The man’s wet, ocean eyes flit between your face and the food in your lap. A rogue brown curl fell over his forehead as he nodded down towards you. “What’s, uh… What’s that?”

“My mortal enemy,” you answered gravelly, before turning away. “It’s a Pear Mille-Feuille… I thought maybe I could finally get it right before we closed…”

Carmy blinked owlishly at your profile. “…Well, did you?”

“Nope…” you answered through a heavy sigh, popping your lips together. “The pastry’s too soft. But somehow the pears are still overdone, so… I can’t win.”

Carmy looked it over with an inquisitive eye — the thin gold layers of puff pastry, all stacked neatly atop one another; pears poached to the perfect amber color; thick cream piped with a near impossible precision. It looked like something straight out of a magazine. And, if Carmy had to guess by how hard you were on yourself about the whole thing, it’s entirely likely you’d been published in one before.

“Well, it looks good, at least.”

“That’s only ‘cause you’re standing six feet away.”

Carmy scoffed a quiet laugh and found his breath coming more easily to him. “Here,” he offered, shoes scraping the worn pavement as he approached you. “Let me try it.”

Your head snapped in his direction. Your wide eyes raised to follow his form as he loomed suddenly over you, black blazer rippling in the cool, late-summer breeze. The night air filled suddenly with the scent of him — deep cologne, cigarette smoke, and nicotine gum.

“Wh…What?” you stammered.

“Sometimes you just need a fresh perspective, is all. Like, uh… A new pallet, you know?”

Carmy reached a tattooed hand in your direction, leaving little room for argument. You got the feeling that he must run a restaurant of his own as you passed him the ceramic plate, fingers trembling. You watched anxiously as he took the fork in his large hand and cut himself a slice of the pastry.

He shoveled it into his mouth — an explosion of butter, vanilla, pear, and caramel — the near-perfect balance of elegant and comforting. Just refined enough not to impose too much on itself. 

His cheek jut softly out as he chewed. He nodded to himself until the words caught up to him. “Yeah, this is… incredible, Chef,” he said through the mouthful, laughing slightly through his nose. The sweetest thing he’d ever tasted.

You didn’t believe him, not entirely, but the line in your taut shoulders relaxed slightly at his praise anyway. Sometimes, feeding others felt like a leap of faith. Sometimes, feeding someone felt like handing over a piece of yourself to them, and hoping they found something worth keeping.

—

Months later, Carmy realizes that there are only two kinds of things a person holds onto in this world — things they can’t bear to lose, and things they never meant to keep.

Mikey belongs perpetually in the first category. And, ever since you started working here, he’s begun to realize that you belong in the second. Maybe that’s why he felt himself on the verge of a panic attack for the third time today, ‘cause he was spending his evening excavating his brother’s office like an archeological dig, and found himself surrounded by both at once.

This office had belonged to Mikey, and would be the last thing that ever truly did.

Carmy thinks, knows, that’s why he put off cleaning it out for so long — like keeping it exactly the way his brother left it would preserve his ghost there in some way. This place was practically his tomb, made of four concrete walls faded to the color of old dishwater, an ancient desk so cluttered you can barely see its surface, and a bunch of dented filing cabinets that haven’t been organized in at least three presidential administrations.

They’re all half empty now, organized in boxes with Mikey’s frantic scrawl left on every crumpled receipt, invoice, and payroll record. Soon this office would match the rest of the place — clean, sleek, erased — and what’s left of his brother would be gone.

Carmy slouches against the cool brick with his arms propped on his bent knees, holding the last of Mikey’s things in a tattooed hand. A prescription pill bottle with the label scratched off, which he found while grave-digging through the cabinet drawers. He clutches it tight in his fist, holding the remnants of addiction as if it were his brother’s hand.

The grey, mildew-and-coffee-scented abyss of his grief is abated only by the sound of your laughter, which bounces off the concrete walls and finds him like the rays of milky-orange sunlight filtering through the stained window above his head, which turns his wild curls a more golden shade of brown.

His heavy ocean eyes lift and find you instantly — the way they always seemed to do — and his features flood with horror when he finds you with his sketchbook in your hands.

“What’s all this?” you wonder with a quiet laugh, beneath the subtle thwipping of the pages as you flick through them with your thumb.

Inside are random lists, phone numbers, and mock-ups for the restaurant, all in Carmy’s scrawled handwriting. Then you stumble upon a series of sloppy portraits — some of them of the others in the kitchen; most of them of you, like he was trying to capture you just right.

They feel like memories in some way, moments stolen when no one else was looking. They’re slightly messy, as if drawn by a loose and absentminded hand. It’s quite strange, looking at yourself from another person’s perspective. But even still, you don’t think you’ve ever looked so pretty, so alive, than on these pages of smudged ink.

“I didn’t know you could draw.”

Carmy shrugs lazily with his pink mouth softly jutted, feigning an air of indifference despite the red tint speckling across his cheeks.

“I can’t,” he mumbles through a huff as he stands to full height again, bracing himself on the cleared-out desk beside him. He tucks the pill bottle into the front pocket of his slacks and clears his throat when he feels his pulse skipping there. “N-Not really.”

“Well, I beg to differ,” you scoff and turn another page.

Another scribbled portrait of you sits in the center, drawn in blue ink this time. You’ve got the eraser end of a pencil in your mouth and another sitting behind your ear, concentrating on coming up with a new dessert menu. You were captured quite beautifully, even in your subtle frustration. “I didn’t think I was capable of looking this good until now.”

“You look good all the time,” he dismisses quietly, curls swaying when he shakes his head at you.

He grimaces at himself right after the words spill from his lips, face flaring hotter when the expression on your face shifts slightly in response to them. He lacks the courage to meet your eyes as he looms before you, smelling of stale cologne and sweat from days of renovation.

“What do you, uh— What do you usually draw?” you stammer and pass the sketchbook back to him.

“I don’t know…” Carmy mutters. “Whatever’s, you know, on my mind, I guess—”

Your heart lurches in your chest, both at his words and at the office door slamming suddenly open across the room. Your heads snap to the side in tandem to find Richie towering in the narrow doorway. “Cousin, I swear to god, I’m about to fuckin’ lose it, man—”

“You’re so dramatic, Richie, jeez…” Sydney sighs as she walks past him and further into the newly renovated kitchen, to busy herself with actual work.

Carmy hangs his head and closes his eyes, digging his thumb and forefinger into the sockets in a quiet frustration. “I thought we agreed you wouldn’t come to me with any problems while I was in here—”

“I know that,” Richie shrugs. “It’s not a problem.

“—I don’t have time for this shit right now, Rich.”

“Well, it’s not a fuckin’ problem, Carm! What do you want me to say?” the older man repeats, louder now.

“It’s literally a problem,” Syd monotones from somewhere further inside the kitchen.

“Well, Ms. Know-It-All over here wants less tables in the dining room— says it’ll fuckin’… make it more systematic or whatever, I don’t know,” Richie rambles, gesturing wildly with his hands. “But I told her we’re opening a restaurant here. Not a library. More seats means more customers, which means more money— Which we’re slowly running out of, might I add!”

He turns over his shoulder to yell into the kitchen. You wince when his voice bounces off the bare concrete walls.

“Yeah, Syd’s right,” Carmy nods.

“Thank you!” the girl calls distantly.

Richie blinks slowly in offense. “…What?”

“Syd’s right—”

“No, I heard you—”

“Then why’d you say what—?”

“‘Cause you’re fucking with me,” Richie scoffs an emotionless, half-delirious laugh.

“I’m trying to be efficient here, Rich—”

“You’re all fucking with me—”

“We can turn over tables quicker if there’s less of them,” Carmy explains, much more calmly in response, though there’s a sudden bite behind his words that you don’t miss. He keeps one hand propped on his waist while his other gestures with the sketchbook between his fingers. “Which means more customers, which means more money, which… we are running out of…”

Richie laughs like it’s funny. “Well, that’s real funny, Carm, ‘cause I bet if I brought Claire-Bear in here, and she agreed with me — which she would, by the way — you’d change your mind like that—”

Carmy flinches when the man lifts his hand to snap in his face. He swats him away with a little more aggression than probably necessary. “Get your hand out of my face— What are you twelve?”

“Yeah, you’re mad ‘cause you know I’m right.”

Your head tilts to the side like an intrigued puppy at the foreign name, which you haven’t yet become acquainted with in your weeks working here. Your wide eyes dart between the two men in front of you. Your smile trembles slightly at the edges.

“Who’s… Who’s Claire-Bear?”

Carmy’s head snaps in your direction. His mouth parts, but nothing comes out for an embarrassing fraction of a second, as if he wasn’t entirely sure how to answer. Bringing her up in front of you feels wrong in a way he can’t explain.

“She’s uh… She’s— She’s no one,” Carmy stammers.

“Oh, please,” Richie scoffs, dark blue eyes flitting in your direction. “She’s his girlfriend.”

Your stomach sinks, even despite Carmy’s arguing.

“For the last time, she’s not my fucking girlfriend. Richie—”

“Well, not for lack of tryin’, cousin—”

“She’s not my girlfriend,” Carmy repeats, this time only to you. There’s a solemn look in his light eyes, like he’s trying to make sure you really hear him. “She’s, you know, an old friend. A family friend. That’s all.”

“Oh,” Richie laughs. “I bet Claire-Bear would love to hear that.”

“Fuck off, Richie,” Carmy spits.

“Oh, there you are.” A softer, deeper, more foreign voice breaks through the boyish bickering in an instant. Luca appears in the doorway behind Richie — golden locks pushed over his forehead, physically built beneath his white undershirt, looking a lot less plagued by the chaos of the kitchen than the rest of them. His pink lips quirk into a smile at the sight of you. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you— I need an expert opinion on this lemon-blueberry trifle I’m trying out.”

“Yeah, put this girl out of her misery. Please,” Richie scoffs drily, then turns back to you with a warm, sympathetic hand on your shoulder. “I apologize for my cousin, Sunshine. I did warn you he could be a bit of an asshole—”

“Richie.”

“It’s… okay,” you murmur with a sheepish laugh, before glancing over at Carmy beneath your lashes in a sheepish look. “Are you… okay in here?”

Carmy’s expression shifts slightly, like he’s about to say the exact opposite of what he really means. He feels his chest stinging with a pinch of misplaced jealousy — because he knows you spent time in Copenhagen with Luca some years back, and the idea of someone knowing parts of you that he doesn’t feels a little like a punch to the stomach.

“Yeah,” he nods anyway, slightly strangled, like his body’s trying to keep him from saying the words. “Yeah, I got the rest of it. Go ahead.”

You flash the boy a smile that doesn’t quite meet your eyes as you go. Carmy watches you trail behind Luca out of the office and back towards the dessert station. Richie watches Carmy watch you.

“So about the tables—”

“Enough about the fucking tables, Richie!”

II. ORANGE BLOSSOM HONEY.

There were only two times in your entire life that you swore you’d never bake again: first, when you got your first scathing review that sent you on a downward spiral for longer than you’d like to admit, and second, when Ever closed down for good.

There was still joy in it, somewhere deep down, you just couldn’t find it anymore. Honestly, you had trouble finding it most days in most anything. Which is probably why Luca told you to give The Bear a shot in the first place.

“I’ll tell him you’re stopping by, alright?” he’d told you over the phone that evening. “Just talk to Carmy. See the place out. And if you hate it, I will personally fly myself across the Atlantic so you can say ‘I told you so’ to my face.”

“That sounds very expensive, Lu.”

“Well, it’d be worth every penny.”

So there you were, weaving through a restaurant that seemed more abandoned than not — as though someone had taken a perfectly good kitchen and detonated a small explosive in the center of it. Walls had been torn down. Floors were covered in sawdust. Extension cords snaked across the room like vines. The smell of drywall and fresh paint grew stronger the further you went.

For a moment, you worried that no one was inside waiting for you, and that you had accidentally committed a breaking and entering — until you spotted a curly-haired stranger hunched over a metal counter in the not-quite kitchen, scribbling at a notepad with his pen.

He glanced up at the sound of your footsteps, dark curls hanging over his eyes. A mixture of surprise and confusion flashed in his gaze, brows raising and lowering again.

You lifted a hand in an awkward wave. “Hi…”

“Hey…”

“I’m sorry. I let myself in— I… I tried to knock, but I guess you couldn’t… hear me…” You trailed off with a wavering smile, scratching anxiously at the back of your neck. “Uh, Luca was supposed to call you, I think...”

Realization flooded the sharp edges of Carmy’s face.

“Oh. Right,” he nodded. “Yeah, for the, uh...”

“Yeah…”

Carmy swallowed hard, tapping his pen along his palm, no more anxious than you are now. “Well, uh, I— I hope he warned you that we don’t have much of a kitchen yet...”

“Yeah…” you answered with a breathless laugh, eyes wandering across the spray-painted tarps hanging as makeshift walls as you strolled further inside. “I just… I thought he was exaggerating a little bit.”

A short laugh escaped him then as he rounded the counter in front of him. “Yeah, this is— basically a construction zone more than a kitchen at this point, so… Sorry in advance.”

“Well, if we’re sharing apologies, I’m sorry for not bringing a résumé,” you confessed sheepishly, struggling to meet the man’s gaze when he stood before you. The scent of paint and sawdust clung heavily to his navy sweatshirt. “I wouldn’t blame you if you didn’t want me working here.”

“C’mon. I know your résumé,” Carmy scoffed. “I’ve actually eaten your food before, remember?”

“The desert I was crying over at Ever, you mean?”

His lip twitched into a soft smile before he turned away, too shy to say this to your face:“Well, in my opinion, something that perfect is worth crying over.”

You grinned at the back of him, wider than you realized. “You’re still sparing my feelings after all this time…”

Carmy planted himself on the right wing end of the soon-to-be kitchen and turned to face you again. “I know it doesn’t look like much, but… This is gonna be our dessert station. Hopefully. If this entire place doesn’t cave in—”

‘Ours,’ he said, as if it were already yours in some way, too.

“—That’s a joke. Sorta,” he said, scratching at the back of his wild curls. He glanced up at you once more. “Have you tried making it again since we met?” he wondered suddenly. “You know that… pear… mill-fill thing?”

A giggle sputtered from your lips before you could stop it. Your hand flew to your mouth, as if you were trying to put it inside.

Carmy grinned shyly at having earned the pretty sound, despite his mild embarrassment. He fidgeted with the pen in his tattooed hands and gave you a sheepish look in response. “Help me out here…”

“It’s French,” you told him. “It’s mee-fwee.”

His brows lowered with a visible hesitation. “Mee… foy…”

“Close enough,” you laughed with a shake of your head. “And, to answer your question, no. I haven’t made it again. And I probably never will— I’m too fragile for another defeat.”

The grin that tugged at the corner of Carmy’s mouth then was brief, but no less genuine. “You will,” he said, like some kind of an oath, with so much conviction you couldn’t help but believe him.

—

“You seem happier here.”

Luca’s observation comes suddenly. His English-deep voice cuts through the soft quiet of the empty restaurant, renovated to near completion now. The two of you lie supine on the cool hardwood, the tops of your heads nearly brushing, as you put together Carmy’s newest splurge — which his uncle called “expensive, ergonomic, fuckin’ hippie tables.” You screw each bolt in by hand. You can feel your fingers threatening to cramp around the screwdriver clutched between them.

“Happier than Copenhagen, I mean,” he continues.

You scoff. “Yeah, I’m pretty sure any version of me is happier than I was in Copenhagen…”

“Oh, c’mon…” Luca lilts lowly. “I wasn’t that bad company, was I?”

“You know it wasn’t about you…” you mumble.

“Yeah,” he sighs. “I know…”

It was the fault of that goddamn critic, and the devastating review he left that seemed to compliment everything but your work alone.“The pear mille-feuille reads less like a dessert and more like a young chef begging for validation,” the publication read. “For all its technical accomplishment, the pastry never once feels human. It is difficult to imagine, dear reader, a pastry with so much insecurity baked into each of its layers.”

Your world seemed to shrink after that. The singular paragraph of disapproval lodged itself somewhere deep within your psyche, along with all the cynicism and sorrow that built a home inside you, too. Every other failed recipe somehow led back to it, and every success thereafter felt purely accidental — until, eventually, baking stopped being fun and started being the one thing most capable of hurting you.

It hollowed you from the inside out. You worked the kitchen like a ghost returning to its haunt. You wanted to quit, in virtually every sense of the word, and it was Chef Andrea who convinced you to stay — by sending you four thousand miles away to Copenhagen, that is, to remember a world without critics and service and non-stop perfection; to remember what it felt like to exist without constantly needing to prove yourself.

It was there that you met Luca, who taught you what it meant to approach food with curiosity again. And it was here now, in the bones of The Bear, that reminded you how to love the work again — the simple joy of making something with your bare hands and sharing it with the people who mattered most.

“I’m just glad you didn’t stop cooking…” Luca continues with a quiet grunt in the back of his throat as he slides out from under the table. “And I’m glad Chef Andrea sent you over to my neck of the woods.”

“Let me?” you scoff, tilting your head back against the floor to look at the boy upside down. “She practically forced me on that plane.”

“Best thing she ever did,” the boy croons with an air of sarcasm to mask his sincerity. He rises to full height and dusts his palms off on his slacks. “I’m headed out for the night… Need a ride?”

“I think I’m gonna stay here for a while…” you sigh.

“Suit yourself,” he huffs and walks away. “Just don’t overdo it.”

“Or what?”

“Or I will be very upset with you,” he deadpans with faux-solemnity.

“Oh, the horror!” you call to his disappearing figure, right before the door shuts behind him.

Silence returns when he’s gone. Your chest deflates with a heavy sigh, a held breath you didn’t know you were keeping, as you return to your work — twisting the screwdriver in your fist and reveling in the burn in your wrist, the only thing keeping you from thinking.

About that critic. About Copenhagen. About Carmy’s sketchbook, about Carmy and the girl called Claire-Bear.

You rise onto your elbows with a huff when you’re done, stretching out the aching tendons in your neck. You vaguely hear the kitchen door swishing open and shut again before a sudden voice calls out. “Oh, hey—”

The sound of Carmy’s voice startles you for a reason you can’t name. You sit further up on instinct and slam your head against the table with a whack that jostles one of the screws.

“Ow...” you whimper.

“Shit—” Carmy rushes to your side, catching the wooden top when it wavers. His long, tattooed fingers curl around the edge of it to keep its weight from falling back on you. He ducks his head to look at you, features twisting with a sympathetic grimace as you rub at your aching forehead. “Sorry… Didn’t mean to scare you…”

“You didn’t scare me…” you assure him weakly.

His mouth lifts into an amused half-smile. “No?”

You shrug, lips jutted in feigned apathy despite the newfound pounding in your skull. “Not even a little bit...”

Carmy’s grin widens, but he makes no further argument. He just crouches down in front of you and keeps the tabletop steady while you lie back to realign its leg. You spend the next minute or so screwing the loose bolts back into the blanched oak, hands going clammy around the screwdriver at the proximity between you now. The air grows considerably warmer accordingly, filled with the familiar scent of him — of cologne, garlic, and cigarette smoke. You have to keep reminding yourself to breathe.

“You, uh— You never told me,” Carmy starts suddenly, as if he’d been sitting on the words for some time and only now got the courage to say them. He swipes at his nose with the back of his free hand and mumbles shyly behind his fingers.“About, you know, why you almost didn’t come here… Why you went to Copenhagen...”

Your breath hitches faintly in throat. You hope he doesn’t notice. The screw twisting itself back into the pale wood above you becomes the most interesting thing in the room. “It never came up…” you answer quietly. “It was stupid anyway…”

“No, what the asshole critic said was stupid.”

You turn your head against the floor to flash him a playful look, hiding behind the veil of your sarcasm. “There you go again…”

“There I go again?” he echoes.

“Sparing my feelings.”

“No, I— I’m serious.” Carmy stammers with a breathless laugh. “And I know I’m right because I’ve had your stuff before.”

“Yeah,” you scoff and turn away again. “That stupid fucking pear dish that I still can’t get right.”

“No, it was, uh…” Carmy trails off and shakes his head, going distant with recollection. He rests the elbow of his free arm on his bent knee and drops his wild head into his palm. He digs his thumb and forefinger into his eyes as he struggles to recall the name. “It was, uh… It was the— the Bordeaux, I think?”

He lifts his head to glance down at you once more. Your arms fall to your lap, eyes narrowing in confusion as your lip twitches into a shock half-smile. “The Canalé de Bordeaux?” you repeat with much more ease.

“Yeah,” Carmy nods, brown curls swaying. “It was right before I took over here— when I was, you know, eating everywhere I could, trying to learn as much as I could, and I…” His mouth lifts into a distant smile; his eyes glaze over at the memory. “I didn’t even place it until you made it for the kitchen the other day… Don’t think I would’ve noticed otherwise…”

“That was… God, that was forever ago,” you say with a laugh of disbelief, rising back up onto your eblows. “I’m surprised you remember it now.”

“I remember everything,” Carmy shrugs.

“That sounds… terrifying,” you scoff.

“It is. Sometimes,” he jokes with a breathy chuckle. “But, I don’t know… Now I’m starting to think it’s not so bad…”

His light eyes lock with yours. You lose your breath almost instantly, chest aching as your lungs struggle to find it again. You feel like the distance between you has vanished in a blink; each of your breaths feels like inhaling him in some way. You feel like you can taste him, almost, and your mouth waters at the thought alone, parting for his on instinct.

With your heavy eyes settled on his glassy ones, you catch the soft blue of his irises flick down to your lips. You think he might kiss you. You want so desperately for him to kiss you. And you hate how badly you need it.

“I-I don’t think this is a good idea,” you hear yourself blurt.

Carmy’s brows lower in confusion as you scramble suddenly out from under the table. You rise to full height on shaky legs and place several feet of distance between the two of you, crossing your arms over your chest in a feeble attempt to soothe your racing heart.

Carmy rises slowly from his crouched position, blinking the lingering haze from his eyes. “Wha… What are you talking about?” he stammers with his hands splayed in front of him, approaching you again the way someone would a stray puppy.

“Because of, you know… Because of… Claire.” You whisper the name like it’s a curse of some kind.

The confusion etched on his features only deepens further. “Claire?” he echoes, face screwed. “Wh—What does Claire have to do with this? Claire is— Claire is nobody—”

“Does she know that?” you press, brows raised.

“Yes!” he answers without missing a beat. “Because nothing ever happened between us! Because nothing will ever happen between us! Because I— I’m not into her that way!”

“That… way?”

“Yeah,” he shrugs, tattooed biceps straining against the sleeves of his undershirt as he rests his hands on his hips. “You know, the— The way I’m into…”

He trails off when he catches himself. His adam’s apple bobs in his throat as he swallows. His unwavering stare bores into yours as he weighs the words in his head, wondering briefly if he should say them aloud. His wild curls sway as he shakes his head to himself. “You know what. Fuck it. The way I’m— The way I’m into you.”

Your chest warms at his words. So furiously, it feels someone has taken a white-hot blade and pierced your sternum with it. You can feel the heart flaring in your face, too, as your mouth curls into a wide, slightly apprehensive smile.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Carmy nods firmly, though something in his gaze seems distantly surprised by his own forwardness. He scratches at the back of his curls and looks down at the table just beside you. “Are you, uh— Are we you good here?”

You nod rapidly until the words to speak catch up to you. “Uh, yeah. Yeah, I think so.”

“Good,” he hums. “Do you… Do you need a ride, or…?”

You hesitate on instinct, nose scrunching sheepishly. “If it’s not too far out of your way…”

Carmy scoffs like it’s funny. “You’re never too far out of my way,” he says and turns on the heel of his sneaker to walk away, as if he hadn’t just taken all the breath from your lungs right with him.

III. ALMOND PRALINE.

Your hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

You pressed your back hard into the rough brick behind you, letting it snag against your chef whites in a feeble attempt to ground yourself. You tipped your head back for further assistance, and fought every instinct that told you to beat your skull against the concrete as your heart thrummed wildly in your throat — as though it were trying to burst through the delicate tendon there altogether.

Adrenaline soared through your veins. The starry night air refused to pierce through your burning skin, face burning red-hot while your fingers turned to ice.

You had survived a million dinner services much harder than this one, The Bear’s very first. You had survived Carmy’s anger, Richie’s shouting, and the entire kitchen learning how to operate itself. But it was the food critic that nearly killed you — the man who came in older than you remembered, greyer, and a little skinnier than you recall.

It took you a long moment to remember to breathe as you watched Fak seat him through the kitchen window. “I need you back at your station, Chef,” you heard Carmy telling you from the expo, though his voice sounded like it was coming from underwater. “Back at your station, Chef! Now!”

You listened, but your body seemed to work on autopilot. You broke out the baking sheet, the jelly roll pan, and the perforated pastry tray without thinking. You patted out the puff pastry and fired the pears like it was muscle memory to you. You had Richie deliver it to the man, on the house, and tried to expel the rest of it from your mind.

You forgot how to be human thereafter, hardly more useful than a fumbling ball of panic. Carmy told you to get out of the kitchen when you dropped a bowl of sourdough starter you’d been tending to for nearly two months. And now there you were, post-shift, with all the anxiety of a prey animal being hunted for sport.

And the worst part was, you couldn’t tell if you were terrified or exhilarated. Or both.

The heavy metal door beside you squeaked slowly open. A familiar voice broke through the memory. “There you are…” Carmy hummed as he walked out, chef coat hanging open, with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows to reveal the expanse of his tattooed arms.

His wild curls were still damp from sweat and steam, glowing a more golden shade beneath the amber streetlights. The exhaustion of the shift seemed to carve into all the chiseled edges of his face. But his eyes were heavy with relief at finally being alone with you all the same.

You grew sheepish as he stood before you, struggling to meet his gaze like a scolded child. “I’m sorry, by the way. For… all that.”

Carmy shrugged and cupped his palm around the cigarette he pinched into his mouth. His lighter clicked a few times before it lit, basking his features in a flicker orange hue. “It happens,” he mumbled before inhaling the nicotine into his lungs. The grey smoke left through his nostrils a few seconds later as he flashed you a sterner look. “Just don’t let it happen again, Chef.”

You nodded once. “Heard, Chef…”

Carmy flicked the orange filter with his thumb. His eyes fell to your lap, where you wrung your hands together in a feeble attempt to keep them from trembling. Concern surged through his chest instantly.

“Jeez,” he mumbled.

Your eyes followed his form as he crouched to set the newly-lit cig to the sidewalk, leaving it burning there as he rose to full height again.

“What?”

“Your hands… You’re shaking…” He closed the brief distance between you and took your hands in his warmer, larger ones. The contact stole the breath from your lungs. You’re still getting used to touching him so freely. “God, you’re ice cold.”

You laughed breathlessly. “Because my nervous system is shot.”

Carmy began to rub the warmth back into your fingertips. His palms felt like velvet, calloused from years of burns and knives and hard labor. The gesture was so gentle that it made you feel the crying. Again.

“He liked it, you know,” he told you. “The critic, I mean.”

Your stomach fell as anxiety flooded your veins once more. “I appreciate the sentiment, Carm, but… You can’t know that…”

“No, he said it. Cousin cornered him on the way out— asked him about it,” Carmy confessed. “And after he answered, Richie defended you. Said the guy was an asshole, and that he was a pretty shit critic if he didn’t know what good food tasted like.”

Another startled laugh sputtered from your lips. “That means we’re definitely getting a bad review outta him, you know that, right?”

“Yeah,” he shrugged. “But it’ll be worth it.”

Quiet settled between you. The city grew louder on either side of you in its wake — wind whipping warmly down the alley, cars passing distantly, a train rattling against the tracks somewhere further away. Carmy still hadn’t let go of your hands; he just kept holding you there as his eyes flicked down to your mouth.

He spent a long moment just staring, as if silently trying to will some courage into his body.

Your lips curled slowly into a sheepish smile. “You gonna kiss me, Bear?” you wondered lowly, almost inaudibly.

He nodded for a moment, then pinched his brows to ask. “Do you want me to kiss you?”

“I always want you to kiss me,” you laughed.

His mouth twitched shyly. “Then get over here then.”

Your chest swelled when he urged you forward with a gentle tug at your hands. You pressed yourself to his chest as his mouth ducked down to yours, tasting of nicotine and garlic and boy. You moaned at the feeling of him against you, fingers twisting in his silky brown curls. His larger, tattooed hands splayed along your waist, a little less confident in comparison.

The metal door shrieked open once more with little warning. The droning of ten different conversations filled the air as the rest of the kitchen staff spilled out all at once. You and Carmy sprang apart quickly, losing any and all ability to play it off.

The conversation quietened in an instant. You turned away, wiping at your mouth with the back of your hand and refusing to meet their eyes. The three or more seconds of silence that went by felt like a lifetime, until—

“Pay up, assholes!” Richie shouted, fist pumping triumphantly in the air. He continued gloating through the chorus of laughter and groans of failure. “I knew you idiots were dating, and everyone acted like I was losing my mind! But the house always wins, baby!”

—

Carmy sat along the top of the booth with a plate of Canalé de Bordeaux in his lap. Family was your turn tonight, and you’d opted to make the first dish of yours that Carmy had ever tried for the rest of the kitchen. No one knows just how much tenderness is cooked into the caramelized crust and soft custard. No one, perhaps, other than Carmy.

His sneakers dig into the smooth pleather booth below as he props his back against the wall behind him. The rum-vanilla dish melts in his mouth as he surveys the bustling dining area, filled with his family and friends, some of whom were halfway strangers to him a few years ago. His eyes fall to you without trying as you deliver an alcohol-free dessert to a heavily pregnant Sugar. A distant smile tugs at his mouth as he watches your lips move with a conversation he can’t hear from here.

The soul music playing on the radio drowns out your conversation, but not the sound of Richie’s voice as he slides into the booth next to Carmy. His long, graceless limbs bump against the table as he goes, trying to cut a bite of dessert to shovel into his mouth at the same time.

Annoyance twists in the younger boy’s features on instinct. “I’m not cleaning that up if you spill it—”

“I’m not gonna spill it!” Richie argues boyishly, with his mouth full of food, as he settles into the booth a few inches from Carmy’s sneakers. He nudges the boy’s leg with his elbow. “And get your feet off my booth, you fuckin’ animal... Jeez, I don’t know what that girl sees in you…”

“You’re a fuckin’ asshole…”

“No, I’m serious!” the older man laughs with amusement glittering in his dark blue eyes. He shovels another too-big bite into his cheek and talks through the yellow custard clinging to the sides of his mouth. “I don’t know how you managed to pull that off, cousin— There’s no way you even know what to do with all that.”

Richie turns away, still laughing through his nose at his own stupid joke. He cuts himself another bite, already calculating a retort to Carmy’s inevitable argument on the matter — only one never comes.

The younger boy just stabs absentmindedly at his plate, distracting himself from the topic under the guise of forming the perfect bite.

Richie pauses with his own fork to his mouth. He turns slowly over his shoulder, brows raising to his hairline until four wrinkles line his forehead. “Oh, shit,” he scoffs after a few moments. “You don’t know what you’re doing, do you?”

“Shut up…” Carmy murmurs under his breath, taking another aggressive bite.

“Oh, c’mon! Don’t tell me you’re not gettin’ your dick wet, Carm—”

“Keep your voice down, fuck-o!” he spits through his mouthful, eyes darting anxiously to make sure no one else had heard him — that you hadn’t somehow heard him, from your spot all the way across the room, laughing with Sugar and Tina. Carmy turns away with a lazy shrug. “We’re just… We’re taking things slow. Not that it concerns you, FYI.”

“Well, FYI, you guys have been dating for months—”

“Oh, thanks for keeping track. I had no idea.”

“—And if she isn’t getting it with you, she’s gotta be getting it from someone else,” Richie rambles absentmindedly as he turns back to his plate. “I mean, I don’t even swing this way, obviously, but if I were a chick, I’d be all over that Luca guy—”

Carmy’s chest stings with a misplaced jealousy. He shouldn’t listen to Richie; he trusts you far too much for any of that. But maybe it’s his own lingering insecurity coming through — the cynicism that always lingers in the back of his head like a shadow, telling him that he’s unworthy of touching you, and then berating him for not being man enough to try.

He huffs. “Well, this is making me feel a whole lot better, cousin. Thank you.”

“I’m just sayin’!” Richie says, muffled through the dessert wadded in his cheek. “She’s obviously crazy about you, man— She looks at you like you hung the fuckin’ moon! I’m just sayin’, you know, trust your instincts. That’s all.”

“…Trust my instincts?” Carmy monotones.

“Yeah,” the older man shrugs. “You’re a chef. Isn’t that supposed to be, like, your whole thing?”

Carmy just blinks at him. “Your point?”

“My point is… She likes you. And you like her— I’m pretty sure half of Chicago knows that by now. So just… Stop getting in your own damn way before you ruin somethin’ good, alright? She picked you, cousin—”

Carmy leans back when Richie gestures too closely with his fork.

“So if you can’t trust your own judgment, at least trust hers.”

Richie’s words pierce him almost physically, giving him that surge of courage he’d been lacking these past few months with you. It makes him want to stop dissecting each of his feelings, for once, until they’re just lying there ahead of him, dead and useless.

Carmy’s light eyes narrow suspiciously. “You know… You’ve gotten, like, really good at giving advice since becoming house manager. You know that?”

“Yeah, I know, it’s freaking me out, too,” Richie deadpans, stabbing at his plate. “Sometimes I hear myself talk and I’m like, who the fuck said that?”

IV. PUFF PASTRY.

The first time you spent the night at his place, Carmy had a panic attack.

It started as a dream, or a nightmare, or maybe a memory. It played through static like an old film — Christmas Eve at the Berzatto house, beneath glowing Christmas lights and smoke from his mother’s cigarettes and something she burnt on the stove. He could smell the nicotine hanging in the hair, and the thick smell of tomato sauce, and Cicero’s expensive nose-stinging cologne.

Carmy was sitting at the head of the table, unable to move from his chair. The rest around him were empty, save for the one at the opposite end. Mikey’s seat. The ghost of his brother was laughing one moment, then screaming at him, then crying the next. Carmy was terrified — the kind of terrified he got as a kid when his mother got in another one of her moods — but he was comforted, at the very least, that his brother was here.

Alive.

Then the lights went out, for only a fraction of a second. And the Christmas lights were glowing again, but his brother’s seat was empty. And the silence was worse than the screaming.

Carmy woke with a sharp breath to a bedroom filled with a navy blue darkness. He rose to his elbows, chest aching as he waited, for a fleeting moment, for the Christmas lights to come back on. Then he realized that he was back in his bedroom, and his brother’s still dead; but you were beside him now, and that was enough.

As his eyes adjusted, he found you lying beside him, bathed in the dim glow of the muted streetlamp outside his window. You’d kicked off the sheets, revealing the expanse of your bare legs and the softness of your stomach from where your shirt had ridden up — one of his, which you wore with a plain pair of cotton underwear. Your mouth was softly parted; your breathing was even and slow.

He tried to match each of your exhales, but the panic dug deeper into his chest. His lungs refused to fill properly. His skin felt too tight. The air was too hot, but his teeth were still chattering. He couldn’t ask you for help if he tried.

The walls spun around him as he rushed immediately to the kitchen. He bent over the sink, gripping the counter hard enough to blanch his knuckles with one hand, while his other scooped handfuls of freezing water into his mouth. He was not sure how much it was helping.

The muscles in his back tensed when a warm hand settled suddenly between his shoulder blades. Carmy didn’t realize you’d followed him out until then; until he heard your voice in his ear, cutting through the wild pounding of his heartbeat.

“It’s okay,” you told him. “Just keep breathing. You’re okay. It’ll pass.”

His breath came easier to him after that. The kitchen soon filled with the sound of his trembling pants and the loud hissing of the kitchen sink. Carmy’s shoulders loosened slowly under your hand.

“Do you need me to do something?” you wondered quietly.

He shook his head, curls hanging over his eyes from where he was still hunched over. “No, I— I got it— I’m… I’m good now.”

He waved you off with a trembling hand. You couldn’t help but notice the way he avoided your gaze; the way he fought every instinct to tense again when you rubbed along his spine. You wondered if you were only making it worse.

“Do you want me to go—?”

“No,” Carmy blurted instantly. His head snapped in your direction. He blinked back at you with wet ocean eyes. “Please. D-Don’t go. I just— I had a bad dream. I’m okay, I swear.”

You didn’t look convinced, and, honestly, neither did he.

“No, you’re not, Bear…” you murmured gently, with a sleepy smile that bordered on sympathetic. But you didn’t ask him to explain the feelings he didn’t have the words for. You just stood beside him and asked if he wanted breakfast.

—

Carmy’s apartment always smelled different when you were in it. Less like an ashtray and more like warm sugar, and your fruit-sweet perfume, and whatever sweet treat you’d spent the service dreaming about. Tonight, it was homemade churros.

Carmy can smell it down the hall when he exits the bathroom. The shower steam mixes with that sweet cinnamon wafting from the kitchen — where he finds you standing at the stove, tapping a socked foot to the synth pop on the radio, and stirring a pot of glossy chocolate syrup with a wooden spoon.

“Only a psychopath spends all night cooking just to come home and cook some more,” he says to announce his presence as he leans against the doorway, replacing his uniform with a sweatshirt and a pair of plaid boxers. “You know that, right?”

“What can I say?” you grin as you glance over your shoulder at him. “You’re rubbing off on me, Bear.”

Carmy exhales a quiet laugh and spends a long moment just watching you, with all the attentiveness of someone who watched sunsets come or go or mapped constellations in the starry sky. You occupied his kitchen as if you’d been there this whole time, in a sweatshirt with the sleeves pushed to your elbows, big enough to hide the less-than-flattering underwear you’re wearing beneath it. You look like home, in every sense of the word.

“You know…” Carmy starts lowly, swiping at the tip of his nose with his thumb. “For a while there… I kinda thought I was done with all this…”

Your spoon slows as it slides along the bottom of the pan. “…What do you mean?”

“Cooking,” he answers. “There was a stretch where I couldn’t even look at a stove without… hoping it would blow up.”

He laughs at himself, though, admittedly, the words sound slightly more concerning leaving his lips than they did in his head. He swallows hard, grateful when you don’t press him on the matter. You just eye him with a carefulness that makes him shift his weight on his bare feet — uncomfortable at being so foreignly vulnerable.

He crosses his arms over his chest in a childlike attempt to hide, scratching along the expanse of his bicep. “Yeah, I, uh… I just— didn’t enjoy it anymore. I didn’t enjoy anything anymore.”

“What changed?” you press gently.

“You came around,” he confesses. “And I watched you learn to love it again— have fun again, and it made… realize why I loved doing what I do.”

Your mouth lifts in a sheepish half-smile. You turn away, grinning wide at the pot of dark chocolate below as it ripples beneath the spoon.

“Well, I probably wouldn’t have learned to have fun again if I didn’t start working at The Bear…” you tell him. “It’s very likely I would’ve stopped baking altogether. I mean, Copenhagen was great and all, but… you, and Syd, and Richie— watching all of you work… I feel like I could do this forever…”

Carmy’s eyes soften as he watches you. A strange emotion surges warmly through his chest and up into his throat. He feels like he could cry.

“Yeah,” he hums, half-strangled. “Me too…”

Your smile turns shy when you look back at him, nodding your head to beckon him over. “C’mere. Come try this.”

Carmy obeys instantly, as if every muscle and bone in his body was made to be under your command. You twist the spoon to gather the liquid chocolate and hold it out toward him, cupping your free hand beneath it to catch any rogue drizzles. Carmy’s pink mouth parts for a taste — the syrup is warm on his tongue, silky and rich as it coats his mouth.

A low sound of approval sounds in the back of his throat. His damp curls sway as he nods.

Your smile widens instantly, eyes crinkling at the edges. “Yeah?”

“Mm,” he hums. “Hell yeah.”

His smile falters slightly when your free hand reaches suddenly towards him. Your thumb brushes the corner of his mouth, gathering the bit of chocolate lingering on the corner there. You press the pad of it to his lips without thinking, and Carmy drags his tongue against it just the same.

The motion was more instinctive than not. He didn’t realize how charged the moment was until your eyes flickered with it — going glassy and heavy in an instant. Even still, you don’t part from his stare as you bring your hand to your mouth, licking the remnants of chocolate on your thumb that was more of Carmy’s spit than anything.

Carmy’s ocean eyes darken in a flash. The cynical, uncertain thing that lingered in him like a shadow seemed to vanish, as his racing heart lurched with an emotion that bordered on primitive. He decides not to think — to follow his instinct, as it were.

He ducks down to kiss you, hard, with the bridge of his nose smushing against the side of yours and his tongue licking into your mouth.The spoon in your hand clatters hopelessly to the tile floor when he urges you back against the counter with a pair of wide hands splayed along your waist.

Behind you, the chocolate continues to simmer.

V. SPICED PEARS.

The first time Carmy had tasted any part of you was at Ever.

It wasn’t long after Mikey died, and he was making his tour around the city to try new food — seeing what changed and what hadn’t — and trying to take his mind off all the rest. He sat alone at a small square table, finishing up his lemon chicken piccata, when another plate was slid suddenly in front of him.

“Oh, I— I didn’t order this,” he stammered.

Then his eyes lifted to find Chef Terry standing before him, with a smile much gentler than he remembered.

“This one’s on the house,” she’d told him. She did not mention the death of his brother, but Carmy knew that was likely why she came over. “Figured you might appreciate something with a wee bit of alcohol in it. I had our pastry chef whip it up for you—” Her eyes flickered with warmth at the mention of you, who Carmy had not yet met. “I’m quite proud of that one.”

She left him with a pat on the back and nothing more. Carmy eyed the dessert before him, studying it.

The burnished bronze pastry sat on the small plate ahead of him like a tiny piece of architecture. The caramel on the ridged exterior gleamed in the candlelight. The shell cracked audibly beneath his fork, a delicate snap that most chefs spend weeks trying to perfect. The inside yielded immediately — golden custard oozing from its center.

Carmy scooped a bite into his mouth, and his world stopped for a fraction of a moment.

The deeply caramelized sugar hit his palate like a memory; a taste of nostalgia accompanied by a satisfying crunch. The silken custard melted on his tongue, rich with vanilla and warm with dark rum. A brittle shell followed by an impossibly soft heart.

Carmy thought, at the time, that it was the sweetest thing he’d ever tasted.

But it wasn’t.

—

You were.

His face burns hot between your thighs, which tremble on either side of his flushed cheeks from your previous orgasm (that he gave you with two of his fingers, a lot quicker than you’re willing to admit to.)

“Can you take another?” he’d asked, right after pulling his hand out of your underwear and licking your cum off his fingers, which glistened down the knuckle. You whined at the sight of it, half-scared at the warmth still lingering in the pit of your stomach. “C’mon. Let me taste it, yeah?”

You lift your head from the pillows to watch the boy slink down your body, still wearing all of his clothes despite you lying half-naked in the center of his unmade bed. He slides your panties to the side with a pair of tattooed fingers and licks a fat stripe up your pussy, from your pulsing hole to your already sensitive clit.

Your whine fills the lamplit bedroom as your hips buck to follow him.

Carmy pulls off wearing a barely-there half-smile. “Good?” he asks, for the hundredth time or so since you started.

“Yes…” you moan, head tipped back.

And then he starts eating you. Like eats you, eats you — with his mouth wide and his broad nose smushed into your clit. He’s led by nothing more than primal emotion and pure instinct as he laps all the honey you leak for him. The lewd wet noises of his mouth are only slightly muffled by your contented sighs and his own moans, as he rocks his hips against the mattress in a feeble attempt to relieve the ache in his boxers.

Your fingers tighten in his wild curls, as though you mean to pull him off of you, though your hips chase his tongue all the same. His lips latch on your clit, sucking the delicate button, and you cum with a drawn-out sound you didn’t know you were capable of making. He pushes your knees to your chest with a pair of wide hands to milk the orgasm from your pulsing confines.

“No— No more,” you whine feebly, watching with a pained sort of look as he continues licking at you. “It’s too much, Carm—”

“Just let me taste it, baby,” he says, half-muffled against you.

He’s wearing your glittering cum down to his chin when he crawls back up your body. It’s a mess of awkward, tangled limbs as you drag his sweatshirt up his torso from the hem while he reaches into his nightstand for a condom (a feat made more difficult by the fact that the box is still wrapped in its plastic). He kneels between your thighs, open and wet, and tucks his heavy balls under the hem of his plaid boxers.

You watch him as he rips the foil open with his teeth and rolls the latex on. Your eyes trail down his tattooed torso — over the sparse brown hair along his sternum and down to where it trails along his stomach in a thin line. His cock is heavy in his fist, glowing crimson with desire at the tip and leaking drops of pearly-white.

You should tell him that it’s been a while for you — long enough that you’re not sure if you can take something so thick — but you don’t want to stop the momentum you have going, not even for a second. You just curl your arms down and over his shoulders, palms splayed along his sweat-slick back, and fall back with him when he leans down over you.

His gold chain brushes your chest as he ducks down to open his mouth against yours. He rolls his hips forward and back, gliding his cock through your velvety folds, before piercing you fully.

There’s a fleeting, burning sensation as your cunt stretches around him — which quickly floods into a warmer, fuller feeling when he’s seated fully inside you, with his tuft of coarse hair pressed mercilessly against your throbbing clit.

“Oh, fuck—”

Carmy’s words sound less pleasured and more terrified.

Your eyes snap open. You catch a mere glimpse of his profile as his lips smudge along your burning cheek. “You okay?” you ask through panted breaths.

“Y-Yeah. I just—” The words come out strangled and half-muffled against your neck. “It’s just… been a while for me. I can’t— I can’t move.”

A delirious grin tugs at your mouth. You rake your nails gently along the expanse of his spine, until he shivers on top of you. “You can move, Carm,” you tell him.

He laughs breathlessly, though it comes out more like a punched-out breath. “I can’t, babe. I— I really can’t.”

“It’s okay if you’re close,” you murmur gently, smearing your lips along his flushed cheek. “You already made me cum— twice. This is about you feeling good, too, you know?”

Carmy makes a strangled noise, as if your words had hit him physically somehow. He lets himself go at your permission to feel good and rolls his hips against you. There is little rhythm or precision to his thrusts. They’re shallow and quick and a little sloppy, never pulling all the way out, as he buries his moans into your neck. The bed creaks below you like it might break.

“Fuck,” he groans like it hurts him, like he’s half-scared of his own orgasm.

“That’s it...” you coo in his ear. “I know you’re close, Carm. It’s okay. Just cum for me—”

“Fuck!” It comes out like more of a whimper this time, because he’s trying to calculate how long it’s been — two minutes, if that — but his brain’s too fogged and his stomach is starting to cramp from how hard he’s tensing to keep the feeling going a little longer.

Carmy doesn’t warn you when he cums. Not that you need him to. His heavy body just tenses on top of you, forearms shaking beside your head. You exhale a contented sigh when you feel him pulsing inside of you. “There it is…” you whisper in his ear. “Give me all of it, bear. C’mon. Doing so good for me…”

As your hands rub soothingly along his spine, you feel his bare shoulders shaking a little harder than before. It’s like he’s laughing to himself, or crying maybe. Then you feel something warm and wet drip along your neck.

“Bear?”

“Fuck—” He clears his throat when his voice breaks, lifting one hand to wipe at the tear running down the bridge of his nose. He laughs wetly at himself. “Fuck, I’m so lame. I’m sorry.”

“Are you okay?” you whisper, as if anything too loud might break him.

“Yeah, I’m good,” he assures you, sniffling as he pulls slightly off of you. “It was just— a lot, you know?”

“Yeah,” you nod.

“I wasn’t lying when I said it’s been a while for me.”

“Wow,” you hum sarcastically. “You’re telling me the anxious-avoidant chef who keeps his jeans in his oven isn’t absolutely drowning in ass? In this… very illustrious bachelor pad?”

His laugh is more humorous this time. “Fuck you.”

“You already did,” you remind him with a cheeky grin. “Unless you’re askin’ for round two— which I’m not opposed to.”

His mouth twitches into a more sincere grin. His glassy eyes soften further as they dart across your features, memorizing the wrinkles beside your squinted eyes and how your smile sits a little crooked to the left.

He shakes his head, ocean eyes still a little wet, as he smooths his fingers over your temple to brush away an invisible strand of hair there. “You’re gonna kill me, you know that?”

“Oh, but what a sweet, sweet way to go,” you croon as he ducks down over you again.

But if loving you is a slow death, why does kissing you taste like salvation?

drawer opens. closes. the fridge hums. a cabinet door taps shut a little too carefully.

he glances at you.

you feel it, but you don’t look up.

he leans against the counter, arms crossed, watching you like he’s trying to decide something.

you still don’t look up.

he exhales, quiet, and pushes off the counter.

“hey,” he says.

“hm?” you answer, distracted, eyes still on the screen.

he hovers for a second, then steps closer. “what’re you working on?”

“just something i need to finish,” you mumble. “give me like ten minutes?”

he nods. “yeah. yeah, okay.”

he doesn’t move.

you type a few more lines before it registers — his presence, right there, just slightly too close.

you glance up.

he’s standing beside your chair, hands shoved into the pockets of his sweats, looking at you in that soft, unsure way he gets when he wants something but doesn’t know how to ask for it.

“what?” you ask, a smile tugging at your mouth.

he shrugs. “nothing.”

you raise an eyebrow. “carmy.”

a beat.

“…can i sit?” he asks, like it’s not his own apartment.

you laugh under your breath. “yeah, come here.”

that’s all the permission he needs.

he slides into the chair beside you, close enough that his knee presses against yours. then closer. until his shoulder is brushing your arm, warm and steady.

you try to keep working.

you really do.

but then his hand finds your thigh, absentminded, thumb tracing slow, idle patterns like he’s not even aware he’s doing it. his head tilts slightly, resting just barely against yours for a second before he pulls back, like he’s testing the boundary.

you don’t pull away.

so he does it again. this time staying there.

“you said ten minutes,” he murmurs.

“i know, i’m sorry,” you say, softer now.

“it’s been like… eight.”

you huff a quiet laugh. “you’re actually counting?”

“no,” he says immediately. then, after a second, “maybe.”

you finally close the laptop halfway, turning toward him. “you’re being clingy.”

he freezes.

“…’m not.”

you smile, reaching up to push a curl off his forehead. “you are.”

he looks at you, caught, but he doesn’t deny it this time. just shrugs, a little helpless.

“just wanna be close to you,” he admits, voice low.

that does it.

you soften completely, hand sliding to the back of his neck, pulling him in. he goes easily, like he was already halfway there, forehead bumping yours before his lips find yours.

the kiss is warm, a little desperate in that quiet way. like he’s been holding it in, like this is what he needed all along. his hand tightens on your thigh, the other coming up to cradle your jaw, grounding, anchoring.

you hum softly against his mouth, and he melts into it, tension draining out of him all at once.

when you pull back, he stays close, nose brushing yours.

“hi,” you whisper.

he smiles, small and soft and completely gone for you. “hi, baby.”

you close the laptop fully this time, setting it aside.

“ten minutes can wait,” you say.

he nods, drawn back to you by a pull he clearly can’t fight. 

he catches your mouth with his again, before you can even say anything else. like the space between you is suddenly unacceptable.

your laugh gets swallowed by his mouth, soft and surprised, and his hand tightens on your thigh, pulling you closer — closer than you already are, like he’s trying to erase whatever distance was there before.

“carmy—” you murmur, smiling against his lips.

“yeah,” he breathes, not stopping.

he shifts in his chair, angling himself toward you fully now, one arm sliding around your waist. and then, like it’s the most natural thing in the world, he tugs you — gently but insistently — until you’re halfway in his lap.

you blink. “what are you—”

“stay,” he says, quiet, almost shy, but his grip doesn’t loosen.

you huff a soft laugh. “i am staying.”

“no, like—” he exhales, forehead pressing into your shoulder for a second. “like this.”

and there it is again. that honesty he only gives you.

you soften instantly, shifting properly this time, settling into his lap. his arms wrap around you like he’s been waiting to do that all day, holding you close, one hand splayed warm against your back.

he lets out a breath you feel more than hear.

“better,” he mumbles.

you run your fingers through his hair, slow, soothing. “you’re really not letting me go, huh?”

“no,” he says, his voice dropping to a low, steady vow. it isn’t just about this moment. it’s a claim on every second you’re willing to give him.

you smile against the sharp line of his jaw. “clingy.”

“…yeah,” he admits, after a second.

there’s no embarrassment in it now. just truth.

he nuzzles closer, face tucked into your neck, and for a moment he just stays there — breathing you in, grounding himself, like this is the only place he wants to be.

you tilt your head, pressing a kiss into his hair.

“what brought this on?” you ask softly.

he shrugs, but his arms tighten. “you were busy.”

“for ten minutes, babe.”

“yeah,” he says, like that explains everything.

you laugh quietly, but your grip on him tightens too, fingers tracing slow patterns along his strong back.

“you could’ve just said you missed me.”

he huffs, pulling back just enough to look at you. “i did.”

“no, you hovered,” you tease.

he narrows his eyes a little, but there’s no heat in it. “same thing.”

“not even close.”

he leans in again, stealing another kiss, slower this time, like he’s proving a point. his thumb brushes along your side, absentminded, grounding, like he needs to keep feeling you there.

when he pulls back, he doesn’t go far.

“i missed you,” he says properly this time.

your expression softens, completely undone by how sincere he sounds.

“i was right here,” you whisper.

“yeah,” he murmurs, resting his forehead against yours. “i know. still.”

you don’t argue with that.

you just wrap your arms around him, settle deeper into his hold, and let him keep you there — as long as he wants.

your laptop sits forgotten while you kiss for what feels like hours. and carmen berzatto doesn’t loosen his grip once.

 ₊˚⊹♡

thank you for reading.

Through the bustling kitchen, you squeaked a quick, “Behind,” as you passed. A large, tattooed hand planted a light smack to your ass. It was a mindless thing that he’d done a ton of times at home whenever you’d pass him in the kitchen wearing only one of his tees. But right now, you weren’t at his apartment, and this wasn’t his kitchen. You two weren’t in the cozy atmosphere of the apartment, and everyone had just seen that.

Everyone froze, and the busy kitchen stilled. Sydney’s eyes widened, jaw hung open, as Tina crossed her arms and Marcus stood, dumbfounded.

Richie was the first one to speak up. “What the fuck, Cousin, that’s not cool.”

Carmy’s head was in his hands, face turning bright red as he tried to say, “Guys, it’s not li—”

“Not like what, Carm?” Syd asked. Tina pulled you closer to her, defensively, away from Carmy. “Because this seems an awful lot like harassment.”

Richie continued his scolding. “You’re the fuckin’ boss. What were you thinking, slapping the kid’s ass?”

Your face paled at Richie’s recollection of the event. “Guys, stop, it’s fine,” you muttered, voice cutting through the chaos. Carmy ran a hand through his hair, mouth still open.

Tina began her angry rant with a, “Jeff,” and the rest was very fast, angry Spanish.

“We’re together, alright,” you cut her off, hands up in surrender.

Moving next to an overly embarrassed Carmen, you ran a comforting hand over his forearm, watching the revelation of your relationship hit everyone.

Richie frowned, slinging an arm over Carmen’s shoulder. “Cousin finally got a girl and didn’t tell me about it.”

“We,” Carmy corrected, “didn’t tell anyone about us.”

Syd spoke up. “But, like, how long has this been going on? Because that was way too comfortable to be new.”

Speaking for the first time, Marcus narrowed his eyes, agreeing. “Yeah, how long has this been goin’ on?”

“Six months,” Carmy muttered quietly, looking down at you.

“Six months?!” Sydney’s eyes widened.

“You’ve been lying to us for six months?” Richie interjected.

“Not lying,” you answered. “Just… withholding the truth.”

Everyone took in the news before Syd raised her voice, saying that we still need to prep and to get moving.

Carmy pulled you away from the crowd into the office. “M’sorry, I didn’t mean t’do that out there,” he breathed, hands running up your sides.

“I know.” Your arms circled his neck. “They were gonna find out anyway.”

“It’s gonna get in my eyes,” he mutters. Not even thinking you’ll really hear him, just complaining generally while watching your nice shampoo drip from the hair in front of his face. Mikey used to joke (meanly, Carmy thinks now) that Carmy got that from their mom. 

There’s a smile in your voice, the soft kind, when you reply, “Then close them.” 

Your fingers trace wide, spiraling circles, like you’re making art on Carmy’s scalp. He’s a little bit in love with you.

Carmy used to think that calm just wasn’t something meant for him. He could fake it, wear it for periods of time, but it didn’t become him. Tension, fear, anger, they felt like the only gravity he had sometimes, like they were all that held him together. If he relaxed for a second, that would be it. He’d fall to pieces, and the pieces would scatter on the wind, and whatever Carmy was wouldn’t be anything anymore. 

But then there’s you. The first time Carmy caught himself relaxing with you, he waited to fall apart, and it didn’t happen. The pieces just…loosened, a little. Like Carmy’s gravity found something else to bind it. It’s good in a way he hasn’t figured out how to process yet. 

It’s possible he’s a lot in love with you. 

You make an amused hum, almost like a laugh, and Carmy realizes he’s tipped his head so far back you’re practically holding him up. 

He tips forward again. “Sorry.” 

“That’s okay,” you say, chasing him with your fingers. “We should get you a scalp massager. I think you’d like it.” 

Carmy makes a noncommittal huffing sound. He will not be doing that. (It wouldn't be the same if it wasn’t you anyway.) 

He’s sort of overwhelmed by the need to do something for you. To care for you similarly, maybe wash your body if his hands would be too clumsy in your hair or wrestle you down here with him and go back between your legs. He wants to kiss you behind the soft part of your knee and say C’mere, baby, even though he thinks he’s probably not the kind of guy who can pull off calling someone “baby.” He toys with “sweetheart,” then “honey,” the h a breath on his tongue. 

“Hey,” he says, because he’s a chickenshit. Carmy turns his head, kissing the inside of your thigh. Not meaning to be sordid, but he doesn’t hate the startled-then-shy flicker across your expression when he does it. “Hey.” 

“Hey,” you say back, playing along but with a question in your tone, while he squeezes at your calf, trying to summon language half worthy of you. 

He swallows. “I love you. You know?” 

Your cheek apples when you smile. Your cupid’s bow stretches out, and Carmy wishes for a second that he were an artist instead of a cook (which is its own art form, he knows, he can hear Sugar’s voice in his head now, but still) so that he could paint it. You have the sort of smile that deserves that sort of thing. 

“I know,” you say, sweet as spun sugar. “I love you too, Carm.” 

Carmen Berzatto makes it very difficult for you to ignore him. On top of already taking up much of your thoughts, he's persistent about seeing you. Which wasn't usually a big deal, you were just as adamant sometimes.

Something in you creates a deep sick feeling whenever you think about seeing Carmy right now. There's a tug in your chest and you tell him you're busy or just can't see him. You think it works out when you start your cycle, giving you a longer excuse to keep dodging Carmy.

C: Hey

C: Can I see you?

The request makes your stomach flip. It's not like you're lying, but his persistence makes you anxious. Eventually, you're going to have to see him again.

You: no.

You: started my period yesterday

Bubbles appear a few times while Carmy types. Usually, he gets the hint and backs off for a few days.

C: Is Claire there?

C: I can come and cook. No funny business.

You brush off his offer, telling him Claire was still mulling around the apartment before her shift. You'd probably go to bed after seeing her off, curl up on the couch with some trashy show on to keep you company. His offer surprises you, and you don't think it'll happen again.

But, despite your words, Carmy's already messaging Marcus, asking how quickly he can whip up a batch of brownies.

Carmy doesn't want to consider how odd this is, sitting in his car down the street from your house.

He glances at the bags in the passenger seat, anxiety biting at his nerves.

While he waited for Marcus to get back to him, Carmy did a bunch of reading. He found several different articles listing different foods and ingredients that supposedly help with cramps. He also found articles listing different home remedies or activities for partners looking to help.

Not that Carmy really considered himself your partner but... He didn't not? Carmy never thought too hard about a label for what you guys do or are to each other. But he didn't see the harm in preparing himself to support you. And he was your.... Friend? Whatever he was, he wanted to help.

Movement catches his eye and he perks up a little. Carmy watches as Claire locks the front door to your house before she goes down the steps. He ducks back slightly, even as she heads in the opposite direction from his car.

Carmy gives it a few more minutes before he scrambles out of the car, rounding to the passenger side to collect the bags there. He holds them in one hand as he slings on his overnight bag and locks his car.

Then, Carmy heads for the door.

"What the fuck?" You startle, not expecting Carmy on your doorstep.

"Don't- don't ask questions," he tells you. "I have brownies... and other shit, so can I come in?"

You're at a loss for words, taking Carmy in. There are two reusable grocery bags in one hand and a backpack strap slung over his shoulder.

"Y'gonna let me in, sweetheart, or are ya gonna rob me blind?" The question makes you snicker before you step to the side. Your eye catches on his backpack as he passes.

"What's in the survival bag?" You poke, shutting and locking the door after he enters.

"Just some stuff in case I get mauled again." He says it casually, toeing his shoes off next to the door. You can see the small smile pulling at his lips and you wish you could push him back into the hall.

"Fuck off," You tell him, grabbing both of the grocery bags from his hand. He lets you take it, going to set his backpack on the couch before he comes back to the kitchen. You've set the bags on the counter, before hopping on top of the surface, peeking inside one of them.

"What is all this?" You ask, moving some of the items around.

"Quit pawing at it," He pulls your hand out of the bag, setting it back on your lap. You make a noise at him, watching while he takes things out and sets them on the counter behind you. Most of what he pulls out looks like ingredients. Different fruits, vegetables, meat, and fish that he stores in the fridge.

The items change at the bottom of the second bag, a box of chamomile tea, a heating pad, a few different painkillers, and a clear pan of brownies.

"You made those?" You ask, leaning to get a glimpse of the glass pan.

"Uh," Carmy looks at them before looking at you. "Marcus. Marcus made 'em."

You nod, watching him walk to the stove before setting it to a preheat temperature. "Tell him I said thanks."

Carmy nods, stacking the non-food items to the side along the edge of the counter. Once he's got everything organized how he likes, he looks up at you. His gaze is soft while he takes in your appearance and you watch idly as Carmy walks around to your side of the counter.

"Can I get a kiss?" He steps up next to you along the counter. You give him a look and he huffs softly. "Can't even get a kiss now?"

"You just don't usually ask," you tease before leaning in to kiss him. Carmy makes a noise of content, chasing after your mouth to press another kiss to your lips. Then another. And another.

You have to bring a hand to his hair to tug him away. Carmy lets out a groan of complaint, leaning back into your touch.

"You said a kiss," you remind him.

"Policing kisses now?" He sighs and you give him a grin.

"Can't have you getting distracted and worked up." You tease him and he huffs.

"Just take care of it in the bathroom..." he grumbles, making you tug his hair again.

"Weirdo," you tell him before he's pressing another kiss to your mouth.

"Missed you," he confesses quietly, giving you a second kiss. You hum, ignoring the tug at your heart. "Where y'been?"

"Told you. Busy.." You mutter. You can tell he doesn't believe you, but you don't want to discuss it with him. To distract him, you give him another kiss, which he reciprocates happily.

Carmy finally pulls away, going back over to the food on the other side of the counter. You tell him where things are as he asks, eyes following him around the kitchen. It's not long before he's cutting up the different items of produce and setting them aside in different containers.

He talks you through what he's making, lists off the ingredients and spices he's using. Carmy tells you about how he found a few different articles listing different foods and produce that helped relieve bloating and cramps during menstrual cycles. It's a bit more difficult to hear what he's telling you when he's facing the stove, and away from you. He notices it too.

"Could you come over here?" Carmy asks over his shoulder, busy with the pan on the stove.

"Why?" You ask, making a face at his back.

"Well, because I'd like to look at you while we talk," Carmy says, and you can hear the sarcasm in his voice. You roll your eyes, bracing your hands on the counter.

"I'm comfortable here," you complain and he looks back at you.

"Well, you could be comfortable over here." He shoots back and you let out an exasperated sigh.

"No." You tell him, with a tone of finality like it'll change his mind. He grumbles something under his breath you can't quite make out, it makes you hum in question but he just shakes his head. You settle back when he doesn't say anything else for a few minutes, thinking you've won the debate.

Carmy leaves the stove to stand between your legs, hands coming to rest on your hips.

"Hi," you say softly, giving him a small smile as if you're not being a little impossible.

"You're very difficult today," He tells you, squeezing gently at your hips. You give him a simple shrug, like it makes up for everything. He gives you a look as his grip tightens around your waist and you're not sure if you like what it means.

You let out a noise of surprise as he drags you off the counter, hands sliding under your thighs. Carmy's steady as he carries you over to the counter between the stove and your refrigerator.

"There." He says softly, shifting you back a little. "Comfortable?"

"I guess," you sigh. He gives your thigh a quick pinch, making you laugh. "Smells better over here."

You watch Carmy as he tends the stove attentively. Most of what he tells you about the dishes goes over your head, but you appreciate the effort all the same.

"Y'know, I was doing some reading," Carmy starts, prodding the vegetables in the pan before he looks at you. "Some people said orgasms help relieve cramps.."

His face has a soft flush to it, something that could be attributed to standing over the stove. But you know better than that.

"You said no funny business, Berzatto." You narrow your eyes at him, making Carmy look away sheepishly.

"I was just sayin'," he puts his hands up defensively, keeping his gaze on the food.

"Mhmm." You hum, still looking at him suspiciously. Carmy's fighting a grin as he turns back to the food, and you give him a tap with your socked foot.

You both sit in silence as he continues to work on the salmon. Carmy cooks in batches, eyes flicking between two fillets before he determines they're good and sets them to cool. You don't have to ask to know it hurts his soul a little to let the food cool to be reheated later. He's already made it through most of the produce and fish, and it's not long before he's working on the chicken.

He sets the oven to preheat and you point in the direction of your glass pans, watching as he seasons the meat. It's not long before the oven beeps and Carmen slips the pan onto the top rack. He sets a timer with the appliance, moving the dishes he's no longer using to the sink.

"Saw my mom the other day," he says from where he leans against the counter. Carmy's got his arms crossed over his chest in a way that pushes up his pecs and makes you want to fall to your knees on the kitchen floor.

"Oh yeah? How'd that go?" You ask, letting your feet kick idly.

"Good," he shrugs. "Cooked for her.."

"Really?"

"Mhm," he nods, pushing off the counter to cross the kitchen. "Weird been back there now."

"I bet," you tilt your head slightly. "Street still look the same?"

"You haven't been back?" He asks, surprised. You shrug from your spot in the counter.

"They usually come here, make sure we're alive and living right. Claire usually goes back to the house and gives me the run down." He nods along as you speak, watching you closely. "You guys talk or was she just... DD?"

"Yeah uh.. We talked. She... She apologized for a lot of stuff. It was..." He trails off for a moment, chewing on the words. Carmy's gaze wanders around the kitchen.

"You don't have to talk about it," you tell him gently. He looks up at you, surprise in his gaze. "We don't have to talk about it tonight."

Carmy doesn't ask when he kisses you again, slipping to stand between your legs. This time it's longer than the others, letting him take the lead and kiss you dizzy. His hands grab at your thighs, kneading them softly. One of them comes up to your cheek, keeping you close.

You sigh against his lips as he tugs your hips closer to his. The hand from your hip snakes around to your lower back, palm flat along your spine. Carmy, whether he means to or not, starts rocking his hips against yours. It's a slow and steady rhythm, barely noticeable until he lets out a quiet grunt.

"Carm-" You mutter in warning. He groans softly against your mouth, hand moving from your back to your thigh.

"You can wait a week," you tell him and he scoffs.

"Been waiting more than a week already." He complains. Despite his words, Carmy shifts back so there's a little more space between your bodies.

"Good.." You mutter softly and he lets out a groan.

"Don't start with that." He tells you and you have to fight a laugh. Instead you give him a small grin, giving him a quick peck.

"Finish the food, Carm. 'M getting hungry." You give his hip a soft squeeze as a means to prompt him.

"You're so demanding..." Carmy teases before giving you another quick peck.

"It's not everyday I have a Michelin star chef at my disposal," You bite back, smiling when he gives you a look. He gives your thigh a quick squeeze.

"Literally fuckin' do. You just don't utilize him." There's a deeper meaning to his words that make your throat close up. You don't know if he meant it, and you don't want to find out.

"Finish the food, Carmen."

After you and Carmy eat, he takes some time to clean what he's used. He doesn't let you help much, instead tasking you with putting away what he prepped. While you're putting away the tuberware, Carmy sets the dishwasher to run and stacks the last of the dishes in the sink.

Carmy follows you over to the couch, placing a kiss on your temple as he grabs his bag. "Gonna go change.."

You let him go, settling on the couch with a blanket draped over you as you lay back. You take your phone out of your hoodie pocket and turn on an alarm, set for just after six in the morning. Just in case Carmy's still around the apartment as Claire starts to leave work. It'll give you enough time to get him out and clean up the place.

Carmy doesn't take long to change, coming out of your room after a few minutes. You pause when you glance up at him from your phone.

"Is that all you have to wear?" You ask, raising a brow. Carmy looks confused, nose slightly scrunched.

"What'd'ya mean?" He asks. "Is there something wrong with it?"

"No, it's just... Your dicks like.. Out."

"No the fuck it's not-" He starts defensively. You don't miss how he glances down at his lower half, maybe a little self-conscious.

"It's not like... Bad. It's just y'know.. There." You shrug. Carmy almost looks a little offended when you say it.

"Want me to go put pants on?" He asks pointedly, motioning back towards your room.

"I never said that," you tell him. "I was just commenting on it."

"Okay.." He huffs, turning around to go and turn off the lights in the kitchen. You watch idly as he does, eyes tracing his form as Carmy walks back towards the living room. You set your phone on the coffee table, settling deeper into the cushions.

"Come here," You open your arms as best as you can from your position on the couch. Carmy hums, coming over and climbing on top of you carefully. "Y'sure? I'm not gonna like, squish ya too much?"

You grumble quietly, wrapping your arms around his middle and pulling him onto you. He makes a noise of surprise before getting settled on top of you more, wriggling around so he's supported by the back cushions. "Better?"

You nod, adjusting as he moves his arm under the pillow, providing a slight extra cushion.

"She just lets you set up shop on the couch?" Carmy asks.

"When she's at work, yeah. No one here but me so," You shrug before you start to move under him.

"Careful.." He mutters and you roll your eyes. You wiggle around enough that Carmy's body is pressed against the back of the couch, his head resting on the pillow. He's positioned in a way that his hips are still resting against yours, your legs tangled together.

"You're warm," you mutter, pressing your face to his collarbone.

"Better than the heating pad?" He asks, voice muffled by your hair.

"Much," you tell him, rubbing a thumb over some of the exposed skin of his back. He brings his free hand to rest against your hip, slipping under your sweater to knead the flesh on your side.

"I was readin' and they said something about abdominal massages helping," He offers softly, the heel of his hand pressing firmly into the skin.

"You did an awful lot of reading, Carm. Trying to impress somebody?" You pull back to glance up at him. "Trying to see if any of this works before trying it on your other side piece?"

It's meant as a joke. Poking fun at how much he's read up on menstrual cycles just for this moment. But Carmy's brow furrows and a small frown pulls at his lips.

"There's no other side piece. You think you're a side piece?" He asks genuinely, gaze searching yours.

"No... Carm, it was a joke," You assure him quietly, tucking a few stray curls behind his ear. "Giving you shit for learning so much."

"You're not my side piece. There's no one else," He says it firmly before placing a quick kiss on the palm of your hand. The admission makes your stomach twist, and you scramble to come up with something to bury it with.

"Good. Don't need to be worrying about getting a disease on top of sneaking you into the apartment." You try to push the feeling down, and he gives you a huff.

"Wouldn't do that to ya," He mutters. "Not your side piece, am I?"

The questions makes you laugh before you give him a grin.

"Barely have time for you, don't think I'd be able to have two side pieces." Your admission makes him smirk, and without you knowing, soothes the anxiety in his stomach.

"Good, cause I don't like to share," His voice is gruff, and his hand slides from your hip to grope your ass gently. You make a noise of surprise, leg jerking slightly and knocking against his.

"Don't I fucking know it," You grumble before pressing your face back into his neck.

"How about that massage?" He asks again, hand sliding down the knead at your thighs softly.

"Maybe later, before I have to kick you out," You sigh. "Just want to lay for a little bit.."

"Okay..." Carmy whispers, wrapping his arms around you. "Y'want me to put something on?"

"Mm no..." You let your eyes flutter closed, letting your forehead press against his collarbone. He lets out a quiet 'alright' before he's tracing soft patterns along your back.

You don't mean for it to happen, but after a few minutes, your breathing evens out. Carmy knows you're asleep when you press your face against his chest, ear pressed to his sternum like you're listening for a heartbeat. And maybe you are.

"Hey..." Carmy's voice is soft. You hide your face in his neck, squeezing tight around his middle. "Know you're awake..."

"No, 'm not.." Your voice is muffled against his skin and he huffs.

"I gotta go," he tells you gently and you can't help but whine. "I know, I know. But Claire's on her way home..."

You groan loudly, loosening your hold on him. You don't miss the huff he lets out, giving his side a soft pinch. Carmy lets out a soft 'hey' as you start to untangle yourself from him, blinking sleep from your eyes.

"Didn't mean to sleep so long..." You mutter, stifling a yawn.

"It was late," he shrugs. You hum, looking around for your phone.

"Did the alarm go off?" You ask. Carmy nods, and you look at the time quickly. "Why didn't you wake me up?"

"Thought you could stand to sleep in," he tells you, moving your legs so he can sit up. "B'sides, we have time."

You make a noise, checking your phone for anything from Claire. You're greeted by nothing, thankfully. Carmy leans against you, pressing kisses to your neck and shoulder.

"You gotta go get dressed," you sigh, letting your head rest against the top of Carmy's head. His curls tickle your cheek as you let your eyes fall shut, fighting the urge to doze off.

You pat his knee, silently urging him to get up. It works. Carmy presses a quick kiss to your cheek before getting off the couch and heading to your room.

You glance back at your kitchen, looking for anything that would give away that Carmy had been over. You don't spot anything immediately, making a mental note to put the leftover dishes in the dishwasher. You listen to Carmy move around your room, sinking into the couch.

It doesn't take him very long to get ready, coming back to the living room with his backpack over his shoulder. When he comes back to stand in front of you on the couch, Carmy puts out a hand to help you up. You take it, pulling yourself off the couch, letting yourself stumble into him when you overcorrect. Carmy makes a small sound when you bump into him, his other hand coming to your waist to steady you.

You trail after him as he walks to the door, tugging down your hoodie a bit more. The air outside is warm when Carmy opens the front door, it makes you shiver slightly when it hits your bare legs.

He pulls you into a hug, arm slung around your shoulders as he pulls you close. You wrap your arms around his middle, melting into the hug slightly. You make a noise of complaint when he pulls back a little but Carmy makes up for it when he ducks in for a kiss, and you're not surprised when it's a long one.

"You gotta go..." You mutter against Carmy's lips, but you don't let go of him just yet. And to be fair, Carmy's not ready to let go of you yet either. His hands are steady on your waist, keeping you close.

"Bring you to my place next time..." Carmy promises, giving you another kiss. You hum in agreement, letting him press two more kisses to your mouth before pulling away.

"Okay, seriously. Get going," you urge him.

Carmy sighs softly before pressing a kiss to your temple. "Let me know how you like those dishes, okay? I'll write some of them down to make again."

You nod, letting him cling to you a little bit longer. "You'll get all my reviews, chef."

"Okay," Carmy laughs, starting down the steps.

"Let me know when you make it home," You don't know where it comes from. It startles you slightly but it's swept away when Carmy grins and gives a quiet 'alright.' You watch Carmy climb into his car and wait for him to pull away from the curb before stepping back inside. You make sure to lock the door to keep Claire from asking about it when she gets home.