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Jake had noticed it long before he admitted it to himself.
Lo’ak wasn’t eating. Not properly. He lingered at meals, picked at his food, then disappeared before anyone could say anything.
He spoke only when spoken to—and even then, barely. Most days he kept to the edges of the village, watching rather than joining, like he didn’t trust himself to take up space anymore.
When their eyes met, it hurt.
There was something broken there. Not anger,pain. Deep, unresolved, and growing heavier by the day since that fight.
Jake knew he was the one who’d put it there.
He told himself he was grieving.
That the words had slipped out because the wound was still open.
But late at night, when the sounds of the reef were all that kept him company, Jake knew the truth.
Part of him had looked at Lo’ak and seen himself.
The same recklessness. The same defiance. The same refusal to back down.
And in his fear, Jake had said the one thing a father should never say.
But Lo’ak wasn’t him. He never had been.
His son was softer. He felt things more deeply. He carried the weight of the world in a way Jake never had at that age and Jake had punished him for it.
There was no excuse for that.
That night, Jake finally acted.
The beach was quiet, the air cool against his skin. The stars reflected off the water, endless and calm. Lo’ak sat alone near the shoreline, tracing shapes in the sand with his fingers, eyes fixed on the sky.
Jake approached slowly and sat beside him.
They didn’t speak at first.
The silence stretched—tense, familiar.
“You okay?” Jake asked eventually.
Lo’ak didn’t look at him. “I’m fine.”
Jake exhaled. “Mind if I stay?”
A small nod.
“The stars are bright tonight,” Jake said, searching for the right words and hating how difficult that felt. “Reminds me of home.”
Lo’ak stayed quiet.
Jake swallowed. “Son… I know things haven’t been right between us.” His voice was steady, but it took effort. “I shouldn’t have said what I said. About your brother.”
That got Lo’ak’s attention.
“I was wrong,” Jake continued. “Neteyam’s death was not your fault. I let my grief turn into blame—and I put it on you.”
Lo’ak’s hands clenched in the sand. “You said it because you meant it.”
Jake shook his head. “I said it because I was scared. Because I didn’t want to lose another son.”
Silence.
“I don’t expect you to forgive me,” Jake said quietly. “But I need you to hear this: I see you. And I’m proud of you—even when you mess up.”
Lo’ak’s breath hitched.
He turned, eyes shining. “I tried,” he whispered. “I tried so hard.”
Jake nodded once. “I know.”
That was all it took.
Lo’ak leaned into him, and Jake wrapped an arm around his shoulders, holding him like he should have from the start.
Sleep didn’t come easily.
Lo’ak shifted in his hammock, restless. Jake noticed immediately.
“You still awake?” he murmured.
“Yeah.”
Jake hesitated, then said, “There’s something I can do. If you want.” Offering tsaheylu
Lo’ak flushed. “Dad, I’m not a baby.”
Jake smiled sadly. “You’ll always be my baby. Come here.”
He kissed Lo’ak’s forehead and formed the bond.
Lo’ak relaxed immediately, eyes closing as Jake moved through his memories, one gentle touch at a time. Jake stroked his back, grounding him. He saw laughter, races on ikran wings, childish arguments with Neteyam that always ended in smiles.
Then he saw the fight.
The accusation.
The moment he broke his son’s heart.
Lo’ak’s pain slammed into him—burning eyes, shaking hands, the way he’d shoved Jake away before running.
Jake choked.
And then—darkness.
A memory sealed tight.
“What are you hiding from me, son?” Jake thought desperately. “Please… let me see.”
The barrier fell.
He was on the beach at night. The same place. A gun in Lo’ak’s trembling hands.
“No. No—no, no,” Jake sobbed.
Lo’ak dropped to his knees in the memory, metal pressed beneath his chin, tears streaming.
“They say when you touch steel, poison seeps into your heart,” Lo’ak whispered. “I killed my brother. And no matter what happens… I have to live with that.”
The bond snapped.
Lo’ak gasped, shaking violently. Jake opened his eyes and pulled him into a crushing embrace, sobbing openly.
“No,” Jake whispered fiercely. “It’s not your fault. It never was. Never.”
He held Lo’ak’s face in his hands, thumbs brushing away tears. “Do you hear me, baby boy? I’m here. I’m right here.”
Lo’ak broke, crying against him.
“I see you,” Jake said softly, locking eyes with his son.
And that—that—was all Lo’ak had ever wanted.
Not to be Neteyam. Not to be his father’s shadow. Just to be seen as who he was.
A fourteen-year-old boy.
Lo’ak.