Gathering

“Maybe I don’t know the difference anymore,” Korra whispered.

Mara said nothing for a moment; only the quiet crackle of the hearth filled the silence between them.

She touched Korra’s hand gently. “Then let this place teach you again.”

Korra looked at her, uncertain. “And if it teaches me wrong?”

Mara smiled faintly, a warmth in her eyes that reached deeper than words. “Then unlearn it. But don’t stop living long enough to find out.”

Korra didn’t answer, but that night, long after Mara had gone to bed, she sat awake, watching the moon glow above. She wondered what it would mean to live again and not just survive, and whether she was allowed to.

************

The next morning, the pack house buzzed with unusual excitement. When Korra entered the kitchen with a stack of trays, Mara waved her over eagerly. “You are late! The baking festival starts in ten minutes!”

“The what?” Korra blinked.

“The Spring Hearth Gathering,” Mara explained, her voice bubbling with cheer. “Every spring, the pack bakes together bread, pies, sweets, and whatever they like. It’s supposed to honor renewal and shared harvests. Everyone takes part.”

“Everyone?” Korra echoed, her eyes widening slightly as she looked at the growing crowd. Warriors, omegas, and even elders moved about the long wooden tables.

“Everyone,” Mara confirmed, pressing an apron into her hands. “Come on, before all the flour disappears.”

Korra hesitated, her fingers tightening on the fabric. The idea of working shoulder-to-shoulder with strangers made her stomach twist. She had spent years keeping her distance, blending into shadows, never being seen long enough to be remembered. Now there was nowhere to hide.

*********

Long wooden tables stretched from end to end, covered in white cloths and bowls of dough, baskets of herbs, jugs of milk, honey, and spice. Wolves of every rank moved between the stations, laughing, teasing, flour smudging their faces and hands.

Every corner smelled of bread, pastries, and doughs. It was chaos, but a strangely joyful kind.

Mara guided her toward an open spot. “You will like this. We are making honey loaves, it's easy to make and absolutely delicious.”

Korra set down her tray, eyeing the ingredients like they might attack her. “I have never done this before.”

“Then you will learn now.” Mara tied the apron around her waist and began measuring flour. “Start with this.”

Korra followed slowly, awkwardly cracking an egg that slipped through her fingers. She cursed under her breath, wiping the mess.

Mara only laughed. “You will get it.”

As the morning wore on, the noise grew louder. Someone at another table started singing, and others joined in, even though they sang off-key; it was still full of life. Korra found herself smiling despite the tension in her chest. The air was alive, filled with a kind of belonging that she had never dared to imagine.

Then she felt it, that faint awareness prickling at the back of her neck. A presence entering the room.

She didn’t need to look to know who it was.

The chatter dimmed slightly as the air shifted, respect and wariness threading through the crowd. She risked a glance and saw him near the doorway, his tall frame half-lit by sunlight streaming through the windows. He wasn’t wearing the usual air of command, just a dark shirt, with its sleeves rolled up, the edges of his hair damp as if he had just come from the bathroom.

The room subtly bent around him, though no one spoke his name.

Mara nudged Korra lightly. “Don’t freeze,” she whispered. “He’s here to help judge and… mingle, I suppose.”

“Mingle,” Korra repeated, her voice tight.

“Yes. Apparently, even the high ones bake today.” Mara winked.

Korra turned back to her dough, trying to ignore the pulse that had quickened in her throat. But the scent of him reached her anyway. She tried not to notice how her hands trembled as she kneaded the dough.

Mara leaned closer, lowering her voice. “You are gripping it like it insulted your mother; loosen up.”

Korra shot her a look, but a laugh slipped through her guard. The sound surprised her, soft and genuine. For a moment, it felt good to laugh at herself.

And that was the moment she heard his voice behind her.

“You are pressing it too hard,” he said quietly, and her body went still.

Slowly, she turned. He stood only a few feet away, one hand resting on the edge of the table, his expression unreadable but his tone gentle. “You will tear the gluten, let it breathe.”

Korra blinked, uncertain whether to answer or bow. Her throat felt dry. “I… didn’t realize bread could breathe.”

The corner of his mouth twitched, but it was not quite a smile, but close enough that it sent something fluttering in her chest. “Everything living learns to.”

He reached over then, his hand brushing past hers to touch the dough. His skin was warm, his movements sure and slow. “Like this.”

For a moment, the entire room faded, the laughter, the chatter, the clinking pans, all of it dimmed beneath the quiet rhythm of his hands shaping the dough. When he looked at her, she felt seen in a way that made her both ache and tremble.

She stepped back quickly, the air too thick to breathe. “I will… try that.”

His gaze lingered a second longer, then he nodded and moved on to another group. The space he left behind felt colder somehow, emptier.

Mara exhaled softly beside her. “And here I was thinking flour would be the only thing making you blush.”

Korra’s cheeks burned. “It’s just hot in here.”

“Sure it is,” Mara teased lightly.

But inside, Korra’s thoughts spun; she didn’t understand why his words and his presence unsettled her so deeply. He had barely spoken to her since the rescue, barely looked at her. And yet now, every look, every word seemed to undo the fragile walls she had built.

By afternoon, the tables were crowded with finished loaves, pastries, and pies. The air was rich with sweetness. Laughter spilled through the kitchen as everyone shared food, offering bites and trading compliments.

Korra stood by the window, her hands dusted white with flour, her heart oddly light. Mara approached, holding two slices of honey bread. “Here,” she said. “Yours turned out beautifully.”

Korra accepted it uncertainly. “It’s crooked.”

“Perfection’s overrated,” Mara said, taking a bite. “It’s warm and sweet, and that’s enough.”

Korra smiled faintly and tried hers. It was soft, the honey rich and soothing on her tongue. “It’s good,” she admitted, surprised.

“Of course it is,” Mara said proudly. “You made it.”

They carried their plates to one of the benches where others were gathered, laughter and conversation spilling around them. Someone poured cider, someone else started another song. For the first time in years, Korra didn’t feel the instinct to flee.

She looked up, and her gaze caught across the room, his eyes finding hers through the haze of firelight and noise.

He didn’t speak, didn’t move, he just looked like he was memorizing her. And something inside her stuttered, then softened. The noise of the room faded again, that strange stillness returning between them.

Mara noticed the shift and followed her gaze, though she said nothing. Only a quiet, knowing smile curved her lips before she rose and went to refill their mugs, leaving Korra alone at the table.

He approached then, slowly, with the measured calm of someone used to commanding attention. The others moved aside instinctively as he stopped beside her bench.

“May I?” he asked simply.

She nodded before she could think.

He sat, resting his forearms on the table. For a moment, neither spoke. Then he nodded toward her half-eaten slice. “That’s yours?”

Korra swallowed. “Yes. It’s… my first time baking.”

“I could tell,” he said, but there was no mockery in his tone, only quiet amusement. “It’s rough, but it smells good.”

Her lips twitched. “That’s your version of praise?”

He glanced at her, and for the first time, a real smile ghosted across his face. “You will learn to take it.”

“Thank you,” she murmured.

He tilted his head, studying her. “For what?”

“For… this. For letting me stay.”

His expression changed. “You deserve it.”

The words hit her harder than she expected. For so long, she had survived by being invisible, unwanted, half a ghost. To hear that she had earned a place, even a small one, made her throat ache.

She looked down quickly. “I don’t know if I believe that yet.”

“You do just believe,” he said softly, rising.

Before she could answer, he was gone again, swallowed by the noise and light of the hall. 

**********

That night, the pack celebrated until the moon climbed high. Music echoed through the corridors, laughter spilling into the courtyard. But Korra slipped away quietly, her steps leading her to the garden behind the pack house.

The air was cool and still. The earth smelled of thawing roots and grass. She sat on the low stone wall, pulling the cloak tighter around her shoulders, the same one he had left for her in the stables.

Her breath clouded softly in the moonlight. Maybe she should still run, that had been her plan all along, to wait until she was strong enough, then disappear before anyone could stop her. But now… something tugged at her chest, quiet and persistent. A thread she couldn’t bring herself to cut.

The door opened behind her, and she heard steps of footsteps approaching. She didn’t need to look to know who it was.

“You left early,” he said quietly.

“I needed air.”

He nodded. “It’s easy to forget to breathe in there. The noise.”

Korra managed a faint smile. “You don’t seem the type to join in.”

“I’m not,” he admitted. “But sometimes they need to see that I can.”

“And tonight?”

He looked toward the stars. “Tonight felt different.”

Something in his tone, soft and thoughtful, pulled at her.

“You don’t have to fear them,” he said after a pause. “They have long memories, yes, but they’re not all cruel.”

“I don’t fear them,” she said quietly. “I just… don’t know how to belong.”

He studied her for a moment. “You already do. They just haven’t caught up to it yet.”

The words struck something deep and unguarded inside her. She turned away before he could see the shine in her eyes.

“I should go,” she whispered.

He didn’t stop her. Only said, softly, “Good night, Korra.”