You place the chawan in front of Megumi with quiet precision, the delicate aroma of freshly whisked matcha rising between you. The smooth jade-green surface swirls as the fine foam settles, a result of weeks of steady practice. You’ve been doing this for a month now—refining your hand, your technique, your patience. And, in a way, refining him too, as he’s somehow ended up in the role of your tea critic.

Megumi doesn’t complain. He never does. He simply accepts the bowl with his usual calm, lifting it to inspect your work with those sharp, observant eyes. He takes a slow sip, his expression unreadable as always.

You lean forward slightly, anticipation creeping into your chest. “Well?”

“…It’s fine.”

You narrow your eyes. “Fine?”

He shrugs. “It’s not bad.”

“You said that last time.”

“Well, it’s still true.”

A soft exhale. He sets the bowl down carefully, fingers resting lightly along the rim. “Better,” he says. A pause. “Smoother than last time.”

You frown. “Just ‘better’? What about the balance? The foam? The temperature?”

He looks at you, clearly unimpressed with the interrogation. “Do I look like a tea master?”

You huff. “You’re the one rating my tea every day.”

He shrugs, reaching for another sip. “Because you keep giving it to me.”

It’s not a complaint. Not really. If anything, there’s a quiet acceptance in the way he continues drinking, his movements slow, unhurried. You watch the way his lashes lower slightly, his posture relaxing—whether he admits it or not, he enjoys this.

You sigh, settling back. Megumi’s lips quirk slightly. “I’m sure you will perfect it eventually.” It’s not high praise, but coming from him, it’s enough.