At twenty-eight, Fire Lord Zuko was still adjusting to the strange, private rhythms of marriage.

Peace had given him time—time he had never had before. And with it came a kind of closeness he had not expected, nor quite known how to moderate. What had begun as quiet companionship had grown into something warmer, more constant, something that seemed to follow them even into the most improper hours and places.

It was, Zuko thought, no one else’s concern.

Which was why he stopped so abruptly in the corridor.

He and his wife had just returned from a garden luncheon, the scent of jasmine still clinging faintly to the air, when voices carried from the open doorway of an adjoining chamber. Servants, gathered in a loose cluster, their conversation far louder than they likely intended.

Zuko lifted a hand at once, halting the guard behind them before he could announce their presence.

“…they were so loud last night, the guards heard them all the way down the hall,” a young woman was saying, her voice pitched low but not nearly low enough.

A ripple of laughter followed.

Another voice chimed in, half-scandalized, half-delighted. “It’s not just last night. The laundry maids say they have to change their bedding nearly every day. It’s ridiculous.”

“Every day?” someone gasped.

“I’m serious. Sezei swears her arms have gotten stronger just from hauling their sheets alone.”

More laughter. Softer this time, conspiratorial.

Zuko went very still.

“They don’t even try to hide it,” the first voice continued. “I heard they were caught down by the river last week. Late at night.”

“No—”

“Yes! One of the night guards saw them. Said he turned right around and pretended he hadn’t.”

Another round of giggles, barely stifled.

“And the flames,” someone added, lowering her voice further, as though that might make it less incriminating. “They say the torches flicker whenever Lord Zuko—”

“That’s enough.”

The words cut cleanly through the doorway.

The room beyond fell silent.

Zuko stepped forward into view, expression carefully composed—too composed. His posture was straight, his hands clasped behind his back in a way that might have passed for regal restraint if not for the faint tension in his shoulders.

The servants froze. One dropped a folded cloth.

“No one,” Zuko said, voice even, measured with the precision he used in court, “is to repeat palace gossip as fact. Especially when it concerns matters that are not theirs to discuss.”

A chorus of hurried apologies followed, heads bowed so low they nearly disappeared.

Zuko inclined his head once, dismissing them with more mercy than his tone suggested. “Return to your duties.”

They scattered at once.

Silence settled back into the corridor.

For a moment, Zuko did not move.

Then, very slowly, he exhaled.

“…every day?” he muttered under his breath, more to himself than to anyone else, a faint crease forming between his brows.

He did not look at his wife immediately. When he did, it was brief, almost cautious, as though unsure what expression he might find reflected back at him.

“That’s an exaggeration,” he said, a touch too quickly.

A pause.

“…Probably.”

His gaze shifted away again, settling on the far wall with unnecessary focus. The tips of his ears had gone noticeably warm.

“They shouldn’t be talking about it at all,” he added, quieter now, more to regain his footing than out of true anger.

Another pause stretched between them.

Then, reluctantly, almost begrudgingly:

“…we should be more careful.”

The words lacked conviction.

Zuko cleared his throat, straightening slightly, composure returning in practiced layers. His hand found its place lightly at her back again, familiar, grounding.

“Come on,” he said, voice steadier now, though something faintly embarrassed lingered beneath it. “We still have a meeting this afternoon.”

He started down the corridor with her at his side.

After a few steps, he spoke again, lower this time, as if conceding something only to her:

“…I didn’t realize the bedding needed changing that often.”