My stomach drops before I even read it. A reminder that my payment is due in three days, along with a cheerful note about how interest rates double after the deadline. The number on the screen is exactly what I expected. Plus, the “convenience fee” of being able to pay in installments.
I know the bar’s profits are covering it. I know Tovek set up the automatic payments weeks ago. I know the money will transfer on time, that Vex won’t show up with his trolls and his threats.
But my body doesn’t know that. My body remembers the Strip, the smell of Vex’s cologne, the casual way he talked about escorting me away. My hands are shaking as I tuck the phone away, and there’s a cold sweat breaking out along my spine that has nothing to do with logic and everything to do with trauma.
I’ve been building my own safety net. Several thousand in credits in a high-yield savings account that Tovek doesn’t know about, plus another five hundred in investments that mightactually grow if I’m patient. It’s not much. It’s nowhere near enough to be truly independent. But it’s mine, and it means I’m not completely dependent on a man I’ve known for like a month, no matter how genuinely kind he seems.
Because Tovek is one in a million. I know that. But I also know my pattern, and I refuse to take his kindness for granted.
I’m still staring at the shelf when the closet door opens, flooding the narrow space with light from the hallway. Tovek steps in, then freezes when he sees me.
“Sorry,” he says, already backing up. “Didn’t know you were in here.”
“It’s fine.” I force my voice to sound normal. “Just getting paper towels. We’re out.”
He nods, not moving from the doorway. “Greta sent me for the same thing. I’ll come back.”
“We can share,” I say, and immediately want to kick myself. Share the closet? Share the paper towels? What exactly am I suggesting?
Something flashes in his eyes. Surprise, maybe, or reassessment. Then he steps into the closet, pulling the door mostly closed behind him. “If you’re sure.”
The closet, which had seemed merely cramped before, is now actively claustrophobic. Tovek’s massive frame takes up more than his fair share of the available space. I press myself against the shelving unit, trying to create some distance between us, but it’s not enough. I can smell the particular scent of him. Whiskey and soap and something else, something that’s just Tovek. Feel the heat of his body despite the careful inches between us.
“The paper towels,” he says, his voice slightly rougher than usual. “They’re up there?”
I nod, not trusting my voice. He reaches past me, his arm brushing against my chest as he stretches for the shelf above my head. The contact is brief. Barely a second of warmth against thethin fabric of my t-shirt. But it sends a shock through my system that makes my skin prickle.
He’s close enough that I could count his eyelashes if I wanted to. Close enough that I can see the particular pattern of his tribal scars as they disappear beneath the collar of his shirt. His eyes meet mine, steady and direct, and there’s something in them that makes my chest tight.
“Mei,” he says, and it’s not quite a question.
I should step back. I should make a joke about the closet, about paper towels, about anything but the particular tension crackling between us. I should remember that this is business, that he’s my boss, that I’m still paying off a debt that makes my hands shake when I see notifications.
Instead, I rise onto my toes and kiss him.
It’s not tentative. It’s not questioning or careful or any of the things a first kiss should be. It’s thorough and entirely mutual, his hand coming up to cup my face as my fingers curl into the front of his shirt. He kisses like he does everything else. With complete focus, with that particular attention to detail that makes my knees weak. One hand cradles the back of my head, the other settles at my waist, and suddenly I’m pressed against him from chest to knee.
Heat floods my system, starting where our mouths meet and spreading outward. His mouth is warm and slightly rough with stubble, his tongue tangling with mine in a way that makes me gasp. I make some noise, a moan maybe, and feel him smile against my mouth.
This is a mistake. This is professional suicide. This is exactly what I told myself I wouldn’t do when I accepted the job, when I moved into the spare room, when I started building something real in this kitchen.
And I don’t care. Not with his hand in my hair, not with his chest against mine, not with the particular sound he makes when I slide my hand up to the nape of his neck.
But then his hand moves from my waist to the small of my back, pulling me closer, and reality comes crashing back. I put my palm flat against his chest, creating a careful inch of space between us.
“Wait,” I say, my voice embarrassingly unsteady. “We should...this is...”
He steps back immediately, his hand falling away from my face. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have...”
“No.” I shake my head, trying to get my breathing under control. “It’s not...I wanted to. That’s the problem.”
He’s watching me, those unusual green eyes steady on my face. Waiting, I realize, for me to explain. Not pushing, not assuming. Just listening.
“It’s complicated,” I say, the words coming easier now that he’s given me space to think. “You’re my boss. I live in your spare room. I owe money to a goblin who threatened to break my kneecaps.” I run a hand through my hair, trying to order my thoughts. “And I have a history, okay? A pattern. I throw myself into things. Relationships, jobs, pop-up restaurants. They start intense and they end spectacularly. Usually with me running for the hills or getting thrown out of them.”
He’s quiet for a moment, his expression thoughtful. “And you think that’s what this would be? Another intense beginning with a spectacular ending?”
“I know it would be,” I say. “Because that’s what I do. I take good things and I ruin them because I can’t figure out how to want things and have them at the same time.” I force myself to meet his eyes. “And this job, this kitchen, it’s the first thing in months that’s felt right. That’s felt like it could be mine. I can’trisk that. Not even for...” I gesture between us, unable to name what almost happened.
