He nods. “Complicated. Mrs. Lin’s been here since before I was born. Probably before New Vegas became what it is. She knows everyone, sees everything, says almost nothing.” Hissmile is quick, a flash of teeth and the subtle gleam of a tusk. “It’s good to have a place like that. Somewhere outside the bar, outside the kitchen.”
It is good. It’s also a revelation to have this glimpse of Tovek’s life outside The Drunken Dragon.
I’ve spent four months working beside him, but I’ve never thought about what he does when he’s not there. Who he is when he’s not being a bar owner or a boss or the man who makes my stomach do things it has no business doing.
It matters.
Mrs. Lin returns with a pot of tea and two delicate cups, setting them on the table. “The spring oolong,” she says, her voice matter-of-fact. “Your favorite.”
“Thank you,” Tovek says, with a formality I’ve never heard from him. “It looks perfect.”
She nods and disappears back through the curtained doorway. Leaving us alone with the fragrant tea and the tension that’s been building since the moment I left his bed this morning.
Tovek pours. The pot held just so, the stream of tea thin and controlled. It’s fascinating to watch this massive orc with all of his strength, doing something so delicately. He’s clearly used to it.
“I used to come here after my shifts,” he says, setting the pot down. “When I was still muscle for some local outfit. It was the only place in the city where no one knew who I was. Where I was just Tovek, not the orc enforcer fighting someone else’s battles.” He shrugs, a movement that doesn’t quite hide the tension in his shoulders. “It was restful. To be just a person for a while.”
Tovek never speaks of his past, so I nod rather than ask questions. Maybe one day, he’ll tell me more.
For now it’s enough to understand the weight of expectation, of being known for something outside yourself. It’s a kind ofpressure that builds slowly until you’re not sure where it ends and you begin.
Finally, as the silence stretches between us, I find myself speaking. “That’s why I left this morning. It was getting real. And real is...” I gesture vaguely.
“Terrifying,” he supplies, his voice gentle. “I know.”
And he does know. That’s the thing. Has known since the moment I followed him to his bar four months ago, desperate and debt-ridden.
He’s seen me at my worst. Sleep-deprived and sauce-spattered, arguing with a delivery driver about the quality of the chilies, breaking down in the walk-in when the marinade wouldn’t set. And he’s still here. Still watching me with those unusual green eyes, still saying my name like it means something.
It’s too much and not enough and exactly why I’m sitting in a tea house at seven in the morning, my hand still warm from his.
I take a sip of the oolong. Floral and slightly astringent, with honey underneath. The kind of tea that makes you close your eyes without meaning to, that makes your brain go quiet.
“It’s good,” I say, setting the cup down. “Really good.”
He nods. “Mrs. Lin has a source in the mountains. Gets it directly, no middleman.” He takes a sip of his own tea. “Mei, about this morning?—”
“I want to tell you,” I say, the words coming out more forcefully than I intended. “Everything. The debt, why I ended up on the Strip that night. All of it.”
He’s quiet for a moment, his expression thoughtful. “You don’t have to. Not if you’re not ready.”
“I know.” I take another sip of tea, letting the warmth steady me. “But I want to. I need to. If we’re doing this, you should know what you’re getting into.”
He doesn’t correct me. Just nods, his eyes steady on mine, and waits.
So I tell him.
“Someone faked an email from my account. Made it look like I’d complained to Modern Culinary about the other chefs in their special issue. The one I was supposed to be the cover story for. Specific complaints about how they were only using me for my ‘look’ and my ‘platform’ rather than my cooking. References to private conversations I’d supposedly had with my agent.” I take a breath, forcing myself to meet his eyes. “By the time we figured out it was fake, the magazine had already pulled me from the cover. Replaced me with Dax Merrick and his fucking avocado toast.”
Tovek’s expression doesn’t change, but I can see the calculation happening behind his eyes. Piecing together the timeline, the implications, the way careers end in our industry.
“The Vegas Restaurant Alliance was waiting for something like this. They released a statement the same day. About ‘standards of professional conduct’ and ‘respecting our culinary traditions.’ Within a week, I’d lost the book deal, the production kitchen lease, and half my sponsors. By the end of the month, I was officially unemployable. At least in any kitchen that mattered to the Alliance.”
I take another sip of tea, letting the bitterness cut through the remembered humiliation. “I had contracts. A lot of them. The book advance, the production deal, the consulting work for Crimson Spice. All of them with cancellation clauses that required me to return the money if I breached ‘professional standards’ or caused ‘reputational harm’ to the brand. Two hundred and fifteen thousand credits, all told. Plus interest, plus penalties, plus the ‘convenience fees’ that appeared once I missed the first payment.”
“Grishnak’s Crimson Financing,” Tovek says quietly.
I nod. “The thirty thousand to Vex is just the most immediately dangerous portion. The kind with kneecaps attached. But the whole thing is a cliff. And I’m running out of time to climb back up.”
