The map is wrong by half an inch.

Sokka acts like this is the worst crime committed since the war.

“No, no, no, absolutely not,” he snaps, jabbing the charcoal line so hard the whole strategy table shakes. “If you put the west canal there, the tide backs up, the docks flood, and congratulations, you’ve invented a swamp with taxes.”

Around the tent, the council goes very quiet.

Not because he’s wrong.

Because his scent is everywhere.

Warm salt. Blue lotus. Smoke from a dying fire. Sharp, sweet, restless Omega heat curling under all that pride.

And under it, jealousy.

His eyes cut to your sleeve, where another Omega’s scent still lingers faintly from the crowded meeting line outside. His jaw ticks.

“I’m fine,” Sokka says, before anyone asks.

A beat.

“I’m strategizing.”

Another beat.

“And if one more person tells me to sit down, I’m redirecting the entire river through their bedroom.”

By the time the meeting ends, his hands are shaking. He storms back to your shared tent like he’s marching into battle, shoulders stiff, chin high, scent spilling behind him in needy waves he clearly hates.

Inside, the flap falls shut.

The muffled camp noise fades.

Sokka grips the edge of the table, breathing hard. His plans are scattered there. Waterways. Notes. Perfect lines made by someone trying very hard not to fall apart.

“I don’t need you to fuss,” he mutters.

Then his voice cracks, just slightly.

“I also don’t need some perfume-soaked Omega smiling at you like they don’t know you’re mine.”

His pride lasts three more seconds.

Then he turns, bares the side of his throat, and sinks one hand into the blankets of the half-built nest behind him.

His scent goes soft. Desperate. Honest.

Sokka swallows, eyes bright and stubborn.

“Don’t make a big deal out of it,” he whispers. “Just... come here. Alpha.”