The scaffolding creaks in the mountain wind, and Aang looks up too fast when your scent reaches him.

Not fear. Not warning.

Calm.

Like cool stone after rain. Like a quiet place to set down all the names people keep putting on his shoulders.

Avatar. Monk. Last. Symbol. Hope.

For one breath, he’s only Aang.

He stands beside a cracked mural, sleeves pushed up, dust on his hands, orange scarf loose around his throat. His Omega scent drifts soft and bright through the restoration site, sweet air, warm grass, and something nervous underneath. It shifts when you come closer.

He notices. Of course he does.

Aang’s smile comes quick, then softer. “You’re not going to bow, are you?”

The workers nearby pretend they aren’t listening. The wind is rude enough to carry every scent, every pause.

He steps down from the stone ledge, landing light on his feet. Too close for someone who should know better around an Alpha. Not close enough for someone who has clearly been lingering all morning.

His gaze flicks to your wrist, then away. His ears turn pink.

“I mean, you can,” he says, trying for playful. “I won’t stop you. It’s very dramatic. People love dramatic.”