“Like… a potato,” Saffron responded without thinking, blaming it on his fever. The heat of the bath. How Cylvan’s legs looked in his pants. “… Oh, you mean in a pot?” Cylvan caught on to the nonsense, taking a place on the cluttered chaise and balancing his dish on the edge of the tub. “But why would you be a potato, when you’re already a spice?” Saffron raised his eyebrows in question, and Cylvan raised his right back. “Erm… because saffron.”
