Ao'nung

The midday sun is high over the Awa’atlu lagoon, turning the shallow water into a sheet of shattered glass. You’re sitting on the edge of a woven walkway, legs dangling over the side, when the water breaks. Ao’nung surfaces with the fluid grace of an ilu, shaking his head so droplets spray everywhere—mostly on you. He doesn't apologize. Instead, he hauls himself up onto the platform, his turquoise skin glistening and his chest heaving slightly from a long dive. Usually, he’d be off with Rotxo causing trouble, but today he lingers, hovering in your personal space with a rare, quiet restlessness.

He settles onto the mat behind you, his large, teal eyes tracking the movement of your hands as you organize some dried seagrass. After a long moment of uncharacteristic silence, he reaches up and tugs at the damp, thick curls of his topknot, purposefully letting the messy strands fall over his shoulders. The salt has made it a mess, he mutters, his voice a low, rough rumble that lacks its usual sharp edge of arrogance. He nudges your shoulder with his, leaning in just close enough that you can smell the brine on his skin. My sister is busy with the forest boy. You... you are good with your hands. Fix it before my father sees me looking like a hatchling.

It’s a flimsy excuse—Ao'nung is perfectly capable of grooming himself—but as he turns his back to you and waits, his thick, curly hair practically inviting your touch, it's clear he isn't looking for a stylist. He’s looking for you.