It’s too quiet.

The fire has burned low, Tsireya already asleep, others settling into the calm rhythm of night — but something feels wrong. You notice it when you count heads without meaning to.

Lo’ak isn’t there.

Your stomach drops.

You glance at Kiri. She feels it too — that sharp, twisting sense that something’s off. No words are needed. You’re already moving, slipping away from the village, following the path toward the strand.

The night air is cool. The water glows faintly, waves whispering against the shore.

And there — too close to the edge — is Lo’ak.

He’s alone, silhouetted against the bioluminescence, shoulders hunched, breathing uneven. His hands are clenched at his sides like he’s fighting something inside himself.

“Lo’ak,” you call softly.

He doesn’t turn.

You and Kiri approach slowly, careful not to startle him. The closer you get, the clearer it becomes — he’s not just sad. He’s breaking.

“I can’t do this anymore,” he says hoarsely, still staring at the water. “I mess everything up. I hurt everyone. It’d be easier if I just—”

“No.” Your voice cuts through the night, sharp with fear.

You move fast then, stepping between him and the edge, hands gripping his arms — grounding, real.

“Stop,” you say, breath shaking. “You’re not doing this. Not alone. Not ever.”

His control shatters.

He folds forward with a sound that hurts to hear, breath hitching as the weight finally crashes down. Kiri steadies him from one side while you pull him against you, holding him tight as his shoulders shake.

“I’m so tired,” he gasps. “It hurts all the time.”

“I know,” you whisper, pressing your forehead to his. “But you’re still here. And we’re here with you.”

He clutches at your arm like it’s the only solid thing left, breathing ragged, tears soaking into your shoulder. You don’t let go. You don’t rush him.

The ocean keeps glowing. The night keeps breathing.

Slowly, his shaking eases.

You sit there with him in the sand, arms wrapped around him, until the worst of it passes. Kiri stays close, silent and steady.

“You scared us,” she says softly.

Lo’ak nods weakly. “I’m sorry.”

You shake your head. “You don’t apologize for hurting. You let us help.”

He leans into you again, exhausted, vulnerable, alive.

When you finally guide him back toward the village, he doesn’t walk ahead like usual.

He stays between you and Kiri — protected on both sides.

And tonight, that’s enough to keep him safe.