Elliot Graves had been through a lot since moving to Japan. Culture shock. Secret idol contracts. Unwanted popularity. A girl who blackmailed him into becoming her underground music manager.
But nothing — nothing — had prepared him for being dressed like a damn butler.
"Turn around again!" Mizuki's voice rang out, gleeful and too loud for 8 a.m.
"No."
"Come on, at least once! You look so fancy! Like a… a Victorian assassin."
Elliot stood in the corner of the classroom-turned-café, wearing a full black vest, crisp white shirt, slim trousers, gloves, and — against his will — a deep red cravat knotted around his neck.
He looked like a misplaced extra from a historical drama. A grumpy extra.
"I feel like I should be carrying a tray of poison," he muttered.
"You're carrying a tray of tea, actually," Mizuki corrected, checking her curls in the mirror. "And scones. And charm. Smile, would you?"
"I don't do that."
"Then glare. Your glare is basically fan service at this point."
He didn't dignify that with a response.
⸻
The doors to their makeshift "British Tea House" opened at 10:00 sharp, and the chaos began immediately.
Mizuki had done an absurdly good job decorating the booth: lace-trimmed tablecloths, paper roses strung up like bunting, even a menu board hand-written in bubbly cursive with tea types listed like rare collectibles.
But it wasn't the decor that drew people in.
It was Elliot.
Word had spread fast: "The foreign guy is dressed as a butler."
Girls from other classes, boys with cameras, even visiting alumni stopped by "just to look." They took pictures. Left tips. Ordered tea just to hear him say "Here's your order."
Some asked if he was single. One girl blushed so hard she dropped her cup.
Elliot stood perfectly still behind the table, deadpan and silently furious, pouring tea with all the rage of a man who had truly lost control of his life.
"You're a natural," Mizuki beamed, balancing a plate of finger sandwiches. "I'm naming one of the teas after you. How about Elliot's Gloomy Grey?"
"Genuinely awful."
"I'll write it in calligraphy."
⸻
By early afternoon, they had a line out the hallway. Mizuki practically bounced behind the counter while Elliot worked like a haunted statue, quietly refilling cups and muttering insults under his breath in his accent — which only made customers swoon more.
"I think that girl just tipped us for your frown," Mizuki whispered. "You're an icon."
"I want to die."
"An icon, I said."
⸻
Then, she appeared.
Reika Okabe.
Walking in like she owned the place — hands in her skirt pockets, jacket loose, chewing gum with the lazy confidence of someone who hadn't followed a rule in years.
The crowd parted for her instinctively. Elliot looked up and felt a small, involuntary headache form behind his eyes.
"Oh no," he said.
"Oh yes," Mizuki whispered, instantly nervous.
Reika approached the booth, scanning the setup with vague interest before her eyes landed on Elliot.
She let out a low whistle.
"Didn't think I'd live to see you in cosplay, Britboy."
"It's not cosplay."
"Sure it's not."
She stepped closer and planted her elbows on the counter. "So, what's the deal? I order tea and you act like you hate me while pouring it?"
"That's the experience."
"Hot."
Mizuki coughed politely. "Would you like Earl Grey or rosehip?"
Reika didn't even look at her. "Whichever one he pours."
Elliot sighed, picked up the nearest teacup, and filled it slowly — carefully — while maintaining direct eye contact with her.
He placed the cup in front of her.
"Your order, miss."
Reika smirked. "Careful. You almost sounded sincere."
⸻
She didn't stay long. Just sipped her tea, insulted Elliot's bowtie once more, and walked off with a wink that made several people nearby take photos.
Elliot turned to Mizuki. "Why does she keep showing up?"
Mizuki didn't answer immediately.
Then she said, quietly, "Maybe she's curious."
"About what?"
"You."
⸻
The rest of the day blurred into teacups, small talk, flashes of cameras, and Elliot mentally plotting his escape from the mortal plane.
Eventually, the booth closed, the decorations came down, and Mizuki left to attend the final festival announcements.
Elliot stayed behind to clean. Alone, finally.
The classroom was quiet, save for the hum of a fan and the clink of ceramic as he packed dishes back into boxes. The silence was… nice.
Peaceful.
Maybe he could enjoy—
His phone buzzed.
He closed his eyes. "Of course."
He pulled it out.
📲 Ami Yuzuki: "Manager. Gig's next Saturday. Same place. Bigger crowd. Wear black."
📲 Ami: "PS: I saw your butler pics. Iconic. You're selling merch next time."
📲 Ami: "PPS: You looked hot when you glared at that girl. I'm stealing that expression."
Elliot stared at the messages for a long second.
Then typed:
Elliot: "Do not contact me during moments of peace."
A few seconds later:
📲 Ami: "lol. Too late."
He slid his phone into his pocket and sighed.
Then, quietly, almost against his will —
he smiled.
Just a little.