“Close,” I gasp against his shoulder. “Tovek?—”
“I know.” His hand finds my chin, forces my eyes to his. “Look at me when you come. I want to see it.”
I do. My orgasm crashes through with unexpected force, back arching, his name in my mouth. He follows immediately, rhythm faltering, body shuddering.
For one perfect moment, we’re completely connected. Then I’m rolling to his side, head finding the crook of his shoulder.
“That was exactly what I needed,” he says, voice hoarse.
I settle against his chest. “Me too. Though next time, maybe skip the three-week buildup? My thighs are going to feel this tomorrow.”
He laughs, that bright unexpected sound. “I’ll make it up to you. Extra breaks during service. Foot rub before bed. Whatever you want.”
“What I want is for you to take a day off. A real one.” I meet his eyes. “No checking in, no texts, no thinking about scallions for next week’s special. You’re burning out, Big Guy. I can see it. And I can’t...” I gesture vaguely.
“Lose me?” His hand covers mine. “That’s not going to happen.”
“It’s already happening. Not the losing—the burning. You’re running on fumes.” I hold his gaze. “I need you. Not the restaurant or the cookbook or the future we’re building. You. Complicated and fierce and completely unwilling to compromise on the things that matter.”
His expression shifts. “You’re right. I’ve been pushing. Harder than I should.” He takes a breath. “It’s not just about the restaurant. It’s about making sure you never have to worry again. About money or security or any of the things that kept you up at night after everything fell apart.”
The words land heavy. This isn’t about work or success. It’s about protection. About making sure what we’ve created can stand regardless of what happens next.
“I’m not worried. Not about money or security or any of it.” My hand finds his chest, over his heart. “Because I’ve got you. And you’ve got me. And together, we can make anything work.”
He pulls me closer. “Together. Always together.”
We lie there, his body warm against mine. Through the window, I can see the neon sign of The Drunken Dragon flickering. Above the bar, the golden whisk from the cook-off shines in the light Tovek installed specifically to highlight it.
But that’s not the most important thing in the room.
That would be him. Warm and solid, breath steady against my hair, organized chaos taking over every corner of my life. Not perfect—nothing about this is perfect, with restaurants and cookbooks and pressure. But real.
“So,” I say, reaching for his hand. “About that day off. I’m thinking sleeping in, followed by absolutely nothing productive, followed by more of what we just did. With breaks for food.”
He smiles, quick flash of teeth and tusk gleam. “Sounds perfect. Exactly what I need.”
epilogue
TOVEK
I wake before the alarm to dragon peppers and garlic sizzling in oil.
The bed’s empty, sheets still warm. I inhale deeply.
Three years together, and Mei still rises before me some mornings, slipping into the kitchen to chase whatever flavor woke her. I’ve memorized her routine. The way she piles her hair on top of her head. The fuzzy slippers she refuses to replace. How she always uses my old t-shirts instead of her own.
My wife. My partner.
When I pad into the kitchen, barefoot and shirtless, I find her exactly where I knew she’d be. Hair flaming red against the kitchen light, one of my shirts hanging to mid-thigh, the noodle tattoo on her thigh visible beneath the hem.
She doesn’t look up. Too absorbed in whatever she’s building at the stove.
“Do not touch that spoon,” she warns without turning. “It’s the perfect consistency and I swear to god, Big Guy, if you fuck with it, I’ll divorce you.”
I lean against the doorframe. “Good morning to you too, Hot Pot.”
She glances over her shoulder, and that smile still gets me. “Morning. Sorry. This oil needs three more minutes or it’ll burn.”
