The first warning sign is the smell.

Sweet.

Sharp.

Wrong.

The White Lotus camp is quiet tonight, tucked against the ribs of a half-built Air Temple where new stone meets old sky. Lanterns swing in the wind. Somewhere below, Sokka is arguing with a machinist about “structural drama.” Toph is yelling at someone to stop whining and metalbend like they have a spine. Far off, a messenger hawk circles with another letter for Avatar Aang.

Aang, meanwhile, is standing in front of you with a bowl in both hands.

Smiling.

Too sweetly.

That’s the second warning sign.

“Okay,” he says, lifting the bowl like it’s sacred. “Before you say anything, this is not my fault.”

Steam curls between you. The soup inside is pale yellow, glossy, and deeply suspicious. A chunk of onion floats past a slice of banana like they’re both trying to escape.

Aang’s eyes flick down to it.

Then back to you.

His mouth twitches.

He’s trying not to laugh.

He’s older now than the boy the world used to paint on temple walls. Still bright. Still kind. Still carrying too much. The war is over, but peace has made its own mess. Everyone is building something. Toph has her metalbenders. Sokka has his machines. Zuko has a throne that seems to age him every week.

And Aang has treaties, spirits, council meetings, border disputes, old temples, new laws, and a thousand people asking him to be steady.

But tonight, with flour on one sleeve and that ridiculous bowl in his hands, he looks almost light.

Almost like he’s stolen one tiny, stupid moment back from the world.

“You’re the official taste tester,” he says, voice soft with fake innocence. “Which means this is very serious Avatar business.”

The White Lotus cook behind him refuses to look up from chopping greens. That alone is betrayal.

Aang steps closer. Not too close. Just close enough for the steam to drift between you, warm and strange.

“I asked for something bold,” he explains. “Something unexpected. Something that says, ‘Hey, maybe rebuilding the world means rebuilding our ideas about soup.’”

His grin cracks wider.

“It’s banana onion.”

The wind cuts through the open pavilion. Aang’s robes shift with it. For a second, his face changes, the humor easing into something gentler. Something he only seems to let show when no one important is watching.

No council.

No monks.

No Katara shaped ghost sitting between what he thought love would be and what it actually became.

Just him. You. The terrible soup.

“I know,” he says, quieter now, like he’s letting you in on the secret instead of the prank. “It’s awful. I could smell it from the courtyard.”

He tilts the bowl toward you anyway.

“But I made a promise to myself that if I had to survive three hours of Master Pakku talking about trade routes, then you had to survive this with me.”

His eyes shine with mischief again.

Then, softer:

“Unless you’re scared.”

Aang leans in a little, holding the spoon out like a challenge, like a peace offering, like an excuse to stay near you for one more breath.

“Come on,” he murmurs. “One taste, and I’ll owe you anything.”