Page 80

“Or for those more nocturnally inclined,” I chime in, winking at a patron who looks like he juststumbled out of a fairytale or a tavern brawl, “our Midnight Melody is a lullaby in a cup.”

Our movements are a dance we rehearsed in dreams, his steps a beat behind mine, creating an effortless cadence. We weave between tables, pour steaming liquid, and exchange smiles as if they are a currency minted by joy itself.

“Your laughter is the best tip,” Draven tells an elderly woman whose giggle reminds me of wind chimes.

“Though coin doesn’t hurt either,” I add, and we share a conspiratorial grin.

When there’s a lull, I lean against the polished counter, taking a moment to really look at our tea shop. The shelves are a library of color holding jars of tea blends meticulously organized, each label penned in Draven’s elegant script. Aromatic promises are sealed behind glass, waiting to be fulfilled. The walls are a gallery of memories—a painting of the very first herb garden I grew, a candid one of Draven caught mid-laugh, and a sketch on a day I swore I would never forget and haven’t. Every piece is a fragment of us, arranged with purpose. Every sip served is a sharing of our story.

“Thorn,” Draven calls, drawing me back to the present. “Table three is ready for that story you promised.”

“Of course,” I say, pushing off from the counter. “Can’t let them go thirsty for tea or tales.”

With a flourish of the silver teaspoon, I sprinkle a dash of crimson safflower into the delicate mix. The asrbloom tea is an alchemy of its own, a blend that takes more than just skill. It requires a whisper of magic and a heart full of intent. Each ingredient has been chosen with care—star anise for its licorice kiss, rose hips for a blush of vitality, and a secret hint of enchantment that makes it kindred to vampire taste buds.

“Watch it,” I mutter under my breath. “Too much elderflower, and you’ll have them dancing on tables instead of sating their thirst.”

“Wouldn’t be the worst opening day spectacle,” I imagine Draven’s voice teasing back if he stood beside me, but my partner in tea and love is out there, weaving his charm among our patrons, leaving me to the sacred art of brewing.

“Infuse with love, they say,” I say to the steam curling from the pot, “as if love is the sort of thing you can bottle and sell.”

Yet, as I seal the lid, I close my eyes for just a moment, letting the warmth of all I feel for Draven seep into the concoction. If love can be shared through tea, then let this batch be a testament.

“Brace yourselves, folks,” I announce to the room as I carry out a tray with several teapots and cups, grinning at the expectant faces. “The potion master has done it again. Drink deep, and feel the magic.”

As I set down the tray and Draven’s and my eyes met over the rising steam, something unspoken passes between us—a silent vow, a shared dream, and the quiet certainty that together, we are home.

***

I nudge the door open with a hip-check, stepping out onto the cobblestone path that leads up to our tea shop. The capital is alive with its usual hustle, merchants peddling their trinkets and bards crooning for coin. A whiff of roasting chestnuts drifts past, mingling with the petrichor left behind by an earlymorning drizzle. I fill my lungs with the crisp air, the kind that nips at your nose and makes you grateful for warm scarves and warmer company.

“Taking a breather?” Draven’s voice comes from the doorway, his eyebrow perched in that half-amused arch I know so well.

“More like soaking it all in,” I reply, my breath misting before me. “This city… It’s got a pulse, doesn’t it? And now we’re part of it, our little sanctuary in the midst of chaos.”

“Sanctuary” was the right word. We’ve crafted not just a business, but a refuge, a place where magic meets mundane over cups of liquid enchantment.

I glance back through the window at the cozy interior, heart swelling like dough left to proof.

Draven steps up beside me, his shoulder brushing against mine, a solid presence that sends a familiar thrill down my spine. “We’ve done good, Thorn. Really good.”

“Understatement of the century.” I flash him a grin then turn back inside, feeling that tug in my chest that calls me back to our shared dream.

***

“All right, last sweep?” Draven asks as the sun dips below the horizon, painting the sky in strokes of fiery orange and dusky purple.

“Last sweep,” I confirm, tying up the final bag of trash with a flourish.

The clatter of dishes has been replaced by the soothing scrape of brushes on china, and the scent of lemon soap rises in soft tendrils. Luna pads silently between us, her white fur catching the fading light, a ghostly sentinel even in the quiet after-hours.

“Hey, careful with that cup,” I tease as Draven carefully places a delicate teacup on the drying rack. “It’s survived a hundred years and two dragon attacks. It’d be a shame if you were its demise.”

“Haha, very funny,” he retorts without looking up, but the twitch of his lips betrays his amusement. “You know I handle everything you treasure with utmost care.”

“Everything I treasure, huh?” I lean back against the counter, crossing my arms and watching him work—a dance of precision and purpose.

“Every last thing,” he says, straightening up and turning to face me, his hand finding mine amidst the bubbles and suds.