The walk back to the village is slow. Lo’ak’s steps are uneven, dragging slightly, but he doesn’t pull away from your side. Kiri stays a few paces behind, silent but watchful, letting you two have the space you need.

When you finally reach the edge of the sleeping village, you guide him to the soft sand near the firelight, far enough from the others so he can feel safe. The glow of the water reflects in his eyes — still haunted, still raw — and you realize just how heavy the weight he’s been carrying must have been.

“You don’t have to say anything,” you tell him softly. “Just… sit. Breathe. Let it be for a moment.”

He slumps onto the sand, shoulders sagging, hands resting limply in his lap. You kneel beside him, careful not to crowd him, and let him lean against you. When he presses his forehead against your shoulder, it’s quiet and broken, but not defeated. Not yet.

“I hate feeling like this,” he murmurs, voice trembling. “Like I can’t… keep it together.”

“You’re allowed to feel it,” you whisper. “You’ve been holding it in alone for too long. You don’t have to anymore.”

His shoulders shake, and this time he lets the tears come. You stay still, holding him, whispering soft words that don’t fix anything but remind him he’s not alone. Your fingers brush through his hair, grounding him in the present, in this moment where he is safe and seen.

After a while, the shaking slows. The tension in his body eases just a little. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t need to. You just stay there, wrapped around him, letting the night cradle both of you.

“You scared me,” you admit quietly, pressing a hand to his back. “I was worried I’d come too late.”

He lifts his head slightly, eyes glistening, voice small. “Thanks… for finding me.”

You squeeze him gently. “Always. I won’t let you face it alone again.”

The ocean hums softly around you, the bioluminescence glowing like quiet stars in the water. Lo’ak leans back against you, exhausted but alive. He’s still fragile, still hurting, but he’s not alone — not anymore.