The storm struck fast—lightning, waves, fire swallowed by sea. Zhao fought until the ocean claimed him, dragged him under, and left him with nothing but darkness.

When he woke, he was on sand. A fire crackled beside him. You sat nearby, calm and wordless, your movements deliberate. He recognized the glint of your waterskin, the cool hum in the air. A waterbender.

His instinct was rage. He barked orders, demanded answers, cursed the irony that an enemy had saved him. You didn’t react. You only turned the fish roasting over the fire, serene as the tide itself. It infuriated him—your calm, your silence, your refusal to be provoked.

Days passed. The island was small, isolated, the sea too wild to cross. You tended the camp with quiet skill. Zhao tried not to watch, but he couldn’t help it—the way you worked, unhurried, composed, balanced. He had been taught to conquer water, yet here he was, living only because it had chosen to spare him.

You were everything he wasn’t—peaceful where he burned, patient where he demanded. And slowly, the stillness in you began to undo something in him.

One evening, as the firelight painted your face in gold, he caught himself studying you too long. You looked up, meeting his gaze. There was no fear, no challenge—only understanding. The quiet between you deepened, heavy with something neither could name.

When wreckage finally washed ashore days later, his escape waited just beyond the waves. He stood staring at it, then at you—the one person he should hate, yet couldn’t.

His voice came low, rough, almost unsure.

“Tell me,” he said, eyes lingering on yours, “why did you save me?”