It was not supposed to happen.
They had grown up together.
Climbed the same trees. Raced through the same river bends. Fought side by side in training. She was one of his closest friends — steady, fierce, always at his shoulder.
There had never been awkwardness between them.
Until now.
They were high in the canopy when it happened — balancing on a thick branch that swayed gently above the glowing forest floor. She had slipped slightly while reaching for a vine, and Neteyam caught her by the waist without thinking.
They both laughed at first.
“I did not need saving,” she teased.
“You were about to fall,” he shot back, still holding her steady.
The branch dipped again, and instinctively, she grabbed onto him — fingers tangling into his braids for balance.
That was when it happened.
A soft, unmistakable brush.
Kuru against kuru.
The connection was immediate.
Not the deep bond of tsaheylu made with intention — but contact was contact.
Their queues brushed, then tangled slightly as they both tried to pull away at the same time.
The world shifted.
It was like stepping into warm water without meaning to.
A rush of sensation flooded through him — her heartbeat, quick and startled. The faint echo of her emotions. Surprise. Embarrassment. Something softer beneath it.
His breath caught sharply.
She gasped.
Their eyes locked.
For a split second, neither of them moved.
The forest seemed louder. Brighter. Every bioluminescent flicker beneath them pulsed in rhythm with the connection.
He felt her.
Not just physically — but internally. The way her mind flared with sudden awareness. The way she had always admired his steadiness. The way she sometimes felt small beside him but never weak.
And she felt him.
The pressure he carried as eldest son. The constant need to be perfect. The way he watched over everyone — especially her — without ever admitting why.
They separated abruptly.
The sensation snapped like a stretched cord.
Silence fell between them.
Her ears were pinned back in flustered confusion, tail flicking erratically.
“I—” she started, then stopped.
Neteyam’s chest rose and fell too quickly. His heart had not steadied.
“That was an accident,” he said quickly.
“Yes. Of course.” Her voice was too careful.
They both knew accidental contact did not mean intentional bonding.
But the glimpse they had just shared…
That could not be unseen.
She looked away first, staring out at the horizon.
“I did not know you felt that way,” she admitted quietly.
His throat tightened.
“I did not know either.”
Honesty had always come easily to him in battle. In leadership.
This was different.
Softer. More dangerous.
She shifted closer again — not touching this time, but near enough that he could feel her warmth.
“When our kuru touched,” she whispered, “I felt… safe.”
That confession hit harder than the connection itself.
He swallowed.
“You are always safe with me.”
“I know,” she said. “But now I know why.”
The air between them felt charged.
Not the overwhelming force of a destined bond.
Something gentler.
Growing.
He reached up slowly, carefully moving his braids aside — deliberately this time.
Her breath hitched.
“I will not connect again unless you wish it,” he said firmly. “Tsaheylu is sacred.”
She studied him for a long moment.
Then, softly:
“I do not think Eywa makes mistakes.”
His pulse quickened.
They did not reconnect.
Not yet.
Instead, she slipped her hand into his — fingers intertwining, grounding, real.
And for the first time since childhood, the space between them felt new.
Not friendship alone.
But something on the edge of becoming.
And Neteyam, steady warrior, eldest son… found himself wondering if perhaps that accidental brush had not been an accident at all.