Chapter Text
The next day she comes in looking considerably less rumpled. Her hair is back in it’s usual neat braids and her clothes aren’t wrinkled. Though her face is still drawn and eyes rimmed in those dark circles that tell me she hasn’t slept a wink.
"You're staring," she says without looking up from her notes. "Again."
I quickly avert my gaze, pretending to adjust the wrap on my hand. "I'm not staring. I'm wondering when you're actually going to do your job instead of scribbling on that clipboard."
She sighs heavily, those dark circles under her eyes somehow making the blue of her irises more intense. I grab my water bottle and take a long drink, trying to ignore the nagging voice in my head that sounds suspiciously like Uncle.
I walk to the small kitchen and pour a second cup of coffee. Black, with two sugars—the way I've noticed she drinks it. When I return, I thrust it toward her without ceremony.
"Here," I mutter.
"What's this?"
"It's coffee, not poison," I snap. "You look like you're about to pass out, again."
"Thanks," she says, taking a sip. Her eyes widen slightly. "It's... actually good."
I scoff, "Don't sound so shocked."
She cradles the mug between her small hands.
"I need to do another check on you today," she says after a moment. "Full assessment—weight, measurements, vitals. You have the prelim weigh-in this afternoon."
I feel my jaw tighten immediately. The weigh-in. The first official event before the fight, where Zhao will be watching, measuring, judging.
"I don't need another check," I growl. "I know my weight. I know my stats."
"That's not how this works, I need current numbers to make final adjustments to your nutrition plan for the next two weeks."
"My nutrition is fine," I snap, "I've been following your ridiculous meal plan to the letter."
"Ridiculous?" She raises an eyebrow. "The plan that's helped your recovery time improve by nearly forty percent?"
"I would have recovered anyway…" I mutter.
"Look, I get that you're stressed about the weigh-in. But taking it out on me isn't going to help either of us."
"I am not stressed," I lie, crossing my arms defensively.
"Right. And I'm not tired," she shoots back. "Treatment room. Five minutes. And bring an attitude adjustment with you."
She walks away before I can argue further, her braids swinging with each step. I glare at her retreating back, tempted to ignore her completely. But deep down, I know she's right. The weigh-in has me on edge.
Five minutes later, I'm in the treatment room, sitting on the edge of the table. I've changed into shorts as requested, but I've kept my t-shirt on fully knowing she'll ask me to remove it.
"Shirt off," Katara says the moment she walks in, not even looking up from her clipboard.
"Hello to you too," I mutter, but I pull my shirt over my head anyway.
She sets down her clipboard and approaches with the blood pressure cuff. As she wraps it around my bicep, I can't help but notice just how small her hands are compared to my arm.
"Take a deep breath," she instructs, pressing the stethoscope to the inside of my elbow.
I comply, inhaling the faint scent of jasmine that seems to follow her everywhere. It must be her shampoo or lotion or something.
"Your blood pressure's elevated," she notes, frowning slightly.
"I wonder why," I say sarcastically. "Maybe it's because I'm being poked and prodded like a lab rat."
She rolls her eyes. "Or maybe it's because you're stressed about the weigh-in and too stubborn to admit it."
"I'm not stressed," I insist, even as I feel my heart rate picking up. "And I'm definitely not stubborn."
One of her braids falls forward as she leans in to check my pupils with a small penlight. It brushes against my bare shoulder, soft and smelling faintly of that jasmine scent again. I have an inexplicable urge to tuck it behind her ear.
She moves to stand behind me, her fingers pressing along my spine, checking my posture.
"Your muscle tension is through the roof," she says, pressing her thumbs into a particularly tight knot between my shoulder blades.
I wince. "That hurts."
"It wouldn't if you'd been doing the stretches I gave you. This is exactly what I was talking about—you push yourself too hard without proper recovery."
"I've been following your plan," I growl, though we both know I've been skipping some of the more time-consuming stretches.
"Partially following," she corrects, moving to my shoulders. "Your left trapezius is completely locked up." Her fingers knead into the muscles, "Have you been sleeping?"
"Enough."
"Define 'enough'," she challenges.
"I don't know. Four, maybe five hours?" I admit grudgingly.
She clicks her tongue disapprovingly. "That's not nearly enough for proper recovery. No wonder you're so tense."
She presses harder into the knot, working at it with more of her weight.
I hiss through my teeth. "Easy! I'm not made of stone."
"Could've fooled me with all these muscles." Her thumbs work in small, tight circles, moving from my shoulders to the base of my neck. "You're like one giant knot. When was the last time you had a proper massage?"
"I don't remember," I admit.
The truth is, I've never liked being touched. It makes me feel vulnerable, exposed. But something about her makes it almost bearable.
Almost.
Her hands move lower, working along the muscles of my back. Each press of her fingers sends a mixture of pain and relief through my body. I close my eyes, focusing on my breathing to distract myself from how good it feels.
"Lie down," she instructs.
I hesitate for a moment before complying, stretching out face-down on the treatment table. She applies firm pressure to my shoulders, then works her way down my spine.
"Your posture is terrible," she comments, pressing her thumbs along either side of my vertebrae. "You're carrying all your tension right here."
"Thanks for the diagnosis," I mutter into the padded table.
"Turn over," she orders after a few minutes. "I need to check your shoulder mobility."
I roll onto my back, and she steps closer, leaning over me. Her face is inches from mine as she manipulates my right arm, testing the rotation of my shoulder joint. One of her braids falls forward again, brushing against my chest.
"Raise your arm," She moves to my right side.
I comply, and she places one hand on my shoulder while the other guides my arm through the movement. Her body shifts closer, her hip brushing against my side as she leans in to check the angle of my rotator cuff.
"Now the other side," she says, moving to my left.
She has to lean across me to reach, her body hovering over mine.
That's when I feel it—the first stirring of heat low in my belly. Blood rushes south so fast it makes me dizzy, and I immediately tense every muscle in my body.
No. Absolutely not. This is not happening.
She notices my sudden rigidity. "You need to relax. I can't stretch you properly if you're tensing up."
"I'm fine," I grit out, focusing on the ceiling tiles.
Think of something else.
Anything else. Uncle brewing tea. Zhao's ugly face. Tax forms.
It's not working.
"Sit up," she says, stepping back. "I need to check your neck mobility."
I hesitate, acutely aware of the growing problem in my shorts. "Give me a second."
She raises an eyebrow but doesn't comment, turning to make notes on her clipboard. I take the opportunity to shift position, hoping to hide my unwanted issue. I take a deep breath, counting backward from ten while willing my body to cooperate.
This is completely unprofessional. She's my physiotherapist, for fuck's sake. Not to mention annoying as hell. The most annoying woman I’ve ever had the displeasure of meeting.
"Today, Zuko," she says, tapping her pen against the clipboard impatiently. "The weigh-in is in three hours."
"I know what time it is!" I snap, managing to sit up while strategically arranging my hands in my lap. "I'm the one fighting, remember?"
She steps closer, fingers reaching for my neck. I instinctively jerk back.
"I need to check your cervical mobility, I can't do that if you keep flinching away like I'm going to bite you."
"I'm not flinching," I lie, forcing myself to stay still as her cool fingers press against the sides of my neck.
She's standing between my legs now, her face focused in concentration as she gently tilts my head from side to side, checking for resistance. I fix my gaze on the wall behind her, desperately trying to ignore how close she is, how her fingers feel against my skin, how that damned jasmine scent fills my nostrils with every breath.
"Turn your head to the right," she instructs, one hand on my jaw to guide the movement. "Any pain?"
"No."
"Left side now." Her thumb brushes against my scar as she adjusts her grip, and I can't suppress the shiver that runs through me.
Nobody touches my scar.
Ever.
She immediately pulls back. "I'm sorry—did that hurt?"
"It's fine," I mutter, avoiding her eyes. "Just... sensitive."
She nods, resuming her examination with noticeably lighter pressure. I can feel her being careful to avoid the scarred tissue now, her touch almost gentle.
I hate it. I hate that she's treating me like I'm fragile. Like I'm broken.
"Almost done," she says, stepping back to make more notes. "I just need your current weight, and then we can discuss final adjustments before the weigh-in."
I slide off the table, relieved to put some distance between us. I step onto the scale without comment.
"Two-twenty," she reads, jotting it down. "That's good. You're right where you need to be for your weight class."
Some of the tension leaves my shoulders. At least that's one less thing to worry about.
"So we're good for the weigh-in," I mutter, reaching for my shirt. "Can I go now?"
"Not yet," she says, stepping closer again. "I need to give you some final instructions for today."
My jaw clenches. "I know what to do. I've done this before."
"Maybe listen anyway?"
Her voice has that edge to it—the one that makes me want to argue just for the sake of arguing.
"Stay hydrated but don't overdo it. Small sips throughout the afternoon. No heavy meals until after the weigh-in, but have a protein shake ready for immediately after. And absolutely no training between now and then."
"I know all of this," I snap, yanking my shirt over my head, "I'm not an amateur."
"Could've fooled me with how you've been acting," she mutters.
"What's that supposed to mean!?"
"It means you're being ridiculous!" she says, crossing her arms. "You're clearly nervous about this weigh-in, but instead of just admitting it, you're taking it out on me!"
"I'm not nervous," I growl, stepping toward her. "And I'm definitely not taking anything out on you!"
"Really? Because from where I'm standing, you've been a complete and total jerk all morning!"
"Maybe I wouldn't be such a jerk if my physiotherapist hadn't disappeared for days without explanation!"
"I told you I had a family emergency!"
"Yeah, well, some of us have responsibilities we can't just abandon when things get tough!"
The moment the words leave my mouth, I know I've gone too far. Her face pales, and for a second, I think she might actually slap me.
"You have no idea what I've been dealing with," she says, her voice dangerously quiet. "No idea at all."
"Then enlighten me," I challenge. "What was so important that you couldn't even send a proper text?"
She stares at me for a long moment, and I can see her weighing whether I'm worth the explanation.
Apparently, I'm not.
"You know what? Just fucking forget it," she says, turning away. "Go to your weigh-in. Try not to piss off everyone there like you do here."
I grab my gym bag, fury and something else—something I refuse to acknowledge—burning in my chest. "Gladly."
"And don't forget your protein shake after," she calls after me, professional to the last word.
My body is a mess of contradictory signals—anger, frustration, and a strange desire. I storm into the locker room, slamming my gym bag against the bench. The rage boiling through me needs an outlet, but the weigh-in is too close to risk a workout. My body is still betraying me, the hardness in my shorts refusing to subside despite my anger—or maybe because of it.
"Fuck," I mutter, yanking off my shirt and kicking off my shoes.
I need to cool down. Literally.
I stride to the shower stalls, peeling off the rest of my clothes as I go. My cock springs free, painfully hard and sensitive. I turn the water to the coldest setting and step under the spray, hissing as the icy water hits my overheated skin.
It doesn't help. If anything, the physical shock just makes me more aware of every sensation. I close my eyes, bracing one hand against the tile wall as the cold water cascades over me. I should be thinking about the weigh-in, about Zhao's smug face, about keeping myself up to Fathers standards.
About anything except her.
But all I can see behind my closed eyelids is Katara's face—those piercing blue eyes, the way her full lips press together when she's frustrated with me. How that one braid fell across her face as she leaned over me.
What the hell is wrong with me?
She's the most infuriating woman I've ever met. She questions everything I do, argues with every decision I make. She's stubborn and bossy and too smart for her own good.
And that's the problem, isn't it?
She doesn't back down. She doesn't cower when I glare or snap. She gives as good as she gets, those blue eyes blazing with a fire that matches my own.
My hand moves of its own accord, wrapping around my cock. I tell myself it's just to relieve the tension, to clear my head before the weigh-in. One quick release so I can focus.
I stroke faster, my grip tightening as I picture her small hands on my skin, how they felt working the knots from my muscles. What they might feel like elsewhere. The way she challenges me, never backing down even when I'm at my most difficult.
"She's so fucking annoying," I growl through gritted teeth, even as pleasure builds at the base of my spine.
So stubborn.
So infuriating.
Always arguing, always pushing back. That fire in her eyes when she's angry—which is most of the time she's around me.
And I like it.
I fucking like how she doesn't take my shit, how she calls me out, how she sees right through me.
"Fuck, fuck, fuck," I chant as I near the edge, hating myself for this, for wanting someone who drives me absolutely fucking insane.
My release hits hard, my whole body tensing as I spill over my hand, her name almost—almost—escaping my lips. I bite it back, refusing to give voice to this madness.
The cold water washes away the evidence as shame and confusion wash over me. I stand for several minutes, letting the icy spray numb my skin, wishing it could numb my thoughts as well.
When I finally step out, I feel no better.
⊹₊⟡⋆⟡₊⊹
Agni Fire Stadium is already buzzing with activity—reporters, other fighters, trainers, and promoters milling around under harsh fluorescent lighting. I scan the room, surprised to spot Katara standing near the registration table, clipboard in hand, talking to Uncle.
She came after all.
"There he is!" Zhao's booming voice cuts through my thoughts as he stirdes over, hand extended. "The man of the hour."
I force my face into a neutral mask, shaking his hand with just enough pressure to make a point. "Zhao."
"All set for the weigh-in? You're looking... fit." His eyes rake over me with calculated assessment, like I'm livestock at auction.
"I'm ready," I say, keeping my voice flat, emotionless.
Uncle appears at my side, Katara trailing behind him.
"We have completed all the preliminary paperwork," he says cheerfully. "Zuko is precisely at his target weight."
Zhao's gaze shifts to Katara, eyebrows raising slightly. "And who might this be?"
"Katara Luna," she says before I can answer, extending her hand professionally. "Mr. Agni's physiotherapist."
"Ah, you took my advice about assembling a proper team." Zhao smiles, showing too many teeth. "Smart move, Zuko. Very smart indeed."
I say nothing, maintaining my detached expression. Inside, I'm seething at the implication that I only hired Katara because of his suggestion.
"Ms. Luna has been instrumental in optimizing Zuko's training regimen," Uncle offers, filling the silence. "A beneficial addition to our team."
"I can see that," Zhao purrs, his eyes lingering on Katara a beat too long. "Well done finding such... qualified help."
The way he says 'qualified' makes my jaw clench. I step slightly forward, putting myself between them.
"When's my weigh-in slot?"
"Eager, aren't we?" Zhao checks his watch. "You're up in about five minutes. Main stage."
I nod curtly and move toward the staging area, aware of Katara and Uncle following behind. The other fighters mill around, some looking dangerously dehydrated from last-minute weight cuts, others calm and collected like they've done this a hundred times.
"Remember," Katara says quietly as we wait, "deep breaths. Keep your heart rate steady."
"I know how to stand on a scale.” I scoff, not looking at her.
"Next up," a voice calls from the stage. "Chan Lee, Lightweight division."
The fighter ahead of me steps onto the scale, a stocky guy with a nasty-looking scar across his chest. The official calls out his weight, and Chan's face falls. He's over by almost two pounds.
"Shit," I hear him mutter.
Without hesitation, he starts stripping down, pulling his shirt over his head, stepping out of his shorts and thin briefs until he's standing there in nothing but his skin. His coach holds up a towel to cover his lower half.
I glance at Katara, whose cheeks immediately flush a deep crimson. Her eyes drop to her worn sneakers.
I can't help the smirk that tugs at the corner of my mouth. So Little Miss Professional isn't as unflappable as she pretends to be. Interesting.
Chan steps back on the scale, and this time he just makes weight. The crowd of reporters and fight officials applaud as he flexes dramatically for the cameras. Katara's eyes remain firmly fixed on the floor.
"Zuko Agni," the official calls. "You're up."
I step onto the platform, the bright lights hot against my skin. I've been through this enough times that it should be routine, but today feels different. Maybe it's knowing my Father might actually watch this fight. Maybe it's Zhao's smug face in the crowd. Or maybe it's the knowledge that Katara is watching, clipboard clutched to her chest, those blue eyes now fixed on me instead of the floor.
I step onto the scale, standing perfectly still as the digital readout settles.
"Two hundred and Twenty pounds," the official announces. "Right on target."
Relief washes through me, though I don't let it show on my face. I'm exactly where I need to be—no desperate last-minute cutting, no dehydration, no emergency sauna sessions. For once, everything has gone according to plan.
Katara's meal plan—as much as I hate to admit it—worked perfectly.
The officials measure my height, reach, and other stats for the official record. Then they position me for the standard photo, but I don't bother forcing a smile. I never do. Smiling is for victors, not contestants. Fighting isn't about smiling for cameras—it's about proving yourself in the cage.
After they dismiss me, I make my way back to where Uncle and Katara are waiting. Uncle beams at me, clearly pleased, but it's Katara's reaction I find myself watching. She's looking at me with something I haven't seen from her before—genuine approval. A small smile on her lips.
"You did well," she says softly, "Perfect weight, good hydration levels. Everything looks optimal."
"Thank you," I say tersely.
When was the last time I thanked her without sarcasm?
"I'll make the final adjustments to your meal plan for fight week," she continues, professional as always, still smiling. "We'll want to keep your energy levels optimal without risking any weight fluctuations."
I nod, not trusting myself to speak again. There's something about that smile that's throwing me off balance, and I don't like it.
Not one bit.
"I need to get going," I say abruptly. "I've got training to do."
"Zuko," Uncle begins with that warning tone, "Ms. Luna specifically said—"
"Light training.”
⊹₊⟡⋆⟡₊⊹