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The soft clink of porcelain and low murmurs of conversation filled the warmly lit dining room. Every table was set with precision, each flower in its vase perfectly angled. Behind the counter, Keqing adjusted the collar of her uniform with one hand and reviewed an order ticket with the other, brows furrowed in silent concentration.
At precisely 6:00 PM, the bell above the front door chimed.
“Welcome,” Keqing called automatically, not looking up.
She didn’t need to.
The same woman had entered the restaurant every Tuesday and Thursday for the past three weeks—quiet steps, lavender hair, and eyes that always lingered on Keqing just a little too long.
“Table for one,” Ganyu said, her voice delicate and polite. “If it’s not too much trouble.”
Keqing nodded without hesitation. “Right this way.”
Ganyu followed her to a small table near the window, her fingers clasped in front of her, clutching the sleeves of her cardigan like she needed something to hold. She sat down gracefully, unfolding the menu even though she didn’t need to.
Keqing stood nearby, pen in hand.
“Same as usual?” she asked.
Ganyu glanced up, startled. “Oh—you remember?”
“I remember all my regulars,” Keqing said, tone even. But something flickered in her gaze—something curious. “The almond tofu with sautéed lotus root, right?”
Ganyu smiled—nervously, but bright. “Yes. It’s… delicious.”
Keqing nodded once, then walked away, heels clicking briskly on the tile.
Another Tuesday.
Keqing stood behind the counter with her arms crossed, watching as Ganyu took her usual seat by the window. Always alone. Always early. Always offering that soft smile like she wasn’t sure if she was welcome, and always ordering the same exact thing.
Vegetarian almond tofu with sautéed lotus root. No modifications. No feedback. No complaints.
Keqing tapped the side of her pen against the order pad. Something about it—it didn’t sit right with her.
She prided herself on knowing her customers. Their tastes, their quirks. The man who always asked for extra chili oil. The couple who split their dessert but only touched the left half. And Ganyu…
Ganyu never asked for anything. Never left a single bite on her plate. Never offered a single comment. Just thanked her, tipped extravagantly, and left with a slight bow like she’d been honored just to be there.
At first, Keqing thought she was just shy. Then she thought maybe she had dietary restrictions. But now?
Now, she wasn’t sure.
She moved to the kitchen, flipping the ticket to the back of the line. “Almond tofu again,” she told the line chef. “Extra careful plating.”
“Same customer?” one of the servers asked casually.
Keqing nodded. “Table six.”
“She really likes your food, huh?” another teased.
Keqing said nothing.
Later, she walked the dish out herself, as she always did. It was a habit now, unspoken. When she set the plate down in front of Ganyu, their eyes met—just for a second too long. Ganyu’s fingers twitched on her napkin.
“Thank you,” she said softly.
Keqing’s gaze dropped briefly to the dish, then back to Ganyu’s face. Her lips parted—she was going to ask. Just a simple question. Do you actually enjoy this?
But instead, she said, “Let me know if there’s anything you’d like adjusted.”
Ganyu’s smile was so immediate it almost seemed rehearsed. “It’s perfect.”
Keqing walked away, unsettled.
The dining room was unusually quiet that evening, which only made Ganyu’s entrance more noticeable.
Keqing didn’t turn around immediately, but she knew it was her. She could recognize the soft sound of those particular flats against the tiled floor, the polite tone she used with the host, the barely-there laugh she gave when asked if she wanted her “usual.”
By the time Ganyu reached her table, Keqing was already moving toward the kitchen with the order in hand.
She hesitated at the door.
Instead of pinning the ticket like she always did, she held it in her hand for a long moment, staring at the neat, familiar handwriting.
Something felt... off.
She walked back into the kitchen and pulled the cooler open. Tofu. Lotus root. She stared at the ingredients like they held some secret she wasn’t getting.
Why this dish? Ganyu never asked for a change. Never complimented any specific flavor. She didn’t even pause to taste it before beginning. It was the most forgettable dish on the menu—Keqing only kept it out of courtesy for vegetarian diners. No one ever asked for it twice. No one except Ganyu.
The dish was plated perfectly. Balanced. Technically flawless.
But for the first time, Keqing found herself staring at it with faint irritation.
She brought the plate out herself again.
“Thank you,” Ganyu said, folding her hands in her lap. “It looks wonderful, as always.”
Keqing nodded curtly, but didn’t leave right away. She lingered. Her eyes drifted to the dish, then back to Ganyu’s face.
And for just a second—just one flicker—she caught it.
The tiniest twitch of Ganyu’s mouth before she picked up her chopsticks. That brief pause. The subtle shift in posture. It wasn’t excitement. It was bracing.
Keqing’s eyes narrowed. “You’ve been ordering this for weeks,” she said.
Ganyu blinked. “Oh—well, yes. It’s very good.”
“Is it?” Keqing shot, like an arrow.
She didn’t mean for it to sound that sharp, but it came out before she could stop herself.
Ganyu’s hand froze, chopsticks hovering above the tofu. Her eyes darted up to meet Keqing’s. For a heartbeat, she looked like a rabbit caught in a lanternlight.
Then the smile returned. Softer, shakier. “I think it’s… very balanced.”
Keqing stared at her a second longer. Then she simply said, “Enjoy your meal,” and turned back to the kitchen.
But the question lingered behind her eyes long after she left the dining room.
The smell of chili oil and roasted garlic clung to the air. Keqing had barely stepped through the back entrance of Xiangling’s restaurant before the other woman greeted her with an enthusiastic wave and a spatula in hand.
“You’re early!” Xiangling grinned. “Come to steal some recipes?”
“No. I’m here for lunch. And peace.”
“You’re not getting peace. You’re getting spice.” Xiangling turned back to the stove, flipping something in a wok like it owed her money. “You look annoyed. Who do I have to fight?”
Keqing sat down with a sigh. “No one. Just... a customer.”
“Ohhh,” Xiangling said, without looking. “That kind of annoyed.”
Keqing narrowed her eyes. “Don’t say it like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you know something.”
“I do know something,” Xiangling said cheerfully. “You’ve been complaining about vegetarian substitutions for three weeks, and that’s not like you. You’re usually proud of your seasonal board.”
Keqing groaned. “I don’t mind vegetarians. I mind her. She keeps coming in and ordering things I know don’t suit her palate. I’ve watched her eat things with the expression of someone solving a hostage negotiation.”
Xiangling turned off the stove. “But she finishes it?”
“Every time. And tips like she’s buying my forgiveness.”
“Maybe she’s just polite.”
“Or maybe she’s punishing herself for something,” Keqing muttered, then paused. “She also stopped going to your place, by the way.”
Xiangling raised a brow. “Wait—Ganyu?”
Keqing froze. “You know her?”
“She used to come to my place all the time. Quiet type. Orders modestly. Always looked like she was thinking about three things at once.” Xiangling squinted. “Wait, she’s your regular?”
Keqing looked vaguely betrayed. “You could’ve warned me.”
“You never mentioned a name!”
“She doesn’t say much.”
“Well, apparently she’s saying something with her stomach.”
Keqing let her head drop to the counter with a dull thud.
Xiangling softened. “You don’t really mind, do you?”
Keqing’s voice was muffled. “I didn’t think I did. But now I can’t stop noticing her. She sits there like she’s waiting for a disaster and somehow still smiles every time I check on her. It’s like she’s trying so hard, and I don’t even know why she keeps coming back.”
Xiangling was quiet for a beat.
Then she said, “Maybe you should ask.”
Keqing looked up. “What?”
“Maybe I should ask,” Xiangling states flippantly. “But you’re a chef. You’re good at reading people’s tastes. If she’s not there for the food, what’s left?”
Keqing stared at her.
Then slowly sat up. “…You think she likes me?”
Xiangling grinned. “Only one way to find out.”
It was supposed to be a quiet afternoon. The lunch rush had passed, and the restaurant had settled into a calm lull. Keqing was in the kitchen, inspecting new produce deliveries when she heard the unmistakable sound of Xiangling’s voice cut through the dining room.
Loud. Animated. And just the tiniest bit accusing.
She frowned.
“So let me get this straight,” Xiangling was saying. “You stopped coming to my place—where I made you actual flavor-forward vegetarian dishes, thank you very much—to come here and eat tofu you clearly don’t like?”
Keqing stepped just far enough out of the kitchen to peek.
There was Xiangling, standing over Ganyu’s table like she’d been summoned by divine wrath and righteous culinary offense. Ganyu, meanwhile, looked absolutely frozen, her chopsticks hovering halfway between her plate and her mouth.
“Xiangling,” Ganyu whispered, “please lower your voice—”
“Oh no. No, I will not lower my voice, Miss High-and-Mighty Qixing Secretary-slash-Rich-Girl—what kind of nonsense are you pulling, anyway?” Xiangling jabbed a finger at her. “You ghosted my restaurant! And now you’re sitting here eating this bland tofu like it’s penance or something?”
“I just…” Ganyu was pink in the face now, eyes flickering toward the kitchen. “I didn’t mean to offend anyone—”
Xiangling huffed. “You didn’t offend me. I just want to know why. Why this restaurant? Why this dish? Why her?”
Ganyu said nothing.
Xiangling tilted her head, putting her hands on her hips. “It’s Keqing, isn’t it?”
Ganyu nearly choked.
“I knew it,” Xiangling muttered under her breath. “She doesn’t even do a proper chili reduction—”
“Xiangling,” came Keqing’s voice, cool and sharp from the kitchen entrance.
Both women froze. Ganyu looked mortified. Xiangling looked like she’d just been caught stealing buns off a cooling tray.
Keqing’s expression was unreadable.
“I’d appreciate it if you didn’t harass my customers during business hours,” she said.
Xiangling straightened. “Then maybe your customer shouldn’t be lying about liking your food for six weeks straight just to flirt.”
Keqing’s eyes shifted to Ganyu—wide-eyed, pink-cheeked, and absolutely, utterly silent.
Keqing turned back toward the kitchen, her tone neutral. “I’ll finish the next order.”
The restaurant had emptied for the night. Chairs stacked. Lights dimmed. The silence settled in like a second skin.
Keqing stood behind the counter, drying a glass with slow, methodical movements. She wasn’t thinking about the dishes. She was thinking about her.
About Ganyu.
Who, despite everything, had stayed behind.
She was still at her usual table, hands folded in her lap, not touching the untouched second plate of almond tofu. It sat cold under the soft glow of the pendant light, forgotten.
Keqing finally set the glass down.
She walked over slowly, heels tapping against the quiet floor. Ganyu looked up the moment she got close. Her eyes were wide again, uncertain, but she didn’t look away.
Keqing didn’t sit. She stayed standing, arms at her sides, voice quiet.
“Do you actually like the food?”
Ganyu blinked. “I—what?”
“You’ve been coming here for a long time. Ordering the same thing. Eating every bite. You tip like someone trying to apologize for something. So tell me—do you actually enjoy it?”
Ganyu opened her mouth. Closed it. Her fingers tightened around the napkin in her lap.
“I…” she whispered. “I meant to.”
“That’s not an answer.”
There was a long silence.
Then Ganyu looked down, her voice barely audible.
“I didn’t come for the food.”
Keqing’s expression didn’t change. She waited.
Ganyu’s breath hitched. She raised her head to look Keqing directly in the eyes, sunset gaze wide and imploring. “I came for you.”
Keqing’s heart paused.
“I thought—I mean, you’re always so calm. So put-together. So charming. Professional. I liked being here, even if I didn’t like the food. I just…” She shook her head, then added, voice rising in panic, “I’m sorry. I know it’s stupid. I didn’t mean for it to go on this long, and I didn’t know how to say anything, or how to tell you, and now I’ve made it weird—”
Keqing stepped back slightly, like she’d been physically hit with the words. Ganyu immediately scrambled to her feet.
“I’m sorry,” she repeated. “That wasn’t fair. I wasn’t fair. Just—forget it, okay?”
She gave a stiff little bow and turned toward the door without waiting for a response.
Keqing didn’t follow her.
She just stood there, stunned, the question still hanging unanswered in the air.
Xiangling’s restaurant was always warm. The kind of warmth that came from too many spices in the air, a too-loud kitchen, and the occasional laughter echoing from somewhere in the back. Comforting. Distracting.
Ganyu sat alone near the window, nursing a bowl of delicate vegetable congee.
It tasted good. Better than good. But she wasn’t really tasting it.
She stirred it absently with her spoon, watching steam curl upward and disappear into nothing.
Xiangling approached with a pitcher of water, leaning against the edge of the table.
“So,” she said, carefully casual. “You’re back.”
Ganyu nodded, not quite looking at her. “Mm.”
“I take it the confession didn’t go so well?”
Ganyu’s ears went red instantly. “I didn’t mean to confess. It just… slipped out.”
Xiangling raised a brow. “Yeah. You probably exploded or something.”
Ganyu groaned and dropped her head into her hands. “I want to disappear.”
“Well, don’t,” Xiangling said, sliding the water down and plopping into the seat across from her. “Because I just redesigned the vegetarian menu for you, and I’m not letting it go to waste.”
Ganyu peeked at her through her fingers. “You didn’t have to do that…”
“I know,” Xiangling shrugged. “But I wanted to. Also, you really need to eat something you actually enjoy for once.”
Ganyu gave a weak laugh. “Thanks.”
A moment of quiet passed between them.
Then Xiangling said, more softly, “You know she didn’t stop you.”
Ganyu stilled.
“She could’ve said no. She could’ve told you to leave right away. But she didn’t.”
Ganyu looked down at her bowl, heart twisting.
“…Do you think she hates me now?”
“No,” Xiangling said without hesitation. “I think she’s probably still standing in her kitchen trying to process the fact that the very polite, very rich, very beautiful girl who’s been haunting her restaurant for six weeks finally told her she had a crush.”
Ganyu said nothing. Her cheeks burned.
“But,” Xiangling added, pointing a chopstick at her, “don’t expect her to come running. This is Keqing we’re talking about.”
“…What if I stay here from now on?”
“Then I guess I’ll keep feeding you here,” Xiangling said with a smile, “but you’ll still have tofu regrets.”
The dining room was empty.
Not just quiet—empty.
No Ganyu.
Keqing stood by the register, arms folded, staring at the little white envelope that had been left on the corner of the table where Ganyu used to sit. A tip, as always. Generous. Unnecessary.
She hadn’t even noticed Ganyu slipping it down.
Keqing picked it up. Slipped it into the drawer. Didn’t count it.
Then she sat at the edge of that same table and stared across at the empty chair.
This was ridiculous.
It was just a customer. A regular customer. An awkward, overly polite, vegetarian customer who never complained, never asked for anything beyond what was on the menu. Always smiled. Always looked like she wanted to say something more but never did.
And then she did.
Keqing leaned back in the chair and closed her eyes.
The confession hadn’t been loud. It hadn’t been dramatic. It had just… slipped out. The way you knock a glass off the counter and only realize after it’s shattered that you cared about it at all.
She hadn’t said anything.
She hadn’t known what to say.
Keqing didn’t think of herself as slow. She liked facts. Logic. Sharp, clear things that made sense.
But nothing about Ganyu had ever made sense.
Ganyu, who didn’t like the food and still ate it. Who didn’t seem to belong anywhere but kept showing up anyway. Who had looked so hopeful and terrified in the same breath when she’d said—
“I came for you.”
Keqing rubbed a hand over her face.
Why did that line keep replaying in her head like it meant something more than it did?
Why did it feel like the moment she didn’t respond, something important slipped away?
She stood abruptly, grabbing the clean rag from the counter and wiping down the spotless table again. Just something to do. Something to fill the space.
But no amount of wiping could erase the feeling that lingered.
That she was missing something.
Two days passed.
Keqing didn’t see Ganyu.
Not at lunch. Not during the three o’ clock lull. Not at dinner when the lights dimmed and the tables filled and then emptied again.
The restaurant felt... lopsided without her.
It was ridiculous. She knew that. She had work to do. A schedule to keep. A kitchen to run. But between orders and receipts, her mind kept drifting. Back to lilac hair and hesitant smiles. Back to that quiet voice saying: “I came for you.”
That night, Keqing walked home without taking the usual route. Her feet led her somewhere else.
She didn’t mean to go near Xiangling’s restaurant. She wasn’t even sure if she was going to stop.
But when she reached the corner and glanced through the window, she saw her.
Ganyu.
Seated by the wall. Steam curling from a ceramic bowl in front of her. Her posture was as still as always, hands folded in her lap, eyes lowered. She looked like she was pretending to be fine.
Keqing hesitated.
And then she stepped inside.
The door chimed. Warm spices hit her like a wall. A few heads turned—Xiangling’s among them.
Keqing nodded politely, ignoring the surprised flicker in her friend’s eyes.
She didn’t approach Ganyu right away. Just walked toward the counter like she belonged there. Ordered a tea she didn’t need. Waited.
Xiangling came up beside her, voice low.
“She’s been quiet.”
“I figured.”
“She thinks she ruined everything.”
Keqing glanced at her. “Did she?”
Xiangling shrugged. “That’s your call.”
Keqing turned toward the window again.
She could leave now. Slip out, pretend she never came. But then she thought about all the weeks Ganyu had come to her, quietly, every day. All the silent effort. All the things she didn’t say.
It was Keqing’s turn.
She walked toward the table slowly. Each step felt heavier than it should’ve.
Ganyu noticed her halfway there. Her head snapped up, eyes wide—startled, nervous.
Keqing sat down across from her without asking.
The silence sat between them for a beat.
Then Keqing spoke, calm and even.
“I’ve been thinking about what you said.”
Ganyu opened her mouth, probably to apologize again.
Keqing didn’t let her.
“And I realized,” she continued, “that I’ve been treating this like it’s a business transaction. Like you’re just another customer. But you’re not.”
Ganyu blinked. Her lips parted. No sound came out.
“I didn’t know how to respond,” Keqing admitted. “I was surprised. But I’m not ignoring you now.”
Finally, Ganyu found her voice. “So... what now?”
Keqing looked at her. Really looked at her. Then, softly:
“Now, I ask if you’d like to have dinner. With me. Not as my customer. Just… as Ganyu.”
It was late. Too late for normal customers.
But Keqing hadn’t turned the lights off yet.
Ganyu sat at the counter this time, legs crossed at the ankles, chin resting in one palm as she watched Keqing move around the kitchen.
They weren’t speaking. Not in a bad way—just the quiet that settles between people who’ve stopped needing to fill space for the sake of it.
“You’re doing it again,” Keqing said, not looking up.
“Doing what?”
“Staring like you’re memorizing the shape of my elbows.”
Ganyu smiled, unbothered. “They’re very elegant elbows.”
Keqing gave her a look. “Ganyu.”
“Okay, okay,” Ganyu murmured, then took a sip of tea. “I just like watching you cook. Is that a crime?”
Keqing didn’t answer. Just plated a small dish and slid it over the counter.
“I made something for you to try.”
Ganyu blinked. “It’s… not on the menu.”
“Of course it’s not. I improvised.”
Suspicious and flattered, Ganyu picked up a fork. It was something warm and delicate and gently spiced—vegetarian, clearly.
She took a bite. Chewed slowly.
Then paused.
“…You made this?”
Keqing raised a brow. “Why do you sound surprised?”
“No, I just—” Ganyu laughed, covering her mouth. “It’s really good.”
Keqing smirked. “Are you saying my food’s been bad this whole time?”
“Yes,” Ganyu said immediately.
Keqing blinked.
Ganyu flushed. “I mean—not bad, just… not suited to me. I didn’t want to offend you.”
Keqing leaned on the counter, amused. “You came to my restaurant every day for six weeks to eat food you didn’t like. Just to see me.”
“Yes.”
Keqing stared at her.
Then she shook her head, a soft exhale escaping her lips. “You’re ridiculous.”
“I know.”
“But,” Keqing said, nudging the plate toward her, “you came back anyway.”
Ganyu smiled again, eyes warm. “You’re worth it.”
And for once, Keqing didn’t have anything sarcastic to say.
She just let herself smile back.