It was like standing on a rock in the middle of the ocean. The wind rushed through the trees like waves. The rain whipped the windows and the grey sky was alight with lightning.

A dance, Mako had purposed. A dance in the dark and with no music.

"We make our own music." It was one of those stupid trying to be romantic, boyish things he said. Still it made her smile. She was a sucker for everything about him.

Korra rested her head on his shoulder. His hand was on the small of her back. They moved in ways they never had before, trying not to go to fast-they had made that mistake before. He tried not to step on her toes; she tried not to grip his hand too tight.

She should have been in bed, but neither of them could sleep. The storm echoed the fear inside of them.

Amon had looked at her with such intensity, pride almost and then through her as if she was nothing. She had no idea what tomorrow held for her, who or what lay under that mask and that uncertainty made her feel like a seventeen-year-old girl, and not the Avatar. A seventeen-year-old girl would let the world slip into the ashes.

Why should he be afraid? Mako had felt fear. The white, nauseating silence of it as it lasted and lasted. It ran coldly through his veins and left him vigilant; clinging to the only person he had left at the time. He had kept Bolin safe, kept Korra safe or so he pretended to believe. He liked to think he could protect her. That she needed him, but it was the other way around.

He lifted her chin up gently, her eyes meeting his. The thought of Asami was rustling in their heads. The guilt almost made them want to stop, to step away from each other again. Her melodious laugh and her soft eyes would make him forget, would make it easy until it wasn't and he was pulled like a magnet back to Korra.

There were no victims in love.

Jinora was right after all.

They had jumped into the volcano together, hand in hand.

And the burning was almost pleasant.