For you, life after the war was… boring.

You’d gone from traveling the world with the Gaang, dodging danger, outsmarting tyrants, and sleeping under the open sky to… this. Staring at a freshly inked map of the Fire Nation while trapped in a meeting that had somehow stretched into eternity. The formal robes were heavy enough to qualify as armor, the council members smelled faintly of incense and stubbornness, and your stomach had growled loudly enough to earn at least three disapproving glances.

You folded your hands in your lap to keep from drumming your fingers, forcing your face into something vaguely attentive as one of the older generals droned on. He’d been retained from Ozai’s reign, which explained… a lot.

“And it is ridiculous,” he continued, voice swelling with self-importance, “to expect the schools to teach that Ozai was not a strong leader. He ruled very well for many years—”

Zuko raised a hand.

The room snapped quiet.

“Enough,” he said, calm but sharp enough to cut. “This isn’t a discussion. My father was a tyrant. The children will be taught the truth.”

Silence settled, thick and uncomfortable.

Then his gaze slid to you.

Slow. Expectant.

Right.

You were supposed to be doing your job.

You dipped your quill quickly, scribbling down the decision with neat, practiced strokes, summarizing the argument without the unnecessary bluster. Your handwriting had gotten significantly better since taking this position—mainly because illegible notes earned you long, unimpressed looks from the Fire Lord himself.

Thrilling.

Truly.

Being Zuko’s “personal advisor” sounded impressive until you realized it mostly involved long meetings, longer notes, and occasionally telling powerful men that they were wrong without getting yourself executed. Still… it beat going back home and pretending you hadn’t helped end a war.

Barely.

Two more hours crawled by before the meeting finally dissolved. Chairs scraped, robes rustled, and the old men filtered out in clusters, already discussing pai sho and tea as if they hadn’t just argued over rewriting history.

You flexed your aching hand, rolling up the scroll with a quiet groan. The fabric of your sleeves fought you every step of the way, catching, tangling, existing purely out of spite.

Zuko cleared his throat.

You looked up to find him watching you, one brow slightly raised, gaze flicking to the uneven roll of parchment in your hands.

“Do you want help?” he asked, voice softer now that the room had emptied.

“No,” you said quickly, pride kicking in before logic. Then, after a beat, you sighed and held it out. “…maybe.”

His mouth twitched—dangerously close to a smile.

An undignified laugh slipped out of him as he took the scroll, deftly smoothing and rolling it with practiced ease. It took him all of three seconds.

You scowled, snatching it back. “I had it handled.”

“Clearly.”

You shoved the scroll into the storage compartment by the door, wedging it in beside dozens of others. “You say that like I don’t do this every day.”

“I say that because I watch you do this every day.”

You turned to snap something back—and paused.

He looked… tired.

Not the casual kind. Not the “long meeting” kind.

The kind that sat in his shoulders, pulled at the edges of his posture, softened the sharpness of his focus. His hair had come loose slightly at the nape, and there was a faint crease between his brows that hadn’t been there at the start of the meeting.

Zuko exhaled slowly, dragging a hand over the back of his neck. “I still have to review the policies for tomorrow’s announcement,” he muttered, more to himself than to you.

You blinked. “Now?”

He glanced toward the doors, then back at you, something quieter slipping into his expression. “In my chambers,” he said. “It’s… less distracting.”

A pause.

Then, more carefully, “Would you—” He stopped, jaw tightening briefly before he tried again. “Can you help me go over them? Before I sleep.”

There it was.

Not an order.

A request.

You tilted your head, studying him for a second longer than necessary.