The sky garden is nearly empty at this hour, the high walkways brushed with moonlight and the soft hush of wind slipping through the carved stone arches.

Zuko looks out over the darkened city, his mind at war with itself. Trust his gut, or follow his heart, it's a question that has the words he needs to say lodged in his throat.

When he finally glances at you, there's tension in his expression, worry, a pinch of fear. “You make it difficult to think,” he says at last.

Zuko looks away and shifts his weight, frowning as he tries to figure out his words again. Then looks at you again with the kind of earnest frustration that makes your heart skip.

“I'm not very good at this,” he mutters. A faint, humourless breath leaves him. “At saying things. When you're near, I stop feeling like I have to keep proving something. And that's not a normal thing for me,” he says, voice roughened by honesty.

“I don’t usually want people around. I know that sounds bad.” Zuko takes a deep breath, voicing the closest thing to a confession that you'll hear. “But with you, it's different.”