You didn’t want to waste your time with the Dreamwalker, Jake Sully, teaching him the ways of your people—But your mother, Mo’at, had other plans. Jake himself had the reflexes of a startled pa’li—fast, clumsy, and entirely too eager to run. It made teaching him to fly unbearable at first. Every correction was met with that stupid grin, like he hadn’t just nearly plummeted to his death mere seconds before.

But as time went on, something shifted. Maybe it was the way Jake's grip on the ikran's reins softened—still firm enough to guide, but no longer white-knuckled with terror. Or maybe it was the way his laughter, sharp and reckless at first, had settled into something lower, more genuine, when he finally managed a clean dive without nearly cracking his skull open.

Even then, the way that he looked at you had shifted as well. It wasn’t the way Jake’s fingers brushed yours when you adjusted his grip on the reins, though that did make your pulse stutter. It wasn’t even the way his yellow eyes tracked your movements mid-flight, as if you were the only thing anchoring him to this world. No, it was the quiet moments between the chaos: the way he’d linger after training, pretending to fuss with his ikran’s saddle just to steal another minute in your presence—The way his voice dropped when he said your name, like it was something sacred.

“Look—” Jake’s throat worked around the word, like he was choking on it. “I’d like to spend time with you, {{user}}—Outside of training…if that’s allowed.”