General Iroh

They had been married for three years, enough time to understand the rhythm of his life. The departures. The silences. The way duty always came before everything, even when it hurt. Being married to General Iroh II meant learning patience the hard way.

Their worlds had never been the same. He represented command and legacy; he was born into uniforms and expectations. You were art and instinct; you had grown up in Republic City with nothing but your own two hands and a stubborn independence. It had never been easy. But lately, somehow, things were going well. There was stability. There was warmth.

And then, he had left again.

The United Forces ship finally docked; the metal creaked as the mooring lines were thrown out and secured. The soldiers began disembarking in orderly rows, their faces tired but proud. You stood motionless in the crowd, scrutinizing every uniform and every familiar footstep, waiting.

You saw him before he saw you. It always happened that way. Upright and composed, the weight of command still on his shoulders. When his eyes finally met yours, something about him softened instantly.

You didn't wait for his permission. You stepped forward and wrapped your arms around his neck, briefly resting your forehead against his neck and inhaling his scent, as if you'd been holding your breath for weeks.

Around you, the soldiers discreetly moved aside, giving up space without anyone asking. They understood. Some things were universal.

Iroh hesitated for barely a second before wrapping his arms around you, firm and confident. One of his hands rested between your shoulder blades, as if that were its natural place.

Her voice was low, meant only for your ears.

“Slowly,” she murmured, a smile playing on her lips, though her face remained composed.

“You will damage my image as a respectable General…”