Epilogue
MEI
Tovek’s hands are shaking.
Not much—just a tremor when he reaches for the garlic, the kind you’d miss if you weren’t watching for it.
But I’ve been watching. Eighteen months since he proposed in our kitchen amid burning sesame seeds, and somehow we’ve built Spicy Orc & Co.
into the most impossible thing: a flagship restaurant booked three months out, expansion plans already in motion, and a husband who’s working himself into the ground.
“We need another sous,” I say.
He shrugs without looking up. “Next month. When the Dragon’s Nest numbers come in.”
I’ve been hearing “next month” for twelve months straight. Ever since the first review called us “the most exciting new restaurant concept in a decade” and we stopped being able to keep up.
“I’m posting the ad tonight.” I don’t make it a question. “Full benefits, signing bonus, someone who can run this place when we’re not here.”
Relief flickers across his face before he catches it. “If you think that’s best.”
I do. For the restaurant, sure. But mostly for us—for the future that includes this forty-seat place, the original Drunken Dragon that Greta runs, and the Dragon’s Nest that’s become impossible to book.
We got married quietly. Old Chinatown, tea house owner as witness, Sunny sobbing loud enough to rattle windows.
Simple ceremony. Just the words that mattered, the promises we’d already been keeping.
No white dress, no reception, no Instagram moment.
Just us, making official what’s been real since I walked into his bar three years ago.
And now this. A restaurant with our name on it.
A cookbook in progress. A social media following that’s tripled.
The scandal thoroughly debunked, the fake screenshots traced back to a competitor’s PR firm, my “comeback” as carefully crafted as any dish on our menu.
But the numbers feel different now. Pleasant, not necessary.
Not what defines my worth, just another tool to make sure what we’re building stands on its own.
“Seven-top just ordered the tasting menu,” Tovek says, already moving toward the walk-in. “Dragon pepper supplement.”
“I’ve got it.” I reach for my knife. “You check table twelve. They’ve been waiting twenty minutes for dessert.”
He disappears through the swinging door.
My husband. My partner. The man who’s been with me through spectacular failure and the occasional moment of courage.
The tightness in my chest isn’t the burn of dragon peppers or even the warmth I feel when he looks at me across a crowded room.
It’s the recognition that what we’re building is worth protecting.
Service passes in the usual rhythm. Orders flying, plates moving, the careful dance of a packed kitchen. By the time we finish, I’m exhausted but satisfied. Tovek’s still moving—breaking down stations, checking inventory, doing all the tasks that come with success neither of us expected.
“I’ve got this,” he says when I reach for a dish towel. “You’ve been on since six.”
So has he. Six AM for prep, straight through service with one fifteen-minute break to inhale noodles. And he’ll be here tomorrow, and the next day, until someone makes him stop.
“I’ll wait. We can close together.”
He shakes his head, jaw set. “At least another hour. Go. I’ll be home before you know it.”
I want to argue. Point out the fourteen-hour days, the dark circles, the fact that burnout doesn’t care how successful we are. But there’s that note in his voice that makes my chest tight.
So I go. Not home. To our office at the back of the restaurant, the one with the door that locks. I pull out my phone and start planning.
Twenty minutes later, I’m in our bathroom. The lighting’s perfect, I’m wearing the black underwear that makes Tovek’s pupils dilate, and my hair’s down in that crimson curtain that’s become my signature.
First photo: relatively tame. Me in profile, one hand on my hip, trying not to look like a thirty-three-year-old woman taking nudes feels slightly ridiculous.
Caption: “Tonight’s special: hand-pulled noods, served hot. Chef recommends immediate consumption.”
Send.
Second photo: bra unhooked but still on, hand grazing my breast.
“Nudes for my orc. Or should I say... noods? Either way, this dish doesn’t deliver itself. Thirty minutes or you get a refund.”
Send.
Third photo—the one that’ll actually get him to leave: topless, hair falling forward for plausible deniability, expression shifted from embarrassed to focused.
“Executive decision: Kitchen’s closing early for private tasting menu. Reservations for one. No walk-ins. Chef’s choice only, and trust me... you’re going to want seconds.”
Send.
I reach for the special chili oil I’ve been saving. Dragon pepper infusion, six months aged, catches light like liquid ruby. Two drops on my pulse points. One between my breasts. The scent that makes Tovek’s control slip.
My phone buzzes three times rapid-fire.
“On my way.”
“Don’t move.”
“Lock the door.”
I smile and get to work. Oil on the dresser, bed turned down, candle lit. By the time his key hits the lock, I’m stretched across our bed in just underwear, one hand trailing along my stomach.
The door opens with authority. Tovek in the doorway, chef’s whites with the jacket open, eyes dark and hungry.
“You closed the restaurant.”
“Kitchen’s secured. Greta’s got the bar.” His hand finds my ankle, warm and calloused. “You’re wearing my favorite underwear.”
“Not for long, if you play your cards right.”
His pupils dilate. Then he’s on me, weight pressing me into the mattress. “What exactly did you have in mind, Hot Pot?”
I work at his jeans. “Thought we’d take the night off. Just us. No restaurants, no responsibilities, no prep lists.” My hand finds him through his boxers. Already hard. “Just you, me, and the things we’ve been too tired to do for three weeks.”
His breath catches. “Fuck. Mei, I need—”
“I know exactly what you need.” I work his jeans down his massive thighs, lower my head to the sensitive spot above his waistband, taste him through thin cotton.
Immediate effect. His back arches, hand in my hair, sound halfway between groan and my name. I work his boxers down. His cock springs free, massive and leaking.
“So.” I wrap my hand around him, stroke twice. “About those noods I promised. Hand-pulled or machine-made?”
He laughs, breathless. “Are you seriously making noodle jokes right now?”
“Always. It’s kind of my brand.”
“Your brand is going to kill me.”
“What a way to go, though.” I shimmy out of my underwear. “Death by chef. Very dramatic. Greta would approve.”
“Greta is the last person I want to think about right now.”
“Fair.” I straddle him, feel his cock brush my entrance. Already wet. “How about you think about this instead?”
I sink down in one smooth motion. We both groan. The stretch is intense—I feel it everywhere, fullness that blurs my vision—but it’s the good kind.
“Fuck.” My forehead drops to his chest. “You’re so big.”
His hand finds my back. “Take your time. I’ve got you.”
“No time. Three weeks to make up for, remember?”
He laughs. Then his hands are on my hips, guiding, and we find our rhythm. Not desperate urgency or focused intensity, but something more fundamental. Recognition that this is real, that we’re choosing each other, that it matters.
Heat builds at the base of my spine. Orgasm approaching, body tightening around him. I’m aware of everything—his hands on my hips, the way he adjusts for my smaller frame, the sound he makes when I clench just right.
“Close,” I gasp against his shoulder. “Tovek—”
“I know.” His hand finds my chin, forces my eyes to his. “Look at me when you come. I want to see it.”
I do. My orgasm crashes through with unexpected force, back arching, his name in my mouth. He follows immediately, rhythm faltering, body shuddering.
For one perfect moment, we’re completely connected. Then I’m rolling to his side, head finding the crook of his shoulder.
“That was exactly what I needed,” he says, voice hoarse.
I settle against his chest. “Me too. Though next time, maybe skip the three-week buildup? My thighs are going to feel this tomorrow.”
He laughs, that bright unexpected sound. “I’ll make it up to you. Extra breaks during service. Foot rub before bed. Whatever you want.”
“What I want is for you to take a day off. A real one.” I meet his eyes. “No checking in, no texts, no thinking about scallions for next week’s special. You’re burning out, Big Guy. I can see it. And I can’t...” I gesture vaguely.
“Lose me?” His hand covers mine. “That’s not going to happen.”
“It’s already happening. Not the losing—the burning. You’re running on fumes.” I hold his gaze. “I need you. Not the restaurant or the cookbook or the future we’re building. You. Complicated and fierce and completely unwilling to compromise on the things that matter.”
His expression shifts. “You’re right. I’ve been pushing. Harder than I should.” He takes a breath. “It’s not just about the restaurant. It’s about making sure you never have to worry again. About money or security or any of the things that kept you up at night after everything fell apart.”
The words land heavy. This isn’t about work or success. It’s about protection. About making sure what we’ve created can stand regardless of what happens next.
“I’m not worried. Not about money or security or any of it.” My hand finds his chest, over his heart. “Because I’ve got you. And you’ve got me. And together, we can make anything work.”
He pulls me closer. “Together. Always together.”
We lie there, his body warm against mine. Through the window, I can see the neon sign of The Drunken Dragon flickering. Above the bar, the golden whisk from the cook-off shines in the light Tovek installed specifically to highlight it.
But that’s not the most important thing in the room.
That would be him. Warm and solid, breath steady against my hair, organized chaos taking over every corner of my life. Not perfect—nothing about this is perfect, with restaurants and cookbooks and pressure. But real.
“So,” I say, reaching for his hand. “About that day off. I’m thinking sleeping in, followed by absolutely nothing productive, followed by more of what we just did. With breaks for food.”
He smiles, quick flash of teeth and tusk gleam. “Sounds perfect. Exactly what I need.”