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Apr 18

a walk in the skies...

a/n: I was gonna name this sky walker but meh change of plans ahahahah. So here is the Airbender reader with a touch of Ghibli. I got carried away with the lore but I really want to build it and maybe I'll extend this. Also there is also breathe bending... I don't know if I did it right though any ways enjoy...

premise: taking a walk in the skies with the your dear friend...

pairing: Fire Lord Zuko x Air bender! Reader

It's quite a long story on how you came to be close with the former prince and now Firelord Zuko. And no, you weren’t part of the well known, Team of the Avatar where he is part of eventually to overthrow his father and end the fire nation’s years long tyranny over all nations.

But that doesn’t mean your beginnings weren’t as interesting as his journey to peace with his new found friends. But let's begin with the story of how an Earth Kingdom girl came to be with powers of bending the air.

You were no Air Nomad. Nor were you born from a lineage that had ever known the sky as home. You carried none of the quiet legacies of the temples, no ancestral memory of gliders against the open blue, no teachings passed down in spirals of breath and detachment. The wind did not belong to your bloodline—and by all expectations, neither did you.

You came from something far heavier.

Something rooted, immovable, and proud.

You were born of the Earth Kingdom, within the towering, impenetrable walls of Ba Sing Se, where the world was not only divided by stone, but by status so deeply ingrained it shaped the very way people breathed. Your family lived high within its upper ring, among those whose names carried weight long before they entered a room. Wealth was not simply owned—it was displayed, carved into jade pillars, reflected in polished marble floors, and embodied by servants who moved like whispers, efficient and unseen, maintaining the illusion of effortless power.

And power, in your household, was measured most clearly through bending.

Earth—steady, immovable, eternal—answered your bloodline as naturally as breath.

You were surrounded by it. Uncles who could split stone with a measured stomp, their movements precise and economical, never wasting effort. Cousins who shaped entire training grounds with practiced ease, raising walls and platforms as if sculpting clay. Elders who stood in court or commanded troops, their authority reinforced not only by title, but by their unshakable connection to the ground beneath them. Some wore silks and spoke in calculated diplomacy, weaving influence through words. Others wore armor, their presence a physical extension of the kingdom’s strength. And a few—spoken of only in quieter tones—served as agents of the Dai Li, guardians of order within the city, embodiments of control so absolute it bordered on silence itself.

Your lineage was not merely respected.

It was established. Rooted deep within the structures of Ba Sing Se, as enduring and unyielding as the walls that encased it.

And in a family like yours, there was no space for uncertainty.

Every child had a purpose long before they understood what it meant to choose one. You were expected to embody the philosophy of earth: to stand firm, to endure, to uphold tradition without question. Stability was not simply a teaching—it was a demand. And those who could not meet it were not loudly cast out.

They were… adjusted. Repositioned.

Made useful elsewhere.

The dining hall was always too large. Not in size but in presence.

The long stone table stretched farther than necessary, its surface polished to a muted sheen that caught the flicker of candlelight and reflected it in soft, wavering gold. Servants moved along its edges like shadows, placing dishes with silent precision. The scent of rich broths and roasted meats filled the air, heavy and indulgent—but beneath it lingered something colder. Something tighter.

Expectation.

You sat among them. Back straight. Hands folded neatly in your lap. Quiet.

“Her stance is still weak,” one of your uncles remarked, not bothering to lower his voice. His gaze did not meet yours; it didn’t need to. “I observed her practice this morning. The ground barely responded.”

A soft murmur of agreement followed, like distant tremors that never quite reached the surface.

“She is young,” your mother replied, her tone measured, composed. “Strength comes with discipline.”

“Discipline requires results,” another voice interjected, sharper this time. “At her age, most children have already shown promise.”

You kept your gaze lowered, focusing on the delicate patterns carved into your bowl, though the words pressed against your skin like something tangible.

Across the table, a cousin lifted his hand slightly, fingers curling with casual ease. A small stone rose from the floor beside him, hovering effortlessly before settling back into place. The movement was subtle. Controlled. Not a display—just a reminder.

This is what is expected. This is what is normal.

“Potential must be cultivated,” an elder added, voice slow, deliberate. “If it exists.”

The words were not directed at you. But they settled over you all the same. You had seen what became of those who did not meet expectations. You had always seen it.

There were whispers, never spoken in full, but carried easily through corridors and half-closed doors. A cousin sent away in marriage, her silence exchanged for political gain. A distant relative relocated to the lower rings under the guise of “opportunity,” though everyone understood what it truly meant. Some simply faded from conversation altogether—spoken of less and less until they became absences no one acknowledged.

They were not disowned. Not publicly, too messy. But they were removed from the center. It was a system that required no cruelty to function. Only inevitability.

And you—without ever intending to—became part of that inevitability.

When the years passed and the earth never answered you, the truth settled slowly at first, then all at once. No tremor answered beneath the soles of your feet, not even a single shift of dust answered to your firmed beckons. No matter how many times you pressed your palms against the ground, no matter how carefully you mirrored the stances of those around you, the earth remained unmoved.

Silent. Indifferent.

You were not chosen by it. And in your household, that silence spoke louder than failure. The decision about your future came not as a declaration, but as a conversation you were never meant to hear.

“…the match has already been proposed,” your father’s voice carried from behind a partially closed door, steady and composed.

“A decade older,” another relative noted. “But established. Influential. It is a suitable arrangement.”

“She will be provided for,” your mother added, quieter now. “It is… practical.”

Practical.

You stood just beyond the threshold, breath caught somewhere between your lungs and your throat. Not once did they speak your name. They spoke of you as something to be placed.

Something to be used.

The next morning, the confrontation came—not explosive, but inevitable.

“You will attend the next gathering prepared,” your mother said, adjusting the sleeve of your robes with careful precision. “Your posture must improve. Your composure must reflect your station.”

“I don’t want this,” you said, the words slipping free before fear could restrain them.

Her hands stilled. “This is not about what you want.”

“I won’t marry him.” Silence fell, sharp and immediate.

Your father looked up slowly.

“You will do as is expected,” he said. Not raised. Not harsh. Simply final.

“And if I don’t?” The question lingered.

Then came the answer—not in words, but in the shift of the room itself. The subtle withdrawal. The quiet acknowledgment of something already decided.

“You will not embarrass this family further.”

Further. As if you already had.

Something inside you loosened then, not breaking, not shattering…just… releasing.

Because in that moment, you understood:

You had never belonged here.

So you left. Despite the notion that with the power your family possesses, they would always find you and pull you back to fulfill your duty, now as a brood mare. You did it not in defiance nor in anger. But in quiet certainty and conviction.

You fled the life that had already begun to reshape itself around your absence, slipping beyond the expectations that once defined you. Fear followed, yes—but alongside it came something lighter. Something that did not press against your shoulders the way your name once had.

Because somewhere deep within yourself, you already knew:

If the earth would not hold you, then you would stop trying to belong to it.

And in that space, where rejection might have hollowed you…

you found something unexpected.

Relief.

The wind had never demanded anything of you. It had never asked you to prove yourself, never required strength or lineage or worth. It moved freely, brushing past you in fleeting touches that asked for nothing in return.

And for the first time in your life you wondered what it might mean to live the same way.

This belief did not arrive all at once. It grew slowly, taking shape in quiet moments where no one was watching, no one was judging. You began to let go—not just of your family, but of the idea that you had failed something fundamental.

Perhaps you were never meant to stand still. Perhaps you were meant to move.

That thought carried you beyond the city walls, into forests untouched by structure and expectation… places where the air felt different, freer, as though it belonged only to itself.

And it was there, one quiet afternoon, with sunlight filtering through leaves and the world hushed into something almost sacred that your life shifted.

You found them in a meadow.

A small herd of Bisons rested among tall grasses that swayed gently with the passing breeze. Their presence was overwhelming in the softest way—massive yet serene, powerful yet unburdened. The air moved differently around them, fuller, warmer, as though it recognized them.

They should not have been able to fly but these are Sky Bisons and they did fly. Not with force nor with strain. But with ease. The wind did not resist them. It carried them.

You stepped closer without thinking, drawn by something you could not name. One of them turned its great head toward you, its gaze calm and unthreatened, as if your presence was neither intrusion nor surprise.

When it exhaled, the air that brushed against your skin was warm. Gentle. Kinder than anything you had known.

“You can fly,” you murmured softly, voice almost lost to the breeze. “Even though you’re so heavy.”

The bison huffed in response, a low, rumbling sound that vibrated gently through the air.

“I can’t even move a stone,” you admitted, the confession slipping free without resistance. “Not even a little.”

It shifted, lowering itself just slightly. An invitation.

You hesitated for a brief moment but a gust of wind blew over your nape and had you climbing the huge creature in unknown excitement. Its fur was softer than you expected. Warm beneath your hands, alive with quiet strength. When it rose, your breath caught—not from fear, but from something brighter. Something lighter.

Anticipation.

The ground fell away and you were raised off the ground. The rise was gentle but swift, the wind growing stronger as the feeling of your feet of the ground unshackled the weigh over your shoulders. Like it had simply… decided to let you go.

Wind rushed past you, threading through your hair, slipping across your skin in soft, continuous motion. It didn’t push. Didn’t demand and simply carried you and the beast through the skies. Letting the air seep through your hair, skin and soul.

You laughed. A sound unfamiliar and free.

“You’re not afraid,” you said softly, fingers curling slightly into its fur. “Of falling.”

The bison let out a low, steady breath, as if answering in a language beyond words.

“…Then maybe I don’t have to be either.”

Days turned into stolen afternoons.

Afternoons into something like belonging. You returned again and again, sitting cross-legged atop one of them, letting the breeze slide across your skin like a gentle, constant caress—softer than anything your own home had ever given you. Sometimes, they would take you higher, beyond the meadow, beyond the trees, into open sky where the horizon stretched endlessly and the world below seemed distant, unimportant.

And somewhere in those moments between breath and wind between stillness and movement something in you shifted. Not the earth. Never the earth.

But you.

The air stirred around you differently then. No longer just something you felt, but something that responded. Subtle at first—a hesitation in your fall, a step that lingered too long, a moment where gravity seemed to forget you.

And like you predicted, your parents had found and returned you back home but you’ve managed to reason your way through them, not to marry you off yet, just a simple simple postponement of your said engagement. And for a while, you were left free… despite the being outcasted. You found something far more worthy of your time.

The visits became a pattern before you ever named them as such. Never planned nor schedule, just those moments where your family believe you are in still trying to train to be an earth bender even though they all know you will never going to be one, a cruel way of making you crawl up in guilt for being ordinary.

Well, if you were actually miserable…

You learned the quiet hours of the forest, the moments when the light softened and the world exhaled, when no patrols wandered too far and no curious eyes lingered where they shouldn’t. You moved carefully, instinct guiding your steps, ensuring that the meadow remained untouched by anything that might harm it.

Or them.

The Sky Bison became something sacred in your life, something you protected as fiercely as you returned to. Their existence was not yours to reveal, not yours to risk. So you kept them hidden. Even from the world that had once demanded everything of you. Months passed.

And with them, something in you began to change not all at once, but in quiet, incremental shifts that only you could feel.

At first, it was small—so small you almost convinced yourself it was nothing more than coincidence. A jump that carried you just a little higher than it should have. A fall that ended just a little softer than expected. A strange, fleeting sensation in the air around you, as though something had shifted at the edges of your awareness and then disappeared before you could name it. It happened only in fragments, moments so brief they were easy to dismiss. But they lingered. And so, you didn’t dismiss them. You tested them. Again. And again.

You stood at the edge of the meadow, where the tall grasses bent gently beneath the breeze and the presence of the Sky Bison made the air feel fuller, somehow more alive. You bent your knees slightly, falling into a stance that had been drilled into your body long before you understood what it meant. The grounding. The preparation. The quiet insistence that power came from what lay beneath you. Even now, even after everything, those teachings remained etched into your muscles.

Old habits did not leave easily.

You steadied yourself against the earth, pressing your feet into the dirt as you had been taught firm, deliberate, searching for something that had never answered you. Then you pushed off.

For a brief moment, everything felt familiar. The lift of your body. The arc of motion. The predictable rise before the inevitable fall. It was a pattern you knew, one your body understood even without bending. You had repeated it countless times before.

But this time something shifted.

The drop did not come as quickly as it should have. There was a hesitation in the descent, a subtle interruption in the certainty of gravity. The air seemed to catch—not fully, not completely—but enough. Enough that your body lingered in that space between rising and falling, as though the world itself had paused to reconsider whether you should come down at all.

Then you landed. Softly. Too softly.

You blinked, the sensation unfamiliar, your balance adjusting instinctively as your feet touched the ground with far less force than expected. You looked down at them, as though the answer might be written there.

“…That wasn’t right,” you murmured under your breath.

And yet… it felt right.

That contradiction settled somewhere deep within you, not unsettling, but curious. Something about it made sense in a way you couldn’t yet explain. So you tried again.

This time, you didn’t simply repeat the motion. You paid attention. You leaned into it—not just physically, but mentally, allowing yourself to release the instinct to brace, to expect impact, to prepare for the ground to meet you with equal force. You let your body loosen where it had once tightened, your breath steadying as you stepped forward and pushed off once more.

You rose. Higher than before.

The lift stretched just a fraction longer, your body suspended in that same strange pause. And when gravity reached for you and this time, you didn’t resist nor fight it. You let the air that surround you lift and carry you as you beckon it in soul.

The air responded.

Not with force. Not like the earth, which demanded pressure and returned it with equal strength. This was different. Subtle. Adaptive. The air did not push you upward—it adjusted around you, shifting just enough to soften what should have been a fall.

You landed again. Lighter. Easier.

A soft laugh slipped from your lips before you could stop it, breathless and disbelieving, as though you had stumbled into something you were never meant to find.

Across the meadow, the bisons watched. They always watched.

Their presence was steady, patient, as though this was not new to them—as though they had seen this unfold countless times before and were simply waiting for you to catch up. Days passed.

What began as curiosity turned into practice, and practice into something more deliberate. You returned to the meadow with intention now, repeating the motions not out of habit, but out of quiet determination to understand what was happening.

You began to notice patterns. Not just in yourself, but in the air.

The way it moved differently depending on where you stood. The way currents shifted when you stepped, how certain motions seemed to align with something unseen but consistent. You started to feel it before it happened—the subtle changes in pressure, the invisible pathways that guided your movement if you allowed yourself to follow rather than force.

And with that awareness came memory.

Old lessons surfaced in your mind, words spoken in firm, unyielding tones from a life that no longer fit you.

“Balance your weight.”

“Commit to your stance.”

“Let the earth support you.”

You stood there, the echoes of those teachings settling into something new. Balance was no longer about pressing downward. It became about not clinging too tightly to anything at all. Commitment was no longer about holding your ground. It was about trusting the space between one movement and the next.

And support?...support no longer came from beneath your feet.

It came from everything around you. The realization was not sudden, but when it settled, it changed everything. The first time you didn’t come down immediately, you almost missed it.

You stepped forward after a jump, expecting the familiar return—the ground rising to meet you, the rhythm completing itself as it always had.

But your foot didn’t touch the earth. It met… something else but still semi solid enough.Something that wasn’t there. And yet it was.

You froze mid-motion, your body instinctively searching for balance in a place where none should exist. Your breath caught as you tested it, slowly, carefully shifting your weight forward.

The air held still neither solid to be visible. But it was present at the skin of your soles.

“…No way,” you whispered, the words barely escaping your lips.

You hesitated for only a moment before taking another step. Your foot pressed against nothing—

and stayed. A laugh broke from you then, bright and startled, your balance wavering as instinct fought against experience. But you corrected, the same way you always had—only now, there was no ground to return to, no solid foundation beneath you. Just movement. Just trust.

You stepped again. This time, more certain.

The motion came easier, your body beginning to understand what your mind had yet to fully grasp. It felt like walking across invisible pillars, each one forming beneath you only when you believed it would. They were not stable. Not permanent.

But they were enough. Enough to hold you. Enough to carry you forward.

Eventually, your concentration broke, your footing slipping as you dropped the short distance back onto the grass with a soft, uneven landing. Your heart raced, faster than it ever had during any failed attempt at earthbending, your breath uneven as you stared at your hands, then at the open space in front of you.

“I didn’t fall,” you said, the realization settling in your chest with quiet wonder.

The wind brushed past you in response, soft and fleeting, as if answering in its own way.

From then on, your practice changed. You no longer approached it with uncertainty, but with intention.

You began to string the movements together, slowly at first—testing each transition, learning how one motion could lead into the next without breaking the delicate balance you had discovered.

A jump. A pause then a step that should not exist… and then another.

It became a rhythm. Not quite walking but not quite flying. Something in between.

Skipping. In the air.

At first, it was uneven. Your movements hesitant, your balance uncertain as you navigated the unfamiliar space between ground and air. But with time, the pauses grew smoother, the transitions softer. You learned how to let your body follow the current rather than resist it, how to trust that the air would meet you where you needed it to.

You laughed more during those moments than you ever had within the walls of Ba Sing Se. Freer. Lighter.

The girl who had once been told to root herself into the earth now moved as though the world itself refused to weigh her down. And somewhere along the way, without realizing it you stopped thinking of it as something impossible.

Because for you, it wasn’t.

It was simply… the way you moved.

For a time, you truly believed you had succeeded in keeping your two worlds from ever touching.

The meadow remained as it always had—quiet, untouched, held in a kind of fragile stillness that felt almost sacred. The Sky Bison continued their gentle rhythms, drifting between rest and flight with the same unburdened grace that had first drawn you to them. They grazed when they wished, took to the skies when the wind called, and returned without urgency, as though the world beyond that clearing held no claim over them. They did not know they were hidden. They simply existed.

And you, somehow, existed between two lives without letting them collide.

By day, you were still who you had always been expected to be—a daughter of nobility within Ba Sing Se, composed, observant, careful in every movement. You spoke when spoken to, listened more than you revealed, and carried yourself with the quiet restraint that had been instilled in you since childhood. Nothing about you suggested deviation. Nothing about you hinted at what you had become beyond the city’s walls.

But in the afternoons—when opportunity allowed, when your absence could be explained or overlooked—you slipped away. And in those hours, you became something else entirely. Lighter. Freer. A version of yourself that was not measured by expectation or watched with quiet scrutiny. You learned in those stolen moments, guided not by instruction but by instinct, by the subtle language of wind and movement that no one had ever taught you.

It was not perfect nor the guarantee of complete safety. But it was yours.

And for a while, it felt like enough.

It might have continued that way—quiet, hidden, untouched by the world that had never understood it.

But peace, you would come to learn, was rarely something that lasted.

You did not hear of it from soldiers, nor from officials whose duty it would have been to report such a discovery. Instead, it came from something far more dangerous in its carelessness—the idle conversations of those who believed themselves untouched by consequence.

The marketplace was alive, as it always was. Vendors called out their wares in practiced tones, voices overlapping in a steady rhythm of trade and negotiation. Coins clinked, fabrics shifted, footsteps echoed across stone pathways worn smooth by years of passing crowds. It was a familiar noise, one that often faded into the background of your thoughts.

But that day, something broke through it.

“…heard they spotted something in the outer fields,” a man remarked, his tone carrying the casual curiosity of someone discussing nothing of importance.

“Some kind of beast,” another replied, shrugging as he inspected a piece of fruit. “Flying, they said. Big one too.”

Your steps slowed without conscious thought.

“They’re sending men out,” the first added, lowering his voice slightly, though not out of caution—only intrigue. “Could be dangerous. Probably worth a good sum if it’s rare.”

Your breath caught in your throat, your body going still in the middle of the moving crowd.

“…Flying?” someone else echoed, disbelief threading through the word. “Out here?”

“Doesn’t matter what it is,” the second man said with a dismissive shrug. “If it can be captured, it will be.”

Something inside you tightened.

The world around you seemed to narrow, the noise of the marketplace dulling into something distant, indistinct.

“No,” you whispered, the word slipping from your lips before you could stop it, barely audible even to yourself.

But it was already too late. You were already moving.

You didn’t think. Didn’t plan. Your body acted before your mind could catch up, urgency flooding through you with a clarity that left no room for hesitation. The streets blurred beneath your feet as you ran, weaving through the crowd with little regard for who you brushed past or what you might disrupt. The weight of your robes slowed you, your breath came faster than you could control—but none of it mattered.

All that mattered was distance. And the terrifying realization that it was already closing. By the time you reached the forest’s edge, your chest burned with the strain of it, your lungs aching as you pulled in sharp, uneven breaths.

But you didn’t stop. You couldn’t.

Branches caught against your arms as you pushed through, the familiar path suddenly too narrow, too slow, each turn an obstacle rather than a guide. You abandoned it without hesitation, cutting through the undergrowth where the land dipped and rose in ways you had come to understand.

And then without thinking… you leapt.

The motion came instinctively now, your body moving with a certainty it had not possessed before. You stepped into the air and it answered naturally.

The ground fell away in long, stretched strides, each movement carrying you farther than it should have, faster than you had ever run. You didn’t pause to consider it, didn’t question how unnatural it was. There was no time for doubt.

Only urgency. Only the need to reach them.

When the meadow came into view, you knew. They were already there.

Men surrounded the clearing, their presence loud and disruptive, breaking the natural stillness that had once defined the space. Their movements were sharp, purposeful, their voices cutting through the air with authority that did not belong there.

“Keep them cornered!”

“Don’t let them take off!”

“Careful—they’re stronger than they look!”

The bison shifted uneasily, their massive forms no longer at rest but tense, alert. Low rumbles vibrated through the ground, deep and warning, a sound that carried both fear and resistance. They were not creatures accustomed to being threatened—but they understood danger when it stood before them.

At the center, the one you knew best stood firm, its body angled protectively, placing itself between the others and the encroaching men.

“No…” the word left you in a breath, fragile and disbelieving.

One of the men stepped forward, rope in hand, his movements calculated.

“Don’t touch them!” you shouted, your voice breaking through the clearing before you even realized you had spoken.

Every head turned.

“What—who—?”

They barely had time to react before you moved. You stepped forward and the ground did not meet you. The air surged beneath your feet, lifting you just enough to carry you past the outer edge of the clearing. The motion was swift, unnatural, placing you between the men and the herd in a way that defied everything they understood.

For a brief moment, no one spoke.

The clearing seemed to hold its breath along with you, the tension stretching taut between stillness and eruption. The men stared—not just at you, but at the impossible way you stood before them. Not grounded. Not entirely lifted. Suspended in a way that defied the logic they had built their lives around. Confusion flickered first, then suspicion, and finally something sharper—recognition edged with unease.

“Stay back!” one of them barked, recovering before the others, his voice cutting through the silence as he raised his weapon toward you. His stance shifted, cautious now, no longer dismissive. “This doesn’t concern you!”

“It does,” you replied, your breath uneven from the run, your chest still rising and falling too quickly—but your voice steadied itself as it left you. There was something in it now that hadn’t been there before. Something rooted not in the ground beneath you, but in the space you occupied. “Leave them.”

A scoff followed, sharp and disbelieving.

“Move aside, girl,” another said, stepping forward with less hesitation than the first, though his eyes lingered on you longer than necessary. There was calculation there now. Curiosity. “These creatures are worth more than whatever you think you’re protecting.”

Your hands trembled at your sides. But it was not fear that caused it. It was something else.

Something rising—unfamiliar, unwelcome, but undeniably there.

The men stepped closer, their confidence returning in increments as they decided you were nothing more than an obstacle. Something to push past. Something to ignore.

And something inside you…something that had always been gentle, always been patient, always chosen to yield rather than resist shifted.

You did not think nor hesitate, and reached. Not outward, as you had before when you learned to move with the wind. But inward. The air responded once more…

But not in the way you had come to understand it. Because this one did not lift. It did not carry the threats before. It tightened.

The first man faltered mid-step, his body seizing as his breath caught abruptly in his throat. His eyes widened, confusion flashing into panic as his hand flew instinctively to his neck.

“What—” he choked, the word strangled, incomplete.

Another beside him staggered, gasping as if something invisible had wrapped around his lungs, constricting, pulling, refusing to let him draw in air no matter how desperately he tried.

Behind them, one of the others froze, his gaze snapping toward you with sudden, dawning horror.

“Wait—” he breathed, voice shaking. “That’s—”

His eyes traced your movements—your stance, your stillness, the way the air seemed to bend in subtle distortions around you.

“…that’s airbending.”

The word landed heavily, cutting through the chaos with a weight that silenced even panic for a fraction of a second.

“That’s impossible,” another snapped, though the uncertainty in his voice betrayed him. “They’re gone. All of them—”

“Then what is she doing?” the first man rasped, still struggling for breath, his voice tight and breaking.

You froze.

Because you felt it. Not around them. But inside them.

The air within their lungs bent under your will, twisting in a way that felt deeply, instinctively wrong. It was not the gentle guidance you had come to understand, not the soft, responsive presence that carried and supported.

This was something else entirely.

Something invasive. Something that did not ask but took hold of anyway.

“No—” your voice broke, panic rising sharp and immediate, your control slipping as awareness flooded in all at once. “No, that’s not—”

But you couldn’t let go. Not yet. Because they were still moving forward this time knowing full well that they need to mobilize you and take you to the fire nation. And who knows what they would do to you after the knowing you could air bend.

“Back away!” you cried, your voice trembling now, the force of it uneven as fear bled into it. “Leave them!”

Panic spread quickly through the group, no longer contained to confusion but erupting into full, desperate fear. Weapons slipped from their hands, clattering uselessly to the ground as they clawed at their throats, their movements uncoordinated, frantic. They stumbled backward, choking on air that would not come, their bodies betraying them in ways they could not fight.

And you felt it. The fragility of the organs contained the very air needed to breathe and the terrifying ease with which you could push further.

Tighten more. Take everything. End it.

The realization struck you like cold water, sharp and unforgiving. And you recoiled.

The pressure released all at once, the air snapping back into place as though it had never been disturbed. The men collapsed where they stood, gasping violently as breath rushed back into their lungs in uneven, desperate pulls. One by one, their movements slowed, their bodies giving way to unconsciousness as relief overtook them.

They lay still. Alive.

Your chest rose and fell sharply, your breath uneven, your hands trembling as you stared at them. Horror coiled in your chest, tightening with every second as the reality of what you had just done settled into you.

“…I didn’t…” your voice faltered, barely holding together. “I didn’t mean to—”

A low, familiar rumble answered you. You turned.

The Sky Bison had stilled completely. They were watching you. Not with fear nor rejection.

But with something deeper. Something that settled into you more heavily than any accusation could have. Recognition.

You swallowed hard, your steps slower now, unsteady as you approached them. The adrenaline that had carried you here began to fade, leaving behind something quieter. Something heavier.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, your fingers brushing gently against the one who had carried you, who had taught you without ever needing words. “I didn’t know I could do that.”

It approached you and exhaled softly, warm air washing over you, grounding you in a way the earth never had.

Gentle.

As it had always been.

“They won’t stop looking,” you said quietly, your forehead resting against its fur, your voice softer now, weighed down by understanding. “Not after this. Not after seeing… me.”

The herd shifted behind it, unease rippling through their massive forms. The wind carried their restlessness, subtle but unmistakable.

You stepped back slowly, forcing yourself to let go. “…You have to go.”

The words felt heavier than anything you had ever spoken. They hesitated. Not in confusion. But in something that felt almost like reluctance. The one with you gave a firm roar, as if telling them to make haste.

Then, slowly they moved.

One by one, their massive bodies lifted into the air, the wind gathering beneath them with that same effortless grace that had first shown you what freedom could be. The clearing seemed to exhale with them, the space shifting as they rose higher, farther, beyond reach.

The one before you lingered.

You smiled, though it trembled, your chest tight with something you could not fully name.

“Go,” you murmured softly. “I’ll be okay.”

It huffed once, low and steady, the sound resonating deep within you. Then it turned and followed the others into the sky.

You watched until they were gone. Until the horizon swallowed them completely. Only then did your strength give way.

You let yourself fall back into the grass, the tension leaving your body all at once, your limbs heavy, your thoughts louder now that everything else had gone quiet.

Alone.

From that day on, something in you changed. Not just your ability but your understanding of it.

The air was not only gentle. It was not only kind. It could be dangerous.

And you carried that knowledge with you when you returned to Ba Sing Se, quieter than before, more careful in everything you did. You trained in secret, not to grow stronger, but to grow controlled. To understand where the line lay between guidance and harm—and to ensure you would never cross it again without meaning to.

You became composed.

Measured in ways you had never needed to be before. And in doing so, you found a way to remain.

You redirected expectations, proving your worth in other areas—finance, trade, negotiation—anything that allowed your family to see value where bending had once failed. They began to speak of you differently now.

Promising. Capable.Useful.

All while, you’ve quietly planned your escape out of the family at age 18.

To which you succeeded and ended working in a tea shop owned by a tea-loving old gentleman who goes by the name Iroh.

Zuko would later insist—firmly, repeatedly, and to anyone who dared bring it up—that he had not been lured into visiting his uncle’s tea shop.

“I was invited,” he would correct, arms crossed, tone clipped in that familiar way that tried very hard to sound authoritative and not at all defensive. “There’s a difference.”

Which was technically true.

What he chose not to acknowledge was the frequency of those invitations.

Or the way his uncle had begun to phrase them.

“You work too hard, Prince Zuko—ah, Firelord Zuko, forgive me. You should come by the shop. There is someone I would very much like you to meet.”

At first, Zuko had dismissed it. Then ignored it. Then, after the fifth or sixth time, narrowed his eyes with growing suspicion.

“…Uncle,” he had said one evening, voice low with warning, “are you trying to set me up with someone?”

Iroh, of course, had smiled.

Not denied it. Not confirmed it.

Just smiled.

Which, somehow, was worse.

—----------------------------------------------------------

So when Zuko finally did arrive at the tea shop, it was with the very clear intention of proving that whatever his uncle was planning would not work.

He stepped through the familiar entrance with measured composure, posture straight, expression carefully neutral despite the faint scent of jasmine and roasted leaves that always managed to soften the edges of his thoughts.

“I’m here,” he announced, because subtlety had never been his strength.

From somewhere deeper inside, Iroh’s voice floated out, warm and entirely unsurprised.

“Ah! There you are, my nephew! Please, take a moment in the garden. I will be with you shortly.”

Zuko frowned slightly.

“The garden?”

“Yes, yes,” Iroh called, far too cheerfully. “Fresh air is good for the spirit!”

That… was suspicious.

But before he could question it further, he found himself turning toward the back of the shop, stepping into the quiet calm of the small zen garden nestled just beyond the walls.

It was peaceful. Predictably so. Carefully arranged stones, raked sand, a small path winding between patches of greenery that felt deliberately placed yet effortless in appearance.

Zuko exhaled slowly, tension easing just a fraction.

“…At least this part is normal,” he muttered.

And then… something moved above him.

A shift in the air. Subtle. But unmistakable.

Zuko’s instincts snapped into place instantly, his head tilting upward, eyes sharp just in time to see you descend.

Not falling.

Not dropping.

Descending.

Your movement was fluid, weightless in a way that made no sense—light steps placed against nothing, each one guided by something unseen as you made your way down the garden path not from the ground… but from the air itself.

Zuko blinked. Once. Twice.

“…What,” he said flatly.

You didn’t seem to notice him at first.

Or if you did, you gave no sign of it.

“Iroh!” you called out instead, your voice bright, easy, entirely unconcerned with the laws of gravity you had just ignored. “I found the new tea leaves you were looking for—the vendor tried to overcharge me, but I told him if he didn’t lower the price, I’d start negotiating loudly—”

You landed softly at the end of your last step, completely unbothered, brushing your sleeves as if you had simply walked down a staircase.

“—and you know how well that usually goes for them.”

There was a pause.

Then, slowly… very slowly… you turned. And met Zuko’s stare.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. You tilted your head slightly, studying him with quiet curiosity.

“…Oh,” you said. “You must be the nephew.”

Zuko’s brain, for once, failed to produce a coherent response.

“I—” he started, then stopped. Cleared his throat. Tried again. “You were—just—”

He gestured vaguely upward.

“You were walking.”

“In the air?” you offered helpfully.

“…Yes,” he said, sharper than intended. “In the air.”

You considered him for a beat.

Then smiled—soft, amused, entirely at ease in a way that only made him more aware of how not at ease he was.

“That tends to be where most of my walking happens,” you said lightly.

Before he could respond—before he could even begin to process that statement—Iroh appeared, hands clasped behind his back, expression positively glowing.

“Ah! I see you’ve met.”

“Uncle,” Zuko said immediately, pointing—again, vaguely—at you, “she was just—”

“Yes, yes,” Iroh waved it off with alarming calm. “Quite graceful, isn’t she?”

Zuko stared at him.

“…She was walking on air.”

“Yes.”

“…That’s not normal.”

Iroh hummed thoughtfully. “Perhaps not for you.”

—----------------------------------------------------------

It did not take long—far less time than Zuko would later be comfortable admitting—for the conversation to shift.

Because somehow, impossibly, you made it easy.

At first, he told himself it was the tea.

That explanation made sense in the way things he preferred always did—clean, contained, something he could hold at arm’s length without having to acknowledge what it meant for him personally. It was the way the steam curled lazily between you both, softening the sharp edges of a world he had spent years bracing against. It was the quiet of the shop, the familiar creak of wood beneath movement, the distant murmur of patrons speaking in low tones that never demanded anything from him. It was his uncle’s presence somewhere nearby, steady as ever, a grounding force Zuko had once only known how to survive through, not relax into.

It had nothing to do with you, he insisted to himself.

Even as his shoulders began to lower without permission. Even as the tension in his jaw loosened by degrees he did not authorize. Even as his voice—usually measured, clipped, always controlled—started to lose its habitual edge, like something in him had forgotten to stay sharp.

“…and the council keeps arguing over trade routes like it’s a battlefield strategy,” he muttered at last, staring into his cup as though the swirling tea might eventually offer him clarity. “They circle the same points for hours. Nothing gets decided.”

The admission came out more exhausted than he intended.

You hummed softly in acknowledgment from across the table. Not interrupting. Not correcting. Just… present. Seated in a way that unsettled him in the most subtle of ways—not careless, never careless, but unburdened in a manner he was still learning how to recognize without misunderstanding it.

“Sounds exhausting,” you said simply.

“It is,” he replied too quickly, as if agreeing faster might somehow end the topic sooner. Then, after a pause that stretched just long enough for honesty to slip through the cracks, his voice lowered. “I didn’t realize ruling would involve this much talking.”

A small smile curved at your lips.

Not mocking. Never mocking.

Just warm. Observant. Like you were listening to more than just the words he chose to speak.

“You say that like you’d rather face an army.”

Zuko huffed a quiet, unexpected exhale that almost resembled something dangerously close to a laugh.

“At least with an army,” he said, eyes still on his tea, “you know where you stand.”

That made you pause—not in surprise, but in thought. Your gaze softened slightly, something reflective settling behind your expression, though you didn’t press him further. You never did.

That was what he didn’t understand at first.

People usually filled silence with something. Questions. Advice. Judgment disguised as concern. You did none of that and let silence exist without trying to control it. And somehow, that made it harder for him to stay guarded. Soon… it became a pattern before he noticed it forming.

Visits that began as obligations—checking on his uncle, ensuring the shop was functioning properly, fulfilling duties he could justify without admitting intent—began to stretch longer. Conversations that should have ended politely over empty cups refused to conclude at the expected time. There was no single moment where he decided to stay longer. No conscious choice.

Just… continuation.

As if leaving required more effort than remaining.

And with that ease came curiosity.

“Uncle said you found him in the forest,” Zuko said one afternoon, leaning forward slightly with narrowed eyes that tried—and failed—to carry suspicion convincingly. “Cornered by bandits.”

You blinked at him over the rim of your teacup.

“That’s one way to put it.”

“That’s the only way he put it,” Zuko replied dryly, though there was no real bite in it. “He also said you—” he hesitated, visibly searching for the correct phrasing as if the words themselves were an offense, “—‘took him sky walking.’”

That earned a pause from you. Not tense, just faintly amused.

Your lips pressed together briefly, like you were trying not to smile too obviously. “He makes it sound more mystical than it was.”

“He said you carried him,” Zuko pressed, narrowing his eyes slightly now. “Through the air.”

There was a longer pause this time. Not uncomfortable.

Just thoughtful, like you were choosing how much of the truth was worth giving away in a world that rarely understood it correctly the first time.

“…I didn’t carry him,” you said finally, setting your cup down with care. “I helped him move. The air did the rest.”

Zuko stared at you for a beat too long.

“…That doesn’t make it sound less ridiculous.”

“It wasn’t meant to,” you replied lightly.

And yet something in your tone shifted. Just slightly. Unguarded. Not performative.

Real.

And for the first time since he had met you, Zuko realized there was more to you than the version of you that simply existed in front of him. There were layers he had not yet been invited to see. Depths that were not offered freely—but also not hidden out of fear.

Simply… reserved.

That realization stayed with him longer than he expected. So he did what he always did when something refused to settle neatly in his mind. He asked questions but not all at once.Well not directly but clear enough for you to know what he asks of.

But in fragments that unfolded between shared meals and quiet afternoons, as though the truth could be approached carefully enough to remain intact.

And you—eventually—you answered.

It wasn’t a dramatic confession of how utterly miserable you were. Goodness no. But more like a memory being placed on a table between cups of tea.

Not in a single telling, not in one long confession, but in fragments woven between shared tea and quiet afternoons. You spoke of Ba Sing Se—not with bitterness, but with a kind of distant clarity. A nostalgia that felt like observation rather than pain. Expectations that shaped you before you had language for refusal. Silence that filled rooms where understanding should have been. A life that functioned correctly on the surface while quietly failing to recognize what you were becoming beneath it.

Zuko did not interrupt. Not even when you spoke of learning without instruction, of noticing the world more than it noticed you. He simply listened.

And something about that—something about the way you did not rush to fill his reactions—made the air between you feel different.

Then you spoke of the sky.Of Sky Bisons. Creatures like Appa that were thought to be long extinct. Of what these said beasts taught you, an earth kingdom child.

Of wind that did not resist but cooperated. Of movement that was not force, but trust.

He did not laugh at it in disbelief but that doesn’t mean he was not curious as to their existence at such a time. He did not question whether it was real. He simply watched you as you spoke, as though you were describing a place he had never been told existed—but somehow recognized anyway.

“…and that’s how it started,” you finished softly, fingers idly tracing the edge of your cup. “Not with control. Just… letting go.”

Silence followed. A long one.

Zuko leaned back slightly, exhaling through his nose as if trying to organize thoughts that refused to behave.

“…you’re telling me,” he began slowly, “that you taught yourself airbending.”

You tilted your head.

“I learned by paying attention.”

“That’s not how bending works.”

“It is for me.”

That earned another pause.

Then, begrudgingly— “…that’s actually impressive.

The corner of your mouth lifted.

“You don’t sound like you mean that.”

“I do,” he muttered immediately. Then quieter, after a beat, “I just don’t like admitting it.”

Your laugh—soft, genuine, unforced—landed somewhere unexpectedly close inside his chest.

And he did not understand why he didn’t want it to stop.

That was the beginning of the problem.

—----------------------------------------------------------

It was only a matter of time before he brought you to them.

“You’re coming with me,” Zuko said one morning, already halfway to the door as though saying it quickly might prevent resistance.

You didn’t even look up right away.

“That didn’t sound like a request.”

“It’s not,” he replied. Then, after a pause that irritated him more than it should have, he— added, quieter, “…it should be.”

That made you finally glance up.

“…should it?”

“…yes.”

You considered him for a moment longer than necessary before sighing, brushing your hands clean of tea leaves as though the decision had been far less dramatic than he felt it was.

“Alright, Firelord. Lead the way.”

“I told you not to call me that.”

“And yet,” you said, already moving past him with infuriating ease, “you keep responding to it.”

And upon arrival of where he had gathered his friends followed by sharing to them the reason. The reaction, when it came, was immediate.

“A WHAT?!”

Zuko exhaled slowly through his nose as Sokka leaned so far forward he nearly collided with the table.

“An airbender,” Zuko repeated.

“That’s impossible,” Katara said immediately—but her eyes betrayed her curiosity, sharpening rather than dismissing. “There haven’t been any airbenders left for—”

“I know,” Zuko cut in. “That’s why I brought her.”

Aang had been quiet until that moment. Too quiet. Then he stepped forward.

Slowly. Carefully.

As though approaching something fragile that might disappear if handled wrong.

His eyes widened—not in suspicion, but in something far more disarming.

Recognition.

“…You can really airbend?” he asked softly.

You met his gaze and then nodded once. “I can.”

There was a beat.

Then— “That’s AMAZING!!!”

The entire room shifted with him.

Aang practically lit up, circling you with barely contained excitement. “Do you have a glider? Wait—no, you wouldn’t—but how did you learn? What forms do you know? Can you spin mid-air? Can you—”

“Aang,” Katara interrupted gently.

“Sorry!” he said instantly, though he was still visibly vibrating with excitement. “I just—I thought I was the only one!”

Something in your expression softened at that.

Not pity. Understanding.

“I didn’t learn the way you did,” you said quietly. “I don’t know the traditions.”

“That’s okay!” Aang said immediately. “I can teach you!”

Zuko crossed his arms.

“That’s what I was going to suggest,” he said, voice slightly sharper than intended. “She should learn properly. From an Air Nomad.”

You glanced at him briefly, then back to Aang.

“…I’d like that,” you said.

And somehow… that should have been the end of it.

—----------------------------------------------------------

It wasn’t. Because after that you stayed.

Often. Too often.

And Zuko began to notice things he absolutely did not want to notice.

The way Aang laughed louder when you corrected him gently when you shared your learnings air bending. The way Katara leaned in when you explained movement like it was something worth understanding on multiple levels. The way Sokka kept trying to pretend he wasn’t impressed.

And worse, the way you looked when you talked about airbending with them. Like it belonged to you in a way that had nothing to do with Zuko at all.

“…and then she stepped between platforms like it was nothing,” Aang said brightly one afternoon.

“Skipping,” you corrected automatically, smiling slightly.

“Yeah! That!”

Zuko stared very intently at the edge of the table. Toph tilted her head. “You’re doing that thing again.”

“I’m not doing anything.”

“You’re brooding louder than usual.”

“I said I’m not—”

Across the table, you laughed softly at something Aang said. Zuko’s gaze flicked up before he could stop it. You looked… at ease. Unguarded in a way that matched how you were with him. Or at least that’s what he told himself.

“…she’s getting really good,” Aang added proudly.

“I said I was still learning,” you replied lightly.

“You are,” Aang insisted. “But you’re incredible at it!”

Zuko’s jaw tightened slightly.

“…right.”Toph smirked faintly.

“Oh,” she murmured. “This is gonna be fun.”

Zuko ignored her. But his eyes stayed on you anyway. Longer than necessary. And he still didn’t have a name for what that feeling was. Only that it was getting harder to ignore.

Today’s tea bonding ceremony, Zuko never felt so delighted on having to finally get you alone. To himself… but not in a creepy way… he hopes.

“And then the council decided to argue about trade routes for two hours,” Zuko finished, voice edged with restrained frustration that he clearly hadn’t intended to let slip. His fingers tightened briefly around the edge of his cup before he forced himself to relax. “Over something that should have taken ten minutes.”

You were listening in that quiet way you always did—no interruption, no judgment, just presence. It unsettled him sometimes, how easy it was to keep speaking when you looked at him like that, as if his words were worth the time they took to form.

“That sounds exhausting,” you said at last, resting your chin lightly against your hand.

“It was,” he muttered, exhaling through his nose as if that alone could release the weight of it.

There was a pause between you—comfortable, unforced. The kind he didn’t realize he had begun to look for until it existed.

Then your voice softened slightly, tilting the conversation in a direction he didn’t expect.

“You talk about it like you’re carrying all of it yourself.”

Zuko stilled.

It wasn’t an accusation. Not even really an observation. It was… simply said. Like you were noticing something that had always been there, and had only now decided to speak it aloud.

“…I am Firelord,” he replied after a moment, quieter than before, as if that title alone should explain everything.

You didn’t look away. That was the part that made it harder.

Your gaze held his steadily, something thoughtful settling behind your expression—not pity, not pressure. Just understanding that made his chest feel strangely tight.

“Doesn’t mean you have to carry it alone,” you said.

He didn’t respond immediately. He couldn’t.

Instead, his eyes dropped to his tea, watching the faint ripple of steam curl upward between you like something fragile occupying the space where words should have gone. The silence stretched—not uncomfortable, but heavy with everything neither of you said.

“…I don’t think I’m very good at not carrying things,” he admitted finally, voice lower now, stripped of its usual edge.

“Mm,” you hummed softly, almost sympathetically. “That makes two of us.”

He glanced up at that.

“You don’t seem like it.”

That earned a small smile from you—subtle, but real. Not performative, not offered for comfort. Just… honest.

“That’s because I learned a different way of setting things down.”

Zuko frowned slightly, curiosity cutting through his exhaustion despite himself. “And what way is that?”

For the first time since the conversation began, you straightened a little, as if the answer itself carried weight you had grown used to lifting.

“Come with me,” you said simply.

He blinked. “What?”

“I take walks,” you explained, tone light again, though there was something deliberate in it now. “When my thoughts get too loud, remember.”

Zuko glanced toward the door, then back at you, as if trying to locate where this conversation had just gone. “…We’re already sitting.”

You shook your head, amused in a way that softened your eyes.

“Not those kinds of walks.”

A beat passed. And with that lively glint in your pretty eyes… (they are really pretty thats why he is looking)… For a moment, there was nothing but silence. Even the tea seemed to settle. He knew what kind of walking you were inviting him in.

“…Absolutely not,” he said at once, far too quickly.

But it lacked conviction. Which was unfortunate for him, because you noticed.

Of course you did.

Your smile widened just slightly—not teasing, not cruel. Just knowing in a way that made his ears warm in a way he refused to acknowledge.

Before he could recover, the door slid open behind him.

“Oh, I’ll leave you two to your tea,” Iroh said pleasantly, as if he hadn’t just appeared at the exact wrong—or right—moment. His eyes lingered briefly on Zuko with quiet amusement before softening as they shifted to you. “Do enjoy the garden. The weather is quite favorable for… light travel.”

“Uncle—” Zuko started.

But Iroh was already gone. Deliberately. Unmistakably. He was suppose to help Zuko. Well in a way he was helping… Zuko froze, then slowly turned his head toward the empty doorway.

“…he did that on purpose,” he muttered.

You tilted your head slightly. “Did what?”

“Nothing,” he said immediately, too fast again.

But you were still looking at him. Still waiting patiently for an answer for him other than no because you have pretty much read him well for a while now to know that he wasn’t declining the thought.

And that was the problem.

Because it was becoming increasingly difficult to use “visiting my uncle’s tea shop” as an excuse when his uncle had clearly decided to remove himself entirely from the equation.

Zuko exhaled slowly through his nose, pinching the bridge of it for a brief moment before letting his hand fall.

“…He’s going to be unbearable about this later,” he said under his breath.

“About tea?” you asked innocently.

He looked at you and you looked back. There was a beat. Then your expression softened again, just slightly. Eyes still softly glinting the invitation. Just offering.

“You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to,” you said quietly.

That, more than anything, was what made something in him loosen.

Because you never forced space open. You just… made it safe enough that he stopped resisting it. He let his hand fall from his face.

That earned a faint laugh from you, soft and warm enough that it eased something in his chest without asking permission.

Zuko found himself watching you again before he could stop it.

The way your fingers rested against your cup. The way your posture shifted slightly toward him, as if the space between you wasn’t something to maintain distance in, but something to share.

It was… disarming.

“You really think I should… walk?” he asked after a moment, the words reluctant but genuine.

Your eyes brightened just a fraction.

“I think you should try it.”

He narrowed his eyes slightly. “And by ‘walk,’ you mean—”

“Not walking,” you corrected, far too calmly.

A beat.

“…You’re being ridiculous,” he said.

Your smile widened. “I’ve been told worse.”

That should have ended it but it didn't.

Because when you stood and stepped toward the open garden path, glancing back at him over your shoulder with that same quiet certainty you always seemed to carry. And Zuko followed.

Standing at the edge of the garden path, Zuko crossed his arms, watching you with narrowed eyes as you stepped lightly onto nothing.

There was a long pause where the world seemed entirely unimpressed by the fact that gravity was being politely ignored.

“You’re sure this is safe,” he said at last, more statement than question, his voice carrying that careful skepticism he reserved for things that sounded like poor decisions dressed up as confidence.

You glanced back over your shoulder at him, your expression soft—but unmistakably amused.

“I’ve never dropped anyone yet.”

“That’s not reassuring.”

“It’s honest.”

That earned a quiet exhale from him, the kind that suggested he was already regretting every life choice that led him here. He dragged a hand down his face.

“This is a terrible idea.”

“Probably,” you agreed easily, as if that settled it rather than discouraged it. Then you extended your hand toward him. “But it might also help.”

Zuko looked at your hand.

Then at you.

There was no insistence in your posture. No challenge. No expectation that he prove anything.

Just… an offer. And somehow that made it worse. Because it wasn’t pressure that made him hesitate. It was the absence of it.

“…If I fall,” he said slowly, “I’m holding you responsible.”

You smiled faintly. “That seems fair.”

He exhaled again, longer this time, as though trying to breathe his way out of the decision.

Then, quietly—almost like he was annoyed at himself for agreeing—he took your hand.

Your fingers closed around his immediately, warm and steady.

Unshaken by the fact that he was Firelord, or that he was currently questioning every instinct he had ever trusted.

“Don’t fight it,” you said gently, your voice softening as your thumb shifted slightly over his knuckles in a grounding motion he did not expect to notice. “You don’t need to control anything.”

“That’s not how I work,” he muttered automatically.

“I know,” you replied, and there was something in your tone that made the words feel less like correction and more like understanding. “That’s why this might.”

He didn’t respond.

Because there wasn’t anything sharp enough to say that would fit between your calm and his uncertainty.

So instead, he let you lead. You stepped forward. And the ground simply… didn’t meet him.

Zuko’s grip tightened instantly.

“…This is wrong,” he said under his breath, tension snapping back into his shoulders as instinct took over.

“Or new,” you countered softly.

Another step. The air held.

Not like earth. Not like something solid or reliable or earned. But like trust given shape for only as long as it was believed in.

Zuko’s breath caught slightly as his body adjusted mid-motion, his balance recalibrating in a way that felt unnatural but not unsafe. His instincts screamed at him to correct, to brace, to find something stable.

There was nothing to brace against.

“…I’m going to fall,” he said, quieter now, less certain than before.

“You’re not,” you said immediately.

“How do you know?”

You glanced at him then, your expression gentler than before—focused entirely on him in a way that made the space feel smaller, closer, like the world had narrowed down to just this strange, impossible walk between air and sky.

“Because I won’t let you.”

Something in his chest tightened. Not fear. Something heavier.

Something that made it harder to think in terms of control and consequence.

He didn’t respond. Just stepped again. And again.

Each movement less sharp than the last. Each breath less held. Each moment of suspended disbelief slowly giving way to something quieter.

He was still holding your hand but not like he was bracing anymore. Like he had forgotten to let go.

“…It’s quiet up here,” he said after a while, voice softer than before, as though speaking too loudly might disturb whatever fragile balance held him aloft.

You nodded once, as if this was the most obvious thing in the world.

“That’s why I come here.” Zuko looked at you then. Really looked.

At the ease in the way you move, not careless, not effortless in the way of someone untouched by weight, but someone who had learned how to carry it differently. At the way the air responded to you not like a tool, but like a conversation you had finally learned how to speak fluently. At the steadiness in your presence that didn’t demand anything from him, didn’t ask him to be anything other than what he was in that moment.

And that… unsettled him more than the floating ever could.

“…I think I understand why my uncle wanted me to meet you,” he admitted at last, quieter now, like the thought had been sitting in him longer than he liked.

Your lips curved slightly. “Oh?”

Zuko hesitated, then let out a faint, almost reluctant huff through his nose.

“…You’re… not what I expected.”

A soft laugh slipped from you at that—not loud, not sharp, just warm enough to make something in his shoulders loosen without permission.

“I get that a lot.”

The wind shifted around you both, gentle and unhurried, as though it had nowhere else to be. Zuko didn’t look away.

Didn’t seem to realize he hadn’t.

And when his grip on your hand loosened slightly—not because he needed it anymore, but because he simply forgot to keep holding on so tightly—you didn’t pull away.

Neither did he and held on as he walked with you. Through impossible air. Through quiet that felt too open to be accidental.

And for once, Zuko didn’t feel like he was bracing for the fall.

Only learning—slowly, reluctantly—that maybe he wasn’t supposed to be.

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