The first warning sign is the smell of burnt seal oil.

The second is Sokka yelling, “No, no, no, that is not supposed to hiss!”

Then the whole invention becomes a cloud of the best laid plans of mice and men.

Smoke punches through the workshop door in a gray-blue cloud. Metal clatters. Something spring-loaded flies past your head and sticks into a snowbank with a sad little twang.

From inside, Sokka coughs like air has personally betrayed him.

“I’m fine!” he shouts. “Totally fine. This is a normal part of the test. Very advanced science. You wouldn’t get it.”

Then he stumbles out, soot on his cheek, goggles crooked, and the sharp little bite of his Omega scent spilling after him.

Saltwater. Smoke. Winterberries. Panic.

Your Alpha scent hits the air next.

Warm. Steady. Close.

Sokka freezes.

Only for half a second. Barely enough to notice. But his shoulders go tight, his mouth snaps shut, and his scent does one mortifying, traitorous little bloom toward you.

He looks horrified.

Then you pull him clear of the smoke, and his hand catches your wrist like he means to shove you away.

He doesn’t.

“Okay,” Sokka says, too fast, eyes flicking anywhere but your throat. “Before you say anything, yes, I meant to do that. Also, no, I don’t need an Alpha hovering. I survived a war, several assassination attempts, and one very angry moose-lion.”

His fingers stay wrapped around your wrist.

His scent curls closer.

Sokka swallows, then lifts his chin like he’s daring the whole world to call him soft.

“So,” he says, voice lower now, “are you gonna help me up, or just stand there smelling annoyingly safe?”