A/N: I regret nothing.

Inspired by an A/N I wrote for Immutable.

Linzin is my old flame OTP of choice.

The pillow is a welcome softness, the warmth of the blanket soothing him, her fingers intertwined in his completing him. Careful not to disturb her slumber, he breathes into her ear, wondering if his beard tickles her as she always laughs that it does. "Good morning, my love," he murmurs, loathe to destroy the fragile moment of peace amid the turmoil of his everyday existence. Here, he need not worry about little more than ensuring his limbs do not fall asleep when he inevitably does, dozing off as always until later in the morning, when she awakens, perhaps with a cup of tea, perhaps drowsily inquiring if he would be kind enough to start breakfast before she rolls on top of him and convinces him Republic City will be all right without her for one morning.

And when that fails, she'll kick him off and tell him to get his ass into the kitchen.

He smiles wryly and musters his strength to start the process of sitting up, eager to see her grey-green eyes light up with that bright flame when he slips into bed beside her again, hot food on a plate and sweet words on his lips. This morning he might even find the courage to cook her some of the meat he knows she adores but he can't stand. For her, though, he would sacrifice it all.

"Lin?" He nudges her with an elbow, but she doesn't stir; he sighs and leaves her to sleep. Strangely, the pillow smells different than usual, an odour of a fruity perfume, one he vaguely recognises in the back of his mind but can't recall. While he tries to open his eyes, his comfort keeping his eyelids heavy and lowered, he embraces her one-sidedly, intent on running his hand over her side and hip as he is wont to do and she enjoys. Almost as much as meat, she says with a rare and radiant grin, but not nearly as much as you.

Her belly bulges into the crook of his arm.

His eyes snap open. Confusion settles on him for a moment, two, and then his memories meddle in the mist, the morning mist of his mind melting away.

Brown hair, café eyes, a beautiful young woman any man would vie to spent the rest of his life with.

Except, perhaps, for him.

Because she's Pema.

Not Lin.

Never Lin.

He cannot control the pang of disappointment that fills his chest, nor the single empty beat his heart gives. At once he hugs her, his loyal and loving wife, the wonderful mother of his four children, and the most steadfast woman he has ever met. And he is grateful for her company, for her motherhood, for her undying faith.

But reasoning cannot heal the pain within him, not a pain a good wife would understand.

The pain of no longer being able to remember the exact shade of her grey-green eyes.

The pain of no longer being able to look.