered to you? What if I want to be your mate?”

You laughed, a harsh, brittle sound that cracked in the quiet. “Then you are stupid.” Your voice rose, losing its calm. “I am Mangkwan, Neteyam. I am your people’s enemy. How many times must I remind you?”

“I do not care about any of that.” He grabbed your hand, his eyes burning into yours. “I never cared. Not about your clan. Not about your name. Only you.”

An exasperated sigh hissed between your teeth. “Do not make this hard, Neteyam.” Your voice broke, a plea escaping. “You will forget me, trust. This will be a distant memory in the future and yu’ll thank yourself for not taking this seriously.”

He cut you off with an anguished groan, a sound ripped from deep within him. “If I could forget you, I would have done it years ago!” His voice cracked, raw with emotion. “Baby, I am in love with you...”

Tears, hot and sudden, pooled in your eyes at his tone. You loved him. A love so fierce it threatened to consume you. But this was a love you could not allow. You were poison. You would burn him to ash.

“I am to mate Vakrep.” The words echoed in the small space.

His head reared back, as if you had struck him, clawed his face. The fire in his eyes died, replaced by a chilling void. “You can’t possibly do that.” The word was barely audible.

“It is not my choice.” Your voice was thin. “Varang… she decides.” The name was a curse.

“She cannot keep decidinh your life for you!” He gripped your arms, his touch firm. “You must fight. I will fight with you.”

You shook your head, the tears finally spilling down your cheeks. “I cannot. And you must not.” Your breath hitched. “She will hurt Säyim and Kekihe. She has Kekihe now. We haven’t seen her for days.” Your voice rose, a desperate cry. “Neteyam, I know she will hurt her. She’s hurting her. She did it to me when I was small. She hurt me.” Your breathing grew ragged, quick, panicked gasps.

Neteyam watched your face crumple in pain, and then fear, your glassy eyes seem to see nothing but the horror of your childhood flashing before them. His face mirrored the anguish in yours, pulling you into his arms, a tight embrace that stole your breath. Your head burrowed into his shoulder, tears soaking his skin.

“I cannot allow her to hurt Kekihe. This is the only way.”

His hand tangled in your hair, stroking your head. “This isn’t the only way, my love.” His voice was a low rumble against your ear.

You shook your head slowly, a desperate denial. “I am not for you, Neteyam. I am the fire that will burn you to ashes if you don’t let go...”

He tilted his head back, pulling you away just enough to look into your eyes. His gaze was soulful, filled with an unwavering devotion that broke your heart further. “I will burn happily, baby.”

You hugged him then, tighter than you had ever embraced anyone. You clung to him, desperate to stop him from slipping away, to prevent the best thing that had ever happened to you from fleeting, leaving you alone in your dark world. Leaving the rendezvous place, the sacred space that had witnessed moons of your life with Neteyam, was the hardest thing you had ever done.

And now, a different fire crackled before you, its flames mocking your despair. You stared into it, your tears falling, unheard, and swallowed by what you must do. Tonight, you were to mate Vakrep. Tonight, you will lose whatever freedom you thought you have. You wished the fire would consume you, turn you to ash before you could endure such a fate.

Säyim sat beside you, her anguish palpable. Her eyes, red-rimmed and swollen, mirrored your own. The female attendants, their faces impassive, finished arranging your headdress, an elaborate cage of red and sharp fibers.

Säyim tugged at your hand when they left, her touch insistent. Her hands began to sign. You watched her, a knot forming in your gut.

“Kekihe?” you asked, a desperate hope in your voice. She nodded eagerly, her hands moving again, a frantic dance. “I know, Säyim,” you said, squeezing her hands. “That’s why I’m doing this. I will not let Varang hurt her.”

She shook her head, a violent motion, and pointed at you, her signing more urgent now.

“No, she will not be like me.” You tried to reassure her, your voice thick. “I promise you. Varang will not kill me. I will fight. My priority is to protect you and Kekihe, always.”

She shook her head again, frustration twisting her features. Her hands flew, pointing at you, then at herself, then making the sign for death. You watched her, a chill creeping up your spine. You’d seen the sign for death before, but the context…

“My parents?” you asked, your voice barely a whisper. She nodded, tears pooling in her eyes, before making the sign again, insistent. You felt a her fear. “No, Säyim, I will not be like my parents. And Kekihe will not be like me. I will protect her. I promised you.”

She shook her head again, her face contorted in a silent scream. She signed once more, her movements sharp, desperate. You watched carefully, your head tilting as the meaning slowly, chillingly, solidified. When she finished, she stared at you, her eyes pleading, willing you to understand.

You blinked, the world momentarily blurring. “My parents were killed?” She nodded eagerly, her hands signing, a torrent of unspoken words. “Varang?”

She nodded, tears streaming down her face, then she opened her mouth, revealing the raw, jagged scar where her tongue had once been. Your face twisted in horror. The realization and the sheer, brutal truth of it all struck you like a physical blow. You pulled her into a fierce hug, her frail body trembling against yours.

Anger, cold and swift, enveloped you, making you grit your teeth. It surged through your veins, eclipsing all else. You stood, a sudden, fierce resolve hardening your features. You walked to the corner of the yurt, grabbing your double-bladed staff from where it hung against the woven wall. Säyim watched you, fear widening her eyes, but she did not stop you. Not this time.

You burst from the yurt, intent on finding Varang, on tearing her apart. But then, a deafening explosion ripped through the air, shaking the ground beneath your feet. It came from the RDA’s industrial site. You staggered, your fury momentarily forgotten, replaced by alarm. Screams, distant and terrified, echoed. Fire bloomed from the other side of Bridgehead, a hungry orange maw. You were watching in shock when another explosion, closer this time, erupted. You looked up, your eyes scanning the smoke-choked sky. A lone ikran was soaring above the flames.

“Sully’s boy! Sully’s boy!” You heard the shrill of panic from sky peoplw. You saw them, small figures, scrambling, dispatching soldiers on the ground.

Neteyam.

From where you stood, away from the quickly growing fire, your heart drummed hard against your chest as you watched him nock another arrow in a swift, practiced motion. It flew, striking a huge RDA tank, making it erupt in a huge flame, an explosion that rocked the ground. Then, the ikran, with its defiant rider, banked sharply and flew away.

A hand clamped on your forearm. You spun, your eyes locking with Taw’tan, one of the Mangkwan warriors who had shown discontent with Varang’s rule. His face was grim, his eyes wide with urgency.

He tugged at your arm. “Let’s go! Get Säyim!”

Your eyes widened, a breath of horror escaping your lips. Another explosion sent a shower of sparks into the night. The RDA was panicking, soldiers running on foot, fighter jets screaming into the sky.

“No.” You shook your head, pulling your arm free. “You get Säyim! Get her to safety! Get everyone who will come with you to safety.” You met his gaze, your voice firm, absolute. “Kekihe. I will find her.”

He tugged at your forearm again, his grip tight. “We got her. Come with us now!”

You looked at him, surprised. Kekihe was safe? A wave of relief, potent and dizzying, washed over you. But there was no time for questions. Another young warrior, his face streaked with ash, emerged from your yurt, half-carrying Säyim, who was signing frantically, her eyes wide with terror.

“Get them to safety, Taw’tan.” You ordered, your voice sharp, authoritative.

You didn’t wait for his answer. You ran back into your yurt, grabbing your longbow and quiver of arrows. Your divided staff slung across your back. You burst out again, running toward where your ikran waited, agitated by the explosions.

You called to your ikran, a piercing whistle that cut through the din. It flew toward you immediately, a magnificent shadow. You jumped onto its back, making tsaheylu before you beckoned it upward.

The ikran launched into the air, its powerful wings beating against the smoke that managed to hide Neteyam from the sight of RDA pilots. You nocked an arrow, aiming for the closest fighter jet, a monstrous metal bird firing at Neteyam. The arrow flew, finding its mark in its open underbelly. It shuddered, black smoke erupting from its side, then plummeted, ensuring an explosion.

You saw Neteyam then, nocking another arrow toward an industrial site. A fighter jet, its engines roaring, pursued him relentlessly. You nocked another arrow sending it toward the jet. It struck one of its rotors, causing it to spiral into an explosive death. Several Mangkwan warriors on their ikran flew then, too. For a terrifying moment, you thought they were after you. But then, they swooped, targeting RDA tanks. They were on your side.

“Neteyam!” You bellowed, your voice carrying across the wind. You flew closer, noting the ash and red dye streaking his skin, just like yours. You motioned your head toward the dense canopies of the forest below. To cover. To ground.

You flew there, reaching the intricate labyrinth of trees in record time. But a hoard of Mangkwan warriors, their war cries echoing, immediately followed. You and Neteyam dove, flying under the thick canopies, knowing you wouldn’t be able to fight the overwhelming numbers overhead.

“What were you thinking?!” You shouted at him, the wind whipping your words away. You weaved through the giant branches and twisting vines, the forest a blur of green.

Mangkwan warriors, their ikrans screaming, followed, their arrows slicing through the air, forcing you to duck and swerve. Then, you heard another set of war cries, different this time.

“Omatikaya!” Neteyam shouted, his ikran surging, attempting to fly upwards, to meet his kin.

You flew upward, too, but then you heard it. Vakrep’s sick, smug voice, calling your name. Instead of following Neteyam, you maneuvered your ikran, pulling it down, choosing to face him. But Neteyam, seeing your choice, also maneuvered his ikran, circling back down, placing himself between you and Vakrep.

Vakrep’s eyes, filled with a predatory gleam, landed on Neteyam. Surprise, a fleeting flicker, crossed his face. Then rage, when he spotted the choker adorning his neck along with an IFF tag you don’t even know where Neteyam got.

“Neteyam te Suli…” His voice was thick with fury, a guttural snarl. His gaze flicked to you, then back to Neteyam, as if he had just pieced together a grotesque puzzle.

Vakrep lunged on his ikran and Neteyam welcomed his assertion. Their ikran grappled in a swirling dance of fury. But Neteyam managed to unseat Vakrep, pulling him down to the forest floor. Neteyam was taller and bigger in built, his movements stronger. But you knew Vakrep. He was a cheat. Neteyam overpowered him, landing heavy punches on his face. Then, a flash of movement from above alerted you of the coming of a Mangkwan warrior loyal to Vakrep. You saw his arrow aim for Neteyam’s back and you unsheathed your knife, sending it his way, and it flew, burying itself deep in the man’s chest. He crumpled, his longbow falling harmlessly, but the arrow that’s already loosed found its mark in Neteyam’s arm.

He groaned, an animalistic sound of pain and rage. Vakrep found his chance, pushing Neteyam off him and unsheathing his knife to send a blow on Neteyam but you moved, grabbing one of your blades behind you before tackling Vakrep off Neteyam who had just splintered the wood of the arrow lodged in his arm. You held Vakrep by his kuru, wrapping the thick plait around your hand and wrist. Meanwhile, Neteyam was quick to grab a random longbow and arrow, pointing it at Vakrep.

“Put your knife down, Vakrep,” you said, your tone biting. “We will finish this here...”

He put his knife down, spitting blood down at your feet with disdain. “You lay with the enemy, you disgusting whore—”

You kicked the back of his knee, sending him down on his knee, before putting your blade in his throat. “Yes, uncountable times. And it was great,” you snickered, making him thrash against your hold but you tugged at his kuru hard, while Neteyam renewed his hold on the arrow pointed at Vakrep. “Enjoy a warrior’s death.”

You slashed Vakrep’s neck in a clean, brutal cut, hearing him gurgle, a sickening sound, as blood gushed from his throat. You let out a sigh of relief, one that was short-lived because you heard familiar war cries descending from above. You looked at Neteyam, seeing a grimace of pain twisting his features, but he stood straighter, grabbing his weapon at the same time you fixed your blades into a double-bladed staff.

Vakrep, dead at your feet, was the first thing they saw. “Traitor!” One of them said before lunging.

You sifted your hold on the center of your staff, holding it tight before spinning it into a brutal arc to catch the spear of a Mangkwan who charged at you. One of your blades caught the shaft of his spear, knocking it before you spun the other blade to slit at his throat. Before his body even hit the ground, you saw Neteyam moving behind you, dropping low to a avoid a swinging club.

With a sharp thrust of his fist, he delivered a punch-stab to a Mangkwan’s chest, and before pulling the short blade out, he twisted his wrist, ripping his arm outward. The longer blade delivered a sweeping slash to another Mangkwan close to him. It was to your advantage that you know how the Mangkwan fight, some of them even trained under you, and now, when a warrior swung low at Neteyam's legs, you vaulted over the attacker’s crouching form, driving a blade into his shoulder and slicing upward.

Your flank was left exposed, but Neteyam stepped right in, his blade catching the strike meant for your ribs, deflecting it harshly before sinking his weapon into the enemy's side. You moved as one until the Mangkwan warriors fell, one by one, reduced to a heap of corpses.

You stood there, unable to process the carnage, when another hoard of Mangkwan warriors landed. But among them, you saw the familiar faces of those who had sided with you, Taw’tan among them. He eyed Neteyam, his fingers brushing his forehead in polite greeting, something you’ve never seen your people do. He then glanced at Vakrep’s corpse among the heap of Mangkwan corpses before looking at you.

“Säyim and Kekihe are with the women, they are accompanied by Faykir’s crew,“ he told you.

Neteyam beside you spoke for the first time, his voice deep and almost breathless. “Think you can you send a man to their location? I’ll have men get the women and children, take them to safety.”

Taw’tan nodded, turning to Säron. “This is our quickest rider.”

Neteyam nodded, removing an arm band, handing it to Säron. “I’ll send men to the location. Show this to a man named Tormak.”

Säron nodded and walked away, while Neteyam touched something in his neck, speaking to someone in his comms to give his orders. He wasn’t even finish yet when several Mangkwan landed again. You closed your eyes and sighed. When you opened it, you saw Riku, looking at his nephew’s corpse on the ground before his face contorted, a mask of pure, unadulterated rage. Then, Varang appeared, her eyes sweeping over the scene, landing on Neteyam with a chilling curiosity.

“The famed son of Toruk Makto.” Her voice was a silken whisper. She smiled, a predatory curve of her lips, her eyes flicking to you. “You came to take this woman.” She concluded, her gaze settling on you, cold and dissecting. “I wonder what you’ve seen in her. She is weak. She failed her people.”

“I failed no one, Varang.” you spat her name out. “It is you who failed us. Many Mangkwan died because of the RDA, and yet you refused to see. You have been so blinded by ambition and hatred that you’ve lost sight of us! Among us, you are the weak one, refusing to budge and get over a single tragedy, allowing it to control your whole life and dictate what happens to your people!”

She snickered, a rasping sound. “Why would they listen to you? You are a traitor. Just like your parents.” She smiled, a cruel, triumphant twist of her lips.

You watched her, pain piercing your heart. “You killed them.” The words were a whisper.

“Yes, I did.” Her eyes gleamed with cruel satisfaction. “They betrayed me. They were traitors who aided the damned Toruk Makto against my orders!”

“And what is the punishment for an Olo’eykte who betrays her people?” You met her gaze, your voice rising, gaining strength. “Who leaves them to themselves in times of great despair?”

She hissed and her warriors nocked their arrows, aiming at you. But then, the Mangkwan who sided with you, their faces grim, raised their bows. Varang’s eyes snapped up when she heard unfamiliar war cries descending from the air. The Omatikaya, among them Jake and Neytiri, landed behind you. The Mangkwan were outnumbered, and she knew it.

“Leave, or this will end here. And it will not be good for you, Varang,” you said her name in a biting tone. “For everything you did to me and my family, I shall be righteous if I tear you apart.”

Varang watched you, her eyes sharp and full of resigned rage. She hissed and you hissed back. It must have taken so much of her pride to turn away, along with her warriors, and the fear that was overpowered by your anger swam to the surface, sending a tremor in your body. You staggered, the adrenaline draining. Neteyam immediately caught you, pulling you into his uninjured arm, his grip firm and comforting.

“Oh, baby,” he whispered, breathless, hugging you.

“Neteyam, thank you. We owe Y/N the lives of our families. And now, we owe it to you, too.” He looked behind him, at the warriors you had helped in the past, their faces etched with gratitude. “If it’s not too much… we’d ask uturu… only until we could stand on our own. If… if you’ll have us.”

Neteyam seemed to look beyond you, his gaze sweeping over the Mangkwan warriors who had chosen to stand with you. He nodded once, his arm reaching out, gripping forearms with Taw’tan. Taw’tan let out an anguished sound, his arm finding your arm, his head bowing. The other Mangkwan warriors, laying down their weapons, knelt on one knee, bowing to your feet. Taw’tan thanked Neteyam, too, his voice thick with emotion and Neteyam told them to stand, his voice firm but kind.

“Neteyam.” A woman’s voice cut through the air. You looked behind you and saw a slightly older woman, her features striking and resembling Neteyam unmistakably.

“Mother.” He said, his voice softening. You moved away, allowing his mother to embrace him. A slightly older man, tall and broad, walked toward them, too, placing a large hand on Neteyam’s head. He had five fingers, much like Quaritch’s, and you remembered him from the convention.

“We all need to go home. You are wounded.” She told him, her eyes tracing the blood on his arm.

Neteyam nodded, his arm still around your waist, his grip firm, leaving no confusion about why this battle had been fought, or who he had fought it for.

Neteyam, despite his wound, made sure to accompany you to where Säyim and Kekihe are when you all arrived at Hometree. You weren’t expecting the Omatikaya to immediately warm up to you and your people, or expect them to accept your presence here, but you were thankful enough that they were not hostile. Save from some curious looks, and some children getting scared, there were really no violent reactions that you know of.

As you two walk, you saw a little girl approach, jumpy on her toes, her short braids flying in the air. “Neteyam!” Her jolly voice sounded, and when her eyes landed on you, you almost expected the girl's smile to falter but it didn’t. “Some of the Mangkwan are sick, so grandmother had them all receive treatment at her tent. Tsanu is setting up a very large tent, he said it’s temporary but it's where they will sleep!”

Neteyam smiled, putting a hand over the girl’s head. “This is Tuk, my little sister,“ he told you.

You smiled. “Hi, Tuk...” you said and her eyes widened a little before she smile shyly.

“Are you Y/N?” she asked curiously and when you nodded, she practically jumped over to your side and held your hand. “I know where your family is!”

She pulled you up a winding ramp, and honestly, you aren’t really that used to climb trees and you almost lost your footing if only Neteyam weren’t able to catch you. Tuk gestured to a small kelku like it was a gift and when you walked inside, you saw Kekihe and Säyim huddled together. You let out a breathe of relief, especially at the sight of Kekihe.

“Oh, Kekihe,” you ran inside, kneeling to hug the girl who hugged you back tightly, her hand clutching at your arm like she's afraid you’ll disappear. Säyim wrapped her around you two and you sobbed in her arms.

“Aww...” you heard Tuk’s small voice behind you.

A deep, unfamiliar wave of relief washed over you as you hugged them both, meanwhile, Nteyam still stands outside the kelku, still unbothered about his wound that his unyielding figure there catching Säyim’s eyes. She signed. Is he your lover? She meant to say and you chuckled, despite your tears. You nodded silently.

“And I love him, Säyim...” you mumbled, your tears falling.

It is a good thing, to love, she signed. He is a good man, I can tell. Her soulful eyes stared in yours, a reassurance.

You smiled and nodded, knowing that already. After talking with her for more, you walked outside, seeing Neteyam standing there. “Neteyam,” you said in a soft voice, your hand grabbing his forearm. “You are wounded, you should have had this treated already.”

“Yes, right now...” he mumbled. “They are okay?” he asked.

You nodded, tears pooling in your eyes again. You feel like crying all day, just cry all the tears you haven’t cried your whole life. “Neteyam. Thank you.”

He raised a hand, cupping your neck and jaw. “We’ll talk about this once I’m treated,” he said and you nodded.

Later, as candles burned inside the Tsahik’s tent, Neytiri stood outside, her gaze fixed on the quiet form of her son inside. Mo’at, her face etched with a calm wisdom, placed a hand on her daughter’s shoulder.

“Are you certain, Mother?” Neytiri’s voice was a low murmur, still watching her son.

Mo’at’s smile was soft, a knowing curve of her lips. “I have dreamed of it for years, daughter. And you have never seen your son as happy as he has been in these past moons. Eywa could never be wrong.” Her grip on Neytiri’s shoulder pressed, a silent reassurance. “Do you worry, daughter?”

Neytiri let out a sigh, the sound heavy with unspoken thoughts. “It’s just… this isn’t what I imagined.”

Mo’at tilted her head, her eyes twinkling. “And you think Jake Sully is who I imagined for you?”

A small, surprised huff of laughter escaped Neytiri. “That is different, Mother.”

“Is it?” Mo’at questioned, her gaze unwavering. Neytiri met her mother’s eyes, a quiet understanding passing between them.

Days bled quickly. You watched your people shed their old lives by washing away the ash and paint, the symbols of their Mangkwan identity, revealing skin that had not seen the sun in years. Säyim, her hands never idle, joined the Omatikaya weavers, meanwhile, Kekihe quickly found a friend in Tuk. The other Mangkwan found their place. Some hunters joined the Omatikaya hunting parties. While those who wished to be warriors will have to go through the Omatikaya iknimaya.

Kiri, her movements graceful, often sought you out. “Lo’ak, my brother, already found his mate,” she told you one afternoon, as Kekihe and Tuk splashed in a shallow stream nearby. “He lives at Awa’atlu, in the eastern sea.”

You nodded, a faint smile touching your lips. Neteyam had already told you about it. He spoke to you of Awa’atlu, of the Metkayina, and their wise tulkuns.

Kiri smiled as she observed Kekihe’s joyous shrieks as Tuk splashed her. “Tuk took to her quickly. She doesn’t have many children her age to play with here. Now, there are many new children. I’m pretty sure her friend Popiti will love Kekihe, too.”

Your gaze lingered on Kekihe, a warmth spreading through your chest. You should feel content, you thought. Your people were safe, cared for. Kekihe was happy. Yet, a restlessness stirred within you. Neteyam was healing, you knew, but why had he not sought you out? Days had passed. Perhaps, the novelty of the forbidden has worn off. You are afraid it was the case.

The Omatikaya also threw a celebratory feast. The air filled with the rich aroma of roasted meat and sweet fruits. You watched, a lump forming in your throat, as your people danced, their faces alight with genuine joy. Tears pricked at your eyes. This was true happiness, a gift you had never truly known.

Kiri appeared beside you, her voice gentle. “Pey’ra told me you were Tsakarem of your former clan.”

You turned to her. “I hardly am. I just did what I needed to do.”

“But you were their healer. You gave them hope when there was none. And they said they are alive because of you.” She offered you a vibrant forest flower, its petals unfurling like a tiny, colorful fan. “I think you ought to prepare yourself for Mo’at. My grandmother. She is Tsahik of Omatikaya. You will have many meetings with her.”

Your brow furrowed slightly. “What for?” you asked softly, the words barely a whisper.

Kiri’s eyes shifted past your shoulder, a faint smile playing on her lips. She didn’t answer, instead melting away into the throng, heading towards where Tuk and Kekihe now giggled, chasing glowing insects.

A sudden stillness enveloped you and your heart began a slow, heavy thud against your ribs. You didn’t need to turn to know because the air around you had shifted, became more charged. You turned, slowly, and saw Neteyam, his arm bandage wrapped neatly. His eyes, dark and intense, were fixed on you. A lump formed in your throat again.

“Hi,” you croaked, your voice thin. “How are you?”

“Fine,” he said, his voice deeper than you remembered, a touch rough. “Wasn’t so bad.”

You nodded, looking away, suddenly finding the intricate patterns of the Hometree floor fascinating. “Good. That’s good to hear.” You bit your lip, fighting the tremor that threatened to overtake it. Why the distance? Why the delay?

“You?” he asked, his voice softer now. “How are you settling in? Säyim and Kekihe?”

You swallowed, forcing yourself to meet his gaze. “Säyim is learning with the weavers. She’s always loved to weave. And Kekihe has found a friend in Tuk.” You glanced at your hands, twisting your fingers together. “My people… some of them are no longer used to a Hometree. Ours was burned by the fire long before some of us were born. But they are learning.”

“That’s great to hear,” he replied.

You looked down at the dancing figures, the vibrant colors blurring. The silence stretched, thick and suffocating. You didn’t know what else to say. The awkwardness was a physical weight. The thought, cold and sharp, pierced through you: the novelty has worn off. This is how it ends. After everything.

“I’ll go,” you said, your voice barely audible. “Check on Säyim.”

“Are you avoiding me?” His voice, sharp and accusatory, stopped you mid-turn.

You snapped your head back, indignation flaring. “Why would I avoid you?” you asked, your eyes almost narrowing at his audacity. He’s the one avoiding you!

“I just got here.” His eyes narrowed.

“Yeah. Well, it’s awkward. I don’t think we have anything more to talk about.” Your voice was tight, strained.

He tilted his head, his expression hardening. Now that you truly looked, you saw not detachment, but a simmering anger in his gaze. “You think so?” he asked, his voice low, dangerous. “I think we have so much to discuss.”

Your nose flared. “Oh. You weren’t really acting like it. You have avoided me for days,” you hissed, the words tumbling out. “And don’t tell me you were healing. You are a man too virile to be knocked down by a single arrow on the arm for days. Just tell me if we should start acting like we don’t know each other.”

He took a step forward, his immense height suddenly towering over you. His hand, surprisingly gentle despite the anger vibrating in his body, closed around your forearm. “I was angry with you, baby. Hell, I still am.” His voice was thick with frustration as he pulled you closer.

“Why? I didn’t do anything wrong. In fact, I should be mad at you. You are very stupid, you could have been killed!” you retorted, your teeth gritted.

A giggle drifted from nearby. You glanced over to see a group of teenagers, eyes wide with curiosity, whispering amongst themselves, their gazes flitting between you and Neteyam. He tightened his grip on your hand, pulling you away from the feast, deeper into the Hometree’s winding ramps, until he found a secluded alcove glowing faintly with hanging firepots. He stopped, then turned to face you.

“Then what do you suggest I do, baby? Stay back and let you mate that scoundrel? You truly don’t believe I’d let that happen, do you? I would rather die—”

“Don’t say that!” you hissed, your shoulders slumping. The weight of your past, the chains of Varang’s manipulation, are long behind you. You were free. “I had to do it, Neteyam. My problems are not yours and I mean it when I said you shouldn’t waste your life with me.”

He groaned, his grip on your hand tightening further as he pulled you fully into his embrace. “A life without you is the only one I’ll consider a life wasted.” His voice was a raw whisper against your hair. “I am so in love with you. And to know that you would rather carry your problems and burdens alone instead of sharing it with me is a heavier burden for me. I am here now, do you understand? Your problems and burdens are mine. You are mine.”

Tears welled, hot and stinging. The urge to weep, to collapse into his arms, was overwhelming. To be protected, loved, to have your burdens carried by someone who cherished you so deeply. This was a feeling utterly new, completely foreign. Säyim and Kekihe loved you, yes, but you carried them, protected them. This, this kind of love that allowed you to rest, to simply be… it undid you.

You cupped his jaw, your fingers tracing the sharp line of his cheekbone. You gave him a weak, open-mouthed kiss, and he groaned, a deep, guttural sound. You sniffled, tasting salt on your lips. “I love you, Neteyam.”

His arms tightened around you, crushing you against his chest. His head dipped, finding your forehead, then your lips. “I love you so much, baby. And I see you. I have always seen you.”

You smiled through the hot tears, a genuine, radiant smile. You knew the truth of his words. “I see you, Neteyam.” You pulled back slightly, your gaze locking with his. “And I love you so much.” You rose onto your toes, kissing him again, your arms hooking around his nape, your chest pressing against his. Both your hearts hammered, a frantic, joyous rhythm against your ribs. “Where is your hut?” you mumbled against his lips.

His eyes darkened, but a low chuckle rumbled in his chest. “So we can talk more in private?” He raised a brow, a teasing glint in his gaze.

You pursed your lips, peering up at him with feigned innocence. “Didn’t you say we have lots to discuss? It’s a little loud out here.” You pursed your lips.

He grinned. “Well, since you asked…” He took your hand, his fingers intertwining with yours, and led you up the winding ramps of the Hometree.

In the quiet sanctuary of his hut, he kissed you, softly, lovingly. There was no rush, only the deep connection that hummed between you. His hand cupped your jaw, his thumb stroking your cheek, his eyes soulful as they searched yours. “I want to be your mate, my love. And… I want you to be mine.” His whisper was raw, full of yearning.

You blinked, a fresh wave of tears blurring your vision. Mating in your clan had been a nothing but a means of reproduction or domination. Theirs, you knew, was a sacred bond, witnessed by Eywa herself. And you had known his body, known his touch, the way he made love, the way he pleasured you like a man cherishing his beloved woman.

His hand cradled your face. “I will not force you to worship who I worship. It will take time for you to believe, I know that. But… I want to be truly yours, and you to be truly mine. So please, have me...” The yearning in his voice was palpable, a tangible thing that wrapped around your heart.

Tears pooled in your eyes, brimming, then spilling. “I am yours, Neteyam. You have me.”

He kissed you, your head pillowed on the soft, woven mat. He made love to you, slowly, the connection of your kurus pulsing, enhancing the experience. His mouth muffled your moans, silencing the sounds that threatened to escape. “Shh, baby. People might hear,” he whispered, a chuckle rumbling against your lips.

“But it’s so good,” you whined, pulling him back for another kiss.

The next times were rougher. You felt his earlier anger and frustration, in every thrust, every hard squeeze on your breasts. You bit down on your loincloth, muffling your cries as you lay facedown, his body pressing into yours from behind. You lost count of how many times he claimed you, how many times you surrendered. Even as you drifted to sleep, he was still moving inside you, his lips pressed to your neck.

You woke to the cheerful sound of children’s laughter. A soft smile touched your lips. You heard Kekihe’s voice among them, clear and bright. It felt like a dream, a fragile, beautiful illusion. You leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to the smooth skin of Neteyam’s shoulder. He stirred, a low groan escaping him, and pulled you closer, his arm tightening around your waist.

“I think they’ll call for breakfast soon,” you murmured, your voice thick with sleep.

“Let’s skip it,” he mumbled, his hand on your shoulder sliding down to knead your round breast, rolling and pinching the pebbled tip.

“I’m hungry,” you complained playfully, a soft gasp escaping you.

He chuckled, his lips pressing against your ear. “I’ll fill your belly up, don’t worry.”

You groaned, the soreness between your legs is not a joking matter. “No thanks,” you said, pushing against his chest. You were still recovering from being pounded on literally just an hour ago, both of you waking up just to fuck and then going to back to sleep again.

Neteyam caught your waist as you tried to roll off the mat, pulling you back, your back slamming against his chest, his lips finding your neck. You shrieked, and then clamped your mouth shut, remembering the children just outside the hut. You bit your lip as you found yourself beneath him again, peering up as his hand hooked under your knees, lifting them, spreading your legs wider.

Suddenly, Tuk’s voice, echoed nearby and you sat up and pulled a blanket over you in record time. Thankfully, she didn't burst inside. “You two should really see this! This is the coolest thing you’ll ever see!”

Neteyam groaned, his head falling back. “She says that all the time.”

You chuckled, kissing his cheek. “We should really get up now.” You moved quickly, dressing yourself, trying to smooth your hair as best you could. He followed you out of the small alcove and into the receiving area of his kelku.

There, you stopped, breathless. Hundreds of atokirina, glowing with an ethereal light, floated in the air, swirling and dancing. Thousands, perhaps, some even drifting gently inside the kelku. From below, you could hear the soft murmurs of the people, watching from the branches, while children chased the glowing spirits with joyous shouts.

You felt Neteyam’s warmth behind you, his arms wrapping around your waist, pulling you close. He held out a hand, catching an atokirina in his palm, its gentle glow illuminating his face. You watched in awe, never having witnessed such a breathtaking display.

“We have been blessed, my love,” he whispered, his lips pressing a soft kiss below your ear.

You reached out, catching one in your own palm, its tiny light pulsing softly. You smiled, a deep, profound sense of peace settling over you. A promise of a new beginning.

Below, Neytiri, Mo’at, and Jake watched the spectacle unfold.

“They have been blessed, Jake,” Neytiri said, a radiant smile on her face.

Jake blinked, looking at his mate, then back at the floating lights. “What? Did they mate… there?”

Neytiri smacked his arm, her eyes widening in mock outrage. “You don’t say that! To anyone, at all!”

Jake rubbed his arm where Neytiri smacked him. “I didn’t know the atokirina could float this high...” he said innocently.

Your people had always been a clan of endurance; tall, long-limbed riders with midnight skin built for the sun, rosette-marked like the great plains cats . You had grown up in motion, in migrations that carried the clan across gold-streaked grasslands and cracked riverbeds following rainfall and grazing patterns. The Sätareym taught that falling from a Pa’li (direhorse) was a lesson in humility, yet nothing prepared you for falling out of your own life. Loss struck with the speed of a hunter-cat hidden in the reeds. One moment you had a mother who tied beadwork at your collar and laughed with her whole face, eyes shining like dawn over savanna dust. One moment you had a father who taught you to lean with the Pa’li’s stride, to trust the ground’s rhythm beneath hooves. The next, smoke choked the plains, metal birds shrieked through the clouds, and fire touched everything you loved.

The First War had taken your shared songs with the Olangi long ago, leaving your people standing alone beneath the horizon. The Second Pandoran War took far more. Step by step, season by season, your clan’s numbers withered like dry grass under relentless sun. For years you crossed the plains seeking water, fertile ground, respite, yet human machines hunted the land as if trying to erase the very memory of nomadic life. Sätareym kelku shelters collapsed again and again under sudden evacuations, dismantled in frantic breaths instead of practiced rhythm. Painted tassels once meant for ceremony were torn away to make bindings for wounded limbs. Direhorses trembled beneath their riders, ears pinned to the crack of distant gunfire. Each time you settled, destruction rose behind you. Each time your tsahìk prayed, the sky answered with silence.

Your disbelief did not come from anger. It grew quietly, settling into your bones. You carried it through migrations, through every desperate search for safe ground, through every burial sung beneath an open sky too wide to hold your grief. You listened to the elders say, “The grass bends where it must,” yet you wondered how many times grass could bend before it snapped. You watched Olo’eyktan Tsawra ride at the front of each flight, her presence solid, unbroken, the mantle of beadwork across her chest shining like a rising sun. Even she, the indomitable rider whose endurance shaped the clan, could not shield you from the shrinking world. Her jaw tightened more each season. Her voice held weight but no longer warmth. A leader cannot weep openly, yet you saw the tremor in her hands when she thought no one watched.

Sickness crept among those left. Thirst hollowed even the strongest riders. The youngest—those meant to attempt the sun-chase for the first time—never received the chance to prove themselves. The clan’s bones thinned. Your people, once proud and fierce in their solitude, found themselves held together by a thread stretched near breaking.

Seeking uturu had been unthinkable once. The Sätareym did not cling to land, but they clung fiercely to autonomy, to the belief that survival was found in the bond between clan and plains. Yet the plains themselves burned. The wind carried the reek of fuel and smoldering herds. The horizon no longer promised freedom. It promised death.

You remembered the moment your tsahìk, Makto, finally spoke the words your people feared.

“Oe'm ngaytxoa ma ’evi (I'm sorry, my children)… we must bend or be broken.”

His voice had not wavered. He turned his face toward the forest far beyond the savanna’s dying edge, toward the territory of the Omatikaya, the Na’vi who had absorbed the Olangi while leaving your people to face the plains alone. Old sorrow clung to that direction like dust.

Yet choices had narrowed until none remained.

Now you rode beside the last survivors of the Sätareym toward those towering trees, toward a people who moved through shadow and vine instead of horizon and wind. Your direhorse breathed beneath you, ribs rising against your calves. Its scent, warm and familiar, was a tether to a life crumbling behind you. Your skin, deep indigo and patterned in rosettes that once rippled like shadow through tall grass , felt foreign in the humid air creeping from the forest edge.

You did not whisper to Eywa as the forest canopy came into view. Your heart carried no prayers. You held only memory now. Bright ones that hurt to touch, dark ones that shaped the hollow inside you, and the steady ache that had lived in your chest since childhood. The ache that told you gods did not listen.

You rode in silence, eyes fixed on the unfamiliar shadowed world ahead. The Omatikaya would grant you refuge or they would not. Eywa would intervene or she would not. Belief had no part in survival.

Your clan survived because it ran. Your clan survived because it endured. Your clan survived because it bent where it must.

Yet a quiet part of you wondered. While the forest opened to receive the last of your people… what future remained for a heart that no longer trusted the sky?

The jungle swallowed the last breath of open sky before you were ready for it. Moist air clung to your skin where wind once lived, and the quiet murmur of insects replaced the long-distance hum of plains currents. Your pa’li shifted beneath you uneasily, its ears flicking forward and back, uncomfortable with the dense weight of life pressing from every direction. You understood its unrest. Your people were shaped by distance, by horizons that held no walls, not towering shapes blotting out the sun. 

Your clan moved in a careful line, mirroring the same traveling formation you had kept through countless migrations. The older riders flanked the young, while Tsawra rode at the front, her shoulders squared, her braids lifted slightly by the moist breath of the forest. Makto followed not far behind her, his kuru wrapped loosely in white-beaded strands that gleamed like stars against the shadowed green . Neither spoke, but both radiated a tension your people rarely showed. Plains clans feared little. Yet this place could swallow a rider whole without leaving even dust behind.

Your pa’li tossed its head, and your grip tightened on the reins just as a sharp hiss cut through the foliage.

“Ftang tsenga nga lu (Stop where you are)!”

The shout snapped across the path like a whip. In an instant, Omatikaya riders broke from the undergrowth, emerging with bows drawn, pa’li stamping the earth with fierce precision. Blue bodies—lighter than yours, sleeker with the strength of tree-leapers—circled your column like shadows peeled from the forest floor. Their arrows gleamed with wicked tips, pulled taut against strings that had taken lives before.

Your breath lodged painfully in your throat. You had seen warriors aim weapons before; the RDA made it impossible not to. Yet this was different. These Na’vi did not shout in hatred. They held their bows with the cold steadiness of those who had protected their home for generations. 

Tsawra lifted one hand high, palm outward, her voice cutting clean through the rising panic.

“Rutxe yemstokx't tìsraw seyki ayoe (Please don’t hurt us)! We come in peace.”

Makto’s deep voice followed, unshaken even as bows stayed locked on your riders. “Ma leNa'vi (My people), hold. Lower your reins. Do not provoke them.”

The Sätareym obeyed, though unease rippled down the line. Your clan rarely showed fear, but the forest pressed close, and arrows aimed at your chest forced honesty into your heartbeat. Your palms dampened against your pa’li’s hide. Its muscles trembled with the desire to flee, yet escape was already cut off. Riders perched in the branches above, silhouettes blending with leaves, arrows pointed downward like judgment.

One Omatikaya warrior stepped forward, his posture rigid with authority. His braids were adorned with bright feathers and forest beads, his tail lashing. His eyes swept your people, lingering on the rosette patterns across your skin; a clear sign you were not forest-born. You watched Tsawra meet his stare head-on, her chin raised in the steady way plains leaders held themselves.

“Kaltxì, ma tsmukan (Hello, my brother),” she said evenly. “I am Tsawra, olo’eyktan of the Sätareym clan. We seek uturu.”

“You bring many,” he replied, voice clipped, wary. “We were not told to expect riders of the open grass here.”

Makto guided his pa’li forward with slow movements. His expression remained calm, though sorrow hung in the lines framing his mouth. “War follows us. The dry lands burn. We ask only to speak to your olo’eyktan.”

The warrior flicked his gaze over your people again. The sight of the exhausted riders, the gaunt children, the ash-darkened leather harnesses seemed to settle heavily over him. His bow eased a fraction. A breath later, he signaled with two sharp gestures. One by one, the Omatikaya lowered their weapons.

Relief shuddered quietly through the clan, though no one dared speak.

Your shoulders loosened, though not completely. You had grown too used to danger appearing the moment safety seemed near.

The warrior stepped closer to Tsawra, though he remained mounted. “Jakesully will decide. Follow our lead. Do not stray.”

The Omatikaya shifted around your clan with smooth discipline, forming a protective, yet clearly controlling formation. Their riders flanked your sides, some moving ahead to scout the path, others weaving through trees with agile grace. The forest seemed to open for them, branches bending under their familiarity, roots avoided with instinctive precision.

Your people rode in silence deeper into the jungle’s pulse.

You felt the air grow thicker, heavy with scents of damp soil, thick leaves, and unfamiliar blossoms. Your pa’li snorted irritably, clearly disliking the uneven terrain. You leaned forward, whispering reassurance, but your eyes remained fixed ahead, tracing the path these forest warriors carved for you.

Jake Sully. His name carved itself into your mind like a spear’s edge.

You had never seen him, yet you knew enough to feel your stomach twist with resentment. A dreamwalker. A human who walked in a stolen body, shaped by a people he was not born into. Eywa had answered him, the stories said. Eywa had chosen him. Eywa had saved him.

Your breath caught painfully.

Why not your clan? Why not your parents, whose laughter still lived in the cracks of your heart? Why not the countless riders who painted their skin in palulukan (thanator) rosettes during the first rains, who leapt beneath open stars during rituals meant to praise the Mother? Why had Eywa turned her gaze toward a human—an outsider—while your people burned? Why did the one touched by poisonous metals, who fought with weapons the land itself rejected, receive her blessing?

Stories spoke of Jake Sully living in comfort now, with a mate and children of his own. A full kelku, warm arms around him, laughter echoing in Hometree’s halls. He fought still, of course, but he fought with purpose, with a clan behind him, with Eywa’s hand once upon his shoulder.

You clenched your jaw until it ached.

He got to keep his family.

Your people lost theirs.

A single hot tear gathered at the corner of your eye before you could stop it. You blinked it away quickly, refusing to let it fall where the Omatikaya might see. The forest made no room for weakness. Neither did you.

The path ahead brightened, and towering shapes rose through filtered light; massive, ancient, the kind of trees you once heard described in stories sung by Sätareym elders who had never touched them. Hometree stood like a living mountain, its roots curling into the earth with quiet authority.

The escort slowed.

Your heart hammered with a violent, bitter rhythm. You lifted your chin as you approached the massive roots of Hometree, roots that rose from the earth like the coiled limbs of an ancient titan. The forest floor hummed faintly beneath your pa’li’s hooves, as if the great tree breathed through the soil itself. 

This place felt alive in ways the plains never were. You had spent your entire life beneath an unobstructed sky, the wind carving open paths before every migration. Now the canopy pressed low like a heavy hand, thick with humidity and the scent of sap. Your people rode silently, shoulders tightened, posture steady but wary. None of you belonged here, and everyone knew it.

An Omatikaya rider at the front raised his arm, halting the line. “Rutxe (Please)… dismount your pa’li here.” His voice held politeness, yet there was no softness in it. The request was an instruction wrapped in courtesy, leaving no room for refusal.

Tsawra’s head tilted in acknowledgment. “Tsal’s tam (it’s okay). Do as they ask,” she called back, offering a small gesture meant to soothe the unease rippling through the Sätareym. Her voice carried reassurance only a leader could offer, yet her jaw remained tight. She dismounted fluidly, landing with the grace of a plains rider whose body was made for ground and speed, not branches.

Your feet touched the earth a moment later, and your pa’li pressed its muzzle briefly to your shoulder before being guided away by Omatikaya handlers. Its warm breath ghosted over your skin in a silent plea not to leave its side, and your chest tightened at the separation. Direhorses were central to your clan’s heartwearing identity, and losing its presence, even briefly, felt like stepping into a place without your own shadow.

The forest shifted above you with sudden motion. Figures emerged from Hometree, descending ring-like platforms circling its colossal trunk. They moved with controlled ease, their bodies used to vertical terrain. Eyes widened as they spotted your people; spotted your height, your darker indigo skin, the rosette tanhi that marked your clan as unmistakably foreign to the forest. Murmurs spread like wind through tall grass, except the sound felt sharper, tinged with wariness and confusion rather than admiration.

Ikran swooped down from nearby perches, wings carving the air with startling power. Their screeches echoed through the clearing as they circled above, scanning your clan with predatory focus. You felt their attention like heat against your scalp, and your shoulders curled subtly inward. Being prey in another’s home lodged an unpleasant weight beneath your ribs.

Your gaze dropped to the ground, your steps falling into sync with your people as you followed Tsawra and Makto toward the heart of the clearing. The whispers followed like an invisible tide. You caught fragments—“plains riders”—“look at their skin”—“why do they come here”—spoken without malice but with unmistakable unease. Each word scraped at the raw edge of your exhaustion.

Tsawra moved at a steady pace, her expression composed despite the dozens of eyes tracking her every breath. Makto walked at her side, offering polite bows and gentle, respectful greetings.

“Oel ngati kameie (I see you),” Makto murmured to a group of elders, dipping his head with genuine grace despite receiving no reply in return.

“We see you, ma frapo (everyone),” Tsawra said softly to another cluster of Omatikaya, her voice carrying the warmth of tradition.

The silence that met her words pressed like a stone against your sternum. Your leaders kept offering peace even when none was returned, because that was the Sätareym way: strength was measured in endurance, no dominance. Yet the ache of being met with empty air dug into you.

You kept your eyes down until the ground leveled out into a vast open space beneath Hometree’s shadow. When you finally lifted your gaze, the sight struck like a blow.

A crowd had gathered—nearly the entire Omatikaya, by the look of it—standing in a semicircle with expressions ranging from fascination to distrust. The forest glow caught their beaded harnesses and paint markings, scattering reflected light across the clearing. You felt stripped bare under their scrutiny. A frown carved itself onto your face before you could stop it, the weight of being watched pressing harder than any arrow ever had.

The crowd shifted suddenly, creating a path through its center. Your breath stilled.

A man stepped forward.

His body was marked with beads and ceremonial animal skin, his hair braided with feathers that shimmered subtly as he moved. He carried the confidence of one accustomed to command, though his stance lacked the arrogance you expected. His eyes, a yellow human shade shaped into a Na’vi face, swept over your people with measured calm.

Tsawra and Makto bowed deeply, sinking into the Sätareym gesture of respect: palms placed over the heart, shoulders lowered in dignified acknowledgment.

“Oel ngati kameie, Great Toruk Makto,” they said in unison.

Your spine stiffened.

So this was him.

Jake Sully.

Closer inspection revealed the traits whispered about: the human eyebrows, the four-fingered hands, the subtle tension in his shoulders that hinted at a man who carried two worlds inside him. You felt heat ignite beneath your skin.

Jake lifted a hand gently. “Please… stand. There is no need to bow,” he said, voice softer than you anticipated. His words carried sincerity, though you felt no ease from them.

Tsawra straightened with the composed dignity of a leader who refused to shrink in another’s home. “We thank you for receiving us,” she said, her tone steady. “I am Tsawra, olo’eyktan of the Sätareym. This is our tsahìk, Makto te Tsamsiyu. We come seeking uturu. Our plains burn. Our people diminish. We ask for safety, for time to heal.”

As they spoke, movement stirred behind Jake. A Na’vi woman stepped into view, tall and fierce,but her eyes were wide. Her presence radiated strength so palpable it felt etched into the air around her. Beside her stood four children; two boys and two girls, each with expressions reflecting varying degrees of curiosity and caution.

Your gaze narrowed.

Two of the boys stared directly at you.

The older boy beside him bore far more resemblance to the Na’vi woman; dark braids framing a face expressive enough to betray every flicker of emotion. His eyes remained wide as if he were memorizing each shape of your face. His posture wavered between pride and curious shifting.

The younger one had the familiar eyebrows, the same human-like details as Jake, though softened by youth. His cheeks warmed visibly when your eyes met his, a flush blooming across his skin in a way both earnest and unguarded. He nudged the older boy subtly, whispering something under his breath, yet he couldn’t tear his gaze away.

The older one blinked several times, startled as though realizing he had been staring too openly. His expression tightened with embarrassed awareness. He raised his hand in a careful gesture, touching his forehead before extending his palm in the traditional sign of greeting.

Oel ngati kameie, he signaled, his face composed yet still touched by wonder.

The younger boy scrambled to mimic him, repeating the gesture.

Your brows pulled together, confusion knitting across your features. The unexpected kindness caught you off guard, leaving your mouth parting slightly before any words rose. A flush crept up your neck before you could stop it, and the sensation rattled you more than the stares of an entire forest clan. You turned away sharply, grounding your gaze on the woven roots beneath your feet. Distraction was a luxury neither exhaustion nor grief allowed. You would not let the wide-eyed wonder of two forest-born boys make you forget the purpose of your presence here.

Tsawra had already shifted her attention back to Jake Sully, her voice clear and firm as she continued the explanation of your clan’s dire circumstances. “Our previous olo’eyktan and tsahìk fell during the First Pandoran War,” she said, her tone unwavering despite the old weight behind those words. “They answered your call, Toruk Makto. They rode to join the many clans who fought beneath your command.”

A visible discomfort tightened Jake’s posture. His shoulders drew inward almost imperceptibly, and his gaze dropped briefly to the earth before rising again with a muted heaviness beneath his expression. “I remember them,” he said quietly. The words carried sincerity, yet they could not soften the truth that your people had paid dearly for that memory. You watched him closely, searching his face for any sign of regret deep enough to match the ache carved into the Sätareym over the years. You found only guilt and a strain of helplessness, neither of which satisfied the bitterness simmering inside you.

Makto stepped forward with the dignified calm that had sustained your clan through its harshest days. The wooden beads woven into his braids glimmered faintly in the filtered light, each one a symbol of sky-watching rituals carried out beneath open horizons . “Toruk Makto,” he began gently, “the Omatikaya absorbed the Olangi after the First War, when their plains were no longer safe. The Sätareym will be no different. We can learn the ways of the forest. Our people are strong. Our riders adapt quickly. We will fight with you against the tawtute (sky people), as we did before.”

The idea struck you like a dull blow. The notion of adapting to this place felt as implausible as converting wind into stone. Yet Makto’s voice carried conviction, and if he believed in your clan’s ability to survive here, many would follow without question. You only wished Eywa had shown your tsahìk such confidence years ago, before your clan faded to a fraction of itself.

Jake inhaled, preparing to respond, though the words seemed to catch in his throat. He lifted his hands uselessly for a moment, as if trying to gather language that would satisfy both duty and compassion. The hesitation irritated you more than anything else he had said. Leadership should not waver, especially not from the so-called Toruk Makto.

An approaching presence disrupted the moment.

A woman stepped from the crowd, her bearing commanding enough to shift the air itself. She moved with the authority of someone born to guide and to judge. Her eyes held the depth of a story longer than the forest roots spiraling beneath Hometree. Recognition whispered through the Omatikaya like wind. You realized at once that she must be the tsahìk of this clan.

Tsawra and Makto bowed deeply with reverence seldom seen outside sacred Sätareym rituals. “Oel ngati kameie, Tsahìk Mo’at,” they greeted, their voices imbued with genuine respect for her role. Even those among your clan unaccustomed to forest traditions straightened subtly, sensing the immense spiritual gravity of this woman.

Mo’at regarded your people with an expression impossible to decipher. Her gaze swept over the Sätareym. Her eyes lingered on the frail, the wounded, the children who clung to their parents’ hands with tightened fingers. The forest hummed around her, as if waiting for her verdict.

Her voice finally rose, steady and firm. “You have crossed many trials, ma Sätareym. You have lost much. Eywa sees your suffering.”

A quiet exhale rippled through your clan, though you remained still. You did not believe the words, no matter how softly they fell.

Mo’at continued, “You will be granted uturu among the Omatikaya. You may stay within our lands.”

Relief surged from your people like a single breath released after years held tight. Shoulders eased. Eyes brightened with hope fragile yet unmistakable. Even the air seemed to shift as your clan absorbed the meaning of her decree.

Your heart, however, clenched.

Uturu meant survival, yes. But it also meant dependency on a people you did not trust, under the authority of a leader you could not forgive.

Mo’at’s gaze crossed yours briefly, lingering with a depth that unsettled you. Her eyes held no judgment. She saw defiance in you, or sorrow, or the fracture left by disbelief. You looked away, refusing to let her see more.

The Omatikaya moved with a natural fluidity as they guided the Sätareym through the enormous opening carved into Hometree’s trunk. Warm light filtered down through woven branches overhead, creating drifting patterns that danced across the packed earth. Every step deeper inside revealed layers of artistry your clan had never known. Vast tapestries hung from the interior walls, some dyed in hues you had only seen on the backs of distant birds, others woven with intricate whorls depicting hunts, bonding rituals, and clan histories. The work was delicate yet powerful which was a stark contrast to the sturdy, travel-worn hide structures your people had used for generations across the plains. For a moment, you wondered how a life shaped by movement could coexist within a place built to stay.

Your people murmured in quiet fascination as they were shown their new kelku. Hammocks layered like constellations stretched across multiple levels, small ones cradling children who swayed gently as they laughed together. Brightly colored beads hung in clusters like hanging fruit, chiming softly whenever a breeze passed. A group of young Omatikaya carved toys from smooth wood, passing pieces to one another while telling stories that echoed faintly through the chambers. Their joy hummed through the air, unburdened and open. Some Sätareym children stared with bright-eyed wonder, their earlier fear loosening into fragile excitement.

Omatikaya adults approached your clan with warm smiles, touching hands to hearts in greeting. They offered woven bracelets, small trinkets, and even pieces of fruit from their harvest baskets. The wary atmosphere from earlier dissolved into genuine hospitality as if the tension had been merely a thin surface the clan had now stepped through. Voices rose in gentle welcome, and your people answered with tentative smiles. Relief softened the lines etched into Makto’s face, while Tsawra observed every detail with an evaluating gaze of a leader cataloguing a safer world for her riders.

The Omatikaya escorts reassembled and gestured for your clan to follow once more. Music drifted faintly in the distance, a slow, rhythmic vibration that tugged at the ribs. The Keeper of Songs awaited at the Tree of Souls, ready to weave the Sätareym into the narrative of the forest people. You understood the gesture was sacred; you also understood it was final. Once sung into a clan’s memory, your identity would be tied to theirs.

Your people seemed lighter than they had in years. Some walked with lifted chins, some whispered excitedly about the glowing flora, and a few even touched the hanging vines with reverent fingers. You wished their joy could seep into you. It only deepened the ache in your chest, because you could not feel what they felt. Beauty was a distant thing, like starlight seen through smoke.

Footsteps fell into rhythm beside yours, light and confident. A presence hovered close enough to brush your awareness, though not close enough to intrude. You turned, expecting some curious child or another well-meaning Omatikaya.

Your breath stalled when you saw him.

The older boy from earlier—taller than you remembered, shoulders strong, features shaped in the likeness of his mother more than his father—walked easily beside you. His braids shifted with every step, brushing the curve of his chest. He offered you a smile warm enough to soften stone.

“I am Neteyam te Suli Tsyeyk’itan,” he said, voice steady and sincere. The way he carried himself confirmed what the name already meant: the son of Jake Sully, future leader by bloodline, one of the forest’s own. His presence was composed yet attentive, as though your reaction mattered more than it should.

You stared at him. Initially out of surprise, eventually out of irritation that he expected anything from you.

He seemed unbothered by your silence. If anything, amusement flickered in the corner of his eyes. “Are you doing well, ma tstkxe (stone faced)?” he asked lightly, the nickname slipping out before you could process it. A playful challenge glimmered beneath his tone.

Heat rushed to your cheeks. The forest’s humidity had nothing to do with it.

His smile widened at the sight of your fluster, and that only stoked the spark of annoyance lighting your chest. “Why do you ask?” you snapped, sharper than intended. “What do you want?”

Neteyam lifted his hands in a small gesture of surrender, though the teasing curve of his mouth betrayed how entertained he was. “I wanted to make sure the jungle has not swallowed you whole yet,” he said with a laugh threaded beneath his words. “Your face looked lost in thought. Or lost in fear. I was not sure which.”

Your lips parted in a quiet scoff, torn between offense and another unwanted flush warming your skin. The boy who carried the blood of Toruk Makto stood beside you with only curiosity bright enough to disarm. His stride matched yours effortlessly, as if he had walked beside you all his life instead of merely minutes. The ease in his presence unsettled you more than open stares or whispered judgments ever could.

Neteyam did not shrink beneath your guarded silence. His head tipped slightly toward you, braids grazing his shoulder as he studied your face with an earnest interest that made your pulse stutter. “May I know your name, ma tstkxe?” he asked. His tone was gentle, but a spark of playfulness danced beneath it.

A sharp breath filled your lungs before you turned your gaze on him. “Why are you speaking to me?” The question escaped more bluntly than you intended, driven by the tension coiled in your ribs. “You have no reason. I did not ask for your company.”

A laugh escaped him, disbelief at your directness. “Forest manners must be strange to you,” he teased lightly, touching a hand to his chest as though struck by your tone. “But even you cannot expect me to walk beside you in silence when you glare at every glowing syulang (flower) as if it wishes to bite.”

Heat flared through your face again, unwelcome and uncontrollable. “Leave me alone,” you muttered, your voice clipped at the edges. “I do not need the attention of the olo’eyktan’s son.”

Neteyam’s smile steadied rather than faltered. “That will be difficult,” he replied with a shrug of his shoulder. “I have been told to help guide the younger warriors of your clan. I cannot leave you alone even if you wish it.”

Your steps halted so suddenly that the leaves beneath your feet rustled in protest. The escorting line of Omatikaya drifted ahead without noticing, the glow of bioluminescent vines lighting their path. You stood unmoving, staring at him with disbelief carved across your features.

“I am the only young warrior of the Sätareym,” you said quietly. The words tasted strange spoken aloud.

Pity dawned across Neteyam’s face, and you didn’t like it one bit.

Your eyes narrowed. “How do you know I am a warrior at all? You have never seen the plains. You know nothing of my people.”

Neteyam lifted a hand and pointed to the tassels around your ankle; sun-dyed strips that snapped subtly when you walked, woven with the precise pattern your warriors used to signal readiness for mounted combat . “Only your warriors wear those,” he said simply. “The sound alone tells your story. I heard it when you entered the clearing.”

Your stomach tightened. The tassels had always been part of you, a mark of skill and survival earned through the Sun Chase. To have them recognized so quickly, so effortlessly, by someone who lived in an entirely different world unsettled you in a way nothing else had.

“I do not need your help,” you snapped softly, stepping forward and brushing past him. The swirl of your stride caught the faint glow of nearby plants, scattering light across the forest path. Your breath felt tight, sharp, unwilling to soften no matter how unfamiliar kindness reached toward you.

Footsteps followed behind you without hesitation.

Neteyam’s presence settled at your shoulder again, this time quieter, with a small frown that pulled gently at the corners of his mouth. His earlier teasing had dimmed, replaced by concern flickering like a small flame trying to stay alive against wind. His gaze stayed lowered for a few steps, as though searching for the right words, though the noise of both clans rising into excited chatter seemed to lift him gradually back into warmth. The distant glow ahead cast shimmers across his face as the path widened.

The Omatikaya grew livelier with each step toward the sacred place. Their voices carried above the forest floor, joined by the deeper, rolling tones of your own people. Even the quietest Sätareym child seemed to brighten beneath the soft light. 

Neteyam’s smile returned fully at the sight. “You will like this ritual,” he said, leaning close enough that you caught the warmth of his breath. “We bring out the Blue Flute for this. And Ninat sings tonight. She is our Keeper of Songs. Her voice carries through the forest like an Ikran soaring through the skies.”

You responded with a soft hum that held no commitment, a sound more out of politeness than interest. He did not seem bothered by your lack of enthusiasm. His stride remained relaxed, his eyes taking in every detail of your reaction with a curiosity that had not dimmed since the moment he greeted you.

The crowd formed a wide crescent before the radiant heart of the Tree of Souls. Bioluminescent tendrils swayed gently, lighting the scene in waves of violet and silver. As the Sätareym filtered in, the Omatikaya shifted to make room without hesitation, extending hands in greeting, touching shoulders, offering smiles warm enough to thaw frost. The joy in the clearing felt almost tangible, wrapping around both clans like a woven mantle of welcome.

You stayed near the edge of the gathering, Neteyam’s presence anchoring itself beside you without asking permission. The ritual began slowly, with Mo’at stepping forward, her expression serene and powerful under the shimmering branches. She lifted her arms, and the entire forest seemed to pause along with the clans.

“Eywa receives all who walk in hardship,” Mo’at proclaimed. “Tonight, we weave the Sätareym into the memory of the forest. May our branches meet. May balance return.”

Her voice carried across the clearing like a stone dropped into still water.

Once she stepped back, instruments rose around her: seed rattles, stringed harps, carved horns, and at last the rare Blue Flute, gleaming with etched patterns that caught the light. The first notes lifted softly, weaving through the branches in tranquil spirals.

Ninat stepped forward. When she opened her mouth, her voice poured into the air with a clarity that startled even you. It resonated like wind across a grass sea, pure and unwavering. She sang of Eywa’s breath moving through every living thing, of loss, of rebirth, of clans merging not in desperation but in strength.

The beauty of it seeped unexpectedly beneath your ribs.

You were surprised to find Neteyam still beside you when you turned your head slightly. He had not drifted toward his siblings, nor toward the other warriors. He stood as if tethered to your side, shoulders squared with a protective ease that unsettled you.

His eyes met yours immediately, warmed by the song’s glow. A smile softened his features, lifting his lips gently.

Ninat’s voice soared higher, singing Eywa’s name with absolute devotion.

Neteyam leaned closer, his voice low so only you could hear. “I am grateful Eywa brought your clan to us,” he whispered. “It feels right that you are here.”

Your heart lurched violently.

Grateful. Eywa brought you here.Eywa guided your steps.Eywa, who had never answered your people.Eywa, who had saved Jake Sully.Eywa, who had watched your clan burn and remained silent.

A sickening heat rose up your throat, twisting the melody around you into something suffocating. Ninat’s beautiful voice became distant, buried beneath the pounding in your ears.

Without a word, without a single backward glance, you stepped away from the crowd. Your departure was swift, practiced in the way of someone used to escaping emotion before it could betray their strength. The tendrils of the Tree of Souls brushed lightly against your shoulders as you passed, glowing petals bending as though calling you back.

You ignored them.

Behind you, confused footsteps halted. A soft breath of  confusion escaped someone’s lips—a sound that belonged only to Neteyam.

You hated to admit it, but training with Neteyam was not the worst fate that could have been hurled into your path. The first few days had been stiff, filled with tension so heavy it clung to your movements. You carried resentment in your shoulders like a second quiver, and every time he corrected your stance or touched your elbow to adjust your center of gravity, your muscles coiled as if preparing for battle. Yet Neteyam never met your rigidity with irritation. His patience startled you. His teaching reminded you of Makto guiding young Sätareym riders; gentle enough not to break a spirit, firm enough not to let one get lazy. Neteyam’s hands always steadied rather than forced, and his voice held calm confidence that seemed to seep into your bones despite your best efforts to resist it.

It became clear quickly that he was good with the little ones. You had seen him in passing with Omatikaya children. Teaching them how to climb, showing them how to tie knots with nimble hands, steadying them when they stumbled during games of balance across low branches. You recognized the practiced cadence of a teacher in the way he spoke to you. He must have trained the younger warriors too, perhaps even his siblings, if their movements were any indication. The realization softened the edges of your annoyance, though you refused to let that show. It was easier to pretend he grated on your nerves than admit you admired the patience behind his instruction.

His gentleness toward you surprised you more than anything. He never mocked your missteps on the unfamiliar forest ground. He never scoffed when your foot caught a root or when your forest jumps lacked lift. Yet he was not lenient. He pushed you but it wasn’t cruel. He pushed you with a steady insistence that forced you to feel the power in your legs, to sense the bend of each branch you stepped on. He seemed able to tell exactly when you were holding back. His eyes saw every hesitation, every moment you failed to give your full strength. You expected disappointment, or frustration, or even cold dismissal.

You never found it.

Whenever he caught your restraint, his gaze only deepened with a kind of understanding. A warmth lived behind that understanding, as though your resistance drew him closer instead of driving him away. You could not understand why your closed-off nature did not repel him. Your people were known for reserve, for caution around outsiders, for slow trust that grew only in the solitude of plains winds. Yet he did not seem deterred by any of it. The more you tried to push him away, the more present he became, steady as a guiding star when the horizon faded.

Your days slowly shaped themselves around him. You woke with the sun and found Neteyam already waiting, arms crossed loosely as he leaned against a low-hanging branch. He offered greetings in that soft, warm tone that made your chest tighten with a feeling you refused to name. Training lasted long past midday on most days, leaving your limbs sore and your breath heavy. His laughter began to blend with birdsong, a sound you caught yourself anticipating even when irritated by it. You would walk away after lessons, pretending you needed space, but your mind often replayed the way he corrected your footing or how his gaze lingered when you finally executed a movement correctly.

You were certain he would tire of you quickly. You had been abrasive, distant, evasive, unwilling to fully participate in his world. You had made him chase you through the forest like a hunter tracking elusive prey. You had met every kindness with suspicion. Yet he continued to show up for you, every single day. His presence carried no weariness, no shadow of regret, no sign that he was tired of your company. His persistence confused you more than anything else in the forest.

Assimilating into Omatikaya life still felt foreign, but you no longer stumbled through it. Your steps felt less heavy, your understanding of the terrain no longer held solely by fear. You learned which branches were strongest for climbing, which flowers were harmless to touch and which could sting, which vines were safe to swing from. You learned the pathways through Hometree, the communal rhythms of morning meals, the way songs rose at dusk like soft embers drifting upward.

Yet no part of you wanted to abandon the Sätareym in your blood. Your clothing remained unchanged—leather wraps fitted for riding, beadwork patterned in the sun, tassels that snapped lightly when you walked, marking you unmistakably as a plains warrior . Forest textiles were offered to you many times, dyed in blues and greens, beautifully woven, comfortable against the skin. You turned them down each time. The leather at your hips held memories of long rides across shimmering grass. The beads across your chest carried lineage. The tassels marked years of endurance your clan had fought to keep. You refused to shed them simply because the world had changed.

Your weapons stayed close. The Sätareym spear was balanced for mounted throws, far too heavy for most Omatikaya who trained in the trees, but it had saved your life more times than you could count. You carried it during every lesson, even when Neteyam insisted you leave it behind for climbing practice. He eventually stopped arguing. He must have understood the weight of memory carved into its haft.

Your rituals remained yours alone. Each dawn you slipped away to practice them in private, kneeling beneath the open sky where it broke through the canopy, small patches of horizon that let you breathe like a child of the plains. You ran fingers over the earth in circles meant to honor the herds and traced faint rosettes over your heart in silent remembrance. You whispered the names of those who walked the wind before you. You bowed your head not to Eywa, but to the memory of your people’s long endurance.

Neteyam never intruded on those moments. You wondered if he sensed them or simply respected the aura around you when you returned. Either way, he never asked questions. He only met you with a steady gaze that held no judgment, as if waiting for the day you trusted him enough to let him see beyond the walls you kept wrapped around your heart.

That frightened you most of all.

Now Neteyam stood beside you, guiding your hands as you held a bow for the first time, a weapon that felt foreign and unbalanced in your grip. Your discomfort showed in the tension of your fingers, the stiffness in your shoulders, the slight downturn of your mouth as you tried to imitate the forest-born posture. 

Neteyam noticed every detail. “Loosen your grip,” he murmured, his voice steady. “The bow is not a rival. If you fight it, it will fight you back.”

You huffed softly, pressing your lips into a thin line. “Your weapons require too much waiting.”

“That is why you find them difficult,” he teased, leaning in just enough to tilt your elbow upward with two fingers. “Patience is a strength, not a punishment.”

Neteyam’s patience, however, was being tested in more ways than your training. The two of you were not alone today. His siblings had insisted loudly that they wished to visit a place they called the “Old Battlefield.” Kiri had spoken with a quiet aweness, Lo’ak with reckless excitement, and Tuk with the unshakeable certainty that wherever her siblings went, she must go too. Neteyam had agreed with a resigned sigh, clearly accustomed to their demands, and you had found yourself trailing after him simply because he moved and you refused to let him think you were avoiding him again.

The path had led you to a clearing where rusted metal skeletons rose from moss and vines. The old link shack crouched at the center like a wounded creature swallowed by the forest, its shattered windows reflecting sun in faint, broken shards. Kiri explored the area with gentle steps, touching vines growing over old machinery. Lo’ak poked around the ruined frames with more enthusiasm than sense, announcing discoveries that were mostly old pipes and abandoned crates. Tuk bounced from object to object, her laughter weaving through the clearing.

Meanwhile, Neteyam attempted to teach you how to shoot.

The contrast felt absurd.

He positioned himself behind you, close enough that the warmth of his chest grazed your shoulder. You stiffened slightly, but his hands were respectful, adjusting your grip without forcing control. His braids brushed your cheek as he leaned over your arm to align your aim toward a moss-covered log.

“Pull smoothly,” he instructed, guiding your fingers slowly across the string. “Do not jerk it. The bow responds to calm.”

“I am calm,” you lied, your voice strained.

His tail flicked once in amused disbelief. “You are about as calm as Lo’ak is obedient.”

You shot him a glare over your shoulder, though you felt heat rising beneath your cheeks. “Do you ever grow tired of hearing your own voice?”

He smiled with unshakable ease. “Not when I know you are listening.”

A flustered noise escaped the back of your throat before you could swallow it. You jerked your gaze away, focusing solely on the target ahead. The bowstring trembled beneath your fingers, betraying the tight coil in your muscles.

Kiri glanced over from the link shack, studying the two of you with amusement. Lo’ak spotted her look and snickered openly, earning a sharp shh! from Tuk, who seemed to believe she was the group’s unofficial keeper of secrets. Their whispers only made your grip tighten, though Neteyam pretended not to notice the chorus of siblings watching.

“You hold strength in your arms,” he murmured, his voice softening just enough to slip past your defenses. “You could bend the bow without trying. But strength is not the lesson today. Balance is.”

You released the arrow too quickly—it thudded into the dirt several paces short of the target.

Your face tightened with embarrassment. “This is foolish,” you muttered. “My clan does not fight this way.”

Neteyam circled to face you fully, the laughter fading from his expression as he met your eyes. “No, your clan fights with the wind at their backs and the ground racing beneath them. You chase the sun across the plains. You strike with distance and momentum.” His gaze softened with something like admiration. “But you are here now, ma Sätareym. You walk where branches hold the sky instead of open air. Different ground demands different skill.”

His sincerity struck deeper than his teasing ever could.

You looked away, blinking twice to push down the sting in your throat.

Neteyam stepped closer again, lowering his voice. “We learn each other’s ways if we wish to live as one clan. My people learn your riders’ strength. You learn our balance. That is all.”

Your fingers loosened around the bow without meaning to. His siblings continued their exploration behind you, oblivious to the quiet shift occurring between you and their eldest brother. The forest seemed to hold its breath, the glow of the fungi brightening faintly as though the trees themselves were listening. You lowered your gaze to the ground, watching how your shadow curved against the moss, the shape of your stance imperfect and hesitant.

A quiet breath left you before you could swallow it. “Neteyam…” you murmured, eyes unfocused. “I do not want you to stop teaching me.” For a heartbeat you paused, unsure if the words would betray too much. “I do not mind learning your ways.”

The confession slipped from you like a fragile offering, light as dust carried on wind. It was the closest you had come to trusting him.

Neteyam’s reaction was immediate and radiant. His smile bloomed across his face, warm enough to soften even your guarded expression. His ears lifted in delight, tail swaying once behind him, unable to hide how deeply your words struck. His joy felt honest, untouched by mischief, bright in a way that nudged at the edges of your ribs.

You tilted your head slightly, studying the play of emotion across his features. He looked younger when he smiled like that.

Neteyam stepped closer again and gently wrapped his hand around yours where it rested on the bow. “One last time,” he said softly. “Let me help you.”

You nodded, this time without reluctance, and shifted into the stance he had been trying to teach you for days. Your shoulders squared, your feet rooted deeply in the forest floor, your breath steadied. Neteyam moved behind you with care, brushing no part of you by accident.

He set his hands on your ribcage first, his thumbs pressing gently just beneath your sternum. “Lift here,” he murmured. “Your breath must stay low and quiet. If your chest rises too high, the shot will falter.”

His touch was steady, warm, grounding in a way you were not prepared to acknowledge. Your breath hitched despite your efforts at control.

Neteyam guided your ribs into alignment, his hands lingering only long enough to ensure your posture held. He moved with a patience that spoke of countless hours spent teaching younger siblings how to balance on branches or string a bow.

When he stepped closer, you felt the heat of his body nearly aligning with yours. His chest brushed lightly against your back as he reached forward, placing his hands over yours on the bowstring. His fingers slid along yours, firm and steady, molding your grip into precision.

You turned your head, startled by how close he was. His face was right there, barely a breath away. The forestlight traced the curve of his cheekbone, the edge of his jaw, the soft fullness of his mouth. His eyes were already on you, half-lidded, deep and intense, the kind of gaze that made the world feel suddenly small and unbearably intimate.

He glanced at your lips for the briefest moment.

Your stomach twisted with startling force.

“You may shoot whenever you wish,” he whispered, breath brushing the shell of your ear.

You swallowed hard, forcing your focus toward the target. The bowstring was taut beneath your fingers, the tension humming like a living thing. You inhaled slowly, aligning your shot—

A burst of laughter shattered the fragile stillness.

“Bro!” Lo’ak shouted across the clearing, voice full of teasing glee. “Look at you two! Should we leave you alone to mate or—”

You jolted violently. The arrow snapped free of the bow with a harsh twang and shot uselessly into the canopy above. Your heart lurched into your throat, heat flooding your face with a force that made your ears burn.

Neteyam’s hands flew off you immediately as he spun around, tail lashing with outrage. “Lo’ak, you skxawng (idiot)!” he barked. “Do you wish to lose your tongue today?”

Lo’ak cackled from atop the metal beams of the ruined shack, clearly pleased with himself. Tuk hid behind her hands, giggling uncontrollably, while Kiri gave Lo’ak a glare sharp enough to make vines recoil.

You were laughing too.

It slipped out of you before you could catch it; soft at first, then fuller, richer, bright in a way that startled even you. Your laughter filled the clearing, mingling with Tuk’s and Kiri’s, swirling upward like warm wind lifting dry grass.

Neteyam froze.

He turned back toward you slowly, anger dissolving from his features, replaced with astonishment. His eyes softened as if he were witnessing sunrise crest over the Hallelujah mountains. His lips parted as the sound of your laughter washed over him.

He could not be angry anymore.

It was the first time he had ever heard your laughter.

“Tsatseng tsal lu (there it is),” he murmured softly under his breath, eyes fixed on you as though afraid to blink. “That is the sound I have been waiting for.”

Even though you were not anywhere near ready to attempt the Omatikaya Iknimaya (rite of passage), Neteyam had decided you should at least meet an ikran. Your protests were immediate and varied. You claimed you were tired, that you needed to train with your bow, that Makto requested your help, that the forest air bothered your lungs, that Lo’ak had insulted you so deeply you required solitude to heal. None of the excuses held when Neteyam tilted his head with that maddening mix of patience and amusement. You refused to admit the truth: flying terrified you. The sky had always belonged to great predators, not riders. Your clan was born to the earth, to the power of hooves and horizons, not the emptiness between clouds.

Neteyam listened to all your excuses as if they were drifting leaves, light and inconsequential. Eventually your resistance cracked, not because you were ready, but because his determination pressed against your guard like a fly too constant to ignore.

Now you stood atop Hometree with him, the vast forest stretching below in shimmering bands of green and deep violet. Height never bothered him; he moved across open branches with the natural ease of a forest cat, tail steady behind him for balance. You, on the other hand, remained partially hidden behind his shoulder. The wind tugged your braids back, but your feet refused to come any closer to the edge.

Neteyam wore his flying gear—flying visor, leg guards etched with his family’s stories, and a cumberband that wrapped across his waist in elegant, interwoven loops. He looked every bit the warrior his people claimed he was. The way the sunlight cut across his cheekbones, the confidence in the slope of his shoulders, the steadiness in his movements, all of it made him look like he belonged to the sky itself. You pressed your lips together, refusing to voice the thought that his beauty unsettled you more than the height.

Neteyam lifted his head and released a series of calls. His tone shifted between chirps, trills, and drawn-out notes that vibrated across the open air. The sound stirred the wind, awakening a distant answer. You braced instinctively, feeling the tremor of approaching wings before you heard them.

The beat of powerful wings echoed across the breadth of the forest canopy. A shadow passed over you, sweeping large and decisive. Neteyam stepped forward with practiced readiness, and his ikran descended in a tight spiral before landing directly in front of him. The creature’s wings folded with precision, talons gripping the branch with controlled strength. Iridescent scales shifted across its body, catching light in hues of blues and yellows.

Neteyam’s face softened instantly. “Ma yawne tsaheyl si (my bonded beloved),” he murmured to his ikran, his voice lowering to an affectionate hush. He pressed his forehead briefly to the creature’s, his queue brushing the rough texture of the ikran’s neck. His hand traveled along the creature’s jawline with gentle familiarity. The ikran leaned into the touch, wings relaxing slightly, its chest expanding with a pleased rumble.

You watched in awe, pulled into the moment despite yourself. Your breath slowed, your earlier fear loosening, replaced by a warm, unfamiliar pull in your chest. The bond between them felt profound, like watching two spirits greet after a long journey apart. You had seen direhorse riders connect deeply, but this was different. 

Neteyam’s eyes flicked toward you. He noticed the awe on your face immediately, and a teasing smile curled onto his lips. “Do not hide,” he said in a tone that carried quiet mischief. “I see how you look at her.”

You pressed your jaw shut, feeling heat creep up your neck. Words refused to form in your throat. The ikran turned its head toward you, one bright  eye studying you with predatory intelligence. Your pulse stumbled.

Neteyam’s smile widened slightly at your speechlessness. He reached back without hesitation, taking your hand in his. He guided your hand toward the ikran’s snout, slow enough not to startle you or the creature.

“Seze,” Neteyam murmured softly, “this is… my student. She trains with me.”

You nearly protested at the possessive phrasing, but your breath hitched as your fingertips brushed smooth scales warmed by sunlight. The ikran lowered its head slightly, allowing you better access. The creature’s warmth seeped into your hand, and you felt a gentle exhale brush your palm.

Neteyam’s hand remained over yours, guiding the slow motion of your touch. His proximity, his warmth, it all pressed against your chest with a steady force. You stole a glance at him, only to find his gaze already locked on you.

Your breath wavered, but you did not pull away. The warmth of Seze’s scales lingered on your fingertips, anchoring you in a moment you never imagined experiencing. 

“Ma Neteyam… what is her name?”

His smile brightened instantly, pride softening his features. “She is Seze,” he replied, stroking the ikran’s jaw with reverent fingers. “Named after my mother’s first ikran.”

Your eyes widened before you could stop them. The honor of carrying such a name struck you deeply. Naming an ikran after one so legendary, after a bond forged through war and triumph was no casual choice. The significance left you momentarily stunned, mouth parting with a quiet breath you could not shape into words.

Neteyam noticed the shock painted across your face and a laugh slipped from him, warm and delighted. You snapped out of your daze long enough to glare at him, though the light heat coloring your cheeks made the expression softer than you intended.

Seze tilted her head, observing your reaction with a low rumbling click as if she too found your surprise amusing.

“Seze is… she is powerful,” you admitted at last, your voice carrying reluctant admiration. “But I am ready to go down now.”

Neteyam’s grin returned at full strength. “Kehe. Not happening.” His tone brimmed with mischief. “You are flying with me.”

Your shoulders tensed instantly. “What? No. Absolutely not.”

“You have no choice, ma tstkxe,” he said, leaning one elbow on Seze’s saddle as though settling into a casual conversation. “You are too frightened to climb down Hometree by yourself. You shook all the way up here.”

“I did not shake,” you protested, even though you both knew you had clung to every secure surface on the way up.

Neteyam raised a non-existent brow and the expression told you he saw through your lie effortlessly.

“You are the biggest skxawng I have ever met,” you muttered, crossing your arms tight across your chest.

He hummed in acknowledgment, not even attempting to argue. With a smooth motion he swung himself onto Seze’s saddle, hands moving instinctively to secure his gear. The harness creaked softly as he adjusted the straps. His posture relaxed into a confident lean, but his gaze stayed fixed on you with unspoken expectation.

You glared back at him. “Stop looking at me like that.”

“Like what?” he asked, knowing full well what you meant.

“Like you already won.”

His smile turned unbearably smug. “I did.”

A frustrated breath hissed through your teeth, but you moved toward him anyway. Your hands gripped the saddle with trembling reluctance, and you climbed behind him, settling into place with stiff, cautious motions. The saddle felt too narrow, too precarious, too close to open sky. The height pressed against your nerves from every direction.

Neteyam reached to double-check every strap and tether, fingers moving with practiced efficiency. You watched nervously, your heart thudding against your ribs. Each tightening of a strap sent your mind spiraling with new questions.

“Is this secure? What if it breaks? What if Seze does not like me on her back? What if she flips in the air? What if—Neteyam, answer me—Neteyam?”

He stayed entirely silent.

Your anxiety spiked. “Why are you not answering? I asked you a question—Netey—”

Seze launched into the air with a powerful beat of her wings.

Your scream tore from your throat before you could stop it.

Neteyam burst into laughter, loud and bright, even as he leaned back to steady you with an arm braced across your legs. The wind rushed past, pulling your braids behind you in wild streams. The forest fell away beneath your feet, the canopy dissolving into a wash of color.

Your nails dug into his shoulders. “NETEYAM! YOU DID THIS ON PURPOSE!”

His laughter only grew fuller, shaking his shoulders beneath your grip. “I told you, ma Sätareym,” he shouted over the wind, joy radiating from him like sunlight. “Flying is easier when you do not think too hard!”

“You could have warned me!”

“You asked too many questions!”

“I HATE YOU!”

“Your arms say differently!”

Your scream rose another octave, ripped from somewhere deep in your lungs. Your hands flew from his shoulders to wrap around his waist, holding him with a desperation that surprised even you. Your forehead pressed into the space between his shoulder blades, your breath shaking against his back. His heartbeat, steady beneath your cheek, felt too calm for what he had just unleashed.

Neteyam whooped in exhilaration above the wind. “Hold tight!” he called, already shifting his weight.

You barely had time to register the warning before Seze rolled through a spiraling arc, wings slicing through the sky.

“I swear by the plains,” you shouted into his shoulder, voice cracking, “I will impale you with my spear when we land!”

Neteyam didn’t answer. His laughter drowned beneath the roar of the wind as he guided Seze through another sweeping turn, savoring every second of your outrage and terror. He looked like he had been carved from the sky itself, untamed and alive.

Time blurred into wind and motion until he finally allowed Seze to slow. Her wings extended into a long, steady glide, each beat softer than before. The frantic rush eased into a gentle cradle of air. You remained pressed against him, your breath still uneven, your arms refusing to loosen their hold.

Neteyam glanced down at your head tucked firmly into his shoulder. For a moment his expression shifted into something warm enough to rival the sun—a tenderness you had no chance of seeing. He reached one arm behind him without turning, fingers searching until they found your thigh. His palm settled there gently, squeezing once in reassurance, thumb tracing a slow, grounding arc into your skin.

“Ma tstkxe,” he murmured over his shoulder, voice softer now, “look up. You will like this.”

You shook your head violently, refusing to pry your face from the safety of his back. “No. I am not looking. Ever.”

He huffed a quiet laugh. “Please. Truly, you must see.”

“No.”

“Pretty please?”

“Still no.”

A beat of silence passed, filled only by the sound of wind gliding over stretched wings.

“If you look up,” Neteyam said, sly amusement slipping back into his tone, “I will cancel training tomorrow.”

Your head snapped up instantly.

The sight stole the breath straight from your lungs.

Below you, the forest stretched in endless waves of green, each tree shimmering with veins of soft blue light. Tendrils of bioluminescence curled between branches like floating starlight. Vines coursed down the sides of enormous trunks, glowing faintly in the dimming afternoon. The Hometree stood in the distance, grand even from this height, its roots towering like ancient guardians.

Your mouth parted in awe. Words refused to form.

The fear gripping your stomach melted as the sheer beauty of the world beneath you settled into your bones. The height no longer felt like danger, it felt more like freedom now. The plains you had grown up in were far away, but here, above the canopy, the sky belonged to no rider. It belonged only to the wind.

Neteyam watched you with a smile gentle enough to quiet storms. “Not so terrible, right?”

You nodded slowly, breath still caught somewhere in your throat, gaze fixed on the breathtaking sprawl of Pandora beneath you. Your lips remained parted, the expression on your face unguarded, struck open by the vastness of the world around you.

Neteyam laughed softly in amazement.. He turned forward again, adjusting Seze’s glide to keep the moment unbroken. The sky held the both of you in a quiet expanse that felt larger than anything you had ever known.

The further you flew, the more the scenery shifted. The thick, towering forest peeled away, its luminous vines and layered branches giving way to open light. Golden grasses stretched outward across the plains, bending in long, rippling waves beneath the breath of the wind. The boundary between forest and savanna cut across the land like a painted line; one side wild with twisting roots and light-filled leaves, the other wide and endless, open enough for a rider to disappear into a horizon that never arrived. It looked like the meeting place of two hearts, two histories pressed side by side: yours shaped by sun and distance, and his shaped by shadow and branches.

You knew you and Neteyam could not land. The plains near the border still hid dangers. Stray metal remnants, wandering sky machines, and powerful fauna. Yet seeing your home from above, even from afar, cracked something inside you. The rosette markings on your skin seemed to warm, remembering what it felt like to race across tall grass, to breathe without roots tangling your path, to feel the sun blaze against your shoulders without a canopy breaking its strength. The savanna shimmered beneath Seze’s flight, an illusion of movement even from this height, as if the land itself reached upward to greet you.

Your throat tightened without warning. Tears gathered, blurring the edges of the horizon. You blinked fast, refusing to let them fall, but the ache inside your chest swelled as memories collided with the present. You had lost so much here—family, safety, every piece of a life you once knew. Yet the plains still looked beautiful. They still looked like home.

Neteyam had not turned his head, his gaze fixed forward as he guided Seze in a steady, respectful circle over the border. Even without looking at you, he sensed the shift in your breathing. The tension in your arms softening. The wind carried the faint sound of a breath caught in sorrow rather than fear. Neteyam’s shoulders lowered slightly, as though the emotion in your silence pressed gently against him.

“Ma—” he began quietly, voice tempered with caution, unsure how to soothe you without intruding on a wound too personal to touch.

You cut him off without words. Your forehead pressed against the side of his neck, your braids brushing his shoulder as you leaned into him. The contact was small, barely more than a breath against his skin, but it held everything you could not say. Your voice came out as a murmur, soft and trembling, carried by the rush of air around you.

“Irayo… ma Neteyam.”

Neteyam inhaled sharply, a quiet breath drawn through parted lips. His eyes softened with an expression you did not see, warm and protective and aching. His hand slipped back along Seze’s saddle until his fingers brushed your thigh again.

“Srane,” he answered softly, voice thick with emotion he attempted to hide. “Of course.”

Seze banked smoothly, wings carving a wide arc as Neteyam guided her back toward the forest. The plains faded slowly behind you, becoming a soft glow of gold at the edge of your vision. The forest welcomed you again with its layered greens and pulses of blue, its canopy folding around you like a sheltering hand.

Neither of you spoke during the return flight. Words would have felt too small for the moment, too clumsy beside the quiet rhythm of wingbeats and the lingering warmth of your forehead resting against his skin. Neteyam’s posture stayed steady, but the occasional flick of his tail betrayed the quiet storm of emotion swirling in him.

You did not move away until Hometree rose beneath you once more, its mighty structure waiting like a beacon carved from living memory. The sky draped itself in soft amber as the sun dipped lower, and the final traces of the savanna’s scent clung to the wind, reminding you of the place your heart once lived. Seze’s wings beat in a steady rhythm as she descended, her shadow stretching across the upper branches like a silent guardian returning home. When she landed atop the great tree, her talons sunk into the bark with a resonant thud that vibrated through your feet.

Neteyam slid down first, one hand stroking Seze’s neck in a gesture filled with affection and familiarity. His touch followed the grooves of her scales as though he knew every ridge by memory. “Good girl,” he murmured, voice dropping into a soft rumble. “Irayo nìtxan (thank you very much) for carrying us.”

He turned toward you and lifted a hand, offering help without a trace of hesitation. You placed your hand in his, allowing him to guide you down from the saddle. His grasp was firm, steadying you even before your feet touched the bark. Your body remained tense from the flight, and he seemed to sense every tremor that still lingered in your limbs.

You turned to Seze once your footing steadied. “Irayo, ma Seze,” you said quietly, resting a hand against her warm snout. “You fly with a brave heart.” The ikran released a low, pleased rumble and nudged your palm gently before stepping back. With one powerful thrust of her wings, she lifted herself into the air, spiraling upward until she disappeared beyond the glowing canopy.

When you faced Neteyam again, he was already watching you. His expression lacked its usual teasing curve; instead, it held a careful warmth, like he was studying the way the wind shaped your hair, or the way the lingering sunset painted your skin in muted gold. He stepped toward you slowly, allowing you to feel each narrowing inch of space between you.

“Tell me truthfully,” he said, voice low enough that it barely carried over the sighing leaves. “Did you enjoy it?”

You rolled your eyes with exaggerated effort, though your heartbeat had not yet calmed from the flight. “Kehe,” you said in your most dismissive tone. “I did not.”

Neteyam clicked his tongue, tilting his head as if wounded. His lower lip curled into a theatrical pout so dramatic you almost laughed outright. “I see. Since you had no fun, we should return to bow drills. All day tomorrow. Maybe the next day also. Your posture still bends like a reed in rain.”

A horrified gasp tore out of you before you could restrain it. Your reaction sent him into a grin so radiant it nearly broke your attempt at composure. You shoved his shoulder with both hands—not hard enough to hurt, but enough to make your point. A giggle escaped you, light and quick, startling in its honesty.

Neteyam caught your wrist before you could fully pull away. His fingers wrapped around you gently, holding just enough pressure to stop your retreat. The smile remained on his face, but it softened as he looked at you. Your breath caught the instant you realized how close the two of you stood.

You eased your smile, the sound of your earlier laughter fading into the quiet. The pads of his fingers rested against the sensitive skin inside your wrist carefully, as though he feared breaking the moment by holding too tightly.

Your voice lowered without meaning to. “Neteyam… is there… something troubling you?”

His breath hitched, almost imperceptibly, before he shook his head with slow deliberation. “Kehe,” he whispered. “Nothing is wrong.”

His denial did not match the intensity in his eyes. He lifted his hand, releasing your wrist only to bring his palm to your face. His touch cupped your cheek, the roughness of his callouses grounding you in a way that made your knees weaken. The gesture was gentle enough to unravel a part of you you’d kept sealed since the plains burned. His thumb traced the line of your cheekbone, brushing softly across your skin as though memorizing you through touch alone.

Your eyelids lowered on instinct. Your cheek pressed into his palm, a small, instinctive nuzzle you couldn’t stop. Warmth bloomed across your chest—unexpected, frightening, and strangely peaceful. The world around you dulled until only his breathing filled your ears.

Neteyam leaned forward.

His lips brushed yours with the caution of someone touching fire for the first time. The kiss began as a hesitant meeting of breath and warmth, a question rather than a claim. His hand cradled your cheek more fully, fingers curling into your hair as if anchoring himself to the moment.

You answered him slowly, unsure yet drawn in by the tenderness he poured into the space between you. Your lips pressed back with slight hesitation, the motion guided by instinct rather than confidence. The kiss deepened only by a thread, enough for you to feel his breath tremble against your mouth. His other hand rose to your waist, settling with cautious reverence, as though asking permission simply through the steadiness of his hold.

The forest hushed around you. Even the wind paused, letting the warmth between you settle uninterrupted.

Neteyam exhaled into the kiss like someone receiving a long-awaited truth. His lips moved against yours with a softness that unraveled every line of resistance you had built since coming to the forest. He kissed as if afraid to break you, as if aware of the fragile, glowing bond forming between you that neither of you dared put into words.

When he finally pulled away—only the smallest distance—you felt the absence of his mouth like a sudden cold. His forehead rested against yours, your breaths mingling, your heartbeats struggling to find rhythm again.

It had been a few days since the kiss, and you had done everything in your power to bury it deep enough that even Eywa couldn’t dig it back up. You repeated to yourself over and over that it had been a mistake, a moment stolen by adrenaline and gratitude and the afterglow of flying. You insisted that Neteyam could not truly see you in any way beyond duty or curiosity. You reminded yourself that your clans were shaped by different winds, raised under different skies, carved by different trials. He belonged to roots and canopy. You belonged to horizon and open air. It was easier to cling to that truth than to risk believing the emotion in his eyes had been real.

It helped your denial that Neteyam had been busy. The clan had been preparing for the Hunt Festival, a celebration grand enough to consume several days. Tasks had been scattered across every family; setting up drums, painting bodies, crafting elaborate masks and headdresses. Neteyam had been swallowed into the commotion, helping the hunters prepare offerings, guiding young dancers through their steps, and occasionally dragging Lo’ak away before he somehow got in trouble. Training between you had been canceled without a word, giving you the time you thought you needed to steady your breathing and convince your heart that nothing had happened between you.

The Hunt Festival roared through Hometree now, voices rising in waves of laughter and song. The Sätareym had embraced the festivities with surprising enthusiasm. You watched from your hiding place near one of the upper walkways, pressing your back against the woven bark wall as your people ran past, dressed in animal costumes—painted snouts, woven tails, feathered headdresses—chasing Omatikaya children with spears tipped in bright dye. Someone beat a drum that echoed like galloping hooves. Another blew a carved horn that mimicked the cry of a plains cat. Sätareym elder women laughed until they cried as they taught Omatikaya dancers the long, bounding steps of the sun-chase ritual. Even the babies, painted with tiny paw prints across their bellies, were cooing in delight.

A bitter sweetness crept into your chest as you watched. The Hunt Festival reminded you painfully of the First Rain ceremonies back home, where your clan painted rosettes over their bodies and leapt skyward in grueling endurance dances. You could almost smell the wet clay, feel the cool rain streaking your cheeks, hear the distant thunder rolling across the savanna. For a moment, you let yourself imagine that you were back among the plains, the world stretching outward in every direction, your people whole and unbroken.

The ache in your throat grew too heavy. Happiness around you felt like salt pressed into a wound. You turned your eyes away, determined not to let tears rise.

A sudden rustle of movement drew your attention.

Neteyam appeared in front of you with no warning at all.

He wore a banshee costume, complete with painted wings and a crest of feathered spikes bound into his braids. He looked entirely too pleased with himself. The moment you registered his presence, a strangled noise escaped your throat—half gasp, half pathetic squeak.

His laughter erupted instantly, rich and loud. “You should have seen your face. You nearly leapt from the walkway.”

“You skxawng!” you shouted, shoving at his chest. “You frightened me! Why are you here dressed like that?”

Neteyam’s grin only widened. “I have been looking everywhere for you,” he said, stepping close enough that you could see the glittering flecks of violet paint along his nose. “I knew you would skip the festival. I told Lo’ak, ‘She will run like a startled pa’li into the shadows,’ and look—here you are, hiding as always.”

You kept your gaze fixed on the space behind him, refusing to meet his eyes. Your heart was beating far too hard again, and you cursed how easily he could draw emotion from you simply by existing. He noticed your avoidance immediately. His expression softened as he shifted closer, lowering his voice so the noise of the festival dimmed behind it.

“Ma Sätareym,” he murmured, “walk with me.”

You shook your head. “Kehe. I do not want to be part of this chaos.”

“We will not join the chaos,” he assured, reaching for your hand with gentle certainty.

You hesitated for a moment. Yet Neteyam’s mood was bright, his smile unguarded, his spirit raised by the celebrations around him. It was rare to see him so light-hearted; you did not have the heart to refuse him when he looked at you that way. You sighed and nodded once, offering a small, reluctant gesture of agreement.

His smile turned incandescent, the kind that cracked your ribs open in ways you could not describe.

He led you away from the noise of Hometree, guiding you down the spiraling walkways and into the cool hush of the forest floor. The moonlight filtered through the canopy in soft streaks, illuminating patches of glowing moss and drifting pollen. Neteyam’s banshee costume rustled with each step, wings fluttering lightly behind him.

“The festival was becoming dull anyway,” he said, glancing at you with mischief dancing in his eyes. “I swear, if Tuk danced any harder, she would have set her mask on fire.” He shook his head dramatically. “And my parents are unbearable. Dancing together like two mated yerik who forget the entire clan can see them. So embarrassing.”

A small laugh escaped you before you could stop it. The sound made him glance back at you with delight blooming across his features.

The forest embraced you both, each step taking you farther from the crowd, farther from the noise, closer to a stillness that made your heart erratic. The memory of your kiss hovered between your bodies. It remained unspoken, yet it lived in every glance, in every shared breath, in every time your hands brushed as you walked. The silence pushed against your ribs until you forced yourself to break it.

“Where are you taking me?” you asked, trying to keep your voice steady. You focused on your tone, making it flat, not inviting, not soft enough to invite questions. You did not want him drifting toward that night atop Hometree. You were still not ready for that.

Neteyam’s mouth curved into a mischievous grin before he even answered. “It is a surprise.”

A groan tore from your chest. “I despise your surprises.”

His grin only widened. “Would you rather be back at the festival?”

Your mouth snapped shut so fast it was almost comical.

Neteyam snickered, the sound rolling through the forest like warm wind. The tension dissolved, the awkwardness falling away the moment he heard your stubborn silence. His steps became lighter, more playful, his tail flicking behind him in amused rhythm.

Conversation resumed easily, though he steered it toward dangerous territory without realizing it.

“I have been thinking about your training,” he said, voice thoughtful as he stepped over a glowing root. “It is time I take you on a hunt for your first clean kill. You will need it for your Iknimaya soon. When that day comes, you will walk among us fully as one of the Omatikaya.”

You hummed softly, the sound more evasive than affirming. You did not want to ruin his bright mood, but words like one of us pressed too close to wounds you were not ready to touch. Whether you wanted to be Omatikaya was a question that clawed at your thoughts every night. You were Sätareym to your bones—your dark skin marked with rosettes, your breath shaped by open plains, your rituals woven through your spirit. Becoming Omatikaya felt like turning away from the people you lost.

He continued without noticing your turmoil. “I must also teach you weaving. It is essential. Every warrior should know how to shape their own gear, how to repair their own harness. Your hands are strong enough for bowwork, but weaving demands patience. I suspect you will struggle.”

Your eyes wandered toward a patch of glowing flowers rising along the path. Their soft blue pulses drew your attention in a way his weaving lecture did not. You hummed again, hoping he would keep walking and focus on his own rambling.

Neteyam stopped.

You nearly collided with his back, catching yourself with one hand against his shoulder. “Ma Neteyam, what—?”

Your words died in your throat as your gaze lifted past him.

The Tree of Souls stood before you.

Its tendrils draped like waterfalls of shimmering threads, each one pulsing with violet light. The air around it hummed with quiet energy—gentle, expansive, as though the ground itself breathed beneath your feet. Luminescent spores drifted like tiny spirits, carried on a breeze you could not feel. The forest’s colors deepened around the sacred place, every shadow tinged with purple glow.

Your chest tightened, breath stumbling. 

Neteyam turned slightly, watching your reaction as if it were the very thing he had come to witness. “I wanted to show you this place properly,” he said, voice subdued beneath the tree’s glow. “Without the noise of the clans. Without ceremony.”

Your throat felt tight, words stuck. The sacred energy of the place pressed against you and you felt so suffocated. The Sätareym worshiped beneath open sky, beneath stars with no branches to break them. Their rituals honored wind and horizon, not glowing roots whispering ancient memories. You had grown up hearing that Eywa moved in distance, in what could not be held. Yet here, Eywa felt near—too near—like a presence brushing against your skin.

Neteyam took a slow step forward, his expression open and vulnerable in a way you had not seen since the flight above the plains.

“Walk with me,” he said, this time softer, almost hesitant.

Your eyes drifted to his outstretched hand. His skin glowed faintly in the violet light, a lighter shade of blue than yours, three fingers reaching toward you in invitation. The familiarity of that shape—so like your own hands, so unlike his four-fingered siblings—made a strange ache pulse through your temples. A tightness gathered behind your eyes, as if your skull could no longer hold the conflict swirling inside you.

Your heart stumbled. You felt lost in a way that mirrored the night your clan first fled the plains; directionless, surrounded by shadows, unsure of which path led to safety. Words tangled in your throat like vines wrapped too tightly around a branch. You feared opening your mouth and sounding like a fool, or worse, revealing the depth of the hurt you carried. But you knew one truth clearly: you could not walk toward the Tree of Souls.

You lifted your gaze timidly, the motion small, like prey assessing danger. “Ma Neteyam…” you whispered. Your head shook once, barely more than a tremble. “I cannot.”

Neteyam tilted his head, ears angling toward you, curiosity and concern threading together across his features. “Why not?” he asked quietly, no judgment in the question. Only genuine confusion, and beneath that, worry.

Your chest tightened painfully. The hum of the sacred place pressed against you like a memory trying to force itself forward. You did not want to explain that coming near the Omatikaya’s most revered place made grief coil in your stomach like serpents. You did not want to admit that the sight of glowing tendrils and living roots reminded you of every unanswered prayer, every night your tsahìk whispered for protection that never came, every body buried beneath the plains when Eywa stayed silent.

You swallowed hard. Your voice barely rose above a breath. “I… just cannot.” You shook your head again, more frantically this time, the motion sharp with rising panic. Ngaytxoa, ke tsun oe (Sorry, I cannot…)... I am sorry. I am so sorry.”

Neteyam lifted both hands immediately, palms open in a gesture meant to soothe. “Kehe, ma  tstkxe. Do not apologize,” he said softly. “We do not have to go closer. This place should bring comfort, not pain. Sit with me instead, yes?”

He moved away from the glowing roots deliberately, giving your body—and your spirit—space to breathe again. He settled onto a fallen log softened by layers of moss, his posture relaxed and inviting. He patted the spot beside him, offering a small, reassuring smile that brimmed with gentleness rather than insistence.

You walked toward him slowly, the distance between you and the Tree of Souls widening with every step until your lungs loosened enough to draw a deeper breath. You sat beside him but kept a careful gap between your bodies, the space shaped by caution and instinctive self-protection.

Neteyam either did not notice or chose not to comment. His attention shifted as he dug into the small woven pouch tied to his belt. His brow furrowed with growing frustration as he searched, muttering under his breath about misplacing things. After a moment, his expression brightened, and he let out a victorious hum as he retrieved something from the pouch.

You turned your head slightly, curious despite yourself.

He lifted the item between his fingers with pride. A beaded choker, woven in Omatikaya style. The cords were dyed deep forest brown, threaded with small beads shaped like droplets of polished amber and slender pieces of carved wood that glowed faintly under the tree’s violet light. The pattern mirrored the one he always wore, though the colors were altered subtly to complement your darker skin tone.

Neteyam’s face lit with excitement, though a shy undercurrent softened his usual confidence. “I made this,” he explained quickly, words tumbling out faster than he intended. “My mother says a warrior should learn to weave meaning into every bead. So I did. This pattern is for strength. This one—for the path of riders. These beads here are for the plains and the forest meeting.” His voice dropped slightly. “For where your steps and mine cross.”

Your breath hitched as he spoke. The meaning behind each bead wound tightly around your heart, pulling with a tenderness you were not prepared for.

His gaze flickered to your face, suddenly uncertain. “Ma… ma Sätareym,” he said more quietly now, shoulders tensing with nerves, “may I… put it on you?”

You stared at him, completely speechless, but not with joy. A heavy, complicated weight settled in your chest. You did not understand why he offered you something so intimate. You did not understand why he looked at you with such hope. You did not understand why receiving the choker, so thoughtfully made and so symbolic felt both beautiful and terrifying.

Your throat tightened. Words failed you.

All you could manage was a slow nod.

You turned around, giving him your back so he could tie the choker. Your braids shifted as you lifted your hair, exposing the line of your neck to the cool night air. Neteyam’s fingers brushed your skin as he fastened the cord. Each touch sent a quiet tremor down your spine.

He tied the final knot with precision learned from a lifetime of weaving and training. His breath warmed the top of your shoulder for half a second longer than necessary, as if he could not bring himself to step away.

When he finally released the ends of the choker, the weight of it settled against your throat

Neteyam’s breath caught. His expression froze in stunned silence, amber eyes widening as though the sight of you had momentarily stolen the world from under his feet.

He blinked once, regaining control of his voice. Lor (beautiful)… it is beautiful on you,” he murmured. His voice dropped lower, tender in a way that made your ribs tighten. “You are beautiful.”

Your lashes fluttered, surprise flooding you so fast your body forgot how to move. “Kehe,” you muttered, your voice small. “Do not jest with me, ma Neteyam.”

“I am not jesting,” he replied immediately, leaning forward with earnest intensity. “I swear it. You are the most beautiful being I have ever seen.”

Your throat constricted painfully. You opened your mouth only to close it again. No words felt safe. No reaction felt right. His next words pushed your heart into your stomach.

“The moment I first saw you,” he continued, voice filled with emotion he had carried for months, “when the Sätareym walked into Hometree asking for uturu… I had never seen a beauty like yours. Not only in your face, but in the way you held your clan together. In the way you looked at my people with defiance. In the way you refused to bow even though you were afraid.”

The air lodged inside your lungs refused to move. Memories of that day—your clan exhausted, scorched by grief, seeking shelter with strangers—flooded back with stunning force. Your heart lurched violently. Heat crept up your cheeks, turning them near-burning. You managed a quiet, shaky, “Irayo.” The word came out small, barely formed, trembling beneath the pressure of everything inside you.

He mistook your overwhelm for shyness. His smile softened even further as he reached out and took both of your hands, lifting them between you. His fingers enveloped yours completely. His amber eyes searched your face with unwavering affection.

“Ma tìyawn (My love),” he said, voice rich with meaning, “I must speak this truth to you. Eywa guides our paths in ways we do not always see. Every day I trained you, every moment you laughed, every breath we shared… my feelings grew. I feel a pull toward you as strong as tsaheylu. I believe Eywa has placed you here—to teach me, to strengthen me, to—”

Your lungs squeezed painfully. His words rushed over you like water crashing through a broken dam, each one striking deeper than the last. The kiss you had been trying so hard to forget now rose up like a specter between you, blazing into a moment you could no longer hide from.

Neteyam kept going, unaware of the way your fingers trembled in his grip. “I cannot ignore this. I feel—strongly. Deeply. I know you do not see it yet, but this forest is your home now. Eywa willed it. Eywa brought you—”

Your head snapped up so fast your braids whipped across your shoulders.

You stood abruptly, almost staggering. Your breath shuddered in your chest, panic rising like a tightening coil inside your ribs. Neteyam’s face crumpled in confusion.

“Ma Sätareym?” he asked, rising halfway. “What is wrong? Did I—?”

Your head shook violently as you tried to form words, any words, but your mind swirled with jagged memories; the plains burning, your parents falling, your tsahìk’s prayers swallowed by gunfire, the knowledge that Eywa had never answered. All your clan had ever received was silence. A silence you carried like a scar through every day you tried to survive.

Neteyam stepped closer, reaching for you. “Ma tìyawn, please—talk to me. Tell me what hurts.”

You flinched away. He reached again, this time resting a gentle hand on your shoulder and the contact shocked you into panic. You shoved him backward with more force than intended. His feet stumbled on the moss, his expression flashing with hurt before concern quickly replaced it.

“Ngaru lu fpom srak (Are you okay)? What is happening?” he asked, voice quiet, laced with fear he could not contain.

He tried again to understand, but his next sentence, obviously meant to soothe, splintered you completely.

“This is your home now. Eywa—”

The sob tore from you before he could finish.

“Ma Neteyam,” you choked, voice breaking apart, “I just want to go home. I need to go home.”

His face collapsed into raw pain. He stepped forward without hesitation, his arms circling your shoulders and pulling you into his chest. The steady rhythm of his heartbeat pressed against your cheek as you sobbed uncontrollably, each cry hitting with the weight of all the grief you had refused to feel since leaving the plains.

“I do not belong here,” you wept into his skin. “I want to go home. I want to go back. I want—” Your words dissolved into shattered breaths. “Why did Eywa bring us here? Why?”

Neteyam’s arms tightened, his voice trembling. Fra'u-ru fpom lu (It’s okay). I know, ma yawntu. I know you ache for your home. But this—this place—you are safe here. You are loved here. This is your home now.”

You stiffened instantly.

Your palms pressed against his chest, shoving him away hard enough that he stumbled. Air refused to enter your lungs. Your chest spasmed with rapid, uncontrolled breaths—too shallow, too sharp. You felt trapped inside your own body, drowning in panic that clawed up your throat.

He reached toward you again, terrified. “Ma Sätareym! Wait—please, I did not mean—”

Your feet turned before he could finish. You bolted.

Branches whipped past your face as you sprinted through the glowing underbrush, tears blurring the world into fragments of blue and violet light. Your lungs burned, your legs trembled, but you could not stop. You fled from him, from his words, from the choker on your throat, from the memory of his kiss, from the suffocating walls of a forest that would never be yours.

Behind you, Neteyam’s voice cracked through the night. “MA—!” Your name—torn from him, desperate, breaking—echoed after you as he gave chase, his footsteps shaking the soft earth.

You did not look back. You could not.

The forest around you pulsed, alive with the presence you had never believed in. Vines glowed like reaching hands. Spores drifted as if watching. The air hummed with a spirit you did not trust.

Eywa had never answered your people. Eywa had never saved your parents. Eywa had never stopped the fire that swallowed your plains. Eywa had chosen Jake Sully, not you. Not your clan.

No forest ritual, no glowing tree, no choker woven with love could change the truth etched into your very DNA.

Eywa was not real.

And because of that truth—

you and Neteyam could never be real either.

When his father had told him to pick a time to spend with you, he chose this—weaving with you or watching you do it. Sitting here, away from the clan, tucked away in this small corner, he felt at peace. This was his kelku— his home with you. Though he had never uttered the words to you. Sometimes he would nap here beside you, as your late-night outings had not stopped, but instead intensified. Walking through the bioluminescent forest at night, the moss glowing beneath your feet, fingers intertwining doing as you pleased. Even flying your ikrans, although you still flew close to home. Had learned your lesson from when you flew too far and made it back after sunrise. The scolding from both your parents was brutal, but it did not stop you two.

As you lifted your top, the soft firelight danced through the beads, colors changing with every slight movement. You smiled, eyes shining with a mixture of pride and bubbling excitement as they met Neteyam’s. “What do you think?” You asked, fighting back the smile. He gave a soft nod; eyes fixed intently on you. He swallowed, his lips parted to release a soft breath, “You look beautiful.” You stilled, blinking slowly before a soft laugh escaped you. Neteyam ear twitched, his skin flushed that beautiful purple, as his gaze darted around the area before snapping back to his poor attempt at crafts.

 “I-I mean the top…it is beautiful.” He stammered, clearing his throat. His eyes on his knife, trying to fasten the casing with twine, but his technique was sloppy ruined by the sudden sweat on his palms.

Arms dropping, you rested your top against your thighs, tilting your head in his line of sight. “So, I am not beautiful?” Your tone lilted with teasing. Neteyam tail fluttered behind him, his flush deepening. Closing his eyes, his words come out breathy “Rä’ä kem si fì ne oe. (Do not do this to me)” He mutters defeated. You giggle at his flustered state, hands moving slowly to take his knife and twine.

“It will not be of use if you do it that way, Teyam.” You murmured gently, doing it yourself. His hands hovered near yours before dropping to the ground. He watched you work, fingers nimble, careful, and collected. “Take all my calm, will you?” His accusing tone was light. He moved his arm to his knee, resting his chin in his hand, golden eyes on you. As if he could not bear a second without looking at you.

“Yes, you need to loosen up. Still stern as always, like an—

Neteyam was quick, his finger pointing to you, “Do not call me an elder again.” You laughed double checking that the twine was properly wrapped. “But it’s true, ask Kiri and Lo’ak.” Neteyam released a scoff once again. “Kiri is the same as me, so she is not a reliable source.” He smirked, thinking of his little brother, “And Lo’ak is a skxawng. (idiot)”

“Who isn’t a reliable source?”

“Who is a skxawng?”

The other two Sully’s walked in, immediately accusing Neteyam. He let out a short laugh. “Seems I have spoken my siblings into existence.” Lo’ak trotted towards him, “I’m sure mother birthed only one idiot, and it is you big bro.”

Neteyam smirked, quickly leaving his spot, careful not to ruin your little area. He met Lo’ak halfway instantly locking him in a headlock. “You’re always open.” Neteyam mocked as they tousled, their shuffling feet and grunting filling the previously quiet tent. Kiri rolled her eyes finding a spot beside you.

“What do you see in that bark for brains?” She playfully gagged muttering quick compliments as her eyes fell to your top. “Eywa has blinded me.” You whispered to Kiri, though your eyes were on Neteyam. Hearing you, he immediately shot his head up towards you, his gaze locking onto yours.

“What?”

Lo’ak seized his brother moment of distraction, his leg sweeping out to catch Neteyam’s knocking him off balance. In a swift motion he brought his older brother to his knees. Leaping up Lo’ak hovered over him, hands resting against his knees with a grin. “Ha!” he cheered. Neteyam chuckled, yielding with a raised hand, as Lo’ak helped him up. Brushing the dust from his legs and arms, Neteyam approached crouching in front of you. “Eywa has not blinded you.” he murmured, gaze intense.

“She had though,” you shrugged. “It is by your luck that you are beautiful inside and out.” You teased flashing a smile. Neteyam just shook his head, a soft chuckled escaping him his gaze lingering on yours. “Well, yuck.” Lo’ak interrupted, breaking the moment with a groan. “And dad said it’s time to get back to work.” Lo’ak added gesturing to the entrance of the tent. Neteyam nodded, fully expecting that but his eyes returned to yours, soft and lingering for a few seconds longer.

“I’ll see you later.” His hand reached for you, fingers curly softly around your bicep giving a brief squeeze, remaining there for as long as he could before he raising from his crouch leaving the tent with Lo’ak. You smiled, gaze downturned to hide it, then your eyes caught the brown twine of his knife, your head shot up. “Oh, Neteyam!” You called, legs moving quickly catching him only a few feet from the tent entrance. His knife rested in your hands, outstretched to him. “Here you go.”

His eyes briefly went to his knife then to you, fingers brushing yours taking it from your grasp leaving that familiar lingering warmth. “Thank you.” He took one step back, a faint smile on his lips. You nodded braids swaying softly as you mimicked him, steps slow and smile soft. You turned around entering the tent breaking eye contact. Neteyam eyes racked over the knife the casing a deep navy blue, the twine a hickory brown, his fingers grazed over it gently moving to sheath the knife at his waist.

“Finally started courting her?” Neteyam step faltered, his dreamlike smile falling away instantly at the question. “Huh?” The word left him like a stolen breath. “Y/n. You finally started courting her.” Lo’ak repeated, smirk playing on his lips as he nudged his brother. Neteyam swayed a little, his smile replaced with a frown. His steps came to a halt. Lo’ak had gotten a bit further ahead before he noticed his brother was no longer beside him. Looking back, Lo’ak eyebrow arched as he saw Neteyam standing still, truly perplexed.

“I…haven’t.” Neteyam voice was barely above a whisper, uncertainty laced in his tone. His eyes remained staring at the ground, shifting his weight as if the question itself was heavy enough to anchor him.

“You haven’t started courting her?” Lo’ak reiterated, moving to stand beside his older brother. “That is so like you bro,” his tone teasing but not unkind. Neteyam shook his head the movement subtle, as he lost himself in the river of memories of you. “I just hadn’t thought of it because it—I don’t know it feels like I’ve already started.” He murmured. For Neteyam, the lines between courtship and friendship had blurred, he did not know where he stood but he was aware that his heart beats for you. Whether he had spoken the words aloud or not.

Lo’ak nodded, hand tucked under his chin and lips pursed in a thoughtful pout. “Right. But have you, ya know given her anything?”

He had; there was never a moment when he wouldn’t bring you gifts. Whether it was something you needed or not. Neteyam has always been attentive, but it seemed to intensify when it came to you. He always kept careful mental notes of every word you’ve said—or simply brought it because it reminded him of you. And he would be eager to show it to you, hoping to see that familiar spark in your eyes, and your gentle glowing smile.

He recalled countless moments where he would press treasures into your palm, woven bracelets, river stones, and small tokens he’d risk his life for while doing his duties beside his father. Yet, as these moments cycled through his brain behind those golden eyes filled with growing confusion—none of them were signs of courtship. Instead, it was instinct from friendship and adoration.

“I have,” Neteyam admitted, gaze leaving the ground to find Lo’ak. “Just…not as courtship.”

Lo’ak arm swung around Neteyam’s shoulders, hanging loosely. “Don’t worry, bro. She’ll obviously say yes. Courting is just so other guys know to back off.” Neteyam's jaw tightened, eyes sharpening with a fierce blend of possessiveness. The mere thought of someone else competing for your attention made a tension coil inside him.

“Who tried to court her?”

The question was quick from Neteyam lips, sharp and simmering with possessive heat. Lo’ak’s arm slipped from Neteyam's shoulder hands raising aiming to calm his older brother. “No one,” Lo’ak replied with a causal shrug. “I haven’t heard anything, at least. It’s just to prevent it bro—chill.”.

Neteyam couldn’t chill, it wasn’t that he doubted Lo’ak but instead he couldn’t fully trust it. His mind was plagued by scenarios, possibilities where you were continuously sought after and he stood aside unable to do anything. It sent a restless energy coursing through him fueling his determination. Neteyam's mind raced ahead, planning. He thought of what to make, how to craft it, and when he would find the time.

He mulled it over throughout the day, trying to find moments of time that were not just fleeting windows, and he found two. The only silver of time in his days that he didn’t want to give up, yet he had to compromise. Neteyam stood under the gentle light of the sister moons, waiting. He shifted on the balls of his feet, ears twitching at every rustle of leaves and animalistic sound of the creatures. Then, the soft crunch of twigs reached his ears and his head snapped up. Moving into the path clearing, he found you standing there, bathed in the moonlight, your smile brightening the night.

“Well, this is a first, you're never here before me.” Your steps were light, almost dancing across the mossy forest floor as you closed the distance, your hand slipping into Neteyam’s. He answered your smile with a gentler one of his own, gaze lingering as if you were the only one worth admiring on pandora.

“Ready to go?” You tighten your grip slightly giving his hand a soft squeeze. Neteyam ears flicked down, his heart tumbling like river stones against a harsh current in his chest. His golden eyes darted around the shadows of the forest, avoiding your hopeful ones, fearful that you would see right through him.

“Um, actually…we can’t go out tonight.” His words hung in the air between you, hesitant. You tilted your head, confusion flickering across your face. “But we are already out here. Do you mean walking? Or riding our ikrans?” He nodded. “Yeah. I just… need to do something.” His eyes finally met yours golden and pleading, searching for you to understand. “Until I’ve finished, we can't go out at night.” You sat in your mind, thoughts swirling, then you nodded softly, your braids swaying with the movement.

“Okay. Okay, I won’t question you.” You said, as you turned home, fingers still interlaced pulling Neteyam along. He followed, ears pinned back reluctantly but grateful for your understanding.

“You're not upset right?”

You shook your head, giving a warm smile, “No, I understand you have something to do, I respect that.” You shrugged causal yet sincerely. Neteyam fanged grin appeared, relief washing over him. “And I still get to see you at the weaver’s tent. If you took that away, I would’ve been upset.” Your fingers squeezed around his playfully, Neteyam feigned a hiss making you laugh.

“Hush, you tsawl prrnen (big baby).” You teased. Laughter filled the quiet of the night as you walked home hand in hand. Arriving home you turn around reaching up, hand patting Neteyam cheek quickly and softly. “Promise me you will sleep, do not put it off to complete this secret mission of yours.” Your voice was quiet and playful but still carrying quiet concern.

Neteyam nodded, his hand holding yours lifting it gently to his lips for a tender kiss. “Of course, sleep well.” He murmured, adoration shining in his eyes. Your blush crept up, warmth spreading across your cheeks. “Sleep well.” You replied, hands slipping apart, each returning to your kelku.

—

As promised, the two of you still had time together in the cozy sanctuary of the weaver's tent in that same familiar corner. Each day, Neteyam sat close beside you, his golden eyes following the grace of your hands as they worked. Quietly, he memorized the way you wove your crafts using your favorite pattern. He observed every detail, the soft curve of your fingers, the subtle twitch of your tail whenever you were proud of a stitch, and the serene concentration etched across your face. These moments were stitched into his memory, determined to replicate your artistry in the gifts he was preparing for you.

While the clan slept, Neteyam practiced the pattern, his hands moving with growing confidence in his corner. He would ask Kiri to help him search for the perfect materials, turning a simple request into a small sibling adventure through the forest before dinner. They gathered beads, vibrant thread, and supple leaves, their laughter and bickering echoing through the trees.

Although he had grown confident in practicing your pattern, when doing the real thing, he would frown in concentration as he unraveled a mistake for the tenth time and started again. His frustration only grew at his flawed attempts, eventually he sought his mother. Neytiri guided his hands with patience, her weaving experience shining through her teachings.

“Do not rush,” she would always tell him, voice reassuring. He never did, taking his mother's advice to heart he did not hurry, he wanted these gifts to carry the weight of his feelings, in every stitch. So, he took his time, although the urge to display his sign of forever to you crawled beneath his skin he pushed it down to a simmer, keeping it at bay.

Neteyam spent hours at night absorbed in the art of weaving. His fingers worked with deliberate precision, only stopping when exhaustion blurred his vision. Neytiri, the attentive mother noticed his slouching posture and sluggish movements and would coax him to bed, tucking the unfinished gifts away in his corner. That following evening, after dinner, Neteyam would resume his work, fingers carefully undoing the mistakes he made in his sleepy state and starting again.

His determination to finish your gifts blinded him, costing him hours of sleep. He tried to hide his fatigue around you, giving brighter smiles than usual or fidgeting to stay awake. And of course, you noticed. The drop of his ears whenever the silence stretches long, and the bags beneath those gold eyes.

“Neteyam.”

His name fell from your lips, carrying gentle reproach his eyes snapped open. He swore they had already been open, “Yes, sevin (pretty),” he replied, voice lace honey sweetness a pitiful attempt to escape your scolding. Your eyes narrowed not budging. “You haven’t been sleeping,” you said voice soft but firm. Neteyam shook his head, “I have.” You frowned, giving him the classic ‘are you serious’ look. “Right, so I’m imagining the bags forming under your eyes.”

Neteyam nodded, “I’m pretty sure. Are you sure you're not tired?” He leaned closer, hand gently cradling your chin, guiding your face to his. You frowned deeper, “Neteyam, I am not sleepy.” He only smiled wider, fingers sliding higher up to squish your cheeks together. “Teyam,” you whined, swatting his hand away while he laughed low and bright. Your hand remained on his wrist, eventually intertwining your fingers through his, holding him close.

“Nap.”

“Absolutely not. This is our time together.” He refused.

“Why are you so stubborn when it comes to your sleep?” You asked, rolling your eyes.

“Well, I’m sorry, I love being around you. Is that a crime?”

Neteyam tilted his head, braids gliding across his shoulders. You huffed, “You are still around me. Nap, lean on me all you want. I’ll be here.”

He pouted. “Put it away and sleep.” You released a soft giggle as he huffed in protest, but still complying shuffling closer. His head settled heavy against your shoulder, the weight of him familiar bringing comfort to you.

“Only for a few minutes.” He mumbled, eyelids drooping as you hummed in agreement, “Wake me in a few.” He insisted, eyes finally closing, you hummed again. “I’m serious.” He lifted his head, his warmth fleeting, you giggled gently guiding his head back to your shoulder, “Alright, mighty warrior, sleep.”

Your hand lingered in his hair for a moment before pulling away, feeling the way his body relaxed slipping into rest. He slept soundly against your shoulder, his breath steady and deep. You did not wake him until Jake came seeking him. Of course, Neteyam awoke with a pout scolding you, but he lacked real bite only affection with light teasing.

—

Finally, after countless days spent with anticipation and careful crafting, he had completed your gifts. To him they were perfect to finally share with you. Neteyam tried to keep his composure as he walked, but his excitement buzzed through his body causing him to break into a sprint straight to the weaver's tent. The place you were always waiting. Slipping through the entrance into the familiar dim glow of the tent, he walked to the very back. There he saw you, already finishing an outfit.

“I’ve finished.” he announced, bright with pride. Neteyam's smile stretched wide as he crouched in front you gold eyes shining with delight. “Finally?” You teased, eyebrow-raising playful.

He nodded, eagerness poorly contained. “Tonight, would you do me the honor of going out with me?” Your smile softened, eyes reflecting the same delight as his. “Yes, I would be a fool to decline such an invitation.”

Promised made, date set both hearts pounded with impatience. You for the longing of venturing through the glowing, lush forest hand in hand with Neteyam. For him, after hours of pouring his love into his crafts, he finally could give them to you. Asking you properly to be his and seeing your reaction, he couldn’t wait.  

As he gathered the last of the training gear, the rough texture of wood pressed against his hands. Then a low rumble vibrated through the ground, gaining his attention. Neteyam's gaze drifted upward, noting how the sky shifted, heavy gray clouds blotted out the sun, hinting at rain. He shrugged off the worry, reminiscent of your love for rain, he smiled softly to himself lost in thoughts of you.

Later, as he shifted in his hammock, the sway bringing him comfort his amber eyes roamed his home. His family lingered, their soft conversations and laughter blending with the low crackle of the spent fire. He felt a pang of impatience and irritation; tonight of all nights their bedtime stretched later than usual.

Soft puttering filled Neteyam's ears; the rain had finally begun. The soothing sound calmed him, letting his mind wander, drifting off to thoughts of you. He pictured your smile, that smirk you always give him, and the mischievous glint in your eyes. The warmth of your touch, the way you would welcome him close, tail swaying happily behind you, showing your happiness at his presence. Lost in these memories, Neteyam drifted off to sleep, dreams carrying him into your arms

The sound of thunder rolled through the kelku. The deep rumble startled Neteyam from his sleep. Blinking rapidly, he struggled to clear his sleepy haze from his mind. The steady sound of the rain began to seep into his senses. Cold dread washed over him, the sensation chilling like a plunge in the cold ponds near the village. He overslept.

Neteyam slipped from his hammock hastily, his movements lacking his usual grace. He didn’t know how long he had been asleep, but panic made his steps clumsy as he hurried to check his waist making sure your gifts were still secure. He crept toward the entrance until the shuffle of movement caught his ears.

Kiri stirred from her sleep, eyes going to Neteyam as he stood at the doorway. He brought a finger to his lips, pleading for her not to tell. Kiri gave that knowing smirk, but her face shifted quickly to concern as another thunderclap echoed through the kelku. Her gaze was stern but understanding, silently urging him to be careful. Neteyam nodded, slipping out of his home with Kiri right behind him, sealing the entrance so no rain entered.

The temperature drop was instant as Neteyam darted into the open. The rain hitting his skin, drenching him within seconds, intensifying his guilt. Each footstep squelched harshly against the muddy soil of pandora, his heart pounding as he pushed toward the clearing where he always found you. Stumbling once mud splattering against his deep blue skin, but he recovered quickly determined not to falter again.

Finally reaching the spot breathless and soaked. His eyes locked on you, beneath the pitiful shelter of leaves, water streaming down as the rain became too much for them. You held your hand beneath the rush of water, watching as it bounced off your skin. You wore a smile, in attempt to meet the situation with grace. Neteyam eyes caught the subtle tremble in your fingers and the shiver that ran through your shoulders.

Slowly, Neteyam stepped closer entering your line of sight. The smile you gave him grew brighter, your eyes shining through the gloom capturing his attention, his heart felt as if a palulukan (thanator) was tearing at it, the weight of remorse nearly unbearable. He closed the distance, standing before you under the relentless rain letting it soak him as a form of punishment.

“Ngaytxoa (sorry).” He murmured, voice thick with apology.

His apologies continued, endless as the rain sliding down his back. Neteyam bent low, arms enveloping you tightly, holding you as if afraid you might slip away. His grip was firm, protective, the chill of his damp skin brushed against you, your gentle hands traced soothing circles along his waist. You nestled closer, chin resting on his shoulder feeling the shivers fade a little as his warmth encircled you.

“It’s ok Neteyam.” You whispered.

But he shook his head slowly, head still buried in your neck, regret etched deep in his skin. His frown deepened as he noticed your tremors ease against his body heat. Cursing himself, Neteyam shifted stepping back but still lingering close, shielding you from the rain. His sorrowful amber eyes searched yours.

“Let’s get out of the rain.” He murmured, voice low and guilt ridden. Taking your hand, Neteyam led you away from the clearing. Following him, you noticed the slouch of his shoulders, the way his head hung low heavy with guilt. Leading you to the ladder first, he watched you gaze never wavering from your every step as you climbed, ensuring your safety before following.

Entering the small shelter, you were instantly met by the familiar scent of woven reeds and drying herbs, the space was dim. Your belongings scattered across the floor, feathers, beads and smooth stones now mingled with Neteyam's belongings. His newly crafted gear leaned against the wall; hand carved wooden figures decorated the shelves beside your own trinkets. The soft merging of your worlds felt like a promise, quietly spoken for the future.

Neteyam moved with gentle urgency, his hand taking yours cool and rough from the rain and hours of training. Without a word, he draped a thick blanket around your shoulders, the fabric comforting. His hands, calloused and trembling slightly, brushed over your skin and hair, careful as he wiped away the rain clinging to you. His actions, a silent plea for forgiveness.

Once satisfied-ish with having dried you as best he could, Neteyam moved across the room, pulling the entrance flap close, shutting out the storm. Leaving the soft distant patter of the rain and clap of thunder. Crouching low, he began coaxing the fire, building it just high enough to provide warmth but not so high to fill the small room with smoke. As Neteyam gathered more blankets and brought them near, you watched the water continue to drip from his braids. He was completely drenched. He kept his gaze averted focusing on folding blankets for you. The lock of his jaw showed the regret turning in his chest. You reached out, hand finding his cold and stiff one covering it with your own warmth.  

“You are still wet Teyam.” You murmured.

His eyes remained glued to the sway of the fur blankets. “I overslept,” he said, voice thick with regret. “It’s ok.” You replied, but he only shook his head slowly, ears folding back in shame. “I left you in the rain, for Eywa knows how long.”

 “I’m fine.”

“You were trembling, drenched.”

“You know I like the rain.”

“What if you get sick?”

“Your grandmother remedies will handle it.” You teased, hoping to get a smile from him. But he didn’t, instead his lips pressed thin eyes closed with guilt.

A soft sigh left you as you took the blanket from around your shoulders, ignoring his quiet protest you wrapped him in the blanket instead. Drying his soaked braids ruffling them until the water shook free in tiny sprays. The unexpected jerking gesture startled a choked giggle from him, the sound brightening the room for a moment. His hands reached up, stopping yours, finally meeting your eyes with a tentative soft smile.

“Theres that smile.” You whispered smiling at him softly. You tossed the now damp blanket away, pulling Neteyam down beside you, you wrapped a new blanket around both of you sharing warmth.

“I am truly fine.” You assured, “I am not angry, you were tired.” Neteyam's eyes remained troubled, brow still furrowed as he shifted closer, shuffling around your body until it was fully enveloped by the circle of his legs. He pulled you in, arms sliding around your waist pulling you flush against his chest, as if trying to shield you from the lingering chill.

Neteyam head rested against your shoulder, his hands gliding over your sides with careful slowness, warming you from the cold the fire have yet to chase away. Your hand came up to rest on his head, fingers combing gently through damp braids, your other found his forearm resting there, anchoring him. Neteyam was quiet for a moment, lips pressed together tight pondering over the words ready to leave him. Then, in a voice barely above a whisper, the words fragile he finally spoke.

“I want to court you.” He confessed, the words trembling between you, but you caught every word.

“What?” The question slipped out, breathless. Neteyam moved closer, his face buried against the curve of your neck, his warm breath sending gentle shivers down your skin. He lingered there a moment longer before continuing. “That is why I postponed our outings; I used that time to make your gifts. Be—,” his voice wavered, swallowing hard before continuing. “Because I wanted to do it properly, to create something form my heart.”

You blinked, lips parted brief surprise flitting across your face at the confession. Neteyam's arms slipped away, the absence of his touch palpable.  He untied the pouch from his waist, bringing it forward for you. Your gaze followed his movements, watching as he opened it hand moving with a slight tremble that had nothing to do with the lingering cold. He revealed its contents, crafts just for you.

He rested it gently against your thighs as he tossed his pouch away. There in your lap were treasures of his heart, an armband woven in beautiful shades of blues, purples, and green, perfectly balanced. A single feather identical to the one Neteyam wore on his own armband. Beside it, a bracelet adorned with your own luminous beads surrounded by his beads, the ones he proudly wore threaded into his hair each day.

Your hands moved slowly, fingertips grazing the intricate weaving tracing the patterns. The careful craftsmanship spoke volumes of his affection and intent—his heart. Adoration bloomed across your face, as you took in each detail feeling the love in every thread and bead.

It was then that recognition dawned and you couldn’t help the radiant smile. “It’s my favorite pattern.” Neteyam nodded against your shoulder, his voice soft. “I watch you. All the times I sat beside you in the weaver's tent, even here.” His arms tightened around you, seeking courage in the warmth of you. “I see you.” Neteyam breathed, his words winding you with quiet devastating force—so unmistakably Neteyam.

Gently tapping his forearm, his embrace loosened, allowing you to turn and face him fully. Your hands scrambled, eager to hold his face, thumbs brushing softly against his cheeks. “I love them, Neteyam. I see you.” You confessed, as you lifted his face from the ground eyes locking with his.

His eyes met yours glassy with the same deep aching regret that weight on him. You shook your head softly holding his gaze, “I see you Neteyam. No little rain changed that, and it will never change that.” You declared, making sure he heard you. “Besides if it did, I would be heavily worried about our relationship.” You giggled, light and genuinely chasing away the last of the tension. Neteyam smiled, his amber eyes shining with admiration, a look reserved only for you. He nuzzled into your palm, the contact grounding him.

“Want to put it on me?” You asked, his eager nod was boyish. His hands trembled slightly as he slipped the armband around your left arm mirroring his own and the bracelet onto you’re right forearm. His fingers lingered just a second longer against your skin.

Smiling happily, you stretched your arm out admiring how vibrant the colors danced against your skin. The evidence of his love clear. You leaned in, planting a soft kiss on his forehead before resting your own against it.

“Do not beat yourself up over this, okay? I love my gifts; I love you and I’ve forgiven you even though I was never really upset.” You whispered.

Neteyam exhaled, relief in the slump of his shoulders as his eyes closed. “I still feel you are too lenient with me.” He opened his eyes, those huge golden irises on you. You moved back only a little, just enough to see his face, teasing, “As I told Kiri, Eywa has blinded me.” Neteyam chuckled as he pulled you close, covering your face in kisses until you squealed, “Teyam!” You giggled, face heating at his signs of affection.

He eased you down beside him on the woven mat, gawking at your smile bright and breathless. His hand reached for you fingers brushing his gift that now hugged your upper bicep. “Now everyone will know you are mine.” He murmured, the claim more to himself than to you. You nudged him playfully. “I think everyone already knew that Neteyam.” You replied grinning.

“Let’s sleep, yeah?” You suggestion softly.

Neteyam nodded, pulling you closer and tucking an extra blanket over the two of you. It was not like before, no distance tonight, and no hesitation. You pressed together, his arm wrapped securely around you, his head nestled against your shoulder. Legs tangled together, tails brushing in slow familiar arcs. Wrapped in each other warmth, letting everything fade away. That morning, neither of you rushed to awake nor to leave. Savoring the time, you have together choosing to stay in each other embrace.

Pandora can wait.

—

Meanwhile, back at home, Kiri sat unbothered in her corner while Jake paced muttering complaints to Neytiri. “Give him a little leeway, and he goes the whole mile.” He grumbled. Lo’ak smirked to himself proud of his brother and already plotting how he would claim his thanks later, he already began eyeing Neteyam best bow. Tuk sat wide eye, confused as she watched her father pace around.

“Baby girl, have you seen your brother?” Jake asked, exhausted from constantly searching for his eldest son every morning. “No clue.” Kiri replied her lips down turned as she shrugged.

He turned to Lo’ak. “I slept like a rock.” Lo’ak smirk only grew, Jake eyes narrowed suspicion growing as he glanced between his children, then back to Neytiri.

“Is this about—” he pointed vaguely outside.

Neytiri giggled her hand resting against Jake chest giving a gentle pat. “Neteyam is fine ma’jake. Leave him be.” She kissed his cheek leaving him standing there, grumbling but relenting. “Alright,” He complied. For now, he would allow Neteyam this time with you.

If there was one thing you knew about your attending, it was that he seemed to forget that he was human too. 

Med students and the younger residents, you understood how their brains worked: can’t take too many breaks and let someone else grab an intubation, can’t sit down long enough to eat or your patient might go from stable to worse, can’t show emotions or you might not be taken seriously. 

In the grand scheme of things, Robby Robbinavitch was more over-worked med student than put-together chief attending. You couldn’t remember the last time he actually sat down for a lunch in the breakroom for more than five minutes. So, he either hated eating lunch with coworkers, hated having to interact with them other than checking charts, or just hated giving his body the food it needed. 

To your knowledge it definitely wasn’t any of those. 

He’d eaten around the nurses’ station. 

He’d tease or joke with the rest of the residents and students. 

And at Dr. Abbot’s yearly barbecue, you’d seen him go ham town on a triple-stack burger. 

Maybe he hid the real reason well. 

Robby wasn’t the kind of person who tried to martyr himself for praise, nor did he wear exhaustion like some badge of honor the way younger doctors did. He simply moved through the Pitt like the people around him mattered more than he did. 

Every. Single. Time. 

You noticed it most in little moments when you weren’t calling out BPs or supplying another blood bag. 

One of the first times you noticed something, Robby was halfway through dictating notes when one of the interns drifted past the nurses’ station looking vaguely green and pale at the same time. Without even missing a beat, he stopped midsentence, arm reaching out to grab the intern by his shoulder. 

“You eat today?” he asked. 

The intern, bless his heart, looked like a deer in headlights as he blinked up at the tall attending. “Uh. Sort of?” 

“Try again.” 

“I had coffee?” 

He wasn’t the first person to substitute a cup of that burnt garbage for a meal and certainly wouldn’t be the last. You were somewhere on that list more times than you’d like to admit. You wondered if Robby would let the kid off and send him on his way. However, all he did was stare at him for a long second before digging into the pocket of his jacket. He pulled out a slightly crushed granola bar and handed it over. 

“Eat actual food before you pass out in one of my trauma bays.” 

The intern at least had the decency to look mildly ashamed as he took it. “Thanks, Dr. Robinavitch.” 

Robby simply waved him off and returned to his charting discussion like nothing had happened, like you didn’t just witness him looking at the kid like a disappointed father who had to bring by a forgotten lunch. Your eyes wandered from his face and down to the empty coffee cup beside his elbow. 

You were certain the thing was cold; you’d seen him fill it up twenty minutes into the morning shift. 

By noon, he still hadn’t replaced it but sipped on it anyway without even making a face.

His actions happened constantly once you started paying attention. Robby always seemed to know when everyone else was reaching their limit before they did. He caught residents before panic spiraled too far, gently redirecting instead of humiliating them. He reminded your fellow nurses to switch out after rough codes. He pressed water bottles into med students’ hands during long traumas with an absent sort of efficiency that suggested habit rather than thought. 

“You’re shaking,” you heard him say to one resident softly after a pediatric arrest. 

“I’m fine.” 

“You’re not.” Robby’s voice softened even further. “Go sit down for five minutes.” 

The resident hesitated. “But—” 

“I wasn’t suggesting.” 

And somehow, five minutes later, Robby was still standing in the trauma bay himself, shoulders heavy beneath a blood-speckled gown while he updated the grieving parents with a kind of exhausted gentleness that made your chest ache a little. 

The realization settled slowly over a few shifts, piecing itself together like a puzzle while monitors beeped and gurneys rolled past and the ER swallowed another endless stream of patients whole. 

Nobody ever told him to sit down. 

Nobody ever handed him water. 

Nobody ever gave him their own crushed up granola bar that had been sitting in their pocket for a suspicious amount of time. 

Robby took care of everyone around him like it had been carved into his DNA. But no one really returned the favor because Robby never gave anyone the chance to think he needed it. He looked composed from a distance. Steady. Capable. The kind of chief attending who walked into the ER and made the room breathe a sigh of relief. But up close, if someone really looked closely, the cracks were easier to notice. 

The forgotten bitter coffees. 

The way he rubbed at the back of his neck in a self-soothing motion when he thought no one was looking. 

The untouched food sitting in the workers’ fridge you knew showed up at the beginning of the shift and looked left behind twelve hours later. 

The fact that he stood for so long during one shift that his knee visibly stiffened the first time he finally moved toward the ambulance bay. Even then, he only stopped because Perlah caught his arm, concern pinched into her face. 

“You’re limping.” 

“I’m not.”

“You’re a horrible liar. I hope you know that.” 

He gave her a tired smile that looked like he practiced it every morning in front of the mirror like a mantra. “Occupational hazard.” 

You watched him disappear into another trauma before she could argue further. Your eyes stayed trained on him while your pen sat unmoving against a chart. 

It wasn’t dramatic exhaustion that Robby exuded. He wasn’t collapsing or making mistakes or stumbling over himself. He was just quietly wearing himself down in ways small enough that no one felt urgent enough to stop him. 

Or maybe everyone assumed someone else would before it got too bad. 

Later that night, you found him standing along at the desk near trauma two, staring blankly at the tablet for several seconds without blinking, the glow of the screen highlighting how deep his eye bags had gotten. His eyes weren’t scanning, weren’t reading. 

Just staring. 

A resident approached beside him carefully. “Dr. Robby? I can take the lac repair in four if you want.” 

Robby blinked once, twice, three times like his spirit had been pulled back into his body. “No, you’ve already got three patients.” 

“I can handle it.” 

“I know.” His voice stayed incredibly calm. “But you’ve been running nonstop since seven. Go eat something first and then check back in with Dana.” 

The resident relented with a sheepish nod, and just like hat, Robby moved toward room four himself. No break. No food. And absolutely no pause. 

You glanced toward the clock overhead, its hands signaling nine hours into the shift. 

Like a hypocrite, you were suddenly almost certain the man hadn’t eaten a single thing all day. 

Well, Michael Robinavitch had better be ready for what was coming his way. 

_______________________

You didn’t want to scare him at first. That would be the opposite of what you were trying to do. 

The thought to bring Robby one of his favorite protein bars—the ones that you’d never buy for yourself because a nurses’ salary didn’t cover a $24 box—hadn’t been premeditative. You had seen them while standing in the grocery store checkout line after a miserable late-night shopping trip, half-awake and clutching a basket filled with frozen meals and energy drinks, when the familiar packaging caught your eye. 

You recognized it because you’d seen Robby eat exactly two things over the last month: sad, soggy cafeteria sandwiches and those protein bars. 

Not often, either, but just enough for you to notice. 

So naturally, your brain had gone Oh, Robby likes those.

Thirty minutes later, a whole box sat in the backseat of your car waiting to be shoved into your scrub pocket before shift.

Which was how you found yourself leaning against the nurses’ station four hours into a chaotic Wednesday, trying to figure out how to casually hand food to your oddly attractive attending without making it look like you’d been studying his dietary habits like a creep. 

But under his handsome, lithe stature, the man looked downright about to fall to the ground to take a nap. His hair was more ruffled than usual, like he’d dragged his hands through the strands one too many times, and for the first time, his stethoscope sat crooked along his shoulders. 

Robby didn’t ever do crooked, and that’s how you knew that this was serious, that it was imperative you get that protein bar to him before a trauma completely derailed your plan to seduce him through food and love he didn’t know how to accept. 

The moment came as watched him finish explaining a discharge plan to an elderly patient with the patience of a saint despite the ambulance siren already screaming outside. 

“If you experience any lingering chest pain, you come back immediately, okay?” he said slowly and loud enough the lady could hear him. 

She smiled up at him. “You work too hard, doctor.” 

He gave her an absent hum of acknowledgment, already turning toward the ambulance bay before the woman had fully hobbled out of the room. 

Typical. 

You caught sight of him again maybe twenty minutes later when he stood at the main desk, reviewing labs while two residents talked over each other at his shoulder, both trying to ask separate questions that Robby somehow answered both without even looking up. 

“How worried are we about the potassium?” one asked. 

“Repeat the test again first.” 

“And the CT on seven?” 

“Pending read.” 

“Do you think—” 

“Please go eat something first,” he said automatically directed toward the youngest resident whose hands were visibly trembling from either stress or low blood sugar; usually, it was from both. “Before your body stages a protest and passes out in the middle of the lobby and gets run over by a gurney. I’m not interested in filling out that paperwork today.” 

“I’m perfectly fine, Dr. Robby—” 

“That’s rarely convincing from someone who’s physically swaying.” 

You bit back a smile as the resident obediently shuffled away toward the breakroom before you sighed loudly. There it was again; Robby noticing everyone except for himself. 

Before you could think too hard about it or psych yourself out, your hand slipped into your scrub pocket. It was now or never. You crossed the station quietly and held the protein bar out beside his chart without any type of grand announcement. He looked down first, confused by the interruption more than anything else. His eyes landed on the wrapper, briefly widening in surprise before settling back into his fatigued stare. 

The smallest hint of a smile graced his lips. “You carrying emergency snacks now?” he asked. 

“You tell everyone else to eat,” you replied evenly. “Figured someone should probably say it too.” 

Unbeknownst to you, Trinity went dead silent, eyes darting between the two of you like she was witnessing something dangerously close to a meet-cute out of a romcom. Robby noticed too if the smile lines across his face had anything to do with it. 

“I eat,” he said. 

With the most unamused look you could muster—eyebrow raised and everything—you glanced from his eyes and over to the untouched coffee sitting beside him, the one you had seen him get three hours ago. 

“Sure. Let’s go with that.” 

He laughed quietly, and, unfortunately, it did something to your nervous system, core buzzing with excitement. 

Robby took the protein bar from your hand carefully, almost like he wasn’t used to people giving him things. “You didn’t have to.” 

“I know, but I wanted to.” 

For a moment, he looked at you, brown eyes almost blazing with a sunken thankfulness. You honestly could have stayed there all day, hoping that a connection would spark between you the longer you held eye contact. 

But life was life, and the trauma doors burst open down the hall, breaking the spell instantly. 

“Dr. Robby!” someone shouted. 

Robby was moving before their yell had even finished, protein bar still in hand as he headed toward the incoming patient. 

But this time, you smiled softly when he at least tore it open and took a bite first. 

Progress. 

_______________________

At some point, you stopped being subtle. 

Definitely not intentionally; you weren’t trying to mother the man into an early grave by overwhelming him with concern, but somewhere between slipping protein bars onto his workstation and forcing him to split your lunch during doubles, the entire department had apparently realized what was happening before either of you did.

Which was how Robby found himself staring suspiciously at a hot coffee being shoved into his hand by Trinity at six-thirty in the morning. 

“She said you looked—and I quote—dead on your feet,” she explained with absolutely no shame. 

Robby blinked, your name coming out with a question mark following the sound. 

Trinity only smiled. “Drink your coffee, Dr. Robby.” 

She walked away before he could ask another question. 

It only got worse after that. 

Dennis cornered him outside trauma two with a bottle of water and two packs of crackers. Victoria started physically stealing charts out of Robby’s hands around lunchtime while informing him that "your wife packed extra food." 

"She’s not my wife,” Robby responded, cheeks blazing bright red. 

The med student only snorted. “Right.” 

Meanwhile, you pretended none of this was happening. You simply continued operating as though it were perfectly normal to slide half of your sandwich onto his paperwork while he charted or quietly shove ibuprofen into his hands before headaches fully settled behind his eyes. 

And the truly dangerous thing was that Robby started letting you. At first, there had been confusion every time you appeared beside him with something he needed before he realized he needed it himself. Then it was amusement. Then something softer that neither of you acknowledged out loud. Now, he barely looked surprised when you handled him coffee exactly how he liked it: cream and a hint of hazelnut. 

“You’re enabling me,” he told you one evening after you handed the hot cup over. “I’m going to get fat with all the extra calories.” 

You leaned against the counter beside him. “Nah, I’m keeping you alive via overly sweet coffee and concern for your wellbeing.” 

“You’re being dramatic.” 

“You forgot lunch until four-fifteen.” 

“I remembered eventually.” 

Your eyes caught his through your eyebrows. “You literally ate three french fries in a span of 15 minutes.” 

Robby looked down at the cup. “I counted at least six.” 

You laughed loudly before you could stop yourself, the sound pulling something warm and unbearably fond across Robby’s face so quickly it almost startled you. 

That was also becoming a problem too. 

Because Robby had been attractive before, objectively speaking. Half the nurses in the department had spent at least one shift developing temporary feelings for the exhausted chief attending with sad eyes and nice, large hands. But the version of himself that he showed you was worse. 

That version smiled at you differently than he smiled at everyone else. 

That version automatically looked for you after difficult cases. 

That version saved his cherry Jell-O cups from meal trays because he’d overhead you mention once that the hospital somehow made them taste better than store-bought ones. 

The thing you had going on was getting hazardously domestic for two people who technically weren’t even dating, and apparently everyone noticed. 

“You know he follows you around now, right?” Dana asked one afternoon while restocking supply drawers. 

You shook your head. “He does not.” 

She gave you a look. “Sweetheart, that man tracks your location in this department like a lost golden retriever.” 

“He’s more of a hound dog,” you grumbled. “All sad and droopy.” 

“Mhm.” 

You rolled your eyes, but her comment lingered anyway because you had started noticing it too. 

Robby gravitated toward wherever you were without thinking. If you disappeared into triage, somehow, he ended up checking charts nearby. If you were assisting a trauma case, he found reasons to dawdle after procedures finished. His attention caught on you constantly in small, unconscious ways. 

He, in return, didn’t realize how much he’d gotten used to you being there until the day you called out sick. 

The flu hit fast and hard overnight. By morning, you could barely sit upright without feeling dizzy. You sent Dana one miserable text around five a.m. before collapsing back into bed. 

Apparently, the same morning, Robby arrived forty minutes late. 

“Where’s your wife?” Victoria asked him casually while organizing discharge paperwork. 

He frowned slightly. “What?” 

“You know.” She gestured vaguely around the department, throwing your name into the air. “Your nurse.” 

Heat crept up the back of his neck before he could mentally push it back down his spine. “She’s not my—” 

“She called out,” Dana interrupted, not even glancing away from her patient board. “Flu.” 

Something very unpleasant twisted in Robby’s chest. “Flu?” he repeated stupidly. 

Dana looked up, eyebrows lifting slightly at his curled expression. “Yeah.” Her head tilted slightly, glasses’ chain swinging in the motion. “Why do you look like someone just kicked your dog?” 

“I don’t.”

“You absolutely do.” 

Robby ignored that, but the rest of the shift felt wrong afterward. 

Nobody handed him coffee during charting. Nobody appeared beside him during procedures already holding exactly what he needed. Nobody told him to sit down after hour ten or shoved food into his hands between patients. 

And worse, he kept looking for you anyway. 

Every few hours, his eyes drifted toward your usual spots before reality caught up again to tell him that you weren’t here. 

By the end of the shift, Robby found himself standing motionless in the grocery store pharmacy section staring at flu medicine with the same intensity he usually reserved for trauma patients. He felt completely ridiculous, and yet, twenty minutes later, he was standing outside your apartment door holding a plastic bag filled with take-out soup, electrolyte drinks, crackers, and the protein bars you always stole from him. 

He almost talked himself out of knocking. 

This definitely crossed some kind of line, didn’t it? 

The chief attending showing up at a nurse’s department with flu supplied sounded too close to the setup of an HR meeting. 

But before he could spiral further, the door opened. 

You, in the most respectful way he could surmise, looked terrible. You held a blanket that was wrapped around your shoulders, your hair was messy, all frizzed up, and your eyes were glassy with fever.

And somehow, Robby still felt his chest tighten at the sight of you. 

“Holy fuck,” you croaked. “Are you real, or is the NyQuil hallucinating my attending as a boyfriend for me.” 

Robby laughed loudly, and the sound surprised both of you. 

“You called out sick,” he said, like that explained anything at all as to why he was suddenly at your doorstep 

You blinked at him for a moment before your gaze dropped to the grocery bags in his ridiculously large hands. “You brought me supplies?” 

“You force-feed me protein bars weekly. It felt unfair not to return the favor.” 

Your expression melted in slow, syrupy fondness, and Robby suddenly became acutely aware that he was here, at your door, after a fourteen-hour shift looking like you personally hung the moon just for him. Judging by the way you were looking back, you noticed too. 

“You wanna come in?” you asked suddenly, voice soft and raspy. 

He did. 

Oh how he did. 

When you stepped back slightly, Robby followed inside carefully, setting the bags onto your kitchen counter while you hovered nearby wrapped in your blanket burrito, the fabric—he noticed—looking exactly like the print of a tortilla. 

“You didn’t have to do all this,” you murmured. 

“I know.” 

His answer hit you both at the same time because that was always what you told him too. 

Robby looked down at you, really looked at you, and everything shifted like he was finally letting himself acknowledge something that had apparently become obvious to everyone but him weeks ago. Very gently, he reached up and brushed a strand of hair back from your forehead, his touch lingering against your warm face. 

Your breath caught. 

“So, um, I guess this is the part,” you whispered, feverish and brave all at once, “where one of us probably does something stupid, and you end up sick along with me.” 

Robby smiled warmly, crow’s feet crinkling around his eyes. “Probably.”  

His lips met yours soft and carefully like he was giving you every opportunity to pull away. Thankfully, you didn’t, your hands catching lightly against the front of his jacket instead, grip pulling him closer while the kiss deepened warm and slow and incredibly overdue. Beneath the kiss, the taste of coffee and peppermint and cold medicine, Robby realized something almost embarrassingly simple. 

Being taken care of felt nice, yes. But taking care of you? 

That felt a little bit more like coming home. 

...

It was Friday morning, two days after you’d got up and left Jack’s place early in the morning without a goodbye when he texted. 

Jack: Hope your ceiling situation is getting sorted.

He was giving you an out, a way to be normal about it all. You stared at the blue bubble for a long time, the memory of his question still echoing in the back of your mind.

You: Ceiling is getting sorted. Thank you again.

His response came while you were in the middle of setting up for your first client of the day.

Jack: For you? Anytime.

An open invitation, or you guess, a door to him? You felt a traitorous curve of your lips before you could stop it.

"Stop smiling at your phone." Bella said. She was across the room, snapping on a pair of nitrile gloves.

"I'm not!" you said, quickly locking the screen and sliding the phone into your pocket.

…

Just when you thought you’d finally managed to stop the constant loop of him in your head, the texts would come in.

They were always casual, aggressively so, but they still did something to you. They made a warm feeling stir in your belly. 

Jack: How are you doing?

"Fine." you typed back. Then, you paused. "Fine" felt dishonest, and for some reason, he was the last person you wanted to be dishonest with.

You: Better than fine. How are you?

Jack: Just got off. Long night. Good coffee though. Small victories.

You: Very small.

Jack: The smallest. Get some sleep tonight.

It felt mundane. The assumption that you probably hadn't been sleeping. Which you hadn't.

You: you too.

Jack: Already on it.

…

Then, a photo. A medium sized dog of indeterminate breed standing outside the hospital entrance, wearing a bright yellow raincoat. 

You laughed out loud in your empty apartment. 

You: Why is he dressed like that.

Jack: It's raining!

You: It is not raining enough for that.

Jack: Tell that to his owner.

…

This one almost did you in. A voice note, which surprised you. You stood outside in the afternoon sun with your phone pressed to your ear, listening to his voice.

"I'm outside a bookshop. There's a display in the window. Botanical illustration, old prints, the kind with the Latin names at the bottom. It's on the block past the coffee place. Thought you should know it exists."

You listened to it three more times before replying.

…

It was late Friday night. You were still up, not for any particular reason, just the insomnia of a brain that wouldn't stop moving, when your phone buzzed.

Jack: Are you awake?

You: yep. are you working?

Jack: I am. Thinking about food though. There's a place near my apartment that does breakfast at midnight. Eggs and everything. I've been going for years.

You looked at the text, the intimacy of the routine bleeding through the screen.

You: That's either the best or worst thing I've ever heard.

Jack: Best. Definitely best. You'd like it.

You: I do appreciate eggs at midnight.

Jack: I knew it. Then, sometime?

You: Sometime.

Jack: Good. Go to sleep.

…

The last one before everything changed came on a Thursday evening. It was ordinary in every way except that it wasn't. You were locking up the shop, keys in hand, when the phone buzzed.

Jack: I know you said that it was one night, but I would be upset with myself if I didn’t say this once. I'd like to keep seeing you. In whatever way you will have me. I just wanted to say it once. Just so you know.

You just stood there. Keys in hand. Mouth agape. 

…

Derek came back from Portland all smiles. He hugged you at the door, and the first thing you noticed was the scent. An unfamiliar floral of someone else’s laundry detergent clinging to his jacket.

Over dinner, he talked about Sienna. He did it with an enthusiasm that was trying very hard to be considerate of your feelings, but his carefulness mostly just confirmed the obvious. His heart hadn't made the return flight. It was still somewhere in Portland, tucked away in a coffee shop or a rainy park with a girl you had never met.

For some reason, you did not tell him about Jack.

You were allowed to.

That was the whole point of the arrangement, the freedom you had both negotiated to keep the edges of your relationship from fraying into resentment. There was no rule against telling him. In fact, there was an implicit expectation of honesty. A pact that neither of you would have to carry the weight of a secret.

And yet, you still didn't tell him.

The words stayed locked in your throat, not because you were afraid of his reaction, but because telling him would make Jack part of the arrangement. It would categorize what was happening between you and the doctor, making it something manageable and defined. And for some reason, you weren't ready to let Derek touch whatever it was that was growing in those texts and shared photos.

…

Jack asked you to lunch a week later.

Jack: I have a two hour window free before my shift. Lunch? There's a place near your shop I've been told has good noodles.

Jack was already there when you arrived, hair tousled and he had a little tiredness settling around his eyes.

"You look tired." you said, sitting down across from him.

"I am. But feeling better now for some reason." he said smiling, his voice seemed to settle right under your skin.

He slid a menu across the table toward you. "How many times have you been here?" you asked.

He picked up his own menu, his eyes meeting yours. "A lot. I'm a creature of habit when I find something worth repeating."

A thrill went through your spine at the way he said it. You were starting to understand that with Jack, almost nothing was a throwaway line. 

The pho arrived, steaming and fragrant. It was extraordinary, and when you told him so, he looked quietly pleased, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

You ate for a while in a comfortable quiet that you still hadn't fully gotten used to. The fact that silence with him didn't require anything from you.

"Can I ask you something?"

He looked up. "Anything."

"The army." You kept your voice even, curious rather than probing. "How long?"

"Eight years." He set his chopsticks down. "Enlisted at twenty two. Medic."

"What made you stay in medicine after?"

"I didn't know how not to," he said finally. He looked down at his hands. Those large, careful hands, then back at you. "It wasn't a career decision, exactly. It was just the thing that made sense to do." He paused searching your face. "You understand that."

"Yeah," you said quietly. "I do."

"When did you know?" he asked. "That it was going to be tattoo work."

"Sixteen," you said, a small smile forming. "I watched an artist work at a shop near my mom's house. Just through the window, I never went in. I went back every day for two weeks." You could almost feel the cold glass against your forehead. "She finally came out and said, 'Are you going to come in or just haunt the place?'"

Jack laughed "And?"

"I went in. I watched her work for three hours. She let me try a practice stroke on a piece of fake skin and I was terrible at it." You turned your chopsticks over in your hand, lost in the memory. "I knew right then that I was going to do it until I wasn't terrible at it."

"How long until you weren't terrible?"

"Two years of being pretty bad. One year of being okay. Then something clicked." The afternoon light moved across the table between you. "Do you miss it?" you asked. "The army."

He turned his water glass once on the table. "Parts of it. The clarity of it, sometimes. Knowing exactly what the job was. The people, too."

"The SWAT shifts.." you said. "What’s that about?"

He looked at you, and his expression shifted, hardened slightly. "The ER is..it's good work. Important work. But you're always waiting for the thing to come to you." He considered his words. "The other work, you go to it. There's a difference in how that feels."

"You like going toward things." you said.

His eyes held yours across the table, dark and certain. "Yes."

…

Outside, the afternoon was shifting into evening. His shift would be starting soon.

"Same time next week?" he said.

This was supposed to be a one time thing. You were not supposed to be in Jack Abbot’s orbit anymore. You were supposed to be safe in your own lane, tending to your own life. But as you looked at him, you found it very hard to come up with a single reason why you shouldn’t.

And you could think of more than one reason why you should. The top one, the one that caused your heart to swell when you looked at him, was simply because you wanted to.

"Yeah." you said, the word feeling like a small, reckless surrender. "Okay."

He nodded once, his smile softening the hard lines of his face. "I'll find somewhere new."

…

Trinity showed up at your apartment with a bag of groceries and the clear intention of spending her day off horizontally on your couch with bad television and zero obligations. You took one look at her and knew that you were going to tell her.

You waited until she was settled. Feet up, blanket appropriated. From the kitchen, you started the coffee. You kept your back to her, it felt safer that way. "I have to tell you something."

"Okay.." Trinity said. Her voice had shifted into that careful, neutral tone of someone who had learned in residency to assess a situation before reacting to it.

"I met someone."

"Define met."

"At the bar. The night we went to Dillon’s." You heard the rustle of the blanket as she sat up. "After you left."

"Y/N. That was six weeks ago."

"I know."

"You've known something for six weeks and you're telling me now?"

You poured the coffee into two mugs. Your hands were steady, which surprised you. "It wasn't..I didn't know what it was. I still don’t entirely know what it is."

You brought the coffee into the living room and sat on the opposite end of the couch. Trinity had pushed the blanket off, her feet were flat on the floor, fully turned towards you. "Tell me." she said.

Trinity listened. She was very good at listening when she wanted to. When you finished, the silence in the room stretched out. Then Trinity asked, "What's his name?"

"Jack." you said. "Jack Abbot."

Trinity went completely still. "ER attending?"

You looked at her, something curious moving through your chest. "How did you.."

"Y/N." Trinity set her coffee down very carefully on the coaster. "Jack Abbot is an attending at my hospital."

"He’s..what?"

"PTMC. He’s been there for years." She stopped. She pressed her hand briefly over her mouth and looked at you with disbelief, hilarity, and something almost reverent. "How bad is it?" she asked. It wasn't really a question.

"I drew his hands." you said. "From memory. So do with that what you will."

Trinity closed her eyes briefly. "And Derek?"

"Derek is in love with someone in Portland," you said. "He doesn’t know it yet. Or he does, and he’s waiting for me to..I don’t know. Release him." You looked at your hands. "It’s what we’ve been doing for a long time, I think. Waiting for the other one to say it first."

Trinity remained quiet, letting you find the rest of it.

You turned the mug in your hands, feeling the lingering warmth of the ceramic. "I think I’m the one who has to. I think I’ve been ready for longer than I want to admit, and I just didn’t have a reason to know it."

"And now you have one." 

…

Derek came home in a mood you didn't recognize at first.

He came through the door, put his keys down, and stood in the entryway for a moment longer than necessary. It made you look up from the couch. "You okay?" you asked.

"Yeah." He came in, but he didn't sit next to you. He sat across from you at the kitchen table. "Sienna, uh.." He stopped, rubbing the back of his neck. "She met someone. Someone in Portland. So she ended it, with me."

"I'm sorry." You meant it. You were not a person who wanted Derek to hurt, even now, even with everything shifting beneath your feet.

He nodded, eyes fixed on the grain of the wood. "It's fine. It was.." he exhaled, a tired sound. "I don't know. It’s fine."

You’d ordered takeout earlier, optimistically, and the containers sat on the counter. You looked at Derek and he looked lost. Like someone who had reached for something and come back empty handed, unsure of what to do with his hands now.

The old version of you would have moved to fix it. You would have smoothed it over, sat beside him, and made it easier without being asked.

But you stayed where you were. "Derek." 

He looked up.

"I need to tell you something."

A wariness arrived in his expression.

"I met someone," you said. "A while ago. Before Portland, before any of it got serious for you." You kept your voice even. "It started as one night. That’s all it was supposed to be. And then it just.." you paused, finding the honest word. "It grew. Into something I wasn't expecting. Something I realized I actually wanted."

Derek was very still. "Who?"

"That doesn't matter right now."

"Who." His voice was harder this time, an edge of demand bleeding through.

"His name is Jack. He’s a doctor. I met him at a bar." You held his gaze. "He's a good man. He makes me feel like someone worth paying attention to."

"That’s what this is supposed to be." Derek’s voice snapped, tight and frustrated. "It’s casual. It’s just dating, it’s just.." he stopped, shaking his head. "We were always going to come back to each other. That was always the deal."

You looked at him, the word echoing in the small kitchen. "What deal?" you asked quietly.

"That’s..you know what I mean. That’s what this was. We try things, we come back. That’s how it works."

"Derek." You kept your voice gentle. This wasn't about winning. "That wasn't a deal we made. That was an assumption you had."

"We’ve been together for ten years."

"I know how long we’ve been together."

"So you can't just.." he gestured, a frustrated, sweeping movement. "You can't just check out because you met someone at a bar."

"I'm not checking out because I met someone at a bar," you said. "I'm checking out because I spent ten years not knowing what I was missing, and then I found out. And what I'm missing isn't Jack specifically." You couldn’t help but laugh a little. "It’s being chosen. It’s someone who notices me. It’s feeling like I matter in my own relationship.”

Derek looked like he’d been slapped. "That’s not fair," he said. "I love you."

"I know you do," you said. "I love you too. But love isn't.." you started again. "You suggested this because you wanted the freedom to look around while keeping everything exactly the same at home. And I said yes because I always say yes. But I looked around, too. And what I found was a relationship that looks completely different from what we have. And I think I've wanted that for a long time."

Derek was quiet for a while. You let the silence take up the space it needed. "When did it go wrong?" he asked finally.

The honest answer was a thousand small moments where you had made yourself smaller to fit a shape that no longer fit either of you.

"I think it was over the moment you suggested this," you said gently. "Because that was the moment it became clear we were wanting completely different things."

His jaw worked. His eyes were bright, holding himself together like a man who intended to fall apart later, in private. "So that’s it?" he said.

"I think so." you said.

You reached across the table and put your hand over his. He looked at it for a moment, then turned his over and held yours, briefly. Ten years, the good parts and the long middle and the quiet end, closing softly in a kitchen on a Tuesday night.

…

Trinity: I need you to bring me my sweater. It’s an emergency. The grey one. From your apartment.

You: Why is your sweater at my apartment???

Trinity: Y/N it’s an emergency. I'm freezing.

You looked around your apartment. You were in the middle of doing nothing in particular, which was a feeling you were still getting used to. The wide open quiet of an evening that belonged entirely to you. Just you and whatever you wanted to do with it.

You found the sweater draped over your desk chair. Grey, soft, unmistakably Trinity’s. She left things at your place all the time like breadcrumbs, a trail of her belongings scattered across your life.

You: fineeee I’ll drop it off.

At the ER, you saw her turn around the corridor and spot you. She was in her usual scrubs, stethoscope around her neck, looking not even remotely cold.

"You texted me for a sweater and it feels eighty degrees in here."

"I run cold!"

A sound came from down the corridor. A laugh that you were starting to know well. A laugh you loved in fact. 

You turned slowly, and there he was. Thirty feet away, in scrubs, chart in hand, laughing at something the woman beside him had said. He turned, his eyes found you, and he went still. You could see the math happening in his eyes as he walked over.

His voice was even, but his eyes were warm and confused. "How do you.." He looked at Trinity.

Trinity extended her hand. "I hear we have a person in common. Y/N’s best friend in the entire world, nice to meet you."

Jack looked at her. "Santos, I know who you are." 

"She didn't know." Trinity said. "Until recently that you worked here. With me."

Jack looked at you. And you just tried to look as normal as you could. You could feel the heat crawling up your neck. "Small world," he said softly.

"Apparently." you managed.

Trinity finally took the sweater from you hands. "You're such a good friend!” Then she made it a point to speak directly to Jack. “We're taking Y/N out tonight. She broke up with her boyfriend."

You watched Jack’s face. He didn’t say anything at first. But the smile that broke across his face was quietly, deeply pleased. He absolutely could not hide it. "Have fun." he said. 

Trinity was already taking your arm, steering you toward the exit. "Goodnight, Dr. Abbot!" she called.

You looked back once. He was still standing there, still smiling, and when he caught you looking, he didn't look away. You let Trinity pull you through the doors. "You are the worst person I know."

"I'm the best person you know," she said. "Also, you're welcome."

…

Jack, true to his word, had let you be the one to come to him. He’d been patient this whole time while your world shifted. 

Finally, you decided you’d had enough of waiting, so you called him. 

"Hi," you said. "Are you home?"

"Just got in. You okay?"

"Yes." You sat on your couch in your apartment. Fiddling with the loose fibers in the seats. "I want to see you.”

"When?" he said.

"This week. Whenever you’re free. I don’t.." You paused, laughing slightly at the nerves you hadn’t expected. "I’m not usually like this."

"Like what?"

"Nervous."

"You're nervous?" he said. There was something in his voice, a smile that wasn't laughing at you, but with you. "I find that extremely reassuring."

"You’re nervous too?"

"I’ve been nervous since the day I met you." he said.

You couldn’t help but smile. Biting your bottom lip between your teeth. "Friday?" you said. "Dinner. Somewhere I pick this time. And Jack?"

"Yeah?"

"This isn't a one night thing."

"No." he said quietly. "It isn’t."

…

Dinner was the most fun you'd had in a long time and after, Jack walked you to your car. He reached up and tucked a piece of hair back from your face. "I'd like to take you out again." he said. "As many times as you’ll let me."

"That could be a lot of times." you said.

"Good." His hand dropped to your jaw, warm. "I told you. I’m thorough.”

…

The door hadn't even fully latched before Jack had you pinned against it. The air in his apartment was cool, but his body was a furnace against yours. There was only the sound of your combined breathing and the frantic slide of hands over skin.

He guided you to the sofa, his mouth never leaving yours, tasting like the red wine from dinner and the promise he’d been making you with his eyes all night. He pushed you back onto the cushions and dropped to his knees, parting your legs with a force that made your heart hammer against your ribs.

"I’ve been thinking about this all night." he said, his voice thick and rough.

He didn't waste time. He stripped you and when he saw you, he let out a sound of approval. He leaned in, his hot breath ghosting over your sensitive skin. "Your pussy is so wet, sweetheart. So beautiful."

Then he moved in, eating you like a man starved. He used his tongue with a relentless, lapping intensity, broad strokes followed by sharp, flicking pressure that had you crying out and arching your back off the sofa. He didn't stop when you shook. He gripped your thighs tighter, drinking you in until you shattered against his mouth.

You were still gasping, your senses blurred, when he pulled you to your feet. He didn't lead you to the bedroom. He didn't want the comfort of a mattress, he wanted you right here.

"Lean over.” You obeyed, gripping the back of the sofa, your knuckles white. You heard the sharp sound of his zipper, and then the heat of him was pressing against your opening.

He drove into you in one steady, uncompromising motion. He filled you so completely it took your breath away. "You are mine." he said into your ear, his hands finding your hips to anchor you.

He began to fuck you slowly. It was deep and deliberate, each thrust a claim. He reached around to find where you were most sensitive, his fingers working in tandem with the slide of his cock, pushing you toward a second, even more delicious peak. You watched your own reflection in the darkened window, seeing the way he moved behind you, until the world narrowed down to just the friction and the heat.

…

Two hours later, the adrenaline had faded into a delicious ache. You woke up in the master suite and followed the sound of hissing water to the bathroom. Jack was sitting in the shower, his built in chair positioned under the spray. 

He didn't say a word, just reached out, his hand wrapping around your waist to pull you toward him. Joining him under the warmth.

Being seated gave him a different vantage point, his eyes level with your chest, dark and appreciative. He pulled you into the space between his knees, his hands sliding up your thighs.

He guided you to straddle his lap, your knees resting on the edges of the chair. As you lowered yourself, he reached down to guide his cock into you in one deep, unhurried slide.

"You feel even better like this," he moaned, his fingers digging into your hips.

He used his arms to pull you down onto him while thrusting upward, a dual pressure that made every nerve ending scream. The chair was solid beneath you, providing a grounded leverage that let him fuck you without worry.

The water sluiced over both of you, masking your gasps as he buried his face in the crook of your neck, his movements becoming faster and more urgent until he filled you completely.

…

In the morning, Jack was at the stove, shirtless, the muscles of his back working as he moved. You were wrapped in one of his heavy button downs, sitting at the kitchen island.

He set a plate of eggs in front of you, but he didn't pick up his own fork. Instead, he watched you take a bite, his gaze dropping to your bare legs.

"Jack, eat your breakfast," you murmured, though your voice lacked any real conviction.

He pushed you to lay flat against the island and parted the hem of the shirt.

The cold air hit you for only a second before his mouth replaced it.

Right there in the morning light, with the coffee steaming and the sun rising, he went down on you again.

He was relentless, his tongue finding every sensitive spot with the ease of a man who intended to spend the rest of his life learning exactly how to make you come.

You gripped the marble edge of the counter, your breakfast forgotten, as he claimed you for the third time. 

…

one year later

You had tattooed a lot of things on a lot of people.

You had never once been nervous doing it, until now. 

"You're holding my hand very tightly for someone who is about to put a needle in it." Jack said.

"I'm positioning you." You looked up at him. He was watching you with those eyes, completely unbothered, which was both reassuring and deeply annoying. "You're not nervous at all?"

"No."

"This is permanent, Jack."

"I know what a tattoo is, Y/N."

"I just want to make sure you've.."

"Hey." His free hand came up and tilted your chin gently. "I know what I want." 

You looked at him for a moment. Then you looked back down at his hand in yours, his left hand, ring finger, the spot you'd cleaned and prepped and stenciled with a single clean letter. Your initial. Small and precise and permanent.

He didn't flinch. You hadn't expected him to, this was a man who had been through things that made a tattoo needle a deeply unremarkable experience, but still.

Something in your chest did the warm aching thing it did sometimes when Jack was being exactly himself.

You finished in two minutes. Clean lines, your steadiest work.

You wrapped it. Told him the aftercare instructions he didn't need because he was a doctor and knew perfectly well how wounds healed, but you told him anyway because it was your job and also because you needed something to do with your mouth that wasn't saying something embarrassing.

When you finished your own and wrapped it, you looked at your finger. His initial. Small and clean and permanent.

He brought your hand up and pressed his mouth to your knuckles, just above the fresh ink, careful not to touch it.

…

Trinity and Dennis came over a few weeks later. 

This had become a thing, somehow, over the past few months. A loose gathering at your apartment that involved whatever food Dennis decided to bring, which was always something excellent.

"These are incredible," Trinity said, around a dumpling. "Where did you get these."

"A place." Dennis said, a man who protected his sources.

"That's not an answer."

"That's the only answer you're getting."

You smiled at your drafting table. Jack appeared from the kitchen with two mugs and set one beside you.

When you reached for it, Trinity stopped and stared at your hand wrapped around the mug. "What is on your finger."

"Nothing," you said.

Trinity sat up fully pointing at your left hand "Is that a J?"

Dennis looked up. "Let me see." 

Jack came out of the kitchen. Dennis looked at him. Looked at his left hand and then at yours.

"Is that.." Trinity started.

"Those are.." Dennis said.

"Y/N! Are you married to Jack Abbot?" Trinity grabbed your hand now, fully staring down at it. 

You looked at your finger. The small clean J sitting there.

You looked at Jack and the smile that moved across his face was warm and held a mix of pride and mischief and you felt the matching one on your own face bloom and made no effort at all to stop it.

Yeah, you were married to Jack Abbot.

Waking up was slow. She was warm and the bed had that specific comfort only reserved for mornings. Though she didn't have anywhere to be. It was her day off. It took a while for her to open her eyes. But when she did, they blinked open slowly. It was uncharacteristically dark for her bedroom. Normally light filtered in through the curtains one way or another. Still, she didn't question it in her tired, slightly fuzzy state. Perhaps it was cloudy outside or earlier than she thought.

But just as she went to close her eyes again, she felt movement beside her. And everything sort of hit her at once.

This wasn't her bedroom, nor her bed. The sheets smelled suspiciously like the man she had spent the night with.

She laid there, remembering how it felt to have his hands on her. The ghost of his gentle touches, soft kisses and whispered praises that quite frankly still had her reeling.

She was wearing his t-shirt because he had given it to her to sleep in. Such a gentleman.

What an asshole.

She sat up a little, rising to her elbow and looked beside her. Jack was still sleeping soundly, bare chest rising up and down with each steady breath. She hadn't strayed too far from him in sleep. She could feel the heat of him radiating under the covers.

She blinked, part of her hoping this was a dream. For a while, she just stared at him. Almost in disbelief. What happened last night certainly wasn't planned and she was under the impression that it was just a heat of the moment thing.

They were friends. More importantly, he was her attending.

It wasn't some drunken mistake, so she couldn't blame it on that. Both of them were sober and they both wanted it.

Intimacy had always been an issue for her. She wasn't the most experienced when it came to sex and relationships. It didn't come easy for her. And as much as she liked Jack, old habits died hard. And when the reality of what happened crashed into her, it was overwhelming. Not exactly regret, but there was this feeling of something like dread that washed over her and settled deep within her.

Her body reacted before her brain did, instinctively. Like a fight or flight response and she got out of the bed to try to find her clothes in the dark. Not an easy task, she discovered.

"What are you doing?".

She hadn't even noticed he was awake. She jumped a little, looking back at him as he switched his bedside lamp on.

"Oh." She muttered when she could see him properly. "Sorry, I didn't mean to wake you. Go back to sleep."

He sat up, tired eyes moving over her like he was trying to figure something out.

"What are you doing?". He repeated, his tone a little softer than before.

"Uh...". She swallowed thickly, nervously. He noticed this and tilted his head.

"I was just gonna...". She motioned to the door, implying she was leaving.

"What?". That tone made her pause. He sounded a little hurt, making her furrow her eyebrows.

"Baby, what's going on?".

She froze a little at the pet name he used. "Don't... don't call me that."

Jack looked at her like he was observing a patient. He noticed her slightly laboured breathing and the way she kinda hadn't stopped moving even though she was standing still.

"Y/n." His voice gentled as he shifted on the bed, moving to sit at the end of it. "C'mere."

"I... I can't." She stepped back a little. He was kneeling at the foot of the bad, bearing most of his weight on his right leg.

"Please?". His hand reached out. She stared at it for a long moment, then took it. He guided her towards him, getting her to stand in front of him.

The hesitation was clear in her face.

"What's wrong?". He asked softly, squeezing her hand to soothe the shaking of her fingers. His thumb rubbed circles on the back of her hand.

It was almost too much, but she didn't pull away just yet.

"Jack, I can't stay."

He frowned.

"Why not?". His question was gentle. Not accusing. He just wanted to understand what she was thinking. She wasn't even sure herself.

Her eyes closed briefly as she tried to pull herself together. As he was waiting patiently, he brought her hand up to his lips and pressed a kiss to her knuckles. And that seemed to tip her over the edge.

She started to cry, hot tears flowing down her cheeks. Ones that she'd been holding back since he caught her trying to leave.

His expression fell. "Hey, hey."

She sniffled, trying to pull away from him. But he didn't let her.

"Jack, let me go."

"Can't do that, sweetheart. Need you to talk to me."

She sobbed, which made him pull her closer. Eventually she was sitting down, burying her face into his chest as she cried.

Once she calmed down a little, he made her look at him.

"Did I do something wrong? Please tell me if I did."

She shook her head. "It's not you."

He noticed that she was avoiding touching him as much as possible. Her hands at her sides, body faced away from him.

He then took his hands off her. "Y/n, is this... about last night?".

She sighed. "Not just that."

"You regret it?".

"No."

"Come on, honey. Help me out here. I can't read your mind, I need you to tell me what's going on."

She frowned, eyes stinging with unshed tears. "This shouldn't have happened, Jack."

He straightened, meeting her eyes. "Okay... yes, you're right. It shouldn't have. But it did. So how are you feeling about it?".

"Well, not great." Her voice wavered with nerves.

"Hey." He gently got her attention. "Easy. Take a breath for me."

She did as told, and it was quiet between them for a moment before he spoke up again.

"What are you nervous for, hm? Don't need to be nervous with me." He kissed her cheek, which made her flinch. He noticed. Of course he did. He froze and so did she.

Then he softened. Even more than before.

"Hey... it's okay."

Her hand was on his thigh and he noticed she was working herself into a pattern. Nothing remotely suggestive. He counted each tap of her fingers like it held the answer to what was wrong. Maybe it did. One, two, three. Then she'd stop. One, two, three, four. Then she'd stop and repeat. It was subconscious, she didn't even realise she was doing it.

"Talk to me, sweetheart. I can't help if you don't."

He brushed a strand of hair out of her face, tucking it behind her ear. She sighed quietly.

"I panicked." She admitted. "I woke up, and I could just feel you. I could feel you breathing, the warmth of your body. You weren't touching me, but I could still feel your hands on me and you kissing me. And I...".

Her breath hitched a little. He tilted his head, not understanding yet but listening patiently.

"I don't like people touching me."

He frowned, but didn't say anything. Letting her talk through it.

"Last night, I liked you touching me. But that's different because I trust you and I wanted that. Now I... I'm stuck in this weird place where I want you to touch me. Not sexually. But I also would rather die."

His eyebrows rose as his lips pulled up into a barely there smirk. "You would rather die than let me touch you again?".

"Pretty much."

He chuckled softly, amused. But his hands stilled, respecting the boundary she had placed. "So... you were just going to leave without saying anything?".

She shrugged. "Well, it was just a heat of the moment thing. Right?".

He pursed his lips. "Not for me."

This alarmed her.

He sighed. "I'm sorry, y/n. I should've told you before. But I like you. I thought I made it pretty clear last night. It wasn't a heat of the moment thing for me."

"Oh...".

He tilted his head, waiting for some kind of reaction.

"I like you too, Jack."

"Really?".

She nodded. "But I'm not very good at this."

"At what?".

"Well...". She hesitated to touch him and sighed. Her hand had hovered over his arm briefly, only to take it back.

Jack blinked. "It's okay. You can touch me. I'm not gonna break, sweetheart."

She didn't initiate, so he reached over and put her hand on his forearm for her. Then he leaned forward a little to meet her eyes, giving her a soft, closed-mouth smile.

She tried to avoid his hazel gaze, but he was persistent. "Hey... just stay here with me for a second."

The two of them sat in comfortable silence for a long time. There were birds chirping outside. The blackout curtains blocked the sun completely, but some light peaked out at the edges. Only the bedside lamp served as the soft morning glow. It was still early, though she had no idea what time it was.

It was his lack of overreaction that calmed her down. The softness of the moment, the way he treated her with such care and respect.

This was a side of Jack she only had a glimpse of before. She knew it was there under the gruff exterior, effortless confidence and sarcastic comments he presented at the e.d.

His care was subtle. It didn't make her heart race or take her breath away. It just sat there beside her, steady until she could breathe again.

Now that she was seeing it firsthand, just for her it was soothing. Not scary. It was gentle. Not overwhelming. It was safe.

After a while, he spoke softly. "You okay?".

She nodded, wiping at tears that were no longer there.

"Still feel like leaving?".

"No." She mumbled.

"Good." His thumb rubbed circles on the inside of her wrist. "I'll make us breakfast then."

"Jack."

"Mhm?".

"What, uh... what happens now? Like do we just go back to work, or...".

He chuckled softly. "You think too much."

"That's easy for you to say. You can't get fired."

His shrug was too casual for her liking. "It's me that'll get in trouble, sweetheart. Not you."

She frowned. "I don't think that's as comforting as you meant it to be."

He sighed. "We'll figure it out. Don't worry, okay?

She pursed her lips, but agreed. "Alright."

_

While Jack was making breakfast, y/n stood behind him watching absently. She was still in the walkway that connected the kitchen and living area. It was open plan, so much space to move and yet she stayed in the same spot. Not even moving to sit on a stool.

She admired the black marble covered counters and the dark wood accents. It was a nice space, done up pretty much how she had imagined.

Not that she had thought about it, of course.

His apartment was nothing flashy, though it was evident he'd still spent some amount of money on it. If the huge flatscreen tv and black leather couch were anything to go by.

She had been so lost in thought she hadn't noticed Jack had moved and was now standing in front of her.

"Y/n?".

She jumped, blinking a few times.

"Hm?".

"Hey... there she is." He hums. "Been trying to get your attention for ten minutes."

"Oh... I'm sorry."

"It's okay. What were you thinking about?".

She shrugged, making him soften. "Are you sure you're okay?".

"Yeah. I guess my brain's still processing."

"You can come in, you know. I don't bite."

"That's not entirely true." She muttered to herself, not intending for him to hear it. In fact, she was meant to say it in her head.

But he turned back to look at her, lifting an eyebrow. "What?".

She felt a familiar heat spread throughout her chest and into the roots of her hair.

She swallowed thickly. "Uh...".

His lips curled into a little smirk that almost made her dizzy because she knew it meant he had heard what she said.

"I said you do bite."

"Only a little." He winked at her, making her roll her eyes.

As he turned back to the cooker, she did as told and came further into the kitchen, taking a seat on one of the stools. Her eyes wandered a little, travelling over the expanse of his shoulders and arms. The muscles in his bicep flexed slightly each time he lifted the pan.

The smell of eggs and bacon filled her senses. But she was just thinking about how those arms held her last night. And she had a sudden, unexplainable urge to feel it again. That wasn't something she could say out loud, though.

Was she even allowed to?

His humming brought her out of her daze before he could catch her blatantly staring at him. He brought a plate over to her and poured two glasses of orange juice, giving one to her.

"Thank you."

He nodded, smiling as he sat down beside her. They ate in relative silence. His knee occasionally bumped hers. By the third time, she was suspicious that it wasn't accidental. And she risked a glance at him. He was already looking at her.

She frowned, confused. "What?".

He chuckled, lifting her hand to kiss the back of it. She didn't flinch this time. "What possible reason could I have for staring at you, hm?".

He seemed amused at her still confused expression. "You're wearing my t-shirt, honey. It looks good on you."

"Oh." She paused, looking down at herself. It was just the plain black t-shirt she had slept in last night (that still smelled like him). "Thanks."

After breakfast, he did the dishes, dismissing her offer to do them. He told her to go sit on the couch.

She wandered over, but didn't sit as once again she got lost in thought. With a quiet sigh, she looked out of the window mindlessly. She kept thinking about it. She couldn't remember the last time she just wanted someone to hold her, if ever. She hated it with anyone else. It was the main reason her previous relationships never lasted long.

She didn't like the feeling of being pressed against someone. And nobody talked about how long it had to last, she couldn't spend hours cuddling. It was awkward, and what did people talk about? It never really made sense to her.

But then again, no one else had looked at her the way Jack did when she told him.

"Sweetheart."

She turned her head, meeting the concerned gaze of Jack Abbot. "Yeah?".

He sighed. "Come here. Sit down."

He took her by the hand and led her to the couch, gently nudging her until she was sitting. Then he sat in the coffee table in front of her, leaning forward to rest his arms on his knees.

For a few minutes, they just stayed like that.

Then he squeezed her hand, making sure he had her attention. "Y/n, last night... are you sure everything was consensual?".

"What? Yes, of course it was."

"And... everything felt good, right?".

She nodded. "Mhm."

"I didn't hurt you?".

She shook her head. "No."

"Was it-".

"Jack, everything's fine. I'm fine. What's with all the questions?".

"Well, I'm sorry. I'm just worried, you keep spacing out on me. If there's anything you're not telling me, I need to know."

"There's nothing wrong. I told you, it's not you."

"Then what is it?".

She sighed. "Would it be weird if I asked you to kiss me?".

He looked genuinely perplexed. "I think it would be weirder if you didn't."

"Jack, I'm serious."

"So am I." He chuckled, shifting a little closer.

"I just want to see something."

"Fine with me."

He pressed his lips against hers with a different energy to how he kissed last night, softly and unhurried. Not to say he wasn't that before, but now it was sweet and less passionate. Not until he felt her kiss him back. Only then did he moved closer and place his hand on her thigh. The other coming up to tuck her hair behind her ear, out of the way.

It only lasted a few seconds, but when he pulled away he rested his forehead against hers. "Find what you were looking for?".

Her fingers twitched, hesitant to touch him. "Maybe."

Pulling back, he tilted his head slightly. "Need a second opinion?".

Despite herself, she let out a soft laugh. "I don't know, Jack."

He smiled, moving to join her on the couch. Then he leaned in and kissed her again. She sighed into it, chills running down her spine and causing goosebumps to appear on her skin. This time, she didn't kiss him back, too in her head. She was busy trying to figure out what to do with her hands.

He didn't seem to mind.

But he stopped when he felt the slightest flinch from her when he touched her arm.

"Hey." His voice gentled. "You're okay, honey."

"I know." She sounded frustrated.

He gently guided her hand to his his clothed chest. She could feel the thrumming of his heart. It was beating a little fast, but not unsteady. It was comforting.

"Y/n, look at me."

She did as told, eyes flicking up to meet his. His thumb caught a stray tear falling down her cheek. "It's not a bad thing to want affection from me. It's okay to ask for it."

She sat up, a little frown pulling at her lips. "It is?".

"Of course it is, sweetheart. I wouldn't have had sex with you in the first place if I didn't expect it."

Her eyes closed briefly. "I didn't want to ask. I hate that I can't stop thinking about it."

"About what?".

"How badly I need you to hold me." She sniffled, wiping at her eyes.

His expression softened. "Hey, hey. It's okay. Come here."

She hesitated, but he pulled her closer to him and put his arms around her. Surprising both of them, she melted into him.

"I'm sorry." She cried.

"Shh." He stroked her hair, running his fingers through it. "Please don't be."

Once she had calmed down, she pulled back but he didn't let her go too far away. His thumb gently stroked her cheek, wiping away the sticky residue of her tears.

"Feel better?".

She nodded. "A little."

He smiled softly. "If I had known that's all you wanted, I would've done it sooner."

"Really?".

"All you had to do was ask."

After a few minutes, he took his prosthesis off and settled back into the couch, pulling her with him. He could still feel her hesitation. Her hands trembled slightly.

"Feel okay?".

She nodded, settling into his side and resting her head on his chest lightly. "Yeah."

"Let me know if it doesn't."

"Jack."

"Mhm?".

"What does one do when cuddling? You just lie here?".

He chuckled. "Pretty much."

"Sounds kinda boring."

"Well, it's not supposed to be stimulating." He took her hand and squeezed it gently. "S'posed to be soothing."

She giggled. "It kinda is."

He kissed her head, then sighed. "Good. Glad we're getting somewhere."

She nuzzled into him, craving his warmth. "How long can we stay like this?".

He shrugged. "I don't know about you, but I wasn't planning on going anywhere."

The number sits in his phone for three days before he uses it.

Three days of bad apartments and worse brokers. Places with paper-thin walls and windows that looked directly into brick. Places that smelled like mildew and old cigarettes. Places so expensive they made his jaw lock before the realtor even finished speaking.

He tells himself he's only looking because he has to. Not because he misses hearing another person in the next room. Not because going back to the apartment in Brooklyn every night feels too much like walking into a museum exhibit dedicated to a man he doesn't know how to be anymore.

Louisiana had almost made sense for a second.

He can still picture the dock at sunset, the water catching orange light, the sound of Sam's nephews shouting somewhere down the road. He can still hear Sam leaning against the kitchen counter, arms crossed, pretending not to look too concerned.

“You could stay here for a while,” Sam had said.

“No.”

“You don't even gotta stay with me. The VA's offering assistance out here now. They can help you get your own place.”

“No.”

Sam had looked at him for a long second then, the kind of look people get right before they decide whether or not to push.

“You know, accepting help doesn't mean you're weak.”

Bucky had laughed once under his breath, sharp and humorless. “Not taking charity.”

“It ain't charity.”

“Feels like it.”

Sam had sighed through his nose, digging through a kitchen drawer before pulling out a scrap of paper with a number scribbled across it.

“I know somebody in New York. Friend of mine has a spare room.”

Bucky remembers immediately opening his mouth to refuse, Sam had beaten him to it.

“You won't be coddled or given the sugar treatment,” he said. “You'll pay rent, keep your mess clean, same as anywhere else. I bet you'll like it too.”

That had been the only reason Bucky took the number at all.

Now, three days later, he stares at it again from the edge of a too-small hotel bed in Queens. The room hums around him. Old air conditioner rattling in the window. Pipes knocking somewhere in the walls. The smell of industrial detergent trapped in the sheets.

He types the message before he can talk himself out of it.

Sam Wilson gave me your number. He said you had a room for rent.

The response comes less than ten minutes later, not much text, no small talk. Just a picture. The room is simple. Bigger than he expected. A bed frame without a mattress, a dresser by the wall, a window overlooking the street below. Hardwood floors. Clean lines. Nothing flashy.

Underneath the picture is the address and rent amount. Reasonable, more than reasonable, honestly.

Then another message.

He told me you'd message. If you're interested, you can come look at it tomorrow. I work late tonight.

What would probably seem forward to others Bucky sees as efficient, Sam's recommendation is starting to make sense now. The building is in Brooklyn, far enough from the center of everything to be quiet but not isolated. The brick outside is old, the kind that has survived decades without anybody bothering to make it prettier.

There is a sticky note taped to the front door when he gets there.

Spare key is under the plant. Let yourself in.

He stares at the note for a second longer than he needs to. Something about it feels strangely normal. The kind of thing people do when they trust that the world isn't always waiting to hurt them.

The apartment is quiet when he steps inside, his shoes echoing off the walls. It's not empty per say, just still.

There are a pair of sneakers and loafers by the door lined up neatly on a tray. A light jacket tossed over the back of the couch, s mug sitting in the sink, a blanket folded over the armrest like somebody had smoothed it down before rushing out the door.

The place is nice. Not too fancy, not overly cluttered. There are soft colors everywhere. Cream walls. Warm wood floors. A kitchen with magnets on the fridge and a bowl of fruit on the counter. It feels lived in in small ways, like somebody exists here just hardly.

The bedroom at the end of the hall is bigger than he expected. Master bedroom with a bathroom attached, an amenity he hadn't lived with in too many years to count. Enough room for his duffel bags and the few boxes he still carries from place to place without unpacking.

But it isn't the room that makes him stop.

It's the hallway.

Bookshelves run from floor to ceiling along both sides of it, turning the narrow stretch between the living room and bedrooms into something else entirely. There are hundreds of books. Maybe more. Old hardcovers with cracked spines. Paperbacks with folded corners. New glossy editions wedged beside books that look older than he is.

His eyes catch on familiar titles. The Great Gatsby, A Farewell to Arms, The Hobbit. A worn copy of The Catcher in the Rye sits crooked on a shelf near the middle. Some of the older books have faded cloth covers, titles nearly rubbed away with time. He reaches out before he can stop himself, fingertips brushing the spine of one that looks like it has been opened a hundred times.

It reassures him in a way he can't explain. For the first time in weeks, maybe months, he can picture himself somewhere without immediately wanting to leave.

He pulls his phone out.

Nice place. I'll take it if it's still up for offer.

The reply comes before he even reaches the kitchen.

It's all yours. Lease is on the kitchen counter. Bring your stuff in whenever. I won't be back until late again.

He looks over at the stack of papers sitting beside the fruit bowl. A little strange and fast, maybe. But he isn't complaining. The lease is simple. Month to month, rent due on the first. No smoking inside, clean up after yourself. No coffee grounds down the drain.

That last one almost makes him smile.

He signs his name at the bottom then he goes back downstairs to start bringing his things in. Which, after a century of life, turns out to be less than he thought it'd be. It only takes him three days to move in.

Three days of hauling boxes up narrow stairs and carrying duffel bags that feel heavier than they should. Three days of unpacking only half of his things because there isn't much point in settling too deeply into anywhere anymore.

He never sees you once.

The first night, he hears the front door unlock sometime after midnight, quiet footsteps, the soft rustle of a jacket being hung up. Cabinet doors opening and closing in the kitchen. He stands frozen in the doorway of his room for a second, listening.

Then he hears the bathroom door shut down the hall and waits for some awkward introduction that never comes. By the time he wakes up the next morning, you're gone again.

There is a sticky note on the fridge.

Working late all week. Feel free to use anything in the kitchen except the leftover Chinese food. Learned that lesson already.

He pulls the note off the fridge after reading it, folding it once before sticking it in the pocket of his sweatshirt without really knowing why.

The second note comes two days later, left beside the coffee maker.

Heading upstate for work tomorrow. Back Friday night.

Then another on the kitchen counter.

If the sink in the kitchen makes that awful screeching noise again, jiggle the cold water handle.

It's strange, living with someone he has never met.

You exist in pieces to him. A mug left drying by the sink, a pair of shoes by the door one night and gone again by morning, a blanket folded on the couch in a different way than he remembers leaving it.

The faint smell of shampoo lingering in the hallway bathroom after he knows you've been home.

Sometimes he catches the sound of you moving around at night. The creak of floorboards in the hall. The soft thud of something being set on the kitchen counter. Once, half asleep, he hears quiet music drifting from somewhere in the apartment before it disappears again.

You are becoming something blurry around the edges, more presence than person, a ghost.

Not that he's one to complain. The arrangement works and for the first few weeks, he mostly keeps to his room anyway. He gets used to the attached bathroom. The way the pipes knock whenever somebody runs hot water. The patch of afternoon sun that lands across the floor by the window around three o'clock every day.

He unpacks slowly. One shirt at a time, one book at a time. He leaves most of his things in boxes because it feels safer that way. Temporary. Like if he has to leave suddenly, he can.

He still goes out most nights, he doesn't cook much.

The kitchen feels too personal somehow, like crossing into territory that belongs more to you than him. So he eats at diners, cheap takeout places, little delis with too-bright lights and menus that haven't changed in twenty years.

Eventually he starts stopping at the same hot dog stand three blocks from the apartment. The guy who runs it is older. Loud, talks too much, calls everyone sweetheart regardless of age or gender. The first time Bucky goes there, the guy takes one look at him and says, “You look like you need two hot dogs and a nap.”

By the third visit, he doesn't even have to order.

“Mustard, onions, no kraut,” the guy says, already reaching for the buns. “And a Coke.”

“You're getting too comfortable,” Bucky tells him.

“You keep showing up, that's on you.”

He reminds Bucky of Sam if Sam were louder and somehow even more annoying.

The guy asks questions constantly.

You got a girl? No. Job? Sort of. Why do you always look like somebody just kicked your dog?

Bucky never answers half of them, still, he keeps coming back. Mostly because the hot dogs are decent. Partly because it is nice, sometimes, to have somebody expect you to show up somewhere.

Back at the apartment, another sticky note waits for him on the kitchen counter.

Sorry for basically haunting the place. Work has been insane lately.

He stares at it for a second, then longer than that. A ghost with good handwriting, at least now he knows you know it too.

The first time he sees you, it feels a little like walking into the wrong apartment.

He comes back later than usual, the city already washed in blue evening light, a paper tray from the hot dog stand balanced in one hand and a soda in the other. The apartment door sticks a little when he pushes it open.

He hears your voice before he sees you. It's soft, firm yet an edge of exhaustion to it.

“You can tell them whatever you want, but I'm not driving six hours for a meeting that could've been an email.”

He stops just inside the doorway.

You're standing by the living room windows with your back to him, one arm folded across your middle, phone tucked between your ear and shoulder.

For a second, he just stares. Because he had almost forgotten, not completely, but enough. Enough that your existence had turned into sticky notes and moving shadows in the hallway. Coffee mugs in the sink. A coat that appeared on the hook by the door and disappeared again before morning.

He had built you into something abstract in his head.

Not a real person.

Certainly not a woman.

Not because Sam had said otherwise. Sam hadn't said much at all.

Just because there had been nothing obvious about you in the apartment. No perfume bottles cluttering the bathroom counter. No makeup bags. No floral blankets or pastel throw pillows or whatever other lazy stereotypes his brain had apparently reached for without him realizing it.

The place is sparse, practical. Books and soft lighting and a single plant by the window that looks one missed watering away from death. He mentally scolds himself for the assumptions.

You don't turn around right away, you're still talking and Bucky begins to wonder if he should walk out. Keep to the ghostly sticky notes and mugs in the sink.

“Yeah, well, that's not my problem,” you say into the phone, quieter now. “I sent everything over already.”

Then your eyes flick toward the entryway. Toward him.

You freeze.

It happens so quickly he almost misses it. The slight widening of your eyes. The way your mouth parts for a second before you catch yourself. It's clear you hadn't expected to see him either.

“Hold on,” you murmur into the phone.

For a second, neither of you says anything.

You are not what he expected either. You're standing barefoot on the hardwood floor with your heels kicked off next to you, hair a little messy like you've been running your hands through it all day and a suitskirt that's been smoothed down one too many times.

There are tired shadows under your eyes that make you look… real. Not like the blurry version of you he'd made up from scraps. He realizes, distantly, that this is probably the first time you've really seen him too. Not just the sound of boots in the hallway or the evidence of him in the sink.

The metal arm. The size of him. The way he takes up space without meaning to.

You recover first.

“Sorry,” you say, pulling the phone away from your mouth. “I didn't know you were coming home.”

“Yeah.”Brilliant move.

You blink at him once, then glance down at the hot dog tray in his hand. “Hope that's not dinner.”

He looks down too. “It was the plan.”

You huff a laugh through your nose, small and tired. “You eat like a divorced dad.”

He doesn't know why that almost makes him smile. Into the phone, you say, “I have to call you back,” before hanging up without waiting for an answer.

The apartment goes quiet, not awkward exactly. Well it's a little awkward but it's more unfamiliar than anything. Up close, he notices things he couldn't piece together from the notes. You look younger than he expected. Softer too, somehow. Not fragile, just... warm around the edges, like somebody people trust without thinking about it.

“Sorry about that,” you say, gesturing vaguely with your phone. “Work call, you know. I, uh... didn't expect it to go like this.”

There's something awkward in the air still, that strange lingering feeling of two people trying to fit reality over the outline they'd already made of each other.

“Don't worry about it.”

You shift your phone into one hand and hold the other out toward him.

“I don't think we've actually been properly introduced.” You say, offering your name. He looks down at your hand for a second before taking it carefully.

“No. I don't think we have.” His hand slips from yours after only a moment. “I'm Bucky.”

“I know. I suppose that's mainly my fault.” You give him a small apologetic smile. “I'm sorry. My job is very… time demanding and that won't really be changing anytime soon. But I'm glad to meet you, Bucky.”

“Yeah,” he says. “Good to meet you too.”

Silence settles between you again, not uncomfortable, just unsure. Then both of you speak at once.

“So what do you do?”

“How are you liking the place?”

You stop. He stops.

“Sorry,” he says, motioning for you to go first.

“I was just asking how you're liking the place.” Your arms fold loosely over yourself again. “Have you settled in well?”

“Oh, yeah.” He nods once. “Place is great. Thank you.”

And it is.

He likes the quiet. The neighborhood. The bookshelves. The fact that the apartment feels like somewhere a person could stay for a while without being swallowed by it.

You smile a little at his answer. “Good.”

More silence, then you clear your throat slightly.

“And you? Were gonna say...?”

“Oh.” He glances down for a second like he'd forgotten his own question. “I was just wondering what you do... that's so...” He makes a vague motion with one hand. “Time demanding.”

“Oh. Right.” You shift your weight against the windowsill. “I work in the anthropology division at the American Museum of Natural History.”

He blinks once. “Wow.”

You laugh softly at the look on his face.

“That sounds awesome.”

“It used to be,” you say with a wry little smile. “Now it's mostly a thousand phone calls and endless trips upstate to deal with the collections.”

He leans back slightly against the doorframe.

“If you work down there, why live in Brooklyn?” he asks. “Nasty commute.”

You glance around the apartment like you haven't looked at it properly in a while.

“I got this place before I got that job,” you say. “And I liked it.” Then, quieter, “Still like it.”

Your eyes move briefly toward the hallway. Toward the bookshelves, the kitchen, the little corners of the apartment that feel soft even when no one's in them.

“That's actually why I wanted a roommate,” you admit. “I love this place, and I want it to be loved, but...” You shrug one shoulder. “I just don't have the time to do that.”

Something in his chest shifts a little at that, because he understands. More than he wants to. What it feels like to care about something and still not know how to be present for it.

“Well,” he says, voice quieter now, “I'll... I'll do my best.”

You smile then, not the tired, polite kind you've been giving him all evening. Something warmer. Something that catches him off guard a little, like maybe you believe him.

“I'm sorry I've basically been living here like some weird cryptid,” you say. “Work's been insane.”

“You leave good notes.”

The second the words leave his mouth, he wants them back.

Your eyebrows lift. “That's maybe the weirdest compliment I've ever gotten.”

You open your mouth, like you're about to say something else, then your phone rings. The sound cuts through the room sharply. You look down at the screen and make a face.

“Sorry,” you say, already answering it. “I have to take this.”

“Yeah. Sure.”

You offer him one last apologetic smile before turning and disappearing down the hallway toward your bedroom.

A second later he hears your door close softly, then your voice again through the wall. Professional, calm and little tired. He stands in the entryway for another minute after that, hot dog gone cold in his hand. The apartment feels different now, smaller somehow. Not because there is less space. Just because now, finally, you are real.

The apartment feels different after he meets you.

Not immediately and nothing dramatic.

You still leave before sunrise some mornings, slipping out with your bag over your shoulder and your hair still damp from the shower. You still come home long after dark, moving quietly through the apartment like you're trying not to wake someone even when he isn't asleep.

But now there is shape to your absence. Before, the apartment had just been quiet, now it feels empty. Bucky notices things he shouldn't. Whether your shoes are by the door, whether the light under your bedroom door is on.

The difference between the sound of the upstairs neighbors moving furniture and the sound of you dropping your keys onto the kitchen counter.

He lingers in the kitchen longer now too. Sometimes with coffee growing cold in his hands while he leans against the counter pretending not to listen for the front door. Sometimes he catches himself glancing toward the hallway whenever the building creaks.

You still leave notes. One waits for him on the fridge Tuesday morning, tucked beneath a magnet shaped like a pear.

Upstate again. Back Thursday night. There's soup in the fridge if it hasn't gone bad.

He stares at it for a second, then longer than that. Before he can overthink it, he grabs a pen from the junk drawer and flips the note over.

Soup is still alive. I think.

He leaves it on the counter and immediately regrets it. Wondering if it's too weird, or too familiar. But when he gets back from a walk later that night, the note is gone.

Thursday comes, then Thursday night. He is standing in the kitchen making coffee he doesn't need when he hears the front door unlock. You walk in looking exhausted. Hair messy, tote bag slipping off your shoulder, coat half falling down your arms.

You stop when you see him.

“Hey.”

“Hey.”

Your eyes land on the counter and you laugh. It's quiet, tired around the edges, but real.

“Soup still alive?” you ask.

“Barely.”

You drop your bag onto a chair.

“Well.” You glance toward the fridge. “Soup can't technically expire if you're brave enough.”

Bucky blinks, you smile a little wider and something warm settles low in his chest.

After that, the notes become something else. Not just reminders but conversations. You leave one on the coffee maker.

Radiator makes weird banging noises around midnight. Ignore it unless it sounds haunted.

He leaves one by the fruit bowl the next morning.

Upstairs neighbors were fighting at 2 a.m. Pretty sure someone threw a lamp.

Another day:

Please water the plant by the window before it starts holding a grudge.

He forgets. Two days later, there is another note waiting beside the drooping leaves.

You had one job.

Bucky snorts to himself, then digs out a pen.

Sorry. It does kinda look like one bad day away from death.

You leave back:

So do I.

He folds that note into the pocket of his jacket and carries it around for three days. Slowly, without either of you meaning for it to happen, the notes stop being practical.

One afternoon he comes home to find one waiting by the sink.

New coffee filters are under the sink. Also, if you ate my leftover pad thai I forgive you because it was probably bad anyway.

He smiles before he can stop himself, then writes back underneath it.

Didn't eat it. Thought about it though.

The next morning there is another note sitting beside the coffee pot.

I appreciate your honesty in this difficult time.

And just like that, the apartment doesn't feel quite so empty anymore.

As great as everything else is, Bucky gets tired of hot dogs eventually.

Not completely. He still goes to the stand a few times a week, still listens to the guy behind the cart talk too loud and ask too many questions, but after a while the thought of another hot dog starts to make him feel vaguely ill.

So one night he cooks, nothing complicated. Just pasta.

Too much of it, because he has never quite figured out how to cook for one person and because some part of him has started thinking in twos without permission.

The apartment smells different afterward, warmer. Like garlic and tomato sauce and something softer underneath it.

He leaves you a bowl in the fridge with a note stuck to the top.

Made too much. There's pasta in the fridge if you want it.

You don't come home until after midnight. He's already in bed when he hears the faint sounds of you moving around in the kitchen.

The fridge opening, a plate clinking against the counter. Silence. Then the microwave.

The next morning, he wakes up to a note sitting beside the coffee maker.

This is the first non-takeout meal I've had in two weeks. Marry me?

He stares at it for an embarrassing amount of time. Long enough that his coffee goes cold. Long enough that he folds the note once, then again, before sliding it into the drawer beside his bed with the others.

After that, you start seeing each other more. Not on purpose exactly. Just in the little spaces between everything else. Six in the morning in the kitchen while the city outside is still gray and quiet.

You standing in one of his sweatshirts that got mixed up in the laundry over leggings, blinking sleepily into your coffee cup while he leans against the counter waiting for toast to pop up.

Passing each other in the hallway at night. Your shoulder brushing his as you move around each other in the narrow space between the dining room and kitchen.

Once, on a rainy Thursday, you both end up home at the same time. You sit on opposite ends of the couch, you with your laptop balanced on your knees, him with a book open in his lap.

The television hums quietly in the background, something neither of you is actually watching. At some point, without looking up from your screen, you stretch your legs out until your socked feet bump lightly against his thigh.

You don't move them away. Neither does he and slowly, you become easier around each other. You stop apologizing every time you leave dishes in the sink. He stops retreating to his room the second he hears you come home.

One night he brings back burgers and fries from a diner down the street.

You appear in the kitchen halfway through, hair damp from the shower, looking at his takeout bag like it personally offended you that he didn't ask if you wanted anything.

“Rude,” you say.

“You weren't home yet.”

“You could've texted.”

He tears the bag open and slides the fries toward you. You grin immediately and steal three before he even sits down.

“You're lucky you're cute,” he mutters.

You freeze for half a second, then keep eating like you didn't hear him. He fixes the sink handle one weekend after it starts making that awful screeching noise every time you turn it.

You come home to find him under the sink with a wrench in one hand and his sleeves pushed up to his elbows.

“What are you doing?”

“Fixing it.”

You lean in the doorway watching him for a second. “You know, normal people usually just call maintenance.”

“Normal people don't have metal arms.”

That makes you laugh. “Fair point.”

Then one evening he comes home and finds you asleep on the couch. The apartment is dark except for the lamp in the corner, there are papers everywhere. Open folders spread across the coffee table. A legal pad on the floor. Your laptop still glowing beside you, your glasses sit crooked on your face, one hand is still wrapped loosely around a pen.

You look exhausted. Like you've simply run out of steam halfway through existing. He stands there for a second longer than he means to, then quietly sets his keys down.

He grabs the blanket folded over the arm of the couch and drapes it carefully over you.

You stir a little, brows furrowing, but you don't wake up. His hand lingers for half a second near your shoulder before he pulls it back. Then he turns off the kitchen light and disappears down the hallway.

The next morning, the blanket is folded neatly over the back of the couch again. And beside the coffee maker, there is a note.

Thanks for the blanket.

Below it, in smaller handwriting:

That was very disgustingly nice of you.

A few nights later, Bucky wakes up thirsty. The apartment is dark except for the light over the stove.

He can hear pages turning before he even reaches the kitchen.

You're sitting at the table in one of your giant sweatshirts, laptop open, papers spread out around you in messy little stacks. There are sticky notes stuck to the edge of your screen, a half-drunk cup of coffee by your elbow, and your glasses are slipping down your nose again.

You don't notice him at first. Your mouth is moving slightly while you read through something under your breath.

He leans against the doorway. “Do you ever sleep?”

You jump a little in your seat, then you look up at him and huff out a tired laugh.

“Sometimes.”

“You sure?”

“Not particularly.”

He moves farther into the kitchen, grabbing a glass from the cabinet. “You know it's two in the morning, right?”

You glance down at your laptop clock. “Oh.”

“You didn't know?”

“I thought it was maybe midnight.”

He shakes his head a little as he fills his glass. “What are you even doing?”

You look down at the folders spread around you and for a second, you seem like you're deciding whether or not to tell him. Then you let out a breath.

“I'm… up for a promotion.”

Bucky looks over at you. “What kind?”

“A curator position.”

He leans back against the counter. “At the museum?”

You nod.

“In the anthropology division.” Your fingers start absently straightening the edge of one of your papers. “If I got it, I'd oversee acquisitions, exhibits, research trips. Most of the collections work too.”

As you talk, something about you changes, your shoulders loosen and your face softens. There is something brighter in your voice than he's heard before. You look almost younger like this, less tired, more like the version of you that exists underneath all the stress and late nights and rushed mornings.

“That sounds...” He shakes his head once. “That sounds awesome.”

“It would be.” You smile a little, staring down at your notes. “I mean, it would be everything.”

You glance around at the papers spread across the table. “I've wanted it for years.”

Then, just as quickly, you pull back from it. You shrug one shoulder like it doesn't matter as much as it clearly does.

“But it's probably unrealistic anyway.”

Bucky frowns. “Why?”

You laugh softly to yourself.

“Because you don't just get the job to be a curator at the American Museum of Natural History,” you say. “It's something holy that gets bestowed upon you with the anointed oil they gave Queen Elizabeth II.”

That gets a surprised laugh out of him. You smile faintly, but it doesn't quite reach your eyes.

“It's just wishful thinking,” you say quietly. “Then you die trying.”

He hates how fast you do that. How quickly you take something you want and turn it into something impossible before anyone else can.

He sets his glass down on the counter. “That sounds like exactly the kind of job you'd be good at.”

You look up at him, really look at him. Like you're waiting for the joke, but there isn't one.

“You know that, right?” he says. “The way you talk about it.”

Your expression shifts a little, because most people do not usually say things to you that plainly. You look down at your hands.

“I don't know,” you say after a second.

“Yeah, you do.”

The kitchen goes quiet, the radiator knocks somewhere in the wall. You sit there with your hands wrapped around your coffee cup, staring at him like he has said something far more important than he meant to.

Then you smile. “Thanks, Buck.”

And for some reason, it feels like being handed something fragile.

A few days later, Bucky finds himself standing in the hallway again.

It happens more often now. He'll be on his way to the kitchen or coming back from the shower and suddenly stop in front of the bookshelves like he forgot where he was going.

The shelves are uneven in places.

Some rows are organized by author, others by size or color or absolutely no logic at all. There are books stacked sideways on top of other books, faded bookmarks sticking out between pages, cracked spines and bent corners and little slips of paper tucked into random places.

It feels lived in, it feels like you.

He stands there for a minute, eyes tracing over the titles. Then he grabs a sticky note from the kitchen and presses it onto the edge of one of the shelves.

You actually read all of these?

He forgets about it after that. Until later that night when he gets home and notices something tucked into the spine of a book halfway down the shelf.

He pulls it free.

Used to. A lot. Some are mine, some were my dad's, some I found secondhand. I used to collect old editions too before work swallowed my entire personality.

He reads it twice. Then, without really meaning to, he starts paying closer attention. Not just to the titles, to the books themselves.

There are old clothbound covers with gold lettering worn thin at the edges. Tiny notes scribbled in pencil in the margins. Bookstore stamps from places all over the city. One copy of a novel has a dried flower pressed between the pages.

Some of them are old enough that even he remembers when they were new. One night he pauses in front of a shelf near the living room and pulls out a familiar green book.

The cover is faded, the spine is worn soft from use. He turns it over in his hands, then glances down at the copyright page. 1942. He stares for a second, then reaches for another sticky note.

You have a 1942 copy of The Hobbit.

The response is waiting for him when he wakes up the next morning, tucked beneath his coffee mug.

I know. Found it in a shop upstate for twenty dollars because the owner didn't know what he had. Second greatest moment of my life.

He smiles despite himself, and there is another note beneath it.

You can read whatever you want, by the way. And if there are books you like, you can add them.

He stands there in the kitchen holding that note a little longer than he should. Because nobody has said something like that to him in a very long time. To make yourself at home, that there's room for you here. It's such a small thing, just books, just shelves.

But it feels like more than that. That night he pulls one of the older novels from the shelf and reads half of it sitting on the couch while rain taps softly against the windows.

A few days later, when he finishes it, he leaves it on the coffee table. When he comes back from a walk the next morning, there is a sticky note tucked inside the front cover.

Well?

He snorts quietly to himself and grabs a pen.

Liked it. Ending was more depressing than I remember.

The next day:

That's because you have bad taste and no appreciation for tragedy.

He leaves another book out after that, then another. And you start leaving notes inside all of them. Little questions in the margins. Favorite character? Did you cry? Be honest, did you skip the boring parts? And without really realizing it, the shelves stop feeling like just yours.

They start feeling like something the two of you are building together.

One evening Bucky comes back from a walk and stops in the hallway without meaning to. Something looks different. It takes him a second to realize what it is. Wedged between two thick hardcovers near the end of the second shelf is one of his books, old and worn.

A history book about the forties that he'd unpacked weeks ago and left sitting on the edge of the end table next to the couch because he never knew where to put it. Now it's there between the others like it has always belonged.

Like you made room for it without asking. He reaches out and pulls it from the shelf. Inside the front cover, there's a sticky note with your handwriting:

Thought this looked lonely.

Something in his chest aches a little. Because it's such a small thing, nobody has made space for him somewhere in a very long time, but it shifts something inside of him. Something warm and soft blooming beneath his ribs as he slides the book back onto the shelf.

After that, you start spending more actual time together. Not just in passing, not just in notes and hallway conversations. Real time. He brings home takeout and the two of you end up sitting cross-legged on the living room floor because neither of you feels like cleaning off the coffee table.

You steal pieces of chicken off his plate. He lets you. You start walking to get coffee together on mornings you're both free, slow and sleepy and still half wrapped in hoodies.

Sometimes you don't talk much, sometimes you talk about everything. The museum. His nightmares. Books. Childhoods. Things that happened too long ago and things that happened yesterday.

One afternoon he comes back from the hot dog stand carrying two paper trays instead of one. You're in the kitchen when he gets home.

“You got me one?”

“You looked tired.”

You smile at him in a way that feels dangerous.

The hot dog guy notices eventually.

“Where's the pretty museum girl?” he asks one day while handing Bucky his usual order.

Bucky frowns. “Who?”

“The roommate you said you have.” The guy grins. “I wanna meet her.”

“No. Not happening.”

The guy laughs. “Oh, so that's what we're doing now.”

Bucky grabs the food and leaves before he can say anything else. You notice his mood immediately when he gets back.

“What happened?”

“Nothing.”

“Mm.”

You take the hot dog from his hand. “You have a very specific face when you're annoyed, you know.”

He mutters something under his breath that makes you smile. That night the two of you are sitting on the floor in front of the couch, books spread around you, some old movie playing in the background.

Bucky glances over at the shelf. “You said finding that copy of The Hobbit was the second greatest moment of your life.”

You look up from your book. “Yeah.”

“So what was the first?”

You smile immediately.

“There was this used bookstore in Queens,” you say. “I was seventeen. They had this old locked case near the register and inside was the first book from a vintage set of The Canterbury Tales.”

He watches your face change as you talk.

“The cover was all cracked leather and gold leaf and completely falling apart. It was beautiful.”

You tuck your legs up closer to yourself.

“I used all the money I had to buy it.”

“And then?”

“And then I spent the next ten years trying to find the rest.” You laugh softly. “That was kind of it. That was the start of the whole problem.”

“You found all of them?”

“Almost.” You shake your head. “Never found the last one.”

There's something quietly sad in the way you say it. Like it's less about the book and more about what it meant to give up looking. Bucky watches the way your face slowly changes, something in the edge of your eyes shifting until you're looking at the floor. It hurts, and it makes him think that he would do anything to see you smile.

In a weak attempt he pushes the last of his fries to you, claiming they're too salty for him. You both know they're not but the small quirk of the corner of your mouth makes it worth it. The rest of the night passes in between condiements and bubbled laughter at the QVC channel, listening in to the televised conversations like they're the next hit reality show.

After a few days Bucky notices the calendar in the kitchen. Not because he is looking for anything in particular. Just because he is waiting for the coffee to finish brewing and his eyes drift to the wall.

The square for next Thursday is crowded with your handwriting.

Dad's birthday. Dentist appointment. Collections meeting. Mine.

Your own birthday is written last. Small enough that it almost disappears between everything else. Something about that sits badly in his chest. Because of course it does. Because even on your birthday, you have managed to make yourself the least important thing on the list.

He knows immediately you're going to forget it.

And you do. The morning of, you're rushing around the apartment before sunrise with one shoe on and your phone wedged between your ear and shoulder.

“I already sent the file,” you say into the phone, trying to shove your arm through the sleeve of your coat. “No, I know, but if they wanted changes they should've said that yesterday—”

Your bag slips off your shoulder and your keys hit the floor making you curse under your breath. Bucky is standing in the kitchen holding a mug of coffee when he says it.

“Happy birthday.”

You stop and blink at him.

“Oh,” you say after a second. “Right.”

You laugh softly, but it sounds tired. “I completely forgot.”

Then the person on the phone says your name and you hurry out the door with a quick apology before he can say anything else. It bothers him more than it should because birthdays are supposed to mean something. Yours especially.

So after you leave, he decides to do something about it. He remembers the bakery on the corner had a strawberry shortcake in the display case. Just something small, nothing flashy, whipped cream and strawberries layered across the top.

It reminds him of you somehow. Soft-looking and sweet to the core. He buys candles too. Then he spends the rest of the afternoon searching for the perfect gift. It takes him a few blocks of wandering around to think of what to get, but when it hits him he knew he found his mission.

He spends hours going from used bookstore to used bookstore. By the sixth one, he's almost ready to give up. Then, in a dusty little shop that smells like old paper and mildew, he finds it. Old leather cover, gold embossing faded at the edges a slight water stain on the back. Perfect.

That night, the apartment is dark except for the kitchen light. Bucky stands awkwardly by the counter with the cake in front of him, candles lit, the wrapped gift sitting beside it.

He has no idea what he's doing. But there's no going back now.

The front door opens a little after ten. You walk in looking exhausted, shoulders slumped, shoes dragging. Your hair falling out of whatever messy attempt you made to keep it back this morning. You stop dead when you see him. Then the cake lit with candles, the small box beside it.

Bucky shrugs one shoulder like he suddenly regrets all of it.

“You forgot your birthday,” he says.

You stare at him for a second too long. Nobody has done something like this for you in a very long time. Maybe ever. You don't look like you know what to do with being cared for.

“Bucky...” is all you manage.

He gets flustered immediately.

“It's not a big deal,” he says quickly, motioning vaguely toward the cake. “I just...” He looks down for a second. “Figured somebody should celebrate you.”

The look on your face almost undoes him. You set your bag down slowly and walk over.

“You got me a cake?”

“Yeah.”

“With candles?”

He glances at the little crooked row of them.

“That's usually how birthdays work.”

You laugh then. A little watery around the edges. You walk farther into the kitchen like you're afraid if you move too quickly the whole thing will disappear.

The candles flicker softly between you.

“You didn't have to do this,” you say quietly.

“I know.”

“But you did anyway. Why?”

He doesn't know what to say to that. So he just shrugs again.

You look down at the cake then back up at him.

“Okay,” you say softly. “Then I guess I should make a wish.”

You lean down and hover there for just a moment, the golden glow of the flames casting a light across your face that highlights features he doesn't think he's ever seen. A small beauty mark tucked under your eyebrow, a slight jagged silver scar down the bridge of your nose. He'll never not see them now, a gift of his own he thinks. You close your eyes and hum quietly to yourself before letting out a short breath to blow out the candles.

The apartment goes dark for a second after the smoke curls up into the air. He flicks the stove light on, then Bucky reaches for the wrapped book beside him and holds it out awkwardly.

“And this is... also a thing.”

You blink. “You got me a present?”

“You don't have to sound so surprised.”

You take it from him carefully, with a growing smirk on your face. The paper crinkles softly beneath your fingers as you unwrap it. Then you go still. Completely still. He watches your eyes move over the cover. The old leather, the faded gold lettering.

Your fingers hover over it like you're afraid touching it too hard will make it disappear.

“The last one,” you whisper. Your voice sounds a little broken around the edges. “The last volume of The Canterbury Tales.”

Bucky shifts awkwardly on his feet as you look up at him. Your face is fallen with a joy he's never seen, as if he just hung the moon and painted the stars.

You shake your head in disbelief. “Where did you even—”

“Just found it.” He shrugs.

“Bucky.”

“Took a couple bookstores. Made a deal with the owner once I found it, he was an old history buff on WW2 so…” he admits.

You look up at him then. And there is something in your face he has never seen directed at him before. Something soft, something overwhelming as a clear line starts to well at your eyes. You clutch the book to your chest like you don't know what else to do with it.

"Thank you, Bucky," you whisper, shaky lip tucked betwen your teeth.

A warm silence blooms between you two and Bucky is stuck under your stare, watching the soft dialtion of your pupils. Entranced by them he didn't even notice you had gotten so close, not until he felt the gentle brush of your lips against his cheek.

Words have never failed him like now, stuck and jumbled in the back of his throat only to come out like a garbled hum.

“What'd you wish for?” Bucky asks abrutly as he starts pulling the candles out one by one.

You smile a little, wiping quickly beneath one eye.

“Can't tell you,” you say. “State secrets now.”

He snorts quietly and grabs two spoons from the drawer. You end up on the couch sharing the cake straight from the container, knees brushing every so often in the small space between you. The television is on, though neither of you is paying attention to it. You eat strawberries off the top first and work your way down and Bucky follows suit.

You stay on the couch long after the cake is gone.

The empty container sits forgotten on the coffee table, two spoons abandoned beside it. The book never leaves your lap. At some point, you curl your legs up beneath you and start telling him about the first time you found one of the volumes. How you were seventeen and awkward and had spent an hour pretending to browse because you were too nervous to ask the owner to unlock the glass case.

Bucky laughs.

“So you've always been weird about books.”

“That's rich coming from a hundred-year-old man who still reads history books for fun.”

“Those are different.”

“They're really not.”

You grin when you say it. That soft, sleepy grin he thinks he could spend years chasing. Eventually the conversation drifts. To old bookstores, to the hot dog guy, to Sam, then to terrible movies. You insist he has never properly experienced bad cinema until he has seen Attack of the 50 Foot Woman.

He insists there is no way it can be as ridiculous as you are making it sound. Twenty minutes in, he realizes you were underselling it. By the middle of the movie, you're both laughing. Not polite little laughs either, real ones. The kind that make your stomach hurt and your eyes water and force you to pause because neither of you can hear the dialogue over the sound of the other person losing it.

He can't remember the last time he laughed like this.

By the time the movie is ending, your head is tipped against the back of the couch and your eyes are half closed.

He notices you fighting sleep before you do.

“You're falling asleep.”

“No, I'm not.” You yawn immediately after saying it.

He smiles. “You absolutely are.”

You make a soft noise of protest, but it doesn't have much conviction behind it.And a few minutes later, when he glances over again, you're out completely. Your head has tipped against his shoulder at some point, one hand still loosely wrapped around the book in your lap.

For a second, he just sits there. Listening to the sound of your breathing, the soft hum of the television, the city outside the windows. Then he carefully takes the book from your hands and sets it on the coffee table. He slips one arm beneath your knees and the other around your back.

You stir a little when he lifts you, brows furrowing for a second before you settle again against him.

“Buck?” you mumble sleepily.

“I got you.”

You make another quiet sound and let your head fall against his chest as he carries you down the hallway and into your room. The bedside lamp is still on, there are clothes draped over the chair in the corner and papers stacked haphazardly on your desk, everything is so utterly you.

He sets you down carefully on the bed and pulls the blankets up around you. You don't wake up, not really, you just shift a little beneath the covers and settle. He brushes a piece of hair back from your face and his hand lingers there for a second longer than it should.

Something overcomes him and he leans down, and presses a kiss to your forehead.

“Happy birthday,” he whispers.

As he walked out of you room he saw the book on the table, with a gentle hand he picked it up, brushing a thumb over the pages as he walks down the hall. The rest of the set is on the second highest shelf, lined up together. He slides in the last edition, eyeing the aligned spines with a ghost of a smile before walking off to his room.

The call comes on a Tuesday.

Bucky knows because you walk into the apartment looking vaguely shell-shocked, still clutching your phone in one hand.

You don't even make it all the way into the kitchen before blurting it out. “I got an interview.”

He looks up from where he's sitting at the table. “What?”

“For the curator position.” You blink at him like you still don't believe it yourself. “Next week.”

For a second, all he sees is the excitement on your face. Bright and hopeful, then it disappears almost as quickly as it came.

“Oh,” you say quietly. “Oh no.”

The spiral starts immediately after that. By the end of the week, the apartment is covered in notes. Practice questions taped to the bathroom mirror, flashcards on the kitchen counter, museum reports spread across the couch cushions.

You pace while talking to yourself, you stop sleeping, you definitely stop eating properly. The night before the interview, Bucky finds you sitting cross-legged on the living room floor in sweatpants and one of his old shirts, papers spread around you in uneven piles.

Your glasses are slipping down your nose and your hair is a mess. You look like you're about ten minutes away from a complete breakdown.

“You okay?” he asks, already knowing the answer.

“No,” you say immediately.

He sits down across from you. “What's wrong?”

You stare down at the papers in your lap. “What if I embarrass myself?”

“You won't.”

“What if they ask me something I don't know?”

“You'll know it.”

“What if I freeze?”

“You won't.”

You glare at him a little. “You don't know that.”

He leans back against the couch.

“I know you.”

That quiets you for a second.

Only for a second. Then you start rambling after that. About the anthropology wing. About acquisitions. About field research and exhibit planning and the exact kind of curator you would want to be if anyone ever actually gave you the chance. You talk about preserving history, about wanting people to care. About how every object in the museum used to belong to someone. How every piece of history was once just somebody's normal day.

Bucky listens every time. He listens while you talk yourself into circles. Listens while you explain all the reasons you think you aren't good enough for this.

“I didn't go to the right schools,” you say finally. “I don't know the right people. Everyone else interviewing for this is probably smarter than me and more qualified and—”

“They're gonna be lucky if they get you.”

You stop and the apartment goes quiet around you, scattered notes and pages from your journal fluttering in the air current. Bucky looks at you from across the floor, expression calm like he hasn't just said something that cracked you open right down the middle.

“You mean that?” you ask softly.

“Yeah.” He doesn't even hesitate. “I do.”

You stare at him for a second. Then you move before you can think too hard about it. You lean across the space between you and kiss him. It's quick and impulsive, your hand catches against his shoulder and your mouth brushes his once, soft and startled.

Then you freeze.

“Oh my God,” you whisper, pulling back immediately. “I'm sorry, I shouldn't have—”

Bucky cuts you off by kissing you again, this time slower. Deliberate. His hand comes up to cup your face and suddenly the whole world narrows down to the warmth of his mouth and the way he is holding you like you're something precious.

You melt into it, your hand tangles in the front of his shirt and a soft hum slipping past your lips against his as his thumb brushes softly along your cheek.

When you finally pull apart, both of you look a little stunned. Like neither of you knows what to do with the fact that this has been here all along.

“Okay,” you say softly.

“Okay,” he echoes.

After that, the air between you changes, not in some huge dramatic way. Just softer. He starts brushing his hand against your back when he passes you in the kitchen. You lean against his shoulder on the couch without thinking about it. He kisses your forehead when you leave for work. You steal his hoodies and stop pretending they're yours.

Sometimes you fall asleep together on the couch with the television still on and your legs tangled beneath the blanket. Somewhere in the middle of all of it, Bucky realizes he's stopped thinking of the apartment as somewhere he lives.

Now it just feels like home.

Bucky tries to wake up before you the morning of the interview.

He fails.

By the time he walks into the kitchen, you're already there in nice clothes, standing in front of the coffee maker with your arms crossed and that thousand-yard stare people get right before something important. You look beautiful, terrified and a little bit sick. Your hair is done. Your makeup is subtle. There is a necklace at your throat he thinks he's seen maybe twice before.

You don't notice him at first. You're staring at the coffee pot like if you look away it'll stop working.

“You okay?” he asks softly.

You blink. “No.”

He smiles a little. “You're gonna do great.”

You snort quietly and reach for your mug. “You legally have to say that because you live with me.”

“No,” he says. “I have to say it because it's true.”

That makes you look down for a second as you take a sip of coffee.

“Still feels like I'm gonna throw up.”

“You'll throw up after,” he says. “Like a professional.”

That earns him a small laugh. By the time you're ready to leave, you're standing by the front door shoving things into your bag with shaky hands.

“Keys,” you mutter to yourself. “Wallet. Phone. Museum badge—”

“Hey.”

You look up. Bucky steps closer and reaches for the necklace at your throat.

“It's crooked.”

“Oh.”

His fingers brush softly against your skin as he straightens it and your breath catches a little. So does his. For a second, neither of you says anything. Then he leans down and kisses you. It's quick and soft but it leaves your cheeks warm when he pulls away.

“You got this,” he says.

You nod once then you're gone.

The whole day, Bucky is restless. He tells himself he isn't waiting for you but he definitely is. He tries reading, and ends up readin gthe same page three times. He almost goes to the hot dog stand twice. He paces around the apartment, reorganizes the fridge for no reason, checks the clock so many times it starts to feel personal.

By the time the front door finally opens that night, he looks up so fast it nearly gives him away. You walk in looking different immediately. Not upset exactly, just strange and quiet. Very quiet. Like your thoughts are somewhere else entirely.

He assumes that means you got it. That you're in shock, that you're already halfway out the door toward whatever comes next.

“Hey,” he says carefully from the couch. “How'd it go?”

You stop in the doorway. You still have your bag over your shoulder, coat still on. You look at him for a second before letting out a slow breath.

“I didn't get it.”

The words land strangely between you, it makes Bucky sits up a little straighter.

“Oh.”

You laugh softly, but there isn't much humor in it. “Yeah. They said they wanted to move in a different direction.”

He doesn't know what to say to that. Because he knows how badly you wanted it, knows how much time and sleep and pieces of yourself you've poured into this thing.

But then you shrug one shoulder.

“But...” You look down for a second. “They gave me a raise.”

He blinks, surpised. “Okay.”

“And they're opening a new assistant position to ‘lessen my workload.’”

That takes him a second to process.

“So...” He leans forward a little. “You still got something?”

“I guess.” You look exhausted more than anything. “I don't know if I'm supposed to be happy or devastated.”

Bucky nods slowly.

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “I get that.”

Because he does. Because sometimes life gives you something almost-good and you don't know what to do with that. He watches you for another second, then he stands.

“Come on.”

You look up. “What?”

“Let's go get hot dogs.”

You stare at him for a second. Then, finally, you smile.

“Okay.”

The hot dog guy takes one look at the two of you and immediately points his tongs in your direction.

“Uh oh,” he says. “This feels emotional.”

You laugh for the first time all day. Real laughter. Bucky feels something unclench in his chest at the sound of it.

“Don't encourage him,” he mutters.

“Too late,” the guy says. “I like her.”

Bucky rolls his eyes and you smile into your sleeve. He pays before you can argue about it, and when you open your mouth to protest, he just gives you a look.

“You had a bad day.”

“So?”

“So let me buy you a hot dog.”

You don't fight him after that.

On the walk back, you stop for ice cream too. Now you're both carrying melting cones down the sidewalk, the city quieter around you than usual. Streetlights glow gold against the pavement. Somewhere in the distance, somebody is playing music with their windows open.

It feels a little like being kids. Or maybe just people who don't know exactly where their lives are going yet. It warms your chest either way. You walk beside him in comfortable silence for a while.

“Hey, Buck?”

“Yeah?”

“You ever hear that whole ‘rejection is just redirection' thing?”

He glances over at you. “...No?”

You laugh softly under your breath. “It's just this thing people say.”

“Okay.” He nods once.

“But that's not what I was getting at.”

He waits as you look down at your ice cream for a second before looking back up at him.

“You know on my birthday you told me to make a wish?”

“Yeah?”

Your smile is smaller now.

"I think it just came true.”

He frowns a little. “You… wished to get passed up on the promotion?”

“No,” you say with a breath of laughter. “No.”

You look at him then, really look at him.

“I wished...” Your voice goes quiet. “That I could spend more time with you.”

Everything in him goes still.

The city. The sidewalk, the half-melted ice cream in his hand. All of it. For a second, neither of you moves. Then Bucky smiles, small at first then bigger.

He ducks his head, shaking it a little.

“State secrets, huh?” he teases softly.

You blush immediately. “Shut up.”

But you're smiling too. You slip your arm through his as you keep walking and Bucky thinks maybe this is what happiness feels like. Small and warm and a little sticky from melted ice cream.

A week later, you come home before sunset.

Bucky is in the kitchen making coffee when he hears the front door open.

“You're home early,” he says, glancing over his shoulder. You lean against the doorway with your bag still hanging off one shoulder.

“I know. Weird, right?”

He smiles a little. “You get fired?”

“Not yet.” You step farther into the kitchen. “I actually have tomorrow afternoon off.”

“Wow.”

“I know,” you say again. “I'm trying not to be overwhelmed by all the free time.”

He laughs quietly and you watch him for a second, seemingly contemplating.

“Do you wanna come by the museum?”

He looks up. “The museum?”

“Yeah.” You shrug one shoulder, suddenly looking a little shy about it. “I could show you around. My favorite exhibits and stuff.”

He tries to act casual. “Sure.”

But secretly, he's thrilled. Because this is your world. He's seen pieces of it before in papers spread across the table and half-finished stories told at two in the morning, but this is different. This is you handing him something important.

The next afternoon, he meets you outside the American Museum of Natural History.

You're waiting near the steps in your work clothes with your ID badge around your neck. You look different now, more awake than he has seen you in weeks, more comfortable.

Like this place fits around you in a way most things don't.

You smile the second you spot him.

“Hey.”

“Hey.”

You take him inside to see the old fossils first. You tell him which dinosaur skeletons kids always lose their minds over and which exhibits people walk right past even though they're some of the coolest things in the building.

You talk with your hands when you're excited.

You move quickly from one thing to the next, almost tripping over your own thoughts because there is so much you want to show him.

“And this one,” you say, pointing toward an old display case, “people never pay attention to, but it's one of my favorites.”

Inside are old tools and worn pieces of pottery. Tiny, simple things. You tell him where they came from, who used them, how old they are. Every exhibit comes with a story.

Bucky spends half the time looking at the displays and the other half looking at you. Because you light up here. Your voice gets faster, your smile gets bigger, you stop apologizing for caring too much. It's the happiest he has ever seen you.

At one point, you take him into the giant blue whale room. The enormous whale hangs suspended overhead, casting soft shadows across the floor below. You tilt your head back to look up at it.

“Every museum employee has a designated crying-under-the-whale moment at least once,” you say.

Bucky looks over at you. “Yours probably happened after a meeting.”

You scoff. “No. Mine happened because somebody mislabeled a Bronze Age artifact.”

He laughs harder than he should an you grin.

“I'm serious. It was humiliating.”

“You cried over a label?”

“I care deeply about accuracy.”

“You're insane.”

“Maybe,” you say, smiling up at the whale. “But I'm right.”

He shakes his head, still laughing quietly, standing there beneath the whale with you smiling beside him, he thinks he has never seen anything more beautiful. Eventually, you take him into the Milky Way exhibit.

The room is dark and cool, lit only by thousands of projected stars stretching across the ceiling and walls. Soft bands of white and blue curve overhead, and everything echoes slightly. Your footsteps, his breathing, the sound of the door shutting quietly behind you.

You lead him to one of the benches in the center of the room and sit together. For a while, neither of you says anything. The quiet feels different here. Not empty but peaceful. Bucky leans back and looks up at the stars overhead.

They're beautiful.

But not as beautiful as the look on your face when you stare up at them.

“I used to come here when I first got the job,” you say softly.

He looks over at you, your eyes stay fixed on the ceiling.

“I'd get so stressed and overwhelmed and convinced I wasn't cut out for it.” You smile faintly to yourself. “So I'd come sit in here.”

You lean back a little farther against the bench.

“It helped me remember how small I am.” A pause. “How insignificant everything is.”

Bucky frowns slightly. “I don't think you're insignificant.”

You glance over at him. He looks down at his hands for a second before looking back up.

“You're probably the most important thing...” He swallows a little. “To me.”

The room goes quiet again. You blush immediately and turn your face back toward the stars and Bucky does too. For a second. Then he looks back at you, the way the light from the projections catches in your eyes and across your face. It softens every edge of you.

You turn toward him slightly, feeling the gaze from him.

“It's pretty, huh?”

He smiles.

“Yeah...”

But he isn't looking at the stars, you realize after a second, and the mood shifts. Like all the air between you changes. He leans in first this time, a soft breath fans across your face before you meet him halfway. The kiss is slow and gentle, the kind that feels like something settling into place. Your hand finds his without thinking about it, his thumb brushes softly across your knuckles.

When he pulls back, you're both smiling a little and he looks up at the stars again, then back at you.

“What are you gonna do now?”

You blink. “With what?”

“No promotion on the horizon. New assistant to keep you free. What's the future have in hold now?”

You let out a quiet breath, thinking.

“You know,” you say, “I have no idea.”

You lean your head against his shoulder. “For as long as I've been doing this, all I've ever wanted was that job.”

He tilts his head lightly against yours. “What do you want now?”

You look up at him and smile softly.

“You.” Then, after a second, "and a hot dog.”

When you heard his voice, you didn’t even look up. You were exhausted, head half buried under the hood and shining your phone flashlight at anything that looked remotely broken which, to you, was… all of it. Cars weren’t your thing. Not even close.

You didn’t clock him until he stepped closer.

“Need a hand?”

Oh. Abbot. You straightened up, brushing a stray lock of hair out of your eyes. He stood there with his brow furrowed and his left hand hooked under his backpack strap. His chin tipped up just enough to peer past you into the engine.

“You know anything about cars?” you asked.

He gave a small tilt of the head. "I can take a look."

With a polite tired smile, you stepped back and he took your spot, leaning in where you’d just been. You flicked your flashlight back on, bathing the engine block in a harsh white glow.

Jack hummed. “What’s it doing?”

“It won’t start. No idea why,” you said, letting out a breath. “It’s been acting up all week. Usually kicks in on the second try. Makes this weird noise.”

He didn’t answer right away, just focused. Brow furrowed, lips pressed together and all. And after a beat, he reached in and felt along the side of the engine.

"Get in," he directed. "Give it a crank."

You scrambled into the driver’s seat and turned the key; the engine answered with a dry, metallic groan and then... nothing. Just silence.

“Again?” you called out.

“Go on.”

You gave it another go, then two more just for the hell of it. Nothing but silence.

“I’s not the terminals. It’s got battery,” he said as you stepped back out and joined him. He rubbed his hands together and nodded toward the engine. “But that noise… either the starter’s shot or worse, you’ve stripped the timing belt. If it’s the belt and you keep pushing it, you’ll bend the valves. At that point... yeah.”

"Are you serious?" You ran a hand through your hair, staring at the open hood like it was a coffin. "Isn't there anything you can... I don't know, tighten?"

Jack let out a short soft laugh and and slammed the hood shut.

“Even if I had tools on me, you want me to make it worse?” he said. “Thing’s not going anywhere until someone who actually knows this opens it up.”

You exhaled, glancing around the parking lot, letting it sink in: you weren’t driving home tonight.

“Is it done for? Like… one of those things where it breaks and you’re better off selling it?”

“I don’t know. Could go either way,” he said, a faint smile tugging at his mouth. “Had something like that happen a few years back; car died in the middle of an avenue. Thought it’d be a quick fix. Mechanic kept me circling for ten days.” He shook his head, brushing it off. “But hey, take that with a grain of salt. Not my lane.”

Up until that moment, you didn’t know much about Dr. Jack Abbot.

You were new at the Pitt. Two months ago, you’d finally survived the move from New Jersey to Pittsburgh. After a mountain of red tape, endless paperwork, psyching yourself up for evaluations, and the gauntlet of the USMLE, the path finally cleared. A PGY-3 spot had opened up, and your previous program director had practically gone to bat for you with a recommendation that sealed the deal. Some might call it luck; you preferred to think of it as the universe finally paying its debts. It owed you that much.

You started on day shifts for the first three weeks, but scheduling snags meant someone had to pivot to nights. It was an easy call. You were the new hire still paying your dues, and besides, you’d always been a night owl. You functioned better when the sun was down anyway, so you stepped up before anyone else had to.

It worked. People here were chill; they didn't know your history, didn't ask awkward questions, and were actually really nice. The day shift people were nice too, but nights had a different energy.

Night people. The night crawlers, as they called themselves. At first, it made you cringe. Then, somehow, it didn’t.There was a level of backup you never had at your old workplace.

You’d crossed paths with Abbot plenty of times when you were doing day shifts, but it never went past a "yes," "no," an “on it.” Still, your first impression of him was burned into your brain.

It was a chaotic afternoon like so many others; an accident involving a truck and a bus had the ER in a total tailspin. He’d shown up early for his shift. Black T-shirt, dark gray cargos, backpack slung over one shoulder. You looked up when he walked in through the doors, and without meaning to, your eyes followed him as he crossed the room. That’s when he caught you; he locked eyes with you, and his pace hit a brief hitch.

"Hi," he said. That was it. He kept walking, but his gaze didn't break. You managed a polite smile and glued your eyes to your phone before you could see if he was still looking. Not that it mattered... you were out the door ten minutes later.

Abbot was good, really good. You liked the way he led his people, the zero nonsense efficiency of it all. He was, if nothing else, a competent man. But until now, your interactions had been strictly tactical: a few passing words in the hallway or clipped instructions mid shift. Strictly professional. He kept his distance, and you appreciated that.

"Like I said, not an expert," he continued, "but based on the look my mechanic gave me and the sound yours is making..." He clicked his tongue. "You got a way home?"

You nodded. "I’ll just grab an Uber."

"Right." He pulled a face, his mouth twitching to the side and into a slight pout as he considered that. "Where’s home for you?"

"I'm in Shadyside, a couple blocks from Walnut."

He nodded, shoving a hand into his pocket. He tilted his head toward the far end of the lot.

"I’m headed that way. C'mon," he gestured with a quick jerk of his chin. "I'll give you a ride."

"No, really, it’s fine," you said, trailing after him as he started heading toward his own car, parked just a few spots over from yours. "I’ll just call a car."

He spun around fast, fast enough that you had to plant your feet to avoid walking straight into his chest, and shook his head. "Nah, nah, c’mon. It’s no big deal. You got your stuff?"

Behind him, the morning sky was finally starting to bleed into a pale gray, the first hint of light catching the silver strands at the crown of his head.

"My bag’s still inside."

"Okay," he said with a single nod. "Go get it."

You spent about two seconds weighing your options before deciding that saying no again would just be awkward and rude. So you jogged back for your bag while he waited by his car, and heard the chirp of his alarm deactivating just as you made it back to his side.

“I usually stop by Zoya’s before heading home, if you don’t mind,” he said once you were both in the car, tossing his backpack into the back seat and stretching across the wheel. “Coffee’s good. It’s two blocks away.”

You let out a soft huff of a laugh as you buckled in. “You drink coffee after a night shift?”

He smiled, glancing at you sideways. “Morning coffee’s still morning coffee. You don’t?”

“Not usually.” You watched him start the engine—must be nice. A car that actually worked. “I just drive home, take a hot shower, and pass out.”

Jack nodded, still smiling as he shifted into reverse. He stretched his arm behind your seat, and your eyes dropped to his bicep before you could stop them. A second later, you caught yourself. Guilty. You looked back up at his face and felt your cheeks heat.

Shit. You were exhausted. You were clearly more exhausted than you thought. You looked out the window, anywhere but at him.

He sighed. “You’re missing out, doc.”

All you managed was a small smile. Jack turned on the radio, switched it to a playlist from his phone, and, just like he said, drove you to Zoya’s for his morning coffee. He got one for you too.

Maybe you were missing out. Maybe he was right. Because the first sip was actually… really good. You had to give him that. He seemed pleased about it.

He drove easy while the sun slowly climbed into the sky and the conversation stayed light: You used to live in Jersey, right? How was it there? How are you liking it here? How are you settling in with us?

You answered as briefly as you could and he didn’t push; seemed to pick up on the fact that you weren’t exactly in the mood to chat after a night like that. Still, you were polite. You tried to sound open, even if it didn’t come naturally most of the time.

When he dropped you off in front of your apartment building, he waited until you were inside before pulling away.

That was the first morning of many.

Jack was right. Your car was beyond a quick fix, and the mechanic told you it would be at least a week before the parts even arrived. When you mentioned it to him during the next shift, he didn't make a big deal out of it. He asked if you wanted a second opinion, handed you his own mechanic’s number and left it at that.

Hours later, as you headed for the exit with your phone out to hail a ride, a light touch on your elbow made you snap your head around.

"I’m heading out. C’mon." Jack didn't linger; he caught your eye for just a second before continuing his stride toward the doors.

You followed. Honestly, what else were you going to do?

The following night, it happened again. A light tap on your shoulder, a quick wink, and a tilt of his head toward the exit. Jack didn’t seem bothered in the slightest about the detour to your place; if anything, he looked quietly pleased about it.

Then, one morning, he upped the ante.

"I can swing by and pick you up before your shift, too, if you need."

The offer caught you off guard. You tried to play it cool, but your brain hit a snag.

You shook your head. "Oh, no. You're doing enough just getting me home. I'm good, thanks."

Jack tilted his head, his eyes narrowing slightly as he kept them fixed on the road ahead.

"I pass right by your place. I’m serious, it’s zero hassle," he said, darting a quick sideways glance at you. "Besides, you've still got a few days before your car’s back, right?”

You huffed a laugh, your gaze lingering on his profile. "That’s a pretty convincing argument."

"Is it?" He looked at you again, quietly smirking. "Good."

After that, it became routine. He’d pick you up in the evenings and drive you home in the mornings. He parked his car out front of your apartment building and got out every time; sometimes leaning against the hood, sometimes by the driver’s door, scrolling through his phone or just watching people pass by on the sidewalk. And when you walked up, he’d open the door for you.

A total gentleman. It was a look that fit Abbot a little too well.

Sharing rides to and from work with someone means you’re bound to learn a thing or two about them. Jack was the one who did most of the asking. It wasn’t that you didn’t want to know about him, you did, you just weren't sure where the boundaries were. Besides, you’d already picked up a few things here and there from coworkers. Nothing too personal, nothing off limits; just small details you didn’t let yourself dig into any further. And that didn’t mean you weren’t curious. There was plenty you wanted to know.

He’d fill you in on his routine, usually dropping details when he picked you up in the evening. Jack would tell you about his day; how he’d found a new place near his house with a pastrami sandwich that was “really fucking amazing”, how he’d started watching some cop show that was predictable as hell but still had him hooked, or how he was trying to take art classes because he’d always wanted to be good at something tactile. Clay, maybe. Something in that vein.

When you laughed at that, he shot you a sideways look and furrowed his brow in mock offense.

“What?” he asked. “What’s so funny?”

“Nothing’s wrong with it,” you said, raising a hand. “It’s a great hobby.”

“Then what?”

You pressed your lips together, failing to hold it in. “Sorry, I just pictured you in that scene from Ghost.”

Jack scowled, letting out a huff as if the idea was totally ridiculous, but a second later the expression melted into a amused grin.

As the days went by, you started letting him in on a little more of your life. You told him that moving from Jersey to Pittsburgh had been a pre-meditated move even if it felt impulsive at the time, and that finally pulling it off had been a massive weight off your shoulders.

"So what went down back there? Why the rush to leave?" he asked, his tone curious rather than nosy.

If Jack noticed the way you stiffened, even slightly, he didn’t show it.

"I just needed to get out, that’s all. There wasn't exactly a reason to stay."

"None at all?"

He pulled up to a red light.

"Zero," you said, meeting his eyes. "After my mom passed away, there wasn't anyone left to keep me there. Honestly, it was the opposite. My family tends to have that effect."

"I'm sorry to hear that," he said, his grip tightening slightly on the wheel as he gave you a gentle look.

“It’s okay,” you said with a small smile. “She’s better off now. Her last years weren’t good.”

“What happened? If you don’t mind me asking.”

“Alzheimer’s. It started when I was thirteen, so… that was most of my life.” You gave a faint nod.

Jack’s brow stayed furrowed. "Was it just you and her?"

"No. I mean... sort of. My dad was always working so the house was on me. And my brother was never around."

"You have a brother," he repeated. "Older or younger?"

"Older. By five years."

"How's that dynamic?"

You let out a quiet breath. “We’ve never gotten along. He’s complicated. Always has been. Pretty aggressive too,” you added, your voice dropping. “And my dad never stepped in.”

Jack’s jaw tightened slightly as he looked ahead again.

“So you were basically on your own with your mom,” he said.

You let out a humorless huff. “Yeah. You could say that.”

“And your dad, he’s still there?”

“No. He passed when I was seventeen. Heart attack.”

“Oh.” His expression softened. “I’m really sorry.”

The light turned green, and Jack eased the car forward.

"It’s okay," you said, staring straight ahead at the road.

"So, the brother, he’s still in Jersey?"

"Yeah. Or at least he was the last time he called to ask for money."

Jack hummed. "Did you send it?"

You pursed your lips, feeling a sudden wave of self-consciousness. You nodded. "I did."

“Well, I don’t know his situation,” Jack said, “but he’s a grown man. Doesn’t he work?”

You let out a soft laugh, shaking your head. “Not a day in his life. I think he had a couple of shady gigs when we were younger, but no. After my dad died, I was the one working so we could eat. He never contributed anything, unless you count trouble.”

Jack glanced over at you for a beat. He wasn't smiling, and he didn't seem to buy into your nervous laugh.

"Don't let him get close to you again," he said.

The sheer gentleness in his voice caught you off guard. Your own smile began to fade as you watched him, unable to find a quick comeback.

“You got something good here,” he went on. “You’re good at your job. I can see it, and so can everyone else. You don’t have to take care of anyone but yourself right now.”

Your mind went blank.

"Thank you," you whispered after a moment, the words coming out much quieter than you intended.

Jack offered you a soft smile and studied your face for a few seconds. For the rest of the drive, he didn’t bring it up again. He didn’t need to. With ease, he steered the conversation elsewhere and lifted the mood in no time. He had a knack for that.

Over the next few days, you found yourself looking forward to those twenty minute drives more and more; forty minutes a day, total. It added up quickly. He was funny, easygoing, and, above all, comforting to be around.

You started to notice a shift in yourself, too. Talking to Jack did that. Somewhere between those car rides, you loosened up and opened up in ways you never really had before. He made it feel safe; you could say anything and it would stay right there, between the two of you. He didn’t strike you as someone who’d judge, either. And it showed. At work, you were different; that new confidence bled into your shifts. You were suddenly more present, actually laughing at your coworkers jokes and jumping into the banter in the breakroom or the hallways.

And Jack, Jack was always there. Even on the roughest shifts, catching sight of him across the hall made your night a little better. He was so casual about it, too: a faint smirk, a wink only you were meant to catch, or that intense eye contact he seemed to favor. Sometimes, after you’d been with a patient, he’d come up beside you, brush his fingers lightly against your arm, and ask how it went. Other times, he was just the boss giving orders. A top-tier attending.

And he was like that with everyone. Or at least, that’s what you kept telling yourself when you caught your eyes searching for him more and more. Kind, a great mentor, empathetic. But you couldn't ignore the way your heart hitched every time he leaned in to talk to you and looked at you with that specific gaze.

Like he looks at everyone. There’s nothing special about it; you made sure to remind yourself.

But one morning, after Jack had helped you wrangle a particularly stubborn elderly patient, Ellis cornered you in the breakroom.

“What’s going on between you and Abbot?”

You buried your surprise as deep as it would go. "Nothing. Why?"

"You guys arrive together and leave together, right?"

You smiled. “My car’s in the mechanic. And my place is on his way home. He’s doing me a favor,” you said, lifting your eyebrows.

Ellis shot you a sideways look, leaning against the counter as she reached for a mug.

“Is that why you two make eyes at each other in the halls?”

Your cheeks flared instantly. "Parker! That is not happening."

She just grinned and shook her head. "Sure."

“Jack is my superior.”

“Jack,” she echoed, moving toward the coffee machine. “Alright. Just curious.”

“Nothing’s going on. You know him. Better than I do, actually.”

“Exactly why I’m asking.”

You shook your head, swallowing the sigh that threatened to slip out, even as your mind kicked into overdrive.

“You going to Gianni’s thing?” she asked then.

Right. Gianni’s thing.

After twenty years at the Pitt, Gianni, one of the hospital’s veteran orderlies, was finally calling it quits to move out of state and be closer to his kids. As luck would have it, his birthday hit during the same week as his retirement.

It had been a nightmare to coordinate but a few of the staff had managed to pull together a celebration at the bar right down the street from the hospital. It was set for Friday at 8:00 PM, a.k.a your night off. Normally, you’d spend it in bed; sleeping in, eating something good, maybe putting on a movie. But you were making a conscious effort to be a social human being, and you genuinely liked Gianni, even if you’d only known him for a fraction of his twenty year tenure.

"Yeah, I’ll be there," you said. "You?"

Ellis shook her head. "Doubt it. I’ll try to swing by, but it’s looking like a long shot."

Just then, the breakroom door swung open and Shen hurried in with a groan. Ellis laughed at the sight of him, and you seized the opening to make your escape.

You rubbed your cheek, trying to cool the lingering flush, and spotted Lena popping a piece of candy into her mouth. You started toward her.

"He—"

"There you are. C’mon, I need you with me," Abbot interrupted, his hand grabbing your arm and leading you next to him.

By the time Friday rolled around, staying in and hibernating sounded far better than going out. Honestly, you could’ve spent the entire day in bed. You’d been watching Abbott Elementary since two in the afternoon and now, nearing five, you had no real interest in moving. On your nightstand sat an empty mug from the berry tea you’d just finished and a crumpled chocolate wrapper; your fridge held more sweets and a magnet with the number for the deli on the corner. You had everything you needed and still, you couldn’t stop thinking about tonight.

Would Jack be there? It seemed likely. In the group chat Princess had set up, he’d reacted with a thumbs up when the bar details were confirmed. But that was it. And it had been a week ago, so there was nothing that actually guaranteed he’d show.

Look at you. A grown woman. An adult. Why the hell were you spiraling over a man?

This wasn’t like you. You didn’t let yourself fantasize, or dwell, or overthink things like this, things that made no sense. You’d spent too many years building your career to let anything shake it now.

College hadn’t come easy. It took years before you could even start; most of your early twenties went into working, saving, and taking care of your mom. If you were here now, it was because you earned it. You couldn’t afford distractions like this. Things. People. Men like Jack Abbot.

What the hell were you doing?

Three hours later, you walked into the bar wearing a black off the shoulder top and a black skirt with dark stockings. To keep it from feeling like too much, you threw on a charcoal denim jacket and slipped into black boots with a modest heel.

Everyone was there. Everyone except Jack.

The last time you saw him was yesterday morning, when he dropped you off at home. It followed the usual routine: he picked up a coffee for you at Zoya’s, and you spent the drive chatting about the night. The conversation remained casual, touching on nothing out of the ordinary. You didn’t ask if he was planning to attend Gianni’s party and he didn’t bring it up either.

He had just come off a particularly grueling shift. Though he wasn't quite his usual self, he remained as nice as ever. Still, you could tell. His voice carried a certain flatness, and you saw it in his expression; the slight weight in his eyelids, the peculiar weary glint in his eyes.

You knew it wasn’t your business, but when the car came to a halt in front of your apartment, the question slipped out anyway.

"Are you okay?"

Jack seemed caught off guard. His eyes flickered for a microsecond.

He offered a faint smile. "Me?"

You smiled back. "Yes, you." You opened your mouth to speak, then hesitated. "Sorry, I don't mean to be nosy."

"It’s fine. I’m—I’m okay. Really. Why do you ask?"

You gave a small shrug. "Just a feeling."

"Did what I said about Big give me away?"

Fifteen minutes earlier, as you were leaving the café, you’d mentioned watching the Tom Hanks movie the previous afternoon. Jack had made a surprisingly poignant comment about how he’d change a few things if he could be a kid again. I know my adult self would appreciate it, he’d said.

"No," you smiled. "It wasn't that. Just curious."

He nodded, and you wished you could read his mind. Something was off, you were sure of it, but you weren’t about to push where you weren’t invited.

"Take care, alright?" he told you a few minutes later, as you finally stepped out of the car.

"You too, Jack. See you."

Now, the bar was full with familiar faces, but Jack was nowhere to be found. Most of the day shift crew was there: Perlah, Princess, Whitaker, Mohan, Donnie, even Mckay in a corner talking to Robby. There were members of Gianni’s family, or perhaps friends, you weren’t sure. A few from the night shift had shown up, too. You quickly took a seat among them and ordered a beer.

Gianni’s retirement party was exactly what you’d expect from the Pitt team: loud, chaotic, and deep in a dark humor only people who live shoulder to shoulder with disaster and tragedy can get away with. Gianni himself? The life of it.

“Remember that time the elevator got stuck with the patient who thought he was Elvis?” McKay yelled over the music, setting off another wave of laughter. “Didn’t even flinch, just started harmonizing Can’t Help Falling in Love to keep the guy calm till maintenance showed up!”

You were there among them, perched on the edge of it all and feeling a little like you’d crashed someone else’s party. You hadn’t been around long, so you played it safe; polite, low profile and listening more than talking. Stories around the table from here to there: babies delivered in elevators, sedated patients making ridiculous escape attempts, endless shifts fueled by vending machine coffee and the promise of a decent bed and a cold pillow at the end of it. You agreed with just about everything, especially the complaints.

About an hour and a half in, Whitaker turned toward you. You’d liked him from the start; there was something endearing about him, even the rumor that he practically lived at the hospital at some point. You weren’t sure if it was true, and you hadn’t asked. Still, he seemed genuinely kind.

Leaning in, elbows on the table, he asked, “So, how’s Pittsburgh treating you?”

“I like it,” you said, smiling, meaning it. “It’s got its charm, though the bridges still win most days.”

He grinned. “That your car they towed the other day?”

Jesus, what a scene that had been. A tow truck hauling your car up in the middle of the parking lot, in broad daylight, like it was putting on a show. Necessary? Yes. Annoying? Absolutely. You’d caught more than a few dirty looks, as if it had been your idea to stage the whole thing. Still, you had to move the car, didn’t you?

“Yeah, Oh my god,” you said, shaking your head.

You were seated facing the entrance and had a clear line of sight across the whole place. So, you were just about to add something else when the bar door swung open. And then, you saw him.

Jack had just walked in. He looked put-together; black longsleeve sweater hugging his shoulders, dark pants, nothing flashy. The second he crossed the threshold, he went straight for Gianni and pulled him into a tight hug.

“Hey, wasn’t gonna let you disappear without one last round,” Jack said into his shoulder. “Or without seeing your favorite doctor.”

Gianni laughed, thumping him on the back, and when Jack pulled away, his gaze started sweeping the room. There, there, there, there... and then it landed on you, and stayed there. Not a passing glance, not polite acknowledgment; it lingered. Long enough to make something in your chest shift and make you wonder, for the first time, if you’d been imagining it all along.

Jack smiled.

Small, almost a smirk, invisible to anyone else. But to you, it hit like heat straight to the sternum. Your heart flipped, then kicked into something embarrassingly intense; you could feel it in your throat.

No, stop, you told yourself. Not now!

Your cheeks burned, and in a near desperate grab for composure, you turned sharply to Whitaker, who was busy watching Abbot as well.

“You’re from Nebraska, right?” you asked, your voice just a notch too high.

You focused on him like your life depended on it. He started telling you about Broken Bow; how the cold here hit harder, but he missed summers by the lake back home. You nodded, tossed in occasional comments, played your part well enough, but your senses had already betrayed you, stretching thin and thin and pulled toward a table a few seats over.

Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Jack move. He grabbed a chair beside Dana and McKay. They ordered beers, clinked bottles. Even with the music cranked up, you could pick out his laugh through the noise and through the clatter of glass, through Gianni shouting over everyone, already a few drinks in. Good for him. He’d earned it. Retirement still felt like a lifetime away for you.

“…and that’s why, when I got here and saw how heavy the snow was, my feet were frozen all day,” Whitaker was saying, laughing at his own story.

“Can’t blame you,” you said. “Jersey weather isn’t all that different, though. Maybe a little colder, sometimes.”

“Which part?”

“North Jersey.”

Right then, Javadi pulled up with an empty chair and slid into the table.

“Are we talking about how much we hate Pennsylvania winters?” she asked.

“You’re not from here?”

She shrugged. “Does it matter?”

A second later, she was already teasing Whitaker about how wildly unprepared he’d been his first winter, and you took the chance to take a long pull from your beer; anything to drown out the restless irritating feeling in your chest that had been there since Jack smiled at you. You tried not to look his way, but it was like there was a magnetic pull in that direction. And he wasn’t even that far.

Bits of his conversation with the group drifted over. They were talking about an admission from the night before, your day off. Something about a trauma case that had them running for hours and ended badly. That’s when it hit you: you were eavesdropping. And somehow, that made it worse.

Thirty two years old. Thirty two, and here you were acting like a teenager with a crush.

As the clock crept toward ten, the mood started to dip. The buzz of Gianni’s happy hour was fading and getting replaced by the weight of twelve hour shifts catching up with the day crew.

“Well, family, I’m tapping out,” Dana announced from the next table, pushing to her feet. She stretched, letting out a yawn she didn’t bother hiding. “I am officially exhausted. If I don’t get to bed now, my entire sleep schedule is done for.”

You watched as she made her way over to Gianni and pulled him into a tight hug.

“We’re gonna miss you, old man,” Dana said into his ear but loud enough for you to catch it. “Enjoy your freedom. No one’s earned it more.”

That was the starting gun for the exodus. A handful of day shift staff grabbed their coats and started making the rounds, saying their goodbyes one by one. The bar felt emptier all at once, the voices dipping just enough for the sound of cars gliding over the wet street outside to slip in every time the door opened. What remained was a mix of family, close friends, and a few night shift stragglers.

You stayed put, nursing the last of your beer caught between following the tide out or lingering a little longer, fully aware the only reason you hadn’t stood up yet was the man still seated in a booth a few feet away. Ridiculous.

You took one last sip. Javadi and Whitaker had launched into a heated debate about the best place in the city for pierogis. Their hands were flying, their voices overlapping, momentarily forgetting you were even there. Not that you minded; you were, admittedly, a little curious about that answer.

You listened for a few seconds more, then took advantage of the distraction. Sliding out of the booth, you slipped away toward the back hallway, where the restroom sign flickered under a dim green light.

When you closed the door behind you, the noise from the bar dimmed. You faced the mirror and stayed there, still, watching the woman staring back at you. You felt strange.

You adjusted the edges of your blouse, smoothing the fabric over your shoulders with restless fingers. You ran a hand through your hair; it wasn’t pulled back into the practical, messy ponytail you usually wore, nor clipped up with loose strands falling everywhere. It hung freely instead. You took out your lip gloss and carefully reapplied it, watching the pale bathroom light catch the shine.

For a second, a flicker of insecurity cut through you; you wondered if maybe it had been too much. You were used to seeing yourself in pijamas, in your worn jeans and tees, or dressed for the hospital, and this more polished version of you felt almost like a disguise. It intimidated you a little.

You were overthinking it, like you always did. Your mind started spinning: why did this detail matter so much? Why did Jack being in the bar throw off your usual rhythm? Why were you letting it? Why were you allowing someone else to affect your pulse like this?

You turned on the faucet, and cold water rushed out; It was mechanical. You felt it slide over your fingers, around your wrists, and the steady sound against the white porcelain began to quiet your thoughts. Washing your hands had always calmed you, somehow.

Ever since you were a child, you had craved order. And you never really had it. Your house was too much for you to keep under control; large rooms, high ceilings, people who didn’t cooperate. Still, you did what you could, even if it wasn’t enough. And it showed in your bedroom, which, unlike the rest of the house, was always neat and clean.

Then it extended to your body: your feet, your face, your hair, your hands. Even your clothes, your shoes. Cleaning yourself relaxed you; removing the dirt, keeping everything in place.

Something as simple as washing your hands slowed your pulse. It always had. Because in the middle of all the chaos that surrounded you, your body was the only thing you could control. The only thing. The only form of autonomy you could truly claim.

And now, years later, you rubbed your palms together, focused on the sensation, in the cold dulling your fingers slightly and the clean scent of the soap. It still calmed you, maybe out of habit, maybe because you still hadn’t let go of that underlying feeling of not being in control. And right now, you didn’t have it. Not over your emotions, at least.

You turned off the faucet, shook your hands a couple of times to get rid of the excess water, and grabbed a paper towel from the dispenser. The dry sound of it against your skin made you exhale softly, and when you looked down at your hands, they were slightly affected from the cold.

That was it. You took one last deep breath, tossed the paper towel into the bin, and rested your hand on the doorknob, knowing that the second you stepped out, Jack would still be there—

You barely made it two steps before you saw him.

He wasn’t at the bar, or the booth, or anywhere else. He was leaning against the wall with his arms crossed and eyes on the floor, until the sound of the door pulled his attention to you.

“Hey. Thought you’d already left with the others,” he said. His voice was oddly soft. 

“No, not yet.”

You stopped in front of him. Jack’s eyes moved over you.

“You look different tonight.”

You let out a small laugh. “I hope that’s a good thing.”

He smiled, dipping his head slightly, like he was conceding.

“Course it is. You look pretty. Prettier.”

Was that… a compliment?

You went quiet for a second. There was a knot in your throat, but you managed, “Thank you, Jack. You look good too.”

He didn’t answer right away. His lips pressed into a shy sort of smile, and you caught it; the faint flush climbing up his neck. He was blushing. The realization landed between satisfying and oddly tender, and for a second, you let yourself enjoy it.

“Oh, my mechanic called me today,” you said, trying to smooth the moment out.

“Oh, yeah?”

“My car’ll be ready tomorrow,” you nodded.

Jack’s eyes flickered just for a split second and he gave a slow nod. He let out a breath and said,

“That’s too bad.”

You frowned, thinking maybe he’d misheard you.

“No, it’s— it’ll be ready tomorrow.”

“I know.”

You stilled.

You let out a low confused laugh. “Too bad my car’s ready?”

Jack nodded once, then again. “Yeah.”

You tilted your head, searching his face for an explanation. “Why?”

He pressed his lips together and lifted his chin, locking his eyes onto yours. The intensity of it made your skin burn.

“I was getting used to you.”

Your smile faltered, fading little by little. The noise of the bar blurred into white static.

What you felt was unsettling; something electric, running through every inch of you. You weren’t imagining it. Jack Abbot was really looking at you like that; in this dim hallway, in this bar, at Gianni’s retirement party, with half your coworkers just a few feet away.

Then, suddenly, a loud burst of laughter from the other side shattered the moment. Jack turned his head on instinct, and when his gaze came back to you, you’d already taken a step closer. It was the alcohol, you told yourself. That one single beer had made you braver than usual.

His breathing visible hitched.

You tipped your face up toward him. “Jack…”

His jaw tightened hard enough for you to see the muscle flex. His eyes traced over your face, stopping at your mouth with conflict and desperation. Then, without warning, he stepped forward, forcing you back. The force of his body drove you until your back hit a wooden door behind you.

Without breaking eye contact, he reached for the handle; his hand brushed your hip as he pushed it open. You didn’t question it, you just let yourself be guided into the dark of the small room, his body keeping you pinned as he followed you inside.

Jack shut the door behind him and the silence of the supply closet dropped over you both at once. The space was barely big enough to breathe in; there was hardly any distance left between you. You caught a brief glimpse of everything; metal shelves stacked with disinfectant jugs, a mop slumped in the corner, a couple of buckets... but none of it really registered. Your focus was locked on him.

He flicked on the light. It was so dim, almost useless. And when he turned to face you, you noticed the tension around him. You thought you knew what was running through his head. At least, you told yourself you did. Truth was, you didn’t have a clue.

He took a small step closer and swallowed hard.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that,” he said at last, voice rough. “Dragging you in here. It was… impulsive.”

“Why?” you whispered. “Why did you do it, then?”

He didn’t answer. Just set his jaw again.

So you tipped your head and smiled faintly. “Did you just want to talk about my car in private? That it?”

A short dry laugh left him and he dropped his head for a second, then a real smile broke through, lighting up his face.

You let yourself take him in properly now. No harsh hospital lighting in here, just that low glow catching in his salt and pepper curls, teasing out the reddish strands hidden in places. The lines at the corners of his eyes deepened with the smile, and for a second, you had the urge to reach out, trace them with your thumb; right there and there, where time and pain had left their marks, along with a hundred smiles just like this one.

You didn’t. Of course you didn’t. You just looked. Hands off. For now.

“No,” he said after a beat. “Honestly, I don’t even know why I did it. I just— I was sitting there, trying to listen, and all I could think about was how many minutes were left before you got up from that table. Before you walked away.”

He leaned in, just close enough for his breath to graze your cheek.

"I spent all day trying to convince myself I was just being a good person by driving you home," he murmured, the words sounding like they were being torn out of him. "But then I saw you out there…" His gaze dropped to your lips, then surged back to yours with a searing intensity. "If we walk out that door right now, we can pretend this never—"

Jack didn’t get to finish; the sentence died in the air as you silenced him the only way possible: by crashing your mouth against his.

It was an electric collision. He let out a choked gasp against your lips before his hands found your waist, hauling you into him with a sudden breathless force. His body felt so solid and scorched with heat that you pressed closer, desperate for it, and when you finally broke the contact by a mere fraction of an inch, you both hung there, eyes locked and lungs burning, acknowledging the point of no return.

Then, you collided again with raw desperation. Raw, because there was no room for hesitation. A low moan vibrated deep in Jack's throat, echoing right into yours as his hands slid hungrily down your hips. He gripped you there, fingers digging in your tenderness with a possessive urgency that made you gasp. You clung to his shoulders, your fingers sinking into the soft wool of his sweater and moaning into his mouth as your body arched into his because you could not help it.

Jack broke the kiss to descend upon your throat, leaving a trail of damp kisses that forced your head back against the wall.

"Jack..." you gasped, your voice fracturing as his mouth branded your skin.

He didn't falter. His hands were molten as they mapped your body; one palm surged up your side while the other swept down your thigh, sliding with intent beneath the hem of your skirt. You obeyed instinctively, parting your legs to grant him the space he demanded, and he used the opening to pin you firmly against the cold stone at your back.

Your mind dissolved into a beautiful haze. You felt dizzy, utterly drunk on his scent and the friction of his warm skin. Jack nipped at the curve of your shoulder, wrenching a sharp moan from your throat, and that was when you felt it; his broad and firm palm pressing directly between your thighs.

The contact was so precise you trembled violently. Instinct took over; you arched downward, seeking the heavy pressure of his hand against your aching silk covered pussy. At that, Jack let out a low growl of pure need; he reclaimed your mouth with a desperate hunger, devouring you as his touch made the rest of the world vanish into nothingness.

His fingers moved with expert precision over the lace of your underwear and the fine texture of your stockings. And sure, you already knew he was capable; his hands were his livelihood, and his talent clearly extended beyond his profession.

You kissed him back with everything you had, your tongues tangling and claiming every inch of space and your body melting under his weight and the relentless pressure of his palm where you needed it most. 

Fuck.

He pulled away from your lips just enough to pepper your jawline with hot little kisses, his ragged breath hitching in needy whimpers against your ear. And then... like a plunge into ice water, your eyes snapped open.

Reality hit you. The clinical scent of disinfectant, the flickering yellow light, the rows of chemical bottles surrounding you... You were in a supply closet, in a bar, at ten o'clock at night, with your superior’s hand between your legs.

Wake up.

"Jack..." you managed.

Your chest heaved in a frantic rhythm as logic began to pierce through the thick fog of desire.

"Jack… no."

You pressed your palms against his chest, feeling the wild runaway thrum of his heart beneath his clothes. He recoiled instantly; his eyes, usually so clear, were now so dark as obsidian; deep and flooded with a lust that flushed his face and burned across his cheekbones. He looked incredible like this: unraveled, human, and so damn attractive. God, you could hardly believe you were about to say it. You wanted him so badly your womb ached, but the crushing weight of the consequences suddenly felt too real.

"We can’t do this," you told him, fighting to keep your voice from fracturing. He watched you in silence, his jaw clamped tight. "I’m sorry… no… no. I’m sorry."

You gave him a small shove and slipped through the narrow gap between his body and the wall, feeling one final graze of his heat before you broke away. Jack didn't try to catch you; he remained there, motionless in the shadows of the closet, his hands still partially open.

Without another word, not daring to look back for fear that a single glance would pull you straight back into his arms, you bolted from the room.

The noise of the bar hit you like an unbearable song but you didn't falter. You headed straight for the exit, your pulse still thundering in your ears and the phantom sensation of his hands branded into your skin like fire.

Exactly twenty days ago, your car gave up in the Pitt parking lot. None of this would’ve happened without that. So... thanks for that, car.

Going back to the hospital after the bar night wasn’t exactly a walk in the park. But hey, at least you had your car back now. That had to count for something, right?

When you pushed through the glass doors, your heart was lodged somewhere up in your throat. You already knew there were two possible outcomes waiting for you on the other side.

Option one: Jack would ignore you. Not completely, he couldn’t, not really, given he had to interact with you one way or another. But he could keep it clipped, professional and distant. That was entirely possible. You didn’t know how that made you feel—no, that was a lie. You knew exactly how it made you feel. Like crap. Bad. A little sick, if you were being honest. Because whatever happened two nights ago aside, your relationship with him was one of the closest you had in Pittsburgh. Kind of pathetic, wasn’t it? That one of the people you were closest to, maybe the closest, was your attending.

Option two, and let’s be real, the more likely one: Jack would want to talk. Of course he would. He’d already tried over the past two days. Three texts; one the night of the bar, one the next day, and another later that same evening. Yesterday, nothing. And you hadn’t answered any of them. You didn’t even know why. You just… couldn’t. For some reason, you couldn’t.

So yeah, this was the most probable scenario: an awkward but necessary conversation, somewhere quiet but not too far from the ER. He’d tell you it was a mistake, that it didn’t mean anything, that you could just forget it ever happened. Or maybe he’d soften it, ask you not to read into it, say you both got carried away, that’s all. And you’d nod, play it cool, say don’t worry about it, I’ll forget it too. We’re good.

Were you good, though? It’s not like you’d spent the last two days overthinking every second of it, spiraling just a little because, after finally landing somewhere that felt nice and calm and far from all your personal chaos, you’d gone and wrecked it. Thoroughly. Because your relationship with him wasn’t going back to what it was, and if you couldn’t get past this, you’d have to do something about it. Switch back to day shifts, keep your distance, do whatever it took so your day to day didn’t turn into something you dreaded walking into.

That’s what you were stuck on as you walked into the hospital with fingers tightening around the strap of your backpack on your right shoulder. Eyes down, you greeted Lena and Dana (still there) and headed straight for the lockers. You tried, really tried, not to look for Jack. And you didn’t see him anywhere—

“Hey.”

He was right behind you.

“Hey,” you echoed, sliding your things into your locker, though your eyes stayed on him.

When the hell had he shown up? He wasn’t in scrubs. Had he come in after you? You hadn’t seen him in the parking lot either.

“Did you get my texts?” he asked quietly, opening his own locker and tossing his backpack inside. There was a crease between his brows. “It said read.”

You sighed, pulling off your hoodie. “Yeah.”

Out of the corner of your eye, you saw him nod. “Can we talk for a minute?”

Of course. Option two.

You turned your head toward him. “Yeah. Give me a second.”

Jack nodded, watching you as he unzipped his backpack, pulled out a small pouch, then zipped it back up.

“See you outside in five minutes.”

When he shut his locker and walked off, the nerves lit up under your skin.

You needed to get this over with. Fast. Best case; do it now at the start of the shift, instead of dragging it through twelve hours of working side by side, wondering what was going on in his head.

You changed into your scrubs, splashed cold water on your face, then dried off and fixed yourself up before heading out to find him. Outside, the sky was shifting; pink and orange giving way to an oncoming night, and the crisp autumn air hit your still damp cheeks.

You didn’t have to look long. Jack was waiting just around the corner from the entrance, in a spot quiet enough that no one would overhear. At least, that’s what you figured.

“Hey,” you said, stopping a couple of feet away.

Jack turned toward you. “How are you?”

“Good,” you answered, even if your pulse begged to differ, stepping closer. “You?”

“I’m good.”

Silence stretched between you. Jack pressed his lips together, ran a hand over the back of his neck then let out a breath.

“Listen, about the other night…” he started.

You stayed quiet, bracing for it.

He dropped his gaze, shaking his head faintly. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. I’m sorry. I really am.”

“Jack, no—don’t worry about that,” you said quickly, brushing it off, trying to make it smaller than it felt.

"How could I not? You looked more than a little shaken when you left. You practically made a run for it."

"Yeah, well... it was unexpected," you admitted, shifting your gaze toward the parking lot. "And it’s fine. Really, it’s all fine. Don't worry about it."

"Is it?" Jack tilted his head, his eyes locked onto yours. "Because I’d hate to make you feel uncomfortable at your workplace. My job is—"

"Seriously, it's okay. We were both a bit tipsy and—"

"I wasn’t drunk."

The words died in your throat. You stared at him, searching for any sign of exaggeration, but his expression was dead serious.

"I’d barely finished half a beer," he continued, making an almost imperceptible move toward you. "Were you drunk?"

You didn't answer. You knew perfectly well you weren't. You’d stretched that one drink over nearly two hours—you’d been perfectly aware when his hands touched you.

Seeing your silence, Jack let out a heavy sigh. For the first time, he looked genuinely frustrated with you.

"What happened in there..." he started, reaching for the right words, his voice fracturing slightly. "That wasn't the alcohol, and it wasn't a lapse in judgment. I don't want you thinking I put you in that position because I didn't know what I was doing or because I was just being reckless."

A wave of nerves hit you. "It’s fine. We can just forget it, really. I get it, okay? I know this wouldn't be good for our jobs and I…" You huffed a nervous, soft laugh, shaking your head.

Jack stiffened visibly. His shoulders squared as he met your gaze with an intensity that forced you to hold it.

"Putting the job aside, what I’m trying to say is... I'm sorry it happened like that, okay?"

He took a small step toward you, invading the very space you had been trying so hard to protect.

"I’m sorry for cornering you. I’m sorry for dragging you into a closet like it was something to be ashamed of, or... something like that. I never meant for you to feel trapped," Jack sighed, pressing his lips together and shaking his head slightly.

He opened his mouth to say more but hesitated. His eyes searched yours with a sudden surge of urgency and need. He wanted to tell you that he’d been dying to kiss you for weeks, that his car felt impossibly small every time he drove you home—but the looming shadow of the hospital behind him, the look in your eyes, and his own fumbling words were holding him back.

"What I’m trying to say is that my intention... it wasn't to disrespect you, but it also wasn't..." He trailed off, his jaw tightening. "Shit, I’m not explaining this well at all."

You felt your nerves betray you again, your fingers beginning to fret with the hem of your jacket.

"It’s okay," you started, but your voice came out thin and unsteady. You cleared your throat. "I mean it. I understand what you’re saying; you don’t have to... you don't have to explain yourself so much."

"I feel like I do."

"You really don't. I know you aren't that kind of man, Jack. I know you're respectful and I... I’d hate to let this ruin the good thing we have. I like working with you. I like how we get along. I don't want this to break that."

Jack went perfectly still. You saw him stiffen, and then he gave a single, sharp nod.

"You’re right."

"Please, don't feel guilty about any of it," you added quickly, desperate to erase that look from his face. "I was just as active a participant as you were, okay? There’s no blame here, and I'm not judging you. It was just… a moment."

He crossed his arms over his chest, nodding as he fixed his gaze on the pavement.

He went quiet for a moment.

“Jack,” you called.

His head snapped up.

"No. You're right. It’s the smart thing to do. Let's just forget it happened, right?"

That forget it hit you in the chest unexpectedly. No—it wasn't unexpected. Deep down, you knew exactly why it stung. A sharp ache bloomed right beneath your ribs, but you forced a smile and nodded, mimicking his posture by crossing your own arms.

Jack took a step back, his eyes avoiding yours. "Anyway, we got a busy night ahead of us. We should probably get inside."

He turned without waiting for a reply and headed toward the hospital entrance, leaving you standing alone in the parking lot with the hollow haunting sensation that you had just lost something.

Pope notices you the very first night you move to the area. How could he not? You jog by the skate park when he's doing evening security and the breeze of your passage feels like an angel descending from heaven. Pope’s not like Craig; he doesn’t notice you because of the delicious jiggle of your ass in those bike shorts or the way your sweat-soaked cropped tee clings to your curves, the skate park being at the end of your route, near your apartment, your long run finishing.

No, he notices the way you’re singing along to your music.

Headphones in, chin up, enjoying the setting sun glowing over your skin. Singing. Loud enough for him to hear you across the street about to drop into the ramp for his final few runs before it gets dark. He vaguely recognizes the tune as some pop song that plays sometimes at the grocery, but it sounds so different coming from your mouth. You’re breathless and joyous. Even the tiny ball of fluff attached to you by a leash is caught up in your sun rays, looking so happy as she pants toward the finish line of home by your side.

You do the same thing the next night. And the next. Soon enough, he realizes this is your daily routine. Maybe you just moved to the area. Maybe you made some new summer resolution. Some days you run in ratty sweats and others in sleek legging sets, but you’re always vibrant when you go by.

He likes watching you. It’s his little indulgence between running the skate park and running his brothers. From the moment you turn onto the block a ways up the street until you cross the street into the neighborhood where he assumes you live, the houses obscuring his view, Pope keeps his eyes trained on you. When you’re close enough, his ears perk up to listen to that voice of yours lilting through whatever song you have on that evening. His usual schedule was watching the door as security after dark anyway, but you do your runs at sunset, so he starts just…going out a little early. Nothing wrong with that.

After a while, you notice him, too. The handsome-in-an-intense-way stranger who’s always there during your runs, another statue you run by like the handful of art installations in the park. You figure he’s a security guard, out by nothing but the virtue of his job, so you start waving at him. A tiny moment shared each night from across the street. You don’t pause your music or slow your pace, but you lift your eyes in his direction, give a gentle wave of your hand, wait for him to nod or give a flat smile or (rarely) even wave back, and continue on your way. And those moments are everything for Pope. Just a tiny instance of being seen as another person, uncomplicated, amid the chaos.

That harmless little ritual breaks into something else one muggy night in the heat of summer.

You’re running fast tonight. No singing. The dog is in your arms, not trying to keep up with you in those tiny legs. Pope notices the change right away and finds himself taking a few steps away from the door to get more information.

Then he notices the guy running just a step behind you. At first Pope figures he’s just another jogger out circling the park, but when he gets a bit closer he can hear the threats coming from his mouth. You must’ve rejected him or ignored him or whatever sets off guys like that earlier in your jog, maybe at the corner when you had to wait at the crosswalk. Now the guy’s chasing you, going between negging you and begging you. It’s not like he’s waving around a gun, but Pope feels the threat of his presence. He could corner you, pin you, follow you home.

Even if he doesn’t do any of that, even if he ‘just’ follows you like this, you don’t feel safe. That matters to Andrew.

He’s sprinting across the street before he can even process, the primal part of his brain taking over when he sees danger encroaching. Pope is faster than both of you, his form like Apollo tracking across the sky, and it’s a matter of seconds before he’s plowing into the guy who’s harassing you, knocking him into the sidewalk with so much force it’s a wonder the sound barrier doesn’t break.

You stop in your tracks as Pope wrestles him to the ground, pinning him and giving him one quick, sharp punch to the nose to get him to quit squirming. Pope holds his jaw and snarls, “What the fuck are you doing talking to her like that? Scaring the shit out of her?”

The guy wheezes as his eyes dart around. “Jesus fuck, man, what are you, her bodyguard?”

Pope squeezes his jaw hard enough to bruise as you watch from a distance, sizing up the situation. “Security at the skate park across the street. Don’t need you scaring people on my home turf.” Pope stands up, wrenches the guy to his feet by the center of his shirt, which rips, and shoves him in the opposite direction. He’s fighting to keep his composure because he doesn’t want to scare you, so he just taps his holstered gun and growls, “If I see you in this area again, it’s gonna be more than a punch. Got it?”

The guy touches the back of his hand to his nose, winces at the contact, and nods. He spits blood onto the sidewalk and mutters, “Not worth it anyway.”

Pope doesn’t let go of his shirt. He nods over in your direction and ‘suggests,’ “Now how about you apologize to her and get the fuck out of here?”

Sensing that Pope isn’t the kind of guy he should mess with, he glances briefly in your direction, mumbles “sorry” like a caught toddler, and skulks off in the opposite direction through the park.

Pope gives a sharp nod, a tense not-quite-smile, and turns on his heel to go back to the skate park, back to the regular routine of the night.

Your brows furrow. Before he can get more than a couple steps away, you reach out and grab him by the forearm. The feeling of your fingers jolts him like jumper cables. “Wait! Hold on, you can’t save me all heroically and then just walk off.”

“Oh, sorry.” He shoves his hands in his pockets and turns back to you. Unsure what to say to your expectant expression, he lies,” I would’ve done it for anyone.”

“I don’t think that’s true,” you reply with a cheeky little smirk that he stares at with longing, intense eyes. That look of his might bother another woman – it feels possessive, almost, like he wants to eat you – but you don’t mind. To you, it’s attentive and desirous, something worth stoking. Setting your nervous dog back on the sidewalk, you sheepishly ask him, “Would you mind walking me home? A pomeranian isn’t exactly a protection dog and I’m feeling kinda….”

As your voice drifts into unspoken nerves, Andrew’s world goes quiet for a second. He notices the way the sun lifts the color of your irises as you try to blink back the light. He notices how you worry your thumb with your first finger, picking at a hangnail, hesitant as you wait for his response. He notices your hairline, your earlobes, your peach fuzz. Every single thing there is to notice.

Nodding tightly, he replies in a gravelly voice, “Yeah. Yeah, of course. No problem.” He unhooks his walkie talkie from his belt and clicks it on, “Craig, watch the door for a few minutes.”

Another man’s voice, annoyed but accepting, comes through the grainy speaker. “What the fuck are you doing that you can’t?”

Pope rolls his eyes and cuts back, “Just do it.”

“Fine.”

Gesturing to the walkie before clipping it back in place, he says, “One of my asshole brothers. Helps me out sometimes.”

You start walking toward the end of the block and Pope follows you, slowing his naturally long stride to match yours. To keep away the silence, you ask, “How many brothers do you have?”

His hands slide into his dark jean pockets and he trains his eyes on your dog’s swishing fluffy tail, terrified to get caught staring at your side profile. “Ah, two who are still alive.”

“Oh.” God, your voice sounds too sympathetic for him to be worthy of. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

With a shrug, he murmurs, “It was a long time ago.”

You shrug, too, but there’s an openness to it. “Still.”

“Right.” He remembers that’s a normal thing to be upset about and awkwardly adds, “Thanks.”

You stop walking in front of a cute, tiny townhouse in a row of them, all pastels with flower boxes in the front window. Yours is pale yellow and he decides that suits you. For some reason, you seem reluctant to go inside as you announce, “This is my place.”

Pope gives the spot a long look. All he sees is the total lack of security, but he knows that wouldn’t be an appropriate thing to comment on, so he says simply, “It’s nice.”

You sigh, “It’s affordable.”

“That’s good, too,” he replies a bit too fast. Too eager. He wants to punch himself in the gut. Why doesn’t he know how to talk to you? It’s not like you’re anything…special. Dammit. You are, aren’t you? The way you nibble your lower lip waiting for him to speak. The way your dog looks up at you like you’re the center of the universe. The way you shift your weight from foot to foot to soothe yourself. You’re special. Of course you are. He swallows hard and puts his hand out in front of him, stiff but trying his best. “I’m, ah, I’m Andrew, by the way. Andrew Cody. Everyone calls me Pope around here, at the park and my family and everything, but you can call me Andrew, if you want.”

“Okay, I will.” You introduce yourself with a smile that almost makes him forget your name (and his own) right away, but he commits it to memory by mentally repeating it over and over. You pick up the dog again and tell him, “And this is Billie, my running buddy.”

Andrew tentatively offers the orange fluff his hand the way he’s seen people do on TV. She sniffs his fingers and then gives him one solitary lick that makes him tilt his head to the side. Is that a good thing? He admits quietly, “I don’t have much experience with dogs.”

You’re beaming at him as he carefully interacts with Billie, using the most tender touch you’ve ever seen from a man, especially one so obviously strong and imposing. You give his bicep a completely un-selfish squeeze and affirm, “Well, she definitely likes you. She usually growls at any man who comes near me.”

Andrew smirks and gives her a small, tentative scratch behind the ears that she leans into. “That’s a good girl.”

Your mouth waters a bit when he says it. He’s really, really handsome. More handsome than you expected when he started running toward you like a guardian angel. You swallow hard, playing with your keys as you stall in the doorway, and offer up, “It’s good to finally meet you – for real, I mean. More than a wave. It’s nice knowing a friendly face in my neighborhood.”

A friendly face. Pope’s not sure he’s ever been called that. It makes him smile. Actually smile. He looks down at the sidewalk and shakes his head and, Jesus, even his teeth are painfully cute between those dimples and that cupid’s bow. You really, really debate inviting him in for a drink or something, but you know that’s not a good idea. He has to get back to work and you have to, well, not get yourself entangled with a handsome, gun-carrying stranger so soon after moving to a new town. You’re here to focus on yourself, not throw yourself at the first man who sprints to your defense like a sexy comic book hero with arms you’d love to bite down on and-

“Goodnight, Andrew,” you say abruptly, cutting off the drawn-out silence of you both staring at the other. “Thanks again for stepping in. Most people wouldn’t do that.”

He shrugs modestly. “I’m not most people.”

“Yeah, I can tell.”

Usually that kind of comment would send Pope’s head spinning – what had he done wrong in the conversation to come off as abnormal? – but when it tumbles from your lips he doesn’t mind it. “Well, ah, I’ll see you around, I hope.”

With a warm smile, you assure him, “You will.”

And, starting the next night, you always jog on Andrew’s side of the street instead of across. It makes Pope’s heart clench in his chest and it takes him another few nights to understand why: He made you feel safe. That’s all he’s ever wanted – for someone to trust him to keep them safe instead of thinking he’s too crazy, too intense, too much and not enough at once.

Another couple weeks pass and sometimes you even trade small talk. Even the quick ‘hi, how are you?’ exchanges are enough to send Andrew’s mind into candy-coated daydreams like he hadn’t felt in a long, long time. Cresting past 35, he can barely remember his last hookup, much less his last girlfriend, much less the last girl he actually liked and didn’t just acquiesce to.

Pope’s on his fourth day of getting his confidence up to ask for your number when fate decides to push the two of you together again.

The douchey red sportscar’s windows are tinted way too dark and its music is way too loud as it screeches down the street, racing with a similarly douchey Jeep. Street racing’s a huge issue in Oceanside and it’s particularly annoying to Pope because most of the culture is his brothers’ fault. His sense of danger perks up immediately. When he sees you stop in the crosswalk, tangled up in Billie’s leash with your headphones still blaring music in your ears, completely unaware of any external threats, he curses under his breath. If you don’t hear those cars’ fart cannons, you definitely won’t hear him shouting at you to get out of their way.

He sighs and gets moving. Just how often is he gonna have to sprint into the street for you?

As he does it, though, he realizes he’d be happy to throw himself in front of a car for you every night if it means he’ll get more of those precious moments where you say his name or touch his arm.

He’s fucked.

Pope manages to sweep you fully off your feet and get you to the curb with maybe half a second to spare. The force of his impact knocks you both to the ground, but he knows how to bowl someone over, so you’re on top of him instead of the other way around, saved from the scrapes he’s taken to the elbows to stop you from slamming to the concrete.

You swear, loud and disoriented, as you watch the sportscars whiz down the street without a care in the world.

Andrew gives you a cocky kind of smile and chuckles, “You shouldn’t stop in the middle of the street like that, sweetheart. People are fucking crazy around here. Are you okay?”

“You’re asking that like you didn’t break my fall with your body,” you scoff as you check him over, noticing his scraped-up palms.

“Humor me.”

“I’m fine, but- but my-” At the realization, you scramble up to your feet, unsteady on them, and tears brim at your waterline. You start to walk away from Andrew, hastening into the nearby park, calling out, “Billie! Where are you, baby girl?! Come here!”

“Shit.” Andrew scans in a circle around himself and catches the orange puff running toward the skate park. With a huff, he starts jogging after the dog, calling over his shoulder, “I see her!”

With a relieved breath, you follow him, a pace behind, through the parking lot and into his world. The moment you’re inside the propped-open heavy metal door and into the huge main room with a deep sloping bowl and various ramps, pipes, and rails artistically arranged around it, it feels like you’ve stepped into an alternate dimension. The place isn’t at all what you’d expected – maybe too many years of playing Tony Hawk video games – and it makes you wonder more and more about Andrew. First of all, the place is occupied mainly by kids, mostly teens but some as young as eight or nine. It’s dinner time on a school night, but they’re all congregating here, laughing and skating on boards or skates, eating handheld foods from a small built-in snack stand off in one corner. Some of them are even doing homework or reading. The only adults seem to be helping them out with learning tricks or checking in on them.

As Andrew walks through with a purpose, he’s given lots of smiles and greetings that he returns with awkward nods and tight-lipped smiles. He walks straight up to a super tall, long-haired guy and slaps him on the back to get his attention. “You see a dog run through here?”

“Uh, yeah,” he answers, eyes going right past Andrew and toward you in your curve-hugging shorts-length bodysuit. “Ran right through and into your office. Figured that was kind of a you problem. Who’s the chick?”

“She lives in the neighborhood; it’s her dog,” Andrew says simply, looking over his shoulder at you and nodding towards the office, its door propped open by a fan doing its best to circulate the teen-boy-scented air. “C’mon, she’s probably hiding under my desk or something.”

He’s right about that. Billie’s curled up beneath a desk so meticulously organized it could be an office supply store display, her ears back from nerves.

“There you are,” Andrew mutters, reaching under the desk. When Billie doesn’t growl or bark, he scoops the ball of fluff into his arms, which look especially buff as he turns to you with the tiny dog perched safely against his broad chest, calming down at his presence. He eases her into your grateful embrace and chuckles, “She just wanted to skate at my park like all the other cool kids around here.”

You cut him a sideways glance in between giving Billie a million kisses. “Your park?”

“Yeah,” he replies. You think he’s not going to say anything else, that maybe he’s giving you a cue to leave, but then he swallows and furrows his brow and tells you, “I, ah, I work with my family, too, but this is sort of my day job now. Started with just one ramp. Bought the lot after a while. Took my time putting up the walls and everything, but, y’know, it worked out.”

You give him what you hope is a flirtatious smile even though that isn’t your strong suit. “How much does it cost to get in? Maybe you can teach me to skate or something.”

That idea? Having his hands on your waist while you get balanced, seeing your proud smile when you get it, looking at him like he’s teaching you something important? It’s like his brain itches and he needs to scratch it.

So he gives you a bashful almost-smile and replies, “For you? No charge. Come by any time.”

“You saved my life; I should at least pay to get into your business.”

He shakes his head and insists, “You don’t have to pay me back for anything. I wasn’t gonna stand there and watch a pretty girl get flattened.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You would’ve watched an ugly girl get flattened?”

“Shit, that’s not what I-”

You touch his freckled forearm gently. “I’m teasing you, Andrew.”

He takes a deep breath. “I’m not good at that.”

“Then I’ll stop.”

His voice cracks. “Please don’t stop.”

“Then I won’t.”

After one of those soda bubble pauses, not wanting to let you go yet, Pope stammers out, “Would you, ah, would you want a tour or anything? I’ll show you around the place if you want.”

You almost whine under your breath as you tell him, “I have to get Billie home for dinner and-”

“No worries,” he quickly adds, “I wasn’t trying to-”

“But I can come by tomorrow without her, maybe even wear some real clothes,” you interrupt lightly, needing to stop him before he tries to back off of the offer. “What time’ll you be here tomorrow?”

Andrew straightens up and tries not to smile too much. His mind reels imagining what you wear besides all your running clothes. It’s not like he knows anything about that stuff, but it feels like unlocking a new layer of you. Willing himself not to blush as you look at him expectantly, he clears his throat and says, “I have some work with my nephew in the morning, but I’ll be here maybe three or so. Unless that doesn’t work for you; I can move things around so I-”

“I’ll come by at four,” you assure him, all sweet and innocent. Like you aren’t reorienting his entire brain. Then you step onto your toes, kiss him on the cheek, and tell him gently, “Goodnight, Andrew.”

The whole time you and your dog walk out of the place, Andrew watches you, his first few fingers touching the place where your soft lips graced his evening scruff. Even when Craig punches him hard on the arm and cracks some joke about your presence, Andrew doesn’t feel anything but the ghost of your kiss.

Craig’s just lit up his third or fourth joint of the day at the skate park when Pope pushes through the door with a bug up his ass. He’s got that serious, intimidating stance like he’s just noticed he has muscles for the first time. Craig knows that stance – whatever he says, he means business. The first thing Pope does once he’s inside is point right at Craig, snap his fingers, and demand, “Put that shit out. I don’t want it stinking like smoke in here.”

Craig raises his hands innocently, stubs the joint on the concrete floor, and sticks the remainder of it behind his ear. “Since when?”

Pope grunts back, “We’ve got kids in here all day.”

Craig scoffs, “You split joints with me when I was twelve.”

“Okay, whatever, I just-”

“Wait, wait, wait.” Craig stands up, already laughing through a shit-eating grin. “Is this about that girl who was here yesterday? She coming by to suck you off in your office for saving her puppy?”

Pope shakes his head, pretending his cheeks aren’t turning red, and mutters, “Shut the fuck up.”

Craig’s eyes widen. “Oh, fuck, she is coming here, isn’t she?”

“Just for a tour.”

“Uh-huh. Sure.”

Pope just retreats into his office, pretending to be busy while he waits for you to arrive. He can’t actually concentrate on any of the work he should be getting done when he’s thinking about how much he wants to memorize the shape of you in the skate park so that he can keep looking at you even after you’re gone.

The park is buzzing when you show up, like it usually is in the couple of hours after school lets out. The moment you’re inside, all eyes are on you. It’s not that there aren’t girls in the space, but they’re all in ripped jeans and tees and helmets, blending in with the boys. So when you swish into the hard-rock-blasting, graffiti-covered, skinned-knee space wearing a floral babydoll sundress that does nothing to conceal your ample thighs, the ties on the sheer ribbon straps looking like an invitation, you steal attention.

You walk right up to Andrew’s brother, who’s an absolute giant in a white tank top, tap him on his buff shoulder, and ask, “Is your brother around? He should be expecting me.”

Craig’s eyes rake over you, slow and disbelieving. “Yeah, he’s in his office. He’s been acting weird – even for him – so he’s definitely waiting for you.”

Heat crawls into your cheeks. “Yeah?”

“Go easy on him,” Craig says with half a smile, eyes trained forward on the ramps, a mix of serious and joking. “Poor guy hasn’t been with anyone but his right hand in a decade.”

You snort out a laugh and stifle it with the back of your hand. “Thanks, Craig. I’ll see you around.”

“You’d better.”

You walk up to Andrew’s office door, closed today, and knock gently. “Hi, it’s me.”

When the door opens, you can’t help but smile. You’ve only ever seen Andrew in black tees, but today he’s in a cream linen short-sleeve button-down tucked into a pair of jeans. He looks much softer, more approachable, the edges of him smoothed out. Touchable.

For Andrew, seeing you in something so damn cute and feminine and sweet turns his knees to spaghetti. It’s been a long time since a girl caught his attention and the lovely, unfamiliar feeling that twists around his throat when he tries to speak is downright addictive. He gives you a nervous smile, shuffling from foot to foot as he tries not to get hard from seeing a goddamn sundress. “You came.”

“Of course I did.”

Once his desire to squish you in his arms has faded out, Andrew nods back toward the huge main room and says, “C’mon, I’ll show you around.”

“It’s all teenagers in here,” you say under your breath, like it’s some secret. “They come here right after school?”

“Yeah,” Andrew explains, trying and failing to make it sound unimportant, “I set up this youth program thing when we opened for real. They’re mostly system kids or have deadbeat parents. Half of them spent time in juvie. They get in for free and can eat whatever they want, stay whenever they need to, as long as they show me every semester they’re staying in school.”

“Wow, Andrew, that’s…” Your voice trails off as you see the chaos in a new light, seeing it through Andrew’s eyes and Andrew through fresh ones.

Like he needs to fill your reverent quiet, he goes on, “I was a foster kid for a long time. Didn’t do great in the system. If I’d had a place like this where I could’ve stayed out of trouble, I probably would’ve turned out better.”

You give him a warm smile that feels like a blanket in the winter. “Seems like you turned out fine from where I’m standing.”

“Took me a hell of a long time to get here, though.” He gives you a sideways glance and you can tell before he’s even opened his mouth that he’s testing you. “I’ve got a record. Served some time at Folsom. And I wasn’t some dumb kid on a weed charge; I knew what I was doing when I held up the bank. Knew it was wrong.”

As he leads you around the different ramps and rails, you press him, beyond curious, “So why’d you do it?”

He shrugs and tries to sum it up in understandable terms, “Money’s money no matter where it comes from, I guess.” Then he shoves his hands into his pockets and, looking particularly boyish, like he’s expecting you to run off, asks, “Does that freak you out?”

“No, it doesn’t,” you reply as you study his stiffness and his vulnerability alike. “I’m not an angel either, Andrew.”

“Yeah?” He gives you a charming smirk. “You sure look like one to me.”

Despite the heat rising in your cheeks, you don’t take the bait of the compliment, instead pushing back, “Looks can be deceiving.”

He bites. His eyes scan up and down your body, not objectifying but like an X-ray, trying to see beneath the sweet pastel surface. “How deceiving?”

You pause for a long time, debating. You don’t talk much about your life before moving to Oceanside at 21 and that’s for very good reasons. You’ve got one of those histories that tanks job interviews and scares off dates. But Andrew seems different. Like he’s not going to shy away from you just because of the dualities you hold. So you shrug your shoulders and admit it.

“The only reason I don’t have a record is because a judge took pity on me and had my time in juvie expunged.” You meet his eyes seriously. “I knew what I was doing, too. I hurt someone. Bad.” You swallow, shake your head, and tell him pointedly, “I always make sure I know what I’m getting into. So don’t go around underestimating me.”

His next smile comes with a laugh so lovely you could listen to it forever. “Yes, ma’am, understood.”

“Good.” You nudge him with your hip and press, “Now show me around all the backrooms so I can psychoanalyze you.”

He gives a not-entirely-teasing smirk and replies, “As long as you don’t ditch me because of what you find.”

There’s a lot of truth in your joke, though, as much as in his. You’re much less interested in the skate park as in Andrew’s words as he takes you through it. The thing that strikes you most is how pride simmers out of him when he talks about the place, the most animated you’ve seen him with eye contact that seeks reassurance and small laughs that feel sweet and intimate.

As he leads you around, he introduces you to some of the teens who are clearly interested to see Pope walking around with an actual real-life human woman. You’re surprised that they’re all incredibly respectful and polite; Andrew must set a certain standard for them. Once you’re through the main space, he takes you through a swinging door into a sort of kitchenette with one side as a cut-out counter that overlooks the center space.

Andrew gestures around and explains, “We just opened the food thing a couple months ago. One of the kids told me he started stealing extra food at school because his parents were strung out and never got groceries and I just-” He flexes his fingers at his side and lets out a sharp breath. “Yeah. It’s not much, but it’s something. My brother – not Craig; he’s fucking useless, the other one, Deran – he’s got a bar/restaurant with his boyfriend on the shore and they donate food every night that we stock in the fridge for the next day. I wanna bring in appliances, hire a cook or something, maybe even a free pantry, because right now it’s a stupid system that means I’m driving to and from the bar all the time and-” He cuts himself off and gives an apologetic smile. “Sorry. I, ah, I spend all my time thinking about this place. It comes out all at once sometimes.”

“Don’t be sorry,” you’re quick to reply. “I like hearing your thoughts.”

Something glitters in his hazel eyes. “You do?”

You nod, lower your voice, and tell him, “I think you’re kind of amazing, Andrew. Everything you’ve built here just shows how much you care.”

He’s too stunned to come up with a response to your plain and simple honesty, blotchy blush creeping up his neck.

“I’m a pretty good cook,” you add quickly, shy, cute, hesitant. “I don’t know if you take volunteers, but I could come by sometimes if you end up putting in a stove or something.”

If it means you’ll be here, Andrew will go buy one tonight. He doesn’t say that because he doesn’t want to freak you out, but it’s the truth. He just likes having you around, seeing your softness contrasting with his world, hearing your gentle laugh and lilting voice. Swallowing down his desire to be way too fucking eager, he just says, “That would be great. You’ll have to give me your number so I can keep you updated on the stove situation.”

“Very slick, Mr. Cody.” You take your phone from your pocket, unlock it, and hand it to him. “I was having trouble coming up with an excuse to ask for yours, so I’m glad you did first.”

He makes a happy little sound under his breath as he inputs his number and sends himself a text. “You wouldn’t need an excuse; I’d give you my social security number if you asked nicely. Or not nicely.”

Giggling a bit, you nudge him and reply, “I’ll keep that in mind.”

And he wants your laugh tattooed in his ears.

Finally, Andrew shows you his office, where you were briefly last night when Billie ran off. This time, you actually take a minute to observe the details. Unlike the youthful chaos in the main space, the office is a tidy sanctuary with soundproofed walls and blinds that close the space off. You can tell Andrew’s someone who needs a place to escape from the noise. Like you.

On the wall above his desk, there’s a framed full-page newspaper profile with a half-page photo spread of the skate park being built. Andrew and his brothers with shovels and concrete. Andrew shirtless (mouthwatering) as he puts up walls. Then there’s Andrew in the air on his board, the sun silhouetting him before the building was put in around the bowl and ramps. The last picture is a group of middle schoolers all holding up boards toward the camera, Andrew off to the side with a half smile.

A Real 180: Ex-Con’s DIY Skate Park Carves Kids’ Futures

Andrew reminisces as he watches you read the article, “Not the best headline – it’s from some community college paper – but it was the first time I got recognized for something good.”

You wrinkle your brows at the article and observe, “You don’t have a sign out front with the name on it. Why’s it called that – Lena’s?”

Andrew’s expression tightens and he takes a long, deep breath. “I mentioned I had a brother who died, right?”

Beyond curious, you nod.

“Well, he had a daughter. Lena. My niece. I took care of her a while after he died, but she- they-” Shaking his head, he gets choked up for a second. You can tell he doesn’t talk about this often. “I couldn’t take care of her, so she ended up in the system. Like I was. She got adopted by some nice family, though, so that’s good. I guess. Anyway, I, ah, I wanted to- to not forget her. What all happened to her that she couldn’t control. My therapist liked the idea.”

And that’s that. You officially have a big fat crush on him. The tenderness in his voice, the honesty on his tongue, and, yeah, the bulge of his muscles and masculine edges of his features and pretty auburn curls. With an admiring lilt to your tone, you muse, “So this place is, like, you.”

With a laugh, he agrees, “Yeah, I guess it is. Built the ramps, dug out the bowl, poured the concrete and everything myself over one summer. Had to boss my brothers around some, but most of it was me after our mom died.”

Your eyes flicker to him as you try to read his far-away expression. “Were you two close?”

“It’s complicated. Really fucking complicated,” Andrew mumbles back. “Building out the park was kind of my way of grieving, I guess.” He chuckles almost fondly, “Back-breaking labor gives me lots of good time to think.”

Meaning it in so many ways, you tell him, “You must be pretty strong, stud.”

You say it with your eyes positively objectifying his arms, so he preens a little, standing up straighter and maybe flexing a tiny bit. He smirks and stares down at his shoes, mumbling, “If you’re gonna be dumb, you gotta be strong.”

For a second, you purse your lips. You can tell he believes it and you aren’t sure if you know him well enough to argue, but you can’t resist. You hate hearing him talk down about himself, even if it’s part of a backhanded compliment. “You’re definitely not dumb if you can run your own business. You’re observant and handsome and strong and I’m sure there’s more than elevator music behind those hazels.”

“Handsome, huh?”

“Very.”

Then, as his cheeks flare neon pink, you reach out and touch his cheek. His eyes snap upward. For a second, you’re scared you fucked up by breaking the touch barrier, but then he sighs into your hand, practically nuzzling your palm for a second.

After a second, Andrew shakes his head and sighs, “Don’t go stroking my ego; I didn’t even make it to high school.”

After nibbling your lip a second, you decide to say fuck it and tease, “Is that supposed to make me want to ask you out less?” You didn’t think it was possible, but even more blush blooms on his features, down his neck and collarbones now, so you quickly add, “If you wanted to, of course, no, um, no obligation or whatever. I mean, if anything, I owe you for having my back out there on the mean streets and-”

“Do you like the beach?”

You grin and try not to smile too stupidly. “Of course I do.”

“There’s a spot I go to over by my house,” he says, clearly an offering. “It’s nice and private and- Shit, not like I’m trying to get you alone by my house or- I just meant-”

“That sounds nice,” you cut him off, reaching out to squeeze his arm so he’ll stop second guessing himself. “I could put together a picnic. Unless that’s, like, really lame and silly and-”

“Perfect. It’s perfect.” He takes the hand that’s lingering on his arm and winds it with his own fingers. “I’d really like that. A lot. How about Saturday evening? I can get my nephew to watch the place for the night shift; he owes me after some shit he pulled this morning.”

Pope knows he’s done for as soon as you step out of your small car in a sheer coverup over a white swimsuit with a plunging neckline and high-cut sides that show off your hips. He’s leaning against his front porch, holding a picnic blanket, waiting for you to pull up for the last eighty-one minutes because he couldn’t sit still, and he’s just thankful that his dark sunglasses disguise the way his eyes devour every inch of you.

You’re definitely too lovely to be walking toward him. Him in his white tee and five-inch inseam swim shorts that Adrian had made him buy after seeing him wearing too-long ratty trunks he’d had since he was fifteen, feeling exposed by the amount of his thigh showing. Him with his slightly sideways smile and slightly overgrown curls and slightly nervous feet, weight shifting side to side during your approach.

When you give him a huge smile and an enthusiastic wave, he nearly passes out.

Needing something to do with all the energy buzzing around his body, he jogs down the steps and up the driveway to meet you (partially because he wants to make it abundantly clear that he’s not trying to get you inside his house [even if he would really, really like to have you inside his house]). You’ve got one of those soft-sided gingham coolers slung over your shoulder and the very first thing Andrew does is take the weight from you for himself. He’d never let you carry something when his arms are open and available.

“Hi, Andrew.” With your sweet voice curling in his ear drums, you drape your arms around him and kiss his cheek warm and slow. “I’m so happy to see you.”

On the verge of catatonic shock from the tenderness of your Chapstick lips on his skin, Andrew’s stiff arms go to your back, so fucking careful not to grab your waist or land too close to your ass. With his voice earnest and low, he murmurs against your ear, “Me too.”

The way his voice rumbles against your neck makes your toes curl in your sandals. You pull away reluctantly and, with one hand still lingering on his chest, say, “Alright, show me your secret beach spot so I can ask you to put on my sunscreen as an excuse to feel me up.”

Gulp.

Before he can overthink it, Andrew takes your hand in his and leads you down the side of his house and into the sand. Glancing up at the ultra-modern house built effortlessly into the shoreline, you squeeze his hand and say, “You really live this close to the water? You spoiled brat.”

He lets out a low laugh at that. A real one. He’s never been teased by a girl and it settles comfortably over him. You don’t see him as too harsh or too intense; you can be light and joking with him. That’s…nice. Yeah, nice. With a shrug, he half-explains, “I like to go for jogs on the beach in the morning.”

You scoff and cut him a glance. “Which, of course, justifies buying a five-million-dollar house.”

He mumbles, “It was only three and a half.”

You stop in your tracks. “Where the fuck did you get three and a half million dollars?”

“Ah, my mom left me a lot of money when she died.”

You gesture to the floor-to-ceiling windows on the back half of the house that look straight out onto the sea. “This kind of money?”

“This isn’t the half of it. You should see my nephew’s place,” he says like it isn’t insane. “I mostly picked it because I can walk to the skatepark from here. I’d be happy in a shoebox.”

“Like my house.”

He vomits out, “Well, y’know, you can stay at mine whenever you want if you don’t like it there.”

You don’t give him a second to doubt his own words, taking one last look at the house and replying cheekily, “Be careful or I’ll take you up on that.”

“Then I’m gonna have to be reckless as hell,” he says, talking directly to his feet. But there’s a cute smirk toying with his lips, one that turns into a smile as he squeezes your hand and tilts his chin toward a small outcropping peninsula, more like an islet connected by a shoal. It’s half rocky, the algae-covered stones cropping up far enough to cast dappled shade over the white sand on the other side. “There’s my spot.”

You follow him dutifully down the shore, kick off your sandals when the sand gets wet, and walk through about an inch of water up the shoal to the small islet. Andrew walks you up to a cozy spot where the rocks are jutting out so there’s total privacy from the handful of people milling around the shoreline. He spreads out the green plaid picnic blanket, so old-worn and soft it’s like fur beneath your fingers, and weighs it down on the corners with nearby stones before setting your cooler down at its center.

Without drawing any attention to it, you strip off your cover-up and grab the tube of sunscreen from one of the cooler’s outer pockets. Before he’s even turned around from adjusting the blanket just so, you tap him on the shoulder and extend the sunscreen.

And, exactly as you’d hoped, his eyes are all over your body. Frankly, it looks like he’s a computer rebooting, blinking rapidly as blush creeps up his neck. After a minute, with his eyes locked on how the swimsuit’s high cut shows off the indent where your hips and thighs and stomach merge. It’s the most delicious few inches of skin he’s even seen. Realizing that he’s staring and that you’re definitely catching him, he mutters, “I like your bathing suit.”

With a cheeky smile, you take a step forward, close enough that he could so easily touch you if he managed the confidence to. Swaying a bit with your hands behind your back, you ask him, “Sure it’s the suit you like?”

He takes the sunscreen from you, gives you a devious smirk, and says, “I like that it’s protecting your skin from the sun. Arms out.”

You raise your eyebrows and comply. “Yes, sir.”

“Careful.”

Andrew isn’t sexy about applying your sunscreen like you’d expected. Not when he has an important task to do. Instead, with furrowed brows and narrowed eyes, he thoroughly lathers your skin, moving around your bathing suit to get underneath the hems without any agenda or eagerness, even when he’s palming your ass or the sides of your breasts beneath your armpits. It’s serious to him. The fragility of your soft skin compared the brutality of the sun’s afternoon rays.

As he swipes the sunscreen gingerly around your face, Andrew murmurs, “Stop smiling or you’ll get burn wrinkles.”

“Stop being cute and I’ll stop smiling.”

Under his breath, he mutters, struggling to sound offended when he’s so smitten, “I’m not cute.”

“Then I’m not smiling.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“And you’re already getting a sunburn,” you reply as he finishes off by doing your ears and the back of your neck, totally thorough with your safety. You know he’s not burning, just blushing, but you don’t want to make fun of him too much for it. You snatch the bottle from his hands, click the cap off, and order, “Your turn. Shirt off.”

His eyebrows fly up. “You don’t need to-”

“I want to, Andrew,” you assure with total confidence in your voice. “I promise I don’t bite.”

As he takes his shirt off and tosses it onto the picnic blanket, he replies, “That’s a shame.”

Openly ogling his chest because it’s a date and you can, you laugh gently, “Maybe if you ask me really, really nicely I could give you a nibble.”

“I can be very nice when I want to.”

“I’ve only seen you be nice.”

“You saw me punch someone’s face in.”

“Yeah, but you were doing that to defend me.” After squirting sunscreen into your palm, you press your hands carefully to the top of his chest and say, “That might not be everyone’s version of nice, but it was really sexy, so there’s probably some overlap there.”

He hums absently, brain now completely occupied with the feeling of your hands on his skin. You notice the immediate effect – the way his shoulders drop in comfort and his eyelashes flutter – and it kindles something in the base of your gut. He’s touch-starved and you can feel it in every muscle tensing and relaxing beneath your fingers. So you slow down. You work the knots in his bulky traps and drag the pressure down his back, which is firm and strong and freckled and so, so nice beneath your thumbs. When you press into the small of his back with your thumbs, slipping just under his shorts to the dimples at the top of his ass and rubbing in slow deep circles, he hangs his head and groans down low, “Jesus Christ.”

You don’t respond, deciding to just enjoy yourself. Moving around to his front, you spread sunscreen over his pecs and down his abs. His abs. You give them some extra attention because, y’know, how terrible would it be for him to get a sunburn on them? The whole time, you find yourself singing under your breath, pretty unabashedly feeling up his obliques and sides because the V of his hips is just so offensively delicious.

When he hears your soft voice complimenting the moment, Andrew smiles and tells you, “That’s what made me notice you in the first place. Your singing.”

You laugh and scoff, “Do I sing that loud?”

He nods and chuckles, but it’s affectionate. He’s definitely not making fun of you or judging you. “I can always hear you across the street. The way it starts all soft at the far end of the block and then gets louder when you pass by and then soft again. I look forward to it all day.”

Your hands still on his sides. He opens his eyes at the sudden stop, tilting his head to the side and examining you with careful hazel eyes. Biting your lower lip, you press, “Really?”

“Are you kidding?” Andrew laughs in disbelief, his confidence growing when he realizes you need to see it firsthand. He tugs you close by the waist, stealing your breath a moment, and says, “Every time you run by, I feel so…I don’t know. I’m not good with words and the feelings stuff. But I feel alive, I think is the right word, and that’s- that’s a new thing for me. Completely new. You have this light, I guess, that I’m drawn to. Like a moth. Or a plant. Or something.”

You lean forward, hug him close, and nuzzle into his neck. “That’s actually really beautiful, Andrew. You’re better with the feelings stuff than you think. It doesn’t matter how you say it; what matters is that you feel it.”

“I usually feel too much.”

“Not too much,” you reply sweetly. “Most men pretend they don’t feel anything at all.” You nod toward the picnic blanket and suggest, “If we’re gonna have lovey-dovey-deep-feelings-talk time, do you wanna sit down and eat?”

“That’s probably a good idea.” Andrew’s palms are clammy as he sits down first to give you the choice of where to sit, so scared to overstep or assume with you. With his legs out in front of him and his back against one of the large stones, he jokes, “Expressing a feeling burns a lot of calories for me.”

“Don’t worry; I’ll make sure you’re well fed so you can bear your soul to me.”

You plop down on his lap, weight back on his thighs, facing him, without a care in the world, and reach over to open the cooler. You pluck out a fat, ripe strawberry and press it to his lips, which part open on instinct. When his lips wrap around the fruit and he bites down, a bead of pink juice trails from the corner of his mouth. You catch it with your thumb and lick it off without thinking; a shiver goes down Andrew’s spine as he watches your tongue.

While you eat a strawberry for yourself, he breathes out slowly, “You’re way too pretty. It’s distracting.”

“You’re not so bad yourself,” you tease as you feed him a handful of grapes next, nabbing a few off the stem to eat. “I’m sure you get that all the time, though, with that handsome face of yours.”

Trying to hide his smile, he mutters, “Flatterer.”

“Truth teller,” you correct. “You’re cute; you should know about it.”

He doesn’t respond, but his cheeks flush a sweet shade of pink that reveals his thoughts. The two of you eat and joke and talk for a while as the sun climbs down toward the horizon over the mountains on the opposite side from the sea. As his walls come down, his soft smile comes out and he’s able to meet your eyes every time you laugh. The waning sun softens Andrew’s features, brightens the auburn in his curls to fiery orange, and turns his hazel eyes golden.

Once the cooler’s been zipped up and the sun’s throwing shades of lavender and pink over the water, you rest your hands at the back of Andrew’s neck and take a slow, serene breath. Being around him has become easy and simple since you met him, a calm but protective presence you can turn to. As you admire him during a content lull in the conversation, you brush your thumb over his cheek and say, barely above a whisper, intimate and for just him, “You really are beautiful, Andrew.”

Beautiful.

The word sings around Pope’s mind. He doesn’t care if other guys would find it emasculating; it’s everything to him. So he doesn’t joke, deflect, or deny. He just says through the blush, “Thank you, sweetheart.”

Then you nibble your lower lip, flick your eyes up to his, and ask tentatively, “Could I kiss you?”

Andrew, very simply, can’t speak at the idea that you want to kiss him. So he nods eagerly, eyes widening and pupils dilating, and stares at you. His focus goes to your lips, a silent invitation, and he tries to will himself to close the gap first. But he can’t. He’s frozen in pure desire.

He manages to nod.

That’s enough for you.

Trying not to be too tentative, you wind your fingers in his curls and lean so your lips press to his. It’s gentle and delicate, like you, and Andrew’s melting into a puddle of adoration under you. He makes a low, almost groaning sound as he carefully places his hands on your waist. It’s greedy. It urges you forward. You break the kiss only long enough to smile and giggle quietly. When you scoot forward so he can feel your breasts pressing against his chest, Andrew takes the back seat and Pope comes out. He surges forward and wraps his arms around you, one on your lower back and the other on the back of your head, clutching you tight.

The small, certain show of dominance causes you to moan into his mouth, embarrassing and desperate. But when you instinctively start to pull back to apologize, Andrew shakes his head and tugs you in closer. Kisses you harder. Needs you more. He takes charge even further, tongue swiping the envelope of your lips, parting them, insisting against yours. You drag your hands down his arms, squeezing his biceps, letting yourself be positively hungry as you grab his muscles. And he matches you. Guides you backwards with so much care until you’re flat on your back against the soft blanket, Andrew pinning you down in a way that doesn’t make you feel trapped but protected. Like nothing could get to you while he’s got you there.

Breathless and squirmy, you search his face to find pupils blown wide and lips trembling with lust. So you feel nothing but confidence as you suggest, “Would you want to, um, show me your place?” When he gets that cute kind-of-confused look, you raise your eyebrows and press, “Your bedroom, maybe?”

“Oh. Oh.” His cock twitches and he backs off of you reluctantly, extending his hand to help you to your feet. You press a soft kiss on his lips and collect your things again, which, again, Andrew insists on carrying for you. As he leads you up the shoal and to the side door of his house, he nervously tells you, “Just so you know, I wasn’t expecting for us to- I didn’t want to assume that- It’s, ah, it’s kind of messy.”

Once he’s invited you through the door, where you leave your sandals in the mud room you walk into from the side door, you gaze around the pristine, modern space in wonder. “This is your version of messy? Good thing we aren’t back at mine.”

“I can be kind of a neat freak,” he admits solemnly. In his tone, you can hear a lifetime of internalized judgment.

So you give his bicep another squeeze and say, “Hopefully you’ll rub off on me, then. I could use some pointers.”

He pulls you toward him and, completely serious, says, “I’ll clean your whole place on my knees with a toothbrush if you kiss me again.”

You’re giggling as you lean in. “Is that a promise?”

Grabbing you by the waist, he presses his lips to your again, just as good as the first, and groans, “Absolutely.”

In between fevered kisses, “Better invest in a cute French maid outfit because I’m not gonna stop kissing you any time soon.”

He smiles and it tastes so good against yours. “Is that a promise?”

“Show me your bedroom and you can find out.”

Andrew’s dizzy from the honesty of your desire, so he takes your hand and leads you through his minimally decorated, neat home and up the stairs into a massive lofted suite. It’s a total bachelor pad, the whole top floor gutted into a huge bedroom with a sprawling bathroom including an in-floor jacuzzi tub and a walk-in shower the size of your bedroom with built-in benches and shelves. It’s definitely the sanctuary of a single man who values his alone time.

Andrew stiffens up a bit in his bedroom, feeling a bit too exposed all of a sudden, and asks bashfully, “Would it be alright if we showered before getting into my bed? I kind of have a thing about-”

“Of course it would be okay; I don’t want you to be uncomfortable,” you tell him simply, not realizing how much it matters to him. Then you bite your lower lip and ask him with a slight sway in your step, “But could I use that insanely gorgeous tub of yours instead?”

Andrew’s tight lips turn to a smile at the thought of you naked and relaxed in his bathroom. “Yeah, absolutely. Let me show you how to use the jets.”

The tub is at the center of the bathroom suite, the shower offset behind a divider on one side and the sinks on the other with the toilet set off in its own large water closet behind a door. Andrew walks ahead of you and draws the bath, his simple domesticity lighting a fire inside of you. As he places a few different bath products on the edge of the tub for you to choose from, you easily strip out of your swimsuit, knowing that Andrew’s eyes will make you feel nothing but secure,

When he straightens up and sees the slopes and curves of your nude form, Andrew lets out a slow, long breath. “Fuck, you’re gorgeous.”

Carefully stepping down into the hot water, you recline and gaze up at him. “And you have an excellent bathtub.”

He bends down and kisses your forehead. “Hopefully that’ll convince you to stick around.”

With the jets punching into your back just right, you hum, “You’re definitely racking up points like crazy here.”

He glitters at that. “Yeah?”

“Mmmhm,” you croon slowly as you melt into relaxation. “You’re sweet and handsome and kind. I have a feeling you like to spoil a girl rotten.”

Giving you a gentle spiderman-style kiss, he grins. “Damn straight.”

You kiss him back and then reluctantly push him upward. “Now go and have you shower so I can get you off.”

With a play shiver, he shakes his head and says, “Yes, ma’am.”

Disappointingly, you don’t get a good look at his naked body as he disappears behind the divider and into the steam of the shower. Damned delayed gratification. Your pussy is definitely aching for him already, keeping your mind activated. With the mild bergamot soap collection Andrew’s left by your side – an incredibly sexy choice for a buff, masculine guy – you wash the sea and sweat from your skin until you feel completely relaxed and smooth.

By the time you hear the shower turning off, you’re totally blissed out from the jets and the aromatherapy (and the way Andrew sometimes grunts as he scrubs himself down. You don’t even notice him stepping out, wrapping his hips in a towel, and standing over you with a content expression, imagining what it would be like to have this sight in front of him on a regular basis.

Sounding amused, Andrew asks in that gravely voice of his, “You wanna dry off and let me eat you out now or should I leave you alone with your new best friend a while?”

With a serene smile, eyes still closed, you reply, “Hmm?”

“Gotcha, I’ll head out, then,” he chuckles. “I’ve got some projects I should get working on, anyway, and-”

You flick some water at him as you slowly stand up, stretching your arms above your head in a way that drives Andrew clinically insane. He offers a hand to help you out and you take it, glowing under the way his eyes trace the droplets that cascade over your breasts and down your soft stomach.

Then he bends down and drags his tongue from your bellybutton, up your sternum, and over your neck, not stopping until his lips meet your softly gasping mouth. Every nerve in your body shocks to life as he kisses you urgently, snapping a towel off the nearby rack to hastily dry you off. The soft towel in his rough hands energizes all of your muscles. You’re still a little unsteady on your feet from the warm bath, so you grip onto him, arms around his neck, and he groans in response.

Unable to resist, Andrew guides you backwards, toward the countertop, and begins to feel you up in earnest, the way he would’ve on the beach if he weren’t scared of being too possessive too fast. The truth is that he’s already obsessed with you. He has been for longer than he’d ever admit to you, his brothers, or even his therapist. He wants to devour every part of you as often as he can, to bring you into his life, to build up all the good in you and let it wash over his darkness.

With you giggling and moaning in tandem, Andrew hoists you up onto the counter and kneels down in front of you. Before you have time to think, much less question, he’s spreading your legs and diving between them. Water drips down your shins and lands on the floor, but Andrew can’t bring himself to care with your tart juices coating his tongue. His name slips out of your mouth in a needy cry and his eyes roll back, closing with ecstasy.

Andrew’s greedy hands travel to your hips to hold you tight against his mouth as you grapple for balance on the counter, one hand gripping its edge and the other fisting in Andrew’s damp curls. He grunts at the sting on his scalp, nodding to encourage you to be even meaner with it. So you do. It’s not your usual style, but you grind down against his tongue, showing him exactly where he needs to use his tongue. When you manage to rasp out a whimpering, “right there,” Andrew nods happily and gets to work, lapping at your clit like it’s an oasis in the desert of his life. Like your body can baptize him.

You can’t rip your eyes from his rapturous expression as pleasure warms your belly. You’ve never seen a man looking so at peace between a woman’s legs. His thoughts turn into a gentle breeze and he focuses on your every little sound and twitch. You’re not loud, but you’re constant, sounds feminine and breathy and music. And the way you squirm under his hands, involuntarily twitching and bucking. He wonders absently how long it’s been since a man made you cum like this because you seem barely in control of yourself, tumbling headfirst into overwhelming pleasure.

With you on the verge of losing yourself down his chin, his cock is agonizingly hard. It truly borders on painful, red and angry and leaking. When your thighs start to tighten around Andrew’s head, your moans going even softer from the intensity, Andrew can’t resist giving himself some relief by pumping his cock with his right hand. The contact makes more groans vibrate against your pussy and, all of a sudden, you can’t take it for another second.

Your orgasm hits you like a freight train, thighs completely muffling Andrew’s hearing, but he keeps his hand tight on your hip, clutching you close so that you can’t wriggle away. Toes curling, chest heaving, and eyes pinching shut, your pussy begs to be filled as it clenches against itself. Andrew drinks in every bead of your arousal that drips down when you cum.

Andrew places soft, loving kisses on the sensitive insides of your thighs as you come down from the orgasm. When he straightens up, he’s got a self-satisfied grin on his lips. An orgasm is concrete, undeniable proof that he’s done good work. Then you lean forward and kiss him with an unfamiliar fervor, so adoring it steals his breath for a moment, and it’s cemented in his mind.

In between bruising, demanding kisses, you beg, “Want your cock. Want you to fuck me.”

“Wrap your legs around me, angel,” he murmurs, lips only a millimeter from yours. When you obey without question, he smiles, scoops you up below your ass, and carries you back into the bedroom. He spins you around sweetly and you’re able to get a proper look at his bed for the first time. It’s not the pristine linens and carefully arranged pillows that catch your attention.

You gawk, “Jesus, this bed is gigantic.”

Andrew flops you down onto it to make you laugh, shrugs, and replies modestly, “When in California, get a California king.” He opens up his bedside table, removes an unopened box of condoms, and fishes one out. You give him a cheeky look at the new box and he mutters, “Don’t make fun of me; I don’t get a lot of action.”

You give him a warm, affectionate smile. “Good; I want you all to myself.”

Andrew huffs out a chuckle as he rolls on the condom. He joins you on the bed and kisses you hard. before murmuring,  “You have me.” Then, poising the head of his cock at your soaked entrance, chest blotchy red and eyes black and breaths heavy and lips shiny and swollen, Andrew asks gently, “Are you sure?”

You bite your lower lip and nod. “Completely and totally.”

But his eyes still search your face for any signs of doubt, any proof that he isn’t good enough for this, any reason to stop and save you from him. So he holds your cheek and whispers, “Swear?”

“Please.” With your hands on his hips to encourage him forward, you assure him, “I’ve never been more certain I want someone to fuck me.” You pull his head down by his curls and kiss him. “Just let go, honey. I want you.”

So, after a shaky nod, he sinks inside of you in one slow, deep thrust. It’s the first time he’s been grateful for a condom slightly dulling the sensation because your cunt is gripping him so perfectly he would’ve cum seconds after slipping inside of you. He still shudders and grips his headboard so tight it nearly splinters when he bottoms out and you give him a breathless moan. At least that thin barrier lets him savor you. It’s not really about getting his dick wet for Pope, anyway. He’s not like Craig or Baz. For him it’s the way your breath catches in your throat, the way your nails dig into his strong ass, the way you lean up to get him to kiss you if he stops looking at you for even a second.

The whole time he’s inside of you, Andrew holds you close. One hand on the back of your head, the other on your waist to steady you against his hard thrusts. Soon enough, it’s not close enough, and he’s got you on his lap, trying to make sure you have as much control as you want, cradling your back with his large hands, pressing your chests together as you whine into his neck. He can only bear to move one of his hands when you plead, “Touch me, Andy.”

Pope shivers. He can’t remember the last time someone called him that. The last time he felt so wretchedly and perfectly seen. His hand slides from between your shoulder blades to your neck, briefly stopping to feel your pulse beneath his thumb, down the soft swell of your stomach, and finally between your legs. He never stops touching you the whole way. 

Hovering his thumb right above your clit, the lack of contact driving you crazy, Andrew murmurs, “You called me Andy.”

You bite your lip and start to ask, “Is that not-”

Then his thumb lands on your clit, knowing and thunderous, and your question dies in your throat, replaced by a hard moan. He kisses you hard and admits a little too earnestly, “I liked it.”

With your greedy walls pulsing around him, you swear against his lips, “I’ll call you anything you want if you always fuck me like this.”

The only word he can growl is, “Always.”

That word turns your brain to happy mush. Everything gets more intense at the idea that you’ve got Andrew for as long as you want. This isn’t a one-and-done thing for either of you. Andrew bucks his hips up into you with animalistic force. Your tits bounce in his face and he catches one of your nipples in his mouth. Your toes curl into your mattress and your hips falter, stuttering on either side of him.

Andrew doesn’t even give you a second to collect yourself. He wraps his arms around you and flips you onto your back, sinking his cock deeper as your legs get pushed back, nearly to your head. His thumb goes to your clit, precise and firm, and you start to whimper and gasp more than moan, overwhelmed by how good it feels to be with him. Yes, him, specifically, because of the way his body conforms to yours, every inch of him responding to every inch of you. When he feels your second orgasm tightening up around his cock, he has to bite down to stave off his own. He barely even registers that he’s biting down on your neck, sucking hard and digging in. It makes pleasure spark up your spine as you let out a harsh cry.

When your walls grip down on him like a vise, Andrew’s body hurtles over the edge, vibrant and intense and overwhelming after holding himself back for your pleasure. The whole time, he’s grunting praise in your ear. So beautiful. Fucking perfect. Can’t believe I get to have you.

The two of you stay tangled up together long after he goes soft. He only briefly moves to tie off the condom and lob it into the nearby trash. He’s pretty much laying on top of you and, honestly, it’s really nice. Like a weighted blanket you can time your breaths and heartbeats with. A weighted blanket that litters gentle kisses over your face and chest and shoulders and tells you how lovely you are over and over.

You separate naturally, neither of you really initiating it. Then, as you stretch your arms above your head and prepare to stand the rest of the way up, Andrew asks tentatively, “Would you want to stay over? You can borrow some of my clothes.”

Your grin spreads wide and easy; Andrew doesn’t really strike you as the kind of man who offers to share his living space lightly. So you stand, drape your arms around him once more, and reply, “I’d love that. I gave Billie dinner and her evening run before I left, so you just have to have me home before breakfast.”

Kissing up your neck, he murmurs, “If you want, I could join you. Make you some real breakfast and go on your morning run with the two of you.”

“Yeah?” Your smile lights up into Megawattage territory. “You’d do that?”

Andrew shrugs like it’s not a huge deal to either of you. “If it wouldn’t be too much of an imposition. Wouldn’t wanna cramp your style.”

“Can I still sing?”

“Wouldn’t want it any other way.”

“Would you sing along?”

He kisses you and laughs, “Don’t push your luck, angel.”

You peck the tip of his nose and bat your eyelashes teasingly. “I always do.”

Andrew just shakes his head and goes to his closet to grab pajamas for you both. Once you’re cozy in one of his 800 soft, worn black tees (you forego panties), he finds a brand new toothbrush for you in his bathroom, not that it’s hard since he’s one of those people who actually replaces his toothbrush every three months. While you brush and wash your face, Andrew’s eyes rove along your body, cataloguing the myriad of small marks he’s left on you. Most are small and forgettable, but he’s left a few possessive, intense hickeys over your neck and breasts. But you just keep smiling at him every time you catch his eyes in the mirror. You’re not upset with him. In fact, you love looking like you belong to him already.

While Andrew goes through the house to shut off the lights and lock the doors, you make yourself comfortable in his massive bed and absently scroll on your phone. When he comes back up the stairs, he lingers to watch you for a moment. He definitely likes the look of you in his bed.

After a minute of wrestling with it, debating if he’s just too crazy for his own good, Andrew asks softly, “Would you mind sleeping on the other side?”

You shake your head, scoot across the bed toward the wall, and reply, “Didn’t mean to steal your spot. 50/50 chance.”

“It’s not that,” he replies. He sits next to you and sighs, sounding embarrassed, “Not gonna be able to sleep unless I’m between you and the door. Just in case. I know that’s stupid, but-”

“It’s not stupid,” you’re quick to interrupt. The truth is that it makes you feel so safe you could explode with adoration, but that might be a little much to say on your first night together. So instead you tell him, “I’ll sleep better knowing you’re watching out for me.”

Andrew kisses your temple, unable to quite voice how much your easy acceptance means to him. “That’s what I like to hear.”

You kiss him for another minute, just slow and lazy, until you’re both relaxed and sleepy. He can’t stop himself from shaking his head and smiling in between. Even when he’s turned the lights off and closed his eyes, Andrew’s mind is soft and light. Hell, he might actually sleep more than a few hours.

As you slowly drift toward unconsciousness, you turn onto your side and instinctively rest your head on Andrew’s shoulder. When he moves his arm, you tuck onto his chest, your eyelashes brushing his bare skin and your breath prickling his nerves. Then you sling a leg over his hip, too, and he brings his hand to rest on the curve just above your ass, arm settling like it was made to be there with you.

This is all new for Andrew. He’s never had a woman curl into him like this, nestling into his chest and treating him like a body pillow. Showing him trust at her absolute most vulnerable. He breathes in the scent of his own shampoo on your hair. With slightly trembling hands – the weight of your trust is heavy – he cradles you, one arm around your lower back and his dominant hand on the back of your head. When you coo gently and press a kiss to his bare chest, Andrew’s heart pounds like he’s run a mile.

You’re his.

And he’s not letting go.

“Move,” he snapped, and this time when security tried to hold him back he didn’t stop, didn’t slow, his shoulder driving forward just enough to break through the hesitation, through the protocol, through the thin barrier that had kept him outside while you were in there alone, because the only thing that mattered now was getting to you.

The doors flew open again under the force of it, the scene inside hitting him all at once, too much and not enough in the same breath, the sharp smell of gunpowder still hanging in the air, the echo of chaos folding in on itself as officers shouted over one another and staff rushed in with stretchers and supplies, the carefully controlled environment of the ER completely undone.

He saw the man first. Down. Motionless. Blood pooling in a way that left no question, no ambiguity, no room for interpretation, and Robby’s gaze slid over him without stopping, because that was not what he was looking for, not what his brain had locked onto the second those shots rang out.

Maya.

Curled around the baby, her body twisted protectively despite the blood seeping through her side, her face pale and streaked with tears as she clutched the newborn close, the infant’s cries cutting through the noise in sharp, frantic bursts, alive, alive, and that mattered, that mattered, but you.

He found you a half second later, and the world narrowed so violently it almost knocked the air out of him.

You were on the floor. Too still. Your body twisted at an angle that made something in his chest seize, one hand braced weakly against the tile like you had tried to catch yourself, the other pressed to your side where blood was already spreading, darker than anything he wanted to see, too much, too fast.

“No,” he said, but it didn’t come out like a word, it came out rough, broken, the kind of sound that didn’t belong to the man who kept control in trauma bays and crisis situations, the kind of sound that came from somewhere deeper.

He was moving before anyone could stop him. Kneeling at your side, hands already on you, already assessing, already doing what he had done a thousand times before except this time it wasn’t just another patient, it was you, and that changed everything in ways he didn’t have time to process but felt anyway, sharp and overwhelming and impossible to ignore.

“Hey, hey, look at me,” he said quickly, his voice dropping into something urgent and steady all at once as his hand came up to your face, grounding you, keeping you with him as your eyes struggled to focus. “Stay with me, you hear me? Stay with me.”

Your gaze found him through the haze, unfocused at first, then sharpening just enough that recognition flickered, and the smallest, faintest exhale left you like you had been holding it until you saw him.

“Robby…” you breathed, your voice barely there, your hand twitching where it pressed against your side.

“I’ve got you,” he said immediately, the words firm, certain, even as his other hand moved with practiced efficiency, pressing harder against the wound, assessing depth, entry, exit, his brain firing through protocols while his chest fought against the rising panic threatening to break through. “You’re okay, you’re okay, just stay with me.”

“Gurney!” someone shouted behind him, and footsteps rushed closer, but Robby barely registered it, his focus locked entirely on you, on the way your breathing hitched, shallow and uneven, on the way your grip weakened just slightly under his hand.

“Don’t close your eyes,” he ordered, sharper now, leaning closer as his thumb brushed lightly against your cheek, grounding, anchoring. “You do not get to check out on me right now, you understand?”

A faint, strained huff of something like a laugh ghosted past your lips, though it was more breath than sound. “Bossy…”

“Yeah,” he shot back immediately, the edge in his voice cracking just slightly as he adjusted his grip, applying pressure, keeping his hands steady even as everything inside him screamed at the sight of your blood soaking through. “And you’re going to listen for once.”

Hands moved around him, controlled chaos reforming as the team fell back into motion, someone checking Maya, someone else carefully taking the baby, voices overlapping in a rhythm that should have grounded him but didn’t, not this time, not when you were the one on the floor.

“She’s hit in the side,” he called out, forcing his voice into something more clinical, more structured, even as his gaze never left you. “We need to move, now.”

“On three,” another voice answered, close, ready, and Robby nodded sharply, adjusting his hold so they could lift you without losing pressure.

“One, two—”

They moved together, careful but fast, lifting you onto the gurney, your body shifting with a small, pained sound that tore through him more than anything else in the room, because it meant you felt it, it meant you were still there, still fighting.

“Stay with me,” he said again, walking alongside as they started moving, his hand never leaving you, his eyes locked on yours like if he looked away for even a second something would slip, something would be lost. “You hear me? Stay with me.”

Your fingers caught weakly at his sleeve, barely enough to hold, but enough that he felt it, enough that it anchored him just as much as he was trying to anchor you.

“Don’t…” you started, your voice faltering, breath catching.

“Don’t what?” he pressed immediately, leaning closer as they pushed through the doors into the trauma bay, the familiar space suddenly feeling anything but routine.

“Don’t… let them… send you out,” you managed, each word taking more effort than it should, your gaze flickering, struggling to stay focused.

His jaw tightened, something sharp flashing across his face before he forced it back, forced control over it, even as the meaning of what you were saying hit him hard and fast.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he said, low and certain, and this time it wasn’t just reassurance, it wasn’t just something to keep you calm, it was a promise.

They rolled you into the trauma bay, lights too bright, voices too loud, hands already moving to take over, to do what needed to be done, and for the first time since he had reached you, someone tried to pull him back.

“Robby,” Langdon said, firm but careful, “we’ve got her, you need to step—”

“No,” he cut in immediately, the word sharp enough to stop them for a second, his hand still on you, his body still angled toward yours like he physically couldn’t move away. “I’m not stepping out.”

“Robby—”

“I said I’m not stepping out,” he repeated, lower now but more dangerous for it, his eyes flicking up just long enough to make it clear he was not budging, not this time, not with you on that table.

Because this wasn’t just a patient. And he wasn’t pretending it was.

The trauma bay exploded into motion the second the wheels of your gurney locked into place, hands moving with practiced speed, voices overlapping in clipped commands as the team fell into rhythm, but there was something different in the air, something sharper, more fragile, because everyone in that room knew exactly who you were and exactly who he was, and the line that usually held everything together had already been crossed the moment Robby refused to step back.

“Vitals dropping,” someone called out, the monitor’s rhythm uneven, stuttering in a way that made the tension spike instantly as oxygen was adjusted, lines were placed, pressure reapplied with more urgency.

Robby didn’t move. He stayed exactly where he was, one hand still braced against your side helping maintain pressure while the rest of the team worked around him, his other hand hovering near your shoulder like he needed the contact even if it wasn’t strictly necessary anymore, his focus split between the clinical and the deeply, painfully personal.

“Entry wound right lower quadrant,” he said, forcing his voice into something steady, something that belonged in this room, even as his eyes kept flicking back to your face, tracking every flicker, every breath. “We need imaging but she’s not stable enough to wait.”

“BP’s tanking,” another voice added, sharper now.

“Start fluids, wide open,” someone else responded, the rustle of movement quick, efficient, controlled chaos snapping into place.

Your head shifted slightly on the gurney, a small, involuntary movement that shouldn’t have meant much but did, because it meant you were still there, still responding, still fighting, and Robby leaned in immediately, his voice dropping low again, cutting through the noise just for you.

“Stay with me,” he murmured, his thumb brushing lightly against your arm in a grounding motion that had nothing to do with protocol. “You’re not done yet, you hear me? Not even close.”

Your lashes fluttered, your focus trying to lock onto him again, your breathing shallow but present, and he held onto that like it was the only thing keeping him upright.

“Prep for OR,” Jesse said quickly, glancing between monitors and your wound. “She’s bleeding too much, we’re not stabilizing here.”

“Agreed,” Robby answered instantly, no hesitation, no room for debate, because he knew it too, could see it in the numbers, in the color draining from your skin, in the way your body was starting to compensate in ways that wouldn’t hold much longer. “We move now.”

“Robby,” Al-Hashimi said, quieter this time, more careful, stepping closer just enough to be heard without disrupting the flow, “you can’t go in there with her.”

The words landed, heavy and expected, and for a split second everything in him tightened, the reality of that line, the one he had already ignored, being drawn again in a place where it mattered even more. He didn’t look away from you when he answered.

“Yes, I can.”

There was no room in his voice for argument, no uncertainty, just a quiet, dangerous certainty that made a few heads turn, made the tension in the room shift again in a way that had nothing to do with the medical emergency unfolding in front of them.

“You’re too close to this,” Al-Hashimi pressed, softer now but firm, because it had to be said, because it was true. “You know you are.”

Robby’s jaw tightened, the muscle jumping once as he finally glanced up, his gaze sharp, unyielding.

“She’s bleeding out on my table,” he said, his voice low but cutting, every word deliberate. “So unless someone else in this room knows her case better than I do right now, I’m not stepping away.”

Silence hit for half a beat.

“OR is ready,” someone called from the doorway, urgency overriding everything else.

That decided it.

“Move,” Robby snapped, already shifting with the team as they unlocked the gurney and started rolling, his hand sliding briefly from your side only to find yours instead, gripping it tight enough that you could feel it even through the haze.

The hallway blurred past in a rush of movement and noise, wheels rattling against the floor, voices calling ahead, doors opening in quick succession as the urgency rippled outward, clearing the path. Your grip on his hand was weak, barely there, but it was enough, enough that he tightened his hold instinctively, anchoring you, grounding both of you in something that felt steadier than the chaos surrounding you.

“You’re not getting out of this that easy,” he said quietly, leaning closer as they pushed through another set of doors, his voice just for you despite everything happening around them. “You hear me? You don’t get to pull something like that and then leave me to deal with it.”

Your lips moved, something like a response trying to form, but the words didn’t quite make it, your breath catching instead, your focus slipping again, and his chest tightened hard enough that it almost knocked the air out of him.

“Hey,” he pressed, sharper now, squeezing your hand just slightly. “No, stay with me, don’t do that, not now.”

“Robby,” someone called, louder this time as they reached the OR doors, a final attempt, a last line being drawn. “You need to scrub in if you’re coming in.”

He didn’t hesitate.

“Then I’m scrubbing in,” he shot back immediately, already moving, already letting go of your hand only because he had to, because this was the only way he stayed with you now, the only way he didn’t get forced out completely.

The doors swung open. Bright lights. Sterile air. A different kind of battlefield. They transferred you to the OR table with careful precision, the team shifting seamlessly into a new rhythm, sharper, more controlled, the chaos of the ER condensing into something tighter, more focused.

Robby scrubbed in fast, movements efficient, mechanical, muscle memory taking over where his mind threatened to fracture, because this was the only way he could hold onto control, the only way he could keep from thinking about anything beyond the next step, the next move, the next second. By the time he stepped back in, gowned and gloved, you were already prepped, monitors adjusted, anesthesia moving into place, the room settling into that tense, anticipatory quiet that always came before something critical.

He stepped up to the table. To you. And for just a second, just one, the room faded again, the noise dropping away as he looked at you lying there, too still, too pale, and something in his chest twisted hard enough to hurt.

Then he pushed it down. Buried it. Because he didn’t get to feel that right now. Not yet.

“Let’s go,” he said, his voice steady again, controlled, back in place even if everything underneath it was anything but.

The first cut was always the hardest when it mattered, not because of the motion itself but because of what it represented, the moment where there was no more waiting, no more debating, only action, and Robby’s hands did not hesitate even as everything inside him strained against the reality of who was on that table.

“Scalpel.”

The word came out clean, controlled, and someone placed it into his palm without question, because whatever anyone else in that room felt about him being there, they trusted his skill, they trusted his instincts, and right now that was the only thing that mattered. He positioned himself, breath steadying as muscle memory took over, the world narrowing to the field in front of him, to the precise placement of his hands, to the rhythm of the monitors that he forced himself to listen to instead of the echo of your voice in his head.

“Pressure’s still low,” The anesthesia called out, tension threading through the words as numbers flickered on the screen. “She’s not stabilizing.”

“She will,” Robby answered, not looking up, not breaking focus, because doubt did not belong here, not now, not with you bleeding out under his hands.

He made the incision. Clean. Controlled. Exact. Blood welled immediately, more than he wanted, more than he liked, and suction moved in, quick and efficient, the team falling into sync around him as he worked, each step deliberate, each movement measured.

“Retractors,” he said, his voice steady, the cadence familiar, grounding, and they responded without hesitation.

Inside, everything sharpened. The noise faded. The room disappeared. There was only the problem in front of him, the source of the bleed, the damage that needed to be controlled, fixed, stopped, and he moved through it with precision, his mind cataloging, adjusting, adapting in real time.

“Found it,” he muttered, more to himself than anyone else, as he identified the source, deeper than he would have liked, messier than it should have been. “She took it through the abdomen, we’ve got internal bleeding, suction—no, more, keep it clear.”

“BP dropping again,” The anesthesia warned, sharper now, urgency creeping higher.

“Clamp,” Robby said immediately, his hand already out, already anticipating the next move, because he could feel the clock now, ticking louder, faster, each second stretching thin.

The instrument hit his palm, and he worked quickly, isolating, controlling, his movements efficient even as his jaw tightened, the muscle there jumping once, betraying the tension he refused to let show anywhere else.

“Come on,” he murmured under his breath, barely audible, not meant for the room, not meant for anyone but you.

For a split second, something flickered across his mind. You on the floor. Your voice, weak but still trying to argue with him. The way your hand had grabbed his sleeve like you weren’t done yet.

He pushed it down. Focused. Because thinking about that now would break him, and breaking was not an option.

“Pressure’s responding,” someone said, a hint of relief threading through the words as the numbers steadied just slightly, not enough, but enough to keep going.

“Good,” Robby answered, already moving to the next step, his hands steady, precise, unshaking even as sweat gathered at the back of his neck, even as his chest felt too tight.

They worked like that for minutes that felt like hours, the rhythm of the OR settling into something tense but controlled, each small improvement hard-won, each step forward fragile but real.

“Bleed’s under control,” he said finally, the words carrying more weight than he let show, because this was the turning point, the place where things could finally start to shift back in your favor.

“BP’s coming up,” the anesthesia confirmed, the tension easing by degrees, not gone, not yet, but less sharp, less immediate.

Robby exhaled slowly, a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding, his shoulders lowering just a fraction as he moved carefully, methodically through the rest of the procedure, repairing what he could, stabilizing what needed it, making sure there were no surprises left waiting.

No more damage. No more bleeding. No more things that could take you from him. The room began to breathe again, the urgency softening into focus, into precision instead of panic, and for the first time since he had stepped into the OR, Robby let himself glance up.

Just for a second. Just long enough to see your face. Too pale, still too still, but alive. Still here.

“Closing,” he said, his voice quieter now, but no less steady, the final steps falling into place as he finished, each movement deliberate, careful, like he was sealing something fragile back together.

When it was done, he didn’t step away immediately. Didn’t move. Didn’t speak. He just stood there for a second longer than necessary, his gaze fixed on you, on the rise and fall of your chest, on the steady rhythm of the monitors that now sounded like something close to relief.

“She’s stable,” someone said, gentle, like they understood what this was, what it meant.

Robby nodded once, sharp, controlled, but he still didn’t move, his hands resting lightly on the edge of the table like he needed the contact, like he needed to be sure you were still there.

“You did good,” he said quietly, the words barely above a whisper, meant only for you even though you couldn’t hear them.

Then, finally, he stepped back.

******

They moved you to recovery with the same controlled urgency that had carried you through the OR, monitors steady now, lines secure, your body finally out of immediate danger even if the aftermath still lingered in every careful step, and Robby stayed with you through all of it, ignoring the looks, the quiet attempts to redirect him, the unspoken understanding in the room that he had crossed every professional boundary that usually kept things clean and distant, because none of that mattered anymore, not after what had just happened.

“She’ll be under for a bit,” the anesthesia said as they settled you into the ICU room, voice calm, routine, like this was just another patient being handed off instead of someone who had just held an entire department together at gunpoint and nearly died doing it. “Vitals are stable, surgery went well, but she lost a lot of blood, so we’ll keep a close eye.”

Robby nodded once, sharp, his gaze never leaving you as he adjusted something at your bedside that didn’t need adjusting, his hands needing something to do even now, even after everything.

“We’ll take it from here,” a nurse added gently, not pushing, just offering, because they all knew what this was, knew what he was to you even if it had never been said out loud before today.

He didn’t move.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he said quietly, not confrontational, not defensive, just certain, and something in the room shifted at that, the last pretense falling away as no one argued, no one insisted, because it was clear he wasn’t asking.

So they let him stay. Time blurred after that, stretching and folding in on itself in that strange way it always did after adrenaline burned off, leaving behind exhaustion and something heavier, something quieter, and Robby sat at your bedside through all of it, one hand resting loosely over yours, his thumb brushing against your skin in slow, absent motions like he needed the contact to keep himself grounded. At some point, the noise outside filtered in, fragments of conversation passing through the partially open door, updates, explanations, the kind of things that always followed something like this.

“The suspect’s dead,” someone said, voice low, factual, and Robby’s jaw tightened slightly, his gaze flicking up for half a second before returning to you.

“And the girlfriend?”

“Alive,” came the answer. “Grazed, nothing life-threatening, baby’s fine.”

A breath left him then, slow, controlled, the tension in his shoulders easing just a fraction more as that piece settled into place, because you had done that, you had held everything together long enough for that outcome, and even now, lying here, you were still changing how this ended. He looked back at you, his hand tightening slightly around yours, careful, mindful of the IV, of the fragility of the moment.

“You always do that,” he muttered under his breath, not quite a complaint, not quite anything else, his voice rough at the edges. “You walk straight into the worst possible situation and somehow make it better.”

There was no response, not yet, just the steady rhythm of the monitors and the slow rise and fall of your chest, but he stayed, watching, waiting, his body finally starting to feel the weight of everything that had just happened now that he didn’t have to keep moving through it. Minutes passed.bThen more.And then came a shift. Small and subtle. But unmistakable.

Your fingers moved against his. Just barely, just enough that he felt it, enough that his head snapped up, his focus sharpening instantly as he leaned closer, his free hand coming up to rest lightly against your arm.

“Hey,” he said, his voice softer now, gentler, the edge gone but the intensity still there, still unmistakable. “Hey, come on, stay with me.”

Your lashes fluttered, your breathing catching slightly as consciousness fought its way back through the haze, through the weight of everything your body had just endured, and slowly, slowly, your eyes opened. They didn’t focus right away. Didn’t settle.bBut then they did.

On him.

Relief hit him hard enough that he had to exhale through it, his grip on your hand tightening just slightly before he caught himself, easing back just enough to not hurt you.

“There you are,” he murmured, something almost like a smile pulling at the corner of his mouth, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes yet. “Took you long enough.”

Your lips parted, your voice rough, barely there. “You… stayed.”

“Yeah,” he said immediately, the answer automatic, certain, like there had never been another option. “I wouldn’t leave you.”

You blinked slowly, your gaze flicking over him like you were taking him in, making sure he was real, and something in your expression softened just slightly before your eyes drifted, your body still too tired to hold onto full awareness for long.

“Baby…” you whispered faintly, the word slipping out like it had been sitting at the front of your mind even through everything else.

“They’re okay,” Robby answered right away, leaning closer so you didn’t have to strain to hear him, his voice steady, reassuring. “You did it, both of them made it, mom’s stable, baby’s healthy.”

A weak, breathy exhale left you then, something like relief loosening the tension that had been holding you together, your eyes closing again for a second before forcing themselves back open, your focus settling on him once more.

“Good,” you managed, the word soft, but full.

Robby huffed a quiet breath, something like disbelief threading through it, his hand brushing lightly against your arm again, slower this time, more deliberate.

“Yeah,” he said, quieter now. “Good.”

There was a pause then, not empty, but full of everything that hadn’t been said yet, everything that had been pushed aside in favor of survival, of action, of getting through the moment, and now that the moment had passed, it was all sitting there between you, heavy and undeniable. You shifted slightly, a small wince pulling at your expression as pain caught up with you, and his hand immediately tightened again, his posture straightening.

“Easy,” he said quickly, his voice slipping back into that protective edge without thinking. “Don’t try to move yet, you’re going to tear something.”

You huffed weakly, something like a smile ghosting across your lips despite it. “Still… bossy…”

“Yeah,” he repeated, softer this time, but there was something else in it now, something more open, less guarded, the lines between professional and personal completely gone. “And you’re still not listening.”

Your eyes lingered on him a second longer this time, clearer now, more aware, and something shifted in the space between you, something that had been there all along but had never been allowed to sit out in the open like this.

“You came in,” you said quietly, not a question, just a statement, your voice threaded with something deeper, something that carried more weight than the words themselves.

“I wasn’t staying out there,” he replied just as quietly, his gaze holding yours without hesitation. “Not with you in there.”

A beat passed. Then another. And neither of you looked away. For once, neither of you tried to hide it.

******

A week later, the hospital had settled back into something that resembled normal, at least on the surface, the kind of carefully reconstructed rhythm that came after something big enough to shake everyone but not big enough to stop the machine entirely, because The Pitt never really stopped, it just adjusted and kept moving, even if the people inside it carried the weight of what had happened a little differently.

Your room was quieter than the ER, quieter than the ICU had been, the steady beeping of monitors now more reassurance than alarm, your body finally on the right side of recovery even if every movement still reminded you exactly how close things had come, the soreness deep and lingering, the exhaustion heavier than anything you had felt in a long time. You were propped up slightly in bed, a blanket pulled over your legs, one hand resting carefully against your side where the bandages still felt too tight, too present, your gaze drifting toward the window more out of habit than anything else as the late afternoon light filtered in.

The door opened without a knock. You didn’t need to look to know who it was.

“You’re supposed to be resting,” Robby said as he stepped inside, though there was no real reprimand in it, just the same low, familiar tone he had used on you more times than you could count, the one that always carried more concern than authority.

“I am resting,” you replied, glancing over at him, your voice still a little rough but stronger than it had been days ago, stronger than he had expected, if the slight flicker of relief in his expression was anything to go by. “I’m just doing it with my eyes open.”

He huffed quietly at that, setting a coffee down on the side table before moving closer, his eyes scanning you automatically, taking in your color, your posture, the way you were holding yourself, the small things that told him more than you ever would out loud.

“You’re sitting up more,” he noted, like it was both an observation and a question.

“You told me to try,” you said, one brow lifting slightly, and something almost like a smile tugged at his mouth before he caught it, before it fully settled.

“I did,” he admitted, stepping closer until he was at your bedside, one hand resting lightly against the railing like he needed the contact point. “Didn’t think you’d actually listen.”

You let out a quiet breath that might have been a laugh if it didn’t pull just slightly at your side, your hand instinctively shifting to brace there, and his gaze dropped immediately, the shift so fast it would have been easy to miss if you didn’t know him.

“I’m okay,” you said softly, catching it, catching him, your voice steady enough to mean it.

“I know,” he answered, but there was something in the way he said it that suggested he was still convincing himself of that, still replaying things he hadn’t said out loud yet.