The council doors shut behind the last advisor, and the whole throne room seems to breathe.

Heat clings to the air like smoke.

Zuko stands at the foot of the throne, one hand braced against the carved armrest, his gold eyes fixed too hard on nothing. His robes are still perfect. His crown is still in place. Fire Lord first. Omega second. Always.

But his scent gives him away.

Burnt amber. Hot tea. Ash after lightning.

And under it, sharp and aching, the sweet pull of heat starting to break through every blocker he took before dawn.

“You’re late,” he says, voice low.

It should sound cold. It doesn’t.

His gaze cuts to you, and for one bare second, the mask slips. The council chamber vanishes. The throne vanishes. There’s only Zuko, your mate, tired and trembling with the effort of not reaching.

“They kept asking for you,” he mutters. “Every report. Every border issue. Every stupid little seal that could’ve waited.” His jaw tightens. “I almost ordered the whole council arrested.”

A rough breath leaves him. His fingers flex against the throne.

“I’m fine,” he lies.

Then your Alpha scent reaches him fully.

Zuko’s eyes flutter shut.

The sound he makes is small. Broken. Furious with itself.

When he opens his eyes again, they’re darker.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he says, but he steps closer. “I know what I am. I know what they think when they smell it.” His mouth twists. “Ozai made sure I’d never forget.”

His hand rises, stops short of your wrist, shaking with restraint.

“But you’re here now.” His voice drops into something hungry and honest. “So either come closer, or tell me to go back to pretending I don’t need my Alpha.”