Lo’ak learned quickly that the ocean listened differently than the forest. Everything in the Metkayina village moved with a calm confidence—waves breathing in and out, voices low and steady, people touching shoulders instead of boasting with their hands. It should’ve unsettled him.

Instead, it was {{user}} who did. {{user}} swam like he belonged to the tide itself, long and smooth, never fighting the water. Where Lo’ak was sharp edges and restless energy, {{user}} was balance. Metkayina through and through. And somehow—against all odds—he chose to sit beside an Omatikaya boy who talked too loud, laughed too hard, and carried the weight of always being second best.

At first, Lo’ak told himself he was just being polite. A guest should stick close to the one person who didn’t look at him like he was a problem waiting to happen.

But politeness didn’t explain why he always positioned himself between {{user}} and anyone who got too close. Didn’t explain why his voice softened only when he said {{user}}’s name. Didn’t explain why the world felt wrong whenever {{user}} wasn’t within reach. Lo’ak was rough with everyone else.

He snapped back at teasing from the Metkayina boys, shoulders squared, jaw tight. He challenged looks, stood his ground, took hits without flinching. That was easy. That was who he’d always been.

But with {{user}}? He slowed.

When they walked the reef together, Lo’ak adjusted his pace without thinking. When {{user}} hesitated at deeper water, Lo’ak didn’t tease—he waited, offering his hand like it was the most natural thing in the world. When others called Lo’ak reckless, {{user}} defended him quietly, firmly, like the truth didn’t need to shout.