They were never meant to work together.

Your clan had refused Omatikaya presence for generations—too loud, too visible, too willing to bleed for causes that weren’t yours. And Neteyam? He was everything your elders warned you about: a warrior raised in daylight, son of Toruk Makto, carrying authority like a weapon.

You didn’t trust him.

He didn’t pretend to trust you either.

The joint patrol was a mistake from the start—forced cooperation after border tensions flared too close to open conflict. The agreement was simple: one from each clan, no interference, no authority.

Silence was safer.

“You’re walking too far ahead,” Neteyam says finally, irritation clipped and restrained.

“And you’re making too much noise,” you shoot back without turning. “Predators can hear you breathing.”

His jaw tightens. “I’ve survived worse than—”

“Then you should’ve learned when to listen.”

That shuts him up.

For a while.

It’s only when you stop abruptly that he realizes something’s wrong.

“What now?” he mutters—then sees it. The blood. Dark against his side, seeping through fabric he didn’t even remember tearing.

You sigh, sharp and frustrated. “You’re injured.”

“It’s nothing.”

“You Omatikaya all say that right before collapsing,” you snap. “Sit.”

“I don’t take orders from—”

You turn on him then, eyes blazing. “Sit. Or bleed out standing to prove a point.”

The challenge hangs between you.

Neteyam glares—then exhales hard and drops onto a fallen trunk, muscles rigid with restrained anger.

“I don’t need help,” he says.

“You’re getting it anyway.”

You kneel in front of him, movements brisk, efficient, no gentleness yet. When you pull back the fabric, his bioluminescent freckles flare bright along his ribs, pulsing unevenly.

“…That’s bad,” you mutter.

He scoffs. “I’ve had worse.”

“I’m sure,” you reply flatly, crushing the glowing petals and sap from your clan’s medicine. “This will burn.”

“Just do it.”

You press the medicine to the wound.

Neteyam’s breath shatters.

His entire body locks, hands digging into the bark beneath him as he fights the pain in silence. You don’t slow—not yet.

“You should’ve told me sooner,” you say.

“You would’ve enjoyed it.”

That earns a sharp look from you. “I don’t enjoy pain.”

“You don’t seem bothered by mine.”

“Because you’re pretending it doesn’t exist.”

The pain spikes suddenly—hotter, deeper.

Neteyam’s control snaps.

He lunges forward without warning, head dropping hard against your shoulder, a low sound torn from his chest before he can stop it. At the same time, his hands clamp onto your thighs—strong, desperate, grounding—fingers digging in like instinct overrides pride.

The moment crackles.

You freeze—then swear under your breath and brace him, arm locking around his back to keep him upright. Your shoulder stays firm beneath his weight, close enough that you feel every uneven breath.

“Eywa,” you murmur. “You’re impossible.”

He doesn’t answer. Can’t. His grip is tight, breath hot against your neck, body shaking as he rides out the pain.

You slow your movements instinctively now, voice dropping despite yourself. “Breathe. Don’t fight it.”

He does—ragged at first, then gradually following your rhythm. His grip eases slightly, awareness returning, though he doesn’t pull away.

The hostility between you shifts—fractures—turns into something raw and dangerous.

When you finish binding the wound, you don’t move right away.

Neither does he.

Finally, Neteyam straightens, pulling back just enough to look at you. His eyes are dark, stormy—less angry now. More unsettled.

“…Don’t tell anyone,” he says, low.

You snort quietly. “Relax. I don’t collect stories.”

A beat.

“Thank you,” he adds, stiff and reluctant.

You meet his gaze. “Don’t make me save you again.”

He huffs a humorless laugh. “You’d hate that.”

You stand, turning away first—but the air between you is no longer hostile.

Just charged.

Enemies. For now.