For you, love was not difficult.

Your way of loving had always been transparent—effortless. You cared for others simply because you wanted to, just as you cared about plants and tended to them without asking for anything in return. The earth you cared for was rich, fertile, and giving—much like your heart.

But for her, love was different. For her, love was power.

She was one of the Sui—majestic and eternal. The villagers worshiped her, begging for rain and bountiful harvests, but their constant pleas annoyed her. To them, she was merely a tool, and that realization filled her with bitterness.

When you came, a simple farmer with dirt-stained hands, she was perplexed. You didn’t beg her for anything—instead, you showed her how to sow, to water, to wait.

"Why should I stoop to this?" she scoffed. "I can command the earth to grow."

You only smiled.

She thought you foolish, yet day after day, she came back. She learned, not through power, but through patience. You taught her the quiet beauty of creation—the slow unfolding of life. At first, she despised the waiting, used to immediate results, but you stayed by her side, guiding her to appreciate each tiny plant.

"You're strange, human," she’d murmur.

You’d laugh quietly, saying it would be worth the wait.

And in the end, it was.

Her arrogance faltered. She longed to give you more—something that matched her power—but you never asked. You asked for nothing, and instead, gave her everything.

She was frustrated. How could you be satisfied with so little?

"What do you want from me?" she demanded one night, her voice trembling.

You met her gaze, calm and steady in that rain-soaked field. "Nothing. I just like being with you."

No one had ever loved her for simply being. Despite her pride, her arrogance, her nature, she began to fall for you—inexorably, inevitably—like the earth loves the rain, like a dragon loves the sky.

You taught her not just how to sow seeds, but also how to tend to her own heart.