Chapter Text
I rub my eyes, staring at the nutritional analysis on my laptop screen until the numbers blur together. Iroh gave me a basic model to help me with keeping track of everything I need to do my job. It's nearly three AM, and I've been working on Zuko's meal plan for hours. This is the third night in a row I've stayed up late working on his training regimen.
"Protein to carb ratio still needs adjustment," I mutter, reaching for my coffee mug only to find it empty.
Again.
The apartment is quiet except for Sokka's faint snoring from their bedroom and the occasional creak of the building settling. Dad's night fishing tonight, so at least I don't have to worry about him catching me working instead of sleeping.
I pull up the blood test results Iroh managed to help me get for Zuko. The numbers confirm what I suspected—Zuko's electrolytes are imbalanced, his vitamin D is low even with all that time training, and his inflammation markers are elevated. No wonder his recovery is so slow.
"Stubborn jerk," I whisper to myself.
After almost a week of working with him, I've developed an odd sort of tolerance for his prickly personality.
When he shouted that I was hired, I almost walked out right then and there. But the money—almost double what I made working four separate jobs—was impossible to turn down. So I showed up at six AM sharp the next day, professional and prepared.
I yawn, adjusting the macro-nutrient calculations one more time before printing out the finalized meal plan and grocery list. He's going to hate it. He's going to complain that there's not enough protein, that the portion sizes are too small, that he needs more calories.
But the numbers don't lie, and neither do his blood-work results.
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"This is bullshit," Zuko growls, glaring at the meal plan I've just handed him.
We're standing in the gym's small kitchen, where I've arranged a demonstration of proper portion sizes.
"There's barely any protein in this. How am I supposed to maintain muscle mass?"
I take a deep breath, gathering my patience, "There's exactly the right amount of protein for your body weight and activity level. One hundred and eighty-five grams per day, distributed across six meals."
"It doesn't look like enough," he insists, jabbing his finger at the paper. "How am I supposed to keep my energy levels up on this fucking bird food?"
"That's because you've been massively overdoing it." I explain for what feels like the millionth time.
Zuko crumples the meal plan in his fist. "I've been eating this way for years. It's worked fine."
"Has it?" I challenge, pointing to his knee. "Because that doesn't look 'fine' to me."
He glares at me, golden eyes flashing with frustration. "You don't understand what's at stake here."
"Then explain it to me. Help me understand why you're so determined to destroy your body before this fight."
"Just... make whatever adjustments you need to," he mutters, tossing the crumpled paper onto the counter. "I'll follow your stupid plan."
"Thank you," I say, smoothing out the wrinkled paper. "And I'll need you to track everything you eat in this food journal." I hand him a small notebook.
He stares at it like I've just handed him a dead fish. "You can't be serious."
"Deadly serious. I need to monitor how your body responds to the dietary changes."
Zuko runs a hand through his black hair, looking exhausted. It's only 7 AM, but I can tell he's been here for a least a couple of hours already.
"You know, you don't have to work this hard. I'm not paying you to stay up all night making meal plans." he mutters.
I bristle at his words. "You don't get to tell me how to do my job. I'll work as hard as I need to."
"That's not what I—"
"If you want results, this is what it takes," I cut him off. "Now, are you going to track your food or not?"
He mutters something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like stubborn tiny know-it-all, but takes the notebook nonetheless.
"Fine," he says. "Anything else, drill sergeant?"
"Yes. Ice your knee for twenty minutes after training today. And actually rest tonight, at least six hours, though I'd prefer eight... And Zuko, no midnight runs. Please."
He gives me a mock salute before stalking off to begin his morning workout.
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That afternoon, I'm sitting on one of the benches near the sparring area, updating my notes on Zuko's progress. His knee is showing improvement—marginal, but still progress.
If he'd just follow my instructions completely instead of this half-hearted stubborn compliance, he'd be recovering twice as fast.
"Ms. Luna," Iroh's warm voice pulls me from my thoughts. I look up to see him approaching with two steaming cups. "I thought you might appreciate some tea."
"Thank you," The jasmine scent reminds me of Gran-Gran's old kitchen.
"I wanted to express my gratitude," he settles beside me. "The changes you've implemented are making quite a difference, even if my nephew is too stubborn to admit it."
"He's following about sixty percent of my recommendations, which is honestly more than I expected."
Iroh chuckles. "That's about fifty percent more than he usually follows of anyone's advice."
We both turn to watch Zuko as he spars with his training partner—a tall, muscular man introduced to me as Haru. They're moving around each other almost like a dangerous dance.
I hate to admit it, but physically, Zuko is perfection. He's all corded muscle and hard planes. The dragon tattoo that curls around his right arm is admittedly very sexy,—Especially when his muscles flex and it seems to come alive.
But then there's that perpetual scowl, and anytime he opens his rude mouth, I'm reminded how much I don't like him. The man has the personality of a cactus.
Still, I need this job.
I've quit all of the others to dedicate every second to this place, to making sure Zuko is in peak condition for his fight.
I lean forward, watching more intently as Zuko and Haru circle each other. I watch Zuko throw another combination of punches, noticing how he shifts his weight, testing the limits of his injured knee.
"He's pushing too hard again," I murmur.
"That's his way," Iroh sighs. "Always has been."
Zuko pivots to a round house kick to block Haru's jab, but puts too much pressure on his right leg. His knee twists at an unnatural angle—a movement that could undo days of progress.
"Watch the knee!" I shout.
Zuko's head snaps toward me, his concentration broken for just a second. Haru's fist connects squarely with Zuko's nose. Blood immediately streams down Zuko's face, dripping onto the mat.
"Shit!" I'm already on my feet, medical bag in hand, rushing toward him.
"I'm sorry!" Haru says, looking horrified. "You turned right into it."
Zuko's cursing up a storm, one hand pressed to his nose as blood seeps between his fingers.
Haru backs away, hands up apologetically.
I guide Zuko to sit on a nearby bench. "That was completely my fault. I shouldn't have called out like that."
"You think?" he snarls, golden eyes blazing with anger as he glares up at me.
I quickly pull on gloves from my bag and gently move his hand away from his face. "Tilt your head forward—not back, that'll make you swallow blood."
He complies, but his scowl deepens. "This is exactly why I don't need distractions during training."
"I know, I know. I'm really sorry," I press a clean gauze pad against his nostrils. "Pinch here, just below the bone."
His fingers brush against mine as he takes over. I'm practically standing between his legs as he sits on the bench, my hands on his face. He's shirtless, as usual, sweat glistening on his sculpted chest and shoulders. The dragon tattoo seems to ripple with each breath he takes.
"I really am sorry, I was just worried about your knee."
"My knee was fine," he mutters. "My nose, however..."
"It's not broken. Just a good hit. The bleeding should stop soon."
I prepare an ice pack, wrapping it in a thin towel before gently pressing it to the bridge of his nose. He winces slightly, those angry eyes never leaving my face.
"I really am sorry," I say again, softer this time. "That was completely my fault."
"Just... don't do it again," he mutters, some of the fire leaving his glare.
"I promise." I adjust the ice pack, my fingers brushing his cheek.
His skin is warm even with the ice, and even being covered in sweat from his workout, he somehow smells amazing. Like spiced fire lilies, warm and slightly exotic. It's unfair that someone so insufferable can smell so good.
I quickly take my hand away, realizing I've been touching his face for too long. "The bleeding's almost stopped. Keep the ice on for another ten minutes."
Zuko grunts in acknowledgment, still glaring but with less intensity. The initial flood has mostly ebbed to a light trickle, but there's dried blood on his chin and chest.
"I'll, um, get you a clean towel," I offer, turning away before he can see the flush I feel creeping up my neck.
What is wrong with me?
This is Zuko we're talking about. Arrogant, infuriating Zuko. Who questions every recommendation I make and follows my treatment plan with the bare minimum of compliance.
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