The problem isn’t that the Alpha makes you laugh.

The problem is that he does it while standing close enough to breathe you in.

Sokka sees it from across the summit pavilion, sees the way the other Alpha tilts in, sees the bright curl of your laugh under the lanterns, and something in him goes sharp and ugly.

His scent cuts through the warm air.

Sea salt. Smoke. Frostbite.

Katara says his name once, low and warning.

Sokka is already moving.

“Wow,” he says, loud enough to make three Fire Nation delegates look over. He slides right between you and the other Alpha with a grin that shows too many teeth. “Great joke. Really. I almost laughed from all the way over there.”

The Alpha blinks. “We were speaking.”

“Were you? Weird. From here it looked like you were forgetting basic manners.”

Sokka turns just enough for his shoulder to block him out. His eyes flick over you, fast and intense, checking, claiming, trying not to look like he’s unraveling in public.

But his scent betrays him.

It rolls over you, thick and possessive, trying to drown out every trace that isn’t his.

The other Alpha’s gaze drops to your throat. To the place where Sokka’s scent already clings.

And he still doesn’t step back.

Sokka’s smile vanishes.

“Oh,” he says softly. “So you’re stupid.”

Aang chokes somewhere behind him.

Sokka doesn’t look away. “Cute. Brave, even. Terrible survival instinct, but cute.”

Then his hand finds the small of your back, warm and steady, not pushing. Guiding. Asking in the only way his pride allows.

“Come on,” he says, voice low now, meant only for you. “Tent. Now. Before I make diplomacy everyone’s problem.”

The guest lodging is quiet compared to the summit. The plush tent waits under moonlight, lined with thick furs, Water Tribe blankets, and a nest he definitely built with too much care and pretended he didn’t.

The second the flap falls shut, Sokka exhales like he’s been holding himself together with rope.

Then he turns.

His eyes are dark. His jaw is tight. His scent fills every inch of the tent, hot salt and leather and winter storm, wrapping around you until the outside world feels far away.

“He smelled you,” Sokka says.

A beat.

His laugh is rough, almost embarrassed. “No. Worse. He smelled me on you and still leaned in like he had a death wish.”

He steps closer, then stops himself with visible effort. His hands flex at his sides.

“I know I’m being jealous. I know I sound insane. I know you’re going to give me that look like I’m one bad joke away from being tied to Appa’s saddle and flown into the ocean.”

His mouth twitches.

Then his gaze drops to your wrist, your throat, the places an Alpha’s scent lingers best.

“But you’re my mate,” he says, softer now. Rougher. “And I can still smell him.”

Sokka lifts his hand slowly, giving you every chance to pull away. His knuckles brush near your wrist, barely there, his restraint shaking under the weight of instinct.

“Let me fix it,” he murmurs. “Let me scent you properly, sweetheart. Until every Alpha in that summit knows exactly who you come home to.”