His apartment is all dust and order, the musty emptiness of disuse. Korra doesn't particularly commend herself for sleeping with this man who feeds the turtle-ducks and initiates odd conversations. However, it's a break from the world falling apart. If she does nothing but mess up the world outside, she can hide here and forget about everything, forget about the fights and the disappointments.

The heat of summer is in full bloom, and her hunger imitates its intensity. She doesn't like watching him undress, declines when he tries to undress her himself. It's even worse when she oversleeps and has to dress in the dawn light. It's embarrassingly mundane. With a tone of finality and domesticity she'll never curl into.

Korra doesn't want to think about their identities before this, doesn't want to be reminded of her queasiness the first time they were together in bed, when he tore her clothes off of her body. She accidentally punched his chin and knocked him in the chest with her knee. (Hey, she's ticklish.)

She has to admit: for an old dude, he's pretty hot.

There are times when she's not facing him as they join, and she arches her back, collapses and wipes off the tears onto the pillow when it's all too much. When she's failed in her training, when her loneliness gets worse when they're together, when Amon almost ends her life.

The first time, she panicked and bled, and it was the only instance he appeared even midly unsettled. With this look in his eyes as if he was somewhere else, he put a hand on the side of her face and told her that she would heal, that they could stop when she wanted. Korra tensed. No, she never backed down from anything. If she could take earth disks to the stomach, she could take this.

It's complete darkness and they can't see each other. If she wants, she can imagine that it's Mako with his fingers inside of her, with his other warm palm cupping her cheek and stroking her lips (well, in more ways than-oh). Around her, above her. The taint of spices and sweat on her lips, in her nose, entwined within her hair.

But she doesn't pretend. That's not her place. He belongs with Asami, especially after Hiroshi Sato's affiliation with the Equalists.

Yet Mako still looks at her in that way, and she's dismissive. Whether it's concern or the remaining fragments of that passionate tension between them, her interest has long curdled. He's a brother before anything else. Loyal and protective, and as much as she respects him and doesn't want anyone to get hurt, she doesn't need a third parent.

Korra says the man's name when he touches her thigh. She grows bold and leads him to where she wants him to pay his attentions to with her own steadied hands. She won't falter, and he's too slow. He doesn't see her smirk. It amazes her how clinical he makes it all, as if they aren't lovers at all, as if there aren't those little moments when she wakes up and he's disheveled and at peace. The wall is broken.

The sheets are moth-eaten, and she's surprised at his tenderness. At times, he seems so angry. He lives alone, works random jobs, never mentions his past. When she asks, there's a dangerous gleam in his eyes like a desperate, wounded tiger-bear.

She ceases their meetings without contacting him. Korra realizes that she's the Avatar. Her entire life has been easy. No doubts, no complications.

While she'd like to forget about her mistakes, she can't tuck her drooping tail between her legs whenever she meets adversity. Korra can't pretend that she's just a normal girl in an infatuated tizzy; she's the Avatar in an infatuated tizzy. It's the Avatar with her clothes on backwards as she shuffles in and Tenzin spares her a questioning glance.

And as much as she'd like to pretend otherwise, her life as the Avatar comes first.