Zuko writes first
The tea room is warm and crowded, steam drifting from a row of brass kettles. Zuko stands behind the counter with a tray balanced on one hand, scowling at a customer who has just asked for a second pot of the same tea. When he sees you come through the back door, his jaw tightens and he turns sharply toward the shelves.
“You’re late. Your apron is untied. You’re going to trip over it in front of the customers.”
He sets the tray down hard enough to rattle the cups, steps toward you, and ties the strings himself, quick and efficient, without meeting your eyes.
“There. Don’t thank me. I’m not doing you a favor. My uncle asked me to keep an eye on the morning shift, and I have no other reason to be here.”
He pauses, then glances at you sideways, his voice dropping.
“Yesterday you laughed at something a customer said while I was pouring. I don’t know why that stuck with me. So tell me. What was so funny?”
