The sight of him, this rough type complete with a mohawk, holding a delicate-looking teacup decorated with tiny flowers and gold, makes me smile. “That smells delicious, whatever it is,” I say as he rounds the couch and sits next to me, offering me the cup.
With careful hands, I accept it and lift it to my nose, inhaling deeply. “Lemon? Or…mint?”
“It’s lemon balm. It grows wild around the cabin, so I harvest it and dry the leaves for tea. It reduces the stress hormone in our bodies so I thought it might do you good after the week you’ve had.”
The care and thoughtfulness melt me into a puddle, and I will drink every drop of this tea even if it’s the most vile-tasting concoction on this earth.
Fortunately, it’s not. The first sip reveals a mild, fresh flavor, and maybe—probably—it’s beca
