The dinner rush had never been frenetic tonight; it came in slow, comfortable waves enough to keep the pots warm and the staff moving, but not so much that anyone felt drowned.
The long wooden tables still smelled faintly of sesame oil and soy; the air hummed with the low conversations of neighbors and a student or two cramming over a late bowl of noodles.
Outside, lanterns swayed in a soft evening breeze and the street noise thinned to the occasional bicycle bell.
Mianmian wiped the last plate she had on the pass, slid it into the sink, and watched steam curl up from the emptied bowls like tiny ghosts.
Cheongsam, sleeves rolled to his elbows, stacked the remaining baozi trays into the steamer and checked the coals in the little charcoal brazier.
The fridge hummed quietly in the corner, a small domestic miracle that made her smile every time she heard it.
