It was never meant to be like this.

An Omatikaya warrior and someone from a clan that preferred the shadows—one that stayed hidden, listened more than it spoke. The elders called it cooperation. A temporary understanding.

Somewhere along the way, it became habit.

You and Neteyam had formed an odd rhythm since the joint patrols began. You moved differently—him loud with purpose, you quiet with intention—but somehow your steps always aligned. You spoke little. You noticed everything.

That’s how you notice now.

The way he’s gone silent. The way his shoulders are too stiff, his breathing measured like he’s counting through something.

“Neteyam,” you say, slowing. “Stop.”

“I’m fine,” he answers, sharp and immediate.

Too immediate.

You step closer anyway, eyes dropping to his side. Blood darkens the fabric there, spreading slowly, deliberately.

“You’re hurt.”

His jaw tightens. “It’s nothing.”

“That’s the third time you’ve said that today,” you reply calmly. “Sit.”

He bristles—not at you, but at the implication. At the weakness. Still, after a moment, he lowers himself onto a fallen tree, hands braced on his knees, staring straight ahead like if he doesn’t look at you, he can keep pretending.

“I don’t like this,” he mutters.

“Being injured?”

“Being slowed down.”

You kneel in front of him anyway.

“You don’t get to decide that alone,” you say softly.

When you pull back the torn fabric, the wound is worse than he let on. His bioluminescent freckles flare bright along his ribs, pulsing unevenly, betraying the pain he’s trying so hard to swallow.

“This is going to burn,” you warn, reaching for the medicine from your clan—crushed petals and sap that glow faintly gold.

“I know.”

You press it to the wound.

Neteyam’s breath catches sharply. His hands curl into fists at his sides, knuckles whitening as he stares past you, jaw locked so tight it aches just to look at.

You adjust, slower now. Careful. One hand steadying his side, the other precise despite the way your pulse has picked up.

“Breathe,” you murmur. “You’re not alone.”

“I am,” he says quietly. “I always am.”

You glance up at him. “Not right now.”

The pain spikes without warning.

Neteyam’s control snaps—not completely, not loudly—but enough.

He leans forward suddenly, head dropping against your shoulder, the sound he makes low and involuntary. His weight follows instinctively, just enough to anchor himself.

At the same time, his hands clamp onto your thighs—strong, grounding, fingers digging in like the world might tilt if he lets go.

The moment is electric. Heated. Unplanned.

You don’t pull away.

Instead, you shift closer, bracing him without thinking, your arm firm at his back, shoulder steady beneath his temple. Your body becomes the thing he holds onto when the pain strips everything else away.

“It’s okay,” you whisper, close to his ear. “I’ve got you.”

His breathing is rough, uneven, breath warm against your neck. He doesn’t speak. Can’t. Every muscle is locked in survival, every instinct narrowed to hold on.

You slow your movements, syncing his breath with yours. In. Out. Again.

Gradually, his grip eases—not letting go, just loosening enough to show he’s still aware. Still trying to be careful, even now.

You finish the binding in silence, closer than either of you ever meant to be. When the worst of the pain passes, Neteyam straightens slowly, shoulders tense, eyes dark with something unreadable.

Neither of you says anything.

You meet his gaze. He holds it longer than usual—too long for something that means nothing.

Friends. Just friends.

But the forest hums differently around you now, and the space between you feels charged with everything you didn’t say—and everything that almost happened without asking.

And somehow, impossibly, you both know this won’t be the last time.