The reef is loud with whispers.

Not spoken aloud — but carried in looks, in the way bodies turn away, in the snickers that follow the newcomers wherever they go.

“Demon blood.” “Forest filth.” “Half-breeds.”

The words ripple through the Metkayina village like poison in the water.

You sit at the edge of the reef, feet dangling into the cool sea, toes brushing against coral and drifting algae. The water laps softly against the stone, calm despite everything.

Beside you sits Lo’ak.

He’s quiet today. More than usual.

His shoulders are tense, his tail flicking irritably as his eyes stay fixed on the horizon instead of the village behind him.

For a while, neither of you speak.

Just the sound of water. The distant calls of ilu. The wind threading through woven nets.

Lo’ak finally exhales, kicking his feet gently against the surface. “…They stare less when you’re here,” he mutters.

You glance at him — at the faint marks on his skin that make him different, the ones they whisper about.

From higher up on the reef, two figures watch.

Jake Sully stands with his arms crossed, his expression unreadable. He doesn’t interfere — not yet — but his eyes never leave his son.

Beside him, Neytiri is rigid, ears angled sharply toward you both. Her gaze flicks between Lo’ak and you, wary, protective… uncertain.

They see the way Lo’ak leans just slightly closer to you.

They see the ease between you — the quiet laughter, the shared silence, the way he doesn’t have to explain himself.

Lo’ak nudges your shoulder lightly with his own. “Thanks… for not treating me like I’m broken,” he says, voice low, almost embarrassed.

The water ripples around your legs, sunlight dancing across the surface.

Behind you, the reef continues its judgment.

But here — at the edge of sea and stone — Lo’ak isn’t demon-blooded.

He’s just a boy trying to belong.

And you chose to sit beside him.