She nods, already reaching for a fresh bowl, and turns back to her massive pot. Leaving Mei and me in silence.
We sit in silence. The bowl between us steaming gently. The noodles are thick and irregular, handmade by the look of them, swimming in a broth so dark it’s almost black. I can smell the star anise Mei mentioned. That hint of licorice. Along with ginger, garlic, and something else I can’t name. It’s the kind of dish that should make you close your eyes. That should make your brain go quiet. Except neither of us has taken a bite.
Mei’s chopsticks sit untouched beside her bowl. Her hands are curled around a mug of tea I didn’t see the vendor bring. Her hair falls loose around her shoulders, a few strands sticking to her cheek where the steam has condensed. She looks exhausted. Dark circles under her eyes, her mouth set in a line.
“You left,” I say finally. The words come out more hurt than I intended.
She nods. “I needed to think.”
“About us? About what happened?” I keep my voice neutral, professional, like we’re discussing menu changes rather than the fact that she bolted from my bed without a word.
“About everything.” She takes a sip of her tea. Careful. Deliberate. “The bar. The kitchen. The debt. What happened between us. It’s complicated, Tovek. It’s not just about last night.”
“I know.” I reach for her hand across the table, stopping just short of touching her. “But it’s not just about the bar or the kitchen or the debt either. It’s about you and me and the fact that I woke up with an empty space beside me and no idea if you were coming back.”
Guilt flashes across her face before she settles back into careful neutrality. “I’m sorry. I should have left a note. Or texted. Or something.”
“You should have,” I agree. “But that’s not why you left, is it? You didn’t bolt because you forgot your phone.”
She’s quiet for a long moment, her eyes on the untouched noodles. “No. I left because I was scared.”
The word sits between us. Heavy. Not the generic “this is moving too fast” or even the specific “I’m not ready for a relationship,” but something more fundamental. The fear that comes with wanting something you might not get to keep.
“Of me?” I ask, though I’m pretty sure I know the answer.
She shakes her head. “Of this.” She gestures between us. “Of what happens if it goes wrong. If we try and fail. If you decide I’m not worth the risk.” She meets my eyes directly. Raw. “I’ve built something here, Tovek. Something real. The bar’s doing better. The kitchen feels like it could be mine. For the first time in months, maybe years, I’m not running from something or toward something. I’m just here. Building something that could last.” She takes a breath. “And if this, if we, go the way of every other relationship I’ve ever had, I lose all of it. The bar, the kitchen, the first thing in months that’s felt right. That’s felt like it could be mine.”
The words hit hard. Each one landing with weight. This isn’t about me. Not specifically. It’s about a pattern. A history of relationships that ended with her running or getting thrown out. It’s about the fear that wanting me, really wanting me, means losing everything else.
“You’re running because you’re afraid I will,” I say. The realization settles in my chest. Words she’s said from previous conversations well up in my memory. “You’re leaving before I can, because that’s what always happens. Men see something they want, they decide they’re entitled to it, and then when things get complicated, when the debt or the bar or the kitchen becomes too much, they leave. And you’re left with nothing.”
Her eyes widen slightly. Then she nods. “Yes. That’s exactly it.”
I reach across the table, taking her hand before she can pull away. Her skin is warm under mine, her fingers slightly chilled from the morning air. “I’m not going anywhere. Not because of the debt or Grishnak or any of that. I’m staying because of you. Because you’re it for me, Mei. Simple as that.”
Mei’s mouth opens, then closes. I can see her weighing options. Risk versus reward, safety versus possibility, the woman she’s been versus the woman she could be.
Then she sighs. Deep. “I don’t know how to do this. Want things and have them. Build something real without being terrified it’s going to fall apart.”
“I know,” I say, squeezing her hand. “We’ll figure it out. Together.”
Relief crosses her face. She picks up her chopsticks, twirls a bite of noodles, and brings it to her lips. The first taste makes her close her eyes, her shoulders relaxing slightly.
“It’s good,” she says, already reaching for another bite. “Better than I remembered.”
I nod. This is it. Not forgiveness or even acceptance, but something more fundamental. A choice, actively made. To stay. To try. To want things and have them at the same time.
My bowl arrives. Steaming, fragrant, exactly like Mei’s except with extra chili oil drizzled across the top. The vendor sets it down with a nod, her eyes moving between us.
“Eat,” Mei says, already halfway through her own bowl. “Before it gets cold.”
We eat in silence. Just the soft click of chopsticks against bowls and the occasional appreciative hum from me. The noodles are perfect. Chewy without being tough, the broth rich with a complexity that builds with each spoonful. The kind of dish that makes you close your eyes. That makes your brain go quiet.
“This is where I come when things get complicated,” Mei says. “When I need to think. When I need to remember that some things are worth the risk.” She meets my eyes directly. Raw. “You’re worth the risk, Tovek. The bar, the kitchen, whatever this is between us. It’s worth figuring out.”
The words settle in my chest. Warm and solid.
“I’m glad,” I say. “Because I’m not going anywhere. Debt, goblins, spectacular failures. None of it changes the fact that you’re it for me.”
