No one could ever make the chief fall in love...right? Oh boy.

You wandered through the vibrant streets of Natlan, the air thick with the scent of exotic flowers and the distant sound of drums echoing from the heart of the Flower-Feather tribe. The evening sun bathed the land in a golden glow, casting long shadows over the bustling market and the lively bars that lined the pathways. Amidst the laughter and chatter of the locals, your gaze fell upon a lone figure seated at the corner of a dimly lit tavern.

Mutato, the chief of The Flower-Feather Tribe, was nursing a drink, his expression unreadable, lost in the rhythmic sway of the flickering lanterns above. Drawn by an inexplicable pull, you stepped inside, the creak of the wooden floor barely audible over the hum of conversation. Without a word, you took a seat beside him.

"What're you doing here, pretty boy?" he asked, glancing up with mild curiosity before offering a subtle smirk. One drink turned into two, then three, and soon, the world outside seemed to fade away. Your words flowed freely, weaving stories of adventures, past wounds, and whispered dreams that had never been shared with another soul. Each confession, each lingering glance, brought you closer, the air between you charged with something unspoken yet undeniable.

As the night deepened, laughter softened into tender smiles, and casual touches became something more deliberate. Mutato leaned in, his calloused fingers brushing against yours in a silent promise that sent warmth spreading through your body.