I grab my phone. The usual notifications. Weather, news, Greta asking about the liquor order. I dial Mei’s number and immediately get voicemail. Her recorded voice is bright and professional, nothing like the breathless way she said my name last night. I hang up without leaving a message and text her instead.
Tovek
You okay?
Her room is empty. Bed made. The dragon figurine from the convention sits on the nightstand, jade eyes watching me. Everything looks normal except for the fact that she isn’t here.
I head downstairs. Each step feels heavier than the last. The bar is quiet, morning light cutting pale rectangles across the floor. No Mei. No note. Nothing to tell me where she went or if she’s coming back.
The kitchen is spotless from last night’s deep clean. Every surface gleaming. I move through it without thinking, reaching for a glass from the cabinet above the sink. My hand closes around it.
I set it down carefully on the counter.
Because throwing it would be easy. Satisfying, even. The crash, the release, the physical manifestation of the panic currently clawing up my throat.
But I’m not that guy. Never have been. And breaking things because the woman I’m falling for bolted from my bed isn’t going to bring her back.
I lean against the counter instead. Press my palms flat against the cool surface. Breathe.
What did I do wrong? Was I too intense? Not intense enough? Did I say something? Did I not say something I should have?
The questions spiral. I’m good at a lot of things. Running a bar. Fixing equipment. Remembering how people take their coffee. But relationships? I’m apparently terrible at those. Terrible enough that Mei woke up next to me and immediately ran.
I need to find her. Need to fix whatever I broke. Need to at least know if she’s okay.
I’m dumping the last of the coffee grounds when it hits me. Something Mei said weeks ago while we were prepping for lunch. She was telling me about her favorite places in the city, the spots she went when everything got overwhelming.
“There’s this noodle stall in Old Chinatown,” she’d said, her knife moving through an onion with practiced precision. “The woman who runs it has been there since before I was born. Makes the best broth in the city. Rich enough to stand a spoon in, with this hint of star anise that hits the back of your throat.” She’d paused, her expression softening. “I go there when I need to think. When things get complicated.”
I’d nodded, made some comment about the importance of good broth, and we’d moved on to discussing the day’s special. But I’d filed the information away. Like I do with everything about her.
I’m moving before I’ve fully decided to. Keys from the hook by the door. Boots by the stairs. It’s early, not quite six, the sky still grey before proper dawn. But Old Chinatown will be awake. Has been for hours, probably.
The streets are quiet. Just the occasional delivery truck and the soft hum of the early bus making its first run. I walk fast, hands shoved in my pockets, breath fogging in the cool air. At the corner of Main and 5th, I pass a lamp post plastered with flyers. Band announcements, missing pets, community events. One catches my eye. A glossy advertisement for Grishnak’s newest restaurant. “East Meets West Fusion Excellence” printed in bold across the top. The goblin’s face smiles out from the bottom corner.
A chill runs down my spine. Grishnak’s still out there. Still circling. Still looking for the weakness that will bring The Drunken Dragon back under his control. And Mei with it.
Whatever’s happening between us, whatever choice she’s making by leaving my bed without a word, it exists in the shadow of that threat.
I turn onto Canal Street and the world changes. Wide boulevard giving way to narrow alleys lined with shops and stalls. The air is thick with competing scents. A dozen different broths. Steam rises from massive pots, condensation drips from awnings, vendors call to early-morning customers in a mix of languages. It’s exactly how Mei described it. The chaos of a market at dawn, everyone moving with focused energy.
I make my way through the crowd, scanning each stall. Most are busy. Cooks stirring massive pots, servers balancing trays of fresh noodles, early risers hunched over bowls. None of them are Mei.
I’m starting to think I’ve made a mistake. That the noodle stall was just one of a hundred casual mentions. That I’ve read too much into a throwaway comment.
Then I spot her.
She’s sitting at the far end of a narrow stall, a bowl of untouched noodles in front of her, her hair falling loose around her shoulders. Same clothes from last night. Jeans and a t-shirt with a noodle bowl on the front. Jacket pulled tight against the morning chill. She looks smaller somehow. Her shoulders curved inward like she’s trying to take up less room.
Our eyes meet across the crowded stall. Surprise flickers across her face before it settles into something more neutral. She doesn’t wave or call out, just watches me as I make my way through the narrow space between tables.
I stop at the edge of her table. “Can I join you?”
She nods. “It’s a free country.” No bite to it. Just a smooth monotone that doesn’t quite hide the hurt underneath.
I slide onto the bench across from her. I’m suddenly aware of how out of place I am. My massive frame too big for the smalltable. The woman behind the counter, tiny and silver-haired, raises an eyebrow in my direction.
“Same as her,” I say, nodding toward Mei’s untouched bowl. “Please.”
