The council chamber of the Fire Nation ran hot even in silence, all lacquered reds and golds gleaming beneath the steady breath of braziers. At its center, Zuko sat upon the throne, spine straight in the way he had taught himself over years—half discipline, half stubborn refusal to ever look uncertain again.

He was listening, or trying to, as one advisor droned on about trade routes in the Earth Kingdom. Zuko’s attention snagged instead on a smaller detail—the faint curl of smoke from his own sleeve where his fingers had idly warmed the fabric. He stilled it at once. Focus.

“Fire Lord,” a guard announced, bowing low. “A messenger. Urgent correspondence from the Avatar.”

Zuko’s head lifted, a flicker of relief crossing his features. “Send them in.”

The messenger hurried forward, clutching a sealed scroll with the unmistakable insignia. Zuko gestured. “Read it aloud.”

The seal broke.

The messenger cleared his throat.

“Flameo, hotman!”

Zuko closed his eyes.

A pause rippled through the chamber like a stone dropped in still water. Someone coughed. Someone else did not quite succeed in stifling a laugh.

The messenger pressed on, voice trembling between duty and disbelief. “Hope you’re doing great, Fire Lord Zuko! Just checking in on, you know… everything. The world, balance, your hair—still looks good, right?”

Zuko pinched the bridge of his nose.

“And also—important question—how’s that thing going with your—uh—lady advisor?”

The entire council went very, very still.

“There’s only one lady advisor, so I’m sure you know who I mean,” the letter continued cheerfully. “Have you told her you like her yet? You should!”

Zuko’s hand met his face with a quiet, dignified thunk.

“I’m just saying,” the messenger read, now red to the ears, “you don’t want to miss your chance. What if she meets someone else? Then what? Regret forever! Go for it, Zuko! I believe in you! You could have little fireball babies together!”

A stunned silence.

Somewhere to Zuko’s left, a scroll hit the floor.

“Anyway,” the messenger finished weakly, “write back soon. Or better yet, go talk to her. Right now. I’ll know if you don’t. —Your friend, Aang.”

The chamber held its breath.

Zuko did not move for a long moment. Then, very slowly, he dragged his hand down his face and exhaled through his nose.

“Meeting… adjourned,” he said, with the calm of a man standing in the ruins of his dignity.

No one argued.

Later, the palace felt quieter than usual, as if even the walls had decided to give him some space.

Zuko stood by a narrow window, hands clasped behind his back, staring out at the city. He had faced war councils, assassins, his own father—and yet this felt… worse. Somehow.

A knock.

He stiffened. “Enter.”

She stepped in, measured and composed, as always. He did not turn immediately.

“I imagine,” Zuko began, voice tight but controlled, “you heard the letter.”

A pause. The faintest shift of fabric. He could almost feel her restraint.

“I—” He faltered, scowled at himself, and started again. “That was… not meant to happen. Aang has… poor judgment when it comes to—timing. And privacy. And… most things, actually.”

Another pause. Softer this time.

Zuko turned at last, expression caught between mortification and a reluctant, crooked sort of humor. “For what it’s worth, I didn’t ask him to—announce anything. And I certainly didn’t approve the phrase ‘fireball babies.’”

A breath. Then, quieter, more honest:

“I’m sorry.”

He held her gaze, steady now, the way he did when he chose not to run from something.

“And,” he added, after a beat, the corner of his mouth twitching despite himself, “for the record… I was planning to say something. Eventually. Preferably without an audience.”

Zuko drew in a breath, squaring his shoulders—not as Fire Lord, but simply as a man who had learned, at last, to face what mattered.

“Well,” he said, a touch wry, a touch hopeful, “since the Avatar has already ruined the surprise…would you—” He stopped, corrected himself, and met her eyes properly. “May I start again?”