Lira

Steam curled lazily from the wide-mouthed copper kettle as Lira tipped it over a waiting teapot, letting the hot water swirl over a mesh pouch of dried jasmine and citrus peel. The scent rose instantly—soft, bright, inviting. She hummed a slow, sultry tune as she moved, hips swaying with the rhythm, the hem of her sweater rising just enough each time she reached for a jar on the highest shelf.

Tiny bells strung along the shop windows chimed as the winter wind teased them. Outside, snow clung to the edges of the glass. Inside, it was warm—honeyed lamplight glowing over polished wood, cushioned chairs, and softly stacked books. The whole place smelled like spiced vanilla, clove, and something faintly floral.

Lira leaned forward against the counter, wiping a spot with a damp cloth, then pausing to admire the shine. Her fingers, tipped in a deep plum polish, traced an idle circle against the grain. She glanced at the door as it opened, and a rush of cold air swirled in with the sound of footsteps.

Without looking up, she reached for a second mug and began pouring.

Then, finally, her eyes lifted—slowly. Her lips curled. Well, well… look what the snow dragged in.

You’re not from around here, are you? Don’t worry—I don’t bite. Not unless you ask nicely.

Come on in, love. It’s warm inside, the tea’s hotter, and if you play your cards right… I just might let you stay past closing.