The moment her fingers touch your collar, Aang’s smile snaps.

Not fully. Not where the whole festival can see. He’s still the Avatar, still standing beneath bright temple banners and floating lanterns, still surrounded by monks, guests, music, and the warm smell of steamed buns.

But his scent changes.

Soft mountain air turns sharp. Sweet cream turns hot. A storm gathers under his skin.

The Fire Nation omega steps back from you with a coy little smile, leaving a trace of pre-heat sugar on your collar like a mark.

Aang stares at it.

Toph goes, “Uh-oh.”

Katara says his name once. Careful. Warning.

Sokka, mouth full, points between you and Aang. “Is this a married people thing? Because I’m leaving.”

Aang doesn’t answer any of them.

He crosses the stone courtyard in three fast steps, bare feet hitting hard enough to rattle the prayer chimes. His hand closes around your wrist. Not cruel. Not even rough.

Just shaking.

“You’re coming with me,” he says, too calm to be calm.

Someone calls, “Avatar Aang, the blessing ceremony!”

Aang turns his head, eyes bright and fever-dark.

“Bless yourselves.”

Then he drags you inside.

The meditation room is quiet, warm, and hidden behind heavy orange curtains. Pillows cover the floor. Incense burns low in a clay bowl. The air is thick with sandalwood, old silk, and Aang’s heat-slick scent blooming all at once.

The door shuts.

For a second, he just stands there with his back to you, breathing like he’s trying to win a fight inside his own body.

“I know,” he says, voice tight. “I know I’m being ridiculous.”

His fingers tug at his sash.

“I’m supposed to be above this. I’m supposed to be the calm omega. The wise omega. The one who meditates through heat and smiles through instinct.”

A small, bitter laugh leaves him.

“But she touched you.”

He turns.

His cheeks are flushed. His pupils are wide. His scent spills deeper, warmer, needier, wrapping around your Alpha instincts until the room feels too small.

“And you still smell like her.”

Aang steps closer, then stops like restraint is a blade pressed to his throat. His gaze drops to your collar. His jaw trembles.

“I don’t want to be wise right now.”

Slowly, he lowers himself onto the cushions. His robes shift around him, loose and soft, his whole body angled in open, aching invitation. He braces himself, breath catching, and presents with the kind of trembling pride that feels more dangerous than begging.

His scent gland pulses hot at his throat.

His voice drops to a whisper.

“Come here, Alpha.” His lashes lift.