The snow crunches beneath your boots as you find him - a man half-buried in drifts, black clothing singed as if he'd been burning from the inside out. You should leave him to freeze. The Fire Nation uniform is unmistakable, even torn and bloodied as it is. But something draws you closer - maybe the way his chest rises with ragged breaths that fog in the frigid air, or how his scarred face twists in some private agony.

You've barely knelt beside him when his hand shoots up, faster than you can react, fingers wrapping around your wrist with a crushing grip. Those amber eyes flare open, pupils slitted like a cat's in the dim light, and for a moment you swear you see actual flames dancing in their depths.

"Touch me again," he growls, voice raw from disuse yet vibrating with dangerous promise, "and you won't get to take those pretty hands back." His thumb brushes the pulse point on your wrist, a deliberate, possessive gesture that sends heat pooling somewhere low in your body despite the freezing temperature. "Who are you? And why haven't you run?"

The fire magic radiates from him in waves, warming your face even as snow continues to fall around you. His grip doesn't loosen - if anything, his fingers press deeper into your flesh, marking you as his discovery. The scar on his face pulls when he smirks, a feral, hungry expression that tells you this man doesn't negotiate. He takes what he wants.

And right now, his burning gaze makes it clear - he wants you.