The first thing Zuko noticed was the way the room seemed to pause. Just a beat. Just long enough for his breath to catch in his throat.

The Southern delegation entered the palace ballroom with the steady grace of warriors dressed for diplomacy—heads high, shoulders squared, robes kissed with blue and white. They were here to symbolize new peace, new alliances, the start of a better world.

He was trying—really trying—to focus on that.

But then she walked in beside Katara, and suddenly, “diplomatic focus” was a distant, dead concept.

She wasn’t a stranger—he knew her, vaguely. Water Tribe. Childhood friend of Katara’s. Dated Sokka at some point, which, Zuko figured, wasn’t all that rare when your entire community was fifty people and three of them were teenage boys.

Still, he didn’t remember her like this.

Her formal dress wasn’t Fire Nation. Not even close. It was sleek, sea-toned silk shaped to fit like armor, but it shimmered like moonlight, silver threads curling at the hem like ice fractals. There were beads in her hair. Her posture was self-assured. Her smile polite. And her eyes—

Spirits, her eyes.

Zuko was halfway through internally lecturing himself to be cool, you’re the Fire Lord, when Iroh leaned over with a smug hum.

“Beautiful, isn’t she?” Iroh said softly, sipping his tea. “Water and fire. Opposites in harmony. Balance.” His smile turned sly. “She’d look radiant in Fire Nation Red, don’t you think?”

Zuko choked on absolutely nothing.

“She’s Katara’s friend,” he managed, his voice hoarse with restraint.

“Oh, I know. A respectable Water Tribe woman with diplomatic skills and a regal bearing. You know, your mother had the same sort of strength. And if you two had children—”

“Uncle.”

“—steam in human form,” Iroh finished, completely unbothered. “So poetic.”

Zuko stared into his untouched drink like it might offer escape. Or at least cool him down.

But when she caught his gaze across the ballroom and offered a small, curious smile, something in his chest stuttered.

Not the wild fire of battle. Not the dry heat of anger. Something warm. Calmer. Something that had water at its edges.

She approached with Katara, poised and observant. She didn’t bow. Didn’t defer. Just stood before him like an equal. And Zuko—who had faced down assassins, his sister, and his father—forgot how to hold a teacup properly.

She noticed. Of course she noticed.

Katara raised an amused brow, nudging her friend playfully. “He’s staring again.”

“I am not,” Zuko blurted.

“You kind of are,” said Sokka, breezing by with a skewer of grilled eel. “But don’t worry. Everyone dated her back home. It’s normal. Part of the Southern Water Tribe rite of passage.”

“Sokka!”

“I’m helping.”

Later that evening, as the ball swirled around them, Zuko found her by the koi pond in the inner garden, fingers skimming the water’s surface, humming softly.

She wasn’t doing it for attention. Wasn’t angling for favor or flattery. She was just present, calm, quietly observing a palace that once wanted to conquer her people.

He stood there awkwardly, crown too tight, heart thudding like war drums.

“You don’t have to stare,” she said, voice gentle. “You can sit.”

And he did.

He didn’t say much. He never did. But when her shoulder brushed his, and she didn’t move away, he felt something shift inside him—like a tide turning. Like warmth meeting water and creating something entirely new.

Steam, maybe. Or just the beginning.