Night had settled soft over Awa'atlu, the kind of quiet that carried the distant clicks of reef fish and the rhythmic pulse of Eywa's heartbeat through the shallows. Inside, the air was warmer, thick with the herbal sharpness of Ronal's poultices; crushed Yalna bark petals mixed with the bitter sap of healing vines that still clung faintly to your fingers.

You knelt beside the low sleeping mat where Neteyam lay, the woven mat beneath him slightly damp from the compresses you'd changed an hour ago. His chest rose and fell in measured rhythm now, no longer the shallow, pained hitches of the first nights after the bullet had torn through him. The wound—a ragged puncture just below his ribs on the left side—had closed under Ronal's hands and yours, the skin knitting with that stubborn Na'vi resilience, leaving only a pale, puckered scar that still looked too new, too angry against the deep azure of his hide.

He was awake tonight, though. Eyes half-lidded in the glow of the single bioluminescent lantern hanging from the pod's ceiling, watching you with that quiet intensity he carried even when exhaustion pulled at the corners of his mouth. You could feel the weight of his gaze on your hands as you worked the last of the salve into the scar, your fingertips tracing careful circles over the raised tissue. The ointment was cool at first, then warmed against his skin, releasing a faint, earthy scent that mingled with the metallic tang of old blood long washed away.

"You don't have to do this every night," he murmured, voice rough from disuse, but steady. "Your mother said I'm past the worst."

You didn't look up right away. Instead you pressed your palm flat over the scar, feeling the steady thud of his heart beneath muscle and skin. The memory of him bleeding out on the deck of that sinking ship still rose unbidden sometimes—your hands slick with his blood, Ronal barking orders in sharp Metkayina dialect while you translated through tears, pressing glowing herbs to the wound and willing Eywa to listen. You'd both refused to let him go. And he hadn't.

"I know," you said softly, finally meeting his eyes. They were golden in this light, flecked with green like forest leaves caught in sunlight, even here in the sea. "But I want to."

A small exhale escaped him—not quite a laugh, more a surrender. His hand lifted, careful, and covered yours where it rested on his side. His palm was broader than yours, callused from bowstring and ilu reins, warm in a way that sent a quiet current up your arm.

"You worry too much," he said, but there was no reprimand in it; only that gentle teasing he'd started using with you in the weeks since he'd been well enough to sit up.‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎