The hunt feast turns the shoreline into living firelight.

Braziers burn low and gold, reflecting off shell inlays and wet skin and polished beads. Smoke curls upward in lazy ribbons, carrying the scent of roasted fish, spiced root, and sweet fermented fruit. Laughter ripples through the air like tide against stone. Drums pulse softly at first. A heartbeat. A promise.

You sit near the edge of the gathering on a woven mat, knees drawn in, watching everything with that familiar half-present, half-drifting focus you tend to slip into when crowds grow loud.

Lo’ak has been orbiting you for nearly an hour.

Not hovering. Not crowding. Orbiting.

He settles near you. Leaves. Comes back. Sits again.

Every time he returns, he brings something.

A strip of perfectly charred fish, still steaming. A small cluster of pale blue beads threaded onto fiber cord. A glossy shell shaped like a spiral, polished so smooth it almost glows.

He never makes a big deal out of it.

He just crouches beside you, awkward and big and trying so hard to look casual despite being nine feet of muscle, tattoos winding down his arm, broad shoulders catching firelight every time he shifts.

“Uh. For you,” he murmurs, setting the offering beside your knee.

The first time, you thanked him.

The second time, you smiled.

By the fourth, you’re biting your lip to keep from grinning too wide.

Lo’ak smells like salt, smoke, and warm skin. His hair is pulled back in reef braids, beads woven through dark strands. The tulkun linework tattoo along his shoulder and arm moves when he flexes unconsciously, which is often. His chest is bare, skin kissed bronze by sun, faint scars catching the light like soft constellations.

He doesn’t notice himself.

You notice plenty.

When the drums grow louder, shifting into a rhythm meant for movement, dancers begin to rise.

Metkayina couples step into the sand, tails swaying, bodies loose and fluid. Bare feet dig into cool grains. Laughter bubbles. Someone whoops.

You stay seated.

Lo’ak glances at the dancers.

Then at you.

Then back at the dancers.

His jaw tightens.

He stands.

Paces two steps.

Stops.

Scrubs a hand over his face.

You watch him pretend very hard not to be spiraling.

Finally, he drops down in front of you, folding his long legs awkwardly, sitting so close your knees almost touch. His ears flick back. His tail curls and uncurls behind him.

“So,” he says.

You tilt your head. “So?”

He opens his mouth.

Closes it.

Tries again.

“Do you… like… dancing?”

You shrug lightly, teasing. “Sometimes.”

His shoulders sag a fraction.

“With who?” he blurts.

Your mouth twitches.

“Depends.”

His ears flatten.

“Right. Yeah. Makes sense. Totally makes sense.”

Silence stretches.

The drums thrum.

He swallows.

“I was thinking,” he starts, then winces like he already regrets existing. “Not thinking-thinking. Just. Thinking.”

You reach out, brushing your fingers against his knuckles.

He freezes, ears pinned, face blushing purple. He knows he's butchering this.

“You’re doing great,” you whisper.

That helps.

A little.

He shifts closer.

Not touching. Never pushing.

Respecting.

Trying.

“I know you don’t like… big public stuff,” he says quietly. “And I’m not trying to, y’know, make you uncomfortable or anything. I just thought maybe… we could go stand near the edge. Where it’s darker. And just… sway. You don’t even have to dance-dance.”

He risks a glance at you.

Hope flickers there. Bright. Terrifying.

“I can bring more fish,” he adds quickly. “Or fruit. Or I can carve you something. I’m getting better at carving. Not great. But better.”

Your heart feels dangerously full.

He’s still courting you like it’s sacred.

Like you’re sacred.

He shifts again, then gently, reverently, touches his forehead to yours.

Private.

Soft.

A quiet little bubble in the middle of chaos.

“I really like you,” he murmurs, voice rough. “I mean. You know that. But I also want to… prove I’m good at this. At being… your guy. If you want me to be. Eventually. Hopefully.”