Chapter 10
tovek
I reach across the bed for Mei and find cool sheets. Empty space. The pillow still has the impression of her head, but she’s gone.
I sit up. “Mei?”
Nothing. Just the tick of the cooling system and the hum of the refrigerator downstairs.
“Mei?” Louder this time.
Still nothing.
I throw back the covers and stand. The room feels wrong. Too quiet. Her scent is still on my sheets, which somehow makes it worse.
Last night was perfect. The way she looked at me when I pulled her close, the sound of my name in her voice, the complete focus she brought to every touch.
And now she’s gone. No note, no text, nothing.
I grab my phone. The usual notifications.
Weather, news, Greta asking about the liquor order.
I dial Mei’s number and immediately get voicemail.
Her recorded voice is bright and professional, nothing like the breathless way she said my name last night.
I hang up without leaving a message and text her instead.
Tovek
You okay?
Her room is empty. Bed made. The dragon figurine from the convention sits on the nightstand, jade eyes watching me. Everything looks normal except for the fact that she isn’t here.
I head downstairs. Each step feels heavier than the last. The bar is quiet, morning light cutting pale rectangles across the floor. No Mei. No note. Nothing to tell me where she went or if she’s coming back.
The kitchen is spotless from last night’s deep clean. Every surface gleaming. I move through it without thinking, reaching for a glass from the cabinet above the sink. My hand closes around it.
I set it down carefully on the counter.
Because throwing it would be easy. Satisfying, even. The crash, the release, the physical manifestation of the panic currently clawing up my throat.
But I’m not that guy. Never have been. And breaking things because the woman I’m falling for bolted from my bed isn’t going to bring her back.
I lean against the counter instead. Press my palms flat against the cool surface. Breathe.
What did I do wrong? Was I too intense? Not intense enough? Did I say something? Did I not say something I should have?
The questions spiral. I’m good at a lot of things. Running a bar. Fixing equipment. Remembering how people take their coffee. But relationships? I’m apparently terrible at those. Terrible enough that Mei woke up next to me and immediately ran.
I need to find her. Need to fix whatever I broke. Need to at least know if she’s okay.
I’m dumping the last of the coffee grounds when it hits me. Something Mei said weeks ago while we were prepping for lunch. She was telling me about her favorite places in the city, the spots she went when everything got overwhelming.
“There’s this noodle stall in Old Chinatown,” she’d said, her knife moving through an onion with practiced precision.
“The woman who runs it has been there since before I was born. Makes the best broth in the city. Rich enough to stand a spoon in, with this hint of star anise that hits the back of your throat.” She’d paused, her expression softening.
“I go there when I need to think. When things get complicated.”
I’d nodded, made some comment about the importance of good broth, and we’d moved on to discussing the day’s special. But I’d filed the information away. Like I do with everything about her.
I’m moving before I’ve fully decided to. Keys from the hook by the door. Boots by the stairs. It’s early, not quite six, the sky still grey before proper dawn. But Old Chinatown will be awake. Has been for hours, probably.
The streets are quiet. Just the occasional delivery truck and the soft hum of the early bus making its first run.
I walk fast, hands shoved in my pockets, breath fogging in the cool air.
At the corner of Main and 5th, I pass a lamp post plastered with flyers.
Band announcements, missing pets, community events.
One catches my eye. A glossy advertisement for Grishnak’s newest restaurant.
“East Meets West Fusion Excellence” printed in bold across the top.
The goblin’s face smiles out from the bottom corner.
A chill runs down my spine. Grishnak’s still out there. Still circling. Still looking for the weakness that will bring The Drunken Dragon back under his control. And Mei with it.
Whatever’s happening between us, whatever choice she’s making by leaving my bed without a word, it exists in the shadow of that threat.
I turn onto Canal Street and the world changes.
Wide boulevard giving way to narrow alleys lined with shops and stalls.
The air is thick with competing scents. A dozen different broths.
Steam rises from massive pots, condensation drips from awnings, vendors call to early-morning customers in a mix of languages.
It’s exactly how Mei described it. The chaos of a market at dawn, everyone moving with focused energy.
I make my way through the crowd, scanning each stall. Most are busy. Cooks stirring massive pots, servers balancing trays of fresh noodles, early risers hunched over bowls. None of them are Mei.
I’m starting to think I’ve made a mistake. That the noodle stall was just one of a hundred casual mentions. That I’ve read too much into a throwaway comment.
Then I spot her.
She’s sitting at the far end of a narrow stall, a bowl of untouched noodles in front of her, her hair falling loose around her shoulders.
Same clothes from last night. Jeans and a t-shirt with a noodle bowl on the front.
Jacket pulled tight against the morning chill.
She looks smaller somehow. Her shoulders curved inward like she’s trying to take up less room.
Our eyes meet across the crowded stall. Surprise flickers across her face before it settles into something more neutral. She doesn’t wave or call out, just watches me as I make my way through the narrow space between tables.
I stop at the edge of her table. “Can I join you?”
She nods. “It’s a free country.” No bite to it. Just a smooth monotone that doesn’t quite hide the hurt underneath.
I slide onto the bench across from her. I’m suddenly aware of how out of place I am. My massive frame too big for the small table. The woman behind the counter, tiny and silver-haired, raises an eyebrow in my direction.
“Same as her,” I say, nodding toward Mei’s untouched bowl. “Please.”
She nods, already reaching for a fresh bowl, and turns back to her massive pot. Leaving Mei and me in silence.
We sit in silence. The bowl between us steaming gently.
The noodles are thick and irregular, handmade by the look of them, swimming in a broth so dark it’s almost black.
I can smell the star anise Mei mentioned.
That hint of licorice. Along with ginger, garlic, and something else I can’t name.
It’s the kind of dish that should make you close your eyes.
That should make your brain go quiet. Except neither of us has taken a bite.
Mei’s chopsticks sit untouched beside her bowl.
Her hands are curled around a mug of tea I didn’t see the vendor bring.
Her hair falls loose around her shoulders, a few strands sticking to her cheek where the steam has condensed.
She looks exhausted. Dark circles under her eyes, her mouth set in a line.
“You left,” I say finally. The words come out more hurt than I intended.
She nods. “I needed to think.”
“About us? About what happened?” I keep my voice neutral, professional, like we’re discussing menu changes rather than the fact that she bolted from my bed without a word.
“About everything.” She takes a sip of her tea. Careful. Deliberate. “The bar. The kitchen. The debt. What happened between us. It’s complicated, Tovek. It’s not just about last night.”
“I know.” I reach for her hand across the table, stopping just short of touching her. “But it’s not just about the bar or the kitchen or the debt either. It’s about you and me and the fact that I woke up with an empty space beside me and no idea if you were coming back.”
Guilt flashes across her face before she settles back into careful neutrality. “I’m sorry. I should have left a note. Or texted. Or something.”
“You should have,” I agree. “But that’s not why you left, is it? You didn’t bolt because you forgot your phone.”
She’s quiet for a long moment, her eyes on the untouched noodles. “No. I left because I was scared.”
The word sits between us. Heavy. Not the generic “this is moving too fast” or even the specific “I’m not ready for a relationship,” but something more fundamental. The fear that comes with wanting something you might not get to keep.
“Of me?” I ask, though I’m pretty sure I know the answer.
She shakes her head. “Of this.” She gestures between us.
“Of what happens if it goes wrong. If we try and fail. If you decide I’m not worth the risk.
” She meets my eyes directly. Raw. “I’ve built something here, Tovek.
Something real. The bar’s doing better. The kitchen feels like it could be mine.
For the first time in months, maybe years, I’m not running from something or toward something.
I’m just here. Building something that could last.” She takes a breath.
“And if this, if we, go the way of every other relationship I’ve ever had, I lose all of it.
The bar, the kitchen, the first thing in months that’s felt right. That’s felt like it could be mine.”
The words hit hard. Each one landing with weight. This isn’t about me. Not specifically. It’s about a pattern. A history of relationships that ended with her running or getting thrown out. It’s about the fear that wanting me, really wanting me, means losing everything else.
“You’re running because you’re afraid I will,” I say.
The realization settles in my chest. Words she’s said from previous conversations well up in my memory.
“You’re leaving before I can, because that’s what always happens.
Men see something they want, they decide they’re entitled to it, and then when things get complicated, when the debt or the bar or the kitchen becomes too much, they leave. And you’re left with nothing.”
Her eyes widen slightly. Then she nods. “Yes. That’s exactly it.”
I reach across the table, taking her hand before she can pull away.
Her skin is warm under mine, her fingers slightly chilled from the morning air.
“I’m not going anywhere. Not because of the debt or Grishnak or any of that.
I’m staying because of you. Because you’re it for me, Mei. Simple as that.”
Mei’s mouth opens, then closes. I can see her weighing options. Risk versus reward, safety versus possibility, the woman she’s been versus the woman she could be.
Then she sighs. Deep. “I don’t know how to do this. Want things and have them. Build something real without being terrified it’s going to fall apart.”
“I know,” I say, squeezing her hand. “We’ll figure it out. Together.”
Relief crosses her face. She picks up her chopsticks, twirls a bite of noodles, and brings it to her lips. The first taste makes her close her eyes, her shoulders relaxing slightly.
“It’s good,” she says, already reaching for another bite. “Better than I remembered.”
I nod. This is it. Not forgiveness or even acceptance, but something more fundamental. A choice, actively made. To stay. To try. To want things and have them at the same time.
My bowl arrives. Steaming, fragrant, exactly like Mei’s except with extra chili oil drizzled across the top. The vendor sets it down with a nod, her eyes moving between us.
“Eat,” Mei says, already halfway through her own bowl. “Before it gets cold.”
We eat in silence. Just the soft click of chopsticks against bowls and the occasional appreciative hum from me.
The noodles are perfect. Chewy without being tough, the broth rich with a complexity that builds with each spoonful.
The kind of dish that makes you close your eyes. That makes your brain go quiet.
“This is where I come when things get complicated,” Mei says. “When I need to think. When I need to remember that some things are worth the risk.” She meets my eyes directly. Raw. “You’re worth the risk, Tovek. The bar, the kitchen, whatever this is between us. It’s worth figuring out.”
The words settle in my chest. Warm and solid.
“I’m glad,” I say. “Because I’m not going anywhere. Debt, goblins, spectacular failures. None of it changes the fact that you’re it for me.”
She smiles. That quick, mischievous flash that makes my stomach do things it has no business doing. “Good. Because I’m done running. From you, from this, from the possibility that what we’re building could be something real.”
We finish our noodles in comfortable silence, our hands linked across the small table.
Around us, the market comes to life. Vendors calling to early risers, the rhythm of a day beginning, the steam from a dozen different broths rising to meet the morning sun.
It’s exactly how Mei described it. The chaos of a place where things begin, where possibilities become real.
When we’re done, bowls empty, chopsticks set neatly across the top, Mei reaches for the check. “My treat. Consider it an apology for the dramatic exit.”
“I’ll allow it,” I say, matching her tone. “This time.”
She laughs. That bright, unexpected sound. “There won’t be a next time. No more running. No more dramatic exits. Just...” She gestures between us, apparently unable to find the words.
“Us,” I supply. “Figuring it out as we go.”
She nods and stands, reaching for her jacket. “We should get back. Greta’s probably wondering where we are. And we’ve got that delivery at nine.”
I nod. “And the menu planning at ten. And the lunch rush at eleven.”
“Don’t remind me.” She rolls her eyes, but there’s a pleased set to her shoulders, a lightness to her movements that wasn’t there before.