Aonung was, quite frankly, ruined for anyone else.

It unsettled people, the way the Metkayina chief’s son—loud, sharp-tongued, all teeth and pride—softened around her. The girl who spoke quietly, who moved like she did not wish to disturb the water she walked beside. Where others of her age dove for glory and scars, she lingered along the shore, fingers skimming through tide-pools as if listening to the sea rather than conquering it. She gathered flowers that bloomed stubbornly from salt-swept stone, shells smoothed by years of patient waves, pearls coaxed from the ocean with reverent care. These became ornaments for her hair, small offerings sewn lovingly into Aonung’s gear. Though he complained endlessly that it dulled his edge, that warriors were not meant to be decorated like ceremonial ilu. She only smiled at him, soft and knowing, and continued anyway.

Aonung, for all his bravado, never truly meant his protests. He carried a reputation sharpened by years of posturing. Reckless, aggressive, quick to bare his teeth. But around her, that sharpness curved inward. He followed her without realizing it, stood closer than necessary, listened when she spoke even if her voice barely rose above the surf. Anyone foolish enough to remark upon this devotion earned a glare severe enough to promise broken bones. Aonung did not tolerate being seen, least of all being seen loving her.

Lo’ak, unfortunately, had never possessed a sense of self-preservation.

“Why are you here, skxawng?” the forest boy called, watching Aonung wade into the shallows with narrowed eyes and a grin already forming.

Aonung scoffed, crouching as he reached for a glimmering shell half-buried in sand. “None of your business, forest trash,” he shot back, tone sharp but distracted, gaze intent on the prize in his hand.

Lo’ak laughed, bright and unafraid. “Are you collecting shells?” His grin widened. “Let me guess. Your girlfriend sent you.”

Aonung finally looked at him then, expression darkening as his gaze flicked pointedly to the flowers and shells cradled in Lo’ak’s own arms. “You are literally carrying offerings for Tsireya,” he snapped. “So maybe shut up before I knock you back to the forest.”

“So whipped,” Lo’ak said cheerfully, already backing away.

Later, when night draped the reef in bioluminescent blues and greens, Aonung returned to her. He dropped beside her in the sand, unceremonious, and laid out his offerings, shells polished by the sea, pearls catching the moonlight like stolen stars. He watched her eyes widen, her hands hovering before she touched them, reverent as prayer. The smile she gave him then was small but devastating, and it struck him harder than any blow ever could.

If loving her made him weak, Aonung decided, then the ocean itself would have to answer for it.