By one-thirty, I’m hopping out of my Audi and into Golden Dragon's lunch rush. Construction workers order triple portions while a paint-spattered woman reads the Times and influencers photograph untouched dumplings. The air hits me—humid, ginger-laced—as kitchen chaos erupts clanging woks, shouted Mandarin, and waitstaff weaving through it all. It’s aggressive and intoxicating, a sensory overload that almost manages to drown out the restless thumping of my heart.
I order Minji’s usual: pork dumplings with scallions and chili oil, mapo tofu, and jasmine rice that she’ll only touch after demolishing half the dumplings. I add spring rolls, remembering how she once stole mine, sauce dripping down her wrist as she grinned. I watch as my order number is scrawled ona ticket and clipped to the rail, then shuffle to the waiting area to kill time scrolling through the news on my phone.
But every few seconds, my thumb hovers over our last text thread, rereading the brief but perfect exchange from this morning. No overthinking, no dramatics—just plans, made and kept. It’s proof that she wants this as much as I do, that I’m not some placeholder in her life, a temporary distraction until real life resumes.
Two tables away, a young mother is trying to wrangle her toddler, who is gleefully mashing sticky rice into his hair. I study them for a moment, half-amused and half-terrified at the concept of parenting someone so tiny and ungovernable. I wonder what Minji would look like in this tableau: would she be stern and efficient, taming chaos with surgical precision, or would she surrender to the absurdity and laugh when the kid inevitably launched a spring roll across the table? The thought is both ridiculous and weirdly comforting.
My phone buzzes, a sharp interruption. It’s Tabitha, my agent, confirming the car service for tomorrow’s airport run and reminding me to pack “at least one nice shirt for press events, no, Aaron, plaid doesn’t count.” I type back a half-assed promise and glance at the clock. Eighteen hours. That’s all I have until three thousand miles, and two time zones wedge themselves between the woman who somehow reset my entire understanding of intimacy in less than a week, and me.
The takeout bag is heavier than expected. I cradle it protectively as I head out onto the street, weaving through the pedestrians like I’m carrying something precious until I make it to my car.
When I arrive at the law firm, my phone pings. It’s like she has a tracking device on me… perfect timing.
Honeybee
Are you here?
Me
I just arrived.
Honeybee
I’ll meet you downstairs.
Me
I can bring it up to you.
Honeybee
No, that’s fine.
I get it—she’s keeping me separate from her work life. Still, there’s a selfish part of me that wants everyone to know I’m the reason behind that rare smile of hers these past six days. From behind my steering wheel, I track her exit from the building—that purposeful walk softening the moment she spots my car. Her stride lengthens. My face splits into a ridiculous grin as she approaches.
She slides in beside me. “You know you can get a ticket for parking here, right?
“I’m well aware, but I’ll pay any ticket when it comes to you.”
“You sure have a sweet tongue. Anyway, that smells incredible.”
I pass her the bag, our fingers brushing. “Special delivery for Manhattan’s most terrifying attorney. Spring rolls included.”
“You remembered.”
“Hard to forget.”
The silence between us feels easy as she pops open a container, steam fogging the windows. I should turn the key, let her get back to her day, but I find myself frozen, watching her bite into a dumpling.
She chews thoughtfully. “You’ve saved me. These meetings today…” She shakes her head.
Minutes pass. “I should head back,” she says, though she makes no move toward the door.
“Of course. Justice waits for no one.”
Her fingers linger on the container lid as she closes it. “Thank you.”
As she reaches for the door handle, I catch her wrist gently. “I can’t convince you to leave early?”
