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The first words your soulmate ever says to you appear somewhere on your body. For most people, it’s something sweet. Something simple.
Hello.
What’s your name?
I’ve been waiting for you.
Yours?
They showed up like a scar.
“Don’t get in my way.”
—
You remember the day they appeared. Sharp, dark lettering curling along your wrist like it had always belonged there. You were young enough to hope it meant something else—something better.
Maybe it was a joke. Maybe it was playful. Maybe your soulmate was… intense. You built a hundred softer meanings around it. You had to. Because the alternative? Was that somewhere out there was a person who would look at you—your soulmate—and see you as an obstacle.
Years pass. You learn to hide it. Sleeves. Bandages. Casual movements that keep your wrist turned away from prying eyes. Because people talk. And when they see your words, they don’t smile the way they do for others. They hesitate. They pity.
—
You meet him during a moment that doesn’t feel like fate. It feels like survival. Everything is chaos—shouting, heat, the sharp crack of something burning too close—and you’re trying to get out of the way when you collide with someone. Hard.
You stumble back, heart racing — and then you hear it. Low. Sharp. Frustrated.
“Don’t get in my way.”
Your entire world goes quiet. No sound. No movement. Just the echo of those words—your words—ringing in your ears. Slowly, like your body already knows before your mind catches up, your gaze drops to his face.
The scar is the first thing you notice. Angry. Uneven. A mark that tells a story you don’t know yet. But his eyes—they’re what hold you. Golden. Intense. Flickering with something you can’t quite place. Anger, yes—but beneath it? Something deeper. Something tired.
His expression shifts. Noticing. Tracking the way you’ve gone completely still. The way your hand has drifted—instinctively—to your wrist. His gaze follows. And when he sees i everything changes.
You watch it happen in real time. The irritation fades first. Then the sharpness. Then something else slips through the cracks—something raw, something almost… horrified.
“No,” he says under his breath.
Not angry. Not defensive. Just—struck.
Your throat tightens. Because this isn’t how it’s supposed to go. This isn’t soft or gentle or magical. It’s heavy. Awkward. Too real.
“You…” your voice comes out smaller than you meant it to. “You said—”
“I know what I said.” It’s quick, but not harsh. More like he’s cutting himself off before it gets worse. His eyes flick back to your wrist. Then away. Like he can’t stand to look at it for too long.
“I didn’t mean it like that,” he adds, quieter now.
And somehow? That hurts more. Because he doesn’t know you. He couldn’t have meant anything else.
You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding, forcing your hand to drop back to your side. “It’s fine,” you say automatically. “I’m used to it.”
That makes him look at you again. Really look this time. And whatever he sees, he doesn’t like it.
“It’s not fine.” The words come out low. Firm. Not arguing with you. Correcting you.
A strange silence settles between you. Not empty. Just… full of things neither of you knows how to say yet.
“I’m—” he starts, then stops. Zuko. He doesn’t strike you as someone who apologizes easily. But you can see it—the way he’s struggling with it, like the words don’t come naturally. “I didn’t know it would be you,” he finishes instead.
It’s not an apology. But it’s honest. And with him? That might matter more.
You swallow, nodding faintly. “Yeah,” you murmur. “I figured.”
That should be it. The moment. The end of it. But it isn’t. Because he doesn’t leave. And neither do you.
Days pass. Then weeks. Somehow, you keep ending up in the same places. The same paths crossing over and over again like the world is quietly insisting on something neither of you is ready for.
Zuko keeps his distance at first. You can feel it. Measured. Careful. Like he’s trying not to make things worse. But he watches you. Not in a possessive way. In a… thoughtful one. Like he’s trying to understand something he didn’t expect to matter.
The second time he speaks to you directly, it’s different. Softer. “Are you… alright?”
You blink at him, caught off guard. “…yeah.”
A pause.
Then, because you can’t help yourself— “That’s not exactly ‘don’t get in my way.’”
For a second, you think you’ve gone too far. His jaw tightens. His shoulders go stiff. But then— A quiet, almost reluctant huff of breath. “…I’m working on it.”
That’s how it changes. Not all at once. Not in some sweeping, romantic moment. But in small things. He starts showing up. Not announcing himself. Not demanding your attention. Just… there. Walking beside you instead of ahead. Slowing down without saying anything. Making space.
One day, you trip over uneven ground. It’s minor—barely anything—but his hand is there instantly, steadying you before you can fall. “Careful.”
You glance at him, something warm flickering in your chest. “…not in your way?”
The corner of his mouth twitches. “Not anymore.”
Another time, someone shoves past you in a crowded street. Zuko’s reaction is immediate. He steps between you and them, presence sharp, protective in a way that feels instinctive. Effortless. Like it’s always been there.
You start to notice the shift. Not just in what he does— But in how he looks at you. The tension is still there. The intensity. But it’s… different now. Softer at the edges. Like he’s unlearning something. Like he’s choosing something new.
—
“You know,” you say one evening, sitting beside him as the sky burns gold and red, “most people get nicer first words.”
He huffs quietly. “Yeah. I figured.” A beat. “…sorry.”
It’s quiet. Almost reluctant. But it’s real.
You glance at him, surprised. “For what? You didn’t know.”
His gaze drops, expression tightening. “I still said it.”
Something in your chest aches. Because you can see it now— the guilt he carries. The way he holds himself accountable, even for things he couldn’t control.
“You’re not that person anymore,” you say softly.
He looks at you then. Really looks. Like he’s trying to decide if he’s allowed to believe that. “…I’m trying not to be.”
You shift a little closer. Not much. Just enough that your shoulder brushes his. “You’re doing a pretty good job.”
There’s a long pause.
Then, carefully like it matters more than he wants to admit— Zuko lets his shoulder lean into yours. “You’re not in my way,” he says quietly.
Your breath catches.
His gaze flicks to you, steady. Certain. “You never we