Chapter 7
mei
I stand at the edge of the bar, watching the last few customers finish their drinks. My body aches from six straight hours of cooking. My feet have transcended pain to reach some new plane of numbness. There’s chili oil in my hair. Again.
But I can’t stop smiling.
Three Fridays in, and the bar is packed. Not novelty packed. Not “their first choice had a wait” packed. These are people who came specifically for us. For my food, for Tovek’s drinks, for whatever alchemy happens when the two combine.
People who plan to come back.
“How’s it look?” Greta asks, sliding a glass of water across the bar. Her hair is somehow still in its usual neat bob, and there’s a smear of something dark on her cheek. Mapo tofu sauce, probably, from the order that exploded when the server tripped.
I take a long sip, letting the cold liquid soothe my throat. “Good. Really good.”
The bar hums with that particular energy of a successful night. Voices overlapping, laughter rising above the music, the occasional clink of glasses as people toast. The dining area is full, every table occupied, and there’s a line at the bar three people deep.
“Forty percent up from last month,” Greta confirms, her expression the closest thing to pleased I’ve ever seen on her face. “Tovek’s checking the numbers, but I’d say we’re officially trending.”
We. The word settles in my chest, warm and solid.
Three weeks ago, I was cooking in a kitchen that wasn’t mine, sleeping in a bed that wasn’t mine, making plans that existed in the shadow of a debt I couldn’t name without hyperventilating.
Now I’m part of a “we,” part of something that’s not just surviving but thriving.
A cheer goes up from a table near the door. Some kind of drinking game involving chopsticks and small glasses of soju. I watch them for a moment, noting the empty plates, the clean bowls that held my noodles. They came for the food and stayed for the drinks, exactly as Tovek hoped.
The Drunken Dragon is becoming a destination.
The thought of Tovek sends a complicated rush through my body.
Relief at the bar’s success, pride in what we’ve built, and something else that makes my stomach flip.
I’ve been carefully not examining that particular feeling, attributing it to professional admiration or the endorphin high that comes with a successful service. Anything but what it actually is.
Which is that I’ve spent the last three weeks watching him across the kitchen and wanting things I have no right to want.
A group of shifters wave from a corner table, empty plates pushed to the center. Their order ticket is on the rail. More wings, extra spicy, and another round of the house special. I nod, already moving toward the kitchen.
Pride is all well and good, but the night isn’t over yet.
The kitchen is in that particular state of controlled chaos that happens at the end of a good service.
Every surface covered, pans stacked three deep in the sink, the air thick with the smell of chili and garlic and the yeasty note of proofing dough for tomorrow’s bao.
Tovek is at the prep table, dicing scallions with the careful precision he’s been practicing since I showed him the proper grip.
His massive shoulders are tight with concentration, a single strand of hair fallen across his forehead as he focuses on keeping the pieces even.
He looks up as I enter, those unusual green eyes warming slightly. “Need something?”
“Table nine wants more wings,” I say, reaching for an apron. “And the house special.”
He nods, already moving toward the refrigerator. “I’ll get the marinade started.”
We work in companionable silence for the next twenty minutes.
Tovek prepping the wings, me mixing drinks and checking the bao that’s proofing on the back burner.
It’s comfortable in a way I didn’t expect, this easy coordination.
Three weeks of working side by side has given us a rhythm, a particular way of moving around each other that feels like we’ve been doing it for years instead of days.
“You’re getting good at this,” I say as he passes me a bowl of marinade, our fingers brushing in the exchange. “The prep work, I mean.”
He shrugs, but there’s a pleased set to his shoulders. “Had a good teacher.”
The words send a little thrill through me. Not just the compliment but the particular note in his voice, the careful neutrality that doesn’t quite hide the warmth underneath. I turn back to the drinks, hoping the heat in my face can be attributed to the stove.
By midnight, the last of the customers have trickled out. The final table lingering over one last round, then another, before finally calling it a night. I’m wiping down the bar when Greta appears with a clipboard and her usual expression of skeptical assessment.
“We’re out of paper towels,” she says, making a note. “And low on to-go containers. Also, someone used the last of the napkins to make origami swans. Which is creative but not exactly helpful for running a business.”
I glance at the clock. 12:17, late by normal standards but practically early by kitchen time. “I’ll check the storage closet. There should be more paper products in there.”
The storage closet is, as advertised, a closet.
A narrow space barely six feet wide, with metal shelving units lining both walls.
It’s where we keep the non-food supplies.
Paper products, cleaning supplies, the spare aprons that don’t fit in the kitchen drawers.
I’m reaching for the paper towels on the top shelf when my phone buzzes in my pocket.
It’s a notification from Crimson Financing.
My stomach drops before I even read it. A reminder that my payment is due in three days, along with a cheerful note about how interest rates double after the deadline. The number on the screen is exactly what I expected. Plus, the “convenience fee” of being able to pay in installments.
I know the bar’s profits are covering it. I know Tovek set up the automatic payments weeks ago. I know the money will transfer on time, that Vex won’t show up with his trolls and his threats.
But my body doesn’t know that. My body remembers the Strip, the smell of Vex’s cologne, the casual way he talked about escorting me away.
My hands are shaking as I tuck the phone away, and there’s a cold sweat breaking out along my spine that has nothing to do with logic and everything to do with trauma.
I’ve been building my own safety net. Several thousand in credits in a high-yield savings account that Tovek doesn’t know about, plus another five hundred in investments that might actually grow if I’m patient.
It’s not much. It’s nowhere near enough to be truly independent.
But it’s mine, and it means I’m not completely dependent on a man I’ve known for like a month, no matter how genuinely kind he seems.
Because Tovek is one in a million. I know that. But I also know my pattern, and I refuse to take his kindness for granted.
I’m still staring at the shelf when the closet door opens, flooding the narrow space with light from the hallway. Tovek steps in, then freezes when he sees me.
“Sorry,” he says, already backing up. “Didn’t know you were in here.”
“It’s fine.” I force my voice to sound normal. “Just getting paper towels. We’re out.”
He nods, not moving from the doorway. “Greta sent me for the same thing. I’ll come back.”
“We can share,” I say, and immediately want to kick myself. Share the closet? Share the paper towels? What exactly am I suggesting?
Something flashes in his eyes. Surprise, maybe, or reassessment. Then he steps into the closet, pulling the door mostly closed behind him. “If you’re sure.”
The closet, which had seemed merely cramped before, is now actively claustrophobic.
Tovek’s massive frame takes up more than his fair share of the available space.
I press myself against the shelving unit, trying to create some distance between us, but it’s not enough.
I can smell the particular scent of him.
Whiskey and soap and something else, something that’s just Tovek.
Feel the heat of his body despite the careful inches between us.
“The paper towels,” he says, his voice slightly rougher than usual. “They’re up there?”
I nod, not trusting my voice. He reaches past me, his arm brushing against my chest as he stretches for the shelf above my head. The contact is brief. Barely a second of warmth against the thin fabric of my t-shirt. But it sends a shock through my system that makes my skin prickle.
He’s close enough that I could count his eyelashes if I wanted to. Close enough that I can see the particular pattern of his tribal scars as they disappear beneath the collar of his shirt. His eyes meet mine, steady and direct, and there’s something in them that makes my chest tight.
“Mei,” he says, and it’s not quite a question.
I should step back. I should make a joke about the closet, about paper towels, about anything but the particular tension crackling between us. I should remember that this is business, that he’s my boss, that I’m still paying off a debt that makes my hands shake when I see notifications.
Instead, I rise onto my toes and kiss him.
It’s not tentative. It’s not questioning or careful or any of the things a first kiss should be.
It’s thorough and entirely mutual, his hand coming up to cup my face as my fingers curl into the front of his shirt.
He kisses like he does everything else. With complete focus, with that particular attention to detail that makes my knees weak.
One hand cradles the back of my head, the other settles at my waist, and suddenly I’m pressed against him from chest to knee.
Heat floods my system, starting where our mouths meet and spreading outward. His mouth is warm and slightly rough with stubble, his tongue tangling with mine in a way that makes me gasp. I make some noise, a moan maybe, and feel him smile against my mouth.