"We can't do this," Katara protests.
It's weak, barely a believable complaint. She knows it. Zuko capitalizes on it.
He locks the bedroom door behind him, moving deliberately and assuredly. It's enough to make Katara's skin heat, watching his slender fingers slide the bolt into place, seeing his hips tilt with his steps as he encroaches on her little, personal space.
"Yes, we can." His voice is like honey on her neck; his lips, velvet. "We are."
She fists his green lapel, bent on him pushing back, but Zuko's memorized her weaknesses. Like the formidable opponent he is, he hunts them out, waging his battle against her best judgment with his tongue on her pulse and his teeth on her jaw. Katara's fingers go slack; they skim up his uniform, feeling his chest, his shoulders, diving into his cropped hair.
Katara hums at the feel of soft, raven strands, whispering, "Just once more."
"That's what you said last time." Zuko kisses her, smiles against her lips. "That's what you'll say next time."
He's right. She doesn't let him see, but Katara isn't so proud that she can't admit the truth to herself. A dozen times she's come to this little room above the tea shop, and a dozen more she'll return.
It'll always start the same— trembling fingers untying her tunic's sash and worrying her bindings free, hot breaths tickling over her breasts. He'll nuzzle her sternum, make her whimper his name when his mouth grazes down to her hips. She'll tug his hair, direct his kisses from her navel to her thighs, to the slick, inviting heat between them.
Is this Zuko's penance? His way of making up to her all his cruelties? Katara often wonders, as he brings her to the edge of bliss then sends her tumbling over, as he helps her quaking body down to the bed mat, his hands, a cradle for her head.
The start is always the same, and the end is never any different. Zuko leaves kisses on her skin and marks on her soul. He sears her memories with the short, harsh syllables of his name, the many ways the sounds can taste on her tongue. As her revenge, Katara forces him to study her, to search within the embrace of her limbs for a place he starts to call home, to find within her eyes an affection, an acceptance he's never known.
No, she thinks, as Zuko's weight settles over her and his body becomes one with hers. This is her penance. This is her demonstration: not all in this world will hurt you.
As if he can hear her thoughts— maybe he can feel it in the tumultuous pounding of her heart— Zuko lets go of any reservations.
His eyes soften to melted, swirling gold. His forehead rests upon hers. His fingers dance across her skin, tracing every groove of muscle, every swell of a curve. He cups her cheek, brushes his thumb across her lips, replaces his touch with his tongue and pours his entire being into a kiss.
Katara holds onto him, not only physically, not only with her legs around his waist and her hands linked behind his neck. She holds his heart, swears deep down in her own that she'll cherish him, that he deserves that. He's not her enemy anymore. He hasn't been, not for months. He's become something else, something she's afraid to name.
Zuko's not. Zuko's fearless.
He grows erratic in his movements, grows desperate and tense. Katara encourages him, moaning praise and mewling his name. When she comes, hard and quick and oh-so-beautifully, he does, too.
Then, he stills. He lays his cheek on her chest, and she learns that the fears she harbors, Zuko's already laid them to rest.
"I think I love you," he murmurs. "Katara. I love you."
Katara's lungs threaten to collapse in her chest. It's all she wants. It's all she needs. Those words, three, sweet, little words, warm her like the fire he wields. By some miracle, she finds her breath.
"Come with me," she says, trying out fearlessness for herself. They can worry about all the rest— about his crown, her doubts, their destinies— later. For now, it doesn't matter. "Be with me."
Zuko lifts off of her and sits back, looking small in his already small room, but somehow so hopeful. Katara sees a history of pain in his eyes, a legacy of want. Whatever he's wanted has always been so out of reach. Until now.
A smile more beautiful than anything she's ever seen spreads across Zuko's face, like a pink and yellow sunrise on a clear, cloudless day.
He nods his head and answers simply—
"Okay."