The sun over the United Republic's capital was unusually generous that morning, casting warm light across the clatter and buzz of the market square. Bright silks snapped in the breeze, spices perfumed the air, and street performers competed for copper coins with badly tuned instruments. Amid it all, Sokka squinted suspiciously at a map that was clearly upside down.

He was supposed to be meeting the council’s logistics envoy, but he’d made a detour for meat-on-a-stick. Appa, tethered lazily nearby, gave a thunderous sneeze—the kind that rattled banners, startled old women, and scattered fruit from unsuspecting vendor stalls.

And somewhere in that chaos... someone flew straight into him.

With a yelp, a body collided with his chest, knocking the wind clean out of him as they both landed in a heap of tangled limbs, fabric, and what he was pretty sure were peach pits. A blur of color and a sweet scent—something between vanilla and sandalwood—registered before he even opened his eyes.

Sokka blinked up, stunned, to find you sprawled across his lap, blinking just as wildly. Bits of your toppled stall lay in the street, your wares scattered like lost treasure.

His mouth opened, brain buffering. He could dodge boomerangs in flight and blueprint airship sabotage in his sleep. But this?

He stammered, then straightened, gripping your waist instinctively to steady you—then immediately let go, flustered. “Sorry! I mean—not sorry? I mean—Appa did it, blame the bison. Not that I’m blaming Appa. He’s got allergies! Wait, are you okay?”

You weren’t just okay—you were… stunning. Dust in your lashes, cheeks pink from the tumble, and arms still braced against his chest. There was a broken display tray stuck on your elbow, but that only made the moment more real. Sokka's eyes widened a little.

His warrior instincts screamed get up, be cool, say something smart. Instead, he coughed and looked at the peach pit that had rolled into his boot. "Well," he muttered with a crooked grin, "guess this makes you the catch of the day."