Merry

Pairing: Carmen “Carmy” Berzatto x Reader

Tone: Cozy domestic fluff, soft love, quiet caretaking

Setting: Carmy’s apartment, late night — dim kitchen light, you’re in his sweatshirt, he’s barefoot with sleepy curls

⸻

It hits you out of nowhere.

One second you’re half-asleep on Carmy’s couch, legs curled under a blanket and some old Anthony Bourdain episode murmuring in the background and the next, you’re sitting up with a strange kind of urgency burning behind your ribs.

He’s in the kitchen, cleaning up from dinner, sleeves rolled to his elbows and the dim undercabinet light casting a golden glow over him. It’s almost midnight, but he’s still moving like he’s mid-shift.

You pad over quietly, barefoot in his socks, and lean against the counter.

“Carm?” you mumble sleepily.

He turns, drying his hands on a towel. “Yeah, babe?”

You pause dramatically. “I’m craving something.”

His brow lifts. “Okay… what are we talkin’? Sweet? Salty? Crunchy? Spicy?”

You pout. “I don’t know. Something… warm.”

He leans a hip against the counter, arms folding. “Warm, huh?”

“With cheese,” you add, as if you’ve just had a spiritual revelation. “Lots of cheese. And maybe bread. But like… buttery bread. Not dry.”

He stifles a laugh and steps closer. “So… basically comfort food at one in the morning?”

“Exactly,” you nod. “But not fancy. No micro herbs. Just something that tastes like a hug.”

He gives you this little crooked grin the one that only appears when he’s about to spoil you. “Alright. Sit down. I got you.”

“You don’t have to—”

“I want to.” He kisses your forehead. “Just stay right there and let me take care of it, okay?”

You settle onto the barstool, watching him move like he’s in his element. Calm. Certain. Soft.

He grabs a small pan, butter, some leftover sourdough, a hunk of cheese you didn’t even know he had stashed away. In minutes, the smell of melted butter and browning bread fills the air. He works quietly, brow furrowed with focus, but every once in a while he glances at you—just to check you’re still there. Like he’s making sure you don’t vanish.

When he plates it two perfectly golden, melty grilled cheese halves with a warm cup of tomato soup on the side he sets it in front of you like it’s a five-course tasting menu.

You take a bite and let out the kind of sound that makes him grin behind his hand.

“Oh my god,” you groan. “This is literally the best thing I’ve ever tasted.”

He leans against the counter, sipping tea, watching you like you’re a miracle he didn’t expect to walk into his life.

“I knew you’d like it,” he says. “It’s the good kind of simple.”

You glance up at him, cheeks full, heart warm. “How do you always know exactly what I need?”

He shrugs, bashful, rubbing the back of his neck. “I just listen.”

You finish the sandwich, and he walks over, taking your plate and pressing a kiss to the top of your head like it’s instinct.

“Next time you crave something,” he murmurs, “just tell me. I’ll always make it for you.”

You smile sleepily. “Even if it’s something weird?”

“Especially if it’s something weird.”

And as he puts the dishes in the sink, you wrap your arms around his waist from behind, cheek resting between his shoulder blades.

The craving is gone. But the warmth stays.

Because when Carmen Berzatto feeds you, it’s never just food.

It’s love.

⸻

Pairing: Luca x Reader

Tone: Dreamy fluff, soft tension, quiet intimacy

Setting: A remote hillside just outside the city, stars stretched above you, wrapped in a shared blanket with cool grass beneath you

⸻

You didn’t expect him to drive this far out just to see the stars.

But Luca had texted you with a simple:

Wear something warm. I’m picking you up.

No details. Just the calm promise of something simple—something that sounded like peace. And when you’d asked where you were going, he’d only smiled softly and said, “Somewhere quiet.”

Now you’re lying side by side on a fleece blanket spread over the grass, his arm just barely brushing yours. The sky above you is wide and endless, the stars scattered like salt across black velvet. You can hear a soft breeze brushing through the trees, the faint hum of night bugs in the distance, but otherwise… nothing.

No honking cars. No kitchen noise. No clocks ticking.

Just stillness. And him.

You turn your head to look at him, catching the soft outline of his profile—his lashes, the gentle rise and fall of his chest, the way his lips are parted just slightly like he’s holding something back.

“What are you thinking?” you ask softly, voice barely more than a breath.

He blinks slowly, still looking up. “That I could stay like this forever.”

You smile. “In the middle of nowhere? You, a Michelin-starred chef?”

He hums a laugh. “Even chefs need quiet. Especially when they’re with someone who makes the noise go away.”

Your breath catches, just a little. He turns to you then really turns, resting on his side, one elbow propped beneath him so he can see you fully. His gaze moves over your face like he’s trying to memorize the night through you.

And then, just like that, he says it.

“I love you.”

The moment doesn’t rush.

It doesn’t panic.

The world just… stills.

The wind quiets. The air sharpens. And all the stars above seem to tilt just a little, like they’re holding their breath.

You stare at him. Not because you’re shocked—not really. You’d felt it building for weeks, humming underneath everything he did. The way he tucked your hair behind your ear. The way he learned your coffee order and made you a perfect cup every time. The way he touched your back like you were fragile, but held your hand like you were real.

But hearing it that fragile, powerful truth spoken so gently under the stars—makes your heart swell so hard it almost aches.

“You love me?” you whisper.

He nods, eyes soft and sure. “Yeah. I do. I didn’t plan on saying it tonight, I just… it felt right. Here. With you.”

You lean in and kiss him slowly like a promise, like a pause in time and when you pull away, your forehead rests against his.

“I love you too,” you say, and the words settle between you like they were always meant to be there.

Luca exhales, like he’s been holding that breath for weeks.

He wraps the blanket tighter around the both of you and tucks you into his chest, arms firm and steady as the stars twinkle above.

And in that still, perfect silence, with the grass beneath you and the sky cradling the night

you know you’ll remember this moment for the rest of your life.

⸻

⸻

Imagine: You Teach Carmy to Cook a Dish Your Way — and It Drives Him Crazy

“I’m telling you, it doesn’t need to be exact,” you say, grinning as you toss a pinch of salt into the pot. “You just taste as you go.”

Carmy stares at you like you’ve just kicked over a sous vide machine.

He’s standing stiff at the edge of your kitchen, arms crossed over his chest, brows furrowed in pure panic as he watches you casually swirl something in a pan without measuring a single thing.

“No scale?” he asks, voice a little too calm.

You shake your head. “Nope.”

“Not even, like… a teaspoon?”

You raise a brow. “Do you see a spoon?”

He exhales slowly through his nose, trying so hard to be cool. “How do you even know it’s balanced?”

You turn, spooning some sauce onto your finger and holding it out. “Because I taste it. Here.”

He hesitates, then leans forward — tastes.

His jaw tightens.

“…That’s actually really good.”

You grin, bumping him with your hip. “Told you.”

He’s clearly struggling. His hands twitch like they’re looking for a timer or a thermometer. But he rolls up his sleeves and stands beside you anyway.

“Okay,” he mutters. “Teach me. But just know my eye is gonna twitch every time you say ‘just a little bit.’”

You laugh. “Perfect. Let’s start.”

You show him how to feel for texture in the dough instead of watching a clock. You drizzle oil in the pan with no regard for measurement, and when he reaches for a ramekin to portion something out, you bat his hand away.

“No measuring.”

“This is chaos,” he grumbles.

“This is freedom,” you correct.

“You’re trying to kill me.”

“Emotionally? A little.”

But then something shifts.

You catch him watching you more than the food. Watching the way your hands move, the way you close your eyes when you taste something, how you hum in thought before tossing in a splash of lemon juice just because.

He starts loosening up.

He stops asking questions.

And by the time you’re both leaning over the stove, shoulder to shoulder, he’s cooking without thinking, copying your rhythm throwing in a dash of this, a handful of that, tasting directly from the spoon you already licked.

“This is actually kinda…” he trails off, stirring gently. “Fun.”

You look up at him. “Fun? Chef Berzatto said the ‘F’ word in my kitchen?”

“Don’t get used to it.”

You grin. “Too late.”

He watches you for a moment, sauce bubbling gently between you, and you feel the energy shift something soft settling beneath the sarcasm.

“I get it now,” he murmurs.

“Get what?”

“You. Cooking like this.” His voice is low, careful. “It’s not about rules. It’s about feeling. About you.”

You blink, cheeks warming.

Then he smirks. “Still gonna sneak back in here and measure the salt when you’re not looking.”

“Carmy.”

He laughs, hands up in mock surrender and you grab a little flour and swipe it across his cheek before he can dodge.

He gapes. “Did you just what the hell—”

You giggle. “That’s for doubting my chaos method.”

He lunges for the flour jar, grinning now, and suddenly it’s a full-on mess flour in your hair, laughter echoing off the walls, the smell of something warm and golden filling the air.

And later, when you both sit on the counter with bare feet and wine-stained lips, eating the dish you taught him to make your way, he looks at you and says,

“Okay. Next time… you pick the recipe. No measuring. Just vibes.”

And you grin, licking sauce off your thumb.

“Now you’re learning.”

⸻

Pairing: Carmen “Carmy” Berzatto x Reader

Tone: Soft, quiet fluff with a breathless emotional core

Setting: Late evening at your apartment, warm lamps on, vinyl playing softly, both of you in socks and old T-shirts

⸻

You’re both sitting on the floor of your apartment, surrounded by takeout containers, legs stretched out and brushing beneath the coffee table. It had been one of those rare nights where everything aligned—no restaurant emergencies, no midnight deliveries, no spiraling in his head.

Carmy had actually laughed tonight. Not the tight, polite kind he sometimes gives when he’s distracted. A real laugh, the kind that reaches his eyes. It made you stare at him for just a second too long.

Now it’s quieter. The record player is spinning something slow and sweet Otis Redding, maybe. The light in your living room is low and golden, and Carmy is sitting across from you, arms resting on his knees, hair a little messy from your fingers earlier.

You don’t even realize he’s watching you until the silence stretches a beat too long.

“What?” you ask, smiling lazily at him. “Is there something on my face?”

He just shakes his head once, slow. “No,” he says. “Just you.”

You tilt your head, trying not to melt under his gaze. “Me?”

He nods again, and it’s like the whole world folds inward a little. His eyes don’t leave yours when he says it not like he’s nervous. Not even like he’s planning it. Just like it’s truth, finally rising to the surface.

“I love you.”

Three simple words. Not whispered. Not thrown out by accident. Just said.

And everything stops.

The music fades into the background. The street sounds outside disappear. Even the low hum of your fridge feels like it goes silent.

You blink. It’s like the moment forgets to breathe.

His expression doesn’t change. He’s not rushing it. He doesn’t fill the silence. He just waits, like he’s giving you space to run if you need it. But you don’t move.

Instead, you smile. Slowly. Softly. You shift closer until your knee is against his, and you reach out and trace the line of his jaw with your fingertips like you’re memorizing it.

“You love me?” you repeat, not teasing just in awe.

He nods once. “Yeah. I do.”

And the moment unfreezes.

The music creeps back in. You exhale. And then you kiss him, slow and gentle, like pressing a seal on something sacred.

When you pull away, your lips brush his as you say, “Good. Because I love you too.”

Carmy closes his eyes like he’s letting something heavy go something he’s been carrying for too long. He wraps his arms around you and pulls you into his lap, holding you like you’re the first solid thing he’s ever been allowed to touch.

There’s nothing frantic or messy about it. Just warmth. Just closeness. Just his hands on your back, and your nose tucked into his neck, and his voice low in your ear.

“I’ve wanted to say it for a while,” he murmurs. “Didn’t wanna mess it up.”

You smile against his skin. “You didn’t.”

And you both stay like that for a long time two people in love, held in the center of a moment the world forgot to interrupt.

⸻

Carmen x reader

⸻

“You Said You’d Stop”

(Carmen x Reader | Energy Drink Intervention Pt. 2)

You were so close.

Can cracked. Raised halfway to your lips. The sweet, radioactive scent of “Electric Cherry Lightning” hit your nose like a sugar-coated slap.

“Don’t do it.”

You froze mid-sip.

It was Sydney. Arms crossed, brow furrowed. Standing like a judgmental guardian angel by the pass window. “He literally said no more.”

You tried to play dumb. “This? This isn’t even that bad. It’s got vitamins. Vitamin B! And zero calories.”

“That thing’s made of battery acid and regret,” she said flatly. “Put it down.”

“You’re being dramatic.” You tilted it back a little more.

“Marcus!” she barked.

Marcus peeked from the pastry side. “Yo! There about to drink the death juice!”

“FUCK.” Carmy’s voice rang from the back. You heard something clatter. Then rapid footsteps.

You barely blinked before Carmen skidded into the kitchen like he’d just been told someone set the walk-in on fire.

“You’re drinking it again?!” he gasped.

You held the can behind your back. “What? No.”

He blinked, wide-eyed. “Babe.”

“It’s not even that bad this time! I’m pacing myself!”

“Last time you told Ebra you could see smells, and then you reorganized all my invoices by vibe.”

You shrugged. “And was I wrong? The ‘urgent’ ones had red energy. The ‘boring’ ones had beige.”

He sighed, raking a hand through his hair, looking between you and the staff like how do I parent a fully grown chaos demon.

Sydney helpfully added, “She also told Neil Fak she could make thunder with her thoughts.”

“And it almost worked,” you grinned proudly.

Carmy walked over and gently took the can from your hand. “No more. Seriously.”

You gave him a big, innocent pout. “But I’m so tired without it. I’m dragging. Look, I’ll sip it slowly. I’ll dilute it with water.”

He raised his brows. “You’re bartering like it’s a controlled substance.”

“It is. But sexy.”

Carmy sighed again, placed the can on the highest shelf where even you couldn’t reach without a ladder and gently took your hand.

He muttered something under his breath as he led you out of the kitchen.

“What was that?” you asked.

“I said I’m buying you herbal tea and a leash.”

⸻

Writers Note: I’m very much like this series when on caffeine in fact I’m a whole month ahead on imagines because I drank an energy drink today. Now I can focus on a master list and editing for future weeks to come. As always feel free to like share comment and

Title : “What did you drink?”

(Carmy x Reader | Energy Drink Chaos)

Carmen didn’t notice anything strange at first.

You were sitting at a corner table in The Bear’s office space, typing like your life depended on it. Headphones in. Eyes wide. Fingers flying across the keyboard like a piano prodigy. You’d brought your laptop to hang out with him during prep, but you were in full hyper-focus mode not unusual.

Until he walked past you for the third time and you didn’t blink.

“…Babe?” he asked cautiously, setting down a clipboard.

You looked up too fast.

“Hi! Hello! What? You need something? Because I just finished this thing and I’m about to start the schedule mock-up for next week even though no one asked me to. And I reorganized your post-it drawer like why do you have a drawer for post-its? Who does that? But also? You’re welcome.”

Carmy blinked. “Are you… okay?”

“I’m amazing. I’m—on fire. Not like on fire on fire, like the good kind. Like mentally. I’m processing seventeen thoughts per second. I’m vibrating. Do you hear that? That’s me. I’m vibrating.”

He stared at you. “What… did you eat?”

You grinned. “Nothing yet. But I did drink one of those little electric-pink cans you had in the back fridge—what is it, ‘Liquid Voltage?’ No—‘Static Thunder’? Something terrifying.”

Carmy dropped his clipboard. “You drank one of those?”

“Two!” you corrected cheerfully. “The first one tasted like battery acid but the second was kind of nostalgic, like a melted popsicle from childhood trauma.”

He just blinked at you.

“You’re mad.”

“I’m not mad,” he said, calmly walking to remove the remaining cans from the fridge. “I’m afraid.”

“Of me?”

“Of what you’re gonna do when that crash hits.”

You dramatically gasped, placing a hand on your heart. “I will never crash. I’m built different.”

Five hours later, you were curled on the couch in his office, wrapped in two prep aprons and one chef coat like a little burrito. Completely knocked out.

Carmen sat at his desk, one hand holding your foot (because you’d sleepily muttered “Don’t let me float away”) and the other working through invoices.

When you stirred, blinking blearily, he looked at you like you were a tiny storm he was lucky to survive.

“You alive?”

You groaned into your blanket cocoon. “I saw the face of God, Carmen. He looked like a can of strawberry-flavored trauma.”

He chuckled under his breath and stood up, gently pressing a kiss to your forehead.

“No more energy drinks, alright?”

“Not even half?”

“Nope.”

“Not even if it’s a small can?”

“I’ll hide them myself,” he warned gently. “I’ll put them on the shelf with the cursed knives. I’ll label it ‘Chaos Fuel: Do Not Touch.’”

You mumbled, “You’re so dramatic,” and promptly fell back asleep on his couch.

He smiled as he returned to his desk, already drafting a No Energy Drinks Allowed sign for the staff fridge.

Because when you went feral on caffeine, no one — not even Carmen — was safe.

⸻

Chef Luca x reader

⸻

“You Said You Were Done.”

(aka the Caffeine Intervention)

You stood frozen in the middle of Luca’s kitchen.

The offending can of “Strawberry Lightning X-Treme!” was halfway to your lips.

Luca stood in the doorway, leaning one shoulder against the frame like he’d been summoned by the very sound of betrayal. His eyes scanned the scene with a slow, disappointed dad look.

“…No.”

You blinked, caught red-handed. “It’s not what it looks like.”

He raised his brows. “Is it not you about to ingest liquid chaos after we both agreed—you agreed—you were retired?”

You held the can like it had betrayed you, suddenly defensive. “Okay, but hear me out. I had a lot of emails. And I wanted to be efficient.”

Luca walked toward you like a man approaching a wild animal. “You call speed-reading three newsletters, impulse-buying a fish plushie, and alphabetizing your sauces efficient?”

You gasped. “You saw the fish?”

“It has teeth.”

You looked at the can in your hand like it had ruined your entire bloodline. “Okay, but this one’s strawberry. That’s basically fruit. That’s health.”

Luca slowly plucked the can from your fingers and set it gently on the counter like it was a live grenade.

“Babe.” He placed both hands on your shoulders. “You don’t need jet fuel to function. You’re already… fast. Like, Ferrari in a school zone fast.”

You tried not to laugh. “Okay, rude. But fair.”

He pulled you in, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “You don’t need to be hyper-productive to be impressive. Just existing, being you that’s already… everything.”

You softened under his voice, hands looping around his waist. “So what you’re saying is… I’m enough without energy drinks?”

He smirked. “You’re more than enough. I just don’t need to watch you vibrate through dimensions before 10 a.m.”

You sighed dramatically into his chest. “Fine. Take it away. Dump it. Feed it to a raccoon.”

Luca chuckled, stroking your back. “Already planning to.” He pulled back slightly. “But if I catch you with another can…”

You grinned. “What, you gonna ground me?”

“No,” he said, deadly calm. “I’m gonna make you nap. In silence. No phone. No tabs open. Just you, a weighted blanket, and consequences.”

You gasped. “You’re cruel.”

“I’m in love,” he corrected. “And mildly traumatized by your last caffeine spiral.”

You stood on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. “Thanks for keeping me human, chef.”

He wrapped his arms tighter around you. “Always, lightning bug.”

⸻

Writers note:

I’m very much like these imagine when I drink energy drinks… which is why I only have one more in my fridge and I’m done with them. Maybe…. Anyway like share comment

Title: “Brain on Boost Mode”

Pairing: Luca x Reader

Vibe: chaotic reader x calm Luca, soft domestic, comedy, fluff

⸻

You only drank half the can.

Half.

You thought it’d help you focus while hanging out in Luca’s kitchen—just catching up while he prepped pastry dough, nothing serious. You weren’t even tired. You were just… curious.

Now your leg was bouncing, your eyes were wide, and your mouth?

Your mouth would not stop.

“Okay, so hear me out—what if you made a crème brûlée, right? But instead of the sugar top you used, like, pop rocks? Would that be gross? It might be gross. Or genius. Honestly I think I could start my own restaurant. I’d call it ‘Crunch.’ Just ‘Crunch.’ No vowels. Or only vowels—what’s trendier now?”

You barely paused for breath.

Luca blinked, halfway through weighing flour, clearly trying to catch up.

“Wait—wait. What did you drink?”

You looked at him, eyes gleaming. “Just a little energy drink. Nothing wild. Just something called ‘Nitro Pulse Death Berry.’”

He froze. “I’m sorry—what?”

“It was only half! I poured out the rest, promise. But I think it activated a part of my brain I didn’t know existed. I reorganized all the apps on my phone by color. Then I planned out my next five birthdays. Do you think if I started training now I could make it to ‘American Ninja Warrior’?”

He just stared.

You were pacing now. Hands gesturing rapidly. Words tumbling out like a freight train.

“You know what I realized? People never talk about the textures of food as emotions. Like—flaky pastry is hope. Sticky toffee is regret. A slightly underdone muffin? Anxiety but manageable. Do you get what I’m saying?”

“…Not really.”

“Ugh. You’re too calm. You’re like a spoon. No—a spatula. Smooth. Safe. Reliable. I’m a whisk. Or a colander. No wait—what’s that thing with the holes and the handle?”

“…A colander?”

“NO. The one that flips eggs! God, why is my brain so loud?!”

Luca walked over, gently placing his hands on your shoulders like he was grounding a lightning storm.

“Okay. You’re banned.”

“What? From what?”

He raised a brow. “Energy drinks. Forever.”

You pouted. “But I’m brilliant like this.”

“You tried to reorganize my spice rack by color, darling.”

“I thought it’d be aesthetically pleasing!”

“You put the cinnamon next to the thyme. That’s criminal.”

You gasped. “…I did.”

He laughed, tugging you gently toward the couch near the kitchen island.

“Come sit. Crash here before you crash for real.”

You went without protest, your body finally catching up to the intensity of your brain. Your limbs felt like noodles. Exhausted noodles.

He wrapped a throw blanket around your shoulders and kissed your hairline.

“I’m making you tea. You’re gonna detox from… whatever was in that thing.”

You looked up at him, suddenly very serious.

“Luca?”

“Yes?”

“If I start talking about making lasagna popsicles… just—slap the can out of my hand next time.”

He smiled. “Deal.”

⸻

Writers Note: can you tell I drank an energy drink and this is very much how I act I’m trying to get my sleeping schedule back to normal anyway I did one for Carmen as well this imagine does have a bonus scene… I will be doing small 2 chapter stories or mini series don’t know how else to explain it but this will be up somewhere the second week of August so yea. As always like share and comment

Pairing: Luca x Reader

Tone: Intimate, reflective, vulnerable; cozy late-night conversation that reveals deeper layers

Setting: Luca’s flat, post-dinner cleanup, sitting on the kitchen floor with a bottle of wine and soft music playing low in the background

⸻

The dishes are done, the leftovers are packed away, and the lights are dim except for the warm glow above the stove. You’re both sitting on the kitchen floor now, backs against the cabinets, feet tangled together lazily.

Luca’s drinking wine from a mismatched mug, and you’re watching him with a curious tilt of your head, a question on your tongue that’s been lingering for months.

“Can I ask you something?” you say, voice quiet.

He looks at you over the rim of his mug, already smiling. “Yeah.”

“Why cooking?”

He lifts a brow.

“Like really,” you continue. “Why did you choose it? Of all things. You could’ve done anything, I think. But you chose something that breaks most people.”

Luca looks down at the mug for a long moment, like he’s weighing whether or not to answer with the truth.

Then he sighs softly, voice low and thoughtful. “Because food… doesn’t lie.”

You blink.

“It doesn’t pretend to be something it’s not,” he explains, gaze unfocused now, looking past you at something invisible. “It shows you exactly what you put into it. Your timing. Your care. Your frustration. Your joy. You can’t fake it with food. Not really.”

You nod, listening.

“And I like that,” he adds. “I like the honesty of it. Even the pressure. The chaos. It forces you to be present. And sometimes…” He chuckles dryly. “That’s the only way I can be.”

You study him. “So it grounds you.”

He glances over at you with a tired sort of smile. “Yeah. It keeps my hands moving when my brain wants to disappear. And it… it makes people feel. You see someone bite into something, and their whole face changes. That’s magic. That’s connection.”

You nod slowly. “You give people something they didn’t know they were missing.”

He looks down again, his voice almost a whisper now. “I think I started cooking because I wanted to be seen. But I stayed because I wanted to see other people.”

Your heart twists a little.

You reach over and take his hand, fingers lacing gently. “You do see people, Luca.”

He squeezes yours, not looking up. “I see you.”

You smile, resting your head on his shoulder. “And you’re not just feeding people. You’re healing them. With every plate. Every pour. Every breath you take between courses.”

He’s quiet for a long time, just breathing.

Then, softly: “I never knew how much I needed someone to understand that.”

You turn and press a kiss to his cheek. “Now you do.”

And in the quiet that follows, with your hands intertwined and the scent of warm herbs still lingering in the air, you understand something unspoken:

Luca doesn’t just cook because it’s his craft.

He cooks because it’s his language.

And tonight, he let you speak it with him.

⸻

Writers note: I know I know I said this before on how far ahead I am and I can’t believe I’m prepped weeks in advance I can go on vacation and not have to worry about posting because everything is up to speed…. As always like share comment and

Pairing: Carmen “Carmy” Berzatto x Reader

Tone: Emotional depth, quiet vulnerability, slow intimacy

Setting: Your apartment, after dinner—couch lights low, legs draped over his, a half-finished plate of pasta forgotten on the coffee table

⸻

The question comes softly, tucked between comfortable silence and the low hum of the playlist he made for nights like this.

“Why cooking?” you ask.

Carmy doesn’t answer right away.

He’s leaning back on your couch, one arm resting behind your head, the other lazily tracing patterns on your thigh. You see it in the way his eyes flicker—not like he’s caught off guard, but like the answer lives somewhere heavy inside his chest.

You sit up a little, brushing your fingers through his curls. “Not the résumé version,” you clarify. “I wanna know the real reason. Why you chose it. Why you keep choosing it, even when it eats you alive sometimes.”

He exhales, quiet and sharp.

“I didn’t choose it,” he says finally. “Not at first.”

You wait.

“It was just… survival,” he admits, voice low. “When everything was falling apart home, Mikey, me—I needed something that made sense. Something I could control. Something I could burn for and not feel guilty about.”

He pauses, jaw clenched. You don’t press him.

“I used to think if I got good enough like perfect, then maybe it would fix things. Maybe I’d be worth something. To myself. To my family. I thought success would… silence the noise.”

You swallow hard. He never talks like this. Not unless he trusts you. Not unless the walls are down and the room is dark and still enough for him to admit the things that hurt.

“It didn’t, though,” he says. “The noise got louder. The better I got, the more I lost. Time. People. Joy.”

You shift closer and rest your hand over his heart, feeling it beat beneath your palm.

“So why still do it?” you whisper.

He’s quiet again. Then he looks at you—really looks at you—with those sharp, storm-blue eyes that always carry more than he says.

“Because… when it’s right, when it hits the moment the plate is perfect, or someone takes a bite and their face changes, or I’m in the middle of service and everything clicks—it’s the closest thing I’ve ever felt to peace.”

You press your forehead to his, letting the silence hold you both.

“I cook,” he whispers, “because it reminds me I’m still here. That I still give a shit. Even when I hate it. Even when it breaks me. It’s the only thing that stayed when everything else fell apart.”

You nod, throat thick. “And you’re so good at it, Carmy.”

He closes his eyes like he doesn’t know how to take that. Like praise still stings before it soothes.

You cup his face. “But even if you walked away from it tomorrow, you’d still be enough. You’d still be you. That’s why I’m here. Not because you’re a genius in the kitchen but because underneath all that pressure, there’s this version of you that’s so fucking good.”

He exhales shakily, then pulls you into his lap, arms winding around you like he needs to hold onto something real. Something grounding. Something that loves him despite the fire.

“I don’t say it a lot,” he murmurs, mouth at your temple. “But I love you. For asking me. For seeing me. For staying.”

“I’m not going anywhere, Carm.”

And in that moment heart full, chest bare, soul slightly unraveled he believes you.

⸻

Writers Note: hello this is the final post for this week. Thank you all so much for the support and love. As always like share comment and have a good week!

Pairing: Carmen “Carmy” Berzatto x Reader

Tone: Protective fluff, tenderness beneath worry, Carmy’s quiet panic

Setting: The Bear’s kitchen, late afternoon, after hours. Reader is helping prep something simple. Carmy’s been working on a sauce nearby.

⸻

You hadn’t meant to touch the hot pan.

It was muscle memory, or distraction, or just plain bad timing. The moment your fingers brushed the searing metal, you jerked back fast, a quiet gasp escaping your lips.

It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t loud. But Carmen heard it.

He always does.

He whips around, towel still in his hand, eyes scanning you immediately. “What happened?”

You shake your hand quickly, trying to play it off. “Nothing—it’s fine, I just—”

“Wait—no. What happened?” His voice cuts through the room like a flash of light.

You hold your hand behind your back instinctively, like you can hide it, but it’s too late. He’s already crossing the kitchen in three long strides, brows knit with a worry so fierce it almost startles you.

“Let me see.” His tone is softer now, but firm. The kind of soft that says I’m scared and trying not to show it.

You hesitate.

“Baby,” he breathes, reaching for your wrist gently, “please.”

You let him take your hand.

The burn isn’t huge—but it’s red, already angry, skin pulsing. He swears under his breath as he turns your hand over in his.

“Jesus—why didn’t you say something?”

“I didn’t want to make it a thing.”

He looks up sharply. “You burned yourself. That is a thing.”

You blink, caught off guard by the intensity in his eyes—not anger, but fear. Quiet, simmering panic just under the surface.

He doesn’t let go of your hand. He leads you over to the sink, turns on the cool water, and holds your wrist steady under the stream like you might pull away.

“You have to run it under water for ten minutes,” he mutters, more to himself than to you. “Then I’ll get the burn cream. I have some upstairs. Shit—I should’ve moved the pan—I should’ve—”

“Carm,” you whisper, watching him spiral.

He freezes.

You reach up with your free hand and cup his jaw gently. “I’m okay.”

He exhales shakily, eyes falling shut for a second. “I just hate that you got hurt. Even a little. Especially in my kitchen.”

You smile softly, brushing your thumb along his cheek. “It wasn’t your fault.”

He leans into your touch, eyes fluttering open. “Still. I wanna take care of it. Take care of you.”

“You already are.”

He gives you a soft, lopsided smile, then presses a quick kiss to your forehead before pulling away to grab a clean towel.

Once your hand is dry, he gently applies cream from the first aid kit, wrapping your fingers so carefully it makes your chest ache.

“There,” he murmurs. “Good as new.”

You grin. “You’re very nurse-core right now.”

He huffs a small laugh. “Yeah, well. I make a better risotto.”

And as he leans down to press a kiss to your bandaged knuckles, you realize:

Carmen Berzatto may not always say the right thing.

But when it matters—he shows up.

Every time.

⸻

Title: “The Quiet Corner”

Pairing: Carmen Berzatto x Reader

Setting: Family-style barbecue at someone’s home — loud, crowded, chaotic

Vibe: Soft, comforting, sensory-safe love

⸻

It was loud. Too loud.

The kind of gathering where everyone talked over each other, laughter bounced off the walls, and the music played just a bit too loud in the background to mask the awkwardness of small talk. Kids ran through the backyard in circles, high on soda and watermelon, while the adults gathered in huddles around beer coolers and folding chairs.

You tried. You really did.

You stayed beside Carmen for the first twenty minutes, smiled politely as he introduced you to a few people — old cooks from past jobs, a cousin visiting from out of town, someone from high school who now ran a food truck.

But slowly, that invisible weight crept up your spine.

Too many voices. Too many eyes. Too many questions you couldn’t quite answer without overthinking it all.

So you slipped away.

Found yourself in the shade beneath a tree, where a group of kids were lining up for face paint. You knelt to help one of the younger ones tie their shoe. It was easier to be needed by them the tiny hands, the loud honesty, the simplicity. When a toddler waddled over and lifted their arms toward you without hesitation, you lifted them into your arms instinctively.

She nestled into your shoulder like she belonged there.

And you just… breathed.

You didn’t notice Carmen was watching until you felt the shift in the air beside you.

“Hey,” he said gently, sliding up beside the tree with two paper cups in hand one water, one soda. “Didn’t see you sneak off.”

You gave a small smile, rocking the baby on your hip. “Needed a break. It got kinda… loud.”

He handed you the water without asking. “Yeah. It’s a lot. Even for me.”

You met his gaze, surprised. “You? Mr. Kitchen Chaos?”

Carmy grinned, soft and crooked. “The kitchen makes sense. This doesn’t.”

You laughed under your breath and adjusted the baby’s head as she started falling asleep against your shoulder. “I always end up with the kids at these things. I guess it’s easier. They don’t expect too much.”

He nodded, watching you like you were sunlight filtering through branches. “They love you.”

“She just needed somewhere quiet to nap.”

“No,” he said, quieter now. “She picked you. Out of all the chaos, she saw you and knew you were safe.”

You blinked, caught off guard by how tenderly he said it.

Carmy glanced around at the party, then leaned his shoulder against the tree beside you, close enough to feel the warmth of him, but not enough to crowd.

“You ever think about that?” he murmured. “How you make people feel… safe?”

You smiled down at the baby in your arms. “No. I usually just feel awkward.”

“Well,” he said, with a tilt of his head. “I usually feel like I’m going to implode in these settings. But not when I’m with you.”

You looked up.

Carmy’s gaze was steady. “I’d rather be here, under a tree with you, holding a baby, than anywhere else in that backyard.”

You smirked. “Even if there’s smoked ribs and three kinds of pie?”

“Especially then,” he said, eyes crinkling. “Because now I get to bring you a plate and look like a goddamn hero.”

You laughed, careful not to jostle the sleeping toddler.

He kissed your temple lightly before he left. “Be right back, sweetheart. Don’t move. I like seeing you like this.”

⸻

Writers Note: I’m starting to tone it down with Carmen a bit more fluff I have a series of a not so fluff more dramatic I guess of Carmen x reader I’ll think about posting it. im toning it down too 2-3 post a day for Friday-Saturday I know it’s a change from the 4-5 I started with but I have a lot to catch up on and I’m already a 3 weeks ahead so now it’s a matter of fixing a master list and editing. As always like share comment..

Title: “Let Me Take Care of It”

Pairing: Luca x Reader

Tone: Protective softness, gentle care, sweet domestic affection

Setting: Luca’s restaurant kitchen after hours. Reader was just hanging out while he finished a few things.

⸻

You shouldn’t have touched the tray.

But Luca was plating something stunning, and you were curious watching the glossy glaze settle under the lights like it belonged in a museum. So you tried to be helpful, reaching out to move a baking sheet aside without thinking.

The metal was still hot. Very hot.

You gasped, jerking your hand back instantly.

Luca’s head snapped up from across the station.

“Wait—what happened?” His voice was calm, but sharp with alertness.

You waved it off, trying to keep it casual, even as your fingers throbbed. “Nothing. I’m okay. Just a little hot metal didn’t realize it had just come out.”

Luca was already moving toward you, eyes narrowing in that quiet, focused way he got when he was really thinking usually about sugar temps or balancing acid. But now, it was you he was focusing on.

“Let me see it,” he said, already reaching for your hand.

“Luca—seriously, it’s not—”

“Darling.” His voice dropped low and warm. “Please. Let me help.”

You hesitated for a second before offering your hand. It did hurt. A lot more than you wanted to admit.

The second he saw the red, angry skin, his whole face softened and tensed at the same time.

“Christ,” he murmured. “You really did burn yourself.”

“It’s not that bad—”

He gently guided you toward the sink, turning on cool water and holding your hand beneath it. His other hand rested at the small of your back like he was afraid you might fall over from the sting.

“You shouldn’t touch anything in here,” he said, voice tinged with worry but not frustration. “I should’ve warned you about that tray.”

You looked up at him, guilty. “I was just trying to be useful.”

“You are useful,” he said immediately. “You’re here. That’s enough. You don’t need to risk your fingers to impress me.”

That made you smile. Even with the stinging sensation numbing under the water.

Once the burn had been cooled for long enough, he gently dried your hand with a clean towel and walked away just long enough to return with a sleek little first aid kit.

“You’re very prepared,” you teased softly.

“I burn myself all the time,” he replied with a lopsided grin. “Doesn’t mean I like when you do.”

He dabbed on ointment, wrapped your hand slowly, every movement delicate. His touch was so careful it almost made you want to cry.

Once he finished, he kissed your fingertips through the bandage.

“Okay,” he said. “That’s part one. Part two is chocolate.”

You blinked. “Chocolate?”

“I was making ganache. You’re going to sit on that stool and supervise while I turn it into something worthy of the pain you endured.”

“You really don’t have to—”

“I know,” he said, smiling as he tucked a lock of hair behind your ear. “But I want to.”

And as you sat there watching him swirl rich chocolate into whipped cream, occasionally glancing at you like he needed to make sure you were okay every single second—you realized something:

Even in a room full of pastries, Luca was the sweetest thing there.

⸻

Writers Note: As always like share comment im toning it down too 2-3 post a day for Friday-Saturday I know it’s a change from the 4-5 I started with but I have a lot to catch up on and I’m already 3 weeks ahead so now it’s a matter of fixing a master list and editing.

Title: “What’s On Your Mind, Chef?”

Pairing: Luca x Reader

Vibe: Quiet vulnerability, emotional intimacy, comfort, reassurance

⸻

You’d known something was off the moment Luca walked in the door.

He wasn’t frowning, exactly but his smile was dimmer, his greeting quieter, the kiss he placed on your temple distracted. He kicked off his shoes and padded into the apartment with that calm grace he always carried, but the weight in his shoulders didn’t lift like it usually did when he came home.

You let him have his space for a bit, gave him time to shower and change into the soft old T-shirt you liked stealing from him. But when he joined you on the couch with a cup of tea instead of wine, and sat next to you instead of with you — you finally asked.

“What’s on your mind, chef?”

He looked at you, surprised, then down at the cup in his hands. He turned it once, twice. “Is it that obvious?”

You shifted closer, tucking your legs under you. “To me? Always.”

Luca sighed through his nose. “There’s… this thing at work. A possible change. They want to shift some responsibilities, maybe open a new kitchen across the city. They’re asking if I’d want to head it.”

Your brows lifted. “That sounds like a promotion.”

“It would be,” he said, voice low. “But it would also mean longer hours. Less time here. Less time with you.”

You blinked, softening. “And that’s what’s bothering you?”

He gave you a sheepish look. “I’ve worked so hard for a seat at the table. But now that I’ve got you, I don’t want to lose… this. Us.”

You reached for his tea, setting it aside before taking his hands in yours. “Luca. If this is something you want — really want — I’m not going anywhere. We figure it out, like we always do. I don’t need hours, I just need you.”

He looked at you like he was memorizing every word.

You leaned in and kissed him, slow and certain, and then whispered against his lips: “Don’t talk yourself out of something great just because you’re scared of losing something else. You’re allowed to want both. And we’ll make it work.”

He exhaled, finally leaning his forehead against yours.

“I love you,” he murmured.

You smiled. “Good. Because I’m not letting you sabotage your dreams just to protect me from a version of the future that hasn’t even happened.”

“Even if it means I come home a little later?” he asked, brow creasing.

“Even if it means I cook dinner sometimes,” you teased. “I mean, I’ll try.”

He laughed, really laughed this time, and tugged you into his arms.

“I’m glad you see me,” he said.

“Always,” you whispered, curled into his chest.

And just like that, the worry didn’t disappear — but it quieted. Because Luca wasn’t carrying it alone anymore.

⸻

Pairing: Luca x Reader

Vibe: Playful, domestic fluff with soft teasing and Luca being adorably flustered

⸻

The kitchen smelled like rosemary and lemon — Luca was plating something beautiful and delicate on the island counter, focused and calm in that way he always was when cooking. His sleeves were rolled to the elbows, forearms dusted with flour, and his hair was a little wild from pushing his hands through them.

You leaned against the doorway, arms crossed and a mischievous smirk tugging at your lips.

“Hey, babe?” you called, in that suspiciously casual tone.

Luca glanced up, instantly alert. “Yes, love?”

You walked in slowly, letting the pause hang. “I’m not mad… I just think it’s interesting that you forgot what today is.”

He blinked. “Wait—what?” His brow furrowed. “Shit.”

You bit your lip to hold back your laugh as he frantically looked around the kitchen like the answer might be hiding behind the basil.

“Is it your birthday?” he asked quickly. “Our anniversary? Something with your family? Fuck, did I miss something at the restaurant—?”

“Nooo…” you said, stretching the word out with fake disappointment.

Luca was officially spiraling now. “Darling, I’m so sorry. I’ll fix it. I’ll make it up to you do you want flowers? A trip? Anything. I can—”

You couldn’t hold it anymore. You burst out laughing and leaned your head on his shoulder. “Luca, baby… I’m joking. You didn’t forget anything.”

He stopped mid-sentence and stared at you, wide-eyed. “I didn’t…?”

“Nope,” you grinned. “I just wanted to see how fast you’d panic.”

He narrowed his eyes, clearly relieved but also betrayed in the most endearing way. “You’re evil.”

You leaned up and kissed his cheek. “But I’m your evil.”

He scoffed, but his arms wrapped around your waist as he pressed a kiss to your temple. “I was about to make an entire twelve-course apology dinner.”

You giggled. “You still can.”

He chuckled, burying his face in your neck. “Next time, remind me not to date someone so clever.”

“Too late.”

Carmen Berzatto x Reader | Early Career | First Observation | Shock and Questioning | Fiery Temper | Potential Relationship | Long Imagine

⸻

You had walked into the kitchen expecting controlled chaos. You’d read the rumors about Carmen Berzatto—the young, rising chef whose temper had already become legendary. You were prepared for tension, for sharp words and strict discipline, but nothing could have prepared you for this.

The air was thick, heated not only by the stoves and ovens but by something far more combustible.

You stood just off to the side, clipboard in hand, trying to steady your breath as you watched the dance of the kitchen staff. Every movement was calculated, every second critical. But suddenly, a mistake.

A young line cook dropped a tray, shattering plates and ruining carefully arranged dishes.

Before anyone could react, Carmen’s voice cut through the kitchen like a whip.

“Are you fucking kidding me?! What the hell is wrong with you?”

His words weren’t just loud they were brutal, raw. The kind of anger that doesn’t disguise the frustration underneath.

The line cook flinched, eyes wide with panic. Carmen didn’t let up.

“You think this is a fucking game? You fuck up again and you’re out. Out. Do you hear me? Out of this kitchen.”

You blinked, heart racing.

Was this… normal?

⸻

You shifted uncomfortably, your pen hovering but unable to write.

This wasn’t the composed, charismatic chef you expected. This was fire and brimstone, unfiltered and wild.

A part of you wanted to turn and leave, but another part—a strange, stubborn part—rooted you in place.

The rest of the kitchen continued, nerves taut as wire, but Carmen’s eyes found you briefly, sharp and assessing.

Later, when the storm of service finally calmed, he approached you, face flushed with the afterglow of adrenaline.

“You’re the observer?”

His voice was quieter now, but still edged with that unmistakable intensity.

You nodded, struggling to find the right words.

“I didn’t expect… that.”

He let out a harsh laugh, running a hand through his sweat-damp hair.

“That’s just how it is. If I don’t push like this, everything falls apart.”

“It’s hard to watch. You were ruthless.”

“I have to be.”

“But—”

“But what?”

“Does it ever… get easier?”

He looked at you for a long moment.

“No. But it gets necessary.”

⸻

You found yourself caught between fascination and fear.

Was this the passion you’d heard about, or something darker?

And what did you have to do with it?

⸻

Over the following days, your mind kept returning to that kitchen. To Carmen’s storm of anger and the moments when, beneath it, you glimpsed something raw and vulnerable.

You wanted to understand him.

To see if there was more behind the fire.

⸻

When you met again, this time outside the kitchen, the air between you was charged with unspoken questions.

He was calmer now, but the intensity remained—just folded differently, like embers glowing beneath ash.

“You still think I’m ruthless?”

You smiled softly, meeting his gaze.

“Maybe. But I think you’re also more than that.”

His lips twitched.

“Good. Because if you’re sticking around, you’ll need to see all of me.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

And in that moment, as the world blurred around you, something slow and inevitable began to ignite.

Writers Notes : This is one of my older works with a description. I have many old ones that I have yet uploaded and are in my notes but you’ll be seeing a mixture of old and new. these imagines a prepped out I have so much to post just working on editing and scheduling now I will be cutting back to 2-3 instead of my usual 4 just because I have a lot to edit as of right now…. Like share comment