Chapter Content
As dinner rolled on, the atmosphere inside the grand dining hall softened into something warm and intimate, like the hotel itself had leaned in closer to listen. Laughter echoed off stone walls, silverware chimed against porcelain, and the hum of conversation layered over itself like music. An elite team of chefs and pâtissiers had outdone themselves—every dish tasted like intention, memory, and care. One bite in and people were clutching their chests, half-joking about crying, half-actually doing it.
Jordan and his mom sat side by side, sharing plate after plate of dishes Jordan only ever had growing up. Peking duck with crackling skin, mapo tofu that numbed the tongue just right, char siu glossy and sweet, xiao long bao bursting with soup. Jordan watched his mom carefully lift one dumpling, her hands trembling ever so slightly. When she took a bite, her eyes welled up immediately.
"I haven't tasted this since before we left," she whispered in Mandarin, dabbing at her eyes with a napkin.
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