Chapter 33
Chapter thirty-three
Liv
When Ana finally clears the last dish, I slump back in my chair with a dramatic groan. “Okay, honest opinion?”
“Always,” Jay says, cleaning his mouth with his napkin.
“Your feijoada was better. Not by much but enough for me to know what I like most.”
He laughs, and those adorable crinkles appear right by his eyes. My chest warms. There’s a quietness to him that steadies everything it touches, and I find myself wanting to peel back the rest, to see what he keeps hidden beneath that calm.
“So… as this is a date, I get to ask date questions.” I toy with my napkin, glancing at him across the candlelight. “You’ve told me about Ana and this place, but tell me more about you and your family.”
He leans back slightly, thumb running along the stem of his glass. “I’m the youngest of four. Three sisters. They’ve all got kids now, too.”
He frowns, looking away from me. “You wanna tell me why you’ve suddenly gone all Rob Pattinson on me and brooding over there? Don’t you get on with them?”
Jay shrugs, his eyes fixed on the candle flickering between us. “No, I do, I adore them. I just haven’t seen them in a while. Not since…” His jaw tightens, like he’s debating how much to say, then he sighs and pushes through. “Not since I lost out on the Jaguars job earlier this year.”
The name sounds familiar. A football team, I think, but I don’t know the details. “Jaguars?”
“Pro football team in Portland.” His jaw flexes.
“It was supposed to be the job, everything I’d been building toward.
I got close, close enough to spend a summer with them, and then it all disappeared in one email.
” He takes a sip of wine, his throat bobbing.
“After that, I couldn’t face them. Couldn’t face myself, really. Felt like I’d let everyone down.”
The words sit heavy between us, and I want to reach across the table, smooth the crease between his brows, tell him it’s okay, but sometimes reassuring someone isn’t what they need. “And you think the job you have now is what you want?”
He looks up, caught off guard at how directly I ask it. “Maybe at first,” he admits. “I took it because it was safe. Familiar. I told myself I’d just regroup for a bit, get my head straight. But then the ‘bit’ turned into months, and suddenly it felt easier to stay stuck than to try again.”
I nod slowly, because I know that feeling too well—the way comfort can start to feel like a cage if you sit in it too long. But I also know there’s a spark in him when he talks about photography, one that’s gotten brighter the more we talk about it. “What changed?”
He exhales, his gaze finding mine across the candlelight. “Someone reminded me there’s still something worth building. Even if it looks different than what I pictured.”
The words settle somewhere deep, quiet and unspoken, but heavy with meaning. The truth of it mirrors in my own chest. “Well I’m glad you met that person.”
His smile is genuine and lights up his whole face. “I am, too.”
Then Ana appears at our side with a tray. The smell of cinnamon and vanilla cuts through the heaviness, warm and sweet.
“Two pastéis de nata,” she announces proudly, sliding the plates onto the table. “Fresh from the oven. Best way to end the night.”
Ana disappears again, leaving us with two still-warm tarts. The first bite melts on my tongue, sweet cinnamon cream breaking the tension like it never existed. Jay hums in approval.
“Okay,” I say, licking pastry from my lip. “This might be my new favorite food group.”
His eyes track the movement, and having his attention so intently makes my desire spike and my skin flush. He looks away just long enough to take another bite of his own, but the warmth in my body stays, heavy and as sweet as the dessert we’re enjoying.
The candle flickers against his skin, the rest of the restaurant fading until it feels like we’re in our own little pocket of space.
Then a new song drifts through the speakers, something slow and lilting, and the chatter of others gives way to chairs scraping as couples rise from their tables.
One by one, they step into the open space, swaying together.
Jay’s eyes flick toward the dance floor, then back to me. A hint of mischief curls his mouth, devastating my heart. “What do you say?”
I blink. “To what?”
He stands, offering his hand across the table. “Dance with me.”
My stomach flips, filled with unrelentingly excited butterflies. No one has ever asked me to dance. I place my hand in his, and he guides me to my feet, steadying me.
Jay draws me into the space with an ease that makes me feel like I’m floating. His other hand finds my waist, firm and warm through the thin fabric of my dress, and suddenly, I’m not sure where to put my own.
I settle one on his shoulder, the other hovering nervously against his chest, and his quiet smile tells me he notices. He shifts just enough to tuck me closer, until the space between us is little more than the press of heat and the brush of breath.
The music is slow, every note filling the silence between our heartbeats. His thumb moves in small circles against my hip. My cheek almost brushes his shoulder, and when I tip my head the tiniest bit, I can smell the mix of his cologne, something woodsy and clean that makes my chest ache.
I catch his toe with my own and grimace. “I’m terrible at this,” I whisper, though I’m not sure why. Maybe because my pulse is hammering so loud, I think he can hear it.
“You’re perfect at this,” he murmurs back, voice quiet enough that it feels like a secret meant only for me. His breath stirs against my temple, and goosebumps rise along my arms.
We sway like that, caught in a rhythm that feels both endless and fleeting.
His chest rises and falls against mine, steady where mine is erratic, and I think if I close my eyes, I could let myself believe in this—believe that safe can feel like this.
That I’m allowed to want this, despite telling myself otherwise for the last few months.
When I finally risk looking up, his eyes are already on me. They don’t dart away, don’t hide. They hold me there, patient and intent, like he’s cataloguing every flicker of my expression, every unspoken thing that I’m sure is written on my face.
That he makes me want to say things I’ve spent months denying myself.
That I’m afraid he’ll look away, but also terrified he won’t.
That I like the quiet when he’s in it with me.
The song winds toward its end, but neither of us moves to let go. If anything, his hand at my waist presses me closer, until there’s no space left at all. My fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt, desperate for something solid to keep me upright when everything else feels like it’s tilting.