The first time it happens, they are both a little drunk. The night air rushes through them and they stand a little closer to one another as they make their way down the dimly lit street. What starts as accidental—his arm brushes against hers, her hip bumps his as she sways a bit—becomes his hand on her waist, her fingers trailing across his back and arms, the caress of his voice ghosting over her ear. They break apart whenever their unsuspecting friends glance back at them and it only makes each touch more enticing. When they reach Mako's apartment, she turns to leave, but he pulls her through the doorway of the apartment complex, his mouth on hers, capturing her words. They barely make it into his flat and they fumble with their clothes and it's sloppy, but they don't care. She doubts either of them will remember it tomorrow, but she leaves shortly after he drifts to sleep, just in case.
The second time it happens, it is quick and full of need, hidden in the shadows of an alleyway. They are instructed to take down a triad scheme, handle the clean-up, and return to the station. As they fight, his bending is perfectly in sync with hers, each attack delivering the most effective blow, and it makes her body pulse with a need only he can satiate. As the other officers continue herding triad members into squad cars, she pulls him into the recesses of the alley. It's irresponsible and a word of protest escapes him once before he's pulling her against him, pressing her against the cool brick of the building behind her. She smiles to herself as she tastes the lingering smoke on his skin.
The third time, they have to sneak away to the unused pro-bending training room. They are supposed to be watching Bolin's newest mover and she tried, she really did, but even his smallest action lures her in and she can't help herself. The smirk upon his slightly chapped lips, the light scent of his aftershave, the white button down hugging his chest; it's all too much. They are seated in the back of the arena box, just barely secluded from the others, but she reaches out and slides her hand across the side of his thigh. From the corner of her eye, she watches his quick intake of breath and fights the smile pulling at her lips. She continues to trace aimless designs across the cool fabric, relishing in the way he strains against her touch, until the strong grip of his hand clutches her own, ceasing her movement. He quietly excuses himself and when his eyes meet hers, she knows to follow shortly after.
She stops counting after that.
She isn't sure how they fell into this pattern, this cycle of denial and delayed gratification, until simply breathing in each other's presence creates a demand for his mouth on hers, the heat of his skin, the whisper of her name on his tongue. There are no confessions, no declarations of love; they never venture far from the safety of each other's names and gasping breathes. It's never languid or loving, but it is in these moments of desperation when she knows it's still there. It's the way his hands rush to glide across every inch of her skin like he's stealing her and can't risk being caught. It's the way his eyes refuse to meet hers, until blue accidentally lock with amber and neither can look away. This is more than a need for a warm body and in the moments that follow each time, the heavy silence, laden with unspoken words, says more than they ever will.
This time, she finds herself outside his apartment in the dead of night, her hand hesitantly rapping against the wood door. When he does, traces of sleep still present in his movements, his eyes widen and a question hangs between them. She opens her mouth to say something, anything, but he gently grabs her by the hand and pulls her in, across the threshold. They've run out of excuses. This time, there's nothing to blame, no darkness to hide in, and they're left with their raw need for one another.
When morning comes, the warmth of his chest pressed against her back greets her as the pale light inches across his bed. She stirs and her body pulls forward, but his arms tighten around her. His lips softly, cautiously, meet the sensitive skin of her neck and, with a soft puff of air on her shoulder, he's pleading with her to stay. She allows herself this brief moment, lets the comfort of his embrace overtake her, but she fights off the alluring draw of sleep. Staying implies a promise, suggests a future, locks in something she wants but knows won't work between them. She can't stay, but she can't bring herself to leave. So she waits.
One day, he'll convince her. One day, he'll wake up with more than the ghost of her warmth and the trace of her scent clinging to his pillow. One day.
When he awakes hours later, his arms are empty; the bed beside him, cold.