š„ : my muse to cook dinner for your muse [for Richie, Carmy, or Mikey! ]
Carmy hadnāt been planning to come in. It was his day off, technically, though that word never really meant anything to him. The hours had dragged like chains anyway, mind on fire, body wound tight, every thought circling back to failures, old wounds, and the suffocating weight of family he couldnāt outrun.
Heād paced his apartment, smoked too many cigarettes he didnāt even enjoy, tried to cook, but ended up throwing the pan in the sink when the oil snapped too abrasively.
By the time he found himself pushing open the door to The Bear, he wasnāt even sure what he was looking for. Silence, maybe? Control? Something that didnāt claw at him from the inside out, that much he knew.
Warm, familiar. Not the sharp tang of onions caramelizing or the chaos of a ticket rail screaming orders. Something softer. Something that pulled at the deepest recesses of his memory- the part of him that still longed for comfort instead of excellence. His brows furrowed before he even knew why, gaze catching on the counter, and then on her.
And sheād made him dinner.
For a moment, he just stood there, frozen in the doorway like his body had betrayed him, his hand pressed flat against the frame. His forehead dropped against the wood, eyes slipping shut as his mouth pulled into a crooked smile he couldnāt stop.
It felt foreign, too easy, and for that very reason, it hit harder. Because nobody did this. Nobody thought about him outside of what he could do, what he could produce, what he could fix. Not his family, not his coworkers, not anyone.
His chest tightened, a mess of gratitude and ache tangled up so tight he almost couldnāt breathe. He dragged his eyes open, voice rough as gravel.
āY...you, uh⦠You did all this? For me?ā
The words cracked out awkward, shaky, boyish in a way that made him wince. He didnāt do this. Didnāt know how to. Vulnerability was like stepping into a kitchen fire without a pan in hand. But when her eyes lifted to him, soft and unguarded, he swore something split wide open in his chest.
He pushed himself off the doorframe and crossed the room slowly, every step feeling heavier than the last, like he was wading through water. His hand rose before he could second-guess it, hovering, then settling against her cheek.
His fingers were rough, calloused, stained with years of culinary work in kitchens that took more than they ever gave, but the way she leaned into his touch made him feel like maybe, just maybe, he had something left to give.
He dipped down, pressing his lips to hers.
Tentative.
Careful.
His eyes fluttered shut, and for once it wasnāt about escape or drowning out the noise; it was about grounding. About choosing to feel.
When he pulled back, he didnāt move far. He let his forehead rest against hers, his breath shaky as a laugh slipped out through his nose- quiet, fragile, but real. His smile grew as he shook his head, overwhelmed at the simplicity and enormity of it all.
āThank you,ā he whispered, the word carrying a weight he rarely gave it. He repeated it, firmer this time, his voice breaking on the emphasis. āThank you.ā
And in that moment, with her so close, with the taste of something better still lingering on his lips... he let himself believe that someone could see him.
Not Carmy the chef.
Not Carmy the screw-up son.
Just Carmy.