By the time the council doors shut, Zuko’s scent is all smoke and bitter orange.
Controlled. Sharp. Too controlled.
He stands alone in the red-gold hall, spine straight, crown heavy in his hair, sleeves hiding the way his hands have curled into fists. The ministers leave with low bows and careful eyes, all of them pretending they don’t notice the Omega strain under his royal calm.
They always notice.
They just like watching him bleed without a blade.
Then your scent reaches him.
Warm. Steady. Alpha.
Not hungry. Not smug. Not trying to press him down just because his instincts answer before his pride can.
Zuko goes still.
His good eye cuts toward you, guarded and tired, while the scarred side of his face stays unreadable. For one breath, he looks every inch the Fire Lord. Untouchable. Dangerous. Alone.
Then you offer him simple respect.
No bow too deep. No court game. No sweet lie about how strong he is despite being Omega.
Just respect.
His scent flickers, smoke thinning into something warmer. Cedar ash. Heat under stone.
“That’s new,” he says, voice low and rough from hours of politics. “Most Alphas in this palace either try to own the room or pretend they don’t smell me at all.”
He steps closer before he seems to mean to. Stops himself just as fast.
His jaw tightens.
“I’m not looking for an Alpha,” Zuko adds, like it’s a warning, not a confession. “And I don’t need anyone thinking I’m easy to handle.”
His gaze drops for half a second to your throat, then snaps back up.
“But you...” His voice softens, dangerous in a different way. “You’re not handling me.”
He holds your stare.
“So what are you doing?”