Chapter 6
tovek
I check my phone for the hundredth time, staring at the words on the screen like they might have changed in the last thirty seconds. “I think I might have already.”
No context, no follow-up, just those five words sent in response to me telling her she’d find someone who looks at her the way that dragon guy looks at her friend.
My stomach does a complicated gymnastics routine every time I read it. Hope and terror, in equal measure, making it hard to breathe properly. She’s been gone less than seventy-two hours, and the apartment feels wrong without her.
Too quiet. The air is stagnant, like the space itself is holding its breath, waiting for her to come back and fill it with her particular brand of organized chaos.
The kitchen doesn’t feel right either. I’ve spent the morning cleaning, reorganizing the spice rack, checking the inventory against our order sheet.
The bar’s closed today, our first official day off since Mei started, but we’ve got a full day of menu development ahead.
New bar snacks, something to go with the drinks that isn’t just peanuts or pretzels.
Food that makes people want to stay for another round, then another.
Food that makes them choose us over the Sunrise’s fancy cocktail lounge.
I’m wiping down the prep table when I hear the back door slam, followed by the distinctive thud of a backpack hitting the floor and a string of curses in what sounds like at least two languages.
My heart kicks against my ribs like it’s trying to escape, and I force myself to keep wiping, to not turn around until I’ve got my face under control.
“You would not believe the traffic,” Mei says, her voice bright with the particular energy she brings back from these trips. Like she’s absorbed the excitement of the event and brought it home with her. “I swear they close a different lane every time I turn around.”
I glance over my shoulder, not quite managing casual. “Good trip?”
She’s standing in the doorway, hair pulled back in a messy bun, wearing that t-shirt with the noodle bowl on the front and leggings with the rip in the knee.
She looks exhausted and perfect and so fucking present that my throat goes tight.
“Really good,” she says, and there’s something in her voice, careful maybe, or deliberate, that makes me look at her more closely. “Still so jazzed that Sunny won Best in Show.”
“That’s great.” I turn back to the prep table, partly to hide whatever’s showing on my face. “We should celebrate. I’ve got that bottle of Japanese whiskey you liked.”
“That would be...” She pauses, and when I glance back, she’s watching me with an expression I can’t quite read. “Yeah. That would be good.”
There’s a moment. Brief, charged. Neither of us speaks.
The kitchen is quiet except for the hum of the refrigerator and the soft tick of the clock above the door.
I should say something about the text, about what she might have meant, about the fact that I’ve spent the last twenty-four hours alternating between hope and terror.
Instead, I say, “I’ve got everything set up for the bar snacks. All the ingredients you mentioned.”
Something flashes in her eyes. Surprise, maybe, or reassessment. Then she nods. “Perfect. Let me just wash up.”
She disappears into the small bathroom off the kitchen, and I exhale slowly, pressing my palms flat against the prep table. Get it together. This is business. She’s here to cook, not to hook up.
The fact that she sent a cryptic text that might mean she’s interested doesn’t change the basic reality. She needs a kitchen and a way to pay off her debt. I need a chef and a way to save my bar. That’s the deal.
Simple. Clean. Not complicated by the fact that I might be developing feelings for a woman who’s been in my life for less than a month.
Wait. That hasn’t happened yet. I’m getting ahead of myself, which is becoming a disturbing pattern where Mei is concerned.
Mei returns, her face washed and her hair re-done, pulling on the apron she’s left hanging by the door. “Where do you want to start?” she asks, all business now. “Sweet or savory?”
“Savory,” I decide. “People drink more with salt.”
She nods, already moving toward the refrigerator. “I was thinking something with a chili kick. Maybe a twist on buffalo wings, but with gochujang instead of Frank’s.”
“Sounds good.” I grab a cutting board and the knife I’ve been practicing with.
The one she showed me how to hold, thumb and forefinger pinching the blade, the other fingers curled around the handle.
It feels more natural now, less like I’m playing at being a cook and more like it’s something I could actually do.
Mei glances over, her eyes narrowing slightly. “You’ve been practicing.”
It’s not a question. I shrug, trying for casual. “Had some time. While you were gone.”
“Show me.”
I pick up an onion, positioning it on the cutting board the way she demonstrated.
Root end toward me, flat side down. My first cut is hesitant, the knife catching slightly, but the second is smoother, and by the third, I’ve found the rhythm she showed me.
It’s not perfect, the slices are slightly uneven, the angle not quite right, but it’s better than my first attempt, which ended with me wearing more onion than I cut.
Mei watches, her expression thoughtful. “Not bad,” she says finally. “Your grip’s still too tight, though. You’re choking the knife.”
She steps closer. Close enough that I can smell the mint gum she’s chewing. She adjusts my hand, her fingers warm against mine as she loosens my grip. “Like this. Let the knife do the work.”
I nod, not trusting my voice. Her hand is still on mine, her chest almost against my back, and the heat of her body is impossible to ignore. The particular scent of her shampoo, ginger and something citrusy, fills my lungs.
“Better,” she says, and steps back, apparently oblivious to the fact that my heart is trying to beat its way out of my chest. “Keep going. I need half an onion, sliced, for the marinade.”
We work in silence for a while. Mei moves between the stove and the prep table with the particular focus she brings to cooking, me following instructions and trying not to think about the text or her hand on mine or the way my skin prickles every time she brushes past. She’s in her element here, confident and sure, her movements precise despite the apparent chaos of ingredients and utensils spreading across every available surface.
That’s the thing about Mei. Her creative process looks like destruction.
Ingredients appear and disappear, bowls are filled and emptied, the kitchen transforms from orderly to disaster and back again in the space of minutes.
It should be frustrating, I’m the kind of person who alphabetizes my spice rack, but there’s something about watching her work that makes my throat go tight in a way that has nothing to do with anxiety.
“Taste this,” she says, holding out a spoonful of something dark red and glistening. “Tell me if it needs more heat.”
I lean forward, careful not to get too close, and take the offered spoon between my lips.
The sauce is incredible. Tangy and sweet with an undercurrent of heat that builds with each second.
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.
“Good?” she asks, and there’s that note in her voice again. The hope underneath the professional tone.
I nod, not trusting myself to speak. 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 beg for the recipe, or possibly her hand in marriage, whichever seems more likely to get me another taste.
“I thought so.” She turns back to the stove, 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 sauce, of course she is, it’s incredible, but there’s something about her reaction to my approval that makes my pulse kick up in a way that has nothing to do with the lingering heat.
We work through the morning, moving from wings to dumplings to a spicy popcorn that makes my nose run and my eyes water but that I can’t stop eating.
By noon, the kitchen is covered in every dish and utensil we own, the air thick with the smell of chili oil and garlic and the particular yeasty note of proofing dough.
I’m dicing scallions for garnish when Mei glances at the clock and swears.
“Shit. I forgot about the kegs.”
I look up, confused. “The kegs?”
“For the bar. The delivery’s coming at one, and I moved the empties into the hallway to make room for the flour delivery.” She grimaces. “Which means they’re currently blocking the only path to the walk-in.”
“I’ll handle it,” I say, already wiping my hands on a dish towel. “You keep going with the dough.”
The hallway is, as promised, full of empty kegs.
Five of them, each weighing at least fifty pounds, arranged in a neat line that completely blocks access to the walk-in refrigerator.
I grab the first one, hefting it with a grunt.
They’re awkward rather than heavy, all that weight concentrated in a cylinder that’s just the wrong size for comfortable lifting.
I’m halfway through moving the second keg when I realize I’m being watched. I glance over my shoulder to find Mei standing in the kitchen doorway, her expression neutral but her eyes fixed on the movement of my arms as I lift the keg.
Our eyes meet. For one long moment, the hallway is silent except for the sound of our breathing and the distant hum of the refrigerator.
The stretch of my shirt across my shoulders, the way my forearms flex as I adjust my grip on the keg.
The fact that Mei is watching, really watching, and that whatever’s happening between us just shifted into new territory.