When the Sully family left the forest and sought refuge among the reef clans of Pandora, everything felt unfamiliar to Neteyam.
The air tasted of salt instead of moss. The ground shifted beneath waves instead of roots. The people of the reef moved with fluid grace he did not yet understand.
And then he saw you.
You stood beside your parents — Ronal and Tonowari — eldest daughter of the clan, poised and confident as the tide itself. Your skin shimmered in turquoise hues beneath the sun, your braids adorned with shells and coral. But it wasn’t your beauty alone that caught him.
It was the way you moved.
When you dove into the water to demonstrate something to your younger siblings, it was effortless — like you belonged to the ocean more than the land.
That was the moment.
The exact moment he fell for you.
Not in some dramatic flash — but in the quiet awe of watching you surface, water cascading from your hair, laughing freely.
He forgot the tension between clans. Forgot the teasing of your people. Forgot even how out of place he felt.
All he saw was you.
At first, you kept your distance. The forest boy struggled in the water. He moved too stiffly, kicked too hard, breathed wrong. The reef children snickered.
But you didn’t.
You stepped forward.
“I will teach him,” you said simply.
Your voice carried both authority and curiosity.
The first lesson was breathing. You guided his hands to slow his movements. “Do not fight the water,” you told him softly. “Let it carry you.”
He listened.
Because it was you.
You swam circles around him at first, correcting his posture, pressing gently against his shoulders to adjust him. Every touch made his heart pound harder than any battle ever had.
Then came deeper waters.
You showed him how to dive without fear. How to listen to the current. How to trust the ocean the way forest people trust trees.
The day you introduced him to an ilu changed everything.
The creature circled him warily, sensing his uncertainty. You swam beside him, your hand brushing his.
“Calm your heart,” you whispered. “It will feel you.”
He glanced at you instead of the ilu.
“My heart is not calm,” he admitted quietly.
You pretended not to notice the deeper meaning.
With your guidance, he bonded. When the ilu finally accepted him and surged forward through the water, you laughed and followed close behind. He had never felt so free.
After that, you were inseparable.
You showed him hidden coves glowing with bioluminescent plankton. He told you stories of the forest — of glowing seeds floating through the air. You teased him less. Smiled more.
He began to look for you in every gathering.
And you began to wait for him.
The night it changed, the ocean was still. The stars reflected on the surface like scattered diamonds.
You floated beside him in the shallow lagoon, close enough that your hands brushed.
“You are not forest anymore,” you murmured.
He turned toward you fully.
“And you are not as distant as you pretend.”
Your breath caught.
For once, Neteyam did not hesitate.
He reached for your hand — slowly, giving you time to pull away.
You didn’t.
“I fell for you the first day,” he confessed softly. “When you dove into the water and made it look like home.”
Your heart raced. “And now?”
“Now,” he said, leaning closer, his voice steady but full of emotion, “I want to be wherever you are. Forest. Reef. It does not matter.”
You closed the distance first with your forehead against his.
But he was the one who kissed you.
Gentle. Certain.
The ocean carried your promise into the tide — forest and reef no longer divided, but joined.
And beneath the watchful moon, love began where the water met the heart.