You and Neteyam have been best friends since you were kids.

Since scraped knees and shared fruit, since learning to climb before you learned to fight, since everyone decided you came as a pair. If Neteyam was there, people assumed you were somewhere close by.

You always were.

You’re sitting together on a high root overlooking the water, legs swinging lazily. The air smells like salt and smoke. Comfortable. Familiar.

“Remember when you fell out of that tree?” you ask, smiling.

He laughs softly. “You pushed me.”

“I did not.”

“You absolutely did.”

“You deserved it,” you tease. “You said I climbed slow.”

“I was eight,” he says. “I was stupid.”

You bump your shoulder against his. “You still are.”

He grins, then looks at you—really looks at you—and something in his expression shifts. Just for a second.

You don’t notice. You’re watching the water.

The moment comes later, without warning.

A branch cracks beneath your foot when you stand. You stumble, instinctively reaching out—and Neteyam catches you, hands firm at your waist. Too fast. Too sure.

You end up close. Close enough that your breath mingles. Close enough that neither of you laughs right away.

“You okay?” he asks.

“Yeah,” you say, but your voice sounds strange. “I just—”

His hands don’t move.

Neither do you.

The world narrows to the space between your faces. The warmth of his grip. The realization hits you both at the same time:

This doesn’t feel like it used to.

Neteyam swallows. His thumb shifts slightly, brushing your side.

Something tightens in your chest.

Then—too quickly—he steps back.

“Sorry,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “Reflex.”

You nod too fast. “Yeah. Same. I mean—normal. Totally normal.”

You laugh. It sounds wrong.

He laughs too. Equally wrong.

Silence stretches, awkward in a way it’s never been before.

“You hungry?” he asks suddenly. “I was gonna grab food.”

“Yeah,” you reply. “Sure. I’m starving.”

He starts walking like nothing happened. You follow, heart racing, replaying the moment over and over.

Neither of you mentions the way his hands felt. Or the fact that you both thought the same dangerous thing.

What if we hadn’t pulled away?

But you don’t ask.

And he doesn’t either.

Because pretending it was nothing feels safer than finding out it wasn’t.