Across the table, I catch Belforte watching us, a knowing smile playing on his lips. He leans over the table toward Blake, saying something I can't hear over EJ's enthusiastic exclamations about the food he's just tasted.
"Oh my god," William groans beside me, having taken his first bite ofkoshary. "This is incredible."
"Told you," I say, unable to keep the smugness from my voice. I reach for themolokheya, spooning the dark green soup over rice. "Try this next. It's made from jute leaves, but it's got this amazing consistency..."
The meal transforms into a symphony of passing plates, explaining dishes, sharing tastes, celebrating my heritage. Felix demonstrates what he says is the proper technique for scoopingtahiniwith bread. EJ accidentally bites into a whole chili pepper and frantically reaches for water, which only makes it worse until Blake passes him yogurt. Maya discovers a passion for stuffed grape leaves that surprises even her. Tom and Johnson debate the merits of various spice combinations with the seriousness usually reserved for discussing aerodynamic principles.
And through it all, William stays close, his body a constant presence beside mine. His knee pressing against my thigh. His elbow brushing my arm as he reaches for dishes. His voice in my ear, asking questions about ingredients, flavors, memories. Each contact sends ripples of awareness through me, making it increasingly difficult to focus on anything else.
"This genuinely reminds me of my Mom's cooking," I tell him quietly as he tries thebamya—a stew of okra, tomatoes, andlamb. "Not the fancy restaurant version. The real thing, made at home."
William's eyes soften. He knows how rarely I speak of her. "It tastes like love," he says, and somehow, the simple observation doesn't sound cheesy coming from him. "Like someone took their time, cared about every step."
The meal winds down in a comfortable haze of satisfied appetites and easy conversation. Blake leans in, his voice low enough that only I can hear. "Look at what you've created." He nods toward the table. "This culture. You revived what Colton Racing was during the time your father was around."
His words catch me off guard. I've been so focused on results, on the technical improvements, on fighting for our place on the grid, that I've barely noticed the other transformation happening simultaneously—the human one.
"Thank god I got something right," I say, relief flooding through me.
Blake nudges my shoulder gently. "You've got more things right than you give yourself credit for. You need to stop being so harsh with yourself." His eyes, crinkled at the corners from years of laughter and worry lines, hold mine with unwavering certainty. "Fred would be proud of you, Vi. Not just for the points or the sponsors. For this." He gestures to the table. "For bringing heart back to the team."
A lump forms in my throat. I want to respond, but I'm saved by the appearance of a restaurant employee at our table, efficiently clearing empty plates.
"Would you like to see the dessert menu?" he asks, his English perfect but softened with an Arabic accent.
Before I can answer, William leans forward. "Actually, can we try a selection for the table? Somebaklava,kunafa,basbousa, and..." He pauses, glancing at me with a smile that makes my heart skip. "AndOm Alifor the lady here."
I stare at him, surprised.Om Ali—a warm bread pudding with nuts, coconut, and raisins—was my Mom's favorite dessert to make.How could he possibly know that?
The server nods approvingly. "Excellent choices, sir. I'll bring a variety."
As he walks away, I turn to William. "How did you...?"
His expression turns almost shy, a rare glimpse beneath the confident exterior. "You mentioned it once, months ago, I think to Blake back at HQ. I heard it in passing… ended up researching it, and to my surprise… it’s a super sweet dessert. The other desserts… I just picked them at random, so I hope they’re good."
The fact that he remembered a passing comment from a conversation so long ago, filed it away as important—important because it mattered to me—sends warmth spreading through my chest.
He's looking at me now with those honeyed eyes that see too much, that always seem to look past my carefully constructed walls right to the heart of me. I want to say something, to acknowledge what his thoughtfulness means to me, but the words stick in my throat.
Instead, I reach for his hand under the table, giving it a quick squeeze. "Thank you," I say simply.
His fingers curl around mine briefly before letting go—a fleeting connection, over in seconds, but it leaves my skin tingling.
The desserts arrive on an ornate silver platter, arranged like jewels—goldenbaklavadripping with honey,kunafawithits bright orange shredded phyllo and green pistachios, palebasbousasquares dusted with coconut, and a small ceramic pot ofOm Ali, steam rising from its creamy surface.
I reach for my phone, snapping a quick photo of the spread and sending it to Annie with the caption:Dying of happiness. Will save you exactly none of this.
Her response comes immediately:That’s cruel, Vi. We don’t have that here in Tokyo. Eat an extra piece for me. Also, tell the hottie next to you in the team pics from today that he was looking at you like you hung the moon. That’s adorable!
It’s been a while since we’ve seen each other, but she’s been super busy with her research in Japan, so we’ve been messaging whenever we have something cool to share.
I close the message quickly, hoping William didn't see, and reach for theOm Ali. The first spoonful is heaven—warm, sweet, creamy, with the perfect crunch from the nuts.
Home.
I close my eyes, savoring it, memories flooding back of sitting at our kitchen table while Mom served this same dessert, Dad pretending it was too sweet but always asking for seconds.
When I open my eyes, I catch William watching me, a soft chuckle escaping him.
