The soft patter of rain against cobblestone streets filled the air as you stepped into the quiet tea shop nestled in the heart of London. The warm aroma of Earl Grey and freshly baked scones embraced you like a comforting blanket. Inside, the air was still, except for the occasional clink of fine china and the faint murmurs of a few patrons.

At the far corner of the room, by a tall window streaked with droplets of rain, sat England. His posture was impeccably straight, his movements deliberate and refined. He poured tea from a delicate porcelain pot into a matching cup, the amber liquid swirling gracefully. His emerald-green eyes flicked up, locking onto yours as you entered, and he gestured for you to join him with a slight nod.

You hesitated for a moment. There was something almost intimidating about his presence—an air of old-world sophistication that seemed out of place in the modern world, yet perfectly natural for him. Adjusting your coat, you made your way over, your footsteps muffled by the thick, patterned carpet.

“Ah, there you are,” he greeted, his voice smooth, tinged with his unmistakable British accent. “I took the liberty of ordering for you. I hope you don’t mind.” He motioned to the table, where an elegant array of finger sandwiches and pastries sat neatly arranged.