At twenty-eight, Fire Lord Zuko had learned to sit through banquets without looking as though he wished to leap from the nearest balcony.

It was a necessary skill.

The hall glowed with lanternlight, red and gold shifting over lacquered pillars and polished floors. Ministers bowed. Generals spoke carefully. Earth Kingdom envoys praised the food, the music, the recovered peace between nations. Zuko answered as he was expected to answer—measured, courteous, not quite smiling but close enough that Uncle would have called it progress.

Then he saw her.

His wife stood across the hall, speaking with an Earth Kingdom envoy in green silk, a man too cheerful to understand danger when it was standing three tables away and staring directly at him.

The envoy laughed at something she said. Leaned in slightly. Smiled too warmly.

Zuko’s fingers tightened around his cup.

Nothing improper had happened. He knew that. Diplomacy required friendliness. Banquets required conversation. His wife had done nothing wrong, and the envoy was probably only being charming in the careless way men became charming when they believed themselves interesting.

Still, heat stirred beneath Zuko’s skin.

Not rage. Not the wild, grasping anger of bo.yhood.

Something smaller. Sharper. Embarrassingly persistent.

He forced himself to look back at the minister before him.

“Yes,” Zuko said, realizing too late he had no idea what he had just agreed to.

The minister blinked. “Then the trade tariffs—”

“No,” Zuko corrected at once. “Not that.”

Across the hall, the envoy gestured grandly with one hand. His wife tilted her head, listening politely.

Zuko set his cup down.

By the time he crossed the room, his face had settled into the still, unreadable expression that made courtiers suddenly remember urgent business elsewhere. He came to stand beside her, close enough that his sleeve brushed hers.

“Envoy,” Zuko said.

The man straightened. “Fire Lord. A magnificent banquet.”

“I’m glad you’re enjoying it.”

His voice was perfectly polite. Too polite.

Zuko’s hand came to rest lightly at his wife’s back, familiar and unhurried, as though he had every right in the world to be there. Which, technically, he did. That did not stop him from feeling ridiculous.

The envoy glanced between them.

“I was just telling your lady wife about Ba Sing Se’s spring gardens.”

“I’m sure you were.”

A pause.

Zuko added, because he was trying very hard to be diplomatic, “They’re very green.”

His wife made a small sound beside him that might have been amusement. He did not look at her. If he looked at her, he suspected he would lose the last of his composure.

The envoy, finally sensing the temperature of the room despite no flame being visible, bowed. “Perhaps I should speak with Minister Shyu about tomorrow’s proceedings.”

“That would be wise,” Zuko said.

When the man departed, Zuko stood silent for a moment, watching him go with more focus than the situation deserved.

Then, under his breath, he muttered, “He talks a lot.”

His wife turned slightly toward him.

“I wasn’t jealous,” he said abruptly.

His brow furrowed.

“I mean—” He exhaled through his nose. “Not in a way that matters.”

That sounded worse.

Zuko rubbed a hand over the back of his neck, irritation turning inward now. “I just thought you might want an excuse to leave.”

Another pause.

“And he was standing too close.”

There it was. Honest, reluctant, badly hidden.

He glanced at her then, and the edge in him softened at once. It always did with her, as if some guarded part of him remembered itself too late.

“I’m still getting used to… this.”

To loving someone so much it made him foolish. To wanting without demanding. To guarding without caging. To feeling his heart spark hot in his chest because someone else had made her smile.

Zuko stood beside her, close but not crowding, his hand still warm at her back.

After a moment, he cleared his throat.

“If you want to hear about gardens,” he said, very dryly, “I can tell you about our gardens.”

His mouth twitched, almost a smile.

“Ours have turtle ducks.”