He is young, naive to a fault and prone to infantile fits that even a winning smile cannot fully make up for. He is ignorant of the happenings outside the reach of his small universe, and he seems happy to remain unconscious of them. These are not qualities usually valued in a companion, much less a lover. But his childlike eyes and sloppy touch are a comfort to her, when she is rubbed raw by expectant looks and a burden thousands of years old. For most of the day, she is a casualty of the adult world, both past and present, disposal blue-eyed bait. But in his arms the air turns quiet, and the light somehow grows stronger, and she can allow herself to be forgetful of her responsibilities. She cannot help but be drawn to his docile and doe-eyed adoration. And who could blame her adolescent heart for preferring the ache of love to the bloodshed of war?
She was raised to believe she had been born into opportunity, rather than predicament. Recently, however, she has grown too used to the sight of split doors and weeping mothers to believe herself lucky. What good is she? What good is she when she does not have the strength to run faster than her city can fall? Could it be that she is not the summery goddess of fables, that she cannot hope to defeat the sea monsters and specters of her time? Korra has begun to believe that she cannot do this anymore.
And yet the shape of her name rolls so easily off his tongue, and he speaks it with so much wonder, as though he could dedicate his whole being to her, no questions asked. They slow dance to no music, they try to make noodles and scald the pot, they draw on walls with chalk, and throughout their escapades there runs a common thread - his foolish but earnest, his clumsy but honest love for her. It's there, clear as day, in the brush of his lips against her collarbone, in the little presents left on her pillow, and in the rush of his gaze, moving to her bright face, telling her you are my hero.
He seems content with her, all of her, just her. To him she is not a task awaiting completion, not just another step in a cycle. She is a young woman, only seventeen years old, irreplaceable. She is the heat emanating from nut-brown skin and kind-eyed sweetness in the damp mornings, she is wild strides racing through the garden and the flash of teeth in a come-hither grin. She is Korra, her long hair down her back, blushing, reaching forward for his hand in the dark. This is all that he wants and all that he believes in, and the fervor of his faith in her makes her think, once again, maybe I could do this after all.
She belongs to a world that would ask for everything from her; she loves this boy because he asks for nothing but exactly what she can give.