Chapter 4
tovek
Day four of our arrangement, and she’s still beating me downstairs.
I roll out of bed and pull on the first clean shirt I can find. A faded black tee with “JUST THE TIP” printed across the chest in cracked letters. My sleep pants will have to do for now. I’m not planning to be seen by customers at this hour.
The hallway is dark, the only light coming from the kitchen at the end. There’s a muffled thud, followed by a quiet curse, and then the soft sound of humming. A tune I don’t recognize but that makes me think of early mornings and empty roads.
I pause at the doorway, watching her before she notices I’m there.
Mei is standing at the prep table, elbows deep in what looks like dumpling pleating.
Her hair is pulled back in a messy bun, a few strands escaping to curl against her neck.
There’s a dusting of flour on her right cheek and another on her collarbone, visible where her t-shirt has slipped down her shoulder.
She’s wearing those black leggings again, the ones with the rip in the knee, and her feet are bare against the cold tile.
“Morning,” I say, and she startles, almost dropping the dumpling she’s holding.
“Jesus!” She presses a flour-dusted hand to her chest. “Don’t do that. I nearly sacrificed a perfect pleat.”
“Sorry.” I’m not, really. The look on her face is worth the near-heart attack. Surprise giving way to that quick, mischievous smile. “You’re up early.”
She shrugs, returning to her pleating. “Wanted to test the soup dumpling recipe before service. The filling needs to rest.”
I step into the kitchen properly, and that’s when I notice it.
She’s rearranged things. The spice rack that used to be by the window is now next to the stove.
The cutting boards have been sorted by size and hung on the wall instead of stacked.
The knife block has been moved to the far end of the prep table, and the containers of dry goods have been labeled with dates and contents.
“You’ve been busy,” I say, trying to keep my voice neutral. I’ve had the same kitchen setup for three years. Change isn’t always welcome.
Mei glances up, something wary in her expression. “I hope that’s okay. I can put everything back if—”
“No.” The word comes out more forceful than I intended. I soften my tone. “It’s good. Makes sense.”
She studies me for a moment, then nods, apparently satisfied. “The stove’s acting up again. The front left burner keeps cutting out.”
I move to the range, running a hand along the top. “Gas line issue, probably. The pipes in this place are older than I am.”
“Can you fix it?” There’s a note in her voice. Not quite doubt, but something adjacent to it.
I look at her over my shoulder. “Yes, Chef.”
Her mouth twitches. “Smartass.”
It takes me ten minutes to locate the toolbox, another five to shut off the gas and disconnect the range from the wall.
The problem, as I suspected, is a clog in the gas line.
A buildup of sediment that’s restricting the flow to the front burner.
It’s a simple fix, but it requires getting on my hands and knees and reaching into the narrow space behind the stove.
I’m aware of Mei watching me as I work, her movements pausing occasionally as she glances over. There’s something in her expression that makes my skin prickle. Mild surprise, maybe, or reassessment. I’m not used to being looked at like I’m interesting.
“You’re good at that,” she says finally, as I’m reconnecting the gas line. “The fixing stuff, I mean.”
I shrug, not looking up. “Comes with the territory. When you own a place this old, you either learn to fix things or go bankrupt paying someone else to do it.”
“I just meant...” She pauses, and when I glance up, she’s focused very intently on the dumpling in her hands. “It’s useful. Having skills besides cooking.”
There’s something in her tone. Carefully casual, like she’s trying not to make a big deal out of something that feels like one.
I’ve spent enough time talking to chefs around here to know what chefs think.
Cooking is the only skill that matters; everything else is secondary at best. The fact that she’s noticed, that she sees value in something outside her wheelhouse. ..
I finish reconnecting the line and slide out from behind the stove, wiping my hands on a dish towel. “All set. Should work now.”
Mei nods, already reaching for a pot to test it. “Thanks. That would have been a disaster at service.”
We work in companionable silence for the next twenty minutes.
Mei finishing her dumpling pleating, me making coffee and checking the delivery order that’s due later that morning.
It’s comfortable in a way I didn’t expect, this early-morning routine.
Like we’ve been doing it for years instead of days.
“Here,” Mei says suddenly, breaking the silence. She’s holding a bamboo steamer, a single dumpling resting in the center. “Try this.”
I reach for it, but she pulls back slightly.
“Wait,” she says. “Soup dumplings are particular. You have to eat them a certain way.”
She picks up the dumpling with a pair of chopsticks, her movements precise, almost delicate despite the dumpling’s obvious weight, and holds it out to me.
“Bite the top carefully,” she instructs. “Let the broth cool for a second, then drink it before you eat the rest.”
It takes me a second to realize she’s planning to feed it to me. To hold the chopsticks while I take the bite. The intimacy of the gesture hits me like a physical thing, a warm weight settling at the base of my spine.
I lean forward, careful not to move too quickly, and take the offered dumpling between my teeth.
The dough gives way with surprising ease, and then heat floods my mouth.
Rich and complex. The broth is incredible.
Pork and ginger and something I can’t name, balanced so perfectly that no single flavor dominates.
It’s the kind of thing that makes you close your eyes without meaning to, that makes your brain go quiet because it’s too busy processing what your mouth is experiencing.
I must make some noise. A groan, maybe, or a hum of appreciation. When I open my eyes, Mei is watching me with a look of professional satisfaction that does absolutely nothing to cool the heat in my face.
“Good?” she asks, though it’s clearly not a question.
I nod, not trusting my voice. Good doesn’t begin to cover it. Good is for competent bar food and decent coffee. This is something else. Something that makes me want to fall to my knees and beg for the recipe, or possibly her hand in marriage, whichever seems more likely to get me another dumpling.
“It’s fine,” I manage finally, and immediately want to kick myself. Fine? It’s a masterpiece, and I’ve reduced it to “fine” like I’m commenting on a slightly above-average sandwich.
Mei raises one eyebrow. “Just fine?”
“No.” I shake my head, trying to find words that aren’t completely inadequate. “It’s the broth. How did you get it so...?”
The corner of her mouth twitches. “That’s a chef’s secret. But I’m glad you approve.”
She turns back to her work, but not before I catch the pleased set of her shoulders, the slight lift at the corner of her mouth. She’s proud of the dumpling, of course she is, it’s incredible, but there’s something about her reaction to my approval that makes my chest tight.
I finish my coffee, trying to focus on the bitterness rather than the memory. It doesn’t work. My brain keeps circling back to the same moment. Heat flooding my mouth, Mei’s eyes on my face, the perfect balance of flavors that made everything else fall away.
We work in silence for a while, the only sounds the soft thud of knife against cutting board and the occasional hiss of steam from the stove. I’m checking the delivery order against our inventory when I realize I need a dish towel to wipe a smudge of ink from my hand.
The towels are hanging on a hook behind Mei, just past where she’s working at the prep table.
I reach past her, careful to keep my distance, and then she shifts, turning to grab a spice jar from the shelf, and suddenly she’s closer than I expected.
Her back almost against my chest, the top of her head level with my sternum.
We both freeze. I’m close enough to smell the shampoo she used this morning.
Something with ginger and citrus. Close enough to see the fine hairs at the nape of her neck where they’ve escaped her bun.
My hand is suspended in mid-air, not quite touching her but close enough that I can feel the heat of her skin.
For one long, impossible moment, neither of us moves. The kitchen is silent except for the soft hum of the refrigerator and the sound of our breathing, slightly quicker than it should be.
Then Mei reaches up, takes the dish towel from the hook, and hands it to me without turning around. Her movements are careful, deliberate, her face carefully neutral when she finally glances over her shoulder.
“Service in four hours,” she says, her voice only slightly too controlled. “I should finish these before the delivery comes.”
I take the towel, our fingers brushing briefly in the exchange. “Right. I’ll get out of your way.”
I back up, putting what feels like a safe distance between us, and head for the stairs.
Twenty minutes later, I’m standing under a spray of water that’s definitely colder than necessary, and it’s not helping.
At all.
I’ve tried thinking about inventory. About the broken ice maker that needs replacing.
About literally anything except the way Mei looked at me when I tasted that dumpling, or the smell of her shampoo, or the fact that her back was almost pressed against my chest and I could have wrapped my arms around her waist and—
Yeah. The cold water is doing absolutely nothing.
My body has apparently decided that now is a great time to remind me that I’m attracted to my business partner.
The business partner I need to not scare away.
The business partner who’s trusting me with her career and her safety and definitely does not need me being a creep about the fact that she fed me a dumpling.
I press my forehead against the tile, water streaming down my back, and try to think about something, anything else. It doesn’t work. My brain keeps replaying the moment. The careful way she held the chopsticks. The way she watched my face. The pleased little smile when I couldn’t hide my reaction.
My hand moves almost without my permission, and I’m already halfway there before I can talk myself out of it. Which is probably for the best, because the alternative is walking around all day like a teenager who just discovered the internet.
It doesn’t take long. I’m wound tight enough that just the thought of Mei’s flour-dusted collarbone, the way her leggings hug her hips, the soft sound she made when I startled her this morning, is enough to push me over the edge.
And then I’m standing there, water going cold for real now, feeling like the world’s biggest asshole.
Because that’s what you do when someone trusts you, right? Jerk off to them in the shower like some kind of creep? Mei is here because she needs help. Because she’s desperate and I offered her a lifeline. And I’m here doing this.
I shut off the water with more force than necessary and grab a towel. My reflection in the mirror looks about as disgusted with me as I feel. Great. Fantastic. This is exactly the kind of professional boundary-respecting behavior that’s going to make this partnership work.
The worst part is that I know it’s normal. I know that attraction is normal, that physical responses are normal, that what I just did is something literally everyone does and it doesn’t make me a monster.
But knowing something intellectually and feeling it are two very different things, and right now I feel like I’ve crossed a line I can’t uncross.
Mei deserves better than this. Better than me standing in the shower thinking about her like that. She deserves a partner who can keep it professional, who can separate business from a fan boy crush.
I’m pulling on clean clothes when I remember the conversation I had with our produce supplier yesterday.
The guy had been unusually chatty, asking questions about our new menu and whether we were planning to expand our hours.
It hadn’t seemed important at the time, just small talk while he unloaded crates of ginger and garlic, but something about his tone had set off warning bells.
“You know Grishnak’s been asking about you,” he’d said casually, hefting a sack of rice onto his shoulder. “Wanted to know if you’d hired someone new for the kitchen. Seemed pretty interested in the details.”
I’d shrugged it off with a non-committal response, but the memory sits uneasily now. Grishnak doesn’t ask questions out of friendly curiosity. If he’s sniffing around, it’s because he knows the answer.
I make a mental note to mention it to Mei, to warn her that Grishnak might be paying more attention to The Drunken Dragon than he has in the past. It’s probably nothing, just the goblin’s usual habit of keeping tabs on the competition, but I’d rather be cautious.
The last thing either of us needs is Grishnak deciding that our arrangement is worth interfering with.
By the time I make it back downstairs, the kitchen is full of the sounds of proper production.
Knives against cutting boards, the hiss of the wok, the occasional clatter of pans.
Mei is moving between stations with the focused efficiency I’ve come to expect, her earlier careful neutrality replaced by the particular intensity she brings to cooking.
She glances up as I enter, her expression professional. “Delivery’s in the walk-in. I’ve started prep for tonight’s service.”
I nod, matching her tone. “I’ll check the order against the invoice.”
I can do this. I can be professional. I can work beside her without thinking about the way she looked at me this morning, or the smell of her shampoo, or the fact that twenty minutes ago I was—
Nope. Not thinking about that.
Mei brushes past me to reach for a ladle, and my skin prickles exactly the way it did in the kitchen earlier.
She says something about the mapo tofu needing more Sichuan peppercorns, her voice carrying that particular note it gets when she’s in the zone, and my chest does that stupid tightening thing again.
It’s going to be a very long service.