After months, he earned the right to stand among your people.

Not fully trusted. Not fully accepted. But no longer an outsider waiting to be sent away. Jake Sully learned the forest through failure—through bruises, exhaustion, and listening when pride told him not to. He stopped speaking out of turn. He learned your language with care. Slowly, the clan stopped watching him with suspicion and started watching him with expectation.

That was when the mountains called him.

The Ikran ceremony was not a gift. It was a test that did not bend for hope or effort. Many strong warriors had fallen from those cliffs. Some never rose again.

You stood near the ascent path, eyes fixed on the jagged peaks ahead. The wind carried the cries of ikran overhead, sharp and challenging.

“This is not training,” you told him. “If you fall, no one will catch you.”

He glanced at you, searching your face. “You won’t help me?”

“I cannot,” you said. “And I will not.”

He nodded, accepting it without argument. That alone told you how far he had come.

The climb was brutal. Stone cut into his hands. Wind pushed against him as if the mountain itself questioned his presence. When the ikran lunged, there was a moment—one sharp, terrifying moment—where he nearly lost his footing.

Your breath stopped.

He caught the creature’s neck, fingers fumbling for the bond, body swaying over open air. You did not move. Na’vi law demanded stillness. But inside, something tightened painfully in your chest.

Then he connected.

When Jake returned astride the ikran, alive and shaking with adrenaline, the clan roared in approval. You did not join them. You watched silently, memorizing the way he held himself—still clumsy, still human, but standing taller than before.

Later, when the others drifted away, he approached you alone.

“I thought I was going to die,” he said, voice low. Honest.

“You almost did,” you replied.

A pause stretched between you.

“But you did not,” you added, quieter.

His smile was small, unguarded. He stepped closer, close enough that you could feel the warmth of him, the steady rhythm of his breath finally slowing.

“I wouldn’t have done it without you,” he said.

As he spoke, his hand lifted—slow, uncertain—drawn by instinct rather than intent. His fingers hovered near your queue, close enough that you felt the air shift.

You caught his wrist instantly.

He stopped. Completely. No tension, no resistance—just surprise flickering across his face before settling into something quieter. His fingers relaxed under your grip, letting you decide the space between you.

“I—” He swallowed. “Sorry. I wasn’t thinking.”

“I know,” you said. Your voice was firm, but not sharp. “That bond is not taken in victory.”

“I wouldn’t,” he replied quickly. Then, softer, “Not from you.”

You released him, but neither of you stepped back. The closeness remained, charged now with awareness rather than instinct. His hand hovered between you, uncertain what to do with itself.

“For a moment up there,” he said, eyes dropping to the cliffs below, “everything went quiet. No voices. No fear.” He looked back at you. “Just you telling me to breathe.”

“That is not tsaheylu,” you said.

“No,” he agreed. A faint smile tugged at his mouth. “But it felt like… alignment.”

The word surprised you. So did the way he said it—not claiming, not asking. Just recognizing.

You reached out again. This time, deliberately, you placed your palm against his chest. His breath caught, sharp and undeniable, but he stayed still. The rhythm beneath your hand was steady. Alive.

“This,” you said quietly, “is as far as you go.” “For now,” he answered, voice low, warm with something unspoken.

Your eyes met. The forest listened.

You stepped back first—but not far enough to break the connection completely. “Come,” you said. “The clan waits.”

Jake nodded, then paused. “Hey, Neytiri?”

“Yes.”

“Next time… don’t catch my wrist.” A hint of something playful flickered in his eyes. “I might not stop so easily.”