#(even if i took months to get to this i'm so sorry :(((((()

[no-144444]

Can you write military!reader x f1!driver like they back from tour and surprises the driver persanely I would like to read Lando but you write with your fav driver ofc

home soil- m.verstappen

꩜summary: you surprise max with an early homecoming

꩜pairing: max verstappen x fem! sargeant! reader

꩜a/n: if there's anyone in the US military, sorry! i probs got something wrong about how it works- i'm irish so my b if i did!

Max hadn’t been looking forward to Miami. He knew the car would be shit. He knew he’d be fighting Lando on track. He knew Oscar would pass him. He knew everything in store for him, and he still had no word from you. You went off-grid 2 weeks ago. He had no idea where in the world you were. What you were doing. If you were safe. In all honesty, he hated your job. He hated being away from you for so long. He hated the amount of unknowns it came with. He hated it meant you had to stay in the US. He hated that it took him 4 months to convince you that he wanted you, and to have you believe him. 

“Fuck’s sake,” he mutter under his breath as he walked into his driver’s room. He could’ve ripped the thing apart. P4 in the race. He was pushing like crazy. 

“Alright?” your voice broke through every thought in his head and silenced them. You. You. Home. Safe. 

He didn’t care that he was sweaty. He didn’t care that he had media duties. He wrapped his arms around you, and for the first time in weeks, he finally relaxed. “You’re here,” he whispered like it wasn’t true. You chuckled against his skin, nodding into his neck. 

“And I’ll be in Imola too,” you smiled brightly as his eyes went wide, his hands cradling your face like you could break at any second. “Got my leave approved.”

“That’s brilliant, schatje!” he smiled, and pulled you in for a kiss. 

Max wasn’t known for keeping his calm. He was a racer, he won, and he didn’t care how many times he got in someone’s way. 

You kept your calm no matter what. Cool, calm, collected. Calm enough to pull the trigger of a gun on a person and not have it faze you. Calm enough to date an F1 driver and keep him stable. Calm enough to be here tonight, and not make it a big deal that Max Verstappen was your fiancé. You were strong too. Tough. Sure of yourself. He liked it. 

That’s why he didn’t feel the need to intervene when he saw you being chatted up by some sleeze. He just smirked as the man inched closer, it was free entertainment for the night, which was always necessary at F1 events. 

“I have a boyfriend,” you reminded the man who had been hounding you for the past few minutes. Fiancé, if we’re getting technical, but Max rarely did. 

Charles flashed him a smirk. “Going to go over there?” he questioned. 

Max shrugged. “If it gets boring,” he chuckled. “She can hold her own.”

“She’s scary,” Lando admitted. “First time I talked to her she threatened to break my arm.” 

“You were flirting with her,” Alex reminded him. “I remember how pissed Logan was.”

“Oh yeah!” Oscar laughed, nudging Logan (who was beside him). “And when you found out about Max and Y/n.”

“He went ballistic,” Lando laughed. “Almost killed his sister!” 

“It wasn’t that bad,” Logan defended, but even Max gave him a look. “Ok, but it is shitty to go after someone’s sister!” 

The group continued laughing as Max listened back in on your conversation. 

“Oh yeah?” the guy smirked. Was it Tim, or Tom? Either way, he was a dick. “I don’t see him.”

“Now you do,” Max interrupted, wrapping an arm around your waist and smiling in a polite ‘fuck off’ way. The man chuckled. He was some NFL player. “Have a good night-”

“Let the pretty lady decide for herself, thank you very much,” he smirked. You gagged. 

“I chose him,” you deadpanned. 

“You’re in McLaren merch,” he pointed out, flicking at the hat on your head. You felt Max stiffen beside you, you could tell he was holding himself back from a fist fight. As much as this guy deserved it, Max was no MMA fighter, and you didn’t really want to be the reason he got his shit rocked. 

“Yeah, my mate drives for them,” you shrugged. “Do we have a problem here?” you demanded. “Because if we do we can talk about it.”

“No problem sweetheart, just don’t know if he understands how to be with a real woman such as yourself. I don’t see you at many races-”

“No, you don’t. Usually because I’m fighting for your fucking freedom you ungrateful asshole,” you scoffed, flashing your military ID card. The colour drained from the guy’s face and, before he could speak again Max whisked you away and back to the table with the rest of the guys.  He watched as you joked and laughed with them, happy you were there in front of him. He couldn’t ask for much more. You were safe.

You were here.

navigation for my blog :)

redbull & vcarb masterlist

[cherrygirlfriend]

(not) the lady of the house

older!rafe x maid!reader

warnings: smut, MDNI! i got this idea simply from cleaning my apartment, and from the fact that i like to clean... so, naturally, i had to bring it to life. ORIGINALLY POSTED IN SEPTEMBER 2024

when rafe got married, he swore to himself that he wouldn't be like the most men that lived in figure eight, having affairs with multiple women that were ten, or even twenty years younger than him. he swore that he'd stay loyal, that the only woman he'd have eyes for would be his wife.

and he kept to his promise. he pampered his wife, caroline, in any way possible, keeping her satisfied even when he was busy with work. but out of nowhere, she seemed to be coming home later and later, making excuses that she had bumped into a friend and gone for a drink, or that her work-out session had stretched out.

but one morning after one of her "long work-out sessions", his wife was in the shower while she got a notification on her phone, and even though he tried to, rafe couldn't resist the temptation to check what message his wife had gotten. and that was the final nail on the coffin.

"i had fun last night ;)"

it was like the breath had been knocked out of rafe's chest, and even though he put her phone back where he had picked it up from, and tried to forget it, he couldn't. and even as his wife came out of the shower, got ready for the day, and left the house, he didn't move a muscle.

only when an unknown figure appeared at the doorway to the bedroom, a soft "oh!" leaving the person's lips, did he finally pick up his head and look at who had come in.

"i'm sorry, mr. cameron. i thought you were at work..." you said, rubbing the back of your neck. rafe had never met any of the maids that worked for the cameron household, always being at work when they came by. he simply cleared his throat, getting onto his feet with an apologetic look on his face, "i'll get out of your hair." he said with an attempt at a smile.

but when he was passing you, you took hold of his suit jacket, before letting it go with a flurry of apologies, looking down at your feet, mumbling something to yourself before you looked up at him with the sweetest smile he had ever seen, "is everything alright, mr. cameron?"

every day after that, the two of you talked; about your lives, your worries, your dreams, about everything between the heavens and the earth. and after a month of that, you had your first kiss.

now, it had been three months since you two had properly met, rafe thrusting into you as he whispered loving words in your ear as you moaned underneath him, his cock hitting that spot every time he thrust into you.

and when he came in you, he'd press soft little kisses on your neck, nipping at the skin as he mumbled against your skin about how precious you were.

you laid on his chest, your finger trailing up and down his defined chest, your mind filled with thoughts about the man who had just come in you, wondering if you were the only one who felt... whatever it was that you felt when you were with him. you didn't want to call it love, too scared of it, too scared of the thought that maybe he felt the same way.

little did you know, that rafe was thinking the same thing, wondering if you felt the connection between the two of you, or if it was just something he had pictured. and so, in silence, the both of you were wondering the same thing, from two different points of view.

[lovetei]

TEI WE NEED MORE OF THE BABY TRAPPING CONTENT 😭

COMING RIGHT UP

--------------------------------------------------

You love them so much, so you need them to be by your side forever even if it means getting yourself...

WARNINGS: Dark themes, really dark themes, proceed with caution, includes baby trapping, expect the worse, swapping out birth control, female reader on the rest and male reader on Thirteens's part, non consensual pregnancy, filthy use of condoms, implications of violence, non consensual taking of fertility pills, implied kidnapping, yandere themes

PARTS: Demon brothers, Side Characters

LINKS: Masterlist

--------------------------------------------------

You were in love and sorry. You couldn't think of any other way other than this.

Baby trapping.

"I'm pregnant." You declared without hesitation, you don't care if they will get mad. They're yours now.

Until—

DIAVOLO looked up, mildly surprised. “Huh. That was fast.” You perked up “Wait, what?” He chuckled “I mean, I only started messing with your birth control like… three months ago.” He grinned.

BARBATOS blinked once, then leaned in like a confession booth closing. “Funny,” he whispered, lips brushing her ear, “I replaced your cycle tracker months ago. I just didn’t think you'd help me.”

SIMEON let out a low, reverent chuckle. “You finally did it,” he whispered, staring at her like a priest witnessing divinity. “You made yourself irreversible.”

SOLOMON paused mid-step, then smiled like something feral had just been fed. “So you finally folded,” he said softly. “I was beginning to wonder how many times I’d have to ‘forget’ the condoms before you gave in.”

RAPHAEL stared at her, eyes wide with something close to reverence. “You gave me life,” he whispered. “I was going to cut off your legs so you wouldn’t walk away—but this... this is so much better.”

MEPHISTOPHELES slowly turned to her with eyes too calm, too steady. “Good,” he said at last, reaching for the velvet box under the bed. “Now you’ll understand why I had those wedding rings made in three sizes.”

You were in love and sorry. You couldn't think of any other way other than this.

"I replaced your pills." You declared without hesitation, you don't care if they will get mad. They're yours now.

Until—

THIRTEEN giggled while holding her stomach “I took your used condom out of the trash. I figured if I was going to carry your mess, I might as well do it properly.” she declared while grinning at you.

[jordiemeow]

Hi jo sorry if this isn’t what you normally write and you can ignore it if you want. I would just love a sort of comfort fic of reader losing their virginity to art but she’s uncomfortable and wants to stop and he’s sweet about it

No pressure I love everything you put out ♡

don't apologise pookie this is sweet :) <3

warnings: 18+ sex (p in v), insecure/uncomfortable reader, loss of virginity, very quickly (+ poorly) written apologies x

This is decidedly not how you expected losing your virginity to go.

Art was a gentleman. Waiting patiently for months, never pressuring you into anything despite the fact he'd spent countless nights leaving your dorm blue-balled and in dire need of a cold shower. Even when you suggested taking that next step, he made you insist several times that it was really what you wanted.

No, he wasn't the problem.

It took fifteen minutes with his head between your thighs for you to cum. That part was great. It was what came next that made things awkward: Art perched above you, one hand entwined with our own while the other guided him into you. The stretch was overwhelming, enough to render you breathless for the next few seconds as he eased in slowly. Each thick, solid inch has your toes curling and your lungs desperately gathering air.

An affirmative nod of your head to confirm that you were okay (you weren't) and he was rocking into you, groaning about how tight and good you felt. Everyone always said it gets better. But it's been two minutes of him thrusting into you, jaw slack with pleasure and eyes screwed shut while he babbles praises senselessly about how well you're taking it, and things are decidedly not better.

You can't take it anymore. The discomfort of having another person so deep inside you, the stretch, the burning pain...

"Art, stop."

He doesn't hear you at first. You're quiet, drowned out by the sound of skin slapping against skin and his ragged sounds of pleasure.

"Art." Your free hand finds his shoulder. Fingers curling into the sweat-slick skin, face strained in displeasure. "Stop, please."

Now you've got his attention. His eyes snap onto yours again, hips slowing to a halt. "What?" He blinks lamely. Despite his initial obliviousness, at least he's stopped moving.

"I just... I can't," you explain weakly, choking on a hitched breath.

It's not the most eloquent reply ever, but what are you supposed to say? This is awful. It's nothing like I expected. I'm having a terrible time. It hurts, it's uncomfortable, it's—

You could say all of that, actually. You just don't want to hurt his feelings.

"Okay," he says, brows furrowing. "Are you, um... are you okay? I'm sorry, was I going too fast?"

His hand moves to push your hair gently out of your face. Sweet boy. You can't find it in yourself to be upset.

"No, you're fine," you reply, trying for a smile. It falls terribly flat.

"Are you—" A pause, hand squeezing yours as he braces himself up on his other one. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," you reply, embarrassed by the way his eyes are searching your face with such genuine concern. You wish you could just melt into the mattress and pretend this never happened. "Can you just... can you get off, please?"

"Oh!" He blinks, glancing down. "Right. Yeah, yeah. I'm sorry."

The process of him pulling out is far less agonising, and you breathe a sigh of relief, body relaxing beneath him. He's still watching you with that same worried look as he lays down next to you, fingers twitching by his sides uncertainly.

"Too much?" He asks tentatively. You nod sheepishly, eyes averted. "I'm so sorry, baby. I didn't—did I hurt you? Are you okay?"

It feels like the hundredth time he's posed the question, but he's panicking inwardly about your apparent state of discomfort as you shift restlessly, eyes fixated on some point over his shoulder. You feel embarrassed. Guilty. Like a failure.

What's the point in him dating you if you can't even handle sex?

You don't voice any of that out loud, but he can see it in your eyes; the way your bottom lip quivers slightly as the all of the emotions cross plainly across your face. Or how your eyes glisten with unshed tears.

"I'm sorry," you whisper, voice cracking.

"No, no, no. Why are you apologising?" He replies instantly. He lifts a hand, pausing before he makes contact. "Is this okay?" When you nod your head, his hand cups your cheek, thumb brushing tenderly over your skin.

"You have nothing to be sorry for, baby. It's okay."

Your head shakes insistently. "No, I should be able to do it. I mean, what's the point if I can't?"

His knuckles linger against your cheek, and then he laughs. Just a soft huff of amusement, but enough to have you knitting your brows at him.

"What's the point?" He repeats softly, eyes crinkling down at you. "It's just sex, babe."

"Sex is a very integral part of a relationship!" You argue, wiping feebly at your eyes.

"Maybe," Art says, shrugging noncommittally as he watches your aborted attempt sympathetically. "Doesn't mean we have to have sex right now. There's always room to try again in the future, right?"

You hate that he makes sense. It's hard to wallow in your own self-pity when he's looking at you so tenderly, still caressing your cheek. "Right," you mumble reluctantly. "And if the future is never?"

"We'll tackle that hurdle when we get there," he says, dipping his head to kiss the tip of your nose. "Stop stressing. Let's just put a movie on and relax, 'kay?"

You pout at him for a second longer before relenting. Your head falls back into the pillow with a sigh as he settles back beside you, an arm draped across your middle to reach for the remote. A few more sniffles can be heard as you settle down.

"Thank you."

It's quiet, but he hears it. He sends you a soft smile. "You don't need to thank me."

"Well, I am," you reply, shifting to rest your head against his shoulder. All you get in reply is a light chuckle.

A few moments pass as he flicks through the channels before you speak up again. "Can you maybe put your boxers back on? I don't want to see your dick."

He snorts, tilting his head to press a kiss into the top of your hair. "Yeah. Yeah, okay."

[pendingnomdeplume]

Omg requests are open! Could I pretty please request hurt/comfort with a smedieum amount of angst and some smut after? i love ur writing so so much mwah

nothing's fair in love and war pairing: hozier/fem!reader rating: explicit (18+) tags: Enemies to Lovers, Denial of Feelings, Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, Idiots in Love, Love Confessions, Teasing, Banter, Vaginal Sex words: 21.4k (no i'm not kidding) author's note: UM. SO. This ended up being a lot?? Like, holy shit, the muses took me with this one. Sooo, I hope you enjoy! lmao (Also, sorry about the weird formatting, it looks better on AO3, unfortunately.)

[read it on AO3!]

[title from Love and War by Fleurie]

divider by: sylusz

If you’re certain of exactly one thing in this life, it’s that you will not make it to the end of the Unreal Unearth tour without attempting to throttle one Andrew Hozier-Byrne at least once.

When you signed on to be the Stage Manager for this godforsaken tour, you didn’t realize exactly what would be foisted upon you. Lighting, sound, equipment, props—all of these things are a breeze to handle with your experience and tenure in the industry.

What you weren’t prepared for is somehow becoming the de facto handler for the main act.

It’s barely the second month of the tour, and you find yourself outside of the dressing room, once again banging your fist against the wood impatiently as Hozier—or, Andrew, as he prefers from the crew—lags on his call time once again.

“Andrew, for fuck’s sake—!”

The door swings open, and Andrew glares down at you. “I heard you the first ten times you shouted at me.”

Irritation buzzes along your skin as you close your eyes and take a deep breath through your nose.

“And yet, you still don’t seem to have any sense of fuckin’ urgency about it.”

Andrew rolls his eyes, and it takes every bit of your willpower not to stick a foot out and trip him as you both jog towards the stage.

Your relationship to the man in question has been rocky from the jump. First impressions were…tedious, to say the least. Exhaustion made you grumpy and sour-faced, and the smile on Andrew’s face was merely a thinly-veiled grimace of exasperation, as though meeting any of the crew was simply a waste of his time. Andrew seemed less than impressed with you, his faux smile faltering and his brows furrowing as you flatly, silently shook his hand before turning away.

Your patience for primadonnas is at an all time low after coming off of a tour with a certain lead singer of a shitty band who doubles as a host for a televised singing competition. After dealing with that behaviour, you’re not exactly the most trusting of any talent, constantly expecting to be met with petty pushback at best and violent vitriol at worst. While you’ve never actually heard a single bad thing about Hozier, you know the game, know that these hot, talented, wealthy types are nothing more than snakes in the grass.

Alex and Larissa exchange glances as you stalk after Andrew with a clipboard tucked under your arm and a fist clenched at your side. You pretend not to notice their little snickers, but rage flares within you. Of course you’d get no back-up from the others. They simply find your bickering amusing, often stoking the flames with obnoxious quips to rile either Andrew or yourself up even further.

You come to a halt and turn back to point at them. “What are you two doing?! Fucking go!”

With another exchanged glance and a grimace of fear, the two hurry towards the stage while you pinch the bridge of your nose and take a slow, deep breath.

“You certainly have your hands full, don’t you?”

The only voice that can get a smile out of you these days belongs to Autumn Freeman, the assistant stage manager on the tour.

Autumn Freeman is a tour de force, not one to be fucked with despite her dimpled smile and pleasant demeanor. You’ve never seen anyone tell off another person with such an even, easy tone. She is quite possibly the most self-assured person you’ve ever met, and you wish you could hold a candle to her professionalism in the face of adversity.

“Hey, sorry, I’ll be right back, I have to deal with—”

Autumn holds her hands up to quiet your anxious words. “Hey, hey, don’t worry. I’ve got Emilio and Whitney getting everyone hooked up.”

You let out a relieved sigh as you rub your shoulder, a tension headache already blooming just behind your eyes.

“Thanks, Autumn. God, I don’t understand why they didn’t make you lead stage manager. I’m not cut out for this shit.”

“Nah, I’ve lived that life.” You watch as she pulls up salt and pepper box braids into a bundle on top of her head and secures them with the thick, elastic hair ties on her wrist. “I much prefer having a boss to being the boss. Too much stress and pressure, especially from little boys with too much money and no personality.”

“Yeah, no fucking kidding,” you scoff.

“Is he still giving you trouble?”

“Andrew? Of course he is! Jesus Christ, I’ve never seen a grown-ass man act like such a fucking brat—and I’ve worked with Adam Levine, for God’s sake!”

Autumn laughs—a rich, comforting sound that feels like a warm hug.

“Oh, baby, you never met my ex-husband. Couldn’t clean a damn dish or do a load of laundry to save his life, but Lord knows he expected me to take care of him like I was his mother. So, believe me, I understand immature men.”

“Yeah, well…I think Andrew’s just doing it out of spite at this point,” you grumble.

Autumn hums in displeasure, grimacing as she shakes her head. “Men and their bruised egos…though, I’m surprised it’s Andrew of all people. He’s always seemed like a kind, gentle type. I’ve never had any trouble with him.”

“Yeah, well, he’s kind and gentle to everyone else but me, apparently, and I’m sure he actually respects you.”

You decide to leave out some of the more tense moments between you—the staredowns, the passive-aggressive remarks, and pointedly ignoring the other’s presence outside of any work capacity.

Andrew is nothing if not tenacious, bucking against your authority with grumbled gripes and heavy, dramatic sighs to ensure that you know how unhappy he is having to listen to you.

The problem is you lack a level of patience that’s required to do a job like this. Or, perhaps that’s the asset that got you hired in the first place. Regardless, you’re sure Autumn wouldn’t be too thrilled to know you’ve taken to shouting to get the man to do anything while ignoring his existence otherwise.

She lets out a slow sigh, then presses her lips together as she shakes her head.  “Well, give him some time. Maybe he’ll come around.”

“Yeah, sure,” you snort ruefully.

The show goes off without a hitch that night, thankfully. No sound issues, no lighting issues, and no instruments falling from their dedicated straps. You’re thrilled, if exhausted, but the grimace on Andrew’s face as he exits the stage tells you that he’ll certainly have a complaint or two to lodge with you before the night ends.

The band is surely capable of handling themselves once the show is over without needing you to shepherd them further—a task that shouldn’t even belong to you when there’s a dedicated tour manager for all of this.

You’re not exactly excited to listen to Andrew’s incessant bitching about whatever it is you’ve done wrong. Really, it’s a conversation that can be left for the morning when you’ve both had a full night’s sleep and near-lethal amounts of caffeine.

You quickly pack up your belongings and duck out of the venue before anyone can say a word. The Lyft you surreptitiously ordered idles just outside the back entrance, and you rush towards the car hoping that nobody will spot you making your escape.

You climb in and shuttle yourself off to the hotel on your own dime, not wanting to share any space as you decompress from another show on the long, long list of shows still to be had on this never ending tour.

Thankfully, one of the perks of your title is private accommodations—a blessing that allows you to shower and get ready for bed in quiet solitude instead of battling two or three other people for a place in line. You’re surprised that management is willing to shell out the cash for a single room, but you figure it’s better to just accept it for what it is rather than question things and lose the privilege altogether.

The television is on at a low volume as a dated episode of Forensic Files drones in the background. You’re seated on the bed against the headboard, bundled in a white robe as you scrunch your dripping hair with a scratchy, over-bleached towel. Exhaustion consumes you, your muscles tense and aching, and you roll your shoulders and stretch your neck to find any sort of relief from this stupid fucking headache.

A knock at the door startles you, and you quickly hop up and rush over while hastily tying the belt on your robe. You’re surprised to find Andrew at the threshold of your room. He looks exhausted, but the look of annoyance is quickly replaced by one of surprise as he gives you a once-over.

“Oh, God, I didn’t—sorry, I didn’t realize—”

You roll your eyes and rest your head against the door frame with a heavy sigh. “What do you want, Andrew?”

Just like that, irritation consumes him once more.

“Can you at least say something before you disappear from the venue?”

You blink and lift your head in surprise. “That’s why you’re here? What are you, my fucking keeper?”

Andrew sighs heavily as he rubs at his eyes with his middle finger and thumb. “Last I checked, I’m your fucking boss.”

This startles a laugh out of you. “Last I checked, Caroline is the one signing my checks, babe. Good try with the whole intimidation angle, though. You’re about as fearsome as a puppy.”

There’s a pause as he studies you, head tilting to one side as he deliberates his next reply.

“I—”

“Next time,” you interrupt, “Just text like a normal person. I don’t need you showing up at my door unannounced unless it’s a dire fucking emergency.”

Andrew scoffs and throws his hands up in frustration. “Well, I just wanted to make sure you were okay, but fuck me, I guess!”

“Oh, what a gentleman. Thank you so much for your concern, but I managed to make it back on my own without Daddy holding my fucking hand. As you can see.”

“Jesus Christ,” he grumbles, pinching the bridge of his nose. You can make out the pink flush that creeps up his neck, angry and flustered. “Well, I’m so sorry for doubting your capabilities. I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive me for such an egregious—”

Wordlessly, you close the door in his face, idling for only a moment to peek out of the peephole you should have used in the first place. Andrew stands outside looking stunned. He raises one arm as he deliberates knocking again. It seems he thinks better of it as he shoves his hands into his pockets, shakes his head, and turns to walk back down the hallway towards his room.

Once he’s out of sight, you move to plop down on the bed with a huff.

You have no time or energy to entertain a grown man’s weird power trip. What does he care if you leave the venue without notifying everyone and their fucking dog? It’s just a show of control; he feels he runs this entire circus when he’s merely the centerpiece—the lion in a cage, poked, prodded, and likely to snap at the first crack of his ringleader’s whip.

Whatever. It’s just another tally mark on the ‘Shitty Interactions’ list, you suppose. Maybe you should start marking them on a calendar as you count down the days until you’re done with this tour.

❤❤❤

In the few weeks following your charged interaction at your hotel door, both you and Andrew maintain a level of distance that’s likely noticeable to everyone else on the crew. Autumn certainly notices but is kind to leave well enough alone, mostly rolling her eyes at the dramatics of it all.

“Honey,” she says with a sense of patience that she’s surely digging down deep to find.  “Is this really the hill you’re going to die on? Fighting with this man instead of maintaining your peace?”

“My peace is fine, thank you.”

Autumn rolls her eyes again as she shakes her head.

“You certainly seem to stick to your guns, I’ll give you that.”

Awkward, stilted interactions with Andrew seem objectively better than constant bickering and passive-aggression. It’s easier this way, giving instruction from afar and staying out of his way—or, making sure he stays out of your way, as it were.

And, sure, okay, maybe the man is on your mind more often than not these days, but it doesn’t mean you care. He’s more of a nuisance, a fruit fly buzzing around your head that you bat away uselessly. Unfortunately, he’s also your boss to some degree, and you feel some sense of obligation towards him even if he drives you up a fucking wall

Today is a particularly stressful day.

The bus arrived to the venue later than expected after a battle with early morning traffic, and now the band and crew are zipping around you as everyone tries to make up for the time lost. You’re pulled in a million directions, questions thrown at you with desperation as you attempt to keep things in order.

A late start meant forgoing breakfast altogether, opting for iced coffee that you sucked down in record time.

By the time lunch rolled around, you were far too busy with the sound crew to break away for a snack, food being the furthest thing from your mind as stress made your stomach twist and spit acid.

Now, nausea sets in right before soundcheck. Sweat beads along your hairline as waves of nausea roll through you, and you squeeze your eyes shut as though it might somehow stop the feeling. You come to a halt in the empty hallway and move to lean back against a wall, sighing as you run a hand over your forehead to wipe away cold sweat.

Footsteps echo just down the hall, and you open your eyes to see Andrew approaching you with a determined stride. You grimace. Of course he’d choose this opportunity to break your weeks-long, silent truce, probably coming over just to be an asshole about something that you don’t have the patience or energy to care about.

“Here,” he says briskly as he shoves something solid into your hand. “You didn’t eat—and coffee does not count as a meal.”

You blink as you stare down at the protein bar in your palm, trying to ignore the lingering feeling of his fingers brushing against your hand.

“Mel also has some of that Blowfish stuff for hangovers. It might help if you feel—I mean, you kind of look like death warmed over.”

This pulls a surprised chuckle from you. “Wow. What a compliment.”

He looks just as surprised, the corner of his mouth lifting for only a moment before dropping just as quickly.

“Didn’t mean it as an insult. You look—I mean, you’re still—you don’t look bad. Just tired.” A pause. “Anyway, I need to…sorry…”

He glances over his shoulder and points a thumb in that direction.

“Right,” you nod.

There’s another brief pause as you blink at him, and he shoves his hands into his trouser pockets before nodding once.

“Eat that, please,” he says as he begins backing away from you. “I don’t need my stage manager passing out in the middle of a show.”

Before you can respond, he turns and walks back in the direction he came, leaving you staring after him until he disappears around a corner.

You look back at the protein bar. It’s a chocolate cookie dough flavor, one of your favorites, and you unwrap it as you ponder the interaction.

How does he know you haven’t eaten? Hell, you barely realized that, and only at his prompting. Was your misery really that obvious? He did say you look like death warmed over. Even if it was meant in jest, it still meant that he’d been…paying attention?

The thought doesn’t disgust you the way you expect it to. In fact, there’s a certain fondness you feel in your chest at the prospect of Andrew actually worrying about you, of him calling you his stage manager in some claim of ownership.

You quickly shake your head as you attempt to squash the feeling. This is not the time to dig into the implications of anything—not when you’re running on caffeine and a fucking dream. Instead, you shove the bar into your mouth and take a bite before jogging down the hallway to find Melissa.

❤❤❤

Days later, it’s Larissa who narcs on Andrew in an early morning text on a day off in Chicago.

Larissa

Andrew is sick

Larissa

He doesn’t want you to know

You frown at the text.

You Is that so?

You Hm. Thanks for letting me know.

You I’ll go have a chat with him.

Larissa 🫡 Anytime

You throw on a hoodie and a pair of sandals before trudging across the parking lot towards the black and silver beast that houses the band. Larissa is already at the door when you arrive, ushering you in quietly as you climb the steps.

The rest of the band is awake, though only barely. Rory squints at you tiredly over a mug of coffee. Alex is stretched out along the couch with his eyes closed, uncaring as Larissa forces his knees up so they can sit. The others are missing, and Larissa confirms that they went out in search of food that doesn’t come from a small refrigerator on the bus.

You make your way towards the back of the bus and stop just in front of the dividing door. You knock tentatively and wait for a response.

“Yes?” The sound of his voice is cracked and feeble, making you frown in sympathy.

“It’s me. Can I come in?”

There’s a brief pause before he answers, “Sure.”

The room is dark when you enter, and you tentatively shut the door behind you to keep from blinding him with the early morning sun.

“My sources tell me that you’re sick and trying to hide it from me,” you say lightly as your eyes adjust to the dimness.

Andrew lets out a tired laugh. “I figured Larissa might say something.”

You can make out his form on the bed, curled beneath the blankets that are held tightly at his chin. His hair is thrown up and out of the way in a bundle on top of his head. You frown in concern as he snuffles into his pillow before turning to look at you with drooping eyes.

“I feel better than I look,” he croaks. “Just exhausted.”

You roll your eyes as you step forward to plop on the bed next to him. You place the back of your hand against his forehead and frown as heat radiates against your skin. Andrew doesn’t protest, doesn’t make a move when you feel his too-warm cheeks.

“Jesus, you’re burning up. Have you taken anything?”

Andrew nods. “I took nighttime cold medicine not too long ago to try and get some sleep.”

It takes a moment for you to realize that your hand is still resting against his skin. You pull it away quickly with a mumbled apology before declaring, “You are on vocal rest, effective immediately. I’ll grab you some pho and herbal tea at lunch, but you need to rest.”

He lets out a quiet hum and nods. “On it, boss.”

You bite your lower lip in an attempt to hide your traitorous budding smile.

“Wow. You’re so much more agreeable like this.”

“Don’t get used to it,” he sighs as his eyes flutter closed. “I’m too tired to pretend to fight you.”

“Pretend?”

You see his smile before he turns his face into his pillow. Andrew mumbles again, though you can’t make out what he says. When you ask him to repeat, he doesn’t respond. You watch the slow, steady rise and fall of his chest as the cold medicine pulls him under, and you smile to yourself and shake your head in amusement before opening the door and tiptoeing out of the room.

“I’m confident that he’ll make a full recovery,” you say seriously when Larissa looks towards you. “He’s passed out on NyQuil right now. I’ll be back to check on him later. He’s on vocal rest, too. If he makes a peep, let me know.”

Alex, who is now wearing a Snorlax sleep mask over his eyes, smiles and teases, “Aw, you do care about him.”

With a roll of your eyes, you reply, “Contrary to popular belief, yes, I do worry about you dipshits. That said, be sure to wash your hands and stay out of Andrew’s general vicinity. I’ll be back later to check in.”

Rory asks, “What about you? What if you get sick?”

You shake your head as you wave off his concerns. “Don’t worry, I never get sick. I’ve got an immune system made of steel.”

Three days later, you lie in your bunk with a low-grade fever and a black surgical mask covering your face as you wonder how your body could fail you like this.

You’re watching old episodes of Futurama to pass the time as you limit yourself to your small enclosure with the curtain drawn shut.

Autumn is covering tonight’s show for you—the second show in a row that you’ll miss due to whatever bullshit illness Andrew gave you. The bus is empty and eerily quiet without the shuffles and murmurs of your colleagues. A white noise app fills the gaps between episodes, its gentle tone lulling you into a fitful sleep that’s broken by the opening and closing of the bus door, followed by tentative footsteps that stop just in front of your bunk.

“Hey, are you awake?”

It’s Andrew’s hushed voice on the other side. You reach up to pull the curtain back with a confused frown.

“Andrew? What time is it? Aren’t you supposed to be—?”

“Don’t worry,” he interrupts with a wave of his hand. “Autumn is waiting outside. I just wanted to check on you. Make sure you’re still alive and such.”

It’s surprising given the animosity between you two, but…you have to admit, it’s a kind gesture to come check up on you when he’s the one who got you sick in the first place.

“Well, it’s the least you could do for giving me your germs.” You wince as you sniffle, mucus sliding down the back of your throat. “I demand reparations for this, Andrew.”

Andrew rolls his eyes, but his annoyance seems feigned, a hint of a smile betraying his enjoyment of your tired, raspy quips.

“All right, you seem just as obnoxious as you always are, so I think you’re fine. I’ve already got someone out getting soup and tea for you, so, y’know. Stay put, wash your hands, et cetera.”

You blink, taken aback by his straightforward kindness. “Oh. You didn’t have to—”

“I wanted to return the favor,” he says quickly. “Especially because I’m the one who got you sick in the first place. Something, something, quid pro quo.”

“Right,” you rasp, your mask hiding your smile. “This in no way implies that you might actually care about me.”

There’s a brief pause as he tilts his head at you, the same little gesture that he always does when he’s carefully choosing his next words.

After a beat, he replies, “Can I put you on vocal rest?”

“That’s not how this works.”

Just as he opens his mouth to reply, the bus door opens, and Autumn’s testy tone makes you giggle as she calls out, “Andrew…hurry it up, please...”

Andrew throws her a little smile before turning back to you. “See? See how nice Autumn is about—?”

“Andrew!”

You croak a laugh as he jumps and whips his head around to shout an apology to her. He gives you a small smile and a nod before shuffling off with a murmured, “Get some rest.”

15 minutes later, your phone buzzes beside your head, and you open up your messages to see a text from Autumn.

Autumn Andrew sure seems worried about you… 😉

You He feels bad for getting me sick.

You As any decent human should.

Autumn Right…

Autumn Even though he asked me to check in on you during the show… he definitely doesn’t care…

You lower your phone and stare into the beige wall at your feet. A million thoughts cross your mind at once, and you attempt to bury the feeling of tenderness that makes your chest feel tight.

Hours later, the vibration of your phone wakes you from a twilight sleep, pulls you from a dream of soft caresses and gentle kisses that taste of coffee and smoke. Of fingers threaded into frizzy curls and sweet words mumbled against flushed skin.

Dreams that slip through your fingers, lost within the void of unconsciousness the moment you open your eyes.

Andrew Checking in

Andrew You still with us?

You can’t help but smile at the message. It’s late, the bus already filled with soft murmurs and light footsteps as the crew tries their hardest not to wake you. Andrew should be asleep, but you know his penchant for bedtime procrastination all too well.

You Barely, yet I persist.

The chat bubble pops up and disappears several times in a row as Andrew seemingly types and erases every response that comes to mind. Finally, a text comes through that you read through bleary, drooping eyes.

Andrew Good. Let’s keep it that way.

❤❤❤

The last three weeks have been a complete turnaround for your relationship with Andrew. Where there was once fiery animosity, only soft irritation remains. You find yourself smiling more, feeling far more content with the circumstances than you have over the last few months. As much as you hate to admit it, it’s been…nice. Fun, even, as he opens up to you incrementally.

“You and Andrew seem to be getting along,” Autumn chirps after he stops by the bus to ask a question that you answer with a light tone and a smile.

You roll your eyes, but you can feel the blooming heat of a blush across your cheeks.

“More like we found a solid middle ground, but sure.”

Autumn smiles in that knowing way that makes your stomach squirm with giddy embarrassment. There’s no hiding anything from her—she’s nearly 60 and has had her fair share of relationships, experiences that have left an impact on her, for better or for worse. If anyone knows puppy love  when they see it, it’s probably her.

“Well, normally, I’d say you catch more bees with honey…”

You laugh quietly and ask, “Normally?”

She looks at you in her periphery as she smirks. “The boy seems to like the way you sass him. Almost like it’s a game for him.”

“Oh.” You laugh louder now, a touch hysterical as your embarrassment seeps through.

“Well, I appreciate the advice. But, I’m pretty sure Andrew tolerates me in the same way I tolerate him.”

Autumn smiles as she rolls her eyes. “Mmhm, I’m sure. All I’m saying is, whenever he confesses his love for you, I get to say I told you so.”

It’s something you ponder while waiting in the wings during soundcheck that afternoon.

The band is mostly just fucking around on stage, all still a little loopy from travel exhaustion. Andrew is mostly idling between different crew and producers discussing technical aspects of the show. It’s always interesting to watch him fidget and look around as though he has no clue where they are or what day it is. Honestly, you wouldn’t be surprised if that were true given his godawful sleep schedule.

You don’t realize you’re staring until he catches your eye. Andrew looks perplexed at first, brows furrowing as he expects you to say or do something that requires his attention. Instead, you look away quickly and busy your hands with the clipboard lying on an amp in front of you.

Your face is on fire as you sneak another glance. A squeak escapes you when you meet his pointed gaze and easy smile before he winks at you and turns his attention towards one of the crew members beside him.

You already have a headset on and can hear some of the chatter picked up by Alex’s talkback mic. It’s nothing you can make out, mostly garbled words between Rory’s random hitting of snares and cymbals.

Your attention is fixed on the setlist that Andrew switched up last minute to rearrange the order.

Did he run this decision by you? Of course not. In true Andrew fashion, he made the change on his own, his shitty handwriting serving as damning evidence.

As you frown at the list, a voice in your ear murmurs, “Sometimes, it’s better to ask for forgiveness rather than permission.”

Goosebumps raise in a wave along your skin as you jump and whip around to find Andrew hovering just behind you.

“Oh my God, don’t do that.”

His responding chuckle sends a tingle down your spine. You smack him gently with the clipboard before holding it up to him and pointing to his revisions.

“So, when do you start begging for forgiveness, exactly?”

There’s a pause as Andrew raises an eyebrow at you, his mouth twisted in wry amusement.

“Oh, did I say beg? Hm. I didn’t think I had. Slip of the tongue, I suppose. Or, maybe yours?”

Blood rushes to your face as you attempt not to splutter in reply. There’s a part of you that wants to grab him by the lapels of his stupid tweed jacket and shake him violently, as though he might reveal the truth about his own feelings like a piggy bank spitting out coins.

Instead, you merely tilt your head at him and smile politely. “Wishful thinking, perhaps.”

This seems to catch him off guard, both eyebrows flying up near his hairline as he blinks at you.

“Wishful…thinking?”

You shrug and try your best to look as casual as possible before responding, “Something about a man on his knees begging for my forgiveness really feeds my ego, y’know?”

There’s a swell of pride in your chest as you leave him speechless and spluttering for a response.

“I’m approving your changes,” you say flippantly as you begin walking backwards in the opposite direction, your stomach flip-flopping as you attempt to hide your own flustered expression. “Next time, though, run it by me first, please? So I can distribute a revised setlist that doesn’t look like it was written by an anxious chicken.”

“Oh, ehm—yes, yeah, right.” He clears his throat. “Sorry. I should’ve…I’ll ask next time.”

“Much appreciated,” you say easily as you turn on your heel. “Be ready by six at the latest, or I’m hunting you for sport.”

When you glance back at Andrew, he’s still staring, mouth slightly agape. You throw a cheeky wink his way before rushing off to find the nearest empty dressing room. Upon entering a deserted room, you gently shut the door, toss the clipboard onto the couch, and cover your face as you try to regulate your shallow breathing.

You’re not catching feelings. You’re not.

(You can’t.)

❤❤❤

“Psst, hey. Are you awake?”

You blink into the darkness of your bunk and rub roughly at your eyes. You’re not entirely sure what time it is, but the bus isn’t moving which tells you that you’ve probably arrived in Detroit.

“Oh, Jesus, fuck—!” You shriek as you pull back the curtain to find Andrew far closer than you had anticipated, hazel eyes wide and mere inches away. “Andrew, for the love of God—do you want to get punched? Because that’s how you get punched.”

Andrew laughs. You try to ignore the way your heart skips and chew at your lower lip through your budding smile.

“What do you want?” you ask in feigned annoyance.

Andrew rests his head on his arms that are perched on the edge of your bunk.

“We’re going to the Belle Isle Conservatory today. You should come with us.”

Wakefulness is barely catching up with you as you blink at him slowly. Andrew is…inviting you out. It’s not a date—not that you’d want it to be one, of course. It’s merely an invitation to hang out with the rest of the group in a friendly way, and perhaps this is Andrew’s way of continuing to bury the hatchet.

“Conservatory? Like a big greenhouse deal?”

Andrew smiles as he nods. “Mhm, a huge greenhouse on a little island-thing. It’s quite lovely, and I wanted to ask since…I mean, I assume you’ve never gone?”

You shake your head. “I haven’t, no. I’ve been to Kew Gardens, but nothing in the States.”

“Ah, Kew is lovely, as well. Belle Isle has the same kind of feel to it.”

After a beat, you joke, “I’m still confused as to why you don’t just text.”

Andrew turns his head as he laughs quietly, then turns back to you with slightly reddened cheeks and sparkling eyes.

“I’m a terrible texter. Besides, it’s more fun to scare you, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Oh, yes, of course, it’s my absolute favorite thing.” You roll your eyes, but you can’t hide your own gaiety as you smile at him. “Now, get off of my bus so I can get ready.”

Andrew perks up, and you imagine his proverbial tail wagging cautiously as he asks, “Does that mean you’re coming along?”

“Of course I am,” you say easily.

He steps back as you sit up and scooch yourself over the edge of the bunk until your feet safely hit the ground.

“What time are we heading out?”

A glance at his watch. “9:30, I think, so I’ll come get you just before that.”

“And they say chivalry is dead,” you chirp, and he shrugs in response. “All right, scoot along. I’ve got to get ready.”

Andrew opens his mouth to protest, but you shake your head and gently begin pushing him towards the front of the bus.

“You don’t have to go home, but you can’t stay here.”

“You know, that’s not the first time a woman has said that to me,” he muses, stopping just at the steps before turning to look at you. “The circumstances were a touch different, though.”

“Oh, yeah?” you snort.

“Mhm,” he nods. “More of a morning after situation, if you will.”

You freeze, your eyes meeting his own as he tilts his head and smiles cheekily. You decide it’s better not to comment. He’s just being a pill—knows he’s being a pill—and is simply trying to get a rise out of you. It’s been his MO since day one.

“Gross.” You huff a laugh and shake your head. “Thank you for that image. Now, get out.”

Andrew acts shocked by your response as you gently nudge him down the steps.

“Wow, okay, hurtful,” he quips just as he turns the handle for the door.

Both of you are startled when Autumn appears, staring up at the two of you in confusion. Confusion quickly gives way to sly amusement as she tilts her head and greets, “Well, good morning. Where are you two sneaking off to, hm?”

Andrew is left just as speechless as you, both of you sharing an alarmed glance before you finally find your voice.

“Hey, Autumn!” You wince at the way your voice cracks. “I’m just trying to get Andrew to vacate the premises so I can get ready.”

“Oh?” Autumn squints as she looks between the two of you.

Andrew is quick to divert the conversation. “We’re going to the Belle Isle Conservatory in a bit! Do you want to come with us?”

Autumn shakes her head as she meets your gaze with a raised eyebrow. “Oh, no. I wouldn’t want to be a third wheel…”

Thankfully, Andrew doesn’t look back at you as you give Autumn a narrow-eyed, contemptuous frown before mouthing, ‘Stop it.’

Andrew splutters, “It’s not a—! It’s a group outing! No third wheels here. No wheels to be a third of at all. Just regular friend activities.”

His response makes you smile, and you tease, “Oh, are we friends now?”

He throws a glance back at you and smirks as he clarifies, “More frenemies than anything.”

Autumn chuckles and shakes her head. “Jesus, you two are going to give me a hernia. But, anyway, I’m still going to say no on this one, unfortunately. I’m taking these braids out and doing a wash, and then I’ve got a prior commitment with some cable television and several room service mimosas. So, my schedule is booked out for today, I’m afraid. But, thank you for the invitation. You’re always such a darling, Andrew.”

After wishing her luck for both her arms and her sanity, Autumn shuffles back inside the bus to grab a bag before heading off towards the hotel you’re parked behind.

Andrew steps off the bus and turns to look at you with his hands shoved into his pockets.

“I’ll come get you in like an hour. Do you want coffee? I can grab you some. There’s a place called The Red Hook that serves Red Eyes and Nutella Scones that look like they’re way too sweet.”

Your stomach grumbles at the mere notion of food, and you find yourself nodding as you reply, “That sounds great, actually—the Red Eye and the scone. Thank you, Andrew. I do appreciate it.”

“It’s no trouble.” A pause. “Not for you.”

The words strike you directly in the heart, your pulse jumping and your face going hot as he quickly scurries away before you can collect yourself enough to ask a single question.

What the fuck does that mean? It doesn’t strike you as a particularly frenemies-style offer. Not if he’s willing to do it specifically for you.

Which…is that what he really means? There’s a part of you that wonders if the comment was meant in jest—as though the offer would never be extended to the likes of Alex or Rory, given the trio's long history.

It’s not worth reading into, you decide. Whatever it is that he means, you don’t have the energy or wherewithal to go digging for meaning where there is none. It’s simply another kind gesture in response to your previously negatively-charged encounters.

By 9:15 AM, Andrew reappears with two coffees and two scones held precariously in his hands as he approaches.

The coffee itself is delicious—nothing more than an Americano on steroids, but the roast itself is smooth and not nearly as burnt or acidic as chain shops. The scone is, in fact, far too sweet for an early morning pastry, and you decide to tuck away half for later.

By 9:30, you’re crammed into a van with members of the band, en route to Belle Isle. Andrew sits up front due to his stature, but he stays engaged in conversation and glances back at you every once in a while to show he’s paying attention. Larissa takes the middle seat next to you while Alex, Rory, and Kellen squish themselves into the back, jokingly bickering and whining about personal space while you threaten, “I will come back there, so help me God.”

The ferry ride provides a view of the city overshadowed by a blanket of gray clouds that threaten to fall at any moment. Andrew stands by quietly, hands shoved into his jacket pockets as he and Alex have a quiet conversation that you can’t make out from where you’re huddled with Larissa for warmth.

Whatever it is they’re discussing, you catch them as they both turn their heads to look directly at you. Alex looks away quickly, throwing a hand over his mouth to hide what looks like a smile. Andrew gives a stilted wave before turning to look in the opposite direction, back towards land.

Hm. Strange. Though, no stranger than Andrew typically acts, all things considered.

The conservatory itself is massive—a daunting structure standing tall, glass panels glittering in the bits of sun that peek through the gray veil.

You stick close to Larissa, arm-in-arm on their right side while Alex flanks their left. Andrew is shuffling behind, sticking close to Rory and Kellen who speak animatedly about something, though you’re not exactly sure what. When you glance back, you catch Andrew’s eye and give him a half-smile before turning away.

Humidity chokes you as you marvel at the sheer amount of greenery shoved into nearly every square inch of the greenhouse. The smell of damp earth is grounding, comforting, like the first clear day after heavy rainfall.

As the rest of the group forges ahead, you hang back to sit on a metal bench tucked away in the foliage, take a deep breath, and let your eyes flutter closed as you try to appreciate the moment. It’s rare that you get these sorts of opportunities, to enjoy peace and quiet, to pretend that the foreseeable future isn’t fraught with tireless work.

“Are you okay?”

Andrew’s voice, though quiet and soft, still startles you.

“Andrew! For God’s sake, stop doing that.”

He grins and shrugs, offering an apology that doesn’t seem very sincere. You smile and shake your head before scooting over and offering a seat next to you.

“It really is stunning,” you chirp as you stare up at the trees that nearly eclipse the ceiling. “I feel like I could live in here.”

Andrew hums in agreement, then muses, “You should move to Ireland, then. The weather is nearly always like this, and the countryside is greener than anything you’ve ever seen.”

You glance at him, but his attention is focused on scanning the room in admiration.

“It’s on my personal bucket list.”

“Wait, you’ve never—?”

You shake your head. “I’ve never visited, no. Always wanted to, but never really had the opportunity, I guess.”

Andrew is quiet, and you can make out his pensive frown in your periphery.

“Well, the city is…it’s a city. It’s where everything is, I know, but…I mean, if I were to recommend anything, it’d be to stay outside of the city. Enjoy the quiet of a more peaceful area. There are plenty of trains to bring you into Dublin if you really wanted.”

You smile to yourself. “Can I hire you as my personal travel consultant?”

His responding chuckle sends your stomach flip-flopping in delight.

“I don’t live too far out. If you ever stayed in—I mean, you wouldn’t be too far. There are definitely things I could show you.”

“Oh, are you a personal chauffeur, as well?”

A pause. “I’d say more like a personal tour guide. Though, only for a select few.”

You turn your head to look at him now, but he stares straight ahead. You can see the tips of his ears are bright red, unhidden with his hair thrown into a low bun.

“Are you saying I’m part of that special group, then?”

A nudge of your elbow against him makes him laugh, but he doesn’t reply. Andrew seems bashful now, hands shoved into his jacket pockets as one leg shakes anxiously. If there’s anything more to this conversation, it’s unlikely that you’ll pull it out of him right now.

Still, the thought is sweet—a native of the country showing you areas that are overlooked and underappreciated, at least in his neck of the woods. You wonder what it would be like, to sit next to him as he drives along quiet roads, or to try and keep up with his stride as walks you through a park or museum.

The flash of an image crosses your mind—of holding hands while walking along the pavement, of kissing under an awning during heavy rainfall.

“Hey.” Andrew bumps his knee against yours. “We should probably catch up with the group.”

With a heavy sigh, you stand and brush off invisible dirt before following him towards the other end of the building.

❤❤❤

“He won’t shut up about you, you know.”

Melissa’s voice breaks your reverie, pulling your thoughts from the Tecate bottle sitting on the table.

You’re sitting on the patio of a local Mexican restaurant somewhere in Middle America, though you’re not entirely sure where, nor are you certain of today’s date. A bowl of pozole rests in front of you along with a plate of accouterments to add into it. A basket of tortilla chips in the center is nearly empty now as the two of you munch on them between bits of conversation.

“Hm? What?”

“Andrew.” She takes a sip of her margarita before tilting her head. “He brings you up all the time. Like, every other sentence out of his mouth is about you.”

You blink, your pulse jumping at the mere mention of his name.

“Oh. What is he—I mean, like, what kind of stuff is he saying?”

“Just random stuff.” She shrugs before obnoxiously sucking down what remains of her drink, grinning when you give her a flat stare in response. “Stuff he knows about you, I guess? Like, when we were on the bus driving in this morning, he was looking outside and saw that field full of sheep we passed. Then, he told us he had to text you and ask if you saw the sheep, because he knows you love sheep. It was like he would be sad if you didn’t see them.”

“Oh. Well, I don’t see how that’s—”

“And, the other night! We were drinking this terrible red wine that tastes like gasoline, and then he says something about how much he likes a wine you recommended to him. It wasn’t even a red wine! It’s like he just wanted to say your name out loud again.”

A flush warms your cheeks as you process her words.

Andrew…talks about you? Not only that, he talks about you enough that it’s become obvious to the people surrounding him. But…that doesn’t mean anything. Right? If you’re becoming friendly, well, friends talk about friends. It’s not an indication of anything beyond his growing fondness of you and your working relationship.

When you say as much, Melissa smiles in that affectionate, knowing way and shrugs.

“If that’s how you want to interpret it, sure. All I’m saying is, you don’t see the way he looks at you when he thinks nobody’s watching.”

“And how does he look at me, exactly?”

“Like he fucking adores you.”

❤❤❤

The French Quarter of New Orleans is one of your favorite places to visit. You’ve been here several times in the past, either on tour or with your friends for a Mardi Gras celebration. This visit, however, is unique. Special in a way that you can’t—won’t voice.

You’re sitting under the awning at Cafe Du Monde, a steaming mug of coffee and a plate of generously powdered beignets placed in front of you. Across the table, Andrew sips from his own mug of black coffee, humming in pure delight before setting it down.

When Andrew invited you to see the French Quarter, you had assumed that it would be another field trip with the band members who were willing to get up early in spite of their exhaustion (and possible hangover, depending on the day). Upon arriving at the lobby, however, you found him sitting alone on a plush chair, fidgeting with his hands until he realized your presence. He was quick to stand, a genuine smile brightening his face and crinkling his eyes. You tried to ignore the butterflies, tried to ignore the nerves from the mere idea of spending time alone together.

The cafe had been your idea, mostly because you craved fried, sugary dough, and both of you were in desperate need of caffeine at such an asinine hour.

“If I knew how to make these, I’d be in major trouble,” Andrew muses.

“Oh, absolutely,” you nod. “I could eat these for every meal, probably, but my 30 year old body wouldn’t be able to handle that.”

An offhand conversation about donuts, pastries, and sweets eats an hour of your time before either of you have realized, and you decide to vacate the premises before the waiter (who has been giving both of you a hardened stare for the better part of that hour) decides to kick you out to free up the table.

“So,” you say as you follow his lead down the pavement. “To the museum?”

Andrew is excited to show you the Jazz Museum just down the road, especially after confirming that you had never actually been inside during previous visits. It was the first thing he’d suggested as you made your way to the cafe, eyes sparkling with childlike glee. Truly, who were you to say no to such a precious face?

The museum itself is smaller than you anticipated, each hall and room dedicated to art, sculptures, records, and instruments used by some of the greatest artists in the world who paved the way for jazz and its musical offshoots.

Andrew stops in every room to explain a piece of trivia he knows about this person or that performance, or to explain the personal significance of records his parents played when he was young. It’s endearing to watch him talk so excitedly, and you’re impressed by the information he keeps stored away.

“It’s not often I get to talk about this stuff.” He shrugs. “You’d think I’d remember more important things, like deadlines or what fucking time it is.”

You wave a hand as if to dismiss the notion. “As nice as that would be, I think your trivia is far more interesting.”

“Well, thank you,” he replies meekly, as though he hadn’t expected a compliment of all things. “It’s nice to have someone who seems…interested.”

There’s a pause as he seems to retreat into himself, a small frown forming as his brows furrow. It lasts for only a moment before he shakes his head and looks at you again, his smile looking much more apprehensive this time.

“Do you want to go down to the river with me?”

The sun is shining as you meander along the river walk, iced coffee in hand and sunglasses perched on your nose. The walk itself isn’t overcrowded as the city awaits its true tourist season in the form of Mardi Gras.

A few people recognize Andrew, stop him for a chat that he seems reluctant to engage in. Photos are snapped, but he remains mostly unsmiling save for the teen girl who asks him what his favorite Mavis Staples song is before declaring that hers is “Son of a Preacher Man,” which Andrew lauds as a wonderful choice.

“Are you okay?” You ask the question tentatively as you come to a stop and lean against the railing that separates you from the river.

Andrew sighs and shrugs despondently. “Yeah, I just…I have a call with Caroline later, and she won’t tell me what it’s about. Which is…never a good sign.”

“Oh.” You frown and reach up to rest a hand on his shoulder.

He turns his head quickly, eyes flicking down to where your hand rests before looking up to meet your gaze.

“I’m sorry for being so preoccupied.”

You shake your head. “You have nothing to apologize for. Shit, I’d feel the same way if I had to talk to her. Uh, no offense.”

The corner of his mouth curves in a half-smile as he replies, “No, I get it. She’s…well, she sure is Caroline. I’ll give her that.”

There’s a pause as you deliberate whether you should pry, whether he would even want to share the intimate details of his newfound apprehension towards his manager. The dislike from others is palpable, especially from Alex. Though you’ve never witnessed it, you’re well aware that a few confrontations with her have left Alex wondering if continuing with this job is even worth it. (It’s a question that Andrew isn’t aware of, divulged to you by Larissa who is saddened by such a development.)

Before you can ask a follow-up question, an alarm goes off on your phone—the alarm you set earlier today to remind both of you when it’s time to head back to the venue.

“Thank you for today,” you say upon arriving back at the bus lot after a quiet walk back. Crew members are already zipping around to prepare for their own call times while the band gets ready for sound check.

“Of course. Thank you for coming with me. I…I really enjoyed—I mean, it was nice to just…be there. With you.”

The words strike your heart as they tumble from his mouth, your pulse quickening as he awkwardly shifts his weight and glances over his shoulder.

“I…feel the same. It was nice that it was just, y’know. The two of us.”

In a moment of levity, Andrew gives you the most sincere smile you’ve seen in the last hour, then chirps, “Look at us. Burying the hatchet.”

You can’t help but laugh and roll your eyes. “I mean, usually people don’t acknowledge it out loud, but…yeah. It’s nice. I, uh…yeah.”

Andrew pauses as though waiting for something more, but you stay quiet and turn your gaze towards the ground as a blush makes blood rush in your ears.

“Well, I’ve got to…” He shakes his phone at you and nods his head in the opposite direction.

“Right, sorry! You go on ahead, and, uh—good luck with the call. I need to gather my crew and figure out what’s going on, anyway. But, if you’re not at sound check by three, I’m hunting you down and dragging you to that stage.”

This pulls a small laugh from him as he begins walking backwards towards the dressing rooms. “Duly noted. I’ll see you later.” 

❤❤❤

You’re not sure why, but something in Andrew’s demeanor shifts drastically.

Despite the check-ins, the light banter, and the moments of levity you’ve shared over the past few months, Andrew is quiet. Despondent. Avoidant once more as his goodwill seemingly slips through your fingers. You’re left puzzled and embarrassed by the sadness that echoes within you, unsure of what you’ve done to earn the cold shoulder again when you thought things were going well.

“I don’t know what’s crawled up his ass and died, but I’m super fucking over it,” you tell Autumn over coffee one morning after she confronts you about your own dour mood.

Autumn frowns as she stirs her rapidly cooling tea idly. There’s a tension in her own demeanor that tells you she knows something, but you’re hesitant to shake her down for information she’s not freely sharing.

After a few beats of silence, she sighs and lets her spoon clink against the side of the mug as she sits back and folds her arms over her chest.

“I may know why.”

You raise your brows in anticipation. “Did something happen?”

“More like something is going to happen. I heard that a few of our guys are getting cut for the 2024 leg of the tour. More than a few, actually.”

Your blood feels like ice in your veins, your hackles raising at her words. “What?”

“It’s not confirmed, but…I don’t know. Given how much management has scaled back recently, I wouldn’t be surprised. More shows, less staff. For whatever fucking sense that makes.”

You blink at her, head tilted in confusion as upset bubbles up within you.

“They’re going to make staff cuts? What, are we just supposed to make due with a skeleton crew for one of the biggest fucking musicians in the world right now? These are arena shows, Autumn!”

“Baby, you’re preaching to the choir on this one. I don’t understand it, either, but I don’t think management will know what they’ve done until shit hits the fan at that first show.”

How could a decision like this be made without even consulting you as the stage manager? The crew is an invaluable part of this process, and cutting 25% of your team is like chopping at them at the knees while simultaneously crippling the remaining staff by forcing them to work even harder for the same amount of pay—or, at least, that’s what you assume given all of management’s other cuts were replaced by absolutely nothing.

A thought crosses your mind, one that has you pulling out your phone to double-check the date. It’s been nearly a week since your outing with Andrew in New Orleans, nearly a week of this complete regression in agreeableness until you’ve found yourself back at square one.

Nearly a week since his dreaded phone call with Caroline.

Understanding hits you all at once—this is what Caroline wanted to discuss with him. This is why he’s flipped on you again. To keep you at a distance. To keep himself safe from delivering terrible news to you directly.

“Motherfucker,” you yell, banging your fists on the table before standing up abruptly.

“Wait, don’t—where are you going?!” Autumn shouts after you as you stomp down the stairs of the bus before slamming the door shut behind you.

A fist against the metal of the bus door alerts the entire band of your presence, and Rory opens it with a puzzled, nervous look. The expression on your face must tell him everything he needs to know as he swallows and glances nervously towards whoever might be sitting in the front lounge with him.

“Where is he?”

“Who do you—?”

“Andrew,” you answer brusquely. “Where the fuck is he?”

“He’s…” Rory leans back again and says, “Andrew. It’s for you.”

He’s quick to scurry away as Andrew slowly steps down and idles in the doorway, gaze carefully averted from yours as he grumbles, “What do you want?”

Anger grips your throat as you manage to spit out, “We need to talk. Now.”

“Look, I don’t have time for—”

You cut him off with a tense wave of your hand. “I wasn’t. Fucking. Asking.”

This is enough to get him out of the bus, though he keeps a reasonable distance from you as you try to keep this conversation—this fight—out of earshot from everyone else.

You come upon an empty portion of the parking lot, illuminated in the warm light of a dying street lamp. The buses are a reasonable distance away now, and you stop abruptly to round on him with a finger pointed at him accusingly.

“You. Start talking. Now.”

Andrew blinks, hands immediately going into his pockets as his shoulders come up to his ears.

Tense, short, he asks, “What is this about?”

“You know damn well what this is about.”

It’s maddening when he goes quiet, looks up at the stars that are visible despite the lights of the city polluting the sky. His hesitation is palpable as he shifts his weight from one foot to the other while chewing his lower lip. The idea that he might even consider playing dumb with you, that he might try to lie to your face already has you choking back tears.

“Don’t you dare try to run away from this, Andrew,” you say tightly. “Don’t you fucking dare.”

Exasperation is evident in his posture, in his face as his expression twists.

“Jesus Christ, what do you want from me?” he asks, his voice going much louder than you’ve ever heard before.

It sets you on edge, your fingers twitching until you curl your hands into fists at your side. The heat of rage quickly spirals into despair as a gaping maw opens in your chest.

Fuck, you can’t do this now, can’t break down in front of the man who has only seen you as his adversary for the better part of six months—who fucking conned you into thinking he actually cared for even a moment.

You aggressively scrub at the tears that well in your eyes and turn your back to him as you decide where you can run off to before you start fully sobbing.

“Why can’t you just be fucking honest?” you ask, laughing harshly, indignantly. “Fuck me, why can’t you—”

It’s too late to seek sanctuary now as a lump rises in your throat, hot tears spilling down your cheeks as you crumple onto the pavement.

“I…” Andrew’s voice dies in his throat, concern etched into his expression when you manage a glance at him.

With another exasperated laugh, you reply, “Fuck me. You’re cut from the same cloth as every other wealthy, privileged white man I’ve ever met. The star of the show, here to waste my fucking time by approving every new show your bitch of a manager wants to add despite knowing damn well that she’s going to cut a quarter of my fucking team next year.”

An inferno rages inside of you as his face drops, as he looks to his shoes to hide his guilty expression—an answer to your unasked question: Did you know?

“Jesus fucking Christ, Andrew, how long were you going to wait to spring that shit on me? Or, were you going to let Caroline tell me over a fucking Zoom call because you’re too much of a coward to say it to my face?”

Muffled sobs break the silence between you as you squeeze your eyes shut and try to regain some level of composure. A hand at your shoulder startles you. You spring up and quickly shuffle back from him as he stares at you, hand still hovering over where you were just sitting.

“Don’t fucking touch me.”

You expect anger. You expect a fight.

You don’t expect red, watery eyes as he sucks in a deep breath and looks towards the ground.

“Oh, did I strike a nerve?” you spit, rage eclipsing any shred of compassion or pity you have.

“Oh, fuck you,” Andrew snaps. “You don’t get to sit on your fucking high horse when you’ve done nothing but antagonize me from the start!”

“Me? Oh, that’s rich. All I’ve done is try to get you to do your fucking job on time, you twat!”

He scoffs and rolls his eyes, crossing his arms over his chest as he tilts his head at you. “Right, and the best way to do that is by shouting at me and being the most passive-aggressive geebag I’ve ever fucking met.”

“Well, maybe if every word out of your mouth wasn’t announcing another fucking show, or another fucking cut that your shitty manager is making just to pad out her own pockets—and, by proxy, your fucking pockets.

“I mean, Jesus, Andrew. Do you not see the fucking optics here? Do you not see how all of this lands squarely on you in the eyes of every fucking person here? I won’t shield you from the valid criticisms over management’s choices—and management includes you, Boss Man.”

Andrew snorts ruefully and shakes his head. “The band knows they can talk to me, and the crew knows they’re more than welcome to voice their concerns. You don’t have to shield me from shit.”

“My God, you really don’t get it, do you? You look like the fucking asshole here, Andrew. You. The crew doesn’t know that layoffs are coming, so of course they’d fucking trust you! Believe me, if Caroline were here right now, I’d be ripping into her ass just as hard for being so fucking shady!”

You throw your hands in the air with a frustrated huff.

“But, fuck me, right? What the fuck do I know about this business outside of the twelve years I’ve been doing this fucking job? What do I know about predatory, money-grabbing, narcissistic managers with no regard for the people who suffer beneath them? But, go on ahead and release another vinyl pressing of everything you left on the cutting room floor, Andrew. Go ahead, so that you and her can make a few more bucks off the backs of your fucking fans and that single you wish you’d never released.”

Andrew blanches, mouth opening and closing like a fish gasping for air.

A smug sense of satisfaction fills you as he’s left scrambling for a response. Good. He knows you’re right, knows he can’t fight back against anything when the truth is plain as day—the good will of his sophomore album and tour has evaporated with every additional stadium he’s approved, with every cut to catering, with every rollback of amenities provided in tours past, with every brushed off concern from the mouths of people he calls friends.

Your victory is short-lived as his eyes go glassy once more; a stray tear slips free and rolls down his cheek before he roughly wipes it away with the sleeve of his jacket. Your smugness quickly dissolves into guilt as he gives you a curt nod before turning to walk away.

“Fuck…” you whisper to yourself before exhaling sharply and shouting after him, “Andrew, wait!”

He stops but doesn’t turn to look at you as you jog the distance he’s covered with his impossible stride.

“Did you have something else you wanted to say?” His voice is flat, his shoulders still tense and raised to his ears.

After a beat, he still doesn’t look at you, and you sigh as you run a hand through your hair.

“Look, I’m—I’m sorry. I’m just fucking blindsided by all of this, and I—”

Andrew whirls around on you so quickly that you stumble back in surprise. You’ve never seen him so angry, tears freely flowing now as he jabs a finger in your direction.

“Do you think I fucking wanted this? Do you truly, sincerely believe that I’m out to fuck everyone over for my own personal agenda? Of course I’m aware of the optics, but that doesn’t mean a fucking thing when you’re locked into a long-term contract with the ring leader of this entire fucking circus.”

“And, what?” you spit. “You can’t just buy your way out of it?”

There’s a long pause as Andrew levels your stare, his eyes searching your face as he processes your question. Finally, he sighs defeatedly and scrubs at his face with his hands.

“It’s not that simple! Because it’s not just her. It’s the label. It’s the rights to my music. It’s—it’s all of it. Believe me, it’s not for lack of trying. I’ve reached out to lawyers, and there’s…there’s nothing. No loopholes. No gaps. Iron-fucking-clad. My soul belongs to this woman through the next two years, and she’s prepared to wring me dry through the final day.”

Shit. You hadn’t really thought about it from that angle. Despite how long you’ve existed in the music world, talent contracts have never mattered much to you. As long as you’re getting paid fairly, you really can’t be fucked to care about the outrageous salaries of world-famous musicians, nor the percentage their managers receive.

“Even if I could break it…I have to think about my parents. I want to make sure they’re taken care of when—” Andrew looks up at the night sky as he takes a deep breath, voice cracking lightly as he continues, “When I’m not around to help. When my brother’s not around to help. I can’t just walk away.”

When he looks at you again, his brows furrow once more, as though he’s just remembered he’s supposed to be upset with you.

“Andrew…” You take a step closer to him. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

He holds up a hand to cut you off, shaking his head with a soft sniffle. “Yes, you did. Whatever it is you’re going to say, you absolutely did mean to. And you have. So…well done, I suppose.”

It shatters your heart, the guilt of hurting him swallowing you whole. Because you had meant it, meant to hurt him with your barbed words in an effort to get him to open his eyes.

But, the truth is so much messier, bound by legal jargon and the duty of a loving son. As much as Andrew wears his heart on his sleeve, you’re still surprised by the little things that slip through his veneer, the things meant to stay within his own mind, body, and soul regardless of the pain.

“I…” What can you even say? What can you even do except apologize and hope the man you’ve once disliked based on assumptions and childish principles will forgive you for this transgression.

“It’s an early day tomorrow,” he says hollowly. “You should get some sleep. Goodnight.”

“Please…” The word comes out hoarse and broken as you try to think of anything to say to fix this.

Tears well up as he turns his back to you again and heads off towards the fleet of buses parked across the lot. You don’t call after him, nor shout any further apologies. The lump in your throat is too painful to swallow down.

Seated on the pavement, you draw your knees up and hug them tightly before burying your face into the sleeves of your hoodie and letting out a choked sob.

❤❤❤

The next morning, you wake up feeling like you got hit and backed over by a city bus. Your jaw aches from the tension of clenching the whole night, your head pounding from a teary hangover. Leftover makeup coats your puffy, reddened eyes. Your throat screams for ice cold water, and you figure it’s probably best to chase a handful of ibuprofen with a full glass before facing the day.

“Jesus, what happened to you?” Autumn’s tone is light in comparison to her worried expression as she brings a hand up to cup your chin. She tilts your head from one side to the other, inspecting the remnants of your breakdown in search of foul play.

You know better than to lie to Autumn’s face, and you can’t muster the energy to care about obscuring the truth of the matter.

“I got into it with Andrew last night,” you sigh. “I said some really mean, hurtful shit, and now he hates me even more than he already did.” 

Autumn scoffs as she fills an electric kettle with water for her morning tea.

“You think that man hates you? I don’t think he’s capable of hating anyone outside of politicians and cops.”

“No, I know he hates me. Like, properly hates me now that I’ve insulted him directly to his face.”

“Oh, God.” Autumn turns to you with a wary look. “What did you say?”

As you recount the events of the previous night, Autumn’s face goes from surprise, to concern, to pity. You wish that she wouldn’t turn that look on you when you’re already feeling small and defeated, but you know she means well, that her expression comes from a place of empathy and concern.

She stops what she’s doing and sits beside you before wrapping her arms around you in a tight hug. It feels nice, comforting, and you bite your quivering lower lip as you blink back tears.

“Oh, sugar…listen to me, okay? You are not a terrible person for feeling frustrated. You lashed out at Andrew because of the news about the staff cuts, and while it makes sense, it doesn’t make it right.”

“I know.” You wince as your whispered voice cracks.

“I think you should talk to him and properly apologize. Don’t ambush him. Just ask if he’s willing to talk and hear you out.”

You sigh as you rest your head on Autumn’s shoulder. “What if he won’t?”

A pause. “He will,” she replies quietly. “I know he will.”

After a cup of coffee and an ice cube rubbed against your swollen eyes, you decide to forgo makeup entirely. A hoodie drawn over your head and a pair of baggy sweatpants will be your self-loathing uniform for the day. If anyone has any shitty comments to make, you’re primed and ready to jump down their throat.

A few members of the crew hop back onto the bus with bags of breakfast sandwiches, and the smell of eggs and sausage makes you nauseous. With a disgusted face, you mumble, “I’m going for a walk,” before pushing yourself from your seat and trudging down the steps.

It’s an overcast day, but the clouds don’t look too angry. You hope that rainfall won’t be an issue, making a mental note to keep an eye on the forecast for the evening. A glance at your phone tells you that it’s far too early to bother the ladies and Larissa for company, so you shove your hands into your pockets and set off to walk the perimeter of the venue lot’s fencing.

As you walk, gravel crunches softly behind you—footsteps that are out of sync with your stride. You spin around and are startled to find Andrew approaching, a baseball cap affixed to his head and kept in place by a haphazardly thrown up bun sticking out the back. He’s in his traditional garb—a t-shirt covered by a navy blue mechanics jacket, dark trousers, and the same white Converse that probably need a few cycles in the washing machine to look even remotely clean again.

The bags under his eyes seem darker, more pronounced. He doesn’t smile at you, but he doesn’t look ready to shout abuse at you, either. He mostly looks…sad. Apprehensive. Exhausted.

“Hey,” you say lamely, unsure of how to address him after yesterday’s argument.

“Hey,” he says flatly.

There’s a pause as he hesitates, shifting his weight from one foot to the other as he avoids your befuddled stare.

“Did you…need something, or…?” The question is asked in earnest, your heart pounding wildly in your chest as you wait for his next response.

Finally, he sighs and shrugs his shoulders. “There’s a coffee place nearby that I wanted to check out. You should come with me. So we can talk.”

Anxiety washes over you like a crashing wave, buzzing in your fingertips as you stretch your hands against the feeling.

“Right, um…if this is your way of firing me, I’d rather you just do it now. No sense in drawing it out.”

Andrew frowns, puzzled. “Fire you? No, no, no, that’s not—I’m not firing you. Jesus, I think the entire tour would fall apart if you weren’t here.”

It’s surprisingly kind of him to say, though, you don’t necessarily agree. There are a million other prospective stage managers who’d swoop in and probably do a far better job of handling things. Managers who aren’t jaded and won’t antagonize the talent.

“I wanted to talk about yesterday,” he says quietly. “I…wanted to apologize for being…reactive? Or, defensive, rather.”

You blink.

Andrew is apologizing to you?

As other crew members begin to spill out of their respective buses, you nod your head in the opposite direction and ask, “Do you know which way the shop is?”

The coffee shop itself isn’t far, and it’s quiet and relatively empty given that it’s a Sunday. A few guys from the lighting crew are lined up at the counter for their multiple morning espresso shots that will carry them to their afternoon, pre-show energy drinks. They greet you with tired mumbles and little waves, uncaring that the two of you are here together and alone.

Andrew is kind enough to pay for your coffee, and you take a seat at a table in the furthest corner of the room.

“So…” you start as you play with the off-white diner mug in your hands.

“So…” he echoes, folding his hands on the table as he watches you. “About yesterday—”

“Andrew, I’m so sorry,” you interrupt quickly. “I don’t understand why you feel compelled to apologize to me when you were right. I meant to hurt you, and I did. And, I’m so fucking sorry for doing that. I should have just walked away, or cut the conversation short so we could both cool down. That’s on me, and if you hate me after all of that, I understand and absolutely deserve it.”

You suck in a deep breath before bringing the mug up to your lips to sip your too-hot drink.

Andrew is quiet as he mulls over your apology. His silence makes you squirm, so you follow up your statement with, “You are in no way obligated to accept my apology or like me in any capacity, by the way. I just…I was up all night feeling absolutely awful about how I left everything, but it seemed wrong to text you about it.”

After a few more beats of silence, Andrew nods as he plays with his own mug. It looks so much smaller in his massive hands, and you briefly imagine those hands circling your wrists, pinning them above your head—

You shake the thought away as your face begins to burn. Not the time, not the place, and certainly not the man to continue lusting over.

“I appreciate your apology,” he says finally. “I wanted to apologize, too. What you said was hurtful, but…I mean, there’s merit to it all, yeah? I am considered the boss despite not feeling like one, and I certainly don’t want to be one. But, that doesn’t absolve me of responsibility, and I do have a responsibility towards everyone who works on this tour.”

You didn’t expect him to agree with you, and you certainly didn’t expect him to seem so guilty for not upholding his crew the way he should. Perhaps he’s never been called on it so forthrightly, or perhaps it comes off as a more serious issue when not coming from the mouth of a friend—namely, Alex, who has also come to you to commiserate about some of the choices that have been nothing but a detriment to the band’s mental health.

“Also…you were right. I haven’t…I don’t think I considered how comfortable I’ve been with…I don’t know. Money? Recognition? Not that I want to be recognized, but…”

“But the perks of recognition outweigh the negatives?”

Andrew glances up, then sighs. “Sometimes, yeah. I hadn’t really thought about the privilege of it all. Or, I had, sort of, but I didn’t give it much thought until you ripped into me.”

You nod in reply. “I mean, it’s been what? Ten years? It makes sense why you would grow accustomed to it. It makes sense that your brain would put on the blinders to the cognitive dissonance of it all. Doesn’t make you a bad person. It just makes you human.”

Andrew’s mouth lifts in a half-smile. “You don’t have to do that.”

You blink. “Do what?”

“Make excuses for me. Protect me.”

“I am not making excuses for you. I brought all of this shit up in a massive rage last night, and you still took it to heart.”

Andrew had actually thought about what you said instead of stewing in the anger of being called out. He could have remained upset and defensive over your words, but he chose instead to consider your point of view. Something about that makes your chest feel warm.

“Hard not to when all of the things you said have been anxieties of mine for a long time.”

“What do you mean?”

He turns his head to look out the window towards the road. “This…has become so much bigger than I ever thought it would. I never wanted to become a household name or face. I just wanted to put my music out there to see what would happen. But, I didn’t want all of this.”

This—the celebrity of it all. The parties, the events, the boozing and schmoozing required of any star with influence. You’ve seen him on those nights as he staggers back into the hotel lobby looking drunk, haggard, and absolutely miserable.

Despite your ill feelings towards the man at the beginning, you don’t wish this kind of exhausting lifestyle on him. As a fellow introvert and a stage manager, you can empathize with the anxiety of having to be forward-facing and on when you’re already on the verge of collapse.

“If I seem ungrateful for the position I’m in, I’m not trying to be. I’ve become so disillusioned with all of this that I’ve been…I don’t know, checking out when I don’t have to think, I suppose?”

It would explain the curtness, the increased consumption of weed and alcohol where he can, the withdrawn nature of his personality that he’s insisted is just a symptom of his age.

“But, again, not wanting to be in this circumstance doesn’t change anything. I’m still responsible for what happens here, and you were right. The optics don’t look great when I’m not fighting for my fucking team.”

You’re unsure how to respond as he stirs his black coffee with a spoon, careful not to hit the walls of the mug.

“What do you need from me, then?” He looks up, confused. “I mean, how can I help you with all of this?”

“I…I don’t think there’s anything that you can do. I just appreciate that you said something at all so I could get my head out of my arse long enough to realize how fucked it’s all been.”

You crack a smile at this, your heart skipping when he smiles back. Then, his smile falls again, his brows furrowing once more as he stares down at his drink and fidgets with his hands.

“I don’t know if…I mean, this is going to sound really fucking stupid, so please bear with me. You’ve shown more fortitude in the last few months than I have in the last few…” He checks his watch. “Years? You’re the only person in my life right now willing to slap me across the face—figuratively, of course—but, you’re the only person who I can trust to be completely honest with me right now. And, if the biggest problem in my life is being shouted at by a gorgeous lass with a hot temper, then I consider myself extremely lucky.”

Oh. That’s…

Huh.

You blink at him, searching his face for any semblance of insincerity.

“Oh, uh…thanks—thank you. That’s…you’re very kind.”

Andrew stares as though he expects something more, but you’re not sure how to respond. It’s a nice thing to say, certainly. Is this his way of extending another olive branch? Compliments have always made you mildly uncomfortable, but is this his way of working himself back into your good graces?

After a few more seconds of tense silence, Andrew finally knocks on the table once and nods.

“Right, well…we should probably get back then. Long day ahead, and all that.” He stands abruptly, unfinished coffee splashing over the rim of his mug as the table shakes.

“Wait, what—?”

“Thanks for agreeing to talk with me. I appreciate it.”

As he speed walks away from the table, you scramble to grab your things before popping up and rushing after him. His long legs have carried him much further than you anticipated, and you find yourself once again having to jog to catch up with him.

“Andrew, what the fuck?” You round him as you shout, forcing him to stop in his tracks before he collides with you.

“What?” His tone betrays nothing, but exasperation is clear in his expression.

You scoff and laugh incredulously. “Oh no, no, no. You’re not going to weasel your way out of this. What the fuck was that just now?”

Andrew blinks, clearly weighing the pros and cons of lying about whatever is running through his head.

“It’s…almost call time…for a media thing...”

It’s a weak excuse, but you can’t help the startled laugh that escapes you as you ask, “Oh? And when did you suddenly start caring about being on time for literally anything?”

The corner of his mouth lifts just slightly. “Well, a very pretty and very confrontational woman has torn me apart about it multiple times now, you see...”

You can feel the heat of a blush that you attempt to downplay with a cheeky shrug. 

“Hm. She sounds smart. And hot. You should listen to her more often.”

The sound of Andrew’s chuckle makes your heart flutter. You swallow down the delight of making him laugh, press your lips together to hide the smile that wants to break free.

“I probably should, yeah. I’m honestly terrified of what might happen if I don’t.”

A glance at your watch makes you frown, and you clap at Andrew like he’s an animal in need of shepherding. “Oh, shit, it’s—fuck’s sake, go, go, go, you’ve got somewhere to be!”

Instead of the usual annoyed response to your rushing, Andrew merely chuckles again and throws his hands up in acquiescence.

“All right, fine! Jesus, I’m going.”

With a short wave and a little smile, he turns on his heel and rushes back into the venue, and you’re fairly certain you’ve never seen him rush anywhere so quickly, especially at your behest.

You’re floored by his response. There’s a part of you that wonders if his compliments were meant to be taken more…

Well, no. That’s just wishful thinking on your part. The idea of him having any inkling of affection towards you is laughable. This was a one-off, a way to relieve some of the tension from last night’s argument with softened language and compliments of questionable sincerity.

Still…it was nice to hear him laugh. Butterflies in your stomach remind you that, despite his kindness, you’re not meant to feel things for the fucking main act of anything, let alone a world-famous musician.

The rumor mill on tour is always churning out something, and rumors about the stage manager making heart eyes at Andrew is the last thing that you need right now. Jesus, if Caroline caught wind of it, you’d be out on your ass in a second.

It’s best to let sleeping dogs lie, let the crush run its course. Then, you two will part ways, unlikely to ever see each other again. The thought is painful, but it’s the only way you’ll manage to survive the rest of this tour—keep your head down and your mouth shut.

❤❤❤

The next hotel night is a much-needed break from the confines of a bunk and the crew crammed into a moving tin can like a bunch of sardines.

Autumn comes up to your room to watch re-runs of NCIS on cable television while sharing a bottle of the sweetest wine you’ve ever had, occasionally making inappropriate comments about Mark Harmon before muttering, “If he wasn’t a fucking Republican…”

The rest of the crew are all scattered about, some in their hotel rooms while others go out for dinner, drinks, and a bit of the Seattle nightlife. (Whatever that entails.)

Larissa texted you an invitation to dinner, but you feel you’re better off not spending as much time around Andrew. Despite being friendly once again, you can’t shake the unease of your more romantic desires—emotional and physical.

You don’t talk about it with Autumn, and she hasn’t pried, thankfully. She’s already dealt with enough of your bullshit with Andrew, she certainly doesn’t need the intimate details of your daydreams and late-night fantasies.

You’re already two generously poured glasses deep when Autumn decides to turn in for the evening. She shuffles off to her room, laughing to herself as she mentions something about calling her sister, April.

Somewhere on the nightstand, your phone buzzes with a text. You giggle as you toss yourself onto the mattress and roll to the other side to grab it from the charger.

The screen flashes Andrew’s name, and your heart stutters as you read his message.

Andrew Can I see you?

Andrew Please?

What could he possibly want? Especially right now? Isn’t he supposed to be out to dinner? A part of you worries that maybe something happened, either to him or to another band member, but that isn’t your jurisdiction. That’s the tour manager’s problem. Still, you respond fervently in concern.

You What happened? Is something wrong??

The chat bubble pops up immediately, as though he’d been waiting for your reply.

Andrew I just need to see you

You blink, puzzled. At least nobody’s dead, you suppose. But what does Andrew want?

You Why? You’re worrying me now.

Andrew Please don’t make me beg

Oh.

That’s…that can’t be a coincidence. It’s probably the wine that has you reading into things that aren’t there. Though, you hear Melissa’s voice somewhere in the back of your mind, her words playing on a loop as you stare at the screen.

Like he fucking adores you.

It is almost certainly the wine that has you feeling bold enough to text back. You nod to yourself in reassurance before shakily typing out a response.

You What if I want you to beg?

You’re biting at your fingernails as you watch the chat bubble appear and disappear in varying intervals. Anxiety churns in your gut, your brain screaming at you to apologize, to blame the wine for a text that was far too inappropriate for the circumstances. Your thumbs hover over the keyboard as your phone buzzes again.

Andrew I’m coming over

“Oh, shit.” The words slip from your mouth as you throw the phone onto the bed like the damn thing has scalded you.

What have you done? What is he going to say? Sure, he may not have fired you for tearing into him, but this? Suggestive flirting? That’s a whole other line to cross, especially when you’ve been trying to shove away your feelings otherwise.

You’re pacing the length of your room as you try to come up with an apology that covers such an egregious overstep of boundaries when you hear a soft knock at the door. A nervous swallow feels like knives down your throat, and you timidly approach before turning the knob and opening the door.

As expected, Andrew is there, though he looks far more disheveled than usual. His hair is thrown up in the half-up, half-down style that Joy taught him, though tendrils have come loose and fall around his face. He’s wearing an outfit normally reserved for the stage—the dark denim combo with a black button-up shirt beneath.

“Hey,” you greet as casually as you can. “What’s up?”

Andrew tilts his head to one side, studying you for a moment before asking quietly, “May I come in?”

“Uh, yeah, of course,” you mumble as you step aside to let him into the room before closing the door softly behind him.

You whirl around and press your back against the door, eyeing him as he glances around the room.

Before you can form a reasonable question, he looks back at you and holds both hands up as he explains, “Before I launch into my—I mean, full disclosure: I’ve had three beers in the last hour and some.”

Ah, you think to yourself. Liquid courage.

In vino veritas.

“Okay,” you say slowly. “Um…also for the sake of disclosure, I’ve had a few glasses of wine. If that matters.”

Andrew nods, seeming almost relieved that you’re also not fully sober for this—whatever this is.

“Right, okay. Good. I mean, not good, like—” He stops himself mid-sentence and closes his eyes before taking a deep breath and clapping his hands together. “Okay, where do I even start with this?”

You blink, anxiety creeping along your spine and prickling your skin.

“Andrew, what is this about?”

When he opens his eyes again, you can make out the light pink tinge that colors the whites of his eyes along with a fierce flush that brightens his pale skin.

“I think you know exactly what this is about.”

You shake your head. “I don’t think...”

There’s a pause as he averts his gaze to the floor, brows furrowing in thought. His silence feels like it stretches for a lifetime as you await whatever it is he’s about to drop on you.

Finally, he takes a breath. “The other night, when we had that fight…you wanted me to be honest with you when I wasn’t. I know it’s unfair, but I’m going to ask the same from you now.”

“Andrew…”

“Please,” he pleads.

After a beat, you nod and whisper, “Of course.”

“Promise me.”

“Yes, okay, fine. I promise I will be honest with you.”

“Right, good. Grand. Okay.” He smooths an agitated hand over his hair. “I suppose there’s no point in mincing words. Tell me if I’m mistaken, or misunderstanding, or—shit, tell me to fuck off if necessary.”

You chew on your lower lip and nod tightly.

“There’s…I mean, there’s something here, right? Because, I don’t think I’m going mad, and I don’t think you would have responded to my text the way you did if…I mean, stranger things have happened, but this?” He holds up his phone and points at your last text. “This doesn’t feel like a coincidence.”

A million thoughts run through your head at once. You consider lying to him, consider telling him that it’s merely a throwaway joke to reference that conversation from months ago. But, he asked for honesty, and honesty he shall receive…for better or for worse.

“It’s…it’s not. A coincidence, I mean.”

Andrew’s face stays carefully neutral as he takes a step forward, a step closer to where you’re still pressed against the door.

“You hated me until you didn’t. What changed?” he asks.

There’s a part of you that wants to shoot the question right back at him in a deflection of your answer, but you bite back the words before they can escape.

Instead, you’re honest.

“You paid attention,” you say meekly. When he tilts his head in confusion, you continue, “You knew I hadn’t eaten anything that day. I don’t know how you knew, but you did. You gave me a stupid protein bar and scolded me for not eating, and I…fuck. I thought I could just ignore it until all of this was over.”

“Ignore what?”

“Ignore you. Ignore my feelings.”

Andrew goes quiet as he considers your answer, but the silence makes you nervous. This time, you can’t bite your tongue, can’t hold back as you parrot his question.

“Quid pro quo, Andrew. Same question. What changed?”

He shakes his head. “That night early on…when you left the venue early. I don’t know how you got back to the hotel, exactly, but…you were gone, and nobody knew where you went…I asked around, but nobody had heard from you.”

He trails off, as though nervous to continue the story and vocalize this shared feeling, afraid of solidifying it, of making it whole and real in the space between you.

“So, you came to my door to check on me,” you say quietly. “I was awful to you that night.”

For the first time this evening, Andrew cracks a smile that he hides by looking down at his feet.

“Well, I’d been awful to you up to that point, as well. And after, probably.”

The corner of your mouth lifts in a half-smile, and you shrug. “A little bit, yeah.”

Andrew takes another step closer, slowly closing the distance between you. Your face burns with a blush that spreads over your chest and to the tips of your ears as he hovers over you, one hand coming to rest on the doorframe, right beside your head.

“You are the most stubborn, willful man I’ve ever met,” you muse.

“And you are the most headstrong, obstinate woman I’ve ever met,” he responds with a smile.

You hum in amusement, unable to maintain his gaze. Just as you’re running through a rolodex of quips and replies that might be appropriate in the most inappropriate of situations, a gentle hand cups your face and pulls your focus back to him.

Tension has you rooted to the spot. His hand is still there, warm and surprisingly soft against your skin. You slowly let out the breath you’ve been holding in an attempt to calm your nerves.

Carefully, you reach up to place a featherlight hand on his chest.

“This is my favorite outfit of yours, the Man in Black look…” you murmur.

He raises an eyebrow in response. “Oh?”

“Mmhm,” you hum, letting your fingers brush against the fabric of his shirt as it travels downward.

Your fingers stop just short of the silver belt buckle that shines even in the low lighting of the room. Your heart is pounding in your chest, a cold sweat beginning to develop along your hairline as anxiety grips your throat. The sound of Andrew’s responding chuckle in your ear is both comforting and titillating as you lay your proverbial cards on the table.

After a few seconds of silence, he looks up towards the ceiling and sighs before looking back at you with a wry smile.

“May I kiss you? Or, are you going to make me beg?”

You’re not sure how you’re still coherent or standing when all of your blood seems to have rushed to your face or between your legs.

All sense of smug coolness evaporates as you nod frantically and whisper, “Please,” in response.

The first brush of his lips against yours is tentative, restrained. You can smell the hops on his breath, the earthy scent of his cologne, the remnants of smoke from cigarettes he’ll regret come morning.

When he pulls away, you’re left leaning back against the door, breathing shallowly as you swallow down your excited nerves.

“Are you sure you want this?” he breathes, searching for any shred of regret or apprehension in your expression despite everything you’ve just said to the contrary. Still, it’s sweet of him to ask no matter how moot the question is in this circumstance.

Your response comes in the form of another kiss, messier and more frantic this time as you throw your arms around his neck to keep him close. The hand by your head has slipped down to rest on your hips, fingers digging into your skin but not daring to move any further.

Kisses to your neck are punctuated with nibbles that make you squirm in his grip while attempting to swallow down the whimpers and whines that inevitably escape you.

You’re both in your 30s and far too old to be sporting hickies in places that can’t be covered, but the feeling of his teeth grazing your skin, the mere idea of being marked so publicly as his makes you not care quite as much about judgement.

With a huffed laugh and panting breaths, you press gently against his chest while murmuring, “Bed.”

This pulls a genuine laugh from him, and he shakes his head as he smiles down at you.

“My God, you’re demanding even now? I’m going to have my hands full with you, aren’t I?”

The question is startling—an implicit promise that this isn’t just a hook-up or a one night situation. Not that you had expected so, but the confirmation of his own excitement over such a prospect warms your heart.

“You say that like I haven’t been a pain in your ass from day one.”

Andrew shrugs, brings his hand up to cup your face again. “Well, yeah…but this is different.”

“How exactly is it different?” you snort.

“I get to kiss you now which makes up for your bratty attitude. For the most part, anyway.”

The word is a sucker punch, knocking the wind out of you as heat pools low in your belly. It seems your silence speaks volumes as his expression changes from jokingly irritated to slyly amused.

“Oh? Suddenly, you have nothing to say?”

With a lopsided grin and a blush, you reply, “I have plenty to say. You, of all people, should know that.”

You slip away from the door with your grip on his jacket sleeve, lightly tugging him along as you slowly walk backwards towards the bed. Your hold on him keeps you upright even as you move to push the denim from his shoulders in a bid to get it off. Thankfully, he takes the hint as he pulls it off and tosses it gently to the ground. 

“I’m well aware, yes,” he laughs. “Fortunately for you, I happen to like bratty women.”

There’s that word again, the one that makes your pulse jump and knees wobble. Despite your fiery, demanding exterior professionally, your proclivities in the bedroom lean more towards…well, submission isn’t a word you want to say out loud. Rather, you’re more open to following directions. Especially from a man like him.

He tucks a stray piece of hair behind your ear as he murmurs, “It doesn’t seem like that will be an issue right now, will it?”

You shake your head quickly, earning another little chuckle from him that makes your stomach flip.

“Are you going to behave?”

The question makes you shiver as electricity shoots up your spine, your skin prickling with goosebumps as your breathing goes shallow.

“Yes,” you whisper, wide eyes turned upwards to stare at him.

“God, you’re so much more agreeable like this,” he says with a smirk.

You grin in return as you shrug and reply, “Don’t get used to it.”

His responding kiss feels different—softer, sweeter, and far more romantic than the particular circumstance would imply. Your hands wander, fumbling with buttons that reveal the black undershirt he wears beneath. The sight makes you giggle as you press your forehead lightly against his chest.

“How do you have more clothes under here? Jesus Christ.”

You can feel him shake with quiet laughter, his chest vibrating as he responds, “It’s layering.”

“It’s impeding my work,” you shoot back.

Finally, he bats your hands away and quickly unbuttons the garment before removing it and tossing it into a heap with his jacket.

It’s rare to see him so undressed, thin arms exposing his singular tattoo done by a friend years ago while under the influence of multiple substances. Veins run like rivers down pale skin, arms flecked with freckles and light, fine hair. They’re more toned than you would have thought, years of lifting heavy equipment showing in the shadows that reveal hints of built muscle.

He allows you to marvel, allows you to brush your fingers along the dip of his collarbone before he gently takes your hand and pulls it away.

He’s hesitant to allow you to continue undressing him, self-consciousness written all over his face despite his best efforts to conceal it. You’re not entirely sure how to express just how much you want to see him, how many times you’ve fantasized about this exact scenario.

“Please,” you whisper, peering up at him from beneath your lashes as you begin pulling at the hem.

There’s a pause as he closes his eyes and takes a deep breath before nodding.

He keeps his eyes closed as he helps you lift the undershirt off, flinching when your fingers touch the bare skin of his chest, letting them run down along a trail of hair that makes you feel lightheaded and giddy. You’re drawn to the softness of him, compelled to lean in and press soft kisses just below his collarbone.

You push him gently until he takes two steps back, head tilted in confusion as you beckon him to switch places with you. Another nudge has him sitting on the bed, leaning back with his hands braced against the mattress as he watches you slowly drop to your knees.

“Oh,” he breathes as you begin pulling at the leather of his belt. His following chuckle pulls your attention back to him, leaving you flustered and speechless as he reaches out, cups your cheek, and murmurs, “You look so pretty on your knees for me.”

This man is going to kill you before the night is over, you’re sure of it.

“Shush,” you mumble as you attempt to avert your gaze. But, the hand still caressing your face forces you to look at him once again.

His expression shifts, eyes seeming much darker now as he levels your stare. He’s still blushing, obviously still flustered by this entire situation. The alcohol still has a hold on him, however, providing a level of confidence that you’ve rarely seen from him.

“I’ve half a mind to make you beg for this, you know.”

Your breath catches in your throat as he pulls his hand away to unbutton his jeans, and you jump at the opportunity to tug them down until they crumple to the floor. A few awkward kicks and quiet giggles, and soon he’s left in only a pair of black boxer-briefs as he quickly rids himself of his black socks with a laugh.

You’re trying not to stare. But, the tent in his boxers is intimidating, and you reach out with a trembling hand to rest it gently over his clothed cock. Andrew’s grip on the edge of the mattress noticeably tightens, his lower lip slipping through his teeth as he carefully watches your movements.

A light squeeze of your hand makes him hiss quietly. When he reaches out, you expect him to pull your hand away, expect him to say something or give you direction. Instead, he merely rests his hand atop yours, pressing down as he ruts up against your palm with a soft groan.

Your fingers itch for more, that emptiness within you aching to be filled. There are so many things you want to do, want to try, but time and stamina won’t allow for it all. But, there is a future of opportunities, and right now, you want nothing more than to please him until he’s seeing stars.

“Andrew, please,” you whine as the fingers of your free hand slip beneath the waistband of his boxers. “Please, can I…?”

“Wow,” he hums sweetly. “Begging all on your own? You are a fascinating creature, darling.”

The words stun you, your mouth dropping open for a brief moment before you snap it shut.

“Jesus, do you want me to blow you, or not?” you huff as you hide your smiling, embarrassed expression.

“Tempting as that is…I have other ideas. And, you are still wearing far too much.”

At his prompting, you stand and allow him to pull you into his arms where he sits, leaning in for another kiss as his fingers slip beneath the hem of your too-large sleep shirt. You pull away to raise your arms and allow him to slip the shirt off of you entirely, shivering as he begins to kiss along newly exposed skin. Wandering hands cup your breasts, warm fingers rolling your nipples before he leans in to run his tongue over one hardened bud.

Two fingers hook into the waistband of your shorts, tugging slowly as he kisses along your chest. You allow the garment to fall to your feet before stepping out of them and kicking them away, left only in a pair of plain black panties.

“Gorgeous,” he murmurs against your skin. “Absolutely stunning.”

It’s almost a compulsion to roll your eyes at his compliments, but you smile all the same, embarrassed yet delighted by his response.

Andrew punctuates his compliments with a few more kisses before mumbling, “Into bed with ye.”

As you crawl in and settle into bed, he fishes around the floor for something unseen. Then, with a triumphant sound, he holds up a square of gold foil like a prize.

“I’m so sorry,” you say through a fit of laughter. “Were you expecting this to happen? Or, do you carry that around with you just in case?”

“It wasn’t an expectation.” Andrew shrugs before falling into bed next to you. “More like…wishful thinking.”

It’s an earnest answer, and one you certainly didn’t expect. Before you can respond in kind, he wraps his arms around your waist and rolls until you’re beneath him.

Kisses trail along your neck, down your chest, before stopping at your hips. Your heart races as he slides his fingers beneath black fabric, and he glances up at you in surprise as he finds you already wet and soaking through your panties. You only shrug, unable to form a coherent response as his fingers press into you easily. It’s not enough, but it’s something, and you can’t help but press back against the feeling.

He tugs the fabric down slowly, as though opening a birthday gift. When you’re finally revealed to him entirely, he kisses along your hips and down your thighs, leaving little bites that will almost certainly bruise.

What a strange feeling to be laid out before him like a feast after months of animosity, months of clandestine desire shrouded in antipathy. Even stranger is the way he’s so tender with you, leaning up to kiss you gently while you try to ground yourself by cupping his face and tangling your hands into his hair.

His body is flush against yours, hips rolling as he absentmindedly seeks friction that you provide as you press back against each movement.

You’re breaking down fast, desire and need coursing through you as your body clenches around nothing but the continued dull, yearning ache.

“Fuck, please, I need…” you whimper against his neck.

“Tell me what you need,” he murmurs. “Use your words, darling.”

You’re well beyond the point of embarrassment, well beyond caring about seeming desperate because you are desperate.

“Andrew, for the love of God, please just—” you laugh to yourself and shake your head. “Please fuck me, or I’ll kick you out of my room.”

This pulls another genuine laugh from him as he hides his face against your neck before pressing a few more soft kisses along your jaw.

“You know what? I’ll accept that. Though, we may have to work on the attitude a little bit.”

There’s little time to respond as his own desperation slips through. He pushes himself up and away from you, sitting up to allow more room to slip your underwear down and over your knees before tossing them into the growing pile of clothing on the floor.

Andrew’s stare makes you self-conscious, and you quickly close your legs and turn your bashful, grinning face until it’s half-concealed by a pillow. He takes the opportunity to twist around and shuck off his boxers, but you keep your gaze fixed on the lamp sitting on the nightstand, arousal and nerves igniting like a current beneath your skin.

The crinkle and tear of the condom wrapper draws your attention, and—oh.

“Oh, my God…”

Andrew blinks at you, brows furrowing in an unspoken question that makes you laugh a little hysterically. You reach out and lay a hand on his shoulder as he hovers over you again.

“Please be gentle,” you say meekly. “I might need…time…to adjust…”

His face is already bright red, but you’re certain your request might make him spontaneously combust. As if he doesn’t know how blessed he is, but you refuse to say it aloud anyway, mostly because you don’t want to fuel whatever ego he may already have about it.

It’s no surprise that he’s a gentleman wanting to look out for your own comfort and pleasure. He grabs two of the unused pillows to shove beneath your hips, a more comfortable angle for both of you in this circumstance.

“Are you okay?”

The question is so sincere despite his previous teasing, and you nod quickly as you hum in the affirmative. With a soft smile and a nod of understanding, he leans down to kiss you again before pressing the head of his cock against your entrance.

His movements are slow and shallow, allowing you to get used to the stretch and size of him as he presses into you. Sweet words and soft questions are whispered in your ear, consistently checking in to ensure your comfort despite the strain of his voice revealing his own self-control. Every inch forward leaves you teary-eyed and whining as you’re filled beyond your limits.

As his hips sit flush against yours, you become hyper-aware of every twitch and slight adjustment as he waits for your permission to continue.

The reality of the situation hits you all at once: You’ve quite literally dreamt of this, always thought you’d part ways with this infuriating, wonderful man with a covertly broken heart. Instead, he’s here, and he’s real, and he’s wanted you just as badly as you want him.

“Can you—? I think I’m—God, please, you can—”

Despite your breathless, broken words, Andrew gets the idea. He’s still careful as he pulls back, slowly pressing into you again as you tilt your head back and let out a quiet moan. He uses the opportunity to lean his head forward until it rests in the crook of your shoulder.

“Fuck, I—” he laughs, warm air brushing against your skin. “I may need a moment.”

After a few seconds of deep breathing, he finally begins to move at a snail’s pace, allowing you to further adjust before finding a rhythm that both of you seem to enjoy.

You can’t control your sounds now, each moan, whine, and whimper increasing in volume as he fucks you, fills you to the brim in a way that teeters on painful pleasure. Silence is broken by the sound of your arousal, of skin against skin, making your face burn as you briefly wonder how audible this all might be to whoever resides next door.

The angle allows for him to rub against a spot inside of you that adds a strangely pleasurable pressure. Your eyes water with every pass as you cling to him, arms securely around his neck as you attempt to muffle your incoherent words mixed with his name.

The headboard of the bed bumps against the wall now, but neither of you really care. All you can think about is your impending climax as you slip a hand between you to press against your swollen, aching clit.

“Close,” he gasps quietly, only spurring your own pleasure as you imagine what it might be like to do this unprotected, to feel him twitch and fill you until come is dripping down your thighs.

With a sharp gasp, you clench around him, fingers working yourself solidly, evenly between whimpers that you muffle by biting gently on his shoulder. Pleasure quickly begins to mount as you dig your blunt fingernails into his back, earning a louder groan from him that clues you in on other proclivities he may have—a mental note to make for later.

“Pleasepleaseplease, it’s so good, ‘m so fucking close...”  Your voice cracks and breaks into a soft groan as a slight adjustment of his hips has you barreling towards your own climax.

“I know, baby, I know,” he huffs, and, fuck, he’s already calling you sweet names that will echo in your mind for the next calendar year, at least.

Another whisper of his name, and he murmurs, “I’ve got you, it’s okay…you’re okay…”

There’s something about the tenderness of his words that sends you reeling, choking out quiet moans and prayers as you clench around him in waves.

It’s your climax that finishes him as he grips your hips and lets out a harsh sigh before his moves still. You can feel him then, can feel the pulsing of his release as he presses his forehead to yours before stealing a kiss that leaves you breathless.

The two of you lie in a sweaty, panting heap as you nuzzle him. A blissed-out giggle against him makes him laugh in return, pulling back once more to look at you with a smile before he presses kisses to your face.

You’re reluctant to let him go when he mumbles about cleaning up, but you finally release him when he promises to come back with a glass of water for you.

You sit up in bed and try to avoid staring when he returns. You’re surprised when he crawls into bed without pulling on any form of clothing, floored when he collects you to cuddle once you’ve downed the glass he handed you.

“So…”

“So…” you parrot, tilting your head to look at him.

There’s a pause before he meets your gaze and asks, “Good?”

With a scoff and a giggle, you smack his shoulder lightly as he grins at you.

“Well, certainly Top Five.”

Andrew gasps in feigned shock. “Five? Not even Top Three? Wow…”

“I didn’t say where you land on the list.” You poke his ribs. “Gotta keep you humble.”

You squawk when he attacks you with rapidfire kisses anywhere he can reach. His arms tighten around you when you try to squirm away, giggling when you relent and turn to catch him in another kiss before resting your head against him. The silence between you is laced with exhausted comfort, merely enjoying the peace and quiet of a shared room, of warmth as you envelop each other.

It’s you who breaks the silence first, compelled by safety you feel in the moment to be vulnerable.

“I really fucking like you, you know,” you murmur. “Like, a whole lot.”

His chest moves with a silent laugh as a hand smooths over your hair.

“I know,” he replies. “I really fucking like you, too.”

After a few minutes, Andrew nudges you, and you realize you’d been nearly asleep in his arms. Slowly, crankily, you slip beneath the covers and wait for him to lie down next to you. The lights go out, and an arm rests around your waist and tugs you closer until your back is flush against his chest.

“We’re going to have a lot to answer for in the morning, huh?” you mumble into the darkness.

Andrew hums in reply. “Probably. Also, we may have to apologize to Joy for the, ehm…you know, the noise.”

Oh, right. It’s Joy who’s next door, possibly traumatized if she hasn’t been wearing headphones for the last hour. You’re too tired to look at your texts, though, and you figure you’ll buy her next few meals to make up for the whole ordeal.

“We’ll deal with it tomorrow,” you say through a yawn.

You feel him nod behind you before he presses a kiss to your head.

“Tomorrow,” he mumbles. “Tomorrow, we handle it. Sleep now…”

You smile in the darkness and wiggle against him. “Goodnight.”

He snuffles into the pillow, clearly losing the battle against sleep as he replies, “Goodnight, love…”

❤❤❤

Epilogue

You’re still waiting on the tarmac when you finally turn off airplane mode on your phone after an 11-hour flight, anxiety and excitement making you buzz with anticipation as folks around you begin to rustle around for their bags.

Andrew I may have gotten too excited

Andrew And I may be here far too early

The texts come through in rapid succession, sent about 20 minutes ago based on the timestamps. You smile at his messages, your heart nearly bursting at his early morning earnestness.

You Thank you for picking me up ❤️

You And sorry for picking the 7 AM flight!!

You I’ll buy you coffee for the trouble

You Also can we get coffee? I think I’m dying

Andrew Of course we can

Andrew It’s the least you could do honestly

Andrew 7 AM is fucking ridiculous

Andrew People choose to live like this??

Andrew I’ll see you in a bit ❤️

It’s not hard to spot him as he idles near the terminal entrance, messy hair hidden by a baseball cap, tired eyes shielded by dark sunglasses. You can tell he’s scanning the crowd for you as his head turns slowly. He breaks out into a grin once he sees you, making your heart stutter as you race over to him.

You drop your bags before throwing your arms around him, burying your face into his chest as he envelops you in a tight hug.

“Hi, hi, hi, I missed you!” you chirp. “Longest three days of my life.”

It’s ridiculous, you know, but you were so sad to see him go days before your departure. Ryan called it sappy, Larissa called it cute. Autumn called it puppy love before walking away crooning to Paul Anka.

“I missed you, too,” he murmurs before pressing a few kisses to your head. “C’mon, let’s head to the car.”

Andrew insists on taking your bags to his car on the fourth level of the parking structure. You’re both exhausted, your miscalculations putting your arrival time in Dublin at just past 7:10 AM. You hadn’t realized before double-checking the evening before your flight. Andrew, gracious thing he is, still volunteered to pick you up despite your offer of getting an Uber instead.

It’s nearly 7:45 AM when you settle into the passenger seat of his car, and you quietly watch the world whizz past the windows as he follows the surprisingly clear M50 southbound towards Wicklow.

“I’m sorry we can’t drive along the coast,” he says as you marvel at the greenery that flanks the outskirts of Carrickmines. “The train runs along that way, though, so if you wanted to go into the city and see the ocean…”

It’s an hour before you’re slowly rolling through the backroads of County Wicklow, further south in the outskirts where civilization dwindles. It makes sense for him, a little hovel he can escape to without fear of prying from nosy neighbors. (Also, cutting down on the noise complaints lodged by said nosy neighbors who don’t appreciate his late night wailing.)

You blink in surprise as he pulls onto a private path that leads into his driveway.

The property itself isn’t massive or sprawling the way you might expect from someone with his net worth. It’s far more quaint, averaging the size of a typical suburban home encountered in the United States with a plethora of vacant land surrounding it.

He walks you through the stone path amidst the foliage of his garden—less a garden and more a wild landscape of native plants for the local bees to thrive on.

The inside of his home is just as quaint, looking similar to your own apartment in terms of cleanliness and coziness. (Which is to say, lots of clutter and too many mismatched pillows piled on the couch.) It’s almost surreal to be here after weeks of planning, weeks of waiting until the coveted three-week break between legs of the tour.

Not that the break really matters to you anymore, you suppose. After a few conversations with Andrew and some uncomfortable Zoom calls with Caroline, it was decided that you could not continue on the tour as stage manager due to conflict of interest.

While you were sad to resign from your position, it was a simultaneously freeing feeling. The relationship you and Andrew had hidden from everyone else for weeks was finally out in the open. You were finally allowed to touch him, hug him, and kiss him in more public areas (within reason) without fear of recourse.

The band had been delighted by the news; you were not thrilled by the quiet grumbles and money that exchanged hands between them as you realized they’d placed bets on your relationship timeline.

Autumn was excited when you relayed the news, proudly shouting her well-earned I told you so across a parking lot at an unreasonable hour; however, she was less-than-enthused at her impromptu promotion to lead stage manager at the behest of management.

“I guess that means you’re leaving altogether?”

“Well…actually…”

Strings were pulled, arrangements were made, and Andrew presented a plan he knew you might try to refuse: Stay with him for the duration of the tour, and he’d take care of everything. Everything holds a much heftier connotation, one that still makes you nervous despite. To not work is one thing, but to have him pay your way? That just felt gross.

In the end, you agreed to the arrangement with the caveat that you would pay for some things here and there to feel like less of a parasite. Andrew begrudgingly agreed despite continuing to argue with you about how unnecessary all of it was, that he was more than happy to handle expenses so you didn’t have to worry.

His continued insistence about taking care of you still warms your heart despite the anxiety that comes with it. A conversation about the long-term has been shelved for now, but Andrew is quick to do anything and everything to ensure your comfort.

Andrew rests your bags on the floor in the entryway before reaching up to stretch and yawn.

“C’mon,” he murmurs as he takes your hand to lead you down the hallway towards the master bedroom. “I’ve only had a few hours of sleep, and I’m sure you’re exhausted.”

The coffee you’d picked up at a local shop on the way to his place does absolutely nothing for you, somehow making you even more tired than when you’d landed. Perhaps it’s the nerves and giddiness wearing off, allowing your body to finally relax enough for some semblance of rest. Perhaps it’s the jetlag finally catching up to you.

Regardless, you feel as though you’re five seconds away from collapsing from exhaustion.

You strip out of your dirty airport clothes and kick them towards where some of his clothing lays in a heap. It requires far too much energy to dig through your bags for any kind of loose-fitting loungewear or pajamas, so you opt to slide into bed in only a pair of dark underwear.

Andrew seems to take this as an invitation as he strips himself of his own clothes, slips beneath the covers, and pulls you close to cuddle against his side.

The blackout curtains plunge the bedroom into darkness once he turns out the lights. You suddenly find it nearly impossible to keep your drooping eyes open as you settle your head into the crook of his shoulder, one leg resting over his own. The smell of the pillows and sheets is comforting, so distinctly him that you can’t help but smile.

“Don’t forget,” he says through another yawn. “Dinner with my folks tonight…”

How could you forget? It will be your first time meeting his family in person, and the thought makes your stomach roll with nervous anticipation. You hope they like you, hope that you make a good enough impression that you’ll be accepted into the fold. Despite Andrew attempting to assuage many of your fears, you’re still worried about fucking it all up.

“I can hear you thinking,” he hums. “It’ll be fine, darling. They’re going to love you.”

You lift your head to catch him in a kiss that lingers until you’re smiling against his lips and pulling away.

“I know,” you say quietly as you settle. You rub light circles along his chest with your fingers. “It’s still daunting, though, meeting the parents. I guess that never really changes, does it?”

“In my experience? No, not really.” You can feel him shake his head. “I know I’ll be a nervous wreck when I meet your family.”

The breeze outside rustles twinkling chimes that hang just outside the open window. It’s soothing, a wonderful background noise as you relax in his arms.

After a few beats of silence, Andrew says quietly, “I’m so happy you’re here.”

“I’m happy I’m here, too,” you say with a huffed laugh. Then, with a content sigh, you murmur against his skin, “I love you.”

“I love you, too, darling,” he mumbles before pressing another kiss to your head. “Sleep now. You got me up far too early, and this is your recompense.”

“Oh nooo,” you say flatly as you tug the covers up to your chin. “I can’t believe you would do this to me…”

The words die in your throat as your eyes slip closed, the whistle of wind and the rustling of trees, the warmth of his body pressed against yours lulling you into a deep, dreamless sleep.

[sirfrogsworth]

I'm sorry for being snippy. And if I seemed rude in the replies, I apologize. But I'd like to try this one more time and then I am going to step away from this post for now.

I just had to go 7 months without photography because of my disability. With the help of a friend, I took my first photo just a few days ago.

Creativity is almost as important to me as air. I've been driven to suicidal thoughts during periods when I couldn't express myself in any meaningful way.

And imagining going without it for over a decade, just having it trapped in my mind with no escape—I don't know if I could do it.

And I don't know what unethical things I'd be willing to try (and defend) if it meant having some semblance of creation.

Two decades ago, I was a stand up comedian for a while. I was getting pretty good. But then I got sick and it was taken from me. I truly felt it was what I was meant to do.

I still do. And I mourn that to this day.

Thankfully I was able to find a way to do comedy in another form. But people still called me a fake comedian. I wasn't doing "real" comedy. It was internet comedy.

That is why I have all of these feelings of trauma and empathy that relate to my friend's situation. How can I not?

We all participate in several unethical systems while also fervently fighting to improve them or even dismantle them for something better. We are so entrenched in them, I think we sometimes forget how unethical they are. Driving kills 40,000 people. Air pollution kills hundreds of thousands. And we all contribute to that. We all benefit from transportation and energy in many ways.

Generative AI is unethical and some disabled folks use it to cope with having their creativity taken away.

I am not going to stop the disabled from doing that. I'm not going to shame them or tell them to get crazy eye technology with no money. I am not going to make them use something much more inconvenient.

I'm also not going to call their creative expression sludge or slop. I'm not going to say it isn't genuine. And I'm not going to boil it down to simply a coping mechanism. Coping is part of it, but minimizing it to just that is reductive.

I understand my friend's pain on a very deep level. I'm asking people to try and imagine it and empathize even if it disagrees with general feelings about this technology.

If he asks, I am still going to tell my friend I think AI is hurtful to artists. I think I've proven where I stand many times. And I am going to fight to make sure artists and the environment are protected from this unethical technology. Just as I fight for public transportation and green energy.

This moral purity and rigidity without exception is a trap. And folks on the Left fall for it all the time. And when they can't possibly avoid being hypocritical, it makes it even harder to have complicated discourse in the gray areas.

Falling into the AI vortex.

Before I deeply criticize something, I try to understand it more than surface level.

With guns, I went into deep research mode and learned as much as I could about the actual guns so I could be more effective in my gun control advocacy.

I learned things like... silencers are not silent. They are mainly for hearing protection and not assassinations. It's actually small caliber subsonic ammo that is a concern for covert shooting. A suppressor can aid with that goal, but its benefits as hearing protection outweigh that very rare circumstance.

AR15s... not that powerful. They use a tiny bullet. Originally it could not even be used against thick animal hides. It was classified as a "varmint hunting" gun. There are other factors that make it more dangerous like lightweight ammo, magazine capacity, medium range accuracy, and being able to penetrate things because the tiny bullets go faster. But in most mass shooting situations where the shooting distance is less than 20 feet, they really aren't more effective than a handgun. They are just popular for that purpose. Dare I say... a mass shooting fad or cliche. But there are several handguns that could be more powerful and deadly—capable of one bullet kills if shot anywhere near the chest. And easier to conceal and operate in close quarters like a school hallway.

This deeper understanding tells me that banning one type of gun may not be the solution people are hoping for. And that if you don't approach gun control holistically (all guns vs one gun), you may only get marginal benefits from great effort and resources.

Now I'm starting the same process with AI tools.

Everyone is stuck in "AI is bad" mode. And I understand why. But I worry there is nuance we are missing with this reactionary approach. Plus, "AI is bad" isn't a solution to the problem. It may be bad, but it is here and we need to figure out realistic approaches to mitigate the damage.

So I have been using AI tools. I am trying to understand how they work, what they are good for, and what problems we should be most worried about.

I've been at this for nearly a month and this may not be what everyone wants to hear, but I have had some surprising interactions with AI. Good interactions. Helpful interactions. I was even able to use it to help me keep from an anxiety thought spiral. It was genuinely therapeutic. And I am still processing that experience and am not sure what to say about it yet.

If I am able to write an essay on my findings and thoughts, I hope people will understand why I went into the belly of the beast. I hope they won't see me as an AI traitor.

A big part of my motivation to do this was because of a friend of mine. He was hit by a drunk driver many years ago. He is a quadriplegic. He has limited use of his arms and hands and his head movement is constrained.

When people say, "just pick up a pencil and learn to draw" I always cringe at his expense. He was an artist. He already learned how to pick up a pencil and draw. That was taken away from him. (And please don't say he can stick a pencil in his mouth. Some quads have that ability—he does not. It is not a thing all of them can do.) But now he has a tool that allows him to be creative again. And it has noticeably changed his life. It is a kind of art therapy that has had massive positive effects on his depression.

We have had a couple of tense arguments about the ethics of AI. He is all-in because of his circumstances. And it is difficult to express my opinions when faced with that. But he asked and I answered. He tried to defend it and did a poor job. Which, considering how smart he is, was hard to watch.

But I love my friend and I feel I'd like to at least know what I'm talking about. I want to try and experience the benefits he is seeing. And I'd like to see if there is a way for this technology to exist where it doesn't hurt more than it helps.

I don't know when I will be done with my experiment. My health is improving but I am still struggling and I will need to cut my dose again soon. But for now I am just collecting information and learning.

I guess I just wanted to prepare people for what I'm doing.

And ask they keep an open mind with my findings. Not all of them will be "AI is bad."

[gardenladysworld]

Starbound hearts

Status: I'm working on it

Pairings: Neteyam x human!f!reader

Aged up characters!

Genre/Warnings: fluff, slow burn, oblivious characters, light angst, hurt/comfort, pining

Summary: In the breathtaking, untamed beauty of Pandora, two souls from different worlds find themselves drawn together against all odds. Neteyam, the dutiful future olo'eyktan of the Omaticaya clan, is bound by the expectations of his people and the traditions of his ancestors. She, a human scientist with a love for Pandora’s wonders, sees herself as an outsider, unworthy of the connection she craves.

Tags: @fanchonfallen, @nerdylawyerbanditprofessor-blog, @ratchetprime211, @poppyseed1031, @redflashoftheleaf, @nikipuppeteer@eliankm, @quintessences0posts, @minjianhyung, @bkell2929, @erenjaegerwifee, @angelita-uchiha, @wherethefuckiskathmandu, @cutmyeyepurple, @420slvtt, @zimerycuellat

Part 22: To Lost

I'm sorry it took me almost a month to post the new part. Unfortunately, I barely had time to write. I'll try to post the next part within 2 weeks. <3

Part 23: To break

He knew he was overthinking.

Knew he was being that kind of mate again—the one who hovered when you adjusted your mask before you leave the outpost, who always walked one step too close on forest patrol, who checked the wind three times before letting you climb even one vine. You always laughed at him for it.

“Overthinker,” you’d whisper with a smirk, your fingers brushing his arm as you passed. “You’re worse than Norm.”

And maybe you were right.

Maybe today would be like any other. You’d spend one day in the field—just one. Collect some roots, catalog glowing spores, get a few weird cuts from a plant that looked deceptively soft. Then tomorrow… you’d come back. He could bury his face in your neck again, arms locked around you under the morning sun, and feel your laugh rumble against his chest.

He didn’t say it out loud then at the outpost. But he’d wanted to.

Stay.

Just one word.

So why did his gut feel like a knot pulled too tight?

He touched down in the clearing just outside the village, his ikran letting out a low, familiar screech as he dismounted. The breath he exhaled felt heavier than it should’ve. His feet barely hit the ground before a voice drifted from behind him.

“Dad saw you leave at dawn.”

Neteyam turned fast, shoulders tense, already expecting judgment—but it was only Kiri, crouched beside the roots of a flowering tree, her hands working through a bundle of herbs. She didn’t look up, but her brow arched with quiet amusement. “He didn’t say anything, though. Just asked me if you were going hunting.” Her golden eyes lifted. “I didn’t correct him.”

Neteyam exhaled, just a little. “Thanks.”

Kiri hummed, then narrowed her eyes slightly. “She stayed with you?”

He didn’t answer. He didn’t have to.

Kiri rolled her eyes with a grin. “You’re so predictable. Honestly, it’s amazing no one else has caught on.”

“Maybe they have, Kiri,” he muttered, lowering his voice. “Maybe they just pretend they haven’t.” He glanced toward the central hearth, where the rest of the village was beginning to stir. “She just... didn’t want to be alone before heading to the pit.”

His sister sobered slightly at that. “The old mining zone?” she said. “I thought they weren’t sending anyone back there.”

“Bridgehead changed their mind.” He rubbed the back of his neck, a tension still coiled beneath his skin. “Only for a day. She left with the others at sunrise.”

Kiri nodded slowly, brushing a loose braid from her face. “And now you’re pacing around like your tail’s on fire.”

“I’m not pacing—”

“You are.”

“I’m thinking.”

“Exactly,” she said, grinning. “You’re thinking. And thinking for you means worrying. About her.” She tilted her head. “You know, sometimes I think Eywa gave you a human girl just to test your patience.”

He barked a soft laugh. “Sometimes I think She gave me to her just to test hers.”

A small giggle cut through the morning air behind them. “You always sneak her away!”

Neteyam stiffened and turned just in time to see Tuk stomping across the grass with a fierce little pout on her face. She jabbed a finger up at him like he’d personally insulted her bedtime story.

“Tuk!” Neteyam half-laughed, half-grunted as his little sister slammed into his legs.

“You sneaked her away again!” she pouted, fists pressed to her hips. “I didn’t get to say goodbye!”

“Shh!” Neteyam and Kiri hissed in unison, both crouching to bring her volume down to something less announcing.

Neteyam pulled her close, brushing back her hair. “Tuk, you cannot shout about that.”

“Why not?” she frowned, lower lip trembling like she might cry. “She’s my favorite! She always braids my hair when I ask. And she said I could help her plant the glowing beans next time at the outpost—!”

“Tuk…” Kiri cut in gently. “You know she’s not supposed to be here at night.”

“But she always sneaks in anyway,” Tuk whispered, conspiratorial, “so why can’t she just stay?”

Neteyam sighed. “Because not everyone understands,” he murmured. “It’s not safe. Not yet.”

Tuk blinked. “But… if you love her, can’t you tell everyone?”

Kiri choked on a laugh, covering it with a cough.

Neteyam flushed, glancing at the trees. “It’s not that simple.”

“But you do love her,” Tuk said, wide-eyed. “I see the way you look at her. Like Dad looks at Mom when he thinks we’re not watching.”

Kiri snorted. “She’s not wrong.”

Neteyam laughed then—low and warm, the tension in his shoulders finally unraveling. He rubbed a hand over his face. “Eywa… give me strength.”

“You’ll need it,” Kiri snorted. “Because when Mom finds out? You’re dead.”

Neteyam only smiled. And for the first time since that morning, the weight in his chest didn’t feel so heavy. Maybe you were right. Maybe he was overthinking it. Maybe you’d be back tomorrow with your arms full of samples, cheeks smudged with dirt, and that stupid glow in your eyes like you’d just found the answer to the universe in a glowing vine.

And when you were—he’d be waiting.

With his arms open.

Just like always.

“You’ll see her again soon, Tuk,” he said, gentler this time. “Maybe even tomorrow.”

Tuk narrowed her eyes, arms crossed. “She better braid my hair first.”

“Deal,” he said with a smile, ruffling her curls. “But only if you don’t tell Mom and Dad that she is with me at night.”

She grinned, all sharp little teeth and sunshine. “I won’t tell. Promise.” And then—just like that—she darted off down the path, chasing her friends with a squeal of laughter.

The forest was quiet again.

Neteyam stood slowly, watching the direction she’d gone, and exhaled. He didn’t realize until now how tight his shoulders had been. Kiri nudged his arm.

“She’s okay,” she said softly. “You’d feel it if she wasn’t.”

“I know,” he murmured. “It’s just… a feeling.”

Kiri tilted her head. “Is it your feeling? Or hers?”

He looked at her. She gave him that look—the one that always made him feel like she knew more than she should. He didn’t answer. Instead, he turned back toward the trees, towards west, eyes scanning the horizon. Tomorrow, he told himself.

Just one more night.

The sun had risen full by now, casting long, amber shadows across the training grounds. The younger warriors-in-training were already gathering in loose clusters, pa’lis tethered nearby, their sleek grey hides shimmering beneath the light.

Neteyam stood at the head of the clearing, arms crossed as he surveyed the group. He let the morning air fill his lungs—wet grass, sweat, the distant scent of roasting rootfruit from the hearth. He could still feel the weight of your absence like a bruise behind his ribs. But work helped. Structure helped.

“All right,” he called, voice steady. “Listen up.”

The warriors fell silent as he approached, straightening instinctively. It showed in the way they looked at him, the way they leaned in when he spoke.

He cleared his throat. “Today’s hunt is different,” he said, voice steady, carrying easily across the courtyard. “No ikrans. We move on pa’li. You need to feel the earth under you again.”

The warriors exchanged quick, eager glances. The hunt needed to be smooth today. No ikrans—only pa’li, as his father had insisted. Grounded hunting. Riding with bow in hand, tracking and striking as their ancestors had before them. He didn’t mind. It built discipline.

He paced a slow circle around the group as he spoke, voice even but sharp with focus.

“We ride south,” he began. “The talioang herds passed through two nights ago. We follow the trail by the river and push them into the shallow basin where the ground is soft.” His eyes skimmed the gathered warriors, young but capable. “We strike from the flanks. No lone riders. Pairs only. And we do not chase the herd once it splits. If you lose your target, you regroup. No hero runs.”

There were some nods. Some sharper grins from the more hot-headed ones. Neteyam crossed his arms, leveling a look at them. “The point is not to show off. The point is control.”

That earned a few guilty shuffles of feet. “They bed down near the water in the heat. We stay mounted—always. We strike from the saddle. Clean shots. We do not separate from our pa’li. If you fall, you are out.”

A ripple of excitement moved through the warriors. Some of them bumped shoulders, grinning like fools. Neteyam almost smiled himself. This was what he was made for. Not diplomacy. Not marriage arrangements. This. “First group will form a half-circle on the northern side,” he continued, drawing a shape in the dirt with the tip of his spear. “Second group will drive them forward. Push them into our trap.”

He crouched lower, marking out the movement with quick, clean strokes. The warriors leaned in, listening sharp and hungry. He could almost forget the rest of the world standing here—almost forget the way his heart twisted whenever he thought of you.

Almost.

He stood, brushing the dirt from his fingers. “Questions?”

A few moments of heavy silence hung over the clearing—then, predictably, the questions started.

“What about you, Neteyam?” one of the younger warriors piped up—a boy named Tanawa. “Will you ride alone?”

The group chuckled lowly. Even Neteyam smiled a little. “No,” he said, shaking his head. “No one rides alone today. I’ll pair up, same as the rest of you.”

That earned a few more nudges and sly looks, some of them glancing toward K’shi, who lingered too neatly at the edge of the gathering, pretending to check her bowstring. Neteyam pointedly ignored them.

Another voice called out—this time from Ärengko, a sturdier boy who already had the heavy shoulders of a future warrior. “Will you take the kill, Neteyam? Or leave it for us?”

A few of the younger ones laughed at that, jostling each other with mock offense. Neteyam’s mouth twitched at the corner. Good. They’re excited. “I’ll only take a kill if you fail,” he said simply, stepping around them again. His eyes gleamed with quiet challenge. “And I expect you not to.”

That lit a fire under them. A few stood a little taller, puffed their chests. Young, yes—but hungry. Determined. He liked that.

Another question—this one laced with a grin from Pakxo, older and always one to stir trouble: “And if you fall from your pa’li, do we leave you in the mud, Neteyam?”

The others chuckled under their breath, looking toward their leader. Neteyam let a rare smirk curl at the edge of his mouth. “If I fall,” he said dryly, “you will laugh at me for the rest of your lives.”

The warriors howled with laughter at that, a rough, warm sound that echoed across the clearing. Neteyam rolled his eyes fondly, about to signal the end of questions—when he caught it.

A flicker of movement at the edge of the clearing. K’shi. Standing half in shadow, half in the golden morning light, arms folded in an artful pose that was definitely meant to look casual but wasn’t. And she was watching him. Only him.

Neteyam set his jaw and looked away sharply, pretending he hadn’t seen it. But of course, the warriors had. He heard the low hiss of whispers passing through the group like wind through tall grass: “She’s watching him again…”

“Maybe she’ll ride with him.”

“Lucky Neteyam, huh?”

He stiffened slightly, keeping his expression carefully neutral as he answered a few last questions about the tracking formations. Pretending he didn’t hear the teasing. Pretending he didn’t feel the weight of those knowing looks pressing at the edge of his patience.

Ignore it. he told himself sharply.

One last hand lifted—Txo’ma, earnest and practical. “Will we be setting traps too, or only the push?”

Neteyam seized the question like a drowning man grabbing a vine. “No traps,” he said briskly. “The basin terrain is too soft. It would slow the pa’li and risk injury. We drive them with pressure alone—noise, speed, formation.”

More nods, more thoughtful looks. Good. They were settling now. Listening. Ready to move.

Neteyam took one last breath, letting the morning air fill his chest and steady him. He didn’t look toward K’shi again. He didn’t have to. He could feel her gaze clinging to him like burrs caught in fur.

And as much as he tried to focus on the hunt ahead, a small, sour thought coiled low in his gut: How many more times will I have to smile and nod while others decide my future for me?

Still. Work first. Always work first. He was about to move on when another boy—Ja'yen, always the smart one—leaned a little closer to his friend and muttered just loud enough for others to hear, “Looks like someone else wants to pair with Neteyam, anyway.”

A few others snickered. He could feel the weight of her stare from across the clearing, like the sun itself had focused into a single burning line aimed straight at his skull.

He gritted his teeth and turned back toward the warriors, pointing. “The trail should be easy to find. Fresh tracks. Broken reeds. Watch the wind.”

But even as he spoke, the snickering picked up behind him—because now, from the corner of his vision, he saw K’shi. Striding closer. Trying very hard to pretend it was casual. Neteyam braced himself.

She approached the group slowly, her steps light and measured, her smile a soft curve as she tucked a loose braid behind her ear. She was tall, confident, hair braided with feathers and bone—obviously skilled, beautiful in the way the clan valued. The kind of mate every parent dreams of for their eldest son. A few of the younger boys elbowed each other. Someone actually whistled—quick and low, but Neteyam caught it anyway.

He wanted to scream.

K’shi stopped just a little too close, her smile tilted coy. “Neteyam,” she said, voice like warm honey, “I heard about the hunt. I would be honored to join your party.” She placed one hand lightly on her hip, tilting her head just so. “You could use more skilled riders, could you not?”

Around them, the warriors pretended not to watch—but he heard the soft chuckles, the low whistles under breath.

"Girls chasing him like ikran on a hunt."

"K’shi too—lucky bastard."

“Next Olo’eyktan won’t even need to choose a mate. They’re lining up for him.”

Neteyam gritted his teeth so hard he thought his fangs might crack. He offered K’shi the barest, tightest smile. “Your skills are known, K’shi. But today’s hunt is for the training of the younger warriors. You are beyond that.”

Flatter her. Make it sound like a favor. Keep it professional. Keep it safe.

But K’shi only smiled wider, leaning even closer, her shoulder almost brushing his. “Still,” she murmured, “I could help... oversee. Assist you. You should not carry the burden alone.” She lowered her voice, her eyes sparkling. “You could... lean on me. If you needed.”

Neteyam bet his whole soul—and his ikran, and the next storm season—that his mother had a hand in this.

He could almost hear Neytiri’s voice now: “K’shi is strong. She is clever. You should speak to her more. Get to know her.”

This was what she wanted. Some nice, respectable Na’vi girl. One from a strong family. One who could give him strong sons. One who wasn’t a human scientist always scribbling in a datapad and laughing at the wrong jokes.

I would rather count every blade of grass from here to the floating mountains, Neteyam thought grimly. Twice.

And still—still—he forced himself to answer gently: “Your offer honors me. But today, I ride only with the trainees.”

“Oh, but I would not distract them,” she said quickly, stepping even closer until the distance between them was barely polite. “I would stay by your side.”

Eywa, take me now.

Her eyes narrowed slightly, just a flicker. But she smiled again, smooth and poised. “Perhaps another time, then.”

He opened his mouth to politely, firmly reject her when—

“Brother!”

Lo’ak crashed through the gathering with all the subtlety of a charging thanator, grinning like he’d just gotten away with something. “Dad’s calling for us,” Lo’ak said casually, jerking his chin over his shoulder. “Wants to see us before we leave. Now.”

It wasn’t a lie. Neteyam knew it wasn’t. But it had never sounded more like a lifeline.

Neteyam almost dropped to his knees right there. Instead, he grabbed his spear, turned to K’shi, and gave a short, stiff nod. “Forgive me. Duty calls.”

He barely waited for her polite nod before he was striding after Lo’ak like the devil himself was on his heels. They left behind the warriors, the gossiping, the stifled laughter.

When they were finally out of earshot, Neteyam let out a breath like he’d been holding it for ten minutes.

“I swear,” he muttered, “I will build you a shrine.”

Lo’ak laughed. “She had the look, bro. Like she was about to start carving your mating beads for you.”

Neteyam groaned, rubbing his hands over his face. “Mother put her up to it. I know it.”

“Oh, definitely.”

“I’d rather wrestle a palulukan naked than sit through another forced conversation like that.”

“You poor thing,” Lo’ak said, dramatically patting his shoulder. “So tragic. All the pretty girls want you.”

“I’m going to throw you into a tree.”

“You’d miss,” Lo’ak grinned.

Neteyam gave him a sideways glare. “You sure Father wants us?”

Lo’ak nodded. “Yeah. But I just figured if I didn’t get you out of there soon, you’d throw yourself into a strumbeest stampede.”

“I considered it.”

Lo’ak grinned. “You’re welcome.”

Neteyam exhaled again, this time with a softer smile. “Seriously. I owe you.”

“Eh,” Lo’ak shrugged. “I just know your girl wouldn’t like it if you got stuck riding off with K’shi into the sunset.”

Neteyam paused, then smirked. “You think she’d be jealous?”

“I think,” Lo’ak said, “she’d braid your ears together while you slept.”

Neteyam laughed—and this time, it reached his chest. Even if just for a moment.

They walked together through the village paths, the packed earth still damp underfoot from the early morning mist. Neteyam and Lo’ak moved quietly now, the energy from earlier bleeding away with each step closer to the kelku.

Their family home loomed ahead—woven high into the trees, broad-leafed and strong, shaped with care by many hands over many years. It was home, and yet Neteyam felt the tightness coil back into his gut the closer he came to it. As if the walls themselves carried expectations heavier than any armor.

Lo’ak shot him a sideways look, reading his tension easily. But—for once—he didn’t tease. Maybe he knew this wasn’t the time. At the entrance, Jake’s voice reached them first.

“—need to move fast. Before the storm.”

Neteyam ducked through the low-hanging vines first, Lo’ak close behind. Their father stood near the center of the room, shoulders tense, arms crossed, that permanent set to his jaw that said something was wrong. Neytiri was beside him, quiet but sharp-eyed, her bow leaning against the wall within easy reach.

“You called for us?” Neteyam said, straightening.

Jake nodded, curt. “We have a situation.”

Neytiri shifted slightly, her tail flicking. She was uneasy too.

Jake nodded, still looking at the map. “Lo’ak said you were just wrapping the briefing for the hunt. Good. You’ll still make it out before eclipse.”

Neteyam stepped closer, his posture shifting into the straight-backed, chin-lifted stance he always used around their father now. “What’s going on?”

Jake tapped a spot on the map. “Here. Northeast. Just beyond the old mining pit.”

Neteyam’s heart sank. Northeast. That was close. Too close.

“You think it’s the RDA?” he asked, already knowing the answer. Already fearing the alternative.

“I don’t think anything yet,” Jake said. “Could be Norm and his people—got turned around, maybe. Maybe got cut off. Maybe some old drone reactivated. We’ve seen stranger things. But I want eyes on it before the eclipse. We’ll scout tonight. On ikrans.”

Neteyam’s jaw clenched. “I don’t think it’s Norm’s team.”

Jake frowned. “And why’s that?”

Neteyam hesitated just a beat too long. Neytiri turned her eyes sharply toward him. “You are certain of where Norm’s team is?”

He nodded once, too smoothly. “I saw them. Days ago. On patrol. The xenobotany team said they’d be collecting data at the old pit on this day.”

“Since when do you forget to report something like that?” Jake asked, the words calm but clipped. “You’ve been thorough lately.”

Neteyam met his father’s gaze evenly. “It slipped. My focus’s been on the warriors and the southern border.”

A long pause stretched between them—Jake still watching him like he was trying to hear what wasn’t being said. Neteyam held the silence, refusing to flinch. Eventually, Jake sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. “All right. We’ll know for sure once we’re in the air.”

Lo’ak stepped in, arms folding. “So it’s us three?”

Jake nodded. “We fly in after the hunt. Before the eclipse hits. I want a clean look before the storm rolls in. If it’s nothing, we’re back before mudnight. If it is something—”

“We deal with it,” Neteyam finished.

“Good,” Jake said. “You, me, Lo’ak. Fast and quiet. I don't want a whole war party unless we find something real.”

Lo’ak shifted, looking like he wanted to crack a joke and wisely deciding against it. The air was too heavy for it. Neteyam nodded slowly, feeling the weight of the request. This wasn’t a father asking his sons to tag along. This was the Olo’eyktan giving orders. Orders you didn’t refuse. Not that Neteyam would. Duty came first. Always.

They hadn't really talked in weeks. Not really. Every word between them now was duty, hunting formations, patrol rotations. Nothing else. Not the unspoken pressure about finding a mate. Not the arguments, the ones that simmered under every glance, every stiff nod of dismissal. Neteyam had grown colder to it all these past few months—more stubborn. More silent. It was the only way he could survive the suffocating weight of what they wanted him to be.

Jake must have felt it too. But neither of them said it out loud. Across the room, Neytiri stirred. Her voice was quiet but firm. “I am going as well,” she said firmly.

Jake turned to her, brows lifting. "Neytiri—"

“I go,” she said again, eyes hard and full of something fierce and ancient. “If humans are there—if they come near what we have lost again—I will see it with my own eyes.” 

Neteyam knew better than to argue. When his mother decided something, not even Jake could move her.  Jake hesitated, then sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Fine. We’ll all go.”

“Alright,” he said. “We leave before eclipse. Just after Neteyam returns from the hunt.”

Neytiri looked satisfied. Lo’ak looked a little too eager. And Neteyam—Neteyam felt like his bones were wrapped in thorns. If you were still out there… If you were caught up in that movement… If your path had taken you anywhere near the northeast—

He didn’t let the thought finish. He just prayed to Eywa that you were still safe. Still tucked deep in the pit, buried in your plants and your data and your weird, wonderful focus.

Because if anything happened to you out there— He didn’t know what he’d do.

“You two prep your gear,” Jake said, already turning back toward the map spread across the floor mat. “This one needs to go clean. No mistakes.”

Neteyam gave a sharp nod and turned, walking out with Lo’ak on his heels. The moment they were outside, his brother leaned in.

“That was smooth,” Lo’ak muttered. “You saw them ‘on patrol,’ huh?”

Neteyam didn’t break stride. “Drop it.”

“I’m just saying,” Lo’ak said with a grin, “you’re getting better at lying. I’m proud of you.”

Neteyam rolled his eyes. “Don’t be.”

Neteyam stepped out into the light once more, the sky now high and bright above the village. The weight of the conversation with his parents still pressed against his shoulders, but he pushed it aside. One thing at a time.

The hunt came first.

As he moved back toward the gathering grounds, he could already see the warriors-in-training assembling again. Pa’li pawed at the ground nearby, bows slung over shoulders. A few of them greeted him again with eager nods, standing straighter as he approached. Neteyam offered a few curt nods back, but didn’t speak yet.

Lo’ak moved beside him silently, then elbowed him with a small, dry smirk. “Heads up.” Neteyam followed his line of sight—and felt his stomach twist.

Neytiri stood near the edge of the training ring, clearly followed them, in low, hushed conversation with none other than K’shi. The young huntress smiled, graceful and poised, and stood a little too close to Neytiri. Her braids gleamed in the light, feathers carefully arranged, and her expression was full of that infuriating mix of humility and expectation.

And then—Neytiri looked up. Right at him. Their eyes locked for a second. Long enough to know it wasn’t coincidence.

Neteyam turned sharply on his heel before either of them could say anything, jaw tight, and mounted his pa’li in one clean motion. “Mount up,” he called to the gathered warriors. “We ride soon.”

The others hurried to obey, the energy rising again as they prepared. Neteyam leaned forward, gently tapping the creature’s neck, trying to focus. Just get through the hunt. But before he could move so much as an inch, a quiet rustle of footsteps came from the side—soft, deliberate. He didn’t need to look.

“I see you are leaving without her,” Neytiri said calmly, her voice close now.

Neteyam exhaled through his nose and looked down at her from his mount. “The hunt is for the trainees. She’s not needed.”

Neytiri tilted her head, unreadable. “She is skilled. They could learn from her.”

“She is not one of them,” he replied, too quickly.

“She is more experienced than half of them.”

“She is not needed,” he said, voice tighter now.

His mother’s eyes narrowed slightly. “You do not trust her to lead?”

“I do not want her here,” he said finally, biting the words before they grew too sharp. “This hunt is about them. I do not want distractions. I do not want…” He hesitated. “Complications.”

Neytiri studied him for a moment, searching for something in his expression. “You are the future Olo’eyktan,” she said gently. “You must learn to lead alongside others. Especially those who may one day share that future.”

Neteyam looked away, gripping the reins a little too tightly. “This is not about leading,” he muttered. “And it’s not about training. It’s about you wanting me to choose.”

Neytiri’s silence said everything he needed to know.

He glanced back at her, his voice low. “You’ve already chosen for me.”

“I have not,” she said, quieter now. “But I know the path that brings strength. That brings peace. That brings balance to the people.”

He shook his head. “She is not my balance.”

Neytiri’s expression didn’t change, but her voice softened. “She would stand beside you. She understands this life. She would not drag you into the sky and away from your people.”

His throat tightened. “And what if I don’t want someone who stands beside me because it’s expected?”

Neytiri’s eyes flickered. “Then you risk standing alone.”

They stood in silence for a breath, the air around them heavy. Warriors shifted in the background, unaware of the quiet storm brewing at the edge of the hunt. Finally, Neteyam leaned forward on his pa’li, his voice steady but cold. “Then I stand alone.”

Neytiri’s expression didn’t waver. “And yet she came. She offered. Do you think she does not notice how you dismiss her?”

“She doesn’t need to be here just to be dismissed,” he muttered.

His mother narrowed her eyes. “You speak as if she is a burden.”

“I speak as if this is a training hunt,” Neteyam bit out. “Not a matchmaking ceremony.”

That caught her. A flash of surprise—and then something colder beneath her gaze. “She is Omatikaya,” Neytiri said, low and clipped. “She is strong. Loyal. Respected. You would be wise to know her better.”

“I know enough,” Neteyam snapped before he could stop himself. They stared at each other in silence for a moment—warrior to warrior, but also mother to son. “I do not need help managing this hunt,” he said, voice dropping to something quiet and final. “And I don’t want her there.”

Neytiri’s jaw tensed. “You would let a girl from the clan feel cast aside, when she offers her strength?”

Neteyam’s hands tightened on the reins. “I would let her know that not every gesture must be accepted just because it’s offered.”

Neytiri stepped back a fraction, the corner of her mouth twitching with disapproval. “You forget your place.”

“No,” Neteyam said, looking forward now, his voice flat. “I remember it. Every day.”

For a moment, Neytiri looked at him like she didn’t quite recognize him—then she turned away, silent as a shadow, and walked back toward the path where K’shi waited. Neteyam didn’t watch her go. “Move out!” he called, clicking his tongue as the pa’li surged forward beneath him. The hunt began. And he didn’t look back.

The hunt stretched long under a darkening sky.

By afternoon, the air had thickened—warm and damp, the kind of sticky humidity that clung to your skin and promised a storm before nightfall. Thunderhead clouds crawled along the horizon, low and brooding, casting a dull, silver-gray sheen across the plains. The sun was still above the trees, but the light had shifted. Softer. Dimmer. A warning.

Neteyam rode at the edge of the formation, his pa’li moving in smooth, quick strides through the tall grass. The riders flanked him, young warriors tense with anticipation, bows gripped in uncertain hands. They had followed the herd south, just as he predicted. The strumbeests had crossed the shallow riverbed and bedded briefly in the softer basin ground before moving again, likely stirred by the charged air.

It was Lo’ak who spotted them first—five thick-necked beasts, moving through a narrow glade beyond the last ridge. The warriors tightened ranks.

They split into pairs just as trained, two by two, fanning into a wide arc to push the herd back toward the clearing. It was a good plan—smart, simple. But the pa’li were nervous. The wind had shifted. Distant thunder cracked once above the trees.

The strumbeests sensed it too. The biggest one, a bull with jagged horns and a wide scar across its flank, reared back suddenly and broke into a charge before the others could react. It crashed through the shallows and made for the open field.

“Hold the formation!” Neteyam shouted.

But one of the younger pairs panicked. Their pa’li reared; their arrows loosed too soon. The beast took one in the shoulder—only a graze—but it was enough to enrage it.

It turned. Snorting. Charging straight at them. Neteyam was already moving. He spurred his mount and galloped low, weaving between riders. His bow was in hand before he even registered the motion.

He nocked an arrow. One breath.

The wind cut across his cheek.

Another breath.

The beast roared. He loosed.

The arrow struck deep, straight into the strumbeest’s chest right into its operculum. It stumbled, let out a terrible sound, then fell hard into the shallow creekbed with a splash of mud and water. Silence followed. Only the soft shuffle of hooves and the slow panting of the pa’li. Neteyam sat still for a moment, shoulders tense, bow still half-raised.

Then he exhaled. The warriors regrouped, their expressions sheepish, winded, wide-eyed. Lo’ak trotted up beside him, letting out a low whistle. “Well,” Lo’ak said, glancing at the fallen beast. “That could’ve gone worse.”

Neteyam didn’t respond right away. He looked back over the young hunters, watching them dismount, some already approaching the strumbeest to prepare the body for transport. When he finally spoke, it was with quiet conviction. “You held the line,” he said, turning toward them. “You didn’t run. You missed—but you tried. That’s what matters today.”

Some of them looked relieved. Others are embarrassed. But all nodded. “First time hunting from pa’li isn’t easy,” Neteyam added, quieter now. “You’ll do better next time.”

That earned him a few smiles. A few straighter backs. The mood lightened, if only a little, as the warriors set to work. The strumbeest was cleaned swiftly, tools pulled from saddlebags, hands practiced if not yet graceful. The smell of blood mixed with the coming rain.

Neteyam let his pa’li walk toward the edge of the clearing, where the creek still ran shallow and clear. He dismounted, stepping into the cool water, its surface rippling softly around his feet. He stood there for a long moment, the sky above beginning to change with the eclipse’s approach. The light was getting stranger now—dimmer, gold-tinged, almost dreamlike.

He looked down. Among the stones and moss, something caught his eye. A shimmer. He crouched, brushing water aside, and plucked the object from the streambed.

A stone—small, smooth, and iridescent. Its surface shimmered in the shifting light, catching greens and blues and soft, smoky purples. Not just light. Color. Like the glowing spores you were always chasing, laughing with that wild-eyed joy.

Neteyam turned it over in his fingers, frowning slightly, and then… a small smile tugged at his mouth. It would make a good pendant. A small one—simple. Nothing elaborate. But something he could shape with his hands. Something he could give you. Something only you would understand.

He imagined your reaction—eyebrows lifting, a laugh just under your breath, fingers brushing it like it was made of starlight. Maybe you'd tease him. Maybe you'd say something clever, something human. But you'd smile.

And he wanted that smile. That look. He slid the stone into the small pouch at his side, glancing skyward. The light had changed again. The first sliver of eclipse was creeping across the sun, shadows sharpening, strange and long.

You said they’d return before the eclipse. The xenobotany team had strict protocols—they had to be back before nightfall, before the storms, before the high-altitude winds made flying unsafe.

You promised. He reached up absently and touched the pouch again, grounding himself. You would be safe. You would come back. He would see you again—soon.

The storm cracked the sky in half.

Rain battered the canopy above, fat and warm, pouring in sheets against the woven walls of the kelku. Wind howled through the upper branches, shaking the structure with each gust, and thunder rolled so loud it made the bones in Neteyam’s chest rattle.

But he sat still.

The flickering firepit cast low light across the room, embers pulsing red and gold, shadows dancing up the curved wood beams. The flames guttered now and then when the wind snuck through a gap in the walls, sending sparks skittering across the floor. Beside him, a knife gleamed dull in the firelight, and scattered bones sat in a tidy pile, pale against the dark pelt beneath him.

In his palm lay the small iridescent stone. He turned it slowly between his fingers, watching how the firelight danced across it—blue, green, violet, a hint of silver. The color shimmered, ever-shifting like the sky at twilight. It reminded him of you. Of the way light clung to your skin when you leaned over your datapad, eyes half-lit with wonder. Of the way your smile always hit faster than your words.

Neteyam let the stone settle against his palm and reached out, grabbing a small curved knife from the floor near the hearth. Beside it, a bundle of thin, pale bones—sanded down, dried clean—lay wrapped in leather cord. Notched, old, but strong. He unwrapped them slowly, eyes flicking to the shadows cast by the lightning flashing through the walls. The fire hissed as it caught one of the storm’s exhalations.

He smiled.

He could already see how it would look—the stone wrapped tight with sinew, flanked by bone beads shaped with simple curves. Clean. Natural. Something for you alone.

You would fidget the moment he gave it to you. Look down at your hands, smile crooked, mutter something about how “you didn’t have to,” even while your fingers curled around it like it was the most precious thing you’d ever touched.

And then you’d wear it. Always. Just like you did with the bracelet he gave you half a year ago. You wore that bracelet like it was a badge. Like it connected you to something deeper than science.

To him.

He began to carve.

The knife moved easily—clean strokes shaving thin curls from the bone, his fingers steady despite the storm. Each small bead he shaped was smooth and purposeful, the rhythm of his work syncing with the fire’s crackle and the beat of rain above. Outside, thunder cracked again, and the whole kelku flashed with white light for a moment—then fell back into flickering amber.

The beads came slowly. One at a time. He lined them up beside the stone, imagining how they’d rest against your collarbone. His expression softened, pride flickering behind his focused eyes.

But as his hands worked, his thoughts wandered. To the flight earlier.

The storm hadn’t broken yet when they left. He’d returned from the hunt—drenched in sweat and the stink of blood but satisfied—and barely had time to drink before he was saddled again, flying into the darkening sky on his ikran beside his family.

Neytiri. Jake. Lo’ak. And him. The four of them had flown north as the first eclipse shadows stretched over the trees, their ikrans soaring low, wings skimming the high canopy. The forest grew stranger in the eclipse light—half-night, half-day, colors muted to bronze and gray, as if Eywa herself were holding her breath.

They reached the clearing in silence. And there it was. The unmistakable hulking mass of a dragon assault ship, half-buried in the tall grass. Its hull was scorched in places, but intact. Nearby, a Scorpion—parked for safety, rotors folded back. There were crates nearby. Scorch marks in the dirt. Trampled underbrush. All the signs of a deployment zone.

But no people. No movement. No sound. It was like they had landed… and vanished.

Neytiri had crouched at the edge of their perch, her entire body tense. She stared down at the ship with a look Neteyam had only seen once before.. Her voice, when she finally spoke, had been sharp as obsidian. “They are back. And they are close.”

Lo’ak hadn’t said anything. Neither had Jake. Not right away. The silence stretched, the only sound the distant churn of the approaching wind. Neteyam could still feel it—the pressure, the burn of it behind his ribs. They didn’t see a single human. But there had been movement recently. The soil told that story. So did the discarded wrappers, the markings on the crates. Tools and sealed gear. The kind no recon team left behind.

Neytiri had wanted to destroy the ships. Set fire to the clearing and let Eywa decide what remained. But Jake had held her back. “We don’t know why they’re here yet,” he’d said. “We don’t make the first move unless we have to.”

Neteyam hadn’t disagreed. But as he glanced at the empty ship, something inside him had turned cold.

Why now? Why so close?

And the look she gave those ships… Neteyam knew it by heart. Grief, buried under rage. She’d lost too much to sky people. She didn’t trust coincidence. And neither did he.

They’d left soon after, under strict silence, flying back into winds that threatened to tear them from the sky. Jake said he’d speak to Norm in the following, see if there were signs anyone had passed word of this movement. But Neteyam had his doubts.

Did Norm know? Did you?

He knew you didn’t lie well. If you'd known something this big, this dangerous, you would’ve told him. Wouldn’t you?

He carved another bead. This one thinner. Smoother.

His fingers moved faster now, catching the light as the beads began to stack beside him—each one small, perfect, shaped to slide on a leather cord. He had no design yet, not really. Just a feeling. Something that reminded him of the moments he treasured most: your hands brushing his as you passed tools, the way your eyes lit up under bioluminescence, the sound of your breath when you laughed in the quietest part of the forest.

Neteyam clenched his jaw and set down the bone shard he’d been carving. He picked up the iridescent stone again, turning it over in the firelight. Lightning flashed through the kelku, and for a breath, your face filled his mind—smiling, lit from below by a bioluminescent spore cluster, skin smudged with dirt and joy.

You were already back. Safe at the outpost. Behind its shields. Surrounded by Norm, Max, and the others. You were smart. Careful. And you never broke your word.

But the world was different now. He glanced toward the woven wall, where water slipped down the fibers. The sound of rain had changed—harsher now. As if the storm had teeth. The forest wasn’t just dangerous now. It was hunted.

And if the sky demons were moving again—if this was the start of something—he’d do anything to keep you from it. He set the stone carefully between the beads and reached for the knife again. The next bead would be smaller. Closer to the stone. Delicate, but strong.

Just like you.

The storm outside howled louder. But in the warmth of the kelku, surrounded by firelight and bone and purpose, Neteyam carved. And the gift he shaped was not just a pendant.

It was a promise. He’d see you again. And when he did—you’d wear this against your skin. And you’d smile.

It was bright. Too bright. The forest shimmered with golden sunlight pouring down through the thick canopy. Every leaf, every vine, every stone pulsed with life. The air was fresh and warm, the scents of flowers and damp earth so vivid he could almost taste them.

Neteyam moved through the trees with growing urgency, heart hammering against his ribs. He called out, but the sound of his voice was swallowed by the forest. Everywhere he looked, there was color—bright birds flickering through the trees, insects buzzing in lazy circles, the river ahead gleaming like a ribbon of light.

But you weren’t there.

He searched. He searched until the ground blurred under his feet and his breath came sharp and shallow. He checked the vines you liked to climb. The caves you liked to explore. The meadows you would lie down in just to watch the suns drift by overhead.

Nothing. You were nowhere. Panic gnawed at him. That cold, sharp panic he rarely let himself feel. Not in battle. Not in hunts. But now.

He was losing you. He staggered through another wall of green, nearly slipping in the wet moss—and stopped. There. By the creek.

Colourful fishes flitted around your fingers, nibbling curiously. You wiggled your fingers at them with a soft, delighted laugh, your hair falling in messy strands across your face. The sunlight kissed your skin, and for a moment, you seemed almost made of it.

Relief hit Neteyam so hard he nearly dropped to his knees. He exhaled, a raw, broken sound he barely recognized as his own, and started toward you. Of course you had wandered off. Of course you were chasing something curious and beautiful. It was who you were. And how could he ever stay mad at you for it?

He walked closer, the ground cool beneath his feet, his voice soft and cracking at the edges. “There you are,” he said.

You looked up at him, your face splitting into a huge, radiant grin. Your eyes sparkled in the sunlight—alive, mischievous, full of everything he loved and everything that scared him to death.

Without a word, you pushed yourself upright and reached toward him with wet, dripping hands. Before he could react he was already leaning down to your level, your palms cupped his face—cold, slippery from the water—and he froze, wide-eyed. Your grin widened. “You found me,” you said, like it was the most obvious, wonderful thing in the world.

Neteyam swallowed, the tension bleeding out of his shoulders all at once. “I always will,” he said, his voice low, almost a whisper.

You laughed again, bright and easy, and gently dragged your thumbs across his cheeks, leaving damp streaks behind. “You were worried,” you teased, your eyes narrowing playfully.

He huffed a breath, something between a laugh and a groan. His hands lifted to cover yours, pressing your palms firmer against his face, grounding himself in the feel of you. “You don’t listen,” he muttered, his forehead brushing against yours as he closed his eyes. “You never listen.”

You only laughed again, tilting your face up so your mask bumped his head. “That’s why you love me.”

And Eywa help him, it was true. Neteyam exhaled against the glass panel, the warmth of your hands cradling his face still grounding him—when something shifted. He blinked.

And the world was no longer bathed in gold.

The sunlight vanished, swallowed by a heavy, oppressive darkness. A cold rain lashed against his skin, the roar of the storm all around him. The trees groaned under the weight of the wind, their branches thrashing like wounded creatures.

Neteyam realized he was crouched on a high branch, slick with rain, the bark beneath his hands cold and wet.

For a moment, disoriented, he looked around—searching, heart pounding against his ribs. Then he saw you. You were there, only a few feet away, clinging to the branch, your body trembling with cold and fear. Your hair, soaked and tangled, stuck to your mask and neck. Your clothes clung to your small frame, and you pressed yourself low against the bark as though trying to disappear into it.

Before he could call out, before he could even breathe your name, you turned your head sharply toward him, eyes wide with terror. You pressed your small fingers quickly to his lips, shaking your head with urgent ferocity.

Be quiet.

He froze instantly, obeying without question. Your lips trembled as you leaned in, close enough that he could just hear your whisper over the rain: “They’re here,” you breathed. “Viperwolves.”

Neteyam’s blood turned to ice.

Your eyes darted downward—and he followed your gaze. Far below, weaving through the underbrush like dark, restless shadows, the viperwolves prowled. Their sleek forms slithered through the misty forest floor, low to the ground, muscles rippling under soaked fur. Snarling. Sniffing the air.

Hunting.

Hunting you.

You pressed closer to him, your body rigid with fear. He could feel the way you shivered, not just from the cold—but from terror. Real, paralyzing fear. And Eywa, he had never seen you like this. Not you. Not the girl who laughed at storms and climbed higher than any scientist had any right to. Not the girl who would poke at a thanator’s pawprint just to marvel at how big it was.

He felt something hot coil inside him—a fierce, protective anger. His hand moved automatically, sliding down across his chest, fingers brushing the hilt of the knife strapped there. His instincts roared awake.

Protect. Shield. Fight if you must.

He leaned in closer, so their shoulders touched, so you could hear him even through the rain. His hand brushed lightly over your arm, steadying, grounding. “Hey,” he whispered, voice low and steady. “Breathe. You’re safe.”

You shook your head slightly, your wet hair clinging to your cheeks. “They’re hunting me. They followed me. I ran, but—”

“You did good,” he cut in gently. His hand pressed against the small of your back now, warm despite the rain. “You climbed. You got out of reach. That’s smart.” You blinked up at him. He could see the doubt, the terror clawing at you. He shook his head firmly. “I’m here now,” he said. “They won’t touch you. I swear.”

Slowly, very slowly, he moved his hand up and cupped the side of your head, shielding you from the worst of the rain, shielding you from the fear. Your forehead leaned instinctively into his palm, seeking the warmth and safety. “I will protect you, yawne,” he murmured. “Always.”

Another snarl echoed below—but Neteyam didn’t flinch. His whole focus narrowed to you—to the way you trembled under his hand, to the way your heart raced against his side. “We’ll wait,” he whispered. “Let the storm cover us. Then I’ll get you out. You trust me, yes?”

Your lower lip trembled, but you nodded. Pressed your forehead against his shoulder. Neteyam’s arms tightened around you instinctively. Nothing would take you from him. Not rain. Not fear. Not viperwolves. He closed his eyes, feeling your small form against him, the storm raging around them—but in the hollow space between you, there was something stronger. Something steady.

And he held onto that as he planned the way down—already thinking of how to move, how to shield you, how to make sure, no matter what, you would make it out safe. You were his to protect. And he would never let you fall.

Neteyam woke with a sharp breath, like he had surfaced from deep water.

For a moment, he just sat there in the dim morning light, blinking blearily at the woven ceiling of the kelku, his heart still pounding dully in his chest. The storm had passed sometime during the night; he could hear the steady drip-drip of rainwater sliding from the leaves outside, the soft hum of the waking village in the distance.

He dragged a hand over his face, his palm rough against the skin still damp with sweat. The dream still clung to him—sticky, heavy, colder than anything he'd ever dreamt of you before.

Normally, dreams of you were warm, sweet things. Quiet laughter. Whispered words. The soft brush of your fingertips against his chest. Sometimes, dreams he woke from with his cheeks burning, your smile flashing in his mind like a secret only he was allowed to carry.

But this... This had been different. Dark. Terrifying in a way that gnawed at his gut even now. He shook his head, trying to dislodge the tight knot of unease coiled low in his belly. It was just a dream. Nothing more. You were safe. You were fine.

Probably hadn’t slept all night, though, he thought with a small, dry smirk. He could practically picture you now: bouncing from workstation to workstation at the outpost, hair a mess, goggles pushed up onto your forehead, muttering rapid-fire notes into your recorder as you tested the new spore samples the xenobotany team had pulled from the pit.

You lived for discovery. You never slowed down. And Eywa, he loved you for it. Even if you wore yourself to the bone sometimes. You never could resist new samples. He chuckled under his breath. His relentless, unstoppable little human.

He sat up slowly on the edge of his pelt, rolling his shoulders to shake off the lingering tension. Already, his thoughts were drifting to you—how your face would light up when you explained some new discovery, how your hands would wave wildly as you tried to describe some chemical reaction that made absolutely no sense to him but sounded beautiful all the same because it was you saying it.

He missed you. Even though he had seen you the morning before. Even though it hadn't even been a full day. He missed you enough that a new idea slipped into his mind, quiet but insistent. I should see her tonight.

The thought settled there like a promise. He would find an excuse to slip away after the evening duties. Maybe just watch you work and listen to your ramble yourself into laughter. Anything. He just needed to see you. To remind himself you were real and alive and safe.

Just as Neteyam started to push himself up from his pelt, thinking about slipping away quietly to start his day before anyone could catch him, a soft sound made him stiffen — the faint swish of vines parting.

He looked up sharply.

At the entrance to his kelku stood Neytiri, her silhouette outlined in the pale morning light. Her expression was calm. Too calm. Neteyam immediately felt the tension return, settling deep in his spine like a coil ready to snap.

“Ma’itan,” Neytiri said, stepping lightly into the room.  It wasn’t a mother checking on her son. It was the Olo’eyktan’s mate arriving with duty. Expectation.

He said nothing. He only straightened where he sat, waiting.

"You will go with Sa’nari today," Neytiri said without ceremony. No greeting. No kindness to soften the blow. Just the words, heavy as stones.

Sa’nari. Another one of the “chosen” girls. A skilled healer, yes. Gentle, wise, kind — all the things a good tsahìk might look for in the future mate of an Olo’eyktan. Exactly the kind of girl his mother and grandmother would favor. Exactly the kind of girl that wasn't you.

Neteyam blinked slowly at her, forcing himself to stay still when every part of him wanted to groan, flop backward into his pelt, and will himself into nonexistence. Eywa help him, he had barely survived yesterday being paraded around like a prize calf for K’shi—and now this?

He didn’t move, didn’t speak, just stared at her, jaw clenching tighter. Neytiri stepped inside a little, her expression softening just barely. "Sa’nari is skilled," she said, as if that explained everything. "A healer. Gentle, but strong. Mo'at sent her to gather herbs today by the western basin. The creek." Her eyes met his pointedly. "You will go with her." A pause. "Guard her. Learn from her. Know her."

Neteyam’s fists curled against his thighs. He knew better than to speak quickly—but the words came out anyway, sharper than he meant. "I don’t want to go."

Neteyam stared at his mother, a muscle ticking in his jaw. But Neytiri’s gaze pinned him where he sat. Calm. Expectant. Unyielding. She wasn’t asking. She stepped closer, folding her hands neatly. “She needs protection.” Her tone shifted slightly, almost too casual. “And... time to be known. To you.”

Neteyam let his head fall back slightly, eyes staring up at the ceiling. Of course. Of course it wasn’t just about guarding. It was another push. Another quiet pressure disguised as duty. He fought the heavy sigh rising in his chest. “I have patrols,” he said tightly. “Lo’ak can go with her.”

“Lo’ak is needed elsewhere,” Neytiri said swiftly. “You are free this afternoon.”

He gave her a look — flat and unamused. “Mother—”

She lifted her hand in a quiet but firm motion. “You already hurt K’shi’s feelings yesterday,” Neytiri said, her voice sharper now. “You will not behave like a reckless boy again. You are a grown man, Neteyam. Start acting like one.”

The words hit harder than they should have. Maybe because they were the same ones Jake always used too, whenever he wanted to twist the knife deeper. Grown man. But still being told who to speak with. Who to walk with. Who to consider worthy.

Neytiri turned away before he could say anything more, already moving toward the kelku’s entrance with the quiet, predatory grace that she carried everywhere. “This is not about what you want,” she said over her shoulder, soft but cutting. “It is about what you owe to your people.”

Neteyam looked away, jaw clenching, fighting the urge to argue—to shout. To say that the only hands he wanted to hold were already too small, too human, too forbidden. That the only future he could picture smelled like earth and lab-ink and laughter.

Instead, he said nothing. He just stared at the floor until Neytiri sighed quietly. "You will go," she said, final and heavy.

Before she slipped through the hanging vines, Neytiri’s voice floated back to him, quieter now, but still unrelenting. “She leaves within the hour. Meet her by the eastern path.”

And then she was gone. The kelku was silent again, except for the steady drip of water from the leaves outside. Neteyam sat there, unmoving, for a long moment. Eywa, he wanted to scream. Instead, he dragged both hands down his face, groaning low into his palms. Another wasted day. Another charade. Another moment spent pretending he didn’t already know where his heart belonged.

And it wasn't with Sa’nari. It was with the small, stubborn, relentless human who was probably covered in soil and glowing spores at that very moment, laughing to herself in a lab somewhere far too close to danger. Neteyam dropped his hands into his lap, exhaling hard.

Fine. He would go. He would guard Sa’nari. He would play the good son. The good warrior. The good heir. And then, when it was done, when he could finally slip away into the cover of night—he would find you.

He would find you, and maybe—just maybe—he could finally breathe again.

The scent of crushed herbs and damp moss filled Mo’at’s tent, rich and grounding. Bundles of dried roots hung from the ceiling, swaying gently with the morning breeze, their shadows dancing across the floor. The old tsahìk sat near the hearth, her fingers busy weaving a new binding cord from thin, water-soaked reeds. Her movements were slow, methodical—yet even in her stillness, her presence commanded the air like a quiet storm.

Neteyam stood at the edge of the space, tense and unblinking. “I don’t understand,” he said, his voice low but sharp. “You know.”

Mo’at didn’t look up, but the faintest twitch at the corner of her mouth told him she’d been expecting this conversation. “I know many things, ma’itan,” she said evenly.

“You know about her.” He stepped forward, not angry—yet—but tight with confusion. With frustration. “You know what she means to me. You’ve helped us meet here. You said her learning from you gave her a reason to stay in the village at night.” He gestured around the tent, to the walls where his human had sat cross-legged for hours beside the old tsahìk, soaking up knowledge like the forest soaked rain. “You said—”

“I said it made sense,” Mo’at interrupted gently. “Not that it would last forever.”

Neteyam’s mouth opened, then closed. His hands moved unconsciously to the stone in his fingers—the iridescent one from the creek. It had been resting in his palm without him realizing since he left his kelku, shifting slowly between his thumb and forefinger as if it had grown attached to his skin.

Mo’at’s eyes followed the movement, her gaze landing on the stone for only a second before she resumed her weaving. “She will not be harmed,” she said softly, as if sensing the darker thread beneath his words. “Not by me. Not by this.” Then her eyes lifted again, sharper now. “But your mother is not so patient. And she sees your future clearly, as I once did with hers.”

“That’s the problem,” Neteyam muttered, jaw clenched. “She sees a future. Not my future.”

Mo’at set the half-finished cord aside and leaned back slightly, folding her hands in her lap. “You are not wrong to feel it,” she said. “But you are wrong to think you can ignore it. Your mother… does not yet understand how deep your bond runs.” Her eyes met his squarely. “But she fears losing you. To a path she does not know.”

Neteyam looked down again, his grip tightening slightly on the stone. His chest felt too small. The air too thick. “So I just go?” he said. “Pretend? Smile? Spend the day walking beside someone I don’t want, when the only person I—”

“—is probably halfway through cataloguing a leaf sample and humming to herself,” Mo’at said mildly, a knowing glint in her eyes.

Neteyam blinked. He couldn’t help it. His lips twitched. Just barely.

Mo’at smiled. “Then make this journey useful,” she said, gesturing toward his hand. “You will walk by the creek, yes? The vines there hang strong. Good for bindings.” She nodded toward the stone. “That one would suit a thread of river-hanger vine. Smooth. Durable. Fitting for something meant to last.”

Neteyam stared down at the little stone in his palm, light dancing across its surface in soft hues of purple and blue.

Mo’at leaned forward slightly, voice dropping low, wise and wicked all at once. “Gather what you need. Pretend for your mother’s sake. But weave your own path, ma’itan. Quietly, if you must.” She smiled, eyes gleaming. “Even a Tsahìk cannot bind the heart.” Mo’at's voice was gentler now, like wind brushing over leaves.

“You do not have to give them your heart, ma’itan. But you do have to give them your presence. For now.”

He swallowed thickly. “And after?”

Mo’at only smiled again. “After? You will return to the outpost. And someone very small and very stubborn will probably throw herself at you the moment you step through the door.”

Neteyam barked a quiet laugh, low in his throat.

Mo’at’s smile turned sly. “And you may give her that stone. And perhaps she will kiss you. And perhaps your mother will still be angry, but perhaps… that kiss will be enough for a little while longer.”

He closed his fingers around the stone, warm now from his touch. “I hate this.”

“No,” Mo’at said, rising to her feet slowly. “You just love. And love is always heavier than duty.”

Neteyam stood silent for a moment longer, the stone clutched in his palm like an anchor. Then, reluctantly, he nodded once and turned to go. Outside, the path toward Sa’nari waited. But so did the creek. So did the vines. And later—so did you.

The forest was quiet in that damp, post-storm way—leaves heavy with lingering droplets, the underbrush glistening under the muted morning sun. Birds chirped high in the canopy, but otherwise, the air felt still. Waiting.

Neteyam walked behind Sa’nari in near silence, his steps measured, his bow strapped loosely across his back. The light played across her shoulders as she moved, her braid trailing down the center of her back, her satchel bouncing softly against her hip with each step.

She was speaking softly to herself as they went, fingers brushing certain plants, occasionally pausing to tug a leaf or run her thumb across a petal. Her hands were deft—gentle but sure. Trained. She didn’t fumble or hesitate. Every movement had purpose.

She had always been like that, even as a child. Smart. Precise. Focused. She finally broke the silence after they passed a patch of sun-drenched ferns. Her voice was soft, careful. “You do not have to look so tense, Neteyam. I will not bite.”

He huffed a small breath through his nose—not quite a laugh. “Sorry,” he said. “I didn’t sleep well.”

Sa’nari nodded slowly. “Storm?”

“Something like that,” he said, eyes flicking ahead toward the path, unwilling to give more.

They walked for a while longer in quiet, the creek now murmuring somewhere ahead, just past a dip in the terrain. Birds rustled through the canopy. The wind carried the scent of water. “I heard the hunt was a success,” Sa’nari said lightly. “Even if some of the younger ones panicked.”

He allowed a small smile. “They’ll learn. They did well enough.”

She glanced at him sidelong, her eyes sharp and warm all at once. “You sound like your father when you say that.”

Neteyam grimaced slightly. “Let’s hope not too much.”

That made her laugh softly. He watched her from the corner of his eye as she walked—a quiet confidence in her, not unlike Kiri’s, though less wild, more restrained. Everything about her was composed. She reached out to pluck a sprig of redroot from the moss, tucking it neatly into her pouch. “I’ve gathered here many times,” she said, “but it’s nice to have someone with me this time.”

Neteyam offered a noncommittal sound.

“Redroot, five clusters,” she murmured now, mostly to herself. “Three more of the silvercap. And I’ll need river moss if it’s still holding—” She paused, then glanced back at him, eyes shy but bright. “You can tell your mother I am not wasting the day,” she said with a faint, sheepish smile. “Mo’at will have more than enough herbs when we return.”

Neteyam gave a quiet huff, not quite a laugh. “She doesn’t think you’d waste it.”

Sa’nari smiled again and turned back toward the creek. They kept walking for a while, the sunlight filtering through in soft shafts, their shadows stretching long. Eventually, she slowed as they reached the low western basin, where vines hung down in heavy coils from the upper branches and the water ran cool and shallow. Dragonflies buzzed lazily along the surface, their wings catching in the light.

Sa’nari knelt beside a patch of flowering reedgrass and began to work, carefully clipping stems and tucking them into her pouch.

Neteyam stood nearby, gaze drifting to the vines overhead. River-hanger. Just as Mo’at said. His fingers itched slightly.

But then Sa’nari spoke again, her voice quiet. “You’ve changed, Neteyam.”

He looked at her slowly. “How?”

“You’re quieter now,” she said without turning. “Heavier.”

He didn’t answer. Not immediately. It was the kind of observation only someone who’d known him a long time could make. And Sa’nari had. She’d been there since they were children—never loud, never pushy. Just always there. A quiet presence in the village. The girl who knew how to stop a bleeding wound faster than most warriors could draw a bow.

She gathered a bundle of moss into her palm and stood, brushing her fingers together. “Your mother wants what’s best for you,” she said gently. “We all do.”

He turned to look at her fully then. And she met his eyes. Sa’nari glanced at him again. This time, her eyes lingered. He knew that look. Longing. Quiet, hopeful longing.

He had seen it a hundred times before, in so many girls’ eyes. He’d caught them watching him across the hearth fires, smiling too brightly during training, lingering too long during blessings. At first, he hadn’t known what to do with it. Now… now he just felt tired.

Because he knew the truth. Knew how cruel it was. Sa’nari would make a wonderful mate. Any warrior would be proud to walk beside her. But she would never have his heart.

Because someone else already held it. And Sa’nari didn’t even know she’d never had a chance. “I’m glad to have your company,” she said after a moment, quieter now. “Truly.”

He swallowed, the weight of her sincerity pressing heavily in his chest. “You’re easy to walk with,” he said honestly. “That’s a gift.” Her smile flickered, then steadied.

They reached the creek shortly after, the water trickling over smooth stones, reeds swaying gently at the banks. Sa’nari moved to the edge without hesitation, beginning her work—snipping, sorting, murmuring the names of each plant she gathered.

Neteyam stepped away slightly, eyes scanning the trees, but really… he was searching the vines. His hand slipped to his pouch. The stone waited there, quiet and warm.

He would find the right one. A strong, supple strand of river-hanger vine. Enough to cradle the stone, to let it rest where it belonged—over your heart. He moved silently along the edge of the creek, scanning, gathering, his fingers brushing over the vines one by one. And as he worked, the ache in his chest softened slightly.

Because he wasn’t just here to follow orders. He was weaving something of his own.

Neteyam knelt some paces away, his fingers brushing over the heavy strands of river-hanger vine dangling from the branches. He tugged gently on a few, testing their strength, his mind already moving through the steps. The stone in his pouch would hang best from something soft and braided. He could reinforce the base with fine leather, maybe add some carved bone or seed beads to make it more personal. She liked when things told stories. Maybe he’d carve a small pa’li figure, or a little sprig of that glowing fern she’d once fallen in love with. His lips twitched faintly at the thought.

“You’re making something,” Sa’nari said suddenly, her voice calm but perceptive.

Neteyam froze just briefly, then resumed his work. “Maybe,” he said.

She tilted her head slightly. “Something for someone?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just gave a soft grunt that could’ve meant anything. She smiled faintly to herself and stood, brushing the dirt from her knees and moving toward another patch of herbs. “Can I ask you something?”

Neteyam glanced up, wary but open. “You can.”

Sa’nari’s fingers hovered over a cluster of blossom-fronds before she spoke. “Do you ever wish… someone else could choose for you?” Her voice was soft. Unassuming. But the words carried weight.

Neteyam straightened slowly, letting the vine fall from his fingers. “No,” he said. “I think… I’ve always known what I want.”

Her back remained to him, but he could see the stillness in her spine. “That’s rare.”

He considered her carefully, then asked, “And you? Did you ever love someone? Or did you just wait… for your parents to choose for you?”

She turned then, her eyes thoughtful and open. “I used to think I would wait,” she said. “Until someone was chosen for me. It seemed easier. Simpler. But…” She gave a small shrug. “I learned that simple things don’t always feel right.”

Neteyam looked away, down at the vines, at the way they curled like veins along the branch. “You’re kind,” he said after a moment. “Gentle. If you wanted to be chosen… you would be.”

Sa’nari smiled faintly. “Maybe I was.” Her gaze was steady. Not pressing. Not accusing. Just honest. “But sometimes I think we are all just trying to be someone our families can be proud of. Even if it means hurting ourselves a little.”

The words settled in him with an uncomfortable truth. Sa’nari knelt again to gather a flowering stalk, but her voice carried across the hush between them. “I’ve seen the way you walk with humans. How you speak with them. The way they trust you.”

Neteyam blinked, glancing back toward her.

“I think your father must be proud,” she continued, “that you never turned bitter. That you never resented those who were worthy of our respect—even if they shared blood with those who hurt us.”

Neteyam’s fingers curled unconsciously around the vines in his hand. He thought of you.

Of how you always apologized for things you never did. Of how you looked at Pandora like it was a sacred book, not a prize. Of how your hands trembled the first time you touched a glowing tree and whispered, “I don’t want to break anything.”

You were human. But you had never been a sky demon to him. You were his little star. And stars, he thought, don’t destroy. They guide. “They’re not all the same,” he murmured finally, voice low. “She never hurt anything,” he murmured under his breath, not even realizing he said it aloud.

Sa’nari tilted her head slightly, but said nothing. Just listened. After a while, she smiled. Soft. Knowing. “You will be a wise leader, Neteyam,” she said. “When your time comes.” He looked at her, caught off guard. “You carry many things quietly,” she added. “And you do not speak hate, even when your heart is torn.” After a moment, she said, “Your father must be proud of you.”

Neteyam huffed a breath, not quite agreeing, but not willing to argue.

The path back to the village was quieter than the one they had taken out.

The basket slung over Neteyam’s shoulder was heavier than it looked—overflowing with herbs, moss, and flowering stalks, the day’s careful work bundled tight. Sa’nari walked a few steps ahead, her pace light despite the long hours, her head tilted slightly as if still listening to the songs of the forest.

Neteyam didn’t mind the silence. It wasn’t awkward, just… still. Like the earth had settled again after the storm. As they passed under the heavier canopy near the village’s outskirts, he felt it. A gaze. Heavy, focused. He didn’t need to look to know who it was. Still, he glanced once—and immediately regretted it.

Neytiri stood just beyond the main clearing, near the tsahìk’s tent. Her posture was proud, her arms folded loosely over her chest, her head tilted in that quiet, pleased way that said she was already imagining the future—one where he and Sa’nari stood together, mated under the eyes of Eywa, strong leaders for the Omatikaya.

Neteyam turned his head away sharply, the muscles in his jaw tightening. He didn’t want to see that look. Not when it wasn’t meant for the life he wanted. They reached the slope where the healers’ supplies were sorted, and Sa’nari slowed, finally turning to face him. She reached out carefully, taking the heavy basket from him with a small, grateful nod. “Thank you,” she said softly. “For today.”

Neteyam managed a small, genuine smile. “You didn’t really need guarding.”

“No,” she agreed easily, adjusting the basket against her hip. “But it was still... better. Having someone there.”

He inclined his head slightly. At least, he thought privately, she hadn’t been as pushy as K’shi. Sa’nari had let the day breathe. Let the spaces between words stretch comfortably. That counted for something. He turned to go, but her next words stopped him.

“I’m grateful you walked with me,” she said, her voice lower now, almost hesitant. “Even though your heart is already... elsewhere.”

Neteyam froze, blinking once. He almost did a double take—almost stumbled.

He turned slowly to look at her. Sa’nari only smiled up at him, shy but calm. No accusation. No anger. Just a quiet understanding. “You’re not as subtle as you think you are, Neteyam,” she said with a soft chuckle, her eyes bright with kindness. “Whoever she is… she must be very special.”

He swallowed thickly, unsure what to say. His hand twitched at his side, almost reaching instinctively for the small stone still tucked safely in his pouch.

Sa’nari’s smile softened further, and she stepped past him, the basket swinging gently at her side. “I won’t tell anyone,” she said lightly over her shoulder. “It’s not my story to tell.”

Neteyam watched her go for a moment—watched the way she disappeared into the crowd gathering near the healers’ tents—before finally exhaling.

The knot in his chest loosened just a fraction. She understood. More than he had given her credit for.

And even though the path laid out for him still felt impossibly narrow, impossibly sharp, at least there was someone else who knew he was already walking another one. Quietly. Stubbornly. Truly.

For you. Always for you.

Neteyam turned away from the gathering crowd, slipping quietly back toward the edges of the village, where the trees grew thick and the sky opened wide.

Tonight, he would find you. Tonight, he would slip through the outpost’s barriers, find the light in your window. And maybe—maybe—he could hold you again and remember that, no matter what the world tried to make of him, he was still yours. Yours first.

Yours always.

Later that night, after the suns dipped low beyond the treeline and the village fires began to burn soft and golden, Neteyam found Lo’ak lingering near the kelku.

He moved quickly, keeping his voice low. "If anyone asks," he said, tightening the strap on his bow, "tell them I'm on patrol."

Lo’ak turned, catching the tone immediately. “To her?” he asked, a sly grin tugging at his mouth.

Neteyam gave him a sidelong glance but didn’t deny it. “If anyone asks, I’m on patrol.”

Lo’ak rolled his eyes, but there was understanding in them. “They always ask. Especially Mom.”

“Then lie better,” Neteyam muttered.

Lo’ak sighed, raising his hands. “Fine. You���re deep in the southern trail. Dangerous patrol. Very heroic.” Lo’ak smirked, flicking a pebble into the ring. “You’re getting worse at sneaking out, you know.”

Neteyam just raised a brow. “You gonna rat me out?”

“Please. I’ll say you were wrestling a palulukan bare-handed if it helps,” Lo’ak grinned. “Tell her I said hi. And not to throw you out if you fall asleep mid-sentence again.”

Neteyam rolled his eyes but gave him a quiet, grateful nod. “Irayo.”

He turned and made his way to the high perch just beyond the village, where the ikran rested. His bonded mount, Tawkami, raised his head the moment he approached, eyes bright with recognition. He let out a sharp, echoing chirp, already rising to his feet and shaking out his wings. Neteyam reached up to press his forehead against his, a soft chuckle rumbling in his chest. “You can feel it too, can’t you?”

He warbled low, nuzzling against him with excitement. The bond snapped into place with ease, tsaheylu weaving their thoughts together. Tawkami’s wings lifted with anticipation.

They launched into the sky together, slicing through the rising winds. The world stretched beneath them in darkness and silver moonlight, but Neteyam’s heart was steady. He knew exactly where he was going. The anticipation of seeing you again, of slipping into the quiet safety of your light and your laugh, filled him with something electric.

He hadn’t seen you in almost two days. And even though that wasn’t unusual for you—especially during sample analysis—it had still gnawed at him all day. He needed to see you. Hear your voice.

But when he reached the outpost, it was not the calm haven he had imagined. As the outpost came into view—a small glint of artificial light tucked between the trees—he felt the anticipation swell. Tawkami descended in a tight spiral, and Neteyam leaned into her rhythm, expecting quiet. Calm. Maybe your soft humming from inside the lab tent.

But something was wrong. The outpost wasn’t silent. It wasn’t calm.

The floodlamps along the wall were on, buzzing faintly in the humidity. The front gate was open, the interior glow flickering through the plastic panels of the lab’s main structure. But more than that—Neteyam’s eyes narrowed as he landed beside the Samson.

Its engine was still warm. Freshly used.

He ran a hand along the metal, frowning. That ship had returned with the xenobotany team just yesterday. If they were testing samples, they wouldn’t be flying again. They had protocols. Safety rules.

Why had it been used?

He dismounted in one swift motion, his instincts sharpening as his boots touched the packed soil. Tawkami shifted behind him, feathers twitching as she sensed his tension. Neteyam stepped into the main yard—and that’s when he saw them.

Norm. Max. Brian. Kate. And few other scientist whose names he didn't bother to remember.

All in full field gear—vests, boots, packs still strapped across their backs. They stood around one of the large plant containers near the far wall, a datapad held between them, its screen glowing faintly with a map.

A map of the mining zone. They didn’t look up right away. But Neteyam saw their faces—drawn tight with stress, eyes shadowed, clothes rumpled like they hadn’t slept in two days.

And she was nowhere. His chest went still. Cold. At first he thought—maybe she’s inside. Maybe she's working late again. Maybe— But then Max turned. Saw him.

And froze.

That look.

Neteyam knew it instantly. Something happened. He took three steps forward, voice low but hard. “Where is she?”

Norm looked up then, his face pale, jaw tight. He opened his mouth, but nothing came out for a beat. Neteyam’s heart thundered in his chest. “Where is she?” he demanded again, louder now.

Norm exchanged a glance with Max. Kate stepped back slightly, rubbing at her brow. Brian whispered something under his breath. Something that sounded like “shit.”

Neteyam’s stomach dropped. “She’s inside… is she?” he said, even though he already knew the answer.

No one spoke. Not yet. The only sound was the quiet hum of the datapad and the soft, electric whine of tension rising in his blood. Then Max finally stepped forward, slowly. “Neteyam,” he said, voice low, careful. “We need to talk.”

The world tilted. Cold and sharp. And Neteyam already knew:You were gone. And he had no idea where.

Kate was the first to break the silence. “You should’ve come earlier!” she snapped, voice sharp with frustration and something deeper—fear, maybe. “Maybe then we could’ve found her!”

Neteyam’s eyes snapped to her. “What?”

But Kate didn’t stop. Her words tumbled out too fast, like she’d been holding them in for hours. “We waited too long. We split up twice. The ridge was already washed out by the time we circled back, and then we couldn’t pick up any signal—not from her tag, not from the datapad. That fucking flux vortex… If you were here—if you’d just come earlier—”

“What do you mean find her?” Neteyam asked, the word catching in his throat. His voice was low, dangerous, but laced with disbelief. “Why would you need to find her?”

His breath was shallow now. In his mind, up until this moment, you were safe. You were in the outpost. You were maybe inside the lab, maybe reading, maybe sketching those new plant samples you found. You were waiting for him.

But the way they looked at him told him otherwise. He turned to Norm, needing to hear something—anything—different.

The man had known him since he was a baby. He’d patched his wounds, watched him take his first steps, taught him human words when Jake had refused. He had never looked at Neteyam with fear.

Until now. His lips parted. “Neteyam…” Norm said gently, like one might speak to a wounded animal. “She disappeared.”

The words didn’t land at first. Didn’t make sense.

“Disappeared?” Neteyam echoed, the syllables dull and foreign on his tongue. “No. She’s not—she wouldn’t—she was supposed to be here.”

“She went missing yesterday,” Max said, quietly stepping in. „But it was already near eclipse, and the storm rolled in faster than expected. We stayed until we couldn’t see anymore. We searched for hours.”

“You left her?” Neteyam growled, his voice raw now, cracked wide open.

Max stepped forward, raising his hands. “We didn’t want to—Neteyam, listen. We stayed as long as we could. But visibility dropped to nothing, and the eclipse was setting in fast. The storm was—”

“You LEFT her!” Neteyam shouted now, taking a step toward them.

“We marked the area!” Brian snapped back, frustrated. “We left signal markers! We planned to return at first light!”

“And what did you find?” Neteyam hissed.

The silence that followed was the worst part. Nothing. No one looked at him. Max rubbed his temples. “The rain washed everything. No tracks. No trail. No broken brush. Her comm is dead. Or damaged. We don't know.”

Neteyam’s chest heaved. His breath burned in his lungs. You weren’t here. You haven't been here since yesterday. You were out there. In the forest. Near the old mining zone. You had been out there during the eclipse. Alone. During the storm. During the night. And he—he had spent that night thinking you were safe, warm, maybe curled up with your datapad and tea.

But now—now he remembered the dream. You, trembling, soaked, clinging to a high branch in a blackened forest, lightning flashing around you. He thought it was just guilt. A stupid dream. He wanted it to be just a dream. But now— Now it felt like truth. You were still out there. His mate. You were still out there. “I’m going after her.” His voice was low, guttural. He turned on his heel.

“No, Neteyam, wait,” Norm stepped in front of him. “It’s dangerous. There’s another storm rolling in tonight.”

“I don’t care.” His jaw clenched. “I’ll find her.”

“You can’t see anything out there in the dark,” Max said. “We can barely navigate that terrain in daylight, even with scanners.”

Neteyam was already moving toward Tawkami, who growled low as if sensing his rider’s boiling fury.

“Neteyam!” Kate shouted. “If you get lost too, what good does that do her?”

“I won’t get lost!” he snapped. “I know that forest. Better than any of you. I know the pit. I know how the water runs.”

“But you can’t help her if you’re dead,” Norm said firmly, stepping between him and the ikran. “You go out there now, in this storm, in the dark, we may lose both of you.”

Silence followed that. Tawkami hissed softly behind him, restless. His heart roared in his ears. His whole body was screaming to move. But Norm stood there like stone. Unmoving. Max beside him, rain starting to tap on the Samson’s hull. The others watched, hollow-eyed.

Neteyam's breath came hard. He hated it. Hated waiting. But some small part of him—buried under the panic—knew they were right. Still, he turned his back on them and walked several paces away, just far enough to breathe, to feel the air against his skin.

“She was alone,” he whispered, barely audible. “All night.” No one answered. The wind picked up again, as if the forest itself mourned with him. And in his heart, something curled—tight, angry, and aching. Because waiting might be wise. But every second was agony.

For a moment, there was only the sound of rain beginning to pick up again—slow, steady drops on the metal roof of the outpost. The tension in the air was thick, almost electric, like a storm itself was standing in the room with them.

Then, from behind the group, a quiet voice broke through. “She didn’t have anything with her,” Raj said. His voice was small, almost hesitant. Neteyam turned slowly. His stare locked onto Raj’s like a spear thrown mid-flight. “Just… just her satchel. And a field knife. That’s it.” His voice cracked. “We thought… in the morning, with the storm and all—”

Kate hissed, “Raj, shut up—”

But it was too late. The words had already landed like knives in Neteyam’s chest. His vision tunneled. He stepped toward Raj slowly, his entire frame radiating something primal. The heat of fury rolled off him like smoke, barely contained. The others tensed as his shadow fell over the smaller man. “You thought you’d find her corpse?” Neteyam repeated, voice deathly calm.

Raj paled. Kate whipped around to stare at Raj. “You fucking idiot! What the hell is wrong with you?”

Raj flinched, clutching his side. “I didn’t mean—I was just saying—”

Neteyam was already walking toward them. His face was unreadable, but the way he moved—deliberate, quiet—set the hairs on Max’s arms on end. His eyes locked on Raj, dark and wild like a brewing storm. “Say one more thing,” Neteyam said lowly, his voice like thunder before the strike. “Say one more word that implies she’s dead.”

Raj swallowed, suddenly very aware that Neteyam, standing tall and furious, was ten feet of trained warrior who could break him in half without even trying. “You thought you’d find her body?” His voice was so quiet it was nearly a growl. “So you left her out there. You left her—with nothing but a knife—while the storm was coming.”

Max tried to step in, his hands raised. “Neteyam, listen, we—”

“No,” he snapped. “You listen. If anything happens to her—” he jabbed a finger at the group, his chest rising and falling with fury “—if she’s hurt, or worse, because you left her out there… I will make every single one of you regret the day you set foot in our forest.”

His voice dipped lower, deadly calm.

“I’ll burn this outpost to the ground. I’ll drag each of you into the forest and leave you to survive with just a knife. I don’t care what deal my father made. I don’t care about your research. If she dies—your lives mean nothing to me.”

The group fell silent. Pale.

“You think you’re here because Eywa allows it?” Neteyam’s voice rose like thunder, snapping around them like a whip. “You live in our forest because my People lets you. Because we chose to trust you.”

He pointed sharply toward the map still glowing on the datapad. “You call yourselves scientists, protectors of life—but you left one of your own behind.”

Even Norm took a step back, his hands half-raised, trying to de-escalate. “Neteyam, I get it—she’s important to you,” he said carefully. “But threatening us won’t help her.”

Neteyam bared his teeth—not in a snarl, but something close, his tail lashing behind him. “You think this is me losing control? You haven’t seen what happens if I do.”

Raj looked like he wanted to disappear. Brian wouldn't even meet his eyes.

“We did what we could,” Max insisted, voice tense. “We stayed as long as we could. We waited as long as we—”

“You’ve done nothing!” he shouted.

The air went dead quiet. Even the machines around them felt silent.

Neteyam loomed over them, muscles tight, his chest rising and falling like a warrior before battle. He wasn’t thinking clearly. Couldn’t. The only image in his head was you—cold, trembling, bleeding maybe, hiding from viperwolves or worse. Maybe still curled on a high branch, like in his dream. Maybe already—

No.

No.

“You think scanning empty ground and waiting till morning counts as doing something?” Neteyam hissed. “She’s not a sample. She’s not data. She’s my mate.”

The silence that followed was stunned. Max’s mouth parted slightly. Brian swallowed hard. Even Kate looked like she’d been slapped. Norm’s expression changed. Not surprise—but realization. Quiet and heavy. Finally, without another word, Neteyam turned, storming toward Tawkami.

“Where are you going?!” Kate called after him, but he didn’t answer.

Tawkami crouched low at the signal, sensing his rider’s fury like a second skin. As soon as Neteyam swung into the saddle, the ikran launched upward in a burst of wings and wind, scattering dust and fear in every direction.

The outpost vanished beneath him like a bad dream. But the fire stayed. The forest was vast, and yes—he could search alone. He would search alone. All night if he had to. But he knew it wouldn’t be enough. He needed help. Real help. His family.

Kiri could hear through the forest better than anyone he knew. And Lo’ak—Lo’ak would fly through a hurricane if he thought it would help Neteyam find her. He tightened his grip on the harness, heart hammering.

The woven walls of the kelku were bathed in a flickering gold from the fire pit outside, but Neteyam didn’t feel the warmth. His steps were sharp, restless, pacing tight lines across the floor as he moved back and forth between his storage chest and the saddle pack laid out on the mat.

Bow. Quiver. Rope. Flint knife. Water skin. Another blade strapped across his lower back.  Everything he could possibly need—and none of it would be enough. He dropped a folded tarp into the pack and buckled it shut just as the flap at the entrance rustled open.

Footsteps sounded behind him—quick and uneven. Lo’ak. “Bro, I thought you’d be back at dawn,” he said, pushing aside the kelku’s curtain with a lazy grin. “What, she kick you out this time or—”

He stopped dead when he saw Neteyam’s face. The smile fell off his mouth instantly. Neteyam didn’t even look up. Just secured the pack with a tight pull and dropped it near the door. “She’s not at the outpost,” he said, voice hollow and flat.

Lo’ak’s brows pulled together. “Wait—what?”

Neteyam finally turned, his eyes sharp, glowing like coals beneath the low firelight. “She went missing yesterday. During the field run.” His jaw flexed. “They lost her. Eclipse was setting in. Storm was rolling. They left her.”

Lo’ak’s eyes widened, disbelief etched into every line of his face. “What do you mean, left her?”

“I mean she never came back. And they abandoned the search after dark.”

Lo’ak stared at him, stunned—then his hands curled into fists. “Eywa…” he muttered. “And you didn’t kill them?”

“Not yet.”

Lo’ak looked at the pack, then at Neteyam’s gear. His brother. Always calm. Always in control. But now? He looked like a blade waiting to snap. “Who else knows?” Lo’ak asked.

“No one,” Neteyam said. “Not yet. And I want to keep it that way—for now.” He stepped forward, grip tightening on his bow.

Lo’ak stood frozen for half a second—then swore under his breath and stepped inside. “Eywa. Are you—shit. That’s why you’re back. You wanna go after her.”

Neteyam nodded once. “I need someone I can trust with this.” He grabbed the pack again and slung it over his shoulder. “Where’s Kiri?”

Lo’ak didn’t hesitate. “Still in the healer’s tent. She was helping Grandmother with the vision sap harvest.”

“Good. Get her.” Neteyam glanced up sharply. “We need her. You know how she hears things—how she feels things. She’ll help us track.”

“When do we tell Dad?” he asked after a moment.

“Not yet,” Neteyam said. “Not unless we have to.”

Lo’ak didn’t argue. He knew what it meant—for their father to find out. For their mother. “I’ll get Kiri,” he said quietly, then turned toward the door. Just before he stepped out, he paused, looking back. “We’ll find her,” he said firmly. “We’re not letting the forest take her.”

Neteyam didn’t answer—he just nodded once, eyes burning. Because she wasn’t gone. Not yet. And he would tear through the jungle with his bare hands to bring her home.

The storm had returned with a vengeance.

Wind howled through the trees outside the kelku, rattling the woven walls like angry spirits. Rain lashed the leaves in sheets, the forest moaning under the weight of wind and water. Thunder cracked above like a whip, and still Neteyam stood near the doorway, his pack at his feet, ready to run into it.

He was shaking. Not from fear—but from the raw, unbearable need to move. Then the curtain pulled back again.

Lo’ak stepped in first, face grim, and right behind him came Kiri, her braids still damp from the rain. She stopped when she saw Neteyam—really saw him—and her expression faltered.

Her eyes were wide the moment she entered, searching the space for something—anything—that might change the words her brother had just spoken. But all she saw was Neteyam, fully armed, jaw clenched, chest heaving like he hadn’t stopped since the second he landed. “She’s gone?” Kiri whispered, her voice cracking.

Neteyam didn’t answer at first. Kiri already knew. Lo’ak had told her everything. Kiri crossed the floor quickly, rain dripping from her braids, and stopped in front of him. Her hands were trembling, but she was trying to keep it in—trying to be calm. Trying to be steady. “She’s one of us,” she said, barely above a whisper. “She’s my friend too. Don’t shut me out.”

Neteyam closed his eyes briefly, nodding. “I’m not.” He opened them again, looking at her with raw, carved honesty. “I need someone I can trust with this. That’s why you’re here.”

Kiri walked further in, standing beside Lo’ak. “What are we doing?” Kiri nodded once, lips pressed tight.

Neteyam didn’t hesitate. “We find her.”

“Without telling them?” she asked, but it wasn’t judgment—just clarification.

He nodded. “If Mother and Father find out… they’ll demand answers. They’ll ask why I’m ready to tear apart the forest for a human girl. We don’t have time for that.”

Lo’ak gave a tired snort from near the door. “You say that like she won’t smell the panic coming off you tomorrow.”

Neteyam shot him a look. “Then we don’t give her time to. We’re out before sunrise.”

Kiri’s lips pressed into a thin line, but she said nothing more. She understood. They all did. Neteyam’s jaw clenched again. He didn’t answer. Kiri rubbed her hands over her arms, trying to stop the shiver that crept through her. She moved to sit beside the fire pit, staring into the flames, letting the silence stretch until she could breathe again.

Neteyam took a breath and moved toward the corner of the kelku where a small pile of scattered belongings rested. He crouched down and moved aside a folded cloth.

Lo’ak beat him to it—his fingers brushing against the cracked, black casing of a datapad half-buried beneath a pelt.

“Is this…?” he asked, holding it up.

Neteyam nodded once. “She left it here. A few weeks ago.”

Lo’ak sat on the floor, thumbing the cracked screen. “Still works.” He tapped a few controls, the screen flickering weakly to life.

Kiri leaned in. “She kept maps on it, didn’t she?”

“She kept everything on it,” Neteyam said, unable to help the faint smile that ghosted his mouth for a second and then turned back to Kiri.

Lo’ak tapped the screen, and it flickered to life, dull and sputtering—but functional enough. The blue-white map display shimmered into view, blurry lines tracing the jungle in grainy detail.

Kiri stepped closer, kneeling near his pack. “We’ll need a plan. Not just charge out there and hope. She’s smart,” she finally said. “If she knew she was lost, she’d look for shelter first. Not run around like a fool.”

“She has nothing but her satchel and a knife,” Neteyam said. “But she’s not helpless. I taught her what to do. Where to hide.”

“So do I,” Kiri said. “I trained her. Every herb I know. Every sign in the trees. She’s not Na’vi, but she listens better than most of us.”

“She’s smart,” Kiri said, voice tense. “She wouldn’t just wander aimlessly. She wouldn’t panic. Not after everything we taught her.”

Neteyam looked at her. “So where would she go?”

Kiri’s eyes narrowed, thoughtful now. “If she realized she was being left behind… she’d go high. Somewhere dry. She wouldn’t risk the waterline in a storm.”

“I know.” Neteyam crouched beside her. “We start at the mining zone. She was lost somewhere near the old ridge—right where the western shelf starts to collapse into the basin.”

“She’s smart,” he said. “If she got turned around, she’d know better than to stay near the pit. Too exposed. She’d move.”

“To where?” Kiri asked, kneeling beside him.

“Would she go east?” Lo’ak asked. “Toward the outpost?”

“She’d try,” Neteyam said. “She’d want to get back. But not in a straight line—not without direction. Not without light.”

Lo’ak crouched beside Kiri, turning the tablet so she could see. “There,” he pointed. “The pit. And the outpost. She’s somewhere in between.”

Kiri leaned in, her eyes scanning the terrain. “You think she’d try to go east?”

“But even if she did,” Lo’ak said, voice hesitant, “she’d have to stay hidden all night. Through a storm. She must’ve been so scared…”

Neteyam looked away. He didn’t need to imagine it. He dreamed it.

“She’s smart,” Kiri added. “But that’s still days of walking. Through unfamiliar terrain. Alone. It’s full of palulukans out there. Lanay’kas too.”

“But look,” Lo’ak pointed. “These creeks—there’s a few between the pit and the outpost. If she found one, maybe she followed it. Water leads somewhere.”

“We’ll need more hunters,” Kiri said finally. “Even just two. If we split the area, we’ll cover more ground.”

“No,” Neteyam said. “Not yet. I don’t want anyone else involved. Not unless we have to.”

Kiri glanced at him, eyes sharp. “Neteyam—”

“She’s mine,” he said quietly. “They wouldn’t understand. I won’t let her name be whispered through the clan like a curse.”

Lo’ak looked at him, the weight of that word—mine—settling deep between them.

Kiri exhaled. “Fine. Then we do this ourselves.” Neteyam nodded. “But not tonight.” He looked up sharply. “You know we won’t find anything in this storm,” Kiri said gently. “It’ll bury any trail she left behind. If we go now, we’ll waste energy. We’ll miss signs.”

Neteyam hesitated. Every instinct in his body screamed go. Every heartbeat was a drum pounding now, now, now. But he also knew Kiri was right. She always was. He dropped the charcoal and let his hands rest on the mat.

“You need to rest,” Kiri said. “Both of you. We’ll go at first light.”

Lo’ak sighed. “She’s right, bro.”

Neteyam sat down hard on the edge of his mat, burying his face in his hands. The rain thudded against the kelku like a war drum. His heart beat in time with it—furious, aching.

“Get some rest,” she added. “You need to be strong. For her.”

He didn’t argue. No one spoke for a long moment. He just stared at the storm outside, praying—begging—that you were out there, still fighting. That somewhere under all that rain, you were waiting for him to find you. And he would. No matter how long it took.

The night held no peace.

Outside the kelku, the storm raged—rain battering the woven walls like distant drums, thunder rolling across the canopy in great, groaning waves. Inside, Neteyam sat still for hours, legs crossed near the entrance, unmoving, listening to the wind and the rise and fall of his own breath.

Eventually, exhaustion dragged him down. He didn’t remember closing his eyes. But he dreamed. Again.

He found himself in a clearing. It wasn’t like before. Not rain-soaked branches or shadows full of teeth. This time, it was quiet. Too quiet.

The air was soft and heavy, the storm strangely absent here. Everything was quiet—too quiet. No insects. No rustling leaves. Just the sound of creaking metal and the slow moan of something swaying in the wind.

Between the trees, a Samson hung broken from the high branches. Its tail section was caught on a twisted trunk, the body dangling at an awkward angle—like a forgotten toy. The wind stirred it gently, letting it creak and swing in slow arcs. Half the cockpit window was cracked. Panels torn away. The metal gleamed wet and sharp.

And in the grass below it— You.

You sat curled on the damp moss, your knees drawn in, your satchel spilled to one side. Your hair was a tangled mess, stuck to your cheeks and brow. And your hand—your small, shaking hand—was cradled in your lap, slick with blood. A deep, angry slice carved across your palm, oozing fresh and vivid.

You were crying. The sound hit him like a spear to the chest—soft, trembling sobs, the kind he’d never heard from you before. Not in the labs. Not in the field. Not even in your worst moments.

He stepped forward slowly, his feet soundless on the moss. Your head jerked up. And when you saw him—saw Neteyam—you didn’t speak right away. Your lower lip wobbled, and you blinked hard, trying to clear the tears.

Then you reached out toward him. You showed your hand to him like a child might, small fingers shaking, your palm smeared with blood. A jagged cut sliced from the base of your thumb to the edge of your hand, the skin torn and pulsing.

“It hurts, Neteyam,” you whispered. Your voice was soft. Broken. Like a child. He dropped to his knees in front of you, reaching for your wounded hand, cupping it gently in both of his. You winced. “I climbed… I thought maybe I could reach the comm system,” you whispered, not meeting his eyes. “There was a shard of metal—I didn’t see it until…”

You trailed off. He gently turned your hand over in his, examining the wound. Deep, but not fatal. Not if it was cleaned. Not if it didn’t get infected. But the way your fingers curled inward told him you were in pain. Real pain.

And not just physical. “I’m sorry,” you whispered.

He looked up sharply. “For what?”

You shook your head, tears spilling over your lashes. “For being scared.”

He froze. You never said that. Not in the field, not in the labs, not even when he warned you of creatures in the trees. You’d always smiled and said you’d be fine. “You’re here, aren’t you?” you’d say, like that was all you needed.

But here, now, you were trembling in front of him. And you couldn’t look him in the eye. Neteyam’s jaw tightened. “Stop.”

“I just—” you exhaled shakily, still not looking at him. “You’re a warrior. You wouldn’t be afraid if you were alone like this. You wouldn’t cry.”

He gently tilted your chin up with two fingers. “Don’t say that.”

“I don’t want to die out here,” you whispered, voice cracking. “Not alone.”

Neteyam felt his whole chest collapse inward at the sound. You finally looked up at him. And your eyes—those bright, curious, maddening eyes—were rimmed with red, filled with something raw and terrifying. “I want to see you one more time,” you said, barely audible. “Even just for a minute.”

His hands slid to your face, cupping your cheeks with infinite care. “You will,” he said fiercely. “You’ll see me again. I promise.”

“But what if I don’t—”

“You will.” He pressed his forehead to yours. “You will, yawne. You hold on.”

You nodded, tiny, trembling. And then—

He woke. His breath left him in a sharp gasp as he sat up straight, drenched in sweat, the woven mat beneath him cool from the night air. The storm had passed sometime before dawn. His heart still thundered in his chest.

Outside, the sky was turning faintly gray.

First light.

Neteyam ran a hand down his face, dragging air into his lungs as if it might slow the pounding. He looked around, the kelku still and quiet, Lo’ak and Kiri probably preparing already, waiting. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, staring down at his trembling hands.

What was that?

A dream. Just a dream. But it hadn’t felt like one. It felt too sharp. Too vivid. He could still feel the warmth of your blood on his fingers. Still hear your voice in his ears. He clenched his jaw. His mind was playing tricks on him. It had to be. Showing him things—fears, nothing more. You were smart.You knew how to survive. You would survive.

And they would find you. He stood, shoulders squaring as he reached for his bow and strapped on the pack.

The morning brought a break—just enough light to fly under—but the forest was soaked, the canopy still weeping. Everything beneath the trees was washed clean. Or, at least, clean enough to make tracking impossible.

They flew out before the sun fully crested the ridgeline, a trio of silent shadows on their ikran: Neteyam, Lo’ak, and Kiri. No one else. No word to their parents. Not yet. Neteyam wouldn’t allow it. He couldn’t take the weight of Neytiri’s disapproval—not when every second was a scream echoing through his bones.

They swept past the cliffs in tight formation, their path following the old scar of the mining pit—a stretch of land long since swallowed by vines and forest, but still raw beneath the surface. The ghosts of what had been done there still lingered, in broken stone and blackened soil. Neteyam hated this place. And now it hated him back, swallowing the one thing he couldn’t afford to lose.

They searched for hours.

Kiri guided them in long, looping arcs, dipping down every time she felt something—movement, a wrongness, even the softest disruption in the silence. Lo’ak stayed close to Neteyam, knowing better than to let him veer off on his own. Not now. Not when he was wound so tight he looked ready to snap his bow over his own knee.

Neteyam didn’t speak much.

Every few minutes he’d dive low, scanning the mud for a boot print, a scuff, a sign. But the rain had done its work. Nothing remained. Every root was clean. Every patch of soil was untouched. The forest was too quiet. As if it was hiding something.

By midday, they regrouped at a narrow ridge above the northern basin. Lo’ak circled overhead once before landing beside his brother. “Nothing,” he said, breathless, frustrated. “Not even a broken leaf.”

Kiri landed just behind them, her braid plastered to her neck with sweat. Her face was pale. Tired. “It’s like she vanished,” she said softly.

“She didn’t vanish,” Neteyam growled, pacing along the edge. His steps were sharp, his jaw clenched so tightly it looked like it hurt. “She didn’t just disappear.”

“Bro…” Lo’ak tried gently. “The storm—”

“I don’t care about the storm,” Neteyam snapped, turning sharply. “She had to go somewhere. She’s not stupid.”

Kiri approached carefully, her voice even. “And maybe she went west. Or south. Or climbed high to stay out of the water.”

“You saw the map,” Neteyam said, voice low and fierce. “There’s no shelter past this point. No caves. No high ridge that would hold her weight in that storm.”

Lo’ak glanced toward the trees. “Then maybe she backtracked.”

“We would’ve seen it.”

“Maybe not,” Kiri said. “Maybe she covered her trail. Or maybe Eywa covered it for her.”

Neteyam’s jaw worked, his fists clenched at his sides. “Or maybe she’s lying out there somewhere dying, and we’re here talking about maybes.”

That was the first moment they saw it—really saw it. The crack starting to form. Neteyam had held himself together through everything—through duty, through pressure, through the endless push and pull between his family and his own secret love. But now? Now he looked like a cliff edge after the rain. One more tremor, and it would all fall.

“Neteyam,” Kiri said softly, stepping forward. “Please.”

He didn’t move. She placed a hand on his shoulder. “We need to go back. Just for tonight.”

“No.”

“Neteyam—”

“No,” he snapped again, but this time his voice cracked at the edges.

Lo’ak stepped in next, placing a hand on his other shoulder. “We’ll come back. At sunrise. Just like now. But you have to rest.”

“I can’t rest.”

“Then fake it,” Lo’ak said, eyes sharp. “Because if you collapse out here, we’ll be dragging both of you back to the village.”

Neteyam hesitated—but his legs trembled just enough to give him away.

Kiri tightened her grip. “She’s alive,” she whispered. “I know it. Eywa hasn’t taken her. I would feel it.”

Neteyam turned toward her then, finally, his eyes wide and hollow. “What if I can’t? What if we’re too late?”

“You won’t be,” Kiri said. “Because we’re going to find her. Together.”

Neteyam stood there, trembling, for a moment longer. Then finally—finally—he let his shoulders fall. “Fine,” he whispered. “But we leave again at dawn.” They left in silence. The rain had started again, light but steady, soaking through their clothing as they mounted their ikran and soared back into the grey.

It felt like defeat. But it was survival. Just barely.

Day Four

They left again before dawn. This time, the light was clearer. The storm had finally passed in the night, leaving the air cleaner, cooler. The sun broke through the canopy in soft gold streaks as they returned to the last known location, the wind carrying birdsong and the scent of wet bark.

And it was Neteyam who saw it first. They were passing the northeastern edge of the basin, gliding above a ridge when something below snagged in his vision—a shape, tall and gnarled, rising from the slope near the ravine.

A tree. But not just any tree.

It stood out from the others—its bark weathered and dark, limbs twisted like old hands. One of its roots had grown high over a rocky outcrop, forming a natural hollow. Shelter. High enough to escape floodwaters. Thick enough to shield from rain.

He nearly dropped from his saddle. Lo’ak and Kiri followed without question, their ikrans diving after him. They landed on the ridge beside the tree, and Neteyam was off his ikran before her talons touched the earth. He ran straight to the trunk, sliding to his knees beside the hollow.

It was there. Neteyam didn’t answer at first. He just stared. There, halfway up a steep, moss-covered rise, was a tree.

A thick-barked colossus with roots that rose like spires around its base, and a hollow carved into the trunk high above—just large enough to shelter a body. Neteyam’s heart slammed against his ribs. “That’s it,” he whispered. “That’s the one.”

Lo’ak frowned. “What?”

“I saw this tree,” Neteyam said, already dismounting. He stepped through the mud, pushing toward the roots. “In my dream. The night she vanished. I saw her—shivering—in the hollow. And there were viperwolves circling the base.”

Kiri followed fast behind, her voice cautious. “Are you sure?”

“I remember the shape of the branches. The tilt of the roots. The way the light cut through here—” He pointed to the canopy above. “It’s the same.”

Lo’ak followed, brow furrowed. “You think it was Eywa? A vision?”

Neteyam didn’t answer. He was already climbing. The roots were slick but solid. He hoisted himself up with quiet, practiced movements, and when he reached the hollow—

He went still. Inside, the tree was dark, lined with old nesting leaves and bark. But near the back, half-buried under a clump of moss, was a shape.

His hand trembled as he reached for it. A single white button. Round. Stretched along the edge. It was from the shirt you wore the morning you left. He remembered the way it sat just beneath your collarbone. You’d complained the buttons were old. He’d joked that he’d just rip them all off next time. Now it lay in his hand.

“Neteyam?” Kiri called from below.

He turned slowly, clutching the button so tight it nearly cracked in his palm. “She was here,” he said, voice hoarse. “She was alive. She made it through the storm. She climbed up here to escape.”

Kiri and Lo’ak stared up at him, eyes wide. “And the wolves?” Lo’ak asked.

“No blood,” Neteyam said. “No bones. No torn cloth. She wasn’t attacked.” He dropped to the ground in two swift motions, landing hard.

“She survived. And she moved on.”

Kiri’s eyes narrowed. “That hollow’s old. She might’ve only stayed a night.”

“But she was alive when she did,” Neteyam said, voice full of urgency now. “We’re close.”

Lo’ak looked around. “So what now?”

“We switch tactics,” Neteyam said, breathing fast. “We stop flying. From now on, we track on foot. She’s not in the trees. She’s moving through the ground. We need to see the forest the way she would.”

Kiri nodded. “Pa’li, then. No ikran. Ground only.”

“She’s not far,” Neteyam whispered, clutching the button like a lifeline. “She’s not far. And she’s still alive.” And this time, he was sure. The forest hadn't taken you yet. And he would find you. Even if it took every step, every hour, every last piece of himself to do it. He would bring you home.

The kelku was quiet, lit only by the flickering fire pit. The smoke curled lazily toward the open vents in the roof, but Neteyam barely noticed. He sat cross-legged on the edge of his sleeping mat, spine rigid, head bowed. The white button lay in the center of his palm, resting there like a fragment of bone. Small. Insignificant.

And yet it felt like it weighed more than stone. It was the only thing he had from you since you vanished into the forest. The only proof that you were still out there. That you hadn’t just… disappeared. He turned it over slowly between his fingers, rubbing the edge with his thumb.

Now it was the only thing he had. Not your laugh. Not your touch. Not the way you’d wrinkle your nose when you concentrate too hard or hum that one off-key Terran tune you swore was “meditative.”

Just… this. A button. The first sign you had survived that storm. That you had made it through one more night alone, in a world that wasn’t made for you.

His eyes drifted down to the half-carved neckpiece at the side of the pelt. The one he’d started for you, the one he couldn’t finish because the day he picked up the stone was the day you went missing. He reached toward it, slowly, running one hand over the notched bone beads already strung. The river-hanger vine rested beside it, partially braided, the iridescent stone glinting faintly under the firelight. It should’ve been done by now. Should’ve been around your neck, warm against your skin, fingers brushing it every time you laughed.

Instead it lay unfinished. Empty. He leaned forward, pressing his palms into his eyes, breathing slow, deep, strained.

He couldn’t lose you.

He should finish it. That was the plan. When you came home, he’d give it to you, watch the way your cheeks flushed and your fingers fidgeted, and you'd mumble something about how you didn’t deserve something so pretty.

Couldn’t let that dream become a prophecy—the one where he’d seen you sitting in the tall grass under a low-hanging Samson, blood dripping from your hand like petals. He hadn’t told anyone about that one. Not even Kiri. Not when it felt so close. Too close.

But now…

He clenched the button tighter in his palm. Now he wasn’t sure if he’d ever get the chance. The fire cracked softly. Outside, a breeze stirred the trees. And then, without warning, the curtain at the entrance shifted. Neteyam’s shoulders tensed instantly. A tall shadow stepped in.

Jake.

His father.

He stood there in silence for a breath, just watching. Neteyam said nothing. Didn’t even try to hide the way he bristled. Jake’s eyes flicked once around the kelku. The gear piled neatly by the wall. The bones. The carving tools. And the half-finished pendant resting beside his son’s pelt.

His gaze narrowed. “I’ve been looking for you,” he said finally.

Neteyam didn’t move. “You found me.”

Jake stepped inside, brow furrowed. “You’ve been gone every day since the last hunt. Always out before dawn. Always coming back after dark. And your siblings are with you.”

Neteyam didn’t answer. His fingers twitched around the button.

Jake took a breath. “You’re going back to the clearing, aren’t you?” he said, tone low. “Where we saw the assault ship. You think there’s movement there.”

Neteyam’s head snapped up. “No.”

Jake raised a brow. “Don’t lie to me, boy.”

“I’m not,” he said sharply. “You want to talk about recon? Ask anybody elsei. I’m not wasting time going back there.”

Jake crossed his arms, watching him. “Then what are you doing?”

Neteyam’s jaw clenched.

“You don’t answer to no one now?” Jake asked, stepping forward. “You disappear for days at a time. Avoid your mother. Duck out of every gathering. Refuse every invitation to meet with Sa’nari. You don’t even look at K’shi anymore. Your mother says you haven’t shown interest in anyone.”

Neteyam laughed, bitter and low. “I wonder why.”

Jake’s brows lifted.

“I’m out there,” Neteyam said, rising slowly to his feet, “doing what you raised me to do. Surviving. Working. Leading. And suddenly, you’re interested in my love life?”

Jake didn’t flinch. “I’m interested in what you’re hiding.”

“I’m not hiding anything.”

Jake’s eyes flicked again to the pendant beside the pelt. “What’s this?” he asked, reaching out.

Neteyam was on his feet in an instant. “Don’t touch it.”

Jake looked up, startled. Neteyam’s face was drawn tight, jaw clenched, eyes blazing. “Is it for Sa’nari?” Jake asked carefully.

“I’m not telling you.”

Jake’s expression darkened. “That’s not how this works.”

“Funny,” Neteyam said bitterly. “Because nothing about this has worked for me.”

Jake took a step forward. “Neteyam—”

“I’m doing what I have to do,” Neteyam said, voice low and tight. “I’m trying to do everything right. And still—it’s never enough. I’m either too stubborn, or too cold, or not enough like you.”

“That’s not true.”

“No?” Neteyam barked a laugh. “Because it sure as hell feels like it.”

Jake’s tone shifted, quieter now. “I get it. You think I don’t? I know what it’s like to carry too much. I became Olo’eyktan before I was ready. I led a war before I understood what leadership really meant. And every day after that, I had to prove I was good enough to stand in the place I’d taken.”

Neteyam’s breath hitched—but he didn’t speak.

“I know it’s hard,” Jake said. “I know it feels like you’re being crushed from every angle. Like you have to carry the future while everyone tells you how to live it. But you don’t get to shut me out when things get hard.”

Neteyam finally looked at him.

Neteyam’s throat worked. He wanted to scream it. That you were missing. That you were alone. That every breath he took without knowing where you were was agony. That he couldn’t sleep, couldn’t eat, couldn’t breathe without seeing your face somewhere in the trees. But if he said it—if he said your name—it would be over. He turned away. “You wouldn’t understand.”

Jake’s voice dropped. “Try me.”

Neteyam froze. The silence stretched. Then finally—slowly—he turned his head just enough to speak over his shoulder. “There’s someone out there,” he said. “Someone who matters.”

Jake’s brow furrowed. “What does that mean?”

Neteyam didn’t elaborate. His eyes flicked to the pendant. The button. The fire.

Jake took a breath. “You’re scaring your mother.”

“I’m doing what you taught me to do,” Neteyam said coldly. “Protect what I care about. Even if it means breaking the rules.”

Jake stared at him for a long time. Then, finally, he stepped back toward the entrance. He paused at the curtain, one hand lifting it just slightly. “You’re keeping something from me, Neteyam. I know it.”

Neteyam didn’t look at him.

“I just hope,” Jake said quietly, “it’s not something that gets you killed.”

Then he was gone. The curtain swayed. Neteyam stood there for a long time and every breath felt like a countdown.

You were out there. And he was out of time.

The day was already thick with heat when they rode out.

The air clung to Neteyam’s skin like oil, humid and oppressive beneath the canopy. Their pa’li moved steadily over the forest floor, hooves squelching in soft earth, rain still dripping from swollen leaves. Kiri rode ahead, her eyes sweeping the ground. Lo’ak flanked behind, quiet for once.

Neteyam said nothing.

He hadn’t spoken since before dawn—not after another restless night spent staring at the unfinished neckpiece beside his mat. Not after his father’s visit. Not after pressing the white button to his lips and swearing he would not return without you.

They moved past a low stretch of reeds near the creek when Kiri reined in sharply. Her pa’li snorted. “Wait,” she murmured, swinging down. She knelt beside a clump of ferns, brushing her fingers through the damp leaves.

Neteyam dismounted fast, landing beside her. There, wedged under a moss-covered rock, was a shred of something pale. Kiri carefully pulled it out—a torn corner of paper, stained and softened by the rain.

Lo’ak squatted beside them. “Is that…?”

Neteyam grabbed it gently, turning it in his fingers. It was some kind of book—standard RDA stock, crumpled and torn, the ink smeared into illegibility. And stabbed through the center? A thorn. Clean. Deliberate.

“She marked it,” Neteyam whispered. He stood fast, scanning the trees—and then he saw another one. Farther ahead, tucked into the crook of a low branch: another scrap of paper. Pierced through and fluttering slightly in the breeze.

“She made a path,” Kiri said, eyes wide. “Eywa…”

Neteyam didn’t wait. He was already mounting. “Let’s go.”

They followed the path for half an hour—scraps hidden under stones, wedged behind bark, clinging to vines. Each one was like a heartbeat. A pulse. A whispered sign that she was still fighting. Still alive.

And then the trees opened. A clearing stretched before them—tall grass swaying in the midmorning light, golden-bright and deceptively peaceful. But it wasn’t the clearing that made Neteyam’s breath catch. It was the shape above it.

Suspended between the high trees, caught in a web of vines and roots and gravity’s slow mercy, hung a Samson gunship. Rusty. Broken. Twisted with age. Just like in his dream.

His pa’li halted with a soft grunt, sensing the shift in his rider’s pulse. Neteyam didn’t dismount. Couldn’t. He sat frozen, staring at the hanging craft like it had dropped out of his nightmares.

It was the exact same clearing. The exact same spot. The tall grass. The angle of the trees. This was where you had sat in his dream. This was where he’d seen you bleeding. “Eywa…” he whispered.

Behind him, Lo’ak was already moving, climbing up the low branches toward the side of the Samson. “I’ll check the cockpit,” he called.

Neteyam barely heard him. His vision swam. Please no. Please. Then, above him—

“Shit,” Lo’ak said. Neteyam’s head snapped up. And then the words came, sharp and terrible: “There’s a corpse up here.” It was more of a statement.

It was like getting shot in the chest. Everything inside Neteyam dropped. He was moving before he realized—bolting forward, leaping onto a twisted root, scrambling up the tangled vines as if his body no longer belonged to him.

He didn’t think. Didn’t breathe.

She’s gone. She’s gone. You were too late. You should’ve gotten here days ago.

His hands slipped on rusted metal, vines tearing under his grip. He hauled himself up over the edge of the broken ramp, eyes wild.

He was going to see you.

Dead.

Cold.

Eyes closed.

Face slack.

Gone.

The metal groaned beneath his weight as he pulled himself into the dark interior of the Samson—and stopped.

There, slumped in the pilot seat, was a corpse.

But not your corpse.

The uniform was faded tan. RDA insignia still barely visible on the shoulder.

The body was long decayed—just bones and sunken fabric, held together by rot and time. Probably had been here for twenty years, left behind after the war when this Samson crashed and never recovered.

Neteyam sagged forward, pressing one hand to the wall, breathing hard. He hadn’t realized how certain he was that it was you. How much he had already braced himself to see you—cold, broken, gone.

But it wasn’t you. It was some ghost of the past. A pilot who hadn’t made it out of the war. Neteyam didn’t respond right away. Instead, his eyes began to move across the interior.

The cockpit was rusted, yes—but solid. It had held together over the years. The control panels were useless, the wiring fried, but the frame was intact. It could have held weight. A person.

You.

He crouched lower, eyes scanning the corners, the dust-covered floor— And then he saw it. A helmet. Not the soldier’s.

An RDA exo-mask. Propped on its side in the corner, just beneath the pilot’s seat. Inside it… was liquid. Red-brown. Thick. His heart jumped. He reached for it, carefully, lifting it with both hands. The inside panel had been cleaned, smoothed out into a curve—used like a bowl.

First, he thought it was blood. His chest went cold. But then—he brought it to his nose. And stopped. Herbs.

Rulvansip.

Medicinal.

It smelled like the inside of Mo’at’s tent. It smelled like healing.

You have been here.

You used this.

You had treated a wound.

Just like the dream. A wound in her palm. He ran a shaking hand over the glass. “She was here,” he said hoarsely. “She stayed here. She used this.”

Kiri and Lo’ak looked up from below. “Then we’re still on her trail,” Lo’ak said. “Right?”

Neteyam didn’t answer. He just sat there, holding the mask, staring into that rusted cockpit, knowing that for one moment—one terrifying, beautiful moment—he was sitting exactly where you had once sat.

And it meant one thing.

You were still moving.

You were still fighting.

You were still alive.

The fire burned low, its glow soft and unsteady as it crackled in the center of the kelku. Shadows danced on the walls, flickering in slow waves across Neteyam’s face as he crouched near the hearth, unmoving, eyes locked on the flames. The broken screen of the old datapad lay between them, its display cracked and stuttering—sometimes showing the trail map, sometimes just static.

Lo’ak sat cross-legged, turning a dull knife slowly in his hands. Kiri leaned back on her palms, eyes scanning the glowing map projection as it flickered. They’d been going in circles for hours—marking paths, arguing possible turns, retracing your steps in their minds.

Maybe you’d doubled back. Maybe you had turned east again, toward the outpost, following the sun like Neteyam had taught you—head low, wound bleeding, stubborn and alive.

Lo’ak lay on his side nearby, one arm folded under his head, his voice hushed but tense. “We could backtrack to the outpost. If she was trying to follow the sun east, she might’ve tried to stay close to old trails. Even if she veered north, that whole quadrant’s easier to move through.”

Kiri nodded, sitting cross-legged near the fire, frowning in thought. “I’ve been thinking the same. She wouldn’t have gone north. Not with a wound. And the forest gets denser out there—steeper, more dangerous.”

Lo’ak added, “From the Samson to the outpost is not far. We can ride straight in from the creek basin. Be there by midday. But for her on foot…”

Neither of them looked at their brother. Because Neteyam hadn’t said a word in over an hour.

He crouched by the fire pit like a statue, shoulders taut, tail flicking in short, restless motions. His breath moved slow—too slow—and his eyes… weren’t really watching the flames. Not anymore. He was somewhere far deeper.

Inside.

Spiraling.

The heat licked his face, dry and too bright. But it was the only thing anchoring him now. I can’t breathe. He hadn’t breathed properly since the day you went missing. Not really.

For a year, you were just another human—just another voice in the outpost, tucked behind a datapad with dirt under your nails and stubbornness in your voice.

For two years after that… you were a strange ache in his chest. A curiosity. A spark. Someone who saw Pandora like it was made of wonder, not war.

Then you started saying his name like it mattered. In time, you stopped being a scientist to him. And then—somewhere in the quiet moments between shared glances and too-long conversations—you became something more. His distraction. His gravity.

His little star.

You burned so differently from his world—so strange and stubborn but gentle with every living thing. You weren’t Na’vi. You weren’t meant to belong. But you did.

To him.

In the last half year, since the first time you kissed him—messy, laughing, breathless—it had become unbearable to be apart. He’d never been meant for hiding, for secrets. But with you, he would hide forever if it meant keeping you. If it meant waking to your touch, even in silence. If it meant you were still his.

And now?—now you were gone.

He clenched his jaw, nails digging into the skin of his palms as he stared into the fire.

íYou have become part of him.

Every day they were apart since that first kiss had felt wrong. Empty. He needed you near him—needed your laugh, your warmth, your hand brushing his. He didn’t care that it had to be secret. Didn’t care that no one would understand. He needed you like breath. Now, all he had left was a trail of torn paper. An old dream. And the smell of herbs in a mask you’d used to heal yourself.

If I’ve already lost you…

He couldn’t finish the thought. Couldn’t let it live inside his head. His throat felt tight. His chest burned.

I can’t lose you. Not now. Not when you are finally mine.

He reached toward the flames without thinking—just close enough for the heat to bite his skin—and curled his fingers inward, as if grasping for something that wasn’t there. Kiri watched him, her voice faltering as she trailed off mid-sentence. Her eyes narrowed slightly, and she leaned forward.

“Neteyam,” she said gently. “You’re doing it again.” He didn’t blink. “You’re slipping,” she said, softer now. “You’re going too deep.”

Still nothing. Kiri moved toward him, settling beside his crouched form, her hand brushing his arm. “Neteyam,” she whispered. “Look at me.”

His breath came out as a shudder. Then, slowly, he turned toward her. “I need to find her,” he rasped. His voice cracked on the last word. Kiri nodded, her grip tightening. “I need her, Kiri. I can’t—I can’t lose her. Not when… not when she’s finally mine.”

It slipped out of him, barely above a whisper. And that’s when the curtain at the entrance rustled.

Neytiri stood in the doorway, framed in firelight. Her eyes were sharp. Her expression is unreadable. “What did you say?” she asked, voice like a drawn bowstring.

Neteyam froze.

Kiri went still beside him.

Lo’ak straightened slowly, the knife slipping from his hand with a dull thud against the floor.

Neytiri stepped further inside, eyes narrowed, locking onto her eldest son with slow precision. “Neteyam,” she said again. “Who is… ‘yours’?”

The fire snapped. The datapad flickered. And in the suffocating silence that followed, Neteyam didn’t move. Couldn’t move.

Because everything—everything—was about to break.

And he didn’t know if he could stop it.

Part 24: (Soon)

The next part will be again from reader's pov.

[impactrueno]

Hello Spike! I hope your doing well. I had some questions I wanted ask you, since you are from Venezuela. Sorry If I got something wrong, I'm still learning about Venezuela politics and I'm trying to use the resources available to me, but is Venezuela a fascist country? so many sources say its socialist but that doesnt make sense, isnt M*duro a dictator? my other question is, with the US turning into a fascist country, how bad will this affect Venezuela?

don't believe for a second that venezuela is actually socialist, that's a blatant lie from our government lmao. frankly yeah, at times it lines up with fascism better than it does with socialism because this is a government of hypocrites. 🙃 but hey maybe that's just what authoritarian governments aka dictatorships feel like. to give you an example of how little they actually care about actually following leftist ideals, we're still one of the handful of countries in the americas that hasn't yet legalized same sex marriage. something so basic, and yet. i haven't been able to change my legal name either because there's no support for transgender people whatsoever.

(note that same-sex sexual activity was already legal before hugo chavez in 1997. chavez took over in 1998.)

the government took over private companies, meaning they remained private, just controlled by the government. not the workers. never the workers lol. the economy is still more capitalist than anything because pretty much all CEOs are affiliated with the government, and if there's something these people know how to do is steal people's money because they only care about themselves. all government people and their family live like kings while the official monthly minimum wage for the rest of the population is $2. yes two american dollars. i'm not kidding.

opposition is largely suppressed and censored. all news media is government affiliated, otherwise it gets shut down (or blocked in the country if it's a website, for example twitter has been blocked since last june and i can only access it with a vpn) and there are quite a few foreign activists being paid to shill for our government and talk about how great it is.

you know, i've been paying attention to US news regarding trump and it's actually horrifying to see him essentially speedrunning what chavez and maduro did here in the past couple of decades. it's insane how similar they are. and it's scary too because i know where that leads, and it's something i never thought could even happen in the US. idk i just figured people wouldn't let it happen. but they did, because for some insane reason they voted for trump again. and now it's a horror show every day with every news i read.

i still don't know how that will affect venezuela because both trump and maduro act like children and make deranged decisions on a whim. trump's been sending venezuelan refugees back here, the place they literally had to escape from. if you speak up against the government in any way, you are not safe. hundreds of journalists detained and taken to el helicoide (a torture center) for daring to report the truth. hundreds of students detained and killed for exercising their right to protest. last year around the elections i had to deactivate my twitter for almost a month until things calmed down because i had been posting a lot of informative threads about our situation. i had to stop because they were actively hunting people down. it was blatant terror tactics and i hate that it worked on me

the tariffs thing is going to fuck with literally every country in the world, not just us. i guess we'll just get more stuff from china now? i don't even know what to expect but our already shaky economy is gonna tank because of it for sure. btw did you know our currency is so worthless that we all use USD cash now? it's not official or anything but it's all we got lol. we do still use bolivars for some things and you can pay anything in bolivars if you so choose, but when you look at stores, everything is in USD. our country is a joke lol

i gotta stop there because i think this is getting a bit disjointed and talking about venezuela makes my blood boil sometimes lol but i hope that answers your question. be vigilant of sites spreading pro-chavez/maduro propaganda; it will be very obvious once you pay attention to how things are written 🥴 if you want a clear example of what propaganda reads like, check whitehouse.gov LMFAOOO (i'm serious, the articles they've been posting since trump won are another level of insane, what the fuck is this timeline)

anyway i sincerely hope trump gets an aneurysm or some shit before he ends up pissing off the american people into taking to the streets so he can declare martial law. civilians vs military is not pretty.

[iloveyanderes]

PART 5 OF MY GENSHIN CULT AU!!!!

Getting away from the palais of Mermonia was far easier than (name) thought it would be, she said goodbye to all the melusines(somehow knowing all their names), and left. She didn’t tell anyone but did just leave a note in the room so graciously given to her.

Now that everyone knows that (name) isn’t an imposter(even if she doesn’t believe it) she can walk through Fontaine without worrying about being stabbed. Though she did grab a needle so (name) can show her blood at any time.

Surprisingly enough there was a carriage already waiting for (name), she spotted a very familiar patch of blonde hair.

“Lyney!” (name) called out, upon seeing his face. She instantly ran up to him and hugged him.

“Your holiness-” (name) felt him flinch, instantly she realized her mistake, backing up several paces.

“So sorry lyney, i should’ve asked first, i'm just so happy to see you…” feeling really guilty now, (name) visibly deflated, she’d really gotten these children into a lot of trouble.

“You got shot again” lyney stated blankly, (name) could quite tell if he was angry or disappointed.

“I did”, looking away in shame, (name) spotted some more melusine’s, which instantly lifted her shame as she waved at them enthusiastically.

Lyney was surprised when he saw the melusines wave back at her with just as much enthusiasm.

“You know them?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

“No, i just know there names somehow, plus they’ve been really kind to me and remind me of the hospital i work at- or worked at, i've been gone for nearly a month now so i'm probably fired or something” speaking of that (name) wonders if there's a bunch of missing reports of her back in canada, what did they tell all the children that she treated in the past?

Those kinds of thoughts were too depressing so (name) quickly changed the topic.

“Well how is freminet? Your mother- no father arlecchino told me that she could be able to bring me too him, i heard a little bit that he was imprisoned but no one else would give me any information”

“He’s fine” ‘and ashamed’ but lyney didn’t want to say that latter half, “I think we should go before people notice your gone”

“Alright, lead the way!” (name) followed lyney to a carriage,which led them to a speedboat, which led (name) to throw up as she’d never taken a boat before and quickly found out that she gets seasickness.

Poor lyney could only stand there awkwardly patting (name)’s back as she disposed of her lunch in the weirdest way possible.

Eventually they made there way to a place called poisson, the wording of it reminded (name) of poison, it was like one s away.

“Your sure freminet is in this hole?” (name) asked, tilting her head.

“Absolutely”

“About to head in are you?” (name) nearly jumped at the sudden familiar, yet stern voice from behind them.

Seeing those beautifully threatening eyes, (name) laughed nervously before speaking, “oh- arlecchino! Sorry i got a little startled- uh hows life been treating you?”

“Quite alright, your holiness” the knave quickly linked arms with (name), then turned her attention to lyney. The action reminded (name) of a person putting a leash on a dog then paying attention to other matters- without the fear of the dog running away.

“Lyney, you took far too long getting here, your siblings have gone mad with worry” (name) could swear that arlecchino’s words had a hidden message in them, but she couldn’t tell what it was.

“Yes father” with a swift bow lyney was out of there, it was obvious he was nervous.

Glancing briefly at arlecchino, (name) couldn’t help but wonder if the white haired woman was responsible for lyney being apart of the fatui- (name) didn’t actually know what that was she just overheard lyney call himself that, it was probably the name of the gang or mafia he’s in. but thats beyond the point, is arlecchino a criminal?

“Your holiness, is something wrong?”

“No!- sorry i was just spacing out, you said i could see freminet right? I was just wondering where he is” (name) quickly exclaimed, trying to save herself.

“Alright i’ll take you to him, your holiness”

“Also can you please stop calling me your holiness-or at least when were alone” ‘and it makes me flustered when you say that’ but (name) didn’t want to say that.

“Of course my lady”

Oh gods, that was even worse!

—----------------------------------------------------------

“I’m not going” (name) said firmly, the reunion between her and freminet had been cut swiftly when arlecchino had suggested that they go to snezhnaya. Something told (name) it wasn’t exactly a suggestion but she still wasn’t going to agree with it.

“The tsaritsa herself gave you the invitation, my lady. I wouldn’t suggest crossing her” arlecchino said just as firmly back, perhaps even a bit more venomous.

“Uhuh, aren’t you the same guys claiming im a god or something. Why do i need to listen” (name) was also pretty sure now arlecchino was not a good person, sure she was incredibly hot and kind of maybe (name)’s type but that doesn’t equal trustworthy. The only reason she had wanted to go here was to make sure freminet was okay.

“It’s for your safety, who knows when you’ll get stabbed again”

“I don’t care, im still not going, this entire world is so strange and new to me, you can’t just expect me to go to a whole nother country”

“You!-” the anger in the knave’s voice made (name) flinch, seeing that arlecchino paused, almost like she regretted it.

“Fine then, i’ll give you another day to think about it, My Lady”

Watching arlecchino walk off (name) made no move, only when she was sure the white haired lady was gone did she move, facing the very scared looking freminet.

“I’m going on a walk” no one made any move to stop (name).

Plucking a sunsettia (name) mindlessly ate it while wondering through the forest, there were a bunch of ‘dangerous’ monsters around but none of them made any move to attack her, in fact a lot of them were quite friendly. Like the slimes that practically demanded head pats from (name).

“The people here are crazy” (name) rubbed her head while mumbling, feeling a headache coming. “Expecting me to act like a god then telling me what to do, the only reason i give them the time of day is because i'm worried about the children-”

“ARGHS”

Suddenly (name) heard a pained moan come from the bushes, instantly her doctor instinct forced her to go towards it, pushing the bushes away she saw a-a fluffy creature?

It looked like a tiny human with a very fluffy mask, and little horns on the top of their head. The poor thing was clearly in pain, inspecting closer (name) found it trying to shift away.

“Im not going to hurt you” (name) promised, not expecting it to understand her. To her surprise it did, because instead the strange fluffy humanoid creature clutched closer to her as if it were looking for a hug.

(name) did not give it-not quite yet. She instead looked at the wound, it was open and mangled, and covered in blood. How the hell is this thing alive? Why is it alive? All that it brings is just suffering. Shouldn’t a creature like this be allowed to die?

“Your in pain, right?”

The creature nodded.

“And you…you can’t die?”

Another nod, however the creature then pointed at (name), what does that mean?

(name) felt tears roll down her face, being a doctor she’s seen many things die so why is she so sad!? Hugging the fluffy creature (name) wished that she could help them so badly it hurt her heart.

Then, a child's voice whispered into her ear;

“Thank you sister”

Opening her eyes (name) vaguely saw the golden outline of a child ghost before it faded away for good, the body in her hands belonged to a child-and it was no dead.

Before (name) could process anything her head began to hurt, it was like a thousand different child voices were whispering into her ears all at once. Saying the same 5 things over and over again.

“SINNERS! KHAENRI’AH! ALL OF THEM!”

It hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts It hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts It hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts It hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts It hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts It hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts It hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts

“SWEET SWEET CELESTIA, SAVIOR CELESTIA! PROPHET OF OUR GOD!”

It hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts It hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts It hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts It hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts It hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts It hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts It hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts

“HERETIC, HERETIC! RHINEDOTTIR, BLASPHEMER AGAINST THE CREATOR! BURN HER!”

It hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts It hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts It hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts It hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts It hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts It hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts It hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts.

“THE TREE- THE TREE- THE TREE- THE TREE- THE TREE -THE TREE- THE TREE -THE TREE -THE TREE- THE TREE!”

It hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts It hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts It hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts It hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts It hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts It hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts It hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts

Yet despite all those voices one seemed to overpower all of them.

“ALL HAIL THE CREATOR! ALL HAIL AASHITA!”

(name) vaguely remembered hitting the ground, it was funny she didn’t remember having stood up. She felt someone pick her up and she felt the sweet caress of a bridal carry, then nothing.

—------------------------------------------------------------

When she woke up, she only asked freminet one question.

“If I got to snezhnaya will it make things easier for you?”

“Yes”

“Tell your father im going then” (name) turned away, desperate to understand what she saw.

End chapter.

Authors note: uhhhhhh, this ended up being more angstful than i wanted, but hope you enjoyed!

[polyamorouscultureis]

I need to get something off my chest. I have no one irl who will understand this.

I have been with my Fiancée for almost 8 months. Before meeting her, I identified as gay and strictly nonmonogamous. HRT turned me bi around the time we met, and we got together. Before we did, I explained that I was strictly nonmonogamous, and she said she was fine with that.

Fast forward a couple months, and it turns out she is very not okay with that. After our relationship got serious, she changed her mind. At this point, she was the most important person in the world to me, and I couldn't imagine my life without her. After a couple months of thinking and talking, we made a deal. We would be sexually monogamous and emotionally nonmonogamous. She was significantly more bothered by the idea of me having sex with other people than anything else, and for me, emotional nonmonogamy is a necessity, while sexual nonmonogamy is just a preference.

This deal is totally fine for me. While I would prefer sexual nonmonogamy, I am perfectly fine giving it up for the health of our relationship. But I fear she is trying to shift us into full monogamy and I don't know what to do.

I used to be very proud of my nonnormative identity. But now I'm in a straight monogamous relationship, and we're going to get married, something I swore I'd never do. She constantly makes jokes about me being straight (but jokes about herself being a lesbian) and how much of a jealous person she is. It makes me uncomfortable. Sometimes, I feel like I've lost a part of myself, like I'm being forced into the role I used to reject so harshly.

I miss being gay. But I love her more than anything in the world. But recently I've been really yearning for a boyfriend. But I feel like I can't tell her that. And leaving her is not an option. I know she loves me and she's willing to make sacrifices for me and she wants to communicate with me. Outside of this, we do actually have a very happy and healthy relationship. I want to be with her forever. And I also want to be with a man. And I don't want to feel like my queerness is being erased. And she's queer to, it's not like she's some straight woman trying to convert me.

We had the (non)monogamy talk over text during a brief period of long-distance. I checked the messages to write this. She was very adamant that it is okay for me to have very close relationships with others, that I can go on dates with them, and that I can be affectionate with them. The only thing she took issue with was cuddling, but ultimately said that I deserved the freedom to do so, even if it bothered her. We did not discuss kissing. I don't feel like this is actually how she feels. She acts jealous generally, especially when I think a guy is cute. I feel like, while she might say she's okay with it, if I actually got in a relationship, she would get upset.

I know that the obvious solution is to talk to her, and I'm going to. But I'm nervous. I know that it'll be messy and we'll probably both get upset. I'm going to tell her that I don't want her joking about me being straight anymore. And we're going to go over her boundaries again, especially with cuddling and all the things we didn't actually touch on, like kissing and labels. I can do it, but it'll be scary, and I'm going through a tough time rn separate to all of this. Thank you for listening to me ramble <3

This is a hard situation, and I'm so sorry this is happening. Nothing about this is easy, or is going to be easy as you work through it.

From what you have written here, I too get the vibe that she is trying to slowly transition you into being monogamous, by first agreeing to poly, and then excluding sex from the poly arrangement, then excluding cuddling from the poly arrangement... I would expect more and more gestures of affection to be slowly excluded if your relationship continues this way. All this on top of "joking" about being such a jealous person and invalidating your identity even though you have expressed that it makes you uncomfortable makes me worry she is trying to make you feel bad about being poly and decide on your own to be monogamous with her, even though you were upfront about your polyamorous identity from the start. A partner should be making you feel proud of who you are, not making fun of your insecurities about how you are perceived.

I do have a few questions for you -- not necessarily ones you need to answer, but things for you to consider. First, you said you swore you would never get married. What changed your mind? Who proposed? Are you looking forward to the wedding? Is there any chance she believes that marriage inherently means promising monogamy and exclusivity? Are you prepared for the additional level of enmeshment that comes with a legal marriage (insurances, taxes, possible name changes, etc)?

Second, you said breaking up is not an option. Why is that? Do you live together? Are kids involved? Keep in mind that you can absolutely love someone and choose to not be in a relationship with them if you recognize you want different things from life. I do not doubt at all your love for her -- you're sacrificing a lot for her comfort, which you wouldn't do if you didn't love her! -- but I do question what this relationship does for you. What would change if you changed the label on your relationship so that you are free to pursue others as you like, and she is free to pursue someone who wants the same things she does from a romantic partnership?

You hit the nail on the head when you say you know the answer is to communicate all of this to her. My concern is that she will say what she thinks you want to hear, and then when problems arise again you will find yourself in the same place you are now, if not a worse one. This sort of thing can go on a downward spiral pretty quickly.

I hope that the conversation you have with her goes well, and that she is truly understanding of your feelings. You should never erase any part of who you are to make someone else more comfortable, or because it feels like the polite option. A partner should love you because of everything you are, and if you erase all of that, there is nothing left to love. Best of luck to you, anon. <3

[severicky]

♱ Friends? 「Caleb x MC」

╰┈➤ "How can we go, back to being friends? When we just shared a bed,"

🎶back to friends - sombr

a/n: no beta read, this is my first fic in like... 5+ years so I'm very open to any feedback ^^ ty

You and Caleb grew up together, when your parents tragically died when you were 7, Caleb and his grandmother took you in. Growing up, the two of you were inseparable, where you went, Caleb went and vice versa. It all changed in High-School when popularity got the better of you both.

Caleb was a nerd, he spent most his time in the library studying engineering and planes while you were the IT girl, everyone wanted you, and you were dating the hottest guy on campus, Sylus.

Both of you didn't know how it happened, but you grew distant, you were too indulged in your relationship and status with Sylus while Caleb was too focused on getting into flight school. You both started avoiding each other, even at home, especially after Caleb's grandma passed, you both acted like roommates instead of the inseparable duo you once were.

════════════════════════════════════════════

You didn't anticipate it, no one saw it coming, but you went to Sylus' house to surprise him for his birthday--that's when you caught him in bed with another girl. You dropped the cake in your hands, your best friend, Tara, who was recording stood in shock as she recorded the entire thing. Sylus got up, trying to explain to you that it wasn't what it looked like--but you didn't want to listen.

You ran home in tears, crying and sobbing the entire way home, your makeup was ruined, but you didn't care. Getting home, you noticed Caleb was home--you walked up to his room, knocking on his door for the first time in months.

"Gege?" you called for the first time in months, you could hear Caleb inside--but he didn't answer the door. You sighed before calling out for him again "Gege I know we haven't... spoken but I really... I need someone to talk to right now," you said, sniffing your nose as you tried not to cry. You heard the doorknob turning and saw Caleb opening it "Why don't you talk to your boy...friend,"

His face was cold, it was full of frustration, but seeing you crying, it brought back a sense of protectiveness all those years ago. He remembered how he always protected you from bullies growing up, he hated you, he hated how you turned into the thing you swore to destroy. But seeing you venerable like this, he felt a pang in his heart, he couldn't be angry with you.

He (reluctantly) brought you into his room, closing the door as you went to sit on his bed, he stood Infront of you, hand on his hip, another on his head as he sighed "So what happened?"

════════════════════════════════════════════

You told Caleb everything, how you heard rumors of Sylus' affair for weeks but brushed it off as someone trying to push you guys apart, you told him how you noticed Sylus was being distant but he just said it was exam stress, that's when you told Caleb that you caught Sylus red handed in bed earlier, causing you to get home earlier than usual with your makeup streaming down your face.

Caleb tried his best to comfort you, he really did, but he knew he had to pick his words carefully, he knew how sensitive you were at times, he knew he should scold you, tell you how Sylus was a known playboy, but he saved that lecture for a different day.

For now, he was contempt on comforting you, he sat down next to you and gently caressed your back, as he thought about what to say. He couldn't get a word out before you suddenly pulled him for a hug, sobbing uncontrollably into his shoulder "Caleb I'm sorry," you sobbed, the guilt of ignoring him these past months was starting to eat you alive, you sobbed, pleading Caleb to not leave you like how Sylus did, Caleb was your only family left.

════════════════════════════════════════════

Last night felt like a blur, you got some drinks to get your mind off Sylus, one drink turned into a bit too many and you found yourself drunk on Caleb's cock, whimpering his name like a mantra as he guided your hips on him.

Next thing you knew, you woke up to him spooning you as the sunlight peeking into his room through the blind, both of your clothes were discarded in the room as you laid in his arms, your naked bodies pressing against each other. You laid there in silence, continuing to embrace Caleb, checking the clock in his room, it was time for school soon.

You got up, grabbing your clothes and heading to your room, you took a shower, changed into something comfortable as you looked through your phone, people had gotten wind of Sylus' affair through Tara, Sylus was pleading you for forgiveness. You left to school like usual, without Caleb, reaching school, your friends, Tara and Jenna immediately ran to comfort you.

While talking, you felt a hand touch your shoulder, you turned around, expecting Sylus but was taken aback by Caleb standing, a tupperwear box in his hand "y/n umm.. you forgot breakfast," he said, giving you the box "y/n you know him?" Tara asked. You took the box and turned your back to him again, addressing Tara and Jenna "He's just a friend..."

[ha-rinrin]

Hello, hope you're doing well! Friendly reminder that you are amazing and deserve nothing but kindness and support.

Whenever you get a chance (because I know amazing writers like you get tons of requests) and of course if you want too, could you write a fiction of Jinx and reader trying to comfort and take care of a sleep deprived Isha? As if she lately couldn't settle down enough to sleep and one night it just took a huge toll on the poor thing. I've just lately have been very sleep deprived for almost a month now 😅.

Totally up to you, and again when you have the time. Thank you, and keep up the amazing work, it never fails to impress!

Hey there! First of all, thank you so much for your kind words, they really mean the world to me! 🥺 I'm so glad you enjoy my writing, it’s honestly such a huge compliment.

I totally hear you on the sleep deprivation — I hope you get the rest you need soon! And I’d be honored to write something for you based on your request, im so sorry it took me so long.

Take care of yourself, and remember you deserve all the rest you need. Thank you again for your sweet message ❤️‍🩹

Pairing: Jinx x female reader

Wordcount: 1.1k

The hideout was quieter than usual. The kind of silence that felt heavy. You sat beside Jinx, watching Isha from across the room. The little girl was curled up in a chair, her legs tucked close to her chest, staring off into the dimly lit room. Her usual mischief spark was missing.

It was hard not to notice. She was exhausted. Her eyes were too heavy, her movements too slow. She didn't seem like the same bright-eyed kid who would run around causing trouble with Jinx. This was something more.

Jinx noticed too, her eyes flickering between you and Isha as she fidgeted in her seat. "She’s been like this for days," Jinx said, her voice low and tense. "Just... zoning out, barely eating, barely moving. I don't know what to do."

You glanced at Isha again, your heart sinking. She hadn't looked at either of you for hours now. Her gaze was always fixed on something far away, as if she was shielding herself from something neither you or Jinx knew.

You stood up slowly, walking over to where Isha sat, your footsteps light. Kneeling down beside her, you gently placed a hand on her small shoulder. She didn't flinch, didn't pull away—just sat there, her face pale, eyes wide and distant.

"Isha," you said softly as you brushed some stray hair from her face and met her gaze, your expression soft but worried. "You need to rest, kiddo."

Isha blinked slowly, and for a brief moment, her eyes flickered to yours. There was a silent understanding between you two. She didn't need to speak for you to know what she was feeling—incredibly tired, maybe even fear.

Jinx moved beside you, her eyes filled with concern, though she tried to mask it with her usual chaotic energy. "You’re not a robot, you know," she said, her voice lighter but still holding that edge of worry. "You need sleep, just like the rest of us. Come on, let’s get you in bed."

But Isha didn’t move. She simply sat there, her shoulders hunched, her hands gripping the edge of the chair as if holding on to something, anything, to keep herself together.

You took a deep breath, crouching down so you were eye-level with her. " I need you to listen kiddo. We’re here, alright? You don’t have to do this on your own."

Isha finally looked at you fully, her eyes wide, and for the briefest moment, you saw the exhaustion crack through her tough exterior. Her hands released their grip on the chair, and she leaned toward you just a little, as if she were afraid to collapse but trusted you enough to help her stay upright.

Jinx reached forward then, gently cupping Isha’s face in her hands, her touch soft despite the chaos that usually surrounded her. "You’re safe, kid. We're not going anywhere," Jinx said, her voice a whisper.

Isha let out a soft breath, her head tilting slightly to the side, and finally, she stood up with your help. Her small body swayed for a second, but you caught her, steadying her. 

You guided her to the bed in her little tent, where she finally laid down, curling up beneath the covers. You pulled the blanket up around her, ensuring she was warm and comfortable. 

Jinx watching behind you, her eyes distant. She ran a hand through her wild blue hair, but the usual fire in her eyes was dimmed, replaced by something quieter—something more protective.

"She’s going to be alright," you said softly, your voice steady despite the heaviness in your chest.

Jinx nodded, though she didn’t speak. She simply stood there, watching over her kid. "We’ll make sure she is."

The room was dim, the soft light from a broken lamp casting shadows on the walls. Isha had finally fallen asleep, but her rest was restless. You could see the way her small frame twitched occasionally, her face contorting as though trapped in a nightmare.

Jinx had been pacing the room, anxiety making her movements jerky and unpredictable. You knew she hated seeing Isha like this—exhausted, terrified, and unable to express herself.

“I can’t just sit here. I don’t get it. She’s barely slept in days, and she’s not telling us what’s wrong.” Jinx’s voice was tight, but she still carried that signature edge of worry only she could hide behind sarcasm. “I hate feeling useless.”

You moved closer to Isha, sitting beside her on the bed. Gently massaging her scalp. Her eyes fluttered open, and she turned toward you, blinking as if trying to shake off the lingering images of her dreams.

You sighed softly, “Hey, Isha… Why haven’t you been sleeping, kiddo?” The simple question felt heavier than you expected, like the answers you needed would reveal something neither of you were prepared to hear.

Isha’s hands shifted, and in the quiet of the room, she signed slowly, her fingers trembling just slightly. Nightmares.

Jinx froze, her breath caught in her throat. She kneeled beside the bed, close to Isha’s side, her voice softer now but still laced with concern. “Nightmares, huh?” She paused for a moment, as if trying to find the right words. “About what, kiddo?”

Isha hesitated, her hands still for a moment before she signed again looking at you. You and Jinx abandoned me.

The air in the room grew heavy. You felt your chest tighten, and Jinx’s face fell as she processed what she had just said. The rawness of it hit hard. The words weren’t harsh, but they carried an ache, a deep wound that Isha had been carrying alone. You knew Isha had been alone before Jinx took her in. She had trust issues, deep ones. But now was your moment—to remind her she wasn’t alone anymore.

Without a second thought, Jinx immediately wrapped her arms around Isha, pulling her into a tight hug, as though holding on for dear life. Her voice was low, barely more than a whisper. “Isha, we would never abandon you. Never. I’m sorry you feel that way. But we’re here. Always.”

You joined in, wrapping your arms around both of them. The three of you huddled close, the warmth between you all providing a small sense of comfort.

“We’re not going anywhere,” you murmured softly into Isha’s hair, “You don’t have to do this alone, Isha. We’ll stay with you tonight. We’ll sleep together, okay?”

Isha’s body relaxed a little, though her eyes were still filled with uncertainty. But there was a shift in her—the tension in her shoulders eased slightly, and she let out a shaky breath.

Jinx laid down beside her, pulling the blanket around all three of you. “This is your home,” she whispered. “We’re not leaving you, Isha. You’re stuck with us.”

Isha curled up into the warmth of your embrace, her small form pressing into both of you, as though she finally believed it—believed that you weren’t going anywhere. Her breathing slowed, and her body finally began to relax, comforted by the presence of the two people who loved her most.

[vinniestargirl]

I SHOULD BE OVER ALL THE BUTTERFLIES | V. H.

𑁤 pairing: vinnie hacker x fem!reader.

𑁤 summary: to make your mom happy now you have to endure a three day trip paired up as bridesmaid and groomsman with your brother's idiotic best friend. vinnie never knew why you hated him so much, maybe this is his chance to figure it out.

𑁤 warnings: reader being judgy and stubborn. sa mention (not explicit.) angst. hurt/comfort. english is not my first language.

𐙚 ‧₊˚ xoxo, priscilla: i'm really so very sorry, this was supposed to be way shorter and different but i got carried away and now this is me processing my own experience through writing. part two if this gets an ounce of attention.

—part two

You want your mom to get married and be happy with the man she loved, you really do. The biggest proof is how hard you worked for months to convince your brother to come back home. You understood why he ran away when your mom used one of your family dinners to let you know she was engaged, after all it was his former highschool coach and the man he had been looking up to as a father figure for years who she had fallen for after he graduated. She had kept it a secret for years already feeling his reaction coming but after all this time they had decided it was the right moment to take it to the next level.

Of course it all sounded very romantic and dreamy from their perspective but from yours and your brother's it was actually shocking. It took you days to process the whole thing but you felt obligated to, somebody needed to fix that mess and as usual it would have to be you. It took you months but you finally convinced him to come back home with just enough time for the last preparations for the wedding. The mood was still a bit tense around the house but it was civilized enough to get through the wedding trip.

Or so you thought until your mother decided to tell you just twenty minutes before leaving that you were paired up with Vinnie as bridesmaid and groomsman for the party and during all the activities previous to it. Vinnie of all people. She had said it was because you two were the only ones single but you knew her ways too well to believe that, all this was a set up for you to get along with him and it made you want to rip all your hair off.

Vinnie Hacker, your brother's best friend since first grade and the most annoying guy you had ever known. It was not a secret for anyone in the family and closest friends that you two couldn't be in the same room without making it look like a funeral and your mother would not allow that on her wedding. The thing is that everyone has always thought that it was your fault, that you were the crazy one as Vinnie had never done anything that would suggest he had a problem with you but you had your reasons, good reasons.

“Who has more cheetos?” said your brother when he realized he ran out of his, his words made you press your purse hard against your chest so he won't try to steal yours.

In other circumstances you would have shared, you didn't even like cheetos that much anyway but not today, this is what two hours trapped in a car with Vinnie sitting next to you can do to a person, or just you, who knows.

"I know your dirty little secret” your brother looked at you like you were hiding nuclear codes in your bag instead of junk food. He was leaning dangerously closer and without warning he pulling your stuff away from you.

You fought for it with your life with Vinnie trapped in the middle of everything and your mom scolding you from the passenger seat. "Come on man, leave her alone” Vinnie tried to defend you.

However his words had an opposite effect as your brother pretended to be offended that his best friend took your side and fought harder and you, you hated that he had acted like he cared and decided to let your brother win just because you didn't want to give Vinnie the satisfaction to know he had saved you. For a moment he looked at you like you had grown a second head but you ignored him and your mother's glare by putting on some music on your air pods to be able to endure the rest of the ride.

At some point you must have fallen asleep because your mother had to wake you up by shaking your arm when you made it to the place. With music still blasting in your ears you allowed yourself to admire the location, your mother had decided to get married in the woods in the middle of nowhere and you could have sworn you've never seen so much green in your life, it was majestic. The trees were impossibly big and the air was so clean you felt like you were reborn.

When you came back to earth you realized almost everyone was already there and starting to prepare everything to go to sleep. It wasn't that late but it had been a long and exhausting trip so they didn't even bother with lighting a bonfire. You went to get your bags from the coach's trunk but when you tried to get inside your mom's tent she stopped you pointing to another one.

“Tents are for two, darling” she said with the calmest voice, as if she wasn't sending her own daughter to Mordor. “You go with your partner”

“This is absolutely nuts, mom!” you tried to reason with her even though you know she won't listen. “If I go in there with him we are going to end up killing each other”

“It's okay honey, Vinnie won't bite you” you hated when everyone treated you like you were crazy for hating him. “please don't kill him until after the wedding”

She was unbelievable, she had planned this whole thing of getting there a day before to 'reconnect with nature and each other' but you knew that was all bullshit. The woman didn't have a single plant in her house and would slap dead any type of bug that would dare to get inside her home. All this thing of dragging all the bridesmaids and groomsmen to the middle of nowhere earlier was all to get you to be closer to Vinnie or to at least tolerate him. After all this wasn't her first attempt and she wasn't the only one, over the years she had tried stuff like this every chance she had, your brother did too and even the coach had made an attempt or two but you simply couldn't get yourself to spend more than two minutes in his presence without feeling sick.

He was an asshole and everyone treated you like you were the one being a bitch.

“Hey… which side do you want?” he said once you walked inside the tent.

Without a single word you let yourself fall on the left side turning your back on him, you could hear his deep sigh loud and clear and it only made you roll your eyes at him even though he couldn't see you.

Next morning the chirping of the birds around woke you up, still in the haze of sleep you could feel a strong arm and a firm chest holding you and for a second it was the most peaceful and cared for you've ever felt. That was until you remember where you were and with who.

“What the hell is wrong with you?!” you pulled away in a matter of seconds not caring if you woke him too harshly.

“Wha- i'm sorry…” he apologized, still a bit confused and half asleep looking around as if he was lost “I was sleeping… i shouldn't have…”

“You're right, you shouldn't have”

Once out of the tent with your bag on your shoulder you couldn't find anyone around, all tents empty and there was a note stick to your mom and the coach's tent.

you looked so cute together, we figured you wouldn't want us to woke you up.

today's mission is to bring the bride and groom something significant and unique you can find around. you have till midday and sadly you are slightly delayed. good look baby!

“Oh for fuck’s sake!” this couldn't get any worse, though you realize it can when you hear his footsteps behind you. he stops to read the note and takes a deep sigh but doesn't say anything.

The first ten minutes you two walk in silence and you can't stop thinking about what would happen if you get lost in the middle of nowhere and how imprudent your mom's plan is. Vinnie walks a step behind you probably knowing is best if he gives you your space in a moment like this, what the hell are you even looking for? A heart shaped rock? A finger? Probably the one leaving the house after this is gonna be you.

“So… what are we even looking for?” he asks almost as if he didn't actually want you to hear him.

“Seriously you never stop making the stupidest questions!” you say in the most arrogant tone you can without looking at him as if you weren't asking that same question to yourself only two seconds ago but you just can't help it. You hate when he tries to act like he's all nice and innocent.

He curse under his breath and keeps walking behind you muttering things to himself you can't actually understand and you don't know what is more maddening, his annoying voice talking out loud or not being able to decipher what the hell is he saying.

“Look!” you hear him say before you get the chance to explode but you turn around anyway in case he found something worth going back to the camp finally.

Disappointment. There's no other word to describe your expression when you turn to him with all your high expectations thinking he might have found whatever it is that you need, however what your eyes meet is everything but useful. Vinnie is holding up a rock with a weird shape the size of his head with the stupidest smile you've ever seen painted in his face.

“It’s me!” he says comparing it with himself as if challenging you to point out the differences between them.

“He’s bold though” for some reason you answer and you find yourself having to fight back a chuckle… that damn smile. “And more handsome”

“So you think i'm handsome” his smile grows bigger and you facepalm yourself mentally.

“I never said-” he interrupts whatever your trying to say to defend yourself.

“You said he's more handsome” he holds the rock against his stomach now to rest his arms. “In order for that to be true i had to be handsome too, just not as much as him.”

Unable to think of a comeback fast enough you just roll your eyes and walk away from him but he still goes after you, you hear him drop the rock at some point but you keep pretending to look around to find something, anything at this point remotely unique to take back to the camp without the need to talk to him ever again.

“Are you ever going to tell me what did i ever do to deserve your eternal resentment?” he asks as if he's the one being aggravated here.

“You are not serious!” you say trying not to look back at him but feeling like you could punch him any second.

“Of course i am!” he shows his hands as a sign of rendition. “I'm sure it's somehow my fault so I ask you to make it pretty clear so i can apologize and fix it and end whatever this is.”

Can he be more maddening?!

“You wanna know what you did?!” you are too far gone to try to maintain a civilized conversation. “Being a heartless asshole! That's what you did!”

“Wha-” he looks genuinely confused and you almost clap and congratulate him on his performance. “I’m going to need you to be a bit more specific”

“Emily?” and with a single word his face falls in less than a second and you've never seen him this tense.

“What did she told you?” he asks clenching his jaw but his posture was restless.

“She didn't told me anything, I heard you!” it had been four years but you co sti reme as is if was yesterday.

It was your seventeenth birthday party. your first “big girl party.” Your mom agreed to leave for two days as long as you had the house intact and clean for when she came back.

You invited all your friends and managed to convince your brother to invite some of his, your brother and his buddies were a bit older so that had him exceptic but he did it anyway. either wat the goal was to get Vinnie to come, it wouldn't be hard anyway he was practically glued to your brother.

You've had a crush on Vinnie ever since you were little kids and your brother first brought him home with him after first day of school. Sadly you had always been too shy to keep a conversation with fore than three words with him but this had to be the day. Your best friend Emily had been encouraging you to finally make a move on him, after all you're only seventeen once.

Vinnie was there, as charming as ever and when he give you a birthday hug and a small pink velvet box you felt like you could die right there. With your best friend by your side telling you what to do and say you were actually able to have a nice conversation with him, every time he looked at you was like your heart was ready to jump outside your chest.

At some point you had to leave to receive more guests that you didn't even know but you were polite and they had presents so you didn't mind. It took you longer than you expected and when you went back to where you were trying to win your dream guy over you couldn't find him there or anywhere else. Asking around some guys told you they saw him go upstairs and you went looking for him remembering he was a bit tipsy already so maybe he wanted to throw up or something

But the bathroom was open and empty. Every door on the second floor was open except for one, your room's door that was cracked open letting you hear some strange noises coming from inside that made you want to go inside and tell whoever was using your room to go to a damn hotel or something but a louder sound froze your hand on the doorhandle.

“Vinnie!” your heart dropped to your feet when you recognize the girl's voice, it was your best friend Emily with the boy you had been daydreaming your whole life.

You turned around not daring to look inside and just when you were about to leave something else ended whatever remains there were of your beating heart.

“We shouldn't… she'd be devastated…” your best friend sounded mortified and that made you squeeze your eyes shut.

“I don't care about her… i just want you”

You didn't stayed for the rest of the party and ran away to the closest McDonald's where you parked your mother's car and cried for hours until the sunrise when you went back home to clean whatever mess your guests left that was nothing compared to the mess inside your mind and heart.

Next day at school your best friend hugged you and cried asking for your forgiveness again and again saying she was drunk and he had taken advantage of her state that she would never do something like that to you. You wanted to be angry at her but you couldn't, she looked so bad and you couldn't believe the sweet boy you had loved for so long had done something so disgusting and unthinkable.

After that day you couldn't even look at him without feeling physically ill and you were forced to spend the past four years with him practically living at your house.

“Look… i don't know what you think you-” you didn't let him finish when your hand slapped him hard on his right cheek, all this years of pent-up frustration were marked on his face now.

“You took advantage of her! She was drunk and you…” you couldn't even bring yourself to say it out loud.

“That’s what she told you?!” you tried to slap him again but he held your had, it wasn't a painful grasp, it wasn't even tight. he was just trying to stop you.

“Was she supposed to stay silent forever?” you asked with pure resentment in your voice. “God i can't believe i ever felt something else for you other than hate!”

His eyes look down at you with a strange glow on his eyes for half a second when his breathing started to get uneven. For what felt like an eternity there was just silence, only the noises of nature around you and his lip trembling as if he was fighting his own internal battle.

“She…” he hesitated, but it was as if looking at you give him the strength he needed. “She drugged me”

“What?” it was impossible, right? That was your best friend, the girl who had been by your side for years.

“She put something in my drink” his jaw clenched but his eyes never left yours as if he was hoping you could see the sincerity in them. “i was so confused… i, i remember thinking it was you that night”

You look at him, the tears he was fighting back were there for you to see and the vulnerability in his voice broke you. Even if you tried to hold on to Emily's version, this felt wrong.

“I remember you telling me you felt bad because she liked me to when we were…” he had to drag his hand over his face to keep focus but it was painfully evident how hard it was for him to talk about it. “The next morning i woke up next to her, she told me she would say i forced myself on her if i try to tell anyone. I just never thought she would say that to you either way”

You were speechless, a part of you still wanted to believe Emily's side of the story but the more you thought about it, the more you could see the differences between them. His voice, his eyes, his body language, everything about him say that this was still something so painful to think and talk about, he look devastated after four years.

Emily, she had cried in the moment but it wasn't nothing even close to what he looked like and he wasn't even crying. She just cried until you forgive her and went on like nothing happened and she even continue the past years making off-putting comments about Vinnie and how sexy she thought he was. Back then you thought it was some twisted coping mechanism but now…

You felt like you were going to throw up.

“Vinnie…” you tried but nothing came up, there was so much you wanted to say.

You wanted to apologize, you wanted to comfort him. Four years and he couldn't even talk about it fearing the consequences. But your voice and words were gone.

“It’s okay” he tried to brush it off but it was too late for that.

“No it's not” you shake your head feeling like it was about to explode.

There was so much tension, so much pain in the air and the only thing you could find yourself able to do was to hug him, wrapping your arms around his waist, your face on his chest where you could hear his racing heart breaking yours again but this time it was worse, it wasn't a teenage heartbreak. It was guilt and shame, you had been punishing him for years for something that left an irreparable mark on him.

Not long after his arms were around you too, it was a small comfort and it made you feel like a monster after everything you put him through.

“I'm so sorry…” you mumble, shaking your head still resting on his face. “If I hadn't invited you”

“It wasn't your fault”

“Yes it was” your legs were shaking and all you could think about was the amount of times you brought her home after that forcing him to be on the same place as her. “I wanted you there, all because some stupid crush… I did this to you”

“She did it” he rub small circles around my back. “I had a crush on you too… I would've find the way to show up at that party either way”

His admission took you by surprise but you couldn't bring yourself to give it a second thought, there was so much more going on.

“I should be the one comforting you” you said, your hand looking for his own on your back and he met you halfway intertwining his fingers with yours making your heart stop.

“You are” his intense eyes locked with yours was a drowning feeling and you were yet to decide if you liked it or not. “Knowing you believe me, that you don't hate me anymore, it's all i could ask for”

You stayed there standing in silence just looking into each other's souls for what it felt like hours, maybe minutes, time was so relative in that moment. You barely notice when he reached for something on the pocket of his sweatpants.

“Would you be my date for your mom's wedding?” he said holding up a thin golden chain with a heart shaped locket on it. It was the one he gave to you on your seventeenth birthday.

“How?” you look at him confused but the anticipation in his eyes softened you in a second. “Yes… of course i will”

This time wasn't a task, it wasn't an order from your mother. It was your choice and you wouldn't have it any other way.

“Your brother found it on the trash and give it back to me” there was a hint of nostalgia on his expression but he smiled, that damn smile.

“And you carry it everywhere?” you tried to joke but you were also confused when he nodded.

“It reminds me of you… the last time you looked at me with those beautiful bright eyes i've been dreaming of since i met you” there was nothing negative in his expression or voice and that disarmed you. “And you are looking at me like that again.”

He positioned himself behind you and helped you put it on. You had to touch and look at it at least twice to start to believe it. It was the first time you got to use it.

Am hour later you were back at the camp where everyone was already sharing some sandwiches and soda, different conversations around but all of them stopped like they've just seen a ghost when they're eyes locked on you two. Walking and laughing tougher. Holding hands, fingers intertwined.

“Well i think we won the game!” Vinnie said with an enthusiastic tone hugging you by your shoulder making you blush.

[crazybiscuit]

Uptown Girl

Chapter 2

Pairing: Remus Lupin x Reader Summary: You, an out of touch rich pureblood, recently moved to England for yet another engagement prospect. Unfortunately, things don't go to plan as you somehow find yourself constantly running into a werewolf, who has developed a valid reason to dislike you. Warnings: No Remus this chapter but he will be there for the next one obviously. Dead Regulus mention? and I guess pureblood supremacy. Word Count: 1901 Credits: @saradika-graphics thank you for the divider! A/N: March 28th my ass. So sorry that took forever, I clearly suck at meeting deadlines 😓. Anyways, I'll try my best to actually stick to my schedule now, but the next chapter will probably come out in June since I’m sewing my cosplay for Momocon this month. Now, on a more serious note, I'm assuming many of you have heard about what happened in the UK because of JKR's vile transphobic beliefs and I urge you all to please not support her financially. I'm obviously still helping her by writing this fic unfortunately, but do not buy HP merch and if you absolutely want to watch the movies or read the books, just pirate them, get them from the thrift store or some other way that won’t directly fund her actions. That is the least we can do to support the trans community. Finally, I hope you enjoy this chapter despite the shitty political climate we're stuck in right now. Chapters: 1

As soon as your father closed the front door, your mother exploded, “You did not just invite a random stranger to our first hosted party here. Nearly every notable British wizard is invited to attend, Hervé! We have an image to uphold, especially after everything that happened with–” 

“Relax, woman,” the man responded, running a hand through his greying hair and your mother proceeded to smack him at the address with her gloves. This resulted in your father glaring at her as he continued, “He won’t come anyways. He seems like the type to know his place in society. It was simply politeness, he wouldn't take the money, so I had to offer something valuable.”

“You might as well have offered my head on a platter,” you huffed, “He didn’t deserve common courtesy. He behaved like an absolute jerk earlier after I offered him advice.”

Your father, used to both your mother and your own antics, ignored the comment and turned to make his way deeper into the house, “Merlin, why couldn’t I just have sons…”

You felt frustrated but knew that no arguing would rectify this situation, instead turning to the women next to you, “This isn’t fair!”

“Darling, I’m on your side but you know I can’t do anything about this, so if you want to whine, go bother the help,” she shrugged off her coat before pausing, “Did he steal anything?”

Your annoyance rose slightly at the change of subject, “No, but that's not the main issue—”

“Good,” and with that, she made her way to the library.

“I cannot believe this” you grumbled to yourself, storming off to your bedroom ready to write another pile of letters to complain about your predicament.

The next few days went by in a blur with all the renovations and party planning. But despite all of that, you couldn’t seem to get a certain Welsh man off your mind and it was getting more and more frustrating. Even now, as the dressmakers made some last minute adjustments, you talked their ear off, not caring if they even spoke a word of French, “...and when I gave him a helpful suggestion, he snapped at me. I have no clue what his problem was! And worst of all, Papa  invited him to the party.”

The witch standing behind you rolled her eyes, which you luckily missed, and tightened your corset suddenly, causing you to straighten up your posture and adjust your breathing, “He keeps insisting he won’t come but that’s not the point. It’s the principle-”

You, luckily for the seamstresses, were interrupted by your bedroom door opening, revealing your younger sister still draped in her blue satin uniform. Your annoyance immediately vanished as you gasped and pulled away from the dressmakers, ignoring their protests as you ran to hug Josephine.

“Gods, I missed you,” you took a small step back to get a better look at the 17 year old, “How’s school? And the rest of the family? You have no clue how much I miss Southern France, the weather here is dreadful and it gets awfully lonely.”

“Quit being dramatic,” your mother interrupted, smiling slightly in amusement, “We’ve only been here for a few days. You’ll find plenty of friends during the Equinox party, now get back on the stand so we can finish up your gown for tomorrow.”

You didn’t argue as you went back to the stand on the stool, completely oblivious to the witches' annoyance with you as they got back to working on the hems of your skirt. Your sister sat on your bed as your mother opted for the chair closer to you, analyzing your dress thoroughly to ensure perfection. 

“School’s alright. Madame Auclair has been the bane of my existence when it comes to manners.”

“As she should,” your mother interjected, causing the young girl to roll her eyes.

“She’s been trying to stop me from pursuing my studies in magical creatures but Papi Alain insisted that I visit his estate for the summer to help him with his matagots!”

“You’re kidding,” you glanced back at her sister on your white comforter.

“Absolutely not,” Madame Vaillancourt interrupted once more, clearly getting ready to fall into another one of her lectures, “Do you have any idea how dangerous that would be? What if you get disfigured? Do you realize how difficult that could make it for you to find a job at the ministry?”

“I don’t want to work for the ministry–”

Your mother gasped.

“You never insist on Y/N to get a job in the ministry. Why does it matter if I do?”

“She’s marrying into a stable household, you are the one who insisted on not wanting to get married early. You can’t expect us to simply give you hand outs.”

“Why not? It’s not like we’re going to run out of money.”

You checked out of their argument. It didn’t really matter what your mother’s opinion was in the moment anyways, she never had it in her to go against her children's happiness, so Josephine would get what she wanted in the end. This brought your thoughts back to your situation and you looked up to your agitated mother sitting in the corner chair. She had stopped arguing with her other daughter, instead instructing the seamstress to do specific alterations.

“Maman, has his mother told you he’d be present?” you asked, not taking much notice in her instructions to the dressmakers.

The woman paused and glanced at you with a hesitant expression, “Unfortunately, he can’t attend tomorrow. His trip abroad took longer than expected but should be coming back home soon. Then we’ll discuss if you actually want to marry him. He is quite a downgrade from… Nevermind, I didn’t say anything. He’s a lovely, well-renowned and brave wizard, so you should consider yourself quite lucky, dear.”

Your smile died down slightly at the reminder of your late fiancé. Your sister sensing the mood shift speaks up, “It’s also rather lucky that the full moon falls on the 22nd this year. It will definitely make the equinox spell more powerful.”

“Oh! Right, I completely forgot about that! If we're lucky, it will bring us good fortune for the party and we’ll maintain our good reputation.”

“The only thing that could prevent that is Remus showing up, so I hope the full moon will bring me the fortune of not seeing his face at the party.”

“Don’t be rude,” your mother began but was cut off.

“You remembered his name?” Josephine asked with an amused grin, which made you tense up at the implication.

“That’s not- ouch,” you glared back at the needle that pricked you, the seamstress behind you letting out an insincere apology before going back to adding beads to the draped bodice.

“Let’s not focus on what might go wrong for now,” she looked at the solid golden fabric of your gown and addressed the two witches, “Add a faint jacquard weave to the dress, preferably something autumn-esque.”

They both nodded and carefully began casting their spells, causing faint imprints of branches and leaves to appear on the gown. The enchantment also caused the golden colour to swirl slowly, “Perfect! All we need to worry about now is Josephine’s gown.”

The girl let out a groan, falling backwards to lay on your mattress.

Lively music filled the house along with the laughter and chatter of the guests. The fall foliage had found its way into the house and the smell of spiced apples and wax permeated the room. You stood near the entrance with your parents to greet the crowd of purebloods, politicians and other famous wizards growing in your parlour room.

Nearly everyone had shown up to the party except for a handful of people and you were pleased to see that Remus had not made an appearance yet. Your mood further improved as you saw a familiar blonde woman walk through the doors, a toddler in her arms wearing a tiny deep green suit, matching with his mother's slip dress. You walked away from the group of wizards surrounding your parents and sister to greet her. Upon seeing you, she handed the boy to his father and gracefully went to hug you.

“Narcissa, it’s been too long,” you excitedly hug her back, kissing her cheeks, “You look absolutely stunning tonight. How have you been?”

“I’ve been doing much better since Lucius’s charges were dropped. I still can’t believe we were forced to sit through almost two years of court hearings.”

“That must’ve been awful,” you feigned sympathy, not really caring of Lucius’s hardships, instead turning your attention back to the three year old in his arms, “And how’s my little prince?”

Lucius allowed you to take Draco into your own arms as you cooed at the small boy, paying no mind to his father disappearing in the crowd to socialize. The small talk continued between you and Narcissa as you caught up on the years since the private funeral. And unfortunately, that meant the topic you had avoided for the last few years was finally brought up, “Have you seen Walburga since the funeral?”

Your smile tightened as you shifted Draco to rest on your hip as you held him, “I’ve visited her a few times but I think she’s lost herself to her grief… She’s accused me for Regulus’s death a few times, and it’s a little difficult to see how drastically her view of me changed, especially considering I’ve spent most of my childhood thinking she would be my mother in law…”

“I understand. I still visit her semi-regularly but even I can only handle her explosive behavior for so long,” Narcissa responded as she fixed Draco’s hair before caressing his chubby cheek, “But I can’t fault her too much. No matter how much she might claim to hate Reggie and Sirius for their lack of loyalty, she did lose both of them and her husband in less than a few years… I truly am sorry we couldn’t be cousins, I can only hope you find a partner of your standing soon.”

The comment was clearly a warning from the woman, encouraging you to find another pureblood to marry now that you were done grieving Regulus. However, you both knew there weren’t many unmarried pureblood your age in England and the day you began to date someone from a different blood status would be the day Narcissa would stop viewing you as family, a thought that was a little upsetting.

“Thank you,” you smiled before handing her the toddler back, “I need to go greet a few more guests but I hope that now that I’m in London, we might be able to see each other more. For old times sake.”

You both knew this was simply politeness. Once you got engaged again, your relationship would go from nearly being sisters to acquaintances at most. Despite that, you felt a sense of freedom having confronted a small part of your past. You also knew that despite her disapproval, she would understand where your decision came from and your reputation wouldn’t be too tarnished as long as you married a famous or powerful wizard. And with these thoughts, you found it surprisingly easy to join Josephine to prepare the material for the Equinox rituals, the grief still present but less piercing than it had been in years.

[l4tchk3y]

I was requested to draw espilver awhile ago and that request is now fulfilled. I really enjoy them just hanging out and doing something mundane together...

[busterbby]

HIII I REALLY LOVE YOUR WRITING!! can I request bb with ichiro having a really short gf who literally reaches below his shoulders? She's also really clumsy and energetic!!

You, unfortunately, just found out about my Ichi size difference kink lol. so maybe I did go off a bit for his part.. oops. but this was sm fun to write! I didn't quite know what to do for Jiro and Sabu's, so they're shorter if that's ok! and sorry for the delay anon!! I hope I got everything you wanted and more, pls enjoy~

— big bro’s short, clumsy girl.

fluff. f!reader. ichiro, jiro, saburo.

Ichiro . . . is so gentle and giant, when it comes to you

he's so big and tall, with broad shoulders that seem to touch the sky. you don't even reach them; and he can envelop you whole, when you two cuddle on the couch on anime dates

when he kisses you, they're always just so big and full, as slow and tender as he goes. he can cup your face with just one hand of his, and it's as if he can reach all the way to your heart and kiss it sweetly too

yet, his touch is never heavier than you'd think. his fingers never dimple your cheeks when he cups them; his hands never mess up your hair that much when he ruffles it. he'd never break you

Ichiro is careful around you. not that he isn't always! but-

i mean. he’s.. big. and you’re small! obviously. could a giant like him really be with you..? he wouldn’t want to hurt you after all! but, really, that’s what makes the two of you perfect together

but really, it’s the obvious size difference of it all that gets to him

okk. maybe he has a.. thing, for size difference. Ichi would shyly admit to himself one day

like damn. you’re just so cute and tiny compared to him. when you look up at him just to meet his eyes, it’s obvious. when you have to stand on your toes to try and reach the highest cupboard — because dammit, the Yamada bros are just giants, it seems! — man- he knows he has something going on, Ichi would blush, all too embarrassed at himself

yet, when he comes behind you and reaches over for you, it’s his heart that skips a beat — not yours. it’s Ichi that gets cutely shy as he realizes just how small you are compared to him, how you fit perfectly into his chest. into his heart

damn.. his girlfriend is really too cute

and, even his laughs are too big and warm for you or your chest; they envelop you whole, better than any warm blanket can

his entire hand fits yours quite easily too — it’s not even fair. and ichi just loves to compare his hands to yours, the way his heart only flutters so; he's a bit of a dork, like that

and he’d blush slightly, all cute, when he noticed just how small yours are compared to his. they’re not as rough or cracked. perhaps a bit more soft, much more dainty. compared to his anyway

and Ichi would do that sappy thing when he curls his fingers to then hold your hand. then he grins so sweet and handsome and cliché

and, maybe, his rings are too big for you. and they dig in between your fingers.. and Ichiro's thumb is just so thick and rough when he rubs the back of your hands comfortingly. it's a feeling you grow to love

but he never holds your hand too tight either. as if nervous that if he held on, you’d break like porcelain with just one touch from him

he’s mindful about you — it's cute! even if it’s a bit much at times

which perhaps doesn’t bode well for the fact that you’re.. well, quite the opposite, of the term

i mean, he loves your energy! it’s infectious, and after a long day of tiresome odd jobs, Ichi looks forward to you and your bright smile again today

he doesn’t know, it’s just one of those things he absolutely adores about you

but- he sighs. he wishes you’d be a bit more careful. you’re always giving him mini heart attacks, he swears, whenever you

“woah!” he catches you in his arms, before you could trip over your own two feet and fall ; he holds you delicately, as if you’d break just from a slight squeeze. “you should be careful where you’re going, babe”

he says — like a prince charming of sorts, ready to catch you at your feet

yet, he’s the one to get the butterflies and blush the sweetest pink, when he notices just how small and short you seem in his arms

but i mean, as clumsy as you may be, you’ll always find yourself falling right into and enveloped by your boyfriend’s strong arms~

(and ichi might just get a heart attack one day from how cute you are)

Jiro . . . is quite perplexed, really

how could you be so small?? and older than him too? in his mind, it just doesn’t make any sense nor compute! not that he was any good at math

he’s rather broad and tall too — though not as much as aniki. so you barely reach below his shoulders as well, and he definitely thinks you're a cute girl, when Jiro first meets you. and a good match for aniki at that

(though he totally thought you were a little younger when he first met you, mostly since you were so short compared to him

it does make for a cute mishap though! he sometimes forgets to call you '-san,' and when he realizes, it's difficult not to giggle at how red he blushes, before muttering a shy 'sorry')

think it'd be a bit funny if you're always unintentionally giving him jumpscares since Jiro seems to always be losing you

where did you come from?? you just appeared out of nowhere! he’d totally yelp (and totally unmanly at that, Jiro would groan all cute), before burning warm when he realizes that oh, it’s just you

ugh, you need to stop giving him mini heart attacks! he can't believe he just did that in front of aniki's girl.. he'd hide himself all shy in the brim of his cap

he’s also rather energetic and very social, so you two would get along well! he matches your energy right away

unfortunately, that means you two are probably a chaotic (and really annoying) duo. for Saburo, anyway

maybe Ichi gets just a little worried over the two of you. maybe

i mean, he trusts you! he trusts Jiro too. it’s just.. could he trust the two of you together? to watch over the house and not burn it down as he runs out and completes this job real quick? he doesn’t know..

but, knowing how (cutely) clumsy you can be.. knowing his younger brother Jiro.. mm, can you really blame Ichi for being a little on edge leaving you two alone?

Jiro would definitely see you as a big sister! though i suppose, sometimes he mistakes you for a little sister bc of your height-

but he thinks you make a pretty good pair for his bro~

annoying — Saburo . . . probably thinks of you, at first

listen, he doesn’t quite have the energy to match yours. he's more reserved, usually holed up in his room. he doesn't really do energy; he gets exhausted just from being in the same room as you

so when Sabu first sees that you're just as peppy and cheery and energetic as any other fool, he can't help but groan

great. another moron to deal with, he'd probably huff

but you’re Ichi-nii’s girlfriend, so he does have to be polite with you, if only because he knows how much his older brother loves you so

but, i mean, you’re always tripping and having near misses, especially near dangerous supplies, like the kitchen (like, seriously?? Saburo huffs) ; he’s always having to look after you! and you’re older than him!! ugh

even Jiro isn’t this much of a klutz

but — and he won’t ever admit — he’d still think of you as an older sister as the days grow and you come over more.

you’re kinda like Jiro in a way: bothersome, annoying, way too energetic this early in the morning. Sabu sighs, already much too exhausted just with being next to you

but. he still has a special sorta spot in his heart for you. you're sorta fun to be around, and.. ok, maybe you did give some good advice here and there. and maybe you did brighten the Yamada house and his day whenever you came over. not that he’d ever say

mm, he supposes he tolerates you. or even a bit more than that

like, if you didn’t come over in a few days, he’d ask why and if you’re ok. i mean, even with Jiro in the house, it still feels a bit too eerily quiet now since you weren't around

he is still oh so very sweet with you, in his own special ‘sabu’ sorta way

like, he would still reach over and grab things from the top shelf for you, even if you don’t ask and even if he seems a bit pouty to do so. and he would totally hang out with you if you asked, even if you're a bit too peppy this early in the day or even if he had other plans that day, as he'd say anyway

and, fine. he’ll admit. sabu thinks you make a pretty good couple with his brother, when you stand side-by-side