It’s just loose. Like hers. And he has bangs. Long hair and
bangs. Long hair and bangs.
turns to face her when the stairwell door finally shuts with a clang. For a moment, the world is still, the waves are ice, the sun hangs in the sky, and the wind drops out of the air as she forgets how to talk.
He walks toward her with intimidation spilling over every
spirit-forsaken piece of clothing he’s wearing. Katara wills herself to back
away, or to at least meet him halfway across deck, but not only does her tongue
not work, her legs have apparently failed her, as well.
He stops in front of her, doesn’t smile, doesn’t do
Katara barely dares to take in a breath of the salty chilled
air. It takes all her effort not to reach up and pull at a strand of his long
hair in shock. Something coils in her gut—he’s older, much older, and so is she—and
she restrains herself from doing anything at all.