Everything was hazy at first. But then, when the pain subsided and his mind cleared, he was able to see her face.
She took care of him. That was all he really understood. She fed him, gave him water, dressed his wounds. And yet he knew she was supposed to be his enemy; nobody from his nation had eyes that blue.
But one day...one day he worked up the nerve to speak to her.
"What's your name?" His voice was hoarse from disuse.
She glanced up from where she had been leaning over his torso, examining his stitches.
He could see the distrust in her gaze. But finally she answered. "Katara."
Days passed and they should have been long. But they did not feel long. Zuko was able to stand up and walk without assistance a week ago. He should've left. Instead he stayed and listened to her talk of her homeland.
He never thought he could care so much about someone he was supposed to hate.
They both could hear the booming of canons. The battle was edging closer.
Katara stood at the entrance to their little hideaway, conflicted. "I should go," she said. "There are people out there who need my healing."
Everything inside of Zuko screamed for him to tell her no. Instead he reached out and grabbed her wrist.
"Please don't go," he breathed. "You could stay. Should stay. Here." He gently squeezed and let his implication settle itself between them.
She gave him a small smile. "Peace like this," she gestured between them, "doesn't last forever, Prince Zuko. But then, I suppose, war cannot last forever either."
She leaned down and kissed his forehead, lips cool. It was not the first time that she had kissed him. "Don't worry. I'll be back."
He never did see the healer again.