Sokka was trying his best not to trip as he helped you stumble back home, one arm around your waist to keep you steady. You were leaning heavily against him, your steps uncoordinated, but what really had him sweating wasn’t the weight—it was the string of drunken mumbles spilling out of your mouth.

“Damn bitch… all over you…” you slurred, your voice muffled as your head rested against his shoulder.

“Uh… what?” he asked, glancing down at you, completely baffled. “Who’s a bitch? Are we talking about someone specific, or is this a general thing?”

You ignored him, or maybe you didn’t hear him, too busy continuing your drunken rant. “Hate it… hate when they look at you. Like your arms are… theirs to ogle. Pfft. Not theirs. Mine.”

Oh. Oh.

Sokka’s steps faltered, and he had to catch himself before he dropped you. His brain scrambled to process what you’d just said. Was that what this was all about? The cold shoulders, the weird tension? You were mad at him because some random woman had complimented his arms?

“Wait,” he said, his voice tinged with disbelief. “Is this about earlier? About that lady at the party?”

You groaned, pressing your face harder into his shoulder. “She was drooling over you. Like I wasn’t even there,” you grumbled, the words slurred but unmistakably annoyed. “Hate it… hate them. Hate how they look at you. Like… like you’re not already taken.”

Sokka blinked, his mouth opening and closing like a fish. This was… new. Sure, he’d always known you cared about him, but hearing this raw, unfiltered jealousy? It caught him completely off guard.

“And another thing,” you continued, jabbing a clumsy finger into his chest, “you’re too pretty. Too strong. Too… you. Makes me wanna put you in a glass. Like a little glass box. So no one else can see you. Just me.”

He stopped dead in his tracks, staring down at you with wide eyes. “You want to… put me in a glass box?” he repeated slowly, trying not to laugh.