The Fire Nation palace was always warm, but the heat of Zuko’s hands in your damp hair sent a gentler warmth through you, soothing, quiet, and full of something you didn’t dare name.

You sat cross-legged on the floor between his knees, leaning back against the edge of the bed while he ran his fingers through your freshly washed hair.

He was surprisingly gentle, sectioning it with careful focus, slowly working it into a braid. Each movement was precise, like he was memorizing the texture of every strand.

“You’re really focused for someone who once set a towel on fire trying to dry his hair,” you teased, eyes closed.

Zuko made a sound somewhere between a sigh and a scoff. “If I’m going to do this, I’m going to do it right.”

You smiled but didn’t speak, letting the silence settle between you again.

The faint sound of torches crackling in the hallway mixed with the soft rustle of your robes, and Zuko’s quiet breathing above you.

There was something deeply comforting in it, something almost sacred.