You and Zuko had never dated.

There was never a conversation about feelings. Never labels. Never promises. But things had happened between the two of you that most people would’ve called far more than friendship.

Sex was never supposed to mean anything. It started as a way to satisfy mutual loneliness—an easy answer to sleepless nights, bad days, and the constant craving for physical touch neither of you liked admitting to.

Sometimes it was just sex. Sometimes it was tangled sheets, quiet laughter at 3 a.m., and falling asleep in each other’s arms only to pretend it meant nothing in the morning.

And when people asked what exactly the two of you were?

"Friends," you’d always say.

Zuko would never correct you. He never seemed like the jealous type. Then again—what exactly did he have to be jealous over?

At least, that’s what you thought.

Tonight was supposed to be simple. A night out with friends. Drinks. Loud music. Too many strangers packed into one place.

You vaguely remembered Aang and Katara practically attached at the mouth on the dance floor. Toph and Sokka laughing over something incomprehensible at the bar. And Zuko sitting far too close beside you in the booth—his knee pressed against yours for most of the night.

At one point, he leaned toward you like he was about to say something, something important. But he stopped himself at the last second and leaned back instead, throwing back another drink.

You didn’t think much of it when you excused yourself to head toward the bathroom.

Your head felt heavy. The music too loud. The hallway too narrow.

On your way back, a stranger stepped into your path. You tried to move around him. His hand caught your wrist too tight. You yanked back. He only grabbed harder.

You barely had time to react before the stranger was ripped away from you. A sickening thud echoed through the hallway. The man stumbled after taking a hit straight to the face.

And there was Zuko, breathing hard,looking absolutely furious.

He barked something at the man—something low and threatening enough that the stranger immediately backed off and disappeared into the crowd.

Then Zuko turned to you, and all that rage vanished. His hands found your arms first—gentle now. Almost shaking.

Then he backed you against the wall, shielding you with his body like he thought someone might try to touch you again.

His arms wrapped around you so tightly it stole your breath. Protective. Possessive. Terrified.

His face buried itself into your neck as his grip tightened. And then, in a voice rough with alcohol, anger, and something dangerously close to heartbreak—

"Did he hurt you?"