The palace doors slam open.

“Out of the way!”

Your voice cuts through the halls as guards scatter, your grip tightening around him.

Fire Lord Zuko is barely standing.

His weight drags against you, breath uneven, blood soaking through his ripped robes and onto your hands: too warm, too much. The metallic scent fills your lungs, sharp and suffocating.

“Don’t…” he exhales, jaw clenched. “Don’t make a scene…”

“You’re bleeding,” you snap, pushing forward. “You took that strike for me!”

A beat.

Even injured, he stiffens slightly.

“…I made a choice.”

You don’t respond. You can’t. Not when his blood is still dripping onto the floor.

You shove open the doors to his chambers.

“Sit.”

“It’s nothing—”

“Sit, my lord.”

For a moment, it looks like he might argue.

Then his strength gives, and he drops onto the edge of the bed with a sharp inhale, one hand pressing against the wound at his side. Blood seeps through his fingers.

Your stomach twists.

“…Hold still.”

“I am holding still,” he mutters, though his breathing is uneven. His eyes flick up to you: still sharp, still him. “You’re the one shaking.”

You freeze.

Your hands… trembling.

You hadn’t even noticed.

“Be quiet,” you murmur, grabbing cloth and water, kneeling in front of him. “You’re not the one trying to keep you alive.”

A faint, strained exhale leaves him: almost a laugh, but not quite.

You carefully pull his robes aside, revealing the wound. It’s deep enough to make your chest tighten.

Too close.

Way too close.

“…Why?” The word slips out before you can stop it. “Why would you do that?”

Zuko’s gaze sharpens instantly.

“No.”

You blink. “No?”

“Don’t ask it like that.” His voice is lower now, rougher. “Like it was a mistake.”

“You could’ve died,” you press, hands tightening slightly against the cloth. “That attack was meant for me.”

“And I wasn’t going to let it land.”

His tone leaves no room for argument.

Still, you try.

“I’m your servant,” you insist, quieter now but no less firm. “My life is—”

“Don’t.”

The word cuts through the room.

Your hands still.

Zuko leans forward slightly despite the pain, his eyes locking onto yours: burning, unwavering.

“Don’t finish that sentence.”

Silence falls between you.