Chapter 2: A Latte Bit of Trouble
AN:Happy Saturday, and welcome back to Chapter 2.
I'm incredibly grateful for all the love and support this story has received—you all continue to astound me, truly. I've decided to keep using these author's notes to share parts of my own grief journey, since that's the heart of what this story is about.
As I write this, we're just five days away.
From it happening.
The anniversary of her death.
And it feels… strange. Unreal. It's hard to grasp that it's been nearly a year—especially when this has easily been the longest one of my life. The idea that the earth has made a full rotation around the sun without her in it feels wrong in ways I can't quite explain. But I'm still here. Still pushing through.
Thankfully, I've had a lot of support from people reaching out, helping me prepare for what's ahead, trying to keep me busy. That means more than I can say.
I hope you're doing okay too. And if you ever need an ear to vent to—if you ever want to share your story—I'll always be here to listen.
Thank you so much for reading. I hope you enjoy this chapter.
Chapter 1 Review Responses:
Madslynx: I'm so happy that you love this chapter, especially the mural. It's going to be a lot of fun creating all these different murals in my head and sharing that creation with you as well. Especially since my words can do it way more justice than any of my drawings could! I'm very grateful that this story can provide that peace, too. Thank you so much for your support in both my personal life and this story. It means the world to me. I hope you enjoy this chapter!
Latte28: I'm so glad that the emotions were able to impact you as well, my friend! There's always a little bit of power in grief, and we can do so much with it in our lives. I hope you are having an amazing weekend, and I wish you all the best as well. Thanks for your support and I hope you enjoy this chapter as much as the first one!
Ashley Barbosa: Thank you for your words and your sentiment, I can't begin to tell you how much this means to me. Haha, I'm so happy that you love the Tom and Jerry aspect to this, the cat and mouse chase between the two will hopefully be a lot of fun to write! And yes, Saturday's now can become part of your weekly routine too :) Aang and Gyatso will never fail to make me tear up. To have someone you look up to so much suddenly taken from you? It hurts. I'm so glad that you enjoyed this chapter. Thank you for your support, and I hope you enjoy this one just as much!
yourfavreader: Thank you so much for your kind words! I'm glad that you're able to see how much passion I've put into this story in particular, that means the world to me! And I'm so happy that you came up with that as your favorite line as that was my favorite as well :) Thanks for your support and I hope you enjoy this chapter!
KatAangForevermorjojo02: Wow, that's a lot of praise! It means a ton to me, truly. This one will be posted weekly on Saturdays! Hope you enjoy this chapter as much as the first! Thank you for the support!
Angelic Gemstone: I'm so glad that you've already become so immersed in all the emotions that this one brings, especially the poetic imagery that is layered throughout with the grief. Your comment on ao3 moved me so much my friend, and I've particularly enjoyed our conversations lately. Thank you for all your support. You're incredible! And by the way, I saw this comment on ao3, but Sokka's drawings are about as on par as my own drawings, that's how terrible I am :) Hope you enjoy this chapter!
michaela.s14: Oh my friend, you've just made me cry! Your positivity and energy that you put into all of your reviews never fails to put a smile on my face. And the sentiments that you've shared with me mean so much to me coming from you. I'm hoping that you are doing okay during this time in your life! I'm so glad that you can see the emotions from me pouring out into this story, because that definitely was a goal of mine! The different sides of Aang are also so much fun to explore. While he's serious and brings out the best in people regarding their comfort and their confidence to share hard things, he also can have fun too. Besides, burning Zuko is always a fun way to spend a work shift, isn't it? I love that you love that combination as much as I do my friend! Thank you SO MUCH for your support! And I hope you have the most amazing day and enjoy this chapter!
The morning air in Republic City was sharp with the kind of brisk energy Katara had always loved. It smelled like dew and concrete and a dozen different food carts getting ready for the breakfast rush. She tightened the black leather strap on her satchel, boots clicking confidently against the sidewalk as she and her brother made their way down the street, Toph trailing behind them like a shadow in sunglasses.
"I'm telling you," Katara said, brushing a loose curl behind her ear, "this is the beginning of everything. If I can catch Moku, I'll finally be able to prove I'm not just riding off Dad's reputation. I'll have earned something."
Sokka snorted, balancing a travel mug in one hand and tapping something on his phone with the other. "You already earned something. Your completely unhinged obsession with this guy."
"It's not unhinged," Katara snapped, swatting his arm. "It's focused."
"It's terrifying," Toph added from behind, shoving a donut in her mouth. "You talk about Moku more than Zuko talks about his tea blends. I'm starting to wonder if you're gonna marry him or arrest him."
Katara made a face. "Arrest. Definitely arrest."
"Hey, love and hate are basically the same emotion," Sokka said, smirking. "Thin line. Dangerous territory. Lots of unresolved tension."
Katara glared at him. "Do you want to walk into that meeting with a black eye?"
"I mean... it would give me character."
"Your face has enough character."
Toph barked out a laugh. "Okay, okay, let's not kill each other before we even get to City Hall. We're the face of the new task force, remember? Try to look competent."
As they rounded the corner, still mid-bicker, the scene before them made all three stop dead in their tracks.
A wall of people had formed outside City Hall.
Dozens of protestors lined the steps and sidewalks, waving handmade signs. Cardboard, poster board, even scraps of cloth, all inked with scrawled messages in bold letters.
"Moku Matters."
"Let Art Live."
"Vandalism or Vision?"
"The Wall Needed It."
The crowd buzzed with energy. Chants rose and fell like waves.
"Save the mural! Save the mural!"
Katara's heart sank. She had known the mural had gone viral, but she didn't expect this.
And right in the center, looking like she'd been born to lead a revolution, stood Suki.
"Suki?" Sokka asked, stunned.
At the sound of his voice, Suki's face lit up. She elbowed through the crowd, her protest sign tucked under one arm as she ran straight to him. With zero hesitation, she threw her arms around his neck, pulling him into a tight hug.
"Sokka!" she beamed. "I didn't think I'd see you before work!"
Katara froze, watching as her brother stood stiff in the embrace, slowly patting Suki's back like he'd just been handed a live raccoon.
"Suki," he said slowly, "what are you... doing here?"
Suki pulled back, her eyes gleaming with righteous fury. "I'm protesting the city's attempt to erase something that clearly meant a lot to people. That mural is powerful. It's honest. And painting over it is just plain wrong."
Sokka blinked. "You're... protesting?"
"Yeah." She tilted her head. "Why?"
He motioned broadly to the badge clipped to his belt. "Because I'm literally on the task force trying to catch Moku, remember?"
Suki froze.
Toph whistled. "Oof. That's awkward."
"No, wait," Suki said, stepping back. "You seriously didn't tell me you were on the task force?"
"I didn't know you were organizing a protest!"
"I'm not organizing," she defended. "I'm just... very enthusiastically attending."
Katara stepped forward, trying not to laugh. "Wow. The betrayal. How will he ever recover?"
Sokka looked helplessly between the two women. "So what now? We're on opposite sides of this?"
Suki crossed her arms. "Guess we are."
They stared at each other, dead serious.
And then, at the same time, both muttered, "Still getting dinner tonight?"
Toph groaned. "Disgusting."
Katara just shook her head, trying not to smile.
The chants picked up again behind them. Protestors kept arriving, signs higher, voices louder. More reporters had begun to show up, snapping photos and recording footage. And in the middle of it all, Katara could feel her stomach twist. Her goal — her big chance to prove herself — was already tangled in a citywide controversy.
Still, she wasn't backing down. Moku wasn't just an artist. He was a criminal.
And she was going to catch him.
Even if the whole city stood in her way.
Katara exhaled slowly. "Alright. Time to go in."
Sokka looked toward Suki one last time, still trying to piece together how his girlfriend had gone from date-night movie buddy to a full-blown anti-task force activist. "Right. Yeah. Time to do our jobs… even though some of us are apparently dating the opposition."
He stepped up to her and gave her a quick, dry kiss on the cheek. "Okay, I'm going inside now. Have fun stabbing me in the back."
Suki grinned wide, stepping backward toward the crowd with a twirl of her protest sign. "Gladly."
Toph burst out laughing. "She's gonna be insufferable when we get home."
As they pushed through the wall of protestors, the energy shifted. Several people recognized them immediately — Katara especially, her image had already been shared on the morning news. Someone shouted, "Traitor!" Another: "You're going to destroy what gave us hope!" A few others booed as they passed.
Katara kept her chin high, pretending it didn't sting.
Sokka muttered, "This is not the kind of celebrity status I wanted."
Toph casually flipped someone off. "At least they didn't throw a shoe."
Once inside, the marble floors and fluorescent lights of City Hall felt like a stark contrast to the heated noise outside. The protest sounds were still faintly audible through the thick walls as they walked briskly through the hallway and up the stairs toward their assigned room.
The bickering started almost immediately.
"I still don't get why I'm the one who has to file the press statements," Sokka said, flipping through a stack of folders as they walked.
"Because you have the most experience making things sound like you know what you're doing," Katara replied.
"And because you love the sound of your own voice," Toph added, pushing open the conference room door with her shoulder.
"Hey! It's a gift."
Katara ignored him and headed straight to the back wall, where a massive corkboard had been pinned up the day before. Her "evidence board." Though calling it that felt generous.
Right now, it was mostly just high-resolution printouts of Moku's mural taped at various angles. Someone had even added an artsy black-and-white photo of the mural from below, complete with dramatic shadows.
Katara frowned.
"So…" Sokka said, tossing his folders on the table, "our big investigation so far is… appreciating the mural from different camera lenses?"
Katara turned. "We just started."
"And we have no leads."
"Give it time!"
Toph dropped into a chair and kicked her feet up on the table. "You know, for a secretive art criminal who works in the dead of night, you'd think he'd leave something. A clue, a footprint, a brush bristle. Anything."
Katara turned back to the board and crossed her arms.
She hated to admit it, but Toph was right. For all the public reaction the mural had caused, Moku himself had left no trail. No cameras had caught him in the act. No witnesses had come forward. No paint cans, no fingerprints, not even a single smear on the sidewalk.
Just… silence. And a name scrawled in tiny lettering beneath a towering tribute to grief.
Katara stared at the mural printout — her eyes drawn again and again to the message in bold script:
Peace doesn't come from forgetting. It comes from remembering gently. Let it hurt, let it breathe, let it live on the wall.
She clenched her jaw. That line had followed her home, echoed in her head when she closed her eyes.
It didn't matter how poetic it was.
It was still a crime.
And she would catch him.
"So what do we do?" Sokka asked as he resumed pacing across the marble floor of the City Hall briefing room. His footsteps echoed with a rhythm of aimless frustration. "We've got a name, maybe, and one gorgeous mural that—don't get me wrong—hits like a truck, but there's no signature, no camera footage, no trail. Just vibes."
"We don't wait around for him to strike again," Katara said, flipping open her notepad and tapping her pen against it. "We build the leads ourselves. Artists need supplies. They have habits. They leave fingerprints, even if not literal ones."
Toph, who was balancing her chair on two legs with the skill of someone who had no regard for floor safety, shrugged. "We check local supply shops. Look for someone buying bulk paint. Spray cans, brushes, fancy-ass chalk. That kind of thing."
Katara blinked. "That's actually... good. Really good."
Toph tilted her head, mock offended. "Thanks, I am a genius."
Sokka leaned forward, hands braced against the edge of the table. "Okay. We hit every store in the area, ask around. See if anyone remembers someone buying this exact color palette or making big orders. We can split up and—"
His eyes drifted to the massive corkboard at the far wall, where blown-up photos of the mural were pinned in a precise arrangement, each one marked with notes and timestamps.
And suddenly, the room got quieter.
Katara's gaze followed his.
Even after studying it for hours, the mural still struck her like a wave. She found her eyes returning to the center: a lone figure painted in soft, golden tones, standing beneath a sky that bled from dusty blue to deep violet, like dawn and dusk meeting in the middle.
The silhouette wasn't detailed. Just a man in a long, yellowing coat that looked well-worn and too big, like something someone's father might wear all winter. His head was tilted back as if he were watching the clouds. One hand was buried in his coat pocket, the other extended outward, palm open—not in offering, but in peace.
From that palm, white lotus flowers floated upward in delicate trails, blooming with silvery outlines and pale pink hearts. Around them, birds—doves, quiet and simple—rose into flight, their wings barely defined yet so unmistakably alive.
A single paper airplane looped through the upper corner of the mural, soaring against the twilight sky like a memory that refused to fall. Below, blades of soft grass bowed under a painted wind. Not a field. Not quite. Just something open. Still. Like a breath held in reverence.
Sokka's voice came out low. "You ever think we're the bad guys in this?"
Katara turned toward him, taken off guard. "Excuse me?"
He didn't answer right away. His hand rubbed the back of his neck.
"I mean, look at the reaction this has caused. The protest outside? The people refusing to let the city paint over it?" His mouth twisted. "Even Suki's out there with a sign in her hand and paint on her jeans."
"She helped organize the damn protest," Toph added from her chair, not bothering to hide her grin. "Kind of hilarious."
Katara's voice went sharp. "That doesn't matter. Public support doesn't make something legal. That mural, no matter how pretty it is, was painted without permission on city property. It's vandalism, full stop."
Sokka sighed and crossed his arms. "Yeah, but..."
His voice dropped softer.
"Since we're in here and everything stays off the record… it kind of made me think of Mom."
Katara stiffened.
He wasn't looking at her now. His eyes were locked on the photo of the open palm, the one where the lotus flowers floated upward like something barely tethered to the world.
"I don't know why exactly," he continued. "Maybe it's the coat. Or the way it's so… gentle. Like someone letting go. Like someone helping someone let go."
His voice wavered just enough for Katara to feel it in her chest.
"And that quote," he added. "It hit me. 'Peace doesn't come from forgetting. It comes from remembering gently.' It just—felt like her. Like something she'd say if she were still here."
Katara's stomach twisted.
Because she had thought the same thing.
She hadn't admitted it, even to herself. But when she'd first seen the mural that morning—before the cameras, before the press, before the job—she'd stood across the street frozen in place, her lungs caught somewhere between breath and ache.
She remembered her mother's old coat. The one she used to wrap around Katara's shoulders after bad dreams. The flowers she pressed into the pages of old books. The way her voice lingered like the tail end of a breeze.
For one wild second, Katara had thought Moku had painted her.
"It doesn't matter," she said, softer than before but with a hard edge underneath. "It's still a crime. No matter what it reminded us of. We can't just excuse it because it was beautiful."
Sokka went quiet.
Toph broke the silence, kicking her feet back up on the table. "Alright. Feels like we hit our emotionally-stunted sibling quota for the day. Who's taking the paint shop on Yue Street?"
Katara didn't move. Her eyes were still glued to that paper airplane. To the way it drifted across the painted sky like something untouchable.
No matter what it stirred in her—
no matter how much it hurt—
she couldn't forget her role.
She had to find Moku.
And she had to stop him.
Because if she didn't, that mural wouldn't just stay a quiet exception. It would become a movement. It would speak to more than just her.
And that terrified her.
Katara couldn't speak. Not right away. Sokka's words lingered like smoke in the back of her throat—thick, cloying, impossible to breathe through. The image of their mother surfaced again—unbidden, unshakable—carried on the colors of that mural like a ghost in motion. The tenderness of it. The ache. The knowing.
She pressed her fingers against the cool edge of the table, trying to ground herself.
She needed air. Now.
"I'm—" Her voice caught. She cleared it. "I'm going to get coffees. What do you guys want?"
Sokka's eyes lit up instantly. "Oh, oh! If you're going, can you please get it from The Dragon's Roar? That place is elite, Katara. I swear they sprinkle magic in their beans or something."
Toph gave a slow, approving nod. "Facts. I don't even like hot drinks, but Zuko's stuff hits different. I'd sell my left shoe for their cinnamon chai."
Katara exhaled through a soft laugh, shaking her head. "Alright, alright. Dragon's Roar it is."
Sokka pumped a fist in the air. "Yes! You're an angel. Large dark roast, double shot of espresso, and maybe a croissant if they have that flaky kind with chocolate inside. You know the one."
Toph grinned. "Sweet chai, extra whip, extra cinnamon. You mess it up, I'm making you drink it."
Katara snorted. "Noted."
She scribbled down their orders on her phone, grabbed her coat from the hook near the door, and slung her bag over her shoulder.
"I'll be back in twenty," she said, already halfway out the door.
She didn't wait for their responses.
The moment the heavy doors of the meeting room closed behind her, Katara let out a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding. The tension in her chest began to ease as she stepped out into the lobby and then into the brisk late-morning air. The noise of the protests still hummed faintly down the block, but out here… at least she wasn't staring at that mural anymore.
At least she wasn't drowning in memories that had teeth.
Coffee, she told herself. Just coffee.
And maybe—just maybe—some space to breathe.
The front door chimed softly as Aang stepped into The Dragon's Roar, the warm scent of roasted espresso beans and cinnamon already wrapping around him like a familiar hug. The sky outside was pale with morning light, and though he was early, Zuko was already there behind the counter, sorting through a new shipment of beans.
"Hey," Aang greeted, hanging up his coat and grabbing his apron from the hook. "You open already?"
Zuko didn't look up right away. "Not officially. Just wanted to beat the delivery guy so he doesn't leave a box of beans in the rain again." He paused, glanced out the café's large front windows, and then blinked. "Whoa."
Aang turned.
Outside, just across the street, the crowd had doubled in size in just ten minutes. Protestors lined the sidewalk in front of City Hall, holding handmade signs high above their heads. Bright colors. Raised voices. The mural wasn't just a mural anymore—it was a spark. And the city was kindling.
"Guess Moku's got more fans than City Hall thought," Aang said, unable to hide the small, stunned smile tugging at his lips.
Zuko shook his head slowly, watching the crowd. "This is getting serious, man. I've never seen people protest a painting before."
"I mean… it's more than a painting."
Zuko's eyes flicked sideways. "You would say that."
Before Aang could reply, the soft jingle of the bell above the door interrupted them.
"Iroh!" Zuko called, instantly standing up straighter.
The older man strode in with the easy grace of someone who moved to his own rhythm, entirely unaffected by the clamor outside. His signature red scarf was tucked neatly into a well-worn jacket, and his silver hair was tied into a short tail behind him. He paused just inside the door, took a deep inhale of the café's rich aroma, and smiled.
"Ahhhh," he sighed, like he was stepping into a temple. "Still smells better than enlightenment."
Zuko groaned. "Uncle—"
"Zuko!" Iroh interrupted, crossing the space with arms open. "You've done it again. I told you, if I weren't teaching the next generation how to write like people, I'd have opened a place like this myself."
"And you would've run it into the ground by giving away free tea to everyone," Zuko said, already moving to pour his uncle a fresh cup.
Aang chuckled from the espresso machine. "Good to see you, Iroh. You here to critique our foam art again?"
"Only if you've improved," Iroh replied with a twinkle in his eye. "Last week, that heart you made me looked more like a lopsided potato."
"I told you it was a koi fish," Aang laughed.
Zuko handed Iroh the steaming mug just the way he liked it—no sugar, strong enough to raise eyebrows—and slid it across the counter. Iroh took it with reverence, lifting it like a sacred relic.
"You know," he said, gazing out the window toward the protest, "in my youth, art like that would've been wiped away before the sun rose. But now… the people remember what matters. Moku, whoever they are, understands that."
Zuko raised an eyebrow. "You like the mural?"
"Very much." Iroh sipped his coffee. "It speaks without shouting. Those are the ones that last."
Aang lowered his eyes back to the counter, quietly rearranging the pastry display. A smile ghosted across his lips.
If only he knew how right he was.
Zuko gave his uncle a tight hug and muttered something about checking inventory in the back before disappearing behind the swinging door.
Aang turned back to the counter just as Iroh placed both palms on it, surveying the drink menu as if it were a sacred scroll. "Now then," Iroh said with a pleased hum, "let's see if my favorite barista remembers the chaos I call a morning drink for the road."
Aang grinned, reaching for a cup and marker. "Oh, I've got it memorized. Triple shot espresso, oat milk, one pump of rose syrup, one pump of almond, half a teaspoon of honey stirred counterclockwise, frothed cinnamon milk on top—light foam. No lid."
Iroh's eyes twinkled. "Ah, yes. You do remember. A drink fit for only the most refined and slightly unhinged palates."
Aang chuckled. "I still don't understand why the foam has to be light if the milk is already frothed."
"It's not about understanding, my dear boy," Iroh replied with a serene smile. "It's about feeling the balance."
Aang turned to start the espresso machine, steam hissing around them as the morning light filtered through the shop windows. "So," Aang asked over the hum of the grinder, "were you out there? At the mural?"
"I was," Iroh said softly. "I stopped on my walk here. It's… something, isn't it?"
"It really is," Aang replied, tamping the grounds. "I don't know who made it, but it hit something inside me. Felt like I knew the person it was about, even though I didn't."
Iroh leaned on the counter, nodding slowly. "Because the person it was about isn't just one person. That mural… it's about grief."
Aang looked over at him, his brow furrowing.
Iroh went on. "The kind of grief that isn't loud or ugly. The kind that lives with you like a shadow. The kind that shows up in silence. In the way you make your tea. Or how you fold your coat. Or how you still reach out to someone who's not there."
The espresso dripped slowly into the cup, but Aang stayed quiet, listening.
"I lost my son when he was young," Iroh continued gently. "Lu Ten. Brightest boy in the world. He had this laugh—loud and sudden, like a firecracker. He used to sneak into my room and rearrange my tea tins just to mess with me. I always knew it was him because he'd leave a little candy wrapper in the green tea."
Aang felt something tighten in his chest. "What else did he like?" he asked quietly, beginning to steam the milk.
"He loved turtles," Iroh said fondly. "We used to go out to Turtle Pond every Sunday with those ridiculous stale crackers he insisted were their favorite snack. He was obsessed with astronomy too. Said he wanted to be the first poet in space."
"That's incredible," Aang murmured.
"I used to find his little notebooks everywhere. Covered in half-finished haikus about stars and dreams and questions he never answered." Iroh paused, smiling wistfully. "I still keep a few in my study. Just to remind myself of who he was. Not how I lost him."
Aang swallowed, focusing on pouring the milk into the espresso with practiced hands. The foam rose, and he began to move the pitcher in small arcs, delicate and intentional.
"Do you ever talk about him?" Aang asked.
"Not as often as I should," Iroh said. "Most people avoid those conversations. Grief makes them uncomfortable. But you…" He peered at Aang. "You have a way of listening that makes it feel safe. Like the pain has somewhere to go."
Aang didn't know what to say. So instead, he placed the drink down gently in front of Iroh, the foam art rising like a small tribute: a paper airplane soaring upward, trailed by a tiny crescent moon and a scattering of stars.
Iroh stared at it, blinking.
"That was his dream," Iroh said softly. "To make it to the moon."
Aang gave him a small, almost shy smile. "Felt right."
Iroh looked up at him, eyes warm and misty. "You may be young, but your soul has met sorrow, hasn't it?"
Aang nodded. "I think we all do. In our own way."
Iroh wrapped both hands around his cup. "Thank you. For the drink. And for letting me share. I feel like I got to visit with my boy again—just for a few minutes."
"You're always welcome to talk about him here," Aang said. "I'll listen. Every time."
Iroh patted his shoulder with a fatherly hand. "And that, young man, is the kind of heart that makes good coffee taste even better."
As he walked toward the door, the sun caught the foam art just right—paper airplane, moon, stars—until it vanished slowly beneath the warmth of the drink.
And Aang stood there, silent, committing every word to memory. Because now he knew what the next mural would be about.
Lu Ten. And the boy who wanted to send poetry into space.
The bell above the front door gave a soft chime as Zuko emerged from the back, sleeves rolled and clipboard in hand.
"You make him a happy customer?" he asked, nodding toward his uncle outside the door, now sipping contentedly with his eyes closed, as if meditating on the first taste.
Aang gave a small, bittersweet smile. "Of course. As always."
Zuko grinned, tossing the clipboard on the counter. "Good. I swear, if we ever lose him as a regular, I'm shutting this place down."
"I always learn something when he comes in," Aang added, his voice low, still wrapped in the weight of their conversation. "About tea. About grief. About… life."
Before Zuko could respond, the front door chimed again—and this time, Aang turned just in time to see her step through.
Katara.
Even though he'd seen her on the news, on briefing clips and online interviews, it felt different having her here. In the soft light of the coffee shop. Real. Present. And impossibly pretty.
Zuko's face lit up. "Katara! Took you long enough."
She smiled as she stepped forward, a little windblown from the walk but still poised. "Hey, Zuko. I come bearing bribes. Sokka and Toph insisted I get coffee from here. I think they would've locked me out of the office if I came back with anything else."
Zuko scoffed dramatically. "I can't believe you've never been to one of your best friend's coffee shops. Honestly? That stings a little."
"I know, I know," she laughed. "But after all the glowing reviews I've heard—and I mean glowing—I figured it was finally time."
"Well," Zuko said, stepping aside with a smirk, "all those reviews? This guy's the reason." He clapped a hand on Aang's shoulder. "Katara, meet Aang. My barista. My secret weapon. And the reason my business hasn't gone under."
Aang smiled—wide, sheepish, and trying very hard not to look like he was internally combusting. "Hi," he said, reaching out a hand. "It's nice to meet you. I, uh… I recognize you from TV. You're leading the new task force, right?"
Katara nodded, taking his hand. "That's me."
His palm was warm against hers, and for a moment too long, neither of them let go.
Aang's heart pounded. Not just because she was beautiful—and she was, her eyes like storm clouds right before rain—but because she was the person looking for Moku. For him. And now she was standing here, inches away, smiling.
And he liked it.
Zuko, thankfully oblivious, turned back toward the swinging door. "I've gotta finish inventory before the morning rush hits, but Aang—make sure she enjoys her first Dragon's Roar experience, okay?"
Aang gave a short nod, still looking at Katara. "Yeah. Absolutely."
Zuko disappeared into the back again, leaving just the two of them at the counter.
And Aang, still gripping the marker in his hand, realized this was the first time he'd been face to face with the person hunting him down… and he didn't want her to leave.
Not yet.
Katara stepped up to the counter, her gaze drifting briefly toward the neat chalkboard menu before landing back on Aang.
"Alright," she began, tapping her phone screen where she'd written down the orders. "One large dark roast with a double shot of espresso. That's my brother's. He insists he's not addicted to caffeine, but he also growls at people before he's had it, so…"
Aang chuckled. "Yeah, I think I've met that type. That one's easy."
She smiled. "Then a sweet chai—extra whip, extra cinnamon. Toph's. She says it's the only drink that doesn't offend her taste buds."
"That one's one of my favorites to make," Aang said, already reaching for the cinnamon jar. "She's got great taste."
Katara paused, hesitating over the last order. "And then… I guess something for me."
She looked up at him again. "What do you think I'd like?"
Aang blinked. Her eyes weren't just stormy now—they were curious. Playful. And locked on him.
"Hmm," he said, pretending to study her as he leaned one elbow against the counter. "You strike me as someone who's got… layers."
"Oh, do I?" she replied, lifting an eyebrow. "That sounds suspiciously like you're calling me complicated."
He grinned. "Complicated's not a bad thing. Means you've got depth. So I'm thinking… something bold, a little sweet, something that lingers."
"Are you still talking about coffee?" she asked, tilting her head.
"Only a little," he teased, already reaching for the ingredients. "I've got something in mind. Trust me?"
She shrugged, but the corner of her mouth twitched like she was fighting a smile. "Sure. Why not."
Aang turned away to start the drinks, his hands suddenly just a bit clumsier than usual. He'd made thousands of drinks before—blindfolded, half-awake, in the middle of rush hour. But now he was acutely aware of everything. Her eyes following him, her fingers tapping the counter, the weight of their conversation hanging in the air.
He started with Sokka's. Straightforward. Hot, dark, and merciless. It felt like brewing a cup of battery acid. Aang respected it.
Toph's chai came next—steeped just long enough to be strong but not bitter, with a towering swirl of whipped cream and a dusting of cinnamon like a tiny storm cloud.
And then… hers.
He made a base of honey-infused espresso, pulled extra smooth, then added lavender oat milk and a hint of orange zest. He steamed it all together until it was velvety, then finished it off with a delicate foam swirl—a lotus flower nestled inside a heart. Subtle. But it bloomed the longer you looked.
When he set it in front of her, Katara blinked down at the drink, visibly surprised.
"You just made this up?"
Aang shrugged, rubbing the back of his neck. "Kinda. You seemed like someone who could use something that felt like… warmth. And memory. But still wakes you up, you know?"
She stared at him, then took a sip.
Her eyes closed for just a second. Then she exhaled. "Okay. That's actually—" She took another sip. "This is ridiculously good."
"Only the best for a first-timer," Aang said, smiling softly.
Katara glanced around the shop, now mostly empty. "So, you really created all of this? Like the drinks, the flavors?"
"I help Zuko with a lot of them," Aang said, wiping down the counter. "But yeah, most of the recipes are mine. I guess I've always been drawn to making things that make people feel something. Even if it's just… comfort."
Katara watched him for a moment. "You're not what I expected."
Aang raised a brow. "Oh? And what did you expect?"
"I don't know," she said, playing with her drink lid. "Someone more serious. Or someone less… thoughtful. You're kind of impossible to pin down."
He leaned on the counter, a playful glint in his eyes. "Well, lucky for you, I make a great mystery. And you? I bet you don't get surprised very often."
"Not usually," she admitted.
"And yet," he said, gesturing at the drink, "here we are."
Katara laughed—light, surprised, genuine. And for a moment, she forgot all about the pressure, the task force, the mural.
It was just her and this barista with stormy eyes and a quiet smile, who'd somehow made her feel seen without even trying.
She checked the time and straightened, reluctant. "I should get these back before they think I joined the protest."
"Tell them I said hi," Aang said, packing the drink tray. "And let me know if you want another custom drink. I've got a few more up my sleeve."
She paused, her hand on the door. "Maybe I will."
Their eyes met for a heartbeat too long.
Then she was gone, the bell chiming softly behind her.
Aang stood there for a second, staring at the door.
He was so screwed.
And yet, somehow… he didn't want it to stop.
Katara's footsteps were quicker than usual as she made her way back toward the city building, the drink tray carefully balanced in her hands, but her thoughts were anything but steady. Her heart hadn't stopped racing since she'd stepped out of The Dragon's Roar, and it wasn't because of the drinks.
It was him.
Aang.
She didn't even know him, not really. But she couldn't stop thinking about the way he had looked at her, like he was seeing something more than just another customer. And the drink he'd made? It was still warm in her hand, still humming with whatever magic he'd poured into it. Lavender, orange, espresso—like warmth and memory, he'd said. That boy had no business reading people like that.
And the smile. Spirits, that smile.
She was still thinking about it when she reached the building, barely noticing the protestors anymore, even when one of them shouted something snide in her direction. She walked through the crowd like she was floating—like the weight that had been pressing on her all morning had just… lightened.
As soon as she stepped back into the office, Sokka looked up from the evidence board with a weird little squint.
"You look weird," he said immediately.
Toph snorted from her seat. "Oh yeah. That's the face of someone who's either been proposed to or just saw an angel. Which one is it, Caffeine Princess?"
Katara rolled her eyes and set the tray on the table, handing off their drinks. "It's nothing. I just—met someone new today."
Sokka straightened, interest instantly piqued. "Ohhh? Details. Name. Age. Occupation. Tax history."
Toph cackled and leaned forward. "Do they have a voice for radio or for musical theater?"
Katara gave them both a flat look. "You two are ridiculous."
"Yes," Toph said. "But we're not wrong. Spill."
Katara sighed and sat down, lifting her cup and tracing a finger along the edge. "His name's Aang. He's Zuko's barista."
Sokka nearly choked on his drink. "Aang?!"
Toph grinned. "Oh, yeah. He's great. Makes this insane lemon-mint tea thing when I'm not in the mood for my usual. Knows how to talk to people. Good vibes. Very easy on the ears… not to mention the eyes."
Sokka nodded quickly. "Right? Dude's like… stupidly nice. And good at everything. I think he gave me relationship advice once and I didn't even realize until a week later."
Katara blinked. "Wait. You've both known him this whole time?"
"Sure," Toph said with a shrug. "I mean, I go to The Dragon's Roar at least once a week. Zuko's my best friend, but let's be real—I'm mostly there for the drinks. And for Aang."
"And you never mentioned him?"
Sokka smirked. "You never asked. Plus, this is way more fun."
Katara groaned and rubbed her temples.
"So…" Toph leaned closer, her smirk practically glowing. "You think he's cute, huh?"
Katara's hand froze on her cup.
"Kinda cute," she mumbled.
Sokka narrowed his eyes. "Kinda? You came back looking like someone just read you poetry on a gondola ride and fed you chocolate strawberries. That's not 'kinda.' That's certified swoon."
Katara flushed instantly. "Okay, okay! He's—fine! He's… really cute."
"There it is," Toph said, grinning like she'd won a bet.
"Shut up," Katara muttered, even as her smile started to tug at her lips again.
Sokka raised his cup. "To really cute baristas, then. May they caffeinate us and confuse us in equal measure."
Toph clinked her cup against his. "Here, here."
Katara rolled her eyes and sipped her drink—but even then, she couldn't stop the smile from breaking through.
It had started as one of the worst mornings she'd had in weeks. The press. The protests. The pressure. The mural that pulled too close to her ribs.
But somehow, this strange, grey-eyed barista with his crooked grin and way-too-good read on her… had spun something soft into the middle of it.
Maybe it wouldn't mean anything. Maybe it was just a moment. Just a spark.
But as the three of them sat in that small, cluttered room surrounded by photos of paint and questions with no answers, Katara let herself laugh with her friends. Let herself enjoy the warmth of her cup, and the quiet flutter in her chest.
Maybe not everything had to be heavy all the time.
Maybe, just for now, this—this lightness—was enough.
And as Toph launched into a dramatic reenactment of the protestor who'd tried to hand her a "Free Moku" sticker, Katara leaned back in her chair and let the moment hold her.
Her day had turned around.
And she had a feeling… it wasn't the last time that barista would make her feel this way.