He gripped the wheel tighter. “Lunar phase?”
“Optimal lighting for wedding photos.” Her phone buzzed. Another text from her mother. A string of baby emojis followed by question marks. “Oh God. She’s already picking nursery colors.”
“Perhaps we should have kept the Le Bernardin reservation.”
“Too late now.”
The neighborhood shifted around them as they drove deeper into Queens, Manhattan’s sharp edges softening into familiar streets. Corner bodegas with hand-painted signs. Laundromats spilling warm air onto sidewalks. The particular chaos of Northern Boulevard, where four different languages competed on every block of storefronts.
This was where she’d grown up. Where she’d done homework in the restaurant’s back booth while her parents worked eighteen-hour days. Where her grandmother had taught her to fold dumplings, patient fingers guiding her clumsy ones, stories flowing in Mandarin about fox spirits and hungry ghosts.
Feng’s Kitchen came into view, and her shoulders dropped despite her nerves.
Cheerful red awning, faded just enough to show its age. The golden dragon sign her father had commissioned when she was seven, gleaming in the evening light. Through the windows, she could see the familiar bustle: servers weaving between tables, steam rising from the kitchen pass, her parents’ life’s work in motion.
The smell hit her when Victor opened his door. Ginger. Garlic. The particular sweetness of char siu roasting. Fifteen years of memories wrapped in one breath.
Fifteen years. The same amount of time Lilith claimed to have been “nurturing arrangements.”
Ava pushed the thought away. Tonight was about Victor meeting her parents. Tomorrow she could panic about demon conspiracies.
Victor parked with the precision of someone calculating escape routes, sliding the Tesla into a space that shouldn’t have fit. He studied the restaurant through the windshield, his expression unreadable.
“Any last-minute warnings?”
“Don’t mention Peter Chang’s. Dad keeps a mental list of every customer who’s ever said they have better soup dumplings. He’s still not speaking to my cousin Jeffrey.”
“How long ago was that?”
“2019.” She unbuckled her seatbelt. “Also, Mom will try to feed you until you burst. It’s how she shows love. Refusing seconds is basically saying you hate her.”
“Noted.” He paused, hand on the door. “Ava. I want them to like me.”
“Just be yourself.” She reconsidered. “Maybe a slightly less ancient, demonic version of yourself.”
“I’ll do my best.”
He came around to open her door. His hand settled on her back as they walked toward the restaurant, and the familiar warmth made her mark pulse beneath her dress.
The bell above the door chimed, and her mother materialized before it stopped ringing.
Mei-Lin Feng stood barely five feet tall, but she radiated enough energy to fill a stadium. Her hair was pulled back in its perpetual practical bun, a few gray strands she refused to dye escaping near her temples. Her apron, the good one, Ava noticed, with the embroidered dragons, was spotless despite the dinner rush.
“Ava! You’re late! I’ve been holding table twelve for an hour!” Her eyes locked onto Victor with laser focus. “This is him? The boyfriend who appeared from nowhere after years of ‘I’m too busy for dating, Ma’?”
“Mom…”
“He’s tall.” She circled Victor like a shark evaluating prey. “Good bone structure. Excellent posture.” She stopped in front of him, craning her neck to meet his eyes. “Are those real Italian shoes?”
“Mrs. Feng.” Victor executed a slight bow that somehow managed to be both formal and charming. “Thank you for having me. Your restaurant is lovely.”
Her mother studied him. “You practice that in the car?”
“Extensively.”
A smile cracked across her face, the real one, not the polite version she gave customers. “I like honest men. Come, come.” She raised her voice toward the kitchen, cutting through the dinner noise like a blade. “Robert! Our daughter brought the mysterious boyfriend!”
Her father emerged from the kitchen, wiping his hands on his apron. Where her mother was hurricane energy, her father was steady earth: slower, quieter, but immovable once he’dmade up his mind. Robert Feng had the kind of face that revealed nothing until he wanted it to. He studied Victor with the same careful attention he gave to perfecting a new recipe.
