He’s quiet for a beat. Then: “Control.”
I blink. “That’s it? Just control?”
“Basically.” He shifts on the window seat. The moonlight through a crack in the blackout drapes catches his profile. Strong jaw. That nose that’s just slightly crooked like maybe he broke it once. “In a kitchen, if you do everything right, you get a predictable result. Variables are manageable. Standards are clear.”
“And life isn’t like that.”
“Nope.” His voice drops. “Life gives you a wife who dies on a Wednesday afternoon. No warning. No variables to manage. Just gone.”
My throat goes tight. “Marco—”
“You asked why restaurants,” he continues. “That’s why. Because in a kitchen, I can control the outcome. At least most of the time.”
The confession hangs between us.
I should probably say something comforting. Something wise about grief and control and how you can’t actually manage your way out of loss.
Instead I say nothing. Because I don’t think there is anything Icansay that would make him feel better.
The silence stretches. Not uncomfortable exactly. Just heavy with things neither of us can fix.
“Can I tell you something ridiculous?” I finally say.
He shifts on the window seat. “Always.”
I pull the blanket tighter around my shoulders. Stare at the ceiling instead of at him because this feels weirdly vulnerable for something so small. “I keep thinking about these cards. For kids like Ben. Like the Brave Rules but for food. Breathing games plus gentle exposure. I’d call them Brave Bites. For kids who are picky or anxious or just scared of trying new things.”
“That’s not ridiculous.”
“It kind of is.” I laugh, but it comes out shaky. “Like, a year ago I was chasing a million followers and brand deals and thinkingthatmattered. And now I’m sitting here in a billionaire’s bedroom during a media siege fantasizing about laminated index cards for anxious five-year-olds.”
When you realize your dreams got smaller but somehow more real.
“Jess.” His voice is quiet. Almost careful. “That’s not a small dream. That’s the kind of thing that actually changes lives.”
“Ben helped me see it,” I explain,wanting to ensure his daughter gets proper credit. “The way she counts shells in her pasta. The way she smells the cocoa before drinking.Brave Bites.”
“I like it,” Marco says.
My face heats again. “It’s just an idea.”
“It’s more than that.” He leans forward. Elbows on knees. “You see patterns other people miss. You build systems that actually work. Not just for Ben. For me, too.”
I shrug it off. “I reorganized a mudroom and taught you how to breathe. Bar’s pretty low.”
“Jess.” My name in his voice does something to my chest. “You’re the best thing that’s happened to us in two years. Stop minimizing it.”
I want to deflect. Want to joke. Want to do literally anything except sit here feeling seen and valued and terrified of what that means.
So instead I admit, “I’m scared I’ll mess this up. That one day you’ll realize I’m just faking competence and you’ll regret hiring me.”
“That’s not going to happen.”
I tilt an eyebrow. “You don’t know that.”
“I do.” He stands. Crosses the space between us. Crouches in front of my chair so we’re eye level. “Because you’re not faking anything. You show up every day and do the work without needing proof it happened. That’s real. That matters.”
My eyes sting.
