THE FOURTH PLATE

The golden haze of late afternoon had deepened into the violet-grey of mountain twilight by the time Yan led Xu back towards the warm beacon of Mòfáng's windows. The scent of woodsmoke and damp earth was now richly layered with something utterly mouthwatering – the unmistakable aroma of garlic, ginger, and something savory roasting, cutting through the cool mist like a promise. Yan's nose twitched, her earlier reverence at the Broken Bridge instantly forgotten. "Shīfu cooked!" she declared, breaking into a jog that pulled Xu along the worn path towards the café's welcoming glow. "Smells like victory chicken! He only makes it when Da Chun bags a pheasant!" Xu's stomach rumbled in agreement, the simple village air and the long walk having stoked a deep hunger. The comforting clatter of pots and the deep murmur of Anze's voice drifted out as Yan pushed open the heavy wooden door.

Inside, the air was steamy and fragrant. Anze stood by the wood-fired stove, his sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms dusted with flour. He was deftly transferring crispy-skinned pieces of poultry from a blackened wok onto a large, worn platter already heaped with glistening stir-fried greens and fluffy white rice. The source of the incredible smell was undeniable. Two smaller bowls sat nearby, filled with a clear broth bobbing with delicate mushrooms and slivers of green onion. The scene was domestic, warm, and utterly unexpected after the quiet intensity of the man who had dispatched thieves with brutal efficiency just hours before. "Wash up," Anze instructed without turning, his voice a low rumble that vibrated in the cozy space. "Food's hot." Yan needed no second bidding, darting towards the small sink tucked behind the counter. Xu followed more slowly, shedding her light jacket, the lingering chill of the outside air finally banished by the café's enveloping warmth. She watched Anze arrange the food with a soldier's precision on the large central table usually reserved for villagers – the pheasant pieces artfully piled, the greens vibrant, the broth steaming gently.

Yan bounced back to the table, practically vibrating. "Where's mine, Shīfu? Starving!" She plopped onto a bench, eyeing the platter like a hawk. Anze placed a bowl of broth and a smaller mound of rice in front of her. "Patience, firefly," he said, a hint of dry amusement in his tone. He then placed an identical set before Xu at the opposite bench – broth, rice. Finally, he set a third set at the head of the table, presumably for himself. But then, instead of sitting down, he turned back to the counter. Xu watched, puzzled, as he carefully filled a fourth, larger bowl with a generous portion of rice, topped it with several succulent pieces of pheasant and a hearty serving of greens, and ladled broth into a separate, lidded ceramic pot. He wrapped the pot in a thick, clean cloth, then placed both the bowl and the pot into a sturdy woven bamboo carrier. He secured the lid.

Xu's gaze flickered between the three place settings at the table and the fourth, carefully prepared meal in the carrier. Yan was already shoveling rice into her mouth with undisguised enthusiasm, momentarily distracted. "Anze," Xu asked softly, nodding towards the carrier, "who's the fourth plate for?" Yan paused mid-chew, swallowing quickly. "Oh, that's for Granny Wen," she announced matter-of-factly, reaching for a piece of pheasant. "Shīfu always makes extra. Takes it up to her place right before we eat. Says old bones need hot food more than young mouths." Anze picked up the carrier, his expression unreadable but his actions deliberate. "Her joints stiffen with the evening damp," he said simply, his voice devoid of explanation but heavy with unspoken routine. "Won't be long." He moved towards the door, the carrier held securely. "Don't let Yan demolish everything," he added, a faint ghost of a warning in his eyes aimed at the girl who was already eyeing Xu's untouched pheasant leg. "Hey!" Yan protested, but her mouth was full again. Xu watched him slip out the door, the cool mist swirling briefly inside before the heavy wood closed behind him. The simple act, the quiet dedication woven into the fabric of the evening meal, struck her deeply. It wasn't obligation; it felt like devotion, as natural as the mountain breathing.

Silence settled over the table, broken only by the crackle of the stove and Yan's enthusiastic chewing. Xu picked up her chopsticks, the savory smell finally overriding her contemplation. The pheasant was incredible – tender, perfectly seasoned, the skin crackling with flavor. The greens were fresh and garlicky, the broth light yet deeply comforting. "He's a good cook, isn't he?" Yan stated between bites, her earlier defensiveness gone. "Better than Auntie Mei, but don't tell her I said that. Her cloud cakes are magic, though." Xu smiled, savoring the food. "It's delicious," she agreed, the simple meal tasting like a profound welcome after the day's journey and revelations. She felt a pang of warmth, picturing Anze navigating the dim paths to Granny Wen's house, delivering not just food, but care. They ate in companionable quiet for several minutes, the warmth of the food and the café seeping into their bones. Yan finished first, pushing her bowl away with a satisfied sigh. "Told you. Victory chicken." She leaned back, watching Xu finish her last few bites.

The door opened, letting in a cool draft and Anze. He shrugged off his jacket, hanging it on a peg near the stove. The bamboo carrier was empty. "She ate?" Yan asked immediately. Anze nodded, moving towards the sink to wash his hands. "Cleaned the bowl. Said the ginger in the broth chased the damp out of her knuckles." He dried his hands on a rough towel, then finally approached the table, taking his seat at the head. His own food was still steaming faintly. He picked up his chopsticks, his movements economical. Xu watched him for a moment, the quiet intensity of his focus on the simple act of eating, the lines of his face softened slightly in the lamplight. The mountain soldier, the bridge builder, the cook, the caregiver – the layers were complex and compelling. The silence felt comfortable now, filled with the shared satisfaction of good food and the gentle sounds of the settling night outside – the drip of moisture from the eaves, the distant hoot of an owl.

As Anze finished his meal, Xu stood, gathering the empty bowls. "Least I can do," she said, forestalling any objection. She carried them to the sink, running hot water from the kettle simmering on the stove. Yan yawned hugely, stretching like a cat. "Gonna check on the mules," she announced, though it sounded more like an excuse to escape dish duty. "Trader Zhang gets fussy if they spook at night-owls." She darted out the back door leading towards the small stable area before anyone could respond. Xu smiled, shaking her head. She washed the bowls and chopsticks methodically, the warm water soothing. Behind her, she heard the scrape of Anze's chair as he stood, then the soft clink of the ceramic teapot being lifted from its shelf. She finished the dishes, drying her hands on a cloth as she turned.

Anze was standing near the counter, measuring dark, fragrant tea leaves into the pot. The quiet ritual felt grounding. Xu watched him pour steaming water from the kettle over the leaves, the rich aroma of mountain oolong immediately blooming in the air – deep, earthy, slightly smoky. He set the lid on the pot, leaving it to steep. Instead of moving away, he leaned back against the counter, crossing his arms, his gaze resting on her with a quiet intensity that wasn't uncomfortable, just observant. The lamplight caught the faded scar along his eyebrow. The silence stretched, comfortable but charged with the unspoken weight of the day – the violence at the station, the village tour, the shared meal, the fourth plate delivered into the misty dark.

A spark of playful defiance flickered in Xu, a need to bridge the quiet intensity with something lighter. She straightened her shoulders, adopting an exaggeratedly formal posture. She walked around the counter, standing behind it as if it were a fortress wall, facing Anze who remained leaning against the opposite side, a customer at his own bar. She picked up the still-steeping teapot with mock solemnity. "Welcome to Mòfáng, esteemed traveler," she announced, her voice pitched slightly higher, a playful lilt in it. "Battled the valley shadows, have we? Thirsty work, I imagine." She held the teapot aloft like a prize. "Our finest mountain oolong, hand-plucked by nimble-fingered sprites at dawn, guaranteed to soothe weary limbs and troubled thoughts." She raised an eyebrow, challenging him to play along. "Or perhaps the weary traveler prefers something stronger? We have Granny Wen's infamous 'Mist-Cutter'... though it might render you incapable of finding the path home."

A slow, almost imperceptible smile touched the corners of Anze's mouth. It wasn't broad, but it transformed his face, softening the hard lines, reaching his eyes. He uncrossed his arms, placing his palms flat on the countertop, leaning forward slightly, playing the part of the road-worn patron. His voice, when he spoke, was a low, gravelly murmur, perfectly serious yet utterly engaged in the charade. "Oolong will suffice, proprietor," he intoned, his dark eyes holding hers. "The shadows were... persistent today. Need a clear head for the climb back." He tilted his head slightly. "Heard the proprietor brews a decent pot. Hope the rumors hold true." He tapped the counter with two fingers. "And none of that sprite-plucked nonsense. Mountain tea, plain and strong. Pay extra for fairy tales."

Xu poured the fragrant amber liquid into one of the heavy clay cups, the steam curling upwards. She slid it across the smooth wood towards him, meeting his gaze with feigned professional pride. "One cup of plain, strong, decidedly un-magical mountain oolong," she declared. "Brewed by these very hands, no sprites involved. Though I can't guarantee Granny Wen didn't whisper a blessing over the leaves when I wasn't looking." She rested her own elbows on the counter, mirroring his posture, the counter the only thing between them. "That'll be... one story of the road. Payment upfront." She held out her hand, palm up, her expression expectant, the playful glint firmly in her grey eyes.

Anze picked up the cup, the warmth seeping into his hands. He took a slow sip, his gaze never leaving hers over the rim. He swallowed, the silence stretching for a beat, filled only by the crackle of the stove and the soft sigh of the night wind outside. He lowered the cup, setting it down with deliberate care. "Stories are expensive, proprietor," he rumbled, his voice dropping even lower, the soldier's cadence momentarily resurfacing beneath the customer's guise. "Especially stories involving masked men and valley stations." He leaned a fraction closer, the lamplight casting deep shadows on his face. "You sure you can afford the price?" The question hung in the warm, tea-scented air, playful on the surface, but beneath it, an offering, a tentative opening into the shadows he usually kept guarded. The café, the lamplight, the shared game, felt like a space where such prices might, just might, be negotiable. Xu held his gaze, the playful challenge still there, but softened now with understanding. "Try me," she said quietly, her hand still open on the counter. The game had shifted, imperceptibly, into something far more real. The mountain oolong steamed between them, a silent witness.