Training with Neteyam is supposed to be normal.

Your families have known each other for years. You grew up running through the forest together, eating at the same fires, learning the same lessons. Sparring is routine—expected, even. No one questions it when you end up paired together again and again.

Still.

It’s different when it’s him.

You circle each other in the clearing, feet sinking slightly into the soft earth. Neteyam watches you with that focused intensity he gets during training—jaw set, eyes sharp, all distraction stripped away. He moves first. You counter. The rhythm is familiar, almost comfortable.

Too comfortable.

You lunge. He blocks easily, stepping in close. “Your balance,” he says, low and calm. “You’re leaning.”

Before you can correct yourself, his hand settles at your waist.

It’s brief. Instructional. Exactly where it should be.

And yet your breath catches anyway.

His touch is steady, warm through the thin fabric. Not possessive. Not lingering. Just enough to guide your stance, to anchor you. Anyone watching would see nothing wrong—just Neteyam being careful, responsible, the way he always is.

But you feel the way his fingers tense for half a second longer than necessary. He feels the way you still.

“Like this,” he murmurs, shifting you slightly. Then he steps back at once, as if realizing how close he was.

The space between you feels louder than the contact ever did.

You resume sparring, faster now, sharper, both of you pretending nothing changed. But every time you pass too close, every time his arm brushes yours, there’s a quiet awareness—an understanding that this closeness is allowed only because it’s disguised as something else.

Family friends. Training partners. Nothing more.

Neteyam doesn’t touch your waist again.

And somehow, that restraint feels far more dangerous than if he had.