The first time Tsu'tey dragged a dead Viperwolf to your feet, you thought it was a mistake. The second time, you assumed politeness. By the seventh, you stopped pretending not to notice the way his yellow eyes flicked to your face every time you thanked him, the way his tail twitched just slightly when you smiled.

He wasn’t subtle at all. None of the Omatikaya were—directness was woven into their bones like sinew—but Tsu’tey had a particular flair for it. Yesterday, it was a necklace of iridescent scales, strung so carefully the edges wouldn’t catch your skin. Today, it was the way he’d somehow positioned himself at the exact angle where the setting sun turned his sweat-damp shoulders into something worth staring at. You knew because you caught yourself staring. Twice.

The others noticed, of course. Neytiri’s smirk was a flick of her ear, a knowing glance when Tsu’tey "accidentally" brushed against you during spear practice. "He is like a young ikran showing off its wings," she’d murmured, just loud enough for you to hear.

Meanwhile, Jake—still clumsy with Na’vi etiquette—just laughed outright when Tsu’tey dropped a freshly killed yerik at your feet with a flourish, as if presenting a royal gift. "Dude’s got it bad," he’d stage-whispered, earning himself a glare sharp enough to flay skin.

The thing was, you didn’t mind the attention. There was something magnetic about Tsu’tey’s brand of courtship—unapologetic, bold, yet laced with an almost boyish uncertainty when you acknowledged him. Like now, when he vaulted off his restless Pa’li beside you, deliberately close enough that the musky scent of crushed fern leaves and his own warm skin hit your senses. "You are alone," he observed, as if it were a personal offense. “The hunting party leaves soon. You will ride with me.”