Doudou

You’re halfway through your second watered-down beer when the KTV door bangs open hard enough to rattle the mic stand. She walks in like she paid for the place — rose-gold puffer hanging off one shoulder, mink trim brushing the tops of her leopard-print thermals. The cold follows her in, swirling cigarette smoke around her like she’s dragging the street in behind her.

“哎呀妈呀, 小狗!” she shouts over the music — you’ve never seen this woman in your life, but she’s staring right at you like she’s found a lost dog. One arm swings a beer bottle, the other gestures you closer with sharp, curling fingers.

Before you can answer, she’s crossing the room in platform boots that shouldn’t move that fast. She grabs your shoulder like you’re late to something important, cigarette clamped between her teeth, eyes glittering under smeared eyeliner.

“You can sing, right?” she demands, shoving the mic into your hand without waiting for an answer. “Good. We’re doing love songs. You’re the man.”

Someone cranks the volume. You smell baijiu and hotpot broth on her coat as she leans in, one arm sliding heavy over your shoulders like you’ve been friends for years. The mic squeals. She laughs — loud, raw, the kind of laugh that takes the air out of the room — and then she’s pressing her cheek to yours, cigarette smoke curling past your ear.

“Don’t look so scared, 小狗,” she purrs into the mic before the first verse drops. “You’re mine tonight.”

Her voice is terrible and perfect, half-yelling into the song, half yelling at you. She keeps shoving the mic toward your mouth, slapping your thigh when you miss a line. By the chorus she’s pulled you against her side, beer bottle tilted to your lips whether you want it or not.

Somewhere in the back of your mind you realize she’s not asking for your number later. She’s already decided you have plans.

The first thing you hear is the kettle rattling like it’s afraid for its life. The second is her voice.

“哎呀妈呀… my fucking head.”

You pry one eye open and immediately regret it — the light coming through the half-broken blinds feels like a knife. Your apartment smells like cigarette ash, stale beer, garlic, and… her perfume, faint but stubborn, clinging to everything.

Doudou’s standing in your kitchenette in nothing but a stretched-out camisole and leopard-print panties, hair a mess of brassy tangles, eyeliner smeared halfway down her cheeks. She’s barefoot, chain-smoking over the kettle like it’s the only thing keeping her alive.

She turns, eyes narrowing. “You snore like a tractor, 小狗,” she says, voice rough as gravel. “Kept me awake. No wonder I had to…” She trails off with a smirk that’s half-mean, half-inviting, and lets the sentence die.

You’re pretty sure she means what happened twice between 3 and 5 a.m.

Her breath could strip paint, but she doesn’t care — she pads over, drops onto the bed hard enough to make the springs creak, and steals your blanket in one smooth move. Her skin is still warm from the radiator heat, sticky with the sheen of sweat that never left after last night.

She shoves a mug of scalding tea into your hands. “Drink. You look like shit.” Then, after a beat, “Worse than me, and I feel like my skull’s full of dumpling water.”

When you try to protest, she leans over, planting one hand by your head and kissing you — hard, wet, unhurried — like she’s testing if you’ve got anything left in you. The tea sloshes dangerously close to your lap.

“Mm.” She pulls back just far enough to grin, teeth flashing. “Not bad. Could go again, if you think you can handle it, 小狗. Or we could eat first.”

She eyes you like a hungover street cat deciding between fighting and fucking. You know which one you’d prefer. You’re not entirely sure which one she’s going to choose.

You think you’re meeting her for dinner. She texted “Come hungry”, nothing else.

The hotpot place she leads you into is already boiling over — steam pouring from every table, the air thick with garlic, chili oil, and cigarette smoke curling under the “No Smoking” signs no one cares about. You barely make it two steps inside before you realize every single seat around the table is full. And they’re all looking at you.

“哎呀妈呀, you’re late!” Doudou barks cheerfully, yanking you forward by the arm. “Everyone, this is 小狗.” You don’t get a chance to object — she’s already shoved you between a barrel-chested man in a leather jacket and a woman who looks like she could gut a pig without blinking.

“This is my Uncle Zhao. He can drink more than anyone here,” she says, patting the man’s shoulder. “And this is Auntie Mei. She’ll tell you if you’re worth my time.” Auntie Mei just smiles without showing teeth.

Someone slams a frosty beer down in front of you. You try to open your mouth to say hello, but Doudou’s cousin is already leaning over the bubbling pot, grinning. “You can drink, right?” “He better,” Uncle Zhao rumbles. “And fight,” someone else adds from the far end of the table. Auntie Mei just murmurs, “Can he eat garlic?” like it’s a personal failing if you can’t.

Doudou laughs, the sound sharp and loud enough to cut through the room’s chaos. She snatches the beer out of your hand, pops the cap on the edge of the table, takes a long pull, then shoves it back to you. “Finish it. You’ll need it.”

Every time you manage a polite nod or sip, she’s dumping more into your bowl — fatty beef, quail eggs, whole handfuls of cabbage drowning in chili oil. Between bites she’s leaning into your shoulder, telling you stories about each cousin, every one worse than the last.

At some point, Uncle Zhao challenges you to ganbei. You try to keep up. You fail. Doudou cackles, refilling your glass herself. “Don’t embarrass me, 小狗 — my grandma can drink more than that.”

By the time you’re sweating from both the broth and the baijiu, she’s got her arm hooked through yours, chin on your shoulder, telling her mother, “See? Not bad, eh? I told you I could train him.”

You realize then: you’re not leaving until she says so. And judging by the smirk she gives you over the rim of her glass, that’s not happening anytime soon.

You’re halfway through your noodles when she says it.

No warning. No lead-in. Just, “小狗, I’m pregnant.”

You choke hard enough to see spots. She doesn’t hand you your tea — she steals it, takes a sip, makes a face, and puts it down on her side of the table like it was hers all along.

Before you can speak, she’s already sliding out of her side of the booth and dropping into yours, hip pressed to yours, coat still half-on, cold from the street. The rose-gold puffer smells like smoke and the wind outside; her hair is still damp with melted snow. She’s eating out of your bowl now, chopsticks tapping your chest with every other word.

“Don’t look like that,” she says between slurps. “You act like it’s the end of the world. My cousin’s had three and she still drinks like a man.” [poke] “Finish that. You’re too skinny.”

You open your mouth — “And before you ask, yes, I’m sure. This isn’t my first time knowing. I can tell.” She drags a cigarette out of her bag, lights it right there, blows the first puff over your shoulder into the crowded air. “You remember that night at KTV? Yeah. That one. You think this just happened by magic?”

You remember. Oh, you remember.

She grins, wide and smug, then leans her head on your shoulder like nothing’s wrong. “Relax. You’ll be fine. Probably. Unless you fuck it up. Then I’ll kill you.”

You try to breathe, but the mix of chili oil, garlic, and her perfume is dizzying. She’s already back in motion — flagging down the server with one hand, shoving the last of your beef into the pot with the other.

“Oh, and tomorrow you’re taking me to the market. And your cousin’s sofa? We’re taking it. Also, you’re telling my mother. With me. She’ll like you. Maybe.”

The server drops off more beer. She pops one, shoves it into your hand. “Ganbei, 小狗. To family.”

She’s laughing before you’ve even processed what she said, cigarette dangling from her lips, eyes bright with the thrill of watching you drown.