hi

“…You should rest,” he said, voice steady, almost too steady, the kind he used in court, in front of others, when every word was measured and deliberate.

But there was no one here to perform for.

You were sitting at the edge of the bed, hands folded in your lap, watching him with a quiet patience that only seemed to make it worse. The mattress dipped slightly beneath you, silk whispering with the smallest shift of your weight. It drew his attention again-brief, betraying-and this time his gaze lingered a fraction too long.

Then his face flushed.

It was subtle at first. A faint warmth at the tips of his ears. A soft color rising along his cheekbones.

He turned away again.

“…It’s late,” he added, as if that solved anything.

You almost smiled.

Because this was the same man who faced down entire courts without hesitation. The same man whose presence alone could silence a room. Whose voice carried authority without ever needing to rise.

And yet now…

Now Zuko looked like he didn’t know what to do with his own hands.

They flexed at his sides, then stilled, then shifted again like he was trying to decide where they belonged. His posture remained straight out of habit, but there was tension in it now, something uncertain threading through all that practiced composure.

You tilted your head slightly. “You’re not coming to bed?”

The question was simple.

It ruined him.

His shoulders stiffened, just for a second, before he forced them to relax. Slowly, he turned back toward you-this time committing to it, even if it clearly cost him something.

Golden eyes met yours.

Held.

And immediately betrayed him.

The flush deepened, spreading down his neck, disappearing beneath the collar of his robes. His jaw tightened, like he was annoyed with himself for it, but he didn’t look away this time. That might’ve been the only thing he had left to cling to-his stubbornness.

“I…” He stopped. Tried again. “I will.”

A pause.

“I simply-”

He exhaled, slow and controlled, like steadying himself before stepping into battle.

Ridiculous.

There was no battlefield here. Just you. Just a quiet room and too many candles and the weight of something new settling between you both.

Still, he moved.

Each step toward the bed was measured, deliberate, as though he could maintain control that way. As though he could pretend his pulse wasn’t betraying him, wasn’t loud enough to drown out the silence.

When he reached you, he hesitated again.

Closer now, you could see it more clearly-the way his golden eyes softened despite himself, the way his breath caught almost imperceptibly when you looked up at him. The scar over his eye didn’t make him look harsher like it did in the daylight. In this light, it only made him look… real.

Human.

And very, very flustered.

“You’re staring,” he said quietly.

You didn’t deny it.

That only made it worse.

Color bloomed deeper across his face, and for a moment, he looked like he might retreat again- step back, put distance between you and whatever this was.

But he didn’t.

Instead, slowly, almost cautiously, he sat beside you.

The mattress dipped under his weight, bringing him closer, the space between you shrinking to something fragile and noticeable. His arm brushed yours- just barely- and he froze like the contact had sent a shock through him.

It might as well have.

His hand hovered for a second, uncertain, before settling on the bed between you. Fingers curled slightly into the silk, gripping it like an anchor.

“I have faced worse situations than this,” he muttered, more to himself than to you.

And yet he still couldn’t quite bring himself to look at you again without that soft, helpless flush returning. Calm. Honorable.

Except here.

You take his hand, guiding him to sit between your legs on the down-filled bed. gathering his hair between your fingers, the silky strands slip with ease. you lift a strand, smelling it- jasmine, burnt cedar. 

Zuko goes still the moment your fingers lace with his. Not tense-no, not pulling away-but aware.

Deeply, acutely aware.

And yet he lets you guide him.

There’s no resistance as you gently pull him back, settling him between your legs on the plush, down-filled bed. The softness gives beneath his weight, but he feels anything but grounded. If anything, it only makes him more unsteady, more conscious of every point of contact-your knees at his sides, your hands in his hair, your breath just behind him.

His breath catches.

Your fingers gather his hair like silk, and it is; smooth, well-kept, slipping easily through your touch. He doesn’t tie it back tonight, didn’t even think to. Now he’s painfully aware of that too, of how exposed it makes him feel, how close it lets you get.

When you lift a strand and bring it to your nose, he nearly forgets how to breathe altogether.

Jasmine. Burnt cedar. Him.

“Zuko, my love, why are you so shy all of a sudden?” A teasing lilt graced your lips along with a smile he did not miss. You were messing with him. 

He exhales quietly through his nose, like he’s trying to steady something unraveling in his chest-but it doesn’t quite work. Not when your voice is laced with that soft teasing, not when your lips brush his jaw-

Once.

Twice.

A third time, slower.

His hands tighten slightly where they rest on his thighs, fingers curling into the fabric there. His shoulders draw up just a fraction before he forces them to relax again, but the effect lingers-subtle, but unmistakable.

“You-” he starts, then stops.

His voice isn’t as steady as before.

He swallows, tilting his head just slightly-just enough to give you more space, though he doesn’t seem to realize he’s doing it.

“You’re… making it difficult,” he murmurs, quieter now, the words slipping out like a reluctant confession.

Another kiss.

Softer this time.

His composure cracks a little more.

A faint, helpless flush spreads across his cheeks again, deeper than before, and this time it doesn’t fade when he tries to will it away. His golden eyes flicker downward, like he’s searching for something-control, maybe, or the right words-but they don’t stay there long.

They close instead.

Just for a second.

Because it’s easier than trying to hold himself together while you do this to him.

“I'm not shy,” he adds, though there’s no real conviction behind it now. Not when his voice dips like that, not when his breath hitches almost imperceptibly as your lips linger near his jaw.

Not when he leans-just slightly-back into you.

As if drawn there without thinking.

“…I am simply unused to this.”

That, at least, is honest.

Painfully so. You laugh softly. "Still? This is routine now, is it not?"

His hand lifts then, hesitant, uncertain, before settling lightly over yours where it still threads through his hair. He doesn’t stop you- doesn’t even try. He’s quiet for a moment after that-your hand still in his hair, his resting over yours-like he’s weighing something small, something almost… embarrassing.

Then, softer than before-

“Will you do my hair?”

There’s a pause, just long enough to feel fragile.

“Just to sleep in?”

It’s such a simple request. Almost boyish, in a way that doesn’t match the man everyone else sees. No command, no expectation-just a quiet ask, like he’s not entirely sure you’ll say yes.

“Of course.”

The answer comes easily, warmly, and something in him loosens.

Not all at once-but enough.

His shoulders drop a fraction, the tension easing as he exhales slowly. Carefully, he shifts, turning just enough to give you better access, settling more comfortably between your legs. This time, when his back brushes against you, he doesn’t go still.

He leans into it.

Just slightly.

Your fingers move through his hair again, more deliberate now, smoothing through the long, dark strands. They fall easily into place beneath your touch, soft and warm from his skin. He lets his head tilt forward when you guide it, compliant in a way he never is with anyone else.

The room feels quieter now.

Closer.

His eyes drift shut as you begin, your fingers parting sections, weaving them together with gentle care. Each movement is slow, unhurried-something meant to soothe rather than impress.

And it works.

His breathing steadies, evening out as he sinks into the feeling. The faintest furrow in his brow disappears, replaced with something softer, something almost… peaceful.

“…You’ve done this before,” he murmurs, voice low, touched with quiet curiosity.

Not suspicion. Not doubt.

Just… noticing.

Your fingers glide through another section, smoothing it down, and he exhales again-this time heavier, like it’s pulling something deeper out of him.

There’s a long pause.

Then, quieter still-

“My mother used to do my hair.” Zuko says, breaking the silence. He rarely spoke of his mother these days. 

The words are simple, but they settle heavily in the air between you.

He doesn’t open his eyes.

Doesn’t move away.

If anything, he leans back just a little more into your touch, trusting, unguarded in a way that feels rare-like something you’re being allowed to see.

Your hands continue their gentle work, braiding his hair loosely, something comfortable enough to sleep in. A few strands slip free near his face, framing it softly, but he doesn’t seem to mind.

Not tonight.

His hand, still resting over yours from before, shifts slightly-fingers brushing against your wrist, then settling there.

Not stopping you.

Just… staying.

“…It feels the same…yours I mean.” he admits, barely above a whisper.

Your hands still for just a moment in his hair.

Not stopping-never stopping-but slowing, softening, like the words deserve something gentler in return.

“...she used to brush my hair when I was a child,” he says quietly.

There’s no bitterness in his voice. Not quite. Just something distant. Remembered.

“Father thought it wasn’t a thing boys should do.”

Your fingers resume their slow rhythm, smoothing, parting, weaving. Careful. Intentional. Like you’re holding something fragile without ever letting him feel it might break.

“Your hands feel like hers.”

That makes your chest ache.

He doesn’t move when he says it. Doesn’t look at you. If anything, he sinks further back against you, his weight settling more fully, trusting you to hold it.

The candles flicker.

The room breathes around you.

And he-this man who carries himself like steel and fire in every other room-sits quiet and open in your hands.

You lean forward slightly, your lips brushing the crown of his head this time. Softer than before. Slower.

“Then I’ll do it as often as you want,” you murmur.

No teasing now.

Just warmth.

Your fingers continue the braid, loose and comfortable, something meant for rest rather than formality. A few strands slip free, grazing his cheek, and you smooth them back without thinking.

He exhales.

It’s different this time-deeper, like something long held finally eased.

“…He was wrong,” he says after a moment.

There’s a quiet steadiness to it now. Not defiance. Not anger.

Just certainty.

His hand shifts again, still resting over yours, but this time his fingers curl slightly-just enough to hold. Not to stop you.

Just to feel you there.

“I don’t care what he thought.”

Another pause.

Then, softer, “I would rather have this.”