A Recipe for the Fall of Carmen Berzatto
He sips on his Sprite as the others tilt their heads back to down their second round of shots. And he can’t stop his grin from forming when Sydney’s face is all scrunched up in utter disgust as she shoves the empty glass onto the table. “Oh, God,” she coughs, and reaches for her Martini to drink the last few sips from it, but judging from her face, it wasn’t enough. And she turns to him, and like it’s the most natural thing in the world, she points to his Sprite, and asks, “Can I?” His heart skips a beat, and his tongue almost stumbles over the words in his hurry to agree. “Yeah, yeah, of course, here you go.” Baby. Oh, fuck, it’s starting again. The need to fucking get himself together and not let one of the forbidden words slip. And she sips from his glass, in front of everyone, and he lets himself imagine that whatever they now have between them is defined and not a secret, and he’s allowed to call her baby, and tell her that he loves her. —Shots
