And I can’t afford it. Not with the bar finally turning a profit, not with the kitchen finally feeling like it could be mine, not with the knowledge that nothing lasts forever and I’m always one disaster away from losing everything.
Out of habit, I open my banking app as I walk. The number stares back at me. Twelve thousand credits. Not enough. Never enough. I’ve been socking away every spare dollar from my share of the profits, building a safety net that still feels pathetically thin.
Because Tovek covered the debt through our partnership agreement. The bar’s success pays what I owe. But what happens when the bar stops being successful? What happens when the novelty wears off, when customers get bored, when the next big thing opens across the street? What happens when Tovek realizes I’m not worth the investment, that he made a mistake, that he’d be better off cutting his losses?
I’ve seen it before. The restaurant that was packed for six months, then empty by month seven. The pop-up that was the hottest ticket in town until it wasn’t. The partnerships that dissolved, the investors who pulled out, the chefs who got replaced by someone younger, cheaper, more exciting.
Nothing lasts. Not in this industry, not in this city, not in my life.
I dismiss the app and keep walking. The streets are getting narrower, the buildings closer together. Red lanterns hang from fire escapes, some lit, some dark. A sign in Mandarin advertises fresh noodles. Another promises the best dim sum in New Vegas, which is probably a lie but I appreciate the confidence.
Old Chinatown. I’ve drifted here without meaning to, following some internal compass that knows where I need to be even when my conscious brain is too busy spiraling.
My phone buzzes a third time. A text from Tovek, just two words: “You okay?”
I stop walking. Stand in the middle of the sidewalk while early morning foot traffic flows around me like water around a stone.
He’s awake. He’s noticed I’m gone. He’s checking on me. Not angry, not hurt, just concerned. Like what happened last night matters to him. Like I matter to him.
Like whatever this is between us is more than a one-night stand or even a friends-with-benefits arrangement.
Like it’s the start of something real.
And that’s what scares me. Not the sex, not the feelings, but the stakes. Because if this falls apart, if what’s happening between us goes the way of every other relationship I’ve ever had, I won’t just lose the man. I’ll lose the kitchen, the bar, the livelihood I’ve been building piece by careful piece since I walked through his door six weeks ago. I’ll lose the first thing in months that’s felt right. That’s felt like it could be mine.
The bar is fragile. We’re doing better, but we’re not stable. One bad month, one health inspection gone wrong, one visit from Vex that goes sideways, and everything could collapse. And if Tovek and I implode, if we can’t work together anymore, if the tension becomes unbearable, then what? I’m back on the street with nothing and no kitchen.
I should answer his text. Should tell him I’m fine, that last night was amazing, that we should talk when I come downstairs. Should be honest about the complicated mess of want and fear currently making it hard to breathe.
Instead, I put the phone in my pocket and look around. Really look, for the first time since I started walking.
The street is waking up. Shop owners rolling up metal gates, vendors setting up carts, the smell of steaming buns and brewing tea starting to fill the air. These streets feel like home now, which is terrifying in its own way. Because home is supposed to betemporary for me. Home is supposed to be something I can walk away from when it inevitably falls apart.
But I don’t want to walk away. Not from the kitchen, not from the bar, not from the orc currently texting me to make sure I’m okay.
And that’s the truth I’ve been avoiding since I woke up with his arm around my waist. I want him. Really want him, not just physically but completely. I want the kitchen and the partnership and the careful way he says my name. I want the future I’ve been too afraid to imagine.
I’m just terrified that wanting it means I’ll lose everything else.
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.
