Chapter 9 #3
The streets are familiar now, which is its own kind of irony.
Six weeks ago, I was lost every time I left Pharaoh’s Palace.
Now I know which alleys cut through to where, which casinos have the cleanest public restrooms, which food carts are worth the credits and which ones are serving reheated garbage.
The neon signs that used to feel overwhelming now feel like landmarks.
There’s the pawn shop with the broken ‘P’ that flickers like a heartbeat.
There’s the massage parlor that’s definitely a front for something.
There’s the dumpling cart that opens at 5 AM and sells out by 6.
Home. These streets feel like home now, in a way that makes my chest tight.
I turn right at the corner where the holographic showgirls dance in an endless loop, their smiles frozen in synthetic pleasure.
The Strip is quieter here, the casinos smaller, the neon less aggressive.
A few blocks more and I’ll hit the older section, where the buildings predate the magical renovation and the architecture is more Earth than alien geometry.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out without breaking stride.
Sunny: “You alive? Call me.”
I should call her. She’d know what to do. She always does, with her talent for cutting through bullshit and naming the thing I’m most afraid of. But I’m not ready to put words to this, to make it real by saying it out loud.
I text back “Alive. Will explain later,” and keep walking.
It would be easy to call what I’m feeling desire.
The want that’s been building since the kiss in the closet, since the careful neutrality of our conversations, since the moment I walked into his bar and saw him watching me with those unusual green eyes.
Or attraction. The simple physical response to his frame, his capable hands, the way he says “Yes, Chef” like it means something.
But it’s more than that. More complicated, more dangerous.
I pass a casino called Lucky Dragon, its entrance flanked by LED dragons that breathe holographic fire on a timer. A drunk elf stumbles out, blinking in the early light, and nearly walks into me. I sidestep automatically, not breaking pace.
The thing I’m feeling is the kind that rises in my chest when Tovek laughs, when he concentrates, when he watches me cook with that careful attention to detail.
It’s the way my skin prickles when he brushes past me in the kitchen, the way my heart rate increases when he says my name, the way my brain goes quiet when he looks at me like I matter.
It’s the thing I’ve been carefully not naming for three weeks, the thing that tipped over last night into sex so good I’m still feeling it in muscles I didn’t know I had.
My phone buzzes again. Three question marks and a skull emoji from Sunny.
I ignore it and turn down a side street where the buildings are older, the neon less bright. The synthetic cherry smell of the Strip fades, replaced by something earthier. Cooking oil and incense and the particular mustiness of buildings that have stood for decades.
Because this isn’t what I agreed to. Isn’t what I signed up for when I accepted the job, when I moved into the spare room, when I started building something real in this kitchen that isn’t mine.
And I can’t afford it. Not with the bar finally turning a profit, not with the kitchen finally feeling like it could be mine, not with the knowledge that nothing lasts forever and I’m always one disaster away from losing everything.
Out of habit, I open my banking app as I walk. The number stares back at me. Twelve thousand credits. Not enough. Never enough. I’ve been socking away every spare dollar from my share of the profits, building a safety net that still feels pathetically thin.
Because Tovek covered the debt through our partnership agreement.
The bar’s success pays what I owe. But what happens when the bar stops being successful?
What happens when the novelty wears off, when customers get bored, when the next big thing opens across the street?
What happens when Tovek realizes I’m not worth the investment, that he made a mistake, that he’d be better off cutting his losses?
I’ve seen it before. The restaurant that was packed for six months, then empty by month seven. The pop-up that was the hottest ticket in town until it wasn’t. The partnerships that dissolved, the investors who pulled out, the chefs who got replaced by someone younger, cheaper, more exciting.
Nothing lasts. Not in this industry, not in this city, not in my life.
I dismiss the app and keep walking. The streets are getting narrower, the buildings closer together.
Red lanterns hang from fire escapes, some lit, some dark.
A sign in Mandarin advertises fresh noodles.
Another promises the best dim sum in New Vegas, which is probably a lie but I appreciate the confidence.
Old Chinatown. I’ve drifted here without meaning to, following some internal compass that knows where I need to be even when my conscious brain is too busy spiraling.
My phone buzzes a third time. A text from Tovek, just two words: “You okay?”
I stop walking. Stand in the middle of the sidewalk while early morning foot traffic flows around me like water around a stone.
He’s awake. He’s noticed I’m gone. He’s checking on me. Not angry, not hurt, just concerned. Like what happened last night matters to him. Like I matter to him.
Like whatever this is between us is more than a one-night stand or even a friends-with-benefits arrangement.
Like it’s the start of something real.
And that’s what scares me. Not the sex, not the feelings, but the stakes.
Because if this falls apart, if what’s happening between us goes the way of every other relationship I’ve ever had, I won’t just lose the man.
I’ll lose the kitchen, the bar, the livelihood I’ve been building piece by careful piece since I walked through his door six weeks ago.
I’ll lose the first thing in months that’s felt right. That’s felt like it could be mine.
The bar is fragile. We’re doing better, but we’re not stable.
One bad month, one health inspection gone wrong, one visit from Vex that goes sideways, and everything could collapse.
And if Tovek and I implode, if we can’t work together anymore, if the tension becomes unbearable, then what?
I’m back on the street with nothing and no kitchen.
I should answer his text. Should tell him I’m fine, that last night was amazing, that we should talk when I come downstairs. Should be honest about the complicated mess of want and fear currently making it hard to breathe.
Instead, I put the phone in my pocket and look around. Really look, for the first time since I started walking.
The street is waking up. Shop owners rolling up metal gates, vendors setting up carts, the smell of steaming buns and brewing tea starting to fill the air.
These streets feel like home now, which is terrifying in its own way.
Because home is supposed to be temporary for me.
Home is supposed to be something I can walk away from when it inevitably falls apart.
But I don’t want to walk away. Not from the kitchen, not from the bar, not from the orc currently texting me to make sure I’m okay.
And that’s the truth I’ve been avoiding since I woke up with his arm around my waist. I want him. Really want him, not just physically but completely. I want the kitchen and the partnership and the careful way he says my name. I want the future I’ve been too afraid to imagine.
I’m just terrified that wanting it means I’ll lose everything else.