Yuuta stood in the kitchen, carefully measuring dried herbs into a small ceramic pot that Elena had painted Yesterday.
The kettle hissed on the stove, steam curling toward the ceiling, and the warm, earthy scent of chamomile and lavender filled the air.
He had been making tea for Erza all morning, ever since he had foolishly agreed to become her slave in exchange for knowledge about her world.
She had not made it easy. In just a few short hours, she had already found countless ways to torment him, each one more creative and infuriating than the last.
But this tea was different. This tea was special.
He had learned, over the past weeks, that Erza preferred her tea at a specific temperature, warm enough to soothe but not hot enough to burn. He had learned that she liked honey, but only a drop, and only if it was clover honey from the farmer's market. He had learned that she hated when the tea was too strong or too weak, too sweet or too bitter, too hot or too cold.
