In the spirit of encouraging people to comment on fanfics while also making it easier to do so, I feel obliged to share a browser extension for ao3 that has quite literally revolutionized the comment game for me.
I present to you: the floating ao3 comment box!
From what I've seen, a big problem for many people is that once you reach the comments at the bottom of a fic, your memory of it miraculously disappears. Anything you wanted to say is stuck ten paragraphs ago, and you barely remember what you thought while reading. This fixes that!
I'll give a little explanation on the features and how it works, but if you want to skip all that, here's the link.
The extension is visible as a small blue box in the upper left corner.
(Side note: The green colouring is not from the extension, that's me.)
If you click on it, you open a comment box window at the bottom of your screen but not at the bottom of the fic. I opened my own fic for demonstrative purposes.
The website also gives explanations on how exactly it functions, but I'll summarize regardless.
insert selection -> if you highlight a sentence in the fic it will be added in italics to the comment box
add to comment box -> once you're done writing your comment, you click this button and the entire thing will automatically copied to the ao3 comment box
delete -> self explanatory
on mulitchapter fics, you will be given the option to either add the comment to just the current chapter or the entire fic
The best part? You can simply close the window the same way you opened it and your progress will automatically be saved. So you can open it, comment on a paragraph, and then close it and keep reading without having the box in your face.
Comments are what keep writers going, and as both a writer and a reader, I think it's such an easy way of showing support and enthusiasm.
divider by: @cafekitsune & @finnegancosmos & @anitalerina
word count: 15.5k
synopsis: In the cold of Winterfell, a southern princess learns that duty is not always a cage—and that sometimes, the heart’s desires align with the good of the realm.
a/n: I definitely went a little overboard with this one—this might be the longest one-shot I’ve written to date. Also, yes, I refer to reader as a lioness and imply her to be more Lannister than Baratheon, even though she is technically a Baratheon by name. We’re just rolling with it because thematically it fit much better for this story.
warnings: Arranged Marriage, Joffrey being Joffrey, Cersei.
The King’s arrival had turned Winterfell on its head.
Trumpets, banners, gold—so much gold. The North had not seen such splendour since the end of the Targaryen dynasty, when Robert Baratheon had taken the throne. Now, it seemed half the realm had come marching behind Robert's royal party.
Gold and crimson, black and stag-marked—southern colours that gleamed far too bright against Winterfell’s muted tones. The northerners looked on, some with curiosity, some with cautious, and a few openly awed as they watched the southern procession wind its way through the gates like a river of colour cutting through snow.
At the head of it rode your father—Robert Baratheon himself—larger than life and twice as loud, his booming laughter rolling over the crowd like thunder. His beard was flecked with frost, his furs heavy and rich, his crown sitting askew in a careless way that had once been considered charming but now looked more like neglect.
You had heard endless stories of his youth—the warrior who had swung a warhammer like the gods themselves had forged it for his hands, the rebel who had taken a throne with fire in his blood and vengeance in his heart. Robert the Usurper. Robert the Conqueror.
But the man who rode before you now was not that legend. His armour strained against the swell of his belly, his face ruddy from drinking. The warhammer had long been replaced by a wine cup and a whore on his lap, the crown he wore weighed by the weight of old victories he refused to let die.
You wondered if even he remembered what it had felt like—to be the man the songs still sang of. Now, he was simply a king grown soft, chasing the ghost of glory through the bottom of his goblet and whoring his way through the street of silk.
As for you, you rode among them, sitting tall despite the cold that seeped through your furs and southern silks. Your father had insisted you come north, and you had insisted on riding atop a horse rather than shut yourself away in the carriage with your mother and younger siblings. It had seemed a small act of defiance then, a gesture of freedom. Now, with the wind biting at your cheeks and Joffrey’s endless complaints filling the air, it felt more like punishment.
He had sneered the entire way north—at the chill, the people, the very land itself. “The dreary, filthy North,” he had called it more than once, his tone dripping with disdain. You had ignored him as best you could, your gaze fixed on the horizon, excited to see a different land from the one you grew up in.
You’d always imagined the North as a wasteland of ice and furs, cold and colourless. But when you finally crossed through Winterfell’s borders, the image shattered.
The ancient stronghold rose before you, proud and formidable, its grey stone walls streaked with frost and history. Smoke curled from the forges, filling the air with the scent of metal and fire. There was movement everywhere—men with weathered faces and proud eyes, women calling out to one another across the yard, and children with flushed cheeks laughing as they chased hounds through the snow-dusted courtyard. It wasn’t lifeless at all. It was rough yes, but nothing like the southerners tried to depict.
You drew your crimson cloak tighter around your shoulders, breath ghosting in the frigid air. The cold bit through your clothes, sharp against your delicate skin, and for a moment you thought you might curse your own stubbornness for refusing the carriage. Yet as the wind swept past you again, crisp and fresh, you realized you didn’t hate it as much as you’d expected to.
It was different from the damp, perfumed warmth of King’s Landing. There, beneath the scent of roses and incense, there was always something else—an undercurrent of rot that no amount of perfume could mask. The palace gleamed with splendour, but beyond its stone halls the small folk suffered, and their misery lingered in the air like smog. Even in the height of summer, the city smelled of decay.
You shivered again from the cold. The North was harsh, yes—but there was purity in that harshness, a raw honesty that stripped everything down to what it truly was.
“Gods, it stinks,” Joffrey muttered beside you as the royal party began to dismount, his nose wrinkling as though the very air offended him.
You fought the urge to roll your eyes. The journey north had nearly rid you of patience for his endless vanity, but you found that ignoring him was the best way to deal with him.
Instead, your gaze drifted to the family lined before the steps of the keep—the Starks of Winterfell. They stood proud and poised, and in perfect unity they bowed towards your father not letting you get a proper look at their faces.
Your father went forward first. For a moment, an uneasy hush fell over the courtyard, as they watched what the King would say. You watched your father approach ordering Lord Stark to stand, but soon after it was all laughter and heavy slaps on the back as he embraced Lord Stark. Your mother followed, cold as a blade at Robert’s side.
One by one, the rest of the Starks straightened, rising from their bows as your gaze swept over them. There were three younger children—two boys and a girl with untamed, curious eyes that seemed to hold more mischief than fear. The smallest of the boys stood by his mother, his expression bright with childlike wonder, while the other, taller but still retaining his boyish excitement stood by his sister.
Beside them stood an older girl, her light auburn hair gleaming softly. She was beautiful, the kind of beauty that was more seen in the south. Her hands were clasped neatly before her, and her smile, though polite, carried a faint nervousness as her gaze flickered toward your brother. You didn’t miss the faint blush that coloured her cheeks.
But it was the eldest son who drew your eyes and held them.
Robb Stark.
Named after your father’s namesake.
He stood beside Lord Stark with a quiet confidence that needed no boasting to be felt. His hair was dark auburn, catching faint hints of red beneath the pale northern sun, and his stance was strong—broad-shouldered, proud.
He was handsome, though not in the soft, polished way of the southern courtiers you’d grown accustomed to seeing. He was well groomed, yes, but the rugged strength beneath that composure could not be hidden. His build spoke of long hours in the yard rather than idle ones in a hall, his bearing of discipline rather than indulgence.
His eyes caught you most of all—grey as a storm over the sea, sharp and intelligent. There was a steadiness to them, a kind of calm that unnerved you, because it was clear they missed nothing.
And they certainly didn’t miss the smirk your brother sent his sister’s way. Robb’s expression didn’t so much as flicker in response, though the faint tightening of his jaw told you he had noticed, the way his sister blushed in response.
Before you could look away, those grey eyes found yours—and for a heartbeat, the world seemed to still.
You had never been one of those girls who giggled over handsome lords or whispered about courtly love behind lace fans. You had seen enough of men like that—vain, shallow creatures who mistook charm for worth. But something about Robb Stark was different.
Heat crept up your neck before you could stop it, your cheeks warming despite the chill in the air. You fought the sudden, ridiculous urge to look away bashfully, to hide the small, traitorous smile tugging at your lips.
It was absurd, really—you didn’t even know him.
For a long, unbroken moment, you didn’t move. It was as though the cold had rooted you in place, your pulse thudding softly in your ears. Then, without warning, Joffrey bumped into you from behind with a muttered curse, snapping the spell cleanly.
You blinked, startled, stepping aside as your brother straightened his cloak with a scoff, clearly annoyed at you. But when you looked back, Robb was already glancing away, his expression unreadable.
The feast that night was as loud and unruly as any your father had ever hosted—though the North’s version of merriment came with more ale and less flattery. The great hall of Winterfell was alive with sound: the crackle of hearth fires, the thunder of mugs striking tables, the low rumble of laughter spilling between bites of roasted meat. The air was thick with the scent of smoke and spice and the faint chill that crept in from the open doors each time a servant hurried through.
You sat near the head of the table, your place beside your mother. You didn’t have to look at her to know her jaw was tight, her patience thinning with each booming laugh from your father as he entertained the woman on his lap.
Robert was in high spirits, which was to say, he was halfway to drunk before the first course had finished. His laughter echoed down the hall, drowning out conversation, spilling more wine than he drank as he talked with Ned.
You kept your gaze low, pretending not to notice the way your mother’s fingers curled around her goblet, white-knuckled.
It wasn’t until your father slammed his mug down on the table that the laughter faltered. The sound reverberated through the hall like a hammer on iron, silencing even the musicians.
“Come, Ned!” he bellowed, a drunken grin on his face, his words slurred with good cheer. “You’ve given me your friendship, your sword, your counsel—but not your blood.”
A murmur rippled through the hall. Lord Stark blinked, confusion flickering across his usually steady face. “Your Grace?”
Robert gestured grandly down the length of the table, his cup sloshing in one hand as he waved toward you. “Your boy, Robb—and my eldest daughter!” he declared, his voice booming with the certainty of a man who had never considered refusal. “A match that will bind the North and the West! A son of Winterfell, a daughter of the Crown—what say you, Ned?”
A ripple of uneasy laughter passed through the hall. Some courtiers echoed it too quickly, hoping to placate the King, while others bowed their heads, unwilling to draw notice beneath Robert Baratheon’s good humour.
You froze, your hand tightening around the stem of your goblet as your father’s words sank in. Heat crept up your neck, though the hall suddenly felt very cold. You fought to keep your expression composed, the careful mask of royal composure your mother had drilled into you since childhood. But it was impossible not to feel the weight of every gaze turning toward you and Robb.
Across the table, Robb Stark looked up sharply. His storm-grey eyes found yours through the candlelight, steady but startled. There was no arrogance in his stare, no mockery—only quiet disbelief that mirrored your own.
Even your mother stilled beside you. Cersei’s hand froze on her cup, her knuckles whitening as she turned her gaze toward your father, fury flickering behind the mask of a queen’s poise.
“She’s still young,” your mother said tightly, clearly also not having expected this.
You were a woman grown, long past your first blood. Old enough to bear children, old enough for marriage. In truth, it was a miracle you hadn’t been married off earlier.
Robert waved her off with a booming laugh, already reaching for his cup again. “Old enough for betrothal!” he said, dismissive and delighted all at once. “Robb Stark and my eldest girl—the wolf and the lioness! Gods, they’ll make fine cubs, eh?”
Your pulse thundered in your ears as you stared at the table before you, unable to look at anyone. It was not the proposal itself that shook you—marriage had always been an eventuality, a matter of alliance rather than affection—but the suddenness of it, the way your life had been offered up like cow at an auction.
The hall erupted again — laughter, murmurs, wide eyes. Lord Stark looked caught entirely off guard, his calm composure faltering for perhaps the first time that evening. Your mother’s jaw, meanwhile, was set in stone, her fingers tight around her cup as if she meant to crush it.
Your father, oblivious—or perhaps uncaring—of the discomfort around him, only roared with laughter and turned to the young man in question. “What say you, boy?” Robert grinned at Robb, raising his cup. “A fine match, eh?”
Across the table, Robb Stark straightened, caught between the weight of his father’s silence and the King’s drunken insistence. For a heartbeat, his eyes flicked toward Lord Stark, as though seeking guidance. But Ned Stark’s face, though grave, gave nothing away.
Robb’s jaw set. Slowly, he inclined his head toward the King, his tone careful and measured. “Your Grace honours me,” he said evenly, the calm in his voice belying the tension in his shoulders. “But—”
He didn’t get the chance to finish.
“But nothing!” Robert boomed, slamming his cup down hard enough to spill wine across the table. “The girl’s comely, and from good stock. I’ll hear no objections!”
You wanted the floor to swallow you whole. You managed to lift your goblet, forcing a polite smile that didn’t reach your eyes, though your stomach twisted with humiliation. This wasn’t how you imagined meeting your future husband—announced like an offering at a feast, your worth reduced to bloodlines and the King’s drunken cheer.
When Robert finally turned his attention elsewhere, clapping Lord Stark on the back with enough force to rattle the tableware, you dared to look up again.
Robb was watching you. His gaze thoughtful rather than cold.
You wondered what he saw—a spoiled lion cub, soft from silk and wine? You wouldn’t have blamed him for thinking it. The Northerners were born of hard work and harder winters; you were born of gold and servants. And yet, as his gaze lingered for a moment longer before turning away, you couldn’t help but hope that perhaps he saw something else too—something more than what your name and colours proclaimed.
As the feast wore on, the laughter grew louder as everyone grew drunker. You tried to endure it—to play your part, to smile when spoken to—but each passing moment made it harder to breathe.
Finally, when no one was looking, you rose from your seat and slipped away.
No one noticed. Your father was deep in his cups, his booming laughter echoing over the music, drowning out any thought of propriety. Your mother had vanished not long before—where, you neither knew nor cared. You only knew that you needed air.
The courtyard was quiet when you stepped into it, the torches guttering in the wind. Winterfell was different at night—vast and solemn. The cold crept beneath your cloak, but it was a welcome feeling compared to the suffocating heat of the feast hall. You drew the fabric tighter around your shoulders and breathed deeply, letting the icy air fill your lungs. For the first time all evening, you felt the weight in your chest begin to ease.
Your boots crunched softly against the packed snow as you wandered without aim, tracing the paths between torchlit walls. Somewhere overhead, a raven cawed, its cry carrying across the night before fading into the wind. You might have turned back then—returned to the warmth and noise, to the safety of your place beside your mother—had it not been for the sound that broke the stillness.
Steel striking wood.
You paused, listening. The sound came again—steady and rhythmic. Curiosity stirred, and you found yourself following it through the shadowed corridors and out into one of the training yards, half-shrouded in darkness.
There, beneath the pale light of the moon, was a young man. He moved with focus, each swing of his wooden practice sword fluid and measured, the sort of precision that spoke of years of learned discipline. He was focused, wholly absorbed in his task, his strikes landed with a steady rhythm against the straw dummy. He was breathing heavy, every breath came in soft, visible clouds, rising and vanishing into the cold air. Despite the chill, he wore only a simple tunic, the thin fabric clinging faintly to his skin with the sheen of exertion.
The soft sound of your steps must have given you away. He turned sharply, the sword rising instinctively in his hand, and you startled, taking an instinctive step back.
“Apologies,” you blurted, raising your hands slightly. “I didn’t mean to intrude. I was only taking a breath from the feast and seem to have lost my way.”
He blinked in surprise, eyes widening as recognition dawned. Even in the low light, you could see the resemblance to Robb Stark—the same sharp lines of the jaw, the same quiet intensity—but his hair was darker, brown like Lord Stark’s, and there was a softness to his gaze that Robb did not possess.
“No, it is I who should apologize, Your Grace,” he said quickly, lowering the sword. “I didn’t expect anyone to be out here.”
“There’s no need to apologize,” you replied, your tone gentle as you stepped closer. “I didn’t expect to find anyone either. I thought I was the only one hiding from the noise.” You hesitated, studying him for a moment. “In fact, I don’t recall seeing you there. I thought all of Lord Stark’s children were present.”
Something flickered across his face at that—an emotion you couldn’t quite place. His jaw tightened slightly, and his eyes dropped to the ground. “I… am not officially considered as such,” he said quietly. “Jon Snow is my name.”
Realization struck, sharp and unbidden. “You’re his bastard,” you said before you could stop yourself. The words slipped free like a breath, unthinking—and the moment they did, you saw the subtle hardening in his eyes, the stiffness in his shoulders.
“Apologies,” you said quickly, your voice softening. “I meant no offence.”
He exhaled through his nose, the tension in his shoulders easing only slightly. “No need, my lady. I’ve heard worse.”
Something in his tone—half resignation, half acceptance—made your chest tighten.
“Still, it was rude of me to say it as such. It is not a child’s fault for the sins of their father,” you murmured, your voice soft against the quiet of the yard.
He blinked, as though the thought itself surprised him. The training sword in his hand lowered slightly, his fingers flexing around the hilt.
“Most highborn don’t bother to make excuses for bastards,” Jon said at last, the corner of his mouth twisting—not quite a smile, not quite a sneer. “They just pretend we don’t exist.”
You tilted your head, studying him in the dim light. “Pretending seems to be a southern pastime,” you said dryly. “One I’ve never been very good at.”
That earned you a flicker of amusement—brief, but genuine. The tension in his shoulders eased, his guardedness softening into something closer to curiosity.
“Why are you out here?” he asked after a moment, breaking the silence. “You should be inside—warm, with the rest of them.”
“Yes, I should,” you agreed bitterly, your breath ghosting in the cold. “I should be with everyone, watching my father drink himself into a stupor and insult my mother and his marriage every chance he gets.” You exhaled, a short, humourless laugh escaping you. “Or perhaps I should’ve stayed so I could be congratulated on my upcoming betrothal to your brother.”
Jon’s eyes widened in surprise. “Robb?”
You nodded once, your mouth twisting faintly. “Yes. The King saw it quite fit to announce the offer among everyone in attendance.”
Jon hesitated, his expression unreadable. “You don’t sound very happy about it,” he said finally.
You gave a quiet, mirthless laugh. “Would you be?”
When he didn’t reply, your shoulders lifted in a small shrug as you looked away. “I mean no insult to your brother for my bitterness, but when you’re offered like a broodmare, with no inclination or choice in the matter, I think anyone would find it hard to be happy.” The words left your lips without hesitation. “Sometimes I wish I was a bastard. At least then my father would have ignored me, the way he’s ignored the hundreds of other children he’s sired.”
You hesitated, your voice softening, though the bitterness beneath it remained. “You’re lucky Lord Stark is your father, Jon Snow. At least he seems to care for his children. My father only sees us as bargaining chips—useful when needed, forgotten when not.”
Jon’s grip tightened around the hilt of his training sword until the leather creaked. For a heartbeat, he seemed unsure of what to do with his hands. Then he set the blade aside, the tip sinking soundlessly into the snow.
“That’s… a harsh thing to wish for,” he said quietly. There was no judgment in his tone—only pity and sadness.
You let out a dry, humourless laugh, your breath curling white in the cold. “Harsh, perhaps. But honest.”
Your gaze lifted toward the sky. The stars here seemed closer, brighter—so unlike the smog-veiled heavens of King’s Landing. “I used to think being royal meant freedom,” you murmured. “That power could buy choices. But I grew old enough to realize it only meant I was shackled to duty and expectation higher than most. And for a highborn lady, that will always mean being owned.”
Jon studied you for a moment, the way your voice softened around the edges of those words, as though you’d long since grown tired of speaking them aloud.
“I’ve often thought about what it might mean to be born properly a Stark,” he admitted quietly. “What it would be like to be seen. Properly. To belong somewhere.” His lips curved into a faint, self-mocking smile. “You want to be invisible, and I’d give anything not to be.”
For a long moment, neither of you spoke. The cold bit at your cheeks, but neither of you seemed to mind it. The silence was strangely comfortable—a bubble of calm in a world that demanded too much of both of you.
At last, you broke it. “It’s strange, isn’t it?” you said softly. “How both of us want what the other has. You’d give anything to be acknowledged, and I’d give anything to be forgotten.”
Jon’s lips curved faintly, but there was little amusement in it. “Seems the gods have a sense of humour,” he murmured.
“Or cruelty,” you countered, your gaze turning skyward again. “They give us everything we never asked for and keep what we want just out of reach.”
Jon followed your gaze, his expression thoughtful. “Perhaps they think it makes us stronger."
You huffed a quiet laugh, the sound soft in the cold air. “Then the gods have made philosophers of us both.”
Your laughter seemed to ease something in him. The stiffness in his shoulders melted away, and for the first time, the heaviness in his eyes lifted. When he looked at you again, there was no trace of wariness, only quiet understanding.
“You don’t talk like the other highborn ladies I’ve met,” he said finally.
You smiled faintly. “That’s because most of them are taught to be silent. They’re there to be admired, not heard.”
He tilted his head, considering you. “And you?”
“Oh, they tried to teach me the same,” you said, a touch of dry humour in your voice. “But I’m a shit listener.”
Jon blinked, startled at the sound of you cursing—and then, to your surprise, he barked out a laugh. A real laugh. You found yourself laughing along with him.
When his laughter finally faded, he studied you again—longer this time, as though seeing something he hadn’t before. “You know,” he said quietly, “I think Robb might like you.”
Your smile faltered at that, the words cutting through the brief ease between you. The reminder of your betrothal fell heavy in the still air.
Jon seemed to realize it, because his tone softened. “Robb will be good to you,” he said gently. “He won’t see you as a thing to be bartered.”
You looked away, the flickering torchlight catching in your eyes. “Maybe not,” you murmured. “But that doesn’t change what I am. I’m a commodity—something to be given to strengthen the ties between the crown and the North.”
The words hung in the cold air like mist. You exhaled slowly, something between a sigh and a laugh escaping you. “You know,” you said, voice quieter now, “I don’t even know if I’ll be good for him. He looks to be a steady man, one born of duty and hard work. I am a daughter of duty, too, but of a different kind. We both know my southern softness would have no place among the strength you Northerners carry.”
Jon’s brows knit slightly as he studied you. For a moment, he seemed to weigh your words, the silence stretching between you before he finally spoke. “You sell yourself short, my lady. The North doesn’t measure strength by calloused hands or sword arms. We measure it by what a person endures.”
You blinked, surprised by the quiet conviction in his tone. The night air curled white from his breath, and for the first time you noticed how young he really was—a couple years younger than you, but already worn by truths older than his years.
“From what I can see,” he said, his gaze steady on yours, “you’d survive Winterfell just fine.”
The sincerity in his tone caught you off guard. For a moment, you couldn’t quite find your voice. You had expected pity, perhaps—politeness, or some attempt to comfort a princess who had never known real hardship. But there was none of that in his eyes. Only truth. Quiet, unwavering truth.
Something in your chest tightened, a strange ache blooming where defensiveness had lived for so long. You found yourself smiling faintly, though it didn’t quite reach your eyes. “You say that now,” you murmured. “You haven’t seen me try to walk on ice.”
Jon’s lips twitched, the ghost of amusement playing there. “The North has a way of humbling everyone. You’d learn.”
That made you laugh—soft and breathy in the chill, the sound a wisp of warmth in the frozen air. “Still,” you said after a moment, “your brother deserves a wife who belongs here. One who doesn’t flinch when the wind bites or stumble over snow. I’m afraid I’ll be more trouble than treasure.”
Jon studied you, the faintest edge of warmth in his eyes. “You might be surprised what the North considers treasure.”
When you finally spoke again, your voice was quieter, more certain. “You’re far too kind, Jon Snow.”
He gave a faint shrug, the corner of his mouth curving just slightly. “Only honest.”
You smiled then—truly smiled—and this time it reached your eyes. The tension you hadn’t realized you’d been carrying began to ease. “Then perhaps that’s why the gods sent me outside tonight,” you murmured. “To find a bit of honesty.”
Jon opened his mouth to reply, but before he could, a familiar voice broke through the night.
“Jon.”
Both of you turned. Robb stood a few paces away, his cloak clasped at the throat, the faint firelight spilling from the hall behind him. It caught the edge of his hair, gilding it copper in the dark, and cast a soft glow over the snow-dusted stones at his feet. His gaze shifted between you and Jon, pausing on you for a heartbeat longer than propriety allowed.
“Princess,” he said at last, his voice steady but gentler than before. “The King will start a hunt if he finds his daughter missing.”
You straightened, the quiet spell of the courtyard breaking as reality swept back in. “I didn’t mean to worry anyone,” you said softly. “I only needed air.”
Turning to Jon, you dipped your head politely. “It was nice to meet you, Jon.”
He inclined his head in return, that faint half-smile still ghosting his lips. “You as well, Princess.”
With a final, lingering smile, you turned and began the slow walk back toward the hall. “My lord,” you murmured in passing, offering Robb a polite nod as you brushed past him.
Robb hesitated, his mouth parting as if to speak, perhaps to offer his arm or escort you inside. But you were already moving, your crimson cloak trailing behind you like a flicker of fire in the cold.
He watched you go until you disappeared around the corner, the sound of your footsteps fading into the night. Only then did he turn his gaze back to his half brother.
Robb stepped closer, folding his arms across his chest, the faintest trace of a smirk tugging at his mouth. “You seem to have made quite the impression.”
Jon snorted, bending to retrieve his training sword from where it rested in the snow. “She made one on me first.”
Robb’s brow arched, his tone teasing but edged with curiosity. “Oh? And what’s your judgment then? She seems as prideful as the rest of the lions. You should’ve seen her when the king announced the offer of her hand—it was as if she’d just tasted bad wine.”
Jon shook his head, straightening. “She’s… not like that,” he said quietly, his voice carrying an unexpected defensiveness. “She’s kind, Robb.”
Robb’s smirk faltered in surprise.
Jon went on, his tone steady but earnest. “She knew nothing of the king’s plans. She was caught unawares—same as you. And still, she spoke kindly of you.” He hesitated, then added, “You know what she said? That you deserve better than her. That you should have a northern wife.”
Robb blinked, caught off guard. “She said that?” He frowned slightly, his tone softening as he considered it. “That’s… not what I expected,” he admitted after a moment, the sharp edge of his usual composure dulling. “Most highborn would rather choke than admit weakness.”
Jon huffed a quiet laugh, the sound low and almost bitter. “She hides it well enough,” he said. “But it’s there. She’s not proud, Robb—she’s trapped. There’s a difference.”
Robb’s frown deepened, though not from doubt. The words settled somewhere deep, unwelcome in how true they felt. “And she told you all this?” he asked finally.
“Not all,” Jon replied, leaning lightly on the training sword. His voice was steady, deliberate. “But enough to see she’s not like the others in her family. She’s weary of being used as a piece in her father’s game, and yet—she still spoke well of you. I think she would be a good match for you. Maybe better than you think.”
Robb’s head turned sharply at that, his brows lifting in disbelief. “Good for me?” he echoed, half a scoff, half a laugh that didn’t quite land. “Jon, she’s the King’s daughter. A lion in silk. I doubt she’s ever known a day’s true labour in her life. The North would swallow her whole.”
Jon’s lips twitched, the faintest hint of a smile, but his eyes stayed steady. “Maybe,” he allowed. “Or maybe she’d learn to thrive in it.”
Robb exhaled through his nose, running a gloved hand through his hair. The movement was restless, betraying more unease than he intended. “You’ve spoken to her once, Jon.”
“Aye,” Jon agreed, his tone even. “Once. And in that one talk, she showed more heart than half the court’s done in a lifetime. She looked at me—me, a bastard—and saw a person. You think someone with kindness like that wouldn’t make a good lady for Winterfell?”
Robb looked away, jaw tightening as he tried to process that. “I don’t even know what to say to her,” Robb admitted finally, his voice softer, almost reluctant.
Jon smirked faintly, leaning back on his sword. “Try starting with something that isn’t about her family’s reputation.”
That earned a quiet, reluctant laugh from Robb—low, almost self-deprecating. “Seven hells, you make it sound simple.”
“It is,” Jon said, his tone calm, almost knowing. “You’re just too proud to see it. Stop judging her by her name, and you might realize it too.”
Robb didn’t answer, but his silence said enough. His gaze lingered on the snow where your footprints still marked the ground, the faint imprints already fading beneath the falling flakes.
By the next morning, Winterfell was alive with whispers.
Every corridor hummed with speculation, every corner seemed to hold a conversation half-hushed when you entered. Apparently, in you and Robb’s absence, another offer had been made—one that set the Great Hall aflame with rumour. A match between Sansa Stark and Prince Joffrey.
Now, the question that hung over every mouth and meal was simple: who would it be?
Would the King and Lord Stark bind their houses through you and Robb—the eldest daughter and the eldest son—or through their younger, more fitting pair?
No one knew which way the coin would fall.
As you made your way to the morning meal, the murmur of voices followed you like a shadow.
“A Lannister queen in the North?” one servant whispered, their words sharp in the cold air. “The wolves won’t stomach it.”
“Better the Sansa with the prince,” another replied. “Leave the lioness where she belongs.”
You kept your chin high, every inch the King’s daughter despite the sting of their words. The hem of your crimson cloak trailed behind you, its rich colour out of place among the muted greys and browns of Winterfell.
You had grown used to whispers in King’s Landing—court gossip was as common as breath but for some reason hearing the negative gossip about you here couldn’t help but sting. Still, you did what you always did, you kept your chin high and your steps even, even as the truth settled deep inside you. You were unwanted amongst the northerners.
At breakfast, your mother barely looked at you. The flicker of candlelight caught the hard gleam in her eyes. Her hands were perfectly still on the table, though you could see the faint strain in her knuckles—the only sign of the storm simmering beneath the surface.
It was clear both choices displeased her. Yet you couldn’t tell which she detested more: the idea of her daughter bound to the North, far from her control, or her son tied to a wolf’s daughter and forced to share his throne with the Starks.
Across the table, Jaime lounged with his usual easy poise, though his golden eyes flicked toward you, taking in the deep circles around your eyes. “You look as though you haven’t slept,” he murmured.
You forced a small smile, fingers curling around your cup. “Perhaps. I still haven’t gotten used to the northern chill,” You lied.
“Well,” Jaime drawled, tilting his head, “you’ll have to get used to it soon—if you are to become the new Lady Stark.”
His tone was light, teasing, but you could only muster a forced smile finding no amusement in the situation.
“Don’t tease her, Jaime,” came Tyrion’s voice from further down the table. He was already swirling wine in his cup, despite the early hour, his tone dry as ever. “I imagine it’s difficult to rest when your hand may be sold without so much as a whisper of choice in the matter.”
He lifted his eyes to you then, and for a fleeting moment, his usual mockery softened into something resembling sympathy. “My condolences, niece. The North is cold, but at least the Starks have honour—a rare currency in this family.”
Cersei’s head turned sharply, her voice cutting through the air like a blade. “Enough, Tyrion.”
Tyrion only raised his cup in mock salute, a faint smile curling his mouth. “Merely admiring our king’s fine sense of timing. Nothing warms the heart like watching a daughter offered off between wine and roast boar.”
Your mother’s glare could have frozen the sea, but Tyrion only smiled into his drink.
Marcella, ever the softest of your siblings, shot him a reproachful look. “Sansa seems sweet,” she spoke up softly, almost to herself. “I think she’d make a good queen.”
Joffrey scoffed, rolling his eyes. “She’s a northern savage,” he declared. “If it were up to me, I’d choose a proper southern lady—someone who knows how to behave at court. Still,” he added, smirking, “she is beautiful. A fine thing for our future heirs.”
A quiet scoff escaped you before you could stop it—sharp, disdainful. It cut through the your brother’s laughter like a blade.
Joffrey’s head snapped toward you, his expression hardening, but before he could speak, your mother’s voice filled the silence.
Cersei’s gaze flicked between her children, then landed on you, her voice deceptively soft. “It doesn’t matter what any of you think. The King will make his decision, and we will abide by it.”
Her eyes lingered on you just long enough for the meaning to sink in: you will abide by it.
You inclined your head slightly, every inch the dutiful daughter she demanded you be. But as you lifted your cup, the faint tremor in your hand betrayed the truth.
At that moment, the heavy doors opened, and Robert entered the hall. His steps were uneven, his crown was once again askew, and his cheeks were flushed still bleary from the night of wine and laughter. The sight of him was enough to sour the air.
Cersei’s mouth tightened, the barest flicker of disgust ghosting across her face before she rose in one graceful, practiced motion. “I will take my meal elsewhere,” she said, her voice like ice.
Without another glance, she swept from the room, her gown trailing behind her like a crimson wound, the sound of her heels echoing sharply against the stone until it faded into silence.
You didn’t blame her for her fury—how could you? Your father had humiliated her before half the realm for years, and now he was doing the same with you. But you couldn’t share her anger either.
You’d seen enough of King’s Landing to know that power was never clean, and marriage least of all. Every alliance was a transaction to gain more power. And yet… something about the North unsettled that certainty. There was no pretension here, no gleaming façade to hide behind. The people spoke plainly, worked until their hands were raw, lived and died by loyalty.
It was harsh—but it was honest.
And though you hated the lack of choice forced upon you, though you despised being bartered like coin, there was a small, treacherous part of you that wished your father would choose the match with Robb Stark.
When you slipped away later, wandering through the Godswood, the cold seemed to clear your thoughts. The stillness of the place—the way the wind whispered through the Weirwood branches, the sound of water lapping against ice—was almost kind.
You didn’t realize you weren’t alone until you heard the sharp snap of a branch. Your breath caught, a gasp escaping you as you turned, cloak swirling around your legs.
“Lady Y/N,” Robb greeted, stepping into view, his breath visible in the cold air. A small grey pup padded beside him, tail wagging hesitantly, its eyes bright with curiosity.
“Forgive me,” Robb said, pausing a few paces away. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”
You exhaled slowly, the rush of surprise fading. “You didn’t,” you lied softly, though your heart was still racing.
You gave him a small polite smile, though it didn’t quite reach your eyes. The pup gave a soft whine and trotted toward you and you knelt to meet the little creature. “And who might this be?”
“Greywind,” Robb replied, a trace of pride threading through his voice. “A Direwolf pup—from the litter my siblings and I saved.”
You reached out your hand, letting the pup sniff your fingers before you gently scratched behind his ear. “Greywind,” you repeated fondly, your tone softening. “A noble name for such a handsome little one.”
The pup leaned into your touch, tail swishing through the snow, his small whines muffled by your gloved fingers. Robb watched in silence, something unreadable flickering in his eyes.
He hadn’t expected you to kneel in the snow without hesitation—your silks brushing against frost as though you didn’t care, your expression alight with genuine fondness. Greywind sniffed your hand again, ears perked, tail twitching in excitement before pressing his small head into your palm.
A quiet laugh escaped you then—soft, airy, real. The sound startled Robb more than he cared to admit.
“He’s beautiful,” you murmured, stroking the pup’s fur as he licked at your fingers. “So gentle. I thought Direwolves were meant to be fearsome.”
“They will be,” Robb said, and the corner of his mouth lifted into a faint smile. “He’s only a few moons old. But he’ll grow fast. Father says the bond between a Stark and his wolf runs deep—that they’re born to protect us.”
You looked up at him from where you knelt, your breath clouding in the cold air. The light caught in your eyes then, and something about the way you gazed at him—curious, open, wholly unafraid—made his words falter for just a moment. “That sounds like a rare gift,” you said softly. “The gods don’t give such bonds freely.”
The words lingered between you, carried by the quiet hush of the Godswood. Robb found himself wanting to say something—anything—to keep you speaking, to keep that faint warmth in your voice filling the cold space between you.
“My father says they were born for us,” he said at last, nodding toward Greywind. “To remind the Starks of who we are.”
“And who is that?” you asked, tilting your head slightly, genuine curiosity in your tone.
Robb hesitated, his breath misting in the air. “Honourable,” he said finally. “Loyal. Perhaps too much so.”
You smiled faintly, the expression small but sincere. “Those sound like virtues, my lord.”
“They can be the kind that get men killed,” he replied simply.
Your expression softened, your gaze thoughtful as it lingered on him. “Then I suppose they’re also the kind that make sure your names are passed down through the history books,” you murmured.
He blinked, caught off guard by the quiet conviction in your voice. For a long moment, neither of you spoke. The silence wasn’t uncomfortable—it was something gentler, fragile and new. Robb was still watching you when you finally rose, brushing the frost from your skirts. Greywind gave a soft whine in protest as your hand left his fur, his small tail sweeping the snow.
“Well, Greywind,” you said, your tone light and warm as your gaze flicked between wolf and man. “It was lovely to meet you both.”
You turned to go, the snow crunching softly beneath your boots. Robb’s eyes followed the sweep of your cloak, deep crimson against the white—like fire cutting through frost. Something in him stirred before he could stop it.
“You don’t need to leave,” he said, his voice careful as if not to startle you away. “I didn’t mean to intrude. I often come to the Godswood to think.” He paused, his mouth twitching faintly. “I didn’t expect that you—or your family—might visit this place.”
You gave a soft huff of laughter, your breath curling white in the cold air. “I doubt my mother would step foot in this place unless the gods themselves demanded it.”
Robb’s lips twitched, amusement flickering there for a moment. “Aye,” he said. “I imagine the Old Gods wouldn’t care much for southern prayers.”
You glanced over your shoulder, the faintest trace of a smile tugging at your lips. “Or southern pride,” you added, voice light but tinged with truth.
Robb’s mouth curved faintly, but his eyes didn’t waver from you. “There’s much being said about us,” he finally brought up after a pause. “More than either of us asked for.”
“I noticed,” you murmured, your gaze lowering to the snow-dusted ground. “Apparently I’m the North’s next great insult—or its salvation, depending on who’s gossiping.”
He hesitated, as though weighing whether to press further. “And what do you think?” he asked finally, his voice quieter now.
You lifted your head, meeting his eyes. “It’s no matter what I think,” you said evenly. “If my father and yours decide on our betrothal, then I will do my duty.”
He studied you for a moment, his expression unreadable, before nodding once—slowly, as if he understood more than he cared to admit. “My father would say duty is the only thing that keeps us honourable.”
You straightened. “And my mother would say it’s the only thing that keeps us useful,” you replied, your tone steady but tinged with quiet bitterness. “Either way, there’s little choice in what we would want.”
Robb tilted his head slightly, eyes searching yours. “And what is it you want, Princess?”
The question caught you off guard. Such a simple thing—and yet, no one had ever asked it before. Not your father, who spoke of alliances and bloodlines as though you were part of his crown’s ledger. Not your mother, who viewed choice as an illusion beneath the weight of duty. Never anyone who cared for you beyond what you represented.
Your breath misted in the cold as you turned your gaze toward the heart tree, its red leaves whispering softly in the wind. “I’m not sure I’d know how to answer that,” you admitted after a moment. “I’ve spent my life doing what’s expected of me. Perhaps what I want…”—you hesitated, voice softening—“…is a chance to know what freedom might be like. To make a choice for myself—not because it’s required, but because it’s mine.”
Robb was quiet for a long moment. Then, softly, he said, “You’d fit the North better than you think.”
You glanced back at him, one brow arching, uncertain if he was teasing. “Would I?”
“Aye,” he said, and there was no jest in it. “You value freedom, and you speak plainly. You’d find honesty here, even if it’s cold and rough-edged. And I think you’d hold your own against it.”
Something unguarded flickered in your eyes as you looked at him. You hadn’t expected kindness from him—not the sort that saw beyond your name. “You and your family are kinder than I expected, Lord Stark.”
A small smile touched his lips. “And you,” he said quietly, “are not what I expected at all, Princess.”
You looked back toward the pool of still water, its glassy surface reflecting the red of the Weirwood leaves. Your voice was soft when you finally spoke. “Do you think your father will agree to it?”
Robb was quiet for a long moment, the weight of your question settling in the still air between you. His gaze drifted toward the heart tree, its carved face solemn and knowing. “I think he’ll do what he believes is right for the realm,” he said at last. “As will the King. The rest of us will learn to live with their choices.”
You met his eyes again, and for a fleeting heartbeat, the rest of the world seemed to fall away—the crown, the politics, the heavy chains of your parents’ expectations. In that stillness, you could almost imagine another life. One where you weren’t a Baratheon princess bartered like gold, but a woman who chose her own path. A woman who could stay here, in this quiet northern stronghold, where the air was pure and the people were honest.
You could almost see it—a future with Robb Stark. You’d be lucky, you thought, to be his wife. He wasn’t much older than you, and unlike the courtiers you’d grown up around, there was nothing false in him. He was kind, and honest, and strong in the quiet way that made others listen. If the betrothal fell through, you knew your next match would likely be some aging lord looking to get his hands on a young Highborn wife, grasping for status through your name.
“I should return before someone notices I’ve vanished,” you said at last, drawing your cloak around your shoulders. “If my mother realizes I’ve been out here, she’ll lecture me about the impropriety of frolicking out in the wild.”
Robb’s expression softened. “I won’t keep you, then.” He hesitated, his voice lowering. “But you’re welcome here, whenever you need quiet. The Godswood belongs to no one.”
You paused at that, turning back to him. The smallest smile curved your lips, faint but genuine. “Thank you, Lord Stark.”
“Robb,” he corrected. “I’m not Lord Stark yet—and I think we’re past the point of formalities.”
You held his gaze for a moment, something unspoken passing between you, before nodding. “I’ll see you later, Robb.”
It was the first time you’d said his name without title. The sound of it on your sweet lips, felt like a spark in his heart, a warmth that lingered long after you turned and walked away.
Days passed, and with each one, Robb found it harder to ignore what Jon had said that night in the training yard.
You weren’t like the rest of your family. There was no sharp vanity in your tone, no hunger for control in your gaze. You carried yourself with quiet poise, yes—but it wasn’t born from arrogance. It was the kind taught through years of lesson. The kind a person learned when they’d been watched all their life, weighed and measured against what they could offer.
He saw it in the way you walked through Winterfell’s courtyards, shoulders straight but eyes watchful, politely enduring the stares and whispers that trailed after you. He saw it when you stopped to help and speak with the servants, asking—not out of idle curiosity, but genuine interest—about life in the North, about the work and the weather and the long winters to come. And when you bent to greet a stablehand’s hound, unbothered by the mud on its fur, Robb found himself watching longer than he should have.
There was kindness in you—a gentleness he hadn’t expected from a lioness raised among vipers. But there was something else, too. A restlessness. A spirit that longed to stretch its wings, to break free of gilded walls and southern expectations you’d grown up with. You looked at the North not with disdain, but with wonder. This was a world you had been raised to look down upon, yet you seemed intent on understanding it.
The decision of your marriage still lingered in the air like the heavy promise of a storm. The King and his father had yet to speak it aloud, though everyone knew it was coming.
Sansa, for her part, had taken to her chambers most evenings, whispering fervently to her mother about her destiny to be beside Prince Joffrey. Robb had passed their door more than once, catching the sound of her pleading voice—soft, desperate—begging Catelyn to convince their father to agree to the match.
Robb tried not to listen. Tried harder not to imagine the kind of life his sister would have beneath that boy’s thumb. He’d seen Joffrey’s nature, clearer than most. Beneath the polished manners and perfect smile lay something rotten. He was spoiled, vain, cruel in ways that made Robb’s skin crawl. He treated the servants as though they were less than human, mocking them when they stumbled, taking pleasure in their punishments when he thought no one else was watching.
The thought of Sansa bound to him—chained to that kind of arrogance and cruelty—made Robb’s stomach twist. No. He would rather sacrifice his own happiness, his own future, than see her endure that fate.
And though he would never say it aloud, the more he thought of it, the clearer it became: if someone had to be bound to the lions, he would rather it be him than his sister.
The truth was… the more time he spent near you, the less that sacrifice felt like one.
He had begun to seek your company without meaning to. Somehow, you always seemed to find your way to the Godswood or the courtyard, and more often than not, Greywind was padding loyally at your side. You had taken to feeding the wolf treats when you thought no one was watching—though Robb had noticed, more than once.
He pretended not to notice the first few times, content just to watch from a distance. You would look around before crouching down in the snow, your crimson silks brushed pale white at the hems, your voice gentle and cooing as you murmured to the growing pup as if he were a child. Greywind, though already larger than most hounds, behaved with startling gentleness around you—ears low, tail wagging, his enormous head nudging against your arm in quiet affection.
You smuggled bits of bread or dried meat from the kitchens, unbothered by the dirt or the snow that clung to your gloves. Each time, Greywind would take the food delicately from your palm, his golden eyes softening before he devoured it, tail thumping against the frozen ground.
Robb decided to approach you finally and the way you startled at being seen nearly made him laugh.
“Does my lord intend to scold me?” you’d asked, voice carefully measured, though your cheeks were pink with embarrassment.
He’d shaken his head, a small smile curving his lips. “Hardly. Greywind seems to like you more than he does most of my kin. I’d be a fool to interfere.”
You’d relaxed then, your shoulders easing as you looked down at the wolf nuzzling your hand, his great head pressing insistently into your palm.
Robb leaned back against the cold stone of the courtyard wall, arms loosely crossed, watching you toss a small scrap of meat into the air for Greywind to catch. The wolf snapped it up easily, rumbling in satisfaction. Robb wasn’t entirely sure when it had begun—these moments, these quiet meetings—but he realized he had come to anticipate them.
He told himself it was curiosity. That he only wished to understand the woman who might one day be his wife. But the truth was simpler—and far more dangerous.
You had begun to occupy the corners of his mind in ways he couldn’t quite name.
You laughed softly as Greywind pawed at your cloak, demanding another treat, and Robb found himself smiling despite the strange tightness that bloomed in his chest. You weren’t the woman he’d imagined when the King had first spoken your name that night at the feast. There was no hauteur in you, no cold detachment born of noble breeding. You were earnest, curious—so very alive.
He’d heard the whispers, of course. That you were a lioness raised in gold, your mother’s beauty and your father’s temper wound into one. But he had seen no cruelty in you, no vanity. Only a quiet grace—and a loneliness that, to his surprise, mirrored his own.
“You know,” you began, brushing snow from your gloves, a hint of playfulness threading through your voice, “you seem to be making a habit of finding me in the cold.”
“Or perhaps,” Robb countered easily, “you’re making a habit of keeping company with my wolf.”
You smiled faintly, eyes glinting. “Then I suppose we’re both guilty.”
Greywind trotted between you then, tail wagging, as though satisfied with the truce. Robb hesitated for a heartbeat, then gestured toward the path that lead to the Godswood. “Walk with me?” he asked, a trace of warmth softening his tone. “Before he decides to eat your hand next.”
You laughed—soft and breathy—before straightening and accepting his arm. Your personal guard fell into step a few paces behind, close enough to preserve propriety but far enough to grant you both the illusion of privacy.
“Does it ever stop snowing here?” you asked after a moment, genuine curiosity lacing your tone.
He grinned, the corners of his mouth lifting boyishly. “Not long enough for us to forget what it feels like.”
You smiled in return—small, unguarded—and for a fleeting heartbeat, it made Robb forget himself.
You brushed a light dusting of snow from your sleeve, still smiling faintly. “I enjoy it here,” you admitted. “The cold is… refreshing.”
“That’s one way to put it,” Robb said, amusement colouring his voice. “Most southerners start complaining before they’ve been here a day.”
“I’ve done enough complaining for a lifetime,” you replied softly. “It doesn’t change much.”
Robb turned his head slightly, studying you. Though your voice remained light, there was something in your eyes—a quiet, familiar sorrow you rarely let show. “You don’t seem the sort who sits idle,” he said carefully. “If you wanted something changed, I think you’d find a way.”
You glanced at him then, the corner of your mouth curving in faint amusement. “You think too highly of me, my lord. My father can move armies with a word. I, however, can’t even choose my own husband.”
The words hung between you, sharper than you meant them to be. Robb’s smile faltered slightly. “If our fathers do decide it,” he said after a pause, his voice low and measured, “I’d hope you’d never feel caged here.”
You tilted your head toward him, curiosity softening your features. “You’d let me speak freely? Do as I wish? Hunt, ride, even argue?”
He grinned, the boyish spark returning to his eyes. “Only if you promise not to best me at any of those.”
That earned him another laugh—brighter this time—and the sound carried through the Godswood, breaking the quiet like sunlight through clouds. Even Greywind perked up, trotting ahead before circling back to brush against your skirts, his tail sweeping the snow.
“You’ve a charming wolf,” you teased, reaching down to scratch his head as he leaned eagerly into your touch. “I think he’s taken a liking to me.”
Robb’s smile deepened before he could stop himself. “I’m beginning to think,” he said quietly, “he has a good choice.”
You looked up at him, surprised, and for a moment neither of you spoke. The words hung between you, fragile and too honest.
Robb cleared his throat and turned away toward the heart tree, his cheeks colouring deeper beneath the cold. “He doesn’t warm to strangers easily, I mean.”
“Of course,” you said softly, though the faint curve of your mouth betrayed your amusement. “I’ll take it as a compliment nonetheless.”
The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. You walked side by side beneath the red canopy of the Godswood, your cloaks brushing with each step, the snow falling in soft, lazy flakes around you.
Finally, you broke the quiet. “Do you ever grow tired of this place?” you asked. “Of duty? Of… being what’s expected?”
He thought for a long while before he answered, his voice low. “Sometimes,” he admitted. “But the North doesn’t change for us. It’s not meant to be easy.”
You smiled faintly at that, your gaze sweeping over the snow-dusted branches before landing on the faces carved in the tree. “I think that’s what I like most about this place. In King’s Landing, everything is handed to us with a single word. Here, everyone needs to help to earn their keep, otherwise they answer to the unforgiving winter.”
Robb nodded, thoughtful. “That’s true enough. Up here, a man’s worth is in his work, not his name.”
“And in the South,” you murmured, “it’s the opposite. A man’s name can make him a saint or a monster before he ever opens his mouth.”
Robb’s gaze lingered on you, studying the way your expression shifted as you spoke — not bitter, only weary. “You don’t sound proud of the place you come from.”
You hesitated. “Pride’s a dangerous thing in the capital,” you said at last. “It makes fools of even the clever ones.”
Robb’s steps slowed, his eyes tracing the curve of the heart tree’s pale trunk. “And yet,” he said, voice quieter now, “you don’t strike me as a fool.”
You gave a small laugh. “Then perhaps I’ve fooled you into believing that.” you said lightly.
Robb’s mouth curved faintly. “Perhaps,” he allowed, “but I don’t think so. You see too clearly for it. You… question things that most highborn don’t.”
You turned to look at him then—truly look—and found that he was already watching you. The torchlight from the path flickered across his face, catching in his eyes and making them seem even lighter, like a storm breaking at sea.
Something in your chest tightened. You’d spent your life surrounded by men who wanted to possess or impress you, to see only what they wished to believe. But this—this was different. Robb Stark looked at you as though he were trying to understand you.
“Most people see what they want to see,” you murmured, meeting his gaze. “You, however, seem to see past that.”
Robb swallowed, the movement subtle, his eyes steady on yours. “Perhaps, I just take the time to look,” he said quietly.
The air between you shifted, the silence thickening like the hush before snowfall. There was something disarming in the way he said it—earnest and unguarded. It slipped past your defences before you could stop it.
“You shouldn’t,” you murmured, though the words lacked conviction. “It’s dangerous to look too closely at people. You might not like what you find.”
A faint smile tugged at his mouth. “I think I’d rather see the truth than live blind to it.”
You looked away then, your gaze drifting to the Weirwood’s bleeding face. The red sap glistened like tears frozen mid-fall. “Truth is rarely kind,” you said softly.
“No,” he replied, his voice low and even. “But neither is the North. We endure both just the same.”
For a time, neither of you spoke. Your steps slowed until you stood before the great heart tree, its red leaves whispering faintly in the cold wind. The face carved into its bark watched over you. You stared at it in silence. It was strange, haunting, but somehow… comforting.
“The Old Gods are different from the Seven,” you murmured, studying the weathered lines of the carving. “They don’t promise mercy.”
Robb nodded once. “No,” he agreed quietly. “But they don’t lie either.”
You turned to him, catching the flicker of reverence in his expression as he looked up at the tree. In that moment, he seemed bound to this place in a way you could only envy. “You have faith in them,” you said, your voice softer now.
“I have faith in what endures,” he replied. “The Old Gods don’t demand our prayers. They aren’t cruel or kind. They just watch. Judge us by what we do. We live and die beneath their eyes.”
You considered that, your breath clouding in the air. “Perhaps that’s why your people are so honest,” you said quietly. “You live with eyes always watching.”
He looked at you then, and for the briefest moment, his gaze felt like one of those eyes— seeing far more than you wanted to reveal. You felt warmth bloom under your skin despite the chill.
You dropped your gaze first, brushing a stray snowflake from your glove. “Perhaps I should start praying to them,” you murmured. “The gods in the south have never listened.”
Robb’s voice softened, the ghost of a smile playing at his lips. “If you do, be careful what you ask for. The Old Gods don’t always give what we want—but they give what we need.”
For a long heartbeat, the only sound was the wind threading through the red leaves above you. Then, in a voice barely louder than the whisper of snow, you asked, “If the gods do will it—this betrothal—would you… resent it?”
Robb was quiet, his breath misting in the cold air as he turned toward you. When he finally spoke, his words were measured, honest. “No,” he said, almost gently. “I don’t think I would.” He took a slow step forward, the snow crunching beneath his boots. “Would you?”
You swallowed, your heart beating far too fast. “I think…” Your voice faltered, softer now, meant only for him. “Perhaps our union wouldn’t be such a terrible thing, after all.”
You took a step closer—closer than propriety would ever allow—but your guard stood a few paces off, mercifully distracted. The world around, you and Robb seemed to vanish.
You looked up at him, meeting his eyes—grey and steady as winter skies. You weren’t sure who leaned in first, only that suddenly you could feel his breath on your lips, the warmth of it sharp against the chill. Your heart pounded, the space between you shrinking until there was almost nothing left.
And then—
Something struck the side of your head with a sharp thud.
You gasped, stumbling back as snow splattered across your cloak. Robb’s hand shot out instinctively, steadying you before you could fall. For a heartbeat, you were too stunned to speak.
Then a young girl’s voice rang out, “Got you, Robb!”
“My lady!” your guard exclaimed, rushing to your side. “Are you hurt?”
You stood frozen for a heartbeat, snow sliding down your cheek and into the collar of your cloak. The chill hit you, sharp enough to draw a startled laugh from your lips—a breathless, unguarded sound that startled even your guard. You lifted a gloved hand to wipe the melting snow away, still half laughing.
“I’m quite alright, ser,” you said, waving him back. “No need to defend me from such a fearsome assault.”
Robb, meanwhile, had already spun toward the voice, a mix of horror and exasperation crossing his features. His cheeks were red—whether from the cold or embarrassment, you couldn’t tell.
“Bloody hells, Arya!” he shouted. “You got the princess!”
From behind a snow-covered tree, a small head of tangled brown hair appeared, her wide eyes flicking between you and her brother as she tried—unsuccessfully—to hide her grin. “I was aiming for you!” Arya protested, brushing snow off her gloves.
Robb shot her a look caught somewhere between disbelief and scolding. “And missed by half a godsdamned courtyard!”
Arya only shrugged, utterly unrepentant. Then her attention turned toward you, and her grin faltered. “Are you—are you all right, princess? I didn’t mean—”
You interrupted her with a laugh, brushing melting flakes from your cloak. “It’s quite all right,” you said, still breathless with amusement. “I’ve survived far worse than snow, I promise you.”
Arya blinked, startled by your good humour. “Really?”
“Really,” you confirmed with a smile, crouching just enough to scoop up a small handful of snow. You shaped it deftly between your gloves, your tone turning playfully curious. “Though I am curious, what exactly is this game?”
Robb frowned, instantly suspicious. “Wait—“
But before he could finish, you let the snowball fly. It struck him squarely in the chest, bursting into a spray of white powder that clung to his cloak and furs.
You lowered your hands delicately, schooling your face into mock innocence. “Did I do it right?” you asked, your tone light, almost teasing.
Arya’s mouth dropped open—and then she burst into delighted laughter.
“Did you see that!” she crowed, spinning to where Jon was standing a few paces behind his sister, his arms crossed and a smirk tugging at his mouth. “She got him!” Arya grinned, looking back to Robb. “You should’ve seen your face!”
Robb wiped the snow from his chest, a mock glare darkening his features as he turned toward you. “You—” he sputtered, disbelief warring with amusement, “you threw that at me?”
You lifted your chin, maintaining your imitation of innocence. “Well,” you said easily, “it was meant for you originally, wasn’t it?”
Jon chuckled. “Seems fair to me, brother.”
“Fair?” Robb scoffed, though he was already crouching, his gloved hands gathering snow with a practiced ease that should have warned you. A mischievous grin—far too much like Arya’s—curved his lips. “I call that an act of war.”
You gasped, taking a hasty step back, your eyes widening. “You wouldn’t dare—”
But he did.
The snowball left his hand in a perfect arc and struck your shoulder with a soft, satisfying thwack. Cold flakes burst across your cloak, sliding down your arm as you let out a shocked laugh.
“You—!” you began, your voice caught between outrage and laughter, brushing snow from your shoulder as he stood there looking entirely too pleased with himself.
Arya whooped from somewhere behind him, already ducking for cover. “Get her, Robb!”
That was all the encouragement you needed. You bent swiftly, scooping up a handful of snow of your own, the grin breaking across your face nothing short of wicked. “You’ve declared war, my lord,” you said, shaping the snow between your palms. “Don’t think I’ll yield easily.”
In a matter of seconds, the solemn Godswood had transformed into a battleground—snowballs flying, laughter echoing through the air. Arya and Jon took sides without hesitation—Arya with Robb, Jon with you—each barking orders like rival commanders on the field.
Your poor guard stood frozen at the edge of the clearing torn between his duty and self-preservation. He looked utterly bewildered, his hand halfway to his sword as if expecting real danger. He ducked as another snowball hurtled his way—Arya’s, if you had to guess—and let out a startled yelp when it exploded across his chest.
You were laughing so hard you could hardly breathe, snow tangled in your hair, your cheeks flushed from the cold and the sheer absurdity of it all. The world felt lighter—freer—than it ever had before. And through the laughter, the flying snow, and the chaos, Robb’s eyes found yours again—bright, warm, and utterly alive.
For that fleeting moment, it didn’t matter who you were or what fate awaited you.
Greywind barked, bounding between you, snapping playfully at the flying snow as though torn between sides. The four of you spilled from the Godswood into the courtyard, boots crunching over the frost. The few onlookers who happened to pass froze where they stood, blinking in disbelief at the sight of the royal princess and the heirs of Winterfell engaged in a full snow-fight.
At one point, Arya came darting after you, laughter bubbling from her lips as she took aim. You turned to flee—just in time to duck. The snowball soared past you in a perfect arc—right toward the open archway of the courtyard steps, where Sansa and Joffrey had just stepped outside.
Sansa shrieked as the snow splattered across her auburn curls, while Joffrey froze mid-step, flakes clinging to his ornate collar. For a heartbeat, everything went still. Then Sansa was already brushing the snow from her hair, her cheeks burning red with fury and embarrassment.
“Arya!” she cried, her voice shrill and scandalized. “What’s wrong with you?!”
Joffrey rounded on Arya, his face twisted in disdain. “Do you have any idea who I am?” he spat, stepping forward. “You dare to attack the prince?”
The playfulness drained from the air as quickly as the colour from Arya’s face.
She stumbled back, torn between defiance and panic. “It—it was an accident!” she stammered. “I didn’t even see you there! I was aiming for Y/N!”
Joffrey’s eyes cut toward you, his expression souring further. “Aiming for her?” he repeated, voice sharp with disbelief. “You dared to throw snow at a princess?”
Arya blinked, realizing too late what she’d just said. “I—”
But Joffrey was already advancing, his hand twitching at his side, his words venomous. “You filthy little savage,” he spat. “Do you have no respect for your betters? I should make you beg for forgiveness—on your knees.”
Before Robb or Jon could react, you were already moving—swift and steady, the remnants of laughter still dying in your throat as you stepped between them.
“That’s enough,” you said firmly, your tone sharper than anyone had ever heard from you.
Joffrey’s head snapped toward you, disbelief flashing across his face. “Enough?” he repeated, the word spat like venom. “You mean to defend her? She hit me!”
“She’s a child,” you interrupted coolly, your tone calm but edged in steel. You stood tall, unflinching despite the prince’s fury. “And we were playing. You’ve been struck by snow, not steel. I think you’ll live.”
A collective gasp rippled through the onlookers. Sansa’s eyes went wide with horror. “Y/N—it was her fault!” she blurted, desperate to smooth the tension.
“Princess,” You corrected, “Do not think you can speak to me so familiarly,” you said, your voice dropping, cold as the northern winter. The sharpness of it startled even you. A little of your mother’s ice—your father’s command—cut through the air as you turned your glare on both of them. “She is your sister. And she has done nothing to warrant your insults or your temper.”
Sansa flinched, her face colouring as she bowed her head. “I—I didn’t mean—”
“She attacked us!” Joffrey snapped, indignant fury twisting his features. “It’s an insult!”
You arched a brow, every inch the queen you were born to be. “If you cannot tell the difference between an insult and a game, then perhaps you are the one who should be sent to the nursery.”
His face turned crimson. “Watch your tongue,” he hissed, stepping closer. “I am your prince!”
You didn’t move. “And yet you act like a spoiled child,” you stated calmly. “Titles don’t make men, Joffrey. Actions do.”
He froze, his pride striking like a wounded animal. The sneer crept back onto his lips, his voice thick with spite. “You forget your place, sister. I’ll not be shamed before these northern savages—”
“Enough!” The single word cut through his rant like a blade. “You will hold your tongue,” you said, your composure trembling on the edge of fury. “Or I swear by every god—old and new—you’ll prove yourself as much a fool as people already whisper you are.”
Joffrey’s face went red, then pale, the edges of his mouth curling in silent outrage. “You—”
And that was when his hand moved.
He didn’t think—he simply reacted, his pride goading him further. The sound of his glove cutting through the air was sharp as a whip as he raised his hand to strike you.
But Robb was faster.
He caught Joffrey’s wrist mid-swing, his fingers locking around it with unyielding strength. The motion was so swift, so instinctive, that even the prince seemed stunned by it. Robb’s grip tightened—not enough to harm, but enough to make Joffrey wince.
“You’ll lower your hand,” Robb said, his voice low and edged with danger. “Before you do something very, very stupid.”
Joffrey glared up at him, his mouth twisting into a snarl. “Unhand me,” he spat, his voice cracking with indignation. “You’ve no right—”
Robb’s jaw clenched, the muscle in his cheek tightening as his voice cut through the cold air. “You’re standing in my home,” he said evenly, each word heavy with command. “And in my home, you will not lay a hand on a woman—” His voice dropped an octave, a warning growl. “My woman.”
The words had your heart stuttering in your chest. You’d danced around the prospect of marriage, nearly kissed beneath the red leaves of the Godswood, but you’d never let yourself believe he wanted you, not truly. Not beyond duty.
Yet now there was no denying it.
Joffrey froze, his outrage faltering beneath the weight of something colder—fear, maybe, or the realization that Robb Stark was not a man he could cow with titles or threats. Robb was everything Joffrey wasn’t: grounded, unyielding, and very much in control. A man defending what was his.
The courtyard had gone utterly still. The only sound was Greywind’s low, guttural growl rumbling through the air from where he stood protectively by your side. The Direwolf’s hackles stood high, his teeth flashing white as he took a single step forward, golden eyes locked on the prince.
“Call off your beast,” Joffrey spat, his voice cracking, his earlier confidence bleeding into panic.
You stepped closer, your shoulder brushing Robb’s as you met the prince’s glare head-on. “Then perhaps you should return inside, Joffrey,” you said, your tone calm but laced with quiet authority. “Before you embarrass yourself further.”
Joffrey’s mouth twisted, fury flashing in his eyes. For a heartbeat, you thought he might try again—but then his pride faltered beneath the combined weight of Robb’s unflinching stare and Greywind’s low, rumbling growl.
He yanked his arm free, his movements jerky, his voice trembling with barely-contained rage. “You’ll regret this,” he hissed, each word dripping venom.
He turned sharply, cloak snapping behind him as he stormed toward the keep, boots crunching furiously in the snow. Sansa scrambled after him, her face pale and stricken. “Joffrey, wait—please, he didn’t mean—” Her voice faded into the cold as the great doors slammed shut behind them, leaving the courtyard in breathless silence.
The courtyard seemed to exhale all at once. You stood there, heart still pounding, the wind tugging at your cloak.
Robb hadn’t moved either. His hand was still half-raised from where he’d stopped Joffrey, his chest rising and falling steadily beneath his furs. His gaze shifted from the closed doors to you, softening the instant your eyes met.
The world around you was cold, but his voice, when it came, was not.
“Are you all right?” Robb asked quietly. The edge of command that had cut through his tone moments ago was gone, replaced by something gentler—concern, threaded with the faint tremor of leftover anger.
You swallowed, willing your pulse to steady, and nodded. “Yes,” you said softly, exhaling a shaky breath. “Thank you. But I’ve grown up dealing with Joffrey’s tantrums.”
The words came out lighter than you felt, but Robb’s expression didn’t ease. His brow furrowed, his gaze searching your face as if to make certain you spoke the truth.
“No one should have to,” he said finally, his voice low but steady. “You shouldn’t have to grow used to that kind of behaviour.”
You gave a faint, humourless smile. “You’ll find that my brother believes the world bends to his will. He’s never been told otherwise. My mother turns a blind eye, my father laughs it off. He was born thinking he could do no wrong.”
Robb’s jaw tightened. “Then perhaps it’s time someone did.”
Despite yourself, a small giggle slipped past your lips—a soft, incredulous sound. “Careful, my lord. If the king hears you’ve manhandled his heir, there might be a war before dinner.”
Robb huffed a quiet laugh, the tension in his shoulders finally easing. The corner of his mouth curved, but before either of you could say more, a small voice broke through the quiet.
“I… I didn’t mean to.”
You turned to find Arya standing a few paces away, Jon protectively beside her. Snow clung to her hair and lashes, her brown eyes wide with guilt. The defiance that had burned so brightly during the snowball fight was gone—what stood before you now was a child afraid she’d started something terrible.
“Hush now, Arya,” you said softly, your tone gentling as you crossed the snow toward her. “There’s no need to fret.”
You knelt so that your eyes met hers, your cloak pooling around you in the snow. “My brother has always been quick to anger,” you murmured, offering her a reassuring smile. The girl’s lip trembled, her gloved hands still clutching a half-formed snowball she’d long forgotten to throw. “It wasn’t your fault. You were only playing, and he—” You hesitated, searching for the right words. “He doesn’t yet understand the difference between pride and respect.”
Arya frowned, her brows knitting together. “But he almost struck you,” she said in a small voice, glancing between you and Robb. “Because you wouldn’t let him punish me.”
You met her gaze steadily, your tone quiet but firm. “Because you did nothing wrong,” you said.
The simplicity of your words made Arya blink, her wide eyes searching your face. “You’re not like the other southerners,” she said at last, almost accusingly.
A small laugh escaped you. “Is that a compliment?”
Arya’s mouth curved into a tentative grin. “Maybe.”
You reached out and tapped the tip of her nose lightly, dislodging a flake of snow. “Then I’ll take it as one.”
Robb watched the exchange in silence, his expression softening as he saw Arya’s tension dissolve beneath your words. When you rose to your feet, brushing the snow from your skirts, he found himself smiling without meaning to. His gaze drifted to his brother, who was sending him a knowing look. Jon was right. You didn’t belong to the same world as Joffrey.
As you turned to look at him, a faint smile still lingering on your lips, Robb felt something settle deep in his chest—steady and certain. He didn’t know what the King would decide, nor what his father would say when the time came. But for the first time since the betrothal had been spoken of, he knew what he wanted.
He wanted you to stay.
Not out of duty. Not out of command. But because he’d begun to believe the gods themselves had sent you north—not to bind two houses, but to give him something he hadn’t known he was looking for.
And perhaps, if the gods were listening, they would give him that chance.
The day had come grey and cold, a thin veil of snow drifting lazily through the air. Winterfell’s great hall, usually alive with the hum of conversation and clatter of dishes, was subdued—its vast stone walls echoing only with the low murmur of men awaiting the will of kings and lords.
Robb stood a few paces behind his father, his hands clasped neatly behind his back, every muscle in his body drawn taut. To his right, Lady Catelyn sat composed and still, though the flicker of worry in her eyes betrayed her calm. Beside her, Sansa’s expression was bright but anxious, her fingers twisting the silken folds of her gown in her lap.
Across the hall, the King’s court stood in stark contrast—southern finery gleaming beneath the gray light. Your father slouched in his chair, broad and imposing even in his half-sober state. His laughter, usually loud enough to fill any room, had quieted into a gruff patience he seldom possessed.
Beside him, your mother sat like a statue carved from cold marble. Her green eyes gleamed with restrained disdain. She looked every inch the queen, every inch the lioness who would rather be anywhere else than here in the wolf’s den.
And behind her, you stood.
Your head was bowed in perfect decorum, but Robb noticed the subtle tremor in your hands where they clutched your cloak. You looked small beneath the vaulted ceiling, framed by the grey stone and the banners of House Stark.
Robert’s booming voice filled the hall, breaking the quiet. “Well, Ned,” He said, leaning forward with a weary grin, “we’ve danced around it long enough. You know why I came—to bind our houses once and for all. Lions and wolves, standing together. I’ll not have it wait another day.”
Lord Stark’s expression was calm, thoughtful. “Aye, Your Grace. But the choice must serve both houses—and the children themselves. This isn’t a decision to make lightly.”
Cersei’s lips curved in a thin, cutting smile. “The realm has little patience for northern hesitation, Lord Stark,” she said coolly. “The match must be worthy of the crown.”
Robert waved a hand dismissively. “Gods, woman, enough of your prattle.” His attention swung back to Ned, his heavy voice echoing off the stone. “We’ve two fine children from each house. My son Joffrey, and daughter Y/N. Your son Robb, and daughter Sansa. Either match would serve well enough—but which one, that’s the question.”
The silence that followed seemed to stretch.
Robb felt Sansa’s gaze flick toward their father—wide, pleading, hopeful. Her hands were folded tightly in her lap, knuckles white against the fabric of her gown. She had dreamed of this match since the day the royal party had arrived, and though Robb wanted to look away, he couldn’t.
His father’s voice broke the stillness. “My daughter Sansa is of age to wed the prince, should it please the crown,” he said, the words falling with measured restraint. “It would be a great honour.”
Robb’s stomach twisted. He could feel every word land like a blow. The image rose unbidden in his mind—Sansa’s soft smile turned toward Joffrey, the way her cheeks flushed when he looked her way. She saw a golden prince; Robb saw the cruelty that gleamed behind those same golden eyes. The thought of his sister bound to that… boy made his chest tighten until it was hard to breathe.
But worse still was the image that followed—one he hadn’t meant to summon, one that struck deeper.
He imagined a life without you.
You, standing beside some nameless lord in King’s Landing, your fire dimmed beneath the weight of courtly duty. You, smiling that polite, practiced smile that never reached your eyes. You, turning from him in the Godswood for the last time.
The thought clawed at him, sharp and cold as the northern wind. He had told himself it was folly to think of you—to imagine a future that might never be—but now, as the King’s words echoed through the hall, the possibility of losing you settled in his chest like a stone.
You were duty, yes. But you were also more.
And for the first time, Robb Stark found himself praying—not to the Old Gods for strength or guidance, He prayed that fate would be kind.
He drew a slow breath through his nose, forcing his shoulders to remain square, his expression composed even as his heart hammered in his chest.
Across the hall, Robert leaned back in his chair, his heavy crown tilting slightly as he studied the two families before him. “Aye,” he said after a long pause, nodding once. “A fine match indeed.”
But then his gaze shifted—first to you, then to Robb.
He lingered on the sight of you, head bowed in quiet poise, the faint tremor of unease in the way your fingers tightened around the edge of your cloak. And then his eyes flicked to Robb—rigid, jaw clenched, blue-grey eyes stayed fixed on you.
Robert recognized that look. He’d worn it once himself—long ago, for Lyanna Stark.
His brows drew together, voice lowering into something more thoughtful. “And yet…” he murmured. “There’s sense in matching the North with my daughter, too.”
Your head snapped up, hope flickering across your face as your gaze darted between your father and Robb.
Meanwhile, your mother’s head turned sharply toward your father, her eyes flashing with cold fury. “Your Grace—” she began, her voice tight with warning.
But Robert ignored her. His eyes were on Ned, a small, knowing smirk playing on his lips. “Tell me, old friend,” he said, his tone deceptively casual. “What does your boy think of the matter?”
The hall went still.
Ned hesitated, his gaze flicking briefly toward his son. “He will obey his duty,” he said at last, his voice even. “Whatever is decided.”
Robert barked a laugh, the sound echoing off the stone walls. “A true Stark answer!” he said, raising his cup in mock salute. “But I didn’t ask for duty, Ned. I asked for thought.”
All eyes turned to Robb.
The hall seemed to narrow around him, every sound fading until all he could hear was the rush of his own heartbeat pounding in his ears. Slowly, he looked toward his father, seeking steadiness in the familiar lines of his face—but his gaze didn’t linger there.
It found you.
Your gaze met his, uncertain but searching. The flicker of hope shifting something in his chest shifted.
And before he could stop himself, he spoke. “I would marry her.”
The words rang out clear and steady, but his heart hammered behind them. He barely saw the flicker of shock that crossed Ned’s face or the sharp intake of breath from his mother. His eyes were only on you—your parted lips, the way your breath caught, the hesitant, hopeful smile that followed.
A low murmur rippled through the hall like wind through dry leaves. Cersei’s expression hardened, the colour draining from her cheeks, while Sansa made a small, strangled sound beside her mother — disbelief and hurt mingling in her wide blue eyes.
Robert’s brows lifted, amusement flickering across his face. “You would, would you?” he rumbled, leaning back in his chair, half in jest and half in curiosity.
Robb nodded once, never taking his eyes off you as he addressed your father. His voice was calm but resolute. “Aye, I would,” he said. “We remember those who stand with honour, and she has done that since the day she rode through our gates. She’s shown nothing but grace and courage since she arrived. The North could ask for no finer lady—” he hesitated, his breath catching for the briefest moment before he finished, softer, “—I could ask for no finer lady. If it please Your Grace, and with my father’s blessing, I would be proud to call her my wife.”
Your eyes widened slightly, a faint breath slipping from your lips. You could feel every gaze on you, but all you could see was him as he stood tall and unflinching in the centre of the hall, the firelight catching the auburn in his hair and tracing the proud lines of his face. His voice had stilled a room full of royalty and lords, yet his eyes were fixed only on you—as though the rest of the world had fallen away.
“Seven hells, Ned,” Robert said at last, a booming laugh rolling from his chest, breaking the tension like thunder. “You’ve raised yourself a proper lord.” He turned his grin toward Robb, still chuckling. “You sound more like your father than you know.”
Then his gaze shifted to you. “Well, girl? You’ve heard the lad. Would you have the wolf for a husband?”
Your lips parted, your breath trembling in your throat. You had been promised, paraded, spoken of your entire life but never once had anyone spoken for you like this. Never once had you felt as though the choice might truly be your own.
And now, for the first time in your life, you knew exactly what you wanted.
You drew a slow breath, steadying the frantic beat of your heart. “If it please Your Grace,” you said softly, your voice clear despite the thundering in your chest, “then I would.”
The hall erupted — some gasping, some murmuring, a few already clapping — but all of it faded into a distant hum. Robb’s eyes found yours again, and this time, you smiled — small, genuine, and full of something neither of you dared name.
Robert leaned forward, grin wide beneath his beard. “Ned?” he prompted.
For a long moment, Lord Stark said nothing. His gaze rested on his son, studying him—not as a father scrutinizing a boy, but as a man weighing the measure of another and his gaze seemed to soften with pride at what he saw.
Finally, he inclined his head toward the King. “I think the matter is decided, Your Grace.”
Robert roared with laughter, the sound booming off the stone walls. “Good! It’s settled then! The lioness of the South and the wolf of the North!” He lifted his cup high, wine sloshing over the rim. “May the gods damn well bless this union—and grant them strength enough not to tear each other apart!”
The crowd broke into applause, the tension snapping like a bowstring. But amid the noise and the celebration, not all faces shared in the joy.
Cersei rose sharply, her chair scraping against the floor, fury flashing in her green eyes. “You cannot be serious,” she hissed, her words cutting through the laughter. Her gaze burned into Robert’s, venom barely restrained.
“Silence, woman!” Robert bellowed, turning on her with a thunderous glare. “You’ll not sour this moment with your scheming tongue. The matter’s settled.”
Cersei’s lips pressed into a bloodless line as she sat, the gold of her crown catching the firelight like a warning.
And you—your breath trembled, your pulse a storm beneath your skin—but when Robb’s gaze met yours again, something steady flickered there.
A strange, unexpected calm.
Because in that moment, for the first time since the betrothal had been mentioned, you didn’t feel like a pawn in your father’s game.
You felt seen. Not as a daughter of the throne, not as a prize to be bartered, but as yourself.
And across the hall, Robb Stark’s hand curled at his side. For him, too, the weight of duty—the burden of blood, of family, of expectation—suddenly didn’t feel quite so heavy.
pairing: eddie munson x reader
summary: you and eddie find yourself rethinking the choices that lead here. also, he ruins your date!
themes & warnings: continued angst, eddie being an ass, you being dumb, slow burn resolution, a good screaming match, SPICY but not smut, resolution to the angst :D
part 2 to: the storm (1)
When you woke up on Eddie's uncomfortable couch, much later than you'd anticipated, you sat up in a rush. The clock on the wall read 8:47 AM.
Your head ached from the night you'd spent crying (Eddie had eventually retreated into his bedroom, throwing the old tattered blanket you'd always loved over you), and you felt overwhelmingly out of place in the trailer that you used to call your second home. Your clothes, clearly washed and dried, sat folded in front of you. And in the kitchen, Wayne silently made a cup of coffee. He hadn't realized you were awake yet.
Eddie was nowhere to be seen.
The stale, quiet air of the trailer pressed in on you, thick with the ghosts of last night’s screaming match and the scent of Wayne’s cheap coffee. You pushed the familiar blanket -- the one with the frayed edge you used to worry between your fingers during scary movies -- off your legs. It felt like a betrayal, its comfort now tainted.
Moving stiffly, you gathered the neatly folded stack of your clothes. They smelled faintly of generic laundry soap, not of Eddie. The consideration of it, washing and drying them, felt like another kind of arrow to the chest. It was a practical kindness that spoke of a closure you hadn't agreed to.
You slipped into the bathroom to change. In the clean, cold daylight, the small room felt like a museum of a past life. You avoided looking in the mirror.
When you emerged, dressed in your own skin again, Wayne was standing by the small formica table, sipping his coffee. He looked over, his face its usual landscape of weary lines, but his eyes were soft.
“Mornin’,” he grunted.
“Morning, Wayne.” Your voice was raspy from disuse and spent tears. “I, uh… thanks for the…” You gestured vaguely at your clothes.
He nodded once, a sharp dip of his chin. He set his mug down and walked to the hook by the door, snagging a set of keys. He tossed them to you underhand. They landed with a soft jingle in your hands.
You stared at them. Your car keys.
“Fixed ‘er,” he said, as if commenting on the weather. “Was just the alternator cable. Corroded clean through. Re-spliced it. Should get you home.”
Tears, stupid and hot, pricked at your eyes again. This man, who had every reason to resent you, had been out in the freezing dawn fixing the car you’d used to flee his nephew. The kindness was almost worse than Eddie’s anger.
“Wayne, I… you didn’t have to…”
“Car wasn’t gonna fix itself,” he interrupted, his tone leaving no room for argument. He studied you for a long moment, his gaze knowing and sad. “He’s gone. Needed to lick his wounds, I reckon.”
He didn’t offer excuses for Eddie. He didn’t ask for yours. He just stated a fact.
Then, to your utter shock, Wayne Munson closed the distance between you. He didn't say a word. He just opened his arms in a gruff, unmistakable invitation.
A sob fell through your lips before you could stop it. You stepped into the hug, burying your face in the flannel of his shirt. He smelled of motor oil, coffee, and a steadfast, unshakeable decency. His arms came around you, strong and solid, patting your back twice in that awkward, perfect Wayne way. It was the first real comfort you’d felt since your world had collapsed months ago, and it undid you completely. You held onto him for a long moment, letting the silent understanding seep into your battered soul.
When you pulled back, wiping your eyes, he just gave you another nod.
“Drive safe,” he said, the same two words he’d always sent you off with.
“I will. Thank you, Wayne. For… everything.”
You didn't look toward the hallway leading to Eddie’s room. You didn't let yourself glance at the photo over the sink. You just turned, opened the door to the bright, cold, snow-blanketed morning, and walked out.
The drive home in a now-functioning Daphne was a silent, blurry tunnel. The storm had passed, leaving Hawkins hushed and glittering under a pale sun. But inside the car, the quiet felt heavy, full of Wayne’s hug, the memory of Eddie’s devastated eyes, and the crushing weight of a prison sentence you’d imposed on yourself -- one that, after last night, felt like it had no release date.
It seemed pointless to act like you were over him. But you'd at least been able to pretend.. before the stupid fucking storm and your stupid fucking car threw you right back into the war path. You'd been doing okay. The first month, you'd hidden all of the pictures in an old shoe box and shoved it under your bed. You sent him all of his clothes in the mail and paid him back for almost everything he'd ever paid for. The second, third, and fourth, you settled for avoiding him like the plague. You got a new job in a different town and threw yourself into it, not allowing much time to gruel over everything that had gone wrong.
It was helping. Was it, though?
You knew the truth. You were putting a bandaid over a crack in a glass. It wasn't the right type of repair, and it wouldn't heal anything. But you weren't sure what else could be done.
When you got home, you showered again, trying to scrub the past night's events off from you. You used your expensive, new shampoo, your rich body wash, you shaved every inch. But you felt no cleaner. You quickly dried yourself off, throwing your dripping hair into a towel, before changing into some fresh clothes.
Some clothes Eddie had never seen or touched.
You were supposed to be at work at 12:00. You got there at 11:30.
Sitting behind your computer, you sighed. The normalcy was a kind of relief you'd been begging for since you'd first set foot in the Munson home. You worked diligently in your cubicle for a while, forcing yourself into tunnel vision.
The familiar, mind-numbing rhythm of data entry was a balm. Click, type, tab, enter. The sterile office air, the hum of fluorescent lights, the distant chatter of coworkers about weekend plans -- it was a world away from the emotional carnage of the trailer and the humid, charged silence of Wayne’s hug. For two solid hours, you disappeared into the spreadsheet, letting the numbers erase the memory of Eddie’s voice cracking.
Then, you jolted. A hand gently touched your shoulder, bringing you out of your data-based trance.
Thomas. The new intern. He'd been brought into the office the same time you had. He was conventionally attractive, nice enough, and did his job without any problems.
"Sorry," he winced, lifting his hand. "I didn't mean to scare you."
You laughed breathlessly, turning around in your chair. "It's okay. I'm just jumpy," you admitted. "I had a long day yesterday."
He frowned, leaning against your desk. There was genuine concern on his face.
"Something going on? I'm a good listener."
He was charming. That much was hard to ignore. He was exactly the kind of distraction you were supposed to want. Safe. Stable. Uncomplicated. A guy whose biggest rebellion was probably using the office printer for personal stuff.
"Just... car trouble," you said, forcing a smile. "In the storm last night. All sorted now."
"Ah, the great blizzard of '86," he joked, his eyes warm. "My roommate's Datsun still won't start. You're lucky you got yours going." He paused, seeming to gather a bit of courage. "Listen, I know it's last minute, but a bunch of us from the accounting floor are grabbing drinks after work at The Hideout. Drown our spreadsheet sorrows. You should come."
The Hideout. The name was a punch to the gut. It was their bar. The place where Eddie had played his first gig with Corroded Coffin, where you’d cheered so loud you lost your voice, where he’d kissed you for the first time -- slow and sweet and tasting of cheap beer -- in the sticky, dark hallway by the bathrooms.
Thomas noticed your hesitation. "Or, you know, if that's not your scene, we could just... get a coffee? Just us?"
The offer was clear. A date. A step forward. A chance to prove to yourself that you could be interested in someone who didn't come with a built-in tornado warning.
You were about to say no. Your mouth was forming the polite refusal. But then you saw it -- in your mind’s eye -- Eddie’s wounded, furious face as he spat “You just… walk away from.” You heard Wayne’s quiet keys jingling. You felt the ghost of that hug.
A reckless, furious energy surged through you. Yes. You would go. You would have a nice, normal time with a nice, normal guy. You would prove you could move on. You were moving on.
"Actually," you said, your voice sounding strangely bright to your own ears. "A drink sounds great."
Thomas's face lit up. "Yeah! Yeah, awesome. Can I pick you up?"
The question hung in the air. It was the natural, gentlemanly next step. It also felt like crossing a line you weren't entirely sure you wanted to cross. A pick-up implied a real date, a definite end to the night together. It felt… binding.
Your hesitation must have shown on your face, because Thomas’s bright smile faltered just a fraction. "Or," he added quickly, "we can just meet there. Whichever is easier."
The out was handed to you, polite and easy. And a small, cowardly part of you wanted to take it. To keep this experiment at arm’s length, to have your own escape route parked right outside.
But that was the old you. The one who planned exits before she even entered the room. The one who left notes instead of having fights.
"No," you said, firming your voice. "Picking me up is fine. It’s… nice." You forced a smile, scribbling your address on a sticky note from your desk. "Seven?"
"Seven," he confirmed, taking the note, his smile returning full force. He looked genuinely pleased, and a pang of guilt twisted in your stomach. He wasn't a pawn in your game with Eddie. He was a person. A nice one.
The rest of the workday was a blur of restless energy. At 5:30, you were the first one out the door, the ghost of your own decisiveness propelling you home. You showered again, as if you could wash away the lingering scent of the trailer and the memory of Eddie's furious eyes. You stood in your closet for a full ten minutes, rejecting every item of clothing. Too somber. Too yours. Too his.
It was a dive bar. The place you went when you wanted to wear something skimpy or cover your skin in glitter. You'd dress for the setting.
You decided on a black skirt, a simple one that hit mid-thigh, and a silky, emerald green top that you knew brought out your eyes. You added your favorite pair of boots -- the ones with just enough of a heel to make you feel powerful -- and a swipe of dark lip gloss. You stared at your reflection. This wasn't the girl Eddie remembered. This was someone sharper, a little more polished, someone who went on dates with accountants in nice sweaters. The pang of guilt returned, sharper this time. You were constructing an entire facade, and Thomas was just the audience.
The knock came at 7:02. Not 7:00 on the dot, but fashionably late enough to feel casual. You took a deep breath, grabbed your coat, and opened the door.
Thomas’s eyes widened appreciatively. “Wow. You look… incredible.”
“Thank you,” you said, the words feeling automatic. You let him help you into your coat, his fingers brushing the nape of your neck. You didn't flinch, but you didn't feel a spark either. Just the polite, expected contact.
The drive was pleasant. The conversation was easy. He was charming, telling a self-deprecating story about a client meeting gone wrong. You laughed in all the right places. But your mind was elsewhere, tracing the familiar route to The Hideout, anticipating the turn into the gravel lot with a mix of dread and a sick, undeniable pull.
When you pulled in, the dread won. The Hideout’s neon sign buzzed like an angry insect against the darkening sky. It looked smaller, dingier than in your memory, or maybe you’d just grown accustomed to cleaner, brighter places in your attempt to move on.
“Cool,” Thomas said, his tone carefully neutral as he held the heavy door open for you.
The wall of sound and smell hit you like a returning heartbeat. It wasn’t quaint. It was alive. And it still felt like yours.
You spotted his coworkers in a booth near the back. You recognized a few faces from the accounting floor -- polite smiles, curious glances at you and Thomas. You slid in, the vinyl seat sticking slightly to your tights.
“So this is the infamous new girl from marketing,” one of the women, Lisa, said with a friendly grin. “Thomas hasn’t stopped talking about you.”
Thomas flushed, chuckling. “Lisa, come on.”
You smiled, taking the beer Thomas handed you. “All good things, I hope.”
The group laughed, and the next twenty minutes were a blur of introductions, office gossip, and a shared basket of soggy fries. You were playing your part perfectly. Engaged. Charming. A great catch for a guy like Thomas.
Then, the door opened.
You didn't see him. You felt him. A shift in the room's energy, a sudden, magnetic pull that tightened your chest. Your eyes, of their own volition, cut through the haze of cigarette smoke and chatter towards the entrance.
There he was. Eddie.
Fuck. Why had you been so stupid? Why had you come here?
He wasn't just coming in; he was making an entrance, shrugging off his jacket to reveal a faded Black Sabbath tee, his laugh ringing out over the jukebox music as he clapped Gareth on the back. He was a burst of vibrant, chaotic color in the dim bar. He looked… good. Better than good. He looked like home, and the realization was a physical ache.
His gaze, sharp and scanning for his friends, swept across the room. It passed over your booth, did a double-take, and locked onto you.
The smile vanished from his face. The lively light in his eyes guttered out, replaced by an icy, flat stillness. He stared, his expression unreadable from this distance, but you could feel the shock, the hurt, and then, simmering beneath it, a dark, gathering storm.
Jeff, following his gaze, paled and grabbed Eddie’s arm, saying something urgent. Eddie shook him off, his eyes never leaving yours.
He started walking.
“Oh, god,” you whispered, the words lost in the chatter of your table.
Thomas, mid-sentence about a new tax software, followed your line of sight. “Everything okay?”
You nodded hurriedly, moving to get up, but before you even had the chance to slide out of the booth in your panic, two ringed hands slapped themselves down onto the table. The impact was sharp, final. Eddie leaned down, his body blocking out the rest of the bar, his face inches from yours. Up close, you could see the flecks of amber in his brown eyes, the faint, tired shadows beneath them, the tight set of his jaw.
“Well, well,” he drawled, his voice a low, intimate thrum that vibrated in your bones. “Look what the cat dragged in. And she brought a friend.” His gaze flicked to Thomas, a dismissive, scathing once-over that took in the sweater, the careful haircut, the whole safe, tidy package. "Who's this, sweetheart?" Eddie's voice was sugar-coated venom, his eyes never leaving Thomas's face as he spoke to you. "Introduce me to your... accountant."
Thomas stiffened, his jaw tightening. "Thomas," he said, his voice holding a note of forced calm. "And you are?"
Eddie finally dragged his gaze away from you, a slow, predatory smirk spreading across his face as he fully turned his attention to your date. "Eddie," he said, his tone conversational, almost pleasant. "The man she was with for almost four years." He jerked his thumb towards you without looking. "You're sitting in my seat, by the way."
The air in the booth vanished. Lisa’s mouth had formed a perfect, silent ‘O’. The other coworkers stared into their drinks as if they could divine an escape route in the foam.
Thomas’s forced calm cracked. A flush crept up from his collar, and his knuckles went white where they gripped the edge of the table. “I wasn’t aware we were keeping seats warm for past residents,” he said, the words clipped.
"That's funny," Eddie snorted, drumming his fingers on the glass of the booth's table, "considering the fact that this lovely woman spent the night at my house.. last night, was it?"
The gasp from Lisa was audible this time. The rest of the booth went preternaturally still. Thomas’s face, previously flushed with anger, drained of all color. He looked from Eddie’s triumphant, cruel smirk to your horrified expression, and the pieces clicked into place with a nearly audible sound.
Your car trouble. Your jumpiness. Your long day.
It wasn’t just a past relationship. It was current. It was last night.
“You…” Thomas’s voice was a dry rasp. He looked at you, his eyes wide with a hurt that was rapidly solidifying into something colder. “Is that true?”
“Because my car broke down,” you blurted out, the explanation feeble and pathetic against the weight of Eddie’s loaded statement. “In the storm. Right by his trailer. I had to wait it out. That’s all.”
“Oh, is that all?” Eddie purred, his eyes glittering with malicious satisfaction. He leaned his hip against the table, fully committing to the performance now, playing to his captive audience. “Just a little sleepover for old times’ sake. Very platonic. Very… chaste.” He let the word hang, dripping with implication. “You should’ve seen her, Thomas. Cozy as anything in my clothes. Looked right at home.”
This was beyond humiliation. This was annihilation. He was systematically dismantling not just your date, but your character, your integrity, in front of your new colleagues. He was painting you as a liar, a tease, someone who hopped between beds during snowstorms.
Tears of pure, impotent rage burned behind your eyes. You stood up, shaking. “You are vile,” you said, your voice shaking with a intensity that made even Eddie’s smirk falter for a second.
“I’m honest,” he shot back, but the bravado seemed thinner now, stretched over a core of something desperate and ugly. “Which is more than you’re being with him right now.”
You turned to Thomas, pulling enough money to cover your drinks out of your wallet and tossing it in front of him. "I am so sorry. I'll explain another time."
Then, you turned back around, centimeters from Eddie's chest. He towered over you, intense brown eyes burning through your skin. You leered up at him, hot, angry tears flowing down your face.
"Fuck. You." You gritted out.
He burst into laughter, his gaze heating up even more with the vulgar words leaving your lips. Tilting his head, hummed.
"You have. Many times. Or did you forget?"
The sentence burned your stomach. Of course you hadn't forgotten.
The sleepless nights because you couldn't get enough of each other, the nails in his back, the sting of his teeth on the delicate skin of your neck. You remembered every moment of it. He knew that, too. But drawing your attention to it in a room full of people? In front of your date?
Before you could even think about it, a crack sounded through the air. Eddie's head whipped to the side. You were on autopilot, the anger, yearning, and arousal warring inside of your brain.
You'd slapped him. The right side of his face was red. It was like the bar was paralyzed behind him -- all you could see was Eddie. He slowly turned his head back to face you, a dangerous glint in his eye. Predatory. Intense. Slightly pissed.
A slow, deliberate smile spread across his face, the one that didn't reach his eyes. He touched his fingertips to his reddening cheek, testing the sting. The sound in the bar danced around you, but your mind was silent.
"Well," he said, his voice an intimate rasp that seemed to vibrate in the space between you. "There she is. You let her out."
Your hand throbbed. Your entire body was trembling -- with rage, with shock, with the electrifying realization of what you’d just done. He stared at you with his unrelenting eyes, his ringed fingers still touching his cheek. You couldn't bare it anymore.
You shoved past him, leaving the bar.
You frantically waved a taxi down, the only taxi in Hawkins which a creepy old man drove. The type you wouldn't trust driving a taxi. He attempted small talk. You barely responded, having used up any ability to talk for the rest of the night. When you finally got to your house, you paid the man, climbed out, and tore your dumb, fancy clothes off.
You put a pair of old, tattered pajamas on. Cried a little. Ate a grilled cheese sandwich, which you cried into. You collapsed onto your sofa, watching reruns of a stupid rom-com. You cried so much that you soaked the decorative pillow beside your head.
You weren't even sure what had happened. You weren't sure how everything had been ruined so quickly. Your new job was tainted now (you wouldn't be able to look four of your coworkers in the eye ever again), your car had proven it couldn't be trusted (which you already knew, but now she was choosing the roads to break down on), and your ex-boyfriend was intent on ruining any chance of getting over him. The four months you'd disciplined yourself into being done with him were now wasted. Crumbled and discarded.
What was it all for, anyways? Why had you done this to begin with?
It was for your mother. For your friends. They hadn't even bothered to get to know Eddie, forming an opinion based on what the town whispered about him: that he was a lost cause. Unreliable. A boy that was too lazy to graduate high school until he made the choice to do it. A freak from a bad family. Mean, scary, with bad intentions. Your friend had said that "your life will go nowhere if you marry a bad egg." The worst part? You started to believe them. The pressure cracked you.
They were wrong. All of them. They didn't know Eddie.
Eddie Munson was a diamond under layers of rock -- the best person you'd ever met. He could be mean. He was scary, sometimes. But he deserved to be. The world had dealt him shitty cards since he was born. It was cruel to him. Despite how cruel the world was, he never chose to be. He didn't let it sour him up. He was a cornered dog that never bit anyone, a tortured soul that persevered to stay soft.
He wasn't a lost cause. He worked hard. Every day. As soon as he graduated, he got a job at the record store. A job he loved, which you couldn't blame him for, and a job that he never relented from. He worked every single day, from open to close. He poured his heart into the things that he loved, like you once, his band, the group of kids that he'd left when he graduated Hawkins High School. They looked up to him. They looked up to his strength in adversity, because in reality, adversity was all he seemed to face until you'd come into his life.
The miserable irony was that if anyone who spoke ill of him actually tried to get to know him, they would love him immediately. But they were terrified of the rumors. Terrified of Eddie's exterior. The wild, black hair. The intense brown eyes. The chains and skull-shaped rings, the black boots and towering height. The loudness. The rebellious aura.
The thought was a barbed hook in your chest, reeling you back through time. To the first time you’d really seen him.
It wasn’t in a class, or at the grocery store. It was in the woods behind the school, a place you weren’t supposed to be. You were smoking a secret cigarette, relieving the stress of the day. You’d heard shouting, a cacophony of cruel, laughing voices. You’d crept closer, heart in your throat, expecting to see the monster the town warned about.
Instead, you saw Eddie Munson, standing between three older, bigger guys from the basketball team and a scrawny freshman -- Jeff, you’d learn later -- who was clutching a torn-up D&D manual. Eddie’s back was to you, his hands up in a placating gesture, but his voice was a low, steady rumble that carried.
“C’mon, guys. The kid’s just trying to get home. You’ve had your fun. His handbook’s toast. Call it a win.”
One of them shoved him. “What’re you gonna do about it, freak?”
Eddie didn’t shove back. He just… absorbed it. Steadied himself. A strange, sharp smile cut across his face, all teeth and no warmth. “Me? Nothing. But I’m recording this little display of masculine insecurity for posterity.” He tapped the side of his head. “Got a real good memory. And I’m real chatty with Chief Hopper. Wouldn’t want him to get the wrong idea about the varsity squad’s after-school activities, would we?”
It was a bluff. A brilliant, stupid bluff. But it worked. The bullies muttered, threw one last insult, and slunk away. As soon as they were gone, the sharp smile vanished from Eddie’s face. He turned to the trembling kid, his posture softening instantly. He knelt, picking up the scattered, muddy pages of the manual.
“Hey, no harm, no foul. They’re just pages. We can tape ‘em. Hell, we can redraw the diagrams. Might even improve on ‘em.” His voice was different now -- softer, encouraging. “Let's go. Let’s get you cleaned up. You did good. You didn’t cry. That’s the first rule.”
That was Eddie. The cornered dog who put himself between the teeth and someone weaker. The boy the town called lazy, spending his Friday night painstakingly taping a kid’s rulebook back together. The "freak" whose first instinct was to protect.
A fresh wave of sobs wracked you, not just of loss, but of shame. You’d abandoned him. You’d chosen the easy path, the one paved with your mother’s approval and your friends’ relieved smiles. You’d broken his heart to soothe your own social anxiety, and in doing so, you’d proven every one of his deepest fears correct: that he was unworthy, that he would always be left behind.
You ran away from him. You believed the monster stories, the stories of him being a waste. And now, it was too late.
You curled into the side of the couch and cried yourself to sleep.
The light stung your eyes when you woke up. Your head pounded. You ran to the toilet and threw up your dinner from the night before, and all the alcohol you'd had at the bar. When you trudged back out into the living room, you frowned.
This house was suffocating. You needed air.
You quickly dressed yourself in a jacket and jeans, yanking boots on. You brushed your teeth and tossed your messy hair into a bun. You grabbed a bottle of water and your keys. Then, you went outside into the chilly breeze and walked down to the Quarry. It was a comfort spot for you. Silent, gentle. You could escape whatever had happened. Every single time something broke your heart, that was where you ran to pick up the pieces.
You trudged through the mud until you reached the water. It was half frozen, but it still lapped at the edges. The horizon was grey, but still peaceful. You sat down on a log, staring up into the sky. Crows flew from the trees, stark black marks on a white sky. Minutes passed. Sometimes, more hot tears came down your face. The water bottle calmed your dry throat and aching stomach. But everything still felt wrong.
Then, you heard familiar boots trudging on the ground behind you. You shuddered, the idea of seeing his face right now almost lethal. But.. of course he'd come. He knew this is where you went when shit hit the fan. He was the only one that knew your spot.
You didn't turn around. You kept your eyes fixed on the half-frozen water, on the crows carving their dark paths across the clouds. The crunch of gravel and frozen earth under his boots was a familiar cadence, a heartbeat you'd tried to silence for months.
He didn't sit beside you on the log. He stopped a few feet away, a respectful distance that somehow felt more intimate than if he'd crowded you. The silence stretched, filled only by the whisper of the wind through the bare trees and the faint, rhythmic lap of water.
"You look like hell," he said. Always so charming. His voice was soft, but flat. Tired. Contrasting the cruelty it held the night before.
You laughed humorlessly at his words, sniffling.
"Thank you."
“Anytime,” he replied, the ghost of his old smirk touching his lips before fading. He shifted his weight, the leather of his jacket creaking. “Place hasn’t changed.”
“No,” you whispered. “It doesn’t.”
More silence. It wasn’t the comfortable quiet you used to share, where words were unnecessary. This was a chasm, and every second stretched it wider.
He filled it again.
"Did you call Thomas back? Reschedule for a night I can't fuck up?"
He spat the name like it burned his tongue. The question was a direct hit, laced with the self-deprecating poison he knew so well how to brew. It hung in the cold air between you, a challenge wrapped in a shield of assumed rejection. You finally turned to look at him fully. The morning light was cruel, highlighting the exhaustion in his face, the tension in his shoulders. He looked like a man braced for a verdict.
"No," you said, your voice quiet but firm in the still air. "I didn't call him. And you didn't fuck it up."
He scoffed, a dry, brittle sound. "Right. Because public humiliation is a great second-date foundation."
"You know that's not what I mean," you said, a flicker of the previous night's frustration reigniting. "You didn't ruin a good thing, Eddie. You ended a bad one."
He shrugged, as if it couldn't have been more obvious to him that your choice was a stupid one.
"He dressed business casual to go to a dive bar. You don't even like sweaters. Or blondes."
A laugh burst out of you -- sharp, surprised, and utterly genuine. It echoed oddly across the frozen quarry, shattering the heavy tension. Eddie’s eyes widened slightly, the perpetual defensive scrum on his face cracking to reveal a glimpse of the boy you fell for.
“You’re an idiot,” you said, the affection thick in your voice.
“Yeah, well, I’m all yours,” he shot back automatically, the old refrain slipping out before he could stop it. He froze, the words hanging between you, a relic from a time before the fracture. His cheeks flushed, and he looked away, suddenly fascinated by a crack in the frozen mud.
The simple phrase did more to dismantle your walls than any grand apology could have. It was a piece of your shared language, a secret handshake from a club you’d both resigned from.
“Are you?” you asked softly, the laughter gone, replaced by a vulnerable ache. “Still mine?”
He didn’t look at you. His shoulders were up around his ears, a tense line against the grey sky. “Don’t ask me that,” he muttered, his voice thick. “Not fair.”
“Why not?”
“Because!” He whirled to face you, his eyes blazing with a frustrated, helpless pain. “Because the answer’s always gonna be yes. So you asking… it’s just you checking if the toy you threw away is still on the shelf, waiting. It fucking is. And it pisses me off.”
The raw honesty was a sucker punch. It left you breathless. He was laid bare, no sarcasm, no armor, just the humiliating, unwavering truth of his constancy.
“I didn’t throw you away,” you whispered, tears welling again. “I got scared and I ran. There’s a difference.”
“Feels the same from this side of the shelf.” He kicked a chunk of ice, sending it skittering into the water.
Another tear dropped.
"Then you show up to our place with some corporate dumbfuck. You force me to be an ass. To make you cry. And you know I hate doing that," he ranted, his voice raw. "You left but you won't stay away. And now here I am, chasing you, like an idiot."
He got closer. You smelled him. Weed, patchouli, sharp cologne.
"I am an idiot. But you cried and I had to make sure you stopped. I hate when you cry. So stop it." He whispered, a cold finger reaching forward to wipe the warm tears coming down your face.
His touch, the rough pad of his finger brushing away your tears, was the final crack in the dam. Not for more tears, but for the truth you’d been clinging to like a life raft.
“I can’t,” you whispered, your voice breaking. “I can’t stop it.”
"Why not?" He asked, his voice low and heavy.
"Because I messed up so bad. I can't fix it. You hate me and you're still here trying to take care of me."
The raw admission hung between you, more vulnerable than any slap. His hand stilled against your cheek. For a moment, the only sounds were the wind and the ragged pull of your own breath. He didn't move away. His thumb brushed once more over the path of a tear, then his hand slid down to cradle your jaw, his touch firm, anchoring.
"Yeah," he said, the word a low rumble in his chest. "You messed up. Spectacularly. You broke my fucking heart. Stomped on it, actually."
You flinched, the directness a fresh wound.
"But," he continued, his voice dropping even lower, forcing you to lean in to hear. "Do I look like I'm here to collect a debt? To punish you?" He shook his head slowly, his intense eyes holding yours prisoner. "You think this," he gestured between the two of you, at the frozen quarry, at the whole miserable, beautiful situation, "is about hate?"
You couldn't speak. You just stared, lost in the storm of his gaze.
"It's the opposite," he whispered, his breath a warm cloud in the cold air. "I'm here because I can't not be. You cry, it's like a fucking alarm in my head I can't shut off. You're in pain, and even if I'm the cause, even if you're the cause, my first instinct is still to make it stop. That's not hate. That's the problem."
You fought the urge to cry some more. He was so good. So gentle. So loving. And you'd hurt him beyond measure.
"'M sorry," your voice cracked, your eyes blurring. "You can go. You shouldn't be here."
Your words were a flimsy wall, and he saw right through it. He didn't let go of your jaw. If anything, his grip gentled, his thumb stroking the frantic pulse at the side of your throat.
"See, that's the thing," he murmured, his voice so quiet it was almost stolen by the wind. "You don't get to decide where I should be. Not anymore. You gave up that right when you walked away."
It was the truth, and it burned. You tried to look down, but he held your gaze, unwavering.
"But," he continued, leaning in so close his lips almost brushed yours with each word, "you asking me to go? That just proves you still don't get it. You think you're doing me a favor. Setting me free from the mess you made. But you're not." His eyes were dark pools of conviction. "This is me free. Choosing to be here. Choosing you, even after everything. Even though it's stupid. Especially because it's stupid."
A tear escaped, tracing a hot path down your chilled cheek. He caught it with his thumb.
"I'm not going anywhere," he stated, the words final, absolute. "Unless you tell me, right now, looking me in the eye, that you don't love me. That you don't want this. And you have to mean it."
He fell silent, giving you the space he thought you wanted. The space to send him away for good. The air grew colder, the silence heavier, pressing in on you. The silence stretched, thin and taut as a wire. His gaze held you, unflinching, a challenge and a plea all at once. The wind seemed to still, the world narrowing to this frozen patch of ground, the feel of his hand on your face, and the terrifying, beautiful ultimatum hanging between you.
He was offering you the clean break you’d pretended to want. The easy out you’d tried to create with Thomas. All you had to do was lie. To say the words that would sever the tether for good, that would let him walk away and finally, truly hate you. It would be the kindest cruelty you could offer him.
Your lips parted. The words -- I don’t love you -- felt like shards of glass in your throat, impossible to force out. Because you loved him with a desperation that terrified you. You loved the stubborn set of his jaw, the unexpected gentleness of his hands, the fierce loyalty he wore like armor. You loved the mess and the noise and the glorious, difficult truth of him.
You loved him so much it had scared you into leaving.
And he saw it. He saw the war in your eyes, the way your breath hitched not in preparation for a lie, but because the truth was a living, painful thing clawing its way up. The hard line of his mouth softened, just a fraction.
“You can’t,” he said, his voice a low, certain vibration. It wasn’t a question. “You can’t say it. Because it’s not true.”
A sob broke free, the last of your defenses crumbling. You shook your head, a frantic, tiny motion. “No,” you choked out. “It’s not true.”
The admission seemed to unlock something in him. The last vestige of his defensive stance melted away. His shoulders dropped, and he let out a long, shuddering breath, his eyes closing for a second as if in prayer.
“Thank Christ,” he whispered, the words rough with emotion. When his eyes opened, they were bright, vulnerable. “For a minute there, I thought you were actually gonna make me leave.”
He pulled you into him then, not with the desperate force from before, but with a deep, enveloping relief. You buried your face in the cold leather of his jacket, your hands fisting in the back of it, holding on as if he were the only solid thing in a spinning world. He held you just as tightly, his face pressed into your hair.
“I love you,” you mumbled into his chest, the words muffled but fervent. “I’m so sorry. I’m sorry.”
“Shhh,” he soothed, one hand coming up to cradle the back of your head. “I know. I know, baby. Me too. All of it.”
You stood there for a long time, wrapped in each other, the frozen world around you forgotten. The only warmth was the shared heat of your bodies, the only sound the steady, synced beating of your hearts. Finally, he stirred, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “Alright,” he said, his voice still thick but laced with a new, gentle determination. “We’re done with the quarry. We’re done with the past. Starting right now.”
He pulled back just enough to look at you, his hands coming up to frame your face again. His thumbs brushed away the remnants of your tears. “Clean slate. But this time, together. No more solo missions. Deal?”
You nodded, your vision blurry but your heart clearer than it had been in months. “Together.”
A real, slow smile spread across his face, the one that reached his eyes and lit them from within. It was the smile you’d fallen in love with, the one he saved for rare, unguarded moments. It felt like coming home.
“Good.” He took your hand, lacing his fingers tightly with yours. “Now, let’s get in the fucking van. I’m freezing, you’re shivering, and I have a sudden, intense craving for the world’s greasiest diner food. My treat. We can start our new, improved, communication-heavy relationship by arguing about whether hash browns should be crispy or soggy.”
A wet laugh escaped you. It felt like the first real breath you’d taken in weeks. “They should be crispy.”
“Wrong,” he said, tugging you gently toward the path. “But we’ll work on it.”
pairing: eddie munson x reader
summary: your car breaks down in a storm -- conveniently (not so conveniently) right down the road from your ex boyfriend's trailer. you're forced to wait the night out with him. a series!!themes & warnings: TENSION, ANGST, arguing, eddie being eddie, youre obv still in love w each other so its yearny
part 2: the storm (2)
You could barely see. Your sight was never impeccable to begin with, but the mixture of snow and rain flying at your windshield in the 40 mile-per-hour winds definitely didn't help.
You tried not to push your car (which you'd named Daphne) too hard, just easing her through the slush at a gentle speed, trying to ignore what road you were on. You weren't on it for the reasons you used to be. You were just on it now because it was a short-cut from work to home, and you needed the fastest route possible to avoid the storm.
Obviously, that hadn't worked.
"Fucking shit." You muttered to yourself as you hit a particularly wet patch of slush, your tail end swerving just slightly. You corrected yourself with shaky, panicked hands, somehow managing to keep yourself on the road.
Daphne was an old girl, a fixer-upper. But you knew how to handle her wheel.
The headlights of your old sedan cut twin, wavering tunnels through the horizontal sleet. The wipers groaned on their highest setting, fighting a losing battle. You were gripping the steering wheel so hard your knuckles ached, every muscle in your body tensed against the skid and sway of the tires.
You knew this road, sadly. Every pothole, every leaning fence post, every mailbox with a dent from a long-ago baseball. You’d memorized it in sunshine, in twilight, in the deep, comfortable dark of summer nights. You’d ridden down it with your heart full and your hand in his, music blaring from his shitty speakers.
Now, you drove it with your heart in your throat and your eyes straining to see five feet ahead. You just had to get past it. Past him.
The familiar, ramshackle outline of the Munson trailer came into view, a darker smudge against the storm-grey sky. A single, yellow porch light was on, a lonely beacon in the maelstrom. Your foot instinctively eased off the gas, as if slowing down could make you less visible. You held your breath, a stupid, superstitious gesture, as you passed the driveway.
You’d made it maybe two hundred yards past when Daphne gave a violent, shuddering cough. The engine spluttered -- a wet, guttural sound of pure protest. The lights on the dashboard flickered crazily. Then, with a final, dying wheeze, the engine cut out completely. The headlights died, plunging you into near-total darkness, save for the sickly green glow of the radio display.
Silence, except for the hammering of ice and rain on the roof.
“No. No, no, no, come on,” you pleaded, turning the key in the ignition. The starter gave a weak, clicking whirr. Nothing. You tried again. Click-click-click. Despair, cold and sharp, joined the chill already seeping into the car.
You were stranded. In a storm. On this road. Approximately a one-minute walk from the one place in Hawkins you’d said you’d never set foot in again.
You laid your forehead against the freezing steering wheel. A hysterical laugh bubbled up, but it died in your throat. You were well and truly screwed.
Outside, the wind howled like it was laughing at you.
You would not be approaching his door. You knew Daphne was old and at times unreliable, so you kept emergency gear in the backseat. A blanket, a heavy winter jacket, a few bottles of water. A blunt and a lighter for stress. Huffing, you pushed your seat back just enough so that you could climb into the back.
You'd wait the storm out until the morning. Then, you'd walk down the road to the gas station, which opened at 5AM, and call your brother. Or your dad. Or a fucking tow truck. Whoever you thought of first.
The backseat was cramped and smelled of old vinyl and the faint, lingering scent of the pine tree air freshener you’d bought last winter. You wrestled the blanket around your shoulders, then pulled the puffy jacket on over it, creating a sad, bulky nest. The cold was insidious, creeping up through the floorboards, seeping in through the window seals. You could see your breath, little ghostly puffs in the greenish dark.
This was fine. This was manageable. You’d been through worse. A little cold, a little storm. You were tough.
You fumbled for the pre-rolled joint and the lighter in the side pocket of the door. Your fingers were stiff and clumsy with cold. It took three tries to get the flame to catch in the howling draft whistling through the window frame. Finally, the end glowed orange. You took a deep drag, holding the smoke in your lungs, willing it to burn away the panic, the humiliation, the sheer, cosmic unfairness of it all.
The familiar, earthy warmth spread through your chest, taking the sharpest edges off your anxiety. You slumped against the door, watching the sleet paint icy patterns on the window. You were a statue in a glass coffin, waiting for the storm to pass.
You lost track of time. The joint became a stub you carefully extinguished and tucked away. The cold deepened, becoming a tangible, aching presence. You pulled your knees to your chest, tucking your hands under your armpits. The blanket was thin. The jacket helped, but your legs were freezing in your jeans. You started to shiver, a fine, constant tremor you couldn’t control.
This is stupid. This is prideful and stupid. You’re going to get hypothermia over a boy.
But it wasn't just any boy. It was Eddie. And the wound of your ending was still too fresh, too raw, to face the possibility of his pity, or worse, his indifference.
You'd be fine. You weren't freezing to death, you were maintaining body heat. Just a few more hours and you would--
A sharp knock on the window made you yelp.
No. No, no no. It's not who I think it is.
Your heart slammed against your ribs, a trapped bird. Through the ice-fogged glass, distorted by the rivulets of sleet, a dark shape loomed. A familiar silhouette, backlit by the distant, buzzing porch light.
It is. It’s exactly who you think it is.
You stayed perfectly still, a rabbit hoping the predator will lose interest. Maybe if you didn’t move, he’d think you were asleep. Or dead. God, maybe dead is better.
The knock came again, sharper this time. Insistent. Accompanied by a voice, muffled but unmistakably his, cutting through the wind’s howl.
“Open the door, Y/N. I can see you shivering from here.”
The command, the use of your full name -- it brooked no argument. It was the same tone he’d used when you’d tried to walk home from a party in the rain two summers ago, when he’d scooped you up with an exasperated, “Don’t be an idiot,” and driven you home despite your protests.
Defeated, you unlocked the door and pushed it open.
The storm rushed in, but so did he. Eddie filled the cramped space of the open door, dressed in a thick flannel over his t-shirt, a beanie pulled low over his curls. He was holding a massive, industrial-looking flashlight. His eyes swept over your pathetic nest -- the blanket, the jacket, the discarded joint stub on the floor mat -- and a smirk bloomed onto his face.
“What the hell are you doing?” he asked, his voice low, but it wasn't a question. It was an amused accusation.
“Waiting out the storm,” you said, your own voice thin and reedy from cold and disuse. “My car died.”
“I know she died. I heard Daphne cough her last breath. I’ve been watching your sorry ass freeze for the last twenty minutes from my window.” He shook his head, a mixture of disbelief and humor flashing in his eyes. “Get out of the car.”
The smirk. The absolute, insufferable smirk. It ignited a fire in your chest that had nothing to do with warmth. All the cold, all the fear, condensed into a single, white-hot point of pure indignation.
“I’m fine here,” you snapped, your voice gaining strength from the fury.
He leaned further into the car, the flashlight beam highlighting the amusement dancing in his eyes. “Oh, you’re more than fine. You’re a picture of survivalist elegance. The blanket really ties the ‘soon-to-be-icicle’ look together. But see, here’s the thing -- Wayne’s on night shift, and I have a strict policy against letting girls freeze to death within spitting distance of my home. Bad for my rep. So, for the last time: out.”
“My well-being is no longer your concern, Munson,” you shot back, wrapping the pathetic blanket tighter around your shoulders as if it were armor.
“It becomes my concern when you’re littering my view with your old ass car,” he countered, his tone light but his eyes holding yours with an unnerving intensity. “Now, I can do this the easy way, where you walk your proud, stubborn self into the warm trailer like a rational human being. Or I can do it the hard way, which involves me, this flashlight -- which is heavier than it looks -- and a very undignified extraction. Your choice, sweetheart.”
The old pet name, used now as a weapon, stole the breath from your lungs. You stared at him, this infuriating, beautiful, impossible man, standing in a storm offering you shelter you didn't want to need from him.
Another bone-deep shiver rattled through you, betraying your bravado. You saw his smirk soften, just for a second, into something that looked suspiciously like concern before the mask of amused detachment slid back into place.
With a sound of pure, exasperated defeat, you kicked the blanket off your legs. “Fine.”
You climbed out of the car, the wind immediately whipping your hair across your face. You didn't look at him as you slammed the door shut harder than necessary and started stomping through the slush toward the trailer. He fell into step beside you, his longer strides easily keeping pace with your furious march.
“You know,” he said conversationally, as if commenting on the weather, “most people, when their car breaks down in a storm, go to the nearest house. They don’t stage a one-woman Arctic expedition in their backseat.”
“Most people don’t have to worry about the emotional fallout of seeing their ex,” you muttered, staring straight ahead at the glowing porch light.
He snorted, as if it didn't mean much. As if you hadn't been the center of his life for three and a half years.
"I don't bite. Unless you ask me to. You've known me long enough to know that, haven't you?"
The casual, suggestive barb hit its mark, a different kind of chill skittering down your spine. You stopped on the bottom step, looking up to face him. The porch light cast harsh shadows on his face, but his eyes were bright, challenging.
“I know you,” you said, your voice low and steady despite the tremor in your limbs. “That’s the problem. I know exactly what your ‘not biting’ looks like. It looks like… this.” You gestured vaguely between you, at the storm, the trailer, the unbearable tension. “It’s never simple with you, Eddie. It’s a whole production.”
He leaned against the doorframe, blocking the entrance, his arms crossed over his chest. The flannel sleeves were pushed up, revealing the familiar tattoos on his forearms. “And sitting in your car until you got frostbite was the simpler option? Come on. Even you’re not that stupid.”
“It was the safer option!” The words burst out of you, raw and honest. “In there, the only thing I had to fight was the cold. Out here? With you?” You shook your head, a helpless gesture. “It’s much worse.”
The smirk finally vanished. His expression shifted into something unreadable, intense. He studied you -- your wet hair plastered to your forehead, your jacket soaked through, the defiant, fearful light in your eyes. The wind howled around you both, but on this small, lit porch, the world had narrowed to this standoff.
“You’re shaking,” he observed, his voice dropping, losing its edge.
“I’m cold.”
“Yeah.” He pushed off the doorframe and reached to open the door. Warm air, carrying the scent of him and home, rushed out to meet you. “Get inside. Before you really do turn into an icicle. We can argue about the meteorological properties of my personality when you’re not at risk of hypothermia.”
It wasn't an invitation. It was a command, but it was also a retreat. A concession. He was giving you the out, focusing on the practical, immediate danger instead of the emotional minefield.
You hesitated for one more second, then stepped across the threshold into the past. He followed, closing the door firmly on the roaring night, leaving the two of you in the sudden, overwhelming quiet of the trailer, with only the drumming of sleet on the roof and the heavy weight of everything left unsaid between you.
The smell of him was everywhere -- clean laundry, weed, curl product, and the delicious cologne you'd never figured out how he could afford. The memories you'd fought to avoid for about four months now closed in around you. You blinked in surprise at the photo of you two, from when Eddie finally graduated high school, still hung above the kitchen sink. He hadn't taken down the photos. The sight was a physical blow. It was a candid shot -- you were laughing, your head thrown back, and Eddie had his arm slung around your shoulders, grinning at the camera like he’d just won the lottery. It was perched right where it had always been, in the spot of honor where Wayne could see it while he washed dishes. The fact that it was still there felt more intimate, more revealing, than if he’d torn it down in a fit of rage.
You opted to pretend you didn't notice. Anything to avoid a tense conversation. You quickly averted your eyes, focusing on peeling off your soaked jacket. Your fingers were numb and clumsy. The zipper stuck.
“Here,” Eddie’s voice came from behind you, closer than you expected. Before you could protest, his hands were there, brushing yours aside. His touch was efficient, impersonal, as he worked the frozen zipper free. The back of his knuckles grazed the wet fabric of your sweater, and you stiffened.
The jacket came off. You were left standing there in your damp sweater and jeans, feeling more exposed than ever. The trailer’s heat was beginning to penetrate your clothes, a painful thaw that made your skin prickle.
“Bathroom’s the same,” he said, his voice carefully neutral. He pointed a thumb over his shoulder. “There’s towels in the cupboard. You can wear something of mine for the night. It won't hurt you." He asserted, looking at you with an expression that left no room for argument. "You're not wearing the wet shit."
The command in his voice, the sharp practicality of it, was a lifeline in the sea of awkwardness. It gave you a directive, something to do instead of just standing there marinating in regret and residual attraction.
“Fine,” you muttered, not meeting his eyes. You snatched up your purse and made a beeline for the bathroom, needing the space.
The small room was exactly as you remembered. The same slightly-mildewy shower curtain, the same chipped tile, the same half-empty bottle of your shampoo on the edge of the tub. He hadn’t thrown it out. The observation sent a fresh, complicated pang through you. You ignored it, focusing on the task at hand.
Stripping off the wet, icy clothes was a relief. The hot water in the quick shower you took made you feel like you were falling off the bone. You towelled off quickly, the rough fabric bringing you back to reality. Wrapped in the towel, you hesitated. The idea of putting on his clothes… it felt like a surrender. An intimacy you’d forfeited.
A knock at the door made you jump. “It’s on the hook,” Eddie’s voice came through the wood, muffled but clear. “Don’t overthink it. They’re just clothes.” The teasing air to his tone infuriated you.
You unlocked the door and cracked it open. Hanging on the outside hook was a faded, soft-looking gray hoodie and a pair of plaid flannel pajama pants. They were clean. They smelled like his laundry detergent, not like him. It was a small, considerate distinction that somehow made it worse.
You pulled them on. The hoodie was huge, the sleeves swallowing your hands. The pants were too long, pooling around your ankles. You rolled the waistband and cuffed the legs. Looking in the foggy mirror, you saw a ghost -- a version of yourself from years ago, when you’d steal his clothes just because you could, because you loved being surrounded by him.
When you emerged from the bathroom, scrubbed clean and drowning in his clothes, you found him in the kitchenette. He’d put the kettle on and was leaning against the counter, a smirk already playing on his lips as he took you in.
“Well, look at that,” he drawled, his eyes doing a slow, appreciative sweep from your rolled cuffs to the hood swallowing half your face. “The lost princess of Hawkins, slumming it in peasant garb. It’s a good look. A little… derelicte, but it works.”
You scowled, tugging at the too-long sleeve. “Shut up. You’re built like a scarecrow.”
“A scarecrow with impeccable taste in loungewear, thank you very much.” He gestured to the kettle with his chin. “Tea? Or I think Wayne might have some of that horrific instant cocoa you used to love. The kind that’s mostly sugar and artificial flavor.”
The mention of your old preference, the specific memory of you curling on this same couch with a mug of too-sweet cocoa, was a tiny landmine. You ignored it. “Tea’s fine.”
He busied himself with mugs, his back to you. “So,” he said, his voice deliberately light. “What’s the verdict? Is the storm outside still worse than the storm of my terrible personality in here?”
“It’s a tie,” you shot back, settling onto the far end of the couch, tucking your feet under you. “The sleet is less predictable, but you’re louder.”
He barked a laugh, a genuine sound that felt like a shockwave in the small space. “Fair. I’ll take it.” He brought over two mugs, handing you one. His fingers brushed yours. Neither of you flinched. He sat on the opposite end of the couch, leaving a respectable, cavernous gap between you. He took a sip, watching you over the rim. “You know, for a minute there, I thought you were really gonna try to wait it out. I had a whole running commentary planned. ‘Hour one: the princess develops a slight shiver. Hour two: regret sets in. Hour three: a single, frozen tear…’”
“You were watching me?” You tried to sound annoyed, but it came out strangely breathless.
“Entertainment’s slim during an ice apocalypse,” he shrugged, but his eyes were sharp on yours. “Besides, it was like a nature documentary. The Tragic Pride of the North American Ex-Girlfriend.”
“You’re an asshole.”
“And yet you’ve come right back to me.” He grinned, unrepentant. “Seems like we’re both dealing with unfortunate realities tonight. Daphne threw you to the dogs.”
You rolled your eyes, glaring at him.
"Don't talk shit about Daphne."
He snorted back, tilting his head back to glance out the window at said object.
"I knew as soon as I met Daphne that she'd screw you over one day. Wayne said he'd get you something new," he shrugged. "But nooo. You loved the death-trap too much."
The barb landed differently this time. It wasn't just about the car; it was about your stubbornness, your sentimentality, your refusal to let go of things -- people -- even when they were bad for you. It was a mirror held up to your own choices, and the reflection stung.
“I don’t just throw things away because they’re old or unreliable,” you shot back, your voice tight. “Some things are worth fixing.”
The moment the words left your mouth, you realized your mistake. The air in the trailer seemed to freeze solid, thicker than the ice on the windows.
Eddie’s grin vanished. His eyes, which had been sparkling with mischievous challenge, went flat and dark. He leaned forward slowly, placing his mug on the coffee table with exaggerated care. The click of ceramic on wood was deafening in the silence.
“Is that so?” he asked, his voice dangerously quiet. All traces of teasing were gone, replaced by a cold, simmering anger. “Things worth fixing, huh? That’s a fascinating philosophy.” He tilted his head, his gaze boring into you. “Tell me, then. Where’s the line? At what point does something become so fucking broken it’s not worth the effort anymore? When it leaves you stranded in the cold? Or is it before that? Maybe when it makes you feel so shitty you have to lie to get away from it?”
Each question was a lash. He wasn't talking about Daphne anymore. He was talking about you. About him. About you and him.
You flinched, pulling the oversized hoodie tighter around yourself as if it could shield you. “Eddie, that’s not what I meant--”
“Isn’t it?” he interrupted, standing up in one fluid, angry motion. He began to pace the small length of the living room, his movements restless, charged. “Because from where I’m sitting, it sounds exactly like what you meant. You’ll nurse along a shitbox car because it’s familiar. You’ll fight for it. But a relationship? A person? Nah. That you just… walk away from. No repairs. No fixing. Just a clean break and a bullshit excuse about ‘different paths.’ Or 'going nowhere.'” He stopped pacing and turned to face you, his chest heaving. “So forgive me if I’m a little fucking confused about your automotive morals.”
The raw pain in his voice, the accusation that cut straight to the heart of your own guilt, was too much. The tears you’d been fighting since you arrived sprang to your eyes, hot and immediate.
“You think it was easy?” you choked out, surging to your feet to face him. The blanket pooled at your feet. “You think I just woke up one day and decided to ‘throw you away’? I was terrified! I loved you so much it felt like I was drowning, and everyone was telling me you were a lost cause! I didn’t know how to fix us because I didn’t even know what was broken!”
“You could have talked to me!” he roared, the sound raw and startling in the small space. He took a step toward you, his hands clenched at his sides. “You could have fought with me! Instead, you just… left. You handed me a note written in fucking platitudes and disappeared. That’s not fixing something, Y/N. That’s scrapping it for parts.”
You were both shouting now, four months of suppressed hurt and anger erupting in the warm, claustrophobic space. The storm outside was nothing compared to the tempest in the room.
“I was trying to save myself!” you cried, the confession ripped from you.
“FROM WHAT?” he yelled back, throwing his hands up. “FROM ME?”
The question echoed, brutal and final. You stared at each other, breathing heavily, the truth of his words hanging between you like a guillotine.
From me.
In your darkest moments, yes. From the chaos, from the uncertainty, from the sheer, overwhelming force of loving Eddie Munson. You’d been trying to save yourself from the very thing you’d missed every single day since.
The fight drained out of you as quickly as it had come, leaving you hollow and shaking. You looked at him -- really looked at him -- seeing not the infuriating, teasing boy from the porch, but the man whose heart you’d shattered with your fear. The man who still had your picture on his wall.
“Yeah,” you whispered, the admission a surrender. A single tear traced a path down your cheek. “From you.”
He recoiled as if you’d struck him physically. All the anger bled from his face, replaced by a wounded, devastating comprehension. He took a step back, then another, until his back hit the wall. He slid down it slowly until he was sitting on the floor, his head in his hands.
You stood frozen, the weight of what you’d just said crushing you. A moment passed.
You glanced at him, hearing movement. He was looking the other direction, his profile painful to see. The flickering light of the lamp caught the silver in his rings, the curve of his lower lip. He was still so beautiful it hurt.
The silence fell upon you. Tense. Pregnant with too many emotions to name. You looked away, but you could feel him turn to you, his gaze heating up your skin. His sight was always so perceptive, so thoughtful and warm. You were afraid of him watching you, afraid of his intelligent brown eyes deducing things that you didn't want deduced.
You fought the urge to get up and hide from his eyes. In the bathroom. The spare bedroom, hiding under the covers.
"You cut your hair."
The statement was simple, but heavy. You could hear the suppressed anger in his tone. The hurt. The ache. The holding back of tears, the holding back of a rage fit. His voice was a broken rasp, a quiet devastation that was worse than any shout. It wasn't just an observation. It was an accusation of a change he hadn't been part of, a loss he'd had to witness from a distance. You cut your hair. You changed. You moved on without me.
Your hand flew self-consciously to the ends, now resting just above your shoulders. "Yeah," you whispered, your own voice trembling. "A while ago."
He didn't look at you. He kept his gaze fixed on some distant point on the wall, his jaw working. "I liked it long."
Three words. They held a universe of grief. I liked it. I liked you. I liked us.
A sob caught in your throat. This was agony. This quiet, raw aftermath was worse than the screaming. It was the autopsy of your relationship, performed in the cold, clear light of shared pain.
"I did it after," you admitted, the words tumbling out in a rush. "I thought... I thought if I looked different, I'd feel different. But I just felt... bald. And sad."
He hummed.
"Had to erase anything I touched, huh? I was that bad?"
You shuddered, looking up at the ceiling.
"Stop it, Eddie. Fucking stop it."
He laughed humorlessly, his eyes finally locking back onto yours. The predatory fire was back, the ruthless analyzing.
"Stop what? What part of this is what you didn't want? You chose it," he said, his voice raw.
"Stop, Eddie!" You cried out.
He was never a good listener. Especially not when he was hurt. Especially not when the armor of sarcasm had been stripped away, leaving only the raw, pulsing nerve of his own perceived worthlessness.
He surged to his feet, a sudden, violent motion that made you flinch back against the couch cushions. He loomed over you, his hands clenched into fists at his sides, but he didn't move closer. The threat wasn't physical; it was emotional, and it was crushing.
"You want me to stop?" he demanded, his voice a low, dangerous snarl. "You want me to pretend like you didn't look at our life together and decide it was a fucking prison sentence? Fine. Let's play pretend. Let's pretend you're just a girl whose car broke down. Let's pretend I'm just a guy being hospitable. Let's pretend the last three years never happened. Is that easier for you? Is that safer?"
He was breathing heavily, his chest rising and falling in sharp bursts. Every word was a jab, designed to hurt because he was hurting, and he wanted you to feel it, to own it. You couldn't take it anymore.
You stood, grabbing your wet jacket and clothes.
"What are you doing?" He snapped.
"Leaving," you said, your voice surprisingly steady as you shoved your arms into the damp, cold sleeves of your jacket. The fabric felt like a slab of ice against your skin, a shocking contrast to the warmth of the trailer. "You win, Eddie. Always."
He crossed the distance in three steps, grabbing ahold of the jacket. Quickly and efficiently, he yanked it off from you, tossing it to the floor.
"You're not."
His voice was final. It wasn't a plea this time; it was a decree, forged in the fire of his own panic. The sight of you actually leaving, of you choosing the literal storm over his emotional one, had short-circuited his anger, replacing it with something more primal: possession.
You stood frozen, the sudden absence of the jacket leaving you exposed in the thin, borrowed hoodie. You could see the wild, frantic beat of his pulse in his throat. His hands, which had just stripped the jacket from you, hovered in the air between you, as if he wanted to grab onto something else -- your arms, your shoulders, you -- but was holding himself back by a thread.
"You're not leaving," he repeated, quieter now, his eyes locked on yours. "You walk out that door, you'll freeze. And I… I can't…" He swallowed hard, the sentence dying in his throat.
The raw, unspoken terror in his eyes undid you. The proud, furious exit was forgotten. You were both trapped -- by the weather, by history, by this devastating, inescapable connection that neither rage nor distance could sever.
A shuddering breath escaped you. "Then what do you want from me, Eddie?" Your voice was a broken whisper. "You want me to stand here and let you flay me alive? Because I can't do that either."
The fight seemed to leave him in a rush. His shoulders slumped, and he took a step back, running both hands over his face. When he looked at you again, he just looked exhausted. Defeated.
"I don't know," he admitted, the confession hollow. "I don't know what I want. I just know I can't watch you walk into that."
The silence stretched, thick and painful. The wind howled a reminder of the impossible choice: stay in the emotional warzone, or flee into the physical one.
Finally, he gestured vaguely toward the couch. "Just… sit down. Please. I'll… I'll shut up. We don't have to talk. We don't have to do anything. Just… exist. Until morning."
It was the barest minimum. A ceasefire with no terms, no resolution. Just a mutual agreement not to destroy each other -- or yourselves -- for the next few hours.
Slowly, feeling numb, you walked back to the couch and sat on the very edge, as far from his side as possible. He didn't sit next to you. He sank into the armchair opposite, putting the width of the coffee table between you. He picked up his cold mug of tea, stared into it, and said nothing.
A/N: there IS a part 2 to this if you guys liked it. PLEASE lmk :)) i wanted some heartbreaking eddie angst bc i love hurting myself
Pairing: Cedric Diggory x Reader
Summary: You and Cedric were childhood best friends – growing up side by side, close as can be. When 5th year came around and Cedric began dating, you watched but never picked up the same habits, preferring a more independent life. When you begin developing feelings for your best and closest friend, after he goes back on an important promise, its nothing short of complicated.
Your childhood was amazing.
It was full of candy, toys, love and affection. It was full of luck, good marks in class, and playing tag until you were utterly breathless. And mostly, it was full of Cedric.
You did everything together – you had the same classes, the same goals, played the same sports, even had the same bloody wand when you got into Hogwarts. You were inseparable. You were never seen without the other, and every sentence where one was mentioned, the other was too.
"Yeah, Ced and Y/N.."
"Well, Y/N and Cedric were.."
You were certain it would last forever. You were certain that the two of you would never separate, even into adulthood.
When you got into your 5th year, you accepted peacefully that your thoughts were simply based on comfort, not reality. Cedric began to take a different path – girls, parties, popularity. You were very different, though you never resented him.
You were quiet, kept to yourself, and stuck to Quidditch and your studies. You had no use for the company of boys or the consumption of Firewhisky. You preferred a quiet life, wrapped up in a blanket by the Hufflepuff hearth and reading a book.
The first time you noticed the shift, it was a Tuesday.
Cedric had always been the type to linger after Quidditch practice —helping to stow brooms, chatting with teammates, tossing an arm around your shoulders as you both trudged back to the castle, still buzzing with adrenaline. But that evening, he’d disappeared before you could even unbuckle your knee pads.
You found him in the courtyard, surrounded by a gaggle of giggling fourth-years, his head thrown back in laughter at something you hadn’t heard. His hair was still damp from the showers, curling slightly at the nape of his neck, and his cheeks were flushed from the cold. He looked happy.
You turned on your heel and left before he could spot you.
Not because you were bothered by it, but because you had no interest in interrupting.. whatever that was. You blew your hair out of your face, walking to your dorm.
The common room was quiet when you arrived, the fire crackling low in the hearth. A few first-years huddled near the warmth, whispering over a game of Exploding Snap, but they paid you no mind as you trudged up the stairs to your dorm.
You told yourself you weren’t bothered.
So what if Cedric had ditched you after practice? So what if he’d rather entertain a flock of admirers than walk back with you like he always had? It didn’t matter. You weren’t the clingy type. You had better things to do than stand around waiting for him to remember you existed.
(Except you had waited. Just for a minute. Just long enough to realize he wasn’t coming back.)
You shoved open the door to your room harder than necessary, startling your roommate, who glanced up from her Potions essay.
“Rough practice?” she asked, eyeing the dirt smudged on your knees.
“The usual,” you muttered, tossing your gear onto your trunk.
You could still hear the echo of his laughter in your head — bright, carefree, so different from the way he laughed with you. With you, it was softer, quieter, like he was letting you in on a secret.
The jealousy you felt (you were very emotionally aware) confused you. So what if Cedric was entertaining girls? You didn't have to be into the same exact things anymore. It wasn't your scene. Doesn't mean it wasn't Cedric's, you rationalized.
Biting your lip, you gathered your toiletries and clothes and went to shower. The hot water ran over your sore muscles, but you couldn't even acknowledge the pleasurable feeling.
You couldn't ignore the burning feeling in your chest.
Groaning, you just washed up and got out.
—
Dinner in the Great Hall was a subdued affair.
You sat at the Hufflepuff table, picking at your shepherd’s pie, half-listening to the chatter around you. The seat beside you — his seat — remained conspicuously empty.
“Diggory’s late,” someone remarked.
You didn’t look up. “Not my problem.”
But then the doors swung open, and there he was, striding in with that effortless confidence that made half the Hall turn to look. His hair was still slightly damp, his cheeks pink from the cold, and he was grinning at something one of his teammates had said.
You tried to keep it down, you really did. You knew it wasn't right to be irritated. You didn't even know why you bloody felt this way.
He spotted you almost immediately, his smile flickering for just a second before he made his way over.
“Hey,” he said, sliding into the seat beside you like nothing had happened.
You didn’t answer.
He nudged your shoulder. “You okay?”
“Peachy,” you said flatly.
A beat of silence. Then, quieter: “You left before I could find you after practice.”
You finally turned to look at him, arching a brow. “Oh? I figured you were busy. I wasn't going to sit there and look stupid while you giggled to your posse.”
His expression faltered. “It wasn’t—I didn’t mean to—”
“Relax, Ced,” you said, forcing a smirk. “I’m not your keeper. Do what you want.”
His jaw tightened, but before he could respond, a group of fourth-years called his name from further down the table, waving him over.
He hesitated, glancing at you.
“Go on,” you said, shoveling a bite of pie into your mouth. “Wouldn’t want to keep your fans waiting.”
For a second, you thought he might argue. But then he sighed, pushing back from the table.
“We’ll talk later,” he murmured.
You didn’t watch him walk away.
Your fork clattered against your plate, the sound sharp in the hum of the Great Hall. You stood abruptly, ignoring the curious glances from nearby Hufflepuffs as you carried your half-eaten dinner toward the enchanted trash bins at the end of the table.
You knew you were being ugly.
The thought gnawed at you as you dumped your food, the remnants of your shepherd’s pie vanishing with a soft poof. That wasn’t you —snapping at Cedric, tossing out petty jabs like you were trying to wound him. You weren’t the jealous type. You weren’t.
(So why did it feel like your chest was full of broken glass every time he laughed with someone else?)
You exhaled sharply through your nose, pressing the heels of your palms against your eyes.
“You’re being ridiculous,” you muttered to yourself.
With that, you left the Great Hall and headed straight for your dorm. Without a word to anyone, you changed your clothes and headed straight to bed, throwing the covers over your head frustratedly.
Maybe some sleep would curve whatever the hell was wrong with you. Jealousy? Over Cedric?
You scoffed to yourself under the covers.
It wasn't like you loved him or something. Well, you did, but not like that.
Did you?
A pang of anxiety hit your stomach.
You rolled over and forced yourself to sleep before you could throw up.
—
You woke to the sound of hushed whispers and the rustling of robes. Sunlight streamed through the windows, far too cheerful for the storm brewing in your head.
Your roommate peeked over at you as you sat up, her eyebrows raised.
“You look like hell,” she said bluntly.
You groaned, rubbing your face. “Feel like it too.”
She tossed a piece of toast at you, which you caught on reflex. “Eat something. You’ll feel better.”
You doubted it.
The Great Hall was already buzzing when you arrived, students clustered together in excited chatter. You hesitated in the doorway, scanning the Hufflepuff table for a familiar head of tousled dark hair—
No.
You weren’t doing this. You weren’t looking for him.
You squared your shoulders and marched to the opposite end of the table, as far from Cedric’s usual spot as possible.
“Have you heard?”
A third-year leaned across the table, eyes wide with gossip. “They’re announcing the Triwizard Tournament today!”
You blinked. “What?”
“It’s true!” another student chimed in. “Dumbledore’s making the announcement after breakfast. They’re bringing back the tournament!”
A murmur of excitement rippled through the Hall. You barely registered it.
Your gaze flickered, against your will, toward the other end of the table — where Cedric sat, surrounded by friends, his face alight with the same eager curiosity as everyone else.
Of course he’d want to compete.
Your stomach twisted.
The entire school had gathered, students packed shoulder-to-shoulder as Dumbledore stood at the top of the marble staircase, his arms raised for silence.
“This year,” he began, his voice carrying effortlessly through the crowd, “Hogwarts will play host to a event not seen in over a century…”
You barely heard the rest.
Your attention was fixed on the back of Cedric’s head, just a few rows ahead of you. He stood tall, his posture straight with anticipation, his fingers tapping absently against his thigh.
You knew that tell. He was already planning his entry.
“—the Triwizard Tournament!”
The crowd erupted into cheers. Cedric turned slightly, scanning the sea of faces behind him — searching.
Your breath caught.
Then his eyes found yours.
For a heartbeat, the noise around you faded.
He grinned — bright, boyish, yours — and your traitorous heart stuttered in response.
You looked away first.
After the festivities, you almost floated out of the castle, moving too quick for anyone to notice. Or so you thought.
You needed air.
The pitch was empty, the stands silent, the only sound the wind whistling through the goalposts. You sat on the grass, your knees pulled to your chest, watching the clouds drift lazily across the sky.
“Knew I’d find you here.”
You didn’t turn. “Go away, Cedric.”
He ignored you, dropping onto the grass beside you with a huff. “Not until you tell me what’s going on with you.”
“Nothing’s going on.”
“Bullshit.” He plucked a blade of grass, twirling it between his fingers. “You’ve been avoiding me for weeks. And don’t say you haven’t,” he added when you opened your mouth to argue. “I know you too well.”
You swallowed.
Tell him.
Just say it.
But the words stuck in your throat.
Instead, you nodded toward the castle. “You’re going to enter, aren’t you? The tournament.”
He hesitated, then sighed. “Yeah. I think so.”
Of course.
The tournament was unsafe. In some cases, it could be fatal. You and Cedric had both agreed that if you were presented the chance, you wouldn't enter. You'd stay safe, side by side.
You forced a smile. “You’ll win.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do,” you said softly. “Because you’re you.”
Cedric studied you for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then, quietly: “Would you hate me if I did?”
The question caught you off guard.
“What?”
“If I entered.” His voice was careful, like he was treading on thin ice. “Would you hate me?”
Never, you wanted to say. I could never hate you.
But what came out was: “I don’t know.”
The silence that followed was deafening.
Then Cedric stood, brushing the grass from his robes.
“Right,” he said stiffly. “Guess I’ll find out.”
And just like that, he walked away.
You wanted to slap yourself. Why were you being such an asshole? You didn't know.
Yes you did.
You loved Cedric. The thought made you want to jump into the black lagoon and be eaten by mermaids. Or admit it right away to Cedric, like one of the secrets you'd never been able to keep from him. Or hide it forever and live in misery.
You chose to hide it.
The days blurred together after that.
You threw yourself into classes, into Quidditch, into anything that would keep your mind off the growing chasm between you and Cedric. It was easier this way—safer. If you didn’t think about him, you wouldn’t have to face the truth.
(But you always thought about him.)
The night of the selection came quickly.
The Great Hall was packed, buzzing with anticipation as the Goblet of Fire flickered in the center of the room. You sat with your housemates, your fingers drumming restlessly against the table, your gaze fixed stubbornly on your lap.
You hadn’t spoken to Cedric since the pitch.
“Champions will be chosen momentarily,” Dumbledore announced, his voice echoing through the hall. “Once selected, please proceed to the adjoining chamber for further instructions.”
A hush fell over the crowd.
The Goblet’s flames flared—once, twice—then spat out the first name.
“The Durmstrang champion is Viktor Krum!”
Applause erupted as Krum stood, his expression unreadable, and disappeared through the side door.
Another burst of fire.
“The Beauxbatons champion is Fleur Delacour!”
More cheers. Fleur rose gracefully, her silver-blonde hair shimmering under the candlelight as she followed Krum out.
Then — silence.
The Goblet flickered, the flames licking higher, twisting violently as if struggling with its final decision.
Your chest tightened.
Not him. Please, not him.
The fire roared, and a third slip of parchment shot into Dumbledore’s waiting hand.
“The Hogwarts champion…”
A beat.
“Cedric Diggory!”
The Hufflepuff table exploded. Whistles, shouts, the thunder of hands pounding against wood — all of it faded into white noise as you watched Cedric stand, his face a mix of shock and dawning pride.
He didn’t look at you as he passed.
You weren’t sure why you’d expected him to.
The rest of the day was a blur, until the party.
The party had been going all afternoon, but later into the night, it became alcoholic.
Only 16 and older were allowed — you came with your roommate. You don't know why you allowed her to convince you. Maybe you wanted to torture yourself with seeing Cedric. Maybe you just wanted to drink the pain away. Both probably.
When you got there, uncharacteristically of you, you immediately dove into a shot of Firewhisky.
"Damn! L/N is finally loosening up?" One of your classmates whooped. You managed a halfhearted smirk as cheers erupted.
Another shot. Another. After another. You were encouraged, cheered on by your roommate and your friends. They'd never seen you like this — but they couldn't detect the inner turmoil. Only Ced could. And he was nowhere to be found.
You were probably just too drunk to see him, to be honest.
The world had taken on a hazy, golden glow — the kind that made everything feel slightly unreal, like you were floating outside your own body. The firewhisky burned its way down your throat, settling warm and heavy in your stomach, but it did nothing to dull the ache in your chest.
“Another!” your roommate crowed, slamming a fresh shot in front of you.
The crowd around you erupted in cheers as you threw it back without hesitation. The taste was sharp, bitter, but you welcomed it. Maybe if you drank enough, you could forget the way Cedric’s face had looked when he walked away from you at the lake. Maybe you could forget the way your heart had splintered when he didn’t even glance at you after being named champion.
Pathetic.
You reached for another shot, but someone snatched it away before your fingers could close around the glass.
“I think you’ve had enough.”
The voice was low, familiar, and it sent a jolt through you despite the alcohol clouding your senses.
You turned your head — slowly, too slowly — and there he was.
Cedric.
His grey eyes were dark in the flickering candlelight, his jaw set in a hard line. He looked unfairly good, even now — his hair slightly mussed, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, the faintest flush high on his cheeks from whatever he’d been drinking.
You scowled. “Since when do you care?”
His expression tightened. “Since you’re about two seconds away from passing out.”
“I’m fine,” you slurred, waving a hand dismissively. “Go back to your adoring fans, Champion. And give me my fucking shot back.”
The word came out sharper than you’d intended, laced with a bitterness you hadn’t meant to let slip.
Cedric’s gaze flickered over your face, searching for something. Whatever he saw made his shoulders tense.
“We need to talk,” he said quietly.
“No, we don’t.” You pushed yourself up from the table, swaying slightly as the room tilted around you. “I’m going to bed.”
You didn’t make it two steps before his hand closed around your wrist, stopping you in your tracks.
“Y/N.” His voice was rough, urgent. “Please.”
Something in his tone made your breath catch.
You turned.
For a long moment, you just stared at each other — the noise of the party fading into the background, the world narrowing to just the two of you.
Then, without a word, Cedric tugged you toward the door.
The cold night air hit you like a slap, sobering you just enough to realize what a terrible idea this was.
You yanked your arm free. “What the hell, Cedric?”
He ran a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply. “You’re drunk.”
“And you’re ruining my buzz.”
“Because you won’t talk to me!” His voice cracked, raw with frustration. “Merlin’s beard, Y/N, what do you want from me? You’ve been pushing me away for weeks, and I don’t even know why!”
The words hung between you, heavy and suffocating.
You opened your mouth — to snap, to deflect, to lie — but the alcohol had stripped away your defenses, leaving nothing but the truth.
"Something's changed. With me, with you, I don't fucking know." You cracked, eyes welling up with frustrated tears. You fought the slur in your words. "I can't stop being an asshole."
Cedric stared at you, stunned into silence.
The kind of silence that wasn’t angry or judgmental — just broken. Hurt.
“You think I care about that?” he finally said, voice quieter now, almost a whisper. “You think I haven’t noticed something’s been eating you alive? You think I’d ever walk away from you just because you’ve been… distant, or angry, or—”
“Cold?” you cut in bitterly. “Sharp-tongued? Emotionally stunted?”
“Human,” he said firmly. “And scared.”
You laughed — a bitter, ugly sound. “Don’t flatter me.”
“I’m not.” He took a step closer, voice cracking just slightly. “You’ve been different, yeah. But I stuck around because I know you. And I care about you. And it’s driving me mad that you won’t just tell me what’s wrong.”
You could feel it bubbling up — all the confusion and pain and fear — the thing you hadn’t dared to admit even to yourself.
"Look," you said, squeezing and loosening your fists, "I'm drunk. I'm tired. I'm going back to the dorm."
With that, you tried to march away.
But you didn’t get far.
Cedric caught your wrist again — not hard, not forceful, just enough to stop you, just enough to make your breath catch.
"Please. Don't walk away from me. Not again. You're my best friend and you're treating me like a stranger."
You froze.
The words hit harder than they should have — best friend — and yet, they cracked something deep inside you. Not because they were untrue, but because they used to be everything. Because somewhere along the way, being his best friend had stopped being enough, and you’d hated yourself for it.
You didn’t turn around. Couldn’t. Not yet.
"Maybe that's the problem." You almost sobbed out, looking up at the sky. "I don't want to be your best friend, Cedric. Not anymore. I fucking love you, okay?!"
The confession tore out of you like a storm — raw, unfiltered, soaked in every ache you’d tried to drink away.
Silence fell.
The kind of silence that made your ears ring, that made the world feel like it had stopped turning.
A tear fell from your eye. You sniffled.
"I'm so stupid. And so drunk. Goodnight, Cedric."
You marched away. You didn't hear him ask you back. You didn't hear a response at all. Just pure, blank silence.
When your reached the dorm, you cried yourself to sleep.
The weeks that followed were hollow.
You avoided him at all costs — skipping meals if he was in the Great Hall, changing routes between classes, ducking into alcoves or behind statues just to avoid seeing his face.
And the worst part?
He let you.
Not once did Cedric chase after you. Not once did he corner you in the hallway or try to pull you aside after class. No notes. No explanations. No apologies.
It was like you’d ceased to exist.
Your friends didn’t understand. Hell, you didn’t understand. You’d confessed your feelings, humiliated yourself — handed your heart to him — and he hadn’t even had the decency to break it properly. Just silence. A gaping, agonizing silence.
You buried yourself in schoolwork, tried to find distractions, but nothing stuck. Nothing made the ache fade. You’d never felt so invisible.
Not even Firewhisky could touch it now.
You'd even tried. You were drunk at every party, desperately trying to forget how embarrassed you felt and how much you missed Cedric.
And then came the day of the final task. The Maze.
The air was electric, thick with nerves and anticipation. Everyone buzzed about Cedric and Harry, Fleur and Krum — four champions entering the unknown. You stood on the edge of the crowd with your arms crossed, shoulders tight with dread. You hadn’t spoken to Cedric in weeks, hadn’t even looked at him if you could help it… but you’d be lying if you said you weren’t terrified.
He might not care about you anymore — if he ever did — but that didn’t stop you from caring about him.
The Maze loomed like a breathing thing, its hedges impossibly tall, its rustling leaves whispering secrets. You watched him walk toward it, flanked by cheers and camera flashes, and for a moment, just a moment, he looked back over his shoulder.
At you.
Your breath caught.
Then he was gone.
The chaos came later.
Screams. Shouting. Rumors flying like hexes. Harry was back, clutching the Triwizard Cup and Cedric’s arm — but something was wrong. Terribly wrong.
Cedric wasn’t moving.
You pushed through the crowd, frantic, not caring who you elbowed or stepped on. Harry was screaming something about Voldemort, about portkeys, about Death Eaters — and all you could see was Cedric lying in the grass like a discarded doll.
But then — then — he moved.
A shallow breath. A twitch of his hand. A groan.
You fell to your knees beside him as Madam Pomfrey and the professors swarmed, your shaking fingers brushing over his cold one before they ushered you back.
He lived.
Barely, but he lived.
You didn’t sleep for two nights.
You hovered outside the Hospital Wing, waited for word, snapped at anyone who told you to rest. You weren’t sure why — he hadn’t spoken to you in weeks — but some part of you needed to know he was okay. Even if you’d never speak again.
It was late when Madam Pomfrey finally relented and let you in.
He looked pale, drawn, but awake. Eyes open, hazy with potions and pain, but still that same warm, stormy gray.
You stood in the doorway, frozen.
He blinked. “Y/N?”
You hated that his voice still made something deep in your chest crack.
“I… shouldn’t be here,” you said. “I just wanted to see if you were—if you—” You turned, heart hammering, already retreating.
“Don’t,” he rasped. “Please. Don’t go.” His voice cracked. Tears glossed his eyes over — not quite gathering, but still there.
You hesitated, back still to him.
"I'm begging you. I just want to hold your hand. To touch you. Just for a second, yeah? Please, Y/N."
The rawness in his voice undid you.
Not the words — those you could have ignored. But the way he said them. Cracked and trembling, like a boy clinging to a ledge by his fingertips. Like saying your name was the only thing keeping him from falling apart completely.
You turned, slowly.
Cedric looked so unlike himself it hurt — his golden skin washed out, the sharp cut of his cheekbone shadowed and sunken, that usual quiet confidence gone. But those eyes…
They were still his. Still stormy. Still yours.
You came back slowly. His pale hand outstretched — you placed yours into it, like he'd asked. The entire room flooded with the aura of relief. Cedric squeezed his eyes shut, an exhale leaving him.
He didn’t say anything right away.
He just held your hand like it anchored him. Like it was the only thing tethering him to the moment, to the world, to you. His fingers were cold — not deathly, just lacking the usual heat you remembered so well. But they wrapped around yours with the same gentleness you’d missed more than you could bear.
When he opened his eyes again, they shimmered.
“I thought I’d dreamed you,” he said, voice low, rough. “That night. After the maze. I thought… maybe I’d imagined the sound of your voice.”
Your throat tightened. “I was there.”
“I know that now,” he said, giving your hand a light tug, just enough to pull you closer to the bed. “You were always there. Even when you weren’t.”
You were silent again. Then you spoke.
"What the hell happened?"
Cedric’s jaw tensed. For a moment, he didn’t speak. His thumb kept brushing over your knuckles — a grounding motion, or maybe just something to do with his hands so he wouldn’t fall apart.
“I don’t remember all of it,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. “Not clearly. The maze — it was dark, and twisted. Everything felt wrong. Like it was watching me.”
You moved closer without thinking, perching on the edge of the bed now, still clutching his hand.
He swallowed hard, gaze distant. “There were enchantments, creatures, traps… things meant to disorient us. I was doing okay. Then—” He paused, breath catching. “Then the Portkey. I didn’t know what it was, just that it wasn’t part of the maze.”
You nodded slowly. “We were all watching. Then you vanished.”
“I landed in a graveyard.” His voice went flat. “I wasn’t alone.”
You felt your heart stutter in your chest.
Cedric looked at you now. Not through you. Not around you. At you. “There was someone there. Someone powerful. Masked. I—I couldn’t fight him. He cursed me. Said it was a warning, not a killing. Said I was just the ‘first stone in the avalanche.’ Then he left. Just like that. Like I was… insignificant.”
Your breath shook. “Cedric…”
He gave a small, humorless laugh. “I wasn’t brave. I just got lucky.”
You touched his cheek before you could stop yourself. “Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Downplay what you survived. You weren’t lucky, you were strong. You’re here, aren’t you? You made it back.”
“Barely,” he murmured.
“But you did.” Your voice cracked now. “And I’m so—so glad. I was terrified. Every day you didn’t wake up, I thought…” You blinked rapidly, unable to finish.
His hand covered yours now, anchoring it to his cheek. He leaned into your touch.
“I’m sorry you went through that,” he whispered. “Alone.”
“You’re not alone now.”
He nodded. “Neither are you.”
You sat in that fragile stillness for a long time. No longer strangers to the silence, but companions to it. Letting it speak where words couldn’t.
Finally, Cedric shifted slightly. “Stay?”
You looked at him — pale, trembling, but alive — and nodded. “Of course.”
You curled into the chair beside his bed, still holding his hand.
He didn’t let go.
Hours later, Madam Pomfrey returned. Surprisingly, she went into a soft smile when she saw you sleeping silently in the chair — arm still outstretched to Cedric, who was sleeping soundly finally — his hand clutching yours tightly.
She didn’t wake you.
Madam Pomfrey, for all her grumbles and strict rules, had been at Hogwarts long enough to recognize the kind of sleep born from exhaustion and heartbreak. The kind of sleep that stitched two fractured souls back together, thread by trembling thread.
With a gentle flick of her wand, she dimmed the lights and conjured a blanket, draping it over your shoulders. She didn’t touch Cedric — just checked the potions levels, made a quiet note on her chart, and slipped out of the room.
When you stirred hours later, it was still quiet. The world hadn’t ended, though it had come close. You blinked slowly, adjusting to the gray morning light streaming through the hospital wing’s tall windows.
You were still holding his hand.
More importantly — he was still holding yours.
You turned your head, just slightly, and saw Cedric watching you. His eyes were clearer now. Tired, yes — but calm. Solid. Real.
“Morning,” he whispered.
Your voice came out hoarse. “Hey.”
“Didn’t think you’d still be here.”
“I said I would be,” you replied quietly. “You really think I’d leave again?”
“No,” he said, his thumb brushing over your hand again. “But part of me’s still scared I’ll wake up and this will be gone.”
You sat up straighter, brushing the sleep from your eyes. “It’s not.”
A long pause.
“I thought about you,” Cedric said. “When I was stuck in that maze. When I was hurt. When I woke up alone in here. I kept thinking—‘I didn’t tell her.’ Not really.”
“Didn’t tell me what?” you asked gently.
“That I love you.”
Your breath caught.
“I love you,” he repeated, firmer this time. “And I’m sorry it took almost dying to say it. I should’ve said it that night. When you did. But I panicked. I—I couldn’t believe you’d actually—”
“I did,” you whispered. “I do.”
Cedric’s expression broke into something fragile and luminous, something that made you feel like you could finally breathe after weeks underwater.
He squeezed your hand again.
“I think we’ve wasted enough time, don’t you?”
You nodded. “Yeah. I do.”
Soft sunlight broke through the clouds beyond the windows, casting a pale gold glow across the room. And as Cedric smiled up at you, tired but whole, you realized this wasn’t the end of your story.
"You said you'd never date. Now look at you.. Loser." Cedric snorted weakly.
It was true. You'd said that at the beginning of 5th year.
Rolling your eyes, you smirked.
"I wouldn't call it dating. I'd call it unlabeled, pure devotion."
Cedric laughed, a low, broken sound that still somehow managed to sound like music. His thumb brushed yours as he held your hand a little tighter.
“Oh, that’s what we’re calling it?” he murmured, smile lazy, eyes gleaming just a bit. “Unlabeled, pure devotion?”
You shrugged, that smirk playing on your lips again. “It’s more romantic that way. Tragic. Poetic.”
“Right,” he said with mock-seriousness. “So when people ask, I’ll just say I’m in a deeply emotional, undefined entanglement with a sarcastic cynic who pretends she doesn’t love me stupid.”
You shot him a glare, but your heart fluttered.
“And I’ll say I’m spiritually tethered to a bleeding-heart Hufflepuff who almost died just to make me realize I’m in love with him.”
Cedric’s eyes locked with yours then — no teasing now, just a quiet, overwhelming sort of tenderness. Like everything had shifted and finally, finally landed right where it was meant to.
“Then I guess we deserve each other,” he whispered.
You nodded. “Unfortunately for you.”
He thought for a moment.
"C'mere." He muttered, opening his arms.
You raised an eyebrow. "But Madam Pomf—"
"She'll be fine. She loves me."
You huffed a laugh, trying to hide the fact that your chest had just caved in a little.
“She loves everyone,” you said, but you were already rising from the chair.
Cedric gave a weak but triumphant grin as you carefully slipped into the narrow hospital bed beside him, minding the bandages and bruises. His arms wrapped around you the second you were close enough — warm, shaky, and maybe a little too tight, like he still didn’t quite believe this was real.
You melted into him anyway.
It wasn’t graceful. It wasn’t comfortable. The mattress was stiff, your knees bumped, and his shoulder was still sore — but somehow, it was perfect.
“You smell like antiseptic,” you muttered into his collarbone.
“You smell like regret and firewhisky,” he murmured back.
You snorted. “Fair.”
For a while, you both just lay there, tangled in silence. His hand moved slowly across your back, your cheek pressed against the beat of his heart. There were a hundred conversations left to have — about the maze, about what came next, about the weeks of silence and the confession you still weren’t sure he’d heard properly.
But for now, this was enough.
Safe. Warm. Alive.
“I’m not letting you go again,” Cedric whispered suddenly, so quietly you almost missed it.
You lifted your head. “Then don’t.”
He looked at you like you’d just given him the answer to every riddle he’d ever been asked.
It happened without fanfare.
No dramatic music. No roaring winds or trembling ground.
Just the two of you, breathing in the same space, your foreheads touching as the late-afternoon sun traced gold across the white sheets and Cedric’s bruised knuckles.
He looked at you like he had all the time in the world — like he was memorizing every curve of your face, every flicker of doubt behind your eyes. His hand came up, fingers brushing your cheek, reverent. Almost disbelieving.
“I'd like to seal our 'unlabeled, pure devotion'' with a kiss, yeah?” he murmured.
You swallowed, heart thudding. “Then do it.”
His lips found yours gently — not rushed, not hungry, just soft. Certain. A question and an answer, all in one breath.
It was warm and a little shaky, a kiss you could feel in your ribs, in your fingertips, in every inch of skin that remembered what it meant to be close to him.
When he pulled back, barely an inch, his eyes were still closed.
“I'm an absolute fool for you,” he whispered, voice a little hoarse. “But it was definitely worth almost dying for.”
Ok so there is this thing that becomes clear from ATWOW and AFAA deleted scenes and which I sorely wish had been left in, and that is the fact that Jake considers the Battle of the Halleluia Mountains a failure. In one of the deleted scenes, he tells Kiri "I didn't win. Eywa did", and that all those Na'vi who died died because of him and they died for nothing.
In his own eyes, calling the clans after Grace's death was an impulsive decision brought on by grief, and arguably an abuse of his power as Toruk Makto (don't forget that at that time, Jake had no way of knowing that the RDA was planning to destroy the Tree of Souls). He called the clans into battle they couldn't win, and at least two entire clans - the Olangi and the Trr'ong - were all but wiped out.
That's how Jake sees himself.
So when he cringes when Neytiri tells Ronal that he "led the clans to victory", it's not him being like "shit my wife is escalating the situation", she's unknowingly poking right at the heart of his trauma.
It's a small thing that if it were made explicit in the finished movies would explain so much of Jake's behavior in the sequels.
WRONG. talk about it. shout about it. yell about it. scream about it. so what if it’s a fanfic? it’s done with love and passion. it’s art created by a fellow human being who, despite life and lord knows what battle they may or may not be going through, probably stayed up all night writing it before they shared it with the world for free. they’d probably spent months or years writing it. it’s as much a piece of art and literature as any other art and literature that aren’t fanfics. and unlike artists who make profit off their works, fanfic writers truly write for free, because they are that passionate about their stories. the least we can do is show them our love and appreciation.
i love how gay the pendragon family is. arthur and morgana were both gay for their servants, ygraine and nimueh were definitely lovers at some point and even uther had his toxic old man yaoi thing with gaius.
Amid the demands of being the olo’eyktan’s eldest daughter and a tsahìk-in-training, you find unexpected rest in the company of Toruk Makto’s eldest son.
pairing: neteyam x metkayina!reader
tags: atwow spoilers, friends to lovers, plot, slow burn, mutual pining, avoidant!reader, usual older sibling activity, touchy-feely!neteyam, miscommunication, hurt & comfort, monologues, canon-typical violence, character death, underwater intimacy (?), kissing (15.1k wc)
chapters: like real people do, we should just kiss
You learned grief long before you had a name for it.
You were just a child of the sea then. Bare-limbed and loud with laughter, your only responsibility to explore the shallows before the sun dipped too low. You remember the way the water felt endless then. You remember clinging to your father’s shoulder as he waded deeper, your hands tangled in his hair as you shrieked at the splash of cold against your legs. You remember the way your mother’s voice softened the night, how her stories braided the stars and the sea together until sleep came easy and unafraid.
Back then, the world felt permanent.
It was around that age that you were bonded to your first ilu. You did not think of it as a mount. Or even truly as an animal. To you, it was simply… yours.
You recognized it by the pale crescent-shaped mark along its fin, a faint curve like a smile etched into its skin. You talked to it the way children do—to the sea, to shells, to anything that felt like it listened. You believed, with the fierce certainty of youth, that it would always come when you called.
So when it grew old, you did not understand what your parents saw long before you did.
It died quietly. Not in a hunt. Not in violence. Just time.
You cried the way children do: loudly, openly, with your whole body folded into the ache. You cried into your mother’s chest until your voice went hoarse and you fell asleep. You asked if it would come back. Your grief then was bigger than your small heart could handle, but your parents helped you through it.
Ao’nung and Tsireya’s births came next.
And that grief was different. It was confusing, almost shameful to name.
You loved them dearly. Before them, you had longed for company, for someone to follow you into the water and listen when you spoke too much. And suddenly, you were given not just one, but two. Their arrival was a blessing. You learned their faces by heart, learned the way their hands curled around your fingers, the way they quieted when you hummed the songs your mother sang.
You were happy. Truly.
And yet—a lot of things have changed.
It was then that the weight of responsibility first settled onto your narrow shoulders. You were old enough to know better now. Old enough to help. Old enough to wade the waters on your own. Old enough to recite ancient stories and songs. Your parents’ attention did not disappear—but it divided, stretched between smaller bodies that needed more, demanded more. You were praised for being understanding. For being easy. For not needing to be held as long.
They still loved you. You never doubted that. But it was different.
That was when you stopped being only a child. Not all at one, but in quiet moments you barely noticed until later. When you were asked to watch instead of play. When you were trusted instead of comforted. When you learned how to swallow wants before they reached your mouth.
You did not resent them. You never could.
But grief does not always come from losing what is taken away. Sometimes it comes from losing what will never return.
And so you mourned. You mourned the version of yourself who did not have to be strong yet. The child who could be held without also being needed to hold others up, who could ask for attention without earning it first.
After that, grief stopped belonging to you alone.
It became shared, carried in unison through the village, pressed into Eywa'eveng with many hands. Fallen spirit brothers and sisters, brave hunters who did not return with the tide, elders whose voice once anchored the clan, now gone quiet. And you believed that grief, when shared, could be lighter.
And for a time, it was.
The way the sea could fill with quiet so dense it pressed against your chest. The way voices blended into one long mourning chant, grief softened by harmony, by the knowledge that you were not alone in it. You learned how hands reached for hands without looking, how tears felt lighter when they were not yours alone.
You thought, then, that this was how it worked. That grief would become easier with age. That each loss would teach you how to carry the next.
It never did.
Grief remained too large for you. You had grown taller now—hands roughened by sand, arms strong enough to carry nets and burdens—but your chest had never learned how to bear the weight grief brought. Each loss settled somewhere deep, layering itself over others until you were never truly untouched by it again.
You learned that time did not erase the ache, that grief does not leave. It spreads itself everywhere, reminding you of love with nowhere left to go.
Some days you wake feeling steady, almost whole. And then something small would undo you: the curve of a fin that looked like a crescent, the sound of laughter that sounded familiar, an empty place in the water where someone should have been. Reminders of what had been, of who had been.
But the sea gives, and the sea takes.
You had believed it meant balance. Birth and death. Joy and loss braided together the way tides are. You had believed it was something slow. Natural.
You realized how wrong you were the day the water turned red.
The day Ta’unui’s village burned from the shore outward, flames climbing wet wood as if the sea itself had betrayed them. Smoke curled low over the water, thick enough to sting your eyes, to choke the breath from your chest.
Avatars moved through the village like something torn from a nightmare. Too cruel for the world they were breaking open. At first glance, they almost looked like forest people—tall silhouettes, familiar limbs, the same borrowed shape from Eywa. Almost.
Up close, everything was wrong. Their movements were sharper, heavier, stripped of grace. Their eyes did not carry the quiet depth of the People, only a cold focus that slid past suffering without catching on it. Where Na’vi presence felt like the tide, theirs felt like iron dragged through water. Familiar in shape, monstrous in intent.
That was what made it worse. That they wore something so close to your own skin.
You remember clutching your knife then when they grabbed you from the tsahìk’s marui pod, the weight pitiful in your palm. The newborns you were trying to carry, when warmth was still kind and not from metal, whimpering from a distance as they dragged you. Feeling how small you were. Knowing that no amount of love, no depth of grief, could stop what was happening.
“Light ‘em up. All of them.”
They have left as abruptly as they had come. You remained frozen, unmoving, letting the world blur around you. Your limbs felt heavy, unresponsive, as if the very air pressed against your skin. The heat, the smoke, the cries—it all pressed in, yet you felt oddly detached, as if watching from a distance, outside yourself.
It took a long, hollow moment before your voice came, barely more than a rasp.
“Vey’irva…”
The name caught in your throat, but you forced it out, raw and trembling. Your knees wobbled as you tried to rise, your hands scraping against the sand, eyes blinking rapidly as you forced yourself to focus. Around you, the fire still roared, climbing higher into the sky, sparks flying like burning stars scattered across the night. The acrid scent clung to your throat, burning with every breath.
Vey’irva, the clan’s tsakarem, the one who had been beside you throughout your stay. You didn’t know why she was the one you were searching for, only that you had been together before all this.
Your legs felt like they weren’t fully yours as you stumbled across the wreckage, each step heavy. Your head throbbed, dull at the base but sharp with every inhale. Fingers curled into fists and loosened, trembling with the uselessness of it all. Your eyes flicked over the debris, over the scattered clan members, over shapes that might have been familiar until your mind swam past them, not really seeing.
Every sound—a crack of burning wood, a distant cry, the slap of water against the shore—felt magnified, yet muffled, as though you were underwater. Your body moved on instinct, legs carrying you forward, arms reaching toward vague forms, but your mind was elsewhere, tracing the steps that might lead you to… someone.
And then you saw her.
She lay limp, surrounded by clan members, dust and ash clinging to her hair, her armband torn. Your chest tightened so sharply it felt as if the air had been stolen from you.
Tears stung your eyes, throat raw as a sharp, ragged sound tore through you. Your legs move of their own accord. You fell to your knees beside her, hands clenched in the grains beneath you, trembling, too afraid to touch her, too terrified to feel the absence of warmth where life should have been.
Not yet, Great Mother… please.
The tears came freely now, scalding and relentless, trailing down your cheeks, while your mind struggled to process what you were seeing. You called her name again as your eyes scanned her body frantically, searching for any sign of movement, a twitch of a finger, the rise and fall of her chest. Anything that could tell you this wasn’t real, that if you looked hard enough, reality would bend, and she would still be alive.
Before you could even gather the courage to touch her, strong hands pulled at your arms to stand. You stumbled, breath uneven, tears still streaking your face, and looked up to see the clan’s olo’eyktan. His strong hands gripped your shoulders, steadying you. His eyes were sharp, commanding, but there was an unspoken understanding in their depth—a recognition of your grief, even as he refused to let it consume you entirely.
He placed a firm palm against your chest, holding you in place. “Stay strong, child,” he said, voice low but unwavering. “We need you. Go help the others.”
The words felt like a tether pulling you back to the present, anchoring you even as your heart threatened to shatter completely. Every instinct screamed to stay, but you obeyed. The world spun around you: flames climbing higher, sparks dancing like cruel fireflies, smoke curling into your eyes. Still, you lifted yourself, hands trembling, chest tight, and forced your legs to carry you.
Every step away felt like a betrayal, but there was no choice. The living still needed hands. You wiped at your cheeks, tasting salt and ash, and tried to push the pain down.
The sea gives, and the sea takes—but sometimes it is not the sea at all. Sometimes it is fire. Sometimes it is strangers who wear your skin and do not know your names. Sometimes it is standing still while everything you love is set in flames, and realizing there is nothing you can do but witness it.
It was hours before the heat of the fire began to fade. The sky above the village was dimming, streaked with smoke and ash, the last remnant of sunlight struggling to reach the scorched ground. The whole clan had regrouped closer to the forest, farther beneath the vast, intertwining roots of the elder trees. Their thick limbs arched overhead, offering shelter and a sense of guarded enclosure, though the air was still heavy with smoke and the bitter scent of burned wood.
Around you, the survivors moved like shadows, their figures hunched, carrying what they could salvage. Some cradled waterlogged baskets, others tended to cuts and burns, while the injured leaned on each other for support. The quiet murmurs of mourning threaded through the soft rustle of leaves and the distant lapping of water against the shore.
You had been helping with injuries, the salt of sweat and soot burning in your eyes as you pressed cloths and applied balm, when Iwei, the clan’s olo’eyktan, called you over. He stood with hunters you knew, their faces set with the weight of what had happened.
“You should go home,” Iwei said, his voice firm but not unkind, the lines around his eyes deepened by exhaustion. “They will go with you to ensure you travel safely once the first light rises.”
You shook your head, voice hoarse but determined. “I can stay longer. The village still needs hands, and I can—”
He held up a hand, cutting you off gently but firmly. “No. You’ve done enough. Your family asked for you to return, they worry for you. It is safer with them now.”
You looked down at your hands, still smudged with ash and dried blood, the ache in your muscles a distant throb that only now began to register. You realized that you had been moving for hours without truly deciding to—hands working, feet carrying you from one injured body to the next, mouth murmuring reassurances you barely heard yourself say. It had been easier that way. To keep your body busy so your mind did not have to return to the shore, to the fire, to the stillness you could not unsee.
For a fleeting moment, you felt anger—not at him, but at yourself, at the helplessness pressing in on all sides. Yet the truth of his words settled in your chest like stones. Your family’s concern, the exhaustion clawing at your limbs, the uncertainty of what remained of Ta’unui’s village. They drained the fight out of you. You nodded slowly, voice barely audible.
“...I understand,” you nodded slowly, the motion feeling distant, as if it belonged to someone else.
Then her face cut through your thoughts, sudden and without a warning.
Not as she had been laughing, but as she lay on the sand. Still and unmoving. Ash in her hair where your fingers had wanted to be. The image struck so sharply it stole the breath from your lungs.
“No—” the sound slipped out before you could stop it. Your head snapped up, eyes wide, unfocused. “How about Vey’irva?” The question came out too fast, as though someone might tell you it had been a mistake. That she had risen after you were pulled away. That she had laughed and told you not to look so worried.
Your hands curled into themselves, nails biting into your palms. “The funeral— her ceremony.” Your voice faltered, tangled in itself.
Neilomya stepped forward then, her presence quiet but grounding, like cool water over scorched skin. The clan’s tsahìk rested a gentle hand over yours, waiting until your gaze finally found hers. Her eyes were tired, rimmed red, but kind.
“She will be tended to,” Neilaomya said softly. “You may visit her when you return. She would not mind waiting for you.”
Something in your chest cracked at that. Your shoulders trembled as the strength finally began to drain out of you, the weight of holding yourself upright growing unbearable.
“What matters now,” Neilaomya continued, her thumb brushing a slow, reassuring circle against your skin, “is that you are safe. Go home to your family, child. We will be okay here.”
She did not rush you after that. She stayed closer as you gathered what little remained. Things that no longer felt like yours, yet were all you had left. She folded and arranged them carefully, as if the care itself might restore what fire had taken, and she handed them to you one by one to put on the canoe.
As you worked, she spoke of her daughter.
You listened. Not because the stories distracted you—they didn’t. It only sharpened the ache, filled your mind with impossible what ifs. What if she had stayed close that day. What if the humans didn’t arrive. What if she had lived long enough to become tsahìk herself.
But you listened anyway.
Because Neilaomya’s voice softened when she spoke. Because grief, when shared, became something bearable for a moment. Because after everything that had been taken, this was something you could still give
When your things were packed, Neilaomya pressed her forehead briefly to yours, a gesture steady and maternal. No words followed.
Two hunters escorted you from the settlement before dawn fully broke. It was safer to travel in small numbers, they said—fewer bodies, less noise, less chance of drawing the eye of metal aircrafts if they still lingered above the horizon.
The journey back to Awa’atlu felt unreal. The sea breathed steadily beneath you, waves rising and falling as they always had. Stars dimmed and slipped away with the coming light. Fish darted through the water, unbothered, alive. The world continued as if it had not just ended for so many.
Back in Awa’atlu, Ao’nung and Neteyam found themselves unexpectedly tolerating each other’s presence.
Ao’nung hadn’t agreed at first.
He had scoffed when Neteyam asked, brows drawing together in something between surprise and irritation. Forest boys weren’t meant to handle Metkayina weapons, and certainly not the speargun—he reasons that it’s too tied to the sea. That was what he said, already turning away as if the matter were closed.
“I won’t be slow,” Neteyam followed him, voice steady, not raised. “I am a good shot. If that’s what you’re worried about.”
Ao’nung stopped.
He glanced back, irritation flashing across his face. “That’s not the point.”
What he didn’t say was that he had seen how quickly Neteyam learned.
His sister’s voice echoed faintly in his mind, about the Sully boy who watched once and remembered everything, who adjusted after a single correction. Ao’nung had seen it himself in the water. There was a quiet competence there. The kind that crept up on him.
The kind that might outpace him, if given the chance.
So instead, Ao’nung had shrugged and thrown out the excuse that felt safest. “My father didn’t ask me to teach you,” he said flatly. “And I don’t teach without permission.”
“Please,” Neteyam met his gaze, “I want to help my mother hunt.”
That did it.
Ao’nung exhaled sharply through his nose, jaw tightening.
“Fine,” he said at last. “But if you embarrass yourself, that’s on you.”
Neteyam had listened carefully to him the entire time. He had watched his father use it before. He knew you used one too, though you had only ever spoken of it in passing as you sharpen your arrows, of using it beyond the reef where the water grew darker and deeper. He had never seen you use it himself.
And he did not want to think about it now.
The thought of you, so far away now and among another clan, pressed too sharply against his chest. The last few days had left him hollowed out, the kind of tired that sleep did not touch. Thinking of you holding the speargun, steady and capable, would only open something he had been carefully keeping shut.
So he focused on Ao’nung’s words instead.
They moved farther from the shore, past the shallows where the sand still glittered with light, into water deep enough that the shapes of fish grew larger and slower, their shadows cutting lazily through the blue. Not beyond the reef, but far enough that the current began to speak more clearly.
Below the surface, sound fell away.
Ao’nung’s voice disappeared, replaced by sharp, practiced hand signs. “Be patient. Feel the current before you shoot.”
The speargun felt different in his hands. It was heavier than a bow, its weight concentrated forward instead of spread along the length. With a bow, everything came from the body: the draw of the shoulders, the tension in the back, the steady burn in the arms. The show was released, and the arrow belonged to the air.
Here, the water demanded something else.
Neteyam adjusted his grip, easing his hold instead of tightening it. He angled the weapon slightly lower, compensating for drag the way Ao’nung had shown him. The current tugged at his forearms, insistent but not hostile, and for a moment he understood. This was about patience.
A flash of silver cut through the water ahead.
Neteyam steadied himself, legs drifting just enough to stay balanced. He waited. Not for the fish to come closer, but for the water to still around the barrel. Then he fired.
The recoil was muted, absorbed by the sea, but the bolt flew true. It struck the fish just behind the gill, clean and precise.
Neteyam blinked.
Ao’nung’s eyes widened, just slightly, before he caught himself. He circled once, inspecting the catch, then shot Neteyam a sharp look that was half-annoyed, half-impressed.
“Not bad.”
By the time they had returned to shore, rain had begun to fall.
It came soft at first, a fine mist that dimpled the water’s surface, then heavier, drumming against skin and stone alike. Neteyam hauled the fish up the sand, its weight solid and undeniable in his arms—proof of something done right. He couldn’t wait to show it to his mother.
Ao’nung followed a few steps behind, speargun resting against his shoulder. He shook the water from his bun like a displeased ilu.
Neteyam broke the silence first. “Thanks, bro.”
Ao’nung turned to him quickly, rain sliding down his face, eyes narrowing. “Don’t bro me,” he muttered, clearly annoyed, though the bite didn’t quite land.
Neteyam huffed out a quiet breath, almost a laugh.
Ao’nung glanced at the fish again, then away. “You learn fast,” he said, as if the words tasted strange. “My sister was right.”
There it was. The reluctant admission.
They stood there for a moment longer, rain filling the space between them, the shore empty save for the hush of water and sky. Neteyam adjusted his grip on the fish, the weight shifting against his forearms. He hadn’t meant to ask.
But the question rose anyway.
“When will your sister return?”
Ao’nung stiffened just barely.
He didn’t look at Neteyam as he answered, gaze fixed on the gray horizon. “Four more days.”
He shot Neteyam a sideways look then, sharp and knowing, rainwater dripping from the tip of his nose. “Why are you asking?”
“It is nothing,” he said, a little too quickly. “Just wondering.”
Ao’nung stared at him for a second.
Then he laughed.
It burst out of him, sudden and sharp, echoing against the rain and the empty shore. Neteyam frowned, thrown off.
“What?” he asked.
Ao’nung shook his head, still grinning, like he’d just been handed the most obvious answer in the world. “You—” he pointed, then laughed again. “You both are so obvious.”
Neteyam scoffed, turning away, eyes suddenly very interested in the wet sand, the treeline, anything but Ao’nung’s face. “What are you talking about?” He said, tone carefully flat.
Ao’nung snorted. “Sure.”
Neteyam’s jaw tightened, but there was something almost-smiling at the corner of his mouth. He scrubbed rain from his face, then muttered, “…Is it?”
Ao’nung made a face immediately, exaggerated and dramatic. “Ew. Don’t ask me that, brother,” he said, shoving Neteyam lightly with his shoulder. “I don’t want to think about that.”
The conch shell’s cry split through the air, sharp and urgent, echoing over the reef and into the shallows. Ao’nung’s chest tightened instantly. He knew that sound. He had only ever heard it like this once before: a signal that someone had returned or that something had gone terribly wrong.
Neteyam stiffened beside him, eyes narrowing, scanning the horizon with a sudden tension that made the rain drip unnoticed from his lashes. The wind carried faint, frantic shouts, too muffled to understand, yet clear enough to twist their stomachs.
“Something’s wrong,” Ao’nung muttered, already moving, muscles coiled to run.
The fish slipped from Neteyam’s grip, forgotten, thudding into the wet sand. He followed Ao’nung, rain blurring the past as they crested to rise toward the heart of the village.
The center was already alive with motion. People poured from marui and platforms, voices overlapping, sharp with panic.
Neteyam’s chest tightened without understanding why at first, until he saw the movement on the shore. Figures moving quickly, carrying someone between them. The closer they came, the more his blood ran cold.
It was you.
You were slung across the back of another reef na’vi. Even from a distance, Neteyam could see that you were slumped, your head tilted awkwardly, your limbs hanging with a dangerous slack. The rain plastered your hair to your face, a pale teal smear against the dark wetness. Small cuts traced across your forehead, a smear of blood mixing with the rain. And something in the way you didn’t move made his heart seize.
The canoe you had ridden before, spoke of the struggle that had brought you here. Pieces of broken wood floated in the shallow surf, twisted and slick. Neteyam’s stomach turned.
Ao’nung had called your name before breaking into a sprint toward the commotion.
Neteyam barely had a moment to react before his father’s hand pressed against his shoulder, holding him in place. “You’ll only get in the way,” Jake said, low and unyielding. “Now is not the time.”
Neteyam’s mind refused to register the words. All he could see was you—your body pressed against the reef Na’vi’s back, your chest rising shallowly if at all, your arms dangling like reeds in the water. Every second you’re not moving made his chest pound harder, the rain soaking through him, and the world felt impossibly slow.
You were being passed into Tonowari’s arms now, the motion careful and urgent, but all the more terrifying for your limpness. Your head lolled, and he saw the blood matted in your hair glint faintly in the torchlight. Your torso bore scrapes and bruises, some already crusted with rain-soaked dirt. Tonowari’s hands worked to steady you, but your injuries made it clear just how close the last moments had been to something final.
The crowd gathered fast, murmurs rising like waves, gasps breaking through the rhythmic sound of rain. Flickering torchlight cast long, trembling shadows across the wet sand, illuminating your pale face and the stillness that shouldn’t belong to you.
Your family followed, eyes wide, hands placed over yours as if sheer will could force your body to move. Every glance at you was a silent plea, a desperate hope that you would awaken, that your chest would rise more than just faintly.
Neteyam’s fingers itched to reach out, to help, to shake the world itself into fixing what had been done—but his father’s hand kept him rooted. All he could do was watch, helpless, as you were carried to your mother’s pod.
The days stretched long and heavy for Neteyam. Since that night, he had spent every waking moment asking after you. The memory of your limp form in Tonowari’s arms, the blood in your hair, the way your body had seemed so impossibly small in someone else’s grasp. He could not remove it from his thoughts.
It had been four days since he had last seen you that way, and two days since Tsireya had told him you’d woken. And since then, he had asked every time if he could see you, if he could know you were alright. He counted those days, trying not to, trying to tell himself it was silly, that you were healing, that your family would take care of you. But he couldn’t stop.
Tsireya, patient and amused, never got tired of him asking. She found it sweet—how he, usually so careful to mask what he felt, allowed himself to worry, to show concern without reservation. The corners of her eyes would crinkle with quiet amusement whenever he hovered, waiting for news. She heard Lo’ak teased him once, “You’re ridiculous,” and he flushed, but did not deny it. The truth was written plainly in his furrowed brow, the way he barely slept like his brother told her, the way he tried to busy himself yet circled back to your name in every conversation.
Even his parents had noticed, too. The repeated questions, the restlessness, the tension in his shoulders. They whispered among themselves that he had never been like this, not for anyone, not ever.
On the other hand, you were healing.
Slow and steady. Enough that your body no longer felt like it was betraying you with every breath. The pain dulled into something manageable. But there was still that heaviness, sitting deep in your chest, unmoved by rest or medicine. The image of a clan still mending itself without you. The funeral you hadn’t been able to attend properly. The journey home that blurred together in rain and blood and half-remembered voices.
Still, you were home. Safe and wrapped in familiar sound and the steady presence of your mother, who rarely left your side. She slept close, checked your bandages with practiced gentleness, brushed your hair back when you drifted in and out of sleep. After the first time they asked—after your voice had broken, after the tears had come fast and uncontrollable—they stopped. You were endlessly grateful for that mercy.
Being surrounded by people who loved you helped more. And you weren’t going to lie—you were enjoying the attention. Your parents fussed over you shamelessly, feeding you by hand, scolding you softly when you tried to sit up too fast, treating you like a child again. It was comforting in a way that made your chest ache, a reminder that you were still allowed to be taken care of.
But what you enjoyed most were your siblings’ stories.
They have filled the room with words. They told you about the Sully kids, animated and warm, their hands moving as they spoke. About their visit to the Cove of the Ancestors. About the tulkun’s return, voices rising in song across the water. About Lo’ak and his impossible bond with Payakan, told with a mix of disbelief and fond exasperation.
You listened, smiling softly, even as something tight tugged in your chest. You were sad you had missed it. Those moments would never quite be yours. But you were happy too—happy they had happened at all, happy your siblings had lived them.
And then Tsireya mentioned him.
Almost casually, at first. As if it were just another detail.
She told you how Neteyam kept asking, again and again. If you were resting, if you were healing well, and if he could see you.
Something in you stilled at that.
It felt warm and terrifying all at once, like standing too close to a fire. Your heart did something traitorous, beating a little faster, a little louder. You tried to keep your face neutral, tried not to let the feeling show—but inside, it bloomed, fragile and bright. The thought of him worrying, of him counting days, made your throat tighten. Knowing that while you had been unconscious, while your world had narrowed to pain and darkness, someone else had been thinking of you, holding your name carefully in their thoughts.
It wasn’t just concern—it was persistence. Care that didn’t fade after the danger passed. Care that lingered. And knowing it came from him, from someone whose approval you’d never dared to hope for so openly, made your heart ache in the softest way.
“He was distracted,” Tsireya said, shifting closer like she was sharing a secret. “Almost all the time. I have never seen him like that.”
You looked up at her immediately, interest lighting your face before you could stop it. The corners of your mouth tugged upward, a smile you didn’t bother hiding. “Distracted how?” you asked, genuinely curious.
She tilted her head, eyes glinting. “Like he was somewhere else. He’d ask about you, then forget what he was doing. Ao’nung had to repeat himself to him more than once.”
You shook your head a little, a quiet laugh slipping out as warmth spread through your chest. You traced the edge of the mat absentmindedly, clearly listening, clearly wanting more.
You hesitated only briefly before asking, trying—and failing—to sound casual. “Did he… say anything else?”
Tsireya’s gaze lingered on your face, amused. She didn’t answer right away, clearly enjoying how invested you were. Then she shrugged lightly. “Not much,” she said. “He just asks about you. All the time.”
“All the time?” you echoed, smiling openly now, the words coming out with a breathy laugh.
She laughed with you. “Everyone is almost getting tired of it,” she teased. “If I hear your name one more time, I think Ao’nung might actually snap at him.”
You laughed again, brighter this time, the sound easy and real. Your shoulders relaxed, eyes soft, like the world felt a little kinder than it had moments ago.
After a moment, still smiling, you spoke again, quieter but sure.
“I want to see him too.”
You didn’t have to wait long.
It was later that night, your body heavy with the pleasant ache of healing. Ronal sat beside you, careful hands changing the kelp covering your stitches.
You were just beginning to relax when voices carried from outside the marui pod—low, hurried, unmistakably close. Before you could ask, the cloth flaps at the entrance rustled sharply.
Ao’nung stumbled in.
Or rather, was shoved in.
He caught himself at the last second, blinking in surprise as he looked between you and your mother, clearly not expecting to be the one crossing the threshold. Ronal’s eyes snapped up instantly.
“Ao’nung,” she said sharply. “You should announce yourself.”
He grimaced, rubbing the back of his neck. “I know,” he muttered, then stepped back as she returned her attention to you, smoothing the new covering into place with firm care.
You watched the exchange, confusion and amusement flickering across your face. Ao’nung met your gaze briefly, rolled his eyes in exaggerated suffering, and looked away like he was trying very hard not to laugh.
Your mother spoke again without looking at him. “What do you need?”
You could see him hesitate, before exhaling through his nose. “Someone wants to see her.”
That finally got your mother’s attention. She looked up, clearly unimpressed. “Who?”
Your brother sighed, resigned. “Neteyam.”
The name landed harder than you expected.
Your breath hitched despite yourself, surprise flashing across your face even though Tsireya had told you—again and again—that he’d been asking. Knowing it and hearing it aloud were different things.
And then there was the other realization.
Your mother was still there.
Ronal’s gaze flicked to you, then back to Ao’nung, irritation sharpening. “He will wait,” she said. “She is still being tended to.”
Ao’nung opened his mouth like he might argue, then thought better of it. He glanced at you again, lips twitching, as if to say told you, before stepping back toward the entrance.
But the knowledge lingered, buzzing under your skin.
Neteyam was here.
You did your best to behave. You nodded when your mother adjusted the final wrap, bit back the urge to speak when silence stretched, swallowed down the smile that kept threatening to give you away.
But your heartbeat refused to slow, thudding a little too loudly in your ears. You could almost picture him standing just outside, waiting, and the thought made your shoulders tense with anticipation.
Ronal noticed. Of course she did, she had been with you ever since you were a baby. It would be impossible for her not to know.
She put the last covering with a careful pat, then leaned back slightly, studying you. You lifted your gaze to meet hers, doing your best to look calm.
For a long moment, she said nothing. Her expression was unreadable, the kind that reminded you she was still Tsahìk before she was your mother. She took in the way you were sitting too straight, the tension in your shoulders, the effort it took for you not to speak.
Her sigh, when it came, was quiet but weighted.
“You are not fully healed,” she said first, tone firm, leaving no room to forget it. She gathered her tools with deliberate care. “And you will not strain yourself.”
Then, without looking toward the entrance, she added, “You may come in, child.”
Ronal rose to her feet and moved to the far side of the marui pod, her presence still felt even as she gave you space. She did not smile, but she did not object either.
The doorway cloth shifted, and Neteyam stepped inside.
He looked hesitant at first, but his eyes found you instantly. For a heartbeat, he forgot everything else. Then he caught himself, straightened, and turned to your mother.
“Tsahìk,” he greeted, voice respectful, hands moving in the formal gesture.
Ronal inclined her head in acknowledgement, nothing more.
Only then did he move closer until he crouched beside you where you sat cross-legged on the woven mat. He was close enough that you could feel the warmth of him, the faint scent of salt clinging to his skin.
For a brief, disorienting second, the past rushed in. The last time you had spoken. The things left unsaid. The image of him frozen in your memory, untouched by everything that followed.
You pushed it aside. For now.
“Hi,” he said.
It came out softer than you expected, a little awkward, but unmistakably him—carrying that quiet, boyish warmth that had always undone you. His gaze swept over you openly, not trying to hide it: the bandages, the tiredness in your eyes, the fact that you were sitting upright at all. Like he was checking, again and again, that you were real. That you were here.
You found yourself doing the same.
Your eyes followed the familiar lines: the slope of his shoulders, the way his braids fell to the sides of his face, the darker patterns flowing toward his chest, the intricate swirls on his forehead. And then his eyes—the ones you’d missed dearly, the ones you silently thanked Eywa that you could see again.
You both smiled.
“Hi,” you said back.
Neteyam chuckled then, low and almost shy, looking down briefly before meeting your gaze again.
“How have you been?” you asked, letting your voice carry across the space between you. It was way bigger than both of you usually bask in.
He shook his head, a small grin tugging at his lips. “I’m fine. I’m supposed to be the one asking you that.”
The words were simple, but layered with everything he hadn’t said over the last days. And just like that, the tension between you softened.
You talked, careful not to speak too loudly, knowing your mother was still in the pod, but you savored the moment nonetheless. It was as if both of you knew how far you could stretch the conversation without drawing her attention, though neither of you fully understood what she might be suspicious of.
He told you stories, of small adventures and trivial happenings, and you answered in kind, letting the laughter and light teasing skim the surface without carrying too far.
After a while, your mother stood up, eyes meeting yours with a quiet weight that said more than words could. She turned and left the pod, the flap rustling behind her.
Both of you were finally alone.
You glanced back at Neteyam, and in that shared silence, something shifted. You both laughed, unrestrained by the caution that had kept you measured before. The sound echoed lightly against the walls, a small rebellion against the quiet you’d been keeping.
When your laughter softened, he looked at you fully, eyes steady and warm.
“I’ve missed you,” he said your name softly.
The words hit you in a way you hadn’t expected. You had felt the same for days, but hearing it, spoken just to you, made your heart thrum faster. You bit your lip, trying not to let your happiness burst through, and glanced at the hand he had rested just beside you.
Without thinking, you reached out and closed your hand over his.
“I missed you too, Neteyam,” you whispered, your voice trembling just enough to betray the joy you had been holding in.
His hand hovered above the cover at your forehead, tentative, as if he wasn’t quite sure he was allowed to touch you yet.
“I was so worried,” he murmured, a tremor betraying how much he’d held it in. “I couldn’t stop thinking about— I kept wondering if you were okay. I didn’t know how I'd feel if anything happened to you.”
Something—courage, recklessness, the weight of missing him—pushed you. You placed your hand over the one that hovered above your injury, feeling the warmth of the back of his hand, and moved it so that your cheek leaned against it. His surprise was immediate, a faint hitch in his breath, but then a small, soft smile tugged at his lips.
“I am here now,” you said. “I am doing better. I could still shoot a fish straight in its eye if I could.”
He laughed at that, but believed you wholeheartedly. “I’m sure you could. No doubt.”
Without even thinking, his thumb began brushing against your cheek, as if his adoration couldn’t be contained. You froze for a heartbeat, your own chest tightening in a way that made it hard to breathe.
Neither of you spoke. Neither moved. And yet the weight between you buzzed like electricity, impossible to ignore.
Then, as if the universe had suddenly reminded you both of everything else, you each jerked slightly back, cheeks warming instantly, eyes darting away. His grin faltered, flushed, and he quickly drew his hands back as if realizing for the first time what he’d just done. You stifled a laugh, glancing down at your hands, feeling the absurdity of the moment yet unwilling to undo it completely.
The silence stretched between you before Neteyam finally spoke, a shy grin tugging at his lips.
“I caught my first fish with a speargun.”
Neteyam went home that night with his chest lighter than it had been in days. The worry he’d been carrying no longer pressed so heavily on his shoulders, and there was an ease to him that hadn’t been there before.
His family noticed immediately.
It wasn’t anything obvious, but he was different. More present. His steps lacked their usual tension, his gaze less distant than it had been since your injury. Even his silence felt… content.
They all knew where he’d been.
What Neteyam didn’t know was that Tuk, ever curious and far too young to understand which observations should stay tucked away, had already shared her thoughts—wide-eyed and unfiltered—with Jake and Neytiri. About how their oldest son lingered near the clan’s tsakarem. About how he spoke your name without realizing it. About how close he sat, how careful he was.
By the time Neteyam arrived home, his family was already eating.
He didn’t comment on the way their eyes followed him as he entered, nor did he seem to notice the quiet that briefly settled over the circle. He only reached out, ruffled Lo’ak’s hair in passing, grabbed a leaf plate, and sat down among them as if nothing were different at all—ready to take his share, light-hearted in a way that made their curiosity impossible to hide.
“Where have you been?” Neytiri spoke.
Neteyam didn’t hesitate. “I went to see her,” he said, saying your name easily, as if it had never been a question.
Tuk’s head snapped up immediately. “How is she?” she asked, words tumbling over each other. “Is she better? I wanna see her too—it’s not fair you got to see her first!”
Beside him, Kiri spoke up, her voice carrying a rare, bright excitement. “I want to see her too.”
A small smile tugged at Neteyam’s mouth. “You can,” he said. “We can go together next time.”
Lo’ak scoffed, leaning closer. “Yeah, right. You just wanna keep her all to yourself.” He squinted, then grinned wider. “Look at your tail—it’s moving so much it’s hitting me.”
Neteyam hissed lightly and knocked his knuckles against Lo’ak’s head, more habit than anger. “No, I do not.”
He heard his father sigh, shaking his head. “Just don’t stay out too late,” he said, voice dry. “Or better yet, visit in the morning.”
Lo’ak perked up instantly. “Yeah,” he added, far too amused. “If it’s at night, who knows what they could be doing.”
“Lo’ak,” Neytiri warned, sharp but not unkind.
Neytiri watched her eldest son from across the firelight, noting the way his laugh came easier now, how his shoulders seemed less tense, how a quiet confidence had settled in him like something new and solid. Pride swelled in her chest—bittersweet, fierce, and impossibly tender all at once.
He was growing. Really growing. Stepping into feelings bigger than himself. And yet, worry lingered, because you were the clan’s tsakarem, and love, even in its smallest forms, carried risk. But just for this moment, she let herself bask in the warmth. After all, she and Jake had been the same once.
“Why didn’t you call me first? To visit you?”
Tuk’s small arms were crossed over her chest, lips pressed into a stubborn line. Her voice was sharp, a little high-pitched, all indignation and urgency.
It had been two days since Neteyam finally made his visit, and yesterday there had been chaos—the whole group had crowded into the tsahìk’s marui pod. Your siblings, Sully children, and even Roxto had all come by, making the space feel impossibly full, warm, and loud. You had barely had a moment to breathe.
And now, Tuk was here, standing in front of you like a tiny storm cloud, complaining with all the energy only a little sister could summon. “You let him see you first!” she exclaimed. “First! Me? I should’ve been the first!”
You blinked, trying not to laugh at her dramatic flare. “I wasn’t expecting anyone, Tuk. He just came by suddenly. I didn’t think that—”
Tuk’s lips curled, eyes narrowing. “Didn’t think about me?”
From the corner of the pod, Neteyam leaned against the wall, trying to look casual, but the corner of his mouth betrayed him, twitching in amusement. “I don’t see what the problem is. I just checked in. She’s fine. Smiling, laughing… what’s the big deal?”
“The big deal,” Tuk hissed, stepping closer, “is that I should get to see her first! I’m her first friend!”
Neteyam raised his hands in mock surrender, grinning wide. “Okay, okay. But I didn’t plan it. I came because I wanted to see her. You think she’d say no? I’m her friend.”
“Second friend!” Tuk shrieked, stomping a tiny foot. “I swam with her first when we came here!”
“She smiles when she talks to me,” Neteyam interrupted smoothly, now crouching beside you and leaning slightly with a cheeky grin, “and I also make her laugh.”
You bit your lip to stop yourself from laughing, glancing at Tuk’s flustered face, her fists balled at her sides. Tuk’s eyes narrowed, fire practically spitting out of them. “She laughs at everyone! That doesn’t mean you’re special!”
Neteyam tilted his head, eyes glinting with mischief. “Oh? Well, maybe I’m her favorite.”
Tuk groaned, throwing her head back. “I’m her favorite!”
You couldn’t stop yourself from laughing this time, shaking your head. “You’re both ridiculous,” you said, but your eyes sparkled with amusement. Tuk’s fists tightened, lips pursed, but she couldn’t help the small smile creeping onto her face.
“I—fine,” she muttered. “Maybe you’re… a close second.”
Eventually, Tuk was pulled away by a younger Metkayina child, inviting her to play. Tuk’s excitement won, and with a dramatic huff of annoyance at being “forced away,” she scampered off, leaving you and Neteyam behind. And, since you were finally allowed to roam again, you both slipped outside.
The two of you sat on the rock you had claimed long ago, knees tucked to your chin, the waves stretching endlessly before you. Your arms brushed occasionally, small touches that made the quiet between you feel alive. The wind tugged at your hair, the salt air filling your lungs, and for a moment, nothing else existed.
Finally, you swallowed, hesitated, and then spoke, your voice quieter than you expected. “Neteyam…” You paused, the weight of unsaid things pressing in. You weren’t used to opening up first, and the words tasted strange and vulnerable on your tongue. Avoidance had been your shield, but now it felt heavy.
“I… I waited for you here,” you admitted, eyes fixed on the waves instead of him. “Before I left.”
Neteyam’s gaze dropped to you. He didn’t rush you, didn’t press. He waited.
When silence stretched, uncomfortable and thick, he moved just slightly, shifting in front of you so that his knees were closer to yours. His hands rested lightly on the rock, and his eyes met yours.
“It’s okay. Take your time,” he said softly. “I’m here.”
And in that quiet, he wished—more than he could ever say—that he could take every burden from you, lift the weight pressing against your chest and carry it for you. He didn’t need you to say them aloud, somehow, he just knew. Every tight line in your shoulders, every hesitation, every small tremor in your voice.
You finally looked at him, meeting his gaze, and then the words slipped out before you could stop them. “I am sorry. About—about what I said before. It wasn’t your fault. I was just being stupid—I wasn’t thinking. I pushed it on you and…”
Neteyam’s lips curved gently, already forgiving you, long before your apology had finished. His eyes held no anger, just that warm golden you have grown to love. He had already forgiven you, had always been ready to—and that scares him. No matter what you said, what you did, or what burdened you, he would take it.
His hands moved almost on its own, cupping your cheek gently. His thumb brushed against the small, unnoticed tears that had slipped down your face, and he murmured softly, “Hey… it’s okay. You are not stupid. I know you didn’t mean it.”
“I’m… I’m sorry… I shouldn’t have… I—” you babbled, words tumbling out in a rush, little choked apologies spilling between sniffles. “I don’t know why I’m crying… I just… I—ugh, I’m sorry!”
He chuckled softly, shaking his head, thumb still brushing your cheek. “Hey, hey… shh. It’s fine. Really.”
There was something in the way he looked at you then: open, unguarded, with that quiet warmth that made the world shrink to just the two of you. The curve of his lips, the subtle glimmer in his eyes, the way he lingered on you without a word—it was enough to make your chest tighten and your thoughts betray you. Just like that, you wanted to kiss him. Badly.
The thought startled you and for a heartbeat, your eyes flickered instinctively to his lips. Your mind scrambled, but the thought wouldn’t go away. It pulsed, teasing the edges of reason, and panic mingled with longing in a confusing, burning knot.
You could feel the warmth radiating from him, steady and grounding, and every instinct in you wanted to close that space between you. But you couldn’t, not really, not like that. So you did the next best thing—or at least what your frantic brain told you was next best.
You lunged forward, arms winding around his neck, pressing your nose to the corner of his neck and shoulder. Your body shivered against him, heart hammering in your chest, and for a moment it felt like the only way to quiet the chaos in your head was to press yourself close, to anchor yourself to him without actually breaking the line you couldn’t cross.
For a second, he froze, startled, caught off guard by the sudden movement. Then, without hesitation, his arms tightened around you, holding you close. “I’ve got you,” he whispered.
You rested there for a moment, muffled apologies spilling again against him.
Your arms around his neck were soft, trembling slightly, and the faint scent of salt and earth clung to you—something so familiar yet intoxicating in its immediacy. He could feel the steady rise and fall of your chest against his, the small shiver that ran through you, the brush of your hair against his cheek, and each tiny detail hit him like a drumbeat in his chest. He’d never been this aware of someone before, not like this. Not like you.
There was a selfishness in him he didn’t even try to hide from himself. He wanted to freeze the moment, to keep you pressed here, close, safe, and warm. He wanted to forget the world outside the rock, forget all the rules and the waiting, and just exist in the scent of you, the weight of you, the soft sound of your apology muffled against his shoulder.
He tightened his arms unconsciously, just a little, almost possessively. It was overwhelming, and yet comforting, and terrifying all at once.
When he pressed a soft kiss to the top of your head, the weight of it made something in him ache, a quiet longing mixed with awe. “Shh,” he murmured, “you’re here. That’s all that matters.”
The days after that moment passed like a blur, though not without their small, precious highlights.
You barely saw Neteyam, not because he wasn’t around, but because the preparations for the Tulkun return ceremony had consumed the clan. The air was thick with planning and purpose, the village alive with movement, with voices calling, weaving nets, and making new clothes.
You were mostly helping your mother, assisting with small but important tasks. There was a rhythm to it that soothed you: weaving, checking, organizing, keeping the sacred spaces ready. Your hands moved with ease now, and it felt almost miraculous how the pain of before had begun to fade. The heavier weight of grief and fear, the anxiety that had pressed on your chest for so long, still lingered faintly—but it was no longer suffocating.
Finally, you were allowed to swim in the waters again. The sensation of gliding through the current with your spirit sister was like reclaiming a lost part of yourself. You could feel the gentle push and pull of the water around you, your muscles strong and responsive. The familiar rhythm of swimming, the coolness of the sea, and the brush of her fin through the water alongside yours felt comforting in a way that words could never capture.
You told each other stories—small, silly things, the kind of shared secrets that made your chest ache with quiet happiness. The waters carried your laughter and the echoes of your voices, and for a few fleeting hours, it was just the two of you.
“On my journey home. The sky people have attacked us. One hunter was shot.”
You floated beside her, letting the current carry you, your limbs moving easily, your hair drifting around your face like soft waves. You pressed your palms together in a sequence of quick signs, fingers tracing arcs and lines as you relayed your story.
“I went back for him, but my tsurak got shot too! Its weight pulled me under, and I hit my head.”
Your spirit sister responded instantly, her massive form undulating beside you. A series of clicks, whistles, and soft hums rolled through the water, echoing in the coral-filled shallows.
“You are strong, sister. Stronger than you know. The tides could not take you.”
But responsibility waited, as it always did. In a few days, you would perform a dance with your clan sisters, a display of unity and grace for the returning Tulkun. So even as you swam, even as you laughed, your mind kept one eye on the schedule, on the preparations, on the tasks that couldn’t be ignored. That meant that your time with Neteyam, while precious, was brief—rarely more than an hour before the duties of the clan called you away.
Neteyam, however, noticed everything. The closeness you had shared, the way your hand brushed his accidentally—or intentionally—did not escape him. Every touch, every fleeting brush of your arms, every small smile or laugh that lingered just for him, added up. Even the short moments of stolen connection felt enough.
“It’s more… heavy than usual,” you said without turning. “The ceremony’s coming, so it’ll be even better on the day itself.”
You had your back to him, fingers absently adjusting the heavier braid adornments tangled in your hair. The shells and threads caught the moonlight filtering through the water, making them shimmer like tiny stars.
Neteyam’s gaze softened as he looked at your hair, lips quirking into a kind of quiet, unassuming smile.
When you finally turned, catching him staring, his fingers were holding a strand of your braid loosely, brushing it almost absentmindedly. His eyes, half-lidded with lashes casting shadows, looked up at you in that tilted-down, boyish way that made your stomach twist.
“Do you like it?” you asked softly.
His heart hammered. He liked it. He liked you. So much that he had to pray to Eywa to stop himself from leaning in and kissing you right there.
Because the way you looked at him—the subtle tilt of your head, the warmth in your eyes, the gentle curve of your lips—took his breath away. Every detail of your face was magnified in his mind: the soft arch of your eyebrows, the freckles across your nose, the way the moonlight seemed to catch in your cerulean eyes. If he thought he was captivated now, he couldn’t imagine the day of the ceremony. He didn’t even want to think what he’d do.
He swallowed, fingers tightening slightly around the braid, voice low, steady but charged. “It's beautiful. You’d be the prettiest,” he said, carrying something unspoken, something that made your breath catch.
He watched the way your hair clung to your cheeks, the way your shoulders relaxed when you laughed, the curve of your smile even when brief. He wanted to hold onto it all, to bottle the warmth and simplicity, to protect it—and yet, a small, selfish part of him wanted more, to keep you near forever, to make these fleeting touches stretch into infinity. He just lingered and reveled in it silently, knowing it was enough for now.
The day of the ceremony arrived.
By dusk, the village had transformed. Drums carved from reefwood and stretched with cured hide began to sound—deep, steady heartbeats that rolled through the sand and into the water. Conch shells answered them, hollow and haunting, blown like flutes, their notes rising and falling with the tide. Other instruments followed: clicking shells, coral chimes, woven rattles filled with polished stones. All born of the sea, all singing back to it.
The air was rich with scent. Roasting fish glazed in oils and herbs, steaming broths thick with salt and spice, sweet fruits split open and shared. Smoke curled lazily upward from fire pits, carrying warmth and comfort, clinging to skin and hair. Firelight danced everywhere, reflected in shells strung between posts, in beads woven into nets, in polished bone and coral.
Decorations lined the shore and the walkways—braided kelp, luminous shells, strings of pearls and glassy stones that caught the light and scattered it. Bioluminescent patterns along every Na’vi body glowed brighter than usual, soft blues and greens, each design unique.
Clothing was more intricate than he had ever seen. Layers of woven sea fibers draped over one another, shells sewn carefully into hems so they chimed softly with each step, stones and braided kelp arranged in complex patterns. Every movement made them shimmer.
And the water—Eywa, the water. It brightened with every passing moment, the surface alive with light as shapes gathered beneath it. Massive shadows moved slowly and reverently, the Tulkun drawing near, their presence announced in ripples of blue, violet, and soft white. Around them, schools of bioluminescent fish wove through the current, scattering sparks of light like living constellations.
Anyone else would have been swept up in it. But Neteyam felt it anyway, a tightness in his chest he couldn’t name, a restless energy that had nowhere to go.
He shifted his weight, then adjusted the armband on his forearm. Again. And then again, fingers worrying the edge as if it had suddenly decided to sit wrong.
Lo’ak noticed immediately.
“Bro,” he said, eyeing him with blatant disbelief, “are you serious right now? Why do you look like you’re about to fight a whole palulukan herd?”
Neteyam shot him a look. “I’m not.”
“You’ve fixed that thing, like—” Lo’ak gestured vaguely. “Six or seven times.”
Neteyam dropped his hand at once, jaw setting. “I said I’m not nervous.”
Lo’ak grinned, clearly unconvinced, but let it go—for now.
Truth was, Neteyam had also dressed with more care than usual. He wore his forest necklace and armband, more layers than his everyday ones, their patterns intricate, carved with stories of home. Another armband rested on his opposite arm, and his loincloth was reef-made—shell pieces stitched carefully into it, kelp of different colors wrapped at the waist. A technique Kiri had shown him. One you had helped refine, laughing softly when he fumbled it the first time. His usual cummerbund remained the same; he hadn’t made a new one, partly because time hadn’t allowed it, partly because he wanted to wear something from the forest. His mother had said it suited him.
More beads and feathers threaded through his braids, catching the firelight when he moved. And then there was the paint.
It wasn’t common among the reef people, not like this. But at his parents’ request, the elders had helped them prepare something that would hold beneath the water. Neteyam had painted himself—white and bright green, patterns blending forest tradition with something new. His hands had been steady when he did it. Now, standing here, he felt strangely exposed beneath it.
“Neteyam.”
He turned to his mother’s voice. It was when he’s still in his family’s pod, just right after he finished putting the paint and the rest of his hair accessories.
She was looking at him with an expression that made his chest tighten for an entirely different reason. Awe, softened by something tender. This was the look she’d once given him when he was small and first learned to hold a bow properly. Now it carried pride too.
“Come here,” she said.
She placed her hands on his shoulders, thumbs pressing lightly as she studied him. Neteyam felt his ears warm, his gaze dropping despite himself.
“You are grown,” she said quietly, smiling. “Handsome. Strong.”
“Mother,” he muttered, embarrassed.
Her smile widened, just a little mischievous. “She will like you like this.”
Neteyam inhaled through his nose, fighting the way his heart jumped. “It’s not— it’s not like that.”
Neytiri laughed softly, giving his shoulders a final squeeze. “Ah. Enough. Do not tie yourself in knots.” Her voice gentled. “Enjoy this moment. It does not come twice.”
So he let himself enjoy it.
Neteyam let the night carry him—its noise, its warmth, the way awe rippled through his family as they took everything in. He ate until his fingers were slick with oil and salt, watched dancers move in rhythms unfamiliar yet beautiful, laughed when Lo’ak tried (and failed) to follow along, all flailing limbs and misplaced confidence. It was ridiculous. And somehow, that alone made it worth it.
He noticed his parents too. The way his father stood less rigid than usual, shoulders eased, gaze softened as he took in the ceremony. The way his mother smiled more freely, laughter slipping out without restraint. Seeing them like that was rare. It settled something in Neteyam’s chest he hadn’t realized was still restless.
For the first time since arriving, he thought, quietly, that Awa’atlu could be home.
And yet, his eyes kept wandering.
They scanned the crowd again and again, searching for a familiar shape. Every time his gaze swept over a group of dancers or passed a cluster of people, his heart gave a small, foolish leap.
He’d heard the dancers wouldn’t join the rest of the village until after their performance. Kiri had mentioned it in passing, also wondering when they’ll see you and Tsireya. He clung to that thought, grounding himself with it. He would see you then. During the dance. And—Eywa willing—after.
The thought of how you might look tonight sent his heart into dizzy circles.
It didn’t take long. Three fish skewers. A handful of fruit. One round of conversation with family and friends. Then the conch shell sounded, cutting cleanly through the hum of voices. The energy of the village shifted instantly. People began moving toward the water, some breaking into a jog, others hurrying with eager steps.
This was it.
You hadn’t told him you danced. He’d only learned through overheard conversation, your sister’s voice carrying pride when she mentioned it. That you were good. That you always had been. He had no idea what it would look like—how Metkayina dances differed from those of the forest, how the sea would shape the movement.
But as he followed the crowd toward the glowing shoreline, anticipation buzzing through him, he realized one thing with absolute certainty:
No matter what it looked like, no matter how different it was—
Seeing you would be enough.
Neteyam followed the others beneath the surface, the world above dissolving into muffled echoes and wavering light. The glow intensified instantly—blues and greens blooming brighter the deeper they went, the sea alive with motion. Tulkun voices resonated through the water, vibrating through his chest more than his ears.
He looked for you immediately.
His eyes darted, adjusting slower than those born of the reef. Shapes blurred together at first—moving bodies, streaks of light, the vast silhouettes of Tulkun circling with reverent patience. The dancers were already taking their places, forming arcs and spirals around the great beings.
The routine began.
Na’vi bodies moved like currents given form—twisting, spinning, flipping effortlessly through the water. Some danced in perfect synchronicity, mirroring one another in clean, sweeping motions; others broke away in alternating patterns, weaving between Tulkun fins and massive bodies, then returning to the group as if pulled by an unseen tide. Arms extended, then folded. Legs kicked and curved. Whole bodies arched and rolled, weightless and precise.
The Tulkun joined them as partners.
They turned slowly, gracefully, their immense forms moving with a gentleness that defied their size. Fins guided dancers forward; a tilt of a massive head became a cue. Together, they created living shapes—circles within circles, expanding and collapsing like breath.
And then Neteyam saw you.
Your movement caught his eye like a change in the current. You flowed through the water with an ease that made everything else feel louder in comparison. It stole the air from his lungs. Not in the way water ever had, but in the way something precious does when you realize, all at once, how deeply it matters.
Your clothing was more intricate than he remembered, layers of woven sea fibers trailing softly behind you, shells and beads catching the light with every turn. Kelp strands wrapped and knotted with care moved like extensions of you, accenting each spin, each arch of your back. Your hair fanned out around your head, braids drifting, ornaments glowing faintly as you turned.
And your skin. Your bioluminescent patterns glowed brighter beneath the water, lines and curves glowing softly with your movement. Every twist of your torso made them show. Even from a distance, he could see your face—focused, serene, eyes sharp and alive, completely at home here.
You smiled mid-turn, not at anyone in particular, just at the dance itself.
Neteyam forgot to look away.
He followed you through the entire routine without meaning to. When you dipped low, his gaze followed. When you rose, spinning upward toward the light filtering down from above, his chest tightened. He watched the way your hands cut cleanly through the water, the way your body curved and straightened in perfect balance.
You were far from him. Close enough to see, but too far to touch.
And still, you were all he could see.
He realized that even if you were doing nothing at all, you would have caught his eye just the same.
The routine came to its end in a slow, reverent spiral, dancers and Tulkun drawing together before drifting apart once more. Applause didn’t exist here, not underwater—but the water itself seemed to hum, alive with approval.
When the dancers surfaced, Neteyam was already waiting on the shore with the others, voices rising in cheers. He joined in, but his eyes searched only for you.
Then he saw you.
The smile came without permission, easy and wide, and he cheered again, louder this time, though it was meant for only one person. He watched you greet your family first, waiting back to give you space, even as his feet carried him instinctively behind his own. When the moment felt right, he slipped away, weaving through bodies and laughter, shells chiming and firelight flickering everywhere.
He searched for you the way someone searches for shore while treading water. Faces blurred past him, bodies crossing his line of sight, laughter and voices colliding into noise. For a moment, he thought he’d missed you entirely, that you were swallowed somewhere deeper in the crowd.
And you were doing the same.
Turning, scanning, eyes slipping over strangers, pausing too long on silhouettes that weren’t him. The space was too big, the people too many. It felt unfair, almost cruel, that after all of that—after the sea, the dance, the waiting—you still hadn’t found each other yet.
Then it happened.
Not all at once. Not cleanly.
Neteyam caught movement first—your hair, the familiar sway of your shoulders—and he froze, breath caught halfway in. At the same time, you turned, eyes lifting instinctively, like you’d felt him looking.
People moved between you. Someone laughed loudly, another stepped directly into his line of sight. For a second, he lost you again—and his heart dropped with it.
Then your eyes found his.
Across the crowd. Too far. Far enough to hurt.
You stared at each other through the shifting bodies, the space between you opening and closing as people passed, like the world was testing how badly you wanted this moment. Neither of you looked away. You couldn’t.
You both lifted your hands at the same time, waving, then laughing when you realized how perfectly in sync you were. The distance suddenly felt unbearable.
So you both closed it.
Slow at first, then faster, weaving through people who barely registered anymore. The crowd thinned, parted, blurred. All Neteyam could see was you, glowing even here, even now—proof that no matter how vast the space, you always seemed to find each other.
And when there was finally nothing between you at all—
You stopped.
For a moment, both of you only smiled.
“Hi,” he said finally, soft, like it meant more than the word ever should.
“Hi,” you answered, just as quiet.
Your eyes traced him slowly. The paint along his face caught both the firelight and the lingering glow of the sea—white and green etched with care, vivid against skin still damp from the water. His braids were threaded with beads and feathers that swayed faintly when he breathed, and you noticed—couldn’t help noticing—how his chest still rose a little faster than it should have
He was looking at you the same way. Taking you in, memorizing the way the water had left your skin glistening, the droplets tracing your collarbones and arms, soft reflections of the bioluminescent patterns that flowed along your body. The way the light caught in your hair, outlining every strand as it clung damply to your shoulders. The intricate layers of your clothing, sea-woven and luminous, moving with you even when you were still.
Without thinking, you said it, confidence rising in your chest like a tide. “You look good.”
The words surprised you, where they had come from. But looking at him—seeing the way his gaze lingered—you guessed he thought the same.
A boyish chuckle escaped him. “You look good too,” he said, his voice low, and the way he said your name made it feel like sunlight warming the hollow of your chest.
You laughed softly, a little breathless, and the sound loosened something between you. Without a pause, you closed the space between you, reaching for his hand. Fingers entwined with his, warm and steady.
“Come,” you said, tugging him gently. “You should meet my friends.”
He blinked, slightly confused, the question clear in his eyes. But he didn’t hesitate. He followed, weaving through the crowd as you led him, hand in hand, laughing softly as you navigated between clusters of celebrating clan members.
You stopped before a circle of Metkayina close to your age, the space clearing almost as if by instinct for the two of you. They made room, smiling, curious. You guided Neteyam down to sit beside you, the wet fabric of your clothing brushing lightly as you settled.
“One by one,” you introduced your friends, careful to gesture to each, murmuring names. “And this is Neteyam,” you said, looking at him with a smile to encourage him.
He smiled in turn, polite but relaxed, greeting each of them with easy words. You noticed the way his lips curved naturally, how at ease he was despite the unusual crowd, and your chest warmed at the sight. He fit here, just as he fit anywhere he chose to be.
“And he’s a great hunter,” you continued, nudging him lightly, “so you should hear his stories!”
Neteyam’s eyes lit up at the invitation, and he began to speak, weaving tales of hunts and skill, of the forest and the water. The Metkayina listened, rapt, nodding, smiling. Their eyes brightened at his words, echoing the excitement you had always seen in him. And as he spoke, swelling with pride, you felt the same: the joy of seeing him seen, accepted, even celebrated.
The circle leaned closer to him, intrigued, hanging on every word. And you, beside him, couldn’t stop smiling—not just because of the stories, but because, for now, this was his world and yours.
“Well… you wouldn’t have to worry about hunting in the future now, Tsakarem,” Nìkxey said, one of the girls you did iknimaya with, her tone playful.
Your cheeks warmed, and a laugh escaped before you could stop it. “Nìkxey!”
Neteyam’s laugh followed hers, low and amused, and he nudged you gently with his shoulder. “I wouldn’t worry either,” he murmured just for you, a smile tugging at his lips. His hand brushed yours lightly as it rested in your lap, sending a small thrill up your spine.
You shouldn’t think about what that really meant, but those words refused to leave you the whole night.
Hours had passed since the bulk of celebration had wound down. The drums and conch shells had faded, the fire pits now smoldering low, sending only wisps of smoke curling into the night. Most of the village had retreated, laughter and chatter reduced to distant murmurs, leaving only the gentle crash of waves and the occasional call of someone walking home.
You and Neteyam, hand in hand, slipped away from the remaining crowd, laughter spilling freely between you as you ran deeper into the forest behind the village.
You hadn’t spent much time here yourself—only occasional trips for fruit or to explore—but enough to know secrets that few others did. And tonight, you wanted to share one with him. You weaved through giant leaves, brushing past ferns and low-hanging branches, each step on the cold, damp soil grounding you. The sound of Neteyam laughing behind you, calling out, “Where are you taking me?” made your chest swell with a happiness you hadn’t expected.
“Be patient, forest boy,” you called back, a grin tugging at your lips.
He didn’t complain. In fact, something about the forest—the way the leaves whispered, the soil gave slightly beneath his feet, the shadows of the trees stretching into the night—made him feel at home.
After a while, the running slowed, and you finally stopped. You turned to face him, seriousness replacing the playful energy in your expression. “This is a secret between the two of us,” you said, voice earnest, “got it?”
Neteyam’s gaze met yours, unwavering, and he nodded, almost too quickly. “I promise,” he said, his tone low.
“Good,” you replied with a small smile, turning back to move forward. You pushed aside long, draping leaves, revealing an entrance tucked almost perfectly into the undergrowth—a small hollow, cave-like, hidden from casual eyes.
Neteyam didn’t question it. He trusted you, and that was enough. He let you pull him inside, hand still intertwined with his, feeling a thrill of anticipation, knowing you had chosen to share this secret with him.
Just a few steps in, and after a small turn, the hollow opened to reveal a pool of water, still and dark, its surface reflecting nothing. Neteyam paused, brow furrowed, unsure what to make of the shadowed space.
You only smiled, that quiet, knowing smile that made him uneasy in the best way. Your eyes flicked from him to the pool and back, gauging his reaction, waiting for the spark of curiosity—or maybe wonder—to light in his gaze.
“Come,” you said softly, squatting at the edge. Your fingers dipped into the water, and it shimmered immediately, a soft, ethereal glow radiating outward. As you swirled your hand, the pool brightened in response, ripples scattering points of light across the cave walls. You looked up at him, eyes wide, grin stretching across your face.
Neteyam’s hesitation melted into a laugh, and he joined you at the edge. But mischief colored his expression. Without warning, he splashed water toward you, droplets flying through the air. You shrieked, laughing, but the moment his playful grin met yours, you couldn’t resist returning the favor.
Back and forth it went: splashes, laughter, circles around the pool, each movement coaxing the glowing water to flare brighter. The bioluminescent moss clinging to the walls seemed to pulse with your motion, lighting the cave in soft, undulating waves of green and blue.
You finally gasped out, giggling, “Okay, stop—enough!” but neither of you really meant it. Your chest heaved, hair plastered to your face, droplets tracing your collarbones, and your laughter mingled with his. Neteyam, soaked and grin still wide, mirrored your exhaustion.
You paused, breathing heavily, standing on opposite sides of the pool, the glowing water between you. Then, on impulse, you bent your knees and jumped. The pool was small but deep enough that your feet wouldn’t touch the bottom if you leapt. The water swallowed you, cold and alive, and when your head surfaced, glowing reflections danced along your skin.
“Your turn,” you said, eyes flicking toward him.
He didn’t hesitate, launching himself in with a splash that nearly sent you under again. You spun quickly, trying to shield yourself, sputtering and laughing as he laughed at your frantic movements. When he surfaced, you both simply stared at each other giggling. The pool was small—you could feel the slight push of his arms with every stroke, the movement of his kicks under the water.
“Do you like it?” you asked softly.
Neteyam’s gaze lingered on you. “How did you even find this place?”
You shrugged, eyes tracing the glowing moss and scattered bioluminescent plants along the cave walls. “Curiosity. I followed a lizard here a year ago. I accidentally found it.”
Your gaze swept the pool, the cave, the soft shimmer of light across every surface. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”
He didn’t answer immediately, because he wasn’t looking at the cave. He was looking at you. The glow of the water caught your skin, yes, but it was more than that—you looked radiant, almost angelic, every feature defined in the soft reflected light.
The strands of hair plastered to your shoulders, the faint curve of your lips, the gleam in your eyes—it stole his breath.
A soft, low “yes” finally left him, and your heart skipped.
Catching him already staring, you couldn’t resist. With a small, playful chuckle, you splashed water at him.
Neteyam’s voice cut through the gentle ripples of water. “You were amazing back there,” he said, eyes never leaving yours. “I was right. You are the prettiest.”
The way he looked at you—the closeness, the subtle shift of his shoulders forward, the slight lean toward you as the water carried you both—made your heart race. Unknowingly, you two had drifted closer, the small pool no longer just space.
You smiled, glancing away for a moment, trying to hide the sudden flutter in your chest. But curiosity, and something bolder, pulled your gaze back to him. “And you look very handsome,” you said softly. “Have I said it before?”
“Yes,” he replied, smiling. “Just in a different way.”
You could only smile at him, eyes tracing his face again, memorizing what you had seen so many times but never enough: the patterns painted along his skin, the sharp line of his nose, the depth of his eyes, the curve of his lips. You felt a shiver run through you, not from cold, but from the ache of desire that had been gnawing at you, quiet but persistent, all this time.
To push the thought down before it took over, you sank deeper into the pool. The light from the glowing water bent around you, illuminating your path as your eyes followed his movements. He mirrored you almost instinctively, descending into the water with ease.
Now face to face beneath the glowing surface, the light refracted over him, casting gentle patterns across his features, highlighting angles and planes you had never appreciated fully before. And somehow… somehow, he looked even more handsome down here, framed by the light and water, and closer than ever.
The water cradled you both, holding your bodies in a slow, drifting stillness. Your hair floated weightlessly around your face, strands glowing faintly as they brushed his wrists.
Neteyam felt unsteady in a way no battlefield had ever made him feel.
The water muted the world, but it did nothing to quiet his thoughts. If anything, it made them louder—spinning, overlapping, all of them circling you. The way you hovered there in the glow, hair drifting like something alive, eyes fixed on his as if he were the only thing in this hidden place worth seeing.
He thought of the small moments that had led here. Your laughter by the shore. The way your hand always seemed to find his without either of you acknowledging it. The looks that lingered just a second too long. The careful distance you kept, as if afraid of what would happen if you stepped closer—and the way that distance somehow made everything sharper.
Neteyam, who had faced danger with steady hands and a clear mind, had never felt this nervous. Not like this. Looking at you felt like standing at the edge of something vast and unfamiliar, something he had dreamed of without ever naming. You looked unreal, like the answer to a question he hadn’t known how to ask.
Enjoy this moment.
His mother’s voice surfaced in his mind.
And then you moved. Your hand drifted forward and settled against his chest, right over his heart, fingers splayed as if you were listening rather than touching. The contact was light, but it had unraveled him completely.
His breath hitched. His heart responded instantly, pounding hard beneath your hand, wild and unhidden. He wondered if you could feel it, if you understood what you were doing to him. Part of him hoped you did. Part of him was terrified you did.
Hear it. Hear how much it’s beating for you.
You looked at him then—really looked at him—and there was so much meaning in your eyes that it felt heavier than words ever could. The glow of the water reflected back in them, soft and shifting, and for the first time since stepping into this hidden place, Neteyam felt certain.
Certain enough to move.
He swam closer. The space between you narrowed until his legs brushed yours, then lingered, your tails grazing and curling together as if the water had guided them there. The contact sent a quiet jolt through him. Real. You were here. So close.
Your body hovered just inches from his now, the glow outlining you in soft light. He could feel the movement of the water between you, feel the warmth of you even through it. His gaze flicked to your eyes, searching, asking—is this okay?
You answered without speaking.
Your lashes lowered slightly, your head tilting just enough to close the last uncertain angle between you. An invitation. A trust so open it stole the breath from his lungs.
When his hands lifted to your face, the water resisted just slightly, like it wanted to test his resolve, like touching you was something sacred. His palms cradled your face, thumbs resting just below your cheekbones, the deep blue of his skin a stark contrast to your glowing teal. You leaned into his touch instinctively, and the world seemed to narrow to that single point of contact.
When he leaned in, it was slow enough that you felt every second of it: the faint current shifting between you, the brush of his nose against yours, the way your breath mingled in small silver bubbles before drifting away.
Then your lips met.
The kiss was brief. Soft. Gentle. Slowed by the water, shaped by it. For that moment, you were suspended together—no ground beneath your feet, no urgency.
When you finally pulled back, your foreheads rested together, noses brushing, eyes still open as if neither of you wanted to risk losing sight of the other. Bubbles escaped you both in uneven bursts, laughter caught somewhere between breaths.
In that instant, something settled, like a tension that had lived in both of you for far too long had finally been answered. The question that had hovered in glances and half-touches, in every moment you almost reached for each other, was no longer unanswered.
You wrapped your arms around him, and he returned it just as naturally—strong arms closing around you as if he’d been waiting to do that all along. Together, you kicked upward, breaking the surface at the same time, air rushing back into your lungs in shared, breathless laughter.
Water streamed down your faces, clinging to lashes and braids, the glow of the cave softer up here but no less intimate. For a heartbeat, you were still pressed close, foreheads nearly touching, the echo of the water rippling around you.
Neteyam pulled back just enough to look at you.
His hand lifted, gentle as before, fingers tipping your chin up so you’d meet his gaze. There was something unguarded in his eyes now—warm, almost shy, like the bravest thing he’d done all night was still finding its words.
“Can I…” He hesitated, the corner of his mouth lifting slightly. “…kiss you again?”
Your answer left no space for doubt.
His breath caught when you kissed him, a barely-there sound against your mouth. It was clumsy this time—your teeth bumped, a soft, startled laugh breaking between you—but neither of you pulled away. His hand slid from your chin to your cheek.
You feel him, the warmth of his lips, the careful way he adjusted just to fit you better. The faint taste of saltwater lingered as your lips moved against his.
Your arms slid more securely around his shoulders, fingers curling into the damp strands of his hair. He responded instinctively, hands settling at your waist. The water lapped softly against your sides, rocking you together in slow, gentle movements.
His forehead brushed yours between breaths, noses touching as he paused just long enough to breathe you in before kissing you again. You smiled into the kiss without meaning to, and he felt it—felt the way your lips curved, the way your body relaxed against his.
When you finally pulled away, it was only because your lungs demanded it.
The space between you widened just enough for breath to return—yours shaky, his uneven. Your arms loosened, hands slipping down from his shoulders but never fully leaving him. His hands stayed where they were, steady at your waist.
For a long second, neither of you spoke.
The glow of the cave caught in the paint on his skin, and without really thinking, your hand lifted. Your fingers traced along his forehead, following the lines of paint that had somehow survived the water. Down his temple. Beneath his eye. Along his cheek, down his throat, where his breath hitched almost imperceptibly under your touch.
Your hand continued—over his shoulder, and finally came to rest at the center of his chest. Right where his heart still beat too fast.
You looked at him then, earnest and open, your palm warm against him.
“I see you."
The words hit him harder than any kiss had.
Neteyam swallowed, emotions crowding his chest all at once. He lifted one hand, placing it over yours where it rested on his heart, holding it there as if to keep it from breaking free. With his other hand, he brushed the damp strands of hair from your cheek, fingers barely grazing your skin.
“I see you too,” he murmured back. Then, quieter, almost shyly, “Sevin.”
You laughed softly, the sound echoing faintly against the stone. “Sevin?” you teased, tilting your head.
His mouth curved into a hopeful smile. “You don’t like it?”
You pretended to think about it, lashes lowering as if you were suddenly bashful. “I like it,” you admitted.
Silence settled again—but it wasn’t empty. It was full. Of looks held too long. Of breaths that hadn’t quite steadied. Your hands drifted lower, sliding from his chest, skimming the edge of the cummerband he wore. Not lingering—just noticing. He looked good. Strong in a way that made your chest warm.
When you looked back up at him through your lashes, his gaze softened even more.
“What else do you want to do?” he asked quietly.
You bit your lip, just for a moment, then lifted both hands to his face, framing it like it was the most natural thing in the world. Your thumbs brushed his cheeks, your touch sure now.
Amid the demands of being the olo’eyktan’s eldest daughter and a tsahìk-in-training, you find unexpected rest in the company of Toruk Makto’s eldest son.
pairing: neteyam x metkayina!reader
tags: atwow spoilers, friends to lovers, plot, slow burn, mutual pining, avoidant!reader, usual older sibling activity, touchy-feely!neteyam, miscommunication, hurt & comfort, light angst (10.5k wc)
chapters: like real people do, we should just kiss
You knew of the arrival of Toruk Makto’s family long before you saw them.
The news reached you while you were away from Awa’atlu, exactly as your parents intended—sent west to train under another clan’s tsahìk so you might learn more than one way of listening, more than one way of carrying people’s needs. It was a plan decided long before you were old enough to object. The eldest must be prepared. The future must be widened.
Messengers spoke of their arrival in passing, of the Omatikaya seeking refuge among the reef people, of a man who had ridden legend itself into war.
It was a week before your eyes finally found them.
When you returned, the village greeted you as if you had never truly left. Voices rose at the sight of you along the woven paths, hands brushing your arms and shoulders in brief, familiar greetings. That night, your father and mother prepared a larger meal than necessary. It was tradition—one you did not remember beginning, only that it had always been done for you.
Between mouthfuls and murmured approval, you shared what you could, voice steady despite the fatigue still clinging to you. And in return, they told you everything you had missed.
And as always, being home did not mean rest.
“I am certain you have heard of Toruk Makto’s family,” your father said as his gaze settled on you.
You nodded once. Of course you had heard.
“Your brother and sister have begun teaching the children,” he continued. “They do well—but the Omatikaya learn differently. Their roots are in forest and stone, not tide and current.”
You feel your mother’s gaze settle on you, your sibling’s attention following soon after. You busy yourself with another bite of fish, chewing slowly, as if it might delay what is coming. You wondered, briefly, what your mother truly thought of Toruk Makto’s family, and tucked the question away for later.
“They will adapt faster with your guidance.”
There it is.
“I am sure Ao’nung and Tsireya have done well,” you said at last, lifting your gaze toward them. “They know the ways of the water better than most.”
Ao’nung let out a quiet huff at that, rolling his eyes. The sight drew a small chuckle from you before you could stop it.
Tsireya, ever gentle, smiled and leaned forward. “They try,” she said. “They listen. Some learn fast and some forget to keep breath when water grows deep.” She glanced at you then, you could almost see the hope in her expression. “But they wish to learn, That is good beginning.”
You smiled at Tsireya, pride settling warm and familiar in your chest.
“As if,” Ao’nung scoffed before the moment could linger. “They are still like babies. I bet even you cannot teach them how to be better.”
“Yeah? Maybe you’re just a bad teacher,” you shot back, tilting your head to further tease him.
Tsireya joined in before anyone could stop her, a quiet, lilting laugh. “They listen, yes… but sometimes—ehhh.”
Ronal’s hand lifted, a soft but firm shush that cut through the teasing. “Enough, all of you.”
The three of you exchanged glances, chuckles softening into quiet smiles.
“Tomorrow, you will show them how to ride an ilu. You guide them carefully.”
You inclined your head once, shoulders settling under the weight of responsibility that always seemed to arrive with home. “I understand.”
Morning comes with salt on your skin and the sharp tang of the sea in your lungs. You kneel beside the baskets, sorting the catch you caught earlier that morning with the hunting party.
The catch had been large that day, plentiful enough that the baskets groaned under its weight, scales glinting like liquid sunlight.
“We have missed you, tsmuke,” one of the older hunters called, balancing a particularly large fish. “Big fish come in plenty when you are here.”
“I have missed you too!” you replied lightly, laughing. “Maybe Eywa is kinder this morning, or you are just a really good hunter.”
The group agreed, the sound rolling like the tide over the reef. Your attention, however, was caught by a familiar voice calling from across the sand.
“Sister! Come quickly!”
Tsireya jogs toward you, water dripping from her hair, eyes bright. Behind her, farther back along the edge of the shallows, you could see the Sully children, their skin a darker, richer blue than yours.
“Ready for your lesson?” Tsireya called, slowing as she approached. “They’re waiting, and I think they are quite curious about you. They keep asking.”
You hesitated, hands still tangled in the nets, the baskets of the morning catch at your feet. The warmth of routine tugged at you—the familiar weight of the day’s work, the laughter of friends, the steady rhythm of the reef under your skin. It felt good to return to this, even if only for a moment, and part of you wanted to linger, just a little longer.
Tsireya, patient at first, let her frustration show in the softest way. She stepped closer and tugged gently at your wrists, removing your hands from the nets. “Please,” she urged, voice light but firm. “Come now. They will not wait forever.”
You looked back at your friends, offering a small, fleeting smile. “I… will be back soon,” you promised.
With nothing left to stall you, you set the nets aside and began walking with her, feeling the subtle pull of responsibility settle over your shoulders once again. The Sully children shifted slightly, curious eyes fixed on you, and you allowed yourself one last glance at the morning’s catch and the laughing hunters.
The Sully children greeted you in unison, their hands moved in the careful gesture of “Oel ngati kameie.” You returned the greeting, offering a smile.
From their vantage, it was easy to see why Tsireya had spoken of you with such excitement. Like her, you were beautiful but where Tsireya’s beauty was open and bright, yours carried a quieter maturity. Even before you spoke your presence held authority, it reminded them of your mother when they first came. And unlike her, whose sharpness was well known, you had shown them no hostility at all.
Some features mirrored your siblings, but one mark set you apart unmistakably. The tattoo, black and intricate, traced one half of your forehead and extended toward your cheekbone, earned first as the eldest upon completing your iknimaya. It marked your seniority, a quiet sign that you had already walked the path your younger siblings were just beginning.
Ao’nung’s voice cut through the quiet moment, impatient as ever. “We going or not?”
You exchanged a glance with Tsireya, and both of you let out quiet chuckles.
“Alright,” you couldn’t help the small smirk that tugged at your lips as your eyes flicked to Ao’nung. “Looks like someone is the most excited.”
The Sully children fought to suppress their smiles, chuckles spilling out despite their best efforts. Ao’nung finally stomped forward, muttering something under his breath, and you laughed at him softly.
You lingered a moment, letting them move ahead, their footsteps stirring the sand beneath the shallow water. Only once they had gone a few paces did you follow, letting Ao’nung take the lead.
A small sigh escaped you, soft enough that only Eywa could hear. Grant me patience today. Today would be long, you knew, but necessary.
Your siblings moved with practiced ease, each stepping toward one of the Sully children. The group slowly divided, voices overlapping with quiet instruction and encouragement, until you found yourself standing apart.
The smallest of them lingered near the water’s edge, eyes darting between her brothers and sisters as they were led away. Excitement practically spilled from her—fidgeting hands, bouncing steps, a tail that betrayed her eagerness even as she tried to stay still.
Warmth bloomed in your chest at the sight.
You beckoned her closer with an open hand. “Come here, little one,”
She hesitated only a moment before padding toward you, bouncing slightly to move faster. As she reached you, her hand lifted instinctively, fingers stretching toward yours. You caught it, steadying her before she could stumble, her grip small but eager in your palm.
She looked up at you then, eyes bright, breath quick with excitement.
“Fyape syaw fko ngar?” you asked. What is your name?
“Tuktirey,” she said proudly, then quickly added, softer, “But you can call me Tuk.”
She proved to be an eager student from the start, curiosity spilling from her. You answered each question without hurry, never growing tired of her wonder. There was no fear in her, only excitement, and it made the lesson flow easily.
“See how it circles first?” you said softly, nodding toward the ilu gliding nearby. “Ilus are very curious beings. They are trying to know you.”
Tuk’s fingers curled in the water as she watched it, eyes wide. “Is it looking at me?”
“Yes,” you smiled.
She nodded solemnly, then whispered, “What does it like?”
“Kind hands,” you replied. “Slow breath. And respect. Ilu are not tools, they are partners. They help us hunt, travel, protect the reef. Without them, the sea is harder to listen to.”
You clicked your tongue and whistled. The ilu’s head lifted slightly, turning toward the sound.
“They also like gliderfins,” you added.
Tuk glanced at the ilu again, awe softening her features. “Do they like playing?”
You laughed. “Some do. Especially the young ones. I think this one is just as young as you.”
She reached out again, more careful this time, brushing the ilu’s skin just as you showed her. The creature responded with a low, pleased trill, and Tuk’s face lit up.
“It likes you too now,” you said gently.
Her smile grew impossibly wide.
For a while, it was easier than you had expected. Once Tuk had grown comfortable with the ilu, you began teaching her how to ride, guiding her through each step.
You soon called Roxto over from where he had been teaching Kiri, thinking the youngest should stay within reach of her older siblings. He joined you without fuss, and Kiri followed easily. She was good company—quiet at first, then comfortable with a few exchanged words. You noticed how at ease she seemed around Roxto, and you couldn’t help thinking he was one of the few good friends Ao’nung kept.
“You’ve been very kind,” Kiri said as she glanced between her brothers then back at you, eyes bright with barely-contained amusement. “But I think… my brothers might need you more right now.”
She tipped her chin toward them, lips pressed together as she tried not to smile. One was struggling to find balance, slipping again and again, while the other had already gone rushing off too fast only to tumble into the water. Kiri ducked her head, a quiet laugh escaping despite her effort to stay composed.
You winced as one of her brothers was promptly rewarded with a splash of water straight to the face when the ilu darted away. Even you had to turn your head for a moment, shoulders shaking with restrained laughter.
“I see” you said, still smiling as the laughter faded from your breath. Your eyes flicked briefly to Roxto, a silent understanding passing between you, before you looked back at the girls.
“You’re in good hands,” you told Tuk and Kiri gently, giving them one last reassuring nod. Then you turned and waded toward the others, already bracing yourself as another splash and a string of complaints rang out from the group ahead.
That’s how you find yourself in charge of the oldest Sully, Neteyam—whose name you’d learned from Kiri. Tsireya had told you so much about Lo’ak the night before that you wouldn’t dare steal her chance to spend time with the other boy.
“You are not in the forest anymore,” you said softly, surfacing through the water where Neteyam had just fallen from the ilu. Your eyes swept over him quickly, taking in his posture, the set of his shoulders, checking for any real injury.
Frustration seeped through his expression despite himself. His nose scrunched, gaze shifting away from you as you called for the ilu to return. The tilt of his jaw and the tension in his arms told you he was used to control and was not used to being unseated so easily.
“I know,” he snapped, wiping the water from his face with a quick swipe of hand.
You went silent, tending to the ilu instead, letting him work through it without adding pressure. The water lapped quietly against your arms, and for a moment, neither of you spoke.
After a moment, he spoke again, quieter this time. “Sorry… I’m just not used to this.”
You looked back at him then, and heat crept into your chest. It was embarrassing to admit, but you found him… personable. Even now, after only knowing each other for a while, there was a weight to him—different from any Metkayina you had known. His sharp features and darker skin marked him as not one of your people, and yet, somehow, that made him easier to watch, easier to notice than you had intended. You caught yourself looking at him more often than you liked, a small, guilty awareness settling in your stomach.
“It’s alright,” you said, eyes steady on him. “But you are trying to fly. Ilus do not fly.”
He scrunched his face at your words, and you allowed yourself a small, amused smile.
“It is like your ikran, yes,” you continued. “But flying isn’t the way with an ilu. You do not fight against the water, as it would only pull you under. You go with it. Feel the current, its weight, its flow. The water is the ilu’s home; try to make it yours.”
“Again,” you mentioned for him to mount once more. He hesitated only a second before obeying, settling onto its back with more care than before—but still too stiff.
“No,” you nagged, moving into his space. “You are holding yourself like you expect to fall.”
Before he could respond, you reached out. One hand pressed lightly between his shoulder blades, encouraging him to lean forward just enough, while the other adjusted his grip—fingers loosening, then settling where they should be.
“And remember,” you added, “tsaheylu is trust. That is more important than holding tight.”
The moment tsaheylu is formed, the ilu stilled. He drew in a slow breath, shoulders relaxing, and then he looked at you as if he’s waiting.
For a heartbeat, his world seemed to hold. Salt air, sun on water, the way light caught the planes of your face just right.
You met his gaze and gave a single nod.
“Go,” you said simply.
You stepped back, giving him space as the ilu surged forward once more. This time, he moved with it, posture aligned, body following the current instead of fighting it. Water parted cleanly around them, and he stayed mounted.
You had spent the past month helping the Sully children adjust to life among the reef—teaching them your way of living, showing them how to move with the ilu, guiding their eager hands through the unfamiliar waters. It had been exhausting in the best way: laughter, splashes, and small victories marking each day, and yet, you still cherished moments where no pressure or responsibility rested on your shoulders.
Later, when the sun dipped lower and the lessons were done, you found yourself sitting cross-legged beside Tsireya in your family’s marui pod. Strands of dried seaweed and polished shells spread between you. Your fingers worked from habit, weaving and knotting as easily as breathing, the familiar rhythm easing the last of the day’s tension from your shoulders.
Tsireya hummed softly as she helped you thread a line of shells together, passing them to you one by one. “You always choose the prettiest pieces,” she said, smiling.
“They last longer,” you replied. “And they sit better against the skin.”
She nodded, watching your hands for a moment before glancing up at you, eyes bright with something playful. “So,” she began carefully, as if it were only a passing thought, “what do you think?”
Your hands slowed, just slightly.
You resumed your work after a moment, fingers tightening a knot before moving on to the next strand. “They are… fine,” you said evenly. “A handful, but that is nothing new to me.”
It was the truth. You had stood beside your mother and the elder clan members when voices rose and patience thinned, when children pushed limits and learned the weight of correction. Compared to that, the Sully children were spirited—yes—but hardly unmanageable.
Tsireya huffed a quiet laugh, tilting her head. “You know what I mean.”
“Do I?” you asked innocently. “You asked about the family. I answered.”
She narrowed her eyes at you, a smile tugging at her mouth.
You finally glanced up at her then, a soft chuckle slipping past your lips. “Just ask what you want to ask, Tsireya.”
She opened her mouth, then hesitated.
You smiled wider, unable to resist. “Or maybe you cannot,” you added lightly, “because you know I will ask something in return.”
Tsireya groaned, half-laughing as she shook her head. “You are impossible.”
You shrugged lightly, a small, knowing smirk tugging at your lips. You had learned long ago that your little sister would never be able to stop herself from asking.
“Neteyam,” she finally said, “I noticed… you always seem to go to him first.”
You let the moment hang for just a beat, then replied, tilting your head slightly, “Well, I am more fit to teach the most difficult of them.” Your lips curved into a teasing smirk. “But you seem to handle him… quite well already.”
Tsireya flushed slightly, averting her gaze. “Don’t make this about me!”
You tilted your head, smirk softening into something gentler. “Well, he is easy to teach. A fast learner,” you said, fingers brushing lightly over the shells as you continued working. “And, we seem to relate to each other more.”
She peeked at you from the corner of her eye, curiosity breaking through her flustered expression. “So… you’ve talked a lot to each other then?”
You paused, brow lifting in mild confusion, standing to grab more shells from your mother’s basket—always the bigger, more useful pieces. “What’s with the questions?” you asked, a hint of amusement in your voice.
“Just curious.”
“Right…”
You can see her hovering before she then leaned a little closer, lowering her voice. “He is handsome, no?”
You rolled your eyes, chuckling. “Just help me with this, ‘Reya,” you said lightly, returning your attention to the shells.
Of course you wouldn’t say it.
Not after all the times you had teased Tsireya about Lo’ak—about the way her eyes followed him even when she pretended otherwise, about how quickly she volunteered to help whenever his name was mentioned.
And it was not as if it were a bad thing to admit he is handsome.
You had heard it from Kiri, as she told stories from when they were in the forest, that many of the na’vi girls admired him, that Neteyam Sully had always drawn attention without ever seeming to seek it. You supposed that made sense.
Handsome, yes, but more than that, simply… good company.
That was all.
And even that truth stayed tucked behind your teeth, because saying it aloud would tell Tsireya more than she was asking. It would tell her about how lessons sometimes stretched past their ending, how paths crossed again when everyone else scattered to their own corners of the reef.
At first, it had been a coincidence.
You had been tasked with cleaning the dishes after the evening meal, your hands submerged in cool water near the shallow edge, your thoughts far away. You hadn’t noticed him at first, only the faint shift of movement in your periphery.
When you looked up, he was there. Sitting on one of the larger rocks half-submerged by the tide.
You did not know what possessed you to call out to him. Perhaps it might help him feel more at ease here, in a place that was not yet his.
You called his name then, standing and lifting your arm higher so he could see. “Neteyam!”
He looked up then, surprise flickering briefly across his face. After a moment, he rose from the rock and made his way toward you, careful steps sending small ripples through the shallows.
As he drew closer, you could see his bioluminescent markings better for the first time. It’s something you had seen on countless others, yet something about his made your chest tighten. It was a foolish thought, you told yourself. You had grown up surrounded by Na’vi; there was nothing new in this. And still, you found yourself admiring it just long enough before he could notice.
He stopped at your side and glanced down at the dishes, then back at you. “Do you… need help?” he asked, gesturing toward the stack.
“Ah, you do not have to,” you shook your head slightly, the question catching you off guard.
He smiled anyway, already lowering himself into a squat. “I don’t mind.”
You tilted your head, watching the ease of his movements as he reached for one of the bowls. “I am guessing you do this often?”
He let out a quiet huff of a laugh, rinsing the dish with a practiced swirl of his hands. “Too often,” he said, shaking his head slightly. “At this point, I just volunteer before anyone can tell me to.”
That earned a small smile from you. “I wonder how many times I would need to be told before I start volunteering myself.”
“It is better that way,” he replied, grin softening. “Less arguing. And it is nice to have time alone, if you are into that.”
It should have ended there. You both were there at the same time during that night and you weren’t expecting it to happen again.
Instead, it became routine.
There was never an agreement spoken between you, no glance that lingered long enough to promise anything, no words exchanged when the lessons ended and the others drifted away to their own activities. And yet, somehow, you would find him again. Near the shallows. By the rocks. In the sea.
The reef was wide, but somehow your paths crossed easily. And you thought it was because he was new here, after all, still learning where to belong.
One evening, he had asked about your tattoo. You had been sharpening your speargun’s bows atop a rock set slightly apart from the clustered marui pods. The sun had dipped low, painting the reef in golds and soft purples. You didn’t bother asking how he had found you.
His eyes lingered on the dark ink tracing one half of your forehead as he sat beside you, your knees knocking into each other when one moved. He hovered his hand close, almost brushing the skin above the tattoo, the heat of his skin radiating toward your cheek made your face tingle. You were startled by the sensation, and yet you didn’t move away.
You told him of your iknimaya, how you earned the mark after taming your tsurak, your first great hunt, and the bonding with your tulkun spirit sister. Your words carry all the pride of that path you had walked. And he listened, attentively, eyes widening at each detail, absorbing it as though it were a story meant for him alone.
“The fish was nearly bigger than me,” you said, hands stretching apart in the air. “It could have dragged me through the water.”
Neteyam let out a low, impressed sound, eyes following the movement of your hands. “You caught it anyway,” he said, something warm in his voice. “That takes strength.”
You shrugged, though a small smile curved your lips. “And multiple tries.”
He smiled back at that. “Still,” he added, glancing once more at the tattoo before meeting your gaze, “you earned it.”
You asked for his story in return, and he had told you about it, his first hunts and the rituals in the forest, the taste of water after it had flowed from the leaves, the way the sunlight would peak from the branches, the wind tangling his hair as he flew between big rocks of Ayram alusìng.
You found yourself imagining it all, the brightness in him when he was truly in his element, bathed in sunlight and shadow, how he looked among the trees, and a quiet, selfish wish that you could see it for yourself.
Then you noticed the waiting. Oh, how much you disliked it. The way your eyes would drift toward the water’s edge before your hands were even dry. The brief pause in your steps when the sun dipped low, anticipation settling in your chest before you were fully aware of it. You found yourself expecting him—half-listening for the sound of careful footsteps, half-watching for the familiar silhouette against the tide. How he slipped into your evening as naturally as the tide returning to shore.
And, quietly, almost shamefully, you wished he suffered from it too.
You told yourself it was nothing more than familiarity. That it had been a long time since you’d had company like this. That Neteyam was a good friend. With him, your words did not need to be softened or guarded. You spoke, and he understood. You existed, and he did not ask you to be anything else.
“You work too hard.”
You huffed a quiet laugh, seated in your usual place—the far side of the reef where the marui pods thinned and the waves struck the rocks hard enough to leave salt in the air. A large stone jutted from the shallows there, smoothed by time and tide, where you and him have told stories long enough for it to finally become yours without ceremony.
You were rubbing a thick, pale salve into your palms, the scent of crushed leaves and rendered fat clinging to your skin. It was a simple mixture of soothing oils and ground kelp you helped your mother make, meant to ease the sting left behind by too many hours of handling rough nets, and hauling, knotting, weaving alongside your father and brother.
That was before you heard his steps before you saw him, the soft scrape of feet against stone and wet sand so familiar now that it made your shoulders ease even before you turned. When you did, he was already close.
You flinched when he reached for you, instinct tightening your shoulders before you could stop it. For a heartbeat, you considered pulling away.
But he didn’t rush you. He waited—close, quiet, clearly wanting to help. You were close enough that you knew he’d scold you if you refused, and you were tired enough that you didn’t want to argue. Your hands throbbed anyway.
So you let him take them.
“I had to,” you said quietly. “You know why.”
He looked up at you then. Just understanding. The kind that came from being the eldest, from carrying expectations that were never asked for but always assumed. From being told, again and again, to be steady, to watch, to protect. His hands never stopped moving, thumbs pressing the salve into your skin.
“I don’t think I’ll ever be ready,” you admitted, words tumbling out before you could stop them. “No matter how much I learn. The chants, the rituals, the histories—I memorize them, repeat them until they sit perfectly in my mouth, and still…” You exhaled, shaky. “I look at my mother and all I feel is how small I am next to her.”
You swallowed. “They say I will make a good tsahìk someday. That it is only a matter of time.” Your fingers curled faintly in his hold. “But I do not feel driven. I feel afraid. And I hate that—because I should want it. I should be ready.”
Neteyam stayed quiet for a moment, covering the last exposed part of your hand with balm. Then, carefully, he brought both of your hands into one of his own. You hadn’t realized how close you were sitting, but as he scooched slightly neared, any remaining distance vanished. You kept your gaze on your hands, feeling the heat of his palm spread into yours.
After a long breath, his other hand hovered for a heartbeat above your hair, which had fallen to the sides of your face as you looked down, hiding a little of yourself. Gently, hesitantly, he brushed the strands back, tucking them behind your ear.
“Being scared does not mean you are unworthy of what they see in you,” he murmured, voice low and steady, as though he were speaking to himself as much as to you. “It means you understand how much it matters.”
He gave a small squeeze of your hands. “Your mother stands where she does because she walked through that fear. Not because she never felt it. And you do not need to be her—not now, not ever.”
At that, he lifted your chin gently between his fingers, tilting your face so you could meet his eyes. There was a telltale flicker of nervousness in the way his jaw tensed and the corners of his mouth twitched, but it was subtle, and you barely registered it. You only noticed the warmth of his hands, the care in his touch.
Neteyam’s gaze held yours, as if to remind you that nothing was demanded beyond this moment. “When the time comes, you will not wake up ready. You will step forward afraid. And that will not mean you are failing. It will mean you are brave.”
“You only have to keep going,” he said, finally placing both of his hands over yours, encasing them between his. “ And you do not have to do that alone.”
Your eyes flickered from his gaze down to your hands, still held in his, before returning to him. He tilted his head slightly, a small, playful smirk tugging at his lips.
“Come on,” he said your name softly, teasing, “let me see your smile.”
It took a moment, but you allowed yourself a slow, reluctant smile. “Where’d you learn that?” you asked, amusement in your voice.
“My mother,” the pride in his tone was unmistakable.
You couldn’t help but admire him then, as you have been doing quite often, bathed in the silver glow of the moonlight, his bioluminescent patterns tracing faint dots across his skin, the crinkle at the corner of his eyes as he spoke.
“Is something wrong?” he asked softly after a moment, concern in his voice. His hand lifted, brushing gently over the space between your eyes, as if to soothe the lingering tension there.
You let out a light laugh, gently pushing his hand away. “No,” you said, meeting his gaze. “I’m fine.”
Your eyes held his for a moment longer, steady and sincere, before you signed the word carefully—hand moving from your chin outward in the motion for thank you. “Thank you, Neteyam.”
He followed the motion with his gaze, eyes flicking to your mouth for a brief second as your hand reached forward, and a small, appreciative smile tugged at his lips.
“Always.”
You knew someone would eventually notice why it sometimes took you longer to wash the dishes, or why fetching something your parents had asked for seemed to stretch on forever. You’d been careful these past nights, cautious when returning from your meetings with Neteyam, pausing at the edges of the marui pods to make sure no family member was lingering outside.
But that night, you hadn’t been as discreet as you thought. Carrying the balm back to your pod, a smile tugging at your lips and a lighter step in your pace, you froze when you heard your father’s voice calling your name.
“You’ve been gone a long time,” his voice carrying that quiet edge of concern that always made your stomach tighten.
“Just… busy,” you said, shrugging lightly, “thinking.”
Internally, you let out a small sigh of relief as you saw him nod slightly, seeming to accept the excuse. He stepped closer, placing both hands gently on your shoulders, his thumbs brushing against your skin with a familiar, grounding touch.
Then, unexpectedly, he knelt down on one knee, letting go with one hand as he waited, gaze intent on yours. Confusion flickered across your features.
“You can tell me anything, maite,” he said softly, voice low but full of warmth.
A small, soft smile tugged at your lips, and you chuckled quietly, not surprised by his theatrics.
“I know, sempu,” you replied, touching one of his hands resting on your shoulder. “You always tell me that.”
He straightened, smiling now, the weight of the day easing from his expression. “Good. I was just worried. Now, come inside. It’s late.”
You nodded, though a pang of guilt tugged at your chest. You hadn’t told him about Neteyam, about the small stolen moments that made the days feel lighter, the hands brushing balm into yours. But it wasn’t something your parents needed to worry about—at least, that’s what you told yourself.
Your relationship with him and with the rest of the Sully children had grown in these past weeks. There were long afternoons spent chatting with the girls about everything and nothing, weaving strands of seaweed and shells into necklaces, bracelets, and little adornments inspired by the reef.
You had been especially proud when Tuk finished her first necklace entirely on her own. She pressed it into your hands proudly, and you couldn’t say no. It was a delicate little thing, shades of purple and blue catching the fading light, and you wore it with a smile that carried your pride.
Kiri’s progress was slower but steady, and you were happy to hear she was doing better—though not without complaints, especially when it came to your younger brother. You could only do so much as his older sister, after all.
And then there were the moments teasing Tsireya about Lo’ak, which never failed to make her blush.
“Lo’ak’s been making me teach him how to make a necklace,” Kiri said one afternoon, half-annoyed, half-amused. “It’s probably to impress you, Tsireya.”
You laughed, the sound easy and light. “How sweet,” you said, watching them fumble with threads and shells, the reef sun glinting off their hair, their smiles, and their earnest attempts.
As for Lo’ak, he was just as difficult as Kiri had made him out to be, but at his age, it was hardly surprising. You saw too much of your younger brother with him: the quiet desire to be seen and admired even when it came out as trouble. Still, there was something almost endearing about it.
You only hoped he wasn’t giving your younger sister too much headache.
And, you almost took the thought back one day as Tuk came barreling toward you, breathless and wide-eyed, tugging at your arm and babbling about her brothers fighting other metkayina.
Sure enough, when you followed her and looked at where she pointed at, you found ruckus sprawled out on the farther edge of the village—sand flying, voices raised, bodies tangled in a way that was far more chaotic than threatening.
“Ao’nung!” you shouted, stopping at the edge of the mess.
Your eyes caught Kiri on the sidelines. She only shrugged at you, utterly confused as well, before calling out, “Stupid!” and laughing like it was all entertainment.
You sighed, rolled your eyes, and shouted Ao’nung’s name again, louder this time. It finally pulled a few heads your way—just long enough for someone to get yanked backward by the tail and another to catch a careless punch for losing focus.
You might have laughed if you weren’t painfully aware of the scolding waiting for you later. After all, you were supposed to be the one watching out for them.
Luckily, or perhaps mercifully, their father arrived before things could spiral any further. His presence alone was enough to cut through the chaos, his voice sharp and commanding as he stepped in, hands separating bodies, pulling his sons back with Kiri on their tail.
You didn’t catch the look Neteyam sent your way then. Your attention was already on your own brother, grabbing him by the arm and hauling him upright when he nearly stumbled back into the fray. He tried to wrench himself free, teeth bared, clearly mistaking you for one of his friends.
You hissed sharply, grip tightening. “Skxawng,” you snapped under your breath, eyes narrowing. “What did you do?”
Before your brother could answer, one of Ao’nung’s friends spoke up from behind him, voice loud and indignant. “Lo’ak started it—”
“I didn’t ask you,” you cut in sharply, turning to look at his group of friends. Your tone was calm, but it carried enough bite to make him falter. “Go. Get yourself treated by tsahìk.”
They hesitated, exchanging glances, clearly unused to being dismissed so easily. When none of them moved, you rolled your eyes and stepped closer to Ao’nung instead.
Your fingers brushed lightly beneath his eye, where a bruise was already darkening. He hissed and jerked back on instinct, and you finally released your grip on his arm.
“Why do you assume it was me?” he demanded, scowling. At your silence—at the way you only frowned at him, confused more than accusatory—his expression twisted. “Don’t tell me you’re going to side with those freaks.”
“Ao’nung,” you snapped, his name a warning all on its own. “Enough. Come with me. That bruise will swell if you leave it.”
He scoffed, turning away and starting off in the opposite direction.
“Ao’nung,” you called again.
He didn’t stop—but neither did any of his friends move to follow him. You glanced back at them, lifting a brow in silent challenge, daring any of them to speak. None did. One by one, they started to follow your brother.
You watched him walk away and for a brief moment you wondered if there had been something you could have said to stop him from spitting those words.
The thought didn’t linger long as your mind was already racing ahead of the inevitable, your mother’s voice, sharp with disappointment, the weight of it settling heavier than any bruise. With a quiet exhale, you turned back toward your marui pod.
You felt as though you were walking on eggshells as you stepped inside your mother’s marui pod.
Her back was turned to you, shoulders relaxed but purposeful, hands busy sorting through bundles of dried leaves and woven pouches. The familiar scents of herbs and sea-salt clung to the air, usually comforting—now making your chest tighten. You moved slowly, carefully, each step measured as if the floor itself might betray you.
Quietly, you crossed to her storage chest and lifted the lid just enough to peer inside, fingers hovering over the neatly arranged jars of healing balms. You held your breath.
“What are you doing?” she asked without turning.
“Just—checking,” you said, voice soft. “Seeing if we still have enough healing balm.”
She finally glanced over her shoulder, eyes sharp but calm. “For what, child?”
You paused, shoulders sagging slightly as you exhaled. “Ao’nung and his friends… they got into trouble. With Lo’ak and Neteyam.”
Her hands stilled.
“What happened?” she asked, tone leaving no room for deflection.
You felt the fight drain out of you at once. There was no point in circling it, so you had told her of what happened. You didn’t know what caused the fight, but you told her everything you know.
The words settled heavy between you, and you waited for whatever would come next.
Your mother let out a long, tired sigh, the kind that carried more weight than anger ever could.
“Get whatever you need,” she said, “then come sit with me.”
You did as you were told. You gathered the jars of balm and set them aside before lowering yourself to the woven mat across from her, legs folded neatly beneath you. You knew better than to look anywhere else when she spoke like this. So you lifted your chin, met her gaze, and waited.
“Why did you let him go without treating him?” she asked.
You didn’t answer. You also knew better than to argue, sitting in silence as the weight of her words settled over you.
“You know your brother tends to seek trouble,” she continued, her hands frantically moving. “You should have been there to stop him.”
Even though you knew it was impossible to be everywhere at once, the blame sank into your chest like a stone. You promised yourself silently that you would do better next time. You thought back to the look your brother had given you before walking away—the hurt, the accusation—and it stung more. You wish to know what you could have done differently.
After a long moment, you lowered your gaze and whispered, “I’m sorry, mother… I’ll do better. I promise.”
For a moment, she said nothing.
“When they first came to us,” she began at last, voice calm but edged with honesty, “I was hesitant. They are of the forest. What use are forest skills in the reef? What could they offer our people, other than more mouths to protect?”
“Your father feared something else,” she continued. “That Toruk Makto would bring his war with him. That his enemies would follow. And you know this—your father and I are charged with keeping our people safe. Even when kindness is costly.”
She looked at you then, truly looked, and something softer entered her expression.
“But that is not why we turned them away,” she said quietly. “Nor why we chose to welcome them in the end.” Her voice lowered, thoughtful, measured like a lesson meant to last. “We gave them a home because the ocean does not ask where the rain was born. It only knows that all water returns.”
Her hand came to rest over her heart.
“They came seeking refuge, willing to learn, willing to bow their heads to ways not their own. And people who can do that are not weak.”
You felt something loosen in your chest as she spoke, answers to questions you had carried far longer than you realized.
“As Tsahìk,” she said, “I do not look only at who someone was. I look at who they are trying to become. And Eywa listens to those who choose growth over pride. Your brother does not realize it yet. He is young. But you, you can let him know.”
Her gaze softened, but it did not waver. “Remember that, child.”
You let her words settle, each one sinking deep, weaving itself quietly into you. For a moment, the sting of blame eased, softened by her steady presence, though it still lingered faintly at the edges. You marveled at how she could turn even this into a lesson, how every moment with her became a stepping stone rather than a reprimand. With her, nothing was wasted. Every mistake, every fear, every conflict was shaped into something that could guide you forward.
You realized, with a warmth that spread through your chest, how grateful you were to have her as your mother. To be taught not just how to heal wounds, but how to see people.
You nodded, a small hesitant smile forming as you met her eyes. “Yes, Mother. Thank you.”
She returned the smile then said, “Now go on, call them. I will be out for a while.”
Helping her to stand, you offered your arm, mindful of her pregnancy as she rose slowly. She brushed a hand over your head once more, a gentle, lingering caress, before letting you go.
“Be careful,” she added.
“You too, Ma,” you said as you stepped back outside the pod.
It didn’t take long to find Neteyam. He was seated on the walkway in front of their marui pod, one leg swinging lazily over the edge as he gazed out at the water.
When he saw you call his name, his face brightened instantly. Without hesitation, he pushed himself up, legs folding neatly beneath him for a moment before standing fully. Careful, measured steps carried him toward you, the familiar rhythm of his movements making your chest ease despite the tension still lingering from your earlier conversation with your mother.
You reached up slowly, hands resting on his shoulders as you studied him, eyes travelling over the tense line of his jaw and the slight swell of his bruises. “You don’t look fine,” you said, a mix of concern and exasperation in your tone.
He tilted his head, smirking, a trace of humor lighting his features. “Well, I look better than your brother’s friends.”
You couldn’t help it, a soft laugh escaped you as you smacked the top of his head playfully. Then, grabbing his wrist, you tugged him gently back toward the tsahìk’s pod. “Doesn’t seem like you regret what happened earlier,” you said, glancing at him briefly before turning your attention to weaving through the Metkayina passing by.
Neteyam shrugged, his grin widening. “Only a bit,” he said, his eyes never leaving the back of your head as you led the way.
His wrist, which you still held, eased slowly until his hand finally rested on yours. You didn’t look back, but the warmth of his hand and the pressure of his fingers fitting against yours made your own smile widen. You didn’t let go, and neither did he.
Once inside the pod, Neteyam settled onto the woven mat, shoulders slumped just enough for you to see the tension in them. You knelt in front of him, jars of salves and cloths spread around you, the soft scent of herbs filling the small space.
You dipped a cloth in the water and began gently cleaning the dried blood along his cheekbones. He flinched away just a little at your touch. Frowning, you held his face lightly with your hands to keep him from moving.
“What happened?” you asked softly, eyes scanning his bruises.
“My brother… he was being a skxawng,” he replied shortly.
You paused, raising a brow. He said nothing further, his gaze flicking to the floor.
“You’re not going to tell me more?” you prompted gently.
Neteyam shook his head, offering a small, reassuring smile. “You don’t have to worry about it. I’ve got it handled.”
You rolled your eyes at him but didn’t respond, bending closer to continue cleaning the stubborn bruise along his cheek. Every so often, his gaze caught yours, steady and curious, and each time you quickly dropped your eyes back to the cloth, pretending to be entirely absorbed in the task.
You only notice the slight tremor of your hand, and the faster beats of your heart when you finally reach the dried blood at the corner of his lips. Carefully, you dabbed at the skin, very much aware of the small space between you.
Don’t you dare speak. You chant in your head as you do, because you know that if he speaks, it’s over—
“You’re very gentle,” he murmured in a low, breathy tone. His breath fanned across your knuckles, sending a shiver through you. Your eyes instinctively move toward his lips. And, you suddenly became conscious of him adjusting the loose pearl accessory of your necklace with quiet fingers. Just right above your heart.
It was all too much, every sense alert, but you didn’t pull away. This was your responsibility; as a future Tsahìk, you would not let it unnerve you! You swallow, forcing yourself to stay focused on the task at hand, determined to finish tending to him before your thoughts betrayed you further.
When you finally pulled back slightly, you felt his hand graze your collarbone as he let go of the pearl. Taking a quiet, internal pep talk, you grabbed the balm and faced him again. The small, teasing smirk on his face irked you—you could almost see him enjoying this torment.
Finally, you broke the silence as you pressed the balm gently into the abrasions along his skin. “Why did you join them?” you asked, your voice quieter than before, but edged with something sharper. “I thought you were supposed to be the responsible one.”
Neteyam’s jaw tightened. For a moment, you thought he might pull away. Instead, he stayed still, eyes flicking anywhere but your face. “I… had to,” he said, the words barely more than a breath.
You felt something twist in your chest. You pushed, unable to stop yourself. “No,” you said, firmer now. “You didn’t have to. If you had stopped your brother, it wouldn’t have escalated. None of this would’ve happened.”
The moment the words left you, you wanted them back.
He finally looked at you then. Not angry. Not defensive. Just tired. Hurt. “So you’re saying it’s my fault?”
Your hands stilled, the cloth hovering uselessly between you. The air felt too tight to breathe in. “That’s not—” You swallowed. “That’s not what I mean.”
But the damage was already done.
He nodded once, slowly, as if accepting something he hadn’t wanted to hear. His shoulders eased—not in relief, but resignation. “Right,” he murmured, and his gaze dropped again, shutting you out.
Silence settled heavy and suffocating between you. You forced your hands to move, to finish what you’d started, even as your chest ached with every careful touch. Neither of you spoke. The tension didn’t fade—it pressed in, filling every corner of the pod.
When you were done, you pulled away and returned the cloths, jars, and balm to their places. The soft clink of pottery sounded too loud in the quiet, each noise echoing like a reminder of what you’d broken. You straightened, drawing in a slow breath, foolishly hoping that he might say something. Anything.
Instead, you heard him rise behind you, the woven mat shifting beneath his feet.
“I have to go,” he said quickly, as if staying even a second longer would undo him.
You didn’t turn around. You only exhaled, the breath leaving you heavier than it should have. His footsteps faded, and with them went something fragile you hadn’t realized you were holding onto.
And somehow, despite knowing better, a sharp, unwanted pang of disappointment bloomed in your chest. You didn’t know why you’d expected him to stay after that.
The truth struck you all at once, merciless in its clarity: you had taken your own fears, your own sense of responsibility, and placed them squarely on his shoulders. You had expected him to be steady when you were unraveling, to bear the weight of expectations that were never his alone.
The guilt settled deep, sour and crushing, curling tight around your heart.
You let your shoulders slump, fingers curling uselessly at your sides. The pod felt smaller now, the silence louder, pressing in from all directions. And you couldn’t shake the thought that maybe, just maybe, you had made this harder than it needed to be for both of you.
If things couldn’t get any worse, your brother took Lo’ak beyond the reef.
The news reached you as the sun dipped low, the sky bruised with fading light. The earlier confusion over Ao’nung’s words resurfacing at the back of your mind, along with Neteyam and your mother’s words. It all tangled together until it curdled into something raw and frustrating.
By the time dinner was served, your patience was already threadbare.
“So,” you said at last, not looking at him, “did it ever occur to you that you put his life in danger when you brought him there?”
He shrugged. “He seemed fine. You’re overreacting.”
That did it. You finally looked at him then, eyes sharp. “You don’t get to decide that,” you said quietly. “Not when everyone else has to deal with the consequences.”
He pushed his food away, irritation flashing across his face. “Why are you suddenly on my back about this?”
Tonowari’s voice cut cleanly through the air before you could answer.
“That is enough.”
His gaze moved between you and your brother, heavy with expectation. “Your mother has already told me you were to tend to both Neteyam and Lo’ak,” he said. “So I will ask plainly—how did the boy end up with Ao’nung?”
The question turned, subtly but unmistakably, toward you.
You felt it then—the weight of it settling squarely on your shoulders.
“I didn’t see him earlier,” you said quietly.
Ao’nung scoffed. “Maybe you didn’t look.”
The words struck sharper than you expected. A hiss slipped past your teeth before you could stop it, your hands curling in your lap. “That’s not—”
Tsireya murmured softly beside you, your name spoken like an anchor. Her fingers wrapped gently around your arm, not restraining, just there.
“Enough.” Tonowari’s voice was harsher now, steel beneath the calm. He said your name once, firmly, a warning more than a reprimand.
It burned, being looked at like this, like the fault might belong to you simply because you were there, because you were supposed to be watching, healing, fixing. As if you could be in all places at once. As if responsibility meant omniscience.
You lowered your gaze, jaw tightening as something sharp lodged in your throat, barbed and unforgiving. You swallowed hard, but it did nothing to ease it.
It was not fair, and you knew it, but fairness had never spared anyone before. Still, the sting lingered, because somehow, again, the blame had found its way back to you.
And you wondered if this was how Neteyam had felt too.
Over the week, you made yourself scarce.
You stopped teaching the Sully children, stopped lingering by the shallows or sitting in on their lessons. When asked, you said your guidance was no longer needed. They had been here long enough, learned enough. Other times, you claimed you had more important duties to attend to. Things only you could help with.
Tsireya could attest to it. Whenever the Sullys asked after you, she found herself answering honestly: that you were almost always at your mother’s side now, as you had been before they arrived. That even before them, you rarely had time to simply be with your own siblings.
She remembered fondly that when the Sullys first came, you had changed just a little. You had stayed longer by the water with them. You had laughed more easily. You had been less rigid with yourself, allowing small reprieves you rarely took. And Tsireya had been happy then, happier to spend more time with you than she had in a long while.
She wasn’t sure what had happened in these past few days to send you retreating back into yourself.
Her eyes often drifted to Neteyam, who’s quieter now, more reserved, his presence dimmer than it had been. She wanted to believe it was coincidence. She wanted to believe it had nothing to do with you.
But you had never told her anything. And so she assumed, as she always did, that it might be many things at once or something else entirely.
But, Tsireya could see it—feel it, almost, whenever the two of you were in the same space.
Not side by side. Never that. Just… near enough for the air to grow tight, for conversations to stumble and quiet. Even with others around, the tension clung stubbornly. It frustrated everyone, though no one said it aloud.
You barely looked at Neteyam anymore.
When you had to interact, it was efficient and clipped. A tool passed into his hand without your fingers lingering. A short instruction. A single sentence, nothing more. And then you would turn away as if there were nothing else to say.
Neteyam, on the other hand, kept looking at you.
Not openly, never enough to draw attention, but with a quiet, aching focus, as though his eyes kept finding you without permission. Like there were words lodged somewhere in his chest, pressing hard against his ribs, waiting for the smallest opening. Like he was memorizing the way you moved, the way your shoulders stiffened whenever you sensed him near, the way you avoided meeting his gaze as if it might undo you both.
Tsireya noticed every time.
And each time she did, she rolled her eyes, more often than she had all week, exasperation bubbling beneath her calm. Because whatever this was—this silence, this careful distance—it was unbearable to watch. For everyone.
And Tsireya was this close to doing something about it.
So, inevitably, she turned to the only other person who had front-row seats to the mess.
Lo’ak.
And honestly? He didn’t even need convincing.
From his point of view, Neteyam had been absolutely insufferable.
Not loud-insufferable. Worse. Quiet. Hovering. Always somehow in Lo’ak’s space—too close, too present—like he was searching for company the way someone reached for noise when they didn’t want to think. Like if he stayed busy enough, surrounded enough, he wouldn’t have to notice the one person who was suddenly missing from his orbit.
It was stupid. Lo’ak knew it was stupid.
Still, he couldn’t help laughing about it.
Because at some point, he’d snapped.
Cornered Neteyam face-to-face, hands on his hips, incredulous. “Bro. Go find her or something. I can’t hang out with you all the time.”
Neteyam’s reaction had been priceless.
Blank. Tight-jawed. That painfully neutral look he got when he pretended not to know what the hell anyone was talking about—like he’d swallowed a rock and was trying to pass it off as dignity. Not defensive. Just uncomfortable in the most obvious way possible.
Lo’ak had almost lost it.
Because yeah, Neteyam could pretend. But Lo’ak wasn’t blind.
He’d seen the difference. Felt it, even.
Neteyam had been happier since you arrived. Lighter. Like something in him had finally loosened. The responsible son who suddenly laughed more, who snuck out at night thinking no one noticed. As if Lo’ak didn’t know exactly where he was going.
So, when Tsireya brought it up, he didn’t argue. If this kept up—this avoiding, this yearning, this walking-in-circles-around-each-other thing—someone was going to have to intervene soon.
It was a few days later that you found yourself tasked once again to travel. South, this time, to another clan where you were to study under a different Tsahìk and lend your help to their village.
Oddly, there were no complaints from you this time. You accepted the decision quietly, almost gratefully, even if you had protested to Tsireya before every time this happened. It was a convenient excuse to distract yourself from the lingering ache in your chest every time you thought of Neteyam, from the tension that tightened around your ribs whenever his gaze brushed yours, and the gnawing guilt of knowing he was likely still mad at you.
No matter where you went, your eyes betrayed you, constantly flicking around, searching for him even when you knew you shouldn’t. You realized you couldn’t continue like that—not while you carried the weight of unspoken words and bruised pride, not while every shared space felt charged with what you refused to say. The distance, you told yourself, was necessary.
That was why you didn’t understand why you stayed out so late the night before you were meant to leave. You found yourself perched on the smooth stone you and he had claimed as yours. You waited.
Waited for the scrape of his feet on stone. Waited for any sound, any movement that might tell you he still thought of you—that you had not been so easily set aside, that the space between you still meant something to him.
And yet, you knew the truth—you had no right to expect him to come.
The frustration burned away. Part of you wanted to be angry at him: for leaving so quickly without letting you explain yourself, for allowing silence to stand where words should have been. You clung to that resentment for a while because it was easier than facing the other truth. That you had built the distance yourself and then recoiled when it widened.
Sitting there alone, the night pressing in around you, it stung to realize that you had wanted him to cross a distance you had created. That you had wanted reassurance without risking vulnerability. That you had wanted him to stay, while making it impossible for him to know how.
The space beside you stayed empty.
“Do not forget to bring extra pots and knives. And do not stray from the path without telling someone.” Ronal’s voice guided you through the last minutes before departure.
You nodded along, murmuring your responses where appropriate. “Yes, it is already there. I know the path.”
“Do not forget your herbs and your healing salves,” she added, leaning closer to tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “And remember to eat. Do not let yourself weaken.”
“Yes, Ma,” you said softly, forcing a smile.
The clan had gathered to see you off. Some of the Sully family were there, eyes bright with curiosity and concern, and a few older members of your own clan had come to accompany you on the journey. You put the last of your belongings into the canoe, your hands lingering over each item as if to memorize it.
It was your sister who approached first, pulling you into a firm hug. You smiled into her shoulder, but it didn’t reach your eyes. One by one, your family followed, each embrace warm and heavy with unspoken love. You stepped back, giving small nods to the clan members gathered along the shore.
Finally, you turned toward the Sully family, standing together on the opposite bank. Your eyes swept past them, still avoiding his. You offered a polite nod to the group, forcing your gaze elsewhere, though your mind—and your heart—betrayed you, tethered to the figure you could not seem to fully ignore.
Even as you climbed onto your tsurak and felt the bond take hold, your muscles tense with anticipation, you couldn’t stop the pull of curiosity. The way your heart ached with the need to know he was still there, watching, waiting. Your breath caught slightly as you dared, at last, to glance toward him.
And there he was—already watching you. The sharp awareness in his gaze mirrored your own, a silent acknowledgment of the same pull, the same unspoken hesitancy. A flicker of shock hit your chest and you masked it immediately, offering a small, careful smile instead.
You could feel the subtle shift in the way he held himself as if waiting for any sign from you. And though your mind told you to look away, to stay composed, there was a strange, almost terrifying comfort in knowing that he was as present in that moment as you were, that your absence did not erase you from his thoughts.
You didn’t know if he’d see it, and you didn’t let yourself linger on that thought. There was no way of knowing what the next days would hold, only that for now, you were leaving, and it would be a week before you saw him once again.
