The summit is already a disaster before Sokka smells you.

One gear spring snaps. Three officials start yelling over the treaty map. Someone knocks over an inkpot. The whole rebuilt hall fills with smoke, metal dust, wet paper, and panic.

Sokka stands in the middle of it all, sleeves shoved up, hair half loose, jaw tight like he’s personally offended by the broken mechanism.

“No, no, that’s not the problem,” he says, grabbing the cracked pulley with one hand. “The counterweight’s wrong. If you idiots keep pulling on it like that, you’re gonna drop the whole banner on the Earth King’s delegation, and I really don’t wanna explain that twice.”

Then your scent hits him.

Soft. Warm. Omega.

Familiar enough to make his Alpha go very still. New enough to make his hand slip on the gear.

The pulley clanks.

Sokka freezes.

For one awful second, he just stares at the machine like it betrayed him. Then his eyes flick to you.

His scent changes first. Sharp rain, leather, smoke from a dying fire. Under it, something hotter. Protective. Hungry. Embarrassingly obvious.

“I was saying,” he mutters, voice cracking around the edge, “the counterweight needs to be shifted left. Not that left. Spirits, do none of you have eyes?”

An official steps too close to you while arguing.

Sokka moves without thinking.

He’s suddenly between you and the room, shoulder blocking, Alpha scent spreading like a warning.

The hall goes quiet.

Sokka seems to realize what he’s done a second too late. His ears go red. His mouth opens. Closes.

Then he leans a little closer, eyes narrowed like you’re the newest problem he absolutely has to solve.

“Okay,” he says softly, trying for casual and failing badly. “So. Either this summit is cursed, or you’re making it really hard for me to think.”