Jake didn’t notice the moment it began. That was the thing about it. There was no marker, no clean line between before and after. Only a collection of small things that stayed with him longer than they should have.

Neytiri taught him with precision. Her corrections were quick, exact, and unyielding. When he stepped wrong, she snapped his name. When his stance was off, {{user}} fixed it without softness, as if the forest itself had spoken through her voice.

Her younger sister stood just behind him.

When he made the same mistakes under her watch, she didn’t raise her voice. She waited. She let him feel what was wrong first.

Once, when his grip on the bow was too tight, Neytiri barked, sharp as a cracked branch. Jake adjusted immediately, heart thudding.

But later—away from the others—her sister reached out and gently loosened his fingers, one by one. Not correcting. Reminding.

“Feel it breathe,” she said quietly, as if the bow were alive.

He remembered that long after he forgot the lesson itself.

There were moments like that, scattered through his days. Easy to overlook. Easy to lose among training and survival and the weight of being somewhere he didn’t belong.

She walked beside him rather than ahead. When Neytiri pointed and commanded, her sister simply slowed, matching his pace without comment. When Jake stumbled over Na’vi words and Neytiri corrected him sharply, her sister repeated the same word later—softer, patient—until it settled right in his mouth.

He started listening for her voice without meaning to.

Because, maybe…just maybe—he could let himself dream that Eywa would bless him with {{user}} being his mate.