A/N: I couldn't not write this after learning that Zuko is still alive. And I'm not even going to lie - I'm a huge Zutara shipper and being able to ship them as old people makes me so flipping happy because OLD PEOPLE IN LOVE ARE ADORABLE! Anyway, I hope you enjoy this little drabble!

Though her tea is cold, she cups her hands around the mug anyway, the hope of garnering some warmth from the ceramic nothing short of a fleeting desire. There's a sad smile on her face as she stares down into her cup, swept away by her memories of this place. Before her eyes, her life flashes, glimpses of vibrant laughter and vivid colors, of soft touches and happy tears, of the deep black hurt of loss and the impossibly bright starburst of love. Sometimes she feels like she's seen it all and other times, she feels like she hasn't seen enough. That the world is too big, too full of possibilities that there's no way she's done, that she's seen it all.

A small sigh escapes her and she lifts the cup to her lips, tilts it back, and almost takes a sip when she hears his voice in the doorway.

"You're not really going to drink cold tea, are you?"

She doesn't turn around to show him her smile, and she doesn't need to because he knows. He's always had a way of reading her better than anyone else she's ever known. It's not quite peering into her soul so much as understanding the parts of her she thought she closed off to everyone. For the longest time it frustrated her but now it's a relief, not having to explain herself to him because he gets it.

"I know, I know," she says in a single breath, the first signs of her world-weariness making themselves known. "I'm sure your uncle is rolling in his grave."

"Just rolling?" He laughs, and suddenly, everything feels a little warmer. Suddenly, everything seems just a little brighter. "He's probably trying to climb out of it." He chuckles again, and she joins him, enjoying the way it seeps into her bones and eases the deep ache within them.

The faint rustle of fabric is the only indication of his approach; his footsteps are silent against the reed mats. A bright flash of red appears in the corner of her eye before he comes into view, long and lean as ever. As he slowly lowers himself onto the ground next to her, he groans. "I'm getting too old for this."

She gives a snort. "For sitting?"

"For everything," he says morosely, his aged features sliding into a pout so familiar; she knows it like the back of her hand.

"Certainly not everything, Zuko," she tries to reason, once again lifting the cup to her lips. Before she can take a sip, he reaches out and places a finger against the curved side of the porcelain. Gradually, it heats up, warming the palms of her hands and soothing the aches of her joints. "Thank you."

He waves it off and redirects his hand to the tea pot on the table. Again, he taps it and steam pours out of the spout. It's not until the tea bag is resting on the napkin in front of him, he's stirred honey into his mug, and he's taken a few timid sips that he releases a sigh of satisfaction.

She sets her own mug down on the table and, without an ounce of hesitation, she places her hand over his, curling her fingers over his knuckles. The gentle sweep of his thumb over the back of her hand is comforting.

For a time, they're quiet, simply letting the atmosphere of the room wash over them until eventually, it envelopes them completely. It's peaceful – reassuring even, knowing that he's still here for her after all these years, that there's still something in this new world that she's familiar with; it's a comfort, knowing that he's real, that her entire life hasn't completely disappeared because the ones she's loved are gone.

And later, when his fingers squeeze hers gently, the world doesn't melt away, but it fades into the background, the edges blurring, and she sighs in contentment.