She smiles. That quick, mischievous flash that makes my stomach do things it has no business doing. “Good. Because I’m done running. From you, from this, from the possibility that what we’re building could be something real.”
We finish our noodles in comfortable silence, our hands linked across the small table. Around us, the market comes to life. Vendors calling to early risers, the rhythm of a day beginning, the steam from a dozen different broths rising to meet the morning sun. It’s exactly how Mei described it. The chaos of a place where things begin, where possibilities become real.
When we’re done, bowls empty, chopsticks set neatly across the top, Mei reaches for the check. “My treat. Consider it an apology for the dramatic exit.”
“I’ll allow it,” I say, matching her tone. “This time.”
She laughs. That bright, unexpected sound. “There won’t be a next time. No more running. No more dramatic exits. Just...” She gestures between us, apparently unable to find the words.
“Us,” I supply. “Figuring it out as we go.”
She nods and stands, reaching for her jacket. “We should get back. Greta’s probably wondering where we are. And we’ve got that delivery at nine.”
I nod. “And the menu planning at ten. And the lunch rush at eleven.”
“Don’t remind me.” She rolls her eyes, but there’s a pleased set to her shoulders, a lightness to her movements that wasn’t there before.
CHAPTER 11
mei
Tovek’s hand is warm in mine as we walk through Old Chinatown, the morning light catching the steam rising from food stalls and the colorful awnings stretched overhead.
My stomach is full from the noodles, but my chest feels hollow. There’s something still unsaid between us. Something I’ve been carrying for so long that putting it down makes me dizzy.
I’ve made my decision. No more running, no more hiding. But that doesn’t mean I’m ready to show all my cards. Not yet.
We turn down a narrow alley between a fish market and a shop selling elaborately carved jade. The noise of the main market fades, replaced by the soft clicking of wind chimes and the occasional muffled conversation from behind closed doors.
It’s like walking into a different world here. Hell, with the Otherkin, it very well might be.
“I want to show you something,” Tovek says, his voice low. “If you have time.”
I squeeze his hand, aware of how easily we’ve moved through the world as a unit. “I’ve got time.”
We stop in front of an unassuming storefront. Simple wooden door with a faded red sign hanging above it. There’s no name, just a character for “tea” painted in careful strokes.
Tovek knocks three times, pauses, then two more in rapid succession. The door swings open almost immediately.
The woman who answers is tiny. Barely five feet tall, with silver hair pulled back in a severe bun and hands gnarled with age. Her eyes, sharp and assessing, move from Tovek to me, then back to Tovek. A question in her expression.
“This is Mei,” he says, his voice gentler than I’ve ever heard it. “The chef I told you about.”
Something changes in her expression before she nods. “Come in,” she says, her accent thick but her English perfect. “I have the tea ready.”
Inside the tea house, five small tables are arranged around a central space, each with its own pot of tea and set of delicate cups. The walls are lined with shelves holding hundreds of different teas in labeled tins, the air thick with competing scents.
It’s like nothing that should belong in New Vegas. A sliver of time that’s existed exactly like this for centuries.
“Your usual table?” she asks Tovek, already moving toward the far corner.
He nods. “Please. And the oolong, if you have it.”
She disappears through a curtained doorway, leaving us alone in the quiet space. “You have a usual table,” I say, unable to keep the surprise from my voice. “You come here. Often.”
He shrugs, but there’s a pleased set to his shoulders. “Once or twice a week. When things get...” He gestures vaguely.
“Complicated,” I supply, thinking of my own escape to the noodle stall.
