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Katara was debating whether to cancel all her afternoon appointments and take a nap on her office couch when a tentative knock sounded on her door. She set the file in her hands on her desk and rubbed the bridge of her nose under her glasses. A headache was brewing, for sure. And where the hell had she put her coffee mug?

She sighed. “Come in.” 

“Hey, doc,” Huria, one of her medical assistants, said as she swung open the door. 

Huria took one look at Katara hunched over her desk in the semi-darkness and slunk apologetically across the room. She had a medical file clutched against her chest as though it were a precious treasure, and Katara narrowed her eyes, suspicious. “We have a new patient request.” 

“We don’t have capacity for any new patients.”

“Unless,” Huria said, holding up a finger, “they come directly from the medical board.” 

Katara pursed her lips and held out her hand. “Let me see it.” 

Huria hesitated. “Okay, but try to have an open mind.” She cautiously began to hand it over, and Katara rolled her eyes before snatching it away from her. 

She flipped the file open and scanned the first page. 

• Patient Name: Aang Gyatso 
• Age/DOB: 26 / Oct 10, 2000
• Referring Entity: Emergency Directive via the Chief of Orthopedic Surgery / Sports Medicine Board.
• A Note from Administration: HIGH VISIBILITY PATIENT 

And there, under the word ‘Occupation,’ it read: Professional Martial Artist/Content Creator

She snapped the file closed. “Absolutely not.” 

“But he’s really great!” Huria protested immediately. “He’s not like, well, you know–”

“My ex-boyfriend?” Katara supplied dryly.

Huria winced. “He’s super famous for being nonviolent and really gentle and sweet.” 

“A nonviolent Martial Artist?” She crossed her arms over her chest and leaned back in her office chair. “I’m not sure you can be both of those things, Huria.” 

“You can!” Huria insisted and fished her phone out of her scrubs pocket. “Look!” She stepped around Katara’s desk, clearly prepared for this discussion as she had a video primed and ready. 

Katara dragged her glasses off. “Huria–”

“Just watch!” She shoved the phone under her nose and hit play. 

Two men faced off on some type of suspended ring, mats lining the ground beneath them. One of them was massive with long black hair tied back from his face in a red martial arts-style fighting outfit. His stance was square, aggressive, one fist outstretched. 

Across from him, crouching lower towards the mat, was a smaller bald man with fascinating tattoos—a massive blue arrow comprised of what looked like fluid lines but might have been some type of text, stretching over his scalp and ending at a point between his brows.  Similar tattoos flowed along his bare arms. He wore a yellow sleeveless tunic and orange, loosely fitted trousers. 

He looked almost… monkish—if monks were exceptionally fit and surprisingly attractive. 

His palms were open, his stance… fluid, graceful. The camera zoomed in briefly on his face as someone spoke in a language she didn’t understand—Chinese, Mandarin, maybe—and his expression was calm. His eyes, an interesting gray, were intensely focused. Determined, confident. 

She had to admit, he had excellent cheekbones and a sharp jawline. 

“Aang is the bald one with tattoos,” Huria said excitedly, a split second before the men started to move.  

Katara knew nothing about martial arts beyond the few movies she’d seen, but it was undeniably fascinating to watch. It became very clear that the two men had very different fighting styles—the big one in red was violently aggressive with rapid strikes and kicks, while Aang was like the wind, dodging, turning, brushing aside punches with ease.

It was like a dance and nothing like the MMA-style fighting Jet had done. 

As she watched, Aang finally stepped into the other man’s guard, caught him by the back of his ankle, and threw him over the side of the ring into the mats below to a round of thunderous applause. He hadn’t struck the other man a single time. 

He was smiling at the camera now, and it was humble—sweet, even. There was something about him. The way he held himself. The way he was bowing to the crowd…

Katara sighed and picked up the file again. Huria made an excited noise. 

“You should see his interviews and his social media. He’s super down to earth and helps all these charities and—” 

“Alright, alright, calm down,” Katara said, fighting back a smile. “I haven’t agreed to anything yet.” 

She flipped past the front page to the surgeon’s notes. 

Aang was ten days post-op for a Grade III tear of the Anterior Cruciate Ligament and a Grade III tear of the Medial Collateral Ligament, accompanied by a complex, displaced bucket-handle tear of the medial meniscus. Translation: he had seriously fucked up his left knee—in the sports world, they called it the Unhappy Triad. His lower leg had essentially tried to separate itself from his thigh, and she felt a pang of true pity after having just seen the fluid, graceful cadence of his movements. 

It would be a long road back for him.

“Well,” she said at last, Huria all but vibrating next to her. “A consultation won’t hurt anyone, I guess.”  

Huria literally jumped for joy. “Yes! Yes!” 

“Do not hit on our patients,” she said sternly, and Huria nodded and bit her lip, not looking the least bit contrite. 

“I’ll give his agent a call back and put him on the calendar.” Huria snapped up the file from Katara’s desk and hurried out of the room, probably hoping to escape before she could change her mind. Smart, really.  

“And bring me a coffee!” Katara called after her, already sure she was going to regret this.

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Two days later, Katara gave herself a stern talking-to in the bathroom mirror in her office. Silently, in her head, because she wasn’t a crazy person. 

If he’s an arrogant dick, you can kick him out, no matter how internet famous he is, she reminded herself, eyes narrowing. You have the power here, medical board or no. 

She’d braided her hair that day, and it hung heavy over one shoulder. Beneath her white coat, she wore a blue silk blouse and fitted gray trousers with sensible heels. Her mother’s betrothal necklace was dangling from her throat as it always was, and she instinctively touched it with two fingers.

What if he knows Jet? Is there overlap between whatever this Aang guy does and MMA fighting?

“It doesn’t matter, Katara,” she said aloud, glaring at herself in the mirror, apparently a crazy person after all. “Because you’re a goddamned professional.” 

Med school and years of treating high-visibility athletes had taught her to be confident and assertive. After Jet, she’d sworn off taking on any other martial artist-type patients, but, well, that had probably been silly and short-sighted. The amount of testosterone-filled bullshit she’d experienced from that sphere of the sports world had been enough for a lifetime, but maybe Huria was right. Maybe Aang Gyatso would be different. 

And if he wasn’t, he could find himself another world-class Physiatrist.

Outside in the hallway, Huria and Agna were whispering excitedly behind the nurses' desks, watching something on a phone, and Katara cleared her throat. 

Huria quickly stuffed the phone away. “Oh, uh, hey Katara, he’s, uh, waiting for you in room three.” 

Katara retrieved his medical file from the basket and gave them both a stern look. “You two had better be behaving yourselves. No selfies.” 

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Agna said with a smile that Katara didn’t trust for a second. 

Katara sighed and tucked his chart under her arm, stepping past the counter and down the hall to knock on the door of exam room three.

“Come in,” a soft… chipper sort of baritone replied, and she stepped into the room. 

“Mr. Gyatso, I’m Dr. Katara Tariuq. I will be managing your rehabilitation,” she said brusquely. 

Her patient was seated on the exam table, his left leg encased in a bulky, hinged knee brace, and he gave her an awkward little wave. The tattoos were more interesting up close, comprised of swooping characters—not Chinese, she was almost certain, but something similar. He looked pale, wan, a shade of the vibrant man she’d seen in the video. He was wearing a saffron-colored sweater and red basketball-style shorts. The arrow tattoos also curled down his legs, she noted. 

She had expected someone to be with him. A family member, perhaps, a girlfriend or wife. But he was alone. 

“Hello, Dr. Tariuq,” he said, smiling at her warmly, though it was rather fleeting. He looked tired, his eyes kind but slightly unfocused. He had a nice voice, and there was no hint of impatient arrogance she’d often experienced when dealing with professional athletes. “Thank you for agreeing to see me. Everyone says you’re the best.” 

She gave him a polite smile and adjusted her glasses over her nose. “How are you feeling? How would you rate your current pain level, one to ten?”

He hesitated, and she narrowed her eyes. Athletes were notorious liars when it came to their own pain levels. “Maybe a… six? Seven? Doesn’t feel great.” 

She stepped forward to examine his toes that were poking out of the bottom of the brace. They appeared slightly swollen, which was to be expected. They were in good shape otherwise—male athletes had notoriously rough feet in her experience. “Are you still taking your painkillers as prescribed?”

He nodded slightly. He was looking at her very intently, as if studying her just as much as she was studying him. “Yes, though I’ve been trying to avoid the extra dose. Don’t love the way they make me feel.”

She made a note in his chart and then looked up to ask. “How are you sleeping?”

He huffed a humorless laugh, shifting his weight back on his hands. “I’ve definitely slept better.” His tone was dry, but…friendly. Everything about him radiated affability. He was larger, in person, tall, broad. But not intimidating, if anything, she got the impression that he was trying to take up as little space as possible. 

“Might be a good idea to take that extra dose before bed. Sleep is very important to your recovery,” she said, adding a touch of chastisement to her tone. 

He ducked his head and smirked. “Understood, doctor.” 

Katara set his file aside on the counter and pulled on a pair of gloves taken from the carton on the wall by the sink. “I’m going to take a look at the surgical site. This will probably be…uncomfortable.”

“I may feel some pressure, you mean?” A joke, and she found herself smiling back as she turned to drag her stool over to the left side of the table. 

“Exactly.”

As carefully as she could, she unclicked the heavy plastic buckles of the brace, pulling it apart. It reached from mid-calf to mid-thigh and was notoriously uncomfortable despite all the padding.  She heard him inhale deeply and exhale slowly as the brace eased away from his skin. Beneath the brace, his leg was wrapped tightly in a long ACE bandage. As she unwound it, the smell of iodine and the soap they used for surgical prep wafted through the room.

She observed the swelling of his thigh in contrast to his right leg—nearly double, but not unexpected. Carefully, she began to firmly squeeze his calf, eyes snapping to his face to try and detect any hint of discomfort—pain meant a blood clot. But he stared back at her steadily, breathing his long, carefully controlled breaths. 

Satisfied, she studied the gauze over his swollen knee. Perhaps a bit more swollen than she would have liked, and she frowned.

“Does that face mean we need to cut it off?” he asked, voice tighter, and she forced herself to smooth out her expression. 

“It's a bit more swollen than I’d like. I may have you come back in a couple of days to see if we need to drain some of the fluid.” 

He winced. “That involves a huge needle, doesn’t it?”

She smiled, beginning to carefully remove the tape holding down the iodine and blood-stained gauze. “Unfortunately.” 

He let out a strong puff of air as she pulled the tape free. His breath smelled of mint and lemon. “Sounds like a great time,” he managed, a strain in his voice, and she resisted the urge to pat him reassuringly on the leg.

The incision was grotesque to look at to the untrained eye, but his surgeon had done a great job of keeping the incisions small. The skin was a deeply bruised and puffy battlefield, held together by thick silver staples. 

“These are ready to come out,” she informed him, reaching for the alcohol prep pads on the medical tray behind her. 

“More pressure?” 

“Blinding, debilitating pain, actually,” she said, deadpan, and his face fell. 

“Oh,” he said, swallowing thickly.

She laughed, vaguely wondering what had gotten into her. “Joking. Maybe a bit of a pinch, but shouldn’t be too terrible.” 

He chuckled and shook his head, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I’ll try to keep my wailing under control then.”

She picked up the medical staple removers and got to work, being as gentle as possible. Most of the time, she had to remind her patients to breathe, but Aang was taking deep, even breaths, hitching only when she tugged too hard, otherwise impressively measured and controlled. The sound of his breathing and the soft clink of the staples as she set them aside were the only sounds. When she was done, she glanced up at his face and noticed he was sweating a bit under the fluorescent lights and looked a touch paler. 

“That’s the worst of it,” she said sympathetically.

He gave her a wavering smile. “And I didn’t even cry.” 

She laughed a little. “If you had, I promise I wouldn’t have told anyone.” 

He snorted quietly, watching her with a keen type of interest.

She lifted a fresh alcohol pad to clean the incision site and then began to apply bandage tape to the puffy lines of skin. When that was done, she moved to apply a much lighter layer of gauze over the top and then used a fresh ACE bandage to wrap his leg, lifting the limb carefully, noting the wince as she did so. This brought her very close to him, as she leaned across his body to maneuver the roll. He smelled nice, fresh laundry and a hint of incense…sandalwood maybe?

When she was done she pushed up her glasses, and asked, “When is your next dose of painkillers?” 

He let himself recline more on the table, clearly exhausted, eyes fluttering closed as he wet his lips. “Another twenty minutes.” 

“Do you have them with you?”

He patted the right pocket of his shorts, eliciting the unmistakable sound of pills in a bottle. 

She removed her gloves and retrieved one of the small paper cups from the cabinet, and filled it with a bit of tap water. “You should take the dose now.” 

He cracked an eye open, considering for a moment before fumbling to pull the bottle out of his pocket and retrieve a pill. She handed him the cup of water and disposed of it when he was done. Then she moved back to his side to secure the brace.   

She sat back on her stool. “Alright, Mr. Gyatso. Let’s talk about the next few months.” 

He pressed himself up higher on the table. “Just Aang is fine, doctor.” 

She gave him a slight smile as she rolled across the room to retrieve his file from the counter. “Aang then,” she amended. “Because of the bucket-handle tear in your meniscus, you are strictly non-weight-bearing for the next four and a half weeks. That means the crutches"—she pointed to where they were resting against the wall behind the exam table—"are not optional. If you try to stand on your left leg, you will snap the stitches the surgeon put in your cartilage, and you will be right back in the operating room, and I will be very perturbed. Understood?” 

He grinned, his color already improving. “Loud and clear, doctor. No standing. I’ve become very fond of sitting for the past ten days.” 

“Good. I want to see you again in two days to check that swelling, but otherwise, your only job for the next week is to keep that leg elevated above your heart to fight the swelling. And you have homework to do.”

He raised one dark brow. “Homework?”

She nodded. “Physical therapy…simple, but frustrating. I want you to do quad sets—squeeze your left thigh muscle as hard as you can, hold it for ten seconds, and release.” She fixed him with a hard stare. “And you need to do it a hundred times a day.”

His eyes widened a bit, and she added, “Your thigh muscle is already beginning to atrophy from the trauma. It’s going to feel like your brain is disconnected from your leg. Squeezing it keeps the muscle awake. It's the foundation for everything else we’re going to do over the coming months.” 

Determination was bleeding into his gaze, jawline clenching. “Okay. A hundred quad sets. I can do that.”

Something about his tone and look made heat curl up the back of her neck, prompting her to duck her head, spying the sticky note Huria had pressed onto the front page of his file. She cleared her throat. “Oh, and your manager told my medical assistant that you were hoping for a six-month timeline to get you cleared for your sponsorships."

He coughed, expression sheepish. “They’re uh, optimistic.”

“They’re delusional,” she told him pointedly. 

He swallowed, expression wavering for a moment. She took a deep breath. It was vitally important that he understood what was at stake, how hard this was going to be, and how long it was going to take. 

“I’m serious, Mr. Gyatso—”

“Aang,” he corrected gently. She might have been annoyed by the interruption, but his expression was attentive and respectful. 

“Aang,” she allowed. “I don’t care what your agents or managers say, and I don’t care what your sponsors want. A multi-ligament reconstruction for an elite athlete who relies on rotational pivoting is a nine-to-twelve-month recovery. If you try to do any spinning, or, I don’t know, acrobatics, it will explode, and your career will be over.” 

He drew in a deep breath, chest expanding, the muscles along his jaw fluttering. She added, “If you want to get back to fighting, or whatever it is you do, then I am the boss of your timeline.”

He gave her a sharp nod, and his expression reminded her of the one he’d worn in the video Huria had shown her. The look he’d worn right before a fight. “I know,” he said. “I’m not in a rush to ruin the surgeon’s hard work. I’m in your hands, Dr. Tariuq.” 

The unintended innuendo, which she normally would have brushed aside without a second thought, settled low in her stomach, and she sat straighter in her stool.  

“Right….good,” she said, wondering what in the hell her problem was. “Oh, I did notice you don’t have an emergency contact listed. Would you like me to add one for you?”

He frowned, eyes casting away in thought. “I guess… you can put my manager’s name down if I have to have one.”

“No family?” she blurted before she could stop herself. It wasn’t a professional or considerate question to ask. 

His smile was kind, reassuring, as if he knew what she was thinking. “Uh, no. My guardian died a few years back. I was, uh, raised by monks.”

Katara’s brow arched. “Raised by…monks?”

He chuckled at her tone, flashing a real smile that was disarmingly charming. Straight teeth and crinkled, gleaming eyes the color of storm clouds. “Yeah, it’s a whole thing. They brought me over when I was a kid. I was sort of their… prodigy.” 

Katara had no idea what to say to this, though her interest was certainly piqued. What kind of monks? Brought over from where? “I see, well. I’ll have our receptionist give you a call to set up your next series of appointments.” 

She considered him for a moment, eyes narrowing slightly. She could tell the narcotics had kicked in—his eyes were less focused and his shoulders less tense. Not that he could have driven anyway with his left leg completely locked. “How are you getting home?” 

“My manager is waiting out in the parking lot.” 

She pursed her lips, trying to fight back a sudden wave of empathy. There was something very…lonely about him. “I’ll have one of the nurses bring you a wheelchair. You look tired. Be sure to get some rest, Mr. Gy—I mean, Aang.”

He smiled, and it was a little dreamy. He looked younger with his facial features more relaxed. “Thank you, Doctor.” His tone was sincere and kind enough that she had to bite back a smile. 

She pulled herself to her feet and went to fetch Agna, and asked her to grab a wheelchair. Agna practically leapt to her feet, so eager to be of assistance that Katara rolled her eyes. 

Aang was attractive, she had to admit, but the fangirling was extreme. He was just a person, famous or no, and one who needed her help to get better. 

Back in her office, she sipped her coffee—cold now, of course—and watched from her window as Agna wheeled Aang out across the courtyard, his crutches laid across the arms of the wheelchair, the tattoo across his scalp bright in the sunlight. A man in a suit waited by a big black SUV, wearing a broad smile and dark sunglasses. Aang gave him a little wave.

The sympathy spiked again, a curse, really.

“Seeeee,” Huria said, stepping up beside her and nudging her. “He’s nice.”

Katara sighed and turned away, giving Huria a look. “For now, anyway. We’ll see how he does when he has to learn to walk again.” 

The intense physical therapy required would be the real test for all of them. 

She pursed her lips, doing her very best to put Aang Gyatso out of her mind. “Do you want to order lunch? I’m starving.”

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Later that night, curled up in bed, face mask on, hair washed and drying, Katara did something she’d promised herself she wouldn’t do: she typed his name into the browser search bar of her phone and hit enter. 

An absolute avalanche of information materialized, and she blinked, shaking her head in surprise. He was absolutely everywhere. 

According to one headline, he’d been set to star in a TV show before his injury; according to another, he was training to try and enter professional MMA—gross. He was a vegetarian. He owned a dojo in the city that was free for underprivileged kids. He volunteered. He attended protests.

Within the span of ten minutes, she was inundated with a wealth of information. It felt invasive…but in for a penny, in for a pound, or whatever. 

A video caught her attention. His face with the text ‘First Post-Op Appointment,’ and her finger hesitated over her screen for just a moment before curiosity got the best of her.

Aang’s face popped into view. He was sitting on a couch somewhere, presumably in his home. 

“Hey guys,” he said, looking just as tired as she remembered him, but his smile was also just as kind. “Just got done with my first post-op appointment. Really appreciate everyone’s concern and well-wishes. Things have been tough, but I’m doing really well. My new doctor is great, really fantastic. I think with her help, I’ll be able to make a full recovery.” 

Katara’s entire body warmed, and she clicked off the video, burrowing under her blankets, facemask and all. “What are you doing?” she demanded of herself under the stuffy confines of the comforter. 

Silla had told her recently, over wine and charcuterie, that she needed to get laid. Katara was starting to suspect she might be right. This was getting quickly out of hand.

She flung the comforter away. “He’s not even that good-looking,” she announced, but then immediately groaned at how bad a lie that was. 

She got to her feet, suddenly desperate for a glass of wine, and resolved to never stalk his social media again. 

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Four weeks later, Katara emerged from her office for Aang’s appointment to find a plate of cookies on a plastic platter with foil pulled partially aside, waiting on the nurses' counter.

“Who brought these in?” she asked, peering beneath the foil. Chocolate chip, her favorite. 

“Aang,” Huria said around her own mouthful of cookie. “Claims to have made them himself.” 

“Huh,” she said, brow creasing. They looked pretty good. 

“Well, uh, that's kind of him.” 

“He’s just, ugh, the sweetest,” Agna cooed, arching back dramatically in her chair. Huria laughed, and Katara snorted. 

“Yeah, yeah, he’s a far cry from that basketball player we treated six months ago, I’ll grant you that.” 

She’d started looking forward to his appointments. He was a star patient, attentive and obedient, with a good sense of humor. 

Today was going to be tough for him, however. 

“Knock, knock,” she said, easing the door open. 

“Hey, Doctor,” he said, tone cheerful. He was wearing a broad smile to match his bright yellow t-shirt and gray shorts.

“Hey, yourself,” she said, setting his file aside. “Big day today.” 

He nodded eagerly, the gesture boyish. “I get to bend my leg.” There was a hint of humor gleaming in his eyes, twitching at the corner of his mouth, and she pursed her lips to resist a smile. He was disarmingly charming as always. 

He had such an easy, open manner, it was increasingly hard not to grow comfortable—too comfortable.  

“You also have to stand on it,” she reminded him seriously. 

“I’m ready,” he said as Katara approached. She loosened the brace to check the incision first. The swelling was localized to his knee now, the bruises having mostly faded to a sickly sort of yellow. She pressed down on his thigh, fingers trailing up as she noted the muscle definition there with approval—he’d been doing his exercises. 

He inhaled sharply, and her eyes snapped up. “Is there pain?”

His eyes dipped away, jaw tightening and then relaxing as he took a deep breath. “Ah, no, maybe just a little soreness from the quad sets.” 

She hummed and grabbed the fresh ACE bandage to start rewrapping his leg. 

He cleared his throat as she worked and asked, “Did you try the cookies?” 

She smiled. “Not yet. The girls said you made them yourself.” She lifted his leg gently, hand sliding under his thigh, dragging the bandage with her. The smell of sandalwood was stronger today. Pleasant. 

“I did. I like baking.” His tone carried a hint of pride, which made her laugh slightly, and he chuckled in response. 

“I’ll have to try one then.” She secured the bandage and then tightened his brace again. With a show of finesse, she adjusted the dials on the brace that would allow him to bend his knee ninety degrees. 

She took a step back and extended her hands out to him. “Alright, the moment of truth. Are you ready?” 

Aang pushed himself upright, biceps flexing as he engaged his core to swing his legs over the side and carefully bent his knee. “It definitely feels like jelly.”

“I did warn you.” 

He huffed and then took her hands. They were large and warm, his tattoos lovely across the backs. She took another step back as he carefully rested his right foot on the ground first, easing himself away from the exam table, and Katara shifted to drag his left arm over her shoulder, which was awkward as he was a full head taller than her.

Tucked close to his side, she held him steady as he slowly, so slowly, put weight on his left foot. 

He sagged into her with a grunt, the weight of his arm across her shoulders pressing down on her, and she bent her knees to brace them both. He was very warm, and his hand hung down near her breast. “Sorry,” he mumbled, voice tight. 

“Don’t be sorry,” she all but snapped at him. “It’s my job. You just focus on not falling. I’ve got you.” 

He inhaled deeply in that way he had, steady and measured, and the weight on her shoulders eased until it was hardly there. She carefully extracted herself, keeping a grip on his bicep as she watched him. His face was serene, eyes fixed on a point on the wall behind her as he carefully straightened his spine. 

“Pain?” she asked, adjusting her glasses.

“A little,” he confessed. “Feels like a slight breeze could send me into space.” 

She huffed and crouched on the ground to press her fingers into his calf and down to his ankle—unconsciously following the curve of his tattoo. “Muscles look good, try to put more weight back on your heel. Yes, great. And wiggle your toes?” This almost sent him tumbling and his hand briefly landed on her shoulder to brace himself, but he managed to move his toes.

She lifted her head to smile up at him. “That’s great, Aang, those quad sets have really helped.” 

He swallowed, and there was something in his face that had her pushing up from the floor, flustered. He laughed, though it was a bit stilted. 

“Thanks, nice to have exercises I can do while I eat Doritos on the couch.”  It wasn’t his best joke, but it went a long way to easing the sudden, weird tension between them. 

“Alright, ready to try and walk?” 

Aang made a dejected sound at the back of his throat. “I mean, no time like the present, I suppose.” 

“That's the spirit,” she said and moved around the side of him to grab the bright blue gait belt from the wall behind him. “Alright, let me get this belt on you first, and we’ll take a nice, slow walk around the table. Arms up, please.”

He obeyed immediately, the nice clean scent of his deodorant washing over her, and she wrapped her arms around his waist, enclosing his hips with the belt. She felt him stiffen a little as she pressed lightly against him, securing the buckle before stepping away and to his left side. 

“I’m going to slip my hand under the belt to get a good grip, so if you fall, your waist doesn’t twist. You keep your hand on the table and go slowly. I’d tell you to remember to breathe, but I think you got that covered.” 

He looked a little surprised at that and then smiled. “Breathing is a big part of my practice, well, most martial arts practices, really.” He was babbling, and that was charming too.  

She smiled at him, bumping her hip against his, prompting him to wrap his arm over her shoulder again. Adjusting her stance, she slipped her hand along his back, fingers brushing just above the band of his shorts where his skin was warm and smooth, before gripping the belt tightly. 

He looked pointedly away from her, free hand splaying wide across the table. “Alright, slow and steady. You’ve got this.” 

He clenched his jaw, eyes narrowing, and it was her turn to look away, focusing instead on the way he slowly lifted his right foot and half-dragged his left to follow. His knee buckled slightly, but she was there to hold him steady. 

When they’d completed one lap around the table, his breathing was a bit heavier, and there was a gleam of perspiration across his brow. “Alright, big guy, now you have to make it over to the door.” 

Aang grunted a laugh, grimacing and shooting her a pained sort of smirk. “You are a demanding master, Doctor Tariuq.” 

She rolled her eyes and laughed. “Come on, I won’t let you fall.” 

“I’m a bit worried I might crush you,” he confessed, drawing his hand uncertainly away from the exam table. 

“I’m stronger than I look,” she insisted, mouth flattening. 

He flashed her another smirk, more charming than ever this close. “I have no doubt.” 

She narrowed her eyes at him. “You’re stalling.”

“Maybe a little,” he admitted with a true laugh and then sagged a bit in defeat. “Alright, here we go then.”

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The next day, Huria stepped into her office, the office phone pressed against her chest, and an uncertain look on her face. 

Katara looked up from the medical records and frowned. “What is it?” 

“Well, Mr. Gyatso’s team has, um, requested you for his concierge medical care.” 

Katara’s frown deepened. “They don’t have someone on staff already?” 

Huria shrugged helplessly. “Apparently…well, apparently Mr. Gyatso has requested you personally. He says… he says everyone else is trying to rush him to recovery. That you’re, uh, the only one that doesn’t see him as a paycheck they might miss.” 

Katara leaned back, surprised and trying to ignore the way her stomach fluttered. Particularly because that fluttery feeling was precisely why she should tell him no. His soft, easy smile and attentive face rose in her mind, and she recalled how lonely he’d looked that first day, being wheeled out to his manager. 

“Alright… I’ll do it,” she said, her mouth making up her mind before her head had really even wrapped itself around the idea.

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–

– 

Later that same week, she found herself outside a single-story, sprawling mid-century modern home tucked away into the hills and behind high privacy walls and an impressive amount of trees and shrubbery. Adjusting the duffle bag higher up her shoulder, she walked across the tree-shaded courtyard, a bubbling fountain at its center, her sneakers crunching in the gravel of the drive. She’d gone home to change after work and grab a quick bite to eat before heading over, wearing a pair of leggings and a long tunic-style shirt in deep blue, hair loose about her shoulders. 

The air was crisp and clear, the smell of damp earth coiling with the slightest hint of sandalwood. Up a few cobbled steps, she took a deep breath and knocked on the front door. A voice called something indistinct, and against the bird song and the fragrant wind tossing the tree branches, she heard the distinct squeak of crutches. 

The door opened, and Aang beamed brightly down at her, eyes gleaming. He pulled aside one of his crutches, tucking it under his arm so he could stand straighter. “Dr. Tariuq. Thank you so much for agreeing to come.”  

She smiled awkwardly back at him, nervously pressing her glasses up the bridge of her nose. He was such a presence sometimes that it threw her off-kilter, shifting the earth under her feet. It didn’t help that he was wearing some kind of open shirt thing that was tied loosely at his waist with baggy linen trousers, leaving much of his chest bare.

A very impressive chest, at that.  

“Happy to be of assistance,” she said as politely and professionally as she could manage after having just ogled her patient’s cleavage. 

His eyes crinkled with amusement, as if he could see right through her. “Please, come in.” 

She stepped through the door, angling her body carefully away from his and into one of the most beautiful living rooms she’d ever seen. It was like a cross between a greenhouse and a library. 

Three of the walls and much of the roof were paneled glass, letting in the fading light of the setting sun and looking out across a grassy meadow complete with a large koi pond and what appeared to be a separate studio space. Plants were everywhere, and between the plants were stacks and stacks of books. Low-profile couches were angled at the center of the room, a TV dangling from a pillar of the roof towards the far wall. 

A buzzer sounded, and she realized the air inside his home was distinctly sweet, like baked sugar. 

Aang shut the door, adjusted his crutches, and hobbled urgently across the room towards the kitchen set just off the main living space. Katara followed hesitantly after. The kitchen was large and open with a huge island that was cluttered with jars of loose-leaf teas, a beautiful ceramic matcha whisk, a huge basket of fresh fruit, and a stand mixer, its head lifted skyward, and the whisk attachment coated with batter. 

“I made brownies!” Aang said, maneuvering awkwardly to fish out a bright blue oven mitt and pull a baking dish from the oven. 

“Can I, uh, help?” 

He flashed her a smile over his shoulder. “You can help by eating one!” 

She shook her head, smiling. “Right now? They look rather hot.” 

He rolled his eyes at her as he set the dish down on the stove top. “No, after you’re done torturing me. They need to cool for a while.” 

He was different here, in his own space, much more relaxed and significantly more charming. This was such a bad idea, she told herself, shifting her weight uncertainly. 

Aang threw the oven mitt onto the counter and angled his head down the hall to his right. “Come on, figure we can do this in the gym.” 

Something about his tone made her face heat, and good God, she needed to get this over with so she could get out of here as fast as possible. 

Down a dimmer hallway, past a few closed doors, and then through a set of open double doors. The room was comprised of floor-to-ceiling clear glass for two walls that opened to an outside patio, letting in a cool, refreshing breeze. The sun had nearly set, and the crickets had begun to chirp in the grass. The opposing wall was a seamless, massive mirror, which would be exceptionally helpful with his physical therapy and reflected her own stunned expression at her. 

There was a Swedish Ladder bolted to the wall closest to the door, wooden rungs gleaming as Aang switched on the lights. A rack of sleek free weights next to a set of kettlebells was set against the mirrors. A high-end cable machine sat next to a Pilates reformer, and right at the center of the room was a professional PT table. She suspected this was a recent addition. 

“Martial Arts pays better than I thought,” she said before she could stop herself. 

He laughed, studying her in that way he had, intent, focused. “Some of it was an inheritance.” 

“Aren’t monks famous for their lack of worldly possessions?” 

His expression softened. “It was a trust they set up for me when it became clear I had no intention of becoming a monk myself.” 

She stepped across the room to set her bag on the PT table. “And the rest?” 

He shrugged, looking distinctly bashful, which was also annoyingly charming. He was so unlike the other professional athletes she’d worked with…unlike Jet. 

“Won a few big fights, blew up on the internet. It’s been a… wild few years.” 

She almost asked him about his injury; it was right on the tip of her tongue, but for some strange reason, it was like a barrier she’d built between them in her mind. If she didn’t ask, maybe she could retain what remained of her crumbling professionalism. 

“Alright, let's get that brace off and start with loosening those joints. On the table, please.” 

Over the next thirty minutes, she applied grueling physical torture to his knee. Massaging the buildup of scar tissue, digging her fingers roughly into his tight calf muscles, and forcing him to flex his knee up towards his chest. 

As she pressed his knee back, he arched with a groan, eyes screwed shut and face red, hands gripping the sides of the table. “I guess I wasn’t kidding about the torture,” he ground out.

“It gets easier,” she promised, trying to suppress her sympathy. She had to push him… it was the only way for him to heal.

He unscrewed one eye and shot her a smile that was more a grimace than anything else. “I trust you.” 

Katara swallowed against the sincerity in his voice, maybe pushing his leg a little higher than was entirely necessary to compensate for her own reaction. He whined, and she relented, easing his leg back to the table. His skin was smooth and slick beneath her hands, perspiration gleaming across his chest, and a very biological and undeniable warmth was spreading in her stomach. 

She swiftly moved away from him, wiping her hands off on her shirt. “Uh, okay, strength training next.” 

An hour later, Aang sank into a chair in the front room, the night spreading out beyond the glass walls. Soft lights gleamed from between tree trunks and swaying ferns, and the moon shone down on them from above. He groaned long and deep as he collapsed into the chair, still breathing heavily. 

Katara sat at his feet, legs crossed beneath her, and carefully began to remove his brace. 

“You know,” he said, “I’ve had some tough coaches and trainers over the years, but I think you could wipe the floor with them.” 

She smirked, easing the brace from under his thigh and then reaching for the ice sleeve that was connected to a machine that would pump ice-cold water against his joints. 

“You did really well, Aang,” she said kindly, and he really had. He’d never lost his temper or shouted at her—which had definitely happened in the past with other celebrity patients. And he hadn’t complained a single time, not even when she could tell his composure was dangling by a thread. The intensity of his focus was deeply admirable… and increasingly attractive. 

“Thanks, Dr. Tariuq,” he said, eyes closed. 

She flipped the switch on, filling the space with the soft hum of the machine. The only light was from the kitchen, casting long shadows across the room and into the forested darkness beyond. 

She wet her lips and settled back, wrapping her arms around her knees. “You can call me Katara,” she said. 

He cracked an eye open at her, and his teeth flashed against the shadows, but she couldn’t read his expression. “Doctor Katara?” 

She rolled her eyes. “Just Katara is fine.” It shouldn’t be, she knew that, but it was. She wanted it to be. 

His eye closed again. “Well, then, thank you, Katara.”  

–

–

–

It took her three weeks to finally ask him what she’d wanted to know since the day Huria had shown her the video of him fighting. 

“Your tattoos,” she said, watching him do a slight lunge, hovering at his side as he wavered. “Do they mean something?”  

He stilled slightly, shooting her a look. He was red-faced and sweating, but he’d come a long way in three short weeks. Things were getting a little easier.

“Yeah, um, they mean a lot of things. Prayers mostly. I don’t know what the majority of it says, to be honest. It's all in Tibetan, and we came here before I could really learn it.” He sounded sad at this.

“Oh, so it's a… Tibetan thing? I’ve never seen anything like them.” Her tone sounded more appreciative than she intended, and his look turned almost sharp, assessing, and she made a show of angling his hips with her hands. 

“Kind of,” he said after a long beat of silence. “More of a Tibetan thing for the particular school of Buddhism the monks raised me under, our Gompa. You, uh, get the tattoos when you master our specific martial arts style.” 

“They must have taken a long time.” 

Aang grunted and straightened, letting his head fall back as he took a few deep breaths. Katara traced a drop of sweat down the side of his face with a concerning amount of personal interest as it slipped down his jaw, suddenly reminding her of other situations that could make a man sweat. 

“About six years on and off,” he said, drawing her attention from her deeply and increasingly unprofessional thoughts.  

She cleared her throat. “How many other people have them? Do you know?” 

He tensed, his shoulders tightening, and he looked at her and away, turning to hobble carefully back towards the PT table. “Now? It's, uh, just me.” 

She frowned, turning towards him. A crisp evening breeze wafted through his training room, tossing tendrils of hair across her face, carrying with it the scent of grass and growing things. “What?” 

“Yeah,” he picked up a towel and scrubbed it over his face. “It's…complicated. Things were difficult back home. So as far as I know, there’s just me…” His tone was pained, his eyes more guarded than she had ever seen them.

“Is that why…”

“I got so famous?” he huffed, the sound rough as he leaned back against the table. She knew she should stop asking him so many personal questions, but it was like since the moment she’d met him, she’d been caught up in a river current she couldn’t escape. “It probably has quite a bit to do with it, yeah.”

His voice was so pained that she crossed the space between them and set a hand on his shoulder. His bicep flexed beneath her touch, corded with muscle, and his gaze snapped to her in surprise. “Aang, I’m…I’m really sorry.” 

He stilled, looking at her carefully, eyes searching her face before he seemed to shrink, the tension leaking from him beneath her hand. He hung his head slightly. “It's alright. Just kind of lonely sometimes. Hard being the last of something.” 

Her throat constricted, empathy a dagger between her ribs. “Yeah, I uh, can only imagine…” she managed lamely, as he held her stare, expression turning serious. Between one breath and the next, the air between them seemed to fizzle and spark. His eyes were such an interesting shade of gray, deeper now, focused— 

She sucked in a breath that burned and dropped her hand. 

“I should get going soon,” she stammered, starting to collect her things into her duffel bag.  

He nodded, looking away. “Or you could stay.” 

“I really have to—What?” Her heart tripped over itself in her chest as heat swept through her body like a tidal wave. 

He shrugged, smiling easily, casually. “Have dinner with me and watch a movie. Nothing weird, just…friendly.”

Her throat was suddenly very dry. “I’m your doctor.”

“I can’t be friends with my doctor?” He grinned at her so broadly that she could physically feel herself capitulating.

“I’m starting to think you could make friends with a rock,” she grumbled, and he laughed, a surprised bark that felt like a victory. He had a great laugh. Sweet and unassuming and free like the rest of him. 

She sobered a little as she considered his offer, ready to gently turn him down until his words echoed back at her: Just lonely sometimes. Hard being the last of something. 

“Alright, fine,” she said, defeated under his hopeful stare, telling herself she was just being nice. Supportive of her patient’s recovery. They could be friends… couldn’t they? “What are we eating?” 

Chapter Text

Without meaning to, spending time with Aang swiftly became part of Katara’s routine. They did his PT sessions three times a week, he made dinner after, and then they watched a movie. 

It was nice…really nice. Like they’d been friends for years, falling into an easy rhythm that was impossible for her to resist. There was just something about him, a warmth of spirit that drew her into his orbit. 

“What do you mean you’ve never seen Star Wars?” she said one night over spaghetti and vegetarian meatballs—he was also an annoyingly good cook. 

It was fully dark outside, the moon a sliver of white against the treeline, the breeze from the patio door behind him sweeping around her legs and rustling her hair. He always had his doors open, as if he were allergic to confined indoor spaces. He seemed like the kind of guy who would be happy sleeping outside or hiking some obscure mountain trail with nothing but the stars to guide him.   

Aang shrugged, leaning more than sitting on the stool at the kitchen island, his injured leg and its bulky brace extended out at an angle. “Raised by monks, remember?” he said with a smirk when he’d finished chewing. “They didn’t really believe in TV.” 

Katara swirled her fork on her plate and shook her head. “So what did you do?” 

He gestured at the living room behind her. “Read, mostly. Played outside. Generally made mischief.” 

She smirked at him. “What kind of mischief?”

He paused, eyes lifted as he considered. “Just…normal kid stuff, mostly. Playing pranks, skipping school, hanging out with friends.”

“Sneaking around with girls?” she teased and was gratified when he flushed.

“Not really, girls were generally repelled by my shaved head and inability to speak in their presence.”

“You seem to have improved.” She arched a brow at him meaningfully. 

They were flirting, and she shouldn’t be, but…it was intoxicating. Tempting. Another step down an unfamiliar path. 

He winked at her. “Years of intense practice and training. Still bald though.”

She considered him for a moment, pressing her glasses up her nose. “I assume it's part of,” she gestured at him, “everything? The shaving of your head?”

He chuckled and nodded. “Yeah, I, uh, decided pretty young I didn’t want to be a monk, but it's one of the ways I honor my heritage.”  He smirked at her. “It's supposed to let me feel the air better so I can sense the approach of my enemies.”

She blinked at him. “And does it?” 

He shrugged. “Who knows? But it's been about six years since someone beat me in a fight, so maybe it works.”

They spent a few moments eating in silence before she asked, “What about the Alien movies?” 

He quirked a brow in thought. “I think I’ve seen the first one?” 

She hummed, unsatisfied. “What’s your favorite movie so far?” 

“Uhhh, I really liked The Princess Bride?” 

She smiled; she loved that movie. “That’s a good one, I shall allow it.” 

He responded with a mock bow, bending slightly at the waist and ducking his head with a sweep of his arm. “What about you?” he asked when he straightened, wiping his mouth on a napkin. 

She finished chewing the food in her mouth. “What about me?” 

He rolled his eyes, but his expression was warm, almost affectionate. “What is your favorite movie?” 

“Oh.” She flushed, looking away and at her plate. “Well, I guess… The Mummy is pretty high up there.” 

He beamed, as though he’d extracted some profound treasure. “Perfect, we can watch that tonight.”

She chuckled. “Okay, but we really do need to have you watch the Star Wars movies. Some very key pop culture references you’re missing out on.”

“I didn’t take you for such a nerd,” he teased, and she flashed him a glare. He lifted his hands, amusement written all over his face and dancing in his eyes. “I like it, it’s cute.” 

She flushed again and stood, crossing the kitchen to wash her empty plate in the sink, her back turned to him, where he couldn’t see her blush. 

He did that sometimes. Dropped little compliments like landmines. Nothing that couldn’t be laughed away or brushed aside, but they lingered under her skin, grew roots in her mind to be dissected later when she was alone. 

He cooked, she did the dishes. It was deeply domestic and comfortable, and she was exerting a great deal of mental willpower not to reflect on it too hard. Some part of her craved it, had desperately wanted something like it for years. 

She was walking a very fine and dangerous line. 

She had crossed several boundaries the medical board would frown upon, but she was still in control. Still perfectly capable of maintaining a careful distance. Her growing levels of attraction to him notwithstanding. 

The sound of his fork being set on his plate had her turning to take his dish. He was watching her intently—smile friendly but eyes assessing, so she astutely avoided them. She constantly felt like he could read her mind, see past her defenses. It was both infuriating and intoxicating—to be seen. She felt like it had been ages and ages since someone wanted to get to know her.  

She took his plate, and he grabbed his crutches to amble over to the couches to set the movie up. Every night he always took one couch, she the other, and nary did they stray. Never mind that she would glance over at him, painted in the shifting colors of whatever movie they were watching, and imagine what it might be like to lie in the curve of his arm. Hear his heart beating under her head. Feel his arm wrap around her, feel his lips—

The dish in her hands nearly slipped from her fingers, and she managed to pull herself together. She proceeded to have the same internal argument she had with herself every night—she should leave, reestablish more professional boundaries between them, but…he wasn’t the only one who was lonely, she’d realized. 

They felt like two people who’d been adrift for a long time, looking for somewhere to come ashore. Whether that shore was a safe one… was left to be seen. 

“Oh! Brendan Fraser!” Aang called from the living room. “I liked him in that Bedazzled movie.”

“That's a good one,” she called back, loading the dishes in the dishwasher and setting it to run as she grabbed a water bottle for each of them from the fridge.  

Once in the living room, she passed him his, and their hands brushed, the rough pads of his fingers running over the back of her knuckles, and her physical reaction was so strong that she nearly dropped the bottle. She snatched her hand back, and she could feel his eyes on her as she made a hasty retreat across the room to burrow in what had become her blanket, feeling like the world’s biggest idiot. 

The brush of his hand? Seriously, Katara? What are you, a character on fucking Bridgerton?

He started the movie, and she glanced over at him, sprawled out on the cushions, leg elevated on a teetering stack of pillows, limb encased in the ice sleeve as the machine hummed quietly on the floor beside him. One of his arms was lifted back over his shoulder to drape over the side of the couch, casting the hard, curved lines of his biceps in relief. 

His arms were something of a weak spot for her—she knew from experience how velvety soft the undersides were, the way the muscles felt when they flexed with exertion. 

He glanced over at her suddenly, freezing her as she curled up tighter beneath the blanket, glasses digging into the bridge of her nose. 

There was something almost…inviting in his eyes, in the way he scooted over just a little bit. She looked hastily away, pretending to watch a movie she’d seen a hundred times, and in that moment, probably couldn’t have given a single fact about—hot and deeply bothered on the other side of his living room. It might as well have been an ocean between them.   

It sometimes felt like he was…leaving a door open for her, warm and tempting, just waiting to see if she would walk through it. 

She was terrified of what she might find on the other side. 

–

–

–

Some nights they sat out on the patio and listened to the crickets chirp, and the wind sing through the valley. The air was balmy and sweet. His home was like an oasis carved out in the confines of a city that often felt oppressive to her. So peaceful and calm—it had been a long time since she’d felt so at ease with another person, particularly another person’s space. Alarm bells sounded every time she stepped through his door, but they were becoming easier and easier to ignore. 

She wanted to be here. She liked spending time with him. 

“So,” Aang said, reclining in the cushioned patio chair, his dinner plate on the side table next to him. Warm amber light from the kitchen behind him reflected off his scalp and across his broad, partially bared shoulders, lining him in gold. “Did you always want to be a doctor?”

She stiffened a little, drawing her knees up to her chest as she looked out across the yard beyond. The grass swayed, fireflies twinkling lazily among the feathered strands, and moonlight shimmered on the face of the koi pond as the fish within darted to the surface. 

“My family has a long history of doctors,” she said at last, fingers lifting to touch her mother’s necklace, a motion she knew he tracked with the glint of his eyes in the dark. “My mother and my grandmother were surgeons.” 

He hummed, shifting a little in his chair. “And you chose to be a physiatrist? Why?”

She chuckled, but it was a dry, gruff sound as she rested her chin in the valley of her knees. “Yeah… I just. I started on the surgeon’s track but…” She paused, considering how to articulate her feelings. “I guess I wanted to help people. Not nameless, faceless patients that I cut up and shoved out the door.” She gestured broadly, struggling with her words. “I wanted to deal with the aftermath of the surgery. The long, hard road to healing. It's not as glamorous, maybe, but it always felt just as important… maybe more important.” 

She glanced over at him, and he was looking at her in a way that she couldn’t interpret but made her feel hot around the collar of her sweatshirt. Serious and intent, like she was a problem to be solved or a mystery to unravel.

“What?” she asked, arms tightening around her knees as she looked over the rim of her glasses at him, casting him in a hazy glow.

He offered a slow, soft smile, the corners of his eyes crinkling in the dim light. "Nothing," he murmured, his voice pitching just low enough to blend with the rustle of the grass. "It just makes perfect sense."

She blinked, caught off guard. "What does?"

"You," he said simply. "A surgeon fixes the machine, but you… you put the person back together. From what I've seen over the last few months, you have way too much heart to just stitch someone up and walk away."

She looked away, unable to bear the warm weight of his words as they settled against her chest. “Sometimes I think it's my heart that gets me into the most trouble,” she confessed.

His chuckle was smooth, like water rushing over stones. “I suppose our hearts usually do get us into the most trouble…but they also tend to point us in the direction we need to go. Show us where we are meant to be.” He was such an interesting mix of boyish enthusiasm and monkish wisdom that she never knew quite how to react when he spouted something profound. 

She managed to look back at him, the gentleness of his gaze a caress in the darkness. A hand held out across the divide, the words he hadn’t said lingering between them: It brought you here.

She just wasn’t sure whether or not that was a good thing. 

–

–

–

Two weeks later, Aang introduced Mario Kart into their evenings, and all attempts at professionalism dissolved in the face of sheer competition. She’d always hated to lose.

“How are you so good at this?” Katara snapped, eyes glued to the split screen. “The monks didn’t have TV, but somehow you’re an expert Mario Kart racer?”

Aang laughed, and she could see him from the corner of her eye, seated beside her and biting his lip in concentration. He was in first, and she was in third, but she was absolutely making her way back for a heroic victory. “I used to sneak over to the local arcade and play every day after school.”

She scoffed, her entire body angled sideways as she drifted through a turn. “So you hustled me, is what you’re saying?”

He snorted, then shouted “Hey!” when she leaned back and nudged his hands with an elbow. 

She smirked and shifted out of the way to avoid his rebuttal, angling her body half off the couch, weight braced on her knees as she held her controller aloft. Practically shaking with excitement, she slipped into second place and launched the red shell she’d been hanging onto just for him. 

As the shell sailed across her screen, she noticed his character—Yoshi— was veering oddly to one side, but then the shell struck him, and she whooped as she sailed past him and through the finish line. She whirled on him, elated with victory, and pushed at his chest with a hand. “Take that, sucker!” 

His eyes snapped up to her face, and she noticed there was color high in his cheeks. His grip on the controller was going slack, his jaw falling slightly open. She was kneeling above him, hovering in his space, and she could feel the heat radiating off him in waves—inviting, so terribly inviting. 

The darkness of his eyes had her throat clenching in time with her thighs, and the desire to press him back and spread her body over his was so strong she almost couldn’t breathe. Her head ducked towards his, glasses slipping down her nose. 

Desire was as thick as warmed honey in her veins, and it was beginning to pool between her legs. Beneath her fingers, she could feel his heart thundering erratically, and his eyes dipped to her lips.

Her phone buzzed on the coffee table, making her jump and snapping her back to reality. She nearly fell off the couch, legs tangling together in her rush to snap it up. Heart racing, she saw it was her brother and answered the call. 

“Hey, stupid,” Sokka said immediately. She could hear a TV or something playing in the background as she tried to steady her uneven breathing—she was quite literally aching.

She wet her lips and flicked her gaze to Aang, who was sitting behind her, rubbing his palms across his thighs, eyes averted. 

“What do you want, Sokka?”

“Sheesh, testy. Suki says you have to come out with us on Friday because you never come out anymore or something.” Suki’s voice layered over his, “Please come, Katara! I miss you! Pleeeeease?” 

Katara folded her free arm over her chest, tucking it against her side, and paced a little away. The room felt colder the further away from Aang she moved, like stepping from the sunlight into the shade.  “Oh, um, I have work that night.” 

“Right, right, we know, your mysterious celebrity patient. But you could come out after.”  

She considered this for a moment and realized, taking into account she’d been ready to dryhump her patient on his couch about ten seconds prior, it was probably a good idea that she get some distance. “Yeah, okay, I will be there.” 

“She says she’ll go,” Sokka shouted in her ear, and she angled her phone away with a grimace as Suki cheered. “I’ll text you the details later,” he said at a more reasonable volume. 

“Sounds good,” she said, and she could feel Aang’s eyes on her.

“Love you or whatever,” Sokka said. 

She smiled despite herself, ducking her head. “Yeah, yeah, yeah, love you too.”  

She hung up her phone, slipped it into her back pocket, and plastered a smile on her face before turning back around, determined to ignore the massive elephant in the room. 

“Who was that?” Aang asked immediately, sitting a bit stiffly on the couch, back straight, hands clasped between his knees as he leaned forward on his elbows. 

“Just my brother, Sokka.” 

His shoulders relaxed at the word, and his expression brightened. “I didn’t know you had a brother.” 

She shrugged and started gathering her things. “Yeah, he's two years older.”

“Are the two of you close?”

She smiled to herself. “Yeah… yeah, we’re pretty close.” She loved her stupid big brother, even when he was driving her insane. Sometimes it felt like he was all she really had. 

Aang’s smile was sweet but guarded, and he pushed himself awkwardly to his feet, snatching up the crutches that were leaning over the back of the couch. 

“He, um, invited me out with him and his girlfriend Friday night,” she said, slinging her duffle over her shoulder. “So I will have to leave after our PT session.” 

He stopped a little away from her and nodded, pleasant, unfazed. “Sounds fun.”

“Yeah,” she managed, shifting her weight as she hovered near the front entrance. 

“I’ll, uh, see you then. On Friday, I mean,” he offered, voice strained. 

Katara looked at him then, haloed in the warm light of the kitchen bulb, and read the loneliness in him. Felt the tether between them and the reluctance to miss out on one of their evenings together. No one had ever come by while she was here, and she wasn’t sure if that was by design or if he was just generally alone. It made her heart hurt.

“You could come with me,” she blurted before she could think better of it. 

He looked surprised, eyes widening, back straightening slightly. “Oh, I uh, don’t want to intrude.” 

She tucked her hair behind her ear. “Oh, you’re not, but if you don’t want to go, I totally understand—”

“No, I do,” he interrupted hastily, a much brighter, less affected smile growing on his face. “I would love to come.” 

Her chest felt light, full of excitement and no small amount of nerves. She was just crossing one line in the sand after another. “Okay, I’ll um text you with the details.”

He nodded, face open and eager. “Sounds good. You have my number.”

“I, uh, do yeah.” Because she was his doctor, a fact that was becoming harder and harder to remember. 

-

-

-

The next day, Katara turned a corner in the office and nearly collided with the nurses' counter. She cursed, disoriented, and Huria narrowed her eyes at her from behind a computer monitor.

“You’re being weird,” she said, drawing Agna’s attention. “You’ve been weird all day.”

Katara lifted her chin and adjusted her lab coat. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Earlier, you forgot to put a pod in the coffee maker and walked around drinking hot water for thirty minutes before you realized,” Huria said.

“Oh!” Agna said, rolling her chair closer. “And then you mixed up two patients and nearly sent one of them to the hospital because you couldn’t find their nonexistent shoulder sutures.”

“Oh, oh! And remember when she was getting her lunch, and she couldn’t find her glasses even when they were literally—“

“Okay!” Katara interrupted. “Maybe I have been a bit distracted today.”

Both women pursed their lips at her, and Huria tapped at her chin with a pen. “Gotta be a dude,” she said to Agna, and the other woman laughed.

“Oh yeah, definitely a dude,” Agna agreed, and heat flooded Katara from the top of her head to the bottoms of her feet.

“There’s no dude,” she hissed, all but throwing a patient file into the ‘Out’ basket. “I’m just tired.”

Huria’s eyes twinkled with excitement and disbelief. “Whatever you say, boss.”

Katara rolled her eyes and made a swift retreat towards her office, trying to convince herself she was in no way incredibly obvious about what was clearly a developing crush. 

-

-

-

“Hold it for ten more seconds, Aang, you got this,” Katara said, tone firm, unyielding, watching as Aang squatted in a shallow crouch against the wall. 

His face was red and sweaty as he breathed through the discomfort; his bad leg was trembling, and she was holding his calf steady so it didn’t twist. He had graduated the previous week to a smaller, lighter brace and would be able to forgo one entirely in just a few short weeks. 

“That's great, you’re doing really great,” she said, eyes locked on his scarred knee. “Okay. Okay, that's good. I think we can stop here for today.” 

He gasped in relief, using his hands to push himself up and away from the wall as Katara rose and moved back a step. He accepted the towel she swiped from over her shoulder, scrubbing it over his face and head. 

She glanced down at her watch, pushing her glasses up with a knuckle. “You’re sure you still want to come?” 

His head tilted back, his hands braced on his hips, and he threw her a look. “I’m sure. But I definitely need to shower.” 

She wrinkled her nose and chuckled. “Yeah, I still need to change. I figured we could call an Uber or something? 

He grabbed his crutches from the wall. “Sounds good, won’t take me long to clean up.” 

Katara nodded and hurried down the hall to the guest bathroom with her customary duffel bag. He headed in the opposite direction towards a bedroom she’d never seen—she took a moment to appreciate the way he moved as he walked away from her, somehow graceful even with his injury. 

Inside the bathroom, she unzipped the duffel and began removing clothing. She had spent an embarrassing amount of time trying to decide what to wear—her room looked like a bomb had gone off. 

She’d finally settled on a sleek, form-fitting body suit with long sleeves and a scooped neck in a deep sapphire blue, paired with high-waisted, vintage wash jeans in a classic figure-hugging straight leg. After much debate, she’d also decided to bring her slightly cropped black motorcycle jacket for a bit of edge, as well as black leather ankle boots with a slight heel.  

Once dressed, she carefully unraveled her braid, fluffing out the curling strands of her hair, then put in her contacts before applying a fresh coat of mascara, a bit of blush, and berry-purple lip oil. By the time she was done, her hands were shaking, and she took a moment to grip the counter, drop her head to her chest, and breathe. 

It wasn’t a date.

It was just two…friends going out for a few drinks with her brother and his girlfriend. There was nothing to be nervous about. 

She opened her eyes and studied herself in the mirror, angry at herself for wanting to look pretty for him—— for hoping he would notice her as much as she couldn’t help but notice him. He was always so…controlled. Careful. What would it be like if all that restraint snapped? Some dark, reckless part of her was desperate to find out. 

He was waiting for her in the foyer. 

He had on a burnt-orange beanie, a fitted charcoal-gray sweatshirt, baggy acid-wash jeans, and old-school classic vans. He was leaning on one crutch, flicking through his phone, when the sound of her heels drew his attention, and he noticeably froze. His eyes swept up her body, leaving a trail of heat wherever they lingered, before meeting hers. His throat bobbed as he shoved his phone awkwardly in his back pocket. 

“You, uh, took your glasses off,” he said, voice hoarse for a moment before he cleared it. 

She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, shifting her purse over her shoulder. “Uh, yeah. Contacts. Just too lazy to wear them most of the time.” 

He coughed into his fist, adjusting his other crutch under his arm. “I ordered us an Uber, should be here any minute.” 

“I like your hat,” she said, and he flushed, smoothing a hand over the beanie. 

“The arrows make me pretty recognizable, and I would rather not ruin our evening out by being recognized.” 

She tilted her head, lips pursed at him. “That famous, huh?”

He shrugged, clearly uncomfortable with the idea as he shifted his weight awkwardly on his injured leg. “More than I would like, most of the time. Though most people are nice, just… trying to keep a low profile.”

Her lips curled up into a smile. “I’ll do my best to protect you from your fan girls.”

He laughed and rolled his eyes. “I have crutches, I can use them to beat them back.”

Her eyes crinkled with amusement and growing warmth. She wanted to tuck herself into his side and rest a possessive hand on his chest, feel his arm curve around her. 

His phone vibrated, the sound muffled as he tugged it free. “Ride’s here,” he said, eyes flicking back to hers, and he must have felt it too. The tension between them. The promise of something more that was becoming harder and harder to ignore. 

When the car pulled up the drive, Aang slid awkwardly into the front seat, Katara holding onto his crutches in the back. He, of course, bonded immediately with their driver. Katara leaned her head back and watched his hand gestures and caught the flash of his smile in the streetlights as they whizzed past. The smell of him filled the car. Citrus and sandalwood, and she wanted to wrap herself in it—in him,

Pull it together, she chastised herself firmly, turning her head to stare blankly out the window.

Storm clouds were building overhead as they pulled up in front of her brother’s favorite dive bar. She’d had her first drink here. Sokka had taught her to play darts and pool, but sometimes it felt like something from a different life, one she couldn’t quite remember.  

Standing on the sidewalk, thunder rumbled in warning, and Katara tipped her face up, breathing in the smell of coming rain mixed with petrol and fried food as Aang leaned into his crutches.

“Sorry about my brother in advance,” she told him as she led him towards the door of the bar and the sound of thudding music. 

“Overly protective?”

“Overly stupid, mostly.” 

Aang snorted as she held open the door for him, the smell of stale beer and Pinesol washing over them. 

The bar was dimly lit with a long bar to the right and a row of booths to the left. There was a collection of pool tables and dart boards in the back and a scattering of standing tables littered like sticky islands in a sea of shifting bodies. The jukebox was in one corner, and Katara recognized Suki immediately. 

Katara led Aang through the crowd—it was busy, busier than she was used to—and tapped Suki on the shoulder. The other girl whirled and then leapt at her with a smile. 

“You’re here! I’ve missed you!” She smelled like sunlight and vanilla, and when she pulled away, her lips were shiny with lip gloss, and her eyes glittered with duochrome eyeshadow. Her eyes darted immediately to Aang hovering behind her, widening as she practically shoved Katara to one side. 

“Who is this?”

Katara rolled her eyes. “Suki, this is my friend Aang, Aang, this is Suki, my brother’s girlfriend.”

Aang stood a bit straighter and extended a hand, which Suki shook with an unnecessary amount of enthusiasm. Suki took in his crutches, and she shot Katara a look. “Oh! Is this–” She broke off when Katara gave a sharp shake of her head. “Er, right. Well. It’s really great to meet you, Aang! Come on, Sokka managed to snag a booth for us.” 

Her brother was frowning at his phone when they approached, and his face went through an amusing progression of emotions as he lifted his head—happiness, confusion, and then annoying brotherly concern. He pushed away from the table and rose to his full height, which was a few inches shorter than Aang. Katara could tell this immediately bothered him. 

Men.  

Katara sighed. “Sokka, this is my friend Aang. Aang, this is my annoying big brother, who I am sure is not about to act like an overprotective jerk.” 

Sokka shot her a petulant glare and stuck out his hand. “Hey man, nice to meet you. If you’re friends with my sister, that’s probably a cry for help.” 

He and Aang shook hands, and Aang said, “Great to meet you, and nothing wrong with being protective of the people we care about.” He shot Katara a wink. 

Katara jabbed her brother in the kidney, and he grunted and said, “I’ll get you your Old Fashioned, you crotchety old man. You want a beer or something, Aang?”

“Um, a Blue Moon if they have it, but I’m not picky.” 

“Come on, Suki,” Sokka said, dragging at his girlfriend's hand. “Help me carry everything.”

“Your brother seems cool,” Aang remarked once they were gone, grunting a bit as he awkwardly lowered himself onto the bench, handing Katara his crutches. She slid them across his lap and then sat next to him, thigh to thigh in the confined space. 

“He’s alright when he’s not driving me nuts.”

He grinned down at her, balancing his chin on a fist, elbow bent on the table. The very tip of the arrow on his forehead peeked out beneath the beanie, and she had the urge to touch it.

“That's siblings, I guess?” he said. “Never had any myself, but it seems…nice.” His tone was wistful as he adjusted the beanie over his head. 

She softened and looked up at him. This close to him, the warmth of his body sinking into her through their clothes, it was impossible to pretend she wasn’t attracted to him. During their PT sessions, she was generally able to rely on her professional competence to keep herself in check, but there was none of that between them now. Nothing but the walls she was fighting desperately to keep intact. 

She looked away, gripping his crutches together in her lap. “He and my college friend Silla are about the only people I really hang out with anymore.”

“And me,” he added, and she couldn’t help but smile. 

“And you,” she amended.

“Too busy with work for an active social life?” he pressed, and she shrugged, shifting her weight, bringing their thighs flush for a moment before she snapped her legs together.

“Yeah…something like that. Just years of being busy and then a bad breakup, and everyone just kind of…fell away.” The old pain was still there, a scar on her heart she wasn’t sure would ever fully heal. 

She glanced at him. “What about you? I figured a big famous internet star like yourself would have a horde of friends and sycophants.” 

He made a pained expression, looking away and at his free hand splayed on the table. “I have a few friends, they’ve stopped by a few times, but I learned pretty quickly when I started to get more famous that people are pretty eager to use that fame for themselves.”

“I bet,” she said, letting sympathy leak into her voice, and he gave her a sidelong smirk. 

“Now I just have to badger my doctors into being my friends.”

She raised a brow. “Doctors, huh?”

He chuckled and nudged her with an elbow. “Excuse me, doctor.” His smile faded a little, and sincerity bled into his playful, easy expression. “Thank you for inviting me tonight. It’s nice to get out of the house.”

She flushed a little, grateful when she saw her brother and Suki making their way back to them. “You’re welcome,” she managed, brushing the hair from her face and watching him track the movement. 

It took a beer and a half for Sokka to realize who Aang was, and his protective demeanor shifted. “Holy shit, so this is who your big famous–” he started before Katara cut him off with the same look she’d given Suki. “Er, right, confidentiality and all that. You’re amazing, dude.” 

Aang set his beer down and smiled. “Thanks, man. Hopefully with your sister’s help, I’ll be able to get back to it someday.”

“Oh, Katara is the best,” Suki gushed.

Aang’s smile deepened, shifted. “She really is.” 

Sokka rolled his eyes. “Yeah, yeah, whatever, so tell me about fighting Zuko, that was insane.”

Katara, for her part, drank more than she might normally have. Anxiety and tension drove her from three to four to five drinks, until she was pleasantly warm and fuzzy around the edges. The bar was hot, brimming with bodies and conversations that threaded around her, indistinct, as music—some rock ballad—thumped counterpoint. Melting ice clinked in her glass, and desire fizzled in her blood. 

She leaned into Aang’s side as Suki dragged Sokka towards the pool tables for a round, her head finding the curve of his shoulder. She felt him stiffen a little, heard his harsh inhale, before he carefully wrapped an arm around her waist, sending sparks of heat shooting like fireworks under her skin. 

It felt right. Perfect. 

“Alright?” he asked, voice a rumble under her ear, and all she wanted to do was snuggle in closer. 

“Yeah, just…a little tired,” she lied, careful not to look up at him. Not this close. This close, she might do something really stupid like try to kiss him.  

His hand was at her hip, caught under her jacket, and his thumb rubbed back and forth just above the top of her jeans, the contact electrifying even through her body suit. She very much wanted to feel his hands in other places—had in fact spent many lonely nights tossing in her bed, wondering how his long, thick fingers might feel pressing inside her. 

She swallowed heavily and tipped her head back. He was there waiting for her—it felt like maybe he’d always been waiting for her. Eyes dark as they swept over her face, his lips slightly parted. He looked as drunk as she felt, despite having had only one beer. Drunk on her, maybe.

“You’ve had quite a bit to drink,” he said softly. 

“So?” Her eyes were trained on his lips. They were full and incredibly soft-looking. She wanted to taste him so badly her mouth watered.  

“So…I don’t want you to do anything you’ll regret later.” His voice sounded pained, his fingers digging into her hip before easing. He lifted his free hand to gently—so incredibly gently—brush a few strands of hair from her eyes. 

Had anyone ever looked at her the way he was looking at her now, she wondered dizzily. Like something precious. Something dear.

He glanced up and stiffened, shifting her slightly away from him. “And your brother is headed back this way.” 

“My brother is stupid,” she grumbled and started to move away, but not before he planted a burning kiss to the side of her temple, lips a brand of heat against her skin that had her toes curling in her boots. 

God, she thought, dazed, I want him so badly. 

By the time Suki was sliding into the booth, flushed and smiling, Katara and Aang were sitting carefully apart, thighs just touching beneath the table. Sokka narrowed his eyes a little as he glanced between them before saying, “Dad just texted me.” 

The hazy warmth of the whiskey in her veins cooled instantly, and her hands clenched tightly on Aang’s crutches. “He called me last week.”

Her brother fixed her with a hard look. “He said you weren’t planning on coming down in a few months.” 

Katara looked away, lifting a hand to bring her nearly empty drink to her lips and swallowing what little remained. “Yeah, I’m busy with work.” Her voice had taken on a hard edge, and the growing heat she’d felt from Aang’s touch had all but evaporated under the powerful, undeniable force of her grief. The transition was enough to make her stomach lurch, as though she’d just fallen from a great height. 

Sokka’s eyes flashed, angry. “Katara, it’s mom’s–” 

Katara slammed her glass down, startling Suki. “I need to use the bathroom,” she snapped and lurched to her feet, sending the crutches to the floor, but she didn’t stop, making a blind dash for the bathrooms as tears pricked.  

She made it across the room and to a stall before the first tears slipped free, and she brushed them angrily away as she latched the door. She collapsed on the toilet seat and put her head in her hands. 

How dare Sokka bring up mom here, now, when she was finally…finally what? About to cross a massive ethical line with one of her patients? The thought merely enraged her further. She was so tired of being perfect and accommodating and doing everything right only to be miserable and broken and alone anyway. 

Didn’t she deserve something good and nice? 

She pulled her phone out of her pocket and found Aang’s contact number and typed: I want to leave. Meet me outside?

The three little dots popped up immediately. If that's what you want. Your brother is pretty upset.

She sniffled. Tell him I’m sick or something. I can’t have this conversation with him right now. 

The bathroom smelled terrible, and the sounds of loudly drunk female voices were grating, and she just wanted to be back in Aang’s arms, pretending for a few precious moments that everything was fine. That she was fine. 

I’m outside the bathrooms.

Her heart skipped, her emotions so erratic she almost felt sick. She forced herself out of the stall to wipe the mascara out from under her eyes before launching herself out into the hallway beyond. A couple was making out furiously right outside the door, and she had to step around them to find Aang, hovering with his crutches, face cast in shadow. Guilt and embarrassment rose like bile in her throat as she forced herself to approach him. 

“Hey, Aang,” she said, tentative. Unsure. 

He lifted his head, worry and affection bright in his eyes, and he reached out a hand to ghost along her arm through her jacket before letting it fall quickly away. “Hey, Katara.” His voice was so soft, so full of care, that tears welled again. “I ordered an Uber, hope that's okay.”

“Yeah,” she lifted her arms to wrap around herself. “I’m really sorry…I just—”

“Hey,” his hand rested on her shoulder, and he waited until she met his eyes again. “You don’t have to apologize to me. Grief is… It's really hard, and it's rarely convenient. If it helps, I can tell your brother felt bad. Told me to look after you.”

She rubbed her jacket over her nose, taking a steadying breath. “I’ll call him tomorrow.”

His fingers squeezed her shoulder before he removed the comforting weight. She was no longer fuzzy and warm; now she just felt drunk and hollow, and desperately in need of someone to hold her. 

“Come on, the cab will be here any second,” he lifted his chin towards the back door. 

The hall was narrow and full enough that he had to tuck one of his crutches under his arm to hobble awkwardly outside. The air—not exactly fresh, smelling faintly of sewage and rotting garbage—went a long way to clear her head, especially as it started to sprinkle. Little wet kisses, and she turned her face upwards, letting them dot her cheeks and forehead. 

When she dropped her chin and opened her eyes, Aang was staring at her, looking a little amazed. “You’re beautiful, Katara,” he said, voice choked, and heat suffused her body. 

“I did it for you,” she blurted, watching with fascination as color bled into his cheeks. 

He angled his body towards her, frustration creasing his brow as he navigated his bum knee, before lifting a hand to cup her jaw, thumb brushing over her damp cheek. The touch woke something in her, something hopeful and scared and desperate. 

“Aang,” she murmured, eyes lidded, and she saw the war in his eyes as he pulled his hand away. 

“Cab’s here,” he croaked, the conflict still bright in his eyes. She knew he didn’t want to take advantage of her inebriated state, and there was nothing in the world she wanted more than for him to do exactly that. 

Ignoring his injury, he helped her into the backseat, but this time he climbed in with her, despite the discomfort of having his knee bent. He slid the crutches across their laps and thanked their driver as her head immediately found purchase on his shoulder. He lifted an arm, adjusting her against him, a large hand encasing her bicep. Steady and comforting.

He made her feel so safe.

She was back to floating, untethered save for his arm around her as the car drew them through the city. If she could have stayed in that moment forever, tucked into his side, breathing him in, she would have. 

When they arrived back at his house, it was raining hard, and they rushed out of the cab—as much as a man with crutches could rush—and stood drenched and smiling in the foyer. She slung off her jacket, letting it fall with a wet clunk to the ground, wavering on her heels in the near darkness. Lightning crashed, turning his eyes briefly to molten silver. 

“You’re staying here,” he told her gently, in contrast to the heat in his eyes, reaching out to steady her. 

“With you?” she asked, water dripping from her hair and down his face. 

She took a step closer, reaching out to brace a hand on his damp sweatshirt, and his throat bobbed.

“I’ll get you settled, and then I’ll uh take the couch.”

She nodded, flushing with embarrassment and no small amount of sexual frustration, but when she tried to drop her hand, he grasped it in his. He led her slowly to his bedroom—a spacious room with a massive glass roof that showed a watery moon through streams of rainwater. It was dominated by a huge king-sized bed, low to the ground, and an area with a statue that she couldn’t quite make out in the dark, with a prayer mat placed before it. 

The scent of sandalwood incense was strongest here, engulfing her like a hug. 

He fished out a big t-shirt and a pair of shorts from a dresser and then pushed her gently towards the bathroom. It was a large room with frosted glass all along one wall and a massive walk-in shower. She ripped off her clothes clumsily, starting to shiver with cold and nerves. Hesitating for only a moment, she unhooked her bra but left her panties in place, dragging a massive blue shirt over her head and then tying the gray basketball shorts tightly about her waist—she was swimming in both. She immediately dragged the neckline up over her nose and breathed him in. 

When she stepped outside, Aang was hovering near the bed, shirtless in the moonlight, the rain painting patterns across his pale skin. He wore low-slung sweatpants, the band of his briefs peeking above the waistband. Lightning crashed, and the rain picked up, loud on the glass as the trees swayed wildly above. Her breath stuttered, and she forced her drunk brain to concentrate as she crossed the room, bare feet sliding across the pale wood flooring. 

He seemed transfixed by her, afraid to move, afraid to breathe as he stood waiting.

“Will you stay?” she asked when she stood a foot away, words barely audible above the storm. 

He drew in a breath that expanded his chest—controlled and measured. “I shouldn’t.”

“I’ll behave,” she murmured, her voice tipping towards pleading. She desperately didn’t want to be alone. “I promise.”

His answering laugh was huffing and strangled. “You’re such a menace.” 

She tentatively reached out and placed a hand on his bare chest, feeling the tremor her touch sent through him. He was beautifully made, skin warm and smooth beneath the impressive expanse of muscle. Sinew and flesh and blood—she could map the muscle groups, name the tendons. Trace them with her lips. 

“Is that a yes?” she asked.

He covered her hand with his, amusement crinkling at the corners of his eyes. His thumb brushed over her knuckles once, twice. “Alright, I’ll stay,” he said on a shaky exhale. He lifted his chin towards the bed as more lightning flashed. “Get into bed.”

She shivered, biting at her lip to contain a whimpering sort of sound building in her chest. He released her, and she shuffled awkwardly into the bed, pulling back the downy comforter and diving into it. 

Aang sprawled out next to her above the covers, body turned toward her, head braced on the curve of his arm.

“Don’t trust me?” she asked, tucking the blankets under her chin. 

Thunder rumbled in time with his deep chuckle, and he reached with his free hand to push the hair out of her eyes, fingers dragging over the curve of her eyebrow, down the side of her face to curl behind her ear. Whispering, tentative touches—like the first testing steps across a frozen lake. 

But even a simple touch made her breathing quicken, made her heart ache, and her thighs clench. Had she ever wanted anyone as much as she wanted him?

“More like I don’t trust myself,” he said, voice unsteady, smile flashing before he sobered slightly. “Are you alright?”

She looked away, a rush of cold reality sweeping down her spine as she remembered her outburst in the bar. Remembered what had made her so upset. She didn’t want to speak of it, but she was suddenly desperate to get the words out. Desperate for someone to know. “The anniversary of her death is in a couple months…” she trailed off, wondering if it would ever get any easier to talk about. Beneath the blankets, she touched her necklace, fingering the charm, remembering her smile and the touch of her hand. 

“Your mother?” His fingers were toying with her hair, gently untangling the damp strands.  

She closed her eyes. “She died five years ago. Car accident. My dad… he remarried two years ago, and it’s just… it’s just…”

“Hard to go home?”

She nodded, lifting her lashes to watch him in the dark. “She’s nice. His wife.” She flat refused to call Melanie her stepmother. “Respectful of everything, and I still hate it. I hate it so much,” her voice caught on the words, anger and grief and pain mixing with the whiskey, a poisoned cocktail in her stomach. His fingers shifted to scratch along her scalp, soothing, grounding. 

She was so tired of being alone. She’d thought Jet could be different, that he’d understood her, but then he’d been too broken and lost to really care for anyone but himself. 

Aang drew his knuckles over the line of her cheek and down her jaw. “The monks used to teach a lesson about the two arrows,” he said quietly. “The first arrow is the tragic thing that happens to us—the loss itself. We can't avoid it. But the second arrow is the one we shoot into ourselves by fighting the pain, or hating ourselves for not moving on the way other people do.” His fingers cupped her jaw, and she drew nearer to him, seeking his warmth in the terrible, deep loneliness of her heart. “You’ve been carrying that first arrow for five years, Katara. You don't have to keep shooting yourself with the second.”

His words hung between them, seeping through her skin, easing the old pain just the slightest bit. He was so good and kind and considerate. She’d never known another man like him. 

“Aang?” she breathed as his thumb caught under her chin. She could just make out his eyes in the dark against the shifting patterns of rain and moonlight. 

He hummed at her, a deep, gravelly sound. 

“Would you kiss me?”

His fingers tightened along her jaw, and she saw his eyes flash, lashes fluttering. “I shouldn’t.”

“Just once,” she said, feeling teary and desperately needy. If he didn’t kiss her, she felt like she might implode. Fear gripped her. Was it possible she had read this entirely wrong? “Unless you don’t—you don’t want to.”

He breathed out a dark laugh, thumb ghosting across her chin, just brushing her lower lip in a burst of heat. “I wouldn’t like to admit how much I want to kiss you, Katara. You’ll immediately realize what a terrible idea this is.”

She reached for him, finding his face with her fingertips, tracing the ridge of his brow, the arc of those fine cheekbones, the softness of his lips. He was closer to her, and she had no idea who had closed the gap, only that there was hardly any space left between them. 

“Please,” she begged. 

She could feel the wash of his breath, warm and inviting, across her face as he tipped her chin up with the press of his fingers. She could feel the tension in him, the rigid fight for control. His eyes were heavy, piercing in the darkness as they fell to her lips. They shared a breath, ragged and broken, then another as they inched closer. Her eyes dipped closed, and her body flooded with anticipatory warmth.  

“Just once,” he breathed a second before his lips pressed against hers, and her mind went blissfully, perfectly silent. 

The taste of whiskey and rain. Gentle presses that seemed to pull her heart into her throat, and she sighed into his mouth as her hand drifted to grip his shoulder. He learned the shape of her lips, slipping his tongue briefly into her mouth to taste, to tease, and pulled away with a low, strangled sound. She immediately felt bereft. Starved. Like she was dying of thirst and had only been given a drop of water. 

He pressed his forehead to hers, palm shifting to drag across her face and cradle the back of her neck. A brief kiss, all things considered, but they were both breathing heavily, and she felt as though her entire life had tilted, upsetting the balance of everything she’d built. 

They didn’t speak. They didn’t move. They stayed like that, sharing their air. Eventually, her breathing eased into some semblance of normality. 

He shifted his head up to press a kiss to her forehead. Fiery and painfully sweet all at once. “Sleep, Katara,” he murmured, voice a wreck. “I’ve got you. I’m here.”

She tucked her head down beneath his chin, heart hammering in time with the rain, sure she’d never be able to sleep. But between his hand smoothing down the back of her hair and the steady thrum of his pulse—not to mention the weight of the alcohol in her veins—she slipped into warm, safe darkness. 

-

-

-

Waking up was like drifting up from a great depth, leaving her gasping once she reached the surface. Disoriented. Hungover. Incredibly warm? Someone’s arm was definitely around her waist. 

Her eyes snapped open, blinking against the predawn light and the previous night’s mascara nearly gluing her eyelashes together. Her contacts felt as though they had melted to her eyeballs and made everything a little blurry.  Aang was breathing deeply next to her, face lax with sleep, one arm resting across her body, which was separated from his by a thick downy comforter, the other wrapped around himself. Katara swallowed thickly, a rush of memories making her wince.

God, she’d been such a mess. 

The memory of his lips on hers was hazy, but there, a flash of bright light against the encroaching dark. A massive line crossed, one she wasn’t sure she could come back from. One she wasn’t sure she wanted to come back from. What was increasingly clear, however, was that she needed to get out of there now. 

Slowly, carefully, she began to extract herself, freezing when he grunted in his sleep, brow creasing, fingers pressing into her hip through the blanket before relaxing and allowing her to slip away. She gathered her discarded clothing from his bathroom, head swimming and stomach lurching, studiously avoiding any reflective surfaces. 

Clothing and shoes bundled awkwardly in her arms, she paused at the half-open door to his bedroom and looked back at him—his long body sprawled across the bed, his arm still cast out where her body had been, the blue of his tattoos bright against the white of the sheets. She let herself imagine for a moment what it would be like to crawl over him. To wake with a kiss, have him tow her beneath him—

She turned and fled down the hall, which suddenly felt cavernous and alien to her. From the guest bathroom, she snatched her duffle bag, scooping up her purse and damp jacket from the entryway on her way out. She barely felt the gravel under her bare feet as she practically ran across the drive, still dressed in his clothes, from his front door to her car. 

Once safely inside the driver’s seat, she fished her contacts out of her eyes, flicking them out the window, and collected her glasses from her purse, shoving them shakily onto her face. Guilt at leaving him behind and the desperate need to escape the consequences of her actions waged a painful war in her booze-addled mind. 

There was still time to turn back. Go inside, grab some water, and pretend as if she’d just gone to her car to get something. 

She shifted the car into reverse as fear and the desperate desire to do the right thing won out as always. 

If she didn’t end this now, she could lose her medical license. She could lose everything.  

-

-

-

When she finally dragged her body out of the shower in her apartment a few hours later, she had missed several calls and text messages. One from her brother, another from Suki, and three from Aang. 

I just need to know you’re okay, Katara. His text message said, and guilt slammed into her like a tidal wave, making her collapse on the edge of her bed, wrapped in nothing but a towel, hair dripping everywhere. 

She shouldn’t have run without saying anything to him, but she’d been terrified of what she might do if she stayed. God, she had made such an absolute mess of everything. 

After a great deal of internal panicking and self-flagellation, she texted him back: Didn’t want to wake you, I had to be somewhere early this morning. I’m fine, just a little hungover. She pushed send, threw the phone across her bed, and put her head in her hands, hair dripping onto the rug between her legs. 

Even through a hangover, she could remember the touch of his fingers and the brush of his lips, the taste of him on her tongue. Could remember—no, not remember, it wasn’t a memory, she felt her need for him, now, in the cold light of morning. How desperately she wished he’d kiss her again. That he wouldn’t stop kissing her. 

Her phone buzzed, and she reluctantly snatched it up. Are you sure you’re alright?

She lifted her head skyward, blinking back tears in the morning sunlight blasting through her bedroom windows. 

No, she thought dismally, no, I’m not alright. Because I’m pretty sure I’m in love with you. 

-

-

-

For the next two weeks, she made excuses for why she couldn’t stay after their PT sessions, all the while slowly dying inside.

She could see how much he was hurting, how confused he was by her behavior. It was surreal, being so close to him, touching his body, and never feeling further away from him. He didn’t push her; he gave her the space she so clearly wanted, and she wasn’t sure whether or not she hated him for it. 

The first time he didn’t ask her to stay after she finished icing his knee, she cried like a blubbering idiot the entire way home. 

It will pass. I’ll get over it, and it will be for the best. 

That same night, contrary to every promise she’d made to herself, she pulled up videos of him. There was a long one on YouTube he’d filmed several years prior where he demonstrated the Master Forms—whatever that meant—of his practice, and he was so beautiful and graceful that she started crying all over again. His smile, his joy…his goodness radiated back at her. 

She found a Q&A-style video titled ‘The Fighting Monk’s Combat Philosophy’ with several million views and selected it because she was clearly a masochist. 

“Watching you move is insane,” the interviewer said into a big microphone. The studio was very masculine, all dark paneling and sharp edges. Aang, in his soft oranges and gentle blues, stood out like a ray of sunshine. “You do these massive aerial drops and sweeps where it looks like you’re just throwing yourself at the ground. How do you do that without snapping every bone in your body?”

Aang smiled, toying with a necklace made of rough shells and stones. “It’s pretty simple, you just don’t fight the fall.”

“What does that mean?”

Aang shrugged, adjusting the headphones over his ears as if he wasn’t quite sure of them. “Well, when people lose their balance, their first instinct is to panic and tense up.” He demonstrated this by pulling his arms in towards his body, his shoulders hiking up around his ears. “They lock their joints, throw their hands out, and try to forcefully stop their own momentum. They’re so terrified of hitting the ground that they try to control an uncontrollable situation. And that rigidness? That panic? That’s exactly what snaps your wrist or breaks your collarbone.” 

The interviewer, a smaller man with a sparse mustache and red face, nodded. “Because you’re like, fighting the physics of it, right?”

Aang clapped his hands and nodded. “Exactly! You can’t out-muscle gravity. The very first thing I was taught wasn’t how to strike; it was how to fall. To survive a drop like that—” he lifted his hand into the air, fingers curled— “You have to completely accept the momentum. You stop fighting, you tuck, you roll, and you let the fall carry you. It sounds counterintuitive to most people, but yielding is the only way to absorb the impact without shattering.” He punctuated this by slamming a fist into his open palm.

Katara switched off her phone, blinking away tears in the darkness of her room as she rolled onto her back. She’d spent her life fighting the fall, or at least picking up the pieces in the aftermath of everyone else’s. 

No amount of accepting the momentum would save her if the height she was falling from was too high. Either way, she was going to shatter. 

-

-

-

“Hey,” Agna said to her quietly one morning as Katara stared listlessly out of her office window. She felt strangely numb, detached. “You okay, boss?”

Katara stiffened and then sighed. 

She felt as fragile as glass most days, and there was no one in the world she could explain herself to. She had crossed a massive boundary with a patient, and now she was mourning the possibility of something she couldn’t even properly explain to herself. She knew she should refer him to another doctor, had even drafted up the paperwork, but she hadn’t had the strength to do it yet. 

She turned in her chair and forced a smile that felt foreign on her face. “I’m fine. Just tired. Is Mrs. McDonnell ready?”

-

-

-

Three weeks after their night out, Aang’s management requested that she perform his PT session at his dojo. She’d graduated him to an even lighter knee brace and a cane the week prior, and he’d clearly taken full advantage of his increased mobility and freedom. 

She cleared her schedule for the afternoon and reluctantly agreed, pretending she wasn’t driven primarily by self-sabotaging levels of curiosity as she drove down into the projects. Aang was waiting for her outside an industrial-style building between a deli and an autoshop, somehow managing to completely pull off the wood cane in his hand. He smiled at her as she approached, and her stupid, foolish heart flipped in her chest. It was a kind, warm smile—his eyes lighting up like he was genuinely happy to see her. 

She was still in her white coat and scrubs, a medical bag slung over her shoulder, and she nodded awkwardly at two old men playing dominoes on a fold-out table outside a massive roll-up door. On a big spray-painted sign above the door were the words Fighting Monk Dojo, and she could hear voices and laughter and the sounds of bodies hitting mats filtering from within over the muted din of rap music. 

“Thanks for coming,” Aang said with a slight, almost teasing bow. He was wearing a loose yellow graphic T-shirt and baggy jeans, a backward ballcap completing his boyishly charming aesthetic. He looked like he was really in his element, comfortable in his own skin. “Really wanted to see the kids today.” 

She pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose and squared her shoulders, clinging to her medical bag like a lifeline. Every time she looked at him, she was reminded that she knew what his lips felt like on hers; what his tongue felt like slipping into her mouth. 

“It’s no problem,” she murmured, cringing internally at the way her voice cracked a little. 

He gave her a lopsided grin as if he knew exactly what she was thinking and motioned with a jerk of his head, “Come on, we have a PT area in the back we can use.”

The inside of the Dojo sported high ceilings and exposed brick, the main source of light the dusty windows high above, and the roll-up door that let in the street breeze and the sounds of passing traffic. Mid-afternoon sunlight sliced through the massive room, catching dust motes and chalk, creating a hazy, almost haloed effect around Aang as he interacted with a wave of students of all ages. They clearly idolized him, eyes wide, faces eager, attitudes shockingly respectful, calling him Sensei and bowing before they spoke. 

As if she needed another reason to be ridiculously attracted to him. 

Coming here had been a terrible idea. 

There were four training areas designated by mismatched sets of mats pieced together like a quilt, each painted with massive concentric circles. Her internet stalking had informed her that these circles were there to help teach ‘circle walking,’ the signature fluid and evasive footwork Aang used. In the back corner, heavy ropes were strung from the exposed rebar with an assortment of objects attached—small sandbags, pots and pans, and tennis balls covered in duct tape. As Aang led her through the dojo, Katara watched as one of the older students began to duck and weave his way through the objects, one of the instructors using a hooked stick to move the ropes. 

Along the back wall was a massive, vibrant mural that looked as though it had been painted by the kids themselves. Set against it were several heavily taped punching bags and used, mismatched rows of free weights. 

They had an entourage by the time they finally entered a small room at the back of the building. Stepping inside was a shock to the system, and it was immediately clear that Aang had invested real money into the PT room and had done so long before his own injury. The air was no longer chalky and thick with the smells of perspiration, but cool and climate-controlled, complete with the scents of medical-grade antiseptic and eucalyptus. 

The PT table was top of the line with hydraulics and premium upholstery. There was a stainless steel hydrocollator—it kept hot packs at the perfect temperature—humming in the corner, next to a commercial-grade ice machine and an ultrasound therapy unit. The stainless-steel rolling carts and shelving units appeared impeccably well-organized and filled with clear, labeled bins that held every color of premium kinesiology tape, various types of braces, foam rollers, and resistance bands.  

“Aang,” she murmured. “This is…impressive.”

He shrugged, cheeks going a bit pink as the four kids who’d followed them in took up the row of padded waiting chairs along the wall, chatting excitedly amongst themselves. “I just…most of the training equipment I got second-hand. But I wanted to make sure all their medical, PT stuff was state of the art.”

She pursed her lips to contain a burst of horrible, burning affection. Did he have to be so annoying fucking perfect all the time? 

“Alright, let's see that knee,” she said, and the children grew quiet, suddenly interested. 

Aang hopped easily onto the exam table, setting his cane against the wall, ballcap hanging from the top, and hiked up the left leg of his pants. Katara set down her medical bag and reached for his brace as the kids crowded around the other side of the table. 

She smiled to herself, unable to resist the pull of their wide-eyed interest as she pulled the brace back. The incisions were no longer angry and had healed to a shiny, silvery-pink that gleamed in the fluorescents. There was a bit of swelling around the knee after being on it all day, but it was in good shape as she gently pressed her fingers into his skin. 

One girl—maybe twelve—whistled. “Damn, Sensei, those are some serious scars.”

“Language, Ashley,” Aang said sternly before smirking. “But thanks. I think they make me look cooler.”

One of the younger boys wrinkled their nose. “Or just older.” The girl next to him giggled and Katara pressed her lips together to contain a laugh. “Your leg looks all weak and puny now,” the boy continued. 

“That’s because he couldn’t use this leg as much,” Katara said. “Now that he’s healing, he can start building strength again.”

“You’re really pretty to be a doctor,” another boy said, maybe fourteen. She looked up at him, and he winked. 

“No flirting with Doctor Tariuq, Kai,” Aang said reproachfully. 

She got to work with the deep tissue massage, aggressively digging in her thumbs to glide his patella up and down and side-to-side, ensuring it tracked smoothly. Aang must have pulled a face because Ashley said, “That looks hella uncomfortable.”

“Keeps scar tissue from building up and limiting the range of movement,” Aang said, parroting the words she’d once told him. “But yeah, it’s not my favorite.” She moved her hands up to massage the muscle group along the outside of his thigh. “This part is much more pleasant.”

The boy who’d flirted with her snorted. 

After she was done massaging the rest of his leg, she climbed up on the table, gripped his leg in her arms, and pressed forward, bending it towards his chest as far as it would extend—which was a great deal further than it had been even a week ago. His knee could almost touch his chest now.

Their eyes met as her braid slipped over her shoulder, brushing the side of his face as it fell, and the kids giggled at the compromising position. He was studying her again, affection and appreciation clear in his eyes. She looked quickly away, heat creeping up the back of her neck. 

Once she was done, they led the kids outside, watching as they rejoined their classmates. The dojo was beginning to empty, and golden-hour sunlight painted everything in warm amber. People were smiling and laughing, waving at Aang and looking at her with interest. She could feel the sense of community here, how much this place seemed to mean to the people within it. The crippling loneliness was like a vice around her heart, squeezing till she could hardly breathe.

She didn’t belong here. 

“I should go,” she said distantly, suddenly desperate to escape this bright patch of sunlight that wasn’t meant for her. 

Aang stopped her with a hand on her shoulder, a shock of contact that short-circuited her brain. “Katara… can we please talk? I was thinking I could buy you a sandwich at the deli and we could take a walk.”

She ducked her head, heart suddenly racing. “Aang, we shouldn’t I—”

“Please,” he said simply and earnestly. She met his eyes, and they were pleading, desperation leaking into his face, and she could see how incredibly hard this had been for him, too. 

“Alright,” she found herself saying, like the massive idiot she was. She took off her coat clumsily and tucked it into her medical bag. 

He smiled, and it was a little sad as he led her back out into the street. The wind had picked up, the sun setting over the tops of old apartment buildings as they walked silently side-by-side into the deli. The owner greeted Aang by name, and Katara defaulted to his expertise on what she should order—a vegetarian meatball sub was his favorite. 

With a plastic bag full of food and drink in hand, he led her down a side street towards a small, dilapidated park set between two run-down buildings. There was a mother with her two young kids on a set of creaking swings, but otherwise it was empty as they sat atop a stone picnic table covered in graffiti.

He passed out food and drink, his injured leg extended before him, the line of his jaw sharp against the setting sun. 

“I grew up not far from here,” he said between bites. “The temple was torn down a year or two ago.”

She paused, wiping her mouth on a napkin as she looked out across the empty playground. At the swings, the mother was trying to convince her young daughter it was time to leave, and the little girl had strong opinions on the subject. 

She suspected he’d brought her out here to talk about what had happened that night in his bed, so she latched onto the subject like a bit of driftwood in a storm. “What happened to them, Aang, the monks? Why did they want to bring you here?” 

His expression darkened with old grief, and he set aside the styrofoam carton, absently cleaning his fingers with a napkin. “To answer your second question first—” he hesitated immediately, shooting her a look that was difficult to parse. “Well, it's going to sound crazy. But… they thought I was, well, destined for things. They brought me here to protect me.”

“Destined for what kind of things?” she asked with a frown.

He huffed a humorless laugh, lifting a hand to rub at the back of his neck. “Oh, nothing major, just saving our people from subjugation and oppression.” 

Katara raised a brow. “So…no pressure, I guess.”

He smiled at her, a flash of white against the golden light. “When I graduated from high school, they said it was time to go home to Tibet.” He hung his head a bit, hands planted on the table behind him. “A place I barely remembered. That I needed to fulfill my destiny, and I…said no. That I didn’t believe I was chosen for anything. That I wanted to stay here.”

He lifted his chin, eyes narrowed with remembered pain. “So they left, and I stayed. They called and wrote letters, trying to talk me into coming back, and eventually… they stopped. I uh, went home a few years back, but couldn’t find out much. Everyone was too afraid to talk. So they are either imprisoned or…” he trailed off and drew in a sharp breath, eyes screwing up briefly. “They thought I was destined to save them, and now they are all gone.”

Katara absorbed this for a moment—the scope of it was almost outside her comprehension—then set her food aside and, despite knowing it wasn’t necessarily fair to either of them, reached out and took his hand between both of hers. His head snapped towards her in surprise. 

“Aang,” she said softly. “It’s…it’s not your fault.”

His face contorted, fingers flexing against hers. “Isn’t it? I don’t know that I could have been what they wanted me to be… but maybe I could have stopped them from getting themselves killed.”

Katara drew in a long breath, heart aching at the pain in his voice. “Maybe… maybe you did save them.” He frowned at her, and she released his hand to wave behind them. “Isn’t that what you’re doing here? Sharing their culture? Keeping it alive?” 

He looked stunned, eyes wide, mouth slackened slightly before he clenched his jaw with sudden determination. 

“Katara… I know—I know that you regret what happened between us, but—”

It was Katara’s turn to grimace. “Aang, please, we don’t have to—”

“Please, just let me get this out, and I swear I’ll never bring it up again if that’s what you want, alright?” He took her hand, angling his body towards hers, and she couldn’t hold his earnest stare for long as her heart thundered against her ribs. 

“I know…I know you’re worried about taking things between us to the next step. But I…I miss you so much, Katara, and this, whatever this is between us, I really want to see where it could go.”

“Aang," she breathed, her voice actually shaking. "I could lose my job. I could lose my license. I have spent my entire life building something safe and controlled, and being with you... it would shatter everything.”

He flinched a little, holding her hands gently in his as he considered his words. "I know. I know exactly what I'm asking. If this gets out, it's a scandal. My sponsors could walk, my management might drop me." His eyes were devastatingly serious as they lifted to hers. "But I don't care. I want to try. We can hide it. I will take this as slow and as secret as you need me to, just please... don't ask me to let you go.”

She blinked her eyes closed, her heart floating somewhere outside her body. Secret. It was a dangerous, fragile loophole, but as the warm, calloused weight of his hands held hers, every logical argument she had prepared simply evaporated. She wanted him so badly—wanted this so much it hurt.

“I’m so tired, Aang,” she found herself saying. “I’m so tired of fighting…fighting everything all the time.”

He lifted a hand to cup the side of her face, and she leaned into the touch. “I’m not sure if you know, but I’m a pretty good fighter. I can help you, Katara. Be there for you. I want to be there for you more than just about anything. You just… you just gotta stop fighting me.”

His words from the podcast interview echoed back at her: You stop fighting, you tuck, you roll, and you let the fall carry you.

She smiled a little, opening her eyes to take in his hopeful expression, the fading light catching in the lovely gray of his eyes. Let the fall carry me. “You’re crazy. We’re both completely crazy.”

He shrugged, leaning closer. “Probably.”

She let him draw her in, falling into his gravity, her pulse leaping. “This is the worst idea.”

He nodded, head tilting, dipping towards her. The smell of him washed over her, familiar and safe and maddening all at once. “Oh, the worst for sure.”

She let out a breathless, tearful laugh and finally closed the distance, lifting her chin to press her lips to his. 

The chill of the evening air vanished as his arms immediately banded heavily around her waist, drawing her flush against his chest. Their first kiss had been tentative and full of restraint. 

There was none of that here. 

Aang kissed her like he was afraid he might never get the chance to do it again. One hand lifted to cup the back of her head, the other a strong, steadying anchor against her spine as whatever resistance remained inside her evaporated. She threw her arms up around his neck, fingers digging into the soft cotton of his shirt to keep herself from drifting away. Her glasses pressed into the bridge of her nose, and she didn't care; nothing mattered to her in that moment but him. 

His tongue pressed between her lips, and she made a soft sound into his mouth, melting into the perfect heat of him. He pulled away to draw in a ragged breath before crashing into her again, hand fisting lightly in her hair to angle her head as he deepened the kiss further. She was floating, drowning, flying as she clutched at him. She never wanted it to end—could kiss him like this for hours, days even. 

When he finally pulled away, they were both panting heavily. His hand shook a little as it shifted to cup her jaw, palm drawing down the length of her neck. It was a dizzying contrast—the heavy, shaking intensity of his touch paired with the sweet, boyish charm of his backwards hat and lopsided smile, the happiness shining out of his eyes as the last rays of sunlight died around them. 

He huffed a broken laugh that washed over her face in a wave of warmth, thumb rubbing along the line of her jaw. There was a reverence in the way he touched her that made something inside her crack wide open and burn. “I suppose making out in the middle of a public park isn’t exactly subtle,” he said. 

She smirked as she nudged his nose with hers. She cupped the sides of his face with both hands. “I think I’m willing to let it slide just this once.” Her eyes were on his lips again.

“Oh, good,” he murmured, sounding more than a little punch-drunk as he drew her into him again.  

Chapter Text

Aang escorted her back to her car, their hands just brushing as they walked, moving slowly to compensate for his knee. She let herself imagine what it would be like to interlock their fingers, to feel the heat of his palm against hers. To feel like he was hers.

The moon was rising behind a dollar store at the far end of the road, fat and yellow on the horizon. The air was cool but laden with the smells of asphalt and oil, laced with sewage and cigarette smoke. Music from a club down the main thoroughfare echoed off the run-down buildings, indistinct but thudding. The sounds of city life were encroaching, but next to him, she felt held apart. 

Her lips were sore and tingling from their kissing, and if she looked at him too long, she feared she might drag him into some dark alley and ravish him again. His dark, heavy sidelong glances told her he felt the same. Electricity hummed between them, a sense of awareness she couldn’t explain, only feel.

She felt like a tiny sun had been caught in her chest, warm and bright, but casting long shadows. Everything felt…shivery, and new. Exciting, but also scary. 

They reached her car parked along a side street not far from the dojo, and she looked up at him, his face half-lit by the orange glow of flickering streetlights. His smile was lopsided and charming, and her heart skipped. 

“You know,” he said, leaning on his cane. “You never asked me how I got hurt.”

She leaned back against her car, hiking her bag up her shoulder a little. “I guess it's…sort of a habit. There’s usually a lot of trauma involved in the sort of injuries I treat. Bringing it up can really trigger some patients.” 

Aang nodded, expression softening. “But I’m not just a patient to you anymore, am I?” 

Her face heated, and she ducked her head. “Despite my best efforts… no, no you are not.” 

He nudged her gently under the chin with a hooked finger, angling his head to one side as he peered down at her. “So?” 

She huffed and quirked her lips before relenting, adjusting her glasses almost studiously. “I guess…Well, I figured you’d tell me on your own. Was it during a fight?”

“Sort of…” he sighed, smile turning sheepish, self-deprecating almost. “There was a…fight, just not in a ring. One of the kids from the dojo. Nice kid—well, most of the time. His parents aren’t around much; they both work several jobs, so he’s at the dojo a lot. Really smart, the kind of smart that gets you noticed, and that's not always a good thing around here.” He sounded like he was speaking from experience. 

He sighed, looking off down the street towards where a group of teenage boys was roaming near a gas station, voices carrying over the traffic. “I was locking up the dojo when I heard a commotion. I recognized the voice… Kai’s voice. He sounded… scared. Went out to investigate and found him surrounded by three older boys. They’d shoved him into a wall, asking him to show them his ‘moves’.” 

He turned back towards her, free hand shoved into his pocket, shoulder lifted. “I tried to break it up, but seeing me, the big, famous fighter spooked them, I think. One of them pulled a gun.”

A shiver crept up Katara’s spine. 

“I was able to disarm him pretty easily while his two friends took wild swings at me. I really didn’t want to hurt any of them. Fighting against people who aren’t trained can be deadly stuff, even when you’re trying to be careful,” he said, his tone deeper and more serious than she’d ever heard from him before. “I took a step back, lost my footing… and got my foot caught in a storm drain right as one of the kids shoved past me. And well, you know the rest.” He grimaced and added, “My sponsors were not happy.”

Katara swallowed, trying to make sense of her own visceral reaction, and shook her head. “You’re ridiculous, you know that, right?” 

He frowned at her. “What?” 

She gestured at him, annoyance and swelling affection burning in her chest. “You. You’re so, you’re just so…” she floundered, trying to find the right word. 

“Ridiculous?” he echoed, a hesitant smile twitching at his lips as he watched her.  

“Perfect,” she retorted, and pushed forward off the car door to kiss him hard on the lips. 

He responded immediately, pulling his hand from his pocket to gently cup her cheek, fingertips drawing goosebumps down her neck, laughing softly into her mouth as he deepened the contact. 

He was such a devastatingly good kisser.

Some men treated kissing like the required prequel to something they wanted more…Aang kissed her like he could do it forever. He teased her out, pressing in and pulling away, as fluid and graceful as everything else he did. Every movement was laden with controlled intention, and he was driving her absolutely out of her mind—coiling the tension inside her so tight she was trembling like a leaf caught in a gale there on the curb. 

No one had ever kissed her like he did, as if he were offering a piece of himself.

She clutched the front of his shirt to hold herself steady, as his fingers slipped between the loosened twists of her braid at the back of her neck, and she boldly slid her tongue between his lips. He made a low, rough sound in the back of his throat, and the tiny sun in her chest blazed. 

She forced herself to pull back a moment later, staring up into his dazed eyes as they glinted in the headlights of passing cars. They shared several wavering breaths. His lips were parted— inviting, slick from their kissing. Her glasses were slightly smudged, and the bridge of her nose ached from where the pads had dug in. 

“We’re doing a really bad job at being discreet,” she murmured, breathless, hands sliding down his chest, drawing a shiver from him that felt like a different kind of victory.  

Another lopsided smile, his thumb dragging at the point of her chin. “You kissed me, remember?”

“Well,” she retorted, feeling buoyant and foolish. “You kissed me back.”

His eyes dipped, and he ran his nose along hers. “And I’d do it again, too.” 

He drew her in for another slow, languid kiss before she finally managed to pull away, fumbling with the door handle and practically falling into the driver’s seat. She shut the door and rolled down the window, pressing the ignition button as he grinned down at her, smile broad and happy. 

“I’ll call you,” he said. “Tonight, probably.” He sounded sheepish. 

Pleasure spiked so sharply it almost hurt, and she bit her kiss-swollen lower lip, removing her glasses and making a show of cleaning them on her scrubs. She could still taste him. Diet Coke and a hint of spearmint. Could smell him on her skin—as long as she lived, sandalwood would forever remind her of him.

“You better,” she said seriously, putting her glasses back on and fixing him with a glare over the top of them. She drove away to the sound of his laughter, smooth and warm in contrast to the cool evening air that burst across her heated cheeks.   

Later that night, she put on the t-shirt she’d taken the night she’d stayed at his place— and had consequently repeatedly forgotten to return—and nothing else. Feeling stupid and excited and…freer than she had in years, she lay in her bed and dragged the hem of the shirt high up on her thighs. She grabbed her phone from her nightstand and snapped a quick picture. She had never done anything so bold in her life.

Jittery with anticipation, she sent him the picture with a quick I made it home, before she could talk herself out of it.

Anxiety had her hunkering down into her pillows, curling into herself as she watched the three little dots appear, fade, then appear again before he sent: You are literally killing me. 

She smiled, pleased. Should I call an ambulance?

The dots again. Only if you’re inside it. 

The novelty of it, flirting openly with him like this, had her turning her face into her pillow to try to contain herself. When she was sure she could actually type, she sent: Should I return it to you?

Only if you send me a picture of you taking it off, he sent, and a pleasant heat spread through her body, making her toes curl. Sorry, sorry. I can behave. You’re very beautiful, and it's very hard to focus sometimes. But the shirt is yours. All my shirts are yours. Take them all.

She actually giggled, a sound she wasn’t sure she’d uttered since high school. What are you doing?

A brief pause, the hum of her air conditioning the only sound in her apartment as she stared raptly at her phone. Out to dinner with my manager. Being very rude because I can’t focus at all. 

Should I leave you alone? 

His response was immediate. I would very much prefer that you did not. I’m calling you as soon as I’m done here. 

She gnawed on her lower lip for a moment and sent: Well, in that case, maybe I’ll take a bath. Talk soon. 

She got up to switch on the light and retrieve a towel—for a shower, not a bath, she was too keyed up to try languishing in the tub—when her phone buzzed in her hand. 

Killing me. I’m dead. A pause and then. Can’t wait to see you again.    

-

-

-

They agreed to meet ostensibly for a business lunch the following day, deciding that a public space was the best place to discuss boundaries without the immediate temptation to grope each other.

Aang was waiting outside the restaurant, wearing another ball cap and leaning on his cane, looking down at his phone. Two women seated on the patio nearby were staring at him and whispering excitedly behind their hands—whether because they recognized him or because he was undeniably good-looking, she couldn’t be sure. Nerves fluttered at the base of her throat, and she pressed a hand briefly to her chest to try to contain the feeling. 

Some part of her wanted to flee. 

Escape this wild feeling she wasn’t sure she could control– and she so desperately wanted to remain in control. She took a breath, lifted her chin, and hurried across the busy street, weaving between cars. When she started up the steps to the bistro-style cafe, Aang lifted his head and straightened, eyes sweeping appreciatively up her body. 

His entire face lit up, and he took her heart with it. 

He rubbed a hand over his mouth and shook his head as she neared. “Did you wear that to test my resolve?” 

She froze a few steps away and looked down at her strappy pale blue summer dress and heeled sandals. Her toes were painted a sparkling navy, glittering silver in the sunlight, and her hair fell in a thick plait over her shoulder. She’d gone for cute but casual. 

“It’s just a summer dress,” she said, amusement budding. His cheeks were pink, and he adjusted the brim of his hat, eyes lingering on her legs before finding hers again. 

“I guess it’s a good thing we decided to do this in public,” he said, voice an octave lower than normal. 

“Oh yeah?” she teased, gliding up the final step towards him. “And why is that?”

He turned his body to lead her to the large glass doors a few feet away, his gait almost smooth with the assistance of the cane, and held the door open for her. As she walked past, he lowered his head and whispered, close enough that his breath stirred the small hairs behind her ear, “Because I wouldn’t be able to keep my hands off you.” 

To punctuate this, his hand briefly found purchase on her lower back, fingers splayed wide, nearly causing her to stumble as she crossed the threshold. The smell of coffee and bacon assaulted her in a wave. He lifted his hand away as they approached the hostess stand, and she missed the weight of it immediately.   

She was already regretting the boundaries she was about to set, wavering in her determination before they had even sat down. Pull it together. Your entire career is on the line.

The hostess led them through the rows of tables towards the back, to a secluded alcove she suspected Aang had requested. He swept off his hat, setting it on the table as he lowered himself awkwardly into the chair. 

Once their hostess had left, they stared at each other until they both quietly laughed. 

“So…uh, thanks for agreeing to meet with me,” she said, and he snorted softly, making her blush. 

“You’re very welcome, Dr. Tariuq,” he said with a wink, and she rolled her eyes. 

She set her purse on the table beside her, took in his wide, toothy grin, and said, “For this to work, we have to set boundaries.”

He nodded amiably, leaning forward across the table on his elbows. “Right, of course, boundaries.” 

She fought back a smile. “Okay, first rule, and this is the most important one. We have a zero proximity rule when you come down to the clinic. Huria and Agna will pick up on the slightest touch or glance. You come in, we do your check-up, and you leave. Got it?”

Another nod, expression sobering. “Got it.” 

“Okay, good.” She sat up a little straighter in her chair. “Anything related to your health needs to go through official channels. HIPAA and AMA guidelines require strict medical record-keeping. Any medical concerns, treatments, or medication requests need to go through the clinic. Also, no flirting via clinic messages.” 

She narrowed her eyes at him, and he threw his hands up. “I would never dream of it.” 

“Also, I’m always Dr. Tariuq when we are around others.” 

He winced a little. “Agreed. I, uh, will have to be careful with that one.” 

She nodded emphatically. “Indeed,” she said. “If we go out anywhere together, it has to be obscure and way out of the way of our respective homes, the dojo, and the clinic.” 

A flicker of a smile. “Two-zip-code radius, can do.” 

“No interacting on social media. No liking each other's posts, no commenting, and definitely no posting pictures in the same location on the same day.”

His eyes widened a little. “You’ve uh, put a lot of thought into this.” 

She sniffed and pushed her glasses up her nose. “I like to be thorough.” 

His lips twitched. “I can see that. Is there more?”

“We can’t drive anywhere in the same vehicle.” 

He took a drink from his water glass and saluted her with it. “Okay, got it.”

Their server arrived then, and they both leaned away, startled. She’d completely managed to tune out the rest of the restaurant, and the din flooded back to her. Abrasive and jarring. 

“So, what can I get for you two?” the woman asked with a smile. 

“Er, right,” Aang said, picking up his menu for the first time and staring at it as though it were in a foreign language. 

Katara took a shot in the dark. “Can I have an iced coffee with vanilla and…french toast?”

“Fully loaded or with fruit?”

She blinked. “Fruit…? Strawberries?”

The woman gave her a chipper smile. “Perfect, and for you, sir?”

“Same as what she’s having, please,” he said with some relief. 

“Sure, I’ll have those coffees right out for you.” She collected their menus, gave Aang a brief, interested look, and departed.  

“Great,” Katara murmured as she and Aang shared a conspiratorial smile. 

“Did you even look at the menu?” he asked, laughing when she shook her head. 

“I made an educated guess,” she said primly, and his smile was deeply affectionate. If anyone were to see his expression now, they would know without a doubt a line had been crossed. 

“Very educated, Doctor,” he teased. “You had another boundary you wished to discuss?”

She took a deep breath and looked down at his hands, large and inviting, currently clasped together on the table. “I am your doctor, Aang. AMA guidelines are very clear regarding relationships with patients. We are… definitely crossing those already. But there is one line I will not cross, not until I officially sign your medical clearance and discharge you as a patient.” 

She paused to take another breath, and his expression was serious, brows slightly furrowed below the point of the arrow. “We cannot sleep together,” she made herself say, eyes darting furtively around them as if expecting someone—the American Medical Association, perhaps—to jump out from behind a fern.  

Aang, for his part, nodded slowly and picked up his glass to take a quick sip of water while her stomach turned itself into knots awaiting his answer. When he lifted his eyes to hers, they were filled with a now familiar determination. “I understand, Katara. If that is the line, you don’t have to worry about me pushing it.” 

She released a measured sigh, trying to hide the depth of her relief. “Good, that's… good.” 

He looked down and then up again, a twinkle of mischief in his eye. “But… hypothetically if a patient is incredibly compliant…if he does his icing protocol perfectly, and really pushes through his stretches, and does exactly—” he made an exaggerated face, leaning towards her across the table—“what his brilliant, beautiful doctor tells him to do… how fast could said patient get signed off?”

His charm was impossible to resist, and she chuckled, shaking her head and leaning back in her chair, able to relax now that the hardest part was done.

“You’ve got four, maybe five months before I can transfer you to a longer-term physical therapist.” 

Aang winced and then leaned back too, crossing his arms over his broad chest. “Well, lucky for you, I’ve had a lot of training in self-discipline.”

The look he gave her then could only be described as carnal, and the tiny sun he’d placed in her chest flared to life again, the heat traveling lower, coalescing in her stomach. To conceal her reaction, she moved to take a sip of water and was mortified when her hand shook as she lifted the glass to her mouth. 

She licked the moisture from her lips, and Aang tracked the movement. “So, we have a deal?”

His smile was slow…almost devious, his eyes practically sparkling in the muted light. “We’ve got a deal.”

-

-

-

Katara arrived at the clinic at six o'clock on Monday morning—blurrily juggling her coffee, water bottle, lunch bag, and purse. She fumbled through the lobby and into the hallway, barely registering the fact that Huria and Agna stopped talking immediately when she passed by. Cursing quietly, she fumbled with the knob to her office door and walked across the room to drop her things off on her desk, and froze.

A huge bouquet sat on her desk in a large glass vase. Massive Asiatic lilies—pristine and star-shaped—were the focal point. The lilies were framed by the frosted, muted blue-green leaves of Silver Dollar eucalyptus, as well as white lisianthus, and trailing vines of fragrant jasmine. 

“They arrived ten minutes ago,” Huria said, pressing in behind her, practically vibrating with excitement. 

“There was a note,” Agna added, shoving her arm past the door frame and holding up a small white envelope with Katara’s name on it in her face. 

Katara’s stomach swooped as she pushed past Agna’s arm and deposited her belongings on top of her paper-strewn desk. The scent of jasmine was sharp and pleasant. She whirled around, snatched the outstretched note, and tore it open.  

Scrawled across a stark white note were the words: To my favorite menace.

A mixture of exasperation, worry, and happiness had her pursing her lips and frowning. Already testing the boundaries, she thought, with more affection than annoyance, which was perturbing in and of itself. 

“Who’s it from?” Huria gushed, rushing forward to try to grab the note. Katara tucked it safely into the pocket of her white coat and rolled her eyes.

“It doesn’t have a name.”

“This was expensive,” Agna said, touching one of the lilies. 

“Alright,” Katara said firmly. “Out you two, I need to get settled, and you’re both hovering.” She started pushing them out the door. 

“You totally know who they are from,” Huria accused with narrowed eyes. Katara glowered at her and shut the door in her face, leaning back against it with a huff. 

She pulled out her phone and texted him: This is hardly subtle. 

She walked around her desk and began organizing the papers until her phone buzzed. Why, whatever do you mean? He’d included an emoji with a big toothy smile. 

She smiled, which only made her grumpier—it was a real problem, how readily charmed she was by him. The flowers are lovely, but you really shouldn’t have. 

She looked up at the bouquet, easily the most beautiful anyone had given her, and sighed, rubbing her nose under the bridge of her glasses. Her phone buzzed again. 

Someone got you flowers? Wow, that’s so nice. I bet whoever bought them for you is a really cool guy. You should definitely date him.

Katara snorted and fished his note out of her pocket, rubbing her thumb over the words written there like maybe she could feel some part of him in the letters. She groaned, sinking into her chair—she was so stupidly smitten with him.  

It was going to be a long five months.  

-

-

-

Obi-Wan Kenobi was about to face off against Darth Vader as Aang dragged his lips up the side of her neck. Her breath caught, and she clutched at his arm as it banded tightly around her waist. They were curled up on one of the sofas in his house in a tangle of limbs. It was early evening on a Tuesday, not a day she was typically over at his place, but, well…he’d invited her, and here she was, slowly losing her mind. 

“You're missing a pivotal p-part of the story,” she stammered, ending on a sigh as his lips latched gently on a sensitive spot below her ear that made her entire body hum. His breath was hot and damp against her skin as he pressed into her side, hand sliding down her waist in a heavy drag to grip her hip.   

“Describe it to me,” he said against the shell of her ear, making her laugh breathlessly.  

She bit at her lip, head lolling to one side as her breathing grew ragged. The sound of lightsabers clashing was barely audible over the pounding of her heart in her ears. She was dizzy, floating, warm all over.  

“They’re…they’re in an epic lightsaber battle,” she said, voice rough. 

He angled her hips towards him, and she could feel the hard, hot line of his erection through his sweatpants pressed against her hip. 

Oh god, she thought, or maybe even said aloud based on the way he made a sound that was half groan and half harsh laugh as his kisses traveled lower, trailing fire and sensation in pulsing waves. Her thighs clenched together, trying to stymie the growing ache. 

She opened her eyes as Darth Vader struck Obi-Wan down. “Vader, he—he just killed Kenobi.” The lips on her skin skipped slightly as his head turned a fraction, before refocusing. A smile tugged at her lips. 

“Now–now he’s going after Luke and Leia. Han Solo is—is leaping in front of Vader’s lightsaber,” Aang’s head had stilled along the collar of her scoop-necked blouse. “He’s down, bleeding out.” 

Aang sat up, turning his head in concern and confusion, pushing away from her to pivot his body. “What?”

Katara snickered as Han Solo and the others made their escape onto the Millennium Falcon, and he turned to glare down at her. She shrugged innocently, and his fingers dug into her side, making her squirm with a sharp laugh. She pushed at his chest, and his arms moved to wrap around her—strong and sure as they banded together behind her back. He buried his face in her neck, nuzzling her. 

“I told you! It’s an important part!” she said, still smiling.  

He huffed, expression petulant and playful when he lifted his head, and her heart was suddenly in her throat. It didn’t feel quite real, being with him like this. 

“Fine, we can rewind it,” he said, readjusting himself behind her to face the TV again, arm draping over her shoulder as he casually, confidently, tugged her against his chest. Fitting her against him as if she belonged there. 

“But you have to stop being so, so—” he gestured down the length of her body, and she tilted her head back to look at him. “Attractive,” he said finally, ducking his head to seal her lips in a kiss that made her chest swell with the rising score. 

He pulled reluctantly away with a sigh and snatched up the remote, rewinding the movie. 

-

-

-

They had successfully navigated exactly seven days of their new secret relationship before his sponsors decided it was high time for Aang to make a public appearance.

“You’re pouting,” she accused him over dinner the day before he was meant to leave. He’d been unmotivated during his PT session, too, sulky and distracted. She’d had to pinch him several times to get him to put real effort into his stretches.

It was late, the yard outside the windows black against a moonless night, the air cool and damp through the open door. Even the crickets were muted, as if they, too, were sad about him leaving.  

“I hate press events,” he groused, pushing tofu around his plate, eyes finding hers. “Plus, I have to leave you.”

She chuckled with a shake of her head, flushing internally with pleasure. “It’s only for a few days.” 

He grunted and continued to pout into his plate, hunching over the bar in his kitchen. 

Heady with the knowledge that she could, Katara got to her feet and slid an arm around his back in comfort, kissing him lightly on the temple. He immediately unfolded on the stool and dragged her into his arms, resting his head against her chest, making her heart ache. 

It was so nice to be able to touch him like this, so new and sweet. But beneath the warmth and joy was a thread of unease—a cold current tugging at her ankles. A sense that it couldn’t last forever. 

His arms tightened around her as if sensing the direction of her thoughts, and she rested her cheek on top of his warm scalp, feeling the scratch of budding hair follicles. I’ll miss you, too, she thought, because she didn’t quite dare voice the words aloud.  

He lifted his head then, expression serious enough that her breath snagged against her ribs, caught on the suddenly sharp edges of her heart. She touched his face and leaned down to kiss him because she could.

-

-

-

Aang was an attentive texter, which was a breath of fresh air after the men she’d dated in the past. 

He would send her the silliest things. One morning, she woke up to a close-up of some massive man’s bicep with a text that said Look at this guy's arm…I’m in love. Do you think he’d let me touch it? Imma ask.

As she blinked into the early dawn light, trying to get her brain to make sense of what she was reading, he sent an update. Asked, he was not into it. Had to make a quick escape. Some people are so touchy.

She rolled her eyes. Good morning to you, too, she replied. 

He sent her a picture of his smiling face, the overhead lights of some warehouse venue like suns burning behind his head. Morning, he said, I hate it here. Can I come home? 

She pushed up in bed, shoving her hair out of her eyes. Want me to write you a medical note?

A pause, then: OMG, could you?!

She snorted into the silence. No, probably not. 

She forced herself to swing her legs over the side of the bed, her toes brushing the cold floor, and lifted her arms overhead to stretch her sleep-stiff body. Her phone buzzed against the sheets, and she retrieved it, heading for the bathroom. 

Laaammme. Hey, can I see you? I miss your face.

She bit down on her bottom lip, pleased until she caught sight of her rumpled reflection in the bathroom mirror and flinched. She took a moment to brush her hair and braid it before sending a quick, shy selfie. 

He sent a heart-eyes emoji immediately: It's very important to me that you know how beautiful you are. 

She slapped her hands over her cheeks and looked at herself in the mirror, her expression one of disbelief. If Aang weren’t the most boyishly earnest man she’d ever met in her life, she’d almost accuse him of running lines on her. But it was obvious that he meant every ridiculously sweet thing that came out of his mouth. She still had no idea how to cope with it. 

Her phone buzzed again. 

Oh shit, that beefy guy found me, gotta run. Think of me fondly. This was accompanied by a shaky photo of a very grumpy-looking man who was perhaps seven feet tall with absolutely massive muscles. 

On the third night of his absence, he didn’t call her at the time he’d said he would. An hour went by, and she was pacing her apartment, coiled tight with anxiety. He hadn’t replied to either of her tentative texts, and her mind was beginning to supply her with a repertoire of worst-case scenarios. She ate dinner, barely tasting it. She tried to watch a show and couldn’t focus.  

Finally, an hour after she’d normally have gone to bed, and convinced he was either dead or having wild, passionate sex with some random stranger, she called him. 

“Hey,” he said, picking up on the third ring, voice rough, and she winced, feeling guilty immediately. 

“Did I wake you?”

There was the sound of crinkling sheets and a soft huff of sleepy laughter. “Of course not. But if I had been asleep, I would have been happy to be woken up by the sound of your voice.” 

She blushed and frowned, annoyed as ever that he seemed to always know exactly what to say to ease her anxieties, to make her smile. “You’re silly,” she accused, sinking into the pillows on her bed, curling her legs up under her. 

He hummed, and the deepness of the sound reverberated through her chest to settle low in her stomach. “Sorry for passing out on you. Draining day today. I hate ass-kissing, maybe more than anything.”  

She picked absently at the hem of her nightgown. “It’s okay, I just…” she trailed off, not sure what to say. How to articulate the twisted sort of feeling that had taken hold of her.  

“Missed me?” he offered, tone gentle. “It’s okay to say it, you know. Because I miss the shit out of you.” 

“Poetic,” she said drily, fighting back the smile growing on her face. 

“I’m a real poetry kind of guy. Want me to recite some for you?”

She lifted a brow, staring down the length of the dark hallway outside her bedroom door. “Could you?” 

He chuckled, the sound deeper than normal, and another flush of heat radiated from the core of her. “Of course. I told you, all I did as a kid was read. Want to hear one that reminds me of you?”

She ducked her head, intrigued now. “Alright, let's hear it.” She wasn't at all sure what to expect. Maybe he’d recite song lyrics? Or a silly nursery rhyme? He never ceased to surprise her. Every time they spoke, she discovered some new facet of him.   

He grunted, shifting again, maybe sitting up in his bed in a different dark room far away. Connected to her by the invisible tether of technology and…yearning. That was it…that was what she felt. Yearning. 

For him. For how he made her feel. 

He cleared his throat, and with perfect, practiced articulation, he recited: 

“I crave your mouth, your voice, your hair. 

Silent and starving, I prowl through the streets.” 

A sharp jolt of surprised pleasure shot through her, making her breath catch. God, his voice was, well, it was certainly doing something for her. 

He continued: 

“Bread does not nourish me, dawn disrupts me, all day 

I hunt for the liquid measure of your steps.”

Silence fell across the line; it took her a moment to catch her voice, lodged at the back of her throat. “I miss you,” she blurted. “A lot.” 

A low chuckle, almost pained, as though she’d maimed him somehow. Was that what love was, she wondered dizzily, wounding one another with affection? “I miss you too, beautiful. Wish I were there with you. Kissing you. Holding you.” 

She pulled in a shaky lungful of air that burned, and sank into the bed. She felt hyper-aware of her own body. The drag of her nightgown up her thighs, the fall of one sleeve over her shoulder, the slide of her freshly shaven legs over the comforter.

“I wish you were, too,” she said, voice small, hesitant. It was like she was taking the first step out across a dark void, hoping he’d be there to catch her. “It feels like…things were just getting started, and now you’re gone.”

“Yeah,” he said, and she could hear him swallow. “I thought of you…of this for so long that I sometimes don’t know what to do with myself.” It sounded like a confession, one that lodged inside her heart—lovely and hers.

She turned on her side, curling into herself, eyes staring sightless out the open window of her bedroom and across the dark shadows of the nearby rooftops and swaying trees. She adjusted the phone against her ear. “How long?”

“How long have I wanted you?” 

She nodded to herself, feeling foolish. Needy in a way she wasn’t used to. “Yes.”

A harsh, hot sound, something like a groan and a laugh that crackled in her ear. “Pretty much from the first moment I saw you, Katara.”

She drew her legs up closer to her chest, trying to quell the burst of desire, pure and visceral, that was spreading from between her thighs. “You were in quite a lot of pain the first time you saw me,” she reminded him. 

He laughed, the sound sweet, disarming. Sometimes it felt like he had a key for every door she tried to set between them, removing every lock, brushing past her every defense. “I very clearly remember thinking, as you glared at me over the top of your glasses, that it had been worth nearly snapping my leg off just to meet you.” 

Her heart leapt, tumbled, fell. 

Let the fall carry you. 

“You scared me,” she admitted.

“I did?” His tone was worried. “How?”

She shifted onto her back and slipped her hand down the line of her belly, soft cotton dragging, and pressed her fingers against where she was pulsing. She inhaled sharply, not even embarrassed at the sound, and she heard his breath catch. There was power in it, the way she could affect him. A power she desperately wanted to chase despite all her talk of boundaries and rules. 

“I was afraid of…h-how quickly I wanted you,” she murmured, removing her hand and reaching for the hem of her nightgown with fingers that shook. “Despite knowing I shouldn’t.” 

He groaned, and the sound of her name was a broken plea. “Sweetheart, tell me what you’re doing. I feel like I’m dying.” 

I’m falling, she wanted to say. Falling, and I need you to catch me, please. “Touching myself.”

He cursed, and she bit back a soft noise at the wretched, broken sound of it, thighs clenching together, then spreading as she dipped her fingers under the band of her simple white panties. Some distant part of her couldn’t believe she was doing this, another part of her felt as though this had been inevitable between them. 

“God, the things I want to do to you, Katara.” 

She heard the shuffle of cloth and imagined him pushing down his sweatpants and underwear, taking himself in hand. Her breathing went ragged as her fingers slid between damp folds, searching for some relief to her madness. She wished she knew what he looked like—had only the memory of how he’d felt, long and hard, against her hip. 

“Tell me,” she begged.

There was a soft, slicking sort of sound across the line, and she pressed her fingers lightly into herself to gather the moisture there before slowly starting to circle her clit. 

“I-I don’t know where to start,” he gasped, a rough sawing sound. “Want to taste you so bad. Feel your thighs around my face, hear the noises you make while I make you come with my mouth.” 

Oh my god. 

White-hot heat scorched up her spine, and she arched into her fingers with a helpless, uncontrolled whine. She could picture it. His head was caught between her legs, his lovely eyes looking up at her, his tongue lapping against her. 

“Fuck, I wish I could see you,” he ground out, panting a little. 

“Want to taste you, too,” she babbled, chasing a release that was coming with embarrassing quickness, building like static beneath her fingers and spreading rapidly. She heard his breathing stutter, catching against a whining sort of groan. “Feel you in my mouth. Taste you on my tongue.” 

He growled, a rumble that shot straight to her cunt and had her clenching. “God, the ways I have imagined fucking you, Katara,” he almost snapped, voice tight with pleasure and rapidly devolving self-control. “Against every surface of my house, for sure.” 

Her gasp of pleasure was half a laugh as her thighs fell wider apart and her fingers quickened, spreading fire. “I’m close, Aang.” 

“Good,” he practically cooed at her. “That’s it, sweetheart, make yourself come.” 

She felt drunk, weightless, not even certain she wasn’t floating several feet off the bed. “Come with me,” she managed, so close she could taste him on the back of her tongue. Could feel his hands at her hips, smell him in the thickening air around her, feel his skin sliding across hers.

Another ragged curse. “Hanging on by a thread,” he choked out, and that was all the permission she needed to focus on the rhythm of her fingers, free-falling into the heat that shot through her like a falling star. 

Her spine bowed, her toes curled, and she cried his name in shock and pleasure, devastated by the intensity of it. She could hear his answering moan as she gripped her phone against her face like a lifeline, easing herself through the tremors. Across the line, she heard the rapid, slick pumping sound of his hand as his breathing stuttered and stalled in time with hers.   

Katara’s entire body felt like…like a humming note or chord, perfectly in harmony as a sleepy, self-satisfied smile curled across her face. Aang’s breathing evened out, and they shared a breathless sort of laugh. 

“You make me feel crazy,” he rasped, and she could picture him, sprawled out across the bed, limp and satisfied. 

“In a good way?” The arousal was cooling between her thighs, but everything still felt soft, dreamy. The only thing that was missing was him. 

A chuckle and the sound of him getting to his feet. Probably to clean up, and the thought made her bite down on her lip. “The best way.”    

-

-

-

He came home late two days later, and they agreed to wait till the next day to see each other. She convinced herself it was not at all appropriate to use the spare key he had given her to sneak into his bed and wait for him. She wasn’t his girlfriend, after all; she was…well, she wasn’t really sure what she was. They were taking things slow. Better not to assign labels to things until after she had discharged him.  

 When she woke the next morning, she had a text. Pretty sure I caught the plague. Feel like death. Better you stay away and spare yourself.  

She sat up immediately, drowsiness swept away by concern. What are your symptoms?

By the time he texted her back, she was already dressed, hair thrown up in a messy bun, staring down the medical supplies in her hall closet. She flicked her phone open when it vibrated in the side pocket of her leggings. Fever, chills, stomach is pretty upset.

She grabbed her clinical-grade thermometer, a whole box of Liquid I.V., her stethoscope from the hook by her front door, and two big bottles of Ibuprofen and Acetaminophen. For creature comforts, she snagged some lotion-infused tissues, a few of her medicinal tea blends that were good for sore throats and upset stomachs, and a few cold compresses. All of which she stuffed into her larger medical bag. 

Packed and ready, she looked at her phone again. Aang had texted her again: You’re coming, aren’t you? I really don’t want you to get sick. 

She smiled. I’ll wear a mask, and I have all my flu shots. Do you?

Uh, no…don’t tell my doctor.

She sighed and texted. Be there in 30. 

When she entered the code at his gate and pulled into the drive, she shot him another quick text. Gonna let myself in so you don’t have to get up. 

He texted her back almost immediately. Cool, I’m in a bed, wasting away. 

She grabbed her bag from the passenger seat, opened her car door, and hurried across the gravel, the morning air bright and crisp. It was going to be a really lovely day. Poor Aang. 

His luggage was sitting just inside the door, and she set her purse on the inside entryway table, toeing off her sneakers. From the pocket of her light zip-up sweater, she drew a facemask and hooked it over both ears before shouldering her medical bag and hurrying down the hall. 

She knocked lightly on his slightly ajar bedroom door and poked her head inside, stunned to find it was nearly pitch black. The glass ceiling was shrouded by flat, fabric blinds built directly into the glass framework. The only light came from a salt rock lamp on his nightstand.  

“Come to pay your respects?” he croaked, sounding awful. 

She rolled her eyes and pushed her way into the room, vision adjusting to the darkness so that she could see him shifting slowly upright in bed. He was bare at least to the waist, where the comforter pooled around his hips, and she strode across the room to switch on the lamp at his bedside. 

He flinched a little at the light as she set her bag down on the floor beside the bed. 

His cheeks were very flushed, and his eyes were a little unfocused. He sniffled pathetically as she sat next to him, mattress dipping beneath her weight, and she unwound her stethoscope from around her neck, placing the eartips in her ears. 

“What are you doing?” he asked skeptically as she lifted the diaphragm towards his chest, his voice muffled by the eartips.

She tugged one of them free and gave him a flat, disbelieving look, her voice muffled by the mask. “I’m a doctor, remember?”

“Pretty sure your speciality is not the man flu,” he groused.

She smirked. “A secondary specialization, actually. Now stop whining and take a deep breath for me.”

He sighed, and she pressed the diaphragm against his chest, turning her head to listen. “Deep breath, Aang,” she said sternly, and listened as he inhaled. Maybe a light wheeze? She shifted the diaphragm to the other side of his chest, listening again. No…no, he was clear. She straightened, pulling the tips from her ears and draping the stethoscope back over her neck. 

“Why is this so hot?” he demanded, looking at her with a sleepy, almost drunk kind of interest, his smile dopey and lopsided. 

She rolled her eyes. “Because you’re a pervert?”

He opened his mouth to say something else, but it was lost in a coughing fit. She handed him his water bottle from the nightstand, then retrieved her thermometer, placing it gently in his ear. 

It beeped a moment later, and she pulled it away. “101,” she said with a frown. “Well, for a man flu, you’re pretty sick.” 

“I feel like death,” he admitted, slumping against the wooden headboard. 

“Let's get some meds in you,” she said, patting his hand. “Have you eaten?”

“Not since yesterday,” he admitted, looking generally miserable. 

Katara dug the Tylenol out of her bag, popped the cap, and fished out two pills, watching as he swallowed them. “Drink that whole bottle, if you can. We need to keep you hydrated.”

He nodded weakly and chugged most of the bottle before she took it from him and set it aside. She reached out to switch off the light, throwing them back into the warm darkness. 

“I’m going to go make you some soup and some tea, alright?” She rose to her feet, and he reached out in the dark to take her hand in his. His palm was hot, clammy, his grip weak. 

“Thank you, Katara,” he murmured. 

She grabbed his hand in both of hers, rubbing her thumb reassuringly along his knuckles. “Of course, rest. I’ll bring you something to eat.” 

By the time she returned an hour later with some broth and tea, he was fast asleep. She hated to do it, but she gently woke him, forcing him to drink at least half of each. She listened to his lungs again, took his temperature, and left him to sleep. 

When she stood again in the hallway, with the training room down the hall to the right, she wasn’t sure what to do with herself next. Whether she should stay or leave him in peace to rest. If he even wanted her here, she’d never bothered to ask, and now she was too afraid to find out the answer. 

With a deep, resigned sigh, she looked back through the cracked door behind her, through the darkness, to his still form on the bed, where she could just make out the pale curve of his head. He was snoring gently, a domestic, sweet sound. 

She couldn’t leave him, even if she knew she probably should. Even if that would have been the smart, safe thing to do. Nothing she had done since the moment she had met him, however, had been smart or safe. Her entire life, she had been the responsible, sensible one, and now she was upending her entire life for a man. Again. 

He seemed different. She wanted to believe he was different. 

She tugged the mask off her face, stuffed it in her side pocket, and went to wash her hands in the kitchen sink. She washed the few dirty dishes sitting in the sink just to have something to do, which quickly led to wiping down the counters and tidying the living room. When that was done, she opened the back door to the patio because it felt frankly alien to have it closed, and walked into the backyard. 

She hadn’t spent much time out here, which was a shame; the yard was truly lovely. The landscaping was a mix of careful preservation and a gentle, guiding hand. A personification of the man who tended it.

He’d let flowers overgrow, and the grass remained long and thick around the treeline, swaying in the breeze in greeting. It felt sort of like… a secret, somehow, the sort of place you might stumble upon in a dream, or within a fairytale. The wind was cool and the sun warm on her skin, and she tipped her head skyward to feel its touch on her brows and cheeks. She was in so deep that sunshine reminded her of Aang.

Sometimes it frightened her how much she liked it here. How at home she felt in his space. Every time she came over and then had to return to her apartment, she left a little bit more of herself behind. Like…maybe she was losing herself slowly, being absorbed by him somehow. 

She paced towards the koi pond, stepping out onto the little hanging deck Aang had built over one corner. On the other side of the pond was a small, low building enclosed by traditional Japanese shoji doors—wooden lattice frames covered in tough, semi-translucent white paper. She had never been inside the building, and she was tempted for a moment to go snooping, but thought better of it. A personal dojo or temple, maybe. There was an almost sacred aura about it—the kind of place one needed to be invited into. 

In the water spread out before her, the fish danced like brightly colored ribbons beneath the murky surface. A huge dragonfly buzzed, weaving listlessly through the budding lily pads at the other side of the pond. It was beautiful, serene, and her heart ached. 

She wanted this. 

A life here, with him. She could see herself among the trees, lying in the grass, spending evenings with him beneath the stars...and the thought terrified her. 

This wasn’t casual or simple.  

Not for her, at least—and she so desperately wanted it to be. Needed it to be, because she wasn’t sure she’d survive the fallout when it inevitably came to a bitter, messy end. When she fell too hard, too fast, and he left her behind. 

She wrapped her arms around herself, squeezing tightly, nails digging into the soft underside of her arms, trying desperately not to think about how loving people had only ever hurt. They had months left before she had to really commit to anything, she told herself; they were still just feeling things out. 

She could have fun. Right? Just let herself enjoy things for once and not worry about what would happen the next day…right?

Her phone went off, an alarm for Aang’s next dose of medication, a bracing reminder that she was full of shit. One did not race over to someone’s house to tend to them through a flu if that person was just some casual hook-up. 

“You are such a mess,” she said, loudly enough that the fish startled, sending waves of overlapping, sparkling ripples out across the pond. 

Back inside Aang’s room, he was looking a little better, less flushed, and his fever had come down. She plied him with more medication and water, and rebuffed his attempts at groping her with poorly concealed amusement. To appease him—and maybe herself—she tugged her mask down enough to press a kiss to the top of his head where the stubble had grown in thicker than she’d ever seen it, a dark shadow along his scalp. His smile when she pulled away lodged itself somewhere beneath her ribs, radiant and tender. 

She ordered him back to sleep, made herself a sandwich, then pulled out her laptop to work on updating patient documents and reviewing her schedule for the following week. Eventually, bored and in need of a distraction, she turned on the TV, flipping aimlessly through the channels before landing on Pride and Prejudice, the version with Keira Knightley. 

Somewhere between Mr. Darcy no longer being able to bear his feelings for Lizzy and men being eaten up with either arrogance or stupidity, she fell asleep. She was eventually roused by a gentle touch on her cheek, glancing and soft, and she blinked drowsily awake. 

Aang, wrapped in a blanket like a cape, smiled sheepishly down at her. His heart was in his eyes, and she couldn’t bear the weight of it, looking quickly away.

“Sorry, you looked so sweet.” His voice was much deeper with illness, but his color was better and his eyes clearer. “Wanted to kiss you but, well, obviously not a great idea.”

She sat up, wincing a bit at a crick in her neck, and she took off her smudged glasses to clean them on her shirt. “You should be resting,” she said, pressing her glasses back over her nose. 

He hobbled with his cane over to the opposite couch, looking dejected. “I’m bored. Can we watch a movie together?”

She smiled and checked her phone. He had another dose of medication in about an hour. “Alright, but you need to drink more water and eat something.”

“Let's order out?” He made a pouty, ridiculous face, and she laughed. 

“Fine,” she relented. “You probably want noodles anyway.”

Something passed over his face—something warm and soft that made her heart skip. She immediately got to her feet, trying to outpace the feeling by fetching him a bottle of cold water from the fridge. She was trying to embrace the fall, but every time she looked over the edge, the height scared her. The drop felt so far… what if she didn’t survive it?

After dinner, when he was looking drowsy and generally pitiful, she ushered him back to bed. He caught her wrist after she pulled the blankets up around him, and she felt heartsore and silly.

“Stay with me?” he asked in a sleepy, sickly rasp. 

Her lips twitched, caught in the darkness, like a planet in orbit, drawn by his gravity. “I thought you didn’t want to get me sick,” she reminded him. 

“You made your choice when you came over,” he insisted. “Now I don’t want you to leave.”

She snorted and turned her wrist to briefly capture his hand. “Fine, but I’m stealing one of your shirts.”

He groaned pathetically. “You’re evil, and I can’t even touch you. So unfair.”

She rolled her eyes with a laugh. “The price you pay for a home visit.” 

His smirk was sleepy, but somehow still lecherous. “Best doctor ever.”

She stayed with him two days; on the third day, he was much better, and she was decidedly ill. Aang looked almost excited when the thermometer read 100, and he dedicated himself with an impressive amount of zeal to caring for her. 

He tended her through the shivers, made her favorite tea, ordered her favorite meals, and watched her favorite movies. He never complained, never hesitated to provide her with everything she could possibly need. Some part of her didn’t want it to end. She wanted to lie curled up against him on his couch as he scratched his nails along her scalp and rambled about how much he preferred the original Star Wars movies but felt the prequels were overhated forever. 

Wanted to pretend she belonged there with him for a little while longer. 

-

-

-

Three days after Katara recovered from her illness, they were back in his training room as the sun set bloody and fierce against the mountains. After so long without dedicated PT sessions, Aang was struggling to match the pace they’d been working towards before his trip. He was close to no longer needing the cane and graduating to jogging and light agility work, but not if he suffered a setback. She’d hate for that to happen…for a variety of reasons—some of them very selfish.  

They were down on the floor, Aang on his back on a set of gym mats, Katara pressing forward with her entire body weight against his left thigh. 

“Come on, you can push harder than that,” she said sternly as Aang grunted, straining as he pressed back. His thigh was shaking, his shoulders tense as his back pressed into the mat for leverage. “Good, that's good, Aang, keep going,” she said and pushed forward harder, making him gasp as he attempted to press back. “You can do it. Push me back. That’s it.” She made him hold it for another long moment, face contorted, before easing away.

He gasped in relief as she leaned back, giving him a break as he lay panting, eyes closed, face red and gleaming with sweat. 

“Need to do that twice more,” she said, almost apologetically. 

He cracked an eye open and swiped a hand over his face. “I feel like a limp noodle.” 

She nodded and lowered his leg from her shoulder to massage his outer thigh, digging deep into the muscle tissue. “I know, but you were making such great progress, I’d hate to see you lose your momentum.”

“Hate how a week and a half off makes such a difference.” He sounded frustrated, and she looked up to find his eyes on her, assessing, expression hard to parse. 

“This is the hardest part of your recovery,” she said, fingers still working against him. “You’re going to start feeling better. Stronger, but we have to be very careful. Your newly grafted ligament is still vascularizing; it is highly susceptible to snapping if you twist it the wrong way at the wrong time.”   

He nodded, taking a few long, deep breaths. “Okay,” he said slowly. “Okay, let's do it again.” 

Katara drew his leg up, balancing his bare calf on her shoulder as his basketball shorts slid down his thigh. “Alright, on the count of three. Push back as hard as you can.” She counted them down and heaved, nearly pressing his knee to his chest before he was finally able to resist her enough to shove her back a few inches. 

“Come on, Aang, you were nearly pushing me across the room last week.” 

“I can't,” he gasped, chest heaving. 

“You can,” she snapped. She couldn’t take it easy on him. Not here, not when it was her job to help him get better. “Push, Aang.”

He growled and pushed so hard his calf skittered off her shoulder, and she slipped forward, only barely managing to catch her weight with a hand to the mat beside his head. Their noses were inches apart, his labored breathing painting her face in sweet warmth. 

She was cradled between his legs, and she could feel his cock twitch to life between them as his eyes drifted towards her lips. Want—hot, nearly ever-present, and only barely contained behind the mask of her professionalism—snapped through her like a rapidly spreading wildfire. She felt…consumed.

She had no idea who moved first, but suddenly they were kissing, his hand shoved through the fall of her messily tied-back hair as she lowered her chest to his. His other hand smoothed restlessly up and down her back before curving down her ass, making her shudder, making her hips press forward, seeking.  

Suddenly, gripping her hips and driving off his good right leg, he rolled, pulling her with him until she found herself on her back beneath him, staring up into his lust-darkened eyes for a split second before he kissed her again. She parted her thighs further, drawing him to her, the hard ridge of his erection pressing against where she was beginning to grow wet. A rippling shudder wracked through her, and she arched toward him, chasing the pleasure, chasing him. 

She wanted more. Every day, she wanted more and more and more.  

“God,” he said against her lips, his tongue thrusting demandingly into her mouth, making her gasp.  “It always drives me crazy when you talk to me like that.” 

She gripped his sweat-slick shoulders, fingers just dipping under his cut-off sleeves, feeling the flex of his arms and back, already dizzy, drunk off his touch. “Like what?”

“Bossy,” he said, drawing his mouth down her neck, teeth sharp, soothed by his lips and tongue. “Demanding.” 

His hips pressed her down into the mat, bringing the hard length of him sharply against the thin barrier of her leggings and panties. She moaned, back arching, and he hissed his encouragement, capturing her mouth in a messy kiss. He was usually so controlled, careful. There was nothing careful about him now—his touch rough, demanding.   

He rolled his hips again, and she moved with him, blinking dazed at his ceiling as he buried his face in her throat and her hands made fists in the back of his sweat-damp shirt. 

“Your knee,” she gasped as he cupped her breast through her shirt. She was rapidly losing the ability to form coherent thoughts.

“Fuck my knee,” he snapped, and she glanced down their bodies to see that he was holding his injured leg extended, balancing entirely on his good leg and one arm. As weak as his injured leg was, the rest of him was strong and steady around her, boxing her in, holding up the world beyond them. Still, she was his doctor. He needed to be careful.  

“I-If you hurt yourself,” she snapped back, trying to control her breathing. “I will be very mad at you.” 

He lifted his head, but his face was angled to stare down between them as he gripped one of her thighs, pressing it out and towards her chest, and then angling his hips so that when he ground into her again, he was rubbing directly over her clit. The air rushed out of her lungs as her eyes rolled back. When she opened them again, he was looking at her, brows drawn sharply together and jaw clenched tight. 

“Do you want me to stop?” he asked, voice an echo of that night on the phone, rough and dark, but here, now, in the fading golden light. There was a challenge in it, a teasing edge that was sharp like the glide of his hips as he dragged against her again.

Dry humping like a horny teenager, she thought, clutching at him, nails biting into his biceps. I have lost my mind. 

“Just—Just be careful,” she managed, the heel of her other foot digging into the mat, trying to find purchase, trying to capture some shred of self-control. 

The flash of a smirk, its edge razor sharp as it cut through her, and he pressed her thigh further towards her chest in an echo of what she’d been doing to him for the past few months. He rolled his hips again, breaking her open from the inside out, and they found a primal, gut-wrenching rhythm. 

“I bet you could come like this, couldn’t you?” His voice was rough, almost taunting as he leaned down into her. She felt like she might combust just from the way he was speaking to her. 

She whined, and he groaned in response, a deep, thick sound that seeped through her skin to set fire to her veins. He shifted his weight on his good knee, keeping his injured leg carefully extended as he thrust against her firmly, and sparks of heat shot through her legs, curling her toes as she arched towards him, seeking relief.  

“Would you like that, Katara?” he panted, teeth dragging along her ear, eliciting a shower of shivers as she clutched him tightly against her. “I can feel how wet you are, how bad you want it. How bad you want me.” There was a possessive, hard thread that banded like steel through his words, that reflected in the fierce gleam of his eyes.  

She was embarrassingly close to orgasm from just the friction and the maddening cadence of his words—so unlike the sweet, affable man he normally was. 

“Yes,” she gasped, struggling to focus. 

He bent his elbow to lean down and capture her lower lip between his, nipping the tender skin softly. “Yes, what?” he asked into her mouth before pulling away, pupils fat and glossy, jaw set with restraint. 

“Please,” she whined as he canted his hips again, the press too glancing to be truly satisfying. Her hands scrambled over his shoulders, under the sleeves, and across the sleek muscles of his back, eager to touch whatever bare skin she could manage to reach. She wanted to taste him. Sample the sweat gleaming along his jawline. 

He adjusted his weight, balancing himself on an elbow as he roughly dragged his other hand into her unravelling bun to grip her hair, exposing the line of her throat. Her scalp stung, but that was good, so good, and her mind supplied a thousand other situations in which he might pull her hair. How good that would be, to feel him behind her, whispering filthy things into her ear— 

“Say it, sweetheart,” he ground out, the pet name making her want to claw her way inside him somehow, just to be closer. “Tell me what you want.” 

He pressed against her in a hard, deep, slow drag of his hips that almost hurt, her clit burning as she keened. Her composure snapped, dissolved, rained down around them in sparks of light.

“Please, make me come, Aang. Oh!” She gasped as he circled against her, unraveling her by degrees. “Please.” 

She almost couldn’t believe the sound of her own wrecked voice in her ears. How needy and whimpery she sounded, but she would have done almost anything for him to keep going. To keep touching her, to keep him looking at her like she was the only thing in the world he ever wanted to be looking at.  

God, she wanted to feel him inside her. The sweet stretch of being filled, taken, she could taste the demand on the tip of her tongue. She wanted to beg him to ignore every boundary she’d ever tried to set.

He inhaled sharply and pushed himself upright with the strength of only one arm, a frankly intoxicating display of physical control that short-circuited her brain. The light had almost died outside, the overhead hanging lights catching the drops of sweat as they slid down the tendons of his neck and the thickly roped muscles of his arm. She’d never known a man to be so physically strong and yet so safe—so earnestly good. 

And in that moment, he was incredibly good at driving her towards the edge of insanity.  

She looked down between them, took in the wet spot between her legs, dark against her charcoal gray leggings, and the tented reality of his gym shorts, and flexed her fingers against the mat, trying to find something, both mentally and physically, to grasp onto. She was breaking apart, close to flying in a thousand different directions.  

Braced on one knee and the extended line of his left foot, Aang grabbed her hips in both hands, dragging her roughly against him. She instinctively locked her ankles against his back, and within the span of a breath, they were both frantically grinding against one another. She arched her back to bear her weight on the tops of her shoulders, hands scrambling, grasping at nothing as her head tossed. Through lidded eyes, she could see that Aang was watching her with rapture, his expression devastated, and jaw slack as he panted desperately. The press of his fingers was sharp, biting as he guided her faltering movements. 

“Come, Katara,” he snapped, then, “Please, come,” as his own rhythm began to stutter. 

I love him, I love him so much, oh god, oh god—

Her orgasm slammed into her, casting her adrift and snatching her away into blissful, mindless oblivion as he groaned, long and loud, hips jerking as he came in his shorts—even through the daze of her satiation, it was still insanely arousing to her, the reality of him coming in his clothes like a desperate teenager, all because he wanted her so badly. 

She had done that to him, and it carried the taste of addiction—she wanted to do it again. 

He slumped onto the mat next to her, panting, red-faced, and sweaty. After a moment, he turned his head towards her, found her hand on the mat, and interlocked their fingers. 

“We may,” he started, before pausing to draw in another steadying breath, “need to set some new boundaries.” 

She let out a stunted laugh, squeezing her fingers weakly against his. “Probably. Unless that was all just a very elaborate way to get out of your stretches.” 

He smirked, looking at her sidelong. If he was self-conscious of orgasming in his shorts, he didn’t show it—he was such a remarkably self-possessed person. “Worked, didn’t it?”

She sniffed, pressing her trembling knees together. “After we get cleaned up, we’ll finish the last set.” She grinned. “Actually, let's make it two sets.”

He let out a long, childish whine. “You’re so mean.” 

-

-

-

A week later, Aang’s name stared out at her from her appointment calendar, taunting her as she moved through her Monday morning in a dazed sort of fog. The memory of the mat still burned in her mind, making the antiseptic smell of the clinic feel even more like a suffocating cage. But she knew if he looked at her too long in front of Huria or Agna, the entire charade would be over. Everyone would know, and her life would be over—

She forced herself to take a deep breath, take a sip of her cold coffee, and stop panicking. She just needed to get him in and out as fast as possible. 

When his appointment time finally rolled around, she stepped out of her office just in time to catch him leaning over the nurses' counter in the hallway, smiling as Agna laughed at something he said. He looked up, and their eyes met, and a jolt sliced through her. She considered turning and going back into her office and hiding, possibly forever, but Huria turned and spotted her. With a slight cough, she squared her shoulders. 

“Hey, Dr. Tariuq!” he said with cheerful ease, and she was nearly blown away by how much she hated it. 

“Hello, Mr. Gyatso,” she said, tone stilted enough that Agna raised a brow at her. 

“Big day today, ladies,” he rapped his knuckles on the counter, and Huria nodded with a smile that was laden with bold appreciation. 

“Graduating from the cane is a big moment,” Agna agreed. 

“Right,” Katara interrupted. “Let's get started then.” She waved Aang toward room five at the back of the clinic. 

As soon as the door shut behind them and Aang hopped onto the table, Katara’s throat clenched. His expression was neutral, pleasant, and she glanced down blindly at his file to try to compose herself. 

“R-right,” she said, wetting her lips before lifting her chin. “Let's check the ligament and muscle tone first.”

“Sure.” Another pleasant, easy smile. His eyes were clear, bright, almost unfamiliar in their unaffected brilliance. It was not at all how he usually looked at her. 

Katara walked towards the exam table, then aborted the movement halfway to belatedly retrieve a pair of gloves from the wall. She felt like a med student on her first day of rotation as she awkwardly struggled to pull the latex over her hands. Keeping her head down, she stepped to his side as he lowered himself back, her hands moving to his knee. 

She felt the heat of him through the gloves as she pressed into his skin and mapped the grafted ligament with her fingers. Everything felt good, solid, but she found it hard to concentrate. It had been weeks since she’d touched him in an environment where she had to be conscious of her behavior…and his. Her hands moved to his thighs, rubbing deeply, and her eyes flicked to his face. Her stomach sank when she saw that he was breathing slowly, one arm tucked behind his head as he stared at the ceiling. He looked almost…bored. 

She stepped back, movements jerky, uncoordinated. Why did she feel so off-balance? “Alright. I need to measure the degree of flexion.”

She turned woodenly towards the cabinets behind her and retrieved the goniometer—a large, clear plastic protractor with two pivoting arms—from a drawer. 

“Lie flat,” she murmured, returning to his side. “I want you to keep your foot flat against the table.” She paused while he bent his knee to press his sock-clad foot against the crinkling paper. “Good, now slide your heel up toward your body as far as you possibly can without triggering any sharp pain.” She paused, feeling strangely out of breath. “Just a steady, controlled drag. Go ahead.”

He did as she’d instructed, sliding his heel smoothly back until the tension in his knee stopped him a few inches shy of his glute. She stepped forward to press the plastic arms of the goniometer to the skin of his thigh and outer calf, adjusting them till they aligned with his bones. 

“Okay, you’re hitting about 115 degrees on your own. That’s good.” She glanced toward his face. “I-I’m going to place my hand on your shin and apply a little bit of overpressure to see how the graft and surrounding tissue react.” He offered another charming and friendly smile that was increasingly making her want to crawl out of her own skin. “Try to keep your quad completely relaxed while I push.” Her tone was harsher than she meant for it to be, agitated for reasons she couldn’t begin to explain even to herself. 

She set the goniometer aside and pressed both hands into his shin, using her body weight to push him a few extra inches. Their eyes met, and he looked immediately away. “Good,” she said, dully, and stepped away. 

She lifted her chin, picking up his medical file and holding it against her chest like a shield. “Okay. The last metric we need to clear you for is proprioception. Basically, I need to see if your knee can stabilize your body weight without relying on visual cues or the cane.”

He sat up, scooting his body up the length of the exam table to sit at its edge, arms flexing. 

She cleared her throat unnecessarily. “I want you to stand entirely on your left leg. Once you are steady, I need you to close your eyes and hold it for thirty seconds. I am going to step in very close and hover my hands near your waist to catch you if the joint buckles. Just… focus on your balance.”

He nodded, his expression carefully blank. “Understood, Dr. Tariuq.” Another splinter in her chest, and she clenched her arms tighter against her body as he moved off the table to stand on one foot. 

Taking a deep breath, she set the file aside and stepped into his space, hands hovering near his hips. He dutifully closed his eyes, face serene and relaxed as he balanced perfectly on his left foot. She was close enough to feel the warmth of him, smell the fabric softener he used, the intimately familiar scent of his skin, and her pulse leapt. Her physical reaction to him was entirely out of her control, Pavlovian, almost. Instinctual. 

She realized, standing close but not as close as she wanted to be, why she was so upset, so unsettled… he made keeping his distance look easy. And she didn’t want it to be easy for him, largely because it wasn't at all easy for her. It was stupid, illogical, and deeply unfair, but it was also undeniably true. 

She was having an existential crisis, and he looked as calm and relaxed as ever. 

“We’re done here,” she snapped suddenly, turning away from him, agitation like bile in her throat. 

There was a tense pause. “Hey, uh,” he said, tone uncertain, a distinct crack in his composure at last. “Is, um, something the matter, doctor?” 

Katara ripped her gloves off and chucked them in the waste basket, refusing to look at him in case she did something unforgivable like cry. 

“Absolutely nothing, Mr. Gyatso.” Her tone was cold and clipped. “You’re cleared to stop using the cane. I will see you back here in a month.”

She didn’t hear him move, gasping loudly when he took her by the arm and spun her around, backing her into the nearby wall. She blinked up at his face in shock, glasses having slipped down the length of her nose, the fluorescent lights a harsh halo behind his head. His expression was thunderous, eyes dark and penetrating, holding her immobile. 

“If you think for one moment I haven’t been dying to touch you since the moment I walked in the clinic doors, you’re insane,” he said in a fierce whisper. “Dr. Tariuq.”

Her heart pounded in her ears, and her breathing was unsteady as she shakily pressed her glasses up. “Aang, I don’t know—”

He silenced her with a kiss that was all desperate forward momentum, like he couldn’t go another second without touching her. He pressed into her with his body, shifting his weight to his forearms on either side of her as he thrust his tongue demandingly between her slightly parted lips. His chest was flush against hers, compressing her breasts, sending her glasses askew as he adjusted the angle of his head and sighed shakily into her mouth. She knew she shouldn’t, that this was absolutely the worst idea, but she pressed up on her toes and wrapped an arm around his neck, and melted into him. 

Too soon, he was pulling away. Too soon reality crashed back into her as he pressed back into his palms, still caging her between his arms but putting some distance between their bodies, dragging all the heat with him.  

“I need you to understand,” he said in a near whisper, eyes closing as he collected himself. Moisture gleamed on his lips, and his cheeks were flushed, his pulse at the base of his throat leaping. “That I always want you. Have always wanted you. If I ever seem like I don’t… I promise it’s only through sheer, desperate willpower and a desire to protect you.” His eyes snapped open, and they were fierce and solemn. “Alright?”

She swallowed with some difficulty, drawing her arms up against her chest, and nodded. 

He let out a long, hard lungful of air and took a step back from her. “You should go. I–I will see you later.” 

She stared at him for another moment, adjusted her glasses, snatched his medical file, and fled the room. By some miracle, she managed to completely avoid Huria and Agna and escape to her office, quickly shutting the door and pressing herself back against it, resting a hand over her chest and trying to contain her rapidly beating heart. 

I am in so much trouble.

-

-

-

Several days later, Katara froze outside Aang’s door as a strange man dressed in a red shirt and black linen pants smiled awkwardly down at her. He had long black hair pulled back messily from his face—a face that was handsome, but deeply scarred across one eye and down to the side of his neck. It looked like poorly healed burns, and she could only imagine how painful it must have been. 

His pale brown eyes were kind. “Aang asked me to let you in. My name is Zuko.”

Katara’s eyes widened. She had heard that name—Sokka had mentioned it that night at the bar. “You’re who he’s training with?” she asked and stepped past him into the entryway.

He nodded slightly. “Yeah, we’ve been training together for years now. On and off, to prep him for MMA.” 

Katara wrinkled her nose, and Zuko lifted a brow. “Not a fan?”

She forced a smile. “Something like that.” 

Aang emerged from the hallway with a broad smile, wearing wide-legged martial arts-style linen pants in earthy saffron and a fitted, well-worn tank top in a creamy off-white color. It was almost strange to see him without crutches or a cane. “Sorry, I was getting warmed up. Doing my stretches, just like the doctor ordered.” He shot her a wink.  

Katara cleared her throat, suddenly unsure what to do with her hands. “Uh, right, well. Are you two ready?” 

She could see the moment when Aang realized he had to be more careful. Had to temper his affection and enthusiasm. His eyes skittered purposefully away from her, and he nodded, motioning towards the open back door. “Shall we?”

Katara frowned in confusion. “You want to do this outside?”

He shook his head as Zuko paced past them both. “No, my studio is that building outside.” 

A genuine thrill of excitement broke through her nerves, pulling a smile to her lips. “Oh! I wondered what it was.” 

He nudged her with a shoulder and a crooked smile. “You could have asked.” 

She flushed and ducked away, gnawing on her lower lip as she followed him into the sunshine and bird song. The doors to the studio were wide open to the yard, and the floor as she climbed the steps was made of pale bamboo sprung-hardwood, springy and impact absorbent under her feet. The center of the room was sunken and covered with a large, seamless martial arts mat painted with the familiar circles of his practice. The ceiling was vaulted with exposed pale wood beams and massive skylights, drenching the room in warm, natural sunlight. 

To one side, there were wooden balance beams and a wooden dummy. In the far left corner, silk ropes hung from the ceiling, while the opposite corner was neatly arranged with meditation cushions. The entire room smelled of warm cedar, fresh air, and the ever-present sandalwood. 

“Alright,” she said, toeing off her shoes to slide them alongside Aang’s and Zuko’s. “Remember, you have to take this very slowly, Aang. I know what you do requires a lot of rotational torque, but that's why you need to focus on simple fundamentals for now.” 

Aang nodded, rolling his shoulders as Zuko went to the mat. “Got it. Yell at me if I start to overdo it. I’m a little afraid of muscle memory kicking in, and I do something stupid.”

“We can focus on the upper body,” Zuko offered. “I know it will be hard for you, Twinkle Toes, but time to plant your feet.”

Aang groaned. “I let Toph call me that because I don’t have a choice.” Who is Toph, she wondered vaguely with a pinch of anxiety. He’d never mentioned anyone by that name before.

Zuko smirked. “You don’t like it, come beat me in a match, and I’ll stop.”

“That’s mean. You’re mean.” 

“Come on, don’t be scared, I’ll go easy on you,” Zuko said, falling into a fighting sort of stance. Aang rolled his eyes and stepped onto the mat, his eyes flicking towards her before he bent at the knee and raised his hands, palms open. 

“Ready?” Zuko asked, and Aang gave a firm nod.

“Hah!” Zuko began a series of rapid, heavy, boxing-style combinations aimed at Aang’s head and chest. 

Katara was frankly astonished as Aang, twisting only at the waist, managed to dodge, parry, and block the rain of blows. Both men were grunting, occasionally grimacing as they exchanged hits, and the studio was filled with the rhythmic smack-smack-thud of forearms colliding and palms slapping. Aang ducked, swift as a snake, and jammed the side of his palm into the space between Zuko’s shoulder and neck. The other man hissed, taking a step back with a pained smile. 

“Alright, alright, I won’t call you Twinkle Toes.”

Aang smirked, self-satisfied. 

They took a break, both of them breathing heavily, sweat darkening their clothing and dripping from their faces. Katara’s brain zeroed in and then promptly fizzled into white noise as Aang dragged his tank top up from the bottom hem to wipe his face. His muscled abdomen gleamed with moisture, and the fine trail of hair from his navel down past the waist of his pants caught in the sunlight. 

Katara swallowed against a suddenly thick throat and made a show of checking her phone when Aang glanced her way. Her thoughts were a scattered mess: Why is he so attractive? It’s maybe the worst thing that has ever happened to me. I want to touch him so bad. Oh my god. Pull. It. Together.

They practiced for about another thirty minutes. Aang performed a few careful, slight pivots on his damaged leg to test the ligament. Zuko acted as a spotter, snapping at him when he overstepped or overcorrected, while Katara tried—and largely failed—to not dissolve into a lust-addled fangirl on the sidelines.  She had the sense that seeing him at his full potential might actually break her. 

The sun was slipping down into the valley when Aang escorted Zuko out, leaving Katara behind to sit on the raised dais of the studio platform, her feet swinging among the fluttering tendrils of sweet grass. 

Her thoughts were tangled, soft but indistinct, hard to grasp. 

There were just so many different facets and sides to him, so many things she didn’t know despite feeling like she’d known him for years and not a few short months. It was a strange juxtaposition of familiarity and mystery that left her anxious but curious—she wanted to know and see him in the same way he always seemed to see her. Wanted to peel back the layers of him, understand what moved him, how he managed to stay so entirely himself all the time when she forever struggled to define who and what she wanted to be. 

She envied him, she realized, envied his surety and sense of self. She had never been sure of anything… except maybe him, and that was its own kind of terror. 

When he returned, he flopped down next to her with a smile that lit her up from the inside. She could tell from his slight grimace that his knee pinched him a little, but the movement was encouragingly fluid. 

“You’re very talented,” Katara said after a moment of comfortable silence. “I watched a few videos of you before I accepted you as a patient.”

A cocky smirk bloomed on his face. “I knew it! Couldn’t resist, huh?”

She rolled her eyes, blushing a little despite herself. “It's beautiful, how you move. I’ve never seen anything like it.” She was almost certain she could watch him practice all day—and not just because it was deeply attractive, though that certainly played a part. It was like…art in motion. A piece of himself that was projecting out into the world.

“And it's thanks to you that I might actually get to do it again,” he said, his tone warm and full of tenderness that wrapped around her, enveloping her in his affection.  

She turned to him, and his smile had softened into something else, something tentative and vulnerable, and he reached down to take her hand from where it rested on the wood between them, linking their fingers. She turned away to stare off across the valley, overwhelmed. 

His hand in hers…it felt like partnership. It felt like home. 

The sun was setting, and she couldn’t help but think she didn’t just want his sunsets, she wanted the rises too. The beginnings, as well as the endings, and all the things in the middle.  

She looked at him again, and he was already leaning towards her, free hand caught suspended for a moment in the golden light before finding her face in the fading glow. He kissed her, and it was full of promise—slow and steady and unhurried as if they had all the time in the world to explore each other under the waking stars. 

As if he planned to go on kissing her for the rest of their lives, and she desperately wished she could understand why that scared her so much.  

Chapter Text

Her life took on a dream-like quality. Fragile as iridescent glass, poised to shatter.

There were moments with Aang that just didn’t feel quite real. Like, surely they couldn’t be happening to her. 

One night, as she was helping him make dinner after his PT session, he pulled her into a dance. Grasping her hand as she reached for a spoon to mix the curry bubbling on the stove, his other hand captured the dip of her waist, and he pulled her into his orbit.

That’s what it felt like sometimes. Celestial bodies moving in tandem, destined to collide. 

Music was playing softly from the little Bluetooth speaker on the counter, something acoustic and sweet that she almost recognized, as he led her into an easy, confident sway. He favored his good leg a little, but anyone less attuned to his body probably wouldn’t notice.

“I wish I could take you dancing,” he said, words stirring the hair near her ear, tickling against her neck. His hand moved up her back, dragging her shirt up with it, his palm warm through the soft cotton. 

The half-moon was bright against the tops of the trees through the windows behind him, the leaves flashing silver like fish in shadowy water as they swayed in the warm kitchen lights. She could track her life by that moon. It had watched over all the nights she’d spent with him, a front row seat to all her increasingly poor decisions. A silent witness to the loss of her heart, one soft, surreal moment at a time.

She let her head fall against the rounded curve of his shoulder, her hand smoothing around his back. He was so solid. So strong. His presence was such a comfort… and such a distraction, usually in equal measure. “What kind of dancing?” 

She could feel his smile as he pressed his face against the side of her head, thumb rubbing against the back of her hand. They made movies about moments like this. Moments that had always seemed cheesy and overly performative to her, but with Aang, they felt as natural as breathing. 

“I know some two-step and the waltz, but I also enjoy the club now and again.” 

She pulled slightly away to smile up at him, her heart soft and achingly tender against her ribs. “A big clubber, are you?”

He waggled a brow. “What? You don’t like to let loose sometimes?”

She lifted her hand to press her glasses up her nose before settling her palm back against his shoulder with a shrug. “I guess I haven’t really had time. I’m not much of a dancer.”

He looked genuinely surprised at this. “But you move so well.”

She made a disbelieving face, and he rolled his eyes. “Watch,” he instructed. 

He gently spun her away and around his body, hand at her spine, guiding her movements. She felt like she was floating, falling free, until he caught her up again. 

“Beautiful.” His face and voice were full of terrible, gut-clenching sincerity. “You’re very naturally graceful. You’d make a great fighter.” 

She laughed at that, trying to appear unaffected. “I’ve never been in a fight in my life.” 

He leaned into her, grinning brightly, his nose just brushing against hers. “Maybe I could teach you some of my moves.” His eyebrows jumped suggestively, and it was Katara’s turn to roll her eyes, head tilting almost instinctively. Seeking him, a wordless invitation.

“I’ve seen your moves,” she countered. 

His head tipped, eyes falling to her lips. “Not all of them.”   

She made a soft, unintelligible sound—it was concerning, how often he turned her into a wordless mess—and rose on her tiptoes as he descended. Another kiss under the moonlight, another secret for her and the moon to keep as they continued to sway, a soap bubble in time that spun out, gossamer and golden. 

-

-

-

The medical board referred another priority patient to her.

A star violinist, fifteen years old, with a shattered hand from a biking accident. The girl was devastated, almost listless during her appointments, her efforts at recovery haphazard and unmotivated. Katara was losing sleep over it—she’d always cared too much about her patients, and Aang was just a more…complex version of this. The devastation that came after surgery and trying to figure out a new normal was both deeply rewarding and emotionally draining as a physician. Not everyone pulled through as well as she would have liked, and those were the cases that kept her up at night.

It was taking a toll on her outside of clinic hours. 

“You alright?” Aang asked, wiping sweat from his brow. Zuko was across the open studio, sunlight streaming across the floorboards, getting a drink from his water bottle near the meditation cushions. 

Katara straightened in the chair Aang had thoughtfully brought out for her from the house. The two men had been training for about an hour, practicing careful, controlled pivots and turns, testing the new ligaments. Katara had not been watching as well as she should have been.  

“Yeah…I’m fine, just a little distracted.” She kept thinking about ways to try to motivate the girl—Jaimie was her name. Ways she might be better able to help her. She was at a critical juncture. If she didn’t start taking her recovery seriously, she would suffer lifelong consequences.

Aang swung his own water bottle, knocking her gently in the knee, eyes penetrating. “Anything that you’d want to talk about?”

She shrugged, feeling sheepish for being distracted. “Just a new patient I’m dealing with.”

He cocked his head, cheeks ruddy from exertion. “They giving you a hard time?”

Zuko was approaching, fixing his hair back, shirt stained dark with sweat. Katara cleared her throat. “She’s very young and the injury is a difficult one, that’s all. Now, um, let me see your knee, I’m worried you’re putting too much strain on it.”

Aang gave her a stilted smile, mouth set in a flat, worried line as he dutifully rolled up his pant leg. 

Two days later, Katara saw her new patient again. The poor girl’s hair was a tangled mess, and her clothing was rumpled as she sat slumped on the exam table. She could barely meet Katara’s eye when she spoke, grinding out one-word answers.

“It hurts,” Jaimie said, her face contorted in frustration and pain as the damaged fingers of her left hand twitched. The skin was swollen, angry, and puckered. 

“I know,” Katara said, keeping her tone gentle. “But you need to keep trying, it’s the only way—“

“Don’t say it’s the only way I’ll ever be able to play again,” the girl snapped, tears brimming in her eyes. She was slight and pretty with dark blonde hair and big brown eyes. “I know the chances. I’ve done the research. I’ll probably never be able to play again.”

Her mother rushed forward, looking stricken, purple-blue bags heavy under her eyes. “That isn’t true, honey. The surgeon said—”

“The surgeon was a fucking liar!” Tears fell down Jaimie’s face, and the words hung sharp as rusty nails in the air. 

Katara shoved her hands into her white coat and took a deep breath. “You’re right,” she said simply. “The chances that you will ever play exactly like you did before the accident are very low.”

Mother and daughter both looked up at her in shock before Jaimie’s face crumpled, shoulders shaking quietly. 

“Doctor, I don’t know if—”

Katara gathered the girl’s injured hand gently between hers, carefully stretching out each of Jaimie’s fingers and gently rubbing the fluid out of her joints. “Anyone who promises you that your hand will feel the same as it used to is lying. The skin is puckered, the nerves are traumatized, and it is going to hurt for a very long time.”

The girl tipped her chin up, eyes hopeless, tears streaking down her face. “Then what is the point?”

Katara gave her a soft smile. “Because ‘not the same’ doesn’t mean ‘over.’ Your relationship with your hand will change, and it's going to be very hard and very frustrating. But if you stop moving these fingers now, you are choosing to never play a single note again.” Grief flickered across Jaimie’s face. She was so young, with so much life left ahead of her, but she’d been dealt a tough blow. “If you keep pushing, even just a little every day, you are giving yourself at least a fighting chance to find out what your new normal feels like…and you might find that it takes you places you never imagined it would.”

Jaimie let out a broken, guttural sob and tipped forward, her head finding Katara’s shoulder with a heavy thud. After a moment of surprise, Katara softened, gently releasing Jaimie’s hand and lifting an arm to hug her back.    

Aang texted her a little while later as she sat in the blissful silence of her office, where she was finishing the last of the paperwork for the day. How was your day today?

She hesitated, thumbs hovering over her phone screen, torn between honesty and simplicity. With Aang, the choice was surprisingly clear. She wrote: That new patient again today. She’s having a really tough time…

He wrote back almost immediately. I’ll come to your place tonight, we can order takeout, watch a movie or something. 

Her heart leapt, a stunted tumble of uncertainty and excitement that tied her stomach in knots. She wanted him there, with her in her space, but it felt dangerous…like tempting fate. Another line crossed, another boundary thrown out the window. He’d never been to her apartment; to have him over felt like inviting ghosts. 

She looked around her office as if expecting some kind of solution to materialize. After a moment, she sighed. She wasn’t going to say no to him; she was beginning to think she was incapable of it. 

Yeah, that would be nice. 

-

-

-

She panic-cleaned her apartment after work, dusting every surface, lighting scented candles, trying to convince herself this wasn’t at all a big deal. She hadn’t had a man in her apartment since Jet, which seemed like a massive oversight in retrospect.

Aang showed up right at six, smiling and carrying a huge plastic bag of Mexican takeout—the smell of onions and chili was almost euphoric, she was so hungry. He had on a black sweatshirt, hood pulled up over a muted orange beanie, and loose gray sweatpants that were caught in the tops of his classic Vans. 

“Hi,” he said, offering his familiar squinty-eyed smile as he stepped past her and into the entryway beyond. His gait was much improved, a little slow, a little hesitant, but much better. “Hurry and close the door so I can kiss you.”

She frowned, feeling strangely jittery and nervous, not at all sure what to do with him or herself now that they were in her space. “What—“

He leaned down and pressed his lips to hers. A quick, hard kiss, followed by another, his lips soft and wonderfully warm. Her hand found the front of his sweater, fingers curling into the fabric, the door still hanging ajar. 

“Been dying to do that since yesterday,” he told her as he pulled away, and the domestic familiarity of it burned in her throat as she swallowed against it. 

Was that what it would be like? A kiss and a smile at the door? Her heart swelling in her chest?

She reached behind her without looking, fingers finding the edge of the door and pushing it closed until the lock clicked, sealing him inside her space, where she was certain the echo of him would remain long after he’d gone.

She tugged on the bottom of her scrub top, pressing her lips together to preserve the taste of him there. “You saw me yesterday.”

He shot her a wink over his shoulder as he peeked around the corner of the archway into the kitchen. “I know.”

She allowed herself a wide, secret smile as he disappeared around the frame, already exploring.  

They set up in her living room, takeout boxes strewn across the coffee table, and Katara mentally forced herself to relax. Aang made it easy. He entered almost every space as though he belonged there—sitting on her carpet with his bad leg extended under the coffee table, tugging off his beanie, and beaming up at her as though spending an evening in her small apartment watching movies with her was the definition of a great time.  

“So,” he said as she settled next to him, the couch against their backs as Aang wielded the remote as if he belonged there. “What’ll it be? The Mummy? Constantine? Stardust? What We Do in the Shadows?”

She scooped some of the Spanish rice from a steaming styrofoam carton onto her plate. “We’ve seen all those already.”

“I know, but they are your favorites, and you had a bad day. Figured you’d want a comfort movie.” 

The spoon in her hand shook a little, and she set it carefully down on her plate as she gathered herself. He was so casually thoughtful all the time, she hardly knew what to do with it.  “Oh, um… well, you really liked What We Do in the Shadows.”

“Vladislav the Poker,” Aang quoted in a very poor imitation of an Eastern European accent, and Katara chuckled with a shake of her head. 

The desire to grab him by the face and kiss him was almost ever-present.

They ate in comfortable silence, enjoying the movie, his arm finding its way behind her across the couch when he’d finished his food, his large hand wrapped around her shoulder. She felt younger. Almost…giddy, like you might with a first crush—hyperaware of every movement, wondering if he would try and hold your hand or steal a kiss. Hopeful and terrified in equal measure. 

The feeling made her tuck her face against his shoulder, breathing him in as he squeezed her against him, laughing at a scene in the movie that she only barely registered. 

My mother would have liked him. 

The thought rose unbidden, like an arrow in the dark, spearing through her so sharply she gasped quietly against his chest. If he sensed a shift in her, he didn’t say anything, merely hooked his arm around her waist, and hauled her closer. The kiss he placed atop her head, firm and possessive, made her legs curl up beneath her. 

When the movie was over, he used the restroom, and she cleaned up their dinner mess—tossing empty cartons, rinsing off plates, and trying not to think too hard. He found her at the sink, mindlessly washing silverware, and wrapped his arms around her from behind, roughly pressing a kiss against the side of her neck, the scrape of stubble on his chin making her bite down on her lip and her eyes flutter. 

Heat pulsed low, kindling set alight, and she leaned back into him without consciously deciding to do so. He was so large and broad, his frame enveloping her, shielding her.  

When was the last time someone had touched her as he did? Had anyone ever touched her the way he did? She felt touch-starved, hungry, and she gripped the edge of the sink as the heat of his breath warmed her neck.  

It was getting late. She had work tomorrow. He should leave. 

She reached out, fumbling with the faucet, the silence loud as the water shut off, and she turned in his arms. He released her, bracing his hands on either side of her, staring down at her with intent, but difficult to read interest.   

His eyes, pupils fat and glossy, fell to her lips, then back up. “I’ve never wanted anyone as badly as I want you, Katara.” The words carried weight, a gravity that was threatening to pull her under. She teetered towards him, a hand on his chest to brace the fall. 

With her other hand, she traced the side of his face, and his breath caught as her fingers trailed the line of his jaw, down his chin, lingering near his lips. He was so lovely. Pretty even. The structure of his bones fine and almost delicate—like silk pulled over steel. 

“Will you…” She wet her lips, trying to talk herself out of what she wanted. It was a terrible idea. A selfish one. “Will you stay the night with me?” They hadn’t shared a bed since they’d both been sick and too ill and pathetic to do more than share space. 

His eyes widened and then softened as he lifted a hand to run the side of a finger along her cheek. Affectionate and warm. His touch shifted, gently nudging her glasses up the bridge of her nose, a twinkle in his eye that made her pulse stutter. “Alright, but I’m afraid I’m saving myself for this really hot doctor, so don’t get handsy.” 

She snorted, smiling despite herself. Charmed despite herself. In love despite herself. “I’ll do my best.” 

The flicker of a smile as he toyed with the end of her braid, dark strands like smoke curling between his fingers. The tattoo along his hand shifted and moved as the tendons beneath the skin danced. She wanted to trace the outline of every symbol till she knew them with her eyes closed.  

“That’s all a man can ask for.” 

He was waiting for her under the covers when she got out of the shower, her hair caught in a towel. He was shirtless as he leaned against her headboard, comforter pulled up to his waist, the only light a slice of silver across the bed from her curtained window, and the warm splash of the bathroom light curving around the muscles of his chest and arms. She imagined crawling across the bed and exploring the shadows the light cast, tasting those dark places. 

He smiled at her, and it was wavering—like he was trying for lightness and ease but falling short as he took in her silk pajama shorts and matching button-down top. She was playing a very dangerous game, her resolve faltering on the edge of a vast, bottomless chasm. 

He swallowed and flipped the covers back, patting the space beside him, and she unraveled her hair from the towel, damp strands cascading. She retrieved the brush from atop her dresser and began to drag the bristles through her hair as she walked towards him. 

“Let me,” he said, his voice a bit choked as she settled on the bed.

She looked over her shoulder at him, a smirk toying at the corner of her lips. “You want to brush my hair?” 

He nodded, smile small, eyes sincere enough that she found herself handing the brush over and turning her back again at his gentle insistence. She removed her glasses, letting them dangle between her fingers, and drew her legs up towards her chest, looping her arms around her knees.

“You have such lovely hair,” he said after a moment of silence. The only sounds were the drag of the bristles through her hair and the faint noise of cars on the highway just beyond the tree line outside her apartment complex. 

She’d touched herself to him in this bed. Come apart while imagining the feel of him pressing inside her. She wondered if he was thinking of it, too—her naked and panting in the bed, wanting him. 

Was she testing him? She wondered. Was that what she was doing? Seeing if he would cross the boundaries she’d tried to set? Did she want him to? The answer to that question felt embarrassingly simple. 

“J-Jealous?” she asked, trying for levity and missing by a mile, wincing as her words faltered in her throat. 

He gently gathered the weight of her hair in one hand and drew the brush through the mass, his answering laugh rough around the edges. 

“Joke's on you, I have great hair.” 

She huffed, letting her eyes drift closed. His touch was gentle, each stroke careful as it pulled down through her hair.  “Can I ask you something?”

His hand stilled for a moment. “Of course.” 

“Why didn’t you want to become a monk?”

The brush resumed its motions, the slight tugging along her scalp, and she heard him sigh. “Some of it was your normal teenage rebellion, I guess. But mostly I wasn’t super interested in forgoing all earthly connections and desires.” She smiled then stiffened as Aang gently draped her hair over one shoulder and pulled himself closer to her. His legs extended out past her on either side as he pressed his lips to the damp side of her neck. Sensation burst beneath the skin, and she inhaled sharply. 

“What kind of desires, exactly?” Her voice wavered, and she tipped her head to one side, his palm there to catch her, bracing her as his lips dragged lazily. 

He pulled back slightly, his arm snaking around her waist to drag her back against his chest, and she let her head rest against his shoulder. His bare chest was like a furnace through the thin silk of her top. 

“Well,” he said conversationally, though there was a tightness to the cadence of his words. “You can’t really own anything as a monk, which is maybe the easier part if I’m honest. The harder part was the idea of letting go of earthly connections. To really be a monk, you have to live apart. In the world but not of the world. I’m not sure I am capable of that.” His fingers splayed against her stomach, pressing with intention as his voice deepened. The touch felt… possessive. 

Something drove her up and away—the need to touch him— until she was balancing on her knees as she turned in his arms to look down at him. She braced her hands along the breadth of his bare shoulders, glasses still dangling from her fingers, moonlight enshrining him in silver. His hands fell to her waist, steadying her as he blinked up at her in surprise. He was holding himself carefully still as though he were afraid to spook her, eyes searching her face in the darkness. 

She lowered herself slightly, bending at the waist, and pressed her lips to the side of his neck, just below his jaw line. His harsh inhale had her nails digging into his skin as she traced a path down the tendon there and back up again. He tasted salty and warm, like sunlight and fresh air, sweet on the tip of her tongue. His hands flexed at her sides, drawing her closer as his body tensed, and his breathing thickened. 

“Katara—” he broke off as she tugged his earlobe lightly through her teeth.

“I’m really glad you’re not a monk,” she murmured, letting her tongue flick out to trace the outer shell of his ear. 

He made a choked sound, something like a laugh, and then towed her down beneath him, his body half covering hers in a shock of contact. She felt as though she were melting into the mattress; everything was soft and warm, and it was like the whole world was holding its breath. Or maybe that was just her, she realized, as she forced out a shaky exhale.

He leaned away from her, eyes burning a hot trail down her body—over the swell of her breasts beneath the silk, lingering on the skin above her shorts as her shirt rode high on her stomach, and then worshipfully down the curve of her legs. 

She murmured his name without truly meaning to, a needy plea, and his eyes snapped to hers. He reached out to cup her breast, bare save for the silk, nipple pebbling instantly against his palm as she shuddered.

Had she ever been more turned on by a person? By such a simple, glancing, almost hesitant touch? He ignited something in her. Something she had feared didn’t truly exist. 

“Told you not to get handsy,” he said, wetting his lips, his voice pitched low as his throat bobbed. 

She arched into his touch, smiling even as her hands clenched in the crumpled bedspread. His thumb rubbed back and forth across her nipple, his jaw tense, and bolts of electricity shot through her. She could feel herself growing wet. 

“P-pretty sure you’re the one who’s gotten handsy,” she countered, looking meaningfully at his hand on her chest, and his answering smile was almost wolfish. 

“I am going to kiss the life out of you,” he said seriously. “And then I am going to behave myself. Deal?”

A flush of pleasure washed through her, and she smiled like an idiot, nodding her head as he descended to do just what he’d promised. 

The hand on her breast lifted to fist gently in her damp hair, angling her mouth as he thrust his tongue demandingly between her lips. Time slowed as she lifted her hands, dragging her nails and fingertips up his back, feeling the way the muscles shifted and jumped beneath the taut heat of his skin. He sighed into her mouth, sinking into her, chest to chest. 

It felt a little like dying, or maybe just disolving. Becoming something new.

His hand disentangled itself from her hair as the kiss deepened, turning sloppy, bordering on desperate, as his hand grasped her hip, pulling her into him in a slow, delicious slide. He pulled away to draw in a harsh, sucking breath, eyes heavy with desire and brow creased with restraint. 

“You are going to be the death of me,” he croaked, and she barely heard him, seeking out his lips again, dragging at the back of his neck. 

He gave in to her for a moment longer, mouth bruising and slick in a kiss that felt like sex, before he ripped himself away with a loud groan. Flopping on his back and throwing an arm up to cover his face as he took deep, steadying breaths. His sweatpants were tented, and she forced her eyes up and away towards the ceiling to resist the overwhelming desire to reach out and take him in hand. 

She wanted to hear the sound he’d make. See if she could finally snap his resolve completely. God, she wanted to see it—she had never in her life been desperate to know what a man’s dick looked like. But she was practically salivating at the thought. 

Katara pressed her thighs together, trying to get a hold of herself, matching her breathing to his. 

“Talk to me,” he said in a rasp, hand still over his eyes, his erection as prominent—and tempting—as ever. 

A smile quivered against her teeth, and she rubbed a hand over her face, realizing she’d lost her glasses somewhere in the madness. She cast her eyes down and breathed a sigh of relief when she found them safely beside her on the bed. 

“About what?” she asked, leaning to her side to place her glasses safely on the nightstand.

“Anything.” His tone was almost pleading, and when she looked at him, he’d shifted his arm back from his eyes to watch her, his gaze almost a physical press against her skin. “Tell me about what upset you so much today.”

That sobered her, and she lay back down, curling on her side towards him with her hands tucked under her cheek. 

“That new patient.”

“The violinist?” 

She nodded, casting her eyes down the bed, focused on nothing. “Yeah. She’s…she’s really struggling. It’s been hard to get her to do the things she needs to do to heal.” 

Aang hummed, arm lowering from his face at last as he turned carefully towards her. His expression was serious, considering. 

“What if…” he started, waiting till she looked at him. “What if you brought her to the dojo?”

Katara frowned. “You think learning martial arts would help her?”

His lips tugged into a smile. “Not exactly…I just, well, it might help her to connect with someone else whose life might never be the same again after an accident.”

Katara’s heart clenched. “You would do that for me?” She hadn’t meant to voice the question aloud, but it had slipped out before she could snatch it back. 

His brow furrowed as though he were confused. “Of course I would. What—” 

She leaned across the space and kissed him, hard, lips insistent against his. When she pulled away, his expression was soft and searching. He lifted a hand to brush the hair from her face, thumb pressing into her cheek as they stared at one another in the semi-darkness. 

“Thank you,” she managed. 

He smirked, teeth glinting in the faint light. “You don’t have to thank me, Katara. I…I want to be part of your life.” 

She swallowed, eyes dipping away. The words thudded against her chest, leaving indentations that she wasn’t sure she’d ever be free of. “I know. I’m sorry I’m so–so…”

He shushed her gently, his thumb soothing along her jaw, fingers dipping into her hair. “You don’t have to apologize or explain. I mean… if you ever want to talk to me about how you feel, I am always here to listen, but you really don’t have to apologize for any of it.” 

Sudden tears welled, and she tucked her head under his chin as he drew her towards him. “I think speaking to you would be very helpful to her,” she said when she was certain she could talk without sobbing. 

“Great,” his voice was a rumble under her palm. “Just let me know what day works best, alright?” 

Impulsively, she pressed a kiss to the divot of his collarbone, making his throat jump. “Alright,” she said into his skin. “I will.” 

He cupped the back of her neck and gently forced her face up and away. He was scowling at her accusatorily before stealing a quick kiss. 

“Time for sleep before I combust, you temptress.” 

Katara laughed, nuzzling into him, letting the ever-present anxiety slip briefly away as he wrapped her in his arms. 

-

-

-

“I still think this is a stupid ass idea,” Jaimie said as she and her mother met Katara on the sidewalk outside The Fighting Monk Dojo. She was dressed in a hoodie and sweats, her hair pulled in a messy bun, and her injured arm held protectively against her chest. 

“Jaimie!” her mother hissed, but Katara only smiled. 

“Come on, I promise if you humor me, I’ll buy you ice cream or something,” she said, leading them toward the rolled-up gate where the familiar sounds of bodies slapping and indistinct music tumbled across the sidewalk beyond. 

Jaimie grunted, still looking mutinous, but following reluctantly after her. The dojo was busy, several classes taking place at once, the clink of weights being set back on racks echoing through the rafters, melding with the low din of voices.  

Aang was on the center mat, practicing the Master Forms, and Katara’s fists clenched in her coat pockets as she watched. 

He moved so beautifully. 

Like a dance, as he carefully performed what he called ‘mud walking,’ his feet gliding across the mat, their soles never leaving the ground as he moved in long fluid arcs that flowed like water. His arms and torso twisted, palms flat and open, breathing controlled, his face a serene and concentrated mask. His tattoos stood stark and unmistakable, shifting beneath muscle like ribbons in the wind. 

She almost forgot Jaimie was there, that anyone was there, until she stepped to Katara’s side and said, “Holy shit, is that Aang Gyatso? He’s like, super famous.” 

Katara smiled, weeks of secret kisses and lingering touches simmering just below the surface of her skin, and she was almost certain the whole world could see through her. “Yeah, that’s him.”

“He’s also your patient?”

She nodded. “Yeah, has been for months now.”

Jaimie frowned in thought, but Katara’s attention was drawn to Aang fumbling on the mat with a grunt. Her throat constricted, and she took a half step forward before she could rein herself in. 

“Sharp pain, or aching?” his spotter asked, a man Katara had never met before, as Aang rubbed at his knee, breaking form. 

“Sharp,” Aang said with a sigh, standing straight and spotting Katara. He smiled widely and stepped off the mat with a nod to his companion. There was a slight hitch to his step, and she crossed her arms over her chest, narrowing her eyes at him. 

“You pushed it too hard,” she said as soon as he was within hearing distance. 

He smirked, casually attractive in his loose linen training pants and a sleeveless wrap shirt that tied at his waist, baring much of his chest. Sweat gleamed between his pectoral muscles, trying to distract her from her righteous outrage. 

“I’ll ice it right after this, I promise,” he said with a little wink, and then turned his attention to Jaimie, who looked a little star-struck. 

“Hey there, nice to meet you, I’m A—”

“Aang Gyatso,” Jaimie interrupted, and he laughed. 

“Ah, I see you’ve heard of me.” He sounded rueful. Charmingly embarrassed. “And… you are?”

The girl flushed a little. “I’m, uh, Jaimie, Jaimie Kushel.”

“Well, it’s great to meet you, Jaimie. Thanks for agreeing to come down here and meet me.” 

Jaimie looked stunned. “You…you wanted to meet me?”

Aang chuckled, shifting his weight and wincing a little. “Of course. Was my idea, after all. Or did the good doctor here try to take all the credit?” Katara scowled at him, and he threw his hands up in mock surrender. “Let's head to the PT room before Dr. Tariuq drags me there herself.”

The girl giggled a little, shooting Katara a conspiratorial look. Katara rolled her eyes. “Let's have a look at the knee, big guy.”

Katara and Jaimie’s mother fell into step behind their two charges and followed them across the dojo to the small, sterile room at the back. 

Aang hopped immediately onto the table as Katara went to retrieve an ice pack from the machine at the back of the room. 

“You know what’s funny?” she heard him tell Jaimie. “The worst part isn’t even the pain, really. It's the muscle memory. Your brain knows exactly what to do, but it's like… the connection gets lost along the way, it just flat-out ignores you. Things that used to be simple and easy are suddenly the hardest in the world. It feels like a betrayal.”

Katara grabbed the ice pack and returned slowly, stepping around the other side of the table, trying to make herself small. Jaimie was frowning down at her battered hand. 

“I-I can barely get my fingers to move. The idea that I can do anything again feels impossible. Let alone playing the violin.”

Katara frowned at the swollen quality of Aang’s knee and began to gently massage around the patella, gliding it back and forth. 

“Before my knee got wrecked, my stance was wider. I had to change my center of gravity. It felt wrong at first. Clumsy and ugly. But once I got the hang of it…things kind of fell into place. A different pathway, I guess. Maybe you’re just going to have to find new pathways for your fingers.” 

Jaimie said nothing, staring down at her shoes and giving a little shake of her head. Katara set the ice on his knee, holding her breath as she moved to massage his quad muscles that were jumping with fatigue. In any other circumstance, she would have berated him, and she made a mental note to do so later. 

“You know…fighting wasn’t what I learned first,” he said when the silence stretched. “It's not even what I love most about my practice.” He paused, holding all the air in the room somehow. “It's the Master Forms, what you just saw me doing when you came in. They require a ton of movement and pivoting in the lower body, though, and… and well, there is a really good chance I won’t ever be able to do it as well as I used to.”

There was a raw and vulnerable quality to his voice that had Katara’s eyes snapping up to his face, stunned by the admission. Jaimie was, too, if her wide eyes were anything to go by. 

His expression softened. “But I’ll still practice them as well as I can because I love it so much. Do you love to play the violin, Jaimie?”

Jaimie swallowed, tears swimming in her eyes as she nodded jerkily. Aang smiled, and it was like a hand held out across a divide, an offer of kinship, of understanding. “Then you can’t give up. Even if it's hard. Even if it’s never the same. If you love it…don’t give up on it.”

Jaimie scrubbed the sleeve of her sweater under her nose, eyes cast away. “Yeah… yeah okay.” 

Aang’s smile widened. “I’m trapped here for another thirty minutes with this ice. Why don’t you and your mom go watch the older group train? They’re much more impressive than I am these days. And then maybe I could treat you and your mom to dinner? Dr. Tariuq… you too, if you’d like.” 

His eyes skipped across Katara’s, not quite able to land, but she could feel the uncertainty in him beneath her hands as she pressed into the muscles of his thigh. Her thumb rubbed against the outline of his tattoo in a passing caress, and his fingers clenched against the table near her arm.  

Jaimie gave him a tentative smile, and her mother looked more hopeful than Katara had ever seen her as she rose from the chair in the corner. “Yeah,” Jaimie said, lifting her chin, a new spark of life flashing in her eyes. “That would be cool, I guess.”

Aang winked at her. “Great.”

Jaimie and her mother left, and a blanket of tension fell over them as the door swung softly closed. Her hands stilled against him, and she looked up to meet his intent stare. 

“Thank you,” she said simply, barely able to get the words out through the knot of emotion in her chest. 

The twitch of a smile, and his hand covered hers where it still rested on his thigh. “I hope it helped. I know how hard it is—”

Unable to contain the urge a moment longer, Katara tipped across the table and kissed him, one hand flung out to hold his face in place as he stiffened in surprise before he softened into the contact. They separated briefly, eyes meeting under the harsh glare of the fluorescent lights, before they connected again, lips parting on a shared sigh. Katara felt like her heart was trying to climb out of her throat and into him. 

His fingertips were just brushing across her cheek when she pulled abruptly away, the reality of what she’d just done stiffening her spine. Anyone could have walked in. Loud voices passed just beyond the door as if to punctuate this thought.  

Aang looked a little dazed, the silver of his eyes stormy and his breathing uneven as they stared at one another. He was looking at her with such tenderness that his expression was almost fierce. Determined in its devotion. 

Drawing in a sharp breath, Katara turned on her heel and fled before she could do something stupid like tell him she loved him.  

Chapter Text

Katara was between patients when her phone buzzed. 

She fished it out of her coat pocket and pressed her lips together to contain a smile that Huria would have sensed from a mile away when she saw it was Aang. It was like blood in the water with that girl.

Hey, beautiful. Can I take you out on a hot date this weekend?

Her heart skipped. She looked around furtively and leaned against the wall in the back hallway of the clinic, fingers flying across her phone screen. 

Sorry. I’m actually seeing someone. 

She admired his contact photo while he typed. A picture she’d snagged of him at the dojo a few days ago, shirtless and smiling broadly in a baseball cap, eyes crinkled closed. She’d lost more than a little time staring at it throughout her day. 

Well, that's disappointing because I know this great restaurant. They serve the BEST sushi in the city, and rumor is you LOVE sushi. 

She bit her lip, cheeks warming, and wrote back: Hmm, well, things weren’t that serious with this other guy anyway.

Huria appeared around the corner, and Katara lurched away from the wall, shoving her phone back in her pocket. The other woman narrowed her eyes at her, instantly suspicious.   

“What are you all”—she gestured at Katara, free hand braced on her hip—“smiley about?”

Katara sniffed, lifting her chin and pressing her glasses up her nose. “I’m not allowed to smile now?”

Huria rolled her eyes and gave her an exasperated look. “You’re going to have to fess up about this new guy you’re seeing eventually.”

Katara brushed past her. “There is no guy.”  

“You’re a terrible liar!” Huria called after her. 

She was right, of course. She was a terrible liar. But she only had to make it a few more months. 

Once in the safety of her office, Katara tugged her phone back out to find Aang’s response waiting for her. He was probably ugly and bald anyway. Whereas I am bald but very handsome

She snorted into the silence. And so humble too.  

I am practically famous for my humility. The humblest guy you’ll ever meet. I'll humbly pick you up at 7:30? 

Katara laughed, feeling light on her feet—light in her heart—like just texting him lifted some unseen weight off her shoulders. She wondered, almost for the first time, if maybe, just maybe, she could just enjoy this. 

If maybe everything would work out all right, for once.  

Alright, I’m willing to give you a chance. Mostly for the sushi. 

-

-

-

She got a text from Sokka the next day as she was getting ready to leave work and head over to Aang’s. 

Hey sis. I know this is just gonna piss you off, but I really hope you’ll come home this year. At least come to the graveside with us. I’m sure Mom would love to hear from you. Sorry, I know that's lame and she’s gone and she can’t hear us but, from experience, it does actually help. Love you. Please don’t kill me.

Katara tensed, the familiar drowning feeling she’d been fighting back for the past five years rising in the back of her mind like a massive wave. She leaned over her desk, bracing her hands on the surface, and closing her eyes to breathe through the pain. 

It made her furious, her reaction. 

She should be able to deal with it better by now—not feel like she was right back in that hospital waiting room, waiting to hear confirmation of what she already knew.

That her mother was gone, and it was all her fault. 

She stared at her phone for several long, indecisive moments before texting back: I’ll think about it. 

But in her heart, she was almost certain she couldn’t stomach it. Not now, maybe not ever.

-

-

-

Saturday night found Katara staring in distress at a sea of clothing strewn across her room, hands braced on her hips, sweaty and agitated. Why was this so hard? She picked up a short black dress from the back of the chair near the door, held it against her body in front of a full-length mirror, and tossed it aside with a sound of disgust.

Nothing felt right. 

She blew a loud raspberry into the silence of her apartment, head tossed back, at a total loss. She desperately wished she could call Silla or Huria for advice, but then she’d have to admit she was going on a date, and then it would be a whole thing. Pushing a hand through her freshly blow-dried hair, she froze at a sudden thought. 

It was bold… very bold.

She waded through what was essentially the entire contents of her closet to reach for a laundry bag lurking at the back of the rack. It held a dress she’d bought years ago, but had never worn—meant for a wedding for one of Jet’s friends. They’d broken up before the ceremony arrived, and she hadn’t looked at it since. 

She carried the bag across the room, set it on the bed, and slowly unzipped it. The light caught on icy-blue silk as she drew the garment free. The straps were thin and tied at the shoulder, the neckline deep. Delicate white lace covered the bodice and lined the high slit up one side.

Jet had hated it. 

Said it was too revealing and other men would stare. She’d bought it anyway, a minor act of rebellion, but she wondered if she’d actually have gone through with wearing it. The answer depressed her, so she shook it physically away, holding the dress against herself and staring down the length of her body.

She bit her lip, nerves tickling at the base of her spine. It wasn't something she would normally wear—on a date or otherwise—but Aang had messaged her and said the restaurant required formal wear. He’d been apologetic, offering to take her shopping. An offer she’d declined with an abundance of foolish pride. 

Besides…she wanted to be bold. For him. With him. Maybe she could reclaim some part of herself, heal an old wound that had never quite scarred over..

An hour later, her phone lit up with a notification that the car service Aang had ordered was waiting downstairs. 

Hastily, she pulled on a structured black blazer over the silk dress, wondering why she felt so nervous. They had spent so much time together over the past few months, but this felt different somehow, another step down an uncharted path. 

This felt…official. Another line she was leaping across, arms wide open.

Hovering at her front door, she took in her appearance in the small mirror on the wall above the table where she set her keys and name tag every day. She’d pulled her hair back and pinned it in loose waves atop her head, leaving several strands to frame her face. She’d put in contacts and kept her makeup simple—a smudged bit of charcoal liner, mascara, and plum liquid blush for her lips and cheeks. A great deal of her chest was on display, her mother’s necklace against her throat as always, and a pair of dangly diamond earrings sparkled every time she moved her head. 

She hoped it was enough. 

When she arrived at the front of the apartment complex, the driver emerged from a sleek black Mercedes and held the back passenger door open for her. He was dressed in a black suit and tie, and he nodded at her with a bright, friendly smile. 

“Thank you,” she said uncertainly as she lifted the hem of her dress and slipped across the back leather seats. 

“My pleasure, ma’am,” he replied, shutting the door carefully after her. 

A dark divider separated the front and back seats, featuring a small, sliding glass window. The driver returned to his seat, buckled in, and then turned back to face her with a smile. 

“We should arrive at our destination in about thirty minutes. You can adjust the air and music on the panel here—” he tapped a screen nestled between the two front seats—“Go ahead and open this little window here if you need anything else.”

Katara nodded. “Got it, thank you very much.” 

He offered another congenial smile, closed the little divider, and the car began to move. Katara settled back with a sigh, drawing her phone from her black leather clutch. 

This all feels very fancy and mysterious, she texted him, reaching out to adjust the air. Why was she so sweaty?

Her phone buzzed mutedly on the seat. Just wait until you have to do the secret handshake to get to our table. I’m kidding. I think. I’m really excited to see you. 

She smiled, forcing herself to relax. It was Aang, she reminded herself—whatever else this night promised her, she was certain that he was at the end of it, and that was really all that mattered. 

Almost exactly thirty minutes later, the car pulled into an underground garage beneath a tall, very fancy-looking building downtown. The driver had rolled down his window and entered a code at the entrance, and Katara realized with a little thrill what was happening. Aang must have reserved a table at an establishment that catered to celebrity clientele, where privacy was paramount. 

A different sort of uncertainty took root.

The car pulled around a small curved drive and stopped before a set of large glass doors with two bouncers on either side. Standing out on the pavement was Aang, the tattoo curving over his head bright in the fluorescents. Her stomach flipped, and she bit her lip to contain a wave of nervous excitement as the car rolled to a stop. The driver opened his door, likely intending to assist Katara, but as soon as Aang made eye contact with her through the car window, he was striding across the pavement to open her door. 

He smiled down at her, and Katara was briefly stunned by his appearance. 

He had on a black kimono-style wrap jacket made of some kind of heavy, structured material that left a large triangle of his chest bare, his pale skin bright in contrast. A set of red prayer beads rested along his collarbones, shifting as he moved to extend his arm. The jacket was secured on one side by a simple knot that parted to reveal his stomach when he turned. His pants were made of the same heavy material in a burnt orange and hung loosely from his hips, the bottoms tucked back against the tops of a pair of expensive-looking sneakers.  

Feeling dazed, she placed her hand in his, noting that the sleeves were voluminous and pushed back towards his elbows. Two stacked bracelets made of thick, dark wooden beads clicked together as he drew her from the car. He smelled a little different, a new spice that was layered over the sandalwood—dark and sweet. Intoxicating. 

As overcome by him as she was, his eyes were full of her. 

“God,” he breathed with a shake of his head and a wavering sort of smile. “You look beautiful, Katara.” His gaze lingered on the way the thin material clung to her waist and the bare expanse of her chest beneath the blazer.

She blushed and chuckled, ducking her head. Aang lifted her chin with a finger and stole a sweet kiss, a zing of anxiety and pleasure making her throat constrict. 

“Aang,” she warned, pulling back. 

He smiled, and it was soft but a little pained as he collected her hand in his. “Sorry. Got a little ahead of myself. We can relax here, though, that's why I chose it.”

Katara made herself take a deep breath. “Okay,” she said, and threaded her fingers through his. “Okay.”

He led her inside, where a man with an iPad awaited them in a small, shadowed room. Aang provided his name, and then they each had to hand over their cellphones to have small, tamper-proof stickers placed over the front and back cameras. The man informed them with hard, serious eyes that if the stickers were removed, they would be banned for life. Then a woman appeared from behind thick curtains and took Katara’s jacket before motioning them forward through a set of deeply tinted glass doors. 

Aang’s hand rested low on her back, possessive and deliciously warm through the thin, cool silk.

Another man awaited them in the restaurant proper—a dimly lit, elegant affair in black marble and gold with Japanese-style paper lanterns in red and gold hanging over the walkways. He was dressed in a fitted black suit and wore a placid, pleasant expression. The music was muted and tinkling, indistinct but lovely. It felt like she had entered another world—one she absolutely could not afford.

“Good evening, Mr. Gyatso, Dr. Tariuq. It is a pleasure to have you with us this evening.” 

Aang gave a slight bow, and Katara didn’t know what to do with her hands as she nodded. 

“This way, please,” the man said and led them down one walkway. Booths lined one side of the path, but they had been designed in such a way as to hide their occupants, and Katara kept her eyes nervously forward. 

When they were seated in a booth of their own, and Katara had uncertainly selected a wine at the recommendation of the sommelier, Aang reached across the table, looking almost apologetic. 

“Sorry, I know this is…” he trailed off, glancing around at the real leather seats and deep mahogany table.

She took his hand. “Fancy?”

“A lot.” 

She smiled, thumb brushing over the ridges of his knuckles. “This isn’t how you spend all your weekends?”

He scoffed. “The only time I’m in these kinds of places is when my manager or agent drags me to them. But, well, I figured…” he faltered, brow furrowed as he looked down at their clasped hands. 

“We could have some privacy?”

His smile was slow and warm as it stretched across his face. God, he looked good. He always did, of course, but there was something about him being at ease in his expensive, designer streetwear that highlighted a different part of him. An edge to his boyish charm—a magnetic sort of charisma. 

“Figured the expense was worth the chance to hold your hand.” He winked, and she grinned. 

“You’re quite the smooth talker.”

He drew her hand up to brush a kiss across the knuckles, a glancing warmth that she felt low in her belly. It was crazy how little it took for him to set her blood alight. “Just the truth, Katara.”

Their dinner was Omakase—up to the chef’s discretion—and was absolutely delicious. She was two glasses of wine in when she slid her foot up the side of his leg. His chopsticks faltered, and she looked innocently away from his probing gaze. 

“Only another couple of months,” he said, tone deceptively casual, but his eyes had darkened. 

She smiled a little, shifting her foot to find the hem of his wide pant leg, dipping her toes beneath it, finding the skin of his calf. 

“If you’re lucky.”

He smirked, taking a slow sip of his water. “I’m feeling pretty lucky, to be honest.” 

The waiter arrived then with their next dish, but she left her foot where it was, smoothing up the curve of his calf. 

“My manager wants me to start attending MMA functions,” he said when the waiter was gone. “Start building the hype again—his words, not mine.”

Katara winced and withdrew her foot. “Why do you want to do MMA, anyway?”

She glanced up, and Aang was looking at her with interest, eyes narrowed slightly. “It's just…sort of the natural progression of my career, I guess. Why? I’ve uh, noticed you don’t seem to care for it much.”

She looked down at her plate. She’d avoided mentioning Jet, but what had once been prudent now felt... purposefully reticent. 

“My ex, he…he was in the MMA. Well, still is.”

There was a pause, and then the gentle clatter of him setting aside his chopsticks. 

“Someone I’d know?”

Katara flinched a little and sighed, fiddling with the napkin in her lap. “Yes, probably, he’s uh, pretty famous now.”

She looked up to find his elbows braced on the table, his fingers clasped as he watched her over his knuckles. His expression was open, patient, and she made herself relax, shoulders drooping. 

“His name is… Jet Lin.” She tried to say it casually, but Aang’s eyes widened for a moment before he schooled his features. 

Jet was one of the biggest names in the sport at the moment. He hadn’t been when they’d been together, but he’d come a long way in a year and a half. 

“What happened? Between the two of you, that is?”

“You mean, why did we break up?”

He nodded, watching her carefully, and she blew out a long breath. “You know it’s funny, every time I try to explain it, it sounds so…silly.” She folded her napkin and then unfolded it, searching for the best way to explain what she still sometimes couldn’t explain to herself. “Jet was just so…encompassing. Controlling. He just sort of…absorbed my entire life.” She laughed, but it was a hollow, gruff sound. “When we broke up, I realized I didn’t even know what I liked to do anymore. How I liked to dress…What I liked to eat. Like I had stopped being my own person somewhere along the way.”

Aang’s brow was furrowed, his lips pressed together, but he remained silent, listening. 

Katara shook her head, still toying with the napkin. “He probably cheated on me. I never knew for sure, but there were signs, and all the men he spent time with were constantly cheating on their girlfriends and wives.” She sighed and then groaned. “And the fighting. He was always getting into fights at bars; it was like he couldn’t help himself.” She hesitated for a moment, but Aang’s eyes were as focused and open as ever, even if his jaw had gone tense. “The night I broke up with him…he–he almost killed a man. Just some drunk dude who made a passing comment at me. Didn’t even make sense, his voice was so slurred.”

She trailed off, and Aang cleared his throat a little, setting his hands carefully against the table in a movement that belied the intensity in his eyes. “Did he ever—”

“No,” she interrupted immediately, looking away and back again. “No, he never hit me, but he could be… intimidating. Blocking doorways. Getting in my space.”

Aang nodded, drew in a deep inhale, and then stretched his upturned hand across the table, an invitation for connection. Katara tentatively accepted it, pressing her fingers into his palm. “I’m sorry you went through that, Katara.”

Her lips twitched as his fingers engulfed hers. He was so much larger than her—there was such strength in him, power in every gesture, but he was so incredibly gentle with her. It was like he tried to move softly through the world. 

“I almost didn’t take you on as a patient,” she admitted ruefully. “I saw too much of that world and the men who moved in it.”

His fingers tightened, and he nodded in understanding. “Yeah, I’ve, uh, been warned about some of the cultural problems in the sport.” He paused, studying her for a moment before continuing, “I think that’s part of why I want to do it. To show people there’s another way.”

She chuckled, affection warming with the wine in her stomach. “You know, if anyone can make a difference, it would be you.”

He grinned, head tilting. “What made you say yes?”

“To you as my patient?”

He nodded, smile transforming into a smirk. “I assume it wasn’t only my good looks.”

She rolled her eyes and bit her lip. “Well, I watched those videos of you and…I don’t know. There was something about how you fight…I just, well, I knew you were different. You’re very special, Aang.”

He laughed and shook his head, eyes bright with emotion. “God, it’s just…we’ve only known each other for a few months… and, listen, I know this is cheesy to say, but it's just… I can’t imagine not having you in my life, Katara.”  

Pleasure spiked with anxiety, and she clutched his hand. She couldn’t imagine it either—waking up and not seeing a text from him first thing. She just wished she didn’t feel so unsure. So afraid of the unknown and everything that could go wrong. 

“I’m glad I met you,” she managed. “I just wish sometimes that…” 

“We’d met under different circumstances?” 

She nodded, feeling guilty for saying it aloud. 

“Would have made things a little easier.” His smile was warm but fleeting. “But this is worth it to me. The risk and the wait. You’re worth it to me.”

Emotion caught in her throat, and she swallowed against it. “Me too.” She wished she could kiss him. Lean into the sturdy familiarity of his frame and forget all the things she knew she couldn’t.

The man who’d greeted them at the front appeared then, still wearing the same genial smile that felt almost robotic. 

“Mr. Gyatso, the club is now available to you and your guest at your convenience. We have also granted you access to the rooftop gardens.” He placed a black keycard on top of the table.

“Thank you,” Aang said, and the man disappeared as quickly and quietly as he had appeared.

Katara immediately turned to Aang with a frown. “Club?”

He shot her a wink. “Part of the surprise. Told you I wanted to take you dancing.” 

She smoothed her hands over her thighs, slicking over the silk that was cool and smooth against her palms. “I’m really not very good.”

Aang’s face softened. “Trust me?”

The question was so simple, but the words felt weighty. She did, though—trust him, maybe more than she’d ever trusted anyone, which felt like madness. She pulled herself to her feet, feeling a little floaty from the wine, remembering that night at the bar when she leaned into his side, his arm at her waist. The night he’d kissed her that first time and her whole life had tilted upside down. 

Bold. She could be bold. 

His eyes followed her, tracing the extension of her bare leg and around the curve of her hips. His cheeks were flushed when he met her gaze, and she held out a hand to him. 

“Yes…I trust you.”

-

-

-

The bass from the club thudded beneath her heels as Aang guided her down a long, golden-lit hallway towards a set of black, padded doors. He flashed the matte black card to the man at the door, and the doors swung open, letting loose a blast of thudding music and the smell of dark amber and expensive vanilla. 

The room was massive and dimly lit, with underlighting from the stairs, table edges, and gilded baseboards. The dancefloor was in a central, sunken pit with the stage set before a massive floor-to-ceiling water wall made to look like liquid gold. The walls were lined with crushed black velvet, and the stairs were framed by brushed brass railings. Her heels clicked lightly across the floors of matte obsidian-stained dark wood. 

Above the dance floor, a slow-moving grid of jewel-toned lasers hovered a foot above the dancers’ heads, creating a ceiling of light. The music thudded through her, a siren song, a promise of release. A place where maybe she could let go, forget about everything—Jet, her mother, the fact that she was head-over-heels for her high-profile patient… and just be.  

Aang leaned in as the doors shut behind them. “Do you want another drink?” he asked, hand at her waist, mouth at her ear. 

She nodded almost without thinking, desperate for a bit more liquid courage. He took her hand and led her down a set of steps towards the bar, which was backlit with a warm amber glow that illuminated rows upon rows of high-end liquor bottles. 

“More wine?” he asked as they reached the bar and he leaned against the polished marble. His shirt parted, revealing more of his impressive stomach. 

She shook her head, wrapping her arms around herself. “No. Ah, whiskey, please.”

One of his dark brows raised in surprise. “Just a shot or…?”

“A shot, please,” she confirmed. His surprise deepened, and he hesitated for a fraction of a second as the bartender appeared. 

He gathered himself and, after a moment of consideration, ordered two shots of whiskey at the bartender's recommendation. Once they had their shot glasses in hand, Aang reached out to capture her waist and draw her closer. 

“You’re a hard drinker, doctor.” He sounded impressed, and she laughed. 

“My roommate in college loved the stuff. We called her Whiskey Grandpa, sort of developed a fondness for it.” He leaned back to rest his weight on one of the barstools, drawing her slightly between his knees.

“Well, Whiskey Grandpa.” He clinked his glass against hers. “Bottoms up?” 

She smirked and tossed back the shot, grateful for the way it burned down the back of her throat and immediately silenced the anxiety radiating in her belly with a wash of heat. Aang watched her with hooded eyes, his expression difficult to read as he set his empty glass aside. His hand pressed more firmly against her side and dragged upwards—the slide of the silk between them was mind-numbingly sensual, and her breath stuttered against her ribs.

“Come on, let's dance,” he said, and she could just barely hear him over the music. “I need an excuse to touch you, or I might die.” 

She laughed a little, the sound strained, and she let him lead her down towards the seething dance floor below. Hands clasped, such a simple thing, but somehow it meant the world to her.  

Shadowed bodies rippled in time with the pulsing bass as the whiskey settled in her veins, and the floaty feeling intensified. She felt like she was in a dream; the only tether to reality was Aang’s palm against hers. She liked it, though, the sense of detachment, the idea that in this moment she could be something or someone other than the nervous and anxious wreck she normally was. That she would just be a woman desperately attracted to a man dancing in a club.  

Aang stopped on the floor, couples writhing around them, but their faces felt indistinct, blurred almost, as he drew her up against him. On instinct, Katara turned, offering him her back as his hands found the span of her hips. She rocked against him as the song tugged at her, urging her to move. 

“We have to be careful of your knee.” Her voice was thick, caught in her chest as she angled her face back towards him. She caught the edge of his smile, sharp as a blade, and it was almost indulgent as his hands drifted lower and closer together, dragging heat across her belly. 

“I promise to be very careful with my knee,” he said, voice rough. “If you move your ass like that again, doctor.”

A shiver of desire unfurled at the base of her spine and had her turning in his arms, looking up at him in the strobing golden lights. His expression was intensely focused, that fighter’s determination in his eyes—to be the focus of such intensity was intoxicating, addictive. 

The need to kiss him was deep and aching. She wanted to taste that focus. Curl it back on her tongue. 

She slipped a hand under his shirt, found the ridges of his stomach with the tips of her fingers, and felt him stiffen as her touch skated up and around. His skin was so smooth, lightly damp with perspiration as heat radiated from the people around them, and Katara imagined her mouth where her hand was, following the trail of hair down, down, down. 

What sound would he make if she took him in her mouth? 

Aang’s hand pressed firmly against her lower back, guiding her against him in time with the music. She wasn’t sure she was even breathing as they fell into a rhythm. She tipped forward, and her lips ghosted across his jaw, hands smoothing up the planes of his chest beneath the breadth of his shirt. A shudder rippled through him, a silent victory, a gauntlet thrown between them. And she smirked up at him, watching the muscles along his jaw flutter as his eyes flashed.  

Hands on her hipbones, he spun her around with a low, growling sound, guiding her in a slow figure-eight. The fingers of one of his hands found the edge of the slit in her dress, and he hiked it slowly higher, calloused palm sliding down her thigh and making her arch against him as her hips swayed. 

She threw a hand back to clutch against his sweat-slick neck as she rolled her spine, letting the music and her desire for him take the lead, the whiskey driving back disparaging voices and silencing all whispers of caution. She didn’t care. God, she just didn’t care. She wanted this one moment, here with him, where the only thing that mattered was the feel of him pressed against her. 

Moisture dripped between her breasts and along the length of her spine, pricking against her scalp. It felt good. Like foreplay, as she dipped down his body in a slow slide, then back up again. 

“This dress…” Aang rasped against the column of her neck, fingers biting into her skin. “God, I am going to dream of you in this fucking dress.” 

Katara bit her lip, letting her head fall back against his shoulder as she continued to sway her hips into his. She had never danced like this in her life, not even when she’d been drunk out of her mind in college at seedy bars in the city. He made her feel powerful—like she could break him with a touch, with a look. With a whispered word. 

She turned her head, their lips brushing in an accidental, electrifying contact that made her heart flutter. He dragged her roughly back against him, and she could feel his cock stiffening against her, the impression of it thrilling and heavy, want coiling like a spring inside her. 

“Take me somewhere,” she begged, turning in his arms again, knees shaky. If she didn’t get to kiss him soon, she was going to lose her mind. 

He studied her for a fraction of a second before taking her hand and pulling her across the dancefloor. They had barely made it through a single song. 

He navigated them through the couples, up a set of stairs, then down a short hallway near the bar to an elevator. He drew the keycard from his pocket, pressing it to the pad on the wall. The metal door slid open, and he tugged her into the dimly lit elevator beyond.  

The doors slid slowly closed, and the rubber band holding them apart snapped as he crashed into her, bracing her weight with one arm banded around her waist, his other hand gripping her bare thigh as she hiked up her leg around his hip. His tongue thrust into her mouth, and she moaned against it, sucking it deeper and making him stumble-step forward until her back hit the mirrored wall behind her. The handrail pressed uncomfortably into her spine, but she didn’t care. Everything felt good. So good.

She cupped the back of his head, feeling the faint stubble there as his mouth fell to her neck, nipping and biting a path down to her breast, tongue tasting the swell of skin above the neckline of her dress. Her nipples strained against the silk, begging for his attention, hips canting in search of some relief. 

The hand at her thigh smoothed up and under, curving over her hip and down the bare slope of her ass, and they both moaned as his fingers squeezed, forcing all the air out of her lungs in a violent rush. Her hands pressed down the back of his shirt, nails clawing desperately at his skin as the muscles beneath flexed. 

God, all she wanted was to be closer.

The elevator dinged and began to slow, and Aang ripped himself away from her, panting, eyes nearly black with desire as Katara braced herself on the railing along the wall. He scrubbed a hand over his mouth and palmed himself through his pants, and Katara’s knees nearly gave way beneath her. He was kiss drunk, and his gaze was openly predatory—needy.

The tension pulled tight, painful almost, until it broke at last, a smile twitching against her lips.

Aang laughed—a broken, rumbling sound against the tinkling classical music filtering from the speakers. “I used to have self-control.” His tone carried a hint of accusation. “But not where you’re concerned, apparently.” 

“So did I…” she murmured, not quite able to string a coherent sentence together. 

All her life, she’d had self-control. Been responsible. Even-tempered. She was so incredibly fucking tired of it. 

He smiled, taking a step toward her and sweeping her up against his side as the door opened, steadying her as she wavered. She was relieved to find no one was lingering outside the elevator. There was only a dimly lit path leading out to the garden beyond, the city lights and stars waiting for them in the distance. 

Aang took her hand and led her down the winding path lined with dense, fragrant jasmine and artfully trained bamboo shoots, creating a labyrinth of living walls. Soft music drifted down from the branches of swaying Japanese maples, accompanied by the faint sound of trickling water nearby. Katara barely registered any of it. 

He was leading her with purpose, and she was desperate to find out what that purpose was. 

She didn’t have to wait long. 

They rounded a fork in the path, a small stone alcove floating up in the night, and Aang pulled her behind a wall of bamboo, backing her up against a cold marble pillar in the darkness. His breathing was already heavy, and the contrast of the cold stone and the heat of his body had her clinging to him. His arms boxed her in as he leaned into her space, sharing her air. She caught the glint of his eyes and held it, everything else fading down to this moment, with him, lost in the tangle of jasmine and the sounds of the city below. Behind him, the moon hung yellow and fat on the horizon—watching, always watching. 

“Tell me what you want,” he said, reaching out to cup her face, his touch gentle, a burst of heat in the dark. 

His skin was bright against the shadows, pale beneath the duskiness of her hands as they dipped under the open neckline of his shirt. Her fingers found the thundering beat of his heart as if it belonged to her. 

Everything, she wanted to say. I want you. All of you. Not just now, but always. 

She knew ‘always’ wasn’t real. Time was limited. Everything was temporary, and the pain of loss lived inside her like a parasite, siphoning away at every joyful moment, trying to drag her under.

So she said what felt safest, what felt like she could contain it within the broken spaces inside herself. 

“Touch me, Aang,” she said, dragging him to her, deeper into the shadows, where he followed willingly, down into the depths of her desire. 

He drew his lips across hers, just a taste, but one that lingered and deepened. The whiskey was there, in the faint press of his tongue, the memory of a burn.  

He pulled slightly away to study her face. “You’re sure?”

She withdrew her hands from his chest to tug at the waistline of her dress, dragging the slit higher up her leg, lace falling wide with a distinct rustle, and his head angled down to watch its progress. The icy silk was like liquid silver, reflecting the moonlight as it moved against her skin, a caress in place of his hands.

“I’m sure.” 

He cupped the back of her neck and drew her into another deep, penetrating kiss, tongue hot and sweet gliding along hers. Her hands fisted in the rough cotton of his shirt, pulling him closer, as close as she could, but she suspected he would never be close enough—not until he was buried inside her. He kept one hand braced against the pillar behind her as he dropped the other to her thigh, dragging his fingers upwards across her skin until his palm covered the heat of her through her thin lace panties.  

His breath caught, and he tipped towards her as if he were suddenly dizzy. She knew she was wet, could feel her arousal cooling on her thighs, but she was too far gone to be embarrassed. The heel of his hand pressed firmly against her, and she gasped as pleasure burst behind her eyes, dragging at her limbs. Her head fell back, hips arching into him instinctively. 

“You have to be quiet, sweetheart,” he said against her ear, less a command than a plea, and she turned into him, seeking more of his touch—licking at the side of his neck, tasting salt and citrus.

He drew in a breath and held it as his fingers shifted the thin strip of damp lace aside, dipping between the folds of her cunt, dragging through the ache like a knife. He caught her moan in a sloppy kiss, nearly missing her mouth. Two fingers circled her clit, and she thought she might fly out of her own skin as he absorbed the sobbing moan that was ripped from her chest with his tongue.

Her knees were already shaking, and heat was pulsing through her body from the point of his touch. He pulled away, close enough that his nose brushed along hers as he slipped first one finger and then another with embarrassing ease inside of her. Filling her, stretching her. It was almost enough. Almost what she wanted.

“So fucking wet, Katara,” he growled at her, his eyes fluttering as he pressed closer, fingers reaching deeper, hitting a spot that had her clutching at his shoulders to keep from melting into the ground. “Do you like that?” 

She nodded frantically, dragging his face back towards hers as his fingers began to move inside her. She pushed the folds of his shirt aside and raked her nails down his chest, lightly catching his nipples and making him groan around her tongue. Her hands went lower, past the loose band of his pants, under the elastic of his briefs, until she found the velvety heat of him. 

His fingers stuttered in their rhythm, and his head fell heavily against her shoulder, her name a broken entreaty against her chest. 

He was long and hard, wonderfully thick against her palm, and she loved the guttural sound he made when she circled the head of him, catching a bead of precum and dragging it down the sensitive underside. His fingers slipped free of her to circle her clit again, pressing harder, and she whimpered, pulling at his cock as if she might pull it inside herself through their clothing.     

As though from a distance, she heard the sound of voices, close, but not too close, and a spike of uncertainty had her tensing against him, hand stilling. He clumsily drew her hand from his pants and intertwined their fingers above her head, his chest rising and falling rapidly. 

“I’ve got you,” he said, pressing the words against her racing pulse as the fingers inside her picked up speed. 

She could hear herself, the wet sound of her cunt, and his thumb flicked over her clit, making her gasp. When he did it again, eyes focused on her face, watching her with rapture, her inner muscles clamped down, and she felt on the verge of collapse—like a star about to go nova, every part of her body tingling. 

“That’s it, sweetheart. That’s it.”

Katara’s eyes rolled back as she arched, sweat breaking out along her body as she moaned helplessly, undone. Aang adjusted his stance, bracing his good knee between her legs, and released her hand to clamp his palm over her mouth. The next moment, he was pressing against that spot inside her again, grinding his hand against her, and she was falling apart, melting into his hand, ceasing to exist as her ears rang and her body convulsed. 

He eased her through it, fingers thrusting gently as he panted into her ear, his hand falling away from her mouth to hold her upright. She laughed, breathless, stunned, and he answered with a breathy chuckle of his own, kissing her jaw, her cheek, the closed lid of one eye as he pulled his hand free of her, holding his wet fingers carefully away from her dress.    

Her hair had come mostly undone, and he brushed a few curls out of her eyes, his expression so tender, so intimately vulnerable, that tears suddenly sprang to her eyes. She touched his face, drawing him nearer.  

“Aang,” she murmured, leaning into him. “I–”

Voices erupted nearby, and they startled apart, pulling clothing hurriedly back into place. With shaking hands, she reached up to tug the few remaining pins from her hair, letting the strands fall free. Aang smiled broadly—wickedly— at her, lips kiss-swollen, cheeks red in the moonlight, as he caught a curl around a finger and tugged gently. 

“Come on, let's walk a little,” he said, and laced his fingers through hers.  

She pushed up on weak knees and wobbly ankles and kissed him on the cheek, feeling his smile before she pulled away. He drew her out onto the path, leading her back the way they had come. She looped her arm through his and rested her head against his shoulder, tired in the best way. Maybe she could get him to take her home with him. Maybe she could get him to break every rule she’d ever tried to set. 

They turned a corner, and Katara collided with someone. Aang kept her from falling flat, catching her by the waist. 

“Katara?” asked a familiar voice, and a wave of cold dread tore through her as she lifted her head. 

Silla, her best friend, was staring back at her in shock. Her husband, Ryst, stood just behind her and was looking at Aang with clear, damning recognition. 

Shit. Oh shit.  

Chapter Text

“Silla. Ryst,” Katara blurted, pulse racing, and she stepped out of Aang’s reach. The loss of his touch left a burning sort of cold behind, like she’d been set adrift, alone at sea.

Panic was trying to claw its way up and out of her throat. “W-what are you guys doing here?”

Ryst was staring fixedly at Aang, and Silla was looking at Katara with deep suspicion, her blue eyes narrowed. She was wearing a very nice dark-blue cocktail dress, sky-high heels, and bright red lipstick. Silla was a pediatrician—they’d gone through med school together—and Katara would have never in a million years expected to run into her at a high-end celebrity bar.  

“Ryst’s dad grew up with the owner,” Silla said, her tone distinctly dismissive. “We come a couple of times a year. What are you doing here?” 

Aang stepped in front of Katara, jarring her out of a panicked stupor. “Um, hi there, I’m Aang.” 

“Yeah, man, I know who you are,” Ryst said, voice pleasant, bordering on excited. “Big fan.”

Katara could read the tension in Aang’s shoulders as he said in a congenial tone, extending his hand. “Hey, thanks so much.”

“Are you guys on a… date?” Silla asked, undeterred and uninterested.  

“No!” Katara said immediately and then cringed, catching Aang’s eye and the twinge of hurt clouding his expression. She sighed, fighting the urge to just run out into the darkness. “I mean…yes.” She wet her lips, avoiding the full, penetrating weight of Silla’s stare. “But we were just leaving.”

Silla didn’t know Aang was her patient; no one in her life aside from Sokka did. She could salvage this. Aang’s hand found hers, and the pressure of his fingers against hers let her draw in a full breath. 

“It was nice to meet you,” Aang said cordially, tugging Katara gently back down the path towards where the elevator doors gleamed out at her like a lighthouse in a storm. 

Katara forced a smile. “We’ll talk soon,” she said to Silla and Ryst, barely registering the words as Aang led her away. 

“We certainly will,” Silla said, and Katara caught the narrowing of her friend’s eyes over her shoulder, the panic morphing into a sick, sinking sort of dread. 

-

-

-

How are you feeling?

Aang’s text message sat open on Katara’s phone on her bed as she stared up at her ceiling. It was past sunset, and she hadn’t even changed out of her work clothes or made dinner or done anything really other than wallow in her own uncertainty.

How am I feeling? She sighed, scrubbing a hand over her face, dislodging her glasses. Like an idiot, mostly. 

She texted him back: Just a little under the weather is all.

A lie, but not—her anxiety was wound so tight she felt physically ill. The instinct to hunker down, to take cover, was too strong for her to ignore. It had been two days since their interrupted date, and Silla hadn’t called or messaged her, which was suspicious all on its own. Katara was waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Her phone buzzed. Anything I can do for you?

He was always so patient and understanding, and it made her chest ache. I just need some rest. I’m sure I will feel better in a day or two.

If you need anything…just let me know. I miss you.

Her heart skipped and then clenched, a mix of joy and pain. I miss you, too. 

And she did, a lot. Wished she could just fall into his arms and let him soothe away her worries, let her pretend the world was different from what it was. Silla had been a crash back into reality. They both had a lot to lose. Going on a date, even at a high-end celebrity club, had been risky. So incredibly risky. 

Her doorbell rang, and Katara startled and frowned, pulling herself to her feet. Aang wouldn’t show up unannounced, who could—

“Open up, bitch, I have wine and Indian food,” came Silla’s voice through the door, and Katara seriously considered shutting herself in a closet and pretending she wasn’t home. The only reason she ultimately didn’t was that she wasn’t actually sure that would stop Silla. She’d once broken into a frat house to steal back a bra some freshman had stolen during a house party—stopping to draw dicks in Sharpie on several sleeping dudes’ faces.

Feeling a bit like she was welcoming the Grim Reaper into her house, Katara reluctantly opened the door, and Silla came barreling in—probably to avoid having the door slammed in her face. 

“I'd have called first, but I have this sneaking suspicion that you would have ignored me.” Her voice came from the direction of the living room, and Katara trailed after. 

“I wouldn’t have ignored you,” Katara said defensively, and Silla gave her a look as she set the food and wine down on her coffee table. 

“Right, because you don’t have a history of self-isolating or anything.”

Katara crossed her arms over her chest. “If this is about Aang—”

Silla rolled her eyes, straightening and bracing her hands on her hips. She was wearing leggings and a sweater, like maybe she’d just come from the gym. “Of course it’s about him. Specifically, the part where he’s your patient.”

Katara managed not to flinch even as everything inside her recoiled. “What? He’s not my—”

Silla fished a corkscrew out of her purse and brandished it at Katara. “Nope. Don’t you dare lie to me, ma’am. Or I will personally call Sokka.” Her eyes were sharp, flashing, and dangerous. 

There was no stopping a full-body flinch this time. If her brother found out she was putting her entire career in jeopardy for a man, he would lose his mind.  “You wouldn’t.”

Silla lofted a brow at her as she drove the screw forcefully into the cork. “Try me.”

Katara narrowed her eyes at her before collapsing on the couch with a dramatic sigh. “I don’t know what you want me to say.” 

Silla popped the cork free and then collapsed next to her, taking a swig straight from the bottle before passing it over to Katara. It was just like pre-med all over again, and Katara accepted the wine with dwindling reluctance. It was cheap, and it burned the back of her throat, but that was good too, a different kind of nostalgia. Late-night study sessions, just the two of them passed out at their wobbly kitchen table.  

“You could start by explaining why you thought dating another MMA fighter while simultaneously risking your medical license was a good idea.”

Katara braced the wine bottle between her knees and shoved a hand through her hair, sinking back into the cushions. “It’s definitely not a good idea.”

Silla snorted and looked at her sideways for a moment. “You’re in love with him, aren’t you?”

Katara choked a little. “What makes you say that?” 

“Hard to imagine why else you’d be willing to risk quite literally everything.” She snagged the bottle back from Katara. “Unless his dick is like, really that magical.”

“I wouldn’t know,” she confessed, pressing unnecessarily at the bridge of her glasses.

Silla’s head snapped towards her, mouth agape. “That's… crazy. Why!?” 

Katara hesitated, and Silla made an affronted sort of noise. “Please tell me you aren't refusing to sleep with him till he’s medically discharged. Because, girl, you know as well as I do they’d revoke your license just for going on a date with him. Might as well try and have your cake and eat it too.” Silla tipped the mouth of the bottle at Katara, watching her from beneath elevated brows.

Katara’s face burned. “It just… seemed like a good idea to take it slower.” 

There was a long pause as Silla took a long swig from the bottle. “Did some cyberstalking…he seems like a decent enough guy, this Aang. Ryst wouldn’t shut up about how cool he is.” She rolled her eyes, clearly unimpressed by Aang’s celebrity credentials. “But… another fighter after what happened with Jet?”

“He’s…different. He’s nothing like Jet.”

Silla hummed quietly, brow furrowed in thought as she passed the bottle back to Katara. “Do you remember in our first year of medical school when I almost moved to Germany to be with that guy I was dating?”

Katara wrinkled her nose, taking another pull from the bottle. “Kyle? The biggest douche in our year? Yes, of course I remember.”

Silla smiled. “Right, and do you remember what you said to me?”

Katara could see where this was headed. “Okay, but this isn’t like that—”

“What did you say to me, Katara?”

“I don’t remember,” she lied, and Silla smacked her lightly on the arm with the back of her hand. 

“You said, ‘Listen, Silla, don’t you dare throw away two hundred grand in student debt for a guy who doesn’t even know how to fold laundry–”

“Aang knows how to fold laundry,” Katara interjected, but Silla was on a roll. 

“Then you told me I was a brilliant doctor, and that it would be a massive waste of talent and potential just to be a footnote in some guy’s story. You also threatened to break my knee caps.”

“Kyle was awful,” Katara said, shoving the half-full bottle back at her and reaching for the Indian food. “Aang is not awful. He’s…good, and kind, and incredibly thoughtful and decent.” Just talking about him made her flush with pleasure. 

“Maybe,” Silla conceded, her tone turning serious. “But you're basically gift-wrapping your medical license for this guy, and I can’t help but wonder if maybe this is a tad bit self-destructive.”

Katara popped open the lid on the Jeera rice and paused. “I didn’t mean for this to happen. I didn’t… I really didn’t want it to. But…”Her voice cracked and trailed off, hands hovering over the food. She’d never meant to fall for him. Had fought it, maybe not as hard as she could have… but she’d tried, damnit. “But you’re right,” she managed at last. “I do love him.” 

Saying the words aloud was like pulling free a jagged splinter—deeply painful, but also terribly relieving.

Katara looked up, and Silla’s expression softened as she set the wine bottle aside, reaching for the carton of Butter Chicken. “Hey…I, well. You deserve to be happy, Katara. I want you to be happy. And even though this is risky and terrible…if he’s as good as you claim he is, then, well, maybe it's worth it.”

“You really think so?”

Silla laughed. “I mean, part of me wants to say hell no, but I mean… I’d have risked a hell of a lot more than my medical license for Ryst.”

Katara sighed, letting herself deflate as Silla pushed forward on the couch to take over doling out food, piling Katara’s favorites on a cheap paper plate the restaurant had provided. 

It felt like college. Like the echo of home, before Jet, before her mother’s death, when she’d been someone else. She was suddenly desperately relieved to have someone know. It was dangerous and stupid—if the Medical Board found out, they would absolutely question her friends and associates, particularly those in the medical field—but she was so glad to no longer have to carry the weight of it alone. 

Besides…she was happy. Hopeful, even, for the first time in what felt like forever. And it was a happiness that demanded to be shared, that the less anxious, terrified part of her wanted to scream about from the mountaintops.    

Silla licked a bit of sauce from her finger and paused. “I gotta ask you one thing though.”

Katara grabbed her plate and set it on her lap; the warmth of the food radiated from the plate across her thighs. “Yeah?”

“Why haven’t you just… transferred his care? I mean, it wouldn’t put you completely in the clear if the Medical Board got nosy, but it’s a hell of a lot safer than staying his doctor.”

A sick sort of heat washed through her, and she looked away. “I just…I don't trust anyone else to handle his care.”

She could feel Silla staring at her, and she pushed the food around on her plate. “Katara, you’re definitely one of the best in the field. Maybe the best, but he’s far enough into his recovery now, surely you could—”

“It's…it’s just a few more months,” Katara interrupted, feeling panicky for reasons she couldn’t explain—like the walls were suddenly pressing in around her, caging her in. “Then I can discharge him, and everything will be fine.”

She forced herself to take a bite of food, the chicken and rice tasteless as she finally glanced at Silla. She was frowning, looking contemplative, her mouth pressed into a thin line, her eyes slightly narrowed. 

“Alright, well, I think it's best you don’t chance any more public dates until then. Not even at very fancy clubs.”

Katara grunted and pointed at her with her fork, some of the panic receding. “Fully agree.”

Silla took a bite of her food, washing it down with the wine. “Have you told him?”

Katara swallowed. “Told him what?”

“That you love him?”

Katara huffed, spearing a bit of chicken with her fork. “No…I, well, no.”

Silla nudged her with an elbow. “Don’t you think maybe you should?”

Katara shrugged, heart palpitating in her chest. She’d almost said it…that night in the garden, panting in the darkness, the taste of him sharp in her mouth—the memory of his fingers inside her, leaving a sense of profound emptiness behind. 

In the crisp light of day with her oldest friend bearing down on her, it was hard to imagine giving shape to the words. They felt caught behind her teeth, unspoken, but undeniable. “I don’t know… maybe?”

Silla rolled her eyes. “At least fuck the man, Katara. He’s stupid hot, and if you’re gonna risk your career, you damn well better make it worth it.”

Katara snatched the wine from Silla’s hands, very aware that she was blushing. “I don’t want to rush anything,” she snapped, but the words sounded hollow and foolish even to her. 

Silla gave her a dry, pointed look, and Katara scowled back at her before lifting her chin and turning primly back to her dinner.  

“What about this whole…MMA nonsense?” Silla asked around a mouthful of food, waving her hand. “Are you really ready to dip your toes back into that world?”

Katara took a swig of the wine, setting it on the table and shrugging. “I mean…I don’t have to be involved. Not really. I can keep my distance. I have my work…he has his.”

Silla raised a brow, looking unconvinced. “Jet is pretty all over the place, from what I hear.” 

“I’m not worried about it,” Katara said, trying to convince herself as much as Silla. “It’s been over a year, and I have no intention of doing more than…I don’t know, attending a fight or two here and there.” She hadn’t given it much thought. Had tried very hard, in fact, not to think too hard about what the future might look like. 

“Have you considered the fact that they might fight each other?” 

Katara’s fork froze halfway to her mouth, and Silla scoffed in almost vindictive amusement. “I’m gonna be honest with you. It would be super hot.” 

It was Katara’s turn to roll her eyes, even as a spike of electric pleasure burst in her chest at the idea of Aang beating Jet in a fight, which was entirely immature and stupid. “He hasn’t even had his first match yet. It might never happen.”

“Not to burst your bubble, but Ryst is pretty convinced your man is about to steal the whole show,” Silla said, eyes laser-focused on Katara. “Maybe you should prepare yourself for that.”

Her stomach swooped, but she ignored the sensation. 

“I think I should worry about one thing at a time,” Katara said, fishing a napkin out from the plastic bag and wiping her mouth. “First, I need to get him through the next few months. Then we can worry about…the after.”

Silla looked like she wanted to say more, but read something in Katara’s expression that made her sigh in defeat. “Pass me that rice, and just know that if the medical board comes calling…I am going to lie through my teeth for you, and then you are going to owe me for the rest of your life.” 

-

-

-

She didn’t see Aang till Friday, and she took off early to run home and change before driving over to his place for his now once-a-week PT session. Her stomach was fluttery, eager. His smile lived imprinted on the backs of her eyelids, the memory of his touch a constant companion. 

As she pulled into the driveway, she got a text from him. I’m in the back doing some yard work. 

She threw her car into park, grabbed her duffel bag, and let herself into his house. It felt like a habit. Like something she’d gotten used to. 

Like coming home.

She dropped her bag by the door, the sound echoing in the silent house. She set her keys on the entryway table and headed across the kitchen, out onto the patio, and into the late afternoon sunshine. The sun warmed her face, and she closed her eyes, absorbing some of that warmth, letting it diffuse the tension in her shoulders and neck. She could hear the soft shick shick of hedge clippers and went in search of their source. 

Aang was standing shirtless beneath the canopy of trees beyond the koi pond, sunlight painting dappled patterns across his skin. Without meaning to, she froze in the high, sweet grass to watch him trim tree branches. Her eyes traced the rolling flex of his shoulder blades, followed the trail of sweat gleaming down the dip of his spine, the moisture following the lines of his tattoo that disappeared below the band of his athletic shorts. 

Her mouth had gone very dry, and she swallowed hard, pressing her glasses up her nose. Silla’s words echoed back to her, At least fuck the man, Katara. He’s stupid hot, and if you’re gonna risk your career, you damn well better make it worth it.

The logic of her words was becoming increasingly hard to deny. 

Aang turned slightly, flicking sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. When he caught sight of her, a broad, utterly disarming smile broke across his face. Her heart skipped, her face burned, and all she wanted to do was run into his arms like a scene out of a movie. 

Instead, she forced herself to take steady, measured steps through the grass, as he fished a towel from a tree branch and scrubbed it over his head and down his arms. He watched her face carefully as she drew closer, and when she was only a few feet away, he closed the distance to tip her chin up and steal a kiss. 

Confident. Sure. So intoxicatingly steady. 

He pulled away to smile down at her, eyes gleaming with affection. He smelled of salty sweat and sun-warmed skin, and it took all of her willpower not to reach out and run her hand down the glistening line of his chest. 

“Hi,” he said, the words painting across her lips, and the smile that split her face was so wide it almost hurt. 

“Hey,” she managed, a little lightheaded. 

“Feeling better?” His thumb soothed over her jaw, a distraction, and she swallowed. 

“Yes…” she started and then trailed off, remembering all the things she wanted to tell him. All the words he deserved to hear. 

She captured his wrist and pulled slightly away so she could look him in the eye. 

“I’m sorry for being…weird the past few days. I–I panicked a little, pulled away. I shouldn’t have.”

He studied her for a moment as the branches tossed above them and the sun beat down. “I figured, well, that you needed some space.”

Katara ducked her head, watching the long strands of grass curl around her leggings. “Silla came by my apartment.”

He stilled, holding his breath a little, hands tightening around the towel in his hand. When he didn’t speak, she hurried on. “She figured out you’re my patient. Everything is okay, though…she, uh, won’t tell anyone.”

“You trust her.” It was a statement, not a question, and it was filled with a supportive kind of warmth that finally drew her eyes back to his. 

She smiled. “Yeah…yeah, I do. Though I feel bad putting her in that position.”

Aang’s mouth turned down at the corners, and he nodded, looking thoughtful for a moment. When he finally spoke, his words were halting, hesitant. “I’ve been thinking these past few days…and I’m afraid that all I do is make your life harder, Katara. When you’ve made mine so much better.”

Her chest constricted, and for a moment she couldn’t catch her breath, couldn’t find her thoughts as they scattered. Fortunately, her heart knew what to say. 

“Aang,” she breathed. “You–you’re everything to me.” 

He looked up, eyes widening, and she had to swallow past the familiar fear and anxiety trying to take hold. His expression shifted, a serious furrow forming between his brows. “I want to kiss you into the ground,” he said firmly. “But I am very sweaty.”

She laughed, feeling teary, and set her hands on his face, pulling him down to her, kissing him in the full light of day, drinking in his smile. His hands fell to her waist, fingers spreading wide to span her ribs, and she wouldn’t have minded if he bore her back into the grass. Wouldn’t have minded feeling the slick press of his body against hers. 

He pulled away, nudging her nose affectionately with his. “Come on, you can help me finish watering the flowers.” 

She tipped back, squinting at him in the glare of the sun. “Putting me to work, huh?”

He smacked her lightly on the ass, making her jump, and he laughed. “Yes, ma’am. Now let me show you to your hose.” 

Katara felt… giddy, light, as Aang explained where she needed to water, and then he moved farther down the treeline to find a second hose. She directed the spray into the flower beds he’d indicated, and brushed a few loose strands of hair from her eyes, unable to resist thinking of how nice it felt. How domestic. 

“We could use some music,” Aang remarked. 

She quirked a brow. “I could get the speaker from inside the house.”

He flashed a smirk over his shoulder at her. “Or, I could sing to you.”

She smiled. “Oh, so now you can sing?”

“Not at all,” he said proudly, adjusting the angle of the hose in his hand, the water sparkling in the sunlight. “But I’ve never let that stop me.” 

“I could use my phon—”

Aang interrupted her by loudly singing I Want It That Way, by Backstreet Boys. He’d been telling the truth—he was a terrible singer.

Katara laughed as Aang swayed his hips, voice carrying, scaring the birds from the treetops. On impulse, she adjusted the nozzle on her hose and sprayed him in the back. He made a strangled noise somewhere between a shout and a laugh and whirled on her. But she was ready for him and blasted him straight in the face. 

Aang floundered, swinging his hose wildly and catching her across her shins in a shock of cold water. She laughed, dodging out of the stream. 

Aang blinked against the water in his eyes, droplets pouring down his chin, and a flash of pure menace in his expression made the hair rise along the backs of her arms. Katara froze. He lurched towards her, movements fluid and lightning quick, but before he had made it more than a few steps, he gasped, a pained sound that made her heart free-fall into her stomach.

Aang clutched at his knee, and Katara rushed forward, already cursing herself a thousand times over. 

When she had nearly reached him, hands outstretched, he flicked the hose on and soaked the entire front of her chest, splashing water across her face and splattering her glasses, fracturing her vision. 

“You—You bastard,” she sputtered as he laughed almost maniacally. 

She peeled her shirt away from her body and looked up to find Aang ogling her breasts through her pale blue shirt, the black of her bra distinct against the fabric.

Katara swatted at him. “Pervert.”

He caught her wrist in one fluid motion, dragging her sharply against him before her brain could even fully comprehend what was happening. A rush of air, the firm heat of his body, the immediate, visceral reaction of her own. An ache that burned. A hunger that was always simmering near the surface.

Her wet breasts compressed against his chest, her hands clutching his bare shoulders, hot from the sun, and her breath caught at the back of her throat. Their gazes locked, noses close to brushing, and his smirk turned molten, eyes darkening past silver and into stormy. His hands shifted against her back, dragging firmly and with purpose, making her shiver as her wet shirt pulled across her skin.

God, she wanted him. So badly she could barely think. She was rapidly losing the ability to be near him and not touch him. There was a time bomb ticking between them, ready to go off at any moment…like they were fighting against an increasingly powerful current.  

Feeling bold, she leaned forward to catch a droplet of water with the tip of her tongue as it slid down over his lips. Salty and cool, and she wanted to chase the flavor. He sucked in a sharp breath, fingers pressing into her lower back. Dazed, head buzzing, she looked between his lips and his heavily lidded eyes a moment before they came crashing together. 

He kissed her with a claiming sort of fierceness that made her toes curl as she pressed upwards. His fingers speared through her loosening braid as he held her to him, the bird song evaporating in the rush of blood in her ears. His grip felt almost desperate, like he was afraid she might slip like water through his fingers. 

The sun blazing down on them almost felt illicit. So much of their relationship consisted of sneaking around in the dark, keeping secrets, and avoiding being seen. Kissing in the sun felt like a rare privilege. It was like she’d been living in shadows before he came into her life, and he’d been slowly leading her back into the light. 

I love him. I love him and—

“Hey! Twinkle Toes!” came a voice from the back patio, and they broke abruptly apart. “You out here?”

Katara pushed away from Aang, and he rubbed a hand down his face with a deep, exasperated sigh. 

“I told you to stop barging into my house, Toph,” Aang called, and a short woman with dark hair pulled into a messy bun on top of her head appeared from around the corner of the house. She was using a white cane that swept through the grass like a scythe, and a wave of relief washed over Katara, making her knees weak. 

Aang reached out and briefly took her hand, giving it a quick squeeze in time with an encouraging smile. 

“Well, you weren’t answering my text messages, asshole—” The woman—Toph—stopped short, her head canted towards them, sightless eyes cast to one side. “Who’s out here with you? I can hear someone else breathing.”

Aang rolled his eyes. “I told you I have PT today. It’s Dr. Tariuq.” 

Toph’s brows furrowed. “You’re doing PT outside? It's hot as shit.”

“I like being outside,” Aang insisted as a flush of embarrassment bloomed in Katara’s cheeks. 

Katara cleared her throat. “It's, ah, nice to meet you.” 

Aang smiled at her, and she missed his hand against hers, steady and reassuring. “Ka–Dr. Tariuq, this is Toph. She’s my agent and one of my oldest and most annoying friends.”

Toph sniffed. “Right. Well, I came by because I was talking to Thomas, and he wants to book you for an interview and Q&A panel at the upcoming match in the city next week.”

Aang frowned, glancing at Katara and then away again. “I mean, yeah, if you two think it’s a good idea.”

Toph crossed her arms over her chest, cane dangling from the strap on her wrist. “Well, maybe the good doctor here can give us a better timeline on when you’ll be fighting ready.” 

She and Aang exchanged a glance, and there was a hopeful sort of gleam in his, an eagerness that she was perpetually combating herself. She took in a careful breath before speaking, saying in her most serious and professional doctor voice, “If he doesn't push his biomechanics before he's ready, we can start full-contact drills very soon. But a real fight? Four to six weeks, absolutely no sooner. The grafts need that remaining time to fully mature before he takes a real hit.” She directed this last bit directly at Aang with a meaningful look. 

Toph was smirking when Katara looked back. “We can work with that. I think this is the right time, Twinkle Toes. Need to start spinning the right narrative about your amazing recovery and being fighting fit to take on the best fighters in the league.” 

Aang looked off across the koi pond, bracing his hands on his hips, the water and sweat having mostly dried on his bare chest. “Yeah, okay. Let's do it.” 

“Great,” Toph said. “Now come inside and let's talk through the logistics while you make me something to eat. Fighting with your idiot of a manager always makes me hungry.” 

-

-

-

On the following Monday, Katara was getting ready to pack up for the day when her office phone rang. She set aside the patient chart she’d been updating, removed her glasses to place them on the desk, and sighed before lifting the phone from the receiver. 

“This is Dr. Katara Tariuq. How can I help you?”

“Hello, Dr. Tariuq, Dr. Aris here from County General,” came the familiar voice over the line. County General was the hospital that governed her clinic, and Katara sat a little straighter in her chair. 

“Ah, hello, Dr. Aris, how are you?” 

“Doing well, doing well. I’m calling because we’re finalizing the medical rotation for the big MMA event here in the city next weekend, and we need you cage-side.”

Katara felt like all the air had been sucked from the room, and she blinked blindly at her medical degree hanging across her office next to the door. “C-Cage side? Oh. I, uh, thought Dr. Cho had taken over handling the live events.”

“He has, but he’s out on family leave, I’m afraid. You’re the best orthopedic specialist on our standby list, especially considering the high-impact trauma these fighters take.”

“Right… right,” she mumbled, mind racing. “It’s just…I haven’t done field coverage for an event in over a year. My focus has been strictly on clinical rehabilitation.” She was grasping desperately at straws, and she knew it. “I’m just not sure I’m the right fit anymore.”

Dr. Aris scoffed. “Nonsense. You know the environment, you know how these guys operate, and you’re already doing fantastic rehab work with one of their fighters. The exposure will also be great for the clinic,” he needled at the end. 

Katara winced and pinched the bridge of her nose, aware she wasn’t going to be able to weasel her way out of this one. Maybe it would be okay. Besides, considering it seemed very likely this was the same match Aang would be attending, and that would be nice…to have him around, there to shore her up. There were hundreds of MMA fighters. What were the chances that the match was with Jet?

“I understand. Thank you, Dr. Aris.”

As soon as she hung up the phone, she searched the event on her work computer and groaned loudly just as Agna came into the room carrying a fresh batch of patient reports. 

“What is it?” the other woman asked as Katara resisted the urge to bang her head on her desk and settled for resting her forehead on it instead. 

Unable to form coherent words against the wave of dread and revulsion washing over her, she merely groaned again, and she heard Agna walk around her desk. 

“Gross, why are you looking at Jet’s upcoming MMA matches?”

“Because,” Katara said, voice teetering on the edge of pathetic. “I have to be there as part of the medical assessment team.”

“Oh,” Agna said, and Katara could hear the wince in her voice. 

“Who died?” Huria asked from the door. 

“I think Katara’s sanity. They want her to be cage-side for one of Jet’s fights.”

“Oh shit,” Huria said immediately, and Katara finally managed to lift her head. “Maybe you could fake your own death?” 

Agna rolled her eyes. “Very helpful.”

“Maybe one of you could just hit me with your car,” Katara suggested. 

The thought of Aang being at the event wasn’t as comforting as it had been a few moments before. What if they…interacted? What would that even be like? 

“I assume you’ll want at least one of us there with you?” Huria asked, stepping forward to sit on the edge of Katara’s desk. 

Katara waved a hand as she sank back into her chair, defeated. “Probably. Feel free to draw straws or flip a coin, I don’t care.” 

“Maybe this is a good thing,” Agna offered, drawing both of their disbelieving stares. “Yeah!” she insisted. “You can finally, I don’t know, get some closure or something. Move on. Put him behind you.”  

Katara sighed, wondering how Aang was going to react. “Not like I have much choice.” 

Agna patted her lightly on top of her head. “That's the spirit. Want one of the candy bars you told me to hide from you?” 

Katara nodded, probably looking as pathetic as she felt. “Yes, please.” 

Huria snorted, and Agna hurried out of the room as Katara considered how insufferable Silla was going to be when she told her.