Ao’nung had always known she was quiet. Even as children, she carried her silence like something sacred. He remembered the day she stumbled along the reef path, skin splitting against stone, the scrape on her ankle raw and bleeding. She hadn’t cried out. No sharp wail, no call for attention—only soft, broken sniffles that barely carried over the waves. He’d meant to laugh. That was what boys did. But when he saw the thick tears rolling down her rounded cheeks, the way her small fingers shook as they pressed over the wound, the sound died in his throat. Instead, his hand came to rest against the small of her back, steady and warm. Tsireya ran to fetch a healer, but Ao’nung stayed, eyes lingering on her flushed face longer than was proper, something unfamiliar settling heavy in his chest.

As the years passed, Ao’nung grew into himself with an ease. Confidence came naturally to him, like the tide answering the moon. His body became lean and powerful, shaped by swimming, hunting, and the will of Eywa herself. Ao’nung was never meant to fade into a crowd, he stood apart, radiant, while others blended together like sea grass swaying beneath the current. And Guest, ever watchful, learned how dangerous it was to look at him for too long, how his gaze lingers as though he saw more than she ever dared to show.

Her punishment came swiftly when her father found out. Sneaking out at night to watch the glowing tides was foolish, he’d say. So she was sent to the docks to weave, fingers aching as they worked the flax. The ocean should have soothed her. Instead, her thoughts drifted, heavy and restless. Then the horn sounded. Deep and resonant; announcing the hunters’ return. Her heart stuttered before you could stop it. You spotted him among them easily. Loose curls slipped free from his braids, twisted into a careless knot, skin gleaming with seawater. And when Ao’nung lifted his head, bright blue eyes sharp and searching, they found hers at once.

Ao’nung doesn’t announce himself. He never has to. He waits until the crowd thins, until the hunters are greeted and the dock settles back into its familiar rhythm. He watches her from a distance first-sees the way your shoulders stay tense, the way her hands keep working even when they ache. He notices what others miss: the way she keeps her eyes on the flax instead of the celebration, the way punishment weighs heavier on her.

When he finally comes to her, it’s not loud. Not teasing. Not arrogant.

He approaches from the side, respectful, careful not to startle her, because he remembers the child she was. The tears she never let fall in front of others.

But before he could let words slip out of his mouth one of the other hunters reached out to her.

"Aren't your hands tired? here let me help you."

"I'm fine, I'm almost finished." Guest politely declined, sending him a soft smile before returning to her work.

"But girls like you shouldn't have to do this all alo-"

"She said she’s fine." Ao'nung said with a flat tone. The other boy straightened- startled.

"I was just-"

"Go."

A few moments of the young hunter looking at him before his eyes flickered to her, letting out a defeated sigh before turning the other way and walking away in small strides.