#carmy x reader

You had followed him into his bedroom, singing some song he had sent you at some point under your breath as it played out of your phone speaker, laughing.

“And I’m out at a party, they’re playin’ our song- 

I cry on the dance floor, it’s so embarrassing. 

Don’t send me photos, you’re makin’ it worse!”

You caught his glance for a moment, a flicker of something that he couldn’t place in your eye.

“Cause you’re so hot, it’s hurtin’ my feelings- 

I get a little lonely, get a little more close to me. 

The air in the room was thick with warmth, despite the AC being on.

A soft glow was coming in from the streetlight right outside of the window in his bedroom. It was bleeding in through the sheer curtains and slots of the blinds, it cast a soft glow across the room and shadows across your faces.

You both moved in and out of darkness, getting ready for bed.

In his room.

You moved close. Just a little too close, your fingertips lightly brushed against his arm. 

His stomach flipped, and it made his head swim, made the last few shots of vodka he had taken right before leaving the bar that night feel stronger in his system.

He looked at you, no words exchanged, just a quiet mutual understanding, an agreement. Hesitant but steady.

That was when it happened, you kissed him.

Softly.

His hands made their way around your waist, just slightly unsure, like he was afraid to fuck it all up.

He closed his eyes briefly, just to take in and savor the moment, the feeling of it all, committing it to memory. 

But he wasn’t completely sure of what it had really meant. 

Was this a huge mistake?

He could feel your fingers tracing down his arm in the darkness of the room, a feeling he hasn’t forgotten since. It made shivers run down the length of his body. He could feel his heart racing, could hear blood rushing in his ears.

You pulled away, just to catch your breath, and he saw a fleeting look in your eyes. A mix of warmth and something distant, something unreachable and unknowable. 

Like you were thinking. Deep in thought. 

Deep in decision.

Regardless, the space between seemed to hum with quiet electricity as you moved closer to one another again, lips brushing.

There was no rush, just letting the moment unfold itself, hands exploring with a gentle curiosity for one another, fingers tracing across familiar lines, and discovering new ones.

Every touch had been careful. A question, an answer.

The warmth of your skin on his was grounding, a quiet affirmation for him that this, whatever it might be, was real…Even if just for a moment.

There was a slow rhythm to it, it was steady, unhurried. 

Luca felt the subtle rise and fall of his breath, the delicate pressure of your hand in his own.

Time stretched, folded in on itself, the outside world was fading away until it was only you and him left. This space. This closeness. This fragile trust.

When it was over, you and him laid side by side with one another, a silence between you that felt full of unspoken things. Hope, doubt, tenderness…love…A quiet knowing that this night might’ve been a beginning…or a goodbye.

But, when he turned his head to look at you, and you slipped your hand into his, a spark ignited. A silent sort of promise, or at least a wish for one. He felt his heart flutter with a cautious hope, imagining that this was more than just a fleeting moment between the two of you. Something lasting. 

He searched your eyes, desperate for the same certainty he felt, that there was something there, something real and possible. 

You gave his hand a squeeze, drew yourself closer to him, kissed him softly, and then laid your head on his chest, said nothing.

For a while he just continued to lie there with you, alternating between staring at the ceiling and the top of your head. His hand on the small of your back.

After what could’ve been minutes or hours, you looked up at him, meeting his eyes in the gentle half-light cast over the room courtesy of the streetlights outside. 

“Okay,” you had said softly.

And for Luca, it was enough.

Then, the next morning came, and it felt like everything had just…shifted.

The light was different now, the quiet felt heavier.

You woke up with the same warmth in your eyes, the same love for him that he always recognized in them- no matter what that love might mean. 

“Oh well...that was fun,” you said.

And in that simple sentence, the fragile hope that Luca had held onto slipped away. Silent, irreversible.

What had felt like the start of something became a line drawn. In just five words.

Well, you had meant what you said. Meant those words, meant the line they drew.

Because when you woke up that morning the first thing you did was look at Luca, quiet, still sleeping, peaceful, beautiful in the morning light, everything. But then your gaze shifted, just past him, something shifting deep in your chest when you looked at the medals on his shelf, the old menu signed by someone that you knew mattered. And suddenly, it didn’t matter if you had lain awake the night before, your head on his chest, thinking: He could be everything. 

A different thought came to you.

He could have everything. I can’t be the reason he doesn’t.

So you smiled, waited for him to wake up, and said the thing that you thought would protect him. The most considerate thing. 

The right thing.

Or at least that’s what you liked to tell yourself.

You didn’t like to think about that night. 

You didn’t think of it often, tried not to.

He did.

-

So yeah, he couldn’t go home right away that night.

Not after that, after everything. 

He walked.

Didn’t even register the cold until he realized that his ears were burning, until he realized that his fingers had gone stiff in his pockets.

His mind kept circling all of these…moments.

Kept thinking about that night.

Kept thinking about a lot of things.

Kept thinking about tonight. The way Carmen’s voice had cracked, the way your face was frozen, you and him just standing in time like you had both forgotten how to move at all.

It was the look that you gave Carmen that was really eating him. Not the guilt in it. Not the love. It was the knowing. Like you had always been heading towards that very moment, and that he had just…gotten in the way.

He hated how familiar that feeling was.

He hated the implications. 

He hated himself. 

He kept walking.

He passed the same storefronts twice without realizing it.

He missed the turn for his place, he didn’t care.

Bought a coffee at some point at some 7-Eleven location, he didn’t drink it, he threw it away still full.

It doesn’t matter, he had thought.

Not anymore.

But the memories, they had a grip on him, his mind. The way they seeped in, stayed, the way they stung.

He kept walking.

Every step a little heavier. The cold getting colder. 

His thoughts drifting everywhere, drifting to places he didn’t want them to drift to.

Places he hadn’t let himself go to in a very long time.

Like to that party.

That stupid fucking party back in Denmark.

The one he’d almost skipped.

The one he should’ve skipped. 

-

He really hadn't thought much of it at the time.

In fact, he almost forgot to bring it up at all. But that morning when you had turned to him, said, “Oh well. That was fun.”

For the next few hours it was like he suddenly had no idea how to proceed with you.

He looked at you, knew you, saw the same love in your eyes.

But it was just…nothing.

What had happened?

He couldn’t tell. He couldn’t know. Couldn’t ask.

So, he did what he thought would make the most sense, help to break the ice, something that said, ‘it’s okay, we don’t have to talk about it, we’re still us,’ that in truth, nothing that ever happened between you, could really break everything that you had, or at least there were very few things that could.

That’s how he found himself over a late brunch sitting outside at a café together saying:

“So there’s this party thing later.”

“Party thing?” 

“Yeah, it’s like- It’s a smaller thing, I think, honestly, probably kind of lame, but, I dunno.” 

He shrugged at you, his attention drifting down, playing with his silverware.

“I mean- Who’s gonna, like, be there?” you replied. 

“Oh- I don’t know, like probably just noma people really, and like people who know the noma people.”

“Very specific.”

“Hey man, I don’t know,” Luca leaned back in his chair, “It’s noma people.” 

He could remember the way you had contemplated this idea, let it sit with you for a moment before responding.

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Yeah, okay. Let’s go.”

“Really?”

“Yea, I…I want to know your world.”

He smiled at you in reply, but it had hurt him. 

He couldn’t understand.

Couldn’t understand how you could say that, and also say-

Nevermind. He didn’t want to think about that. 

Everything was okay.

You would go to the party together tonight, have a good time, go back to his place, and resume how you had been together, like always. 

Or at least that’s what he had thought. 

But it hadn’t gone that way, had it?

You had gone to the party, sure. But something had changed by then, he could feel it, even if he tried to pretend otherwise. 

You were laughing, leaning into him like you always had, but it didn’t land the same.

There was some sort of new distance. It wasn’t cold, wasn’t mean, it was just…different. 

He didn’t like it. Like something had been decided upon that he wasn’t made privy to. 

He remembered so vividly the moment that night in which Carmen had so casually said to you that he had been planning on heading to New York soon.

He saw the flicker in your eyes when you heard it.

And Luca’s heart sank

Because he'd just gotten an offer too.

He’d almost decided not to take the New York offer.

It wasn’t that the chance wasn’t everything he’d wanted, it was. 

But it didn’t mean it was a simple decision. 

Moving meant stepping into an environment with Carmen all over again, that the noma wouldn’t be the end. The same city, the same scene, the same unspoken sort of rivalry he’d had felt.

They’d always been two sides of the same coin, competing for space, for respect. 

The competition had always been so exhausting, wearing him down in ways no one else saw, and yet, it’d always driven him to push harder, to prove himself.

But seeing you over there, talking to Carmen, this was different.

It wasn’t about who was better or who got ahead. It was about what it might cost. 

The stakes had become personal.

At that moment, he decided that he was going to go too.

Maybe it was to be closer to you, maybe it was to not let things slip so far out of reach.

But he knew deep down, this couldn’t resolve the quiet unraveling that had begun.

He watched you and Carmen that night. Watched the spark ignite in real time, everything playing out in front of him in slow motion, crueler than anything he had ever experienced before in his life.

Because you hadn’t done anything wrong. Not really. Not then, not now.

But he knew, he knew what it looked like when you were caught in something.

When something captures your attention in that completely consuming, total, unshakeable way, the way you look at it.

It had been him last night, after all.

“I want to know your world.”

Despite everything, a part of him had thought that it had truly meant him. That you wanted to know his world.

He didn’t realize that it was just the door. The party. The beginning of something that didn’t really have anything to do with him at all.

You’d looked at Carmen like you were trying to memorize him.

Luca stood across the room and told himself it was fine. Normal. You were being kind, friendly, making friends.

Stupid fucking idiot.

He told himself that thing that he had always told you, including earlier that day, “You don’t have to go if you don’t want to.”

But this time, it was to himself.

You had wanted to go.

That night, Carmen had offered you a drink, you had basically asked him if he wanted to come, asked what he wanted.

But he could already see the gears in motion, and they weren’t his to stop. 

“I think I’m gonna stay here and keep being all brooding and mysterious and sexy.”

He told the joke with an easy smile, but it didn’t feel like a joke at all, it felt like a death sentence. You walked towards the patio, Luca watched you disappear out the back door, stared down at his phone without reading the screen.

He told himself he wasn’t jealous, that he wasn’t being dramatic, that it was ‘totally okay…there’s always next time,’ he had ended up saying that a lot that week, actually.

For the next few days, he kept telling you and himself that same thing.

Even when you hadn’t come home that night.

When you missed plans.

When you said “tomorrow” and “tomorrow” kept shifting.

He let you go.

And maybe that was the thing that never stopped hurting.

You had never actually pulled away from him, not really.

You had just reached for someone else.

And Luca had let you. Didn’t say anything. Didn’t fight for you. Nothing.

What the fuck was he supposed to do?

Tell Carmen? Stop you? No.

And Carmen, tell Carmen, what exactly? 

That you had once looked at him the way that you looked at him now? 

No. That would’ve been fucking pathetic. Just sad. Worse- desperate. 

Besides, it wasn’t as if Carmen hadn’t already known something.

There was a moment that they had shared, it was maybe a few months ago, prior to the party. Something between four and six months ago if he had to guess. 

Late at night, a bunch of people had decided to go out drinking together, him and Carmen had both decided to step outside together to smoke. Both were more than a few drinks in, on the line of going from tipsy to full on drunk. 

Luca had been talking about something else entirely, it had nothing to do with you at all. Some chef that they had both worked under or knew, he couldn’t remember which, at some point, some philosophy regarding plating, and something about the just the weight of everything. The pressure. The exhaustion…the expectation.

Somehow your name had come up. Just briefly.

“Fuckin’ hell, twelve hours on your feet just to explain to some trust fund intern why seasoning matters,” Carmen had muttered, joking. Sort of.

They had both laughed. 

Then, for a moment, they both just stood there. Quiet, with smoke rising between them, the nightlife humming around them.

“You ever think about leaving it?” Luca had asked, his voice low, cautious, “Just like…dropping the whole thing?”

Carmen gave him a sideways look, he could see his walls quickly building themselves up, his posture tightening, before the look on his face softened.

To this day Luca isn’t sure why he had asked him. Maybe he just felt alone.

Maybe he was starting to feel burnt, and he knew Carmen was the only other person in the world who might just get it, in that moment. 

But what was even more shocking, what really got him, was that Carmen had answered.

“All the time,” he had said, staring straight ahead, empty gaze, like he had to dissociate to even think about it, “But like- then what? You know? Like what the fuck would I even do? Like, what, work in finance?”

Luca exhaled a breath, almost a laugh. “Yeah, no. I mean, I dunno…What do you think you’d be doing if it wasn’t this?”

Carmen gave a short, humorless chuckle.

“Honestly? Probably something just as shitty. Maybe some fuckin’...I dunno, some fuckin’ dead-end job in sales or whatever else pays the bills.”

He flicked his cigarette away, the ember scattering sparks on the pavement, stomping it out. 

“But I’m good at this. It’s all I know.”

He glanced at Luca, eyebrows raised.

Luca met that look, felt a small weight settle in his chest.

“Maybe…Maybe I’d be like a lawyer?” Luca had said.

Carmen crossed his arms, leaning his back up against the wall behind them.

Luca went on, “I know someone who’s got that whole life, it’s like, sharp, fast, never slows down…Kinda like a kitchen I guess.” 

Carmen’s eyes narrowed at him, slightly, a smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth.

“Who?”

Luca had hesitated, then shook his head.

“Someone you don’t know. Not really.”

“But- you’ve mentioned them before,” Carmen pressed, his voice low but insistent.

“Yea, they’re just like, a really good friend,” Luca shrugged.

Carmen gave him a knowing look, his tone teasing, “Just a really good friend, huh?”

Luca said nothing more. 

-

Luca kept walking.

The flicker in your eyes in Copenhagen. For him. For Carmen. 

All the goodbyes, all the hellos.

Meeting.

The last time you had visited him.

He could feel your hand in his. He could feel your head on his chest.

A ghost, always lingering, always just outside of his reach.

Eventually, Luca made it back to his apartment.

He wasn’t even sure what time it was. 

The door shut behind him with a soft click, but the silence that followed it was loud.

He dropped his keys on the counter, kicked his shoes off at the door, leaned against the wall, and closed his eyes.

The weight of the day, of everything, pressing down on him. 

The weight of six years.

The memories, the looks, the distance…the distance between you and Carmen.

He didn’t have the energy to fight it tonight, to think about it any longer.

So he let himself spiral, staring at the ceiling, replaying moments, everything, just trying to will a different ending. Trying to see how this could end. How it would end. 

Eventually, the exhaustion took him, and he drifted into a restless sleep.

The next day Luca woke up late. 

Way later than he had intended. 

Rolling over, he groaned, groggy, checking his phone. 

It was already early afternoon, as far as he was concerned, the day might as well have been over. Or at least that’s what he told himself, because if the day was already almost over, it meant that he didn’t need to do anything today. That he would simply just have to wait until tomorrow.

Running a hand through his hair, he swung his legs out of bed, making his way to the bathroom.

Looking in the mirror, he looked drained. Like the weight of the past years had finally come crashing down on him. He could see them so clearly on his face.

He tried to shift into some sense of normalcy, just trying to ground himself, showered, made coffee, opened some blinds. 

He couldn’t distract himself though. Not really. 

Especially as he cleaned the dishes from yesterday, all he could think about was the way you had run out.

No, not just the way that you had run out, but what had happened before it. What had made you run out.

He’d never felt closer to you.

Had never felt further. 

“I used to think it was you, that you were the one.” 

You had said it in a way which made it sound like you had immediately regretted saying it the moment it had left your mouth.

But then, the way he had said that he had just always hoped you would return to him, the way you had said to him:

“I think I did.”

What was he supposed to do with that?

God fucking damnit. 

He wasn’t really sure what he was watching, he had been so caught up in his thoughts he couldn’t tell you if he was on episode two or episode seven of whatever it was he had clicked on. 

The show had been background noise for the past few hours or so, something about school, or summer maybe? Or Dublin? He hadn’t been paying attention. 

“It’s not like this with other people.”

What the fuck. 

What the fuck. 

Nah.

He blinked back into focus, he searched for the remote.

Couldn’t find it.

Couldn’t look away.

“Yeah. I know.”

Oh my god, shut the fuck up.

He slumped further down into the couch, his jaw clenched, his arms crossed tightly like he could hold himself together if he just held on hard enough. The screen blurred in his vision, but the voices kept bleeding through.

He rubbed at his eyes, like it might undo the whole fucking thing, like maybe, when he opened them again, he wouldn’t be here anymore.

He’d be somewhere else.

In Copenhagen, maybe.

Before everything.

Before that, that fucking party, before Carmen, before you had said, “Oh well, that was fun” like it hadn’t shifted something tectonic beneath him.

Back when he thought that love could just be…timing, and that eventually timing would line everything up. Because if it was love. If it was the right people. The timing would just…resolve.

He was so fucking stupid. 

The show kept playing, kept going, couldn’t find the remote, it demanded to be played. 

He stood up, moved on autopilot to the kitchen. He pulled out a few ingredients from the fridge, there was no real plan to what he was about to do, he just needed to do something.

A red pepper, herbs, half a lemon. 

He was supposed to be working on ideas for a menu change anyways, something bright, seasonal. Fire-roasted, maybe?

He had said that to someone recently, right?

“Smoke’s coming back. Bright acids. That’s the move.” Some shit like that.

He cranked the flame on the stove up and held the pepper over it with a pair of tongs.

The skin started to blister, blackening along the edges. 

It really should’ve been meditative. It used to be.

But his grip slipped, he didn’t even notice. The pepper, it tilted just a little too close to the flame, it flared.

Startled, he jerked it back, the flame catching for a moment on a splash of oil on the backsplash behind the stove.

“Fuck-”

He moved quickly, threw a towel at it, snuffed it out. 

It’s not like it was his first minor kitchen fire. But it was the first time he’d fucked up this specifically. 

He just stared at the burnt wall, blankly. 

His fingers gripped so hard around the towel that his knuckles turned white.

The pepper sat on the cutting board next to the stove, it was half-charred, but not completely un-salvageable.

He ran a hand through his hair, finally tossing the towel behind him, to be put in the wash later. He sighed, leaned his forehead against the cool tile wall of the kitchen. 

The silence of the room settled back around him. It felt heavier, like the fire had burnt more than just a spot on the wall. 

His phone buzzed on the counter. 

Perfect. Just what he needed.

He glanced at it without much thought.

Sent just seconds ago, (y/n) popping up on the lockscreen, your contact photo looking at him.

He picked up his phone, clicking it open to your text chain. 

‘hey can we talk’

He stared blankly at his screen.

His thumbs hovered over the keyboard, willing himself to think of something to write.

He knew a simple ‘yea,’ would suffice, but he just couldn’t seem to bring himself to type it, much less press send.

He put the phone down. Face down. Didn’t move.

The message went unanswered.

The phone buzzed again, a few minutes later.

Carmen.

‘hey thank you for checking in on us last night. we appreciate it.’

Luca just stared blinking at the message. He knew it wasn’t meant to be cruel. He knew that, most likely, Carmen had truly meant exactly what he had said, but something about the “us,” and “we,” of it all, felt like salt in the wound. 

He texted back a quick: 

‘yea np, hope ur both feeling better’

He swiped up off the text message chain, closing the messaging app all together. His eyes flickered to the photo gallery widget. The small thumbnails flickered, moments frozen in time, some blurred, others painfully vivid, some with friends, locations, a lot of dishes, a lot of you. 

Then one in particular caught his eye.

A picture from years ago.

It was him and someone else, laughing, leaning into each other with a kind of ease that now felt impossibly distant, he tapped it open. 

-

He remembered that night, the clatter of the glasses at the bar, the heat from all of the bodies crowding in the place, the hum of conversations blending into a familiar background, a scent of spiced cider and cigarette smoke lingering in the air. 

He remembered trying his hardest to be present, trying to just let go of everything he’d been holding onto. 

But even then, behind the laughter, the raised glasses, upbeat music, there was always a gnawing sense of absence, like part of him was always somewhere else, an ocean away.

Worst of all? It wasn’t just that night. It was every night. It was every day. Everyone. 

He’d been there with someone who had, at the time, felt like a lifeline.

Or maybe they were really just the next person who turned up.

What had he said?

That it was love and timing? Maybe just the latter, was fine. 

They were kind, had pulled him into their circle, they liked him, genuinely. They cared for him. Their words had always felt genuine, the way they laughed with him, the way that they’d touch his arm casually during conversations, how they always seemed to want to see him, really see him. 

But Luca had known. He knew, even then, that he was distant.

Maybe the drink was already doing its job, really loosening and pulling at those corners of his mind just enough to finally hear the words that he didn’t want to. 

But he knew he had to.

“Hey,” they had said softly to him, they leaned closer across a small barstool table, the type that you stand with, between them. Their eyes were kind, far too forgiving for someone who was about to have to say what they were going to say, their tone was serious but warm. They were searching his face like they were trying to find a part of him that they just hadn't quite seen yet. Hadn’t quite been able to reach.

“You’re really great, you know that?” they had said, “Smart, talented, actually genuinely very funny, you don’t kick me in your sleep…”

It had tipped him off immediately, alarm bells went off in his head, his stomach sinking.

He blinked, jokingly responded regardless, hoping he was just misinterpreting the situation.

“Oh no, did I do something wrong?” he joked, giving a small laugh, but it was disingenuous, he knew exactly what was coming.

They only smiled at him sadly, shaking their head, trying to reassure him that it wasn’t something that he’d done wrong.

“No, not, it’s really- It’s not like that,” they said softly, their voice remained steady, gentle, he was grateful for it. 

“It’s just…you’re always like- always just a little bit somewhere else. Like you’re here, but you’re just not…really here.” 

Their eyes searched his face again, patient and kind, but let down when they still couldn’t find whatever it was that they had been searching for, they continued.

“Luca, when you’re here, when you’re like actually with me, it’s great. Like, genuinely. But…” they had paused, voice faltering, “To be honest with you, I don’t know if I can say I’ve ever even actually experienced that. Not more than a few minutes at least.”

They then laughed lightly at themselves after saying it, but the sound didn’t really have much humor behind it. It was more of a quiet acknowledgement of just how absurd it felt, to be standing across from someone who made you feel wanted and impossibly far away, rejected. 

His heart sank.

He knew exactly what that felt like. And he had subjected someone else to it, regardless. 

“I know it’s not personal,” they had added quickly, like they were trying to stop him from feeling too bad, like they could tell that they were making him feel as bad as he did, it didn’t make him feel any less terrible. 

“I know you’re not trying to be like that, I just think- I think that maybe it’s just like…how you are. Or maybe it’s not, I don’t know.”

They paused.

“To be honest with you, Luca, I think…I mean, I’m sorry, I know, it’s just.” 

They sighed, like dragging the words out was physically exhausting, painful.

“I know it’s- I know it’s because of them.” 

Luca’s stomach twisted into a knot. The buzz of the bar suddenly sounded a lot louder to him, like waves crashing on a beach during a storm, he could feel ice spread from his feet to his hands. Everything suddenly felt far away, the people, the floor…The music started sounding like he was hearing it underwater.

He didn’t say anything. Couldn’t, really.

He had opened his mouth a few times to try, he knew he owed them that, a real response. A meaningful one, an honest one.

But his mouth suddenly felt too dry to speak.

He just stood there, pathetically, blinking, his throat closing around words that he just didn’t have.

Them.

You.

They hadn’t said your name. They didn’t need to. No one ever really needed to. You had just become this ghost that seemed to haunt the edge of every conversation that he had ever had, even the first one which he had had with them, he had mentioned you, off-handedly, nothing big, but he still had. There you were, always. In the space between sentences, the pauses between conversations. The devastation of a flicker behind someone else’s eyes when they realized, oh, he’s not here with me. Not really.

He finally forced himself to look up at them, prying his eyes away from the table. 

Their expression wasn’t angry, it wasn’t even bitter. It was so much worse than anything else it could’ve been, it was understanding. Patient and soft, like they’d made peace with it. Like they’d already forgiven him before he had even asked for it. 

“I don’t want to be cruel,” they had said, “I just- I can’t keep pretending that I don’t feel it.” 

Luca swallowed, nodded once.

“I’m,” he had started, swallowing hard, started again, “I’m so sorry.”

And he had really meant it. But it didn’t feel like enough.

They just reached across the table, brushing their hand lightly against his arm. It was the kind of gesture which at one time would’ve felt comforting, but now it just felt all that more lonely, all that more pitiful. They were saying goodbye.

Before they had split off that night…Split off forever, they had left him with one last thing.

“I wanted to love you,” they said. “I could’ve. But- Luca, you’ve been in love with someone else this whole time, and maybe not even in the way that you think you are, I just-” they paused. “I don’t know, it’s just like, everything you say to me…It always feels like it’s already been said to someone else, or already thought about them or something- and I know maybe that makes no fucking sense, maybe I’m just being- whatever. But…You look at me like you’re remembering someone else’s face, and I just can’t- I can’t do that anymore.”

All the air had left his lungs.

And it wasn’t even the first time he had heard a version of those words.

It wouldn’t be the last, either. 

This one felt different though.

Someone who had really really tried. 

Hadn’t turned away at the first sign of distance, they had reached for him again and again, tried to meet him where he was multiple times, even if where he was…was never there. 

There was just this strange moment, ten seconds, maybe a few more, where neither of them moved, they just stood there in the swirl of the bar, the lights were pulsing, someone to their left had laughed just a little too loud even for a bar, the DJ was shifting to another track that Luca knew, from somewhere else. London? New York? He couldn’t really remember, he barely even remembered the moment. 

He thought about reaching for something to say. A question, maybe, something like, When did you know? Could I fix this? Can I fix this? I can do it, let me fix it.

But he knew that none of those questions would’ve been fair. Not to them, not to him. He knew none of them would’ve been honest, not really.

They were slipping their coat on now, a slow and practiced movement, like nothing about this was surprising or new, like they had been living this scene in their head, rehearsing it, just now playing it out. 

“I don’t think you’re a bad person, Luca,” they said. “I actually really do think that you’re probably one of the best people I’ve ever met. You’re thoughtful, funny. You’re really good at talking about things that matter.”

They smiled, it was sad, but fond.

And then he heard it: 

Don’t send me photos, you’re makin’ it worse.

‘Cause you’re so hot, it’s hurting my feelings.

That’s what the DJ had been queuing up.

They noticed his face shift, saw him recognize the song, a familiar look.

They smiled, softer, sadder.

“But I also think,” they said gently, “you might be the loneliest person I’ve ever met.”

-

Luca stared at the photo for another long moment, and then deleted it.

He locked his phone, set it face down on the counter.

He reached for the Marlboro Reds tucked in a side drawer, for emergencies, pulled one out with his teeth, lit it with an old cheap red lighter.

Smokes it right there in his kitchen.

Luca didn’t think that he was going to have work that day. 

But the text came from Sydney, short direct, not much explanation provided.

‘Hey. Can you swing by? Just for a little but.

Carm’s out

Really out.’

He didn’t text back, just started getting ready to head out.

He didn’t ask what she meant. He didn’t need to.

By the time that he had showed up the kitchen was already in full motion, albeit, just a bit off-rhythm. Like a song missing its baseline. 

Everyone looks exhausted, all moving just a second too fast or too slow, trying to act casual. 

“The line’s buried,” Sydney said when he first came in, tossed him an apron.

“Just a few hours,” she added.

“Yeah, of course,” Luca replied, already beginning to tie the strings behind his back.

For Luca, it was muscle memory, handling a station, fixing a sauce, whatever he needed to do, it was nothing special. 

He was really just a patch on a leak. 

But the line was indeed buried.

Calls were getting dropped, pans clattered too hard against meal counters, someone somewhere had burnt the duck confit, and one of the new hires, a runner, was panicking somewhere at the window.

Sydney was locked into expo, her jaw so tight that it might crack. 

Jee was mid-shift, sleeves rolled on a shirt that was clearly not meant for a kitchen like they hadn’t planned on being here when they had gotten dressed, apron half-tied, reaching across counters to check plating. 

Their gold hoops, the type that never came off, caught a loose strand of hair. 

“Shit, fuck,” they said, though Luca thought that they might’ve meant to have kept it quieter.

They winced, yanking the hair free, returning to plating.

Throughout the night, Luca watched Syd and Jee exchange meaningful looks, interacting directly every now and then.

“You didn’t have to come,” Sydney had muttered under her breath at some point as Jee brushed past her to grab something, and then already half-way down the kitchen-

“You say that every time,” Jee replied, flat but not unkind. “And every time you look like you’re about to fucking stab someone or cry into the short rib.”

“I’m not crying into the short rib,” Syd shot back.

“Yet.”

Sydney gave them one last look; Jee met it without blinking before rushing out the kitchen door.

Luca wasn’t entirely sure if they were fighting or flirting, probably both, but the rhythm between them was unmistakable and spoke for itself: familiar, protective, fast.

It hit him like a train, pulling up memories of you and him. His chest burned.

He watched Jee through the window for a moment, they were at the bar, picking up a long line of tickets- at least twenty orders. They looked like they might cry, but they put on a brave face and just got to work. Focused but fragile, the type of calm that wasn’t for themself- it was for Syd. The type of care that goes unannounced.

Sacred.

Luca stepped in at another station, focused on the work, just grateful to have something else to think about, grateful for the distraction. 

He made people laugh, tasted and corrected, plated and called timing. 

Someone called him chef. He didn’t flinch and didn’t correct them, but he didn’t smile either.

Later, during a rare break, he stepped outside to smoke, leaning against the wall, it was cold against his back.

His phone weighed heavily in his back pocket. He didn’t check it.

When Marcus passed him, he paused, turning to Luca, and asked, “You staying on for a bit?” 

Luca shook his head. “No- I mean, yea, kind of, but not really. Just helping out. Carmen’s…”

He trailed off at the end, letting the sentence hang. Marcus didn’t press.

At the end of the night, Luca cleaned his station, helped others finish up their sidework, pulled off the apron, and hung it on a hook.

He caught his reflection in the metal pass, he was tired in a way sleep wouldn’t fix.

Out of the corner of his eye, could see Sydney sitting on an upside-down bucket near the back prep table, twisting a rag in her hands, her leg bouncing nervously.

Next to her, hand resting on her shoulder, was Jee, quiet, steady.

Luca noticed their tired eyes, liner smudged slightly at the edges, but their expression was calm.

He knew Jee well enough, they were a bartender back in New York, Sydney’s partner.

Always nearby when the kitchen storm got too fierce.

Luca wasn’t unhappy to see Jee, but he knew that they only came to help when things were really bad. Like, really fucking bad.

He remembered a night a few months ago when he had stopped in Chicago for a little bit, looking at different places, deciding on which one to settle on. He ended up going out to some bar with a few people. Jee had been there and said something about hating their research, academia in general.

“How’s University of Chicago treatin’ you?” he’d asked. “Worse than the bar? The restaurant?” 

“Oh fuck no, never again.”

Luca laughed.

Jee continued, “At least I enjoy my research.”

They had sworn off the service industry…except for when it came to Sydney.

Jee would jump in wherever needed: expo, kitchen, bar, menu, serving, trained in the position or not.

From across the kitchen, Luca could tell that they hated every second of it, back or front of house.

But one thing was clear: Jee loved Sydney more than they could ever hate the work. 

Luca watched Jee crouch beside Sydney, whisper something too quiet to catch.

Syd didn’t look at them, just kept twisting that rag in her hands until it looked like it was on the verge of ripping right in half. 

Jee didn’t push, just stayed standing there, next to her, waiting.

Sydney finally looked up, her face tight, looking like was on the verge of tears.

“I’m fine,” she said. It was too fast, too flat, to be true.

Jee gave her a look that said, Ok, so I’ve heard that before, and uh, I don’t believe you.

Luca thought about stepping in, offering words, offering to close down the backline for her.

But as he moved closer, he stopped, watching Jee gently unclench Sydney’s fingers from around the rag.

“Syd,” Jee said, their voice calm and low. “You don’t have to hold it together right now.” 

And Sydney, cracked, just a little.

A sharp inhale before a quiet broken laugh caught in her throat, her head dropped forward into Jee’s shoulder, and she didn’t cry exactly, but it was definitely something close, something right on the verge of utter breakdown.

It wasn’t loud.

Wasn’t messy.

It was just quiet, and private, and devastating. 

Luca looked away, gave them the moment.

He hadn’t meant to eavesdrop, but in his defense, privacy in a kitchen is rare.

And the silence after Syd’s breath hitched, the way that Jee held her without more words…

It felt less like intruding, more like witnessing the aftermath of someone else’s storm.

Carmen’s, to be exact.

Luca buddies himself again, wiping down already clean steel, moving bottles, he didn’t feel quite ready to go home, not yet.

He heard Jee speak again, so quiet he almost missed it. 

“I've got you.”

A pause.

Then Sydney, barely audible, whispered “He told me I was the Bear.” She gave a quiet, humorless laugh.

Jee froze. Raised a brow. “He said what now?”

Syd shook her head slowly.

“That night, before he left, he just like, looked at me like he was giving me something…and he just said, ‘You’re the Bear,’ and then just like, walked out.”

Jee squeezed her shoulder. “That’s just not- that's not, like, something you just say, Syd. I mean like, fuck dude, what the hell, that’s like a- like a fucking life sentence or some shit.” 

Syd laughed, easing up a bit.

“I thought I wanted it. Like really wanted it, to run it. To be it. But not like this…Not completely alone.”

Jee crouched in front of her now, direct eye contact, hand on her shoulder.

“You’re not alone.”

They held each other’s gaze like they were the only thing tethering each other down.

“I know,” Syd said.

Luca turned away again, suddenly he was very aware of the ache in his chest, the weight of his phone in his pocket.

It wasn’t jealousy.

It was…distance.

There was just something in the way that they leaned into each another’s touch that Luca couldn’t stop thinking about.

How it was automatic. How it was intuitive. 

Gravitational.

A closeness built not just on attraction or love but on mutual survival, an established partnership, an alliance. 

There was no performance art to it, there was no tension holding anything back or looming overhead threatening it. It was just…real. Safe. Shared.

He thought of the night before. Of many other nights years ago. 

Of you. 

How close he had stood to you. How far away you felt. 

The way you leaned in. The way you just…clicked. 

It stung.

He thought of all of the times it could have worked. How you could’ve been like that, could’ve had that. What you could have had together.

If you’d had just let him.

Let him move for you.

Let him do something.

Anything.

Which was why what he overheard next stung all the more.

“I can stay, Syd.”

Sydney looked at Jee, no words seemed to be needed.

Protestation. A silent Are you sure? A quiet Thank you.

All in just one glance.

Luca felt sick to his fucking stomach.

He could see it so clearly now, this is what it looked like.

You and him, if you had ever let him get that close.

But he already knew that. 

Here’s the real kicker, the part that made his chest cave in on itself, made him want to throw up-

Jee reminded him of Carmen too. Not Carmen as he was now.

Carmen as he could’ve been.

If he’d done the work, faced himself.

Learn how to hold still, give it a moment.

Jee was the version of Carmen that could learn to love without hurting anyone. 

How to show up and stay.

How to keep showing up.

And Luca saw it, both possibilities.

Right in front of him, just across the kitchen, all fully realized.

Just not with him. Not for him.

Not in his life.

“Jee, I-” Syd started, then stopped herself. Swallowed. Tried again.

“Thank you.”

Jee just nodded. A soft, tired smile playing at their lips.

“I promise, it won’t be for that long,” Syd said, just a touch too quickly. “Just a few- just a few weeks. While I just figure it all out. Promise.”

“It’s okay, Syd. I can afford a few weeks.”

“But you don’t-”

“It’s okay. You have me for as long as you need. Anything”

Luca’s head hurt.

Jee’s hand was still on Syd’s shoulder, reminding Luca of how you had done the same for him- how he had done the same for you, countless times. 

He didn’t realize just how much it had meant until it stopped, and he had to watch it from afar instead.

When Sydney finally stood up her eyes were a little clearer, Luca turned back toward the prep table, pretending to have been busy the whole time. 

He waited a few minutes, an attempt to avoid any potential awkwardness. 

He didn’t hear her leave, just the swing of the back door.

He figured that Jee had just followed her out, but a few seconds later, he heard steps stop beside him.

“Hey,” Jee said.

Luca didn’t look up from the tray of wrapped herbs that he was unnecessarily organizing and reorganizing. 

Jee could tell.

He dropped the herbs. Put them back.

“Hey.”

There was a pause between them. Long, but not uncomfortable. Just a breath. One that they both mutually knew that the other had needed. 

Sydney, he figured, was outside taking hers. Deservedly. A moment of silence, of stillness. 

And jee had stayed behind momentarily, deliberately, intentionally, to offer the same to him.

Like they knew that he needed it too.

Or maybe Sydney had known, but Jee had known she’d never take her moment unless someone made space for it.

So they did.

Like it was second nature.

Like love was just something that you just did. Quietly.

Didn’t need to think about it. 

It was just intrinsic. 

It didn’t ask for anything in return.

Jee leaned against the edge of the metal table just across from him, quiet for a moment, and then, “She needed someone steady today.”

Luca nodded, meeting their eyes, “She’s lucky.”

Jee was quiet for a moment.

“We both are.”

Luca stopped what he was doing, looked up, just briefly.

Jee was already pushing off the table, making their way outside, presumably to Sydney.

“Thanks for being here,” they added, before walking away. 

Luca stood alone, fluorescent light of the kitchen burning above him. 

There was nothing left to wipe down.

No more dishes to be plated.

No pots to be stirred, or cleaned.

Just the weight of everything that didn’t happen.

What never did.

What might have, if things had just been different.

If you had let him stay.

If Carmen had learned how.

And in that stillness, bright and cold and humming, before he grabbed his jacket, went out the back door, and walked home like he’d seen a ghost, Luca understood something he wished he hadn’t:

Syd and Jee weren’t the reminder.

They were the proof.

And that his observations were never really about Syd and Jee at all.

Luca felt sick to his stomach as he walked back home, forcing a small smile and a wave to Syd and Jee as he walked past them sitting in their car, they were smiling, they had music playing too faint to be heard from the outside, they were laughing, they waved back, Syd rolled down her window on the passenger side of the car.

“Hey!” 

Luca stopped, startled, turned around.

“Hey?” He smiled at her, turning around, making his way towards her, “What’s up?”

“You hungry?”

He thought about it for a moment.

Was he hungry? 

Not really.

He hadn’t really felt hungry in days if he was honest with himself.

But did he want to go home? No.

“Yea, I guess, I mean, I could eat.”

Jee honked the horn of the car, Luca could’ve sworn that in that moment he had almost pissed himself, Syd just laughed at the look of horror on his face at the sudden noise. 

“Get in then,” said Syd, she leaned back in the passenger seat, reaching for the lock on the back door and pulling it up.

Luca pulled the door open, sliding into the backseat, the door clicked shut behind him.

The warmth of the car was a nice contrast to the cold temperature outside, if nothing else, he was grateful that he wouldn’t have to walk home tonight. 

Syd hummed softly to herself, Jee reaching over to adjust the radio, something low and steady, nothing playing too loud, not after a shift like that.

A silence settled between them, it was comfortable. He was grateful for it. 

He listened in closer to the radio.

So hot you’re hurting my feelings-

“Skip! Skip the song,” he said, suddenly breaking the silence, Syd and Jee jumped in their seats.

“Jesus christ, okay, pipe down,” Jee said, pressing a button on the steering wheel, skipping the track.

“Someone doesn’t like Caroline Polachek,” Sydney had turned around in her seat to look at Luca, a mock-serious expression on her face, her tone teasing, “What do you have against Queer artists, Luca? Tsk tsk.”

Luca rolled his eyes, a slow smile just tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“Nothing against her,” he said, playful, “Just, maybe a little too much energy for midnight.”

Sydney laughed, leaning back again, Jee giving him a sideways glance from the driver’s seat, their eyes lingering on him just a beat longer than usual, a small and knowing smile playing at their lips.

Luca caught the look, smirked, feeling a quiet acknowledgement pass between them, and for the first time in a while, Luca had felt a flicker of something lighter, something like belonging.

The car moved forward after Jee smoked a Newport menthol out the window, stubbing the cigarette out in an in-car ashtray. 

“Holy shit,” Luca said, leaning forward to put himself in between Jee and Syd from the backseat, “Is that a fucking ashtray? How old is this car?”

“I dunno, some maybe like, I wanna say 2006 or something, Subaru?” Jee responded, eyes on the road.

“2006?” Luca repeats back to them, shocked. “That’s insane.”

“Well excuse the fuck out of me, sorry for not being able to afford a ferrari in this economy,” Jee gave him a half-smile, glancing at him in the rearview, “And- for your information, this thing’s got character, okay? You saw that dent on the side? You don’t just get a dent like that for nothing, okay, it takes time, real personality, it takes, knocking over the mailbox at your childhood home and then denying that it was you for the rest of your life, it takes, hitting the curb-”

“-And it gets us from point A to point B without breaking down, so,” Sydney cut in.

Luca laughed, shaking his head, feeling just a little lighter even if just for a moment. “Okay, fine, I get it. This car’s basically a like, living, breathing, saga, or whatever.”

Syd grinned. “Exactly, Way better than some like showroom model shit with no stories or personality, I mean, where’s the flavor in that?”

“Where’s the flavor indeed,” Jee echoed being going on, “You know where this car came from before us?”

“Where?” Luca replied.

“Some guy on Long Island-”

“That’s in New York, right?”

“Yeah, like where I’m from, anyways, moving on, some guy on Long Island? Got this car, moved to Florida like three months later, didn’t want it anymore- Oh, and he was like, lowkey cheating on his wife I’m pretty sure.”

“Wait- how do you even know that?”

“Know what?”

“The wife thing.”

“Oh-, I don’t know, there was like a CD still in the car when I bought it.”

“I don’t really see how that-”

“It was AABA.”

“Ok?”

“The last song it was playing was The Winner Takes it All.”

“Oh, okay, nevermind, you’re right.”

“Thank you.”

Luca leaned back in his seat, letting the laughter fade, the road humming beneath them. The music returned, it was playing at a low volume, some track Syd liked that he couldn’t name, but didn’t mind.

The playlist pulled up on Jee’s phone that was connected to the car radio read ‘Syd mix,’ across the top.

Luca stared at the phone screen for just a second too long, the glow of it casting a soft light across the dark car.

Syd mix. With a little bow emoticon in between the two words.

Of course it was. 

Something about it made his stomach turn, not in a bad way though, not really.

Just in that specific, brutal way of watching something simple and good that has absolutely nothing to do with you, and realizing how far away you are from anything like it.

He shifted slightly in his seat, his gaze flickers between the dashboard and the space between Jee and Syd’s shoulders, the ease, the shorthand, the closeness that didn’t require it to be proven to anyone. 

They weren’t showing it off, or anything, but that was the thing. They didn’t have to.

That’s what hurt.

Seeing something that worked. 

People showing up for each other. 

He looked away, resting his forehead against the window, watching the city move past him in streaks of yellow and blue lights, Jee adjusted the heat a little, like they could tell that he was cold even if he hadn’t said anything.

Maybe if things had been different.

If you’d stayed.

If he had been enough.

If Carmen had gotten it together before you stopped waiting.

If. If. If.

Syd said something that he didn’t catch, and Jee laughed, full and quiet, like they meant it.

Guiltily, all Luca could think in that moment was: God, I’m so fucking tired of watching the life I want belong to someone else.

Luca was quiet for the rest of the ride, just watched the playlist scroll on Jee’s phone, let the ‘Syd mix,’ of it all gut him just a little bit. 

By the time they pulled up to Syd and Jee’s building, he felt a little hollow. 

Like despite being surrounded by people who he genuinely liked, people who genuinely liked him, cared for him.

He still felt alone.

Inside of their place, everything was warm. There was dim lighting, Luca took note of how none of the actual lights seemed to be on, none of the ceiling lights. Instead, the lighting in the house consisted of that which came from various lamps and string lights around the place, all having a tone that made it feel more like he was standing under the sun rather than that in a hospital room sort of lighting that normal lights in apartments sometimes gave off. There were mismatched mugs by the sink, there was one with a picture of them on the front of it, probably a gift or something, maybe a gag gift from one of them to the other, another mug with a picture of their dog on it. Someone’s jacket hung off the back of one of the kitchen chairs. Clunky- maybe handmade?-looking magnets scattered across their fridge. It was that nice kind of clutter, the type of clutter that told you that someone lived there. 

Syd handed him a bowl of something that smelt like ginger and gochujang. Jee was standing in the kitchen, emptying a dog bowl, rinsing it out, filling it with new water, they were humming something, he didn’t know the tune, couldn’t place it.

He sat down on the couch. Took a few bites. The food was good, of course it was, but above all else, it was comforting. It was thoughtful. And for the life of him, he couldn’t figure out why it made him feel like he wanted to cry.

“Who made this?” He cut through the quiet of the room before anything more could happen.

Jee snorted, “Who do you think made it?”

“Um, I don’t know,” Luca said back, joking, he motioned over to their dog, a dachshund sort of mix maybe, sitting in the corner of the room on a dog bed, “Him?”

Jee just rolled their eyes, “Syd, you fool.”

Luca laughed, like genuinely. ‘You fool’? Who said that? It had caught him off guard.

“Well, Syd,” Luca said, “This is very good, although, this comes as no surprise to me.” 

Syd just smiled, nodding at him. 

His fingers clenched tighter around the bowl in his hand, and that’s when it had hit him.

He hadn’t eaten like this, like this, in a very long time. Not actually. Not around people. Not like it mattered. There was the other night, with you, but…

The memory of your leaning in, him leaning in, your lips just brushing, you just running off, not saying anything. Just leaving. 

The apartment. What Carmen had said, what you had said, what he had said. 

He shook his head, trying to get the thoughts out of his mind.

‘Across the room, Jee reached out without thinking and tucked a loose braid behind Syd’s ear, hand lingering for just a moment too long, Syd didn’t even blink. She just kept talking about some show that they had been watching recently, something about Dublin, and college, and- Was there no escape? 

Luca looked away, closed his eyes.

For just a split second, he wasn’t there anymore.

-

He was in the driver's seat of a car. Your laugh still in his ears, his hand resting easily on your leg, casual, like it belonged there. The music was up too loud, your window was cracked even though it had been cold out. 

It was in those two years before the party, before you had met Carmen, one of the times that he had come to visit you in the U.S. and you had decided to both go in on a car rental, roadtripped to Maine. 

You were talking about something, he couldn’t really recall what, just that you were smiling at him like you did. Like it had meant something.

It had meant something. 

And he could still feel it, that exact second where he had thought: This is it.

-

The couch shifted under him.

He opened his eyes again, Syd was next to him, bowl in hand, feet tucked beneath her.

She didn’t say anything to him, not right away. She just sat next to him. Close, but not too close, existed with him. Like she could tell that there were words he had, words he needed to say, but wasn’t ready for yet.

He stared down at the food again, and took another bite, slower this time, suddenly feeling sick again.

“You okay?” she asked, not looking at him.

He nodded before even registering the question, then shrugged. 

“Yeah, sorry, I’m just- I’m tired.”

Syd didn’t press.

“Yeah, me too.” 

The TV had been turned on now, muted, or playing too low for Luca to really hear it. It was some rerun of something, he wasn’t sure if she had just put it on, or if it had been running this whole time.

He glanced around the room again, Jee was still in the kitchen, quietly drying a pan, headphones pulled over their ears. The dog had fallen asleep, again.

“This is a really nice place,” Luca said finally, his voice a little hoarse.

“Thanks,” Syd replied. “It’s no mansion, but…we like it- It’s our home.”

He nodded again, let the warmth of the room settle over him again.

It didn’t fix anything, but it didn’t hurt anything either.

And that was something.

Syd shifted beside him, pulling a blanket from the back of the couch, and draped it over her lap, leaving the edge near him without saying anything. 

Luca didn’t move to take it, but he did notice, grateful for the small gesture.

“I used to think home was gonna be something else,” he said after a moment passed, not even sure why he had said it.

Syd glanced over at him, and then turned her attention back to the screen.

“Yeah? Like what?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know. Just different? Bigger, maybe? Louder? More people…More…something. Someone.” 

Syd was quiet for a beat, then said, “Yeah, I can get that. I used to feel like that too.”

She didn’t sound sad about it. Just certain. Like someone who had learned to stop wanting more, and still somehow had ended up with everything.

“But then we got this palace, and I realized that I didn’t need it to be anything but soft. Just soft, and mine. Home.” 

Luca swallowed, nodding, his chest felt tight again.

Syd leaned forward, grabbing her mug from the coffee table. This mug in particular, had a small square photo printed on the side of it, her, Jee, the dog, on some sort of mountain, some hiking trail maybe. He tried not to look at it too long.

She took a sip from it before setting it back down. 

“And it helps when someone else wants that same kind of quiet.”

Luca didn’t say anything, he couldn’t.

They sat there for a while together, watching pictures move on the TV, Jee still moving around in the background, humming.

Eventually, Syd got up, blanket still over her shoulders. She pauses. 

“You can stay, you know,” she says, like it’s nothing. Like it’s not a big deal to just say that to someone.

“We’ve got a futon thing in the office, or you can take the couch, your choice, Jee won’t mind. I definitely don’t, or I can drive you back home before I head off, if you want, your choice.”

Luca opens his mouth to protest, tell her that it’s okay, that he can make himself scarce, call an Uber or Lyft, he does this out of habit maybe, but nothing comes out.

He nods instead, surprises himself.

“Thanks,” he says, his voice low, tired.

Syd nods back, starts toward the hallway, and then pauses again.

“You don’t have to be alone,” she says. “Not unless you really want to be.”

She then walked further down the hallway, disappearing into the bedroom. 

Luca started drifting in and out of sleep and he wasn’t sure exactly when, but at some point he could just make out Jee, putting a blanket over him, maneuvering a pillow behind his neck.

Another point during the night, still in that half awake state that comes with the sort of restless sleep he was experiencing, he could hear Jee’s voice from down the hallway, low, quiet, not meant for him.

“You good?”

“Yeah,” Sydney’s voice replied, it was soft through the cracked bedroom door.

“He’s staying.”

A pause.

“Good,” Jee responded. “He looked like he needed it.”

Something in Luca’s chest clenched.

He closed his eyes again, letting the warmth of it all settle over him, but the comfort only made him feel worse in a way, because it wasn’t really his.

It was offered. Generously. Freely.

But it wasn’t his.

And somehow it made him feel like it hurt more than if they’d had just sent him out into the cold.

The last thing he heard before sleep finally took him that night was the sound of Syd laughing softly behind a door.

That kind of laughter that only really comes when you’re already home.

He woke up to the distinct scent of coffee, espresso, the distant sound of someone shuffling around a kitchen, maybe two someones. For a moment, he forgot where he was, until the blanket slipped slightly off his shoulder, pulled by some unknown force- The dog licked his face, wet, slobbery. Right. Three someones.

He blinked, groaning, wiping the drool and dog spit from his face with the collar of his shirt. The dog, Piper, he remembered now, he knew he had been told the name before, it had simply slipped his mind last night and he was too embarrassed to ask. The dog, Piper, whined happily, tail thumping against the floor like it had been waiting just for him to wake up.

The living room was softly lit with the morning light, a sliver of light cut across the couch, catching dust in its path. Somewhere in the kitchen, a cabinet clicked shut, and he could hear the murmur of voices, low and familiar. He caught his name once, followed by laughter, no the kind that mocks though, the other kind, warm, kind, endearing.

He sat up slowly, his joints felt stiff. The couch was surprisingly comfortable. Or maybe it wasn’t. Maybe he’d just needed it. 

The blanket fell fully into his lap, someone had tucked him in tight. Too tight for it to have happened accidentally. Jee, probably.

There was a mug waiting on the coffee table, steam was still curling off the top, it was made exactly the way he liked it, though he didn’t remember ever saying how, he picked it up, examined the side. 

On the side of the mug someone had scribbled on it big Sharpie marker lettering:

LU CA  M U  G !!!

All caps and sloppy, like someone had been laughing while writing it. 

Probably Jee. 

Definitely Jee.

He turned it around, a doodle of a stick figure guy sleeping on a couch, snoring, cartoon drool coming out of his mouth.

Syd’s addition.

He stared at it for just one moment too long.

This, this was what being loved looked like, wasn’t it?

Without asking, without proving, something which was just…offered. 

And not in grand gestures or confessions or desperate, clumsy apologies. 

In Sharpie.

In a mug.

In a drawing.

In the way coffee could be just right.

He brought the mug to his chest, he let the steam warm his face.

It wasn’t jealousy he was feeling, it was something quieter, longer roots.

This wasn’t about them.

It was the ghost of something- someone else.

It never quite had the chance to become this, to become anything else. 

He drank the coffee, gratefully.

Syd walked into the room, keys dangling from her hand. “You good to go?”

He nodded.

The car ride was mostly quiet, that same playlist going.

Just a few minutes from his place, Syd moved her hand to the radio dial, turning down the music.

“So...”

“So?” Luca echoes, turning to look at her.

She hesitated. Like she was trying really hard not to say the wrong this.

“So, this Carmen thing.”

Luca swallowed, nodding, “Yea. Pretty crazy, I guess.”

“Yeah,” Syd replies slowly, “Can I…be kinda blunt?”

Luca raises his eyebrows, a bit taken aback at the question. “Uh, yeah. Sure.”

Syd nodded, pursing her lips together before starting to speak again. “So,” she paused again, “So, Jee had said this thing, a while back. About New York-”

Luca knew exactly where this was going.

“-Jee said that you’d mentioned someone. Like a friend or something, someone you were just like, really close with?” Syd glanced over at him. “And, they weren’t like, totally sure, but they thought that maybe there was possibly, like, some sort of history there? Like, real history. Feelings. That kind of thing.”

Luca paused. He was right. He knew exactly where this was going, and he did not like it. 

He responded, “Yes, that’s uh- correct, yeah, that’s uh, that’s-” He looks down at his hands. “That’s accurate.”

Syd nodded, exhaled. “Okay. Right. And that was when you were working with Carmen? And Jee?”

“Yeah.”

“Right, okay. So, Jee said they picked up on it. That it was kinda obvious that, maybe, something was going on? Or had gone on. And, uh, it’s also my understanding that this person is…is (y/n). Carmen’s partner.”

She said the last words like a statement rather than a question, final, damning. 

Luca felt his face heat up.

“Yeah.”

“Right…It’s just, well. When Carm left…well, you know how he is. He kind of spiraled, a little, and I think that maybe…I think maybe he said something about you. About (y/n). Super vague, I don’t know for sure.” 

She added quickly, “It wasn’t like it was direct or anything, super vague, just like- I only picked up on it because I kind of knew already. Connected the dots.”

Luca just blinked, staring straight ahead.

“Yeah, I mean, I wasn’t there,” he said finally. “So, maybe.”

Syd kept driving, eyes forward, straight at the road.

“I guess what I’m trying to ask, all things considered is- are you okay?”

Luca didn’t answer right away. “I don’t know.”

Syd nodded once, for him to go on.

“I think I’ve been just…Just trying not to ask myself that.” He took a deep breath. “I mean, I’m not like…devastated, I guess, not exactly I’m just like…It’s like there’s just this part of me that just thinks like, if I could just explain it right. If I could just like- I don’t know, just say the right thing, maybe-” 

He stopped, closed his mouth, jaw tightening.

“Never mind.” 

Sydney turned the car, pulling up to Luca’s block, she pulled the car up to the curb, shifted the car into park.

“Uh, Syd? Can you explain to me why we’re like half a block away from my place?”

Syd stayed silent, only looking straight ahead.

Then she nodded, just barely, tilted her head toward the sidewalk just up ahead, right outside Luca’s place.

“That’s why,” she said.

Luca followed her gaze.

There you were.

Sitting on the front steps of his place. Hoodie on, hood down, your elbows on your knees, hands clasped together. You looked like you’d been sitting there for a very long time.

“Are you gonna like- Are you gonna be okay?” Syd asked.

Luca didn’t answer her, just opened the car door, stepped out. 

“Thanks for the ride,” he said.

“Yeah,” Syd replied, but it came out just a little quieter than usual. Hesitant. 

When you heard no reply something stirred in your stomach, resting the book on your lap and looking at the empty hallway behind the open door.

In the distance, a plate clicked carefully against marble, refuting the idea of the jangling keys having been a figment of your imagination. It was 1 am after all.

The book would have to wait.

You blew out the candle and placed the paperback by its side, getting up from your bed to stop by your bedroom's door.

From there you could see the kitchen light, brows furrowing at the lack of greeting. The soles of your feet brushed against the wooden floor with every step, digits holding onto the kitchen doorframe as you looked in.

Carmy had just turned to his left to open a cupboard, stopping in his tracks when he saw you.

"Oh hi, thought you'd be asleep by now." His eyes found yours for only a second, still the tiredness in his expression was as clear as ever. Carmy closed the cupboard once he had the jar in his hand, turning his attention back to the half-made sandwich.

"Hey." It was softer this time, your gaze mindlessly fixing on how he busied himself by unscrewing the peanut butter jar. How ironic was it that Carmy, who had worked in the best restaurants of the world, found pleasure in the simplicity of a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.

If only it didn't worry you that it could have been his second meal in the entire day.

"So, did lighting finally strike The Bear?" You rested your side on the edge of the counter, arms crossing.

Carmy's deep breath echoed against the tiled walls, shaking his head to keep the chaotic memories at bay.

"It was fucking horrible today, at one point I just stopped counting the times I wanted to put my head in the oven." Letting out a dry chuckle Carm turned his body to face yours, leaving the knife balanced on the plate.

Out of habit his hands rested on his hips, he missed having a spoon to nervously tap against his fingers.

"Hm, wasn't aware I was dating Sylvia Plath." You took a step closer, encasing his face in your hands as they slowly slid up until they found themselves in his unruly hair.

He had the nervous habit of endlessly threading his hands through it, which only made it look crazier as the day went on. It was endearing to a point, not so much when it started looking like a bird was one second away from building a nest.

Carmy hummed at the touch, eyes fluttering close as he leaned in. The kiss was gentle, lips grazing each other softly. His hands instinctively found themselves around the small of your back, bringing you in closer.

Mint and some rich sauce reached your tongue, the coincidental pair matching nicely. You knew the mint was because of the gum he chewed now that he decided to quit smoking and the sauce must have come from his cooking at The Bear. Always taste testing everything as many times as possible to reach perfection.

You pulled away slowly, grounding yourself in the crashing oceans behind his eyes. "Do you want to talk about it?" Carmy's brows knitted together, his tongue wetting his lips evidently displaying the thousand thoughts running wild in his mind after the day. "It might feel better to let it out rather than let it all build up here"

Soothingly you rubbed your hand in circles above his heart. He'd spoken about his panic attacks, how the pressure in his chest constricted his breathing and his heart felt like it might never beat normally again.

"Maybe I should, Sugar's been saying I share as much as her agoraphobic neighbor." His lip quirked up at the memory.

"She apologised right after and asked if she'd been too mean about a neighbor she's never even met"

You couldn't help but laugh at the statement, the comparison so evidently Sugar's. "Only if you want to."

"Y-yeah I do." His right hand left your hip to scratch his brows, another one of his many nervous habits. "But I need to eat something or my stomach's gonna start eating itself."

"Enjoy your two Michelin star pb&j." His other hand lowered, his feet taking two steps back to find the cupboard where the jam was stored. Breaking the comfortable silence you gasped, immediately feeling guilty when you saw his back tense at the sudden noise before he turned to look at you. "Oh! -sorry- I just remembered that there's leftovers from some duck dish you were trying out for the menu yesterday. I can heat it up if you want."

"That would be amazing, thank you." He spoke your name softly, almost in a pleading sigh at the prospect of a more filling meal. There were nights were he had no appetite, anxiety stripping it away to replace it with endless nausea; but other days, just like today, he felt like he could eat the entire pantry.

Before you knew it Carmy was ravaging the plate, one hand splayed on the bottom of it as the other held the fork. The sandwich hadn't even lasted until the duck was warm, the idea of it reaching the couch was laughable.

You sat at his side, legs resting over his in a familiar manner. Despite his hunger, he still made sure to offer a bite, relishing in the delighted hum that reverberated in your throat at the incredible taste.

On days like these your evident admiration for his cooking was the constant that kept him from wallowing in self doubt.

When he swallowed his last bite he began sharing the details, fingers mindlessly trailing up and down your calves. "Then Fak came in, fucking high on adrenaline, and started telling this- this story about some friend of his that thought it was smart to put a bath bomb up their ass. All of this while there's a stuck up couple bitching about their experience at another restaurant in the kitchen, but we can't kick them out because one of the chairs at their table is about to fucking break and Fak is supposed to be building the replacement- but he's playing puppeteer with pots and forks."

A part of you expected Carmy to finish and say it was all made up, that he was actually bored all shift and decided that inventing this ridiculous story was the best way to make time pass.

He spoke of a dead spider curled up in between tomatoes that Tina found and showered everyone with a flourished set of screamed insults, "Marcus went in all brave but came out two seconds later looking two shades paler, Syd called him a pussy but went back to cutting onions pretty fucking quick when he offered for her to go. I had to send Fak to go get Ebra, which at least kept him far away and much more quiet"

"Well, as quiet as Fak can get." You interjected with a scoff.

"Yeah," Carmy laughed, one of his hands passing through his hair and letting it become disheveled. Unable to restrain yourself your fingers itched towards the blonde curls to tidy them up, trying not to notice how his eyes were deeply staring at you as you leaned closer to reach better.

His shoulders were no longer tense, his breaths full and the corners of his lips remained in a small smile. The Carmy who would've spent the night pacing and worrying himself sick at the idea of The Bear never escaping mayhem long gone.

"You should write a book, I would read it." You shrugged, leaning into the sofa, left arm propped up and extended towards him.

"Fuck no, last thing I need is a book" Carmy shook his head, diving further into the joke. "I'd spend three years to write a shitty paragraph, I can't have another commitment"

The earnest confession made you chuckle, head tipped back.

Two black clock hands abruptly brought your feet back on the ground. Somehow 1 am bled into 2:30, you could almost hear the alarm clock blaring in the room to wake you up.

Carmy wore a knowing look in his face. He could read you like a book, his own gaze having followed yours to find the clock in the living room. Holding back a laugh you bit the inside of your cheek.

There was still something you couldn't get off your mind.

"Now, I'm gonna have to force you to wash your hair because it looks like a fucking bucket of cooking oil fell on it." It was tough love, but it definitely wasn't a lie.

"What? Come on I'm fucking exhausted." Carmy groaned, letting his head fall dramatically on the backrest.

Sitting up and standing in front of him you offered your hand, a knowing look on your face. "You'll thank me tomorrow, come on."

He feigned ignorance for a moment, but the tough act fell in a manner of seconds. His hand took yours and pulled you towards him with overwhelming strength, leaving you no choice but to fall forwards into him.

Your legs moved to either side of him, finding a comfortable position.

"Just five more minutes" Nuzzling his nose into the crevice of your neck you couldn't help the smile that crept up on your face.

"Yes, chef." You laughed.

Preparing for the sleep deprivation tomorrow would be hard, but you wouldn't change it for anything.

A/N

The ticket machine finally stopped at eleven forty-three.

Nobody celebrated.

For three full seconds, the kitchen of The Bear stood suspended in the sudden absence of noise. Burners hissed. Pans struck stainless steel. Richie swore somewhere near the dining room, though nobody had asked him anything.

Then Carmy slapped both palms against the pass.

“Clean down.”

His voice was already hoarse.

Everyone moved.

They had been moving for nearly five hours, but the end of service demanded a different kind of urgency. One built from exhaustion instead of adrenaline.

Sydney began checking stations while Tina muttered under her breath about the six-top that had sent back perfectly cooked fish because one woman had apparently decided she did not like fish after ordering it.

Marcus disappeared towards the walk-in.

Richie swept into the kitchen with his tie hanging loose and fury in every step.

“The guy at twelve was an asshole.”

“He sent the plate back twice,” Carmy said without looking at him.

“Because he’s an asshole.”

“The sauce split.”

“The sauce did not split.”

“It split.”

“It looked like sauce.”

Carmy turned sharply. “That doesn’t mean anything.”

“It means it was sauce, cousin.”

“Can we not?” Sydney cut in.

You stood at the end of the pass with a clipboard tucked against your chest, watching Carmy’s shoulders climb higher with every breath.

The evening had gone wrong in small, relentless ways.

A supplier had sent the wrong mushrooms. One of the burners had refused to light until Tina threatened it personally. A table of eight arrived twenty minutes early and somehow expected that to become everybody else’s emergency.

Then an old food writer Carmy recognised had appeared without a reservation.

Nothing catastrophic had happened.

That almost made it worse.

The service had been messy rather than disastrous, full of minor mistakes Carmy could collect and sharpen against himself later.

You had watched him do it all night.

Every delayed plate.

Every ticket that sat three seconds too long.

Every time he raised his voice and regretted it before the words had finished leaving him.

You had spent most of service moving between the office and the dining room, sorting out an invoice discrepancy while helping Sugar with a last-minute change to an upcoming event. You did not work the line and never pretended you could, but after months around the restaurant, you knew when to stay out of the kitchen and when to carry plates without asking.

Tonight had required more of the second.

“Chef.”

Sydney’s voice dragged Carmy’s attention back.

“What?”

“Go home.”

He blinked at her. “What?”

“We’ve got it.”

“There’s still prep.”

“For tomorrow. Which is tomorrow.”

Carmy reached for the towel tucked into his waistband. “I’m not leaving this like this.”

Sydney looked around the kitchen.

It was already nearly clean.

“Like what?”

Carmy did not answer.

Richie pointed towards him as he backed through the swinging doors. “That. That right there is the face of a man who needs to go home before he starts fighting appliances.”

“Go home, Richie.”

“I am going home, cousin. That’s what people do when work ends.”

“You barely worked.”

Richie put both hands over his heart. “That is disgusting.”

“Goodnight, Richie,” you called.

He looked at you, then at Carmy.

Something knowing flickered across his face.

“Yeah. Good luck with that.”

The doors swung behind him.

Carmy frowned after him. “What the fuck does that mean?”

“Nothing,” you said.

Tina passed you with a container tucked beneath one arm.

She looked from you to Carmy and raised one eyebrow.

“Night, sweetheart.”

“Goodnight.”

Her gaze shifted back to him.

“Chef.”

Carmy grunted something that might have been a response.

Tina left.

Marcus followed a few minutes later, then Sweeps. Sydney remained long enough to check the walk-in twice and tell Carmy to sleep once more.

He ignored her with impressive consistency.

When the back door finally closed behind her, the restaurant changed.

The front had already gone dark, tables cleared and chairs neatly tucked away. Only the kitchen lights remained, bright against the black dining room beyond the pass.

Without voices and tickets and pans striking the stove, the room felt too large.

The ventilation fans wound down.

The refrigerator hummed.

Water rushed briefly through the dishwasher before silence settled again.

Carmy stood at the pass, wiping down a section of stainless steel that had already been cleaned.

You watched him make the same circular motion three times.

Then four.

His apron was gone, abandoned over the back of a chair. The collar of his white T-shirt had darkened with sweat. His sleeves were pushed up, exposing his forearms, and his hair stood in uneven curls from the number of times he had dragged his fingers through it.

You placed the clipboard aside.

“Carm.”

He kept wiping.

You walked around the pass.

“Carmy.”

“I heard you.”

“Did you?”

“Yeah.”

“What did I say?”

He stopped.

The towel remained flattened beneath his palm.

You waited.

Carmy looked down at it as though the answer might be written into the fabric.

“Exactly.”

“I’m cleaning.”

“It’s clean.”

“It’s not.”

You leaned closer to inspect the spotless counter.

“What am I missing?”

His jaw tightened.

You reached for the towel.

Carmy held it for a moment before letting you take it.

“The restaurant is closed.”

“There’s still work.”

“There is always work.”

“Yeah.”

“That was not agreement.”

He stepped away from the pass and looked towards the stove.

“The mushrooms need to be broken down. There’s stock in the walk-in that needs—”

“Tomorrow.”

“It needs to be done.”

“Tomorrow.”

“We lost twenty minutes before service because nobody checked the delivery properly.”

“You mean because the supplier sent the wrong order.”

“I should’ve checked it.”

“You were doing six other things.”

“That doesn’t matter.”

“It matters to people with only two hands.”

Carmy rubbed both palms over his face.

The movement made him look younger and more exhausted at once.

“You eat anything?”

“I’m fine.”

“That wasn’t what I asked.”

He looked towards the plate you had set aside near the office.

You had put it together before the kitchen was fully cleaned. Something simple he could eat without thinking.

It remained untouched.

“I’m not hungry.”

“You’ve had coffee and half a piece of bread since noon.”

“I had family.”

“You moved food around a plate during family.”

“I ate.”

“You absolutely did not.”

Carmy’s mouth tightened, but there was no real fight left in it.

You carried the plate over and placed it in front of him.

“Sit.”

He looked at you.

“Please.”

That worked where the order did not.

Carmy lowered himself onto one of the stools at the pass. You stood opposite him until he picked up the fork.

He took one bite.

Then another.

By the third, his attention had drifted back towards the kitchen.

“The sauce split.”

You closed your eyes briefly.

“Carmy.”

“It did.”

“Then you fixed it.”

“It shouldn’t have happened.”

“But it did, and then you fixed it.”

“The table waited.”

“Four minutes.”

“That’s too long.”

“They survived.”

He put the fork down.

“The lamb sat.”

“For less than a minute.”

“The plate at thirty-two came back.”

“Because the woman ordered fish and then announced she dislikes fish.”

“I should’ve gone out there.”

“To convince her she enjoys cod?”

“I should’ve handled it.”

“Richie handled it.”

“Richie made it worse.”

“Richie always makes it worse.”

That almost drew a smile.

Almost.

Instead, Carmy pushed away from the stool.

“Tomorrow has to be better.”

You stared at him.

He picked up the towel again.

You caught his wrist.

“Stop.”

His entire body went still beneath your hand.

“Just for a minute,” you said. “Please.”

Carmy looked at your fingers wrapped around him.

You loosened them but did not let go.

“Not everything has to be fixed tonight.”

“You don’t understand.”

The words came quickly, sharper than the moment deserved.

Your hand fell away.

Carmy saw it.

Regret crossed his face, but he did not take the words back.

You folded your arms.

“Okay.”

“That’s not—”

“No, go ahead.”

“I didn’t mean—”

“You said I don’t understand.”

He looked towards the dark dining room.

“I mean the pressure.”

“I know what you meant.”

“You’re not in the kitchen during service.”

“I know that too.”

“I’m not saying you don’t help.”

“It sounds a lot like you’re saying I don’t understand the place I spend most of my life helping you keep open.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Then what did you mean?”

Carmy pressed his lips together.

You had seen him direct an entire kitchen through chaos with fewer pauses than it took him to answer one personal question.

“I don’t know.”

“You never do.”

His eyes snapped back to yours.

The exhaustion in them softened your anger, but not enough to erase it.

“You call me at one in the morning when you can’t sleep,” you said. “You ask me to come over when your head won’t stop. You let me stay here until everyone leaves because you know I’ll make sure you eat something.”

“I don’t ask you to do that.”

“No. You just look relieved when I do.”

His jaw shifted.

You continued before he could hide inside the silence.

“You only let me stay when you’re already halfway to breaking.”

“That’s not true.”

“Then tell me what this is.”

Carmy looked at you.

You did not demand a title.

You did not ask for promises he was not ready to make.

You only stood there, waiting for him to offer something real.

“We sleep together,” he said finally.

You laughed once, quiet and humourless.

“Yeah. We do.”

“That came out wrong.”

“You think?”

“I’m trying.”

“Are you?”

His hand dragged through his hair.

“The restaurant takes everything.”

“I know.”

“I don’t know how to do this and do that.”

“You think I’m asking you to be perfect?”

“I think you deserve someone who knows how to—”

“No.”

Your voice stopped him.

“You do not get to decide what I deserve because it gives you an easier way out.”

His eyes dropped.

You stepped closer.

“I’m asking whether you want me here.”

Carmy’s answer came before you had fully finished.

“Yeah.”

You waited.

He looked up.

“Yeah,” he repeated, quieter. “I want you here.”

“Then act like it.”

Something changed in his face.

Not anger.

Not exactly.

The tension that had been holding him upright all night seemed to tighten once more, then finally snap.

Carmy crossed the space between you.

His hands caught your waist.

His mouth met yours hard enough to push a surprised breath from your lungs.

There was nothing careful about the kiss. Nothing planned. It was exhausted and desperate, his mouth moving against yours as though he had been denying himself this all evening and had suddenly forgotten why.

Your back struck the edge of the pass.

Carmy’s hands spread over your sides, pulling you into him until there was no space left for hesitation.

You kissed him back.

For several seconds, you allowed yourself to sink into the heat of him. Into the scratch of his jaw against your skin and the way his fingers flexed as though he needed to confirm you were real.

Then one hand slid beneath your shirt.

You caught his face.

“Carm.”

He followed your mouth when you pulled away.

You held him still.

His breathing was already uneven.

“Look at me.”

He did.

“This isn’t you getting out of talking.”

“I know.”

“You’re not doing this because you don’t know what else to say?”

“No.”

The answer was rough and immediate.

Carmy’s forehead rested briefly against yours.

“I want you.”

The words carried none of his usual uncertainty.

You believed him.

Your hand curled into the front of his shirt.

“Good.”

You pushed him backwards against the pass.

Carmy’s eyes widened slightly before your mouth found his again.

This time, you controlled the pace.

You loosened the hem of his shirt and slid your hands beneath it, feeling the tense muscles of his stomach tighten beneath your palms. Carmy tried to pull you closer, tried to deepen the kiss until neither of you could breathe.

You slowed him.

His fingers dug into your hips.

“The restaurant’s closed,” you whispered.

His mouth moved along your jaw.

“So?”

“So nobody needs anything from you.”

Carmy went still.

You ran your hand into his hair.

“Not for the next few hours.”

His eyes closed.

The breath he released seemed to take half the evening with it.

Then his arms tightened around you.

Carmy lifted you onto the clean prep counter.

The cold stainless steel beneath you drew a sharp gasp from your mouth.

He stopped immediately.

“You okay?”

“Yes.”

His gaze searched your face.

You wrapped your legs loosely around his hips and pulled him closer.

“Cold.”

A tired smile touched his mouth.

“Sorry.”

“You’re not.”

“No.”

He kissed you again.

The kitchen remained bright while the dining room beyond the pass lay dark. The emptiness made every sound clearer. Fabric shifting beneath impatient hands. Your breathing. His.

Carmy’s phone buzzed somewhere near the office.

Neither of you looked towards it.

His mouth moved down your neck.

Your head tipped back.

He pushed your shirt higher, lips following the skin he revealed. His hands skimmed your ribs before reaching behind you, fingers working at your bra.

The fastening loosened.

Carmy drew the straps down your arms and paused.

Not because he had lost interest.

Because he was looking.

Your breath caught beneath the weight of his attention.

His eyes travelled over you slowly, without the frantic edge that had driven the first kiss. One hand spread along your waist while the other moved higher, thumb brushing lightly beneath the curve of your breast.

“You’re staring.”

“Yeah.”

The simple honesty sent heat beneath your skin.

Carmy leaned in.

His mouth closed over one breast while his hand covered the other.

The first drag of his tongue made your back arch away from the cold counter.

His eyes lifted immediately.

He watched your face as he did it again.

Your fingers slid into his hair, gripping the curls at the base of his skull. Carmy groaned softly against your skin when you pulled him closer.

The sound vibrated through you.

He shifted his attention slowly, kissing across your chest, taking his time with each breast until your breathing had gone unsteady and your thighs tightened around his hips.

The scruff along his jaw scratched pleasantly over sensitive skin.

Carmy’s hand kneaded gently before his thumb brushed over your nipple, drawing another sharp breath from you. His mouth followed, warmer and more insistent now.

“Carm.”

He looked up without lifting his head completely.

You could feel his breath against you.

“Don’t stop.”

His eyes darkened.

Carmy’s mouth returned to your breast, no longer tentative. He sucked more firmly, his hand working the other until your body began responding before your thoughts could catch up.

Your chest rose beneath him.

Your legs tightened.

His name left you again, softer this time.

Carmy moved lower only when you began shifting restlessly beneath him.

His kisses travelled down your stomach. He pushed your shirt higher, exposing each new stretch of skin before pressing his mouth to it.

The frenzy that had driven the first kiss changed as he descended.

His attention narrowed.

You recognised it.

You had watched Carmy plate dishes with that same intensity, entire rooms disappearing around him until only the thing in front of him existed.

His fingers hooked into the waistband of your trousers.

You lifted your hips, allowing him to draw them down with your underwear.

Carmy lowered himself between your thighs.

The first slow touch of his mouth made your fingers slip against the counter.

He looked up.

His hands closed around your hips, keeping you steady as he settled closer.

You leaned back onto your elbows.

The steel was cold beneath your skin, but Carmy’s hands were hot. His mouth warmer.

One arm stretched above your head until your fingers found the far edge of the counter.

Your other hand slid into his hair.

His curls tightened around your fingers.

The first time you pulled, Carmy’s eyes lifted.

A low sound vibrated against you.

The reaction shot straight through your body.

You did it again.

His fingers tightened at your hips.

The sounds of the restaurant faded.

The refrigerator hum.

The pipes.

The occasional creak of the old building settling around you.

All of it disappeared beneath the slow, deliberate rhythm of Carmy’s mouth and the sharp breaths you could no longer keep quiet.

He did not rush.

For a man who had spent the entire evening demanding speed, he suddenly seemed to have endless patience.

Every time your hips tried to lift, his hands held you firmly against the steel.

Every time you pulled away from the intensity, he followed.

You watched him until your arms began to shake.

Carmy’s eyes remained half-lowered, his attention fixed on the reactions he drew from you. He adjusted at every change in your breathing, finding what made your grip tighten in his hair and returning to it until you could no longer hold yourself upright.

Your back met the counter.

The cold shocked through your overheated skin.

One hand remained stretched above your head, fingers gripping the edge. The other stayed buried in Carmy’s hair, holding him close as the pressure gathered inside you.

He shifted his attention slightly.

Your heel scraped against the side of the counter.

Carmy’s hand moved from your hip, spreading along your thigh before drawing it farther over his shoulder.

The position opened you to him completely.

You tried to lift yourself again, needing to see him.

Carmy pressed one palm to your stomach and guided you gently back down.

“Stay.”

The word was quiet against you.

Your body obeyed before your mind could argue.

His mouth became more insistent.

Your fingers tightened in his hair.

The pull drew another low groan from him, and the sound sent a fresh wave of pleasure through you.

“Carm.”

His gaze lifted.

You did not know what you intended to say.

The thought vanished when his mouth moved again.

Your legs tightened around his shoulders.

Carmy did not stop.

He kept you against the counter as your body began to tremble, following every involuntary shift without allowing you to escape the sensation.

The pressure wound tighter.

Your fingers twisted sharply in his hair.

Carmy groaned against you.

That was enough.

Your back arched from the metal as the first climax tore through you, slow at first and then overwhelming. Your hand held him against you while your other scraped helplessly over the counter.

Carmy stayed exactly where he was.

He did not ease off the second you started shaking. He kept the rhythm steady, holding you through every pulse until your legs trembled against his shoulders and your fingers softened in his hair.

Only then did his mouth slow.

The last gentler touches left you twitching against the steel before he finally lifted his head.

You stared down at him, breathless.

His hair was a mess beneath your fingers.

His mouth shone.

His expression looked calmer than it had all night.

You reached for the front of his shirt and pulled him up.

Carmy came willingly.

You kissed him.

The taste of yourself on his mouth made your stomach tighten again. He groaned softly when your tongue met his, one hand braced beside your hip while the other slid slowly along your thigh.

You sat upright.

Your loosened bra still hung low around your arms. Carmy’s gaze dropped towards your chest again.

His mouth followed.

He kissed one breast slowly, almost lazily now, lips brushing over the sensitive skin he had already left flushed. The gentleness made you shiver harder than the earlier urgency.

Your fingers threaded through his curls.

“Again?”

Carmy’s mouth curved faintly against you.

“Yeah.”

He kissed the other breast, tongue tracing over your nipple before drawing it between his lips.

Your thighs tightened around him.

Carmy’s hand rested at your back, holding you upright while his mouth moved between your breasts, leaving soft kisses across the centre of your chest before lifting towards your throat.

You caught his face and kissed him again.

His forehead touched yours.

For a moment, neither of you moved.

Then your hand travelled down his chest.

His stomach tightened beneath your palm.

You felt how hard he was through his trousers.

Carmy’s breath caught.

Your eyes met his.

“My turn.”

His mouth opened.

You slid off the counter before he could argue.

Your knees met the rubber matting beneath the pass.

Carmy looked down at you, every trace of calm disappearing.

“You don’t have to.”

“I know.”

Your hands found his belt.

“That’s why I want to.”

His fingers curled against the counter behind him.

You took your time undoing him.

Carmy watched every movement with his jaw locked, the tendons in his forearms standing out as he braced himself against the metal.

When your mouth closed around him, his head tipped back.

The sound that almost escaped died behind clenched teeth.

You looked up.

Carmy’s eyes remained shut.

You moved slowly.

His breathing roughened.

His fingers flexed against the pass, but he kept both hands away from you, as though even now he was afraid of asking for too much.

You reached for one.

Carmy opened his eyes.

You guided his hand into your hair.

Understanding moved across his face.

His fingers curled carefully into it.

You resumed.

The grip tightened by degrees.

Carmy’s hips shifted once before he forced them still.

His lips pressed together.

A muscle moved in his jaw.

You slowed.

Carmy’s eyes opened again, dazed and frustrated.

“Why’d you stop?”

You kept one hand on his thigh.

“Don’t do that.”

His brow furrowed.

“Do what?”

“Hold it in.”

The hand in your hair tightened slightly.

You kept your eyes on his.

“I want to hear you moan.”

Something raw crossed his face.

You lowered your mouth again before he could retreat from it.

The first sound came almost immediately.

Quiet.

Rough.

Dragged from somewhere low in his chest.

Your eyes lifted.

Carmy was watching you now.

You hummed softly around him.

His fingers tightened.

“There you go.”

His eyes closed.

You stopped.

They opened again.

You raised one eyebrow.

Carmy breathed out a broken laugh that turned into another moan when you continued.

This time, he let you hear it.

His head fell back briefly before your hand squeezed his thigh, drawing his attention down again. The eye contact made every reaction sharper.

You watched his restraint unravel one breath at a time.

“Fuck.”

His voice cracked around the word.

You moved faster.

Carmy’s fingers tightened in your hair.

“Just like that.”

You did not look away.

His stomach tensed beneath his shirt.

The sounds became less controlled, his breathing breaking between them. Every time you drew another from him, his grip flexed in your hair, careful even while his composure disappeared.

“Don’t stop.”

You had no intention of stopping.

Carmy’s body grew taut beneath your hands. His hips shifted again, following your rhythm before he caught himself.

You eased back just enough to breathe.

Carmy looked down at you with his lips parted, chest rising hard.

“Want to hear you,” you reminded him.

His answer was another broken moan when you took him again.

This one louder.

Less guarded.

The sound filled the quiet kitchen and seemed to surprise him as much as it thrilled you.

You kept going, rewarded by every uneven breath and curse he could no longer swallow. His hand tightened in your hair, his control fraying until his hips began following your movements despite his effort to remain still.

You could feel him getting close.

See it in the way his mouth parted and his brows drew together. In the hand that tightened at the back of your head.

Then he pulled you away.

Not roughly.

Urgently.

You rose with his hand still tangled in your hair.

Carmy dragged you into a kiss before you had fully straightened.

His breathing remained ragged against your mouth.

You smiled.

“Thought you said not to stop.”

“Want you on the counter.”

The words were barely intelligible.

Carmy turned you.

Your palms met the cold prep surface.

His hand travelled down the centre of your back, pressing you forward while the other gripped your hip. His knee nudged between your legs, widening your stance.

The polished door of the warming cabinet reflected your outlines faintly.

Your shirt pushed high.

Your bra still loose.

Carmy’s rumpled white T-shirt behind you.

His hands dark against your skin.

His mouth touched your shoulder.

“You good?”

You looked back.

His eyes searched yours despite the strain in his face.

“Yes.”

Carmy stepped closer.

The first slow press of him into you stole your breath.

His hand tightened at your hip.

He stopped when he was fully seated, chest hovering over your back.

“You okay?”

“Yes.”

You pushed back against him.

“More.”

Carmy’s breath left him sharply.

His hips drew back.

Then drove forward harder.

Your palms slid against the steel.

The earlier care disappeared beneath desperation. Carmy’s rhythm became rougher, each movement pressing you farther across the counter before his arm wrapped around your waist and drew you back.

The pass dug into your hips.

His body burned behind you.

The contrast made every sensation feel sharper.

“Like that?” he asked against your shoulder.

“Harder.”

His hand tightened.

The next thrust drove a cry from your mouth.

Carmy’s palm covered it.

“Quiet.”

The order came out wrecked enough to send heat through you.

You nodded against his hand.

His mouth pressed to the side of your neck.

His hips continued their relentless rhythm while the arm around your waist held you firmly against him.

The restaurant no longer felt empty.

It felt full of him.

His breathing.

The quiet sounds he had stopped trying to hide.

The faint knock of your body against the counter.

He leaned farther over you, chest pressed against your back as his mouth found the side of your throat. His hand slipped from your mouth to your breast, cupping it through the loosened bra.

His thumb moved over the sensitive peak.

Your body tightened around him.

Carmy groaned into your neck.

He did it again.

The touch at your chest paired with the force of his hips pulled another broken sound from you. His fingers kneaded gently, then more firmly when you arched into his hand.

“You like that?”

“Yes.”

The answer fell apart on a breath.

Carmy’s mouth moved down your shoulder while his hand continued working your breast, drawing sensations through skin already tender from his mouth.

Your arms trembled.

His other hand slid between your thighs.

Your fingers curled against the steel.

“Carmy.”

“Yeah.”

“Right there.”

His touch became firmer.

The pleasure built faster this time, sharpened by the first climax, the hard rhythm of him behind you, and the hand moving over your chest.

Your arms began to weaken.

Carmy felt it.

His arm tightened around your middle, holding you against him while his other hand worked between your legs.

“Don’t stop.”

“I got you.”

His mouth pressed against your shoulder.

The words broke through the last of your control.

Your second climax hit harder.

Your body folded forward against the counter as pleasure tore through you, but Carmy’s arm kept you upright. His hips continued moving behind you, carrying you through it while your hands searched helplessly for purchase.

You cried out into the crook of your elbow.

Carmy groaned against your skin.

His rhythm faltered.

The hand between your thighs slowed but did not stop, drawing the pleasure out until your knees threatened to buckle.

You felt him close behind you.

His movements losing their precision.

For a moment, you thought he would follow you over the edge.

Instead, he stopped.

The loss of him made you turn.

Carmy’s breathing was harsh, his face strained with the effort of holding back.

“What—”

He caught your waist and turned you towards him.

You barely had time to steady yourself before he lifted you back onto the counter.

Your legs trembled around his hips.

Carmy stepped between them.

His hands came to your face.

You stared at him.

“What are you doing?”

“Need to see you.”

The honesty of it stole your breath more thoroughly than anything else had.

His forehead rested against yours.

Carmy’s thumb moved over your cheek.

“One more?”

Your body already felt oversensitive, every brush of his clothes against your skin sending little shocks through you.

You wrapped your legs around him.

“Yes.”

Carmy kissed you as he pressed back into you.

The position changed everything.

The desperation remained, but now there was nowhere to hide from each other.

His arm wrapped around your lower back, keeping you at the edge of the counter. Your fingers curled into his shirt, then slid up into his hair.

Your foreheads touched between kisses.

Carmy moved with deep, uneven strokes, his control fraying a little more each time your body tightened around him.

You could feel how close he was.

See the effort it took for him to hold back.

His mouth moved over yours, then along your jaw and down towards your chest once more.

He pushed the loosened bra farther aside.

His lips closed around one nipple as he moved inside you.

The combination was almost too much.

Your back arched, forcing your breast more firmly into his mouth.

Carmy groaned around you.

His hand covered the other, thumb moving slowly while his tongue worked against the sensitive skin.

“Carm.”

He lifted his head.

Your fingers tightened in his hair.

“Again.”

His eyes darkened.

Carmy’s mouth returned to your breast.

His hips pressed deeper at the same time.

The sensation tore a helpless sound from you.

He alternated between slow kisses and firmer pulls of his mouth, never taking his eyes fully from your face. Every shudder made his movements more uneven.

When he finally lifted his head, your chest was flushed and damp beneath his mouth.

His hand moved between you again.

Your body jerked.

“I can’t.”

Carmy’s eyes stayed on yours.

“You can.”

You shook your head, breathless.

His thumb found the place that made your legs tighten around him.

“Carm.”

“I got you.”

It was not a command.

It was a promise.

You held his gaze.

Carmy’s movements became slower but deeper, each one timed with the steady pressure of his hand.

Your sensitivity turned almost painful before melting back into pleasure.

You clung to his shirt.

Carmy watched every reaction.

When your head began to fall back, his hand slid behind your neck and held you close.

“Look at me.”

You forced your eyes open.

His face filled your vision.

Blue eyes dark and unfocused.

Curls damp against his forehead.

Mouth parted around breaths he no longer swallowed.

Your chest rose hard between you.

Carmy’s gaze dropped once.

His free hand covered your breast, thumb brushing slowly over the sensitive peak.

Your whole body tightened.

He felt it.

“There?”

You nodded frantically.

Carmy repeated the movement.

His hips drove deeper.

His thumb pressed more firmly between you.

The three sensations tangled until you could no longer separate one from another.

You tightened your fingers in his hair.

Carmy moaned.

The sound pushed you closer.

His forehead pressed against yours.

“That’s it.”

Your legs tightened around him.

The pressure wound tighter than before, building beneath skin already raw with sensation.

“Come on.”

You could not look away.

Carmy’s hand moved faster.

His hips lost their rhythm.

His thumb dragged once more across your nipple.

The third climax broke through you so sharply that your fingers twisted in his shirt. Your body tightened around him, every muscle drawing taut as the pleasure rolled through you.

Carmy held you upright.

His eyes stayed on yours until your vision blurred.

Then his control vanished.

His movements became uneven and desperate. The moans you had coaxed from him earlier escaped freely now, breaking against your mouth as you pulled him closer.

You slid one hand into his hair and cupped his face with the other.

“Look at me.”

Carmy did.

One final movement drove him deep.

His body shuddered.

His arms locked around your waist as he finished, forehead pressed to yours, a broken sound leaving him with your name.

You held him through it.

Carmy’s eyes finally closed.

His face dropped into the curve of your neck.

For a long time, neither of you moved.

The kitchen hummed around you.

Your fingers moved slowly through his hair.

Carmy’s breathing gradually settled against your skin, but his arms did not loosen.

For the first time all night, he was completely still.

Eventually, he lifted his head.

His face looked exhausted.

Softer.

“You okay?”

You smiled faintly.

“Yes.”

“Sure?”

“Three times, Carmy.”

Colour climbed into his cheeks.

You laughed quietly.

“I’m very sure.”

His mouth twitched.

Carmy stepped back carefully.

The cold air that replaced him made you shiver.

He fixed your bra and pulled your shirt down with gentle, focused movements, fingertips brushing the places his mouth had left sensitive.

When his gaze lingered, you caught his wrist.

“Later.”

Carmy’s eyes lifted to yours.

The smallest smile appeared.

“Yeah?”

“Maybe.”

“Right.”

He offered you both hands.

You took them and slid from the counter.

Your knees immediately threatened to fold.

Carmy caught you before you could pretend otherwise.

“I’ve got you.”

“I can walk.”

He looked down at your legs.

You followed his gaze.

They were still visibly trembling.

“You can shut up.”

“Didn’t say anything.”

“You were thinking loudly.”

Carmy bent.

One arm slid beneath your knees, the other around your back.

Before you could protest, he lifted you against his chest.

Your arms went around his neck automatically.

“Carmy.”

“What?”

“I can walk.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes.”

He took one step.

Your grip tightened when your legs shifted.

Carmy raised an eyebrow.

“Don’t.”

He almost smiled.

You hid your face against his shoulder.

The restaurant looked different from his arms.

The kitchen passed in flashes of stainless steel and dim light. Carmy carried you through the narrow back corridor towards the lockers, his hold secure and unhurried.

He lowered you carefully onto the wooden bench.

Then he crouched in front of you.

The position startled you.

Carmy Berzatto was rarely still and almost never below eye level unless he was searching for something beneath a station.

Now he knelt between your knees, hands resting lightly on them as he studied your face.

“You dizzy?”

“No.”

“Hurting?”

“No.”

“You need water.”

“That one was not a question.”

“No.”

You touched his hair.

It was completely disordered now, curls falling in every direction from your hands.

Carmy leaned into the touch before seeming to realise he had done it.

He stood and disappeared back towards the kitchen.

You heard cupboards opening.

Water running.

His phone began vibrating somewhere near the pass.

It stopped.

Then started again.

Carmy returned carrying two bottles of water, a clean towel, and the plate of food you had saved.

“You brought dinner?”

“You were right.”

The admission seemed to pain him.

You accepted the bottle.

“Could you say that again? I don’t think I heard you.”

“No.”

Carmy crouched again.

He helped clean you up with the warm towel, movements careful and matter-of-fact without becoming distant. Then he straightened your clothes properly, smoothing the fabric over your thighs.

His hands remained on your knees once he was finished.

The phone vibrated again.

You glanced towards the kitchen.

“Do you need to get that?”

Carmy looked over his shoulder.

For a moment, you saw the familiar pull take hold of him.

The restaurant calling him back.

Another problem.

Another demand.

He stood and walked towards the sound.

Your chest tightened despite yourself.

Carmy picked up the phone.

He checked the screen.

Then turned it face down.

“No.”

He returned to the bench and sat beside you.

Close enough that your thighs touched.

You looked at him.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“You’re doing the face.”

“What face?”

“The one where you’re thinking something and not saying it.”

You leaned your head against his shoulder.

“I like that you didn’t answer.”

Carmy looked towards the floor.

“Probably Richie.”

“That makes it even more meaningful.”

He breathed out something that might have been a laugh.

For a while, you sat in silence.

Carmy opened the container and finally began eating. Slowly at first, then with the distracted hunger of someone who had not realised how empty he was.

He lifted another bite.

Instead of bringing it to his own mouth, he held the fork in front of you.

You looked at it.

Then at him.

Carmy waited.

You accepted the bite.

He returned to eating as though nothing had happened.

The quiet domesticity of it made your chest ache more than the frantic kiss at the pass had.

You rested one hand over his on the bench.

Carmy turned his palm and linked your fingers.

“You know sex doesn’t mean you’re getting out of talking to me.”

His thumb stopped moving against yours.

“I know.”

“Good.”

Carmy took another bite, chewing slowly.

“I meant what I said.”

“Which part?”

“About wanting you here.”

You raised your head from his shoulder.

His eyes remained on the food.

“Carmy.”

He forced himself to look at you.

“I don’t know how to do this right.”

“You don’t have to know everything tonight.”

“I’m probably gonna fuck it up.”

“Probably.”

His brows drew together.

You squeezed his fingers.

“So will I.”

“That’s not reassuring.”

“It’s honest.”

Carmy stared at you for a moment.

Then the smallest smile appeared.

Tired.

Crooked.

Real.

“Stay?”

You smiled.

“I was already planning to.”

His shoulders loosened.

“But you’re carrying me to the car.”

Carmy glanced down at your legs.

“Yeah.”

“Do not look that pleased with yourself.”

“Wasn’t.”

“Liar.”

He finished the food while you remained tucked against his side.

The phone stayed face down.

The kitchen stayed quiet.

Nothing caught fire because Carmy sat still for ten minutes.

When you were ready to leave, he stood and held out his hands.

You looked at them.

Then at him.

“You said you’d carry me.”

“I thought you were kidding.”

“I am wounded.”

“You’re dramatic.”

“Rich coming from you.”

Carmy shook his head.

Then he bent and lifted you again.

You settled against his chest, arms circling his neck.

He carried you through the dark restaurant, stopping only long enough to collect his phone and keys. At the back door, he shifted your weight carefully against one arm while locking up with the other.

The last kitchen light clicked off.

For once, Carmy did not look back through the glass.

Carmen opens his mouth, inhaling a breath as he searches for all the reasons he had ready at the back of his tongue. Oh, wait… That's not rational, that's not rational, nope, not that one, that one neither.

As his silence stretches, Richie lifts his hands in an 'I rest my case' gesture. "Oh go fuck yourself, Richie!" Carmen scoffs. "No, you go fuck yourself, my good man." "I'm not calling her!"

Richie jumps off of his stool, picking up the business card and shoving it in Carmen's face. "What if she's waiting for you to call!?"

Carmen smacks his hand away. "What if it was a prank!? And she's just waiting for my call so she can laugh at me!?" Richie rolls his eyes again. A few more of those and his eyes might pop right out of his skull.

"Did she really seem like that kind of girl? Really, Carm?" He asks the younger man. And he answers his own question for Carmen. "No, she didn’t. Because she seemed like a very sweet girl and I bet she's waiting for you to call her." He wiggles and flaps the card in Carmy's face, making sure it smacks him a few times. "You've been treating this thing like it's got the Black Plague for three days now, either you call her or I will, and I bet you won't like it if I invite her out."

Carm snatches the business card back, Richie's pathetic ultimatum making him grimace with annoyance. "If she picks up and makes fun of me, you're fired."

Instead of pointing out that Carmen had no authority to fire him, Richie keeps quiet and gestures for him to make the call.

The youngest Berzatto punches the phone number into his keypad a little too harshly and brings the phone to his ear. His grip around the device is too tight. His knuckles are white already. All the blood had rushed too his face, a blush fanning across his face in preemptive embarrassment of talking to you again.

What's the worst that can happen? What's the worst that can realistically happen?

Your voice spills through the speaker, your name falling from your lips in a professional greeting while simultaneously confirming who the phone number belonged to.

Carmy echoes your name with a quick hello and clears his throat. "Its Carmen, from the, uh, the other night…"

The silence stretches longer than he liked. He nearly hangs up the call since you still hadn't answered him yet. Was three seconds long enough of time to excuse his nerves? Realistically not. It sucked being so conscious of himself these days.

"Carmen!" You finally exclaim. He thinks for a selfish moment that he might hear a smile behind your words, but he extinguishes that thought. Why would you be so excited for him to call you?

"Its so good to hear from you! How have you been?" You ask, sitting more upright in your bed. You had a magazine open on one knee, a bottle of nail polish between two fingers and the nail brush tucked barely between two other fingers. Seven of your ten toes were painted, a cherry red, to go with your new lingerie set for work.

"Uh, I'm doing good, how are you, uh, how have you been?" He stammers. You smile at his nervousness, finding his shy demeanor quite adorable. "I'm doing great, Carmy. I've got off from work tonight, so I'm just relaxing at home."

You have off from work. You're not dancing tonight.

Carmen smiles to himself. A small portion of him was excited that he didn't have to share you with other men tonight. He didn't have to worry about other guys getting eyefulls and handfuls of you.

For tonight, for this precious phone call, for these fleeting moments, you were all his.

"I'm so glad to hear that," he says, slowly finding a confidence he didn't know he had. "Relaxing is important. Especially in your line of work. I bet you don't get much time to yourself, huh?"

"Oh, I get three nights off a week," you tell him, setting your magazine down. You scoot to the edge of your bed, setting the nail polish bottle down and closing it. "And the club isn't open in the mornings, so I usually have at least 6 hours to myself before work every night."

An unsung perk of the job was always having mornings off. Of course, the flip side of that was waking up later and later as the days went on. You'd need to take another week off to reset your sleep schedule soon.

"That's good. I'm glad. Work-life balance is very important, so I hear," Carmen tells you, recalling what Sydney would preach to him.

He didn't understand it, since he spent the past many years lacking a personal life. Culinary school, Noma, French Laundry, and now the Beef all took up more and more of his life with each passing day. Workdays bled into nights, into the next early mornings. His days blurred together. His time slipped away like sand through his fingers.

"I entirely agree," you say. He hears a giggle lighting your voice and he wonders if you're laughing at him because he was funny or because what he said was stupid.

"So, uh, what are you doing?" Carmy makes the mistake of catching Richie's gaze. The older man is giving him a teasingly enthusiastic thumbs up, his eyes mockingly wide with faux excitement for him. Carmen rolls his eyes and leaves the kitchen, going to his bedroom of the Airbnb.

"I'm painting my nails," you tell him. "I just got a beautiful red nail polish to match my new outfit for work."

The bedroom door closes softly behind him and he leans heavily against it. Carmen tips his head back against the wood, his eyes closing.

Outfit. How sweet of you to put it so gently for him.

Of course you remembered how he'd reacted when you told him he could call you a 'stripper', so you thought that saying the word 'lingerie' to him might elicit the same reaction.

Behind his closed eyes, he begins imagining what your new 'work outfit' could possibly look like. If the nail polish matches your lingerie, it must be something red. But what style? Two piece? Bodysuit? Another babydoll dress? Fuck, please let it be another babydoll dress. But only if he could see it.

Dear God, it's me, Carmy…

"What, uh, what's this outfit look like?" He asks, attempting to sound nonchalant. "Oh, it's just another babydoll dress. If you want, I can send you a picture."

His cock gives a hearty, excited kick in his pants and for a moment, Carmen nearly keels over. "A-a picture? Send me? Send me a picture?" He stumbles, moving to sit on his bed.

"Well, yeah, I mean, only if you wanna see it. I think it's so cute! It's got ribbons up the back of it like a corset. I always loved that style and now I've finally got one for myself," you ramble on, painting the rest of your toes.

You weren't stupid, you could hear his breathing shift.

Carmen really wanted that picture you offered.

You just needed to hear him say it.

"I-I mean, yeah, I guess… that would be alright," he murmurs into the phone.

He knew he sounded pained to act nonchalant. To speak with such an indifferent tone as a man from a family such as his, with emotions that run as high as his, it just didn't fit him. Carmy was a very chalant man. He didn't know why he tried to hard to pretend he wasn't.

"Oh," you start slowly, ready for the game he unknowingly started. "Well, I mean, if it's just alright then… I don't really wanna bother you."

"You're not bothering me!" He exclaims, too quickly. There he is. Your chalant prince. Returning to his roots. A smile sneaks across your face as his cortisol spikes. "I was just- Shit, I'm being stupid, I would really love to see a picture of your new, um, work outfit."

Wait just a bit longer, let him squirm. Fuck, he sounded so good nervous. "My work outfit?" You echo. "Y-yeah, your… Your lingerie," he mumbles, clearing his throat. "So, can you say it again?"

Carmy knows your playing with him, dangling the pictures he was desperate for just out of reach. It was so cruel, but so sexy of you.

"I would really love to see the pictures of your new lingerie, please," he whispers, your name slipping from his lips like honey- positively heavenly for such a big, strong man to beg so sweetly.

A thrill runs up and down your spine, settling warmly between your legs as you stand. You set your nail polish aside.

"Gimme five minutes," you breathe.

Tension rolls through Carmen's muscles in shivers of anxiety as he braves the five minutes of suspense until he received your pictures.

You'd hung up, claiming you needed to focus and fix your hair. So these were going to be new pictures. No stock photos from the website you got the lingerie from. Not just a reference image of it laying on your bed. You were gonna wear it. And take a picture of yourself wearing it. And send him that picture. Did this count as receiving nudes? You'd be wearing clothes still. But not a lot. What constitutes an image as a 'nude'? Did it matter!?

Five minutes and forty-eight seconds later, his phone lights up on the nightstand with a notification. A text. A message. From you.

Carmen scrambles for his phone, nearly falling out of the bed as he rushes to open the message. A groan tears from his chest once the images load and he's graced with more instances of you to file away in his memory.

His cock gives another kick in his pants, his heart racing as he opens the first image to Fullscreen with shaking fingers. You look positively stunning; draped in red silk, hugged by lace and ribbon. It was a mirror pic, with you slightly bent forwards, your head tilted to the side so he could see one of your eyes peeking out from behind your phone. The second was just as jaw dropping with you on your knees in front of the mirror.

Carmy's hand begins snaking towards his pants sometime between the third and fourth picture. A bit of guilt made itself known in his chest as he shoves his jeans down his thighs, but how in the world was he expected to pass up this opportunity?

You'd gone above and beyond with the pictures you sent him. How you managed to take all of them in five minutes, he'd never know.

Or did you have these previously ready?

Carmen feels a mix of excitement and worry bubbling in his stomach.

Did you have these pictures already taken before talking to him tonight? Were you hoping he'd call so you could send them to him? Or were they for someone else? For whoever else's lap you might fall into at the club? Don't think about that! Maybe you're just really good at taking pictures. Or maybe you took them for yourself.

By the sixth picture, Carm can feel that he's seconds from blowing his load. How did you always do this to him? Three days ago you had him busting in his pants only five minutes into your first interaction, and today all it took was six pictures of you in the sexiest outfit he'd ever seen before.

He felt like a teenager again, a virgin.

On your end of the phone, you wait for a response. Anything at all. Typing bubbles, a thumbs up, a heart reaction, but you don't get anything other than a small 'Read' underneath the photos you sent. It isn't until you text him do you finally get something in return.

You send a short message: "I take it you don't like it?"

Immediately Carmen's typing.

The typing bubbles appear, disappear. Appear, disappear, appear again, disappear.

This poor boy. Tongue-tied even over text. You almost threw him another bone, something to make his reply easier. But no. What fun would that be? You liked imagining his struggle. And what a blessing it was that you'd waited, because two minutes later, you get a voice note.

Carmy's words are short, clipped with fast and heavy breaths. "Fuck, that was- those are- oh my God." Your name falls from his lips over and over again, nearly every other word. There's an underlying sound beneath his words, beneath his praises and curses and many, many thanks, and it's a thick, wet sound. It's warm and it's heavy and once you notice it, you can't stop hearing it. It stutters, along with his breath and his words, faltering as he groans a low sound, deep in his chest. And then the sound stops, taken over by a long, keening whine that seemed so unlike him but was so fucking delicious to hear.

Carmen breathes your name one last time. "I really, really, liked those pictures," he admits to you. His tone is much shyer now, so different than how it was only seconds ago as he was choking through moans. But you'd be lying if you said that his changes in demeanor didn't make you want to work that much harder to draw more from him. More sounds, more curses, more praises and thanks, more moans and whines, more everything.

You finally send your own message back to him after taking in the voice note all of four times. "That was a delectable birthday gift, Carmen, thank you so much," you text, adding a heart and a winking kissy-face.

In his bed, still cleaning up himself, Carmen sits bolt upright once your message comes through. "Her birthday," he breathes. He glances at the clock. It was 12:02. 2 minutes into your birthday and he sent you an audio of him jacking off.

"Well, I hope I might be the first to say Happy Birthday," he sends quickly, praying no one else you knew would send their birthday wishes before he could. He was always selfish like that, needing the reward of being the first, the gratification of a last word, and everything that came in between.

[You]: You are, and thanks, Carmen.

[Carmen]: Of course

[Carmen]: This may be kinda weird, but do you think I can see you again?

[You]: I think there's a firm possibility that you totally could.

His heart races, his smile mirroring your own miles away as you both stare at the text thread. You wanted to see him again. He wanted to see you again. Gosh, what a start to your birthday.

He asked you to wait so that he could see you home himself. Mean, but not without cause. Intent counts for something, right?

You've figured him out now, anyway. Your brow scrunches into a frown. "I thought you were gonna come get me."

"I am getting you."

"I mean earlier. I could've worn a mask or something."

Carmy scoffs before he can stop it. You both know a mask isn't enough to keep food safe from germs even in a pinch, but beyond the fact that Carmy wasn't going to let you contaminate his kitchen he also wasn't going to let you run yourself into the ground trying to work while you're sick.

"We don't have to talk about this right now," he says.

"I could've helped," you insist.

"Not really." He doesn't sugarcoat it. He sees that you know it, too, in the awful way guilt twinges in your brow. "And you didn't have to. Ebra was fine taking over your station."

"You didn't need to stretch Ebra when I was just sitting around in here."

"You shouldn't have fucking been here in the first place—" Carmy's voice rises, and he catches himself, biting his cheek hard. "Sorry. I'm sorry, but you know you shouldn't have."

If anything, you look guiltier. "I tried to—"

"I know, I know." Jess was supposed to cover for you tonight. You texted Carmy yesterday, let him know that you weren't feeling well and wouldn't be in tonight. He was going to stop by tomorrow morning to bring you groceries and sudafed and shit. But when Jess pulled out at the last minute, you didn't tell Carmy about that. You just showed up, and he was as surprised to see you as you were to be benched upon arrival.

He hates that he's created this environment where people are so reckless with themselves. He tries hard to correct it. Maybe Carmy can admit privately that he tries his hardest with you.

"Look," he breathes out, slotting his hand along your face to hold your cheek. You're as warm as he thought. "You can't see yourself right now, but you look fucking miserable."

Some of the guilt in you fizzles. "You're not very good at flirting," you say without bite.

"I know. But it's true. Just come home with me, okay?"

"I take it back." You blink slowly. "That was really good flirting."

As you consider the offer, you really begin to look like you might fall asleep. Carmy thinks he might get his way if he just has to carry you home. "I have sudafed," he adds to sweeten the deal.

You sniff as though reminded of how sorely you need it. "I don't want to get you sick."

"I'll be fine."

"You're not reassuring me, Carmen."

"What can I do to reassure you?"

You think about it. "If I get you sick, you can't work, either."

Carmy sucks his teeth. "Okay."

"Really?" You look surprised for a second, but then your eyes narrow. "Are you lying?"

"You'll come with me if I agree?" he asks, exasperated, like he doesn't love you so much it makes him want to tear his hair out.

"…Yeah. If you really mean it."