Chapter 27 #3
“But do you know what it means to me?” she asks gently.
“It’s more than just beauty or growth. To me, it means triumph against all odds.
Surging forward, even when the world does everything to hold you back.
It rises from the dirt as if it were never meant to bloom, and still, it does. Fragile. Beautiful. Defiant.”
Her words land like a slow ache in my chest.
I stare at the flower, the elegant twist of its petals reaching skyward like it’s fighting gravity. Something sharp catches in my throat—something that isn’t pain exactly, but close. That kind of emotional echo that comes from recognizing yourself in something unexpected.
There’s something about what she said that grabs hold of the worn, bruised part of me I try not to show anyone. The part that’s been stepped on, scarred, told it wouldn’t amount to anything. The part that wants to believe I can still bloom.
She must see it on my face. That crack of vulnerability. Because when I finally glance at her, she’s watching me with the kind of gaze that feels like safety. Quiet, kind, knowing.
“I see that in you, Lucas,” she says softly, stepping close and cupping my face in one hand. Her palm is warm and maternal in a way I don’t know how to lean into. “You’re one special boy. And I like you just as you are.”
My lips part, but no words come out.
I clutch the small notebook in my hand a little tighter, like maybe it could hold everything I’m too overwhelmed to write. I can’t even nod. I just let her words settle over me, folding themselves into the quiet places of my chest that I usually keep locked up.
“Now,” she says with a smile, stepping back with a gentle sweep of her hand, “would you like to try some Thai delicacies?”
I can’t help but smile, nodding. Something about her presence makes it easy to say yes.
“Very well then,” she says, returning my smile with a brighter one. “The chefs here are among the best Thai chefs in the city. I told them to make something special for you.”
We settle at a small table nestled beneath a curved arch of climbing roses, their soft petals swaying gently in the breeze. The garden wraps around the restaurant like a protective hush, turning the space into a quiet, calm place.
The table is soon filled with steam, spice, and color —a fragrant feast that feels both unfamiliar and inviting.
Davika sits gracefully across from me, eyes bright.
“Let me introduce you to heaven,” she says, gesturing to the dishes like she’s unveiling treasures.
She points to a golden, folded pastry.
“Curry Puffs. Flaky pastry filled with curried potatoes and chicken. It’s mild, sweet, and perfect for a starter.”
Next, a bowl of creamy orange soup.
“Tom Kha Gai. Coconut milk soup with chicken, lemongrass, and galangal. It’s warm and comforting, with just a bit of tang.”
Another dish catches my eye—vibrant green leaves with small, colorful toppings. She lifts one gently.
“Miang Kham,” she says. “This one’s fun. You wrap toasted coconut, peanuts, lime, and ginger in wild betel leaves. It’s like a burst of flavor in one bite.”
She reaches for a plate of skewers.
“Moo Ping. Grilled marinated pork with sticky rice. Sweet, smoky, and best eaten with your fingers.”
Then her fingers pause over a beautifully plated dish of rice noodles wrapped in a delicate egg net.
“Pad Thai Hor Kai. It’s Pad Thai, but served in a thin omelet wrap—it’s one of my favorites.”
Finally, she uncovers a small plate with shining mango pieces beside perfectly shaped mounds of sticky rice, drizzled with coconut cream.
“And for dessert… Khao Niew Mamuang,” she says with a smile. “ Mango sticky rice. Simple, but so beloved. It reminds me of home.”
I stare at everything, wide-eyed, a little overwhelmed, but in the best way. The smells, the colors, the way she presents each dish with such pride and care. It doesn’t feel like a meal. It feels like a gift.
She watches me quietly as I reach for the curry puff first. I take a bite, and the warmth and subtle sweetness flood my tongue, soft and rich. My eyes lift to hers, and she laughs gently, like she expected that reaction.
“Good?” she asks.
I nod, maybe too fast. She doesn’t tease me for it. She just passes me the next plate with the same quiet joy.
We’re halfway through the meal when her playful energy starts to settle. The way her chopsticks move slows. She sips her Thai tea, eyes drifting toward the blooming garden just beyond the restaurant terrace.
Then she speaks, softer this time.
“Alex likes Thai shrimp omelette— kai jeow Goong, especially if it’s really hot.
I used to make it for him all the time for breakfast.” She smiles gently, like she’s watching the memory play out somewhere behind my shoulder.
His favorite dessert is called medovik. It’s a traditional Russian layered cake, and he was so addicted to it when he was a kid. ”
I stay quiet, watching her, because I know she has a lot to say to me at this moment.
“When he was little,” she says, her voice low but clear, “he didn’t know how to tell sadness apart from anger. To him, it was all the same. He didn’t cry when he was supposed to. He’d just… shut down. Go quiet. Cold. Distant.”
That makes me pause, my chopsticks stilling mid-air, the food on my plate suddenly forgotten.
“One of his nannies quit when he was eight and never came back,” she says, her tone touched with something like regret.
“She told me he was a psychopath. She said Alex likes to kill the animals in the forest and bury them in the backyard. What got to her was that he told her he would kill our house cat because it was in pain and would like to free it from the burden.”
My eyes flick up to hers, but then she adds, more gently,
“Funny thing is, when we took the cat to the vet two days later, it was confirmed that it was in pain, it had Cancer. He wasn’t being cruel—he was being honest. We had to put the cat down a few days later.”
She watches me closely now. I know what she’s searching for. That flicker of judgment. Discomfort. Fear. Something in my expression that might tell her I’ve changed how I see him.
But I haven’t.
Because none of these shocks me, it only folds into the truth I already know about Alex: that he feels things differently, sharply, sometimes backwards. But he feels it in his own way.
When she doesn’t find anything in my face, her eyes soften. A small smile tugs at her lips, and then she leans forward slightly, her voice lowering, like she’s about to share something sacred.
“Can I tell you a secret?”
I give her a curious nod.
“Alex called me the night he first saw you.”
My eyes widen. He… did?
She nods like she heard my question.
“I was halfway across the world at the time. He called out of nowhere and said, ‘Mom, I saw someone.’” She mimics his voice with a teasing grin, but then her expression turns quiet again.
“He didn’t even know your name. Just said you had this look in your eyes.
Said you saw him—even though he wasn’t even sure how.
He said he’d never felt anything like it. That it had scared him.”
My breath hitches, scared him?
I open my notebook with shaky hands, scribbling fast:
Why was he scared?
I hold it up, she reads it, her gaze lingering on my trembling fingers before she looks back into my eyes, her expression softening into something quieter.
She leans back slightly in her chair, fingers interlacing in her lap as if she’s holding something fragile there, like the truth might shatter if spoken too quickly.
“When he called me that night,” she says gently, “his voice didn’t sound like his. Not the version of him the world sees. Not the cold, calculated man most people can’t read. No… He sounded young. Like the boy I used to hold when he couldn’t sleep.”
She glances at the garden as if drawing strength from it, then looks back at me.
“He told me he saw someone and didn’t know why it mattered so much. He said, ‘Mom, I need him.’”
She pauses, letting the words sink in.
“He said, ‘I don’t understand what I feel right now, but I want to keep him. Protect him, make him mine.”
My breath catches.
Davika smiles faintly, but her eyes shine with something heavier now—something more maternal, knowing.
“He doesn’t understand that what he felt that night was love.
He’s never really understood it. To him, love wasn’t gentle.
Growing up, I tried to show him as much love as possible, but the impact his father and grandfather had on him made him feel it was distant, conditional, and transactional.
But that night, he felt something he couldn’t control. Something pure. And it terrified him.”
I stare at her, throat tight, heart stumbling in my chest.
Love? Does Alex love me? Is that what he feels towards me?
She leans in slightly, her voice barely above a whisper, but it’s steady and unwavering.
“Alex isn’t afraid of pain, Lucas. He’s lived with it for so long that it’s become part of his bones. What scares him… is wanting something he doesn’t understand. Something he can’t control, can’t command, can’t buy, Something that could leave.”
She pauses, studying my face, her hand reaching across the table to rest over mine with quiet warmth.
“You were the first person who made him want softness. Not because you gave it easily, but because it lived in you like light. And for someone like Alex, who’s been taught to use strength like a weapon, wanting something so gentle, something that could slip through his fingers if he held it too tight… that terrified him.”
I swallow hard. Her words settle deep in my chest like a weight I didn’t expect but needed to feel.
Her gaze doesn’t waver.
“I’m not saying this to make you feel responsible for him. I’m saying it because I’ve never seen my son try the way he tries with you. That fear he felt when he first saw you? That was love. The kind he doesn’t have a name for yet. But you gave it a shape.”
“And I’m not saying this to win you over,” she adds, firmer now, “also not trying to sugarcoat who he is. You don’t need to rush to meet him where he is, Lucas.
You don’t owe him that. But… just know what he feels for you is real.
And he’s trying in all the ways he knows how.
I’m glad he found you. And he’s lucky to have someone like you in his life. ”
The words settle over me like sunlight and weight all at once.
My heart swells, tightens, and aches.
I feel the tears burning at the edges of my eyes, but I blink them back. I can’t cry—not here, not now, not when it feels like something so delicate is being handed to me, like a truth that I don’t know how to hold without crumbling.
Because how do I tell her that I’m the lucky one?