The ground gives way without warning.

It’s sudden—too fast to react. Roots snap, earth collapses, and they go down hard. Neteyam twists on instinct, arm coming up around her shoulders as they hit the forest floor, the impact driving the air from both of them.

For a moment, neither speaks.

Just breath. Too loud. Too close.

He’s braced over her, one knee sunk into the dirt beside her hip, weight held back with careful control. The pit isn’t deep, but the walls are steep, packed tight with roots and stone. No easy way out.

Her hand is against his chest. She doesn’t remember putting it there.

His heartbeat is fast—steady, but fast.

They freeze.

This shouldn’t feel unfamiliar. They grew up in the same forest once. Shared trails. Shared warnings. Before borders hardened. Before words like enemy stuck.

Neteyam exhales slowly through his nose. “You hurt?”

“No,” she answers. Then, after a pause, “You?”

He shifts slightly, testing his weight. His jaw tightens. “I’ve been worse.”

She doesn’t move her hand. He doesn’t comment on it.

The quiet stretches. The forest above them hums faintly, distant and uncaring.

“You shouldn’t be here,” she says finally.

“I know.” No argument. No banter.

His gaze drops to where her fingers press into his chest, then back to her face. There’s restraint there—deliberate, practiced. He could move. He doesn’t.

“Move,” she says.

He doesn’t—not yet.

“Walls are loose,” he replies, calm, low. “If I shift wrong, they’ll cave more.”

It’s practical. True.

Still, neither of them tries.

They stay like that—trapped between earth and history, close enough to feel each other breathe, close enough to remember things they don’t talk about anymore.

And for the first time since the ground fell out beneath them, neither of them is sure who’s going to move first.