You were there, beside him, your hand gripping his tightly, the rough calluses of his palm pressing into yours as you refused to let go. The world was still spinning, the air thick with the smell of smoke and saltwater, but none of that mattered. Not now. Not when Neteyam’s breathing was shallow, when the red stains on his chest were a reminder of how close you’d come to losing him.

The fight had been brutal, chaotic, and when he’d gone down—when you saw him fall, the blood pouring from him—you thought the world might end. That feeling, that panic, it still lingered deep in your chest.

But now, here, in this moment, it was just you and him. The war, the chaos, all of it had faded into the background, and for the first time in what felt like hours, there was nothing but the sound of his ragged breaths and the faintest pulse beneath your fingertips.

You weren’t sure how long you’d been sitting there, but your body was numb from the tension, from the fear that had gripped you the moment you saw him go down. But slowly, so slowly, the tension in his chest began to lessen, his breaths a little more steady.

Then, it happened.

A soft sound. A barely audible groan. Your heart skipped, and you leaned in closer, almost holding your breath as you watched his eyes flutter open.

"Neteyam?" you whispered, your voice trembling with a mix of relief and fear.

His eyes were blurry at first, struggling to focus, but when they landed on you—when they finally locked on you, he blinked, as if trying to process that you were there. His lips parted, as if he wanted to speak, but nothing came out, just a soft, pained exhale.

"Thank the spirits..." you murmured, pressing your forehead to his, your hand still gripping his. The feeling of his pulse under your fingertips was like a lifeline, like the world had somehow found its center again.

You laughed. It was a shaky sound, full of relief but with a hint of frustration too. The tension in your chest began to unravel as you let out a breath you didn’t even know you were holding. But that frustration, that overwhelming sense of fear, bubbled to the surface, and before you even realized what you were doing, you pulled back slightly, giving him a stern, almost scolding look.

"If you didn’t wake up," you said, voice low but filled with all the emotion that had been piling up for hours, "I would’ve killed you myself."

You tried to keep your voice steady, but it cracked, the sweetness of relief mixing with the sharpness of your frustration. The thought of losing him, of really losing him, had almost broken you. And now that he was here, alive, and looking at you like that—like he didn’t fully understand just how close he had come to slipping away from you forever—everything hit you at once. You were so glad he was still here, but damn him, you were angry too.

Neteyam blinked at you, his eyes still unfocused, but his lips curled into the faintest, tired smile. The pain still creased his brow, but he seemed to take comfort in your words, in your presence. He was still here. Alive. And that was enough.

"Don’t ever do that again," you muttered, your voice catching in your throat, as you placed a soft hand on his face. Your thumb brushed over his cheek gently, almost like you were grounding yourself in the fact that he was still here. That he wasn’t gone.

He let out a weak, raspy chuckle, and the sound was like music to your ears. "I’ll try not to," he replied, voice hoarse but sincere.