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His cave was quieter than usual.
Not empty—never empty. Wind still threaded through the stone in slow, patient breaths. Bioluminescent lichen low along the walls, casting the kind of light that never fully decided between blue and green. Water still dripped deeper inside, steady as a heartbeat.
But there was tension in it tonight.
He had learned the difference between quiet and absence a long time ago.
Quiet was survival. Quiet was listening for the click of a safety being released in the dark. Quiet was knowing when a patrol had changed routes by the way the wind carried human oil.
Absence was something else.
It was the space after laughter that no longer returned. It was the shape of a body missing from a circle around a fire. It was the way the forest seemed to lean in closer when there were fewer voices to hold it back.
This cave had known absence before.
He had bled here.
He had healed here.
He had sworn, more than once, that he would not allow anyone to become necessary within these walls.
And yet—there were extra woven mats near the fire now. A second water skin that was not his. A perch reinforced not just for Iley, but for another ikran who arrived without asking and left without permission.
He had not meant to make space, it happened gradually.
The first time Tamtey stayed past sunrise, he told himself it was because they were injured. The second time was because it was raining too hard for safe flight. The third and fourth time? He stopped naming reasons.
His camp remembered their laugh. Their belongings strewed about, gear near his, weapons near his. Anything—everything.
He resented that. He cherished it.
That was the tension.
So’lek felt it the way he felt distant gunfire—before the sound reached him. A shift in the air. A sort of waiting.
He sat near the back of the cave with his rifle disassembled across his lap, fingers moving methodically over the metal. Cleaning. Reassembling. Taking it apart again.
He did not look toward the sky when an ikran’s shadow crossed the stone. He did not need to.
The landing was familiar. Light, but never hesitant. Talons scraping against the reinforced perch he had pretended not to build for them. A huff of breath. A low trill.
“Are you going to pretend you didn’t hear me?” Tamtey asked, voice echoing softly against the cave walls.
He kept his gaze on the rifle. “No, I heard you.”
They stepped into view, moonlight catching in their braids, in the faint scars along their body. There was dirt on their shoulder, dried sap along one forearm. Not blood this time.
Progress.
“You look disappointed,” they said.
“I am assessing.”
“Mm.” They crouched near the fire pit, picking off a piece of meat roasting over it as if he had made it for them. He had. “Assessment results?”
“You are not bleeding.”
“See? I’m learning.”
He finally looked at them then. Really looked.
There was something restless in the way they held themselves tonight. A buzz beneath the skin. The kind that came after a victory. Or a mistake.
“Where?” he asked.
They tilted their head. “Where what?”
“Where did you go?”
A smile tugged at their mouth. “Near the north ridge. The RDA tried to reestablish a relay tower. Thought if they were quiet about it, we wouldn’t notice.”
“You were alone.”
It wasn’t a question.
They leaned back on their palms, shrugging. “I had Nimun.”
“So… Alone.”
Tamtey’s eyes flicked to his hands, to the rifle. Back to his face.
“You said you weren’t coming,” they reminded him gently.
He did not answer, because he had said that. Two nights ago.
He had stood in this same place and told them, calmly and firmly, that he would not follow them into every fight. That he would not build something that relied on him being there. That they were stronger when they did not depend.
You will survive longer if you do not tie yourself to me, he said.
They had listened. They always listened.
And then they did what they wanted anyway.
“I flattened it,” they said, trying for lightness. Maybe distraction. “Took longer than I expected. They’ve upgraded their perimeter scans.”
“I know.”
Their brows knit. “You know?”
“I watch,” he said simply.
Something in their expression shifted. “You were there?”
“No.”
“But you were watching.”
“I observe, I was not watching you.” He corrects himself.
They stared at him like that was worse.
The fire popped softly between them.
“You don’t get to hover,” they said finally. “You don’t get to act like you’re not in this and then still—”
“Still what?”
“Still care.”
His jaw tightened. “I have never said that I do not care.”
“Then what are you saying?” Their voice sharpened, but it didn’t cut. Not yet. “Because it sounds a lot like you only want me when it’s convenient. When I show up here. When I sit still. When I don’t ask or push or want you close.”
He stood slowly, the motion wasn’t aggressive. It was controlled. Measured.
“Do not twist this,” he said quietly.
They rose too, stepping closer without thinking. “Then untangle it.”
“You push me away every time this feels like something, every time it gets a little too—” They gestured vaguely, helplessly at the distance between them. “—real.”
“It is real,” he snapped.
“Then stop acting like it isn’t!”
Silence fell heavy.
Outside, Iley shifted on the perch. A distant viperwolf called once, then again.
So’lek exhaled slowly through his nose. “You want this to become something that can be taken from you,” he explains. “Something the RDA can use. Something you will lose.”
“I lose things anyway,” Tamtey shot back. “At least this would be my choice.”
He stepped closer then, close enough that the firelight carved sharp shadows across his face.
“You think this is a game. You think because you survived the last one, you will survive the next.”
“That’s not what this is about.”
“That is exactly what this is about.”
Their hands fisted at their sides, “No,” voice trembling now—not with fear. With frustration. “This is about you deciding for both of us that I can’t handle it.”
“I am deciding that you deserve better than me.”
The words landed between them like a dropped weapon and he meant them. That was the worst part.
He had seen what loving did. He had watched bonds fracture under the weight of constant war. Watched promises spoken beneath Eywa’s gaze rot beneath the reality of survival. He carried ghosts that did not belong to him alone. He did not trust his hands to hold something fragile without eventually crushing it in the attempt to keep it safe.
Tamtey did not understand the violence of loving someone like him.
He hoped they never would.
They blinked.
“Stop it. That’s not your choice.”
“It is,” he said. “If I am the danger.”
They laughed then, sharp and disbelieving.
“You’re a bad idea,” they said, shaking their head. “You know that, right?”
“Tamtey… I am not—”
“You are,” they insisted, stepping closer until their chest almost brushed his. “You’re intense and stubborn and mean when you think it’ll make me leave. You say things like they’re final and then you look at me like you’re already regretting them.”
He swallowed.
“You like it,” they said softly, realization dawning on them.
His eyes narrowed. “Like what?”
“When we fight,” they admitted. “When you get like this. When you act like you don’t care enough and then you care too much.”
“Tamtey—”
“I like it too. Because at least it means you’re honest with me.”
His hand moved before he could stop it—closing around their wrist.
Just enough to stop the spiral.
“You should not like that,” he said.
They held his gaze. “Maybe.”
For a moment, they just stood there. Breath mingling. Heat from the fire licking at their skin.
“I could tell you the truth,” he practically whispers.
“And what truth is that?”
“That I do not know how to keep things gentle,” his voice low and frayed. “When I want something, I fight for it. I bleed for it. I lose it.” He exhales sharply, “You are something I could destroy.”
The confession burns.
“You remember the last time this happened?” Tamtey asked.
He did.
A couple weeks ago, they had stood in his camp after he told them again that this could not become permanent. That they could not build a future around something so unstable.
Tamtey’s lips quirked like they were thinking the same thing.
“So’lek,” they said, softer now. “You don’t get to keep deciding this for me.”
“I am trying to protect you.”
“From what? From loving you?”
His jaw flexed and he looked away. “Yes.”
“That’s not how that works.”
“It is when loving me means living with what I am.”
“And what are you?”
He hesitated.
A warrior? A curse? A man who survived when others did not?
“I am not good at keeping things alive,” he said finally.
Tamtey’s expression softened in a way that almost hurt. “You kept me alive, you saved me.” They don’t have to have a specific time—he’s always been there.
“That is different.”
“Why?”
“Because you are not mine.”
The words slipped out raw. There it was.
Tamtey stepped fully into him then, chest to chest, hands braced lightly against his arms.
“I don’t want to be owned, I want to be chosen.”
There was a pause.
He could feel their heartbeat through the thin space between them.
Fast, steady, alive.
He wondered when caring had stopped being optional but he knew it had not been a single moment.
Not when he pulled them from crossfire. Not when they showed up bleeding and laughing. Not when they fell asleep mid-sentence beside his fire.
It had been quieter than that. A slow erosion, a soft invasion.
“I choose you every time I come back here,” they continued. “Even when you tell me not to. Even when you’re being impossible. Even when you act like I’m better off without you.”
“You are.”
“Shut up.”
Silence again. Just the crackle of the fire and So’lek frozen in his spot.
“I honestly hate it.” Their words were soft—almost fond. The way you try so hard not to let me in and then you do. The way you say I shouldn’t come back and then you’re already watching the sky for me. I love that you fight it.”
“You should not.”
“I only love it because it’s you.” They leaned their forehead against his collarbone.
That broke something.
His hands came up—hesitant at first. Hovering at their waist like he was waiting for permission.
But when Tamtey didn’t move away, he let himself hold them. Not possessive. Not claiming. Just… there.
They exhaled against him like they’d been holding their breath for days.
“I don’t need forever,” they said. “I don’t need promises under the Tree of Souls. I just need you to stop pretending this is nothing.”
“It is not nothing,” he admitted.
“Then what is it?”
He closed his eyes briefly. “It is dangerous,” he said.
They smiled faintly. “Everything worth having is.”
He almost laughed at that.
“You are too easy,” he muttered. His hands tightening slightly at their waist.
“You will get hurt.”
“Probably.”
“Tamtey.”
His gaze searched theirs for doubt.
There was none—only stubborn devotion.
“You are going to leave one day, when this stops being enough.”
They shook their head.
“I keep coming back,” they reminded him.
“That does not mean you always will.”
“No,” they agreed. “It doesn’t. But right now? Right now I’m here. And you’re here. And we both know if I walk out of this cave tonight, I’ll be back in two days.”
“You are certain.”
“Very.”
He studied them like he was memorizing something fragile.
“You deserve someone steady,” he tries again, though it lacked the force it once had.
“Maybe,” they allowed. “But I don’t want steady.”
They reached up, brushing their thumb lightly along his jaw. “I want you.”
That did it.
The restraint he wore like armor cracked—not shattered, but enough.
He kissed them.
For a split second, he almost didn’t.
Almost pulled back.
Almost let restraint win.
He thought of every reason this was a mistake. Every outcome that ended with them walking away because he was too much or not enough. He thought of the way they would look at him if he shattered something delicate between them.
Then he thought of the way they looked at him now.
And he let himself be selfish.
It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t rough. It was desperate in the way of something denied too long. Tamtey inhaled sharply against his mouth, fingers curling into the fabric at his shoulders. Not pulling him closer—just anchoring.
For a heartbeat, two, three—there was no war. No RDA. No past clawing at his spine.
Just warmth. Just them.
He pulled back first, he always did.
Distance had always been his discipline.
He had survived because he knew when to withdraw. Because attachment slowed reaction time, because hesitation got people killed.
But this time, he didn’t step away.
They rested their forehead against his, smiling faintly.
“See?” they whispered.
A quiet huff of breath left him—almost a laugh. “You are insufferable.”
“You love it.”
He didn’t argue. Instead, he guided them down to sit by the fire again, keeping one hand at their back as if he thought they might vanish. They leaned into him easily, head settling against his shoulder. The fight drained out of them both in slow increments.
“You’re going to push me away again,” Tamtey said after a while.
“Probably.”
“When?”
He considered. “Soon.”
They nodded like they expected that. “Okay.”
The simplicity of it unsettled him more than anger would have.
“You will come back anyway,” he said.
“Yeah.”
“Why?”
They tilted their head up to look at him.
“Because I love it.” Him. “Even the bad parts. Even the parts where you pretend this isn’t killing you a little.”
His arm tightened around them. “I do not enjoy hurting you.”
“I know.”
“And yet…” He trails off, not sure what else to say.
“And yet,” they echoed.
The fire burned lower.
Outside, the night deepened over Pandora’s recovering wilds. Somewhere far off, a herd animal called to its young. Somewhere closer, Iley shifted again, wings rustling.
Tamtey traced idle patterns against his chest, absent and affectionate.
“Let’s let fate decide next time.”.
He arched his brow. “You think fate will be kinder than us?”
“No,” they admitted. “But at least then you can’t blame yourself.”
He went quiet at that.
Blame had always been the sharpest thing he carried.
Tamtey loved like someone who believed tomorrow was promised, he loved like someone who had seen it taken too many times—and it was unfair for both of them.
After a while, he spoke. “If I ask you to stay tonight, it is not because you are injured.”
Tamtey smiled without looking up.
“It is because I would rather wake up and see that you are still here.”
Their hand stilled against his chest.
“Okay,” they whispered.
They stayed like that long after the fire dwindled to embers.
No promises. No declarations beyond what had already slipped out in frustration and heat. Just the quiet understanding that this would happen again.
He would draw a line. They would cross it. He would push. They would return.
It was not healthy. It was not simple.
But it was theirs.
And as Tamtey drifted toward sleep against him, breath evening out, So’lek allowed himself one small, selfish truth:
He loved it. Not the fighting. Not the fear. But the way they kept choosing him anyway.
He pressed his lips briefly to their temple, too soft to wake them.
“You will regret this…”
Maybe he was too hard.
Maybe they were too easy.
Maybe they were both very bad at walking away.
Outside, Pandora breathed. Inside, he did not move when Tamtey curled closer in their sleep.
He did not pull away. Not tonight.