Vonjo chewed slowly, letting the last spoonful of Wendy's pork stew linger on his tongue.
It was thick and rich, the fat melting into a velvety broth, and he closed his eyes for a moment as if he were imprinting the flavor into his soul. He lifted a finger and pointed at the steaming pot.
"This," he said, voice low but almost reverent, "is the taste I dreamed of for six damn years. The pork just… falls apart. The carrots are soft, the potatoes soaked in broth. And the dumplings?" He picked one up with his chopsticks, waving it slightly for emphasis. "The moment I bite into it, the juice bursts in my mouth—ginger, scallion, pepper… It's like my tongue just remembered happiness."
Clark chuckled, his weathered face full of warmth. "You always were dramatic about food, boy."
