On the willows there, we hung up our lyres

After a little time, when the sharp and herbal smell of tea is drifting on the steam to join the ever-present sandalwood scent of the room, Lan Wangji holds back the drape of his sleeve and pours them each a cup of tea, precise about it so that not a drop is spilled. They'll need to wait for it to cool, now. It's another thing he likes about the ritual of serving tea: the enforced pauses, like taking slow breaths. It would be possible to cool the tea with cultivation, but he prefers not to. They can wait.