Four months after moving in together, her things beside mine in our apartment, her name officially on the bar’s paperwork, and still every time she walks into a room, my chest gets tight in a way that has nothing to do with my orc physiology and everything to do with the woman currently testing the ambient temperature of our fermentation station.
“It’s running three degrees too cold,” she says, adjusting the thermostat with careful precision. “The gochujang base is perfect, but the Szechuan blend needs more heat.” She runs a finger along the edge of the glass jar, calculating fermentation time against ideal temperature. “Two more weeks, minimum. Which gives us exactly enough time to finish the Dragon’s Nest menu and still have a week for Greta to memorize it before we open.”
I nod. “Two weeks. We can make that work.”
“We can make anything work,” she says, moving to the next station. “That’s kind of our thing now.”
She’s right. The past four months have been exactly that. Finding our rhythm, building our future, making things work despite the chaos that comes with running a bar while planning an expansion while figuring out how to live together without killing each other. It hasn’t been perfect. There was the night I accidentally used her special Szechuan peppercorns for the staff meal, the morning she reorganized my spice cabinet without warning. But it’s been real in a way that makes my chest tight when I think about it too much.
The Dragon’s Nest is the culmination of everything we’ve built. A twelve-seat chef’s counter with an omakase-style tasting menu, a private dining room that can be booked for special occasions, and a small retail space where Mei’s chili oils and spice blends will be available for purchase. It’s exactly what we’ve been working toward since the cook-off, since the first-place finish that put us back on the map, since the night we decided that what we’re building is worth protecting.
“The ventilation is perfect,” Mei says, gesturing to the massive hood above the central cooking station. “No more smoke alarms at critical moments. No more Greta threatening to quit because she can’t work in this sauna.”
I laugh. “She threatened to quit twice last week. Once because we ran out of the good vermouth, once because I asked her to wear pants that weren’t ripped at the knees.”
“Valid,” Mei says, reaching for the clipboard where our recipe notes are carefully organized. “Though I’m still not clear on why vermouth matters when all anyone orders is whiskey neat.”
“It’s the principle,” I say. “The good stuff for the regulars, the rail for everyone else.”
She nods and turns back to her station. That’s when I notice it. The flash of color that catches the light from the industrial fixtures overhead. Her hair is red again. Not the subtle highlights she’s been gradually reintroducing over the past months, but the full, fiery crimson that was her signature during her rise as the Noodle Queen. It falls past her shoulders in a straight curtain, the shade that makes her skin look warmer, her eyes brighter, her presence somehow both exactly the same and completely transformed.
She catches me looking. Then she raises an eyebrow in that way that always makes my stomach do things it has no business doing.
“What?” she asks, reaching for a tasting spoon. “Do I have something in my hair?”
I shake my head, not quite trusting my voice. “No. It’s just... red. Again. All the way.”
Her expression shifts, surprise giving way to something more guarded. Then she settles into careful neutrality. “Yeah,” she says. “I figured it was time. The Dragon’s Nest deserves the full experience, don’t you think? Red hair, dragon peppers, the whole comeback story the food bloggers keep talking about.”
It’s not just about the Dragon’s Nest or even about the comeback. It’s about reclaiming something that was taken from her, about standing exactly where she wants to stand regardless of what anyone else thinks. I’ve watched her do it piece by careful piece. First the bar, then the kitchen, then the future we’re building together. Each step a deliberate choice rather than a reaction to circumstance.
“It’s perfect,” I say. “Exactly right.”
She nods and turns back to the chili oil. “Speaking of perfect, it’s time to test batch three. Six weeks of fermentation should be enough to develop the full heat profile, but I want to make sure the sweetness comes through.” She reaches for the jar, hermovements precise as she removes the lid. “Can you get the sesame seeds going? Light toast, no color. We need the nuttiness without the bitterness.”
I move to the small burner at the back of the station, reaching for the pan. The sesame seeds are next to the oil. A small bowl of white seeds that will transform with careful heat into something richer, more complex. I pour them into the pan, watching as they begin to shift from white to gold.
“Tell me about the heat profile,” I say, keeping my voice neutral despite the warmth building in my chest. “Is it front-loaded, or does it build?”
“It starts here,” she says, tapping a spot just behind her front teeth. “Then moves back, then across the tongue. By the time it hits the throat, you’re reaching for the next bite.” She dips a small spoon into the oil, holding it up to the light. “It’s not just heat, though. There’s depth. Complexity. The kind of thing that makes you close your eyes without meaning to.”
I watch as she brings the spoon to her lips, as her expression shifts from careful neutrality to focused appreciation, as a note of satisfaction escapes her throat.
“That’s it,” she says, her voice going rough. “Exactly what I was hoping for. The perfect balance of heat and?—”
“Marry me.”
The words come out before I’ve fully processed them. Not the smooth proposal I’ve been planning for months. Not the champagne at Golden Sun or the private room or any of the careful choreography I’ve rehearsed in my head. Just two words, blurted out while sesame seeds toast and fermentation jars sit open on the counter.
Mei freezes, the spoon still halfway to her mouth. For one long, terrible moment, she says nothing. Just stares at me with those dark eyes that see everything.
Then, “Took you long enough,” she says, setting down the spoon with deliberate care. “I was starting to think you’d never ask.”
The relief hits me like a physical thing, spreading warm through my chest and down into my limbs. Before I can respond, the smell of burning sesame seeds cuts through the moment. I turn back to the pan, finding the seeds well past golden and firmly into charred territory, a thin wisp of smoke rising from the center.
“Shit,” I mutter, reaching for the handle. “The seeds?—”
“Fuck the seeds,” Mei says, moving toward me. “You just proposed. In the middle of recipe testing. With burning sesame seeds.” She’s laughing now, that bright, unexpected sound that makes my chest tight. “It’s perfect. Exactly what I would have expected from you.”
