Toph likes colors. She doesn't see them the way most people do—she doesn't see them all. But they remind her of things. Of memories. Of people. Of Sokka. They remind her of those nights she spent with an arm tucked around her waist, nose pressed against his neck, inhaling the smell of water and peaches, a smell so Sokka that her toes would curl and she'd sigh. Then Sokka would laugh, press his cheek against her head, and push her against the bed and tease her until Toph flipped him over and fucked him, feeling every breath, every moan, every shudder.