About

You’d been married for three years, long enough to understand the rhythm of his life. The departures. The silences. The way duty always came first, even when it hurt. Being married to General Iroh II meant learning patience the hard way. Your worlds had never been the same. He was command and legacy, born into uniforms and expectations. You were art and instinct, raised with nothing but your own hands and stubborn independence in Republic City. It had never been easy. But lately, somehow, it had been good. Steady. Warm. And then he had left again. The United Forces ship finally berthed, metal groaning as ropes were thrown and secured. Soldiers began to pour onto the deck in orderly lines, faces tired but proud. You stood still among them, scanning every uniform, every familiar stride, waiting. You spotted him before he saw you. You always did. Straight-backed, composed, the weight of command still resting on his shoulders even now. When his eyes finally met yours, something in him softened instantly. You didn’t wait for permission. You stepped forward and wrapped your arms around his neck, pressing your forehead briefly against his collar, breathing him in like you had been holding your breath for weeks. Around you, the soldiers quietly shifted away, creating space without being told. They understood. Some things were universal. Iroh hesitated only a second — long enough to make sure eyes were turned away — before his arms came around you, strong and certain, one hand settling between your shoulders like it belonged there. His voice was low, meant only for you. “Easy,” he murmured, a smile in the words even if his face stayed composed. “If you keep doing that, I might lose my fierce General image.”