Chapter 159
The place is alive in that way only restaurants like this can be...thick with voices and laughter, chopsticks clinking against bowls, bursts of steam carrying the smell of garlic and broth into the air until it sticks to your skin. Lantern lights hang low, soft and red, making everything feel warmer than it already is. The centerpiece of our little table is the hotpot, bubbling with a heat that curls steam around us. Jax leans forward, focused.
He pulled me down beside him when we sat, ignoring the space across the table like it wasn’t even an option. So now I’m pressed against his side, knees brushing, the smell of the beer he ordered clinging faintly to his breath every time he speaks. He moves with this easy confidence, tossing in thinly sliced beef, bright curls of vegetables, little dumplings that vanish under the simmer. Like he’s done this a hundred times before.
I watch his hands more than the pot, how he doesn’t waste a single motion. There’s noise everywhere, a thousand things happening at once, and yet all I can think about is how natural it feels to sit like this, side by side, watching the pot bubble over while his thigh stays pressed against mine.
I twirl my beer glass in my hand, watching the way the foam clings to the rim, then glance back at him. “So tell me this, hypothetically...if you ever had your own restaurant, what would it look like? What kind of food would you serve?” My voice comes out light, but the question’s sharper than it sounds. I want to know how his mind works when it’s not just circling survival or me.
He pauses mid-reach, hand hovering over the tray of sides. Then he takes a ladle, scoops up a mix of broth and silky noodles, before handing the steaming bowl to me. He grinds a bit of seasoning over it, like he somehow already knows the ratio I’ll like...then, instead of filling his own, he steals the first bite straight out of my bowl with his chopsticks. He chews, swallows, tossing in a few thin slices of beef after. Only after he’s done with that little ritual does he serve himself.
When his bowl is finally set, he shifts back against the booth and answers like it’s nothing. “Someplace sleek,” he says.
I blink, surprised he’s even playing along. He doesn’t usually entertain my hypotheticals...too many ghosts in his orbit to make room for them. “You mean like, one of those fine dining joints with crystal glasses and waiters in tuxes?”
He huffs a laugh, shakes his head. “Not necessarily. I’d want it to have dimension. But yeah, I’d want it to feel new. Expensive but not stiff.”
That throws me. I let out a short chuckle. “Look at you with your champagne taste. Here I thought you’d be happy with a run down corner joint and a decent grill.”
And I catch it...the way his eyes sharpen, that hidden spark he doesn’t bother hiding fast enough. And suddenly it’s clear. He can claim he doesn’t care, that he’s not built for dreams, but the truth leaks through anyway.
“What about the menu?” I prod.
His voice settles low, like he’s outlining a blueprint only he can see, “It’d have to be exciting, but not pretentious. Something people remember without feeling like they were tricked. No gimmicks, just food that hits.” He pauses, stirs the pot. “Maybe set aside days for specific cuisines, different styles. It’d take a lot of practice, a lot of trial and error. But if you get it right, it’d be good. Really good.”
His words fall casual, but there’s weight behind them, an intensity he probably doesn’t realize is showing. And I’m left staring at him, half in awe, half amused, because for a man who keeps insisting he’s not a dreamer, he sure as hell sounds like one.
I can’t help smiling at the passionate way he says it. “What else?” I ask, tilting toward him. “Paint the picture for me.”
He gives me a look, suspicious and almost scolding, like he knows I’m doing. Like I'm digging deeper than I should.
But after a second, he talks anyway, and the details spill like they’ve been waiting in him....
“I can see you there,” I murmur once he's done trailing off.
He scoffs, bites into a piece of meat and doesn’t reply.
“I mean it,” I press, grinning. “You light up when you talk about it–”
My phone buzzes across the table, cutting me off. Both of us glance at it. It's my dad. His name bold on the screen. I haven’t heard from him in a while. He’s always busy.
I grab it. “Give me a sec,” I tell Jax, before answering. “Hey, Dad.”
“Would you look at that,” comes his familiar, rich laugh. “The boy remembers I exist.”
I grin. “Funny, I was thinking the same thing. You finally remembered you’ve got an offspring somewhere?”
He laughs louder, warm and rolling. “I realized my hair would go completely gray if I kept waiting for you to call.”
“Your hair started greying ages ago,” I shoot back.
“The audacity,” he says, mock wounded. Then, smoothly, “I’ll have you know I used to have hair just as thick as yours. You’ve got my genes, son. Watch out. Won’t last forever.”
I laugh, shaking my head.
“So,” he goes on, “how are you? Work okay? Life?”
I smile, glance sideways at Jax. His eyes are on the hotpot, but his attention’s really on me. “It’s good,” I say into the phone. “Everything’s really good.”
That makes Jax turn, just briefly, before he looks away again.
My dad clears his throat. “I’ll be going home to visit in a couple weeks. Your mother’s been on me about deserting her. I figured I’d better go spend a few days there before she stages a rebellion.”
“That does sound like her,” I say, smiling.
“I miss her,” he admits quietly. “And you too, son.”
The words land softer than I expect. “I miss you too.”
“Perfect!” he says brightly. “Then I had an idea. Why don’t you fly in too? We’ll surprise your mother. She’s stressed over her exhibition, and you showing up will light her up like nothing else can.”
My gaze narrows slightly. “I don’t think I’ll be able to. I already scheduled leave in three weeks. Me and my friends are going to Paris for a concert, I can't take any more days off.”
“What concert?”
He’s always been curious about music, all of it.