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 Gretaappears 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.
