The fire has burned low, embers glowing softly against the dark.

You’re sitting with someone else—close enough to share warmth, close enough that your knees brush when you laugh. It’s easy. Comfortable. You don’t think twice about it.

“You should come with us tomorrow,” they say, leaning in just a little. “We’re heading out early.”

You smile. “Maybe. I’ll see.”

You don’t notice Neteyam at first.

Not until a shadow falls across the firelight.

“There you are,” he says, cheerful as ever, voice bright and familiar. “I was looking for you.”

You glance up. “You were?”

“Yeah.” He steps closer, close enough that his leg presses lightly against yours. Natural. Casual. “You disappeared.”

“I didn’t,” you say. “I was right here.”

Neteyam laughs, like you’ve made a joke. “Guess I missed you.”

The other person shifts, clearly still part of the conversation. “We were just talking about heading out tomorrow—”

Neteyam nods, polite. “That so?”

His hand settles on your shoulder.

Not heavy. Not tight. Just there.

“You didn’t tell me,” he says, looking at you now.

“I didn’t know I had to,” you reply lightly.

He hums, thumb brushing once—absent, almost careless. “You usually do.”

There’s a pause. Small. Noticeable.

“I can walk her back later,” the other person offers.

Neteyam’s smile doesn’t falter. “I’ve got it.”

“I wasn’t asking you,” they say, half-joking.

Neteyam finally looks at them.

“Oh,” he replies pleasantly. “I know.”

Silence settles. The fire crackles.

You shift slightly, feeling the change before you understand it. “Neteyam—”

“It’s late,” he says, still calm. “You’ll be cold.”

“I’m fine,” you answer.

“I know.” His hand slides from your shoulder to your wrist, fingers warm, steady. “Come on.”

It’s not a command.

It’s not a question either.

You stand before you fully decide to. The other person hesitates, then steps back, offering you a look you don’t quite return.

Neteyam waits until you’re a few steps away before speaking again.

“You were laughing,” he says.

You glance at him. “So?”

“So,” he repeats, slower this time.

You stop walking. He stops too—immediate, instinctive.

“You don’t like them,” you say.

He tilts his head, studying you like the answer matters more than the question. “I don’t dislike them.”

“That’s not the same thing.”

His thumb presses once at your pulse, then releases. “They don’t know you.”

“You don’t get to decide that.”

His gaze flicks to your mouth. Back to your eyes.

“I’ve known you longer,” he says quietly.

“That doesn’t mean—”

“Doesn’t it?” he interrupts, still soft, still smiling faintly. “Tell me.”

The night feels closer now. Quieter.

Neteyam waits.

“What do you say?”