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The mountains never truly slept. Wind threaded itself through hanging roots and moss, carrying the faint scent of rain and metal long since burned out of the land. At night, bioluminescence painted everything in quiet blues and greens, soft enough to make even old scars look gentle.
Today, he did not leave.
Tamtey lay near the fire, bundled in layered hides and thin woven blankets, her breathing slow but still uneven in the way of someone whose body had not yet forgiven what it had endured. The injuries she’d taken—RDA remnants, collapsed steel, the cold grip of places that were never meant to hold living bodies—were healing. Slowly. Stubbornly. Too slow for his liking.
So’lek crouched beside her, quiet as mist, grinding dried leaves between his fingers before mixing them with warmed sap. He worked by memory, hands steady, eyes never straying far from her face.
She slept. That, at least, was good.
Her tail flicked once, faintly, a reflex rather than intention. One ear twitched at a distant cry echoing through the clouds. Still alert. Even now. As if some part of her refused to ever fully rest—not after everything.
Too much like me, he thought, not for the first time.
He applied the salve with careful pressure along her ribs, where dark bruising still lingered beneath blue striped skin. His touch was precise, respectful—never more than necessary. Still, he felt the way her body reacted to contact, even in sleep, muscles tensing before remembering it was him. He waited for that tension to fade each time, patient as the tide. Only when her breathing smoothed again did he continue, spreading the warmth until it seeped deep, easing what the splints could not reach. When he finished, he wiped his hands clean on a strip of cloth and adjusted the blankets at her shoulders, tucking them closer to keep the cool morning air from finding old hurts.
He checked her bandages next—counted breaths between each movement, memorized the rhythm of her chest rising and falling. One wrap had loosened while she slept. He secured it without waking her, fingers deft, practiced. He had learned the shape of her injuries the way one learned terrain: where it gave, where it resisted, where carelessness could cost blood.
The fire cracked softly. He fed it without looking, just enough to keep the heat steady. Too much would dry the salve. Too little and she would shiver. Balance mattered. It always had.
When he finally settled back, he stayed there, watching. Guarding. As if his presence alone might hold her together a little longer.
She shifted, brow creasing, her shoulders twitching and So’lek froze. Nightmare.
“No— I… So’lek?” Her voice was rough with sleep, softer than she ever allowed it to be when fully awake.
“I am here,” he said immediately, voice low. Grounded. His hands hesitated before resting on her arm. “You are safe.”
Her eyes fluttered open, unfocused at first, then finding him the way they always did—too fast, too instinctive. As if some part of her had already decided where safety lived.
“Oh.” She blinked, ears flattening in embarrassment, then frowned. “You didn’t sleep.” The fire was lit and she could smell the herbs of his healing salves.
“I rested.”
She made a noise that was halfway between a scoff and a sigh. “That’s not the same and you know it.”
Tamtey pushed herself up on one elbow, wincing despite trying to hide it. So’lek’s hand hovered, then settled lightly at her back, steadying without pinning. His thumb pressed just enough to ground her, to remind her she did not need to rush.
“I can take care of myself.” She huffed.
“I know,” he replied.
She squinted at him. “You say that, but you don’t act like it.”
So’lek withdrew his hand slowly, deliberately, and set the small bowl aside. “You were injured. You are still healing.”
“I’m not made of glass.”
“No,” he said, gaze dropping briefly to the scars she bore—some old, some painfully new. Marks left by humans who had never learned to see Na’vi as anything but obstacles. “You are made of something much harder. That is what worries me.”
She stared at him for a long moment, then laughed quietly. “You’re weird when you’re worried about me.”
“I am always worried about you.”
“That explains a lot.”
She shifted closer to the fire, pulling the blanket tighter around her shoulders. The movement was casual. She did not notice the way his shoulders eased when she did not grimace this time, the way his posture loosened just a fraction when she settled without pain. For a while, neither of them spoke. The fire crackled softly. Somewhere far below, a storm rolled over the forest, its thunder dulled by distance. Finally, Tamtey broke the silence.
“Why am I still here?” she asked, not accusatory—just genuinely curious.
So’lek looked down at her. “You need time to recover.”
“I’ve recovered enough to walk,” she countered. “I could be helping the others. There’s still cleanup, still RDA tech buried all over—”
“You collapsed yesterday,” he said.
She paused. “I tripped.”
“You lost consciousness.”
“Only briefly.”
He turned to face her fully then, golden eyes sharp but not unkind. “You almost died once already.”
Tamtey’s expression softened, something unguarded flickering through her eyes. The joking edge fell away, replaced by a quiet seriousness she rarely let surface. “That wasn’t your fault. You know it wasn’t.”
“I know.” But he’d never forgive himself for not seeing that ambush sooner.
She exhaled slowly, then bumped her shoulder against his. Light. Familiar. A small gesture of reassurance that meant more than words. “You’re hovering.”
“I am tending.”
“You’re hovering.” She repeats.
“Maybe.”
That earned a grin. “Didn’t know you had it in you.”
For a moment, he seemed unsure where to place his hands. Then he reached back toward some woven packs, fingers closing around a bundled shape. He drew it forward and held it out to her. “This is for you.”
Tamtey blinked. “You don’t have to—”
“I want to.”
He held it out: a pair of arm wraps, carefully stitched from layered fibers and treated hide, reinforced at the forearms with thin, flexible plating scavenged and reshaped from old RDA gear. Light. Durable. Practical. Thoughtful too—she had lost most of her gear.
She took them, turning them over slowly. “These are… really well made.”
“They will support your muscles as they heal,” he said. “And protect you if you fall again.”
“I told you, I tripped.”
A corner of his mouth twitched. Barely. “Then these will help you trip more safely.”
She laughed, genuine and warm, and slid them on immediately, testing the fit. They molded easily, like they’d been made with her movements in mind—because they had. “You’ve been busy.”
He watched her carefully. Waiting.
She smiled, bright and a little too quick. “Thank you. Seriously.” Then, as if the moment had gone on a second longer than she could stand, she added lightly, “You didn’t have to do all this.”
“You mentioned.” He murmurs softly, looking at her gently.
Her fingers busied themselves with the wraps, tugging at the seams, testing the fit again even though they were already perfect. She did not look at him—not because she didn’t want to, but because she wanted to too much. Because there was something in the way he was watching her that made her chest feel tight and unsteady, like she’d stepped too close to the edge of a drop she wasn’t ready to acknowledge.
Tamtey told herself the warmth crawling up her neck was embarrassment. Told herself the strange flutter in her chest meant nothing at all. She had survived worse than this—worse than the possibility that someone might see her too clearly, might care without being asked.
Among her time with humans, care came with conditions, with explanations. With distance when things got complicated. They didn’t linger. They didn’t watch someone like they mattered more than the moment required.
So if So’lek stood close, if he made things with his hands and his time and his quiet attention—well… that was just practicality.
It had to be.
-
The days that followed settled into a quiet rhythm.
So’lek did not leave her side for long. When he hunted, he returned quickly. When he scouted, it was only to the next rise. Tamtey noticed—commented on it, even—but never questioned it deeply. He brought her food she could manage easily. Adjusted the fire when smoke bothered her lungs. Corrected her stance gently when she insisted on stretching “just a little.”
Each act was deliberate, each act was an offering. And Tamtey accepted them all with easy gratitude but zero comprehension.
One afternoon, while she rested against a sun warmed rock, So’lek sat a short distance away with a small piece of wood cupped in his palm. It was smoothed down, reshaped, reforged. He worked with a small blade, movements slow and careful. Tamtey watched him out of the corner of her eye.
“What’re you making?” she asked.
He did not look up. “Something.”
“That narrows it down to nothing.”
A faint huff of amusement escaped him. He carved patiently, shaving away excess, etching shallow lines that followed instinct more than pattern. When he held it out to her. A bead. Small and smooth. Carved with subtle markings reminiscent of two lines, constantly crossing before intertwining.
“For you.”
She pushed herself upright, curiosity lighting her expression. “Another thing? You’re gonna spoil me.”
He said nothing but pushed his hand closer to her.
She took the bead, turning it between her fingers. “It’s beautiful. What’s it for?”
“It can be tied to your songcord,” he said carefully. “If you wish.”
“Oh?” She paused. “I mean—yeah, sure. I can add it.” She smiled easily. Oblivious.
So’lek inclined his head, satisfied enough—for now.
That night, Tamtey did tie the bead into her songcord slowly. She told herself she was doing it because it was beautiful. Because it would be rude not to. Because it felt wrong to tuck it away somewhere unseen. She did not tell herself what she thought it meant.
So’lek noticed it immediately. His gaze lingered on the new addition just a fraction longer than usual when she joined him by the fire. His ears flicked forward, tail unconsciously wagging softly, then he relaxed.
He said nothing about it, continuing their quiet routine. But when she started to doze off, he slept closer than before.
-
When dawn came again, Tamtey woke to find a cup of warmed broth at her side and So’lek sitting just within arm’s reach, sharpening a blade he had already sharpened twice.
She yawned. “You know,” she said casually, “you really don’t have to keep doing all this.”
He did not look up. “I know.”
“Then why do you?”
The blade paused and So’lek met her gaze then, expression open in a way few ever saw. No walls. No titles. Just him.
“Because,” he said simply, “losing you once was enough.”
Tamtey’s breath caught, not just from understanding, but from the weight of the care behind the words. She knows he still blames himself, no matter what she tells him.
She smiled softly, reaching out to squeeze his wrist. “Well,” she said earnestly, “good thing I’m hard to get rid of.”
Yes, he thought. That was the problem.
-
The day Ri’nela arrived was unusually calm.
The wind moved lazily between the stone, clouds curling low enough to brush against the perimeter. Sunlight refracted through mist, scattering soft halos across the camp. It was the kind of day that felt like a pause—like Eywa herself had pressed a gentle hand against the world and said wait.
Tamtey noticed first because So’lek stiffened. He had been checking Iley’s saddle when his head lifted sharply, ears angling toward a sound Tamtey hadn’t yet registered. A distant ikran cry, though familiar in cadence.
“Company?” she asked, already smiling.
“Yes,” he said. Then, after a beat, “Friend.”
By the time she emerged from the mist, Tamtey was already on her feet, leaning heavily on the rock she’d claimed as her favored resting spot. She forgot the ache in her ribs entirely.
“Ri’nela!” she called, lifting a hand and smiling wide.
Ri’nela’s answering grin was radiant. She dismounted with practiced ease and crossed the perch quickly, arms wrapping around Tamtey in a fierce yet careful embrace.
“I heard you were alive,” Ri’nela said softly, pulling back just enough to look at her. “Just unable to fly, so I came to see for myself.” She paused as she fished for something out of her satchel. “And to bring this.” She handed Tamtey a small bundle of dried fruit and herbs. “You look… better.”
“Yeah,” Tamtey said. “Thanks to him.” She gestured back at So’lek without hesitation. “He basically won’t let me out of his sight.”
Ri’nela’s brows rose and her gaze flicked—just briefly—to So’lek, who stood a respectful distance away, watchful but unobtrusive. Something unreadable passed across her expression. So’lek excused himself then, murmuring something about hunting. Tamtey barely noticed him go.
Once he was gone, Ri’nela sat beside her, folding her legs neatly beneath her. She watched Tamtey with an intensity that made her fidget.
Ri’nela tilted her head. “Tell me everything.”
Tamtey did. She talked about the camp. The food. The way So’lek hovered without hovering. How he slept lightly, always within reach. How he made things—arm wraps, supports, small thoughtful items that always seemed to appear exactly when she needed them.
“He even carved me this,” Tamtey added, showing off the new bead on her songcord. The one he had made for her all those months ago.
Ri’nela stared at the bead, then she looked back up at Tamtey, then she closed her eyes. “Tamtey,” Ri’nela said gently.
“…What?”
“How long have you known So’lek?”
Tamtey frowned. “I don’t know. A while? As long as you?”
“And how many Na’vi have made you personal, useful items by hand?” Ri’nela asked.
“I mean, a few. Sometimes.”
“And how many of them stayed with you day and night after you were injured?” Ri’nela pressed.
She hesitated. “I—”
“And how many of them gave you something meant for a songcord?”
The world tilted. Maybe she wasn’t just deluded by her crush. Maybe.
Tamtey laughed, sharp and startled. “Ri’nela. No. He’s just… he’s being nice. Protective. That’s just how he is.”
Ri’nela reached out and took her hand. “Tamtey,” she said again, softer now. “That is how he is with you.”
“What?” She blurted.
“I think he likes you,” Ri’nela said. “Care. Gifts. Presence. Proving himself capable and willing to protect you, to tend you, to share his life. These are not accidents.”
Tamtey’s mouth opened… closed. Ri’nela continues.
“You are living in his home. Not a shelter. Not a camp he passes through. His home. And he has made space for you in it without ever asking you to leave.”
Tamtey’s chest tightened. The camp felt different suddenly. Smaller. Louder. Every quiet moment replayed itself in her mind with brutal clarity. The way he always looked at her like she was something precious he was afraid to drop.
“Oh,” she whispered. The word barely made a sound.
Ri’nela did not press. She did not rush to fill the silence or soften the realization. She simply let it sit between them, like a truth laid gently on the ground to be examined when Tamtey was ready.
For a while, they talked about other things. Normal things.
Tamtey asked about the Resistance—who was rebuilding where, who had taken leadership roles, which scars were healing cleanly and which would linger. They laughed quietly about old memories, about how neither of them had ever quite learned how to rest properly. Ri’nela teased her for still eating too fast, Tamtey shot back that Ri’nela still overpacked.
The sun drifted lower as they spoke, light softening, shadows stretching long and slow. The conversation never quite circled back to So’lek—but he was there in every pause, every glance Tamtey took toward the edge of the camp to see if he had returned.
When dusk finally came, Ri’nela rose.
“I should go,” she said gently. “Before night falls.”
Tamtey stood too, slower now, ribs reminding her of themselves. Ri’nela embraced her once more, lingering just a second longer this time.
“You do not have to decide anything,” Ri’nela murmured. “Just do not pretend you are not being seen.”
Tamtey nodded, throat tight.
She watched Ri’nela mount her ikran and disappear into the dimming sky, the camp suddenly too quiet in her absence.
That night, So’lek returned with food and a fresh pelt to replace one that had grown thin with use. He placed it beside her without comment.
“You don’t have to keep—” she started.
“I know,” he said, automatically.
She stopped. “Right.”
She ate in silence, watching him from the corner of her eye. The way he kept his body angled toward her. The way his ears flicked at every distant sound. The way his gaze softened when he thought she wasn’t looking. It wasn’t habit, it was attention—constant, deliberate. As if he was always tracking where she was in the space, where she might be if she moved. When the fire shifted, he adjusted with it. When the forest stirred, his focus sharpened first toward her, then outward.
Tamtey swallowed, pulse quickening. Ri’nela’s voice echoed softly in her mind. That is how he is with you.
-
The next day, she noticed everything. It was impossible not to.
How he offered his arm when the ground sloped—then withdrew immediately if she didn’t take it, never making her feel clumsy or weak. How he always gave her first choice of food, even when it meant he took the smaller portion. How he never corrected her directly, only demonstrated, patient and unassuming, as if teaching by example was a form of respect.
She told herself she was overthinking. She told herself it was just So’lek.
Still, when he brought her another small gift—nothing grand, just a reworked strap for her satchel so it would sit more comfortably across healing muscles—her chest tightened in a way that felt dangerously close to guilt.
“You don’t owe me anything,” she said quietly.
He frowned. “I know.”
“Then why does it feel like you’re trying to prove something?”
So’lek went very still. “I am,” he admitted.
The honesty startled her more than denial would have. She didn’t ask what, she didn’t ask to who. She wasn’t sure if she was ready for the answers.
-
Days became weeks.
Tamtey grew stronger. Slowly. She could walk farther now, climb short rises without stopping to catch her breath. She started helping more—sorting supplies, cleaning salvaged tech, assisting So’lek with tasks he didn’t strictly need help with.
That was how it began.
She cleaned his gear while he was gone, not because it was damaged, but because she knew he liked it a certain way. She rewrapped the grip of his bow when the fiber began to fray.
Once, she caught him watching her hands as she worked.
“What?” she asked.
“Nothing,” he said, too quickly.
She started waiting up for him when he scouted farther than usual. Not pacing—just sitting by the fire, keeping it lit. Making sure there was food ready when he returned.
“That is not necessary,” he told her one evening.
“I know,” she replied.
And the words felt familiar.
She braided more fiber in her downtime—small things. Practical things. A new tie for his hair when it came loose in high wind. A reinforced sheath for his knife. Each time she handed one over, she told herself it was just helping.
Each time, So’lek accepted them like they were fragile offerings.
The realization crept closer, quiet and persistent. This is what he’s been doing. That knowledge didn’t bring clarity, it brought fear. Because if she acknowledged it—really acknowledged it—then she would have to decide what it meant. And decisions meant risk. Meant loss.
So she stayed silent and so did he.
They existed in the space between knowing and saying, both too careful to be the first to break it.
-
The night the silence finally became unbearable, the mountains were shrouded in cloud. Visibility dropped to nothing beyond the camp’s edge, the world reduced to firelight and breath and the sound of wind moving stone. So’lek was late returning. Not terribly but just enough to make her heart drop.
Tamtey’s chest tightened with a familiar, unwelcome panic. She told herself it was stupid. That he was fine. That he always came back. Still, she stood until she heard Iley’s familiar screech and she stared as she watched him dismount gently.
Relief hit her so hard her knees nearly buckled. She crossed the space between them without thinking, fingers gripping his vest, forehead pressing briefly to his chest as if to reassure herself he was real, solid, alive.
“You’re late,” she said, sharper than she meant.
His ears flattened. “I am sorry. I was delayed.”
She pulled back immediately, horrified. “Sorry. I didn’t mean—”
He caught her wrists gently. “Tamtey,” he said quietly. “Look at me.”
She meets his gaze after a second, her cheeks a faint purple.
“I would not have you afraid,” he said. “Not because of me.”
“I wasn’t afraid of you,” she whispered. “I was worried.”
Something shifted then, silence falling between them.
“I would not lose you again without you knowing,” he said.
Her breath hitched. He did not touch her further, did not step closer. He let the words exist on their own. Tamtey didn’t speak. She simply stepped forward instead—slow, deliberate—and rested her forehead against his chest, right where she’d reached for him without thinking before.
“I think,” she said softly, voice trembling now that she wasn’t pretending anymore, “I’ve been doing the same things. I just didn’t know they meant something before... I mean, I wanted them to mean everything but, y'know.”
His arms came around her then—careful but sure. Not tight and never trapping.
For a long moment, neither of them moved.
So’lek’s breathing steadied first. He bowed his head slightly, resting his cheek against the crown of her hair, eyes closing as if the simple weight of her presence required his full attention. One hand settled between her shoulder blades, warm and grounding. The other rested at her hip, thumb brushing the edge of her satchel strap—the one he’d repaired for her prior.
Tamtey stayed like that longer than she meant to. Long enough for the tension in her ribs to ease. Eventually, she exhaled and pulled back just enough to look at him.
“So,” she said, attempting a smile that wobbled at the edges. “If I’ve been accidentally doing this wrong—”
“You have not,” he said immediately.
That stopped her.
He searched her face, gaze unguarded. “There is no wrong way to care,” he said. “Only knowing, or not knowing.”
“Okay,” she murmured, still not sure with the whole thing. Then, after a beat, “I might need time.”
His ears flicked—not disappointment but relief. “I will wait,” he nodded. “I have been waiting.”
That night, nothing changed. And somehow, everything did.
They ate together as they always had, sitting close enough that their knees brushed when one of them shifted. Tamtey caught herself watching the way he prepared food—how he tore pieces smaller without comment. When she reached out and adjusted the fire before smoke drifted his way, his gaze lifted, surprised, then softened.
Later, when the chill crept in, she hesitated only a second before tugging the spare blanket closer to him. He accepted it without a word.
They slept as they had before—near, but not tangled. Yet sometime before dawn, Tamtey woke to find his hand resting palm up between them, close enough to touch. She stared at it for a long time. Then, heart hammering, she slid her fingers into his. He did not tighten his grip. Did not pull her closer. He simply turned his hand so their palms fit better together, thumb brushing once against her knuckles, and went on sleeping like that was the most natural thing in the world.
-
The days passed. Slowly. Gently.
She caught herself doing it again—waiting for him out on the perch, braiding a loose hair back into his braids, leaving some fresh fruit aside because she knew he preferred it over the dried meat after scouting.
They sat together at dusk often, watching the sky ignite with color. Sometimes their shoulders touched. Sometimes they didn’t. Sometimes he spoke—stories of places lost, of paths walked alone. Sometimes she did—half-human memories, strange and sharp and aching, softened by time and trust.
The night he chose to speak, there was no storm. No danger. No reason, really—except that he could feel the moment slipping past him if he didn’t.
They sat by the fire, close enough that the warmth wrapped around them both. Tamtey leaned against his shoulder, tired but content, tracing idle patterns into the dirt with a stick.
So’lek watched the fire for a long time. Then he turned to her. “You should know,” he said quietly, voice steady despite everything it carried.
She stilled.
He did not rush. Did not soften it into something smaller. He met her gaze fully, openly, as he always had.
“You are a strong, beautiful warrior with a proud heart. Yet gentle and loving when need to be. For me, you are like a bright star in the beautiful Pandoran sky, everlasting luminescent and constant. For me, you have always been the one. Always been the one that I would give my heart to, that I could feel safe with, that I could be myself. And I thank you for that. You are wonderful and beautiful and I’m lucky to have such an amazing, amazing person in my life.”
The fire crackled. The wind whistled outside.
Neither of them shifted away, a silent confirmation.
Then Tamtey smiled and he felt a warmth flow through him that felt like home.
It startled her too—how easily it came, how it didn’t tremble or hide. It wasn’t the nervous, deflecting smile she’d worn so often these past weeks, nor the practiced brightness she used to survive human spaces. It was slow. Real. It reached her eyes and softened them, like something long held tight had finally been allowed to rest.
“So’lek,” she said quietly.
Her voice was steady, but her heart was not. It beat loud and fast in her chest, each pulse echoing with everything she hadn’t said, everything she’d been afraid to name. She shifted slightly, just enough to face him more fully, though she didn’t pull away from his shoulder. She couldn’t. Not now. Not after that.
“I didn’t think…” She exhaled a short, breathless laugh and shook her head. “I didn’t think someone like you could ever—” She stopped herself, fingers curling into her palm. “I thought I was imagining it. Or that if I named it, it would disappear.”
He listened without interrupting. Always had. Always will.
“I’ve liked you,” she continued, softer now. “For a while. Longer than I wanted to admit.” She glanced up at him then, searching his face like she was afraid the truth might undo him. “But I didn’t think I was… allowed to. Not after everything. Not when you carry so much already.”
So’lek’s chest tightened. He lifted one hand slowly, deliberately, giving her time to pull away if she wished. She didn’t. His fingers brushed her face, rough and warm, cradling her cheek.
“You do not take from me,” he said. “You give. You always have, syulangtsyìp.”
Her throat bobbed. She nodded once, hard, as if committing the words to memory and So’lek let his hand drop.
They sat like that for a long while, hands loosely intertwined, the fire burning lower as night deepened around them. The forest shifted and breathed, alive with distant calls and rustling leaves. Normally, he would have been alert to every sound. Tonight, his focus stayed with her. Eventually, she laid down with a yawn, resting her head in his lap. It felt intimate but not at the same time. It felt safe. He felt it all the same—felt the trust in it, the quiet courage it took for her to choose closeness without armor.
“I don’t know what comes next,” she admitted. “I don’t even know what I’m ready for.”
“So we do not decide tonight,” he said simply.
She huffed a quiet laugh. “You’re really good at waiting.”
He tilted his head slightly. “I have learned what is worth waiting for.”
That made her blush, hard. He stares at her as if she’s his entire world.
The fire dwindled to embers. He watched it go out before he stood, offering his hand to help her up. She took it without hesitation, leaning into him as they moved toward the shelter. When she settled onto the bedding, he adjusted the mat automatically, familiar and careful. Habit. Care. Love—though neither of them said the word yet.
He paused before stepping away.
“Stay,” she said softly, before she could talk herself out of it.
He did.
Not apart, not distant at all. He settled beside her, careful of her injuries, easing down as if she might still vanish if he moved too fast. After a moment’s pause—one last, silent question—he drew her gently against his chest. She fit there easily, like she had been waiting for the shape of him.
Tamtey lay awake longer than usual, listening to the steady rhythm of his breathing, feeling the night wrap around them both. For the first time since she had woke up in TAP—since Mercer, since Bukowski, since everything that had broken her—she did not feel like a guest waiting to be asked to leave.
She felt chosen.
And outside, beneath a sky alive with stars, So’lek watched the darkness without fear, knowing that whatever paths lay ahead, they would no longer be walked alone.