erotic • fiction • writer @sensualresiduals - Tumblr Blog

Apr 14

Home Is You

Paring: Neteyam x Fem!Omatikaya!Reader

Warnings: NSFW 18+, established relationship, flirting , smut, cheating (technically), mentions of sex tapes/hot pictures/videos, mentions of pregnancy, mentions of child birth, mentions of blood, gunshot wounds, loads of trauma, explicit language and acts, p in v, orals (m&f receiving), our man falls into a coma, memory loss, kissing, touching. (If I forgot anything please lmk)

Word Count: 49.1k

Disclaimer: All my characters are aged-up! If that bothers you, please do not interact with my account or any of my post! Also for the this fic, Kiri is the biological daughter of Jake and Neytiri.

Index: mauri - homes in the Metkayina Clan, yawne - beloved, tìywan - love, kelku - homes in the Omatikaya Clan. (If I forgot anything please lmk)

Main M.List

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Airi blinked, caught off guard, her hand still awkwardly on Neteyam’s arm. “Oh—I didn’t mean anything, I didn’t think—”

“I know you didn’t thinkt.” You didn’t raise your voice, but it was firm with the same smile. “Maybe that’s the problem.” A beat of silence passed, thick and awkward. Airi gave a small, forced laugh, murmured something about needing to help her mother, and quickly walked off.

The second she was out of earshot, Neteyam let out a low whistle and crossed his arms, eyeing you with open amusement. “Damn.”

You turned toward him slowly, still tense. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?” His grin widened. “Say how hot that was?”

You shot him a look. “You didn’t stop her.”

“I didn’t even see her coming,” he said, laughing. “I was halfway through talking to Lo’ak about hunting patterns. She ambushed me.”

You huffed, still annoyed. Neteyam tilted his head, stepping closer. “You know, it’s funny.”

“What?”

“I don’t have a girlfriend.” Your eyes narrowed and put your hand to rest on your hip very sassily. “Really?”

“Really,” he repeated, voice low and teasing. “No official titles. No agreements. Nothing carved in stone.”

Your chest twisted. You hated when he did this, danced the line between teasing and truth, between almost and not quiet.

Then he leaned closer, eyes locking on yours. “But if I did? You know it’d be you.” You froze, caught completely off guard. Your lips parted, but no sound came out. From behind, a snort of laughter broke the tension, Lo’ak, of course. “You guys are exhausting.”

Kiri added dryly, “One of these days you’re both just going to explode from the tension and take the whole kelku with you.”

“I like her better than the other girl,” Tuk said seriously, tugging on Neteyam’s tail. “She’s prettier. And funnier. And nicer.” You buried your face in your hands.

Neteyam chuckled, wrapping an arm around your waist. “Can’t argue with that.” You didn’t pull away. You couldn’t. Not when he was this close, warm and solid and entirely too pleased with himself. And even though you wanted to stay mad… part of you was glowing. Because for all his teasing, you knew he meant it.

A few years passed, just like that. What started as sleepovers and sharing fruit as toddlers had blossomed into something much deeper, something no longer so easy to ignore. By the time you were seventeen and Neteyam had just turned eighteen, the change between you had settled in quietly but unmistakably.

The flirting had evolved from playful to lingering. The touches — brushing hands as you passed, his palm against your back when you ducked beneath the trees — stayed just a little too long. And the jealousy… that hadn’t faded. If anything, it had grown more obvious. You saw it in the way Neteyam went stiff whenever another boy tried to flirt with you during hunts or communal dinners. Just like how your stomach would twist when one of the village girls leaned too close to him, laughing too loud at something he hadn’t even said.

Everyone saw it — the whole family. Kiri gave you side-eyes, Tuk giggled whenever she caught the two of you looking at each other. Even Jake had exchanged a knowing look with Neytiri once when Neteyam instinctively reached for your hand as you crossed a riverbank. Still, nothing had been said. Until the night he finally did.

Neteyam had asked you to meet him just after eclipse, near the glade where you’d learned to climb as kids. You thought maybe it was another stargazing night, like the ones you often shared in silence. But when you arrived, your breath caught.

He had cleared a space in the grass and lined it with soft, glowing petals. A few hung from nearby branches — not too many, just enough to make the air feel alive with light. In the center, he stood waiting, hands behind his back, eyes brighter than you’d ever seen them.

“You remember this place?” he asked softly, watching your face. You nodded. “You dared me to climb that tree,” you smiled, pointing up. “You had to carry me down after I got stuck halfway.” He chuckled, stepping closer. “I’ve carried you through a lot since then.” Your stomach twisted in the best way.

He took your hands in his. “I didn’t know how to say it before. I didn’t want to ruin what we had. But I can’t hold it anymore.”

Your heartbeat like thunder in your chest. “I love you,” he said. Simply. “I have for years. You’re my best friend, my peace, the only thing that feels right no matter what else changes.” You stared up at him, blinking fast, your chest tight.

He smiled, breathless now. “And if I’m lucky… maybe you feel the same.” You didn’t answer with words. You stepped forward and pulled him into a hug so tight it nearly knocked the wind from him.

“I see you,” you whispered against his skin, and he melted.

When you pulled back, your eyes were glassy. “I’ve loved you too. I just didn’t know how to say it either.”

His smile was the softest you’d ever seen. “You didn’t have to. I think I’ve always known.”

And when he kissed you — slow, reverent, trembling just slightly — it felt like the end of a question you’d both been asking for years. Ever since that night under the stars, everything between you and Neteyam had shifted.

There was no more wondering, no more hesitation, no more hiding behind half-glances and lingering touches. Now you could hold his hand openly in the village, sit a little closer during meals, steal little kisses when no one was watching. But the problem was… people were watching.

It started innocently enough. A few days after you’d officially become a couple, Neytiri had walked into the family kelku earlier than expected and found the two of you curled up in Neteyam’s hammock. Fully clothed, mostly, but definitely tangled together, your hands beneath his chest wrap and his lips pressed against your neck like he had no plans to stop.

She didn’t say anything, not at first. Just blinked, paused… and then quietly backed out of the space with a small smirk that left you burying your face in Neteyam’s shoulder while he cursed softly under his breath.

“She’s going to tell everyone, “You groaned. “She probably already has,” he whispered, but he kissed you again anyway. After that, the teasing began.

Lo’ak was the first to weaponize it. He caught you and Neteyam just outside the edge of the forest, your back against a tree and your mate’s hands far too low on your hips for brotherly comfort. Lo’ak didn’t even pause — just whistled as he passed.

“Don’t mind me, just trying to avoid eye contact so I can keep my vision,” he said loudly, laughing all the way back to the village.

Then came Kiri, who found you both late one night when she came to retrieve a healing pouch from the supplies and opened the wrong curtain — only to find Neteyam halfway beneath your wrap and your legs around his waist.

“AHHHH!!” she squeaked, backing out so fast she knocked over a water basin. The two of you froze, staring wide-eyed at the closed flap.

Even Tuk caught you…Twice. Once during a morning swim, when Neteyam pulled you into his lap and whispered something you really shouldn’t have giggled at. Tuk popped out of the water like a fish, wide-eyed and innocent. “Why is your face all red?” she asked you curiously. “Did Neteyam say something naughty?”

“Go swim,” Neteyam said immediately, flustered. “Go!”

The last time you’d been caught, it had taken a full week for Lo’ak to stop whistling teasingly every time you and Neteyam so much as stood near each other. But today, the pull between you was too strong. Just a few stolen minutes behind the large cluster of flowering trees near the family kelku—it wasn’t far, but just out of sight.

Neteyam had you pinned gently to the forest floor, his broad, paint-streaked body curled over yours, propped on his elbows to avoid crushing you. One hand was tangled in your hair, the other… was not where it should’ve been, tugging your tweng slightly aside as his mouth met yours over and over. The air between you was breathless—sweet, gasping kisses exchanged like secrets.

You had your hands on his back, fingers pressing into the muscle at his sides as you whispered, “Neteyam—” Then came a very small gasp.

“Neteyam?” a tiny voice squeaked. Both of you jolted in unison. There, just a few feet away, stood Tuk, eyes huge, hands clutching her toy beads. She looked confused. Then her lower lip quivered.

“Mommy!” she screamed at the top of her lungs. “NETEYAM IS HURTING HER!!” Your heart stopped.

“Tuk, no! Wait, I’m not—” You scrambled up, dragging your tweng back into place, face burning.

Neteyam looked like Eywa herself had struck him. “Tuk—it’s not what it looks like!” Too late.

Tuk had already darted off in a blur, hollering, “MOMMY! COME FAST!” Seconds passed in a panicked blur before Neytiri burst into the clearing, bow drawn—followed closely by Jake, Lo’ak, Kiri, and an already-snorting Tuk. The scene they arrived to? You, breathless and flushed, your hair mussed. Neteyam crouched beside you, shirtless as always, hands raised like he was surrendering to the Great Mother herself.

“She—she thought I was—” he started.

“I thought she was hurt!!” Tuk insisted, tears pooling in her wide golden eyes. “She was saying ‘Neteyam—wait—’”

“Oh Eywa,” you groaned, dropping your face into your hands. Jake turned away, trying not to laugh. Lo’ak didn’t bother trying. “Bro. Again?!”

Neytiri sighed deeply and gave her son a long look. “Great mother Neteyam.”

“Oh my Eywa,” Kiri echoed, arms crossed.

Meanwhile, Tuk sniffled into Neytiri’s side, still confused. “But why was her tweng pulled down again?” You shrieked in embarrassment, as Kiri and Lo’ak started and uproar

Neteyam wrapped an arm around your shoulders and leaned in, whispering with a smug smile, “Next time… high in the trees?” You elbowed him. “Next time? There won’t be a next time.”

It had been years in the making, the two of you growing up entangled in a love that had bloomed slowly and deeply, like roots stretching beneath the forest floor. Everyone had seen it coming—long before either of you were ready to admit it. The glances, the lingering touches, the way Neteyam’s eyes always searched for you in a crowd and the way your laughter always came easiest in his presence. But still, nothing prepared you for the day he asked you to be his mate.

You’d been walking together through the forest, side by side as you always had, your fingers brushing now and then as they often did. He was quiet that day, more thoughtful than usual. You didn’t know where he was leading you until you reached that ridge above the canopy—the one with the clearest view of the floating mountains. You’d sat there many times before, watching the banshees in the distance, the sky changing colors like a slow-burning fire. But this time, he turned to you with a look in his eyes you hadn’t seen before—soft, certain, a little nervous.

“I’ve known this since we were children,” he said, his hands gently taking yours. “Even before I knew what it meant… I knew you were mine. I want to make that true in the eyes of Eywa. Will you choose me? Will you mate with me for life?”

Your heart stilled, then surged. You had loved him for as long as you could remember—through the awkward childhood years, the teasing, the jealous stares, the stolen kisses behind trees. It was never a question. “Yes,” you whispered. “Always, Neteyam.”

He exhaled, his forehead resting against yours, both of you whispering, “Oel ngati kameie.” His lips brushed yours then—slow, reverent, full of all the promises he hadn’t yet spoken aloud. There was no pressure, no rush. Just love. You would wait for the ceremony. You would wait for each other.

The engagement celebration arrived just a few days later, and the entire clan seemed to vibrate with joy. Music echoed through the trees, lightstones glowing in woven vines above the gathering space. Neytiri had helped braid your hair that morning, her hands gentle as she whispered about her own mating to Jake, about the sweetness and seriousness of the commitment you were about to take. Jake, on the other hand, gave Neteyam a mock stern look and muttered, “I’m so proud of you boy. You earned a good one. Just try to keep it in your tweng until after the ceremony, yeah?”

Kiri hugged you both, whispering, “Don’t think we haven’t noticed all the disappearing acts and stolen touches. Eywa has eyes, you know.” Even Lo’ak smirked and raised his drink in a toast. “To the two worst liars in the family.” Tuk, sweet and wide-eyed, had thrown flower petals at your feet and loudly declared, “Now you get to kiss forever!”

As tradition dictated, you and Neteyam exchanged woven bands of hand-dyed fibers, made from plants you had both gathered together during a quiet week of preparing. They were simple, but beautiful—your initials carved in tiny beads sewn into the weave. You danced beneath the moonlight, your bodies close, eyes locked, his hand warm on your waist. It felt like flying.

Later, when the songs faded and the laughter quieted, Neteyam took your hand once more and led you to your new shared kelku, tucked beneath the giant roots of a banyan tree not far from his family’s. You’d helped build it together, but tonight was the first time you saw it finished. Lightstones glowed warmly inside. Feathers and woven flowers draped along the doorway, and the bed of moss and pelts was soft and inviting.

“I wanted it perfect,” he murmured, pulling back the curtain of vines to let you step inside first. Your breath caught as you turned, meeting his gaze. “It is.”

Inside, he was gentle—so gentle. Every kiss felt like a prayer, every touch reverent. You had both waited for this night, saved yourselves for it. There was laughter and clumsy shifting, soft sighs and long-held gazes. He murmured your name again and again, like a vow. And when the moment finally came, when you gave yourselves fully to one another, it wasn’t rushed or fiery or awkward. It was sacred. Yours. Together.

He held you through it, whispering encouragement, kissing away your nervousness, moving slow and with care. You clung to him, heart pounding, breath catching in your throat when pleasure overtook pain, and you realized just how deeply he loved you.

After, you lay tangled together, your head on his chest, your hand curled over his heart. The air still held the scent of the flowers he’d hung earlier, and the sounds of the forest hummed softly around you like a lullaby. He kissed your hair and whispered, “You are my forever, yawne.” You smiled against his skin. “And you are mine.”

Outside, the stars blinked gently through the treetops, and the moon cast soft light across your new home. And inside, beneath warm furs and whispered breaths, you slept curled in each other’s arms, truly mated, body and soul.

Not long after you and Neteyam were officially mated, it happened — you became pregnant. The signs came slowly at first. Your body began to change in subtle ways: your energy dipped, your appetite shifted, and there was a soft heaviness blooming low in your belly. Neteyam noticed before anyone else, before even you. He started watching you more carefully, guiding your steps when walking through thick roots, brushing your hair away from your face when you were tired, lingering with his hand over your abdomen when you rested. He didn’t say anything for a few days — just watched, waited, and loved you all the more gently.

When you finally told him, you placed his hand over your growing belly. You didn’t have to say anything; his eyes widened, and his whole expression softened into something almost reverent. “A baby,” he breathed. “Our baby.” And then he kissed you — slow and deep and full of wonder — before pulling you tightly into his arms. “Eywa has truly blessed us,” he whispered, voice thick with emotion. “I will take care of you both. Always.”

The Sully family’s reaction was just as emotional. Neytiri pressed her forehead to yours and wept, hands cradling your cheeks as she whispered a mother’s blessing over you. Jake grinned and clapped Neteyam on the shoulder, shaking his head in amazement. “That’s my boy,” he said, laughing quietly. “Starting his own clan already.” Kiri was immediately fussing over you — bringing herbs, creating teas to ease discomfort, and weaving protective beads into your hair. Lo’ak smirked and muttered, “Great, now there’s gonna be a mini you running around,” but even he couldn’t hide the pride in his voice. Tuk was simply overjoyed. She wrapped her arms around your stomach and spoke to the baby as if they could already understand her. “I’m going to teach you all my games,” she promised seriously. “And we’ll eat fruit and swim and make trouble.”

As the seasons passed and your belly grew round with new life, you were never alone. The entire Sully family wrapped you in love and care. Clan members stopped by with gifts — soft cloth for the baby wrap, carved toys, fruits and roots rich with nutrients. Neteyam, though, was your constant. He helped you bathe in the cool springs when your back ached, carried you when your legs tired, massaged your feet when you couldn’t sleep. His hands were always gentle, reverent. He spoke to your belly each night, whispering stories, dreams, and promises. “You are already so loved, little one,” he’d say. “Your mother is the strongest soul I know. You’re safe with us.”

Then, one evening, the pain began. It started as a low pressure in your back, then came the waves — tightening, pulsing, until your body was trembling with effort. Neteyam didn’t panic. He scooped you up and brought you to your kelku, calling softly for his mother. Neytiri arrived swiftly, calm and collected. “It is time,” she said, brushing your sweat-dampened hair from your face. “Breathe, ma’ite. I will help you bring this child into the world.”

Neteyam knelt at your side, holding your hand, grounding you with his touch. “You’re doing so well,” he whispered, kissing your temple between contractions. “I’m here. I’m right here.”

Neytiri worked with the grace and strength of a seasoned mother. She guided you through each wave, spoke calmly even when your cries rose with the intensity. You gripped Neteyam’s hand, locked eyes with him, and knew — you could do this. With his love. With his strength. With your own. And then — a cry. Not yours.

Your baby was born under the canopy of night, with Neytiri lifting him gently into the air, his small limbs flailing, his voice strong and full of life. “A son,” she said, her own eyes shining as she handed him to you. “You have a son.”

Tears streamed down your face as you cradled him to your chest. Neteyam leaned close, arms around both of you, trembling with joy. “He’s perfect,” he whispered. “You did it, yawne. You gave us a son.”

The family came soon after, quiet and wide-eyed. “His name is Eylan.” Neteyam told everyone. Neytiri placed a kiss on your forehead. Jake kissed his grandson’s tiny hand. Kiri smiled with misty eyes. Lo’ak and Tuk peeked from behind the doorway until they were invited in, and Tuk gasped, clutching her mouth. “He’s so small,” she whispered. “Can I hold him?”

That night, your kelku glowed with woven lanterns, the scent of sweet herbs, and the sound of lullabies. Neteyam held you close, his son resting on your chest, and whispered, “This is our beginning. And I will love you both for the rest of my life.” Time had a strange way of moving when your days were filled with joy.

Eylan turned one beneath the thick canopy of Home Tree, surrounded by warmth, song, and laughter. His wide amber eyes sparkled with the curiosity of his father, and his tiny feet already tried to run before they could walk properly. He giggled with wild abandon, often tumbling into arms always waiting to catch him — yours, Neteyam’s, or someone from the Sully family, all of whom adored him beyond reason.

Neteyam carved him a tiny wooden ikran, polished smooth with love, and painted it with soft, natural dyes. “So you can fly even before you’re big enough to ride,” he whispered to his son, lifting him high into the air with a grin as Eylan squealed in delight. That moment was one of hundreds. Every day, Neteyam would swing Eylan onto his shoulders and run with him through the trees, climbing, laughing, teaching him the sounds of the forest and the names of the creatures they passed. “This is your home,” he would say gently, tapping Eylan’s chest with two fingers. “Here, and here with us.”

The Sully family was hopelessly smitten with him. Tuk was his favorite playmate, often letting him ride on her back like a direhorse, giggling as she neighed and galloped through the roots of Home Tree. Kiri braided tiny strings of flowers into his baby hair, whispering gentle stories of Eywa, and Lo’ak — despite pretending to be too cool — secretly carved Eylan little animals out of soft wood, sneaking them into his sleeping furs at night.

Even Jake, who was always so focused, would sit down with Eylan and bounce him on his knee, speaking to him in English and Na’vi, smiling despite himself when the baby would babble back nonsense. Neytiri taught you how to soothe him when he cried and helped you prepare his first bow — though it was mostly for show, since Eylan liked to chew on it more than anything.

And between it all — it was you and Neteyam. Your bond grew even deeper, grounded in shared parenthood, laughter, and exhaustion. Late nights swaying with Eylan between your bodies, mornings where you awoke to Neteyam cradling him on his chest, humming softly, eyes half-lidded with peace. He was the most patient, most loving father you could have dreamed of. He told you that he had never known a love like this before — not just for his child, but for you, the mother of his son.

“Eywa has blessed me more than I deserve,” he said once, eyes locked on you both while you nursed Eylan under the flowering branches of a quiet grove. “You’ve made me a father, a mate… a man.” But peace doesn’t last forever.

The Sky People returned like a storm — metal crashing from the skies, fire scorching the land. In that first wave, everyone fought. Even Neteyam, young but fierce, took to the air with his bow and his ikran to defend what mattered most. For a full year, the Sullys waged war at the edges of the forest — watching, protecting, ambushing.

You kept Eylan close, never letting him out of your sight. Neteyam came back to you every night, stained with ash or blood or both, always checking to see his son sleeping safely in your arms before allowing himself to breathe.

There were nights where he didn’t speak — only held you and buried his face in your neck. “I don’t want him to grow up like this,” he murmured once, voice breaking. “He deserves to know trees, not fire.” When Eylan turned two, Jake finally said the words that shattered your heart: We have to go.

Neteyam protested quietly but understood. “To protect Eylan,” he said, holding his son tighter that night, “we must let go of everything we’ve ever known.”

The night before you left, you and Neteyam stood hand in hand, watching your kelku — the home where Eylan took his first steps, where Neteyam carved lullabies into the walls — one last time. You whispered blessings to the trees, and Neteyam lifted your sleeping son to the stars. “Eywa, guide us,” he said. “Guide our family to where he can be free.” And with hearts both heavy and hopeful, you turned toward the sea.

The sea was not the forest — not in the way it whispered, not in the way it held you — but in time, it became a new kind of home.

Arriving at the Metkayina village had been overwhelming. The open skies and endless horizon felt like another world entirely compared to the thick canopy you had once called home. You remembered how Eylan had clung to Neteyam’s shoulders, wide-eyed and quiet, watching the turquoise waves roll beneath the woven walkways.

You had been welcomed with caution. The Metkayina were kind, but wary. Their ways were not yours. Your bodies were different. Your tongues spoke in a slightly different rhythm. But you learned — all of you.

Neytiri, though her heart still longed for the trees, adapted with quiet grace. Jake trained beside Tonowari, his voice always calm but commanding. Kiri thrived — as if she’d been born from the sea itself. Tuk learned fast, her tiny braids always dripping with salt water, and Lo’ak… well, Lo’ak found love.

Tsireya — beautiful, graceful, radiant. Her laughter was a melody that rang through the cove like birdsong, and Lo’ak fell fast and hard. It was the kind of love that snuck up on him, the way it had for you and Neteyam all those years ago. She became a sister to you, her presence a comfort and joy. Her family welcomed you all in time — friendships forged through hardship, trust, and time. Ronal eventually softened, especially when she saw the way you raised your children with the same fire and patience she held for her own.

You remembered when Neteyam first brought you to the deeper reefs. Your fingers laced, the sun cutting gold through the waves as he taught you how to dive with your whole body, how to let the sea carry you. “This is freedom too,” he’d whispered against your skin as you surfaced, breathless and laughing. “Just a different kind.” Four years passed like water slipping through your fingers, quietly, steadily.

Eylan grew into a wild-hearted six-year-old, just like his father. He was fearless in the water, nimble with his ilu, sharp-eyed and fast. He learned to dive before many of the Metkayina children his age, and Tonowari even joked once that “the forest boy must’ve been born in the waves.” Neteyam beamed with pride, always the first to cheer when his son surfaced from a dive or speared his first fish.

Your family expanded, love growing even deeper between you and Neteyam. One starlit night, under a blanket of bioluminescent light dancing across the sea, you told him you were expecting again. He cried softly, cradling your belly with reverence. “Eywa gives me everything I never knew I needed,” he murmured into your neck. “You, our sons… our life.”

From the moment Likan was born, the Sully kelku overflowed with even more laughter, love, and affection than ever before. Neytiri had been the first to hold him after Neteyam, her hands gentle and sure as she cradled her newest grandson, whispering quiet blessings in Na’vi. She marveled at how much he looked like his father—Neteyam’s strong jaw, his deep golden eyes—but with your nose and the soft curl of your lips. She pressed a kiss to Likan’s brow and then turned to you, tears in her eyes. “Ma ‘ite, you and my son… you make such beauty together.”

Jake, too, was wrapped around Likan’s tiny fingers. Even more laid-back as a grandfather than he ever was as a father, he spent mornings showing Likan carved wooden animals he made just for him, while Eylan proudly helped paint them in bright sea-colored hues. “Two boys,” he’d say with a wide grin, tousling Eylan’s hair while Likan cooed in his lap. “You and Neteyam are in for it now.” But the pride was clear in his voice, and so was the joy.

Kiri, as always, was a natural. She carried Likan around on her hip with flowers braided in his hair, telling him long stories of Eywa and forest spirits. Likan loved the sound of her voice and often fell asleep curled against her chest as she whispered the tales of Home Tree. Tuk—who had long since appointed herself big cousin of the year—took her role seriously. She made matching seashell necklaces for both Eylan and Likan, always watching over the youngest with gentle care. The first time Likan said “Tuk” in his tiny voice, she cried and wouldn’t let go of him all afternoon.

Even Lo’ak, ever the wild one, became surprisingly soft when it came to Likan. He would let the baby climb all over him, even yank on his braids, never once complaining. He carried Likan on his shoulders through the shallows, pretending to be a tulkun, while Eylan rode proudly on Neteyam’s back beside them. “You’re just lucky you look like your mama,” Lo’ak teased once, pinching Likan’s cheek. “That’s why I let you drool on me.”

And Neteyam—Eywa, Neteyam. The way he looked at his sons was enough to melt your heart every time. He was a father so deeply in love with his family that every look, every laugh, every moment spent cuddled between the boys and you in the hammock, told its own story of devotion. With Likan sleeping on his chest and Eylan curled at his side.

Now at two years old, Likan was a constant companion to Eylan — always trailing behind him, squealing as he tried to mimic everything his big brother did. Neteyam was utterly taken with them both. He carved toys from driftwood, told them stories under the stars, and swam with Likan cradled on his back while Eylan darted circles around them. You watched often from the shore, your heart full beyond words. And though the forest still called to you sometimes in dreams… the sea answered back with peace. This was your home now. Your family. Your love.

A few months later you were sitting in the sand with Neteyam, just past the tree line where the sea met the forest, your legs stretched in front of you, your back against his warm chest. His arms were wrapped securely around you, one hand gently tracing the growing curve of your belly — not yet obvious to others, but known, deeply felt.

“You’re sure?” he whispered softly into your ear, his breath warm, his voice reverent. You smiled, fingers threading through his. “I’m sure,” you murmured. “I wanted to wait to tell you until I was certain. You’re going to be a father again.”

Neteyam’s breath caught. He froze, just for a second, then exhaled a shaky laugh of disbelief, joy breaking across his features like sunlight. He kissed your cheek, your temple, your jaw, your shoulder — then rested his forehead against yours. “Three,” he whispered. “We’re going to have three.”

You both waited until that evening to tell the family. The Sully kelku was alive with laughter and light. Tuk was trying to balance Likan on her back like a pa’li, and Eylan was using a shell to make “soup” out of seawater and sand. Lo’ak and Kiri arguing about minuscule things making Tsireya laugh. Jake and Neytiri sat by the fire, smiling at the chaos around them. When you took Neteyam’s hand and stood, all eyes turned.

“We have something to share,” Neteyam said, his voice gentle but steady. You couldn’t stop smiling as he placed a proud hand over your belly. “We’re expecting again.”

Gasps echoed. Tuk squealed, running to throw her arms around your waist. Neytiri rose quickly, mist in her eyes as she cupped your cheeks, her joy immediate. “Eywa has blessed us,” she whispered. Jake let out a whoop and clapped Neteyam hard on the back. Lo’ak tackled him in congratulations, and Kiri and Tsireya wrapped you both in a long, warm hug.

Even Ronal and Tonowari sent over gifts the next day — strands of woven pearls for you, a carved bone teether for the baby, a set of tiny sea-colored wraps. The whole village celebrated. For a while, everything was peace and laughter and hope. Until the demon ship came.

It was fast — the sky people returning in brutal force. The hunting party never returned. Roa, Ronal’s spirit sister, was slaughtered along with her calf. The waves turned red. The village turned silent. Jake called for the warriors to move — and Neteyam turned to you, gripping your arms tightly.

“Stay,” he whispered, his voice low but firm. “Stay here. Watch the boys. Don’t leave the kelku, no matter what. I’ll come back. I promise.” Your heart twisted, but you nodded. You kissed him once, then again, pressing your forehead to his. “Come back to me,” you whispered.

Hours later, too many hours in your opinion passed, the sky and see had matching shades of orange when Kiri came stumbling in, “come, come, he is hurt.” She stuttered out and you didn’t need another word picking yourself up and running to the healer's mauri. Kiri close behind with Likan in her hip and Eylan clutching her hand.

The healer’s mauri was already crowded by the time you ran through the reef village. She hadn’t said much after those word—just “Neteyam” and “shot”—and that alone had been enough to steal your breath, to send your thoughts into a panicked spiral. You didn’t even stop to ask if he was alive. You couldn’t. You didn’t want to hear anything but “yes.”

Your chest was tight, your throat aching with the pressure of a scream that hadn’t yet found air. Kiri’s footsteps splashed behind you through shallow tidepools, your two sons in her arms and at her heels. You didn’t dare turn around. You were focused on one thing.

When you reached the healer’s mauri, you pushed aside the flap without hesitation—and froze. He was there. Laid out on a woven mat, bloodied and still. The wail that tore out of you was immediate, raw and unrestrained. “Neteyam!”

Jake was already kneeling beside his son, hands stained red, whispering soft prayers to Eywa. Neytiri sat with her forehead pressed against Neteyam’s hand, tears streaking her face. Lo’ak stood rigid in the corner, jaw clenched so tight it looked like he might crack his own teeth. Tuk, curled in Neytiri’s lap, was wide-eyed and quiet, too young to understand all of it but old enough to feel the fear. When you stumbled in, the room shifted instantly.

You fell to your knees beside Neteyam, grabbing his hand, sobbing so violently it was hard to breathe. “Please—Neteyam, wake up. Wake up! Please!”

Jake reached for your shoulder, trying to steady you, but you pulled away, your entire body curling over Neteyam’s as if your love alone could protect him from whatever force had done this. “Mama?” Eylan’s little voice broke behind you. You turned around sharply, wild-eyed, as Kiri entered, holding Likan on her hip and Eylan’s hand. The boys stopped short at the sight of their father.

“Mama, what’s wrong with sempu?” Eylan asked, clutching Kiri’s leg, voice quivering. “Why is he all red?” Your breath hitched. Likan looked around, confused and teary. “Is Daddy sleeping?” You pressed your hands to your mouth, eyes wide and brimming with tears. You tried to speak, but nothing came out—only broken sobs.

Kiri gently passed Likan to Neytiri, who cradled him and Tuk together, her arms trembling. Jake picked Eylan up and sat down beside you on the mat, placing the boy in your lap and anchoring your shaking hands around him.

“Breathe, sweetheart,” he said, firmly but gently. “I know. I know it’s hard. But he’s alive. He’s fighting. Look at him.”

You barely heard him. Your eyes were locked on Neteyam’s face, unmoving, pale save for the angry red of dried blood. Eylan looked up at you, his tiny hand pressing to your cheek. “Why are you crying?” he asked, sniffling. “Is Daddy gonna go to Eywa?”

“No!” you gasped out, shaking your head too fast. “No, no, baby—he—he’s not—he’s not—” You couldn’t even finish. You broke again, hugging Eylan to your chest, your other hand reaching toward Neteyam even as your entire body shook.

Neytiri passed Likan to Lo’ak, who gently bounced him as he stood, whispering, “It’s okay, little guy, Daddy’s gonna be okay.” But you could see his jaw trembling too, the way his throat bobbed as he swallowed hard. Neytiri came to you, kneeling beside you and pulling you into her arms, guiding your head to her shoulder while you sobbed.

“You are not alone,” she whispered, voice thick with emotion. “You don’t carry this alone.” Kiri had tears on her face too, but she wiped them away as she pressed a damp cloth to Neteyam’s brow. “We got to him in time,” she said quietly, mostly for your sake. “Tsireya stopped the bleeding. He just needs rest. Healing.”

Jake was silent for a long moment; his eyes locked on his eldest son. Then he reached over, brushing Eylan’s curls out of his eyes, and said, “Your dad’s the strongest person I know, kiddo. He’ll wake up. You’ll see.”

You just cried harder, holding your boy as if they were the only thing keeping you tethered to the ground. And all the while, Neteyam lay still, his hand warm in yours. A breath of life—but only barely.

You clutched Eylan to your chest, holding him so tightly he whimpered, confused, but not resisting. His round eyes flicked between you and his father’s unmoving body. His little fingers fisted in your hair as your cries began—raw, broken, guttural. You were saying his name over and over, as if it alone could tether his soul back to you. “Neteyam… please… please…”

You barely noticed Lo’ak nearby, now crouched low, arms full of Likan who writhed and whimpered and cried against his uncle’s chest. The toddler was panicking, struggling to reach for you, reaching out with one hand while he clung to Lo’ak with the other. His small voice was cracked from crying, his face wet with tears, overwhelmed by the sight of both his parents falling apart in front of him. You didn’t notice Kiri until she was right beside you. She didn’t speak.

She simply knelt, calm and sure, and slid her arms under Eylan’s small body. He resisted only briefly, but the tears on your face, the shaking of your shoulders, it frightened him. He let go of your neck and went into Kiri’s hold, his lower lip trembling as she stood and turned away, taking him to the edge of the mauri.

Only when his weight left your arms did you suddenly feel how hollow they were. You turned back to Neteyam, grabbing at his hand, kissing it, whispering to him as tears continued to pour from your chin to his bare chest. Your trembling fingers brushed his braids back from his sweat-damp face, desperate for anything, any sign—any flicker.

Likan was screaming now—soft, broken screams of confusion and fear. Neytiri appeared behind Lo’ak, arms open, and Lo’ak handed his little nephew off gently. Likan’s tiny fists pounded at her shoulder, face pressed to her neck as she rocked him, whispering softly, shielding him from the sight of his father.

The mauri entrance stirred Ronal entered first, sharp-eyed and focused, followed closely by Tsireya and two other healers. Their arms were full of salves, herbs, warm cloth. The moment they entered, the air changed urgency replacing fear. “You must move,” Ronal said, not cruelly, but firm.

“No,” you gasped, clutching Neteyam’s arm, burying your face in his shoulder. “No, I can’t—he needs me—I need to stay—”

“He will not survive if we cannot reach him,” she said, already setting her things beside him. Tsireya crossed to the other side and knelt. Her voice was softer, coaxing. “Please. Let us help him. You’ve done all you can.”

You didn’t hear yourself sob. You didn’t feel your body convulsing with every breath. But the arms that pulled you back were familiar—Jake’s. You resisted at first, claws curling into the woven mat. “No—no, please—I can’t—please, no—”

Neytiri approached, still rocking Likan, who was hiccuping against her shoulder, his little voice warbling with the last of his strength. She kissed his head and crouched beside you. “Let them save him, ma’ite. You must let go for now.”

“No, no no no I can’t,” you whispered through choked sobs. Jake pulled you back slowly, and you crumbled into him, your face buried in his chest as your hands reached blindly for your mate.

Kiri was nearby, holding Eylan close, whispering softly. Lo’ak paced beside her, running his fingers through his hair, glancing back constantly at Neteyam. Tuk stood just behind her mother, silent, holding her own tears in a tight, trembling grip. And there, in that mauri, with your heart breaking open and your sons crying for comfort you couldn’t give, you watched as the only person who could soothe your storm lay still unmoving while the healers began their quiet, desperate work. The moment the flap of the healer’s mauri closed behind you; it felt like the world fell silent—then exploded into anguish.

You dropped to the sand as if your legs no longer knew how to hold you. Jake had carried you out, his hands firm but careful, his jaw clenched with grief. He tried to speak, but you had already broken into pieces in his arms, and there were no words that could hold your weight now. Gently, he set you down and immediately turned back for Tuk, who had come stumbling out moments after, her face a pale mask of confusion.

She didn’t speak. Didn’t cry. Her wide eyes just watched her family unravel. Jake bent down, scooped her into his arms, and held her like she was the last solid thing in his life. He kissed her forehead again and again as she clung to him, asking over and over, “Is going to Neteyam okay daddy?” Jake had no answers.

You knelt just beyond the entrance, in the pale sand outside the mauri, your body trembling uncontrollably. The sobs that escaped you were unhinged—raw, cracking your chest open in a way that made Lo’ak look away, jaw tight, his own eyes shining. You gasped like you couldn’t find the air. Like breathing itself betrayed you. You clutched your stomach—your growing belly—and cried out his name.

“Neteyam! Neteyam! Please—please! Wake up! I can’t—he can’t—” The words never finished. Your throat closed around them.

Lo’ak was the one who caught you this time, sliding to his knees and pulling you into him. You fought him at first—your hands pushing against his chest, trembling with the desire to get back inside, to feel Neteyam’s warmth, to stop this nightmare. But Lo’ak held you, arms locked tight around you like a brace, grounding you when the world kept spinning. You crumpled into him, shaking violently, your sobs muffled in his chest. “He’s cold, Lo’ak. He was so cold. He looked—he looked—gone.”

Lo’ak couldn’t speak for a moment. His throat was thick, lips trembling. He closed his eyes, pressing his cheek against the crown of your head. His voice was hoarse when he finally said, “But he’s not. He’s not gone. He’s alive. Tsireya stopped the bleeding. Ronal’s working on him now. He’s gonna pull through. He has to.” Your arms clung to him like a lifeline. “I need him… I need him…”

“I know,” he whispered. “We all do.” Nearby, Kiri sat cross-legged in the sand, Eylan tucked into her lap. The little boy was crying silently now, exhausted, tears streaking his cheeks as he leaned into her chest. She ran her fingers through his hair, whispering soft reassurances even as her own face was stiff with fear. She kept glancing toward the mauri, her heart clearly still with her brother.

Likan was still in Neytiri’s arms, wailing louder now—not because of Neteyam’s absence, but because he could feel the pain in his family, see the desperation in your cries. “Mama! Mamaaaa!” he hiccuped into his grandmother’s neck, reaching his arms toward you, but Neytiri gently rocked him and whispered, “Shh, little one. Let her breathe. She’s just scared. She loves you. She loves your sempu.”

Jake, holding Tuk close, had crouched in the sand a short distance away. His face was stone, but his eyes—red and glossy—betrayed the cracks inside. He held Tuk’s small head against his shoulder as she finally started crying, her confusion becoming real fear. “Why is she screaming?” she asked. “Why can’t we go help?”

“She’s scared,” Jake said softly. “And we’re just waiting now. Giving Neteyam time to be okay.”

Kiri gently leaned her head down, pressing her forehead to Eylan’s. “Your daddy’s strong, ma ‘itan,” she murmured. “He’s going to be okay. But you need to be brave too, alright? Your mama needs you to be brave.”

You didn’t hear any of it. You couldn’t. Everything was a blur. A tunnel of sound—your heart pounding, your sobs relentless, your baby squirming in your belly as if they, too, could feel your terror. Lo’ak held you as your cries lost their sound and became breathless heaves, his own hands trembling as he wiped the tears from your cheeks.

“You can’t fall apart,” he said, but the words weren’t harsh. They were trembling. “Not yet. Not when he’s still fighting in there. You know Neteyam. He’d never leave you. He wouldn’t.”

The world was muffled behind your tears. But your ears caught the soft, broken cries of your sons again, and your heart lurched. Your lungs burned as you forced yourself to look around.

Likan was still in Neytiri’s arms, clinging tightly to her as fat tears rolled down his round cheeks. At two years old, he didn’t understand any of this—just that something was terribly wrong. He let out a pitiful whimper, burying his face in her shoulder, sniffling and murmuring, “Mama… mama, dada… where dada?”

Eylan sat quietly now in Kiri’s lap just a few steps away, tear tracks fresh on his cheeks, his little fingers curled in the fabric of her chest wrap as he looked between you and the mauri hut. His voice was quiet but clear. “Why won’t Daddy wake up?” You broke. Again. But this time it was different. This time you didn’t fall into your grief—you leaned into your sons.

Lo’ak gently released you as you dropped to your knees, arms open for Eylan. Kiri didn’t hesitate; she leaned down and let your boy shuffle into your arms. He clung to you instantly, curling against your chest, his little breaths shaky.

“I’m here,” you whispered, your voice hoarse. “I’m right here, my love.”

You felt movement behind you—Neytiri came forward and knelt beside you in the sand. Her arms eased Likan into yours, his soft, warm body curling against your other side. The moment your arms closed around him, he gave a wobbly cry and pushed his face into your neck, still trying to speak through his distress.

“Dada hurt? Dada owie?”

“No, baby,” you murmured, rocking them gently, tears still falling. “He’s going to be okay… He’s just sleeping. Just sleeping…” And then, finally, the world slowed.

The sky darkened above you as the sun dipped lower, the air thick with salt and grief. You sat there, tucked beside the mauri, your sons pressed tightly to your chest, tears still running silently down your face. The rest of the family formed around you.

Jake sat just behind Neytiri, arms wrapped protectively around Tuk, who trembled in his lap but didn’t make a sound. She stared at the entrance of the healer’s mauri like it might swallow her whole. Kiri curled next to you, brushing your hair back, her own eyes rimmed red but her touch soft, calming.

Lo’ak finally lowered himself to the sand beside you and sat in silence, head in his hands, his shoulders rising and falling with shallow breaths. One of his knees bumped against yours—close, supportive. He didn’t say anything more. No one did.

For a long time, the Sully family simply sat in a circle around you. Pressed together. Supporting each other in silence. Each face painted with pain and fear; each heart suspended between hope and horror. But together.

You clutched Eylan and Likan closer, your lips brushing their hair, whispering soft things that didn’t always make sense—just your voice, soothing, constant, loving. And in that quiet, broken moment, you remembered: you were still a family. Still together.

The night had long since fallen, the sky above painted with stars scattered like beads of light across deep ocean blue. The air was cool now, and the soft crash of waves against the reef was the only thing filling the silence outside the healer’s mauri. The Sully family hadn’t moved far — they couldn’t. Not with Neteyam still inside, still unconscious.

You were seated on the sand, legs folded, your arms wrapped tightly around both of your sons. Eylan was curled in your lap, his tiny fingers clutching the fabric of your chest wrap. He’d cried until his voice broke, then fallen asleep against you, lips still quivering in dreams. Likan, your littlest one, had cried himself hoarse in Lo’ak’s arms. When your sobs had calmed just enough to take him back, Lo’ak wordlessly passed him over, holding the back of your hand for a moment as he did, grounding you without needing to speak.

Now, Likan lay tucked across your legs like a baby ilu, one hand curled in your songcord, the other clutching his father’s discarded sash. His cheek was wet, pressed to your belly where his unborn sibling stirred gently in your womb — safe, for now. His small chest rose and fell with heavy, exhausted breaths.

Lo’ak sat directly beside you now. He hadn’t left your side since you’d been dragged from the mauri. His arm brushed yours, his shoulder nearly touching. Though he wasn’t saying much, the tension in his posture spoke volumes — hunched slightly forward, fingers fidgeting over a seashell bracelet, jaw clenched like he was fighting every wave of panic. His eyes, normally so full of mischief and light, were dim. He kept glancing toward the mauri flap like if he blinked, something would change.

Jake sat not far off, his strong arms wrapped around a sleeping Tuk. She was curled tightly in his lap, her small face still damp with tears. Neytiri had one hand on your back, rubbing slowly, her presence like a warm fire in the cold. Kiri was nearby too, legs pulled close to her chest, her gaze occasionally drifting to you and the boys, then back to the healer’s tent.

Tonowari stood quietly at a respectful distance, his wife having disappeared back inside some time ago. Aonung sat cross-legged just behind Lo’ak, giving space, but still clearly there — watching his friend, his second brother, with the protectiveness of someone who’d become family too. No one spoke.

The stillness was heavy, the kind of silence born from fear and hope and bone-deep exhaustion. But Neteyam was alive. You repeated that over and over in your mind like a prayer, like a chant to keep your heart from tearing again. Neteyam is alive. He is breathing.

You tightened your arms around your boys. Lo’ak’s hand reached over in the quiet and touched your shoulder, squeezing gently. You leaned into him for a moment — both of you needing it more than you’d ever say out loud.

The flap of the healer’s mauri finally shifted. Everyone’s head snapped up, every breath caught. You clutched your sons tighter, both still asleep against your chest and belly, and Lo’ak’s hand instinctively moved from your shoulder to your back, steadying you.

Ronal was the first to emerge. Her expression, always unreadable, was softer now — solemn, but without panic. Her hands were streaked with drying blood up to the forearms, her chest rising in quiet, measured breaths. Tsireya followed a heartbeat later, her eyes already shining with unshed tears, but her mouth curled in a small, hopeful smile.

“He lives,” Ronal said gently, looking at the circle of broken hearts around her. Your breath hitched, and Neytiri gasped softly beside you. Jake let out a quiet, choked sound and pressed his lips to Tuk’s hair, hugging her closer in his arms.

Lo’ak slumped forward, burying his face in his hands with a trembling exhale. Your heart stuttered in your chest.

“He is stable,” Tsireya continued, stepping forward, her voice softer, for you. “The wound was deep… but it missed anything vital. We have stitched it well and given him salves for pain. He is sleeping now — deeply. He may not wake for some time… but his spirit is strong.”

You couldn’t stop the tears. Silent, steady drops falling down your cheeks, soaking into Eylan’s curls. “He’ll wake up?” you asked, barely a whisper.

Ronal nodded. “Yes. In time. But he must rest. His body must heal.” Your arms tightened around your children. You nodded through your tears, leaning your head down to kiss both your sons on their brows. Neteyam wasn’t lost. Not this time. Not this battle.

Kiri let out a shuddering breath and leaned into Neytiri’s side. Neytiri took her hand. Jake looked to the sky as if thanking Eywa herself.

Aonung stepped forward and crouched next to Lo’ak, placing a firm hand on his shoulder. “Brother will be alright,” he said simply. Lo’ak just nodded, still pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes, silent tears slipping through.

Tonowari stepped forward at last, kneeling beside you. “You are welcome to stay here, all of you,” he said gently. “As long as you need. You are not alone.”

You looked up at him through your blurred vision and nodded gratefully. “Thank you… thank you…” Ronal placed a hand gently on your head — a rare, maternal gesture from her. “Soon, you may see him. Not yet. But soon.” You nodded again, your throat too tight for words, and pressed your cheek to Eylan’s little shoulder.

After that night, the one that tore the sky open above you — it was Neytiri who suggested moving Neteyam. She spoke quietly, like she might break if she raised her voice. “He should be home,” she said, eyes red-rimmed. “With you. With his sons. Where he belongs.”

And so, gently, the family helped you move him to your mauri — the small sea-shelled home you and Neteyam built with woven love and endless laughter, now filled with echoing silence. Jake carried his son’s weight like a ghost, Kiri and Lo’ak flanking either side. You stayed close, one hand on Neteyam’s chest, the other wrapped protectively around your swollen belly.

It wasn’t far from the Sully mauri. Close enough that no one ever knocked, and no one ever asked to enter. And so, your home became the heart of the family — the place everyone gathered, watched, waited. Grieved. Nights were the hardest. The soft sounds of the ocean couldn’t mask the ache.

Eylan slept between you and Neteyam, fingers always curled in his father’s braids. He would whisper, childlike and sure, “I think Daddy can still hear me. Right, Mama?” And though your heart would squeeze in pain, you nodded. “Yes, baby. He hears every word.”

Little Likan, barely two, still too young to understand, would crawl across Neteyam’s unmoving chest and giggle like nothing had changed. “Dada sleepin’,” he would murmur, laying his head down. “Shhh, baby sleeping.” Your heart cracked, over and over again.

One quiet afternoon, as you rubbed your aching belly and tried not to cry, Lo’ak sat beside you, legs crossed, elbows on knees. He watched Neteyam in silence for a while before saying, “You know, he always said he’d be the best dad. Like he wanted to prove something.”

You glanced at your sleeping mate. “He didn’t need to prove anything. He already was.”

Lo’ak smiled sadly. “I think… I think he was afraid. Of becoming like Dad. Of being too hard. Too… heavy.”

“He’s not,” you whispered. “He’s light. Always was.”

The Sully family never stayed away. Jake would come by early mornings to sit near Neteyam’s mat, just watching him with a hard jaw and teary eyes. Neytiri often brought steaming bowls of herbal broths and helped brush Likan’s hair from his eyes. Tuk curled against Neteyam’s arm every chance she got, small voice rambling about whatever creature she’d found that day.

“He’s still warm,” she said once, looking up at you with wide, hopeful eyes. “So that means he’s still in there.”

“Yes,” you murmured, brushing her hair back. “He’s still with us.”

Kiri came often too, singing over Neteyam’s still body, lighting healing oils, and wrapping arms around you when your breath caught from the pressure of the growing baby inside you. Tsireya and Ao’nung came by almost every day.

Tsireya would gently take Likan into her arms and hum soft Metkayina lullabies while you rested. “You are being so strong for your boys,” she said once, when your hands trembled too much to feed yourself.

Ao’nung was quieter, surprisingly so. He didn’t speak much, but he would bring fish, or woven toys for the boys, or sit near the edge of the mauri, his gaze flickering to Neteyam’s form with guilt and worry that never quite left his face. Once, you caught him whispering, “Come back, forest boy.”

It was your little family that held the world together. Eylan curled beside Neteyam at night, whispering stories about jellyfish and fish chases with Uncle Lo’ak. “Daddy needs to hear what he missed,” he would say matter-of-factly. Likan would climb onto your lap and ask, “Baby come soon?” then lay his tiny hand on your belly and say, “Tell Dada wake up. We waitin’.”

And you would lean into Neteyam’s chest, brushing your fingers over his jaw, whispering into the hollow of his throat, “You have to come back, ma yawne. They need you. I need you.”

Even though your world had cracked, you weren’t alone in the pieces.

Three moons had passed since the day your world cracked in two. Neteyam lay motionless on the center mat of your shared mauri, surrounded by silence and warmth and the weight of his family’s endless love. His chest still rose. His heart still beat. But his eyes… they never opened.

The boys had adapted, in a way only children could. Eylan had stopped asking when his father would wake. Instead, he stayed close, laying his tiny reed mat beside Neteyam’s every night, whispering stories into his ear about fish he’d seen, shells he’d found, dreams he’d had. “So when he wakes up, he knows everything, Mama,” he’d explain.

Likan didn’t understand. Two years old and all big eyes and chubby fingers, he still climbed onto Neteyam’s chest every morning and curled up, waiting for his father’s arms to wrap around him. Sometimes he laughed, babbling in half-sentences. Sometimes he cried. You never stopped watching.

And your belly — it was so round now. Eight months. You could feel every kick, every shift of the baby inside. Every night, you whispered to your unborn child as you stroked your mate’s still face. “Your sempu is here. He just needs more time.”

Norm and Max had come again that morning, quiet as always. They carried their strange, blinking human tools and moved around Neteyam’s mat with practiced care. They checked the IV that fed his body fluids and nutrients, adjusted the monitor that tracked his vitals. “He’s still holding on,” Norm said gently, not looking you in the eye”

“I don’t need him to hold on,” you muttered. “I need him to wake up.”

Lo’ak stood near the entrance of the mauri, arms folded tight across his chest, jaw clenched. He hadn’t left your side in weeks. He helped with the boys, helped you up when your back ached too much to rise, helped keep you breathing when everything inside you begged to scream.

That night, Eylan climbed into your lap beside Neteyam. “Mama,” he whispered, stroking your arm, “when is sempu gonna talk to me again?” You froze. Your hands tightened on his little back. “I miss daddy,” Eylan continued. “I think Likan does too. He cries sometimes for daddy.” You couldn’t hold it in. You turned your face away and let the sob break through. Eylan reached up, brushing away a tear. “Did I do something wrong?”

“No, baby. Eywa, no.” You kissed his forehead, hugging him tight. “He loves you more than anything. He just… he’s sleeping very strong.”

“Like when the fish go deep for the cold moons?”

“Exactly,” you lied, smiling through the ache. “But he’ll come back.”

Later that night, after the boys had fallen asleep — Likan curled on Neteyam’s chest, Eylan tucked under his arm — you stepped outside. The stars shimmered over the ocean, and the sound of waves broke softly against the reef. You didn’t cry this time. You just breathed.

“I’m scared,” you whispered to the sky. “He’s missing everything. Every kick. Every day the boys grow. He hasn’t even heard this baby’s heartbeat.”

Lo’ak appeared behind you quietly. “I know.” You turned to him, voice trembling. “What if I have this baby alone? What if he never—”

“You won’t,” he said, stepping forward. “We won’t let you be alone. I know I’m not him, but I swear… we’ve got you. I’ve got you.” You sank into him, tears finally returning. “I don’t want anyone else. I just want him.”

“I know,” Lo’ak whispered, pressing your head to his shoulder. “I want him to wake up too.”

Ronal came the next day, her presence as quiet and firm as ever. She set a bowl of warm herbs beside Neteyam’s mat and applied a paste along his temples. You watched as she murmured prayers and touched his chest.

“He is tethered,” she said finally, glancing at you. “You are the cord that keeps him here. Keep speaking to him.” You nodded, though your heart was so tired.

Tsireya came later, bringing new salve for your aching legs and sweet-smelling herbs for the boys. “We haven’t given up,” she said gently. “You shouldn’t either.” Even Ao’nung came by more often now. He didn’t speak much, just brought fresh fish or sat with Lo’ak near the shore when he needed space.

And still, your stomach grew. Every movement of the baby inside you brought both awe and fear. You’d lie next to Neteyam at night, his arm draped lifeless across your middle, and whisper, “They’re almost here, ma tìyawn. Please… please don’t miss this.”

But the days kept passing, and one month later, the pain came like fire—deep, sharp, and wrong. It was still dark outside the mauri when it woke you, seizing your breath and curling your body forward instinctively. You gasped, a broken cry ripping from your throat as you clutched your swollen belly. You knew what it meant. “No—no no no,” you whispered, panic rising fast. “Not now. Please not now.”

Your pain woke the boys, who both began to cry in their half-sleep—frightened, confused by the sound of your agony. “Mama? Mamaaa?”

You couldn’t even answer. You barely registered the door flap flying open, Kiri and Neytiri rushing in. Kiri dropped to your side. “It’s the baby,” she breathed, feeling your stomach. “You’re in labor.”

“I won’t do it,” you gasped, trying to stand—only to collapse into Neytiri’s arms, trembling. “I won’t—I can’t! Not without him!”

“He would want you to be strong,” Neytiri said quickly, but her voice cracked. “You have to be strong—please, for the baby.”

Tsireya and Ronal arrived next, gathering supplies and laying out a woven mat across the floor beside Neteyam’s still form. You shrank away from them, clutching your belly like it might hold the pain back.

“You need to lie down,” Tsireya said softly.

“I said no!” you cried. “I’m not having this baby without him! He was supposed to be here! He was supposed to hold my hand—he promised!” Ronal looked to Kiri, silently asking her to calm you, but before she could move, a voice cut through the panic.

“Y/n I’m surprised at you I really am, this…. this is not how I thought you’d handle this.” Lo’ak stood in the doorway. Pale. Tense. Eyes rimmed red from weeks of holding back every emotion that now pulsed right beneath his skin. Kiri opened her mouth, clearly ready to tell him to leave. “Lo’ak, maybe give her some—”

But he walked straight past her. He knelt down in front of you, gently brushing your damp hair back, speaking quietly so only you could hear. “I know you’re scared. You have every right to be. But you don’t get to quit right now.” You shook your head, voice cracking. “You don’t understand—”

“No, I do,” he said, cutting you off gently. “He was supposed to be here. I know that. And this isn’t fair. None of this is fair. But you’re not alone.” Your eyes welled up again, and you looked away.

Lo’ak leaned closer. “You’re not doing this for just you. You’re doing it for the baby. For Neteyam. For your little boys who still need their mama cause they’re crying cause you're in pain. You don’t get to quit on them. You don’t get to quit on me.” Your lower lip trembled as a contraction surged again, and you folded into it, screaming. “I know there’s a lot of things going on here we can’t control, but this, we can do this.” He caught you as you slumped forward, gently guiding you down onto the mat Tsireya had prepared. The moment you hit the floor, the room shifted.

Kiri immediately began gathering towels and boiling water. Neytiri scooped the boys into her arms, quickly passing them to Jake who waited just outside to rock them even as tears streaked her own cheeks. Ronal positioned herself at your feet, checking how far along you were. Tsireya set her hands at your side, grounding you in soft whispers.

Lo’ak didn’t move from behind you, sitting cross-legged so your back could lean into him, just like Neteyam had done for your first two births. He took your hand in his. “I’ve got you,” he whispered into your ear. “Just breathe. I’m not going anywhere.”

Another contraction came, and you screamed into his shoulder. He didn’t flinch. “I know it hurts,” he said quietly, his voice cracking. “I know everything feels like it’s falling apart, but this baby is yours and his and they’re ready. You just have to help them get here.”

“I don’t want to do it alone,” you sobbed.

“You’re not alone,” he said, pressing your forehead to his. “Look at me.” You opened your eyes—barely.

“I’m here. Kiri’s here. Mom’s here. Tsireya and Ronal are here. You are surrounded by people who love you. We’re not letting go. You can do this.” You let out a shuddering breath, nodding once. “Okay.”

“That’s it,” he whispered. “That’s all I need. When the next one comes—push. I’ve got you. I swear.”

The room shifted again—calm in the storm. Ronal nodded. “The baby is crowning. You must push.” You closed your eyes, tears falling fast, and squeezed Lo’ak’s hand as the next contraction came. You pushed. Screamed. Cried. And Lo’ak held you through every second of it.

Your chest heaved, sweat glistening on your skin as your trembling arms cradled the impossibly small bundle against your chest. She was still crying—tiny and sharp and alive. And Lo’ak… Lo’ak was still behind you, arms braced on either side of you, steadying you like a living pillar. His chest pressed to your back, chin briefly lowering to your shoulder as he whispered, “You did it.”

You couldn’t answer—not yet. Your voice was trapped in your throat, and your heart was thundering too hard, but you nodded weakly, tears falling freely down your cheeks.

Tsireya leaned close, her smile wet with emotion. “She is strong,” she whispered. “Just like her sa’nok.”

Ronal was quiet, checking your daughter’s tiny fingers, murmuring something under her breath maybe a prayer, maybe thanks to Eywa. “I’ll go tell them,” Neytiri said softly, already turning toward the mauri flap. Her hand trailed along your shoulder as she passed. “They are waiting.”

You could feel Lo’ak’s breath on the back of your neck. His voice was hoarse when he said, “She looks like Neteyam.” That broke something in your chest. You nodded, lips trembling. “I know…”

She was beautiful. She was warm and breathing and here. And yet… Neteyam still hadn’t moved. He hadn’t seen her. Not yet. You shifted slightly, and Lo’ak helped you ease backward, supporting you so that you were resting against his chest, your newborn daughter swaddled snugly in your arms. You hadn’t even realized you were still holding his hand until you felt his thumb gently stroke over your knuckles. Then the flap lifted again.

Jake entered first, quiet and slow, with a child in each arm. Tuk still clung to his side, sleepy and blinking, and beside her was your oldest—Eylan, eyes wide with worry, searching.

“Mama…?” he said softly.

Your breath caught. You sat up straighter. “Eylan,” you whispered. He ran forward before Jake could even say anything, reaching out toward you. You held out your free arm, and he climbed up next to you, careful but eager, immediately peeking down at the baby in your arms. “Is that the baby that was in your belly?”

You nodded, voice soft and cracking. “Your sister, yeah.” He gasped quietly. “She’s so small…”

“She’s perfect,” you said.

Lo’ak shifted behind you, his hands never leaving your shoulders, still there like an anchor. Jake stepped closer, kneeling with Likan in his arms. “He woke when he heard her cry,” he said gently. Likan rubbed at his eyes with a little fist, clearly still tired, but the moment he spotted you and his brother, he reached out. “Mama…”

You nodded, arms full, and Lo’ak moved for the first time, gently helping take Likan from Jake and nestling him beside you, right between you and Eylan. Both boys now tucked into your side, wide-eyed and curious. “Look,” you murmured. “Your little sister.” Likan blinked at her. “Mama Baby…” You nodded, kissing his forehead.

The flap to the mauri was still drawn open, and behind Jake came Neytiri and Kiri, the whole family drawn like a tide around you. They didn’t crowd. They didn’t speak loudly. But the space filled with warmth—blinking away the cold ache of the months of silence. Your daughter squirmed a little, letting out a tiny sneeze.

“Oh,” Eylan whispered with a giggle. “She sneezed!”

“She’s a strong girl,” Jake said with pride, voice a little rough as he tucked a few braids behind your ear. “Just like her mama. Just like her brothers.”

You looked to Lo’ak then. He caught your gaze, then leaned close enough to kiss the crown of your head. “You did so good,” he murmured. “Neteyam would be losing his mind right now.” The lump in your throat swelled again.

“I wish he could see her…”

“He will,” Kiri said gently, her voice from just beside the boys. “He’s still here. And when he wakes up, we’ll tell him everything.”

Lo’ak looked at you, his voice a low, sure thing. “We’ll tell him how brave you were. How beautiful she is. How she cried just like Likan and wriggled like Eylan when they were born.”

“And how much we missed him,” you whispered. Lo’ak nodded.

Tuk came forward then, kneeling beside the boys, and smiled at the baby in wonder. “She’s really here…” she whispered. “What’s her name?”

You paused, heart pounding. You hadn’t chosen it yet. Not without him. “I uh— I haven’t chosen one yet, Neteyam normally has finally say but this time we…I don’t know yet.” I tell the family and Lo’ak squeezed my arms softly his fingers running up and down them. “It’s okay, you’ll name her when you’re ready.” He whispered speaking for everyone.

The air in the mauri is thick with warmth, sweat, blood, and silence. Somewhere just outside, Neytiri hums to Likan, rocking him slowly. Kiri is tending to your newborn, her steps soft. Tsireya is quiet, watching the Eylan sleep, giving you space.

It’s just you and Lo’ak now. The curtain drawn. A bowl of warm water beside him, and you, aching and barely awake, lying half-curled under a blanket, eyes glazed with exhaustion. You don’t even flinch when you feel the cloth on your thigh. His touch is gentle, almost too gentle like he’s afraid of you breaking.

“…Lo’ak?” your voice cracks. He doesn’t look at you. “It’s okay. I’ve got it.”

The cloth moves carefully over your skin, down the inside of your thigh where the blood dried hours ago. Normally, this moment is sacred, Neteyam’s hands, not Lo’ak’s. Always Neteyam’s. After every birth, every hard night, every wound. It was Neteyam who bathed you, held you, kissed your shoulders in the firelight. Only him.

This feels too close. Too much. Your voice trembles. “You don’t… have to do this.”

“I know.”

“Is it weird?” You swallow. “You can ask someone else—”

“I know,” he cuts in, gently. Finally, his eyes meet yours. And the look in them — it undoes you. It’s not pity. It’s not lust. It’s something else. Raw, reverent. Careful. Fractured.

“It is weird,” he admits, voice low. “But not because I don’t want to help you.” He dips the cloth again, wrings it slowly. “It’s weird because this isn’t mine. This moment. This part of you. It’s his.” Your breath catches. He lowers his eyes, begins wiping you again — the inside of your knees, the curve of your hip. Nothing improper. But your skin burns under his touch.

“I used to wonder what it felt like,” he murmurs suddenly, “being needed like that. The way you always looked at him after the births. Like he was the only person who knew where you ended and started again.”

You say nothing. You can’t. His next words are barely audible. “Now I know. And I wish I didn’t.” The silence hangs so heavy it could break. “I’m sorry,” you whisper, tears slipping sideways into your hair.

“I’m not,” he says softly. Then after a beat, a shaky breath escapes him, and he tries to smile — the kind that barely holds. “…Though I gotta say,” he adds gently, “I never pictured the first time I’d see you naked would involve this much blood and crying.” You laugh — a strangled, wet sound. “Lo’ak—!”

He grins, but it’s quiet. Tired. Tender. “Hey. I made you laugh. That counts for something.” The cloth slips back into the bowl. He covers you gently, then sits there beside you, elbows on his knees, staring at nothing.

You watch him through half-lidded eyes. It should not feel this way. He should not have seen this much of you. Should not have touched your skin. Should not have looked at you like that. But he did. And you let him. And in the soft dark, with your mate still unconscious and your body raw from birth, you realize… You’re not sure where the line is anymore.

At first, it’s still about the kids. Lo’ak carrying Eylan when the boy is too sleepy to walk, playing with Likan in the dirt while you rest with the baby sleeping on your chest. He never complains. Never acts like it’s too much. But the way he watches you begins to change — it becomes quieter. He’s more careful. Always aware. He doesn’t hover. But he notices everything.

When your arms start to tremble from holding the baby too long, he’s already there before you ask. He doesn’t make a scene — he just crouches beside you and gently takes her from you, cradling her like she’s his own blood, offering that crooked half-smile you’ve seen a thousand times before. Except now it feels different.

When you try to eat, one hand balancing your daughter and the other too sore to lift much of anything, he kneels next to you. No teasing, no fuss. He just takes the food and feeds you with quiet patience, like it’s normal, like you’ve always done this dance. There’s a rhythm forming between you that neither of you meant to create.

“You either eat this,” he says once, “or I eat it and tell everyone you starve me.” You roll your eyes. But you open your mouth. The next time, you lean forward before he even lifts the bite. The first time it goes too far is at the river. You sit on the edge of the rocks, staring at the water, your body aching and raw, and no one else is free. You don’t even say anything. You don’t need to.

“I’ll help,” Lo’ak says, not looking at you. “Just the shallow edge. You don’t have to move much. I’ll look away.” And he does. Always.

But his hands are gentle when they brush your back. His silence is heavy. And when he hands you the cloth and cups the water for you, your hands touch — just for a moment — and your breath catches, and neither of you mention it.

He still returns to Tsireya’s arms every night. He kisses her when she brings herbs to help with your healing. He rests his head on her lap while she hums over his braids. He holds her hand when they walk together, when they sit by the fire, when she laughs too loud and he smiles just watching her. He is still her perfect partner.

But something in him has gone quiet. Especially when it’s just the two of you. He stays a little longer than he should. Touches your shoulder more than is necessary. His eyes linger when they shouldn’t. He steps into Neteyam’s absence like he was born into it, without ever being asked.

And Tsireya notices. Not everything. Not enough to accuse. But enough to pause. One evening, she watches from across the marui as Lo’ak gently lifts the baby from your lap, tucks the blanket higher on your legs, and smooths your hair away from your face. His fingers hesitate there, just for a moment, brushing your skin like it means something. Like it hurts to let go. She doesn’t say anything. Not yet.

You try not to rely on him. You hate how easy it’s become — how when you need something, when you so much as look tired, Lo’ak is already there. You try not to look for him, not to listen for his voice, but you do. And you catch yourself waiting for him, for the sound of his feet in the sand.

You hate the heat in your chest when he speaks your name gently. The soft way he says, “Eat. You need your strength.” You hate that sometimes — just sometimes — you wish it wasn’t just kindness. That it meant something more. Because it’s Lo’ak. Because you love Neteyam. Because you’re still his. Because you shouldn’t feel this.

But you lean your head against his shoulder one quiet afternoon while your boys laugh nearby. And he doesn’t move. He just lets you stay there, still and warm and silent. His fingers brush your wrist — the barest touch — like it anchors him. Or maybe anchors you. Neither of you speak. But something has shifted. Quietly. Unmistakably. And it’s getting harder to ignore.

The baby’s asleep again, her soft, steady breaths rising against Neteyam’s bare chest. You’ve bundled her there every night now — it’s the only place she seems to settle. Her little hand rests right over the bullet scar. Your fingers twitch every time you look at it.

You sit beside them; knees pulled to your chest. The lantern burns low, casting long shadows across the woven floor. The boys are asleep near the doorway, Likan curled against Eylan’s back like a fern folding in the night.

You don’t expect Lo’ak. Not this late. But the flap rustles, soft and careful, and he steps in — quiet, like he doesn’t want to wake anyone. His hair’s damp. He smells like the sea. He sees you and stops. “I thought you’d be asleep.” You give a tired shrug. “Can’t.” His eyes flick toward the baby on Neteyam’s chest. “She’s there again.”

“Every night.” You feel the breath leave your chest, sharp and bitter. Lo’ak crosses the marui, lowers himself to sit beside you. You don’t look at him. “Tsireya okay?” you ask, voice low.

“Yeah. She’s… she’s good.”

“Did she want you to stay?” A pause. “Yeah.”

“Then why are you here?” He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he leans forward, elbows on his knees, staring at the fire.

“I just wanted to check on you.”

“I’m fine.”

“You always say that when you’re not.”

You glance at him. “And what if I’m not?” He meets your eyes, steady and too soft. “Then I stay.”

You don’t say anything. Not for a long moment. The only sounds are the baby’s tiny sighs, the breath of the wind outside, the creak of the marui walls. You shift, hugging your knees tighter.

“I miss him,” you whisper. “Even though he’s right there. I miss him like he’s already—” Lo’ak turns quickly, hand reaching for yours. He grips it tight, grounding you.

“Don’t,” he says. “Don’t say it.” You look down at your joined hands.

“I’m so tired, Lo’ak,” you breathe. “Of being strong. Of pretending I don’t need help.”

“You don’t have to pretend with me.”

You exhale a shaky laugh. “You’re not supposed to be the one holding me together.”

“Maybe I want to.” His voice is lower now. There’s something in it that curls under your skin — a crack you shouldn’t notice, but you do. You turn your head. He’s looking at you. Really looking. The firelight flickers over his face, the high cheekbones, the small scar near his jaw, the dark, aching eyes.

Your voice comes out quiet. “This feels…” He doesn’t let you finish.

“I know.”

He shifts closer, slowly, like he’s not sure if he should. His fingers brush your cheek, just once. You don’t stop him. He leans in, just enough that his forehead grazes yours. Just enough to steal your breath.

“If I kiss you right now,” he murmurs, “will you hate me for it?”

Your heart stops. You don’t answer. And he doesn’t move. You sit like that — too close, too quiet — with your foreheads barely touching, your breaths syncing, your hands still joined.

“I still love him,” you whisper. It’s barely audible.

“I know,” he says again. “I wouldn’t ask you not to.”

Then the baby shifts. A small sound. A flutter of fingers against Neteyam’s chest. You both freeze. And just like that, the moment shatters. You pull back slowly, blinking fast, like coming up for air. Lo’ak leans away, breaking contact, hand sliding from yours. He looks wrecked. Like he’s been caught in something he didn’t mean to start.

“I should go,” he says.

You nod. “Yeah.”

But neither of you moves. Your hands are still touching. Just your fingers. Barely. And the silence between you tightens, not like tension, but like grief. Like hunger. Like everything you’ve tried not to feel has risen to the surface and is begging to be touched.

He looks at you. You look back. He leans in. And this time, you don’t look away. Your breath catches, but your body doesn’t flinch. His hand brushes your cheek again, fingers trailing behind your ear, so soft it almost doesn’t register. Almost.

“Lo’ak,” you whisper. Just his name. Nothing more. But it cracks.

And he breaks. He kisses you. Slow. Gentle. Terrified. He’s not rushing. He’s not devouring. He’s aching. His lips press to yours like he’s asking for permission he already knows he shouldn’t need. Like he knows it’s wrong — but more than that, he knows it’s too late.

And still… you kiss him back. Only for a second. Maybe two. It’s not passionate. Not carnal. It’s not even romantic. It’s just grief. Muted and drowning. A moment where you aren’t the woman holding everything together. You’re not Neteyam’s mate. You’re not a mother. You’re just you.

And Lo’ak is the only one who sees that. When he pulls back, he stays close — forehead against yours, breath ragged. “Shit,” he whispers, eyes shut. “I’m sorry.” You say nothing. Because you’re not. Not yet. Your chest is rising too fast. Your hand is still on his wrist. You can feel his pulse beneath your thumb.

“I didn’t mean—” he starts. “Yes, you did,” you say. Not angry. Not hurt. Just… honest. And it shatters him. He nods. “I know.”

Then a soft sound breaks the air — not from the baby, not from the boys. From Neteyam. A shift. A breath. You both turn. He hasn’t moved. Still and unchanged. But the guilt crashes into you anyway. Heavy. Sharp. You pull back completely, hands to your lap, your chest squeezing like it’s too full to breathe. Lo’ak stands up slowly. “I shouldn’t have—” You cut him off, eyes still on Neteyam. “It’s okay..” you whisper. “But I think you should go.”

He hesitates. Just a second. Then he leaves. And you sit alone in the half-light, your baby sleeping on her father’s chest, your heart pounding from another man’s lips. You don’t cry. You don’t panic. You just stare, swallowing the weight of it — knowing that something has changed. Knowing that if Neteyam wakes up tomorrow, if he looks at you the way he used to, you will never be able to tell him. But you’ll feel it.

The next morning, Neytiri was brushing your baby girl’s tiny curls back from her forehead, humming softly, when you approached. “Can you take them to Ronal for their checkups?” you asked quietly, trying not to wake your daughter. “She wants to see them today.”

Neytiri turned, giving you a look that read deeper than words. “Are you all right?” You hesitated. “I just… need a moment.”

She nodded, collecting the baby in one arm and calling softly to Eylan and Likan. Your boys rushed over, Likan clinging to your leg briefly, then letting go when Neytiri took his hand.

You kissed each of them, your heart squeezing tight as Likan babbled a sleepy, “Mama be back? “Soon,” you promised. “I love you.”

With Neytiri leading them off toward the reef healer’s marui, you turned away. But your heart stayed behind.

Lo’ak was exactly where you expected — perched alone where the reef cliffs met the sea, his feet dangling above the water, arms resting on his knees. The wind pushed through his hair, the waves whispering beneath. You approached quietly and sat beside him, not too close. He glanced sideways. “Didn’t think you’d come.”

“I had to.” He looked back out at the ocean. “I didn’t sleep. Couldn’t.” You nodded. “Me neither.” A pause stretched out. You could feel the weight between you — not heavy with love, not sweet with longing. Just guilt. Raw and too recent.

“What we did…” he said slowly, “I keep trying to explain it to myself. I know it wasn’t about love. Wasn’t even about wanting each other like that.” You watched the horizon. “We were just too tired. Too empty. We found each other in that space.”

“I still hate that it happened.” You swallowed. “Me too.” A moment passed. Then, quietly: “But I don’t hate you for it.” He looked over. “I don’t hate you either.” The wind picked up, salt brushing your skin. “I don’t want to pretend it didn’t happen,” you whispered. “But I don’t want it to happen again.” His eyes fell to the ground. “It won’t.”

“Good,” you breathed. “Because I can’t lose him. And I still feel like I’m losing myself.” Lo’ak’s hand reached out, fingers brushing yours gently.

Not holding. Just… acknowledging. “We’ll be okay,” he said. “Eventually.” Just then — a scream carried across the reef. “GET HER—GET HER NOW—HE’S AWAKE—!”

You both bolted upright. Kiri’s voice. Your heart slammed into your ribs. “Neteyam?!” you breathed. And then Lo’ak grabbed your hand without thinking, and the two of you ran. By the time you reached the mauri, the entire reef was there. Ronal. Tsireya. Ao’nung. Neytiri with the baby held protectively in her arms, boys pressed into her sides. Jake knelt by the mat.

Neteyam was sitting up. Blinking. Awake. Lo’ak skidded to a halt beside you, breath ragged. Your legs wouldn’t move — not at first. Kiri turned to you, eyes wild with tears. “He opened his eyes. He said something—he looked around, but—” You pushed through them all, falling to your knees at his side.

Neteyam looked at you, face pale, chest rising with effort. His gaze slid over you, confused but calm. You smiled through the tears. “Hi. Hey. I’m here.”

He blinked again. “Are you… the healer?” The words hit like ice water. Your breath caught. “What?” Jake turned sharply. Neytiri’s lips parted. Neteyam looked around slowly. “I… where am I? What happened?”

You didn’t feel your legs give out, but suddenly you were leaning forward, gripping the edge of the mat. “I’m—” your voice cracked. “I’m your mate. Your wife.”

He stared at you like you were speaking another language. Neytiri stepped forward, voice soft and shaking, “itan… Neteyam… this is your wife. Your children are here. You are safe.”

Neteyam’s brows furrowed. “Wife?” He looked at your baby in her arms. At Eylan and Likan — their golden eyes wide and scared. His eyes were blank. Tsireya stepped back, hand over her mouth. Lo’ak stood frozen beside you, his face twisted in disbelief, grief washing over him in a silent wave.

Neteyam’s gaze landed on him last. “Lo’ak,” he murmured. “I… I know you.” But even that seemed uncertain. Lo’ak stepped closer. “Yeah, bro. It’s me. I’m right here.” Neteyam squinted, nodding slightly. “You look… older.” And then he looked at you again. Eyes searching. Still not recognizing.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I don’t know who you are.” You didn’t break down. Not yet. But your hand slipped from the mat. And Lo’ak was the one who caught it.

The room seemed to hold its breath. Neytiri stepped forward again, her voice low and tender. “Neteyam,” she said gently, kneeling beside you, “this is [Name].” You watched his eyes flick to her, then back to you. The name hung in the air. He blinked slowly, and something passed across his face. Not clarity — but a glimmer.

“[Name],” he repeated, tasting it. “I know that name.” Your heart jumped. You shifted, leaning in, desperate for more. “Yes,” you whispered. “Yes, you do.” He tilted his head slightly, eyes narrowing as if trying to place a memory behind fogged glass.

“You had long braids even at a five-year-old,” he murmured, more to himself than anyone. “You followed me everywhere. You made me that ugly stone necklace and cried when I said it stank” A soft laugh caught in your throat, half-sob. He looked up again, blinking hard. “That was when we were… kids. That’s all I remember.”

Jake exhaled quietly through his nose. Kiri covered her mouth, face crumpling. You reached for his hand, but he shifted just slightly — not in rejection, but in confusion. He stared at your touch like it was unfamiliar. “I don’t understand,” he said again, voice cracking. “Why is everyone crying? Why do I feel like I’m… missing something? A lot of somethings?” He turned his gaze slowly toward Jake. “How long was I out?”

Jake hesitated. “Months,” Neytiri said softly, before her husband could answer. “You were shot. You almost—” She cut off. Her eyes burned. Neteyam looked down at his chest then, slowly lifting his fingers to touch the healed but angry scarring beneath the cloth. His breathing hitched.

His head snapped back up. “Months?” He looked around wildly now — at the baby, at the boys pressed into Neytiri’s side, at the reef around him he didn’t recognize. His fingers curled tightly into the bedding. “I—I don’t remember this place,” he stammered. “I don’t remember being here. Why are we not in the forest?”

“The…the sky people returned we came here because they were hunting us,” Jake said gently. “We all…live here now. Me, your mom, siblings and your wife and kids. This is our home now.”

“I don’t understand,” he said, more panicked now. “Why does everything feel wrong? Why do I know her name but not her voice? Not—” His voice cracked. “Not those kids?” Eylan whimpered softly. Likan shrunk against Neytiri’s side, clinging to her braid. The baby stirred in Neytiri’s arms and let out a soft, fussy noise — and Neteyam flinched at the sound. His eyes snapped to her. He stared.

“She’s… mine?” he asked. “Ours?” You nodded, your voice almost inaudible. “She was born while you were still… still asleep, just a couple weeks ago.” He dragged a hand down his face. “No. No, this doesn’t make sense.”

“Neteyam—” Kiri started, moving forward. “I don’t know her,” he said louder, looking at the baby. “I don’t know them. How can they be mine?”

Lo’ak tensed beside you. You could feel it in his grip. You turn to your boys who were shying away from their father saying he didn’t know them and your heart ached.

Neteyam’s breaths were picking up, eyes darting. “Why don’t I remember you?” he asked again, his voice climbing toward panic. “If you’re my mate, why don’t I feel it? Why does it feel like I’m seeing my own life from outside?”

You leaned in, your hand still lightly on his, even though he wasn’t returning the touch. “Because something happened,” you said quietly. “And we don’t know why yet. But I’m here. And we’ll figure it out.”

He stared at you for a long time. Then whispered, “I feel like I’m drowning.” You nodded, a tear falling as you brushed your thumb over his knuckles.

“So am I.” Neteyam didn’t pull away this time. He just looked at your hand on his, blinking back tears he didn’t quite understand.

And Lo’ak, still kneeling beside you, kept holding your other hand, jaw tight, not speaking a word. You sat frozen, still holding your breath, your hand gently resting on his.

Neteyam’s gaze was on you — no longer searching, just… overwhelmed. His eyes were wide. Distant. Then, slowly, carefully, he pulled his hand away. It was a soft motion. Not cruel. Not forceful. But deliberate. Your heart cracked again. He pressed his palms flat to the mat, his shoulders hunched slightly as if he were curling in on himself, trying to make sense of a world that was too loud, too big, and far too unfamiliar.

You swallowed hard and pulled your hand back, fingers trembling in your lap. Neytiri’s face shifted, like something inside her folded in half. Lo’ak’s arm brushed yours. Subtle. Silent. “I’m sorry,” Neteyam said again, still staring down. “I’m not trying to hurt anyone. I just—” he shook his head, a quiet panic rising again in his voice. “It doesn’t feel real. None of this feels real.”

Jake stepped forward then, slow and calm, crouching near his son. “Neteyam, you’ve been unconscious for a long time. Your body survived, but something’s wrong with your memory. You don’t remember the reef. You don’t remember what happened. And that’s okay. We’re gonna help you through it.” Neteyam barely nodded. He still wasn’t looking at anyone. Only the floor. A small voice broke the stillness.

“Neteyam?” Everyone turned. Tuk. She had slipped through the gathered crowd, her steps careful and quiet. Her big golden eyes glistened with tears as she crept toward the mat, holding something in her arms — a small shell toy he’d carved years ago.

She knelt near him and offered it up with a little smile. “You made this for me when I was little. Do you remember?” Neteyam looked up and froze. His brows furrowed hard, confusion blooming deep. His eyes roamed over her face, her frame, her tiny shaking hands. “I…” he blinked. “I don’t know you.” The silence snapped sharp. Tuk’s smile faltered. Her lip quivered, and she clutched the shell tighter to her chest.

“I’m Tuk,” she whispered. “I’m your baby sister.” Neteyam’s face had gone pale again. “No, I—no. I have one sister. Kiri. That’s all. You weren’t… there.” You could feel Neytiri’s body tense, just a breath away from crumbling. Tuk’s chin wobbled. “But I was. You used to braid my hair. You used to carry me everywhere when I was small—”

“I don’t remember,” Neteyam said, voice cracking. “I don’t remember you. I’m sorry, I don’t—” Tuk’s face fell, and the shell slipped from her fingers. Kiri was already moving, sweeping her into her arms and pulling her away as silent tears streamed down her cheeks. Tuk buried her face in Kiri’s neck and sobbed. Neteyam shut his eyes tight, pressing his palms to his forehead. “I’m sorry,” he whispered again. “I don’t understand why everything hurts.” Your own tears blurred your vision as you watched him — not just lost but shattered inside his own mind.

Neteyam’s breath hitched again. He stared at the place Tuk had stood, hands still braced on the mat, knuckles pale. He didn’t look at anyone now. He couldn’t. And then, like a dam breaking everything scattered. Jake stood swiftly. “I need to call Norm and Max,” he said to no one and everyone, already stepping toward the sat phone near the far wall. “If this is neurological, they’ll know what to look for.”

Ronal moved forward without a word, her face set in that unreadable Tsahìk calm. She knelt beside Neteyam and placed her hands lightly over his head and chest, lips murmuring prayers too soft to catch. Tsireya and Ao’nung stepped back to give her room, their hands linked tightly. Tsireya looked like she might cry. You didn’t move at first. You were still kneeling right where Neteyam had pulled away. Right where he’d looked at you and not known who you were.

It hit you then, all of it. The months of keeping it together. Of surviving. Of healing. Of pretending you could carry all this weight alone. It caved in without warning. Your breath snagged. Your hands trembled. And then you stood, barely feeling your legs move, and backed away. Slow. Silent. Like if you just got far enough away, maybe it wouldn’t crush you.

You didn’t stop until you reached the far side of the mauri, your back pressing against the woven wall. But your eyes never left him. You kept watching. As if sheer will could force his memories back. “Mama?” The small voice broke you. Eylan was at your side, his little hand wrapping around yours, eyes wide with confusion. Likan toddled behind him, thumb in his mouth, clinging to your leg. You sank down, arms wrapping around both of them. And then Neytiri was there too.

She knelt on the floor beside you without a word and pulled you into her arms like she used to when you were young. When you scraped your knees or cried after fights with Neteyam. She knew her son needed her in this moment, but her daughter needed her more. You clung to her tightly, your face buried in her shoulder, trying not to sob.

“I don’t know what to do,” you choked out, voice splintered. “I don’t know how to help him. I can’t lose him again. I can’t.” She stroked your hair, arms strong around you. “You haven’t lost him, ma’ite. He’s here. His heart still beats. You brought him back.”

“But he doesn’t know me,” you said. “He doesn’t remember… us.” And just behind you, Lo’ak kneeled his hand brushed your shoulder, grounding you. “I’m here too,” he said quietly. “You are not alone.” You nodded, your eyes never leaving the figure across the room. Still staring at your mate. Your love. The father of your children. Still watching the way he looked around the mauri like he was on another planet.

The mat was still where it always was, yours and Neteyam’s. But it hadn’t felt like his since the day he woke up. Now, it was you and the boys. Eylan curled into your chest, Likan wrapped around your leg, the baby in the woven basinet beside you, close enough to touch. Neteyam watched you from across the room, the firelight casting your silhouette in soft gold. You were quiet, always tired, always holding one child while keeping an eye on the others. Always doing something. And he… just watched.

He slept on a new mat, set up on the other side of the mauri. The distance felt necessary. That first night when he’d pulled away from you—when he saw Tuk and didn’t recognize her—it was clear. He wasn’t the same. He remembered his mother’s voice, his father’s hands, Lo’ak’s laugh, Kiri’s connection to the forest. But he didn’t remember you as his wife. He didn’t remember the baby, the boys. And Tuk—she wasn’t even born in his memory either. The look in your eyes when he’d asked who you were, never left him.

Since then, the mauri had been a blur of movement. Jake had sent word to Norm and Max. Ronal checked on him every day. Tsireya and Aonung kept their distance, though Tsireya’s eyes lingered sometimes when she looked at you. Kiri stayed close. Neytiri moved between you and Neteyam like she was split in half. Everyone tried to act like things were normal. They weren’t.

You never asked Neteyam to come back to the mat. You let him choose. You never tried to force the baby into his arms. Never corrected the way he hesitated when Likan reached for him. But he noticed. He noticed everything. He saw how you carried it all—how you shifted the baby with one arm while holding Likan’s hand, how you smoothed Eylan’s hair and soothed him to sleep while the others cried. You never asked for help, but you didn’t need to. Lo’ak was always there.

Lo’ak, who should’ve been carefree. Who should’ve still been the younger brother. But Neteyam saw how he moved around you like he’d done this all before. Helped you wrap the sling for the baby. Tied the back knot without needing to look. Lifted the basket out of your way without being asked. Fed Likan. Braided Eylan’s hair. Caught you when your legs almost gave out. And it wasn’t just helpful—it was natural. Familiar. Too familiar.

One morning, Neteyam watched as Lo’ak pressed a hand to your back while you sat feeding the baby, whispering something that made you exhale a tired laugh. Your head dropped forward, and he gently lifted the hair from your face. The touch was soft. The kind of soft that made Neteyam’s stomach twist.

Later that day, you stumbled again as you were going to a fussy Likan, only for a second and Lo’ak was there, catching you before you hit the ground. His hands went to your waist. You gripped his arms to steady yourself, eyes meeting in silence.

Neteyam stood up. The room shifted, just slightly. Kiri paused. Neytiri looked up. “I’ll do it,” Neteyam said, voice sharp. You turned, confused. Lo’ak blinked.

Neteyam crossed the space and reached for Likan, who had been fussing on the floor. His hands were unsure, but the moment Likan saw him, the toddler’s arms lifted in recognition. Neteyam picked him up. Held him. He didn’t even know if he was doing it right. But Likan laid his head against his chest and didn’t move. It was the first time Neteyam held one of his children since waking up. Something cracked open.

That night, he watched you sleep again. Your body curled around the baby. Eylan sprawled out beside you. Likan using your leg as a pillow. You hadn’t even noticed how your hand remained outstretched, resting on the basinet like you needed the baby within reach. You looked like a home. His home. But it felt like you were a thousand miles away.

Lo’ak came in quietly and crouched beside you. He brushed your hair back. Whispered something. You nodded. Neteyam’s jaw clenched. His fists curled in the blankets.

The next few days, Lo’ak pulled back. Let Neteyam help first. Watched from a distance more often than he acted. He never said anything about it. But Neteyam noticed that, too.

He noticed the quiet glances from Kiri when he didn’t know how to soothe the baby. The way Neytiri held both you and Tuk in the mornings. The way Jake’s eyes lingered on him with a mixture of guilt and sorrow. Everyone knew he was missing something. And they were waiting.

Neteyam was trying. Trying to remember. Trying to learn. But more than anything, he was trying to understand how he could forget you. How you could be his mate, and he couldn’t feel it. How Lo’ak could touch you like that, help you like that, and somehow it didn’t seem wrong to anyone, except him.

And still, the baby slept with her cheek to your chest. Likan wrapped his hand in your braids. Eylan reached for you when he woke crying.

Neteyam sat on the edge of the mat, stiff and quiet, watching his own hands like they weren’t his. Max crouched in front of him, scanning a pad while Norm gently rotated a small light near his temple. Every time Neteyam blinked, it felt like he was waking into a world he didn’t recognize.

You sat nearby, the baby still asleep in the shallow woven basket beside you. Eylan was curled into Lo’ak’s lap again, sucking on his thumb — not out of habit, but anxiety. Likan was sprawled across your thigh, little fingers tangled in the strings of your chest wrap.

“I’m going to ask you a few things, okay?” Norm said gently. “No pressure. Just answer what you can.” Neteyam nodded slowly.,“What’s your name?”

“Neteyam te Suli Tsyeyk’itan.” Norm smiled, “that’s good,” encouraged. “And your parents?” Neteyam looked across the room at Jake and Neytiri. “Ma sa’nok. Ma sempu.”

“Do you remember where you grew up?”

“The forest. The Omatikaya clan” He glanced around the reef mauri. “This place is… new.” Max nodded. “You came here during the war after the sky people returned. That’s okay you don’t remember yet. What about your siblings?”

Neteyam hesitated. “Lo’ak… and Kiri. I remember them.” His brow furrowed. “But that little one—” he pointed at Tuk, who stood near Neytiri, peeking out from behind her legs. “I don’t know her.” Tuk shrank back slightly, confused. Neytiri placed a protective hand on her head. “That’s Tuk,” Jake said gently. “Your youngest sister.”

“I never met her,” Neteyam murmured, voice flat. You glanced down, heart sinking. Norm didn’t let the pause linger. “And this woman?” He nodded toward you. “Do you remember her?” Neteyam looked at you for a long time.

“I know her name,” he said quietly. “I remember her from before. When we were little. She always followed me around.” You almost laughed at that, even through the ache. “But after that… nothing,” he whispered.

“Neteyam,” Max spoke up, shifting tone. “You’ve lost all memory past a certain point in your life. It’s not unusual in cases like this — trauma, brain swelling, lack of oxygen, coma…”

“I’ve been asleep for months?” Neteyam cut in, sharp as if to confirm it again. Jake stepped forward. “Yes.”

“And you’re all just… what? Waiting for me to get up?”

“Of course we were,” Neytiri said softly. He rubbed at his chest like it ached. “But I don’t even remember learning how to fight. Or fly. Or the war. I don’t remember being a husband or a father—” He stopped. Looked at the children.

“You’re telling me they’re mine, but I don’t feel it.” Lo’ak’s jaw twitched. Tsireya stepped beside him. “It’s okay to feel lost.”

“Is it?” Neteyam shot back, and his tone was more edge than emotion. Silence crept through the mauri. You didn’t move. You couldn’t. Neteyam turned to his brother, eyes narrowing just slightly. “You’ve been helping. With… them.” His gaze flicked to you. “Why?” Lo’ak blinked. “Because she needed help.”

“You seemed very close,” Neteyam said, voice careful. Lo’ak frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

You stepped in finally, firm but calm. “It means he’s scared. And confused. And this is all too much for everyone involved, especially him.”

Neteyam looked at you, jaw tense. “I just don’t understand how I’m gone for a few months, and suddenly I wake up and my little brother knows more about my life than I do.”

“That’s not what happened Nete—”Lo’ak stood, slowly setting Eylan down beside him cutting you off. “Bro, none of us wanted this. I helped because I had to. Because I love you. You think this was easy for anyone?”

You stood too, placing a hand on Lo’ak’s arm before it escalated. “Stop. Don’t fight. Please.” Jake’s voice was heavy. “We all did what we had to.”

“I’m not even mad about it,” Neteyam muttered, running a hand over his face. “I probably should be but, I just feel like I woke up in someone else’s life. A stranger’s life.” Neytiri moved to kneel at his side. “It’s not someone else’s life, ma’itan. It’s yours. We will walk with you until you find it again.”

Tsireya leaned gently into Lo’ak, whispering something that calmed him. He exhaled hard, jaw clenching, but he nodded.

Max tapped something on his pad. “We’ll give you space. The best thing now might be small pieces. Familiar things. Let him be around his family. Let him feel things before he tries to remember them. Just live, hopefully memories will resurface during daily activities which normally happens in cases like these.”

You looked down at your children. Eylan was clinging to Lo’ak’s hand. Likan was staring at Neteyam like he didn’t understand why his papa didn’t scoop him up. And your daughter, curled in her basket, let out a tiny sigh in her sleep. A sound Neteyam once swore was the best thing he’d ever heard when you had the boys. But he didn’t even flinch this time. And you had no idea how to begin again.

The next few months were both careful and chaotic — a balance of heartbreak and fragile hope, as life moved forward with Neteyam awake but not truly returned. You tried not to mourn what you lost. He was alive. Breathing. Laughing sometimes. But he wasn’t yours, not in the way he used to be.

At first, it was small things. Kiri brought out the old woven toys they used to play with as kids. She laughed when Neteyam remembered the names they gave them — “that’s O’upey, the angry monkey-bird,” he muttered one day, blinking in surprise at the memory. Tuk was still shy, unsure how to be with a brother who didn’t know her. But eventually, she began sneaking beside him during mealtimes, nudging his arm with her shoulder until he smiled down at her and shared his fruit.

Lo’ak kept his distance for a few days after that first confrontation, letting space settle between you all. But he never strayed far from the kids. Eylan still ran to him when he scraped his knee. Likan still tugged on his braid when he was sleepy. Neteyam watched this from the edge of the room, always quiet.

Neteyam had moved into a separate space near the edge of the Sully mauri which was next to the one you both shared in the previous years. He couldn’t sleep beside you, not with the weight of your shared history heavy on a mind that couldn’t recall it. So, the boys stayed with you, and the baby girl in the woven basket slept at your side. Neytiri helped every night, whispering lullabies and staying close when your arms trembled from exhaustion.

Jake took it hardest in the quiet moments. His son was there, walking beside him, training again slowly, and yet the bond between them was stunted. Neteyam asked him once if he’d been a good warrior, and Jake nearly broke, but he told him how proud he was, how much of a good person, son, warrior, husband and father he’d always been.

“He was the best,” he told Max later, voice rough. “He died trying to save us. And now he doesn’t even remember what he was saving.”

You and Neteyam began spending time together carefully. Norm had suggested building new memories to replace the missing ones. So, you started showing him the forest again — not the one you’d grown up in, but the edge of it, where vines crept low and fruit hung from branches. You told him the story of how you first met.

“You were three, just turned three and I was two years old. I was sitting in the village, and you came up to me and sat down and shared your fruit with me.” you said one day, crouched in the sand beside the mangroves. “And you just sat there with me eating the little piece of fruit you kept for yourself and after that we just…stay together.” He smiled, barely. “Sounds sweet.”

“It was,” you whispered, “and so was the fruit, I knew cause as we got older you never ate fruit that wasn’t overly ripe. It was always the sweetest u could find.” Neteyam didn’t argue. But he kept his soft smile until it faded.

Tsireya was gentle with him, like she always had been. She reminded him of reef customs, reintroduced him to Aonung, and brought him on swims through familiar coral paths. There was never judgment in her voice — only patience. You saw her watching him when he wasn’t looking. Once, you caught her eyes drift to you, and in that silence between you, there was no rivalry. Just pain shared in quiet solidarity.

Lo’ak helped where he could, but he never overstepped again. Not in front of Neteyam. Not anymore. But you felt it sometimes — the way Neteyam watched him carry Likan, or braid Eylan’s hair while you nursed the baby. It wasn’t jealousy, not fully. It was a wound. A gap in time that didn’t make sense.

One night, after a long day helping with repairs near the reef line, Neteyam lingered outside your mauri. You were inside, humming softly as you tried to get the baby down. He didn’t enter. But his voice drifted through the curtain: “What’s her name?”

You froze. You stepped toward the flap, lifting it slowly. “We haven’t named her yet,” you said. “Not fully. We were waiting”

He blinked. “Why?” Your voice cracked. “Because I choose too many names because there are a lot of pretty ones, and you are the one that normally has the final say.” He didn’t say anything. But he didn’t leave either.

Kiri was the first one to make him laugh again. She dragged him to the beach with a basket full of sea slugs and made him chase Likan, who had stolen one and was screeching with joy. When Likan fell in the shallows, Neteyam picked him up instinctively — and for one heartbeat, it felt like the past.

But when Likan called him ‘sempu,’ Neteyam stiffened. “He thinks I’m someone I’m not,” he told you later “No,” you said quietly. “He thinks you’re you. His father. And he is not wrong.”

One afternoon, the sun had barely started to dip beneath the waves when Tsireya brought Neteyam down to the shallows again. Lo’ak followed without a word, as if he didn’t want to leave his brother alone, to keep him safe. It had become a quiet ritual, easing Neteyam into the life he’d forgotten. He was polite. Curious. Observant. And completely unaware of the landmines his presence was walking over.

The beach was half-crowded with young hunters cleaning their weapons and tending to their gear. Laughter floated above the gentle surf. “Neteyam?” Soft, like a breeze. He turned, and so did Tsireya and Lo’ak.

Lina stepped out from a cluster of others, a gentle smile pulling at her lips. Her eyes were kind, the curve of her voice never sharp. She was tall and pretty, wet curls cascading down her back, bow slung across her back, fingers stained with oil from cleaning arrowheads. Neteyam tilted his head. “Have we met?”

“Yes,” she said gently, approaching but still giving him space. “We used to train together. Before… everything.” He squinted, curious. “I don’t remember.”

“That’s okay,” she replied, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “You used to say you could outswim me. You never could.” He blinked, then laughed — and it was so easy. Like he didn’t have the weight of a family he couldn’t remember pressed into his chest. Like something about her didn’t require effort. “I doubt that,” he said, smiling full now. “You don’t look like you swim very fast.”

She blushed faintly and laughed. “You said I was faster than you once. But you also said I cheated.”

“Maybe I did,” he said, eyes twinkling a bit too long on her face. “Sounds like something I’d say.” Lo’ak’s brows lowered slightly. Tsireya shifted beside him, her hand sliding into his as if instinctually — as if to ground herself. Lina lowered her eyes a moment. “You helped me build my bow. Back when my brother broke mine. You carved a seashell on the handle for me.” Neteyam looked down at the bow on her back, then back at her. “I did that?”

“You said it reminded you of a sunrise.” There was a pause. His smile softened. “I’d like to see that sunrise again.” Lo’ak’s jaw slackened, his brother had always been smooth, but he’d only ever seen Neteyam really show interest in you. Tsireya sucked in a slow breath, eyes flicking toward her mate in quiet concern. They exchanged a look — full of too much they couldn’t say out loud. Not here. Not now.

“You… want to walk the shore?” Lina offered shyly, motioning toward the far end where the cliffs curved. And Neteyam nodded. “I think I do.” The two of them wandered off, feet kicking through the foam. Tsireya turned to Lo’ak. “We need to say something.” His face was carved from stone. “Not yet,” he said, voice quiet. “She’s been through too much already.”

“She’ll notice eventually.” He nodded, jaw tight. “Then we’ll tell her eventually.” But neither of them moved. They just stood there, watching their brother disappear further down the sand — toward someone he never remembered, but now seemed to see more clearly than the people who’d loved him all his life.

It was another sleepless night. It had been a couple of weeks now since Neteyam woke up and he was no where to be found. The baby had been fussing for hours, her soft cries escalating into breathless wails. Likan stirred again, kicking off his woven blanket, eyes puffy with confusion and frustration. Eylan was curled on his side but not asleep, thumb tucked against his lips the way he hadn’t done in years. He didn’t cry anymore, he just stared at the wall and sniffled, quiet in that way that made your heart twist.

You were pacing again. Rocking the baby against your chest, bouncing on tired feet, muttering soothing nonsense into her ear. You hadn’t eaten much. You hadn’t really sat down. You hadn’t even noticed the blood on your lower back where the wrap had pulled too tight across your healing skin. The strain of childbirth, the strain of grief, the loneliness of loving someone who didn’t know you anymore — it had started to show.

And no one had said it aloud, but the mat felt emptier now than when Neteyam had been unconscious. Because now he wasn’t there, and you were alone.

The family tried, they did, Neytiri and Kiri checked in. Jake held Likan when he screamed for his father. Tsireya helped brush Eylan’s hair when he refused to do it himself. But they were pulled thin. And Lo’ak had pulled away.

You had noticed it a few nights ago, when you turned in desperation to ask him for help reaching the water jug, and he pretended not to hear you. When the boys cried for him and he sent Tuk instead. You hadn’t said anything then. Maybe you thought it would pass or that you’d just figure it out.

But tonight, the pressure snapped. The baby wouldn’t settle. You were shaking. Likan started crying. Again. And your hands were trembling so bad the cup of water you tried to pour spilled across the floor. And that’s when Lo’ak walked in.

You didn’t even hear him at first — just saw his shadow, crouched beside Eylan, checking on him. The soft whisper of “Hey, buddy,” as he tucked the boy’s arm back under the blanket. Then he turned and saw you.

You were standing near the mat, the baby clutched to your chest, your whole body strung tight. Likan was crying in the corner, and you didn’t even know what to do anymore — hold him? Put her down? Lie on the ground and cry with them? You blinked at Lo’ak like he wasn’t real. And when he reached to take the baby from your arms, something snapped.

“No.” He paused, arms mid-stretch. “What?”

“You don’t get to come in when it’s convenient for you.” Your voice cracked. “I’ve been here. Alone. You were supposed to help me. You always did.”Lo’ak’s jaw locked. “I thought with Neteyam—”

“Well, Neteyam is gone!” you hissed, too loud, the baby jerking in your grip. You rocked her faster, whispering apologies, tears burning behind your eyes. “He’s not dead but he’s gone, and I am so tired, Lo’ak. I’m tired of holding this family together with spit and prayers.”

“I didn’t know you wanted my help anymore.”

“I didn’t want to need it anymore!” Silence stretched. You were shaking. Lo’ak took a slow step closer. “He’s my brother,” he said, quietly. “And I thought… if I stepped back, maybe it would be easier. For everyone.”

“It’s not.” You looked up at him, eyes glassy and dark. “I didn’t ask for this. And I didn’t expect you to fix it. But you were the one who was there. You were the one who held me when she was born. And I know, I know I’m asking a lot of you, and I know these kids aren’t your responsibility, but I need help sometimes.” Lo’ak flinched.

The baby finally drifted into exhausted sleep. You sank to your knees beside Likan, curling him against your chest as best you could. Lo’ak just stood there, like he didn’t know if he should stay or go. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I thought Neteyam would come back and remember how to be everything you needed.” You didn’t look at him. Just whispered: “Me too.”

He knelt down beside you then, hands hovering before gently reaching for Likan, taking him from your arms. The toddler’s sobs stilled a little against Lo’ak’s shoulder.

“You should rest,” he murmured. “I’ll stay tonight.” You didn’t thank him. Not with words. But you leaned into him — just slightly — and he stayed there. Holding your child, watching you sleep with the baby curled in one of your arms. The other reaching for Eylan to try easing him to sleep. But no one said the thing hanging in the air between you. That he wasn’t the one who was supposed to be there. That he shouldn’t have had to fill the space his brother left behind.

Neteyam stayed close. His mauri was just a few steps from yours — the one you used to share — and right next to his parents’. Close enough to hear the baby cry at night. Close enough to sometimes catch the scent of your cooking drift over in the mornings. Close enough that the boys could wander to his mat and sit nearby, even if he didn’t fully understand why it made his chest tighten when they did. But he never stepped inside.

Even as the weeks passed and his strength returned, Neteyam never once crossed that threshold. Not even when he watched you from the corner of his eye, swaying the baby back to sleep just outside. Not when Eylan called out “Sa’nok, sa’nok! Look!” while holding up a fish Lo’ak helped him catch. Not even when Likan would wander over, curious and bold, standing at the edge of Neteyam’s sleeping space before being gently redirected by Kiri or Neytiri.

He stayed in the in-between. And Lo’ak, for all his own complicated grief, never once gave up on him. He came by almost every day. Sometimes with food. Sometimes with little tools or handmade knives — “You used to like this,” he’d say casually. Other times, he just sat, throwing pebbles at the sand as Neteyam stared at the sky. “You talk less than you used to,” Lo’ak muttered one day, nudging him. “You used to talk a lot. Mostly telling me I was being dumb.”

Neteyam gave a faint, crooked smile. “That still sounds accurate.” It was moments like that flickers, glimpses, that made Lo’ak hopeful.

But then there was Lina. She’d been there from the beginning, one of the few Metkayina Neteyam didn’t look at with the uncomfortable weight of “I should know you.” Because he didn’t. Not really. Not in memory. So, it was easier.

Easier to walk with her on the shore after a long day. Easier to practice knife-throwing with her and not feel like a failure when he missed. She’d laugh gently, encourage him, sometimes place her hand over his to guide the movement. She smelled like sea salt and wind. Spoke softly. Never stared at his scars. Lo’ak noticed it all.

He didn’t mention it but, he didn’t stop it either. But he started watching more closely. Not out of jealousy — no, not that. It was something closer to protection. For you. For the boys. For a version of his brother that Lo’ak still believed was inside there somewhere. And the strange thing was, Neteyam wasn’t doing anything wrong. He wasn’t cruel. He wasn’t trying to replace anyone. He was just lost. And Lina, with her easy calm and open eyes, was the only place that didn’t make him feel like he was failing someone just by existing.

Meanwhile, the nights for you stretched long and raw. The baby cried more now. Maybe she felt it — her father just a few paces away, but never close. Eylan had grown quieter, his eyes constantly drifting toward his father’s silhouette. Likan had taken to curling into your side and not letting go, even in sleep.

The family helped where they could. Neytiri especially — splitting her time between you and Neteyam, her heart torn in half. But no matter how many hands helped, you were still up at night. Still aching. And Neteyam was still outside, just beyond the flap of the mauri. Awake. Watching the stars. Not knowing why they felt lonelier than before.

One day the boys were laughing as they chased one another along the shore, their feet kicking up puffs of white sand. You watched them with tired eyes from just outside the mauri, the baby restless in your arms.

She was crying again — not a loud, piercing wail, just that miserable, fussy sound that always came in waves when she couldn’t seem to settle. You’d walked her, rocked her, hummed and whispered to her until your throat ached. Nothing helped today. You bounced her gently, pressing a kiss to her damp cheek. “I know, sweet girl. I know.”

Behind you, there was a shift in the air. You turned your head just slightly — and found Neteyam standing there. He wasn’t close. Just at the edge of the clearing, half in shadow, watching with unreadable eyes. He hesitated. “I can take her,” he said finally, voice low and unsure. “If… if you want.”

Your heart gave a soft, startled flutter. You straightened slowly, blinking at him. “You don’t have to,” you murmured. “I know,” he said. “But I want to.” You looked down at the baby in your arms. She was still fussing, fists clenched, brow furrowed like the whole world was wrong. She didn’t know her father had never held her. Didn’t know he’d been sleeping when she was born. Didn’t know he didn’t remember her at all. But somehow… maybe she felt it.

You stood carefully and stepped toward him. Your arms trembled a bit — not from fear, just the weight of the moment. You cradled her close a second longer, then gently passed her over. He took her like she was made of glass. The way his hands moved — cautious, reverent. His whole body stilled as she settled into the crook of his arm. She squirmed at first, then let out a small, sighing cry… And stilled. He looked down at her. Then up at you. “She looks like me,” he said quietly.

You nodded. “She does.” “I never held her before now?” he asked. “No,” you whispered. “You haven’t really.” He looked away, shame flickering across his face. But the baby — your baby — made a soft, curious coo and blinked up at him with slow, sleepy eyes. His mouth parted, stunned. “I don’t remember her,” he said. “But I feel like I should.” You reached out gently, fingers brushing his arm. “You don’t have to force anything. You’re holding her. That’s enough.”

He looked at you — really looked — then back down at her. “What’s her name?” he asked. You exhaled slowly. “She doesn’t have one yet. I… I couldn’t pick. I tried. But I couldn’t.” He looked at you again, a strange mix of emotion tightening his brow. “You said I used to choose.” You nodded. “Always. I would give you too many names. I could never make up my mind, and you’d just… decide. Like you already knew.” His eyes fell back to her, the tiniest crease forming between his brows. “Do you have names now?” he asked. You swallowed. “Three.”

He waited. “Sahri. Eiweya. Kiriya.” He mouthed them silently. Then, softer than breath — “Kiriya.” You blinked. “That one,” he said. “She feels like that.” She shifted in his arms, letting out a tiny sigh before nestling her head beneath his chin. You stared at them, heart thudding, something breaking and stitching together all at once. “Kiriya,” you echoed. “Then that’s her name.” He didn’t say anything else. But he didn’t hand her back either.

The beach wind had quieted, the tide soft at your feet. Kiriya’s cries had faded into soft snuffles as she dozed in Neteyam’s arms. Her tiny hand rested against his chest; her brow furrowed even in sleep — just like his.

You were watching Eylan and Likan build crooked towers of shells in the sand when Neteyam glanced over at you. “I should bring her in,” he said. You turned to him slowly, heart tapping at your ribs. “Will you stay? For dinner?” He didn’t answer right away. His eyes flicked back to the baby. “Do you want me to?” You blinked, caught off guard by the question. “Of course,” you said. “The boys would love that.” Neteyam gave a tiny nod, shifting the baby carefully. “Okay.”

At the mauri, the scent of roasted yovo drifted over fresh leaves and warm stones. Neytiri and Jake were already sitting, Tuk bouncing between them with a carved spoon in each hand. Ronal and Tsireya moved around the fire, while Kiri passed plates to everyone. Lo’ak was sitting cross-legged, peeling fruit with his knife and chatting with Ao’nung.

He looked up when he heard your voice first — then saw who was walking beside you. His eyes widened slightly. Neteyam holding the baby. Lo’ak stood up halfway, his fruit forgotten. A grin broke across his face before he could stop it. “Bro.” His voice cracked. Neteyam paused, shifting under the attention. “She was crying,” he said stiffly. “I was just… holding her.” Neytiri was already clearing a space near her side. “Come. Sit.” Lo’ak backed up, still smiling, as you and Neteyam stepped into the circle. You caught the warmth in his eyes — not surprise. Relief. Eylan barreled past you, nearly knocking over a bowl. “She’s still sleeping?”

“Still,” Neteyam said. Likan scrambled onto your lap, thumb in his mouth, then reached toward his baby sister. “Dada hold her,” he whispered, proud. “She sleep wike a bug,” he added, pressing his hand over his cheek to mimic her squish. Neteyam smiled — a real one. Quick and uncertain, but real. Lo’ak sank down beside him, nudging Eylan aside just enough to pass him a plate. “You gonna eat or just be the baby chair tonight?” Neteyam snorted. “Think she’s claimed me.”

“Good,” Lo’ak said. “She deserves it. So do you.” You looked over at him, and he gave you a small wink — not smug, just glad. Like something inside him had finally relaxed. Dinner passed in slow waves — small bites, soft laughter, cautious conversation. Kiri watched you like a mother pent up with hope. Tsireya offered seconds. And when Kiriya stirred, Neteyam didn’t pass her off right away. He held her close, tracing the fine wisps of hair over her temple. You didn’t say anything. But when he looked at you and said softly, “I like the name,” it almost broke you. “Me too.”

Afterward, when the children had eaten their fill and begun nodding off against each other, Lo’ak helped clean up. He passed behind you and murmured low near your ear: “He’s trying. I see it.” You looked back at him. “And I’m glad,” he added with a grin. “You look lighter tonight.” You pressed your fingers to your lips, almost in disbelief. So did he. Because for the first time in many weeks, you all sat under the stars together. And Neteyam stayed.

Over the next several days, Neteyam had been around sometimes, other times disappearing off to somewhere in the reef. You honestly didn’t think much about it, having your hands full with the children kept your mind occupied, and ever since the night he had dinner things have been better between you, or that’s what you thought anyways. You had no idea he was off bonding with another woman.

The first time, they were hunting along the reef ledge. Lina was leading him through narrow tunnels in the coral, glancing over her shoulder to smirk at him every few paces. “You’re too slow,” she calls over the bubbling tide. Neteyam grins, swimming harder to catch up. “I’m letting you win.”

“Oh?” she tilts her head, treading water as he nears. “You always this generous, or just with me?” He chuckles — can’t help it — and bumps her gently with his shoulder. She bumps him back.

The second time, they were drying gear near the rocks. Lina’s hair is loose, still dripping, skin shining with salt and sun. She reaches out to adjust the strap of his sling.

“Still too tight,” she mutters, tugging it just slightly. “You’ll bruise yourself.” His hand brushes hers. “What would I do without you?”

“Starve. Or bleed out,” she says, looking up at him through her lashes. Neteyam bites the inside of his cheek to hide a grin.

The third time, he finds her sitting on a flat stone, braiding thin strips of shell into a necklace. “That for me?” he asks, flopping down beside her, deliberately brushing her leg with his tail. She laughs, doesn’t move away. “You wish.” He leans on one arm. “What if I do?” She goes still — just for a second — then smiles again. “Then maybe I’ll make you one. If you catch a bigger fish than me tomorrow.”

“Easy.”

“You talk too much.”

“You like it.” She says nothing — but she doesn’t argue.

The fourth time, they were in the shallows, dusk falling in golden streaks across the ocean. She splashes him lightly, then darts away with a laugh. He chases, catches her wrist under the water, and spins her in a circle. Their laughter echoes against the reef wall. “You’re impossible,” he says, chest heaving. “You’re slow.”

“I let you go.”

“Liar.” He pulls her close again — just slightly — hand on her arm, holding her steady. She doesn’t pull away. “You gonna let go?” she whispers. He hesitates.

And that’s when they hear it. A sharp inhale. Both of them turn — and Tsireya is standing at the edge of the sandbank, staring. She wasn’t meant to find them here. Not this close. Not this comfortable. Her eyes flick between their bodies — wet, pressed too close, laughter still fading in the air. Lina steps back instantly and Neteyam’s hand drops. Tsireya’s voice is tight. “Lo’ak’s been looking for you.” He doesn’t answer so she turns and walks away.

That evening when the tide had rolled in, moonlight catching on the crests as the reef swayed in rhythm. Most of the village had gone quiet — the firelight around the Sully mauri low and flickering. Tsireya found Lo’ak by the far edge of the reef, feeding dried root to an ilu calf. His hair was damp, eyes tired. She didn’t speak at first. Just stood there, jaw tight.

Lo’ak glanced up. “Hey,” he offered, but her expression stopped him cold “What?”

“I saw them again.” He frowned. “Who?”

“Neteyam. And Lina.” Lo’ak’s shoulders dropped. “Yeah, I figured—”

“No,” she said sharply. “You don’t understand. This isn’t just awkward flirting anymore.”

She stepped closer, voice barely above a whisper. “She touched his chest today and he was touching her arm. Laughed like it was nothing. Then leaned into him like—like she wanted him to notice. And he did.” Lo’ak looked away, jaw clenching.

“She doesn’t care,” Tsireya hissed. “She knows. She knows he’s married. She knows you all told him. She knows he has children. And she still looks at him like that.”

“Neteyam doesn’t remember—”

“That doesn’t excuse her.” Lo’ak shook his head. “I don’t think he sees it the way we do.” Tsireya didn’t back off. “He doesn’t have to know everything to feel what’s right. Something in him should know. That kind of bond doesn’t disappear just because you forgot a name.”

“He’s not the same,” Lo’ak muttered. “Not yet.”

“And she’s taking advantage of that,” Tsireya snapped. Silence hung between them, thick as sea fog. “I didn’t tell her,” She said quietly. “I didn’t say a word. But I swear, Lo’ak… if Lina puts her hands on him again like that, I will.” He exhaled slowly. “Don’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because she’s already breaking,” he said, voice strained. “Every day she’s holding it together for those kids, for the family. You think watching him forget her wasn’t bad enough?” Tsireya’s eyes softened.

“She finally got him to hold the baby,” Lo’ak added. “Named her with him. The day they sat and ate with the family. First time in months. It was right before that.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “Then why is he out there with her?”

“I don’t know,” Lo’ak admitted, eyes glistening. “But I can’t be the one to break her.” Tsireya nodded once, quietly. “Then I’ll wait. But not forever.” Lo’ak stared at the stars, wondering how long he could keep pretending nothing was burning.

Neteyam sat on the warm stone, legs stretched, hands braced behind him as the waves lapped close. Lina was beside him, knees drawn up, the curve of her smile impossibly soft in the golden light. “Your shoulders tense again,” she murmured, scooting closer.

He didn’t stop her when her fingers brushed along his shoulder. “I think you like touching me,” he said, not quite teasing, not quite serious. Lina laughed under her breath. “Maybe. You’re not stopping me.” He turned to look at her — really look.

“You’re not like the others,” he said slowly. “Everyone stares at me like I’m supposed to be someone they remember. You just… let me be who I am now.”

“You don’t owe anyone a past you can’t remember,” she whispered.

“You don’t even ask questions.”

“I already know the answers that matter,” she smiled. “I like you.”

He blinked. “You don’t care that I’m—”

“Married?” she finished, almost playfully. “You don’t remember that. It’s not the same.” There was a pause. A long, heavy pause.

“I’m still—” he started, then faltered. “She’s kind. Patient. But it’s like I’m supposed to feel something I don’t.”

“You don’t have to explain anything to me,” Lina said, brushing her fingers along the side of his jaw. “You just… feel this. Now.” And then she kissed him. Not a short, confused kiss. Not unsure. This was deliberate. Gentle, but real. And Neteyam—he didn’t pull away, not right away. His hands twitched against the rock. When he did break it, it was breathless, conflicted. “Lina—” She smiled. “You can stop me next time. If you want.”

Behind a rock ledge just above them, Neytiri stood frozen. She had come looking. Something in her heart told her something was wrong. And what she heard broke her completely. Every word. “You just feel this. Now.” The kiss. She almost called him out. Almost walked forward and made her presence known. But she didn’t. She couldn’t. Not when her son — her eldest — the one she buried her soul into, kissed another woman while his mate rocked their baby just a few steps away in the village. Neytiri backed away, breath trembling, hand pressed hard against her chest. She didn’t speak. But something inside her, something sacred, began to unravel. Not for herself, but for you.

The night air was still and thick with the hum of distant ocean wind. Only the crackle of low embers broke the silence inside the Sully mauri. Neytiri sat by the hearth, her body unmoving, eyes fixed on the firelight flickering across her knuckles.

Jake entered quietly, wiping his hands with a cloth after helping Kiri settle Eylan and Likan into their sleeping mat while you tended to Kiriya. “You’ve been quiet all night,” he said, crouching beside her. Neytiri didn’t look at him. Her voice, when it came, was soft but cut with steel. “I saw them.” Jake’s brow furrowed. “Who?” Her jaw clenched. “Neteyam. And the girl.” He sat down slowly, feeling the air shift. “What girl?” Neytiri nodded once. “That Lina girl— Two nights ago. I followed him. I wanted to be sure.”

Jake’s voice dropped. “What did you see?” Her eyes lifted to meet his, burning. “They were kissing. Her hand was on his jaw. He did not stop her.”

Jake swore under his breath, rubbing his temples. “Shit.” Behind the thin woven wall, there was a scuffle of movement. Someone breathing too loudly. Too sharply. Neytiri’s ears twitched. A moment passed before Lo’ak stepped into the light, arms at his sides, face drawn in guilt. Tsireya stood behind him, hands knotted in front of her, not meeting anyone’s eyes.

“I know,” Lo’ak said before either parent could ask. “I’ve known.” Neytiri rose slowly to her feet. “How long?” Lo’ak held up a hand. “I’ve known for a while. Since before he even held the baby. I saw them. First just talking, then… more. Since he started to go to the tide pools the hunters hand out by.”

Jake’s eyes narrowed. “And you didn’t think to say anything?”

“I didn’t know how,” Lo’ak admitted. “She’s already barely holding things together. She’s feeding the baby alone. Putting the boys to bed. Waiting on him to come home. And I just—”

“You should have told us,” Neytiri snapped. “I thought he’d come around,” Lo’ak said, voice cracking. “I thought once he saw her — really saw her — saw the kids — it would all fall into place. I thought the memory flashes were working.” Jake’s jaw worked. “But he kept going back to Lina.” Lo’ak nodded. “He kept going back I guess.” Neytiri’s voice was trembling now. “And you let her believe he was trying.”

“I didn’t want to be the one to break her,” Lo’ak whispered. “She still believes in him.” Tsireya finally spoke, quiet but firm. “Lo’ak and I first saw them. I told him we should say something, but he said it wasn’t time.”

Neytiri turned away, her fists clenched. “He kissed another woman. While his mate waits. While she takes care of those babies alone.”

Jake stood slowly, running both hands down his face. “We need to talk to him.” Lo’ak looked up quickly. “Not yet. Please. He’s remembering. Not all of it, but enough that I think he’s confused. Let me talk to him first.”

Neytiri’s eyes narrowed. “And if he touches her again?” Jake answered this time, voice cold and low. “Then it’s no longer confusion. It’s a choice.” The word no one said was still thick in the air. And none of them could bear to imagine the moment you would find out.

The sky was dark, save for a stretch of stars reflected on the surface of the sea. Small waves lapped at the sand as Neteyam stood alone, arms folded, staring out at the horizon. His back was to the village, but he hadn’t gone far — not really. He could still hear the soft calls of nocturnal birds, the echo of distant laughter, the crackling of fires. Lo’ak found him there.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just stepped up beside his brother, letting the silence linger. The two stood shoulder to shoulder, the sea wind tossing their braids gently. Neteyam spoke first, barely above a murmur. “Did they send you?” Lo’ak shook his head. “No. I came on my own.” Neteyam’s jaw tightened. “I already know what this is about.” Lo’ak sighed. “Then that makes it easier.” A long pause. Then, quietly: “I saw you with her, bro.” Neteyam flinched, but didn’t turn. “You’ve been spying on me?”

“No,” Lo’ak said softly. “Just looking out. For her. For the kids.” Neteyam finally looked at him, eyes conflicted, searching. “It’s not like that.”

“You kissed her,” Lo’ak replied, not harshly, just stating fact. “And you’ve been sneaking off for weeks.” Neteyam’s mouth opened, but no words came. Lo’ak shook his head slowly. “I’m not here to yell at you,” he said. “I’m not our dad. I’m your brother.”

He hesitated, then added, “And I’m hers too. Not by blood — but I helped catch your daughter when you were unconscious. I’ve held your sons when they cried for you. I’ve seen the way she looks at you like you hung the stars.” Neteyam’s eyes shimmered with something — regret, maybe, or confusion. “I don’t know what’s happening in your head,” Lo’ak said, voice low. “I know this memory thing is eating you up. I know you’re not the same. But that doesn’t mean you get to break her in silence.”

“I didn’t mean to hurt her,” Neteyam said. “But you are,” Lo’ak whispered. “Every time you don’t come home. Every time she lies to the boys and says you’re busy, or training. Every time she feeds the baby alone. And she won’t ask you to stay, she has no idea. She’ll wait for you to come to her.”

Neteyam turned his face away. “She thinks you’re getting better,” Lo’ak went on. “She thinks you’re coming back to her. And you are, sometimes. That night on the tablet, when you smiled at her. You felt like you. That’s what’s killing her. She hopes.” Lo’ak paused, then said gently, “Is it Lina?” Neteyam didn’t answer. “She’s not your mate,” Lo’ak said, still calm. “She doesn’t know your sons’ lullabies. She didn’t carry your child. She didn’t sit at your side when you were dying.” Neteyam closed his eyes. His voice was a whisper. “I know.”

Lo’ak looked at him with something like grief. “Then why are you still going to her?” The silence hung, heavy and raw. “I don’t know,” Neteyam said. “She’s… easy. I don’t have to feel like I’m failing when I’m with her.” Lo’ak’s eyes darkened. “She doesn’t ask you to remember.”

Neteyam nodded. “She doesn’t look at me like she’s waiting to find the old me.” Lo’ak stepped closer. “She doesn’t know the old you. We do. And she does.” Neteyam looked at him, chest tight. “What if I never remember everything?”

“Then you start from where you are,” Lo’ak said. “But you don’t build something new while she’s still holding the pieces you left behind.” Neteyam turned away again, swallowing hard. Lo’ak let the words sit. He didn’t demand. He didn’t lecture. Just before he walked away, he added one last thing, soft as dusk. “You were always the one I looked up to. The steady one. The protector.” He paused. “If you can’t remember it from your own memory, remember it came from me.” And then he left his brother alone with the stars.

It’s the next morning. You’re up early with the baby, trying to braid Eylan’s hair while Likan chews on a toy. Neteyam returns from the beach. His shoulders are tense. His steps are slow. You smile when you see him. “Hey,” you say softly. “We missed you at breakfast.” He hesitates. Then: “Can we talk?” Your stomach drops. You hand Eylan the comb and step outside with him, the light warm on your skin.

He doesn’t look at you when he speaks. “I… I need some time. To think. To breathe. Things are getting clearer but… it’s a lot. Being here. With you. With the kids. With the pressure to feel everything I’m supposed to feel.” You go quiet. His words twist in your chest. “You don’t feel anything?”

He shakes his head quickly. “No— I do. I think I do. But I don’t know what’s real and what’s me wanting it to be real. Last night felt… good. You felt safe. Familiar. But then I woke up this morning and…” His hands clench. “I was terrified again. Of losing myself to a life I don’t remember.” You swallow hard. “So, you want space.” He nods. You nod too, but your lips tremble. “Okay.”

“It’s not forever,” he says, voice low. “I just need to understand who I am… on my own.” You force a small smile. “Of course. Take the time you need.” But when he leaves, heading toward the far edge of the village — you don’t know he’s going to see Lina.

you’re left standing outside the mauri with the wind in your hair and a silent ache blooming beneath your ribs. And for a long moment… you just stand there. Because what are you supposed to do? Chase after him? Beg him to stay? Demand an explanation he doesn’t even understand himself? No. You go back inside. You wipe your eyes before the kids see.

The sun had barely risen when he walked away. Soft golden light slanted through the mangrove roots, stretching long shadows over the damp earth. The village was still, caught in that in-between hush before the day began — birds just beginning to chirp, ocean breeze barely rustling the fronds above.

Inside, the air was warm and faintly sweet from the firepit’s embers. The kids were already stirring. Kiriya had begun to fuss softly in her basket, tiny fists working against the woven cloth around her. Eylan sat nearby, rubbing his eyes with the heel of his palm and yawning loudly — a tangle of half-finished braids still jutting out at strange angles. Likan lay sprawled on his belly, drooling into a woven mat and humming something tuneless to himself. You didn’t feel ready. But ready or not — you were their world. And you were not going to let them see you fall. You’ve already let them down too much as it is.

You moved on instinct. You knelt first beside Kiriya, scooping her into your arms with the ease of a mother who’d done this a thousand times, even if it still ached in your chest. She whimpered once before latching against your breast, and the tension in her small body melted almost instantly. You rocked gently, her soft suckling grounding you. “That’s it, my little star,” you whispered, brushing your nose against her temple. “Eat well. You’ve got a big day ahead.”

“Is it done?” Eylan’s voice broke into the silence, scratchy and young. “My braids?” You turned your head to him, gave a soft smile. “Not yet. Come here.” He scooted over eagerly, plopping himself down in front of you with crossed legs. “You stopped braiding it,” he said, not accusing — just observing. “I know,” you murmured. “Mama needed a moment. But I’m here now.”

You finished nursing Kiriya and shifted her gently to your shoulder. With one hand, you resumed braiding Eylan’s hair, fingers nimble even with your youngest curled against you, slowly drifting back to sleep. His hair was thick, like his father’s, and slightly wild — stubborn strands that always slipped from your grip. But you were patient. You always had been. Likan toddled over next, dragging his woven bird toy, his eyes still puffy with sleep. “Hungry,” he mumbled, pressing his face to your knee. You leaned down and kissed the top of his head. “Soon, baby boy. Let Mama finish your brother’s hair.”

“I help?” he asked, pointing at the pile of fruit. You chuckled. “You can hand me the yovo, hmm?” He nodded proudly and waddled off on his mission. By the time you finished Eylan’s last braid and tied it off, Kiriya was burping sleepily against your shoulder and Likan had managed to bring back half a yovo fruit, teeth already sunk into it. You couldn’t help the small laugh that bubbled up. “Thank you, sweet boy. Very helpful.” He beamed, mouth full.

You got up slowly, adjusting Kiriya in your sling so she could sleep tucked against your chest. The boys followed as you moved toward the firepit, preparing their breakfast from leftover grilled fish and soft yovo mash. Eylan fetched the dishes, Likan danced in circles, and you worked — stirring, plating, humming softly — while the sun crept higher outside.

There were no grand declarations. No epiphanies. Just movement. Just being present. Just… trying. Because yes, you were his wife. But you were more than that. You were their mother. Their comfort. Their rhythm. Their constant. And no matter who stayed, who left, who forgot — you would always be the one still here.

The stars were beginning to blink awake as the sea breeze curled through the village, quiet and cool. Dinner had come and gone. The children were already tucked away — Eylan and Likan asleep in their nest, Kiriya dozing peacefully in her wrap against your chest. You sat close to the firepit outside Jake and Neytiri’s mauri, cradling her gently, her small weight grounding you more than anything else could.

Kiri was plaiting Tuk’s hair beside you. Lo’ak leaned against a post nearby, Tsireya tucked against his side. Jake and Neytiri sat across the fire, quiet, eyes flickering between the flames and each other. It was Kiri who finally spoke. “Neteyam didn’t come back with you today?” You shifted slightly. “He said he needed some space. Just for a while.” Lo’ak stilled. You didn’t see his jaw tighten, but Kiri did. Jake looked up. “He told you that directly?”

You nodded. “This morning.” There was a beat of silence. You were still trying to gauge the reactions when Neytiri stood slowly, brushing off her hands. “He asked for space,” she repeated, voice carefully neutral. “From what, exactly?” You blinked. “From everything, I guess. The memories. The pressure. Me.” You looked down at Kiriya. “He’s not running. He just… needs air.”

“Air?” Neytiri said sharply. “He has all the air in the world here.” Jake put a calming hand on her leg, gently. “Ma’Tiri.” Lo’ak straightened up suddenly. “It’s not just about the memories.” Everyone looked at him. Kiri’s eyes narrowed. “Lo’ak.” But he ignored her. “He’s confused, yeah. But it’s not just about that.” “Lo’ak…” Neytiri warned under her breath. He backed off instantly. “I just mean—it’s complicated for him. You can’t judge him for needing time.” You watched him, head tilting. “You okay?” He nodded too quickly. “Yeah. Just tired.”

You didn’t press it. The odd quiet that followed said more than any of them did. You felt it but couldn’t place it — the edge in Neytiri’s tone, the way Lo’ak wouldn’t quite look at you, the heaviness in Jake’s silence. Kiri shifted closer to you, her presence warm, protective. “You’re all acting weird,” you murmured, trying to joke. “I’m the one who got asked for space. I should be the one brooding.”

“You’re handling it with grace,” Jake said finally, offering a quiet smile. “We’re proud of you for that.” You met his eyes, then Neytiri’s. Hers were guarded. Too guarded. Something was off. Still, you smile and looked down at your sleeping daughter. “He just needs time. That’s all.” No one argued with you. But no one agreed either. And as the fire crackled quietly, your heart ached with the weight of all the things left unsaid — because you were still standing in the light, and everyone else… already knew something you didn’t.

Three months later, your mornings had changed. No longer did they begin with tear-streaked cheeks or aching silence. They started now with purpose. With Eylan giggling as he tried to braid his own hair, with Likan waddling into your arms, babbling half-formed words, and with Kiriya’s soft, sleepy coos as she nursed while wrapped against your chest. You rose before the sun most days, not out of sorrow, but to reclaim yourself piece by piece.

You had begun to hunt again. The first time you picked up your bow, it felt foreign in your hands, the weight unfamiliar after moons of barely using it. But the moment your feet touched the forest floor—alone, quiet—you remembered. The strength in your arms, the rhythm of your breath, the way the jungle had always spoken to you. You didn’t go far the first time, but it was enough. Enough to remember who you were. Not just his mate. Not just a mother. But a warrior. A woman. A force.

Over time, you started to laugh again. It came slowly at first—soft smiles, half-hearted chuckles. But then, one afternoon, you met up with two old friends from your youth, both mothers now, and one cracked a joke about her toddler eating a bug. You laughed so hard you cried. You realized you missed yourself. And more importantly… you missed joy. Joy you haven’t felt since neteyam had his memories. You helped mend nets, wove baskets, joined other mothers in gathering sea fruits, and swam farther than you had since giving birth to Kiriya. You didn’t do it for Neteyam. You did it for your sons, for your daughter… and for you.

Jake and Neytiri loved you like their own. They helped when they could—watching the kids when you needed to gather, bringing fresh meat after long hunts, or simply sitting with you at night when you couldn’t sleep. They noticed your growing strength, the fire returning to your eyes, and they were proud—even if it broke their hearts that it had to be this way.

They said nothing of Lina. They didn’t have to. The pain in Neytiri’s eyes whenever she looked at her son, the way Jake sighed deeply whenever the topic of space came up—it was all there. They knew. And they hated it. But they also understood that Neteyam was lost in his own way, and anger wouldn’t guide him home. Patience might.

Lo’ak was the one who struggled the most. He couldn’t understand why his brother—who had once looked at you like you were the stars—couldn’t see you now. Lo’ak tried to hold his tongue, but it gnawed at him. Tsireya was the one who calmed him, reminding him that love can’t be forced, and healing isn’t always linear. Even Tuk knew. She had cried one night in your arms, confused and worried, asking if Neteyam would ever come back to being him. You didn’t have an answer.

The children were adjusting, each in their own way. Eylan, ever the oldest, had grown more protective, more aware growing into a man who mimicked his father without even knowing. He watched your face carefully when you thought he wasn’t looking, quietly stepping in to help with Likan or Kiriya when he sensed you needed a moment. Likan, wild-hearted and two, was all tangled curls and endless energy, bouncing between tantrums and giggles as he tried to mimic his big brother’s every move.

And Kiriya, just three months old, was beginning to show more of herself: tiny hands always reaching, eyes wide and curious, gurgling happily whenever you or her brothers came near. She loved being held against your chest, calmed instantly by your heartbeat. Together, the three of them were loud and loving and beautifully chaotic. They didn’t understand everything, but they were still happy. Still whole, because they had you.

Each night, after the children were asleep and the fire was low, you knelt and prayed to Eywa. For strength. For patience. For your mate to find his way back—not just to you, but to himself. You no longer waited by the door, hoping he would come. But you didn’t close it either. You lived. You thrived. You healed. Quietly, painfully, and steadily. And though you didn’t know it… Your light was still reaching him. Even from afar. Even in the arms of another. Something in him still remembered. And Eywa… was still listening.

Meanwhile with Neteyam, he spent his months with Lina, she always waited for him at night. Not coy. Not nervous. Prepared. Her hair was down, lips glossed with fruit oil, and her wrap — if you could call it that — barely covered anything. A soft green length of fabric tied at her hip with a loose knot that looked like a gentle breeze might undo it. Neteyam didn’t miss that. And she knew.

“Long day?” she whispered one night, slipping behind him, arms curling around his waist, mouth pressing to the back of his neck. She was tall, taller than you, where you stood at Neteyam’s chest, she stood just below his jaw. “You can relax now, you’re with me.” Her hands slid across his stomach, dipping low. He exhaled, chest tight. Sometimes, he didn’t stop her.

Her fingers found him hard, aching — always from her touch, her scent, the way she pressed into his back like she belonged there. She’d stroke him slowly, lips dragging along his jaw. Sometimes she’d murmur praise. Other times, she’d drop to her knees, hands sliding up his thighs — but every time her lips brushed against him, the sound of footsteps, a call in the distance, a flicker of light— He’d freeze. “Wait—” he’d say, hands gripping her shoulders. “Not now.” She always looked up, mouth flushed, eyes wide. “You’re always say that.”

“I know,” he breathed. “I know.” But he wouldn’t let her finish, wouldn’t let her cross that line. Even the night she climbed into his lap, completely bare under her shawl — guiding his hands to her breasts, her thighs parted over his hips, rocking gently until he gasped against her mouth — he stopped it. Her fingers had worked his tewng loose. Her tongue was in his mouth, his hands full of her heat and softness, his head spinning— Then a branch snapped outside. A child’s laugh. A shadow. He gripped her hips, breathless. “No. We shouldn’t.” She groaned in frustration, but softened, kissing him again. “You keep saying that.”

“I’m trying to do the right thing.”

“But you want me,” she whispered, grinding down again, making him stutter. “Don’t lie.” He didn’t. He never did. Because yes, he wanted her. She was beautiful. Willing. Soft and warm and slick against him. But every time they got close — too close — something pulled him back. Something inside or outside stopped him. And when he left her mauri, half-dressed and still aching, he’d collapse onto his sleeping mat and try to breathe.

That’s when the dreams began, not nightmares — memories. You. Laughing beneath him in the forest, hair tangled, your moans stifled by his kiss. And just felt it, he loved kissing you in those dreams, loved dipping his head and pressing up on your skin. You on your back, guiding him in with a sigh like you’d done so many times he just couldn’t remember them all yet. You crying with joy, his son in your arms. You pulling his hands to your growing belly. And the way you looked at him like he was your whole world. He started to wake up with a tightness in his chest. Not just lust. But longing. He’d press his palm over his heart like it could stop the ache. The confusion, the guilt. Because Lina felt good. Safe in a way. Familiar now. But when he touched her, it was never like that. The feeling of worship. Of oneness. That only lived in the dreams. And those dreams were growing stronger, more vivid, more real. Which meant, little by little… Lina was losing him.

he didn’t know when exactly the dreams had started exactly. Maybe it was after the night you looked at him with flushed cheeks, when the sunlight kissed your skin and your laughter echoed through that small space between you, when his fingers brushed yours and something deep in him shifted. Or maybe it was earlier—when Likan grabbed his tail one day on the beach toddling between his legs like he was so used to doing it. Maybe after he once again, stopped Lina from getting her desperate fuck. He wasn’t sure.

But now, they came more and more often. Vivid. Unshakable. Sometimes warm and quiet, like drifting through memories too soft to be real. Other times sharp, intense—desire threading through his body until he woke in the dark, chest heaving, skin damp with sweat, painfully aware of the ache low in his belly.

At first, he thought they were just dreams. Imaginings. Wishes. But they kept happening—so detailed, so real, down to the sounds of your voice, the way you smelled, the exact curl of Likan’s fingers around his thumb. Eylan laughing, splashing in the river as you reached for him. You smiling up at Neteyam in the forest, eyes glowing with pride and love. The feeling of carrying you into your new mauri when you first arrived at Awa’atlu, both of you still dripping from the sea. The first night Likan was born, when you placed the baby in his arms and cried into his chest, or when you both introduced Eylan to his new baby brother.

He started writing them down, carving the details into the bark of a sea tree near the cliffs where no one would look. Just in case. He needed to be sure. Needed proof. He wanted to bring them to you someday, look you in the eye and ask, Was this real? Did I carry you across the ocean? Did we love like this, this deeply, this hard?

And then there were the other dreams. The ones he didn’t know what to do with. Your hands on his chest, your mouth on his skin. The soft groan he made when your hips rolled against his. The sound of your laughter tangled in heavy breathing, the press of his hand between your thighs as your voice broke on his name. Your body beneath him, around him. Sometimes playful. Sometimes desperate. Always you.

He would wake up with his heart racing, painfully hard, breath caught in his throat. It was impossible not to imagine what it had felt like in reality—your warmth, the way you moaned when he whispered in your ear, how you gripped him when he pressed deep inside. Sometimes it left him quiet for hours. Other times, he found himself flushed, frustrated, pacing near the water’s edge, unsure if it was guilt or longing.

He never told Lina. How could he? Those dreams never had her in them. Only you. He still didn’t remember everything. He was still confused, overwhelmed, pulled in two directions. But each night when he curled beneath the woven mat in his quiet mauri, Eywa whispered a little more of his past back to him. Gently. Deliberately. Sometimes cruel in its intensity, sometimes kind in its simplicity.

The cove was half-shadowed, kissed in dusk light and the faint shimmer of tide pools. The waves lapped gently, rhythmic, soft like the hush of a whisper. Neteyam sat alone on a rock worn smooth by the sea, one leg bent, the other dangling just above the sand. His jaw was tight. His eyes distant, mind loud Lina found him there again, just as she always did, silent steps through the shallows, stopping just behind him. “You always come here when your head’s too loud,” she said softly, voice just above the waves. “I like that.”

He didn’t turn, but his shoulders didn’t tense. He was used to her now, her voice, her scent, her closeness. “I’ve been dreaming again,” he murmured, fingers drumming against his thigh. She took the invitation. Sat behind him on the rock, then leaned forward, pressing her chest to his back gently, her arms wrapping around his middle without hesitation. Her hands settled flat against his stomach. “About her?” He nodded slowly.

“I see her sometimes. The boys. The baby… Kiriya.” He said the name carefully, like it might shatter in his mouth. “It’s not just flashes anymore. I can feel the emotion of the moment. Like I was really there.” Lina rested her chin against his shoulder, her fingers tracing slow, calming shapes against his stomach. “Dreams can be like that,” she murmured. “Vivid. Powerful. Especially when you’re searching for something — for yourself. Maybe your mind is trying to fill in blanks with what your family told you.” He was quiet.

She turned her head slightly, brushing her lips just behind his ear, soft, innocent. “But here, now… none of it is confusion.” He inhaled — not sharply, but deep — and Lina felt the moment shift. She took it. She moved to sit beside him, hips pressed to his, then slowly reached for his hand and brought it to her thigh, guiding his fingers to rest there. “You weren’t dreaming when you kissed me,” she said, voice velvet smooth. “Or when we touched.” Her hand slid along his wrist, up his arm. “You weren’t someone else. You were you. And you were relaxed. Real. With me.” He looked at her now, eyes shadowed with conflict — torn. Lina’s smile was soft, never smug. She cupped his cheek with one hand, her thumb grazing his jaw.

“She may have been your past, Neteyam,” she whispered. “But I’m your present.” Then she leaned in and kissed him. It wasn’t shy not like the first few times. Her fingers slipped behind his neck, pulling him closer as she moved her body more fully into his lap. His hands hesitated — one landing on her hip, the other still limp at his side — but she coaxed him gently, slowly. Her touch was steady, persistent, like the tide eroding stone. “You don’t have to force yourself to remember someone you don’t feel for anymore,” she murmured against his lips. “What if she’s just part of the story others told you? What if you don’t fit there anymore?” Neteyam looked at her — really looked at her.

“I don’t know what fits,” he admitted, low and raw. “I just… I don’t know.” Lina kissed him again — slower this time, her fingers tangled in his hair. “Then stop trying to remember who you were,” she breathed. “Let yourself be who you are. Now.” And for a while, he let her hold him like that. Let her mouth guide his. Let her arms wrap around his neck and pull him close, as if she could remake him from memory’s ashes into something brand new. And for now — she had him. Right where she wanted him.

Lina’s fingertips danced along the cords of muscle at the back of Neteyam’s neck, so light it almost tickled. She leaned in again — not to kiss him this time, but to let her forehead rest against his. Their breathing synced in the quiet. “You’re always thinking too much,” she murmured, voice barely audible. “Even now.” His hands had stilled at her waist. She could feel the tension buzzing just under his skin. “I see it, you know,” she whispered. “The weight you carry. The questions. The guilt.” She traced down his arm slowly, then took his hand in hers, guiding it back up, placing it over her heart. “But here, with me… you don’t have to answer to anyone. You don’t have to know anything. You can just be.”

His jaw clenched, throat tight. His fingers flexed against her chest, and for a moment she thought he might pull away. But he didn’t. Lina smiled gently and leaned back just enough to look at him fully. “You told me about your dreams,” she said, brushing his hair from his face. “How they feel so real. So full. But those dreams… they’re just pieces. Fragments.” He blinked slowly, watching her lips more than her eyes.

“You said they feel like memories, but maybe they’re not. Maybe they’re just your mind trying to give shape to something you lost.” Her fingers slid up under the leather strap across his shoulder, curling against his collarbone. She leaned in again, this time pressing a kiss to his cheek, then the edge of his jaw. Neteyam exhaled hard through his nose, but his hands came down to her thighs, steadying her in place. Lina’s voice softened, velvet sweet. “But this?” She guided his hands again — down her back, over the curve of her hips — slowly rocking forward so he could feel the press of her body. “This is real. This moment. Me.”

Neteyam groaned under his breath, jaw tightening, eyes fluttering shut for a second before he opened them again. “It’s not that simple,” he said, voice rough. “Why not?” She nuzzled against his neck. “Because I feel like I’m losing my mind.”

“You’re not,” she whispered. “You’re waking up in a life you don’t remember. A mate you don’t recognize. Children who look at you like you’re someone you’re not. That’s not your fault.” She felt him tense under her, so she kissed the side of his neck, slow and soft. “You didn’t choose this, Neteyam.”

“I didn’t choose you either,” he said quietly. That made her pause. Not because it hurt — but because it told her she needed to move more carefully. So she gave a soft laugh — not mocking, but light, breezy. “No,” she agreed. “But sometimes Eywa puts the right person in your path at the right time. Someone who sees you. Who gives you space to breathe.” Her hands cupped his face gently now. “I’m not asking you to choose me. I’m just here. With you. Right now.”

His eyes flicked down — to her mouth, her neck, the way her chest rose and fell close to his. His hands were still on her thighs, but one began to trail upward slowly, as if he were testing what felt familiar. Or maybe… what felt good. Lina closed the distance again, this time kissing him with more intent — a slow burn, coaxing his mouth open with hers, one hand sliding down his chest and resting low on his stomach. She didn’t push further. Not yet. She just let the kiss carry the weight, the confusion, the need. And when he didn’t stop her, when he kissed her back and let his hands roam, when his grip tightened and his mouth opened wider — she knew. He was spiraling. Floating somewhere between desire and doubt. Between what used to be and what he didn’t remember. So she kissed him deeper, then slower. Then softer.

When they broke apart, breathless and flushed, she smiled and leaned her forehead against his again. Her fingers grazed his chest. “You don’t have to feel bad,” she murmured. “You’re allowed to want something that feels good. That feels real.” He didn’t answer. Just stared at the ground over her shoulder, jaw taut, hands still trembling on her body. “You’re not the same man you were before,” Lina whispered. “You don’t have to force yourself to go back to someone you don’t know. Maybe… Eywa gave you a second chance. A clean start.” Neteyam said nothing. But he didn’t pull away either.

And that was enough for her. Because as far as Lina was concerned — she already had her foot in the door. And every time he let her touch him, let her pull him in, let her speak softly into the cracks in his memory — He was already choosing her. Even if he didn’t know it yet.

His lips were still warm against hers. Lina didn’t move at first — didn’t dare. Her fingers lingered on his chest where she’d pulled him to her, heart thudding like a war drum in her ears. She kept her eyes on his mouth; breath caught in her throat like she’d swallowed fire. That kiss was real. That was progress. Slowly, she let out a trembling breath and smiled up at him, soft and sweet, playing the part, she’d carved out so perfectly.

“You always taste like the sea,” she whispered, voice low. “Even after all this time.” Her thumb dragged gently along his jawline, a featherlight touch meant to make him stay. To keep him close. Hers. Neteyam’s eyes flickered—uncertainty warring with something else. Want. Or confusion. Maybe both, she didn’t care which. Because he hadn’t stopped her. That was enough.

She shifted closer, knees pressing against his hips. Her fingers slipped from his jaw to the cords of muscle along his throat, brushing softly, tracing. “You don’t have to say anything,” she murmured. “I know what it feels like to be lost. You don’t owe anyone your peace.” He swallowed but didn’t answer. Just watched her. Watched the way her hands moved. The way her voice soothed. The way she filled the silence. Lina leaned in, nose brushing his. “Let me be that peace,” she whispered.

She had worked too hard for this, too long. From the moment she saw him step out off his ikran, a baby in his arms and war in his shoulders, she knew. She felt it. The weight of who he was — who he used to be. And she envied it. All of it. The love. The family. The way his mate clung to him like gravity. He never noticed her back then. Not really. But she noticed everything. She started helping with hunts she didn’t care about. Took training sessions near the Sullys. She gave him fruit, offered quiet jokes, asked him questions no one else did — just to hear him speak.

But his eyes always found their way back to her. The mate. The mother. So she stepped back. Smiled politely. Waited. Until the sky burned and blood soaked the sand, and suddenly, Eywa delivered him straight to her — broken, blank, and so beautifully lost. She had thanked the Great Mother that night. And every night since. Lina’s hand slid beneath the braid resting on his collarbone, fingertips brushing the skin just under the hollow of his throat. “I don’t ask you to be anything,” she said softly, lips brushing his cheek. “I don’t ask you to remember. I only ask you to feel what’s right in front of you.”

Her hand guided his again, this time to her hip, letting it rest there, just above the bone. His fingers twitched against her skin, but he didn’t pull away. She smiled. “You’re always tense around them,” she murmured. “Like you’re failing some invisible test. But with me… I see you breathe again.” She leaned in, barely touching her lips to his ear. “You feel like you when you’re with me.” And he did. She made sure of that. She never questioned him. Never pushed. She laughed at everything he said. She let him lead even when he didn’t know where he was going. She was patient. Attentive. Always near but never too much. She never even brought up the mate. Or the children. Not unless he did. And even then, only with a quiet smile and understanding eyes. The kind that said it’s okay that you don’t love them. You don’t have to.

Because eventually… He wouldn’t go back. Eventually, he would stop dreaming of a woman he didn’t recognize and realize how easy it was to just let her go. Eventually, he would choose the calm over the storm. And she would be there. Waiting, still smiling, still soft and still his.

Neteyam began spending more time outside during the day, often seated in the sun with Kiri or helping Jake mend a fishing net, eyes following the sway of the sea in silence. He spoke more now — slowly, cautiously — as if testing the weight of his voice in old rhythms. The boys would come up to him sometimes. Eylan offering him small gifts, Likan tugging at his tail to get attention. He didn’t always know how to respond, but he didn’t back away.

That morning, you caught him holding Kiriya again — this time with her tiny fingers wrapped tightly around his braid as she gurgled happily in his arms. He didn’t realize you were watching. But he smiled. The dreams were changing him. He’d begun writing them down — scratching notes into thin leaf parchment when he woke, tracing the edges of memory with almost frantic curiosity. He saw your face in all of them. Your laughter. Your tears. The sound of your voice calling him “tìyawn.”

And lately, he’d been seeing Lo’ak too, laughing with him, hunting beside him, helping deliver Eylan, pulling him from danger. The images weren’t clear, but the feeling was. Love. Loyalty. Trust. He needed to talk to someone. So that night, he found Lo’ak sitting on the rocks near the shore, watching the tide pull against the reef. “You got a minute?” Neteyam asked, voice rough from use. Lo’ak glanced over. “Yeah, Whatsup bro?” They sat together in the moonlight, the ocean lapping at their feet. For a long time, Neteyam said nothing. Then, “I keep dreaming of you.” Lo’ak blinked. “Uh… thanks?”

“No,” Neteyam huffed a laugh. “Not like that, skxawng. I mean… we were close. Weren’t we?” Lo’ak’s smile faded into something soft. “Yeah. You are my brother. My best friend.” There was silence between them again, warm and heavy. Neteyam nodded slowly. “I feel it. Even if I don’t remember it all yet. I feel like I trusted you more than anyone.”

“Besides your wife, you did,” Lo’ak said. “You still can.” Neteyam rubbed a hand over his face. “Everything’s so loud lately. The dreams won’t stop. And every time I look at her—” His voice faltered, but Lo’ak knew who he meant. “It’s like… my body remembers even if my head can’t.” Lo’ak swallowed, choosing his next words carefully. “You don’t have to force anything. But if you feel it… follow that.” Neteyam looked at him, searching. “You think I’m a terrible person?”

“No,” Lo’ak said without hesitation. “I think you’re lost. But you’re finding your way back.” Neteyam exhaled, the corners of his mouth twitching up. “I missed you.” Lo’ak grinned. “I missed you more.”

But further back, hidden in the shadow of the reef wall, Lina stood — her back pressed against the stone, breath caught in her throat. She hadn’t meant to follow him, not at first. But when she saw him walking toward Lo’ak, toward his family, something gnawed inside her. And when she heard what he said — that he dreamed of them, felt something for them, missed them and that gnawing turned to fear. No. No! She had worked too hard to lose him now.

She had touched him, claimed pieces of him, given him herself in every way he would allow — all to be the one he reached for in the darkness. She couldn’t compete with dreams. Not if he started believing they were real. And so, as the brothers laughed quietly under the stars, Lina stepped back into the shadows — her smile gone, her hands curling into fists. If he was starting to remember who he was… Then she had to remind him who he could be. With her.

The lanternlight inside Lina’s mauri flickered low, casting her face in a warm, amber glow. Outside, the reef was quiet, only the occasional lap of water against stone and the breeze threading through the woven walls. Neteyam stood near the entrance, silent for a long while. He shouldn’t have come. He knew that. But her voice had pulled him in again, soft and aching when she’d said, “Can we talk?”

Now he stood in the hush of her space, tense and unsure. She hadn’t touched him yet — not like she usually did. She just sat there, on the mat, her knees drawn to her chest, her head resting lightly against them. “You didn’t come yesterday,” she said quietly. His brow twitched. “I had a lot on my mind.”

“I noticed,” she said, her voice tight. “You’ve been… different.” He didn’t answer. She glanced up at him — eyes glistening. “I keep thinking I did something wrong.” Neteyam exhaled. “You didn’t.”

“Then why don’t you want me anymore?” He flinched. Lina dropped her gaze, fingers curling against her legs. “You come here, but you don’t touch me like before. You don’t even look at me the same way.”

“I never meant to hurt you,” he murmured. “I’m just—” she whispered cutting him off. “I know. Confused” A shaky breath escaped her lips. “But… you kissed me, Neteyam. You held me like I mattered. And I—I thought that meant something.”

“It did,” he said quietly. “Then why do I feel like I’m losing you?” He stepped forward, uneasy. “You’re not.” But she shook her head, blinking fast. “You are slipping away, and I can feel it.” A tear slid down her cheek, and she looked at him with trembling lips. “What did I do wrong? Why can’t I be enough?” Neteyam’s chest ached. He didn’t have an answer. His mind was too full — dreams, flashes of laughter, touches he couldn’t place, names that held weight even without memory. Lina leaned forward slowly, crawling toward him on her knees, eyes wide, wet. “Do you still want me?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper. “Or was I just… something to hold while you were lost?”

“Lina—”

“Because I was there,” she said. “I didn’t ask for anything. I didn’t push. I just stayed. I listened. I held you. And now…” She reached for his hand. “You won’t even look at me.”

He looked down at her hand in his — warm, trembling. Her fingers threaded with his, then slowly, she guided his palm up to her shoulder, pressing his hand there like she was pleading with her skin. “Touch me like you did before,” she whispered. “Like I matter to you. Even if it’s just for tonight.” His fingers twitched.

She moved closer, lifting his hand to her collarbone now, guiding his touch as if it were his idea. Her breath hitched when his thumb brushed her neck. “There,” she said. “Do you feel that?” He swallowed. “That’s me,” she murmured. “Still here. Still wanting you.” Her hands slid to his waist, her head tilted, eyes searching his face. “Let me have this. Let me keep something before it all disappears.” His heart pounded. She rose slightly onto her knees, her chest pressed to his, her breath warm on his lips. Her hands curled around his shoulders, pulling him gently, softly, until his forehead was resting against hers.

“I need you,” she whispered. “I need us.” His eyes closed for a moment, the weight of her words curling around him like vines. Guilt. Sadness. Confusion. His body responded — it always did — but his mind was a storm. And then, like always… a noise outside. Children giggling, passing by. A familiar laugh in the distance — his brother’s. Neteyam tensed. He stepped back slowly, his breathing unsteady. Her hands slipped from his skin, her face falling. “Why?” she asked, voice breaking. “Why do you always pull away?”

He didn’t answer. He just looked at her, gaze heavy with something she couldn’t quite decipher — sorrow, maybe. Or guilt. Or both. Then he turned and left. And she stayed there, staring at the doorway like it betrayed her. But in her chest, something twisted. If soft didn’t work… maybe it was time for something harder. Because she was not going to lose him. Not after everything.

The stars blinked above him as Neteyam walked the short distance from Lina’s mauri to the Sully’s. His hands were still warm from her touch, but his heart felt heavier than it had when he walked in. He hadn’t said anything on the way out. He never really did. The flicker of torchlight reached him first — then the sound of laughter, children’s voices, and the smell of grilled fish and roasted sea roots drifting through the humid evening air, home. He stopped at the edge of the mauri, just out of sight, watching.

Jake sat cross-legged with Tuk and Eylan, cutting bits of fish for both of them while they chattered excitedly. Neytiri was nearby, laughing softly at something Lo’ak had said while Kiri fed Likan, who squirmed and babbled with his usual endless energy. You sat to the side with baby Kiriya in your lap, bouncing her gently while you tried to eat with your free hand, the sling now loosened. Her little head bobbed as she cooed and reached for a piece of your braid.

The space was warm and full, lively and familiar. It felt like something he didn’t realize he’d been missing. Then Tuk spotted him. “Neteyam!” she chirped, waving hard with both arms like her life depended on it. Everyone turned. And you—your head snapped up, eyes meeting his with that small, soft smile that hadn’t changed, even through all of it. He stepped in slowly. Lo’ak shifted over without a word, patting the space between him and Eylan. “You’re late,” Jake teased. “I didn’t know I was invited,” Neteyam replied lightly, settling down between his brother and son. “You always are,” Neytiri said, smiling warmly at him.

Eylan wasted no time crawling into his lap, talking a mile a minute about the reef games he played with his friends and how he won twice but only because one of the boys cheated once and tried to pull his tail underwater. Neteyam listened. Really listened. His arm curled around the boy instinctively, his smile more genuine than it had been all day. Kiriya squealed from your lap; eyes locked on her big brother now curled in her father’s arms. Her little hands wiggled excitedly in the air. “She’s been very chatty today,” you said softly, brushing a hand over her head.

“Like you?” he replied before he could think twice. Your eyes flicked to his and your open your mouth in offense playfully, the words surprised even him. “Was that an insult? You saying I talk to much?” You laugh and so did he, a real chuckle. Then Lo’ak leaned in, smirking. “We were just talking about the clan gathering.”

“The big one?” Neteyam asked, eyes going to Jake. Jake nodded. “Few weeks. All the coastal villages are coming in for it. Singing, dancing, food — even a few races and competitions.” You grinned. “Eylan is already planning what he’s going to wear. And I’m thinking we’ll leave Kiriya and Likan with a sitter so we can all actually enjoy it.” Neteyam blinked. “A sitter?” You nodded and told him about a friend of Ronal’s who volunteered to watch them. “She agreed to watch them,” you said. “So the family can go.”

“She’s kind,” Neytiri added, “and Likan already loves her.” Neteyam looked toward Likan, who was now face-first in Kiri’s lap, pretending to be a sea creature while she dramatically scolded him for drooling on her skirt. Everyone laughed. Neteyam looked down at Eylan still cuddled into his chest. The world felt right for a moment. Lighter.

“I remember this,” he murmured softly. “This feeling,” he said more clearly. “This noise. The way everyone talks over each other. It’s warm. I remember that.” Lo’ak smiled at him, wide and proud. “You always said it drove you crazy.”

“But I liked it,” Neteyam replied. Eylan looked up. “You remember us, sempu?” Neteyam hesitated. He didn’t want to lie. “Not fully. But I dream about you. A lot.” Eylan’s eyes lit up. “What do I do in your dreams?”

“You cry a lot,” Neteyam teased, nudging him with a grin. Eylan gasped. “I do not!” Everyone burst out laughing. Likan shouted something unintelligible and flailed in agreement, as if he understood everything and Kiriya squealed again, bouncing in your lap. For the first time in weeks, Neteyam laughed — fully. Loud and real. He leaned into his brother, who bumped shoulders with him. You looked down at your baby, then at your boys, your mate sitting there like he always belonged, and you smiled.

Dinner had ended with the warm hum of laughter still lingering in the air, the scent of smoked fish and sea root still clinging to everyone’s fingers and hair. You’d barely noticed how late it had gotten until Tuk yawned with a dramatic stretch, and Eylan slumped more into Neteyam’s side, rubbing his eyes and murmuring sleepily. Likan was already asleep in Kiri’s lap, his little hand still clutching a half-eaten piece of roasted yovo fruit. Kiriya lay against your chest, blinking slowly from the sling, her fists curling into your wrap like she didn’t want the night to end. You rose slowly, brushing the side of her cheek. “Alright, bedtime,” you murmured. Neteyam was already shifting, carefully gathering Eylan into his arms. The boy sighed, nestling in with a contented little hum.

“I can get Likan,” he said, glancing toward Kiri. She smiled softly and handed over the sleeping toddler. “He’s heavier when he’s asleep. Good luck.” Neteyam gave a little huff under his breath and took him carefully, one arm under Likan’s bottom, the other supporting his back. “When did they get so big?” he muttered. “You’ve been gone a while,” Kiri said gently, then turned to help Neytiri tidy the dinner space.

With the baby against your chest and the boys in his arms, the two of you left the Sully mauri and padded softly across the sand toward your own. The stars blinked above, and the soft crash of waves against the reef formed a lullaby in the dark. Your home was quiet, warm. The fire pit glowed low with embers, just enough light to see by. Neteyam crouched and carefully lowered Likan onto the sleeping mat, then Eylan, who stirred immediately with a dramatic groan.

“I don’t wanna sleep,” Eylan mumbled. “You’re already sleeping, itan,” Neteyam said dryly, nudging him. “Am not,” came the sulky reply. “I’ll settle Kiriya,” you murmured, already tugging at the ties of her sling, her soft breath hot against your skin. “If you settle the boys—?”

“Done,” Neteyam said. It was not done. Eylan rolled onto his side, bumped into Likan, and immediately yelped, “He’s kicking me!” Likan sat up with a startled cry, wide-eyed and completely disoriented. “No kicking! No!” You sighed. “Great. Now they’re both up.” Neteyam rubbed his face. “I jinxed it.”

“Clearly.” The next half hour was a blur of soothing and shifting. Eylan wanted a different pillow — “not that one, the soft one!” and Likan kept scooting off the mat to look for a rock he swore he lost during dinner. You nursed Kiriya while walking gently in a slow loop, whispering soft lullabies, but she squirmed and whimpered, unsettled. “I think she’s overtired,” you murmured. “She gets that from you,” Neteyam called quietly from the mat. You shot him a look and he grinned.

Eventually, Eylan conked out again, curled around one of the large shell-shaped pillows. Likan was sprawled across Neteyam’s chest, one tiny hand curled against his father’s collarbone, breathing slow and deep. And Kiriya… well, she was still fussing. You sat on the edge of the mat, nursing her again, hoping this time it would soothe her to sleep. Neteyam turned his head where he lay on his back, looking at you through half-lidded eyes. “You make that look so easy,” he said softly. You huffed a tired laugh. “I don’t think my back would agree.”

“She looks so much like you when she’s angry,” he whispered. “She looks like you,” you corrected, brushing a finger down her nose. Neteyam’s voice dropped lower, warmer. “You’re really beautiful when you do that, you know.” Your eyes flicked to his. “Feeding her,” he added. “You look strong. Like a mother. Like a wife.” You felt your cheeks flush, heat crawling up your neck. “I’ve been doing it for months.”

“I know.” His gaze lingered on your chest for a moment longer before flicking back up to your eyes. “Still.” You cleared your throat. “You should get up. You’ll fall asleep like that.” He smiled rubbing a hand on Likan’s back “I might.”

“You haven’t slept here in months.” He looked down at the cozy chaos beneath him — soft woven blankets, the seashell pillows, Likan drooling slightly on his chest. “It’s nice,” he said quietly. “You made this warm. Safe.” You smiled, brushing Kiriya’s cheek. “That’s what a home is supposed to be.” He didn’t answer, but he didn’t move either. His hand rested lightly on Likan’s back, rising and falling with the toddler’s breath. “You’re good at this,” you said softly, surprising yourself. “At what?”

“Being a father. Even if you don’t remember how you got here… you belong here.” He turned his face toward you again. “You really think so?” You nod, “I do.” The fire popped gently. You switched Kiriya to the other side, and Neteyam’s eyes flicked toward your chest again before quickly looking away. “You know,” he said after a pause, “some of those pictures we saw… you looked downright dangerous.” You laughed under your breath. “Dangerous? You were looking at pictures again?”

“In a good way. Like… you knew exactly what you were doing.”

“I did,” you teased. “You liked that.”

“I do like that.” You glanced over. “Don’t flirt with me while I’m breastfeeding.”

“Why not?” he said, voice a little lower. “You’re still hot.” You laughed again, quieter this time, trying not to jostle the baby. “I can’t tell if you’re joking.”

“Neither can I.” There was a pause. Then, softer: “But I think I mean it.” And when Kiriya finally drifted off against your chest, her little lips still puckered, Neteyam reached out and adjusted the blanket around your shoulder, fingers brushing the skin just beneath your collarbone. “Thank you for this,” he whispered. You met his eyes, voice almost too soft to hear. “You’re welcome home.” The mauri was quiet, soft with the hush of the ocean beyond its walls and the occasional murmur of sleeping children shifting in their dreams. But Neteyam lay wide awake, still and silent, his arms at his sides, his head turned slightly toward you.

You were close, closer than you had been in months. Eylan lay between you both, curled into his father’s side, one hand resting over Neteyam’s chest. Likan sprawled in his usual starfish pattern across the bottom of the mat, and Kiriya had been swaddled and tucked close to your chest earlier. But now, it was the middle of the night. The stars outside had shifted overhead. And Kiriya stirred, giving a soft, sleepy whimper. You woke immediately — that mother’s instinct still razor sharp. You sat up slowly, rubbing your eyes, careful not to jostle Eylan. Kiriya let out a soft protest again, louder this time, and you pulled her into your arms, guiding her to nurse as naturally as you breathed. Neteyam didn’t move. But he wasn’t asleep. His voice came softly, almost hesitantly, like he was testing the darkness.

“If someone… forgot their whole life,” he said, “and started over… are they still responsible for what they do when they don’t remember who they were?” You blinked at the question, caught off guard. “You’re awake?” Kiriya suckled quietly, your hand stroking her soft downy hair. “That’s a strange thing to ask,” you said gently. “I know.” You could hear the tension in his voice — low and conflicted, almost uncertain. “Why are you asking?”

“It’s just…” he paused. “What if… they did something they wouldn’t have done before? Something that… wasn’t fair to the people who love them?” Your heart tightened. Your fingers stilled where they stroked the baby’s back. The air felt thicker now. In the dark, you couldn’t see him. But you knew. You knew what this was. “Neteyam,” you said quietly, “did you do something?” He didn’t answer right away. You reached out, careful not to wake Eylan, and your fingers brushed across your son’s curls before finding the edge of Neteyam’s arm — warm, steady, trembling slightly. “I didn’t know who I was,” he said finally, barely a whisper. “But that doesn’t mean I didn’t… feel. I still felt things. Wanting to be wanted. To feel like I mattered to someone.”

“And now?” He exhaled shakily. “Now I remember more every day. And I feel like I’m… two different people trying to live in one skin. The man who forgot, and the man who’s starting to come back.” Your hand stayed there, on his arm, fingers tightening just slightly. “And both of them are hurting.” He swallowed. You heard it. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.” You whisper, “I know.”

“I think I already did,” he whispered. You were silent for a long moment, and Kiriya stirred again in your arms, unlatching briefly before shifting and settling once more. You brushed her cheek and whispered, “She’s hungry again. She does that. Doesn’t like to be alone.”

“I think I understand that.” You looked at where you knew he lay. “I don’t need a perfect version of you, Neteyam. Just the one who tries.” He was quiet, but your fingers still felt his — brushing lightly over your knuckles now, just barely. “I don’t want to be lost anymore,” he said. You nodded. “Then come back. Piece by piece. I’ll wait.” And there was something in his next breath — a sound halfway between a sigh and a sob, so soft it barely made it to you. You didn’t say more.

You stayed there, in the dark, with the baby nestled against you, your fingers resting against the edge of his hand across Eylan’s little head. And somehow, even with all that had happened — the heartbreak, the confusion, the silence — it felt like you were finding your way again. In the dark, but still together.

The rain had slowed outside, just a gentle patter on the leaves now, but inside the mauri, it was still warm with your shared breath and the soft sounds of your sleeping children. Neteyam hadn’t moved since your conversation started. Likan was curled up on his chest, Eylan pressed into his side, and Kiriya was snoozing in your arms. You let a beat pass. Then you whispered, not quite able to let it go, “Is that all you did with her?” He blinked slowly. “…You mean—”

“Yes, Neteyam,” you cut in, voice hushed but clearly not done. “Because I’ve been sitting here, holding our daughter, who literally looks like a smaller, grumpier version of you, and wondering how far another woman got with my mate while I was leaking milk and chasing toddlers.” Neteyam groaned softly, covering his face with his free hand. “You really want to do this now?”

“Yes.” He peeked out between his fingers at you. “…You’re serious?” You narrowed your eyes. “Dead serious.” He sighed, careful not to jostle Likan. “She… tried things.” You raised a brow. “She kissed me. Obviously.”

“Obviously,” you muttered, nose wrinkling. “And, uh… she touched me.” His ears twitched slightly in embarrassment. You waited, blinking slowly. “Touched you how, exactly?” He gave you a long look. You didn’t blink. Neteyam cleared his throat. “With her hand.” You blinked again. “And?” you pressed, biting back a smirk. He gave a half-hearted shrug, lips twitching. “She tried to go down on me. Like… a few times.” You gave him a scandalized look, eyes adjusting to the dark. “She was very—forward,” he muttered quickly. “I never let her. But her hand… got there a couple times.”

You just stared at him and then shook your head. “Couple times, he says. Neteyam, a couple is two.” He looked at the ceiling like it held answers. “It was more than two.” You let out a soft snort. “I should throw this baby blanket at you.” He gave you a sheepish grin. “Please don’t. Likan might wake up. And I’m currently pinned under his drool.” You stared at him, lips twitching despite yourself. Then your voice turned teasing, but it held an edge. “So? Was she good at it?”

He choked. “What?” You tilted your head. “I’m asking. Was she good with her hands?” Neteyam looked like he wanted Eywa to strike him down where he lay. “I—I mean. It was… fine.”

“Fine?” He winced. “Okay, good. Whatever. It felt good. I’m not made of stone.” You leaned closer, voice lower. “Better than me?” He looked horrified. “Why would you ask me that?”

“Because I’m your wife,” you said, barely containing your laughter, “and if another woman had your favorite parts in her hands, I want to know if she did it right.” He groaned again. “It’s like you’re trying to kill me.” You shrugged, totally unfazed. “Was she better?”

“No,” he said without thinking. Then added, “Like—I mean I don’t fully remember everything with you, but I know how it felt with you. That connection. The trust. The way we… moved together. That’s not something you just replace.” You smiled a little, then asked slyly, “Did she smell good?” Neteyam paused. “What is this?”

“Answer the question.” He rubbed a hand over his face. “She smelled like seaweed and flower oil.” You wrinkled your nose. “I knew it. That woman bathes in crushed petals like she’s trying to lure in unsuspecting men.” Neteyam chuckled softly. “You were always so territorial.” You shrugged. “Yes, but I’m more protective. There’s a difference.”

“Uh-huh,” he said, lips twitching. “Was she softer than me?” His eyes slid over to you, finally catching on to the playful, wicked glint in your gaze. “You’re soft and strong. Best of both.”

“Was she prettier?”

“No.”

“Curvier?” Neteyam smiled. “No one fits against me like you do.” You paused, surprised by how much that made your heart skip. Then, in a quiet moment, you asked, “Did you want her?”

He went still. His gaze dropped to your daughter, curled on your chest. To your hand resting on the mat near his. And finally, to your face. “…No,” he said. “I was confused. Lost. And she was there. But I didn’t want her. Not like I want you.” The silence that followed was full of everything unspoken, all the weight of grief, memory, love, and longing. You exhaled. “Okay.”

“Okay?” he echoed softly. You nodded. “We’ll figure it out.” He looked at you a moment longer, then brushed a knuckle across Likan’s back. “You’re incredible, you know that?” You smirked. “Yeah, well. Your memory may be slow, but your taste is still perfect.” Neteyam laughed under his breath, and for the first time in ages, it felt like home.

The mornings felt different now. For the first time in what felt like seasons, Neteyam was back in the mauri where he belonged — where you and the children had waited for him without ever stopping. His things had been moved quietly during the early hours of his return, his arm brushing yours as he helped fold blankets, tuck them into corners, smooth over sleeping mats. The space had always been his, and yet now he treated it like a sacred gift he was trying to earn back every day.

He hadn’t gone to Lina since you told him not to — since he agreed not to. He hadn’t even looked in her direction when he passed the outer reefs. Every time guilt threatened to creep up his spine, he reminded himself that he was here because of you. Because you still loved him, still prayed for him, even when he’d forgotten everything.

He remembered more now — slowly, in pieces. The way you used to curl into his chest at night. The way Eylan would cling to his shoulders when he was younger, pressing his cheek into Neteyam’s neck. How Likan used to demand to ride on his shoulders, yelling “Up! Up!” with a chubby little hand tugging his braids. And how Kiriya’s lips curled the tiniest bit when she nursed, like she was smiling up at you in her own way.

He apologized over and over. Quietly, loudly, sometimes with tears in his eyes, sometimes with flowers braided into your hair when he thought words weren’t enough. He hadn’t slept with Lina — but it didn’t make what happened disappear. And he didn’t expect your forgiveness quickly. He just wanted the chance to prove he was worthy of it. You let him. Slowly. On your terms.

He swept the floors of the mauri. Took over the task of bathing the boys in the lagoon when they were fighting so you didn’t have to. Cooked badly — and burned things often — but he kept trying. Kiri joked once that he was trying to atone through labor, and Neteyam didn’t even deny it.

One afternoon, a few days into his return, Lo’ak came by to help him fix a crooked support beam that held up the side of the roof. The boys were napping after an afternoon of chasing each other in the sun, Kiriya nestled against your chest while you rested in the shade nearby. “Hold this steady,” Neteyam said, gripping the thick vine and pulling it taut while Lo’ak looped it around. Lo’ak grunted. “You got heavier since the war, bro. You’re not fun to lift anymore.”

“You got scrawnier,” Neteyam shot back, smirking. Lo’ak snorted. “You wish.” They worked in easy silence for a bit, sweat collecting at their temples, the weight of the sun warm but not oppressive. Then Neteyam asked casually — too casually — “So… you and my mate. You kissed her?” Lo’ak froze like someone had poured cold water down his spine. “What?” Neteyam didn’t look at him right away. He was focused on tying a knot. “She told me. Said it happened the night before I woke up.”

“You—she—oh my Eywa.” Lo’ak dropped the cord. “Bro, I didn’t mean to—she was crying, I was—Neteyam I wasn’t even trying to—I’m sorry.” Neteyam let the silence stretch. Then: “Was it… passionate?”

“Bro!” You, overhearing from the shade, couldn’t stop the snort that slipped from your nose. Lo’ak looked like he wanted to fling himself off the reef. “I mean I just—” Neteyam’s mouth twitched, trying to keep a straight face. “Should I be worried?”

Lo’ak waved his hands wildly. “There was no tongue, okay?! It was like—a sad, forehead-touchy kind of thing, and then we kissed but like—your wife kisses with emotion, okay?! I wasn’t trying to seduce her—” Neteyam was laughing now. Fully, openly. Lo’ak narrowed his eyes. “You’re the worst.”

“I’m serious,” Neteyam said between laughs. “Was it good?” Lo’ak turned to you. “Are you hearing this madness?” You were howling now, arms crossed as Kiriya snoozed peacefully, unfazed by her family’s antics. “I’m just saying,” Neteyam added, wiping his face, “if my brother kissed my wife, I at least want to know how I rank.” Lo’ak pointed at him. “You ranked. I promise. I almost got punched by guilt mid-kiss. It’s you, bro. It’s always been you.”

Neteyam’s expression softened at that. He nodded once, serious again. “I know. It’s okay. I just… I needed to hear it.” Lo’ak tilted his head. “Are we… cool?” Neteyam clapped a hand on his shoulder. “You raised my kids with her. Helped her when I was gone, kept them safe. I’m not just cool with you—I owe you.”

Lo’ak smiled. “Just don’t make me babysit all three at once again. I still have nightmares.” You grinned, watching the two brothers laugh again. The ache in your chest softened. This was what you’d missed. What had been missing. And slowly, piece by piece, the bonds were stitching back together.

The dreams were getting worse. Or… better, depending on perspective. But for Neteyam, waking up next to you every morning while you slept peacefully—with your curves tucked beneath soft cloth, your breath warm and even, and Kiriya cooing quietly against your chest—was becoming increasingly difficult. Not because he didn’t want to be there. But because he really wanted to be there.

The dreams started off soft, tender… sweet flashes of you and him tangled in the glowing forest under a curtain of bioluminescent vines, your skin glowing, your laugh echoing in his ears as you kissed his cheeks, his mouth, his neck. But then they escalated. Faster than he was prepared for.

Now they were… loud. In every sense. They were full-body, flushed-skin, back-arching, tweng-tangling flashes that left him panting awake in the dark, his hands fisted in the bedding, his chest heaving, and a very obvious situation in his lap that he had to hide quickly before Eylan or Likan stirred beside him. He thought cold water would help. He was wrong.

So, every morning, right as the first rays of dawn touched the edge of the reef, Neteyam would sneak off into the waves, slipping into the water with a hiss through his teeth, determined to let the icy ocean chase the heat from his blood. It never worked. And when he came back in, shivering, teeth chattering slightly, you always gave him the same look. This day was no different. You blinked awake slowly, brushing a hand over Kiriya’s soft little back where she lay snuggled against your chest, her lips still puckered from nursing. Then you caught sight of him, dripping wet, shoulders hunched slightly, arms wrapped around himself as he tried to warm up. You blinked again. Then smirked. “Another swim, mighty warrior?” He cleared his throat, doing his best to look casual. “Just clearing my head.”

“Sure.” You sat up slightly, brushing Kiriya’s curls from her cheek, her sleepy little eyes barely cracking open. “Did the ocean help, or just make your balls disappear?” Neteyam choked, whipping around. “Skxawng!” You were laughing before you could stop yourself, your shoulders shaking, one hand trying to cover your mouth. Neteyam was pink around the tips of his ears as he rubbed his arms. “It’s cold out there.”

“Well maybe,” you said, setting Kiriya gently down beside her brothers, who were still tangled in a sleepy pile, “you should try not torturing yourself.” He huffed. “It’s not like I can control what I dream about.” You gave him a knowing look as you moved to him, placing a thick, woven cloth over his shoulders. He flinched at the warmth, grateful. “But you can control what you do about it,” you teased. He looked at you warily. “What does that mean?”

“It means,” you said, beginning to rub warmth into his arms through the cloth, “I see you, Neteyam. You wake up every morning tense and hard like a stone pillar under that tweng. You’ve been diving into the water like some cursed, guilty little boy. But you’re not little. You’re a grown man. My mate.”

He looked anywhere but your eyes. You lowered your voice. “I know what your dreams are about.” He finally met your gaze, his voice low. “Do you?” You nodded slowly. “You talk in your sleep sometimes.” He groaned, pulling the cloth over his face. “Great.”

“Don’t be embarrassed,” you said, laughing softly. “They’re… kinda flattering.” He peeked at you with a look of dry betrayal. “You’re enjoying this?”

“Just a little.” He scowled, though it lacked heat. “It’s not fair. I remember just enough to want you, but not enough to feel like I deserve to act on it.” Your smile faded into something softer. You moved closer, fingertips brushing his arm. “You’re my husband. The father of my children. You don’t have to earn what’s already yours. You just have to come home to it.”

He looked at you for a long time, jaw tight, eyes searching your face. “I dream of you,” he said. “The way you used to kiss me. Touch me. Your voice—sounds—I didn’t know I remembered… They wake me up shaking.” Your lips parted slightly, your own breath catching. “And then I look at you,” he added, “and I just feel… pulled. Like my body remembers everything my head forgot. Every time I brush against you by accident, it feels like lightning in my chest.” You swallowed thickly, stepping closer. He glanced toward the children. “But I can’t keep waking up like this, hard as a rock, running into the ocean like a fool—freezing my balls off.”

You laughed again, unable to help it. “Do you want help next time, ma Neteyam?” His eyes darkened, lips quirking. “Don’t start, yawne. I’m barely holding on as it is.” You smiled at him with soft eyes, brushing his hair from his face. “Then maybe you should stop fighting so hard. Come back to me. All the way.”

He leaned in, almost without thinking, but then pulled back with a sigh. “I don’t want to mess this up again,” he said. “So I’ll wait until I know for sure I’m ready. You deserve all of me.” You nodded. “And you’ll get there. But maybe next time, skip the icy ocean.” He looked down at his lap, where the evidence of his dreams had finally subsided. “Good. Because my balls still haven’t recovered.” You giggled, smacking his arm. “Go warm up, skxawng. I’ll make tea.”

As you turned, he reached out and caught your wrist gently. “Hey.” You turned back. His gaze was full of everything he couldn’t quite say yet. “I love you,” he said, voice quiet. Your heart skipped. You squeezed his hand. “I know.” I giggle, “I love you more.” And as the morning sun broke through the clouds, there was a quiet promise lingering in the space between your joined hands: He was coming home. Fully. One dream, one breath, one kiss at a time.

The night was still. Quiet but for the gentle whisper of waves against the reef, and the occasional coo or sigh from the children shifting in their sleep. Neteyam sat on the mat, legs crossed, the tablet glowing faintly in his hands. You had already told him—twice—to come to bed. You were curled up at the far end of the mat, Kiriya tucked in your arms, Likan curled against your side, and Eylan’s head resting gently near yours. But still, he stayed up. Still, he scrolled.

He couldn’t stop. The images, the videos… they were you. Him. All the small things that should’ve been ordinary felt sacred now. You walking through the forest, barefoot, laughing. You trying to cut fruit with a curved blade and muttering curses under your breath when it slipped. You with the boys—smeared in mud, singing lullabies, dancing in the kitchen. Every second was a thread. And slowly, they were stitching his life back together.

Then he tapped a file. One he hadn’t seen before, the screen went black for a moment, then it lit up. It was you. Dressed in Omatikayan wedding cloth—deep forest green and rich maroon threads, handmade jewelry wrapped delicately around your wrists and ankles. Beads adorned your hair. Your face was dewy with tears. You stood inside a new home, just barely furnished, still smelling of fresh cut wood and woven palms. You looked straight into the camera and sniffled, smiling so wide it cracked through your tears.

“We’re mated.” You laughed, wiping your eyes. “I can’t believe it. I mean… I can, because of course it’s him. But I’m still—I’m married to Neteyam. The love of my life.” You giggled. “He went back to get the rest of our stuff. He wouldn’t let me help. He said, ‘Just stay here, baby. I’ll bring home our whole world.’” You glanced around, eyes full of emotion. “This is it. Our home. He built this with his own hands for us. And somehow, I get to live here with him.” The camera shook slightly as you leaned in. Your eyes were shining. Honest. “He loves me. He loves me so much. Even when I’m angry. Even when I don’t get things right. Even when I talk too much or sleep with my feet freezing cold. He never complains. He just… pulls me close. He tells me I’m everything he ever wanted.” You breathed out slowly, clutching something—your courting token—in your hand. “I never thought I’d have this. I never thought I’d get to be chosen. But he chose me. And I’ll spend, the rest of my life loving him the way he loves me. The way he made me feel like I deserve and the way I know he deserves.” The video ended quietly. Neteyam’s chest caved inward as he stared at the dark screen, frozen.

And then—It hit him. Everything. Like water crashing through a dam. The forest. The moment you first reached for his hand. The first time you slept curled up together under the stars. Your first kiss, his fingers trembling where they touched your jaw. His face pressed into your neck the night you gave birth to Eylan. You squeezing his hand, eyes locked on him as Likan came into the world. Your laughter. Your cries. The fights. The passion. The love. Every. Single. Second. He gasped—choked on air—and jerked forward as if the wind had been knocked out of him. His hands trembled violently. You stirred. He didn’t even realize how loud he’d whispered your name. “Ma—ma yawne—” You blinked awake slowly, sleep-soft and groggy. “Teyam?”

But his hand was already on your cheek, his breath hitching, eyes wide and wet as he leaned over you. And that was when Kiriya stirred—your movement jostling her. She let out a sharp cry, confused and still tired. Likan, pressed against you, whined and flailed sleepily. Eylan murmured something and turned over. You sat up quickly, trying to hush her, but Neteyam was shaking—smiling—and crying all at once, one hand over his mouth, the tablet slipping from his lap. You turned to him in confusion. “Neteyam—what—?” He was already pulling you close, chest heaving as he clung to you, half-laughing, half-sobbing. “I remember.” His voice broke. “I remember everything.” Your heart stopped. “What—”

“Everything.” He leaned his forehead against yours. “You. Our life. The boys. Kiriya.” His hand hovered over her; chest wracked with emotion. “*You were right. You’ve always been right. I was yours. I’ve always been yours.” The emotion in your chest was a storm. You couldn’t speak. You could barely breathe.

Then you heard feet, running. Kiri burst in, wide-eyed, Neytiri behind her. Jake wasn’t far. Tuk, sleepy and bleary, trailed behind holding her bow. Lo’ak came in next, tense and worried. “What happened?! Is something wrong?” Kiri’s eyes landed on Neteyam’s face—his tear-streaked, smiling face—and yours, where you trembled and wept against him. Neytiri’s breath caught. Jake’s shoulders slumped in relief. You turned to them, cradling Kiriya as Neteyam wrapped an arm around all three of his children, pulling them in.

“He remembers.” The room stilled. Kiri’s hands flew to her mouth. Neytiri was crying in seconds, turning into Jake’s chest. Tuk ran forward, hugging Neteyam’s leg. “You’re back?” He laughed wetly. “I’m back, Tuk.” Lo’ak stared, stunned, then shook his head in disbelief. “You’re such a skxawng,” he muttered, voice cracking. “I’m gonna punch you so hard later.” Neteyam only nodded, tears slipping free as he held you tighter. “Go ahead,” he whispered. “I probably deserve it.” You were sobbing now, holding onto him as he kissed your temple again and again, touching your face, your hands, your belly, like he had to feel every part of you to make sure you were real. He remembered. Everything. And from this moment on, he would never forget again.

Once the noise settled and the tears dried, the Sully family gave their son one last round of bone-crushing hugs, quiet laughter, and forehead kisses before Neytiri gently ushered everyone back to their mauri, smiling through her tears.

“I’ll see you in the morning, ma’itan,” Neytiri whispered as she smoothed his hair like she had when he was a boy. “My son has returned.” Jake gripped his shoulder with pride, his eyes red. “We’ll talk tomorrow. You’ll explain everything… after you sleep.” Kiri gave him a long, tight hug, and even Lo’ak ruffled his hair with a sigh that sounded suspiciously like relief. “You’re lucky I love you, bro,” he muttered. “You’re lucky I remember you,” Neteyam replied with a grin.

After the family trickled out, leaving only the soft glow of a candle and the quiet hum of night, you found yourself staring at the mat, where the three kids had already started dozing again in the aftermath of their interrupted slumber.

Likan had kicked off his blanket and sprawled belly-first across a woven pillow like a tiny lizard. Eylan had found his way to the spot Neteyam sat in earlier and curled up there like it was still warm, his little face slack with sleep. Kiriya, sweet and full after nursing, lay content against your shoulder, her soft breaths ghosting across your collarbone. “Stars,” you whispered, looking at the chaos. “They sleep like drunk adults.”

Neteyam let out a small, husky laugh and dropped into the mat beside you, his shoulders finally relaxed, his posture slouched in a way you hadn’t seen in months—like the weight of confusion had fallen off his chest. “You always said that” he said with a grin, brushing Likan’s stray braid out of his face. “I never understood it until now. He sleeps like he fought a tree.”

“He did fight a tree yesterday,” you said, smirking. “Lost, too.” Neteyam chuckled, glancing at you as you gently laid Kiriya down between the pillows and tucked her beside her brothers. You both stared down at them in silence.

“I missed this,” he said softly. You turned to him, laying on your side, your hand propping your head up. “You didn’t know you were missing it.” He groaned and replied “I know. That’s the part that kills me.” You reached across the mat and touched his wrist. “You came back to us. That’s all that matters.” His eyes softened. “You kept this going. All of it. The home. The kids. Me.”

“I cried. A lot,” you admitted. “And yelled. And didn’t shower nearly enough.” Neteyam grinned. “You smell fine. You always smell like… berries and sunlight and baby.” You giggle softly. “That’s either really sweet or mildly offensive.”

“Depends on the baby,” he joked. Then, after a beat, his smile faded into something gentler. “I remember what you went through. At least, parts of it. When I was shot. When you saw me unconscious. The birth of Kiriya.” You blinked. “You remember that?”

He nodded. “Not the pain. But I remember her crying. And Lo’ak’s voice. And yours.” His gaze dropped to your belly. “You were in so much pain, and I wasn’t there. And then you were holding her and sobbing because I didn’t wake up.” Tears welled in your eyes. “You remember that?” He reached over and cupped your cheek. “I do now. It all came back. I felt like I’d forgotten how to breathe without you. But the second I saw that video of you—our wedding, you talking to the camera—it was like my whole soul snapped into place.” You sniffled, trying not to cry again. “I didn’t know if you’d ever see that.”

“I’m glad I did. You were so beautiful in that video.” His grin returned, sly this time. “I remember how long it took me to take those wraps off.” You flushed. “Don’t start, Neteyam. The kids are—” He leaned closer, teasing. “All asleep. Deep, drooling sleep. We could draw on their faces and they wouldn’t notice.” You swatted his shoulder, laughing into your hand. “You’re horrible.”

“I’m yours,” he whispered, brushing your fingers aside to kiss your knuckles. You stared at him, your heart full to the brim. “You’re sure?”

“I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.” He lay down facing you, so close now your foreheads touched. “I remember every scar, every fight, every kiss, every moment I told you I loved you—and everyone I didn’t say it but showed it anyway. I remember you, yawne. All of you.” You swallowed around the lump in your throat, your fingers finding his, tangled loosely between your bodies. “You’re gonna have to prove it, you know.” He smirked. “Oh, I plan to.” Kiriya stirred in her sleep with a little grunt and both of you froze, peeking over her bundled shape. “She’s got your nose,” Neteyam whispered. You smiled. “And your attitude. She screams when her milk isn’t warm enough like I can do anything about it.” He laughed softly “She’s perfect.”

“She’s ours.” Neteyam leaned forward, gently pressing a kiss to your brow, your temple, then your lips. It was soft. Familiar. Like coming home. When you pulled apart, he yawned—finally—and tucked himself closer to you, curling behind Kiriya as you remained on your side facing him. “This side better than mine,” he mumbled. “Because it’s mine,” you teased. “I’m never leaving it again.” And you believed him. As the rain danced on the thatched roof above and your family slept safely around you, you let your eyes drift closed. Neteyam was home.

Lina paced the length of her mauri, the woven floor creaking softly beneath her bare feet. The ocean breeze no longer felt soothing—it was biting. Mocking. Her hands trembled as she set down the shell bowl, she had no intention of eating from. The scent of sea fruit made her stomach turn. Three weeks. That’s how long it had been since she’d last seen Neteyam.

No word. No visit. No trace of the man who once sat beside her every evening, tangled in her nets, tangled in her. Gone, like fog when the sun rises. And worse—worse—he had moved back into the home he once shared with you. That forest-bred thing he couldn’t remember loving. That mate who stood in her way again. She had heard it secondhand. Whispers from the market, low murmurs from children, the ripple of gossip as effortless as breath. “Did you hear? Neteyam moved back in with his family.”

“He carries the little one again, helps the boys bathe by the shore.”

“They say he remembers.”

That last part hit like a blade. He remembered. She’d dropped her basket when she heard, too stunned to care that her gathered sea herbs had spilled across the coral path. Her chest had gone tight, her vision narrowed. She hadn’t cried. No. She didn’t cry. But the burn in her throat was undeniable. He remembered. And he didn’t even say goodbye. He hadn’t needed to. You’d won. Again.

All her work, all her effort—everything she gave him: her attention, her patience, her body, her time—it had been for nothing. For a glimpse. A taste. And then gone. But Lina wasn’t the kind of woman to lose quietly. She sat that night beside her hearth, face lit by dim firelight, fingers curled tightly around a carving knife. She didn’t think about stabbing anything. Not really. Just the weight of it. The way the handle fit in her hand. She needed control. She needed something. Then the plan began to spin in her mind, fine and sharp as woven fishing line. If Neteyam remembered everything—everything—then surely, he also remembered pain. Jealousy. Doubt. The flaws. The insecurities. And maybe… just maybe, if she sowed the right seed, it would take root.

She didn’t know about your moment with Lo’ak—how could she? But that didn’t stop her from making one up. She found the right voice, trembling, sweet, just innocent enough. She whispered it first to a pair of girls near the shore. “They say she was never loyal,” she sighed. “Even when Neteyam was still unconscious. I heard Lo’ak was always around. Maybe too much.” She knew how to pick the right moments. Who to speak near, she wasn’t foolish enough to name names or say it too directly. But whispers had power in a clan this tightly knit. “Did you see how Lo’ak always carries the boys around? It’s like they’re his.”

“I thought she moved on. I heard she and Neteyam weren’t… together when the baby came.”

“She and Lo’ak used to sneak off into the woods before dinner, remember?”

Lies. Crafted with care. Not wild ones, but the kind that sounded like they could be true. And they spread. Lina watched from the rocks, arms crossed, as you passed with Kiriya in your sling and Neteyam at your side, your boys trailing behind him, clinging to their father’s fingers. You were laughing. He was smiling—genuinely smiling. Her stomach twisted. It wasn’t fair.

She had earned him. She’d been there when no one else had. When he didn’t know his name, she had whispered it against his skin. When he forgot who he was, she told him he was hers. But that version of him—blank, open, lost—was slipping further away with each passing day. So, her smile turned thin and patient, her hands laced sweetly in her lap, but her eyes stayed sharp. Scheming. She wasn’t done. Not yet.

It started with whispers — again. You had exactly, one week of peace together. But this time, the whispers were about you. At first, Neteyam tried to ignore them. He wanted to. He wanted to stay focused on the life he was building back — the family dinners, the quiet moments with Kiriya curled into his chest, the way Eylan giggled when he tossed him into the shallows, Likan’s sticky kisses, your soft sleepy smile before dawn. That was his life. But the voices got louder.

“She was with Lo’ak even before the baby came, I heard.”

“I saw them, always together, before Neteyam woke up. Touching.”

“Maybe the little one isn’t even his. Look at her eyes.”

“You think that’s why Lo’ak always helps with the kids? Guilt?”

One thing Neteyam had learned since regaining his memories: gossip in the clan was like a storm on the sea. Small at first, and then suddenly everywhere, churning, devouring, crashing over every surface. And it hurt. It hurt more than anything had in the last few months — because he had forgiven you. You had told him everything. That one kiss. That one moment of weakness. And he knew you regretted it. You had been broken. Alone. You had never stopped loving him. He knew that. But now, it wouldn’t leave his mind, the noise of it. Over and over. What if there was more? What if everyone else knew something he didn’t? He tried to push it down. Until the final blow came. “Lo’ak said something once… he said he loved her. That’s what I heard.” Neteyam lost it.

The entire family was gathered, talking near the cluster of Sully-linked mauri when it exploded. You were inside yours with the kids, nursing Kiriya down for her nap, and Neteyam was supposed to be helping Jake with spear repairs — but his voice rang out loud enough to stop everything. “You swore it was only one kiss!” Neteyam’s voice cracked like thunder, loud and hurt and furious. “One mistake! And now I’m hearing that my daughter might not even be mine?! That you and my wife—” Jake stepped in immediately, pushing a hand against Neteyam’s chest. “Hey! Hey! Watch yourself—” Lo’ak’s face twisted in confusion and disbelief. “Bro—what the fuck are you talking about?”

“You knew she was mine!” Neteyam shouted at him, ignoring everyone else, fury pouring out of every muscle. “You stood by her while I was dying, and now I’m finding out you touched her? Loved her? Are you proud of that?” Lo’ak stumbled back, face blanching. “No. What—Neteyam, I never—! It wasn’t like that! You know that!” Neytiri’s voice sliced through the air. “Enough.” But it was too late. You stepped out of the mauri then — Kiriya in your sling, wide-eyed, blinking against the noise. You looked… shattered. Neteyam saw you. The pain on your face. The hurt. The sheer shock at what he was saying. And still — still — he couldn’t stop himself. “Did you sleep with him?” he asked, low now. “Tell me right now, if you ever—” Your eyes welled up. “How dare you?” Everyone froze. You backed away slowly, turning without another word, disappearing down the sand path.

And then, a day passed. Two. You barely left the mauri, save for fetching food for the kids, helping them bathe and nap. You didn’t want to see anyone. You didn’t want to see him. Which is exactly when she came. Lina, you didn’t realize it was her before, honestly you didn’t even know what she looked like, but then she started talking. Soft-voiced. Sweet-smiled. Innocent eyes. “Oh,” she said gently, “I just… I saw you out, and I wanted to say I’m so sorry for what everyone’s saying.” You didn’t respond. She stepped closer. “It must be hard, all the lies. But if anyone’s lying, it’s not you.” You blinked, confused. She leaned in, whispering. “Neteyam lied to me too. Said he wasn’t with you anymore. I wouldn’t have ever let it happen otherwise. But… he got me pregnant. So… I guess you’re not the only one he’s been lying to.” Silence. Your vision blacked out. You shoved Kiriya’s fruit basket into Lina’s chest and bolted.

The entire family saw it. The storm that broke next. You stormed into the Sully cluster of mauri, hair wild, eyes blazing, your body shaking with rage, and before Neteyam could say a word—your fist collided with his jaw. “Motherfucker.” He stumbled back, hand to his mouth. “Wha—?!”

“You accused me of things I never did! Sleeping with your brother?! And now—NOW I find out you got the girl pregnant?! After everything?!”

“What?! Wait, what the fuck are you talking about?!” You shoved him again, sobbing, your arms flailing, “I loved you. I forgave you! I took you back, I let you in our home! And the whole time—”

“She said I what…?” Neteyam asked again. Lo’ak repeated it, slowly, disbelief still etched into his features. “She told your wife… that you got her pregnant, bro.”

“She—” Neteyam shook his head, blinking fast like he could erase the whole moment. “No. No. I never… Eywa. I never even slept with her.” You scoffed bitterly, a sharp sound that cut deeper than your fist had. “Well, she says you did.”

“I didn’t!” Neteyam barked, stepping forward, eyes pleading. “We… we kissed. She touched me, I told you that. But I never— I never laid with her.” You held up your hand, cutting him off like a blade. “Don’t. I swear to Eywa, don’t come any closer.” He stopped dead in his tracks. Jake stepped forward. “We need to get to the bottom of this. Now.”

That’s when Kiri ran up, breathless. “I heard it,” she gasped. “The other girls were talking. It’s Lina. She started the rumors. She’s the one who said the baby might not be Neteyam’s. She’s been lying this whole time. I knew it. I knew something was off—” The entire family turned quiet. Everything made sense. The rumors. The whispers. The timing. Neytiri’s face went pale with rage. Jake’s jaw was clenched like stone. And you—broken, shaking, furious—you stepped back, whispering only: “I hope she’s worth it.” Neteyam didn’t say a word.

Because for once… he had none. The silence after your final words was thick and suffocating. Your voice still rang in everyone’s ears. Kiri stood stiffly off to the side, face pale and lips pressed tight, trying to catch her breath after rushing from the far reef. Neytiri stood close to her, a trembling hand on Kiri’s shoulder. Lo’ak had his hand on your back, trying to steady you as you held Kiriya close now, her tiny fists gripping your braid, confused by all the shouting. Likan and Eylan stood by Jake’s side, wide-eyed and silent, watching everything with the sense that something very, very big had just happened.

Neteyam’s lip was bleeding. A trickle ran down the side of his mouth, where your fist had landed hard. He didn’t wipe it. He didn’t move at all. Just stood there, heart pounding out of rhythm, staring at you like he couldn’t breathe. Jake crossed his arms, staring hard at Neteyam. “Then you need to find out the truth.”

“What?” Neteyam’s eyes darted from his father to you, shaking his head. “I told you. It’s not true.”

“You think I care what you say right now?” you hissed, voice low and deadly. Kiri took Kiriya from your arms gently, but your hands didn’t fall limp — they curled into fists again. “I stood in front of your family, of my family, and defended you when you asked for space. When you forgot me. When you kissed her. When she touched you. I let it go because I loved you enough to let you find your way back. And now this?” Neteyam opened his mouth, but you didn’t let him speak.

“You accused me of being unfaithful,” you said through your teeth. “Of letting your brother touch me. Of lying about our children. You believed the rumors without asking me first, and now you expect me to stand by and let you see her again? After she says you got her pregnant?”

You took one step closer, the fire from your soul blazing in your eyes. “I don’t care what you find out. I don’t care what she says. I don’t want you anywhere near that woman again. You walk into her mauri, Neteyam, and you stay there. You hear me?” He flinched at your words like they were lashes. Neytiri finally spoke, her voice cold, quiet. “She manipulated you. Lied. Twisted her way into this family’s peace. If you don’t find the truth, she will never stop.”

“And if she’s not pregnant?” Lo’ak asked warily. “If it’s just another lie?” Jake added grimly, “Tonowari and Ronal will deal with it.” Neteyam looked torn apart. His face was pale, expression twisted with a storm of pain. “I never wanted this.”

“But you made choices,” you said softly now, quieter. It was worse than yelling. “And now you live with them.”

“I’m sorry.” You scoffed. “You believed everything she said.”

“I didn’t! Not all of it, not really,” he argued, eyes desperate now. “But I— I wasn’t thinking. I was a mess. And she— she took advantage of that—” Lo’ak cut in, jaw tight. “Yeah, we know. But the damage is done. The clan’s talking like it’s already true.”

“I don’t care what the clan says!” you snarled. “I care about my children hearing lies that their father has another family!” Jake raised his hands, trying to calm the growing storm. “Enough. Both of you. We need to figure this out. Without sending Neteyam back there.”

Neteyam looked over at Jake now, lost. “How do we find out? If she won’t talk to anyone else, and I can’t—won’t—go near her?”

Kiri stepped forward slowly. “I might have a way.” Everyone turned to her. Kiri’s eyes were steady, serious now. “She talks to someone every day. A younger girl named Aluke. She was the first to start repeating the rumors about everything — about the baby not being yours. She might’ve overheard something else. She’s not very good at keeping her mouth shut.” You narrowed your eyes. “You think you can get her to talk?” Kiri tilted her head. “If she’s anything like she was as a child, yes. If not, I’ll figure out another way.” Lo’ak nodded. “If she’s saying too much, she’ll keep talking. Maybe she knows Lina’s real intentions. Maybe she even knows it’s a lie.”

“I’ll go with Kiri,” Neytiri said, jaw clenched. “That girl said she saw the kiss between you two.” Lo’ak grimaced. “That lie ends today, too,” Neytiri hissed. Jake nodded. “Good, go.” You didn’t speak again — just nodded, sharp and stiff, and turned back toward the mauri with your children. Neteyam reached out instinctively — not to stop you, but to be near you. “Ma yawne—” You turned your face just enough to look at him over your shoulder. There was no softness in your eyes. “I meant it,” you said again, low and quiet. “If you go near her, we’re done.” He watched as you disappeared inside with Kiriya on your hip, Likan trailing behind you sleepily, Eylan still gripping your hand tightly.

The night settled in around them like a heavy blanket, no stars visible behind the clouds. And all Neteyam could think, again and again, was: ‘what if it is… and I’ve destroyed everything anyway?’

The rain had started up again just before nightfall — soft and drizzling, tapping against the woven leaves of your mauri like a lullaby meant for someone else. Not for you. Not for the mess your life had become. You sat curled up against the far wall, knees pulled tight to your chest, your arms wrapped around them as Kiriya nursed at your breast, her soft suckling the only real sound in the room. Likan and Eylan were asleep on the furs, their small bodies curled up together near the low-burning fire pit, unaware of the storm — outside or inside.

Your face was damp, and not just from the rain that had kissed your skin earlier. You’d cried so hard your ribs ached. Your stomach burned. Your soul had frayed. You didn’t look up when you heard the flap of the doorway shift. Neteyam stepped in quietly, his shoulders hunched, eyes rimmed red and jaw tight. He was breathing like he’d run here — or maybe like he was trying not to scream. He saw you and stopped mid-step. You didn’t say anything. Couldn’t. “Can I talk to you?” he asked, softly. Like you were something fragile. Like the wrong word would break you for good.

You didn’t answer. Just stared down at Kiriya, who had stopped feeding and now blinked up at you sleepily, pawing at your chest. Neteyam took it as a maybe and came closer, crouching slowly beside you, careful not to disturb the boys. “I know you’re hurting,” he whispered. “And I deserve it. I do. I just— I need you to know something. Really know it.”

You finally looked at him. Your face was blotchy, lips trembling, eyes bloodshot. His heart cracked wide open. “I didn’t sleep with her,” he said, quickly, his voice raw. “No matter what she says, or what anyone says… I swear it on Eywa. On my soul. I didn’t. I never did.” You stared at him for a moment, like you weren’t sure if your heart could risk believing him again.

“She tried,” he said. “A lot. But every time… something pulled me back. It didn’t feel right. It never did. Even when I didn’t remember everything, there was something wrong about it. And I promise, I promise baby I told you everything. Everything that happened.” Your voice cracked when it came. “You touched her.”

“Yes,” he said honestly. “I did. And she touched me. I’m not going to lie to you. But it didn’t go further than that. I never let it. I never wanted to go all the way, even when I was confused. I didn’t let her stay with me. I didn’t let her into our home. I never crossed that line.” You choked. “Then how—how could you still accuse me?”

“I was scared,” he admitted, his voice nearly breaking. “I heard what people were saying and I thought… I thought maybe I deserved it. Maybe it was true and I— I couldn’t breathe. I lashed out. And I know it was wrong. I’m so sorry.” He dropped his head, resting his forehead on your knees. “I was stupid. I let myself get pulled into something I knew deep down wasn’t real. Not like this. Not like us. And now you’re hurting. And I did that. I did that.” You finally spoke again, whisper soft. “She said she’s pregnant.”

“I don’t care,” he said quickly. “If she is, it’s not mine. It can’t be. She’s lying. She has to be. And if she’s not… she was with someone else.” You stared at him, your hand resting on Kiriya’s back. “Why would she say it, then?”

“Because she knew I was slipping away,” he said. “I stopped going. I stopped touching her. I came home. She saw. She knew I remembered. That’s why she did this. To punish me. To keep you from forgiving me.” Your bottom lip quivered. “You don’t deserve forgiveness.”

“I know. But I’ll spend the rest of my life earning it if you’ll let me.” A silence passed. The sound of Kiriya’s breath. The fire crackling. A gust of wind outside. You wiped your cheek with the back of your hand. “I don’t believe she’s carrying your child.” Neteyam’s eyes met yours, startled.

“I don’t believe her,” you repeated. “Because I know you. Even with your memory gone, I knew who you were. You wouldn’t do that. You wouldn’t give her that. You could make mistakes, sure. But that? No.” His throat bobbed. “I swear I didn’t.”

“I believe you.” Tears welled in his eyes, falling freely now. “Thank you.”

“I’m still angry,” you added quickly. “I’m so angry. I’m not ready to just… be okay. But I needed to hear it from you. That it wasn’t true.” He nodded, eyes shining. “I’ll take whatever you can give me.”

“I can’t give much,” you whispered. “I’ll still be here.” You exhaled slowly, eyes falling to the sleeping boys, then to Kiriya now curled against your shoulder. “I need you to be the father they deserve. Not the man that woman wanted you to be.”

“I will be,” he whispered. “I swear, yawne. No more lies. No more her.” Your lip trembled again. “You’re not allowed to leave us again.”

“I won’t.” He reached out, gently covering your hand with his.

The fire had burned low. The boys still slept, warm and safe beneath the woven furs. Kiriya dozed in your arms again, her soft little face pressed against your bare chest, one tiny hand curled at your throat. You rocked her absently, though your eyes stayed locked on the flames.

Neteyam hadn’t moved far. He knelt just beside you still, silent, watching the way you held your daughter. The weight of everything hung between you — grief, pain, betrayal, but also something else. The flicker of something alive. Something trying to bloom back to life in the ash of everything you’d survived.

When Kiriya let out a soft sigh, eyes fluttering fully closed, you shifted and began to lower her gently to the mat, tucking her into the blankets beside her brothers. You stroked her cheek once and then let yourself sit back — your hands trembling from the storm you hadn’t yet shaken loose. Then… Neteyam reached for you. Slow. Gentle.

His hands came to your waist first, then slipped around your back, tugging you into him. You let it happen, though your arms stayed limp at your sides, your face burying into his shoulder automatically as your body began to tremble again. Not loud, not dramatic. Just deep, silent sobs. The kind that come when the worst has already passed, and all that’s left is the exhaustion of surviving it. He rocked you gently. “Ma yawne,” he whispered, over and over. “Oeyä yawne. I’m so sorry. I’m here. I’m here.”

His hands rubbed up and down your spine, anchoring you against him, his breath warm at your temple. You clung to him then, arms looping tightly around his chest, pulling yourself into his warmth as if you could melt into him and never have to leave. “Forgive me,” he whispered, voice trembling. “Please. I’ll say it every day. I’ll say it in my sleep. I’ll never stop saying it. But you have to know — I never stopped loving you. Even when I didn’t know who I was… something in me always knew you.”

You pulled back just enough to look at him. His face was wet with tears, his eyes searching yours like he was still begging to be allowed this moment. And you nodded. “Then show me,” you whispered. “Show me, ma Neteyam.” He blinked. “Are you sure?” You nodded again, slow and full of meaning. “I want to feel you again. All of you.” He inhaled sharply, heart pounding, and then — reverently, slowly — he reached for your kuru. The moment he touched it, your chest fluttered, and your hands instinctively rose to the braid at the base of his skull. Together… you connected. Tsahaylu. And in an instant — the world shifted.

You gasped softly as everything came crashing in. The pain he’d been holding onto. The regret. The confusion. The shame. And then—underneath it, rising like the tide—the love. So much love. You felt it — how he’d carried your voice in his soul even when he didn’t know it was yours. How home had always been the sound of your laugh. How the dreams haunted him because you were in every one of them — your smile, your body, your touch. How much he missed being yours. Being Neteyam — your Neteyam. And you let him feel everything too.

The moment your belly swelled with Kiriya, and you lay awake at night just praying he’d live to see her. The quiet strength you held for your boys every day while breaking inside. The ache of being forgotten. The pain of being blamed. The unbearable longing for his arms, his voice, his eyes full of love. How you still wore his courting token in your hair every day. How even after everything — you still loved him. Still chose him. A choked breath left his throat, and he crushed you into his chest again, one hand cradling your head, the other spreading across your back.

“I can’t believe I forgot I had this,” he whispered hoarsely. “Everything. Every moment. Every promise I made. I meant them all.”

“I know,” you whispered back, your breath catching as more tears fell, softer this time. Cleansing. “I know, ma tìyawn. So did I.” He kissed your hair, your cheek, your temple, tenderly, over and over like he couldn’t stop. His hands shook against your skin. “I don’t deserve your forgiveness,” he murmured.

“You already have it,” you said quietly. “You always did. You were sick, Neteyam. Lost. But I knew you’d find your way.”

“And you waited,” he whispered. “Even when I was breaking your heart.”

“I prayed for you every night,” you said. “I loved you even when it hurt.” He pulled back and touched your cheek with such reverence it made your eyes sting all over again. “I don’t know how I ever looked at another woman when you were right here.” You let out a broken laugh, and he laughed too, just a little, brushing his nose against yours. “You’re such an idiot,” you whispered, watery and smiling. “Biggest skxawng in the clan,” he agreed softly.

You both stayed there for a long time — connected, bonded, whole — until the fire burned down to embers and the soft rise and fall of your children’s breathing filled the quiet night. For the first time in moons, you weren’t broken anymore. You were together You looked up at him, your fingers still trembling in his. Your tears had dried, but their weight clung to your chest. The soft glow of the lantern in the corner of the mauri cast golden light over Neteyam’s face, over the worry in his brow, the love in his eyes.

You had missed him. Missed the warmth of him. The way his arms felt like protection. The way his presence calmed the storm in your chest like nothing else ever could. His hand rose to brush your cheek, thumb grazing softly over the edge of your jaw. “You’re still the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” he whispered, his voice low, reverent, full of ache. Your breath caught. “You don’t have to say that just because you remember now.”

“I’m not,” he murmured. “I’m saying it because I feel it. Because I’ve always felt it.” Then he kissed you. Slowly, gently—like a prayer, like an apology, like a promise. His lips moved with care, like he was relearning the shape of you, the rhythm of your breath. You shifted carefully until you were straddling his lap, your hands slid up his arms, his shoulders, anchoring yourself to him as his fingers trailed down your sides, not rushed or demanding—but familiar.

He paused, eyes locking with yours. “Can I…?” he asked, voice quiet, but full of need. Full of reverence. You nodded, breathless, pulling him closer. He leaned in again, lips brushing your temple, your cheek, the corner of your mouth. “I want to take every doubt out of your body,” he whispered. “Every lie she told, every word I ever said that made you feel less.”

Slowly, tenderly, he slid away the fabric of your chest wrap, revealing skin he hadn’t touched in what felt like years. He kissed every place he uncovered—your collarbone, the hollow of your throat, your shoulder. His hands were careful, steady, full of quiet devotion.

“I missed you,” he said against your skin. “The way you laugh. The way you look when you hold our children. The way your eyes soften when you’re teasing me. I remember all of it now.” You breathed in shakily, fingers in his hair. “Then show me.” And he did. Every kiss was a promise. Every whisper a vow. No rush. No demands. Just the slow, sacred return to something only the two of you had ever shared. To something no one—not even memory loss, not even betrayal—could truly erase. When he finally held you in his arms, skin to skin, soul to soul, the weight you’d been carrying fell away. You weren’t just forgiving each other. You were finding your way back home.

His hands moved with a reverence that made your breath catch, as if every part of you deserved to be memorized all over again. And maybe you did—maybe he did, too. His lips traveled slowly, unhurried, pressing to every dip and curve like he was rediscovering sacred ground. Neteyam was about to lay you down onto the mat but then the Likan shifted, and you both paused looking over at him. Instead, you silently pointed to the fur rug in front of the fireplace, and he lifted you effortlessly, laying you down in front of the warmth.

When he kissed down your body, over your chest, the soft skin of your stomach, and lower, you gasped, a quiet sound that broke somewhere between relief and longing. Your fingers curled against the blankets beneath you, your eyes fluttering shut. It wasn’t just the sensation of his mouth or the trail of heat he left in his wake, it was what it meant. It was him choosing you—not out of duty, not because memory demanded it, but because his heart knew it. Because he remembered. Because he wanted to.

You felt it in the way his lips lingered. In the way his hands steadied your hips like you were something precious. In the way he paused, looking up at you with dark, reverent eyes before continuing, like asking for permission even now. Your heart thudded in your chest, overwhelming and fragile. You whispered his name. Not in desperation—but in awe. He smiled. Softly. Like he knew what this meant. It wasn’t frantic or rushed. It wasn’t about need. It was about presence. You had him again. All of him. The weight of his body, the brush of his breath, the worship in his touch. And for the first time in so long, you weren’t surviving. You were living. You were loved.

Neteyam’s lips brushed your collarbone, slow and warm, and you gasped softly half-laughter, half-need. “You’re laughing?” he murmured against your skin, lips curving into a smile. You giggled breathlessly, your fingers brushing through his braids. “It tickles,” you whispered, voice catching. “You’re not usually this slow.” He chuckled, dragging his lips to your neck. “I’ve been gone a while,” he said lowly, “I think I’m allowed to savor my wife.”

You bit your lip. “You’re lucky I missed you.” He lifted his head just long enough to meet your eyes. “Missed me? Or missed this?” His hand slid along your thigh, deliberate but gentle. You grinned. “Don’t act like you don’t know.”

“I want to hear you say it,” he teased, voice dipping as he nipped at your shoulder. “Fine,” you breathed, a flush blooming over your cheeks. “I missed your mouth… and your hands… and the way you—” You broke off with a gasp as he found a spot that made you squirm. “There?” he said with a smirk, nosing into your neck. You shoved at his chest, laughing. “You’re so smug.”

“Only when I’ve earned it.” You arched slightly, brushing your lips against his ear. “You haven’t yet.” His growl was soft but promising. “Challenge accepted.” You both laughed, your bodies close, breaths mingling. Then he stilled for a moment, his forehead resting against yours. “You’re still the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” he said, voice barely a whisper. “I thought I’d never remember what you felt like. But now… I’ll never forget again.” Your eyes stung, heart pounding. “Then don’t ever leave me again, mighty warrior.” He leaned in, brushing your lips with his. “Never,” he promised.

Your breath hitched as his mouth wandered lower, slow and reverent, and your hand found its way to his hair. “You always do this,” you murmured, voice trembling with a smile. “Do what?” His voice was low, warm against your skin. “Take your time… like you’re unwrapping a gift.” He chuckled. “You are a gift. I’ve been starving, yawntu. Let me taste what I nearly lost.” His lips kissed down and around both your breast before kissing your nipple softly, his lips dragged against the harden nub You blushed hard at his words, shivering under his touch. “You’re saying things that make my knees weak,” you whispered.

“Good,” he said, tongue darting out to give you a tantalizing, slow flick. “Because I remember now. I remember exactly how to make you fall apart.” You gasped, laughing lightly, trying to tug him back up to kiss you, but he resisted, trailing his fingers up your sides instead. “No, no,” he teased, grinning against your skin. “You said I hadn’t earned it yet.” You whined. “Neteyam…”

“Say it again.” His tone was softer now, tender. “Say my name like that.” He moved his head down after biting your nipple and tugging softly making a little mess in his mouth. “Neteyam.” Your voice cracked on it, raw and breathless. He kissed down the curve of your ribs, slow and steady. “There it is.” A pause. “You always said it like that. Like it was sacred.”

“It is,” you whispered, cupping his face and drawing him up to you. “You are.” He kissed you then — slow, searching, aching — and as he hovered above you, his forehead pressed to yours, your legs tangled beneath the covers, you felt the shift. “Do you remember this part too?” you asked shyly, teasing. He laughed softly. “I remember everything to know you used to beg.” You let out a scandalized gasp. “I did not.”

“You did,” he said with a smug smile. “Especially when I’d tease these cute nipples with my tongue and my fingers….and when I sucked on your pretty clit and stuck my tongue in this tight little hole.” He leaned down and whispered something in your ear that made you swat at his arm, breathless and flushed. His fingers ran down your body, all the way dow between your bare thighs to rub small light circles on your clit, making you whimper “Fuck…!” you said, burying your face in his neck.

“You love it,” he whispered against your shoulder. “I love you,” you corrected, breath heavy on his neck as you kissed under his ear He froze, just for a moment but didn’t stop his movements. Then his voice broke as he said, “Say it again.” you repeated, one hand over his heart. “I love you…Always.”

“Even now?” You nodded. “Especially now.” He exhaled like he’d been holding his breath for months. “Then let me show you how much I love you too,” he whispered. “Yes please…” you whisper as he worked his was down once more, smiling as he already got that little ‘please’ out of you. His head disappeared under the thin blanket, kissing and sucking the skin of your thighs, grazing his fangs and sometimes biting like he really was getting taste out of the act. Your moaned softly into the air having to control your voice now more than ever, not wanting to be interrupted. Neteyam’s hands wrapped around your thighs pulling you closer and tossing your legs over his shoulders, his breath lingered on your core making you clench around nothing before you felt his mouth on you.

His tongue worked magic between your thighs, hit the spots he had hit perfected for years, as if it was the only thing in the world he was supposed to remember. It’s been so long since felt him you didn’t realize you’d want to cum so fast, his tongue flicked up and down, side to side making you arch your back and whimpers escape from your lips. Your hands tangled into his braids tugging him closer as if his face could be anymore buried in you. He sucked on your clit making your eyes go wide and your grip tighten in his hair as you hiss into the air, “oh…oh my Eywa…” you whispered clenching your teeth and squeezing your eyes shut as he fucked his tongue into you, it only took a few sweet thrust before you were cuming on his tongue, your essence messing up his face, your thighs, and leaking down his chin to his neck as he lapped you up sweetly.

His head rose from the blanket as you were trying to catch your breath, he looked very pleased with himself. He wiped his face with the back of his hand before hovering over you again, his fingers trailing down to your core as he kissed you again letting you taste your cum on his tongue, it was sweet, like the flowers he picked for you yesterday. Your thighs twitched as his fingers made may to your hole, but you stopped him, “Ma Teyam…” you mumbled against his lips. He pulled away and looked down at you, “what is it sweetheart?”

You bit your lip at his sweet nickname and took a breath, “don’t…. don’t put your fingers in..” Neteyam tilted his head at your request, it’s been months since the last time you had sex he wasn’t to stretch you out, so it doesn’t hurt as much, and he was about to say so before you spoke again. “Want your cock to stretch me out…wanna feel it” you bit your lip and smile up at him sweetly, as if the most vile words ever didn’t just come out of you. Neteyam let his fingers pause where they were toying between your folds, rubbing against your tight hole and look he gave you was wrecked. “Oh, Great Mother…” His groan punched from his chest like he’d been struck.

You snorted through your nose, half laughing, half breathless. “Shh, the kids are asleep, ma Teyam—” You put a finger to his lips, wide-eyed. “Do not wake them.” He caught your wrist, kissed your fingertip, his voice rough and dark: “Then stop saying things that make me forget we even have children.”

He dipped his head into the crook of your neck, panting hard, his hand that was between your legs now gripped tight on your hips. “You can’t say things like that.” His voice was wrecked, trembling. You tilted your head sweetly. “Why not?” He growled, lifting his head to look at you, eyes ablaze. “Because I’m trying to be gentle, and that…” —he kissed you hard, teeth grazing your lip— “makes me want to ruin you.” You gasped into his mouth, heart pounding. His hands roamed now, slow but more desperate.

“Stars, yawntu,” he muttered, his forehead resting against yours. “You’re going to kill me.” You giggled — quiet and sinful. “You keep saying that.” He groaned again, softer this time, but no less strained. “Don’t do that, don’t laugh like that after you didn’t just say the nastiest thing to me” which made you giggle again. “You want me just like this?” he whispered, voice dipping low, dangerously low. “Want my cock in you just like that?” He asked as if he was confirming that’s what you so desperately wanted. You nodded, lips parted, breathing shallow. And the fire in him roared. “You’re playing a dangerous game.” But even as he said it, he was already gone for you.

His body shifted again, ridding himself of his loincloth now hanging, hard and heavy between his strong thighs over cunt. Before his hand could, you swiped your fingers on your tongue giving them a nice wet lick before grabbing his cock in your hand, your stroked it softly and his body tensed, “oh fuck—great mother” he cursed dropping his head down, so your foreheads touched. “That feel good baby?” You whisper into his mouth as your lips brush, but you didn’t kiss.

“S-so good…” he matched your tone, strained. “My poor husband…so touch starved..” you giggle wickedly but it was still so, so hot to him. “You missed me muntaxtan? Missed the way I touched you? Stroked your cock?” Your words were hot down his throat he couldn’t breathe, so he nodded against you, brushing your skin close, quiet, hot. Like you’d just created a whole world for this moment. “Wanna fuck me muntaxtan?” He nodded again, hand running down your body to grip his out cock over your hand, “yea? Do it…fuck me, put it in muntaxtan…” you edged him as your jaw went slack as he entered you. Slowly, like he was memorizing how ever ridge on his cock, how every bugling vein felt going into your sweet, hot, cunt.

His jaw matched yours swallowing all the moans you let out, with every inch of his thick cock stretching you open. His eyes shut to calm himself, he felt like he could cum on the spot. “Oh…Eywa” you moaned and his eyes darted open, taking in your furrowed brows and heavy panting. His cock was only halfway in at this point, and he stopped, moving back and forth giving you a few shallow thrusts, “calling for God baby? Eywa’s not fucking you, my cock is fucking you…say my name.” His voice was soft but commanding. Your legs wrapped around your waist, one over the other on his back, his tails wrapped around your ankle and yours around his thigh. Neteyam dug his cock deeper in, until he was fulling you completely, cock snug in your cock, “f-fuck…Neteyam.” You whispered into his mouth making him smile, “that’s my good girl…so perfect for me…so good at taking instructions.”

Your eyes rolled you swear you was your brain when he started to move, shallow thrusts at first, balls slapping your skin softly as you took him in. “ah, ah, ah…” you went softly moaning against him. Your hands went up and over his shoulder to his back, digging into the skin as he started to spreed up his thrust. Your moaned start to get louder but he smiled and locked your lips in his kiss, swallowing all your noises, “shh baby…gonna wake the kids and I don’t wanna stop…” his tongue invaded your mouth quickly finding dominance over yours. It was sloppy and wet; you could barely kiss him back feeling him drag his cock against your sweet spot. His thrusts continued to get faster and faster until he was pounding into you, your entire body shook with his movements, but he kept you grounded, complete covered by him.

Your back arched off the soft mat, bringing your chest closer to his. His elbows hit the mat next to you bringing himself impossibly closer. “Oh—oh just like that…please tey—teyam..” you moaned into his mouth, and he let out a grunt. “Just like that?” He repeated moving a little harder and you lost the ability to kiss completely, as you nodded against him. Then suddenly he pulled out completely, you let out a whine in frustration, but it didn’t last long, his hands moved you without a thought, pushing you over onto your side and sliding into the spot behind you, back pressed against his chest facing the fireplace. His hand moved down to grip your right thigh pulling your entire leg up into the air as he effortlessly slides his cock back into your warmth with practiced ease.

Your stomach did flips when he started fucking you again, your hands gripping his arm that ended up under your neck and around the upper half of your body and you bit down on his bicep to keep from getting too loud. Your eyes were teary at this new depth, the way he just fit so perfectly into your cunt like you were made just for him. You sniffled leaning back against him wanting to be as close as possible while made him chuckle, “keep your leg up.” He commanded and took your hand bringing it down to your lower stomach where his cock bugles out and pressing down. You chocked on air feeling his cock move in and out of you, heightened the sensitivity, it was as if he knew (which he did) that spot would over activate your sweet spot. Your eyes widened and your jaw went slack once more; you couldn’t help the moans that escaped you. But he could, he gripped your lower face turning you to kiss him again swallowing up your moans, “feel that baby?” He whispered against your lips, “that’s how good I make you feel, you love it when I pump this cunt full huh?” He asked and you nodded frantically, “yes…yes yes yes feels so good…”

Neteyam smiled into your lips once again, “fuck you’re clenching so hard baby…gonna cum on my cock?” He asked speeding up his thrust once more, he was close too he wanted you to cum with him, and when you confirmed through a heavy moan you were close, he fucked info you faster. His grip tightened and so did yours, his hand that was in your stomach moved—with yours— back around your right thigh intertwining your fingers together as he fucked you. Your release hit you like a rough wave as he emptied himself in you at the same time. Neteyam came so much while his cock was thrusting more and more cum into you, he filled you to the brim, so much so that it leaked out the sides of your cunt even though he was still inside you.

You both came down from your high, cock still snug in you, and his hand rubbed up and down the side of your body, then he stopped and wrapped around you even more holding you there against him, the way it was always meant to be. “That was incredible” you bummed out making him chuckle. “I love you muntaxtan” you whispered to him, eyes closing. “I love you more tìyawn.” He said as he kissed your skin softly.

The fire crackled softly in front of you, casting flickering gold over the quiet curve of your back. The thin woven sheet barely covered the two of you, tangled between legs and limbs as you lay tucked between Neteyam’s arms, your back to his chest. His breath brushed the curve of your neck, slow and even now, but his fingers hadn’t stopped tracing patterns into your skin. Outside, the night sang with insects and the ocean’s lullaby. Inside, it was still. Warm. Full.

Neteyam’s voice broke the silence gently, quiet and husky, his chin resting just above your shoulder. “I used to think home was a place. Forest. Sky. Clan.” You hummed softly, fingers brushing over his as they danced across your stomach. He paused, then pressed a kiss to the back of your shoulder, reverent and slow. “But I know now… home isn’t a place.” He paused. “Home is who you fight for. Who you crawl back to. Who you breathe for.” Another kiss, this one behind your ear. You felt the lump rise in your throat. He whispered it into your skin like it was prayer. “Home is You.”

You turned your face toward him, eyes full and glistening, and he kissed you. A soft, sacred kiss — not rushed, not fiery — just full of love. Of peace. Of truth. In that moment, with your body tucked to his, the fire warming your feet, and the stars peeking through the cracks in the thatched ceiling, everything was exactly as it should be. You smiled against his mouth, your voice a whisper. “And you’re mine.” He pulled you closer. Held you tighter. And there, beneath the soft songs of night and the gentle crackle of fire, the story that once felt like it shattered — finally felt whole again.

💜 Likes comments and reblogs are always appreciated.

💜I hope you all enjoyed reading this, honestly I tried to make it as realistic as possible, relationships are messy, especially when trauma is involved. So please any feedback I’d love to hear, and any ideas are welcome!

Taglist:

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sensualresiduals

nahimjustfeelingit-writes

Apr 13

iamquiantrelle

NOT THAT DEEP (michael b. jordan longfic) • iamquaintrelle

# summary: blind dates are usually simple: you get in, have a drink, eat a little, chitchat then you never see the other person ever again. but why does this blind date never seem to go away? # pairings: michael b. jordan x black female oc (selah young) (pronouced sa-lah) # wordcount: 16.4K # warnings: cursing, smut, pleasure dom!michael, shame kink references, yearning!michael, slight angst, slight commitment/relationship avoidant issues - minors do not engage # author's note: all photo credits are from pinterest.

Selah had a rule about blind dates; she didn't go on them.

It was simple, clean, and airtight. The kind of rule that didn't need a long explanation, just a firm no and a redirect toward literally anything else—a glass of wine she poured herself, a rewatch of something she'd already seen three times, a voice note to her sister complaining about the fact that someone had asked in the first place.

She wasn't antisocial. She wasn't bitter. She wasn't any of the things people assumed when a thirty-one-year-old woman in Los Angeles said she wasn't interested in being set up. She was just tired. Tired of showing up somewhere and realizing within the first six minutes that whoever was sitting across from her had no idea who she actually was—had taken one look at her IG page or heard "she does Teyana's hair" and filled in the rest with whatever story made sense to him. She was tired of being a footnote in someone else's idea of what this was supposed to look like.

So. The rule.

Except then Zinzi called.

And when Zinzi Coogler called you and said Selah, I need you to do this for me, it's a favor, he's a good man, Ryan vouches for him personally, the rule had a tendency to develop a crack in it.

"Tell me who it is," Selah said. She was sitting cross-legged on her bathroom counter watching a deep conditioner work its magic on her ends, phone wedged between her ear and her shoulder.

"Does it matter?"

"Zinzi."

A pause. Then: "Michael."

Selah blinked. "Michael who?"

"...B. Jordan."

Another pause; longer this time.

"Zinzi."

"Don't say it like that—"

"Zinzi, I'm not—"

"He is genuinely a good person, Selah, I have known this man for years through Ryan, he is not what the internet says he is—"

"I didn't say anything about the internet."

"You were thinking it."

She was, in fact, thinking it. She was thinking about the tabloids and the model parade and the very public breakup that had the whole internet debating who was at fault (the internet, for the record, was split directly down gender lines and had stayed that way for roughly a year and a half). She was thinking about how famous men in Hollywood operated and how she had neither the time nor the emotional bandwidth to be anyone's soft place to land between projects.

But she was also thinking about the fact that Zinzi had sent her a last-minute invite to the Sinners premiere when Selah had not been able to get them through her regular channels, and had gotten her into the after-party, and had let Selah crash at her house in Atlanta for a full week last October when the apartment above Selah's had flooded and she needed somewhere to be. Zinzi had shown up for her, quiet and consistent, in the ways that mattered.

So.

"One dinner," Selah said.

"That's all I'm asking."

"I'm going in with zero expectations."

"That's healthy."

"And if it's bad I'm telling you it was bad."

"I respect that."

"I mean it, Zinzi. I will give you the full debrief."

"I would expect nothing less." A smile in her voice. "He's going to text you. Just... give it a chance, okay? He's not performing. He's actually just like this."

He texted at 10:47 on a Tuesday night.

Hey Selah. This is Michael. Zinzi gave me your number — hope that's okay. I know this is a little unconventional.

She stared at the message for thirty seconds, which was about twenty-eight seconds longer than she usually gave anything. The grammar was clean. No excessive punctuation trying to prove something. No opener that was trying too hard. She would give him that.

It's fine, she typed back. Hi.

Three dots appeared almost immediately.

MBJ: How's your night?

Selah: Winding down. You?

MBJ: Same. Just got back from the gym. Trying to decompress.

She could picture it — and she really wished she couldn't, because picturing it was not going to help her maintain the appropriate level of detachment. She'd seen Sinners three times already. Smoke and Stack were both her business and neither was, and that was a whole thing she was choosing not to examine right now.

What does decompressing look like for you, she typed, and told herself she was just being polite.

MBJ: Honestly? I put on anime and let my brain go quiet. Sounds childish but it works.

She almost smiled. Almost.

Selah: Sounds like self-care to me.

MBJ: That's a generous read. I'll take it.

They texted for forty minutes that first night. Not about anything that required effort — his gym, her clients, whether the new season of something they'd both been watching was worth finishing (verdict: it wasn't, but they were both going to finish it anyway). He was easy to talk to in a way she hadn't expected. Not in a practiced way, not in the I do this all the time and I'm very good at it way she'd braced for. In the way of someone who was actually listening, actually building on what she said instead of steering every thread back to himself.

She went to sleep with her phone face-down on the nightstand and told herself it was just a conversation. It didn't mean anything. She still had the rule.

******************************************************

They texted almost every day for two weeks before he brought up actually meeting.

She would think about that later — the two weeks. How most men led with the ask, rushed the timeline, treated the buildup like administrative work before the part they actually wanted. He hadn't done that. He'd just... kept talking to her. Like the talking was the thing, not the means to it.

When he did bring it up, it was low-stakes. I'm going to be in New York next week for some press stuff. Would you want to grab dinner?

She'd been doing Marsai's hair at the time, phone propped against the mirror, and she'd glanced at the text twice before she responded.

Selah: Maybe. What are you thinking?

MBJ: Red Rooster. You ever been?

She had been multiple times. Marcus Samuelsson's place up in Harlem — the fried yard bird, the cornbread skillet, the whole warm, gorgeous room that felt like someone had designed it specifically so that Black people could walk in and feel like they belonged there completely. She'd been on four different occasions and loved it every time.

Which was almost the problem.

Because Red Rooster wasn't a default choice. It wasn't the kind of spot you took someone to because it was impressive or because you'd read a list somewhere. It was the kind of choice you made when you'd thought about who the other person was and what they might love and you'd decided to try to get it right.

She didn't need him getting it right, because getting it right was dangerous.

I've been, she said. It's a good spot.

MBJ: Good. Thursday at seven?

She waited a beat. Looked at Marsai in the mirror, who mouthed who is that with her whole face.

I'll think about it, Selah typed back.

He sent back a single emoji. Just a 🙏. No pressure, no follow-up. She hated how much she appreciated that.

****************************************************************

She went on Thursday.

He was already there when she arrived, which she hadn't expected. Famous men, in her experience, operated on their own time — not out of rudeness necessarily but out of a practiced assumption that the world would wait. He was at the table, a glass of water in front of him, on his phone but he looked up the moment she walked in like he'd been watching the door.

And then he stood.

She registered it and immediately filed it away to process later because she could not deal with it right now. He stood up when she came to the table. Not performatively, not with any kind of announcement. Just stood, the way someone does when they were raised somewhere that taught them to do that without having to think about it.

Newark, she remembered. He was born in Newark. She kept that thought in her back pocket.

"Selah." He said her name right. The ah at the end soft and landing correctly, like he'd taken note. Most people said SEE-luh on first try.

"Hey." She let him pull out her chair — partly because she was curious whether he would, partly because she'd already decided she wasn't going to perform disinterest so aggressively that she'd be rude about it. She sat. He sat. They looked at each other across a small table in Harlem on a Thursday night in February and she thought: Well. Okay.

He was better looking in person. She'd expected that. What she hadn't expected was the stillness of him. He had a quality she didn't have a clean word for — a kind of settled attention, like the room wasn't pulling at him even though she knew that rooms always pulled at people like him. He held eye contact when he talked. Not in the unsettling, trying-to-intimidate way. Just in the way of someone who meant what they were saying and wanted you to know it.

He had dimples when he smiled that he probably knew about and definitely weaponized without realizing he was doing it.

"You found the place okay?" he asked.

"I've been here before."

"I know, you said." A slight smile. "I just meant tonight. The parking and everything."

"Oh." She felt a flicker of something — embarrassment, maybe, at having bristled at a completely ordinary question. "Yeah. I took a car. I'm not parking in Harlem on a Thursday."

"Smart." He nodded, picked up his menu even though she got the sense he'd already read it, and gave her a second to settle.

She settled.

The food was exactly as good as it always was. She got the chicken, he got the oxtail, they shared the cornbread because he offered it and she wanted some. The conversation came without effort. He was funny — not in the way that celebrities could be funny, the practiced wit of people who'd been on enough press junkets to know exactly which stories landed, but in the quiet observational way of someone who paid attention to the world and found it consistently, affectionately ridiculous.

He talked about his mom. His love for Newark, the loyalty of it, the way certain things about home never left you no matter how far the work took you. He asked about Teyana and what it was like doing her hair — not the famous-person curiosity that was really just waiting to name-drop back, but actual interest in the craft, what it took, what Selah loved about it.

"It's the intimacy," she said, turning her glass in her hands. "People think it's about the technique, the skill, whatever. And that matters. But really what it is — you are in someone's space. You are touching something that is personal to them. Your hair is yours in a way nothing else is. So there's this trust that gets built. And when it's good, when you really know someone's hair and they really trust you, it becomes this..." she searched for the word.

"A relationship," he said.

"Yeah." She glanced at him. "A real one. Not just a service transaction."

He nodded slowly, leaning forward a little on the table. "I think about that with acting," he said. "People think the job is in front of the camera, but most of it is the preparation, the relationship with the director, the trust you build before you ever say a word on set. The visible stuff is just — it's the result. All the real work happened somewhere quieter."

She looked at him for a moment.

He looked back.

This man, she thought. And then made herself think about something else.

Toward the end of the night he walked her out. The February air hit them on 125th and she pulled her coat tighter, and he glanced over at her, not offering his arm but not not offering it either — just present, close, like he was paying attention.

"I'm glad you said yes," he said.

"Zinzi is very persuasive."

A small laugh. "Yeah, she is." He paused. "But you came. That was you."

She looked at him on the sidewalk in Harlem with the lights behind him and the cold clean and sharp between them, and she thought about what Zinzi had said. He's not performing. He's actually just like this.

Which was the problem, she was realizing. A performance she could navigate. She knew how to see through it, how to hold the distance that kept her from getting pulled in. A performance had seams you could find if you looked.

But this didn't feel like a performance. And that — that she didn't know what to do with.

"I should get in my Uber," she said.

"Yeah." He didn't push it. Dapped the air lightly between them like he was going to, then pivoted — caught her hand instead, turned it over, pressed a brief kiss to the back of it. Just his mouth on her knuckles for a half second, warm and deliberate, and then he let go. "Goodnight, Selah."

She got in her Uber and sat with the heating going and looked at the back of her hand.

"No," she said to nobody.

Then the driver drove home.

She texted Zinzi at eleven-thirty: Fine. He's charming. Satisfied?

Zinzi replied at eleven thirty-two: 😏 So when's date two?

Selah put her phone face-down.

There wasn't going to be a date two. There wasn't going to be a date two because the reason she had the rule in the first place was not that she didn't like anyone, it was that she liked people too easily, too quickly, and she had spent years building a life that didn't have room for heartbreak in it. She had clients who counted on her. A reputation she'd built from nothing. A studio apartment in Silver Lake that she'd made into a home, every plant alive and cared for, every corner arranged with intention. That life was good. It was hers. It didn't need to be disrupted by a famous man who kissed the back of your hand on a Harlem sidewalk like he'd been doing it his whole life.

She was fine.

She was completely fine.

She fell asleep at 1am thinking about his dimples.

******************************************************************

His first text the next morning came at 9:17.

You make it home okay?

She stared at it while her coffee brewed.

Selah: Yeah. You?

MBJ: Yeah. Just about to get into some meetings. Hope you have a good day.

That was it. No ask. No so when can I see you again. Just a simple check-in and a genuine send-off, the kind of text she'd get from someone she'd known for five years, not someone she'd had dinner with once.

She didn't respond until she was in the car on her way to a client.

Selah: Thanks. You too.

He was back in New York the following Thursday.

MBJ: Hey. I'm in the city again. Meetings ran long but I've got tomorrow free. Dinner?

She was elbow-deep in an install for Ryan Destiny, gloves on, adhesive drying, the kind of moment where even reaching for her phone was a logistical problem. She read the text sideways off the counter, tilting her neck.

Can't, she typed when she finally had a free hand. Busy weekend.

MBJ: Okay. What about Sunday?

Selah: Flying back to LA Sunday.

MBJ: Monday?

Selah: I'm in LA on Monday.

A pause.

MBJ: I'm in LA next week.

She looked at that text for a long time before responding.

Selah: Michael.

MBJ: Yeah.

Selah: I'm not going to keep fitting into your schedule.

A longer pause this time. She thought maybe he'd leave it there, take the hint, let it dissolve the way these things dissolved when one person wasn't as interested as the other.

Then: I hear you. Can I ask you something?

Selah: Go ahead.

MBJ: Was dinner bad?

She exhaled, set the phone down, and then picked it back up.

Selah: No.

MBJ: Did I do something that made you uncomfortable?

Selah: No.

MBJ: So this is you just... pulling back.

She thought about the exact right way to say it — honest enough to be fair to him, clear enough to not leave anything open to interpretation.

Selah: I had a good time. You're a good person. But I know how this goes with someone like you. You're on the award circuit right now. You're in New York, then LA, then somewhere else. And when you're available you want someone available for you. And I don't think that's what I am.

She hit send and immediately felt the particular exhaustion of having said a true thing.

His response came fast.

MBJ: Someone like me.

Selah: You know what I mean.

MBJ: I think I do. And I think you've decided that before we've even started.

Selah: It's not decided. It's just practical.

MBJ: Okay.

She waited as she saw the three dots appear, then reappear.

MBJ: I'm not going to argue with you about it. But I want you to know I ain't here for that little boy shit. I'm not out here collecting numbers. I'm talking to you because I want to talk to you. Take that for whatever it's worth.

She read it three times.

Noted, she said finally.

MBJ: That's all I got. Have a good night, Selah.

She meant to leave it there. She really did.

But at 11pm she sent: What anime are you watching right now.

And at 11:04 he sent back: Just started rewatching JJK from the beginning. Don't judge me.

No judgment, she typed, and found herself smiling at her own ceiling.

The next three weeks were — she wouldn't call them a situationship because that wasn't what it was. It was more like the waiting room before a decision she hadn't made yet. He texted her every day, never more than what felt natural, never with any pressure underneath it. He'd send her a reel of something he'd eaten that was wild and ask her to rate it. She'd send him voice notes of her complaining about LA traffic and he'd respond with escalating outrage on her behalf that made her laugh out loud alone in her car.

He called twice. Real phone calls, not because something needed to be communicated but just to talk. One time for forty minutes, the other for almost two hours. He had this habit during calls of going quiet for a moment when she said something he was really thinking about — not dead air, just a beat, the sound of someone actually considering before they responded. She found herself doing the same thing back to him without noticing.

But every time he suggested they meet — and it was always specific, always intentional, never let me know if you're ever around — she had a reason why it didn't work. And he accepted it. Every single time, he accepted it, didn't pout about it or turn cold or start answering her texts with a different energy.

He was patient in a way that started to genuinely unsettle her because she was running out of ways to explain it as an angle.

In week three she texted Zinzi: He won't stop.

Zinzi: Good.

Selah: That's not helpful.

Zinzi: Selah. Baby. I say this with love. What are you actually scared of?

She put the phone down and didn't answer for six hours.

He asked her to dinner in New York for the fourth time on a Wednesday night in early March: I'm back in the city. I found this place in the West Village I think you'd love. Japanese-Peruvian, it's doing something real interesting. Saturday night.

She looked at the text, felt the familiar tug of the practical, the self-protective.

I can't, she started typing. Then she stopped.

She sat with the cursor blinking for a full minute.

Here was the truth: she could. She didn't have anything Saturday. She had a client on Friday afternoon, she was flying to New York Sunday for a thing with Teyana, and going a day early was not a logistical problem. The only thing Saturday wasn't working for was her rule. And her rule was starting to feel less like a boundary and more like a wall she was hiding behind.

She deleted the I can't.

What time, she typed.

There was a longer pause than usual. She imagined him reading it, re-reading it. Making sure he'd seen right.

MBJ: Seven-thirty. I'll send you the address.

A beat.

MBJ: I'm glad.

Don't make it weird, she typed.

MBJ: Too late, I'm doing a little dance right now.

She laughed. Actually laughed out loud, alone in her apartment.

"This is a problem," she said to her fiddle leaf fig in the corner.

The fiddle leaf fig offered no opinion.

She got to the restaurant five minutes early and sat at the bar and told herself to stop touching her hair.

She'd worn it out — her own hair, nothing installed, just her curls blown out and shaped the way she'd worn them since she was seventeen and figured out that her hair was hers and nobody else's. She'd done her own makeup, which she did better than almost anyone because she'd been doing other people's faces for a decade and knew exactly what worked. She had on a burnt-orange wrap dress that she'd had for two years and that consistently made her feel like herself in the best possible way.

She was not nervous. She had decided she was not nervous.

She was extremely nervous.

He walked in at seven twenty-eight, two minutes early, and she watched him from the bar — the way he moved through a room, unhurried, the slight scan he did without seeming like he was doing it until his eyes landed on her and stopped. And then he just — settled. Like her being there was the thing he'd been moving toward.

He was wearing a simple black crewneck and dark trousers and sneakers that she clocked as limited edition something but she wasn't going to comment on that. He had his hair cut fresh. He'd made an effort without it looking like effort, which was its own kind of skill.

He came to the bar and dapped the bartender — actually dapped him, easy and natural — and then turned to her and looked at her for a moment with his whole face open.

"You look beautiful," he said. Not you look nice. Not hey you. Just the flat honest truth of it delivered directly.

"Thank you," she said, and didn't deflect it. She'd worked on not deflecting compliments.

He offered his hand to help her off the barstool, which she didn't need and took anyway.

Dinner was different this time. Not worse — better, in fact, the food extraordinary in the way he'd said it would be — but different in the way that the second time you do something carries a different weight than the first. The first time, you're cataloguing. The second time, you're comparing. You're measuring what's still true.

What was still true: he listened the same way. Asked questions that showed he'd retained things she'd told him before. Laughed at the same frequency, which was enough to make her feel comfortable but not so often that she felt performed at.

What was different: something had shifted in the air between them. Maybe because she'd come this time without the armor of this is just Zinzi's favor. She was here because she'd chosen to be. That changed the gravity of it.

At some point during dessert he said, "Can I be honest about something?"

"Go ahead."

He turned his water glass. "I don't do this. Like, specifically. I'm not out here pursuing people who are telling me no. That's not—" he paused. "That's not something I respect in general. Persistence for its own sake, chasing somebody down because the challenge is the point." He shook his head a little. "That's not what this is."

She held his gaze. "Then what is it?"

"I think you're worth it." Simple. Direct. Just that. "I'm not here because I can't take a hint. I'm here because I genuinely think — I feel like I know already that you're going to be important. And I'd rather feel stupid for showing up than wonder later why I didn't."

She looked at him across the small table with the candlelight doing what candlelight does and she thought, there it is. The thing she'd been sensing under all the patience, all the specific dinner choices, all the check-in texts. Not a strategy. Not game. Just a man who had decided she was worth his honesty.

"You should know," she said carefully, "that I'm still not convinced this goes anywhere. You've got the circuit. The press, the travel. You won an Oscar nine days ago—"

"Twelve," he said, and then looked almost embarrassed about having the number that ready.

She bit her lip. "Twelve days ago. Your life is—"

"Loud right now," he agreed. "Yeah."

"And I need someone who is going to be present. Not someone squeezing me in between commitments."

"I know."

"I'm not someone's soft place to land between projects."

"I know that too." He looked at her steadily. "I'm not asking you to be. I'm asking you to let me show you what this looks like when I'm being intentional. That's it. Just let me show you."

Selah was quiet for a moment.

She thought about her rule.

She thought about the crack in it.

"One more chance," she said. "I mean it. One."

He smiled then — full, warm, that dimple doing exactly what she'd been worried about the first night.

"That's all I need," he said.

He walked her out again. The March air was slightly cold, the street quieter than the last time. She had her coat on properly this time and he had his hands in his pockets and they stood on the sidewalk for a moment before her car came.

"I meant what I said in there," she told him.

"I know."

"I'm not—" she paused. "I'm not trying to be difficult. I just know what it costs me when I get it wrong."

He looked at her for a moment with that stillness of his, the attention that didn't waver. "Can I tell you something?"

"Sure."

"You're the only person I've talked to this much in years that I wasn't required to talk to for work."

She absorbed that.

"That's either very sweet," she said, "or very concerning."

He laughed — real laugh, head back a little. "Probably some of both."

Her car pulled up. He reached over and opened the door for her, and as she got in he said, simply: "Goodnight, Sa-lah." The way he said her name, always got it right. She settled into the seat and looked up at him.

"Goodnight, Michael."

He closed the door.

She rode home thinking about the texture of the word yes and how close she was to saying it.

She didn't say it.

Not the next day when he texted how'd you sleep, and she said fine, you, and he said too early to tell but the eggs I just made were elite so I'm choosing to see that as a sign. Not the day after when she sent him a voice note of her full theatrical reaction to a bad wig she'd seen on set and he replied with a voice note of his own that was just two solid minutes of him losing it. Not the following Tuesday when he texted: I'm in New York through Sunday. Dinner Friday?

Can't, she typed.

MBJ: Saturday?

Selah: Have a thing with a client.

MBJ: Sunday before your flight?

Selah: Early flight.

There was a pause that stretched differently than his other pauses. Something with a different texture.

MBJ: Selah.

Selah: Yeah.

MBJ: You good?

She looked at the word yes again in her head and pushed it back.

Selah: Yeah. I'm good. Just busy.

He didn't answer for an hour. When he did, it was one line:

MBJ: Okay. I hear you. Have a good week.

She told herself that was fine.

It was fine.

She was fine.

She texted him three days later at 10pm: Did you finish the JJK rewatch?

He left her on read for four hours, which had never happened before.

When he finally responded it was just: Almost.

She put her phone face down and felt something she didn't have a clean name for — something like the specific chill of a door that has been left open for a long time finally, quietly, starting to close.

He called on a Thursday night.

She almost didn't pick up — not because she didn't want to, but because she'd been asking herself for the past week what it was exactly she was doing, what she was protecting and whether it was still worth the cost. She picked up on the fourth ring.

"Hey," he said.

"Hey."

A beat. "You avoiding me?"

"No."

"Okay." He didn't push it. Another beat. "Can I tell you something and have you hear it without getting defensive?"

She sat up straighter on her couch. "I'll try."

She could hear him breathe on the other end, calibrating.

"I told you I wasn't here for games. And I meant that, but I want to be clear about something else." His voice was calm, careful, the voice of someone who'd thought this through before picking up the phone. "I'm not going to keep showing up if you keep walking back out. Not because I don't want to. Because I respect you too much to make you feel like you have to keep telling me no."

She was quiet.

"So I'm going to ask you one more time, straight up. Not for dinner, not as a setup. I'm asking if you actually want this, whatever this is. Yes or no."

The room was very quiet.

"Selah?"

She closed her eyes and thought about her rule.

Thought about what Zinzi had said. He's not performing.

Thought about a man who stood up when she walked in, who kissed the back of her hand, who got her name right every single time, who chose Red Rooster and meant it.

Thought about the crack.

"I want to say yes," she said finally. "I'm just scared of what comes after yes."

A pause. Then, quiet: "I know. Me too."

She opened her eyes.

"Tell you what," he said, and she could hear the shift in his voice — something warmer, something that was not quite a smile but was adjacent to one. "Don't answer right now, but I need you to do something."

"What."

"Check your texts tomorrow morning."

"Michael—"

"I'm serious. Just check them. Okay?"

She exhaled. "Okay."

"Okay." A pause. "Goodnight, Selah."

"Goodnight."

*****************************************************************

She didn't sleep well. Woke up at 6:47am before her alarm, reached for her phone before she was fully conscious.

His text had come in at midnight:

We're going somewhere a little chilly. Pack a coat — not your regular coat, something real. Pack layers. Pack one thing that feels like home to you, just one, whatever that means. And pack your passport.

I'm not telling you where yet. But the first clue is this: think about the first night we texted. What did I tell you I was doing to wind down?

Figure out the city. Text me back when you know.

She read it twice. Three times.

Then she thought about that first night. The gym. The decompressing.

Anime. It's the best.

She sat up in bed.

"Oh," she said, and she texted him back at 6:51am.

Selah: Tokyo.

His response came in sixty seconds flat.

MBJ: There she is. Pack for a week. We leave in four days. And Selah—

Selah: Yeah.

MBJ: This ain't me squeezing you in between commitments. The Oscars are over. There's nowhere I have to be. This is me showing you what intentional looks like.

Four days, she typed back. Her hands were not entirely steady.

MBJ: Four days. Get some sleep.

She put the phone down on her chest and looked up at her ceiling in the early LA morning with her heart doing something complicated and inconvenient in her ribcage.

She was already composing the text to Zinzi in her head.

Okay, she thought. Okay.

The crack in the rule had become a door, and she was thinking about walking through it.

She told herself she was not going to be the woman who packed for a week trip to Japan in a state of emotional disarray.

And then she was absolutely that woman, standing in her bedroom at 11pm with three potential coats laid across her bed and a growing suspicion that she had nothing that qualified as one thing that feels like home to you, just one. What did that even mean? Was it the wide-tooth comb she'd had since she was nineteen, the one with the handle cracked down the middle that she'd superglued back twice? The worn-soft sleep shirt from an HBCU step show she'd attended with her college roommate back in 2014? The small jar of shea butter her grandmother sent her every Christmas, this year's still sealed, kept on the nightstand like a talisman?

She packed the shea butter.

She also, because she was not going to pretend otherwise, spent a full hour on what her hair would do in Tokyo's weather. She had clients whose faces were her art — Teyana's bone structure, Marsai's glow, Ryan's whole warm luminous thing — and she treated her own hair with the same care because her hair was hers and she had never outsourced that relationship to anyone. She packed accordingly: her oils, her cream, her silk bonnet, her diffuser. A real stylist's carry-on.

The coat she picked was her grandmother's. Double-breasted, camel-colored wool, oversized in the way that things worn by women who were shorter than you always ended up on you. It was warm, and it was beautiful, and it smelled, very faintly and probably imagined, like the cedar in her grandmother's closet in Long Island.

He texted at 7am the morning of their departure.

MBJ: Clue two - We're going somewhere else I've been exactly once before, for work, and couldn't stay long enough. Something specific about that trip — I'll tell you when we're there.

Stop being mysterious, she sent back, already in the Uber to LAX.

MBJ: Never.

She was smiling at her phone when her driver glanced at her in the rearview and she composed herself immediately.

He met her at the gate. Not at the check-in, not at a separate terminal — at the actual gate, two bottles of water and a snack bag from the market and that particular way of standing he had, weight shifted slightly, easy in his body, the kind of stillness that came from being very certain of where you were supposed to be.

She walked up and he took her carry-on handle without asking, just took it, and handed her one of the waters, and said "you eat yet?" which was both very practical and somehow the most cared-for she'd felt in months.

"On the way here," she said.

"Real food or airport food?"

"It was from a café."

"That's a no." He was already opening the snack bag. "I got those little brie things you like."

She stopped walking.

He turned back, looked at her, one eyebrow raised.

"How do you know I like those?" she said.

"You mentioned it. Week two. You said you'd been stress-eating brie bites and watching Real Housewives and that it was the best night you'd had in a while."

She had said that. She remembered saying that. She had not expected him to have retained it.

"Right," she said.

"Right." He handed her the little foil packet and they kept walking.

She ate a brie bite at the gate and thought about what it meant that he'd been paying that kind of attention. Not the grand gesture kind of attention that was easy to perform. The granular, quiet kind. The kind that accumulated.

The flight was long in the way only transpacific flights can be — fourteen hours of processed air and bad movies and the specific intimacy of being beside someone in a pressurized tube at 35,000 feet for so long that all the social formality starts to dissolve. They had seats next to each other in first class. She put her bonnet on around hour four. He didn't say anything, just glanced over and went back to his screen, and she appreciated that it required no explanation.

They talked during the middle stretch when neither of them could sleep — the lights low, most of the cabin unconscious, that confessional quality the small hours had even in the sky. She asked about Sinners and the whole awards run and whether winning had felt the way he'd imagined it.

"I always thought it would feel like — arriving somewhere," he said. He was turned toward her, voice low, elbow on the armrest between them. "Like you'd get to the end of this long thing and there'd be a place to stand." A pause. "But it doesn't feel like that. It feels like something opened. Like there's more to do now, not less."

"Is that good or bad?"

"Both." A small smile. "Mostly good. I think. Ask me in a year."

"What does Smoke mean to you?" she asked. "Or Stack. Either."

He was quiet for a moment in the way she'd come to recognize as genuine consideration. "Stack is the part of me I understand," he said. "The hunger. The drive. The need to build something that lasts." He paused. "Smoke is the part I'm still learning. The grief underneath all that. The things you bury because you don't have language for them yet." He glanced at her. "Ryan wrote them both knowing me. Which is a thing you live with."

She thought about what it meant to have a collaborator like that — someone who could see the versions of you that you hadn't fully named. She'd never had that in the same way. Her closest relationships were her clients, her girls, her grandmother over the phone on Sunday mornings. She'd kept the interior stuff private for so long she'd almost forgotten what it felt like to let someone read the labels.

"You're easy to talk to," she said, and immediately felt the vulnerability of having said it out loud.

He looked at her. "So are you."

"I mean I talk to people all day. It's my job basically. Being in people's space—"

"I don't mean professionally." He held her gaze. "I mean you. When you're not thinking about it. When you just say the thing."

She looked out the small dark window at thirty-five thousand feet of nothing.

"I don't do that often," she admitted.

"I know." His voice was very quiet. "I like it when you do."

She didn't answer that. But she didn't look away either. They sat in the low light above the Pacific and something between them settled, gently, into a new shape.

*********************************************************

Tokyo soon arrived the way great cities always do — suddenly, after all the approach, all the airport and the customs line and the car threading through elevated highways — and then there it was. The city at dusk from a window, light everywhere, the specific density of a place that has been layered on itself for centuries and still manages to feel clean. Selah had her face against the glass of the car like she was sixteen.

"When were you here before?" she asked.

"Creed III press tour. Forty-eight hours. I barely slept."

"And you've been coming back ever since."

"Immediately, like clockwork." He was watching her watch the city. "I went to the Naruto studio while I was here."

She turned. "You did?"

"Don't look at me like that."

"Like what?"

"Like I'm about to say something embarrassing."

"You just told me you went to the Naruto studio."

"And I'd do it again." No shame, no waver. "They gave me a custom shikishi from the character designer. That lives in a frame in my house. My house. Framed."

She was laughing now, actual laughing, jet lag and all. "Okay," she said. "Okay, I respect it."

"Thank you." He looked satisfied. "That's all I need."

The hotel was in Shinjuku, one of those understated places that didn't announce itself from the outside but revealed itself slowly — the quality of the materials, the particular hush of the corridors, the room that opened onto a view of the city that felt almost incomprehensibly vast. Selah stood at the window for a long moment without saying anything.

She had her own room. She'd confirmed that specifically before agreeing to any of this, and he'd responded with obviously in a tone that suggested the question required no further elaboration.

"I'll let you get settled," he said from the doorway between the connecting suite. "But when you're ready — I made us a reservation. An hour or so."

"Where?"

He smiled. The dimples. Lord.

"Clue three," he said. "Think about what you told me the second week we were talking. About your clients. About what the work feels like when it's right."

She looked at him.

"The intimacy," she said slowly.

"The intimacy," he agreed. "And what it feels like to be in a place where someone cares about every detail. Every single one."

She thought about that for a moment.

"Omakase," she said. "Japanese. The chef decides."

"There she is again." He looked genuinely pleased, like she'd done something he was actually proud of. "Counter seats. Fourteen courses. Chef's from Osaka originally, trained in Kyoto, been here in Tokyo for fifteen years. I looked into it when I knew we were coming."

Selah looked at the man in her doorway who had chosen a restaurant based on a conversation about the philosophy of her work and felt the word yes move through her like warm water.

"Give me forty-five minutes," she said.

"Take your time."

She took fifty. She wore all her own things — her hair re-moisturized and settled from the flight, the camel coat over a deep plum dress she'd had since her friend Amara's birthday two years ago, the specific low earrings she wore when she wanted to look like she wasn't trying. She stood in front of the mirror and thought about what Zinzi had said again: He's not performing.

Which meant she shouldn't perform either.

She went out into the corridor looking like herself and found him waiting, hands in pockets, and he looked at her the way he'd looked at her that first night — that settling, like arriving somewhere he'd been heading toward.

"Ready?" he said.

"Ready," she said.

The restaurant was everything. A counter with eight seats, the kitchen on the other side open and orderly, the chef moving through each preparation with the specific meditative focus of someone who had made this same sequence of motions ten thousand times and still treated every one like it mattered. Selah watched his hands the way she watched her own when she was working, recognizing the care in them.

The food came one piece at a time, each with a brief explanation from the chef or his assistant — the source of the fish, the preparation, what they'd been trying to achieve. Selah leaned forward through every course. Michael watched her the way he always did, that quiet attention, and at one point when she made a sound of involuntary approval at something involving aged yellowtail, he put his fist to his mouth like he was very deliberately not saying something.

"Don't," she said.

"I'm not saying anything."

"You were about to."

"I really wasn't." But he was smiling.

Between courses, she said, "Tell me about this place. The first trip. What were you doing?"

"Eating, mostly." He laughed. "I had this moment — I was out by myself, just walking around Shinjuku at like 2am because I couldn't sleep, and I ended up in this little spot that was just — tiny. Six seats. Counter only. Man behind it, older guy, we didn't share a language but I pointed at what the person next to me had and he nodded and made it for me. Best ramen I've had in my life. Still."

"You find that everywhere?"

"Find what?"

"The small places. The intimate ones."

He considered that. "I think I look for them. The big stuff is necessary, it's part of what I do. But the thing that actually feeds you is usually smaller than that."

She understood exactly what he meant in a way she didn't say out loud.

After dinner they walked. Just walked — no destination, the city sprawling around them, the density of it somehow not overwhelming but alive, the way a good city at night made you feel like anything might be around the next corner. She'd changed into sneakers at the hotel and he had his on already and they walked through Shinjuku toward the quieter streets east of it, through Kabukicho where the lights were violent and everywhere, through a side street that opened into a small park where a couple of people sat on benches despite the cold.

"I want to ask you something," she said.

"Ask."

"All of this—" she gestured, vaguely, at the city and also, implicitly, at him. "What's the endgame for you? Like, what are you actually hoping for?"

He put his hands in his pockets and walked a few steps before he answered.

"Something real," he said. "Something that's actually mine. Not — I'm not talking about forever, I'm not trying to scare you. I just mean something where I can show up and be who I am and the other person can do the same and neither of us is managing a perception." He paused. "I've had relationships that were mostly PR. That were about what it looked like from the outside. I don't want that anymore." He glanced at her. "I don't think you want that either."

"No," she said.

"So."

"So." She looked at the street ahead of them. "I guess the honest thing I keep running from is that you feel like the real thing and I don't know what to do with that."

He stopped walking.

She stopped a half-step after, turned to face him. They were in a narrow side street with a vending machine glowing warmly at the corner and the sound of the city at a distance, and he was looking at her with that full open attention.

"That's the most honest you've been with me," he said.

"I know."

"Since when?"

"Since tonight."

He took a breath. Let it out slow. "Selah."

"Yeah."

"I feel the same way. For the record. That's why I kept showing up."

She looked at him in the glow of the vending machine in a side street in Shinjuku and thought about her rule. The crack in it. The door.

"I know," she said softly.

"So what do we do with that?"

She was quiet for a moment. Then she took a step toward him and he was very still, watching her, and she reached up and put her hand on the side of his face — just her palm against his jaw for a moment, feeling the warmth of him, the realness.

"I think," she said, "we stop running from it."

He covered her hand with his and closed his eyes for a half second and she felt something in him release — something he'd been holding since the first time she'd said can't.

When he opened his eyes they were very close.

"Yeah?" he said.

"Yeah," she said.

He pressed his forehead to hers, slow and deliberate, just that — their foreheads together in the cold in Tokyo, breathing the same small space of air. Not rushed. Not reaching for anything beyond the moment. Just this, chosen, both of them here.

After a while she laughed a little, quietly.

"What," he said.

"Nothing. I'm just—" she pulled back enough to look at him, her hand still on his face. "You literally flew me to Japan."

"I really did."

"That's so dramatic."

"I prefer intentional."

"You called it intentional. In a text. You sent me a scavenger hunt."

"To be fair, it was barely a scavenger hunt—"

"Michael."

"Selah."

She shook her head, smiling, and he was smiling back with the whole dimple and she thought, helplessly: there it is. The thing she'd been trying to keep on the other side of the rule. Warm and obvious and real.

"Okay," she said.

"Okay," he said.

He kissed her then. Not a brush, not a suggestion — a real kiss, both hands at her jaw, careful and present and his whole attention in it the way his whole attention was always in things. She kissed him back with the cold air around them and the city at a distance and the feeling of something new beginning, quiet and specific, without ceremony.

When they broke apart he pressed his lips to her forehead. Then her temple. Like he was learning the map of her.

She breathed.

"We should walk back," she said. "I have jet lag and I will make bad decisions."

He laughed, his chest against hers. "We can walk back."

"I didn't say you could let go."

He held on. They walked back through the city side by side, her hand in the crook of his arm, neither of them saying very much at all — which was, she was realizing, its own kind of language between them. The comfortable quiet. The evidence of something that didn't have to work hard to exist.

***********************************************************

The next day he took her to Harajuku.

She had understood, before this, that he had deep feelings about Japan as a concept. She had not understood until she watched him in it that it was something more personal than affection — something about the place resonated with him in a way she could only describe as recognition. He moved through the streets with a specific energy, pointing things out with the enthusiasm of someone who had wanted to show someone this for a long time. The vintage stores, the street food, the particular aesthetic of everything. He bought her a small enamel pin from a market stall that was a miniature version of some character she didn't recognize and when she raised her eyebrows he said, "That's Rukia. From Bleach. She's the best character in the whole series."

"Is she?"

"Objectively."

"I'll take your word for it."

"You could just watch it."

"I could."

He looked at her with that specific expression that she was coming to understand was him deciding whether to push something. He decided not to. But he filed it away — she could tell he'd filed it away, and that he would return to it later, and that she would probably, eventually, watch Bleach.

She pinned it to her coat.

His face when she did that was a whole thing.

They went to Shibuya in the afternoon, stood at the famous crossing and let the light change and walked through the organized chaos of it — hundreds of people moving through the intersection in every direction and somehow not colliding, the choreography of a city that knew itself.

"This is what I kept thinking about," he said, standing on the other side. "All the times I've been here. This one specific thing."

"The crossing?"

"The trust of it. Everybody moving in different directions and the whole thing works because everybody agrees to the same set of rules at the same moment." He shook his head. "I think about it more than is probably warranted."

She thought about it.

"You're a filmmaker," she said. "You think in systems."

"I guess I do."

"And trust is the system."

He looked at her. "Yeah. It is."

She held his gaze for a moment.

"I'm working on it," she said.

"I know," he said. "Me too."

That evening, they found a small izakaya near the hotel — not a reservation, just walked in because the light coming through the noren curtain looked right and the sounds coming from inside sounded like a room full of people who were genuinely glad to be there. They sat at a low table on the second floor and ordered by pointing and ended up with an extraordinary amount of food and two rounds of highballs that neither of them needed.

She told him about her grandmother.

She didn't usually do this — didn't volunteer the interior stuff, the map of who she was underneath the professional competent surface. But there was something about this table, this city, this man who had shown her a shikishi of Rukia from Bleach with the full weight of his affection for it — something about all of it made the interior feel accessible.

Her grandmother was from Durham originally, had moved to Long Island in 1971, had done hair out of the kitchen for thirty years. Selah's mother was an accountant who thought hair was a trade and not much more. Selah's grandmother had told her, from the time Selah was eight and could sit still long enough, that what you do with your hands for people is ministry. That the work you put into someone matters not just for how they look but for how they feel known.

"She used to say the hair remembers what the mind forgets," Selah said. "Like she'd touch someone's scalp and she could tell you things about them. Their stress. What season they were in."

He was completely still listening to her. "Do you feel that?"

"Sometimes. Yeah." She picked up her glass. "Teyana — I've done her hair for four years. I know things about her life from her hair that she hasn't said out loud. Marsai too, she was so young when we started and I watched her grow up through her hair, literally. What she was carrying." She paused. "It sounds — I know how it sounds."

"It sounds like you love your work the way I love mine," he said. "That doesn't need defending."

She looked at him.

"Tell me more about your grandmother," he said.

So she did. She talked for longer than she'd intended, with the highball and the yakitori and the low sound of the izakaya around them, and he listened with his forearms on the table and asked questions that showed he was tracking every thread. At some point she noticed he'd moved his hand across the table and his fingers were resting near hers — not quite touching, not reaching, just close. Present.

She moved her hand the small distance and covered his.

He turned his palm up. Held on.

"She'd like you," Selah said.

"Yeah?"

"She'd like that you say what you mean." A pause. "And she'd probably say something embarrassing to me about your jawline."

He laughed, startled. "She sounds incredible."

"She is."

"I hope I get to meet her."

The sentence landed quietly between them and she let it stay there.

"Maybe," she said.

"Maybe is enough," he said, and meant it.

On the third day they took the train to Yanaka — the old neighborhood in the northeast of the city, the one that the 1923 earthquake and the Second World War had largely spared, which meant it still looked like what Tokyo had been: wooden machiya houses, narrow lanes, the particular quiet of a place that had decided to stay itself.

Selah walked slowly. He walked at her pace.

She photographed everything — her phone out constantly, not for posting, not for content, just because her eye kept landing on things and wanting to hold them. The pattern of a gate's woodwork. The specific late-March light coming through a bamboo fence. A cat sitting in a window of one of the old houses, the color of smoke, watching them with the absolute indifference of cats.

He didn't rush her. Didn't suggest they move on, didn't drift ahead. He walked beside her or slightly behind when the path narrowed, and when she stopped for five minutes to photograph a detail in a wall he stood nearby and looked at things of his own. There was a quality to how he occupied space around her that she was still learning to name — not passive, not idle, but deliberate. Like he'd decided that being where she was was where he wanted to be, and that didn't require commentary.

At one point she turned around to show him something on her phone and found him looking at her.

"What," she said.

"Nothing." He smiled a little. "You're focused."

"I'm always focused."

"I know. I like it."

She turned back around before he could see her face do the thing it was doing.

They ate lunch in Yanaka at a place that was essentially someone's front room — four tables, a woman in her sixties cooking in what looked like a family kitchen, a handwritten menu she couldn't read. He translated haltingly, she said yes to everything, and what came out was a set of small dishes that tasted like lunch had tasted for a hundred years in that neighborhood, specific and honest and good.

"Where did you learn Japanese," she asked.

"I didn't. I learned enough words to be enthusiastic. The rest is gestures and good faith."

"And the good faith works?"

"It usually does. People can tell when you're actually glad to be somewhere."

She thought about that.

"Is that a general life philosophy," she said, "or specific to international travel?"

He looked at her across the small table with the afternoon light coming through the curtain.

"Both," he said. "I think people can always tell when you're actually glad to be somewhere."

She held that sentence for a moment.

"I'm glad to be here," she said.

He smiled — slow, real, the dimple.

"I know," he said. "I could tell."

The fourth evening, back in Shinjuku, they went to the top of the Park Hyatt for drinks — the bar with the view, the one that had been in enough films and photographs that it felt like arriving somewhere from a memory. The city spread out below them in every direction, the scale of it almost incomprehensible from above, lights going as far as the eye could process.

She stood at the window with her drink and he stood beside her.

"What is the clue you said you'd tell me when we got here?" she said. "The thing about your first trip."

He glanced at her. "I said I'd tell you something specific about why I wanted to come back."

"So tell me."

He looked out at the city. "When I was here for Creed — forty-eight hours, press run, barely sleeping — I went out that second night alone. Just to walk. And I ended up in this neighborhood I couldn't have named, just wandering, and I had this feeling I couldn't explain." He paused. "Like — peace isn't the right word. More like permission. Like nobody here knew who I was in the way that people everywhere else know who I am, and so I could just be a person in a city. No weight on it."

She looked at him.

"I've been carrying a lot of weight for a long time," he said simply. "Not complaining. It's the work I wanted. But that night I just got to be a man walking around a city at 2am eating from a counter that had six seats." He glanced at her. "I wanted to come back after the Oscars. And I wanted to bring someone with me this time."

"Me specifically," she said. "Or—"

"You specifically." He met her eyes. "You're the only person I've wanted to show things to in a long time, Selah. Since before I even knew if you were going to let me."

She looked at him in the glow of that bar at the top of that hotel with the city below them that was giving him something she understood — the permission to be a person, just a person, with no more weight on it than that.

She thought about her grandmother. The work you put into someone matters.

She thought about Zinzi. He's not performing.

She thought about a kiss in a side street in Shinjuku and his thumb on the back of her hand and forty minutes of texting on a Tuesday night that had somehow turned into this.

"Michael," she said.

"Yeah."

"I need you to know something."

"Tell me."

"I wasn't running from you specifically." She turned to face him. "I was running from wanting something. Because wanting something means it can be taken from you and I've spent a long time not giving things that kind of power." She paused. "But I think—" she paused again, looking for the exact right truth of it. "I think I've been giving not wanting too much power. Like protection became the goal instead of just a tool."

He was very still.

"I don't want to keep doing that," she said. "I'd rather risk the thing than miss it."

He set down his glass. Put both hands on either side of her face — careful, like she was something — and looked at her in a way that had no performance in it, no strategy, just a man looking at the woman he'd flown across the world to show things to.

"Say that again," he said quietly.

"I'd rather risk the thing," she said.

He kissed her.

Long and slow and with the whole city below them and the lights going in every direction and neither of them anywhere they were required to be. She put her hands in the front of his jacket and he held her face like she was precious and the bar around them was quiet and the world was very far away.

When they broke apart she put her forehead against his collarbone.

"For the record," he said, quietly, into her hair, "I want you to know I don't take this lightly."

"I know," she said.

"I'm going to need you to keep telling me when I'm getting it wrong."

"I will." A pause. "I need you to need that. Not just say it."

"I need it." His hands on her back, solid and warm. "I'm not always good at knowing. But I need it."

She breathed.

"Okay," she said.

"Okay," he said.

They had one more day.

She spent the morning with him at the Shinjuku Gyoen garden, the late-March cherry blossoms in their first shy opening — sakura he told her, the Japanese word for cherry blossom but also for something more, for the beauty of things that don't last, the reason to pay attention precisely because it ends. She stood under a tree with the petals coming down in the cold and thought about the word. The beauty of things that don't last.

She thought about her grandmother's hands.

She thought about the shea butter on her nightstand.

She thought about months of texts and voice notes and two dinners and a flight across the world and a man who had kissed the back of her hand on a Harlem sidewalk and somehow, without her fully giving permission, made himself a place in her interior.

She put her hand in his.

He held on.

***************************************************************

On the last night she texted Zinzi: You were right.

Zinzi, who was likely asleep in Oakland at whatever hour it was, responded in four minutes flat:

Zinzi: GIRL I HAVE BEEN WAITING!!! What happened? Tell me everything!! Actually no wait are you safe, are you somewhere safe?? SELAH!

Selah laughed at her phone in her hotel room with the city of Tokyo outside her window.

Selah: I'm safe. I'm more than safe. I'll call you when I'm back.

Zinzi: How is he?

Selah: He's — good. Zinzi. He's actually just good.

Zinzi: I told you.

Selah: You told me.

Zinzi: Did he—

Selah: Yes.

Zinzi: And you—

Selah: Yes.

A pause.

Zinzi: I'm happy for you baby. I really am.

Selah: Thank you for pushing.

Zinzi: That's what I'm here for. That and borrowing your flat iron when mine breaks.

Selah shook her head, smiling, and put her phone down.

She thought about going next door to say goodnight in person. She got up. She knocked.

He opened the door.

He was in a hoodie and sweatpants, reading glasses on, laptop open behind him — the decompressed version, the 2am anime version, the version nobody wrote about in the press. He looked at her in the doorway.

"Can't sleep?" he said.

"Didn't try yet." She leaned against the frame. "I just wanted to say goodnight in person."

He smiled slowly and real. He reached out and tucked a piece of her hair back from her face — just one curl, falling across her forehead, and he tucked it back gently with one finger.

"Goodnight, Selah."

"Goodnight."

Neither of them moved for a moment.

"You could watch Bleach," he said.

"Michael."

"I'm just saying. I have it up. First episode. It's only twenty-three minutes—"

"You are so—"

"Charming? Thoughtful? Correct about anime?"

She was laughing despite herself.

"Fine," she said. "One episode."

His face did the thing. "Come on then."

She followed him into the room, the door clicking shut behind them like a secret being sealed. The hotel suite was dimly lit, the glow from his laptop screen casting soft shadows across the king-sized bed. Tokyo's neon haze filtered through the curtains, a distant hum of the city underscoring the quiet intimacy of the space.

Michael settled back against the pillows, patting the spot next to him. "Get comfortable," he said, his voice low and inviting, those dimples flashing as he grinned.

Selah kicked off her slippers and slid onto the bed, the sheets cool against her skin. She tucked her legs under her, leaning into the pillows beside him. The laptop balanced on the bed between them, the opening credits of Bleach already rolling—vibrant animations bursting with energy that felt worlds away from the charged air in the room.

He glanced at her, holding her gaze with that steady intensity, his eyes dark and unwavering. "You ready for this?"

She nodded, smirking. "Don't spoil it for me."

As the episode played, they fell into an easy rhythm. Michael narrated bits here and there—explaining the soul reaper lore with quiet enthusiasm, his hand occasionally brushing hers as he gestured. She laughed at his impressions of the characters, the sound soft in the late-night hush. But beneath it, awareness simmered. His proximity, the warmth of his body radiating through the thin fabric of his hoodie, the way his thigh pressed lightly against hers.

Halfway through, he paused the video, turning to her fully. His lips curved, and he licked them slowly, deliberately, his eyes locking onto hers. "You're not even watching," he murmured, voice dropping an octave.

"I am," she protested, though her cheeks warmed. "Mostly."

He chuckled, low and rumbling, shifting closer until his arm draped casually over her shoulders. "Liar." His fingers traced lazy circles on her arm, sending sparks across her skin. The episode forgotten, the screen's glow illuminating the slow build of tension between them.

Selah turned toward him, their faces inches apart. His breath mingled with hers, and he held her eyes, unblinking, letting the moment stretch.

"Kiss me," she whispered, the words slipping out like an invitation she couldn't hold back.

Michael's dimples deepened as he closed the distance, his lips brushing hers softly at first—testing, teasing. Then deeper, his tongue sliding against hers with a hunger that made her pulse quicken. He pulled her onto his lap without breaking the kiss, hands settling on her hips, guiding her to straddle him. The friction of her body against his hardening dick through their clothes drew a soft gasp from her.

He broke away just enough to murmur against her mouth, "I've been thinking about this all night. Tasting you." His eyes bored into hers, commanding yet tender, as he licked his lips again, savoring the promise.

Selah's hands fisted in his hoodie, her body arching toward him. He eased her back onto the bed, the laptop shoved aside, and trailed kisses down her neck, nipping at her collarbone. His fingers worked her shirt up and off, exposing her skin to the cool air. He paused to admire her, eyes dark with intent, before unhooking her bra and tossing it away.

"Beautiful," he said, voice rough, as he cupped her breasts, thumbs circling her nipples until they peaked. She moaned, arching into his touch, and he smiled—that dimpled, knowing smile—before lowering his head to suck one into his mouth, tongue flicking relentlessly.

His hands slid lower, peeling off her pants and panties in one smooth motion, leaving her bare beneath him. Michael settled between her thighs, his broad shoulders parting them wider. He held her gaze, licking his lips once more, before dipping his head.

His tongue dragged slow and flat along her pussy, tasting her arousal with a groan that vibrated against her. Selah's fingers tangled in his hair, hips bucking as he licked deeper, circling her clit with precise, teasing strokes. He was relentless in his focus—sucking gently, then firmer, building her up without mercy.

"You taste so fucking good," he murmured against her, the words muffled but laced with heat, his eyes flicking up to meet hers, watching every reaction.

She writhed, breaths coming in pants, until the coil inside her tightened unbearably. "Michael—please—"

He hummed in approval, sliding two fingers inside her, curling them just right as his mouth worked her clit. The orgasm crashed over her, waves of pleasure making her cry out, her body clenching around him.

He kissed his way back up her body, dimples flashing as he licked his lips, tasting her still. "That's my girl," he said softly, eyes locked on hers, before removing his hoodie and reaching for his sweatpants. He shed them quickly, his dick hard and ready, but he paused to grab a condom from the nightstand.

Selah watched, chest heaving, as he rolled it on with steady hands. He positioned himself above her, guiding her legs around his waist. "Ready for me?"

"Yes," she breathed, pulling him down.

He entered her slowly in missionary, inch by inch, filling her completely. Their eyes stayed connected, his intense gaze holding her as he began to thrust—deep, measured strokes that built the rhythm between them.

"Feels perfect," he groaned, lips brushing her ear. "So tight around my dick."

She met his movements, nails digging into his back, the intimacy of their stare amplifying every sensation. Sweat beaded on his skin, his dimples appearing with each controlled push, bottom lip in between his teeth in concentration.

But he wanted more—always giving her pleasure in layers.

"Turn over for me," he said, voice husky, pulling out just long enough to help her onto her knees.

Selah complied, ass up, and he gripped her hips, sliding back in from behind in doggy style. The angle hit deeper, his thrusts picking up pace, one hand reaching around to rub her clit.

"Like that, baby girl? Taking me so well," he murmured, the dirty talk sparse but potent, fueling the fire without overwhelming.

She pushed back against him, moans filling the room as he drove into her, the slap of skin echoing softly. His control never wavered—eyes on her when she glanced back, ensuring her pleasure peaked again before his own release hit, spilling into the condom with a guttural sound.

They collapsed together, tangled and spent, his arm pulling her close. The laptop screen had gone dark, Bleach paused mid-episode, but neither cared. Tokyo hummed outside, but in that bed, it was just them—intimate, sated, the night stretching on.

The next morning in Tokyo, she stood by the window, gazing at the city's gray-blue haze as it stirred to life. The night before had been their first time—consensual, tender, a release she'd chosen freely. It left her feeling unburdened, like some invisible weight had lifted, replaced by a quiet warmth.

Before he could even say a word, she heard him enter her bedroom.

"Good morning," she said. "You snore a little, you know."

"That's slander. How'd you sleep after… everything?"

She turned around to face him and smiled. The 'everything' hung between them—their bodies finally connecting, skin on skin, breaths mingling in the dark hotel room.

"Well, actually. Really well."

"Good. Breakfast in an hour?"

"Yeah. And Michael—thank you. For last night. For it being our first time, and making it feel so right."

"Nah, thank you. For saying yes. It meant everything."

******************************************************************

On the flight home over the Pacific, she slipped her bonnet on and nestled against the barrier between them. He queued up a movie on his screen, and they settled into a silence that felt like an embrace—no awkwardness, just easy comfort after their shared vulnerability the night before.

Two hours in, she turned and caught him watching her, his eyes soft with that familiar affection.

"What?" she asked, her voice low.

"Nothing," he said, reaching over to gently adjust a folded edge of her bonnet away from her eye. His touch lingered, warm and reassuring. "Just… you look peaceful. Go back to sleep."

"I wasn't sleeping."

"You were about to. Rest. We've got time."

She was, truthfully, drifting. But as she turned back to her side, words bubbled up.

"When we're back home," she murmured, "I want to show you something."

"Yeah? What's that?"

"My studio. Where I create—not the professional stuff, just… my space. I want you to see it. After last night, it feels right to share that part of me."

"Okay," he replied simply, his hand brushing hers on the armrest. "I'd like that. Sounds perfect."

She squeezed his fingers lightly, the connection grounding her.

"And bring Bleach. We should watch it together. All of it."

A beat of quiet, then his voice, warm and teasing: "Yeah, we're bingeing the whole series. No skipping episodes."

She smiled, the enamel pin of Rukia on her grandmother's coat glinting in the cabin light. As sleep pulled her under over the endless ocean, she felt the gentle stir of something new—real, unhurried, blooming in the quiet space they'd carved out together.

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