Or, it would be, if not for Katara’s uncanny ability to sense that there is a plan to begin with.
He almost makes it to the door this time. He’s got his keys squished uncomfortably in his back pocket to prevent any jingling, his phone is on silent, he doesn’t even put on his shoes - and yet. And yet.
He’s reaching for the doorknob when the porch light flicks on outside.
In a voice like frostbite, Katara asks, “Going somewhere?”
Sokka’s shoulders cave in. He turns slowly on his heel, like if he puts it off long enough she won’t be standing there with that look of absolute derision on her face. He doesn’t even need to see it anymore, it’s etched into his mind as deeply as his own name.
But he turns, because he always does, and she’s there in the dining room doorway, because she always is.
She lifts a cold eyebrow at him.
“Zuko’s,” he says. It comes out like an apology.
“And what does Zuko want at this time of night?”
“Um,” Sokka says, because she already knows the answer. “Company. Let’s go with that.”
Here’s the thing: Katara never stops him. She would never do that to him. What she would do, though, is make sure he knows that she knows exactly where he is, what he’s doing, and with whom. And she’s always up again when he gets back, so he doesn’t even get to enjoy the afterglow for any longer than the car drive home.
It’s not that Katara doesn’t like Zuko, or that she doesn’t approve of their relationship or their night time dalliances. If anything, the opposite is true. She’s friends with Zuko, and she knows Sokka loves him, and she thinks it’s cute that Sokka’s boyfriend still bootycalls him four years into the relationship - she’s just an asshole about it.
“Okay,” she says, in that same airy voice she always uses, “have fun. Tell Azula I said hi.”
“Azula doesn’t like you.”
“I know, that’s why I say hi.”