“Sorry.” I’m not, really. The look on her face is worth the near-heart attack. Surprise giving way to that quick, mischievous smile. “You’re up early.”
She shrugs, returning to her pleating. “Wanted to test the soup dumpling recipe before service. The filling needs to rest.”
I step into the kitchen properly, and that’s when I notice it. She’s rearranged things. The spice rack that used to be by the window is now next to the stove. The cutting boards have been sorted by size and hung on the wall instead of stacked. The knife block has been moved to the far end of the prep table, and the containers of dry goods have been labeled with dates and contents.
“You’ve been busy,” I say, trying to keep my voice neutral. I’ve had the same kitchen setup for three years. Change isn’t always welcome.
Mei glances up, something wary in her expression. “I hope that’s okay. I can put everything back if?—”
“No.” The word comes out more forceful than I intended. I soften my tone. “It’s good. Makes sense.”
She studies me for a moment, then nods, apparently satisfied. “The stove’s acting up again. The front left burner keeps cutting out.”
I move to the range, running a hand along the top. “Gas line issue, probably. The pipes in this place are older than I am.”
“Can you fix it?” There’s a note in her voice. Not quite doubt, but something adjacent to it.
I look at her over my shoulder. “Yes, Chef.”
Her mouth twitches. “Smartass.”
It takes me ten minutes to locate the toolbox, another five to shut off the gas and disconnect the range from the wall. The problem, as I suspected, is a clog in the gas line. A buildup of sediment that’s restricting the flow to the front burner. It’s a simple fix, but it requires getting on my hands and knees and reaching into the narrow space behind the stove.
I’m aware of Mei watching me as I work, her movements pausing occasionally as she glances over. There’s something in her expression that makes my skin prickle. Mild surprise, maybe, or reassessment. I’m not used to being looked at like I’m interesting.
“You’re good at that,” she says finally, as I’m reconnecting the gas line. “The fixing stuff, I mean.”
I shrug, not looking up. “Comes with the territory. When you own a place this old, you either learn to fix things or go bankrupt paying someone else to do it.”
“I just meant...” She pauses, and when I glance up, she’s focused very intently on the dumpling in her hands. “It’s useful. Having skills besides cooking.”
There’s something in her tone. Carefully casual, like she’s trying not to make a big deal out of something that feels like one. I’ve spent enough time talking to chefs around here to know what chefs think. Cooking is the only skill that matters; everything else is secondary at best. The fact that she’s noticed, that she sees value in something outside her wheelhouse...
I finish reconnecting the line and slide out from behind the stove, wiping my hands on a dish towel. “All set. Should work now.”
Mei nods, already reaching for a pot to test it. “Thanks. That would have been a disaster at service.”
We work in companionable silence for the next twenty minutes. Mei finishing her dumpling pleating, me making coffee and checking the delivery order that’s due later that morning. It’s comfortable in a way I didn’t expect, this early-morning routine. Like we’ve been doing it for years instead of days.
“Here,” Mei says suddenly, breaking the silence. She’s holding a bamboo steamer, a single dumpling resting in the center. “Try this.”
I reach for it, but she pulls back slightly.
“Wait,” she says. “Soup dumplings are particular. You have to eat them a certain way.”
She picks up the dumpling with a pair of chopsticks, her movements precise, almost delicate despite the dumpling’s obvious weight, and holds it out to me.
“Bite the top carefully,” she instructs. “Let the broth cool for a second, then drink it before you eat the rest.”
It takes me a second to realize she’s planning to feed it to me. To hold the chopsticks while I take the bite. The intimacy of the gesture hits me like a physical thing, a warm weight settling at the base of my spine.
I lean forward, careful not to move too quickly, and take the offered dumpling between my teeth. The dough gives way with surprising ease, and then heat floods my mouth. Rich and complex. The broth is incredible. Pork and ginger and something I can’t name, balanced so perfectly that no single flavor dominates. 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.
I must make some noise. A groan, maybe, or a hum of appreciation. When I open my eyes, Mei is watching me with a look of professional satisfaction that does absolutely nothing to cool the heat in my face.
“Good?” she asks, though it’s clearly not a question.
I nod, not trusting my voice. 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 fall to my knees and beg for the recipe, or possibly her hand in marriage, whichever seems more likely to get me another dumpling.
