Page 105 of Dublin Beast

So why does walking into that restaurant feel like the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do? Tag told me to figure out what’s weighing me down and fix it. Well, the grief and self-loathing I carry for abandoning Yasmine’s wish and her family’s need is a huge fucking weight.

I suck in a breath through my teeth and growl under it, low and ragged and full of frustration.

“Enough. Get the fuck out and say hello.”

Before I can talk myself out of it, I shove the door open and swing out onto the street.

The restaurant looks the same. A little older. The paint could use freshening. The windows are fogged with spice and memories. The lights glow warm behind the glass, like always.

The soles of my boots echo on the sidewalk as the metal chain hanging from my pocket sways and jingles against my black jeans.

I walk toward the door, one heavy step at a time.

If I don’t do this now, I never will. I owe them at least this much. If they slap my face and tell me to get out, at least I’ll have my answer.

The brass bell over the door announces my arrival and I step inside, the scent of cumin, turmeric, and simmering curry hitting me like a freight train of memory.

It’s warm in here—humid from the kitchen, filled with the sound of clinking dishes, soft conversation, and that old Hindi playlist Yasmine always used to tease Riya about playing in the background.

The restaurant hasn’t changed much.

The walls are painted a deep marigold yellow, the edges trimmed in carved dark wood. Tapestries hang near the windows—faded now, but still beautiful.

Tables are tightly arranged, linen cloths crisp and clean, every one of them set with care. Strings of fairy lights snake around the edges of the ceiling, casting a soft golden glow over the space.

It’s full and welcoming, like it always was.

Two families wait near the hostess stand, children bouncing impatiently. A young girl—probably no older than sixteen—is behind the counter, arranging menus with a kind of focused nervousness that reminds me of Yas when she used to work the front.

And then I seeher.

Riya.

Yasmine’s mother is checking on a table near the back, sari wrapped expertly around her delicate frame, her thick braid streaked with more silver than I remember. Her posture is proud, but her face—still soft, still maternal—turns as though shefeelsme watching her.

Our eyes lock.

She freezes.

My breath catches.

Slowly, she straightens, handing a guest a napkin with the grace of someone trained in hospitality and love, then starts walking toward me.

Her gaze never leaves mine. Each step she takes feels like a weight lifted from my chest—and a heavier one laid in its place.

When she reaches me, she says nothing.

“Riya, I’m sorry. I?—”

She steps forward and pulls me down to wrap her arms around me, holding tight.

I sink into the embrace like a starving man.

She smells like home.

After a long moment, she eases back, cupping my cheeks with both hands, her fingers warm and trembling slightly.

“Mera beta,” she murmurs, her voice thick. “Come. Sit. You must eat. Look how big you’ve gotten. You must feed that body.”

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