“Dragon peppers,” Tovek says from behind me. “The real ones. From the southern volcanic region.”
I’m holding three perfect dragon peppers, each one deep crimson with their distinctive curl at the bottom that gives them their name.
They’re about the size of my thumb, their skin slightly translucent so you can see the seeds inside. Contraband, technically. Imported without the proper permits, the kind of find that makes chefs fight at food festivals.
“How did you—?” I start, then stop, suddenly aware of how they got here. “You smuggled chili peppers across an international border.”
Khanner shrugs, but there’s a pleased set to his shoulders. “It’s not smuggling when you’re a dragonkin.”
Sunny snorts. “It’s absolutely smuggling, but who’s going to question a dragon?” She pulls off her jacket to reveal a simple black top underneath. She’s wearing loose linen pants and elegant flats, her hair down and glossy past her shoulders. “Especially a dragon with a hungry mate,” she says, blinking innocently.
The hint is not subtle. “You’re staying for dinner,” I say, meaning it completely. “Hell, for dragon peppers, you’re staying for however long you want. Breakfast, lunch, the entire time you’re in the city.” I’m moving toward the kitchen, peppers in hand. “Tovek, we need to order in. Or go out. Or?—”
“How about,” Tovek says, his hand settling between my shoulder blades, “we order carryout from the bar? Greta’s working tonight, and she’ll make sure we get the good stuff.”
Of course. Order food from our own restaurant, where Greta will ensure it’s perfect, where we won’t have to worry about ingredients or timing or any of the complications that come with cooking for people who matter.
“Yes,” I say, reaching for my phone. “That. Exactly that.”
Twenty minutes later, we’re sprawled across the living room. Picnic on the coffee table, sitting on the floor, because apparently that’s what we do now.
And it makes sense. The food from the bar is perfect. Mapo tofu, my chili oil noodles, Greta’s spin on spring rolls that she refuses to put on the menu because “people expect spring rolls to be boring.”
“So,” Sunny says, spearing a piece of tofu, “the cook-off. First place. Not even acknowledging there was a tie, by the way. You were first, I know it. Tell me everything.”
And we do. The chaos, the drama, the moment we knew we’d won.
Sunny laughs, clapping for us. “That’s my girl!”
She reaches for her wine, then stops, her eyes on my hair. I just took it out of its clip, and it now falls like a curtain around my face. “Holy shit. Is that?—”
I nod, realizing what she’s seen. “Red. Again. Or, you know, working on it.”
The streaks are subtle. Just a few bright lines near my face, the vibrant red that became my brand before everything fell apart.
“I’m taking my time,” I say, reaching for a deflection. “Double-processing black hair is a nightmare.”
“It’s perfect,” she says. “Especially getting back into your spicy era. The red is everything.”
“Speaking of spicy,” Khanner interjects. “I’m curious about the peppers. Will you use them in a dish? Or are they more of a trophy situation?”
“Both.” I reach for the container. “I’m thinking a dry chili oil. Something that captures the heat but also the complexity. Then we’ll use it for everything. Noodles, obviously. Maybe a marinade for the pork belly. Definitely the dumpling dipping sauce.”
Tovek nods. “We could do a special. One night only, dragon pepper menu. Limited quantities, premium pricing.”
Khanner hums a little. “Or, you could bottle it. Sell it alongside the other oils. Limited edition, collectors only.”
The idea hangs between us. Not just a product or even a possibility, but a recognition of what we’re building. The bar, the kitchen, the alchemy that happens when we work side by side.
“We could,” I say, picturing it. The label, the type of bottle, the way it would look on the shelf next to our other offerings. “After the expansion. When we have the space.”
“To the expansion, then,” Sunny says, raising her glass again. “And having options.”
We clink our glasses together and settle back into our places. Sunny and me on the couch, Tovek and Khanner on the floor, surrounded by takeout containers and half-empty glasses. The food from the bar is perfect, the company even better, the future we’re building taking shape piece by careful piece.
It’s been two weeks since Sunny’s visit. Two weeks of careful calculations and watching the numbers move in the right direction.
The cook-off coverage did exactly what we hoped. My socials back in the green, the bar’s reservation list stretching to three weeks out, the leverage that Grishnak held over us weakening with each new feature and interview.
