han

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. 

so, for those of you who don't know in real life i work in the sphere of academia and STEM research, i also unfortunately happen to work at a very rigorous medical school institution (i am also in my early 20s if that matters, i dont know). i dont know if anyone reading this has experience in research and academia as well but if you do you probably know all too well how fucked up it can be. abusers get away with shit constantly, the amount of white supremacist ideological frameworks that go around, the bio-essentialism- its a lot...its a lot. i work within a tolstoyan framework meaning, i believe in doing my 'objective' science research within the bounds that it doesnt negatively impact any living thing. something i strongly believe in is doing science to the benefit of those who have been repeatedly wronged by it, BIPOC and trans persons in particular (both of which are populations i myself am within). this being said, especially during this trying time in the u.s. in which basic human rights and decency is being slashed, now has been harder than ever to pursue doing science and doing it right. within my department i was involved in a case of abuse by the sitting chair (who has since been removed from the position of chair but still works there), and this deeply depressed me and impacted my work and all other things in my life. also for those of you who are unaware- i am an immigrant within the u.s., and this chair of the department made many derogatory and at times threatening remarks towards immigrants and BIPOC, many of whom were students who i strongly believe in protecting at all costs to any extent i must go. this being said due to this scenario i stepped down from the department once i knew that things were as safe as they could possibly get for others. i did this in order to protect my work, and myself. this being said, i was within a year of financial crisis where i had no source of income or loan options available, and as such was facing a situation of no housing which was distressing. i am, however, very lucky to have some wonderful friends who i can stay with, but this has still been a difficult situation to grapple with. soon i am beginning a new position, things are looking up (hopefully) and as such ive felt in better spirits to resume writing. i hope to come out with more in the upcoming months, and i very much appreciate all of your support for my writing, and for me. you have all been immensely kind and caring towards me. thank you. so on a less depressing note for the upcoming months it will probably be slower moving but i plan to come out with at least 1-2 more chapters of limerence within the next few weeks, as well as a few requests (to the inclusion of a sydney adamu x reader request).

i thank you again for your endless patience, understanding, and above all kindness. i feel lucky. i feel grateful.

He doesn’t press for information, he’s never been one to ask too many questions, he’s just happy to be there, but when you do open up, when you’re ready to, he sits and listens, and he doesn’t just listen, he cares. He genuinely hears it and registers it, he saves it and remembers it for later.

Despite being in the same city as your ex, he never brings you anywhere your ex used to. There was one time when he did by accident because it had never been mentioned before and it haunts him to this day. Sometimes you just wake up and turn over in bed and you’re met with him just staring at you, wide-eyed, and he goes I’m so sorry, and you’re like Uh, what for? and he’s literally just apologizing for that same thing for the 100th time.

He knows what it’s like to have to walk on eggshells around those you love, or at least those who are supposed to actually love and care about you, so he understands. He knows what it’s like to live like that, he knows what it means to carry it, and sometimes he still struggles too, but you both understand each other and just try to get through it together. For him, this relationship is just as much about stability as it is about actively growing and changing for the better together, and he will be forever grateful for this.

He’s incredibly cognizant of any potential reminders of your past relationship and will always do everything in his power to prevent you from needing to be exposed to them.

He loves deeply. He cares deeply. You don’t need to worry if he loves you or not, if he might just up and leave at random, he tells you before you need to ask. He acts in a way such that you don’t even feel a need to ask. His love is in his gaze, it’s in the way he squeezes your hand on walks, it’s in the meals he cooks for you, it’s in that light night glass of water he gets for you…To be loved by him is to be adored, cherished. To be loved is to be known, and he knows you better than anyone.

He doesn’t just go around sharing information that isn’t his to share but he does make it a point to make others aware of things to be aware of when you come into the restaurant, or when you spend time with others. He curates a safe space for you with the same love and attention to detail that he sends each plate out with, such is the advantage of being in a relationship with a professional chef.

He can tell when you’re having a particularly bad day and he’ll either stay home from work to be with you and make sure everything is okay, or take you in with him. When you go into work with him you sit in his office and are intermittently brought food/desserts throughout the night, and it’s kind of the dream. There’s also already a setup of sorts for you for when you come, there’s like a blanket rolled up in the corner of the office for you if you want it and you get all comfy in the chair and pull up Netflix or Hulu or something on the computer and chill out. 

He constantly reminds you that the things he does for you he does because he loves you, because he wants to, not because he expects anything in return.

The first time you ever kissed you were incredibly nervous. It’s not that you suspected Carmy was a bad guy or anything like that, you were more than certain that he was a great guy actually, you met him through Richie and if there was anyone’s opinion who you trusted, it was his, but there was this little part in the back of your mind going off like an alarm bell. It was telling you he would want something more, that he’d demand something more, but he picked up on this, he saw your expression change the second you both pulled back and he immediately said ‘I, uh, I kissed you because I- because I thought you wanted to, and I, I’m sorry I didn’t-’ you cut him off instantly and were like ‘oh, no, sorry, that’s not it, it’s just…’ you found that you couldn’t bring yourself to finish the statement, but he knew. He could see it on your face, he frowned, and said, ‘I kissed you just to- to kiss you, nothin’ more to that.’ You couldn’t begin to explain the weight that you felt lift off your chest at that moment, in fact, you were so happy that you could, well…kiss him. So you did. 

You got in a minor fight once and he stayed calm the whole time, voice even, hands pinned to his sides, it only lasted for about an hour before he left the apartment briefly and then returned with flowers, snacks, a bag of groceries, and an apology. You ended up having a very fancy movie night complete with Michelin star level cooking, by the end of the night neither of you could even remember what the fight was about.

This is unrelated to the overall point but I want to note that he named a dish after you once and he was like you want me to like, rub this in anyone’s face? and you were like omg Carm, no.

Carmy frequently finds himself getting angry in the shower or on his way to work or in his quiet moments taking inventory in the walk-in because he just can’t fathom how anyone could ever give you anything other than their best. He doesn’t think he’s the best, he’s never felt like he was, he’s never believed himself to be, he still doesn’t, but goddamnit, he knows he tries his best and he can’t fathom not at least trying.

Carmy can not only set boundaries, but respects them too. He never demands an explanation, never pushes further. If you say “no” well, that’s it, that’s the end of the conversation. If he picks up on a change in tone, anything, he doesn’t interrogate, he just notices, slows down, softens his tone, gives you space if needed. He always notices. He always meets you where you are without asking why.

He’s very affectionate, I mean, he loves you very much, but he’ll never assume; his affection is always offered, never assumed. A hand hovering for a moment before it touches, a question in his expression before he slowly leans in to kiss you, and if you reach for him, he’ll come right to you.

He tries his best to make things special for you always, even the ordinary things. You’ve explained to him in the past that your ex had oftentimes made the ‘basics’ feel like you were asking for too much, so Carmy goes out of his way all the time to remind you that you deserve the basic things and so much more every single fucking day. He’ll fold your laundry and slip a note in the pocket of your favorite jeans, plate leftovers for you while he’s at the restaurant, peels your oranges before plating them and bringing them to you, bring home that new dessert they’ve been perfecting at work, after all, maybe beauty isn’t really found in the grand gestures or the big moments, but in the ordinary things which are noticed and tended to with a deep care and attention that can only truly come from real love.

He doesn’t just think, he asks, by this I mean, Carmy thinks about and knows just how sharp his voice can get under pressure sometimes so at home he will always overcorrect, always ask, always check himself. Low, even, calm, mid-conversation he’ll pause, ‘I’m sorry- I didn’t sound harsh just now, did I?’ and if you shake your head it’s like you can visibly see the tension leave his body.

He will always offer you reassurance without pity. If you say “sorry” too much or start to shrink back or retreat, he will always just murmur something like ‘Don’t be, you’re good- you’re more than good,’ and squeeze your hand lightly. He doesn’t dramatize your hurt or ever make a big deal out of it, he keeps your environment steady, always treating you like a person first, addressing the things you are doing as opposed to the things that were done to you, if that makes sense.

He makes time for you intentionally without you needing to ask, he makes your healing a priority and part of his rhythm without even needing to think about it. If you’re having a bad night, he’ll cook dinner next to you in the kitchen while you talk (or while you don’t), if you’re feeling anxious and restless, he’ll drive you around the city with the windows down until you feel better. He never tries to ‘fix’ it nor does he try to treat you as someone who needs to be ‘fixed’, he just adjusts his pace to fit with yours.

Cooking is his love language. It’s always been a little bit of a hard thing for him because while it’s something he did like at some point and it is something he’s genuinely good at a lot of the joy got stripped away from it as the years went on, trauma replacing it, but you’ve helped him to really bring the joy back in cooking. He files away in his head every comfort food or favorite you ever mention, every snack you reach for, and he always has it for you before you can even think to ask. 

The first time you cried in front of him you apologized endlessly like it was something shameful, but he just frowned and shook his head, a careful thumb brushing against your cheek and said “Hey, don’t. Do not apologize for that- not with me, not ever. You’re safe here, alright? Always safe here, never gotta- never have to worry about that with me, swear to god,” and you had always felt good about Carmy, but that was the moment that really solidified it for you.

He’s super protective of you- but not possessive. If you run into your ex or a friend of your ex unexpectedly at any point, Carmy doesn’t posture or pick a fight or anything, he just puts a steady hand on your back, checks and double-checks to make sure you’re alright, and removes you from the situation promptly and smoothly. Later, he always makes sure to affirm to you that “You don’t owe me strength in those moments, okay? You don’t owe me- or him, or anyone, anything at all.”

This being said- there are times he’ll get angry on your behalf outwardly, he’s only human, a human who loves you a lot. He’ll rant quietly in the shower sometimes while you brush your teeth at the sink, or mutter curses while he smokes outside, fists clenching around the hem of his shirt because he can never for the life of him figure out how anyone could ever look at you and just choose cruelty, it’s in these moments that you become a point of comfort for him saying things like ‘It’s okay Carm- I love you, but you don’t need to hold it all up, I’m okay, you don’t need to think about it’ or ‘I’m okay Carmy, you’re okay- we’re okay, we’re happy, that’s all that matters, I’m okay now.’

This is also where I should mention that Carmy definitely has his own days- days where everything is too much, days where he sees Mikey everywhere, or hears the words of a particularly abusive head chef just a little too loudly in his mind, or reflects just a little too hard on his parents growing up, he gets unusually quiet, draws in on himself, gets depressed, anxious. You always notice. You always help him out of it. You’re there for each other in the way that only two people who truly understand and know the other person can be there for one another, and you know each other like you’ve always known each other, like you’ve been destined through every lifetime. 

Luca steps into view, shutting the door behind him, catching the last frozen frame of the moment that had been unfolding, Carmen standing just a little too close, devastation on your face, your shoulders pulled in tight, his hands halfway raised like he’d either been reaching for you or pulling you away.

“What the fuck is going on?” Luca’s voice is curt, defensive.

His eyes land on Carmen first, wide, searching, suspicious even. Then to you. Then back to Carmen. You watch his expression change, his jaw clenches.

Suddenly, the room seems smaller than it ever has. Like, there’s not enough air in it for the three of you.

Carmen takes a step back like he just realized how close he’d been standing to you. His hands drop to his sides. They’re still trembling.

You open your mouth. Close it. Nothing comes.

Luca’s still staring between the two of you. Like he just walked into a fire, uncertain of who lit it, without a hose or fire hydrant in sight. 

“I’m not-” Carmen starts, his voice low and hoarse.

“It wasn’t-It wasn’t like that,” you say quickly, cutting in. “It really wasn’t.”

Luca blinks, recalibrating, his eyes softening, reading your face to confirm that you’re telling the truth. He nods slowly. 

“Alright,” he says. “Just- when Marcus texted, said you’d quit…and then- well, what I walked into just now-” he gestures between you and Carmen, “I just needed to make sure you were alright. Both of you.”

Carmen lets out a breath, visibly relaxing, even if just a little. 

“I’m okay,” he says. “It was…for the best.”

Luca nods at him, something unreadable on his face. “Good. Because Marcus wasn’t just worried about the quitting. He said it felt…different this time.”

You glance at Carmen, you can feel a sudden shift in the room.

“Carmen?”

He swallows. “It means…I meant it. I’m not going back.”

You watch Luca’s face soften with understanding.

“Marcus said he thought you were really close to losing it- Like really losing it,” Luca says. “Like, really close.”

Carmen bites his lip, hard. You can see the skin split.

“I didn’t want to lose anyone else,” he says, “Not (y/n). Not Marcus, Richie, Syd, you- not myself.”

You step toward him, choosing to close the gap yourself this time.

“You did it for you,” you say.

He meets your eyes.

“Yeah. I had nothing left to give. If I couldn’t be there- then it was like, what was the fucking point?”

Luca exhales, and you see him crack a small, relieved smile from the corner of your eye.

“Good,” Luca says, “Because-” you hear his voice falter, “-Because you both deserve it. Better. The best. Nothing less.” 

He gives you a sad smile, eyes flicking between the two of you, reading something.

“I mean it,” he says, “This restaurant shit, this whole industry- none of this shit works if we’re not people first.” 

He pauses.

“And, Carm, man, your front door’s like, wide open. You gotta start locking that shit.” 

Carmen blinks, looking toward the door, muttering, “Shit, yea, I forgot.”

Luca’s halfway out of the door when he turns, his hand on the frame.

His gaze lands on you for a breath longer than it probably should. Then he turns to Carmen.

“You’re lucky it was just me,” he says, voice lighter, something behind it you couldn’t place, “Could’ve been, like, I dunno, a fucking raccoon, or something-” he pauses, looking at you as he says the next thing, “Or a food critic.” 

He winks, you barely catch it.

He turns to leave, but then turns around just one more time. 

“And Carm-”

Carm glances his way.

“You know…Sometimes things show up…Outta nowhere. And- and if you’re lucky, you get to keep ‘em.”

A beat passes, an understanding drifts between the two of them that you don’t quite understand, he goes on.

“Doesn’t always happen twice…I’ll see you both around.”

He turns, walking out the door, you call out:

“Walk you to the lobby?” you offer, looking to Carmen, he nods at you to go ahead, a look that says ‘it’s okay, we can continue this in a few minutes’.

“Ok,” says Luca, giving Carmen a small wave.

You walk down in almost complete silence, until you get to the bottom floor. 

“It’s hard, isn’t it?” 

You look at him, raising an eyebrow, he goes on.

“Loving someone like that.” 

You don’t respond, you just watch him push out the door from the staircase to the lobby, watch him walk from the lobby, and then out of the building.

‘It’s hard, isn’t it? Loving someone like that.’ 

The memory rises slowly, like steam rising off a plate or smoke off something left on the stove for too long.

-

Copenhagen. Summer. 

A detail you always left out.

That you had stayed for a while.

A month or two later than you had planned, missed the graduation ceremony back in the U.S. and had a small celebration in Copenhagen when you finished your last course instead, opting to just have your bachelors degree sent in through the mail.

You didn’t have to leave for New York just yet, not until late August, you figured you needed to live a little. 

Live somewhere else, not just take classes there, if just for a brief interlude.

Do something before you lock yourself down with law school.

And Luca had graciously let you crash with him when your school housing lease ran out in May.

The windows were cracked in his place to let the heat out, but if you were both being honest with yourselves, it hadn’t helped at all.

The apartment smelt like basil and burnt sugar, Luca was moving quietly around the kitchen, like it was a performance art, like it was a dance he knew by heart, plating dessert with the type of care he gave to everything that mattered. 

You were sitting on his counter, BAR exam prep book in your hands, legs dangling down, watching him drizzle honey across two halves of a roasted pear. 

He could feel you watching him, and he looked up at you, suddenly, nearly startling you, like you had been caught watching.

“You don’t have to go,” he said, his voice low, as he turned back to working on his plating.

You blinked. “Luca…”

“I know,” he said, nodding, “I know you’re leaving. I know you’ve got-” 

He waved his hand vaguely in the air, a soft, and almost sheepish half-smile on his face.

“Your future, your spreadsheets, your law school.”

“Yea,” you say, “It’s a lot, Luca, which is why you know I can’t do that.” 

“Isn’t it always?”

You looked up at him, placing your book down beside you on the counter.

“Luca- you know that-”

“Yes,” he cuts you off, “I do.”

“So you know-”

“Yes…I do. I understand.”

“I’m going to New York in a month. In a few weeks, I will always be busy. There will always be something to do. I won’t be able to stop until it’s, well, until it’s over. I will always be…somewhere else.”

He just nodded in response, slowly turning around to tend to something simmering on the stove. You watched his back, you could hear sizzling in the pan, his arm moving as he maneuvered it around.

“It’s hard, isn’t it?”

He turned around for a moment to face you.

“Hm?” you hummed in response, raising an eyebrow.

“Loving someone like that.”

-

Suddenly the stairway felt too cold, and your body felt too hot.

You had hardly considered it in the moment, you weren’t sure why, you had brushed it off. 

You supposed your mind was just elsewhere, like you had discussed, on school, on New York, on everything else. 

But what about him?

As you walked back up the stairs to the apartment, climbing slowly, you couldn’t help but wonder to yourself, ‘What was different when it came to Carm?’

What happened that you wouldn’t just give it up for Luca?

Well, it wouldn’t have made sense. It was illogical. 

Luca needed to stay in Copenhagen. 

You wouldn’t let him leave. 

You refused to let him give that up for you.

Carmen? You knew he was going elsewhere, that where he was going would be ultimately fine for you and your spreadsheet.

Even when Luca did briefly return to the U.S., you knew his place was in Copenhagen at the Noma, even if it meant that it wasn’t with you, and you refused. Refused to let him have any less than what he deserved. 

You had to go. He had to stay.

But did he choose that? Or had you just decided for him, never even stopping to ask him what he might have thought.

It’s hard isn’t it? Loving someone like that.

That’s when it struck you.

It wasn’t really about Carmen.

It was about you. 

He said it like he knew exactly what it meant to love someone who was always looking just past you.

He said it like he still is. 

And the worst part?

You think that maybe you might’ve always known it.

Even back then.

-

It had been winter that last time you saw him. The last time you had visited him after getting together with Carmen, it was years ago. It was one of those dreary, heavy, gray days, the type where the sky didn’t really brighten and it made you feel tired the whole day. It was February, to be specific, there was slush lining the sidewalks, and grey salt stains marked up your shoes.

You had already been living with Carmen at that point, you had been together for about a year and some change.

Things were fine back then, with Carmen. Or at least you thought they were when you got on the plane. 

You had flown to Denmark to go see him. Luca.

It was a slightly disastrous trip there, your layover got delayed, almost lost your baggage at one point during that same layover, by the time you could see the lights of Copenhagen out of the plane window, you were already at least an hour late.

When you finally stepped off the plane, you could feel the cold air biting at your face as you rubbed the back of your neck, cursing the shitty airplane seats in the economy section under your breath. 

You shuffled through the airport, more crowded than you had initially anticipated it to be, people brushed past you as you struggled to pull your luggage towards the pickup point, trying to ignore the growing knot of anxiety in your stomach.

It’s not like you were afraid or anything like that, it had just felt like such a long time since you had last seen Luca. Of course, it wasn’t like you hadn’t seen him since you started seeing Carmen, but it was definitely less, and you had been to Copenhagen since then, and he had been to the U.S. since then…But you would be lying if you said that you had visited him or made it a point to meet up with him whenever he was in your area or you were in his. You felt guilty about it, hence, the cold feet.

When you got to the gate, Luca was waiting there already. Wool coat, a hat pulled low, his hands were shoved deep into his pockets. The moment he saw you, his face softened, but there was still something guarded behind his eyes.

You wrapped your arms around him anyway the second you approached him, as if you were hoping that this moment could patch up some of the distance which had settled between the two of you over the past year or so. 

His place was still the same as you had last recalled, warm, cluttered with cookbooks and drying herbs hanging from ceiling beams. The windows were all fogged up from the cold outside.

It was clear that he’d been baking before picking you up at the airport, the whole place smelt of vanilla bean and browned butter.

“Did you-” you inhale deeply, “Did you make a cake or something?” you tried to keep your voice light, but you could tell that he could tell that you were nervous.

“Well, technically four, but you took way too long getting here,” he teased you, but when he did so, his smile didn’t quite reach his eyes in the way you remembered. 

You sat on the floor of his living room space, a plate with a thick slice of lemon pound cake balancing on your lap, he sat across from you. 

For a while, you just sat there and talked. About the small things. The Copenhagen weather. The weather in New York. Some book that you had both read ages ago, couldn’t agree on whether you had read it together while you were here that summer before law school, or if you had both read it separately and called to talk about it. A story about work and the kitchen, he recited it with a half smirk on his face and powdered sugar dusting the sleeves of his sweater. 

You didn’t talk about Carmen.

He didn’t ask.

The space between the two of you was full of things that neither of you had seemed to want to say out loud, no malice, just…a lot.

Later, as the evening continued on, and 10PM turned to 12AM which became 1:36AM, when sitting across from each other on the floor turned into curling up on the old couch next to one another, a thick knit blanket tossed over both of your legs that he had pulled from the back of the chair. When the glass of wine that Luca had poured you when you had first started talking turned into a second. Then a third. And then you were both sharing the third bottle of the night.

You laughed a little louder than you had meant to at something that he had said, and he looked at you for just a moment too long, eye flickering over to you, studying your face, before looking back down.

When the silence eventually came in the very early hours of the morning, something like 3AM, you thought, it wasn’t awkward. Neither of you seemed to really feel any particular need to fill it, perfectly happy to just be sitting there with one another.

But there was a moment.

The type of moment that you could feel deep in your chest before your mind could register it, let alone name it.

He didn’t kiss you.

You didn’t let him.

But you had both felt it, right between you. A breath that had lasted too long, a stillness that asked a question that neither of you quite wanted to answer.

You were the first to break the eye contact, pulling your phone from the pocket of your pajama pants which you had changed into at some point around 11PM, you just wanted to check the time, see how long you had been keeping him up for.

Luca glanced over at you, not trying to look at your screen, but definitely taking note of you looking at it, “What, you got somewhere better to be?” 

He was just joking, teasing you again as he usually did, but there was something in the way in which he had asked it that made your stomach twist. 

You shook your head at him, giving him a light laugh, “No, I just, I think, I’m a little jet lagged, and I think I’m keeping you up past your bedtime.” 

He smiled at you softly, a little tired, “I don’t mind,” he had said.

You looked down at your screen again, a new text had come up, timestamped from just a few seconds ago.

Sent at 3:42AM

CARMY

Knitting your eyebrows together, you clicked your phone open to look at the message.

You squinted at the screen, it felt too bright for the room, and you were more tired than you had wanted to admit to yourself.

‘just got in from restaurant did a bunch of bs repairs, this opening might kill me before we actually open.’

Another message came through right after that one, almost immediately:

‘did u leave the spare for tina btw? i wont be home for a few, be back thursday. she said she’d grab invoices + check on everything + feed the cat etc’

You stared at the messages, brows furrowing together. 

‘No, I haven’t left the spare for Tina.’ You thought to yourself.

You hadn’t even known that she needed one. 

And what the fuck was he talking about, “won’t be home for a few”? You could feel your head spinning, the room felt colder, you started to feel overwhelmed. 

You were supposed to be gone for a week, he knew this, that had been the plan, for months.

You swallowed hard and scrolled back through your text messages with him, wondering if you might have missed him telling you about this at some point, anything like that, but no. Nothing. No heads-up. No ‘FYI.’

Luca noticed before you needed to say anything at all, he noticed how rigid you had gone, how your thumbs stopped moving, just hovering like you couldn’t even think of what to say, the way you stared blankly down at your screen, like you couldn’t believe what you were seeing.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, trying not to pry too much.

You didn’t answer him right away, you just continued to stare down at the phone in your hand, reading and re-reading his most recent text message over and over, in disbelief. 

“He didn’t tell me he was leaving,” you finally responded.

Luca suddenly sat up a little straighter beside you, “Carmen?”

You nodded in response, head still swimming, “Yeah. I’m gone for like, like, literally five days and he just like, assumes I’ll handle it. Like it doesn’t occur to him that I wouldn’t be the one to figure it out.” 

You could feel yourself spiraling out. 

“Jesus,” you said under your breath, locking your phone, dropping it face-down on the blanket to your side, you leaned back into the couch, praying for it to swallow you up so you never had to think about anything ever again.

“Slow down, (y/n),” Luca said, “It’s going to be okay-probably…Firstly, what exactly is it that he thinks you’ll just ‘handle’?”

You let out a short, breathy laugh, one that sounded nothing like amusement. 

“He left town, for…I honestly don’t even know, he didn’t even say, but he said Tina was gonna come by and check invoices and feed the cat, all that, whatever,” you gestured vaguely, your voice sharpening suddenly despite how tired you had felt just moments ago, “But he never even told me that she even needed the key, he never asked me to leave it, he never even mentioned that he wouldn’t be home.”

You don’t know why, but for some reason you felt like you were gonna start crying any second. Luca blinked at you, processing everything he was hearing, almost like he was just as, if not more, shocked than you were at hearing this. 

You wipe at your nose, and then your eyes with your sleeve, holding back tears.

“So now I’m just sitting here. Halfway across the fucking world, and apparently, I’ve already failed at something that I didn’t even know I was supposed to do.”

You bit your lip, looking down, you could feel the heat rising in your face, and it wasn’t just the logistical mess of it all, it was the message you felt underlying it: Carmen hadn’t even considered the possibility that you wouldn’t just be there. Wouldn’t be able to figure it out, wouldn’t clean up the edges even when you were gone. 

And now what? 

Now you have to.

You leaned forwards on the couch, elbows on your knees with your fingers laced tightly together, your expression blank.

“Fuck.”

“What?” Luca asks.

“Fuckkkk…” you say, leaning back, both hands over your face trying to hide from the world, hoping if you shut your eyes tight enough that you’d just cease to exist, “There’s a fucking contractor guy coming this week. To finish the fucking gas line installation, and one of us has to be there to sign off on it. We both knew this, I told him- I mean, I told him months ago that I’d be here, he told me- I thought he was handling it.”

You turn to Luca slowly, exhausted, guilty. 

“I have to book a flight back.”

He doesn’t say anything for a second, and then, “Does he know?” 

“That I’m leaving?” You asked, exasperated. “No. That he left me to handle it? Probably fucking not. He never sees it that way.”

You leaned forwards again, head in your hands, you felt a hand on your shoulder.

“(y/n),” he starts, “What do you mean, ‘never sees it that way’...Are you…Are you alright over there?”

You don’t respond, he goes on.

“You’re not alone in this.”

You scoff, not to be cruel or rude, just in utter disbelief of the whole scenario which was playing out in front of you right now, how embarrassing it was that Luca was here to witness the whole thing.

“You shouldn’t have to handle it by yourself, (y/n)...That’s not-It’s not fair.” 

You looked up at him, exhaustion in your eyes mingling with something like appreciation.

“I know,” you whispered back, you could read between the lines, “But it’s like…Carmen…I don’t think he means to,” you added quickly, maybe even a little quicker than you had intended, “He’s just-He’s under a lot of pressure. The restaurant, the opening, with…everything.” 

You said it like it was an objective fact, indisputable, like it was a bulletproof argument that made it okay, closed the case.

Luca didn’t try to argue, just nodded once. You stared at the ground, tracing the patterns on the rug in Luca’s living room with your eyes.

You shifted slightly, sitting up a little, forcing a smile.

“I think I’m just like…I think I’m just really tired.”

He nodded again, not pressing further.

“Right,” he said gently, “Well…You don’t have to figure it all out tonight…And if you want, you don’t have to figure it all out alone.”

You nodded in response, already reaching for your phone. “I should probably…look at flights.” 

Just like that, the moment had passed. Not a rejection, not exactly, but just tucked away, swept under the rug. You knew that not facing this alone would mean facing all kinds of other things…You didn’t want to do that. 

You booked your flight back to Chicago that same night.

You and Luca stood outside your airplane terminal, the very next morning. 

Both holding paper cups of coffee, sleep in your eyes.

“So,” you say.

Luca nods. “So.”

He looks at you, nothing in his eyes but a quiet, kind understanding. Calm. Collected. Luca.

He lifts his cup, takes a sip, “Guess this is it, then.”

You nod. “Yeah.”

Your words hang there in the air, limp, useless. You want to say something meaningful, brave, something.

I almost stayed.

I don’t want to go.

Tell me not to go.

But you don’t. And he doesn’t.

Just a long pause. 

Your row gets called.

“You’ll text when you land?” 

You can feel your eyes stinging, “Yea, of course.”

You step forward, give his arm a squeeze, and then-

-

You blink.

You’re standing at the door to your apartment. 

The hum of the city outside seeps through the cracked window, inside the air feels thick, heavier than it should be, heavier than it actually is.

Carmen is there, leaning against the kitchen counter, his eyes have a distant look in them, his arms are folded tight against his chest. He hasn’t noticed you yet.

You hesitate for a moment, you let the silence stretch.

He looks up.

“You’re back,” he says.

“I am.” 

Carmen runs a hand through his hair, waiting for you to say something. 

But you don’t.

You slip off your shoes at the front door before you begin to move towards the counter, slowly, you don’t reach out for him. You don’t close the gap further than a few feet, you stand at the sink, staring at him, staring at each other.

“You took a while, walking him out, I mean,” Carmen says, “Not that I mind- I mean, not that I…I was just worried, thought about calling you…” 

You nod.

“In all honesty, we didn’t say much.”

His eyes flicker to you, to the floor, and then back to you.

“You okay?”

“I’m just…Tired,” you say, softly, “Not just tonight. I mean…I’m just so fucking tired.”

Carmen lowers his eyes again. “Yeah,” he responds. “Me too.”

You both fall quiet again for a long beat, waiting for someone to move first.

“I meant it.”

You meet his eyes.

“Carm…”

“I did, and I…I want to try,” he says.

“Try?”

“Us,” he goes to step towards you, hesitates, stays where he is, “If you…If you’d have me. If you still really want us. If you think you could want this- us.” 

You take him in for a moment. He’s folding himself inward, guarded even as he reaches outward, trying to offer you something real.

You really wanted to believe him.

But something in you, something in you fractures at the edges. 

Something in you can only see the fractures at his edges.

The dark rings under his eyes that had been there since you had first met him, only darker now, sunken. 

Shoulders coiled, even when he speaks softly.

All the pauses in his sentences, like he’s trying to figure out the right version of Carmen to be before opening his mouth to speak to you.

And God, you knew exactly what that fucking felt like. What it felt like to always be so far away, that you were always on a ledge. You’ve been doing it for years. You’d been doing it when he had first met you.

You’d both been doing it the past year, maybe longer, in a more intense way than you could’ve ever perceived having to do prior to everything that had been going on with you two in the past…few years…if you were going to be honest with yourself. 

Tiptoeing around him, no, around each other. Filling in the silence because it just didn’t feel comfortable any longer, picking up after him and yourself, the slow car crash, the slow burn of your relationship to the ground. 

Four years of slow burn. You thought you had been building up to something.

But had this just been it?

Maybe it wasn’t a slow burn romance, the type you’d watch on t.v., read about, maybe it was just exactly what it sounded like, a slow burn, to the ground. 

Destruction. Half-lives slowly degraded until there was so little left that it didn’t matter that it was there at all.

Is this really all it was?

A steadily descending blaze, an inevitable attrition towards ashes.

You shut your eyes tight, trying to will an easy answer to the situation to appear behind your eyes somewhere, it didn’t come.

But just for a second…

-

You’re in the passenger seat of a rented car. Windows down, a map folded between your legs, and the sunlight dancing in and out of trees overhanging the road.

Carmen was in the driver’s seat, he had a smile on his face, his phone navigating, music playing maybe just a little higher than it should’ve been. A mash of music selected by both of you, all added to one playlist, both of you singing along to it intermittently throughout the drive, a lot of them being ones that you knew would keep you awake for the drive. A lot of them definitely getting on Carmy’s nerves from time to time, something about the trip had just given you this strong inclination to add a shit ton of songs that used to play on top hits radio stations between the years like 2005-2017…You regretted nothing.

You could’ve just taken a plane, gotten all your stuff moved by a company, but you had both agreed that it would be much more fun to take a roadtrip instead. So, you and Carm had embarked on a trip from New York, through Canada, and finally, landing in Chicago, where you would stay. 

You couldn’t say for certain where you were at this moment in time, but you knew you were somewhere in Vermont. The overall trip was approximately 1,735 miles in total, you had planned on going from New York to Vermont, Québec City, Montreal, Niagara Falls to Toronto, and then finally, Chicago. Carmen said something, it was drowned out by the music and the wind coming in from the windows. You turned the volume knob down.

“What?” 

“I said- What happened to Fun?”

You were confused. Was this not fun? Were you not being fun enough? You frowned.

“I mean-I’m sorry Carm, I guess because well, because- I’m having fun, I just assumed that you were too-”

“What are you talking about?”

“You-I thought you asked me, ‘what happened to fun’?”

“Yea. Fun.” he said, gesturing towards the radio.

Confused, you turned the volume up just a little higher so you could make out the lyrics of the song that was playing over the rush of the wind coming in from the windows. 

The radio sang:

‘Cause I found someone to carry me home,

Tonight!

We are young…

You burst out laughing. 

“Oh! Fun.”

“Yea, Fun.” Carm confirmed for you with a wide smile, trying not to laugh too hard while driving.

“Oh my god, that’s actually so fucking funny.” You paused to think for a moment then, “Wait…What did happen to Fun?”

Carmen shrugs.

“Why do you think I was asking you?”

“Trivia?”

“No, not trivia.” Carmen laughs again. “I think we heard from them like once or twice, and then never again.”

“Do…do you want me to like, look them up or something?”

“No- no, don’t.”

“Okay, um…Can I ask why?”

Carmen glanced at you, playful, before quickly turning his head back to the road.

“I have a theory.”

“A…theory?”

“Yes.”

“Ok. What is this theory?”

“Ok, hear me out. It’s all just one big cover.”

“A cover? A cover for what?”

“It’s a money laundering thing.”

“Money laundering?”

“Yes. Exactly. Money laundering.”

“Wait, what? Why would they need to do that? And why would they choose to do it in that way?”

Carmen keeps his eyes on the road.

“Well first of all, have you ever seen Fun perform live?”

“Um…No? Not personally, but I’m sure they have-”

“Yea, but still.”

“Okay, well, even if they hadn’t, that really doesn’t mean anything.”

“Doesn’t it?” He arches an eyebrow, jokingly. “Think about it, one massive hit. Like, stupidly, massive. They’re in like every car commercial, every Walmart ad., every wedding playlist, every prom montage, for like a whole fucking decade, and what, they just, vanish?”

“But- They didn’t just vanish.”

“Uh- yes, they did, name another song, right now.”

You move to look at your phone.

“No phones!” Carmen yelled at you accusingly.

You froze, hand hovering just above your screen. “Okay, it’s just- I know for a fucking fact that there are at least two songs by Fun on this playlist.” 

“Oh, really?” He squints at the road, the sun in both of your eyes, you look down to avoid the glare. “Name them.”

You close your eyes, thinking hard.

“We Are Young.”

“Well, obviously.”

You think harder.

“I don’t know, I just know that there is another one. And like…A lot more.” 

“That’s what I thought,” Carmen said, a smug, victorious grin on his face.

You glare at him.

“You’re enjoying this way too much.”

He shrugs, both of his hands still on the wheel. “I’m just sayin’, you talk a big game about Fun being real and all, but when it comes down to it- You. Got. Nothin’.” 

“Oh my fucking god,” you groaned, dragging a hand down your face, “I actually cannot fucking believe that you’re trying to gaslight me about Fun right now.”

“Not gaslighting,” he corrected, “I’m just trying to wake you up. To the truth. Wake up sheep-le…Wake up.” He repeats, shit-eating grin on his face like he just cracked The Da Vinci Code or some shit. 

You groan again, louder. 

“I swear to god, man, if you say one more thing about Fun being a psy-op-”

“Oh, I never said psy-op,” he interjects, “But now that you mention it-”

You whip your head to him, “Carmen.”

“I’m just saying, you’ve got a band, right? They blow up, literally, out of nowhere, then vanish, completely, no warning. And no one finds that even a little bit weird? Come on.”

Come on. 

You let it sit in your head for a minute.

Where had you heard that before…

Oh my god. Come on. C’mon. Golden Beets (Beats).

“C’mon!”

“What?”

“C’mon! Another song by Fun.”

“You’re fucking lying.”

“I’m not,” you insist, triumphant, “C’mon- that’s a real song. Look it up bitch, read it and weep.”

“Driving, can’t.” Carmen narrows his eyes, suspiciously. “C’mon? Like, C-M-O-N, or like, ‘come on’?”

“Does it matter?”

He smirks and tosses out, almost too casually, “Pretty sure that’s from a playlist Luca made.”

You blink, a bit caught off guard by how easily he had said it. 

For a moment the road felt longer. 

“Have you considered that it stands for something?” Carmen breaks the quiet, playfully, like none of what was just said was a big deal at all.

You glanced over, wondering if he had meant the song itself, or the song in the context of the playlist. Your head was swimming.

“What, like a secret code?” you said to him, half-teasing, half unsure. 

“Maybe,” he shrugs, eyes still on the road, “Or maybe it just means ‘Come on,’ and I’m reading into all this too much. Maybe they’re just a band that burnt out.” 

You laughed, but it was hollow. 

“Anyways,” Carmen immediately followed up to change the subject, sensing an awkward shift in the air coming from you, “Wanna stop anywhere soon?”

“Yea.”

-

It hits you. 

Has he always known?

Has Carmen always known about it? Everything? 

You felt like you couldn’t breathe. 

Maybe it was never fair to him.

It didn’t matter. This was about you and Carmen, after all. 

“Carmen, I-” 

You pause, thinking again. 

“Ok.” 

He looks up at you, and you look back at him, both with the same expression, like you’re both entirely shocked by what had just come out of your mouth.

“Ok?”

“Yea, ok.”

He just keeps staring at you, dumbfounded.

“But we would need to start over,” you say.

“Start over?” He repeats it back to you, still looking shocked. 

You nodded slowly. “I think…I think it’s-I think that we never really did it right. Not really.”

Carmen’s quiet, his hands on the countertop, gripping the edge like it’s the only thing keeping him tethered. His jaw flexes, like he’s thinking hard about something that he doesn’t want to say out loud.

“I tried,” he says, finally, his voice is low. “You know I tried.”

“I know.” You say, “I know you did.”

The silence that follows this isn’t sharp, it’s soft and somehow, it feels worse. 

You wanted to feel relieved, having made a decision, but you…didn’t. Everything just felt more confusing. 

You glance toward the window, the world dark and quiet. Street lights throw a golden glow into the room. 

You shrug, your shoulders tense. “Maybe it just means being honest. About…everything.”

The last part of your sentence sits between the two of you like it was something that never should have had to be said.

You see a flicker of Carmen’s expression, a wince that he smooths out quickly.

He looks at you, then, really looks at you. 

And whatever he sees, it keeps him quiet. 

You speak instead. 

“Carmen-You know,” you pause, it suddenly feels harder to speak, “You have to have known.”

“Known what?”

“Luca.”

“...Yes.” His voice sounds so small, so quiet, you can feel your heart shatter for him. 

“I-” It’s hard to speak.

“We had a…moment tonight.” 

Carmen just nods, looking at the floor.

“We’ve had a lot of moments actually. Over the years.”

“...I know.”

A long moment passes.

“Carm…What- what have you been thinking? You must’ve been thinking something, all of these years, I just- I’m sorry. What…What are you thinking?”

Carmen looks up, staring at you, a new look on his face that you couldn’t quite name. 

“Do you want to know what I’ve been thinking?”

“Yes.”

“Honestly?”

“Yes.”

“Honestly? All I’ve been thinking is…I don’t understand why you came home with me that first night. Why you stayed after. Because I think we both knew, even then, I just wasn’t…I wasn’t the person you wanted…not really.”

“Carmen, I-”

“-And I think it’s because…it’s because, you’re scared and I’m…fucked up.”

You’re shocked, stunned into silence, then:

“What do you mean by that?”

“I’m fucked up. I’m so fucked up that I went for it, and I stayed with it, just there, just always- always fucking looming over me, because I knew it. I knew that I could never really succeed. Why the fuck would I succeed? Why the fuck should anything like this- like us, why should it work out?”

“Carm, that’s not what it’s like-”

“-And you know what else? If it’s always hanging there. If it’s always there, always been there…I get why you came home with me that first night, I guess, hook up and whatever, but now all I can think is, how could you come home to me all these years. I mean, why stay, when there was always…Why?”

You stay silent. 

And Carmen’s face changes again, like your silence says something he never really wanted to know. Like it confirms something for him that he was hoping wasn’t true.

He laughs, just once, but it’s the kind that sounds like it hurts your throat. 

“Oh my fucking god,” he mutters under his breath, he backs up a step away from you, like he needs space, like being near you is hurting something. “You’re right though, I should’ve fucking known. I mean, I did know, didn’t I? Of course I fucking did. I’ve known since before the party.”

“Carmen-”

“No, don’t. Just- Fucking don’t, okay? Don’t fucking do that shit, don’t talk like that now, you know what it felt like?”

He chokes, swallows a sob.

“Sorry- I’m sorry, I just…and I- I never asked. I didn’t want to know, I think I knew, but I just, I just, like, shut my fuckin’ eyes, cause’ if I didn’t, if I said it out loud, it’d be…it’d just be true. I just- I let that shit go because I didn’t want to know. I thought- well fuck, if I just work hard enough, if I keep my head down, if I keep going, it’s going to come one day. It’ll work. But you were always somewhere else. I saw the way you looked at him. I saw it, I told myself it didn’t really mean anything, and I tried to believe that, I mean fuck, I really did.”

You open your mouth to protest it, but he cuts you off, going on.

“I saw the way you looked at each other. And I hated myself for seeing it. I hated seeing it, for staying anyway, for pretending I could just live with it as long as it meant I still got to be with you, and I- I just, I fuckin’ hated- I hate myself. I saw it, and I stayed. I always hated myself more because- because I still want you. I still wanted to try. I know I’ve fucked up. And I’m sorry, I really am. But this is just…I’m just- everything’s so fucked up.”

He takes a deep breath, shaky and long, staring at the ground, trying to avoid your eyes, like he doesn’t want you to see him cry…It breaks your fucking heart.

“I’ve always been, okay? Since, since way before you, before the restaurant, before I knew how to fucking cook- I was, I was fucked up when you met me. I thought, maybe, maybe if someone like you loved me, maybe I wasn’t beyond it- beyond getting past it. If we could just- If we could just commit. But I know, it’s my fault too, I couldn’t, you couldn’t. That’s why it worked. I was committed to becoming- becoming the best, and you were too.”

His hands are trembling again, like earlier. He seems to notice it, tries to hide it, shoves them into his pockets. 

And then he starts to pace, lifting his hands back out of his pockets, folding his arms. 

You’ve seen this before, you recognized it. The spiral. 

You had just never seen it quite like this.

“I don’t need…I don’t…You know what’s fucked?” he says, “It’s not even the fucking- thing. You and him. Or, maybe it is, I don’t know. I don’t even fucking know anymore.”

He starts to gesture, like he just needs to use his hands to untangle his thoughts, to find the words.

“I thought it would all click into place. The restaurant, us, me. I’d become this- this person who deserves this shit, someone who can make it all happen, make it work.”

He laughs bitterly.

“It just never fucking happened though, I mean you know that, I know, I just- I just got more tired. I thought it might be normal. You get tired, you stay, you give what you have, you hold on tighter.”

He stops pacing suddenly, looking straight at you, like what he was about to say was going to hurt.

“I think I forgot how to talk to you,” he says, quiet now, slower, “I don’t even know when it happened. One day I was just- gone. I came home, you’d be right there, but I couldn’t- just couldn’t fucking read you. Or maybe I couldn’t let you reach me, same fucking thing.”

You open your mouth again, but he keeps going, his voice rising again, quickening, like he has to say it before he loses the nerve.

“And you kept waiting. That’s what really fucking kills me. I know you were patient, I know I took that for granted, and I’m sorry, but I just- I thought I was doing it all for us. This place, the hours, the pressure, I thought it was all just part of some bigger thing, like I’d give it to you one day, it would be done, that when I was done we’d be good. But I know it doesn’t work like that.”

He hesitates, looks away for a second, debating whether or not he should say the next thing. Then he looks back at you. Like the adrenaline’s all worn off, and all that’s left now is the collapse. 

“Before all of this-”

He swallows, you feel frozen in place, couldn’t speak if you wanted to.

“Before all this…before I became so…Before we ended up like this. I just…I used to wonder if you loved me the way I loved you, I mean, I know you love me, I’m sorry, it’s just he- yeah, I don’t know. I- I’d talk myself out of it every time, because what the fuck else was I supposed to do? You were still here. You still came home. You still laughed at my jokes. I thought that it meant something.”

His breathing hitches, and he closes his eyes, bringing his hand up to pinch the bridge of his nose.

“I kept waiting for you to look at me like that…The way you looked at him. I told myself it would happen, one day, but it just…It never did, and I-”

He stops, presses the heel of his hand to his chest, trying to maintain composure.

“And I saw it. I always saw it- knew it. And you stayed…I begged myself to be enough. Every fucking day just- just begged. And I, I fucked it up instead.”

You blink at him, still unsure what to say.

“Sometimes I wonder if you ever really chose me. Or if I’m just the one who said something first…And I was so- so fuckin’ grateful for that…like it was just enough, I mean it still is, and like it just meant that I was worth something, but it…I wasn’t…” 

He pauses for a long moment. You’re not sure how long, it could’ve been five minutes, five weeks, or an eternity. Carmen breaks the silence, he says quietly:

“If we do this…If we try again…I…fuck-” he wipes at the corner of his eye “- I don’t want to feel like I’m losing you, not while I’m holding your hand.”

“Then don’t let go.”

Hearing your words, Carmen could feel his body tense and then un-tense. 

He could do it.

He could start again.

Even with Luca. He believed you. He believed in you.

‘We can start again,’ he thought.

-

When Carmen moved back to the States after staging in Copenhagen, he didn’t expect Luca to follow.

He could remember the relief on your face that first night, when he told you he was thinking of, and probably was, heading to New York next. 

You’d smiled at him. Said, “Oh- me too.”

It had felt like the first right thing in a very long time for him.

But then Luca said he was coming too.

For what? Carmen wasn’t sure. 

To prove a point? 

To be with-

He didn’t like to think about it, making sure to never let himself think too hard about it.

In all honesty, and for whatever reason, Carmen had never been very good at saying the thing that needed saying…or at least, not outside of the kitchen. Especially not in these types of situations. But that day, outside after a shift, exhausted, cold, bone-deep tired, lips chapped to the point of bleeding from how hot it had been in the kitchen all night, no, all week. Something just snapped.

Carmen and Luca stood outside the restaurant. Smoke curling in the air between them, the streets were quieter, the shift had ended much later than it usually did. Both exhausted, exchanging quiet and casual conversation.

“New York, huh?” Carmen had said, shaking his head.

Luca shrugged. “Yeah. Figured it was time to change things up.”

Silence.

Carmen took a slow drag.

“Guess it’s one way to run from something,” he had responded, smiling lightly, he had meant it as a joke.

“-Or towards,” Luca had replied, looking ahead.

And this is when it happened.

That line, or towards, it just hit Carmen the wrong way. Or maybe it just hit him in exactly the way in which it had been intended to. It felt smug, or too honest. Maybe both. In either case, it dug under his skin, it pissed him off.

And he didn’t mean to say what he had said next, but it came out anyway:

“It’s funny…how shit just happens when you don’t expect it.” 

Luca glanced over at him, said nothing.

Carmen shrugged, his eyes on the sidewalk. 

“Things just come along, y’know? Like, you don’t expect ‘em. You either take it, or you miss it.” 

He paused for a moment, just took a deep breath, felt the cold rush of night air enter his lungs.

“And if you miss it…someone else won’t.”

Then, he looked Luca right in the eye, just for a second, he let his stare burn into him.

Flicked his cigarette to the curb, letting it burn in a puddle. 

Didn’t get a reply, didn’t wait to see if there was one.

He went back inside, grabbed his jacket. 

Went home.

To you. 

Left the rest unsaid.

-

Luca didn’t go home right away after leaving your and Carmen’s place.

He had tried to. Intended to.

He started walking the same route that he had taken earlier, until he told himself that maybe it’d be quicker to cut down this other block.

The next thing he knew it was- 

“Oh wait, I haven’t seen that street before,” he muttered under his breath, eyes flickering to an oddly shaped lamppost.

“I don’t remember that light being there.”

His gaze caught movement, a flicker of fur, maybe- darting across the sidewalk.

“Is that a cat?”

He just kept walking.

The city suddenly felt unfamiliar, somehow.

Off.

Like the ground had shifted since he had last been outside. Like he was trying to catch up.

He walked what he had told himself were just, ‘a few blocks more,’ in that aimless, post-midnight sort of way that people would often do after drinking a little too much at the bar, or going out with friends, both. The city felt eerily quiet, the streetlights felt oddly bright. His hands in his pockets, shoulders tight, everything echoing.

He didn’t know what the fuck he had just walked into. Didn’t really know what he thought would happen, didn’t know why it hurt. 

He wasn’t jealous. He had a long time to perfect that art.

The art of not being jealous.

It’s not like he had just been waiting in the wings of it all, either, just biding time or something, waiting to jump in.

It was actually much worse than that.

He wasn’t jealous. 

He wasn’t waiting. 

He’d just…never stopped thinking about it.

Not all of the time. Not in some pathetic, obsessive way.

He’d dated. Lived his life. Loved people, even.

But no one else had ever felt like that first night. 

Six years. Six years since Copenhagen. 

Since the first time he met you. Almost asked you out. Almost kissed you outside of that restaurant, after the event.

Since he looked at you across the kitchen and thought: If you asked, I’d stay. I’d follow you.

But you didn’t. 

You never did.

And now? 

Now, tonight, he’d walked in on that same look. 

It just wasn’t aimed at him.

He kicked a loose rock on the sidewalk into the gutter.

He wasn’t angry.

Not at Carmen.

Not at you.

He was just…tired.

But that wasn’t really it, was it?

Because the thing that had really kept him walking, like something was chasing him down, like he knew that if he went home that he couldn’t sit with himself, was this:

You’d been with him.

Just once.

Just enough to haunt him.

Four years ago.

That party in Copenhagen. The lame one, with the people from Noma, and the friends of the friends from Noma. The one that Carmen was at. The one where you and Carm had first met. The night before you met Carmen…

Blood dripped onto the floor. Smeared across the cutting board. He could feel the pulse in his fingertip, and shoved it in his mouth, sucked on the cut, swearing under his breath.

“You good, chef?” the head chef asked from across the kitchen, glancing over.

Luca grimaced, the pain sharp in his jaw. “Yeah- chef, sorry just- just need a minute.”

“Wait,” the head chef stepped closer, sharp-eyed. “Let me see.”

Luca held his hand up, blood steadily streaking down his wrist.

“Jesus Christ,” the head chef muttered. “You need the fuckin’ ER. Now.”

“Fuck,” Luca mumbled, grabbing a small stack of paper towels off a rack, wrapping them clumsily around his finger, blood seeping through despite his grip. 

Every step towards the exit felt impossibly slow, the clattering of pans and shouting of order all mixing together into a dull roar behind him.

The city outside was cold, sharp against his skin, but he barely noticed. The blood was still dripping down, warm and sticky, strangely grounding.

He hated it. Hated that even in this moment, even now, briskly walking himself to the hospital, and yet, all he could seem to focus on was scanning the crowds for you. 

By the time he made it to the check-in desk the paper towels had soaked through and looked more wet than anything, all slick with blood. He pressed them even harder against his finger, trying very hard not to notice how they had all started to disintegrate and mush together. 

The clerk looked up at him as he approached the desk, eyebrows lifting, a mix of sympathy and maybe mild impatience on their face.

“Insurance, please?” they asked, voice clipped, but not unkind, just routine.

Luca fumbled with his wallet, laying it on the counter, pulling out his insurance card with one hand, gripping the bundle of paper towels on his finger by curling his fingers upward trying to clench it in place, handing over the card without meeting their eyes.

The whole room felt strange, like he had accidentally slipped into another dimension or something, one that was just slightly off in a way you could never quite figure out. The lights of the waiting room seemed to buzz and flicker, almost mockingly, the pulsing in his finger continued but seemed to have moved down to his wrist and forearm.

He almost didn’t hear it when they finally called his name back into a room. 

He sat on the edge of a slightly reclined navy blue chair, a strip of paper crinkling underneath him as he shifted. He didn’t look up when the doctor walked in, just saw a pair of sneakers and the bottoms of scrubs out of the corner of his eye, the sound of a pen tapping on a clipboard filling the room.

“Luca?” asked the doctor. 

The voice sounded familiar.

Too familiar.

Luca’s head shot up as he looked at you.

Doctor’s coat on your shoulders, blue pair of scrubs, stethoscope hanging lopsided around your neck, and a clipboard in your hands, you raised an eyebrow at him.

“Luca?”

“H- Hi,” he choked out, eyes flickering back and forth from you to the door just behind you wondering how bad it could possibly be if he just ran out right now and slapped a bandaid on the cut at him. Surely, not too bad…

You cleared your throat, studying his face. He wondered if you might bring up the other day, if you might say something, anything. 

“So, what brings you in?” you asked, voice steady and professional, staring hard at the bundle of paper towels wrapped around his finger.

“Oh- I, uh…My hand slipped,” he managed.

You gave him a weak half-smile that made his stomach flip.

“Thought you were a professional, Luca.”

Luca. He loved the sound of it. The way you said it.

Luca…what the fuck was wrong with him.

He huffs a breath, laughing lightly.

“Well,” he says sheepishly, “even pros have their days.”

“Looks like it,” you said, moving closer to him.

You started to unwrap the paper towels from his hand, and the proximity made him nervous, he could hear his heart beating in his ears. 

“Eesh,” you muttered, taking his hand in yours, eyes flicking to the cut.

“That’s not exactly the kind of thing you want to hear your doctor say, is it?”

You shook your head, a small laugh escaping you.

“No, suppose it’s not, but, you’re gonna be just fine, really.”

“Am I?” he asked, a weak smile on his face. 

You nodded, solemnly. “Yeah, a few stitches, you’ll be good to go.”

“And you-uh,” he sniffed, “you’re gonna give em’ to me?”

“Who else would?” you replied, lightly smirking.

“Fair,” he shrugged, wincing at the movement. 

“Just- just relax your hand as much as you can, okay?” you instructed, reaching over for something on a metal tray, your fingers brushed his as you helped to re-position his hand, and he flinched slightly, not from pain, but from…everything else.

The sting of the antiseptic made him hiss softly, and you murmured, almost inaudible, “Sorry, this’ll sting just a bit.” 

He swallowed, trying to focus on the sound of your voice rather than the burn, the warmth in the room, the closeness, the way your gaze seemed to track every tiny movement.

You worked on his wound methodically, cleaning it, pressing lightly to stop the bleeding, and finally preparing the needle and thread. Luca’s breath caught when he saw it. 

“It’s gonna be okay,” you reassured him, looking him right in the eye, “Almost done.”

Your voice was steady and calm, and he could feel the underlying patience you had, and the way that you seemed to watch him like he was someone you’d known forever.

The first stitch went in, and he barely flinched, gripping at the edge of the chair with his free hand. Every little motion, each thread, each stitch, felt unbearably intimate, every second stretching far longer than he should as he caught the familiar scent of your laundry detergent, felt the familiar warmth of your hands on his.

“Done,” you finally said, stepping back slightly. “Nice and neat, keep it clean and dry for the next few days, and uh, you’ll be just fine.”

He flexed the bandaged finger, testing the mobility, eyes still wide, almost dazed.

“I, uh, thanks,” he muttered, his voice low.

You smiled at him faintly, giving his hand a reassuring squeeze before letting go. “You’ll survive this. Don’t worry, chef.”

Luca exhaled sharply, huffing out a laugh. 

“Thanks, doc.”

“No problem.” 

You checked some things off on your clipboard, handing Luca discharge papers. You turned to leave the room when Luca stopped you- 

“Hey, wait,” he called out to you.

You stopped short, turning half-way around on your heel to look at him.

“Yea?”

“I, uh,” he rubbed the back of his neck with his non-injured hand, “You, uh, I…Would you be willing to, uh, do something at some point, maybe?”

You gave him a weak smile, and he swore he could see the idea mulling around in your head. 

“Number hasn’t changed, Luca.” 

You gave him a final nod before leaving the room, walking away, as Luca sat there, dumbstruck. 

Luca couldn’t sleep that night, and it wasn’t just because of how bad his finger hurt. 

Every time he closed his eyes it was like he could feel you on his chest, your whisper in his ear, every time he opened them you were gone. 

He’s fucked plenty of people since you, casually dated here and there, never for real though, never officially. Truth be told, you were really the only person he had ever seen more than three times. It always felt like…too much. Too complicated.

He sat up somewhere around three in the morning, grabbed his phone off his nightstand and clicked it open, scrolling down in his texts until he got far enough down to find you.

And there it was, the last thing he had said to you.

Luca: Cool. see u whenever.

He stared down at it, the words on the screen glowing in the dark like they were staring at him. His thumbs hovered over the screen, unmoving. His stomach twisted into knots, reading it, re-reading it. 

It was…cold. There was no warmth to it, no invitation, the words just sounded…empty. Casual. Meaningless. Except they weren’t, not necessarily, not really, but they were exactly what he always was, always had been, distant, absent…untouchable.

And the part that made him feel even worse about all of it? He knew you’d read it the same way he did now, felt the weight behind the emptiness of it all, and that he never cared enough to fix it. He could never care enough to fix it. 

He cared so much about not caring that in some fucked up way, it was almost like he cared too much.

He set his phone down after typing, deleting, re-typing, a few messages, but none of them felt right. He pressed his face into a pillow, groaning, and when he closed his eyes against it, you were there. Always there.

Fuck, you were always fucking there, weren’t you?

Even when he didn’t look at you. Even when he didn’t want to. Even when he…wasn’t there.

Fuck it. 

Before he could change his mind, before he could think better of it, he did it.

He pressed the call button.

It rang once, twice, a third time, and then-

“Luca?”

Luca paused, his mouth slightly open, phone to his ear, he didn’t know what to say. Honestly, he didn’t expect you to pick up.

“Hello? Luca?” you repeated.

“Oh, sorry,” he said quickly, “Hi.”

“Hi.” Your voice came through slightly muffled through the speaker.

“Hey,” he paused again, “I, uh, I…”

“...You…?”

“I…Do you want to…come over?”

There was a long pause on the other end of the line.

“Okay,” you said, on the other end, “Send me your address.”

“Okay,” he said, hanging up, texting you his location. 

It’s so fucked up, isn’t it? 

The way you went anyways. 

The way you still went over.

Like no time had passed at all.

And he knew exactly why you went. Exactly why he asked.

You always fucking went. You always showed up, every fucking time.

Because you wanted him, and he knew it, and you needed him, because…he was the only one who made it feel like anything mattered at all. 

He hated it. He hated himself. Hated that he could ask so fucking little of himself and still have you answer so much. He hated your loyalty, your trust, your warmth…it wasn’t love he could hold, it was just…him. Always needing somewhere he could never admit that he needed.

Someone he could never admit that he wanted.

And yet, even knowing all of that, he still pressed that call button.

And you still answered.

And he still asked you to come over.

And you did. 

Sinking into that impossible fucking loop. Being with you, broken, fleeting, it was always better than being anywhere else, even for a little while.

“Nice place you got here,” you said, tracing a finger along the line of a marble counter in Luca’s kitchen. 

“Oh- uh, thanks,” he said, fidgeting with a drawstring on his sweatpants. 

He was quieter than you remembered home, no, maybe not quiet, nervous. 

“So,” you turned to look at him, hands in your pockets.

“So,” he said. 

“Why’d you call me?”

Why did he call you?

It’s what he knows.

It’s what he’s used to. 

He takes a step forward, too close, too fast. 

You lean in first, instinctually, before either of you can think better of it despite both certainly knowing better. 

He leans in, his lips brushing against yours.

“Jesus Christ,” he whispered against your lips, “I keep…crawling back.” 

You shook your head against him, “Shutup.” 

The gap closed. 

All tongues. Hot, fast. 

Familiar.

Too familiar.

This wasn’t what he wanted, not what he intended, not really. 

I’ve missed you. 

He pulled your shirt off, then his, rough hands scraping against your sides, searching you.

I need you.

You unzipped his jeans, and he pulled them off, tossing them to the side, taking off your pants next, hastily…hungry.

I want you. I know that now.

He pulled off your underwear, hand tracing around the band first.

His hand lingered at your hip for just a fraction too long, as if holding it would make this last.

But he knew it wouldn’t.

“I-” he started, voice rough, but he stopped himself, swallowing the words that might’ve made this real. 

He just couldn’t say shit.

Every touch, every gasp, every shiver, every whisper, was a promise he knew he could never keep. And he knew you knew it.

You pressed your body into his, maybe trying to make it all mean more than it could.

Trying to tether him on to something, anything, you could really call yours.

He just kissed you harder, every word he wanted to say, teeth, every time he thought he might pull back, might properly ask you out, tongue. Hands everywhere, frantic, desperate…Somewhere in the back of his mind, he was already calculating how to leave, already thinking of the next time he’d need you without ever truly staying. Already thinking of a new excuse. He hated that. 

He wondered if you felt it, sometimes he worried you could read his mind, could hear him plotting his next escape. 

You were a constant he couldn’t learn to keep.

A home he couldn’t live in. 

He loved you all the more for it.

Hated himself all the more for never committing to it. 

When you both finished he unceremoniously pulled away from you, getting up and walking towards the bathroom, brushing his teeth. 

When he came back out you were already dressed, standing. 

“I’m going to get go-”

“Stay,” He said it faster than he had perhaps meant to, he didn’t think about it too much. “I mean- only if you want. Stay…please.” 

You blinked at him.

“...Okay.”

You’d done this so many times before, not slept together in a literal sense, not really, but been in a bed together. Been intimate. Fucked. 

But this…something about it still just felt so…awkward. You both laid next to each other, unmoving, stiff as a board, not touching, just staring up at the ceiling.

The silence stretched on for long enough that it started to feel like its own presence in the room, like a third person laying there between the two of you. Heavy and cold. 

He wanted to reach out to you, bridge the gap, but even the thought of touching you felt like trespassing, like he’d ruin it, like he always did.

You didn’t move either. You were just…waiting. Expecting nothing in particular, maybe even hoping for nothing, but the other part of you…the other part of you had been waiting for something from the very first words exchanged between the two of you.

Your clothes scraped against your skin all wrong, no matter how many times you changed. The collars on every single one of your shirts seemed to rub against your neck the wrong way. 

Every so often you swore you could feel something crawling along your scalp, but when you reached up to feel around, to brush it off, there was nothing there. 

Sometimes you could feel the ghost of…someone. 

You checked the thermostat in Carmy’s apartment three times in an hour. Shivering and overheating all at once somehow. It felt like every single fucking speck of dust in the air, every atom, every particle, was landing on you, clinging, and you wanted it all gone. You wanted it off of you. Now. 

You thought about trying to shower again, rinsing everything off, but the idea of that steam fogging up the bathroom again, the idea of needing to get undressed and then step in the shower, closing your eyes in it even to blink, it just felt so fucking…impossible. 

You thought about cracking the window open to get some fresh air, even if just briefly, even if just through a window, but the snapping of the branch outside kept killing the idea before you could even begin to approach the latch to unlock it and push it open. 

Everything was too loud. Everything was too sharp. None of it made any fucking sense.

Carmy would be home soon. Usually, that thought steadied you, and it’s not like it necessarily didn’t now, he would get home and fix the strobing hallway light, he would get home and keep an eye out for you while you showered, sitting on the ledge of the sink, scrolling through his phone, handing you a towel as you stepped out…Even just the image of him walking through the door, smiling like he only ever smiled for you, was enough to keep the panic where it was now instead of spiraling out of control. But still. Today it was…difficult. Today, it felt different. Something felt…wrong. 

Sometimes when the world felt too much, like this, you liked to reflect back on the good things.

The different things. The good different. 

Like the first time you met Carmy. The first time that smile appeared in the way it did when it was just for you. 

“Your smile is cute,” you teased softly, nervously, laughing across the flicker of a candle at some restaurant in Chicago he had suggested.

You hadn’t expected to actually meet anyone on Hinge, hadn’t expected to use it at all when your friends drunkenly downloaded it on your phone one night and made a profile for you, but somehow you had ended up with Carmy. Waking up the next morning, hungover like never before, friends still at your place after the night before, you opened your phone to a Hinge notification. A comment from Carmy on one of the photos your friends had chosen for you, it had made you smile, and you responded.

Something about him had just seemed to pull you in. He felt…safe. Careful. Nervous, maybe even more nervous than you on that first date. And you trusted that…maybe also because Richie, who you’d known for a few years now, was mutual with him on Instagram and when you’d asked about him, well, Richie wouldn’t just vouch for anyone. Carmy was good people. 

More than good, actually. 

“Well,” he’d said that night, rubbing the back of his neck, eyes down on the tablecloth, “it’s only for you.”

The way he couldn’t meet your eyes to say it, the way you could see a blush tinting his face, the way he fidgeted with his hands as he said it, it all just seemed to seal the deal for you. 

Carmy is great. 

He remembered every birthday. Every holiday. Every anniversary. Every half-birthday. Every half-anniversary. Always showing up with some intricately decorated cake, or the most thoughtful gift you’d ever received, a card with an illustration he’d drawn on the front. 

He was special. This was special. 

This could be the real deal. 

Yet, despite everything, something about today still…felt wrong. 

You sat on the couch, fingers twisting in the hem of your shirt, just avoiding the gaze of your reflection in the mirror. You kept telling yourself the same thing, over and over, like a prayer: Carmy is good. Carmy is safe. Carmy will be here soon, and that’s supposed to mean that you’re okay. Everything is okay. It’s good. This is good, and you deserve good.

But your chest didn’t seem to believe you…your body didn’t seem to believe you. 

You peered out the window watching the headlights of his car pull up to the curb of the street in front of the building, car door shutting, footsteps in the hall. Every sound seemed to be louder than it actually was, every sound jolted you, made your stomach lurch, made your heart skip a beat. By the time you heard the scrape of his key at the lock, you were already tensed, all braced, like you’d been caught doing something wrong…like something wrong was about to happen.

The door swung open, a bag hitting the counter with a dull thud.

“Hey,” Carmy said, soft, voice worn from work and the cold, he motions to the bag he dropped on the counter, “You probably already ate but I uh, I was trying out some new dish stuff, just experimenting, thought you might wanna try it.” 

You should’ve melted at this, you wanted to melt at this, at the sound of his voice, at the gesture, and you usually did. But instead you felt your pulse spike. The room shrinking in around you, the walls caving in, you stood too fast when he walked in, stumbling upwards, nearly falling, and mumbled something along the lines of “Hey, um, I was just-” before retreating toward the hallway like you had somewhere urgent to be. 

Carmy froze mid-step as you walked away, he looked at you, brows pulling tight, confusion quickly flickering into concern.

“Are you- You okay?” he asked, voice steady, careful, calm.

“I’m fine.” It came out sharp, you didn’t mean for it to, but it did. You hated the way it sounded, hated the way you already felt guilt creeping in on you for saying it.

He moved in just slightly, just a little closer, not reaching for you, just shifting toward you slightly like he always did. And still, your body seemed to jolt back before you could think about it, pulling back from him. 

Something in his face seemed to crack, he stopped cold, one hand outstretched, the other bracing the counter like he might fall off-balance if he let go. 

“Did I-?” He shook his head, swallowed hard. “Did I do somethin’? You don’t- Are you sure everything is alright?

The question gutted you, your words tumbling out before you could really seem to stop them. 

“I’m fucking fine, okay? Just fucking drop it.”

And he didn’t flinch. He didn’t retreat from you. He didn’t get angry. He didn’t fire back.

“It doesn’t have to be,” he said softly, simply. 

And he couldn’t imagine saying anything else, he knew this reaction. He knew what it meant. He could recognize it a mile away, and he already had an idea, if not a full picture, of your situation, and he would never dream of getting angry with you for being protective, for having that type of reflex. It just broke his heart for you because…well, neither of you had quite said it yet but he knew it, he loved you. He’s in love with you. 

You opened your mouth, but nothing seemed to come out. 

Carmy shifted his weight against the counter, that hand still bracing the edge like he needed the grounding. His other hand was hovering just slightly, palm open, not reaching for you, but outstretched, waiting, offering. 

“You don’t have to be fine with me, okay?” he went on. “Not ever. Not once.”

The words dug under your ribs, burrowing somewhere deep. Your eyes stung, but you blinked hard, you didn’t want to cry, didn’t want to make him feel worse than he might already feel. 

“You didn’t want-” You cut yourself off. Your voice felt all jagged and weak, like it would just rip off if you pushed it too hard.

His brows drew in tighter, confusion flickering and melting down into pure heartbreak. But not for himself. 

“Want?” he repeated gently, meeting your eyes, like he was just confirming that he’d heard it correctly. 

You bit down on the inside of your cheek so hard that you broke skin, the taste of copper starting to spread. 

“You didn’t want…I mean, when you got home, you didn’t want to…” You still couldn’t quite finish the sentence, but Carmy seemed to understand. He had a way of doing that. Of knowing you, understanding you. Paying attention. 

Carmy’s face fell completely, his shoulders slumped and his mouth parted slightly before he responding.

“Jesus, no,” he whispered, shaking his head immediately, fiercely. “No, no. I don’t- fuck, I mean, I’d never expect that. Never.”

He took a deep and careful breath. “I just- I’m just happy to see you…It’s all I ever want. If I bring food, if I bring whatever home, it’s because I want you to have it, no because I expect…fuckin’ anything after, I don’t want anything, not like that. If I- if we kiss it’s because I want to kiss you, but only if you want that, okay? And if you don’t? Then I don’t. That’s it. It’s that simple.”

He swallowed hard, eyes searching yours. “I don’t ever want you scared of me, I’d rather never- I’d rather never fuckin’ touch you again than ever make you feel like you can’t say no. I don’t want you to take that shit from anyone, okay? Not me, not fuckin’ anyone. Alright? You’re too- You’re…You don’t deserve that shit. Nobody deserves that shit. And I- I just, I love you.” 

The words cracked something open in you, something bruised and fragile, and you wanted to believe him in every way, not just in your mind, but you wanted your body to know, but the fear still gnawed, something deep-rooted, something crawling through your bones, through your bloodstream.

But Carmy didn’t seem phased by this. He didn’t seem to want more, he didn’t push closer, he didn’t rush it. He just stayed where he was steady, waiting, he’d wait all night if he had to, hand there, not to reach for you, but for you to reach out when you needed it. 

“And you-” he inhaled sharply through his nose “-you don’t have to do that.”

“Do what?” you asked, quietly, blinking back tears that kept threatening to spill over.

“That, you don’t have to do that shit, not with me. You can cry. If you want to. If you need to. You can always cry in front of me, I’m not- I’d never do shit to you, I…I’d never want to do anything that doesn’t- that isn’t good for you. If it’s not good for you, it’s not good for us, it’s not good for me, okay?”

You couldn’t respond, your throat seemed to close in on itself, the sob rising before you could bite it back down, and when the tears finally came, all hot and blinding, Carmy didn’t move. He didn’t rush towards you, he just stayed there with you. Solid and steady, like he could hold everything up for you even if it all came crashing down.

It was unbearable, the steadiness of him. The way he stood so close and still, like an anchor dropped into the ocean during a storm. You wanted to run, you wanted to stay. Both urges fought until your chest ached.

His breathing stayed soft and measured, even as you broke in front of him, and you fucking hated it, the sound of yourself, the sobbing you’d trained yourself to hide over the years. But Carmy didn’t look away. He just let you fall apart, patient and present.

Your hands shook at your sides, restless, and then, before you could overthink it, you reached for him. Just a fistful of his shirt, cotton bunching between your fingers as you hugged yourself against him.

Carmy exhaled so sharply that it was almost a gasp. Not because he was startled but because he’d been holding his breath for you, waiting. His hand left the counter, rising slowly, careful, he gave you time to pull away again, but you didn’t, you didn’t want to. Right now, you just wanted him. 

So he let his palm settle against your back, just barely touching, it was featherlight and warm through your shirt. It wasn’t pulling, or pushing, or trapping, it was just there. Just for you.

The second point of contact seemed to undo you, you folded forward completely, forehead pressing against his chest, into the fabric that smelled faintly of smoke and onions and him.

“S’okay,” Carmy whispered against you, his voice raw and breaking. “It’s okay. I got you. That’s it. You don’t have to hold it up anymore, you don’t need to hold it in…I- I got you…Always.” 

You felt yourself shaking against him, Carmy stayed stable. His palm pressing just slightly firmer, rubbing slowly, calming circles, grounding you. Not to urge you or rush you to calm down, not to hush you, or get you to stop, but just to say I’m here, I’m not leaving.

With every shaky breath you managed, he breathed with you. Every crack in your chest he seemed to take into himself.

He could carry it if you’d let him. If you’d have him.

“I got you,” he murmured again, softer, like a promise. “However long it takes, I fuckin’ swear it.”

The steadiness of his chest just under you, the slow beating of his heart, it all sank into you, filling in those hollow places you’d been carrying around all day. You clutched his shirt tighter, willing it to tether you enough to not go spiraling again.

You weren’t sure how long you both stood there, all wrapped up in his warmth, his patience. Everything inside didn’t quiet all at once, but with Carmy’s hand steady on your back, his soft, rhythmic breathing, it didn’t feel so impossible. 

And then, before you could lose your nerve, you heard yourself say it, muffled into his shirt. 

“I love you.”

Carmy went still, his hand freezing up mid-circle. 

His arms closed around you fully, softly and slowly, pulling you into him like it was all he’d ever wanted…and it is. 

His voice seemed to crack a little when he whispered it back, “I love you, too.”

After a while, after your breathing had steadied, you laughed softly against him. 

“Jesus, I’m sorry,” you sniffed, eyes still burning, “I’m sorry I didn’t mean to- to take your time, to waste it like this, after work and-”

“No,” he cut you off, the word firm but soft, kind, “you’d never take my time. It’s yours. Doesn’t fuckin’ matter what’s going on, if it’s you, it’s not- it’s not a problem, it’s never a problem…You aren’t…You could never be a waste of my time. Don’t even- don’t even say that shit, you could never be a waste of anyone's time.” 

Your chest ached again, but not because it was breaking apart, it was just from the way he had said it, like it was the most obvious truth in the world. Like he just couldn’t fathom how you’d ever think otherwise. 

You pressed your face harder into his chest, swallowing against the lump in your throat.

“You- you mean that?” you whispered, barely audible.

Carmy’s arms softly tightened around you, his breath still steady and warm at your temple. 

“Of course I fuckin’ mean it,” he said, sure and solid. “I’ll mean it tomorrow, and the day after, and every fucking day after that…I don’t- I don’t know how to do this halfway…Not with you.”

Your chest loosened, fragile but steady, just a little, as if it had just been waiting to make space for him all along. 

You let out a shaky breath that turned into a small, nervous laugh.

“God, Carm, you make it sound so…so fucking simple, so…easy.”

Carmy shook his head gently. “Of course it’s simple. It’s you. That’s it.” 

You swallowed again, pressing yourself just a little closer. 

“I wish…I wish I could feel that. All the time.”

“You will,” he said. “Not all at once, not today maybe, but…I’ll be here, until then, after too, if you’ll have me…Always.”

You closed your eyes, letting his words and presence wash over you, trying to let yourself enjoy it, to let yourself have it. 

After a quiet moment, he whispered it again. “I love you.”

You lifted your face to meet his eyes. “I love you, too.”

And in an instant, the world didn’t just seem to stop. It shattered and rewove itself around just the two of you. Every fear and every fracture, every single fragment of doubt all started to dissolve in the gravity of it all.

So fucking late.

And in any other circumstance, maybe it wouldn’t be so bad, but it wasn’t any other circumstance.

It was your first day. 

When an email from the Westside Theatre in Hell’s Kitchen arrived in your inbox, you were almost entirely certain that it was going to be an email notifying you that they had moved on in the hiring process, but thanking you for your application regardless. You were so certain, that you almost didn’t bother opening it, but something in you said to open it anyways, so you did…the job was yours.

This was it you had thought, the beginning of the rest of your life.

Today the tech booth, tomorrow production team, and eventually? Directing. Writing. This was it…as long as you don’t get fired on your first day.

You didn’t mean to fall asleep on your laptop last night writing. You didn’t mean to not set an alarm. Regardless of whatever you had meant to do it didn’t matter, because either way you were late, and either way you would be showing up on your first day of a new job for a highly coveted position with hair still damp from the shower and indents of your keyboard still faintly tracing the side of your jaw.

Today couldn’t have been going worse. 

Or at least, you didn’t think that it could go worse, but life has a funny way of proving you wrong.

“Fuck!” 

You had both shouted it in unison upon collision, something warm and wet splashing on both you, and the man who had run into you. 

The man looked at you, incredulous, as if this whole thing was your fault (it wasn’t).

You blink at him.

He blinks at you.

“What the fuck, man?” you ask, not expecting an answer, obviously.

The man answered anyway. 

“I-,” he starts speaking only to cut himself off at the first syllable before stuttering and starting again, “-I’m sorry, I didn’t mean…I’m just so fucking-,” his shoulders flexed upwards like a tired half-shrug and then seemed to collapse in on themselves “-exhausted.” 

And at this, you had every intention of handing him a piece of your mind, because what the fuck did he mean exhausted? He thinks that everyone else in the fucking world isn’t also just running on fucking fumes?

But then you looked at him, like really, looked at him. 

The shadows that underlined his eyes, the hollowness in his cheeks. 

The way that his hair seemed to curl upwards, just a little too long at the back and around his ears.

His mouth and shoulders were so tense that it looked like they perhaps never knew how to soften to begin with. 

And, sure, he’s handsome. Calvin-Klein billboard handsome, at the very least.

But that’s not why you kept your mouth shut.

You kept your mouth shut because you could recognize another person spinning out in real time. 

And you knew what could happen to people like that. 

“It- It’s okay,” you told him, offering him a small smile.

He looked up at you like this was the first and most relieving thing that he had heard in a very long time, and the thought of that made your chest tighten just a little. 

He was frozen for a second, looking at you with this expression on his face that you couldn’t quite place before he seemed to un-pause, scratching the back of his neck, his other hand loosely holding onto a now mostly empty paper cup of lukewarm coffee. 

He opened his mouth, closed it again.

“Really- it’s okay,” you repeated, suddenly feeling a need to reassure this man. “I’m fine, it’s fine.”

“Yeah- I,” he passes the cup between his hands, fidgeting with the edge of it, “I’m still really fucking sorry, and I- just, I’m such a fuckin’ idiot, don’t watch where I’m fuckin’ goin-”

“Really, really!” you find yourself smiling, almost laughing at his panic, not mockingly, but it just felt sort of…endearing, how apologetic he was, the way he scrambled over his words, the way he avoided eye contact like a middle schooler trying to talk to their crush. “It’s okay.” 

He lets out a deep exhale, eyes briefly flicking to a watch on his wrist. “Listen, I uh- I have to get to work, but…could I make it up to you?”

You tilted your head at him. “What?”

“Could I- uh, I’m a like- I’m kind of like a…I’m a cooking person- a chef. I’m a chef.”

You nodded your head slowly telling him to go on. 

“Yeah, and I, maybe I could make it up to you somehow, like, I don’t know what food you like or whatever, but I can cook whatever you want, or something, or- I can make it- this, up to you.”

You’re not really sure why you said what you said next, stranger danger and all that, but you found yourself nodding at the man. “Yeah, sure, I mean, if you’re a ‘cooking person’ and all that.”

He gave you a small huff, something kind of like a laugh, and exchanged phone numbers with you before you both hurried off in your opposite directions. 

There was no time to go home and change, but showing up slightly soaked in coffee ended up working in your favor that morning.

“Ugh, people are such assholes,” said the director. “Don’t worry about it- we were just running through some stuff with the cast mainly, do you want a change of shirt? We have a merch table, I can give you a shirt to change into.”

“That would be great, thank you so much.” 

She gives you a small smile and nod before turning to grab you a dryer shirt that smelt less like burnt coffee.

When you crawled under your sheets that night you pulled the covers over your head and unlocked your phone, opening up your messages to the chain which the man on the subway had started earlier. 

He had typed in what was presumably his phone number and texted himself just one message, subway person i spilt coffee on, you’re not entirely sure why, but this made you laugh really hard, like, completely unprecedented amounts of laughter. 

You’ve since chalked this up to the long hours of the work day finally breaking your mind because upon reflection, it truly wasn’t that funny. 

Carmen was just a very literal person, you had learned this over the entire year you had been involved with…amongst other things. It was one of your favorite things about him, his practicality, his bluntness. It was something you could respect in a person, and wasn’t something that was often truly seen in people. It felt refreshing. 

you: hey is this subway man who spilt coffee on me?

A text message came back almost immediately. 

him: Unfortunately yes

That had also made you laugh.

him: It’s Carmen BTW

You thought for a moment before texting him back.

you: does anyone call u carmy/carm? 

him: Unfortunately yes 

It was at this moment that you clicked on the contact and added a name.

you: is that all u say

carmy: Unfortunately yes

you: ok well since its only fair CARMY, im (y/n)

carmy: Nice

you: nice???

carmy: Yea nice like nice name

you: oh thnx 

carmy: NP

The way he texted had also made you laugh, the way his text abbreviations were all capitalized, the way you could almost hear them in his voice from earlier that day, all hesitant and nervous, but all rough and, ugh, attractive. 

carmy: So when can I make today up to u?

You hesitated responding, checking your Google Calendar and the work schedule that had been emailed to you a few weeks back. 

you: wld this saturday be too much of an ask

carmy: As long as u dont mind it being made up to u in the form of restaurant food

you: restaurant food is my love language

carmy: Glad to hear it then 

you: omg is this what u do

carmy: Make restaurant food? I told u im a chef

you: no i mean is this ur tinder alternative do u spill coffee on everyone?

carmy: Well no 

A beat.

carmy: Not on everyone

Another beat.

carmy: Sorry im joking RN it was genuinely an accident im sorry

You exhaled through your nose and smiled.

you: wouldnt blame u dating scene here is rougher than i thought

carmy: Yea?

you: yea but shldnt u know that already 

carmy: Don’t really do much of that

you: dating?

carmy: Yea

you: i get that tbh might swear off myself ive had some rough hinge experiences

carmy: U wanna tell me about it after my dinner shift saturday? 

you: perhaps

carmy: I can get u in with a reservation around 8:30PM thats about an hour before closing we can go somewhere else after if u dont change ur mind at that point

you: why would i change my mind

carmy: IDK maybe u hate my food, maybe u really know how to hold a coffee grudge, IDK u like that

you: ok fair enough

carmy: I work at Daniel on 65th street 

You took it upon yourself to search it up before responding back to him.

you: holy shit

carmy: What?

you: u didnt tell me u were some sort of fancy chef

carmy: TBF i didnt tell u my name until a few texts ago

you: true

you: fancy place tho i’ll wear my best tshirt

carmy: I dont recommend a t-shirt but i cant stop u

you: im jk dw

carmy: So am i

You clicked off your phone, pulled the covers off of your head and laid your phone on your chest, staring at your ceiling. You couldn’t really remember the last time that something had made you giddy like this, the thrill of getting a text from someone like that, the rapid fire of conversation. It was exhilarating…you really liked him. 

And the fuck of it all? You can remember immediately thinking to yourself, ‘this could be a real problem’.

Prior to Carmy’s invitation you’d never been anywhere quite like this before your life.

Every table was dressed in crisp white linens and stemware that was so clean that it practically glowed, there were full on pillars, huge post-modern chandeliers that shimmered, and people dressed to the nines. 

Looking around the room you couldn’t help but take notice that most of the people here were in groups, with family, or couples, which made you feel suddenly a bit self-conscious, well, that and the fact that everyone's shoes here seemed to have red bottoms and everyone’s watch seemed to have that unmistakable ROLEX logo right at the center…neither of which you had as an assistant production person working at an off-broadway establishment in New York City. 

Times were rough. 

It really felt like the kind of place that was reserved for special occasions in general, even for the fancy people. The type of place that people got engaged in, or had their rehearsal dinners in. The kind of place you’d see in blockbuster movies or Emmy-award winning T.V. shows. You had dressed as best you could for the occasion, but you still felt slightly fraudulent as the maître d’ led you over to the table which Carmy had so graciously set you up with…and was paying for. You felt a little twinge of guilt as you sat down and were immediately poured a glass of wine out of a bottle that looked like it cost more money than what you had in your checking account at any given time, but then again, he did spill coffee on you, so. You looked at the glass and could see your reflection in it as clearly as you could in any mirror, and the sommelier stood to the side of your table, attentive, back-straight, telling you about the flavor-profile in hushed but stable tones, like it was some sort of special secret that they were letting just you in on. You weren’t even sure you had ever interacted with a sommelier in your life up until this point. You nodded along and listened, pretending that the words ‘young, high-density vineyard’, ‘softer tannins’, ‘Syrah from two estates’, and ‘several months in concrete’ had actually meant anything to you at all in regards to the wine they had poured for you. Truth be told it just sort of tasted like what it was…mashed up aged grapes. 

When you brought the glass back down from your mouth, you spotted him across the way. 

He was leaning slightly against the doorway to the kitchen, his sleeves were rolled up to his forearms, apron tied around his waist, his eyes scanning across the room until they landed on you. There was a subtle shift in his expression when he finally found you in the crowd, the same one you had recognized in the subway but still couldn’t name. He gave you a small smile before turning and disappearing behind those swinging doors, back into the kitchen. 

You smiled softly to yourself, turning back to your…red wine. 

You were served three courses in total that night.

The first, a sort of a salad-type thing with heirloom tomatoes. The colors altogether on the plate sort of reminded you of a sunrise, the thin slices all overlapping together, ruby, amber, gold, deep violet tones, all over a smear of whipped ricotta. Olive oil pooled in the creases of the tomatoes, all flecked with a flaky salt that looked like little crystals scattered about the dish and crushed basil leaves that released a pleasant aroma as soon as you leaned in. 

The second was a wild mushroom risotto, grains of arborio rice all creamy and rich, carrying an earthy sort of flavor of porcini and chanterelle, a drift of a shaved black truffle crowning the mound. 

The third, and last, was a thick slice of a 70% cacao dark chocolate cake with a mirror glaze and raspberry coulis. Your waiter- Jeremiah, according to the little nametag pinned to his vest, earnestly informed you, in all seriousness, that cacao is the bean from which chocolate comes, and that the bitterness of the dark chocolate with the sweet-tart raspberry was “what makes the flavor profile.” It was unreasonably good, and you thanked him for the information, which you absolutely could not have lived without. 

You’d just set your fork down when a shadow stretched across the table. 

“Hey.” 

Carmy’s voice was low, like he wasn’t sure he should even be there, out in the dining room. The faint sheen of sweat on his temple and the flour-dusted forearms said he’d come straight from the line.

“Got the okay to take five, thought you might want to meet the chef…well, a chef...The chef is me, if that wasn’t clear.”

You glanced up at him from your seat, lips curving into a smile. “Delighted.” 

He huffed a quiet laugh and offered you a small smile, and stepped closer to pull your chair out just enough for you to stand.

“You’re not busy?” you asked, your hand finding his almost without thought.

He blinked, surprise flickering across his face for a moment, but he didn’t let go. If anything, his hand tightened just slightly, giving you a gentle tug to help you out of the chair.

“Always busy,” he said. “But I’m done cooking for the night.

The dining room was thinning out, a few lingering tables were sipping the last of their wine, and the hum had softened into something much quieter than it was earlier. He led you toward the kitchen doors at an easy but brisk pace, nodding to staff polishing glassware or stacking plates.

The moment the doors swung open, the air seemed to change. The slight heat of the kitchen seemed to stick to your skin, with the metallic tang of steel scrubbed clean in the air, and the faint hissing of a single pan finishing its last order, the muted scrape of knives being honed before they were put away. Music was playing low from somewhere in the back, and a couple of cooks laughed over a shared joke while wrapping up some trays.

Carmy’s hand brushed against your back, steering you around a damp spot on the floor. “Garde manger,” he murmured, nodding toward the cold station where someone was tucking herbs back into a cooler.

“Pastry’s over there-”

A tall man in a spotless white jacket offered a small, practiced nod, no flourish, not unkind, just practical. 

“I don’t usually allow back-of-house access at this hour,” he said, voice steady and measured. He gave you a quick look, evaluating, then shifted to Carmy.

“But Carmen vouched for you.”

You felt Carmy’s hand press lightly at your back, a subtle anchor. “Thanks, Chef.” he said.

As the man stepped aside, Carmy leaned down, his breath just brushing your ear. 

“That’s Chef Daniel Boulud,” he murmured, like he was letting you in on something sacred. “Head chef.”

Your eyes flicked back to Chef Boulud who was already turning toward a closing station speaking in quiet French to one of the cooks. The name settled in your chest with a surprising weight to it, you’d Googled the restaurant in preparation of coming tonight, but it hadn’t really occurred to you that you might get to meet the man himself, the back of your neck started to heat up at the interaction.

“Oh my god,” you say, just above a whisper leaning to Carmy’s ear, “I just looked like a total idiot in front of Chef Boulud.”

Carmy makes a vague gesture with his hand. “No, you didn’t,” he said, steering you back toward the hallway.

“You good?” he asked, quietly. 

You laughed just under your breath, still feeling the echo of heat on the back of your neck. “Yeah. Just…processing.”

Carmy laughed in response, walking you over to the service entrance, stopping just for long enough to slip his jacket on.

The air had teeth that night. You remember this particularly well because it had been so abnormally cold for a night in spring, but Carmy walked like it didn’t touch him, his hands buried deep in his pockets. The streets were still alive, people in clusters spilling laughter into the wind with their friends, couples trailing leisurely along the sidewalk, hands brushing together.

You only make it a few blocks before Carmy stops short, turning to pull open a door for you without a word.

The bar swallows you in a low, blue-tinted sort of lighting and music that wasn’t so loud that it was unbearable, but not exactly quiet enough to not be at least a little annoying to anyone trying to have a conversation. And it’s packed, of course, Saturday at ten in New York will always be a gamble. Always brace for too many bodies. Always expect that at least half of them are NYU transplants.

Carmy pushed through the crowd, hand on the lower part of your back, guiding you through, other hand pushing ahead so as to make sure that nobody got too close for comfort to you. 

He ordered two beers or something like that, it doesn’t really matter, the only thing that’s really important at all to note about the alcohol is that you had both drank enough to be, well, pretty fucking drunk.

“No, no, no, but I want to like really be someone,” you said to him, your words slurring together as you spoke.

You leaned over a standing high top table to reach for his arm, and grabbed it for emphasis. 

“I need to be someone, Carm.” 

Carmy didn’t pull his arm back, didn’t laugh, didn’t tell you that you were being ridiculous, or wrong, didn’t say that your expectations were too high, your goals too much. He just gave you a soft smile and said, “But you are someone.”

You rolled your eyes at him, throwing the paper wrapper of a straw vaguely in his direction, whether it had actually hit him or not? To this day neither of you can say, neither of you were really cognizant enough to have registered the trajectory accuracy of your paper ball throwing. 

“Shutup, you know what I mean.”

He shrugged. “Yea, of course I do, I mean, me too. I also want to be someone.” 

“Shutup,” you said again, making the side of his mouth twitch upward just slightly, “you’re already someone, so, yea, you can’t- you can’t like, get it.”

He raised his eyebrows at you. 

“Me? I’m someone?” he scoffed, not cruelly, just amused, intrigued, even. “What the fuck are you talking about?” 

“I googled you, duh,” you openly admitted, shameless, throwing up shreds of the rest of the straw wrapper that hadn’t been balled up and launched at Carmy like confetti. 

You narrowed your eyes at him. “You can’t fool me, Carmen Berzatto.”

“Okay, well, that’s just weird shit, I never told you my last name.” 

You shake your head at him. “S’not, you-” you jab a finger at his chest in a faux-accusation “-a random stranger man who just happened to spill coffee on me, and then asked to bring me to a second and third location.”

He gave another amused scoff. “The second location was a Michelin star restaurant, and the third location is a very public bar. You, on the other hand, managed to find my last name.”

“Oh, please,” you roll your eyes at him again. “You told me where you work, and where you work is a very fancy restaurant, so what we have is a Carmen who is currently specifically employed at this one specific very fancy restaurant- they have your name on the website.”

“Oh,” he says, taking another sip of his drink, avoiding eye contact.

He puts the glass down on the table. “Okay, I’ll bite, what’d you dig up.”

“Pft,” you trace the edge of the table with your finger, “I didn’t need to dig up anything, you’re basically famous, or at the very least some type of public figure or something.”

“Yeah, I don’t know about-”

“Carmy,” you cut him off, leaning against the table with one hand, head down, other hand held out like a stop sign willing him to stop speaking, “Carmy, Carmy, Carmy, Carmy…You have magazine profiles on you, please, do not gaslight me about your fame right now.”

“Okay, well, it’s not like anyone’s like, I dunno, fuckin’ askin’ for my autograph or photo or whatever.” 

You look up at him just slightly, an eyebrow raised suspiciously. “But people have…haven’t they?”

He looks at the ceiling, dragging a hand down his face. “Yeah, sure, I guess, but that was like- that was different, that was like, just, like, whatever, y’know?”

You nod your head slowly. “Mhm, sure.”

He crosses his arms, a small smile playing at the side of his mouth. “I mean, fine, whatever you wanna believe.” 

“Whatever, man, I want what you have.”

“Oh- what I have?”

“Yea.”

He looked amused for a moment, then his face fell just as fast as the amusement had appeared. 

“Can I be honest with you?”

You nod your head a few times…maybe a few more than you needed to upon reflection.

He lets out a slow exhale. “It’s really not about that shit.”

“Well- you can say that cause’ you, like, have that shit.”

He shrugged. “Yeah, I guess, but…I mean, listen, it’s fucked up, I know, but I don’t just want to be the best, I like, I need it. I’ve always needed it- it…it’s the only fuckin’ thing that matters to me.”

You nod slowly, mulling his words over in your mind. “Okay,” you respond, drawing the ‘o’ out. 

“Yeah, I dunno, it’s…it’s about being the best, not being profiled as the best…you know what I mean?”

You shrug. “Yeah, I guess…I dunno though, I fear it’s kinda necessary with me though.”

He runs a hand through his hair. “Oh shit, I’m sorry- I’m…I’m the worst, ok, what is your thing?”

You make a vague gesture with your hand, flicking it downwards at him. “Please, no you’re not, I’m the one who brought up you, remember?”

He shrugs. “Yeah, I guess.”

“Yeah, so, I guess…Is it totally cliché if I say I want to be like, in the movies and stuff?”

“Oh- so you’re like, like an actor then?”

“No, no,” you say quickly, “like a- a director, a writer? Y’know?”

He nods, thoughtfully. 

“I think you’d be great.”

“Shutup, you haven’t seen anything I’ve done, I mean, I could suck, you don’t know.”

And in that moment, you swore that he looked at you with more adoration in his eyes than anyone else in your life ever had. 

“You don’t.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do.”

“No, you don’t.”

He laughed lightly. “I can’t see you sucking at anything.” 

“You don’t mean that.”

“I do.”

“Then like- why the fuck are we here right now?” You meant it as a joke, you said it as a joke, half-laughing as you said it, but you saw his face falter briefly.

But he recovered quickly, switching gears with a scary amount of ease. 

“I’m not sure what you mean,” he said smugly. 

You can feel the back of your neck heating up all over again. “Yes you do.”

“Okay,” he pauses, “maybe I do, but even if I do, does that…matter?”

“Does…what matter?”

“Does it mean anything?”

Does it mean anything…

“What do you want it to mean?”

What did he want it to mean…

And that’s been the real question ever since, hasn’t it?

Does it mean anything and what did any of it mean? 

You slept together that night, and to neither of your surprise, you ended up sleeping together for the rest of that spring. 

And you seemed to enjoy each other's company so much that you carried on like that until the summer. 

-

“Hey,” he whispered in your ear, it must’ve been 4AM or something.

You blinked a few times straining to see something in the darkness of the room, but couldn’t make out more than just his outline.

“I’m sorry,” he says, breath brushing against the nape of your neck, his arm draped lazily over your side.

“For what?” you asked, still fighting back the urge to just drift back to sleep right away.

“I left the hall light off- I know you like it on at night,” he shifted before getting up and walking toward the hallway, “Sorry- just gonna turn it on for you.”

“Okay,” you responded, voice groggy. “Thank you.”

-

summer. years ago. new york city. 

Carmy’s legs are dangling out the window and onto the building’s fire escape, he’s playing music from one of those cheap portable bluetooth speakers from the Dollar Tree that claims to be waterproof (but obviously isn’t). He’s smoking a cigarette, and turns his head back to look at you.

“Crazy question.”

“Shoot,” you say, looking up at him from where you’d been laying down on his bed, just aimlessly scrolling on your phone. 

“Would you,” he pauses to take a drag of his cigarette, blowing the smoke out the window, “want to come to the Hamptons with me…this weekend.”

You clicked your phone off, placing it face down on the bed, and sat up, staring at him.

“I’m sorry- what?”

“Do you want to go to the Hamptons with me this weekend,” he said, more like it was a statement than a question.

“Um- fuck yeah…but, like, why?”

He swung his legs back inside, shutting the window behind him so as to not let out any more of the cool air coming in a pitiful, stuttering stream out of a small vent. He put his cigarette butt out on a loose piece of tile that sat on his dresser, definitely not ideal for fire prevention. 

“There’s some like- wedding thing, I guess? It’s like a friend of a friend from some place I staged at like ages ago, it’s a favor really.”

“A favor?”

“Yeah, I said I’d help with the catering.”

“Ah,” you say, throwing yourself back down on the bed, staring up at the ceiling. “And why exactly am I invited?”

He sighed and gave you a small shrug. “I get a plus one-”

“Woah, okay, wait-”

“-and these are some pretty influential people, I mean…they’re paying- well, it’s not nothing, and, I dunno for sure, but maybe there’ll be somewhere there for you.”

You just blink at him because surely, surely you must be misunderstanding him.

“Someone- someone for me?”

He nods.

“What the fuck do you mean, someone for me? I-”

“Someone who could like, show your ideas- your scripts and shit, I mean, to the right person. Like someone who could get the right eyes on it.”

Oh. 

“Oh,” you sit back up, thinking. “Alright.”

“Alright?”

“Yeah, sounds good.”

“Great.”

You pause. “Thank you.”

He shakes his head, half amused, half something else. “Needed to look good anyways, don’t mention it.”

“What?”

“I said, I needed a plus one that’d make me look good, so really, thank you.”

“You been on the LIRR before?”

You trailed just a step behind Carmy into the train car. “Can’t say I have.”

He nods in response, sitting down. 

You take the seat next to him. 

“Do you think it should be said like the L-I-R-R or more like the LURR.”

You stifled a laugh, glancing around the almost too quiet train car, afraid to break that quiet. 

You spoke lower than you needed to, almost a whisper.

“Who the fuck would say the LURR, that’s like- that’s insane.”

Carmen shrugs, leaning back in his seat. “Just a question.”

You crossed your arms, also leaning back slightly in your seat. “Where’s this wedding at again?”

“Southhampton, the Canoe Place.”

You nod. “Right, right…And what’s the uh- the itinerary, again?”

“For the wedding or for us?”

You thought for a moment. “How about both?”

“Sure,” he said, turning his head to you. “So, I’m gonna do a bunch of catering shit the first few days, you can go mingle or whatever, you know, walk around the town and shit, and then we can do shit together if you want, then it’s the wedding, and then we go home.”

“Right,” you replied, nodding slowly. “Well, that didn’t really help at all, but that’s okay.”

He shrugs. “I don’t really have a more specific response for you.”

“Okay, but what if I, like, don’t want to walk around alone all day.”

He thinks for a moment. “I mean, I guess you can help me with catering shit, but you’ll probably be bored as fuck.”

You shrug. “I don’t mind.” 

“I mean, okay,” he says, “I guess…maybe you’ll get to talk to some people anyways, it’s not like the families aren’t going to be overseeing shit on the catering end.”

Somewhere around the Huntington or Hicksville station you put down your book glancing over at Carmy who was at work sketching something.

“Whatcha drawing?”

“Just…an idea.”

“Idea for what?”

“A dish.”

You peer over at his sketchbook.

“Holy shit, Carm, that’s, like, actually beautiful.”

“It’s alright,” he says shrugging, “I’m no artist.”

You stare at him, blinking. “What the fuck do you mean, ‘I’m no artist’, shut the fuck up, that’s amazing.”

He shrugs again, brushing it off. 

“How long is this train ride anyways?” you ask.

“Like three hours.”

“Three hours?” 

“It could’ve been five if we went off-peak, be grateful.”

“That’s insane.”

“Long Island, it’s in the name, what did you think it was gonna be? A short island?”

“Shutup.”

You shift in your seat, bump your leg into his, he puts his hand on it.

You clear your throat. “You get one or two beds?”

“Family pays for the rooms, it’s a rent out the whole place type of deal, and you’re my plus one, so what do you think?”

“One bed, got it,” you turn your head to meet his eyes, and say, very seriously, “You gonna kick me in your sleep again?”

He stares back at you, incredulous. “Are you serious right now?”

You nod. “Very.”

He blinks. “You kick me in your sleep- I have, like, several bruises to prove it.” 

“Lies.”

“No, actually, very much, no, not lies.”

“Whatever,” you said, rolling your eyes, grinning.

“Wipe that grin off your face,” he joked, “You know you do.”

“And yet, you keep comin’ back for more.”

“...I guess I do.” 

-

“Carm- do not make me dance at this wedding right now,” you protest, but it’s too late, he’s already pulled you out halfway to the floor. 

“Just one,” he said, stopping once you reach it, putting his hands on either side of your waist, “don’t be lame, it’s a wedding.”

“I am not lame, Berzatto, I just don’t want to look like a fucking idiot in front of the potential investors.”

He rolls his eyes as you wrap your arms around his neck, you begin to lightly sway to the music. 

“They don’t care what you dance like, they care what you write like, and right now, it sounds like they’re quite interested.”

You exhale hard through your nose. “Sure, until they see me dance and change their minds.”

“Well, you’re dancing right now,” he says, grinning, spinning and dipping you dramatically and without warning.

“Carm- what the fuck,” you smack his arm lightly, “that was actually horrifying.”

He laughs. 

“You know,” he starts, eyes flicking down then back to you, “Sometimes it’s, like, I feel I can’t…I can’t remember a time before you.”

You raised your eyebrows. “I’m not sure I know what you mean.”

“It’s, like, yeah, obviously I know what happened before I met you- but it feels like I can’t remember what it was like, and I don’t- I don’t really want to.”

You paused. “...You mean it?”

He nodded and you could feel his grip tighten slightly, nervous. “Yeah, I do.”

“Me too.”

He kissed you on the forehead.

-

fall. years ago. new york city. 

“Carm,” you whispered into his ear, “Carmy- wake up.”

He groaned, murmuring something incoherently in his sleep. 

“Carm,” you repeated, lightly shaking his shoulder, “get up or we’re gonna be late.”

He shot straight up. 

“Late?”

“Yes, late,” you confirm, nodding.

“Shit, okay.”

You had never witnessed a man shower, get dressed and usher you out the door so quickly.

You had never witnessed a man drive so quickly until you told him to slow down.

“Slow down, Carm, Jesus Christ, we’re good, we’re on time.”

“Sorry,” he replied, slowing down, “I’m nervous.”

“It’s my thing, shouldn’t I be the nervous one?”

“I mean, yeah, but, I’m like nervous because you’re nervous.”

“Don’t be nervous.”

“I guess, I’ll try?”

“What, you think it’s not gonna be good?”

“Oh- I know it’s going to be good, I’m just worried some rich asshole might not know genius when they see it.”

You scoff, amused. “I don’t know if I’d call it genius-”

“It is,” he cut you off, “I mean- you are, and it is. It’s fantastic. You’re going to be fantastic.”

He swallowed hard, hands tightening around the wheel. “I just think everything should be…everything needs to be great for you, perfect. I mean- it’s you.”

You stared ahead at the road.

“I-” you cut yourself off, looking down at your hands. “I want the same for you, Carm…always.”

He doesn’t respond, just nods, keeping his focus on the road. 

-

You laid on his chest, his thumb rubbing small circles on your back, the room was too dark to see much in, except for the tiny sliver of light coming in from the hallway just under the doorframe. 

“You were incredible today,” Carm whispered against your hair. “They loved it- they loved you.”

You shook your head against his chest. “I don’t know-”

“I do,” he cuts you off. “I know.”

You both fell quiet for a few minutes.

“Carm,” you whisper. “I think I-”

“Me too.”

Your chest squeezed, pulse picking up steadily but quickly.

“Then why aren’t we…,” you couldn’t finish the question.

“...You’re…you’re the closest thing I’ve ever had…you’re the closest I’ve ever come to home.”

“Then why-”

“I don’t deserve to-”

“Carm, I don’t think-”

“I’d ruin it.”

You wanted to say something else that night, anything else, make him continue or take it back, change his mind, but that horrible sinking in your stomach seemed to drag down all of your words with it.

-

winter. years ago. new york city. 

“Shit, Carm…I don’t know what to say. I’m so- I’m just so sorry.”

He’s sitting on the edge of the bed, head in his hands, pulling at his hair.

He shakes his head. “No, it…it’s fine.”

He’s strangely calm, and the room feels too quiet for the weight of everything that was happening, everything that he had just told you.

“Is he…when?”

He shakes his head again, starts bouncing his leg. “Yesterday.”

“Shit…I’m so fucking sorry, Carm, I just- I’m sorry,” you stare at the ground, helpless, not sure what to say. You wished you could’ve grasped for anything else. Any other word besides sorry, sorry just felt disingenuous, too little for too much. But you didn’t have anything else. 

“The bridge,” he says, voice quiet.

“The bridge?”

“Shot himself. On the fuckin’ bridge,” he says. 

He laughed, but it was humorless. He was just…exhausted. 

You didn’t know what to say.

There wasn’t much to do besides just be there for him. 

-

“God, it’s fucking freezing,” Carmy shoved his hands into his pockets, standing on the pier, snow falling softly from the sky. 

You looked up at the sky, then at Carmy. 

“I dunno, I think I might be too drunk to feel it.”

He shrugged, “That’s insane because I’m fuckin’ wasted and I still feel like I’m gonna die out here.”

You laughed softly, looking out at the water, him standing right beside you, shoulders touching. 

“You know," you started, and then paused, hesitating before continuing, “-you know I love you, right?”

His face fell and he looked at his shoes for a few minutes before finally turning to look at you.

And, completely straight-faced, said, “I love you too…But you knew that already.”

You couldn’t help but smile just a little, like an idiot. 

“I don’t know if I did.”

“Well,” he kicked a pebble off the pier, “now you do, I guess.”

You laughed softly. “I think I might be too fucking drunk to remember.”

He looked back at his shoes, a soft smile on his face. “I don’t mind if you forget.”

You didn’t know what to say, so you just took his hand in yours, fingers interlocking, both of you staring out at the water. 

“I probably will,” he said.

You went quiet again, blinked back a stinging sensation in your eyes, flicking them from the skyline to the water to the starless sky. 

You glanced down at your wrist for a moment, checking the time. “It’s later than I thought.”

A rustling sound woke you up that night. You opened just one eye, straining to see in the room. 

“Carm?” you called out, groggy, “what are you doing?”

The rustling stops, and he pauses, turning to you. He’s standing next to the bed, putting his jeans on. 

“Sorry- I just…I gotta early fuckin’ morning tomorrow and I didn’t wanna wake you up too early tomorrow so I thought I’d go.”

You open both eyes, blink hard, and stared at him. “Oh, okay.”

You could just make out his outline. 

“I gotta go, but uh, I’ll turn the hall light on, on my way out?”

You blink again. “Uh- yes, will I- you coming over tomorrow?”

You can just make out a small shrug. “Maybe, yeah…Maybe.” 

“Okay.”

He slips a jacket over his shoulders, making his way to the door. 

“Wait-,” you call out, holding his t-shirt up, “you forgot this.”

He pauses in the doorframe, turning around just for a moment. 

“It’s fine, I have an undershirt, hold onto it for me?”

You nod, a small smile on your face. “Yeah, okay.”

“Alright…”

“See you soon?”

You didn’t think about it much that night, but he never did respond to you, not really. Just gave you a weak nod, and turned again, closing the bedroom door on his way out.

You never saw him again after that night.

-

spring. now. chicago.

You’ve been with other people since him, of course you have. 

It’s just that some people you meet and you can just…forget them, or at least keep them exactly where you left them, but sometimes, it’s enough to meet someone once and they ruin just about everyone else for you.

You still think of that day a lot. That first day, where you had first met him. How angry you had been with yourself for just drifting off like that the night before, for not thinking to set your alarm earlier, for not just waking up earlier regardless of if there was an alarm set or not. 

But if you hadn’t drifted off. If you had set your alarm. If you had woken up earlier.

You would’ve missed him.

In fact, if you had sat in a different seat on the subway, if you had walked down the stairs just slightly faster or slower than you had, well, perhaps you also would’ve missed him.

Because to have met him it had to be that exact minute, that exact second.

Those exact trajectories, exact footsteps, exact moment to choose to flick your eyes away from right in front of you.

All of these things had to come together for you to have ever met.

You used to think it was fate or something, and oftentimes, you still do, it’s just, different now. 

You used to think fate meant that you were meant to find each other. 

Now you think that maybe it just meant you were meant to lose each other too. 

Sometimes, you can’t help but wish that it hadn’t happened at all. 

That you had never met Carmen Berzatto on that day, on that subway platform.

But you knew that at the end of the day you wouldn’t have had it any other way because there were times you really did need him, and whether he’d admit it or not, there were times where he really needed you too. 

After he failed to respond to several of your texts, ignored a few calls, and after you had to find out from a friend of a friend that he had moved back to Chicago, you really thought about it. Really considered finding some way to get in touch with him. Chew him out for leaving without saying anything at all. But you never did.

Because at the end of the day…you never even dated. 

He never committed to anything, to you.

He always kept his promises so fucking small so he never had to break them. 

But he broke something anyway. 

You’d thought about this before. Not this exact scenario, but maybe something kind of like it, some sort of opportunity to reconnect, to tell him off, anything. Rub it all in his face like, look at me, now I’m notable too, and I got there without you anyways. 

But mostly you just wanted to share it with him. 

The movie, after all, had been about him, well, inspired by him and you. And it was highly anticipated. 

The meet cute, the Hamptons, a chef and an aspiring author instead of an aspiring screenplay writer, all this with just one major difference…They ended up together.

So filming in Chicago right now? Necessary. 

Had you thought about running into him? Yes.

Did you actually want to? That, you weren’t so sure of.

But it was happening anyway, playing out in real time.

And you could assure anyone who asked that this felt nothing like the movies.

“(y/n)?”

“...Carmen?”

“What are you doing here?”

Your colleagues all stopped talking at once, turning to look at you.

“(y/n), you know the owner here?” the production assistant asks like the owner in question wasn’t standing right fucking there.

Still in shock, all you can do is nod.

“Oh my god,” says one of the actors, “I didn’t know you knew Carmen Berzatto-” they turn to Carmen “-huge fan of your work, I saw you in an interview a few years back, super inspiring shit.”

Carmen blinks twice before giving them a weak smile. “Thanks.” 

“How do you know each other?” the production assistant asks, looking from you to Carmen, and then back to you again.

“Um-” you’re not really sure how to answer, and unfortunately, Carmen still seems to know that look. 

“We knew each other back in New York,” he cuts in for you, “Friends. We hung out sometimes.”

Fuck.

“Yeah, friends,” you said, gritting your teeth slightly. 

His jaw tensed, “Uh, didn’t know you’d be here, otherwise I’d have prepared something spec-”

“-It’s fine, Carmen,” you spit, and then softer, “It’s okay.”

He nods once, crossing his arms over his chest. “Well, I hope you enjoy your time here with us today, and uh, yeah, thanks.” He turns and speed walks into the kitchen, disappearing behind swinging doors.

A waiter presents two rather expensive looking bottles of wine at your table, one red, one white. 

You turn to him, turning slightly red. “Oh, I’m sorry, I don’t think we-” 

He gives you a small smile, cutting you off politely. “Oh, no, this is compliments of our head chef, Carmen.”

He sets it down with a wink before leaving the table. 

At the end of the night you go to pay the bill for your team only to find that the entire bill had already been comped, once again, ‘compliments of our head chef, Carmen’. 

Everyone filed out the door, laughing, talking, but you paused right before walking out. 

“Sorry-” they turn to look at you “-don’t wait up for me, I’m gonna go thank my, uh, old friend.”

They all nod, and say their goodbyes and see-you-tomorrows to you before you turn around and approach a man standing at the host stand. A shiny gold pin on his vest telling you his name is Richie.

“Hey,” you say, suddenly nervous, “uh, Richie?”

He looks up at you, smiling warmly, “How can I help you?”

Shit. How could he help you?

“Uh, I-”

“Oh, wait, you’re Carm’s friend,” he says, and you have to keep your jaw from dropping. 

“Yeah- yeah, I am.”

“Yeah, he talks about you quite a bit, glad he finally reached out and had you here, he was stressin’ for like weeks before opening about shootin’ you an invite, and we were all tellin’ him to just do it, but, well, y’know, Carm bein’ Carm.” 

You nod, still in shock. “Yeah.” 

“Well,” Richie checks a watch on his wrist, “You got anywhere to be tonight?”

You shake your head. “No, not really.” 

You do have to be on set tomorrow at 6 AM but at this moment that really felt more like a tomorrow problem.

“Okay, well,” he taps a finger on the stand, “We close within the next hour, would you be willing to wait up for a bit and I’ll let him know you’re out here?”

You nod.

“Great, you can sit at the bar, if that’s alright, and we’ll get you some drinks, on the house, of course.”

“Oh- that’s really not necessary-”

“Don’t mention it- really Carm insisted earlier, you pay for nothin’ tonight…must really like you.”

“Yeah,” you say, mouth dry, “maybe.”

“No,” he says, smiling, “Not maybe, definitely.” 

“Sure has a weird fuckin’ way of showing it then,” you mutter just under your breath, not meaning to actually say it outloud. 

Richie’s staring at you.

“Oh shit- I’m sorry, I-”

“No,” he cuts you off, laughing softly, “that sounds just like Carmy.”

You give him a small smile. “Yeah.” 

You’re about two drinks at the bar deep when you hear someone clear their throat behind you softly. You turn around, and you’re not sure when it occurred, but the restaurant is pretty much empty, of patrons at least, a few servers are still bustling around, you can hear voices coming from the kitchen, and the bartender is beginning to clean up. 

“Hi,” he says, expression unreadable.

“Hi.” 

He sighs, runs a hand through his hair. “Wanna take a walk?”

“Sure.”

You had imagined this moment thousands of times.

Especially when you were writing your script, storyboarding. 

How does it end? 

You had to choose between audience perception and personal choice.

In the end, you went for audience perception, or maybe it was personal choice, you couldn’t tell which was which at this point, couldn’t tell what you were just telling yourself to pretend that you were over it. 

But while you were deciding you thought of thousands of ways to tell him off, hundreds of ways to ask what the fuck, but now that it was here. You found you couldn’t do it. 

You didn’t want to.

You just…well. You weren’t entirely sure. 

“I’m filming a movie,” you blurt it out before you can say anything else. 

Before you can say anything angry. 

Before you can say anything else because really…you wanted to share it. 

He looks at you, shocked, like he was preparing for something else entirely. 

“Oh-,” he pauses, still looking like he’s processing what you just said, “Oh- shit, (y/n)-” he moves to touch you, maybe hug you, but then stops, doesn’t do it “-that- that’s insane, I’m so…I knew you’d do it.” 

You nod, a tight smile on your face, heat rising on your cheeks because out of everything you wanted to say, everything you thought you’d needed to say…that’s what you said. 

You’re both quiet for a while, just walking. The streets are pretty empty except for the drunk friend group or couple that passes by intermittently. 

Carmy clears his throat. “So,” he pauses, thinking.

“I’m sorry,” he says, finally. “I’m sorry for…I’m sorry for what I did, I- I hate myself for it, I’m sorry.”

You stop walking, staring straight ahead, you’re not sure what to say.

“I’m so fucking sorry,” he continues, “I-”

“-Carm, I,” you pause, voice quiet. “It’s not like we even- we didn’t even date, it’s…it’s fine.”

“It’s not,” he says quickly, “It’s really fuckin’ not, because…because we did.”

Your heart skips a beat. “What?”

He shakes his head. “No- sorry, no, I mean- I didn’t mean it like that, I’m not trying to go against your wishes, I mean, but (y/n), I-” he takes a deep breath “-I never fuckin’ dated anyone else, ok? Never saw anyone else, never even fuckin’ talked or looked at anyone else, it was just you…it was…it was just you, and- and when…when all that fuckin’, all that shit happened, I just- I just fuckin’, like, snapped. Like something in me just…It’s so fucked up, I know, and I’m so sorry, I just-”

He runs a hand through his hair, and he looks like he’s on the verge of a major breakdown, pacing slightly on the sidewalk. 

“I was just, I couldn’t sleep that night.”

You know what night he’s referring to, that last night.

You swallow hard, nodding for him to go on.

“Yeah- I just, couldn’t, tried, couldn’t, and I was just starin’ at you, like, all fuckin’ night long, and thinking, just thinking like a fuckin’, I don’t know, and I just couldn’t get it to stop, it was just…it was so bad…” his voice drops “I was looking at you, and I knew I couldn’t. I couldn’t be with you anymore…I’d- I’d fuck it all up…and you- you were just laying there. Laying there, and going places, looking like the most- the most, beautiful person I’ve ever known, and I just…I couldn’t fuck that up…I couldn’t, so I- I ran. I’m sorry.”

You’re quiet for a while, just staring straight ahead.

His eyes are on you, expectant, nervous. You can see his hands fidgeting at his sides, the side of his jaw tensing and untensing. 

“Carmy I-,” you pause, “you hurt me really bad. Like, really fucking bad.”

He nods. “I know, I- I’m sorry.”

“I…I didn’t know if something happened to you, something…something bad.”

He stares at a crack in the sidewalk nodding again.

“And I…I was…I’m- fuck, Carm,” you put your hands over your face, sighing, “Fuck you.”

He nods, eyes still on the ground.

“Fuck. You.”

You takes a deep breath. “I love…”

You’re not sure what to say.

Love. Loved. 

He looks up.

“I love you,” he says.

You stare at him, blink. “What?”

“I always have. I always did, I still do.” 

“Oh.” 

It’s all you can say.

“You have every right to say no, and- and cut me off, I know I did, I didn’t want to and there was just…It’s not an excuse, but it is why, why it all happened I mean- I…you…you were everything. I was…scared. But- I…I know how to- how to not be anymore, or at least, I can face it.”

-

“I love the ending,” one of the actors says at the reading table, “has to be, like, my favorite part.”

You nodded slowly. “Yeah, I guess.”

“I’m serious,” the actors continued, beaming, “I mean- it’s perfect, they’re obviously, like, perfect for each other.”

You raised an eyebrow, leaning forward in your chair. “Really?”

“Yeah,” the actor paused for a moment, thinking, “it’s like- he’s…scared. And they’re scared. And it’s really just about- it’s about this like, blockade of just, fear and all that shit life dumps in the way, but above all of that shit, they prevail, and I think that’s…I think that’s kind of beautiful.”

“I guess it is.”

“There’s too many stories that meet the payoff with disappointment- which is fine, but…I like it. I like the idea that love can work out- that it can work out, I mean.”

-

“I…I love you too.”

He looks up, both his eyebrows raised, like he’s surprised at your answer. “You- you do?”

“I- yeah.” 

He reaches for the side of your face, tilting his head slightly to ask for permission, you give it to him, leaning in, his hand cupping the side of your face.

“(y/n),” he takes a deep breath, “I have loved you for…since I met you…can we- will you…will you go out with me? For real. Like a real date.”

You nod, feel his fingertips brushing the side of your face. “Yes, I will.”

He smiles at you, it reaches his eyes, and his gaze is warm, and it’s so familiar and new all at once. It’s a gaze you know, a smile you always looked forward to seeing but…it was new. You felt like you could trust it now. 

And maybe you could. 

You wanted to believe. 

You do believe. You believe this.

Carmy standing in front of you, all nerves, yet unafraid.

Unafraid to love.

Unafraid to love you.

He doesn’t usually look at you when he passes, he just walks in like he lives here, and he might as well. He always shows up the same way, all hollowed out, red-eyed and tight-lipped, or all angry, shoulders-tensed. You don’t ask what it is, just wait for him to tell you either before or after he fucks you. Usually the latter. 

Tonight it’s the second one, anger, he storms in all clenched fists and tensed jaw, something grueling and heavy weighing down on him. He moves like he wants to throw something. He talks like he wants to feel something break. He smells like Newport menthols and some type of charred scent that can really only result from being hunched over a stove in a kitchen for hours on end. Days, even.

You wonder if he came here to do exactly that, if he came here to ruin you just enough to feel better. God knows, you wouldn’t stop him. 

Is he here to break your back? Is he here to take another piece of you? Which piece?

He stops at the foot of your bed like he’s waiting for some type of permission, but he doesn’t verbally ask for it. He just stands there, staring at the floor or your sheets or your ceiling, afraid of what’ll happen if he looks at you for too long. Like he’ll say something he can’t take back, or worse, stay.

“I’m sorry,” he mutters, eyes on the floor. “I didn’t know where else to go.”

And you nod, and say what you always say, no need to think about it, it’s muscle memory.

“You’re here now.”

And that’s all it takes.

One look, one breath, three words. 

And then his hands are on you.

You couldn’t describe it as a kiss, no, not really.

It’s more brutal than that. It’s teeth. It’s breath, hot and heavy. It’s his hands gripping at your face, your hair, your back, your shoulders, your hips, like he’s just trying to make sure that you’re real, and that you’re not going anywhere. Like if he doesn’t hold onto you tight enough, you’ll vanish, and maybe that’s what he wants. Maybe that’d be best for the both of you at this point, but it’s not like either one of you are going to stop any time soon.

He kisses you like it’s a punishment. 

You kiss him like it’s a prayer.

Your hands are on his waist, his chest, his jaw, trying to soothe something in him only you’ve ever really seemed to be able to touch. Something only you’ve ever really seemed to be able to take.

He groans against your mouth, and it’s low and rough, like it’s been stuck in his chest since the last time he showed up, all fucked up late at night. You can feel him everywhere. In your teeth, in your spine, between your legs. His hands are already under your shirt, and they’re tough and calloused over, skating up your sides, all too familiar to be so casual. 

“You always let me,” he breathes, his forehead pressed to yours, voice cracked and wrecked.

And it’s so fucked up.

It’s just so fucked up.

But you nod, wrap your arms around him, kiss him, deeply, truly.

No teeth, no heat, just…camraderie.

You never say anything to that.

You don’t trust your mouth to say the right thing. You don’t trust your heart to be able to come up with the right thing.

He drags your shirt over your head like he’s frustrated with it, like it’s just in his way. And maybe it is, maybe he just wants to get to you…or maybe he just wants to get to what’s underneath it. Maybe he just wants that, the physicality of it all. The way you can eat each other alive like no one else, every fucking time.

He never takes his time, not with this, and especially not on nights like this. Not with you. It’s fast in a way that’s hungry and fucked up, and rough, refusing to think too hard about what it might mean, the way he always comes back to you. 

He touches you like he’s apologizing for it, he fucks you like he’s trying to forget. 

His jeans are still on, yours too. You’re both too impatient to undress properly, and he ruts against you like it’s some type of instinct, something intrinsic to this, to you. You’re not even sure when your underwear ended up shoved to the side, only that the friction of it hurts just enough to ground you, to remind you you’re alive, and this is real, and he’s real, and he’s back. That he’s back and he chose this, chose you, again. No matter what that means.

He always does.

“Fuck,” he grits his teeth, his forehead still pressed up against yours, too intimate, it’s always too intimate. His eyes are squeezed shut, and his hands are gripping at you, scaling your body, they’re everywhere. “You always-”

He cuts himself off. Bites it back, swallows it. 

He buries his face into where your shoulder meets your neck and thrusts into you like nothing else fucking matters.

You always want to ask.

Of course you always want to fucking ask:

‘Luca?’

‘Luca, what am I to you?’

‘What are we?’

‘Luca, who am I to you?’

‘What do I mean to you?’

‘Luca, do I mean anything to you?’

‘But you don’t. You fucking can’t.’

Because you already fucking know.

You’re the place he goes when there’s nowhere else left.

He collapses beside you when he’s finished, doesn’t pull out, he never does.

And he’s still inside you when he starts to drift off, softening, going still like he always does. 

And right before he drifts off, in the split second before he’s dead to the world he whispers it against your ear.

“You make it worse,” he says, voice raw, low, breathy. “But I- I always come back anyway.”

You don’t know if that’s supposed to hurt.

But you let it anyway. 

You watch his shoulders rise and fall. You watch his hand twitch in your sheets. You don’t move, you don’t touch him.

You want to ask if he’ll stay.

Like, actually stay, this time.

You don’t.

The first time he ever showed up like this, you were stupid enough to think it might really mean something.

That out of everyone in the fucking world that he had come to you.

That maybe needing someone could be the same as choosing them.

You were wrong.

But you let him anyway the second time. And the third time. The fourth time. Every time after that. 

He leaves before the sun’s fully up, he always does.

He doesn’t kiss you goodbye, doesn’t say thank you.

He just stands in your doorway, rubbing a hand over his face like he’s already trying to forget it, like he’s promising to someone it’s the last time when you both know it’s not. 

Sometimes you wonder if you’re not even the first person he thinks of, sometimes you wonder if maybe you’re just the only one who answers.

-

Three years ago, that was when you had first met Luca, in Copenhagen. You were a fill-in server for a three month period. Just helping to cover for a seasonal transition when they were slightly short-staffed in the front of house staff. You weren’t exactly planning on staying in Copenhagen, you had just ended something messy back home, and you didn’t really know where else to go.

Luca had already been there for a year. He was stoic, and obsessive, and quietly brilliant. Everyone either seemed to admire him or resent him, you didn’t really care either way, until one night after service you caught him sitting outside with a cigarette and a bottle of Akvavit, staring at a pile of snow like he was interrogating it. 

You looked down at the bottle, then narrowed your eyes at the pile of snow, then turned to him and jokingly asked, “What, you trying to forget something?”

He just kept staring at that pile of snow. 

He took a drag of his cigarette.

“Yeah. Everything,” he said flatly. 

You weren’t really expecting that, you really had just been joking. But you sat down beside him anyway. The cold curb bit through your pants, and you hissed through your teeth when you sat. He didn’t laugh, but you saw the corner of his mouth twitch. Just barely. 

You both sat there for a while, passing the bottle back and forth until your lips were numb, and your fingers were all frozen and raw and your skin smelled like smoke and alcohol.

“You know,” you said eventually, “if you forget everything, you’ll probably forget how to cook, too.”

“Maybe that’d be better.”

“You don’t mean that.”

“Don’t I?”

You weren’t close. Not really, actually, not at all. He had always been polite to you, but he always kept a distance, and that went for everyone. He was intense. The kind of man who wiped down a station like it’d personally wronged him. You’d exchanged maybe twenty or so words in total up until that night, and even that felt a bit generous. 

But there was just something about the way he had sat there that night, all hunched up and rigid, like someone just barely holding on, something just so fucking brittle and exhausted.

“You want to feel something again?” you asked him.

“Not yet,” he said.

And you thought that was the end of it, that he’d just finish his smoke and his drink and vanish back into whatever fucking cave of misery he liked to live in, and you were fine with that. 

But then the next night, he passed you a dish from the pass and said your name. Just your name, and it sounded different all of a sudden. Like he’d been practicing it in his mouth all day, testing it, all the tones he could say it in, tracing the sounds, the letters, just so he could say it. Two nights later, he kissed you in the alley behind the kitchen like he meant it, like he needed it. Like maybe forgetting wasn’t worth it after all.

But there it was. 

Your fatal error.

There’s a difference between need and want.

-

Luca hadn't been in New York for long at this point. Just a year or so since he moved from Copenhagen to stage in New York.

But it was already bringing him down, way down.

It was just too loud, too fast, too…much.

Work helped. Sometimes.

Long hours spent on his feet, long nights scrubbing down pans and burning his fingers on plates and trays, the rhythm of it all just barely loud enough to drown out all that fucking noise.

But it was always temporary.

The second he packed up to go home, the second he stepped outside, it would just always all come rushing back. That silence, that noise, that rush, that ache. The itch in his hands, the weight in his chest, that ringing in his ears.

The shape of something he missed just always in his peripherals. Someone.

He hadn’t thought of you in at least a year.

Ok, that was a lie. 

He thought of you a lot.

Only ever in fragments, your laugh, your hands, the sound of your voice when it cracked on his name against his ear.

And he knew it wasn’t fucking fair to either one of you, mostly to you.

He knew it was cruel. Cruel to be thinking about you, cruel to be thinking of you in this way.

But he couldn’t help it, not really.

He was heading down Delancey on some bleak December day when it happened.

There was a cold wind biting at the nape of his neck, and he cursed himself for never investing in a proper scarf. He had one headphone in, some track playing in the background that he couldn’t really hear against the holiday rush of New York City. 

He hadn’t thought of you in a few weeks at this point. 

He wasn’t thinking about you.

Certainly, not at that exact moment.

He almost didn’t believe what he was seeing, he blinked hard. Once. Twice. A third time.

But you didn’t disappear.

You were real, and he stopped short in the middle of the crowd, people cursing and rushing around him, shoving him aside, he didn’t care, he couldn’t move.

You didn’t seem to be able to either.

You just stood there, same as him, just across the street, staring right back at him like the air had been knocked clean out of your lungs.

Your hands were still shoved deep in the pockets of your coat, the edges of it fluttered just a little in the wind, the hem of it catching in the December draft that drifts between the buildings, and you looked like something out of a fucking dream he used to have every night and then tried really fucking hard to forget. Tried. And failed.

Luca felt everything at once, his stomach dropping, his pulse leaping into his throat, a five year old ache blooming sharp and fast just behind his ribs. 

He wasn’t sure exactly how long you both stood there, he just knew that the second your eyes finally met that time stopped moving, at least for him.

You looked real, and alive, and just…beautiful.

And god, wasn’t that the worst fucking part?

He remembered how you looked in the dark.

He remembered the way your voice used to sound when you said his name like it had really meant something. 

The look you gave him every time he showed up, the one you gave him every time he left.

He remembered how you never asked him to stay, and how that made it so much harder not to want to.

He should’ve crossed the street.

He should’ve called out.

He should’ve done something, he knew he should’ve done something.

But he just stood there, watching you like a man who saw a ghost, paralyzed, mouth slightly open. 

And then, you blinked.

Your lips parted slightly, like you might say something.

And then, just as fast as you’d stopped, you turned.

You turned and disappeared into the crowd like you were never even there in the first place.

Luca stood there until the light changed. Until the “Are you okay, sir?”s turned into “Jesus Christ, move!”s.

He moved eventually, one step, then another, each one felt just fucking impossible.

You. Here.

You were here.

In this city, in his city.

Again.

Or maybe not.

Maybe it was just some sort of fluke. A layover, a trick of the imagination, a fucked up glitch in the universe.

Maybe it wasn’t really you, maybe it was someone else entirely. 

But no, he knew that look.

You had looked at him like it had all meant something.

Like he meant something.

Still. After all this time.

He hums, continuing to flip through the pages, nodding once or twice. He shifts in his seat every few seconds, just restless enough that you notice. He seems slightly anxious, which brings you a strange sense of comfort, like you aren’t alone in your nerves surrounding this interview.

Of course, you’d heard of Carmen Berzatto before, Best New Chef award at just the age of twenty-one, the James Beard Foundation’s Rising Star award. You’d be lying if you said that you hadn’t watched more than a few interviews he’d done throughout the years. You’ve seen his reviews. You’ve studied his plates. You’ve heard the stories through the grapevine via mutual acquaintances and stagings.

He flips through the papers once more before finally looking up at you. 

“You have a very strong background,” he says. Your pulse picks up. “Honestly, you’re overqualified for a commis chef. So…why apply?”

You swallow hard, mouth suddenly going dry, completely uncertain of exactly how to answer that question because how could you go about answering it? And if you lied, what lie would sound convincing enough?

He clears his throat, tilting his head slightly. “You good, chef?”

“Yes,” you answer too fast. “Sorry.”

He shakes his head slightly. “No need for that, chef. Just a question.”

“Right. Well…I guess, I thought it’d just be a good opportunity, chef.”

“A good opportunity?”

“Yes- I…I thought it’d be a good opportunity to get to work with you specifically, chef.”

He raises an eyebrow. “With me, specifically?”

“Yes, chef.”

“Well,” he says slowly, “I’d say you’re past needing to work under the guidance of anyone, and the pay here will be considerably less than what you were making at your former position, but, if you really are interested-”

“I am, chef.”

“-then, the job is yours. You’re more than qualified.” 

“Really, chef?” The words coming out just a bit more enthusiastic than you had meant for them to.

He raises both his eyebrows at you, the slightest hint of amusement pulling at the corner of his mouth. 

“Yeah, chef. Really.”

You stand, thanking him again, clutching your knife roll like it’s a lifeline…because this job was exactly that, a lifeline. 

“Start tomorrow?” he asks, pushing back from the desk, sticking his hand out to shake yours.

You draw back a bit without thinking, and then stick your hand out to take his, shaking it firmly, just once. 

“Tomorrow’s perfect, chef.”

Carmen moves to the office door first, and you hang back just a step, just enough to make sure that there’s a fair amount of space between the two of you when you follow. In the hallway, a few more cooks pass by, talking and laughing. You shift closer to the wall to let them through, your shoulder nearly brushing one of them as you quickly jerk yourself back to avoid it.

“Syd’ll show you around when you come in,” Carmen says over his shoulder. “You’ll meet the rest of the crew during prep.”

“Yes, chef.”

He nods at you, pulling a pen from behind his ear and scribbling something on the corner of your application. His movements are quick, economical, precise, like he’s already thinking about and moving on to about a dozen other things, but you notice his eyes flick briefly to the way you’re standing. Your weight on the balls of your feet like you might have to move out of someone’s way at any moment.

“Alright, chef,” he says finally, tucking the paper into a manilla folder that he then shoves in between his torso and arm. “See you tomorrow, 2:30 PM.”

You nod once more, tight and quick, and step aside to let him pass by you. 

“Thank you, chef.”

“Don’t mention it, chef.”

now, chicago

Carmen pushes his hair back as five new tickets get clipped to the rail, and about ten more spit out from the printers. The air is thick with heat, sweat, and the scent of char and smoke. Someone shouts for all-day counts, the fry station is hissing, and a pan clatters just a touch louder than you’d have liked against the flat-top.

“Behind!” Sydney’s voice cuts through as she flies past with two plates balanced in her hands. You instinctively step aside for her, too far aside, and your hip bumps into the cold station.

“Hot, hot, hot!” Tina warns, sliding a tray just past your elbow, nearly brushing it. You keep your arms in tight, shoulders angled to make yourself more compact. 

Carmy’s moving between stations, fast and deliberate, calling out corrections, times, instruction. He slides in behind you to reach for the salt and your spine goes rigid before you can help it. 

“Two minutes on the veg, chef,” he says, already moving away from you.

“Yes, chef,” you answer, but it’s weak, quiet. You’re not even sure he heard you.

The kitchen is alive with motion, voices, steel against steel, burning, sizzling, chopping. To anyone else, it’s just a normal service, maybe a touch busier than usual, but to you, it’s the sound of somewhere you’ve been before, somewhere you’ve worked before. Except this time, it’s different, you need to keep reminding yourself of that. This time, it’s not the same. It’s safe.

Still, your hands tremble faintly while you plate. 

three months earlier, chicago

“Christ,” Carmen groans, leaning his back against the brick wall of the alley, lighter flickering to life. He takes a drag of his cigarette like it’s the first real breath of air he’s had all night. “That shit was completely fucked.”

You let out a light laugh, perhaps more nerves than anything else, grinding the toe of your shoe over your cigarette butt until it smears into the pavement.

You’re still not entirely certain of how to interact with him outside the context of the kitchen, of the line, if you’re even supposed to. And if you are, to what regard?

He glances over, mouth twitching slightly into something that’s almost a smile.

“You know, you’re a real quiet one, (y/n).”

You shrug at him, not meeting his eyes. “Just tired, chef.”

“Carmy,” he says suddenly.

You blink a few times before processing exactly what he said and what exactly he had meant by it. “Sorry, chef, what?”

“Carmy’s fine,” he repeats. “Everyone calls me that.”

The name sits warm on your tongue before you even say it. “Alright…Carmy.”

He nods, flicking ash into the shallow metal tray by the door. For a moment, it’s just the two of you and the sound of traffic and voices somewhere down the block.

You want to keep the moment, hold it close not let it slip by, but the thought is tangled up with something else too, something tainting it. Something making the air feel just a little thinner than it is. A different chef, a different alley, a voice using your name in ways that were less than savory.

You shove your hands deep into your pockets. “So, uh, that service sure was, something,” you say, trying to let the conversation slide back into safer territory, something more comfortable.

Carmy smirks faintly, glancing toward the kitchen door. “Yeah. It’s alright though,” he crushes out his cigarette and straightens slightly. “Come on, chef. Let’s clean up.”

You linger for just a minute more after he disappears back into the kitchen, wondering what exactly to do with the moment. You slip back inside deciding to file it away with all of the other things you’re not sure you’re allowed to trust. 

now, chicago

You’re bent over the counter, plating a garnish on a plate just before it goes out, when Carmy steps in behind you to grab a sauce container from the lower shelf. His hand brushes against your lower back, light and unintentional, but your body reacts before your brain can catch up with it.

You jolt back, breath catching, plate clattering, a small, sharp sound escaping from your throat. Not quite a scream, but enough of one that Marcus looks over from pastry.

Carmy freezes up immediately. “Shit- hey, sorry, chef, I really didn’t meant to-”

“No, no,” you cut in quickly, shaking your head, “really, it’s fine, Carm- chef. It’s fine.” 

Marcus’s mouth twitches, like he’s just about to say something, but he just goes back to focusing on his station. 

Carmy doesn’t move right away. He’s still crouched down, hand on the sauce container, eyes fixed on you for just a split second too long. Not sharp, not angry, just assessing, watching.

Then he straightens, stepping back from you, giving you more space than the line really allows for. “All day on the trout, two minutes,” he calls out, voice steady but just a touch quieter than previously.

“Yes, chef,” you answer, forcing your focus back to the plate, trying to clean up the edges from when you had accidentally tipped it a bit before. 

Even though the plate had gone out already, even though Carmy had already moved on two stations over, even though Marcus had sent out five desserts since, you can still feel the heat prickling up your neck. You try to keep your head down the rest of the night, shrinking even further in on yourself if possible.

Every time Carmy passes after that, he’s careful, announcing himself earlier, keeping his hands well clear, even when it means awkwardly leaning around you to reach something, bending in ways that would make a contortionist cringe. 

You keep your head low, still, finishing tickets, pretending that it’s just another busy night in the kitchen, that nothing is wrong, that the kitchen is just a kitchen. But you catch him glancing your way in between calls, like he’s just filing away the whole thing for later.

And by the time the final ticket goes out, when the final plates leave the pass, you know he’s going to ask.

The kitchen is stripped down to its bones, stations wiped, pots and pans cleaned and polished until they looked new, knives rolled, containers labeled for tomorrow and put away neatly, the hum of the walk-in filling the space where shouting used to be just hours before. Most of the crew has already trickled out into the alley or home. 

You’re drying your cutting board when Carmy’s voice comes from the doorway.

“Got a minute?”

You turn to face him, he’s leaning up against the frame, arms crossed, expression nearly unreadable.

“Uh, yeah, chef.”

“In the office, okay?”

You nod, swallowing, and wringing your hands, you follow him into the office. The walls feel like they’re closing in by the minute with the door half-way shut. He moves behind the desk but doesn’t sit, bracing his palms just on the edge of it like he’s struggling to hold himself up and in place.

“I don’t mean to intrude,” he says, eyes on the desk, “but, can I ask what happened earlier? Because, it wasn’t my intention to- to do anything, or like to make you uncomfortable, and I would never try to, I have a lot of respect for you, chef, and-”

“On the line?” you cut him off.

He nods, visibly swallowing. “Yes, chef.”

You force a small shrug, eyes darting to the wall behind him, then the stack of envelopes on the corner of his desk, then your shoes, anywhere but him, really. “It’s nothing, chef, really, you just- just startled me, is all.” 

“It didn’t look like nothing.” His voice is calm, but there’s something tight in it. Something knowing. It makes your stomach drop and your palms start to sweat. 

You wet your lips, pulse thudding in your ears. “It was just…reflex, chef.” 

“Reflex?”

The question hangs in the air between the two of you for a second. You twist your hands together, nails digging hard into your palms until it stings too much to continue. 

“My last place,” you say finally, your voice low enough that you almost hope he won’t catch it. But of course he does, Carmy always seems to catch everything, to pay attention to everything…at least when it’s you. 

His brows pull together, but he stays quiet, waiting, giving you the space to speak.

“The chef there…” You swallow hard, eyes darting around the room, heat crawling up the back of your neck, a chill simultaneously shooting down your spine. “He’d…He’d touch me, sometimes…However he wanted. Sometimes in front of people, sometimes alone…And- and if I pushed back, if I- if I said anything it’s like- it’s like my shifts got worse, or- or he’d-” Your throat closes up for a second, tears pricking at your eyes. “...he’d…well, it- it doesn’t matter, chef-”

“It does,” Carmy says quietly, looking up just briefly at you. “It does matter, chef.”

You nod, feeling a tear slip out onto your cheek. You wipe it away with the back of your hand before continuing. 

“You asked me why I took this job- why I wanted this job,” you start, eyes still shifting around the room, hands shaking slightly, “Well, my last night there, after service, he- he said I ‘owed him’ for where I’d gotten. He- he tried to make me…” You shake your head, unable to finish. But Carmy nods, and you can tell by the sharp look in his eyes, that he knows exactly where that sentence was going. 

“That’s when I quit,” you continue, “Didn’t even put in a two week notice, didn’t even say goodbye to anyone, I just- just walked out. Like a coward.”

Carmy’s hands curl into fists against the desk, his jaw tensing and untensing. His gaze flicks to the floor like it’s the only thing keeping him from blowing a hole right through the wall.

“You’re-” He stops, exhales sharply through his nose. “You’re no coward. That’s bravery. You’re brave, chef.” He pauses again, wiping at his face with the back of his hand and inhaling sharply like he’s just trying to stay calm and keep it together.

“That’s- that’s not fucking okay, not in my kitchen, not anywhere,” he says.

You nod, blinking hard, unable to stop the oncoming tears brimming in your waterline.

“If anyone here ever makes you feel like that, and I mean anyone, Richie, a vendor, doesn’t fucking matter who, anyone at all -you come to me. Immediately. I’ll handle it. Even- even if it’s me, you go to Natalie then, you go to Syd, whoever you’re most comfortable with, and expect no retaliation. You are a great chef, deserving of respect and deserving of an equally great and respectable kitchen.”

You give him a small nod. “Okay, chef.”

He shakes his head. “Carmy. It’s Carmy.”

You glance up at him, slightly startled. 

“You don’t owe me shit, and you don’t owe him shit, and you don’t owe anyone shit,” he says. “You just work the way you wanna work. That’s it.”

It’s not much, but the knot in your chest loosens up, just enough to take the first real breath you’ve taken in a kitchen in a long time.

Carmy watches you for a moment, like he’s making sure of it, that you’re really breathing, really steady. Then he nods once, and reaches for his pack of cigarettes on the desk, probably more out of habit than need.

“What was his name?” he asks.

You hesitate. “You don’t have to-”

“I’m not asking so I can think about it. I’m asking so I can make sure I never hear it on any article alongside any kind of praise, never hear it from another chef’s mouth unless it has the word, creep, asshole, or motherfucker, attached. Ever.” 

The word ever lands like the edge of a knife, precise, clean, certain.

You swallow hard before telling him.

Carmy doesn’t write it down, he doesn’t repeat it back, but you can see him file it away in his mind.

“Okay,” he says, voice low but resolute. “Then it’s done.” 

You almost want to ask him what exactly that means, but the tight set of his jaw tells you that there’s no point, the decision’s already been made, and whatever that decision is, is career ending. 

three weeks later, chicago

It’s a few weeks later when you hear that name again. Not from Carmy, he never brings it up, but from one of the vendors on a delivery run.

“Yeah, uh…kind of a strange thing,” the guy says, leaning on a crate of produce like it’s middle school and he’s the gossip of the cafeteria. “You ever hear of-” he says the name, casual as anything, “-head chef? Anyway, heard he was supposed to stage at Remy’s for a bit, but they suddenly uh- ‘lost his résumé’.”

The air in your lungs stutters for just a second. “Huh.”

The vendor shrugs, seemingly completely oblivious to the pit opening up in your chest. “Weird, right? Happened at two other places, too, guess the guy’s reputation, uh, seems to precede him, and whatever it is, it ain’t good.”

You glance toward the kitchen, toward Carmy at the pass, head down, calling out orders, like he’s been doing all day. He doesn’t look your way, doesn’t so much as flick his eyes toward you.

But you remember the way he’d said ‘Then it’s done.’

And you know.

You know exactly what this is.

It’s just about past midnight when the kitchen finally empties, completely scrubbed down, the last bus tub stacked, and the rest of the crew cleared out. You’re wiping the counter by the dish pit when you hear the low clinking of bottles coming from the walk-in.

Carmy steps out, his hair damp from the mop steam, sleeves shoved up to his elbows, eyes heavy. He looks like he’s running on empty.

You clear your throat and approach him before you can overthink it too much. 

“Hey, Carmy.”

He glances up at you. “Yeah, chef?”

“I, uh…” You grip the rag in your hands so tight that it might rip. “I heard about him. That he’s…not getting work, and I just-” Your voice catches in your throat for a second. “I wanted to say thank you.”

His brows furrow like you’ve just told him that you’re sorry for something that wasn’t your fault…again.

“Don’t,” he says, simply. “Don’t thank me for taking out the trash.”

“It’s not nothing,” you insist, softer now. “You really didn’t have to-”

“I did.”

The words are immediate, absolutely no hesitation to them. He leans up against a counter, eyes locked on yours like he’s making sure that you believe it, that it really sinks in. 

“It’s bare minimum. You deserved better than that then, and you deserve better now. You deserve to know he’s gone.” 

You swallow, feeling the heat creep up the back of your neck. “...Still. Thank you, Carmy.”

For a moment, his mouth twitches slightly, like he might smile, but instead he just nods at you once and pushes away from the counter.

“Get some sleep, chef, I’ll finish up here. Big day tomorrow.”

And then he’s gone. Leaving you with the faint smell of cigarettes, steel cleaner, and whatever cologne he wears, threaded through with the quiet certainty in his voice of when he said it was done. 

It’s a different kind of mark to carry, one that doesn’t ache, one that doesn’t bruise, or scar. One you almost want to keep.

You sit.

The legs of the chair scrape softly against the wood floor, and Luca then disappears to the other side of the room, without another word. You take in the artistry of the table set up again, the effort, the steaming food, the detail. It was something that you didn’t do for just a friend, a pang of guilt rang through your chest. 

Luca returned with two plates, steam curling up from both of them, setting one in front of you gently, and bringing the other with him, sitting down right across from you. 

He doesn’t say anything at first, and just watches your face in silence studying you as you take in the meal.

“I know it’s not what we used to make at school,” he says, breaking the quiet, “But it’s the type of thing I wish we’d had the time for.” 

You glance up at him, feeling caught off guard and suddenly a bit nervous.

There was something so unbearably sincere about the way he had said it. It killed you.

You try to joke it off, “Well, if this tastes like shit, I’m leaving.”

He laughs, a soft, breathy laugh, and pours you a glass of wine.

“You won’t,” he’s looking at you, dead in the eye, the type of confidence you wish you had, eyes glinting. You take a bite. 

Maybe it was the warmth of the food, or the glass of wine hitting your bloodstream on an, until very recently, empty stomach just a little too quickly after the day you’ve had.

Or maybe it was just Luca.

His gaze, how he’s looking at you, how he holds your stare.

But there was just something about this moment, the scent of his cooking, the faint smell of dessert in the oven, the quiet clink of your silverware, the flicker of the candles, it all pulls you back in time. 

Back to Denmark.

Back to undergraduate school, the exchange program.

-

You hadn’t expected to meet someone like Luca while you were away. Your plan for going there was simple: finish the exchange program, earn the course credits, make the necessary connections, and leave. You weren’t in it for the friendships. Still, you’d be lying if you said that you weren’t at least a little bit excited for Copenhagen in the winter and then getting to watch that melt into spring, the images of the long bike rides, the coffee, and more bread than you could ever justify, that you had looked up online prior to going reverberating in your mind’s eye. 

The coursework there ended up being pretty forgettable, but Luca wasn’t.

As fate would have it, you had met Luca at a one-off wine and food tasting event hosted at a small bistro in Copenhagen. Luca was always the type to be eager to gain experience and had applied to be the visiting chef for the event, and by luck, he got the spot. It was a great opportunity, freedom to experiment, choose the menu, the pairings, it was an exciting event to get to be a part of. 

In truth, you hadn’t actually planned on attending the event. You were just kind of curious about what it might be like, and were hoping for a break from some of your coursework. It was the type of event which you would usually come across say ‘cool,’ about and let it sit in your bookmarks tab, letting the day eventually come and go. But not this time. Something in you told you to go.

When you walked in, there was a warm and intimate sort of setting. Soft lighting, rustic wooden tables, a quiet hum of conversation filled the room, and taking in your surroundings, you noticed very quickly that you seemed to be the only lone person at this event. You felt your face heat up, and started trying to figure out if it would draw less attention to yourself if you turned around and walked out right now, or if you just sucked it up and sat down. You opted for the latter, knowing you would feel far too guilty to walk out knowing you held an RSVP to an event which only allowed for a limited number of guests.

You hesitated for a moment, before finding an empty seat near the back of the room, pulling out your phone to glance through messages as you waited for the event to begin. There was a quiet buzz of anticipation that filled the air, and there was a faint scent of freshly baked bread and herbs curling up from the kitchen. The bread you had been dreaming of, you had thought to yourself. 

Taking a second glance around the room, that’s also when you noticed the conversations that were being had around you, picking up little snippets here and there, the way they spoke, what they spoke about, what they were wearing, and this was also how you quickly realized that you might’ve been the only non-restaurant industry person in this place. You leaned further back in your seat, like you were trying to disappear from view, trying to blend into the background as much as humanly possible, the room filling with more soft chatter and the clinking of glasses. You look up and thank your server quietly, accepting the first wine pairing of the night from them, and quickly taking a swig of it. You wanted to be classy about it, but this was definitely the type of thing you knew you needed to be at least a little tipsy for, especially in the given circumstances.

The warm light above you made the wooden beams overhead glow and another server came by placing the first dish down in front of you, looking up and thanking them, you then turn your gaze downwards, a beautifully plated starter of roasted golden beets served with a whipped goat cheese, toasted walnuts, and a drizzle of some type of herb-infused honey sat before you. Thin slices of crisp apple laid across the top which added a subtle sweetness and crunch to the dish, a few microgreens which you would normally find pretentious were scattered across the top in a very tasteful manner. It was almost too beautiful to eat…Almost.

The wine poured for you alongside this was a chilled glass of Danish Solaris, it was described to you by your server as white, fresh, and aromatic, with notes of citrus, green pear, and an undertone of an herby earthiness to it. The bright acidity of the wine paired alongside the richness of the goat cheese and the sweetness of the beets and honey was…Indescribable. It wasn’t the type of thing that you would usually go for, not something you think you’d ever order off a menu on your own accord, but goddamn, was it good.

Simple yet elegant, the flavors washed over your mouth, and for one of the only times in your life which you could recall, you felt truly present. 

Still nibbling on the roasted beet salad, a man appeared beside your table, he was wearing a casual button-up shirt, rolled up at the sleeves, and there was a very warm and gentle way about him, an easy and inviting smile on his face.

“You mind if I sit here? The room’s a bit crowded,” he asked you, gesturing to the empty chair across from you. It was in this moment which you took in the room another time, and realized that it seemed you were truly the only one without a date. You didn’t know if you should feel embarrassed or fortunate since it seemed to open the door for this (undeniably handsome) stranger to sit down with you, and while you hadn’t come here with friends in mind, you were still always happy to make them. 

Still a bit confused as to why this stranger might be approaching you, another perfect stranger, to sit, you shrug it off and nod, motioning for him to sit down across from you, you figured he was probably someone arriving late or something, the event was sold out after all, meaning that there was at least one other single guest here, and it must be him. 

“I’m Luca,” he said to you, offering his hand, something unreadable flashing across his face when you made no reaction to his name.

You shook it, “I’m (y/n).”

He glanced down at your plate and smiled. 

“Good right? I’m not usually a fan of beets myself but this,” he gestures vaguely towards your nearly empty dish, “Well, it’s pretty tempting.”

You laughed, “Honestly same, but trust me, this shit,” you motion to your dish as well, “Is pure artistry,”

He raises his eyebrows at you, slightly taken aback, amused.

“Oh- is that so?”

“Oh my god, absolutely.”

“You some type of critic or something?”

“Me?” you motion to yourself, shocked that he thought that you were, you give him an amused look, “No, no, not at all. Quite far from it actually.”

“Oh?”

“Yea- I’m actually, I really don’t know much about food or anything like this, I’m just here for a break from school work, thought it might be fun.”

“School, huh? What’re you studying?” Luca leaned in a little closer to you, curious. 

“Pre-law, not exactly culinary arts,” you joked.

He only grinned at you, “Good thing, then. Otherwise I’d have to start really worrying about your critiques.”

You both let out a light laugh, and from there the conversation had flowed easily, everything, from classes, to Copenhagen, to favorite locations in the city, things to do. Luca was funny, he was thoughtful in his conversation, and he was somehow entirely disarming. 

After a while, he paused, thinking, before going on to say, “I’m so sorry,”

You raise an eyebrow at him, he continues,

“I’m actually- I’m having a lot of fun talking with you.”

“Me too.” 

He smiles at you,

“But I really need to make my rounds.”

“Your-Your what?”

Luca looked at you, a mischievous smile starting to creep up on his lips, standing up slowly from the chair, “I’m the chef tonight.”

You blinked at him, stunned into silence for a moment, trying to comprehend what he was saying in your head, ‘Otherwise I’d have to start really worrying about your critiques,’ Oh. 

“Wait, what?” you look at him, unsure of what else to say, and immediately regret your response, you cringe, fearing it made you sound dumb.

He ran a hand through his hair, pushing it back, like he was mildly embarrassed.

“Yeah, this whole menu…it’s mine. I’m the visiting chef for the tasting tonight.”

You stared at him again for a moment, looking down at your plate, the beets now suddenly feeling much more important than it had been as of ten seconds ago. You let his name echo around in your head for a moment,

Luca, Luca, Luca…Where had you heard that before…

“Oh shit,” you quickly slap a hand over your mouth, “Sorry- I mean, you’re Luca…” 

It all clicked into place as you finally recalled the name from the event flyer which you had barely skimmed.

He gave you a cheeky grin, 

“In the flesh.”

You stopped your jaw from dropping.

“So you’ve just been like, talking to me this whole time and didn’t think to mention that you were the one who made all,” you motion around the room, to your dish, “this?”

He shrugged, “Didn’t want to influence the critique, besides, you looked like you could use the company.” He teases you.

“Yea maybe, but, I feel so…” You search for the right words before turning to look at him, mock sadness on your face, “betrayed…bamboozled.”

You can see him fighting a laugh,

“Bamboozled? Really?” his smile betrays him, “My name is on the flyer, you know…Actually, wait a second, I think my face might be on the flyer, like bottom corner of the page.”

Was it?

Oh shit, it was. You feel heat creeping up on your face and neck.

“Okay, maybe I didn’t like, fully read the flyer,” you admit, eyes narrowing at him playfully, “I skimmed, I was promised bread, and honestly? That was all I needed to hear.” 

He laughs, like really laughs, it’s soft, it’s unpretentious. 

“Well I’m glad the carbs got you through the door,” he offers you a smile, “Kind of disappointed it wasn’t the incredibly handsome guy on the bottom of the flyer though. Eligible. Can cook…6’2 by the way…” He jokes.

You find yourself also laughing, like genuinely, actually laughing out loud.

“Maybe subliminally?” you offered before continuing, “But seriously, this is all like actually really amazing, like, stupid good.”

“Stupid good,” he repeats back to you, mock contemplation on his face, “Yea, that’s going on the next menu.”

You shake your head, still smiling at him.

He glances back over his shoulder then, expression faltering slightly like he was being called back into reality, to the other guests. 

“I hate to say it, but I really do have to go,” he says, with a small reluctant wince, “But, if you’re still around after dessert…Maybe I’ll steal another minute?”

You nod at him, “I’ll be here.”

He lingers for maybe just a little bit longer than he probably should have, his eyes gazing warmly upon you, the familiar expression of wanting to say something else, but he just smiled at you and slipped back into the crowd, disappearing into the noise of the room like a magician performing a vanishing act, and all of a sudden…The beets tasted even better. 

-

The memory of the beets made you smile as you looked down at your plate now, here in Chicago, all these years later. Copenhagen felt like a lifetime ago. A golden sliver of beet caught your eye. You looked up. 

“Luca.”

He looked up at you from his own plate in response, meeting your gaze with the same easy warmth that he had in Copenhagen still there, still being offered to you, even after being tempered by years of distance. The soft glow of the candles lit between you cast gentle shadows across his face, and for a split second, it’s like no time had passed at all. 

A small smile playing at the edges of his mouth, you can tell that he immediately knows what you’re about to say,

“You still think about those beets too, huh?” he teases you.

You chuckle softly, the memory folding into the quiet intimacy of tonight, and against your better judgement, “I think about a lot of things from back then…You were the only thing that really stood out.” 

Luca’s smile deepened, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes disappearing before you could even recognize it, “Isn’t it funny? A single night, a few dishes, the way they all stick with you like that.”

You nodded, the weight of the memory felt heavy between you.

“It wasn’t just the food…” you trail off, knowing better than to go on, despite this, Luca reaches across the table, fingers brushing against yours so lightly if you weren’t paying attention, weren’t so hyperaware of every little nerve ending on your body tonight, that you wouldn’t have noticed it, 

“I’m glad you came that night.”

“Me too.”

Not allowing yourself to say anything more in that moment, for fear of slipping up, saying something you both knew was never to be spoken, you let your thoughts carry you away again, Luca getting up to take something out of the oven, the sweet scent filling the room when he opened the oven door, the aroma pulled you right back to Copenhagen…

-

The chair across from you scraped softly against the floor, Luca appearing again, a tentative smile playing on his face, the type that sneaks up on you, the type that reaches your eyes, he settles back into the seat across from you, just like earlier. 

“Mind if I steal a minute before the night ends?” he asked, his eyes searching yours, a playful spark in them.

You glanced around at the room, despite the plethora of guests, and the murmur of conversation surrounding you, you still somehow had felt as if you were the only people in the room. You nodded in response, a quiet, “Sure,” before you could second guess anything.

He smiled, the tentative curve of his lips that felt new and familiar all at once, it made your chest tighten.

“I just wanted to say…” he fiddles with his hands, looking down at them for a moment, before suddenly regaining an air of confidence about him once more, looking back to you, “I’m glad you decided to come tonight…More than is reasonable to be, maybe.” 

You felt a warmth rush through you, not from the wine, but from the sincerity in his voice, the honest look of his expression, 

“Me too,” you had replied, your eyes searching his, for an answer you never seemed to find.

Luca shifted slightly in his chair, his fingers tapping nervously against one of the legs of the table.

“So, I know, I mean, it sounds like things are complicated for you, with school, with…everything, and they are for me too, I mean, the restaurant business, pretty brutal…But I really hope this isn’t the last time that we get to talk like this.”

You swallowed hard, suddenly becoming hyperaware of both the distance and closeness which somehow existed simultaneously between the two of you.

You remember it so vividly now, him reaching out for you that night, fingertips briefly brushing against your hand from across the table, a spark that you both knew the other had felt but refused to say aloud. The moment stretched, and it was full of possibilities…Fear.

Before either of you said more, a server appeared with the dessert plate, breaking the spell and the moment between the two of you. Luca gave you one last look, a quiet, hopeful smile lingering on his face, before standing up to mingle again. 

The dessert that night had been something delicate and bright, when you thought about it you were pretty sure it had been a citrus olive oil cake with whipped…something on it, and shaved pistachio. There was a little tangle of candied orange peels balanced on top of it, like a crown. 

You tell yourself that it’s hard to recall because you have a shit memory, but you knew the real reason was probably that you had barely even registered the plate. 

Your eyes were still on Luca’s retreating figure, his shoulders disappearing into the crowd of guests, the golden candlelight of the night kissing the edges of his silhouette, now at the other side of the restaurant. It was hard not to stare.

Harder not to reach.

You poked at the cake in front of you, took a bite. It was, as expected, ridiculously good. Light and floral, and not too sweet. It was thoughtful. It was no wonder that he had made it. 

When he came back again near the end of the night, he was slightly flushed, his sleeves were still rolled, and his hair was a bit unruly, it was quieter. There were fewer people left now, and there was a soft winding-down sort of energy in the room.

He slid into the seat across from you, again, for a third time that night, leaning forward on his elbows.

“So…” he said, smiling.

“So,” you echoed back to him, returning his smile. 

There was a pause between the two of you, not awkward, just charged. 

“I was wondering,” he had started, “if you might want to get coffee tomorrow, you know, hang out?”

You recalled hesitating for a moment, not because you didn’t want to, but because of everything else, the program, the plane ticket, your carefully drawn timeline of what this semester was supposed to be. Your spreadsheet for success. 

But his eyes were hopeful, and they offered you a steadiness which you hadn’t felt before in your life.

“Okay,” you had said.

And there it was again, that look he would give you, the one that offered a moment in which the rest of the world seemed to fade around you, just as the candles had begun to burn low. 

-

The citrus still clung to your memory like a song that you couldn’t get out of your head, that night, the cake, the look in his eyes. You’d said okay. You went for coffee the next day, it turned into lunch. Which turned into dinner. Which turned into drinks. You had slept at his place that same night, not slept with, it hadn’t gone that far. You woke up the next morning after that and went for coffee again, and then kept doing that. Kept going for coffee every day. Kept doing a lot of things…Every day.

You both always laughed too much, talked too long, and before you knew it, you had started folding him into the version of your life that you hadn’t planned for. It was your senior year of undergrad. You remembered staying up late into the night often either alone or together, looking at law programs in the area, only half-joking. 

Sometimes you’d catch Luca looking at opportunities in the U.S. on his phone, scrolling through one job board or online forum, before you would notice and quickly tell him that he was far too talented to give up the position he had at noma for anything less. 

But somewhere in all of this, you got in your own way, or maybe you didn’t, maybe you just didn’t let everything else get in your way, you could never figure out which one it was.

You had a spreadsheet, like literally a spreadsheet, filled with numerous timelines, LSAT dates, application deadlines and the times you would hear back from them. It was color-coded, it was formula-protected, it felt like safety. Your future was something you could drag and drop on a screen, sort into a green and blue column. And Luca? When you actually sat down, alone, tried to sort through it all, he didn’t fit into a single cell, and you couldn’t find it in you to tear it all up and rearrange everything to figure out how.

You just kept telling yourself it wasn’t the right time, he lived too far, you couldn’t afford to get too attached to something that couldn’t come with you…That you wouldn’t allow to come with you. 

When your acceptance letter to NYU dropped into your inbox, that’s when it all became real.

You can remember the email vividly.

The subject line on it had read, Your Future Starts Here, it had felt so cruel, so ironic it made your stomach hurt.

The moment you opened it, the future that you had with Luca, any hypothetical of that, quietly disappeared behind it. 

But still, even after flying back home. Even during and after NYU, even after the spreadsheet had won, you and Luca stayed in touch.

Not constantly, not perfectly, but it was enough. 

Birthdays, blurry late-night FaceTime calls after drinking too much with friends and returning home, the occasional texts with links to Spotify playlists named something like, ‘Golden Beets (Beats),’ and ‘Stupid good,’ and every now and then Luca would message you with a picture of some dish he had been working on, always beautiful, always impressive. You remembered opening your text chain one day to find a photo of some sort of intricate dish jewel-toned, plated with delicate precision, the kind that only Luca seemed to have, and right beneath that one, a blurry photo of a menu right under it zoomed in on one item in particular, Stupid Good. You laughed out loud, alone in your kitchen in New York, surrounded by case notes, books, takeout containers, and the kind of exhausted silence which you had trained yourself to be comfortable in. 

It cracked you up to think that sitting on a menu in Copenhagen was a dish that was probably at an absolutely insane price point which was named after a private joke, something that was only shared between two people, you and him. You couldn’t begin to imagine what type of things he had to do to convince them to let him name it that, you smiled for the rest of the week.

You replied with a ‘Oh my god I love it,’ and a heart emoji, he didn’t say anything back, but he didn’t have to.

Sometimes you’d visit. 

Not very often, you were busy, he was busy, a chef and a law student didn’t make for a great pairing of schedules, but it was enough that he would always keep a toothbrush for you at his place. You could remember him joking one night about how he didn’t even bother hooking up with anyone anymore because it was always game over once they saw your toothbrush sitting on the counter, they’d always think he was married or something.

You would stay for a couple of nights, oftentimes drink too much, and help him taste test something new he was working on at the moment, and it was always easy with him. Always too easy. The type of easy which scared you to death because it felt like a version of life that could’ve happened if you had just let it.

And then there was that visit. The one where you had met Carmen. 

It hadn’t meant to be anything, just a few days in, catching up. 

Copenhagen, crashing on the couch, all that good shit.

He’d mentioned a party briefly, something low-key with some coworkers, mostly noma people, “lame,” he had said. You teased him into going, you wanted to meet his world.

What you didn’t know was that walking into that apartment would mean walking right into a different timeline. 

One that wasn’t on the spreadsheet. One that wasn’t Luca.

Who could’ve known that Carmen, quiet and curt and impossibly blue-eyed, would look at you in that way that you only saw people in movies look at one another. You didn’t know that your laugh would catch in his chest, or that he’d chase it across oceans. 

You didn’t know that Luca would’ve done it, if you’d had just let it happen. 

You hadn’t meant to ditch Luca that night, or at all during that trip, but you did. That night, the next day, and again, when Carm asked if you’d get a drink right before your flight. 

And again, when you came back just to see him.

And again, when he asked you to stay.

He always said it was okay, you always found yourself apologizing for it, even long after, he would always say one of the same phrases:

“If it’s true, chase it,”

“If it makes you happy, I want you to have it.”

“If it’s what you want, it’s what I want.” 

You hadn’t truly ever stopped to think about how selfless those words might’ve been.

Before long, you were flying back and forth more often than you had ever thought you would, juggling multiple cases, internships and at times, Carmen’s silences and the constant pulse of waiting, waiting for The Bear to open, waiting for him to chase you, waiting for a version of him that never came. 

You remembered being on the phone with Luca one night and breaking down for a moment when you had realized that you always told yourself that you were the lucky one because he chased you across oceans…But that was before you realized that you had always been flying to him. That you were the one who moved to Chicago from your firm in New York, from your friends, from your life you had worked so hard for there.

Where was your spreadsheet now?

You stopped visiting Copenhagen when you moved to Chicago. 

Stopped visiting Luca.

Not because you stopped caring, you would always care for Luca, and that was exactly why you couldn’t. 

It felt so cruel to keep showing up empty-handed and full of apologies because at that point, you weren’t just choosing Carmen, you were just un-choosing everything else.

And now, sitting across from Luca again, watching him lift a golden slice of beet to his mouth, something sweet smelling and warm cooling under a checkered red towel draped over it on a counter in the kitchen, candlelight warming the edges of his face, you found yourself wondering if he knew. 

If he had always known.

You blinked away the memory, blinked away a stray tear you could feel forming in the corner of your eye, Luca caught your gaze again.

“Hey,” you could see him notice you welling up, “Are you alright?”

You gave him a weak smile, nodding, “Yeah, just…A lot of memories, and today was…Hard.”

“If you want to talk, I’m here,” he offered gently.

You swallowed hard, taking a slow breath in, and exhaling, you weren’t even sure where you would begin.

“Maybe I do,” you admitted.

He nods, encouraging you to go on, letting you know that he was listening.

“My morning it…it wasn’t great,” you started, your voice low, “It was just, it was all wrong. The court hearing, it was like every thing just completely fucking fell apart.” 

You pause, taking a moment to blink away the sting of tears.

“The power went out.”

“The power…went out,” Luca repeats your words back to you, cautiously, like he’s trying to fully comprehend what exactly that entails, and then you see it click in his head, a flash of anger passing through his face, before his soft gaze returns, “Okay, go on.” 

You nod, pressing your lips together to keep them from trembling, it’s working…sort of.

“Yeah. Like, I was mid-fucking-setence, and at first I thought it was, like, just a building wide outage thing or something, or maybe the whole block. But no. It was just our unit. Just me. Just my fucking courtroom. My case. My fucking-” you pause, taking a deep breath in before starting again, your voice tighter now, chest rising and falling quicker,

“I ran around like a, like a fucking, idiot, just trying to reset the router, trying to find a hotspot with my phone, it’s just like, nothing fucking worked. Then I looked out the window and realized that the bodega’s sign thing was still on, and the streetlights, and everything was actually all just fucking fine, except for my apartment. Because Carmen forgot to pay the fucking electric bill.” 

You let out a hollow, breathy laugh.

“Like, I don’t know, he told me that he had. But I guess not, he just..didn’t do it. I know he’s distracted, I know he had meant to, I know he just, forgot, but that’s the thing- it’s always that he meant to, it’s always later. There is always a, ‘next time, promise’.” 

You swipe your hand beneath your eye, catching a tear before it can fall, you cover your face with both your hands, groaning into your palms, before uncovering your face again.

“I had prepped all night- no fuck that, all month. I was ready, there were people, there were people counting on me. In one moment, everything was just gone. And he hasn’t even-” Your voice catches for a second, “He hasn’t even fucking said anything.”

Luca nods at you, a pitying look on his face that you hate. 

You don’t want to be pitied, but you can’t stop yourself from continuing on regardless,

“I mean Luca,” you let out a small breathy sarcastic laugh, “Luca, man, I do fucking, everything else. Like seriously, everything else. Actually, you know what, I’m lying, he actually does the water bill too, water and electric, and guess what-” you don’t wait for him to guess, “The water was just sitting on the fucking counter today, he never sent that one in either, but here’s the fucking kicker, he told me that he had. Like, what the fuck…I do everything, seriously everything. I water the plants, I take care of the cat, I clean the house, I do the dishes, wash the laundry, when he eats at home, I’m the one usually cooking, I take care of all necessary appointments, I leave him notes, I feel like I’m just begging him to open up to me, or to give me anything at all, and he just doesn’t. I flew to him. Always. I moved, not him, me. I moved here. For him. I had a job- fuck, I had a really fucking good job. I had a life…” you feel a tear escape your eye, you don’t bother to brush it away this time, “The most frustrating part is, that he really did try the past few days, he really did. Like big gestures.” 

Luca raises an eyebrow ever so slightly, like he was asking you, ‘well what were they?’

So you answer,

“Like- he made breakfast, he paid- well I thought he had paid the bills, but he also helped with chores, he was…He was really trying.”

Luca raises his eyebrow fully now, like he has something to say, but knows it’s not his place, you pry anyways,

“What?” you question.

“It’s just,” he pauses wondering if he should say whatever it is he’s about to say, “Were those grand gestures? Or is he just like…Doing what he’s supposed to be doing…,” he trails off, potentially scared that he had offended you. 

You open your mouth to come to Carmen’s defense but Luca cuts you off before you speak,

“He’s my friend, okay. He’s a talented guy, he’s a- I know he’s a good guy, I really truly do, I don’t just believe that okay, I know it,” Luca pauses before continuing again, “But you have to consider this from outside of your relationship and just, consider this, why is it a grand gesture when he does it, but an every day expectation when you do it.” 

You just sit there. Stunned. His words hitting you harder than you could’ve ever expected them to. 

His words were said with no judgement, not an ounce of malice, just truth. Glaring, cold, hard truth. Said too plainly to be avoidable. 

“I-I guess, I don’t know,” you answer him honestly, your voice quieter than ever before, “I guess because I stopped expecting anything at all.”

Luca doesn’t respond to you, he just looks at you, steady and careful.

“Am I…,” you start, “Am I wrong for thinking of leaving…,” you say it like a statement as opposed to a question, your voice cracking, feeling maybe the guiltiest you ever had in your entire life saying this all out loud.

“...You shouldn’t have to live like that,” Luca responded, “Nobody should, really, but you really shouldn’t have to live like that. Not with him. Not with anyone.” 

Something in you wanted to argue with him. Wanted to say that relationships are just difficult, that they ebb and flow, that this is just how it is. That Carmen has been through a lot, that he’s been through too much, that he’s been through enough to not deserve you leaving him too, that he’s trying. But you’re too exhausted to argue. Too exhausted to defend. Too exhausted to say anything about it, too tired to find the words for something which you weren’t sure you believed in any longer. 

For once, it feels okay to just say nothing instead.

A long silence falls between you both, occasional creak of the radiator and sounds of people outside breaking it intermittently, you rub your thumb across the rim of your wine glass. 

“I used to think it was you, that you were the one,” you say suddenly, surprising yourself and him, as soon as it escaped your mouth you immediately wished that you could take it back, but you couldn’t. It was already out there. The ugly truth, hanging in between you, sucking all of the air out of the room. You think of Carmy, the way he looked sitting on the couch the other night, how he looked up when you got home…You had never felt worse in your life about something.

Luca blinks at you.

You see him thinking about what you said, taking your words, swishing them around in his head like a glass of wine, tasting them, trying to pick up undertones and what might pair nicely with them. 

“Yeah,” he says eventually, “Me too.”

Your heart stops, and you start laughing, laughing and crying, and you can’t stop, barely managing to get it out, 

“I had that stupid fucking spreadsheet,” you say, choking on tears, “Do you remember it? I planned out fucking everything, every moment of the future like I could hack it, like I could code it into place, control it at all. Everything. Every interview. Every deadline. Everything. Everything but you.”

Luca smiles at you faintly, “Yeah. I remember.”

“I didn’t know how to make room for you,” you admit to him, “So I didn’t.”

He leans forward, his elbows resting on the table.

“You didn’t have to make room,” he says quietly, unable to meet your eyes, “I would’ve…just fit.”

You look at him, startled by his response, startled that you were still having this conversation at all. Surprised with yourself, shocked at him, disgusted with yourself, a guilty pit in your stomach, a knot in your throat thinking about how you had to go home to Carmen later. Face him. Tell him what you had said here tonight.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper.

He tilts his head at you, brow furrowing, confused, “For what?”

“For not letting you in. For leaving you, always. For ‘un-choosing’ you.”

He reaches across the table then, hesitating a second before resting his hand on top of yours, his touch is warm and grounding. 

“I’ve never held it against you,” he says, “I think I just always hoped you’d find your way back.”

The weight of the words hang heavy between you. Your fingers turn, lacing with his before you even realize what you’re doing. You can feel it, the pulse in his thumb, and the quiet inhale that he tried to hide. 

“I think I did,” you say. 

Luca’s eyes flicker between yours, “Are you saying that because you mean it…or because you’re hurt?”

You don’t know how to answer his question. You couldn’t. Not with any words you knew.

You get up from the table, pushing your chair out, feeling like you couldn’t quite get enough air in your lungs all of a sudden, Luca followed you over the the window where you stood looking out of it, your arm leaning you against the wall, he comes and stands beside you, face to face. 

Your arms are brushing together.

You’re so close. Too close. 

A recipe for disaster. 

He leans in, slowly, and you do the same, your foreheads nearly brushing, your eyes are closed, you can feel his breath on your skin, and his hand finds yours, squeezing it.

For a moment the world is completely still, nothing else exists but you and him, and this moment.

His lips brush yours right before you pull back.

You looked at him, like a deer in headlights. You don’t say anything, you don’t wait for him to say anything.

You run home. 

The streets were quiet as you ran back home. 

You didn’t even notice how cold it had gotten outside until you were about halfway to your apartment, your coat was unbuttoned, your hands bare. The wind stung at your face, your eyes tearing up, but you couldn’t tell if it was because you were upset or because of the cold.

Your heart thudded wildly, the aftershock of it all hitting you at once. That you had almost let it happen. That you almost crossed a line that you couldn’t uncross.

And of course the thought also crossed your mind, that perhaps you had already done so.

You can still feel Luca’s breath on your mouth. 

You can still feel the words hanging in the air, I think I did.

You round the corner towards your apartment, head down, heart still pounding, stomach twisting into knots that felt like grief.

And then you hear it.

Your name.

“(y/n)!”

Sharp and loud and in a voice that’s unmistakable.

It makes you stop in your tracks.

You freeze in place.

There he was. Carmen, standing on the sidewalk just outside your building. 

He looks like he ran there. Like he’d been running for hours, his hair is disheveled, the collar on his jacket is half-popped, and there’s a wild and broken up look in his eyes that you had only seen a few times in your life. 

“Hey, hey, (y/n), wait, please,” he says, walking towards you, his hands are raised like he’s afraid you’ll run away if he approaches too quickly, “Please, just, don’t go inside yet.”

You blink at him, speechless.

It’s like all of the vocabulary in your brain has left you. 

“I didn’t know where you went, and I, Luca texted me. I didn’t ask him to, he just did, and I think, fuck, I think he thought I needed to know. And I did. I do, I get it.”

Your stomach drops. 

You don’t say anything. You just stand there, staring at him.

“I didn’t want to chase you down, I really didn’t, I didn’t want to…I didn’t wanna make any of this worse,” there’s a slight crack in his voice that breaks your heart, “But then I thought, well, what if this is it? What if I don’t show up, and then you’re just…You’re just gone, forever. And it’s- it’s what I deserve. I deserve it but I still couldn’t live with it and-” 

He’s spiraling, crashing out before your eyes. You can see it happening in real time as you connect the dots, Luca had told him about the power outage. Nothing more. Nothing less. The rest was left up to you it seemed. 

You reach a hand out to him, placing it gently on his chest, and he grabs it like it’s a lifeline. 

“Come inside,” his eyes are pleading with you, “Please. Just let me show you. Let me show you that it…It’s not- it’s not flowers, or some stupid fucking speech…I didn’t do the dishes and act like it’s special, okay, I don’t want to do that shit, not anymore. I just, I need to show you something.”

You hesitate, your mind buffering, trying to take everything in, trying to process everything that had played out today, what was still playing out in front of you.

Carmy watches you with that look. The one from the movies. The one that keeps you. Always.

You nod, almost imperceptibly, and you can hear his breath catch in his throat, he’s walking beside you, your legs carrying you before you could even process that you were 

moving them at all.

Carmen opens the door to the apartment, shutting it behind him, not bothering to lock it. When you step inside of the apartment, everything hits you at once.

The smell first, filling your senses, it’s warm and comforting, sage or rosemary or something, the room is softly lit, candles scattered around. You blink hard, opening your eyes again, searching the room with your gaze. Where you had been expecting to see clutter and chaos, instead, you saw order, calm. 

The space had been cleaned. Organized.

All of the things that were usually your thing, were done already.

There was music playing low through a speaker on the kitchen counter, the dishes were done, the mail was sorted, there was a table set for two, the colorful crystal wine glasses you had thrifted years back that had been just collecting dust in a cabinet were set out, there were real napkins on the table. 

You can feel your throat tighten, your eyes welling up again.

“I-,” Carmen starts from behind you, “I didn’t really know how to say it, I guess…I never really learned how to say things, how to put them into the right words…I’ve thought about how to say these things, how to explain them, how to fix it with words, but…I never really say the right thing, not when it counts especially. So I just…did.”

You turn back to look at him, your eyes wide.

“(y/n), I’m so sorry,” he pauses, taking a deep breath before going on, “I paid everything today while you were gone. Electric, water, rent...Auto-pay is set. Forever. I cleaned, I fixed the bathroom light, I found the note you left me about the vet appointment and I confirmed it, and I made a calendar. It has everything on it. For both of us.”

You peer over to the wall on your right, and sure enough, a calendar was there hanging from a small thumbtack. Each day was filled in, obligations for both of you in neat and alternating colors. Little hearts drawn beside your name. Doodles of your cat next to vet appointments which were circled in green. Planned dinner nights marked in red hearts.

Recurring tasks highlighted.

Color coded columns and rows.

It takes you a moment to realize what it reminds you of.

The spreadsheet.

Your spreadsheet.

The one you used to live and swear by. You could remember showing Carmen the spreadsheet in the earlier days of your relationship, you had told him he was in ‘row C, column 12’, joking.

He had asked you, “Does C12 mean that I get to stay?”

You remember just laughing, you had never actually answered him.

You blink. “Is this…?”

Carmen shifts his weight from one leg to the other, “I tried to remember how you had it. That semester when you were scrambling, applying everywhere to jobs and everything, you showed me your planner and you joked that I was in ‘row C, column 12.’”

You were silent.

“I never stopped thinking about that,” Carmen says, voice sheepish, “So I tried to mimic the layout with this calendar and I…I filled it in. There’s a new ‘C12’ now.”

You walk over, eyes scanning the dates until they land on where ‘C12’ would hypothetically be,

C12 - (y/n)

Permanent.

Your breath catches.

“No more coming home late. No more disappearing on you,” Carmen takes a step towards you, hand nervously pulling at the bottom hem of his shirt, “I quit the restaurant.”

You don’t know what to say, so you just stare at him for a minute.

“You…you quit?” you ask, a serious and tight lipped expression on Carmen’s face, a light look of relief in his eyes.

His voice wavers, but it's steady at the core.

“Yeah. I had to. Not just for you, but for me too. I wasn’t-I’m not okay. I was always running on empty and I was still trying to act like it was just, all normal, and I just kept dragging you through all of it, and it just wasn’t…that wasn’t fair to you. I didn’t know how to stop until I thought I might lose you to it.”

A pause.

“And then I realized I already was. When Luca texted me, I…I freaked out, and I just, I walked out,” Carmen looked at the floor, “The second he texted me. I told them I was done. I came back. Didn’t take a call. Didn’t touch a knife. I just…came back home.”

You stand still. Heart pounding. Just trying to process everything. The effort, the gesture, the promise.

But you remember other promises.

Ones that had sounded like this one.

Ones that faded.

This one is new. And terrifying. 

You continue to stand there, completely still, in the middle of the apartment, looking at Carmy, stuck.

You look at him, and it feels like everything you ever wanted.

And that was exactly the problem. 

That’s what made it hurt so fucking bad.

You meet Carmen’s eyes, his hands are shaking at his sides, just slightly. His eyes are searching yours, like he’s looking for some answer you have yet to give to him. Your chest aches with something far too tangled to name. 

You take a deep breath in, ready to speak, but then stop yourself, can’t quite get the words out, you take another breath. 

Try again.

“This is the version of you I used to dream about, Carm.”

He flinches. Just barely, but you see it, the expression on his face telling you he wasn’t quite sure if it was praise or punishment, if it was both.

You hadn’t meant it cruelly. But maybe it needed to land like that.

Maybe it needed to land.

You watch as his gaze drops to the floor, like he wants it to swallow him up whole.

“I used to think about this,” you continue on, voice shaky, “Like all the time, I used to think about this. A dinner table. The mail sorted. The bills paid. Candles. You remembering…Remembering me.”

You swallow thickly, your eyes starting to burn, 

“I used to come home and just…Just hope. Hope that one day I wouldn’t be the only one making sure that the lights would stay on…Not the only one trying to keep us together.” 

Carmen nods at you slowly, like he understands, like he knows what’s coming next. 

Bracing himself for it. He forces himself to look at you.

“...And now that it’s here?” he asks, “Now that I finally got it all right-”

You cut him off, gently.

“I don’t know if I’m allowed to want it anymore.”

His eyes close, like it physically hurts him to keep them open, when he opens them again you can see tears fighting to spill out. 

“It’s not that I didn’t want this,” your throat feels like it’s closing up, “I did. I still do. I’ve always wanted you…I always want you…But I’m-I’m scared Carmen. I’m scared that it’s only showing up now because I finally decided to imagine what it might look like if I left.”

A long moment passes between the two of you before you continue.

“I shouldn’t have had to get to that point before you got to this one, Carm.”

He nods. Doesn’t try to defend himself. Doesn’t make an excuse. He runs a hand through his hair, pushing a stray piece back off his forehead, taking a shaky step towards you, and then another.

“You shouldn’t have,” he says, quiet and rough, “You’re right. You shouldn’t have.”

You nod at him, biting at your bottom lip to keep it from quivering, blinking fast in an effort to keep everything down, everything in.

“But I want to do this now,” he says. “Not just for tonight. Not just for this week. Not just when something breaks. I want to do it even when we’re okay. I want to do it until it’s boring, until it’s so fucking normal, that you’re bored to death of me. I want it to be the rule, not the fucking exception, not anymore. I want it to be us, every day…Please, just…let it be us.”

You study his face for a moment, really looking at him. His eyes, his posture, the rawness that he so rarely lets anyone ever see. 

“I didn’t need you to quit,” you say it softly, finally. “That was never what this was about, Carmy.”

Carmen nods, his jaw tightening, eyes on yours like he’s afraid if he looks away, you’ll disappear. 

“It’s just- I…I have a hard job too, Carm. We both do. It was never about you having to give it all up. I just needed to feel like I mattered next to it. Like we mattered, like it meant something to you, too.” 

You pause, your voice catching in your throat. 

“But I’m glad you did. I’m glad that you chose yourself. That this isn’t just something to keep me around or at least I hope it’s not…I’m glad that you got out, for you.”

Something in his face breaks, it’s not pain exactly, but something more subtle, more reverent. As if no one has ever said that to him before.

Carmen takes another step towards you, closer now, too close.

But you don’t move.

Your eyes are locked on each other, full of years of unspoken words, and you see something desperate in his expression, something frantic just beneath the surface of it all.

“I’m so sorry,” he says, and his hand moves, like he wants to hold yours, but doesn’t. “I’m trying so fucking hard. I know that doesn’t erase these past few months- years, even, but,” he takes a deep breath, the first tear managing to slip its way down his face, he starts over, “I know it doesn’t erase what I did, or what I didn’t do. But I need you to know that I would’ve kept going like that until it killed me. Killed us. I didn’t realize it, but you just…You woke me up. I can see it so fucking clearly now.”

You can’t breathe, not properly. The tears start coming and they don’t stop.

“I don’t need you to forgive me right now, I don’t expect you to, not now,” he says, “I just- I need you to stay. Please. I need to know that maybe there’s still a version of this, of us, where I haven’t already ruined everything. Please can we try again? Please let me try again.”

He’s standing just inches away from you now, and the air is thick. His eyes are glassy, he’s shaking.

You swallow hard, and every part of your body feels on edge.

“Carmy,” you whisper, your voice breaking.

And just as he leans forwards, closing the gap, too close, too intense, his hands still hovering, afraid to touch you-

that doesn't mean that his behavior is harmless. as much as we want to believe that self-sabotage is just that (self-sabotage) it ends up still impacting others, especially in relationships, romantic and otherwise. but it's important to really differentiate between harm and abuse, and between malevolent manipulation and trauma response. i wouldn't say he's trying to impact others for personal gain as it's actually typically to his own detriment, but rather, that he's collapsing in on himself.

i'd also say that i think it can be really harmful to casually assign traits like sex-ual coercion or manipulation to characters who haven't shown them on screen, especially when those characters are already intended to represent deep mental health struggles. because the thing about a movie/show is that they can show us that if they want to. if a character is meant to be that, they will be that. by assigning these things when we see behaviors that represent mental health symptoms it not only warps the intent of the character, but it also reinforces some really damaging narratives: that people with trauma, or people who struggle to connect, are dangerous by default. and that's just not true.

it has the potential to take away from stories where that kind of abuse is present and meant to be addressed. assigning those traits where they don't exist can blur the line of abuse and emotional struggle and it makes real conversations about abuse harder and less precise when it comes to fictional media. the potential mislabeling of characters like carmen can also unintentionally harm real survivors, by implying that anyone who struggles emotionally must also be dangerous or manipulative when in reality a lot of those same behaviors of avoidance result from being a victim of such circumstances.

“Fuck!” 

Your heart catches mid-beat, an inhale sticking in your chest like it’s caught between your ribs. The sound, the volume, the force of his voice, it’s not like anything you’ve ever heard from Carmy before. It wasn’t the man you’ve shared mornings with, tangled in sheets and sunlight, the one who gets flustered just from you kissing him on the cheek, no, this Carmy standing in front of you is not the one you know. 

This was not your boyfriend of six months. 

You don’t actually realize that you’ve stopped dead in your tracks until Richie lightly bumps into you from behind. 

He glances over your shoulder, then quickly back at you.

“Shit,” he mutters under his breath. “You alright?”

You nod, maybe just a bit too quickly, lips parting, but no sound comes out. Your mouth feels dry. 

Richie studies your face, and he sees it. The way your eyes are wide, the way your hands tremble slightly at your sides. He opens his mouth like he might say something, but Carmy turns around and notices him standing there, his brows furrowing, and then you. His face falls.

Carmy’s voice softens, visibly, audibly. 

The second his eyes land on you, it’s like a switch flips.

“(y/n)?”

He takes a few steps toward you, brows drawing together. 

“What- what are you doing here? I thought you had work?”

“I got off early,” you say, and your voice feels too small in this space. “I wanted to- I wanted to surprise you…” 

He’s close now, not quite touching you, but near enough that the scent of him, smoke, thyme, heat, wraps around you like a blanket, and he smiles. Just for a moment.

“Shit,” he says, running another hand through his hair. “That’s a…that’s a really fucking good surprise.”

You give him a weak smile back, the edges of it faltering. You give him a light kiss, but all you can hear is the echo of his voice from just moments ago.

“If you can’t plate it clean, don’t fucking plate it!”

“Lock the fuck in!”

The way he threw that Sharpie.

He notices the way that your arms cross over your stomach, the way that you take a half step back without thinking. 

His expression falls.

“You okay, baby?” he asks.

You nod, but it’s a lie.

You don’t want it to be a lie, but it is.

His gaze lingers on your, and you know that Carmy can see straight through you. You used to love that about him, that he could just seem to read you without you needing to say a thing. But right now, you ate it.

“I didn’t um- I didn’t mean to interrupt,” you say quickly, glancing past him to the line where cooks are still scrambling, heads down, too afraid or too focused, or both.

“Oh- you didn’t,” he says. “Fuck, no, I’m- I’m really glad you came. I just- uh…”

He scratches the back of his neck, breath ragged.  “It gets loud back here. It’s…it’s a lot. You okay?”

You nod again. You’re going to run out of fake nods soon.

He steps forward again, instinctively reaching for your hand, but you flinch.

It’s microscopic, barely perceptible.

But he notices, his hand hovers for just a beat before falling back at his side.

Silence wraps around both of you, thick and pressing, despite the volume of the kitchen.

“I’m sorry,” you murmur, voice barely audible.

Carmy shakes his head. “No- no, really, don’t be. I’m uh- I’m glad you came.”

A voice from the line calls to him with a sharp “Heard, Chef?” from behind him, and you catch just a flicker of frustration ripple through his face before he brings his attention back to you.

“So, I’ll uh- I’ll send out some food to you, made special, with love,” he gives you a small smile, which you return, “And then uh, I’ll be out as soon as we close. Wait for me?” he asks, and it’s quiet, like he doesn’t want anyone else to hear him.

You nod. “Yeah, I’ll wait.”

He lets out a breath and gives you a gentle kiss on your forehead before turning back to the kitchen, shouting out instructions again while you slip back into the dining room.

You sit at your table for the rest of the night, barely touching your food, your stomach too twisted in knots to really eat. Richie and Natalie visit you intermittently to check in on you, Natalie sits with you for a bit and you chat about life, and the weather, new TV shows you’ve been watching, and promise to do something together soon. 

You try to listen to the hum of the restaurant, the soft music playing in the background, the murmur conversations, to distract yourself with the comfort of being in a place that Carmy built with his own two hands, but it’s hard not to flinch every time a plate clatters just a little too loud or every time that you think you might be able to faintly hear his voice rising above the noise through the kitchen doors.

And when the night ends, when the lights dim and the crowds all finally filter out, and the kitchen falls quiet, he finds you at your table.

His apron is slung over his shoulder, his curls are messy and his face is flushed from the heat of the night.

He looks at you with tired eyes, and a soft smile.

“You ready?” he asks.

You nod. 

Your apartment smells like the peppermint candle that you lit about an hour ago just trying to calm yourself down.

Carmy’s bag is at the door, his hoodie is draped over the back of the living room chair, his voice coming softly from the bathroom as he mumbles something to himself, washing his face, brushing his teeth like he always does when he sleeps over.

Like he has for the last few weeks.

Like everything is normal.

And you know that it is, technically, everything is.

This is probably how it always is, how he always is, every night, before he comes home to you.

But it still feels different tonight.

Because tonight? You saw it.

You’re sitting on the edge of the bed, phone in hand, screen dim, just pretending to scroll. The room is quiet except for the faint hum of the bathroom fan and the occasional creak of the floorboards when Carmy shifts his weight in the bathroom.

You keep replaying it in your head.

The sound of his voice.

The sharpness of it.

The way everyone in the kitchen just snapped to attention, like they all knew better than to hesitate.

You’d never actually seen anyone afraid of Carmy before, you didn’t even think it was possible.

But tonight? You saw it, and now, it’s all you can feel.

The bathroom light flicks off, and you lock your phone, placing it face down on the nightstand. He walks out, barefoot, shitless, his hair is damp and curling at the ends, a little messy.

It’s all so familiar, almost comforting. 

The scent of his shampoo and steam from the shower curls into your bedroom. 

He looks at you with a gentle look in his eyes. 

“You wanna put something on?” he asks, motioning to the laptop in his other hand. “Something dumb, maybe? How about that trash daring show you like?”

You nod, smiling weakly. “Sounds good, Carmy.”

He sits down next to you on the bed, the mattress dipping just slightly beneath his weight. His thigh brushes against yours, just barely, but it’s enough to make your shoulders stiffen.

You don’t mean to, it’s instinct.

But it’s enough, enough for him to notice. Enough for him to feel it. 

Carmy doesn’t say anything to you right away, he just opens the laptop, pulling up Netflix, and clicks play. The familiar music starts up, some ridiculous stock music sounding tune that mimics almost exactly the dialogue being said by some contestant, bright and unserious, and he adjusts the screen, settling back against the headboard next to you.

You stay sitting upright, legs crossed, arms folded tight over your chest.

The light from the laptop dances across both of your faces, but neither of you are really watching.

He turns his head just slightly toward you, and you can feel the weight of his gaze on you before he even speak.s

“You’re really quiet,” he murmurs.

You nod. “Sorry- just tired.”

It’s a lie. 

He sets the laptop down on the nightstand and turns the volume off, the room instantly falling into a deeper kind of stillness, it makes you tense. 

“Can we talk?”

Your stomach ties into knots, but you nod again. 

He draws one leg up, facing you more directly, his voice is soft, but strained.

“I know what you saw tonight scared you.”

You say nothing, eyes fixed on a wrinkle in the comforter.

“I’ve been doing this for so long I just-,” he continue, hesitating for a moment, “-I don’t even realize how I sound sometimes, I guess. I- I get this like, this tunnel vision. I stop thinking about how I come off, and fuck, it’s- it’s not an excuse, I know, but it’s the truth.”

You still can’t meet his eyes.

“I never wanted you to see that, that part of me,” he says. “Not because I was hiding it, I mean, fuck, I never want to hide anything from you. I just…I guess I hoped it wouldn’t matter, that you’d know that it just…it isn’t me.”

Your voice is quiet when it finally comes. “But it- it is you, isn’t it?”

You can see his face actively fall, can almost hear his stomach drop.

He looks down at his hands, flexing his fingers slowly.

“Yeah,” he whispers. “Yeah, I guess it is.”

There’s a long pause before you continue.

“I’ve just…never seen you that angry before. I didn’t think you could be. Not like that.”

He swallows hard.

“I don’t want you to think I’d be like that with you, ever, okay, I’d never-”

“I know,” you say quickly, too quickly. You glance up at him. “I know you wouldn’t, but it’s not- it’s not really about that, Carmy. It’s not about knowing, it’s about feeling. And tonight? I guess…I felt scared, and now I just…I don’t know how to stop.”

He can feel his heart shatter in his chest.

He breathes in sharply, and you can feel yourself tense up and pull back from him, just slightly. 

That single movement, your body pulling back, even just a little, it feels like a fucking knife to his heart. 

It doesn’t matter that you don’t mean it, it doesn’t matter that it’s maybe not even permanent. Because it still happened.

And Carmy felt it like it was the loudest thing in the room.

He sits perfectly still for a moment, like he’s afraid that any sort of movement he makes might just make it worse.

Then, slowly, he exhales. It’s long and quiet, like he’s trying to breathe out all of the pain in his chest.

“Fuck,” he says under his breath, his voice cracking. “I really…I really messed this up, didn’t I?”

You shake your head. “You didn’t-” but your voice falters, and you stop. You try again. “Carmy- I…I promise you it’s not that simple.”

He nods. “Yeah. Yeah, I know…I know, I’m sorry.”

The silence stretches between you again.

“I just…,” Carmy starts again, his words fragile, “I didn’t think about what it would mean. You seeing that side of all of it- I just…I guess, I’ve been doing it for so long, I forgot that it’s not…not normal.”

You let out a soft, unsteady breath. “It’s not.”

He lets your words linger in the air for a moment.

It’s not.

“I know,” he says again, but this time quieter, heavier. “I know it’s not. But for a long time, I really- I really did…I mean, I thought it was.”

You glance at him, not entirely certain of where he might be going with this, but you nod at him with a soft smile, as if to say ‘go on, I’m listening’.

He presses forward, taking a deep breath.

“When I started out,” he says, slowly, like he’s peeling back the layers of an onion, “I was just trying to survive, you know? First few kitchens I worked in…man, they were- they were just fucking brutal. Guys screaming in your fucking face over a half-second mistake, pans thrown across the line, just, fucked up shit being screamed, thrown around, everywhere…I watched a guy throw an entire plate at someone’s head once because the garnish was wrong.” He huffs a bitter, humorless laugh, shaking his head, and your heart aches for him. “And no one even fucking flinched. Like that was just…that was just Tuesday, or some shit.”

Your breath catches a little, and you instinctively wrap your arms around yourself.

Carmy notices. He’s quiet for a moment before continuing.

“I hate it at first, just fucking, hated it. I told myself I’d never turn into that, never- never be like that. But you keep your head down, learn to move fast, not talk back, say ‘yes, chef,’ and just- just learn to fucking take it. And then eventually, you start believing that it’s just part of the job. That being treated like…like shit is just the- the cost of wanting to be good, the best.”

You nod slowly. “Because they told you if you can’t take it then you- then you don’t belong there…”

His eyes lift to meet yours. “Exactly.”

“And I guess…I guess I thought,” he says, voice lower now, “that I could just bring the good parts of all that back here. To The Bear. You know, like, the work ethic. The precision, the pride, all that bullshit…But I didn’t realize how much of the bad came with it. How much of it had already just…fucking, poisoned everything.” 

You nod again, your voice soft. “Like muscle memory.”

“Yeah,” he runs a hand through his hair. “It’s like…I hear myself shouting, and I know I sound like the guys who used to make me feel like- feel like I was just fucking shit, you know? Like just- just fucking worthless…But in the moment? I’m just trying to keep the place running. And it doesn’t really feel like it’s- like it’s that when you’re the one doing it…It just feels like…survival.”

You shift a little, not away, just settling in closer, still cautious.

“I think about the people who trained me,” he continues. “People I looked up to, and I realize now they…they were all just passing down shit that was done to them. It’s like this whole fucking industry is just one giant fucked-up game of telephone. Like, screaming turns into normal, normal turns into silence, and silence just turns into- into ‘yes, chef’.”

He laughs again, but there’s no humor in it.

“I’m so fucking…I’m just so fucking tired of it. Of thinking that if I just yell louder, or move faster, or push harder, everything will just- just fall into place, but it…it doesn’t. It just makes everyone afraid. And now…” He looks at you. “Now I’ve made you afraid.”

There’s a very long pause, then your voice comes, gentle but firm.

“I think you’re right. That you brought the good parts back with you…But you also brought the ghosts…”

Carmy nods, slowly.

“I want to let them go,” he whispers. “I just…don’t know how to.”

You look at him, and something inside you softens, you can see how much he really means it. How much he hates what he’s become, or maybe what he’s realizing he already was.

“You don’t have to know exactly how,” you say, just above a whisper. “But you have to try. You have to want to be different. Even when it’s hard. Even when no one else is.”

His eyes glisten, and he nods again.

“I do,” he says. “I really really do…I want to be different. For you. For me. For the people in that kitchen- the people…the people that I love.”

You feel yourself go rigid for a moment, you’d been seeing each other for a while now, but you haven’t said that to each other yet. You knew you felt it. You were pretty sure he felt it too, but it just hadn’t been said yet. 

You turn to look at him.

“Love?”

He blinks, like he didn’t even realize he’d said it until the word was out.

“Shit,” he says, his voice small. “I- yeah. Yeah, I- fuck.” He exhales, rubbing the heel of his palm against his brow. “I didn’t mean to just- to drop that on your like this, I just…”

He looks over at you, searching for something in your face, maybe a sign that you’re going to leave, shut it down, break it off.

But you don’t.

You’re still.

“I…I love you too, Carmy.” 

Carmy goes still, like the words just completely stop him in place.

You can see how much it takes for him to stay there, to not run from the weight of everything that he’s feeling. He’s not used to this part. The softness, the staying…the understanding. 

“I love you,” he says, voice shaking. “I don’t want to fuck this up.”

“I know,” you whisper. “But you might, and I might, and that’s just…that’s just a part of it.”

He nods, slowly, you reach for his hand, and close it around his.

“But, I trust you,” you say, “and that…that’s enough. I love you, and I trust that.” 

Carmy doesn’t respond right away, just holds your hand like it’s the first solid thing he’s touched in his life.

His thumb brushes against the back of your fingers.

“I don’t know what I did to deserve you,” he murmurs.

You smile, small and soft. “It’s not about deserving, it’s about deciding, making an active choice. To choose to do better. To choose each other…And I choose you.”

He exhales, slow and shaky, like he’s been holding it in for years.

“Then…Then I’m gonna keep choosing you, too,” he says. “Every damn day, I choose you.”

You lean in, letting your forehead press against his, your fingers laced together between you, with the comfort of knowing that whatever Carmy chooses that you know he will always take the effort to make sure that it’s the right choice. 

The crash echoes through the kitchen, ceramic on the tile, sharp and sudden.

A plate.

You look up from your book which you had been reading on the bench by the lockers, just waiting for Carmy’s shift to end so you could go out together afterwards.

For a moment, everyone freezes, and all eyes seem to flick to Carmy.

And Carmy…just breathes. 

His eyes look down to the shards on the ground, then back up, searching the kitchen.

“Everyone good?” he asks, his voice is even, firm, just loud enough to be heard. “Not cuts?”

A murmur of “yes, chefs”.

“Cool, let’s clean it up then, keep moving.”

And just like that, the spell breaks, the line keeps rolling.

Behind him, everyone exchanges looks, subtle, but there’s something in it.

Relief…Respect.

Carmy makes his way over to you, puts his hand on your shoulder.

You look up to him. “Oh my god, ew, Carmy, stop, you’re gonna get your grease on me!”

He laughs, a genuine grin on his face, and it’s for you.

“Sorry, plan to be out in an hour, you good until then?” he asks, still smiling down at you.

You nod, putting your hand over his on your shoulder.

He presses his lips to your forehead before turning and walking back toward the kitchen. 

“Alright, chefs, good job tonight so far, only an hour til close, let’s get this done!” 

“Yes chef!” 

Without a word, he reached for your wrist. You flinched at first, but didn’t pull away. He turned your hand over gently with his eyes skimming the angry red surface of your palm.

Then, still silent, he crouched down beside a drift of fresh snow and slowly, deliberately, guided your hand into it.

The cold bit sharp, made you hiss.

“You’ve gotta stop hiding shit like that,” he murmured, close to your ear, not looking at you. His hand stayed wrapped loosely around your wrist. “This place doesn’t reward it, no one comes out to give you a fucking medal for pretending it doesn’t hurt.”

You didn’t respond, just stood there, the snow numbing your burn, his hand steady on yours.

That was the first time you’d touched.

Later, in the shared hostel kitchen, you ate instant noodles out of the same bowl, and didn’t exchange many words. You watched his hands, how careful they were even with a fork, and thought, I could really like you. I could be with you.

You didn’t sleep in your own bed that night. Or the one after that.

new york, almost

New York City was louder than either of you could’ve ever anticipated. Even in the tiny apartment that you shared, sixth floor walk-up, radiator that hissed like it was alive and had something to say, there was still noise. Construction. Sirens. The constant hum of ambition and rush bleeding in from the street.

You both worked doubles, constantly. Staged wherever you could. Slept when you remembered to. Sometimes you would come home just to find Carmy already passed out on the floor in his chef’s jacket, shoes still on, head tipped back against the wall. You’d nudge his foot and he’d grunt something half-asleep, crack one eye open and whisper, “You okay?”

And you’d smile at him and say something like, ‘“Didn’t quite make it to the bed?” 

One of your favorite things about Carmy was how he could make you laugh.

Really laugh, head ripped back, snort, breathless kind of laughing, usually over little things, stupid things. A Yelp review, a guy on the L train screaming about boiled eggs. The way the two of you would show up to dinner service together with matching burns on opposite hands from pots and pans.

You lived off takeout dumplings and your shared hatred of your landlords. You split a single egg for breakfast once because it was all you could really afford at the time. There were nights you came home with fingers bleeding from prep and he’d bandage them with the mini first-aid kit you kept in an old Altoids tin. Sometimes, you kissed, talked for hours on end. Other times, you just stared at the ceiling together, side by side, talking shit, fingers brushing, head on his chest. 

But then the silences started creeping in.

Not the good kind, not the ones from Copenhagen where you were warm in a shared kitchen, quiet in understanding. These were sharp, loaded. He’d be in the middle of rewriting a menu, eyes flicking fast back and forth over some scribbled note in a margin, and you’d ask what he wanted to eat and he just wouldn’t answer. 

Not because he hadn’t heard you, but because he couldn’t be pulled back.

And you, you started keeping things to yourself. Not on purpose, exactly, not at first. It just got harder and harder to explain what you were feeling when every day left your body aching and your heart stretched far too thin. You didn’t want to burden him.

That’s what you told yourself.

The first time you fought, like really fought, it was over a salad.

You said it didn’t need the microgreens, he said it did. You said he wasn’t listening to you, he said maybe you should listen to him more.

You left the apartment that night and walked for three hours. When you came back, you find him asleep, curled up on his side with his hand on your pillow.

You crawled in next to him like nothing had happened.

But something had.

The next morning, the apartment felt colder somehow, despite the thermostat reading the same temperature as usual. Like the warmth had all just slipped out of the back door sometimes after you crawled into bed with him, curled up beside him.

Carmy was already awake when you left the bedroom, coffee cup in his hand, eyes heavy but sharper than usual. He didn’t say good morning. 

You leaned up against the counter, tracing on the chipped sides of the marble.

“I’m tired,” you said.

He nodded, not looking up at you.

“You don’t have to do this alone,” you said, just above a whisper.

He finally met your eyes, tired, frustrated, and something like regret.

“I’m not doing it alone,” he responded, jaw tensing and untensing.

“But it feels like it.”

You took a breath, swallowed the lump that had formed in your throat.

“But I’m not,” he repeated.

“But I am,” you said, quietly.

There was a silence. One of those terrible ones. This great and terrible silence that usually only meant one thing.

The end.

Carmy set his mug down a little too hard on the counter, making you flinch.

“Then maybe you should just go,” he said, not meeting your eyes again.

The words landed on you, hard, mean, cruel. 

His voice was calm, but it felt more like a slap in the face.

You blinked at him.

“I should go?”

“I don’t know.” He rubbed a hand over his face, leaned forward line there was a weight on his back pushing him. “I just, fuck, I don’t know anymore. I don’t know what you want me to say. You say I’m not here, I say I am, we’re both tired as shit, and just trying to-” He stopped short, hands gesturing helplessly.

You stared at him.

“Trying to what? Build a life? Build a restaurant? Burn out before thirty?”

He looked up at you then, and there was something in his expression, something worn-down, something stubborn, something…scared.

“I thought this was what we wanted.” 

You laughed, but it wasn’t a real laugh. It was cracked, empty in the middle.

“It was, Carmy, it really was. Maybe it still is. But not like this.”

He swallowed, jaw tight.

“What the fuck does that mean?”

“It means I don’t know how to do this with you if you won’t let me in, Carm,” you said, your voice starting to break. “It means I miss you even when you’re standing right in front of me, and you don’t talk to me, and you make me feel…You make me feel like I’m just another task on your list of things to do, and- and I…I love you, I thought we were building a life together.” 

Carmy exhaled, slow and sharp, like he was trying not to explode. Like he wanted to say a hundred things but knew every one of them would just make it worse, like he wanted to yell like he did at work, scream, throw something. 

When he opened his mouth, he spoke calmly. 

Measured and quiet.

“I never asked you to stay,” he said finally.

You stared at him.

Your mouth opened, then closed again. You didn’t have words for the way that your chest cracked open just then.

“I know,” you said after a moment. “You didn’t have to.”

The silence between you stretched, you felt it wash over you. 

Carmy rubbed at the back of his neck, eyes darting toward the floor.

Then he looked up at you. 

“You want honesty?” he said, voice tight. “Fine.”

You didn’t move. Just waited.

“You talk like I’m the one who shut you out,” he said. “But you- you wanted some, some fantasy. This, like, I don’t know, this fake, made up thing, the boyfriend, this guy who like, wakes up and makes coffee and doesn’t spend every second thinking about everything he hasn’t done yet. You wanted someone who would just make space for you and be with you, but I can’t even make space for myself. But you’re fucking wrong- you don’t fucking know me, okay? Stop acting like you do. You don’t.”

You were quiet for a moment, blinking hard, willing yourself not to cry.

“Okay,” you said, voice steady. “Message received.”

Carmen didn’t stop you when you went into the bedroom.

Didn’t stop you when you started packing a bag.

Didn’t stop you when you took your keys and left.

Didn’t say anything when you came back in the following weeks to take all of your things.

Didn’t say a word.

‘Message received,’ you thought to yourself, taking your last box out of the place that you shared with Carmen, and closing the door for good. 

chicago, now

You look Carmen dead in the eye, dropping what you’re doing entirely.

“Carmen, I came here to help with your restaurant,” you said, words pointed.

“Well, I didn’t fucking ask.”

You don’t blink. “Richie did. And I’m here as a favor- to him. Not to you.”

His jaw tightens, but you don’t stop.

“So I’m going to do what I came here to do. I’m going to do a damn good job at it. And you-” you step in just slightly, eyes lock on his, “you are going to leave me the fuck alone. Because I might be at your restaurant, but I’m not here for you.”

For a moment, he doesn’t say anything. Just stares at you like he’s trying to find something familiar in your face…and failing.

The kitchen is silent. Even the sizzle of oil on the stove seems to have fallen quiet, like the walls themselves are holding their breath, waiting to see what might be said next. 

Sydney pauses mid-chop. Tina looks over from the other station, brows lifted, mouthing Damn, to Marcus who has since turned the mixer off. Richie’s eyes bounce from you to Carmen like he’s watching a bomb that’s about to go off.

But Carmen says nothing. Just stares at you, like he’s trying to figure out when you started being someone who looked at him like that. Like he doesn’t even recognize your voice anymore. And he knows it’s his fault.

Then, quietly, he turns and walks away.

You don’t watch him go, you go back to your station. The clang of your knife hitting the board is sharp, steady, controlled. 

You don’t say another word for the rest of the shift.

You’re leaning against the alley wall, jacket barely zipped, the night air biting at your skin. Just trying to breathe. Just trying to come down from it all.

Your hands are trembling, but it’s not from the cold.

The door swings open behind you with a familiar metallic creak. Luca steps out, calm and collected, two cigarettes pinched between his fingers and a lighter in the other.

He offers one without saying anything at first. Just a quiet look.

You accept it, light up, the inhale steadying something in your chest.

“Nice of us to come help out, right?” he says, dryly, a soft laugh under his breath.

You let out a sound somewhere between a scoff and an exhale. “Yeah. Real warm welcome.”

He leans next to you against the wall, close enough to share the silence, but not enough to crowd it.

“I saw what happened,” he adds, voice low. “You alright?”

You hesitate for a moment before replying. “I’m fine.”

He hums, clearly unconvinced, but not pushing.

“Carmen’s…he’s- he’s under a lot of pressure right now.”

You turn your head to look at him, eyes tired. “Yeah, well, so is everyone else. Doesn’t give him the right to treat people like that.”

“No, it doesn’t.”

The silence stretches again.

You glance down at the end of your cigarette, then up at the stars, or maybe it’s just the faint glow of the city haze. 

“I just…I didn’t come here for a fight,” you say, softer now. “I came to help. And he looked at me like I was the enemy.”

Luca tilts his head, looking at you. “You’re not.”

You meet his eyes for a moment, and something about the way he says it, quiet and certain, makes your chest clench.

The door bangs open again.

Carmen.

He stops dead in his tracks when he sees the two of you, just a beat too long to play it off. His eyes flick to the cigarette in your hand, then to Luca. Then back to you.

“What the fuck is this?” he asks.

You raised your eyebrows. “Excuse me?”

“This. Out here. You two.”

You blink, stunned, then let out a short, bitter laugh. “Are you serious?”

“I’m just-” his voice tightens. “I didn’t know we were doing this now.”

“There is no this,” you say sharply. “And even if there was, it doesn’t concern you, like, at all. You made that pretty clear.”

Luca clears his throat, stepping slightly away like he’s trying to give space that doesn’t exist. 

“I was just offering a smoke. Chill, mate.”

Carmen’s jaw is clenched so tight you can practically hear his molars grinding.

You don’t wait for him to say anything else.

“You don’t get to care, Carmy,” you say. “You don’t get to act like this.”

He doesn’t respond, he can’t.

You toss the end of your cigarette to the ground, crush it beneath your shoe, and head inside.

Neither of them follows.

You don’t make it far.

Halfway down the hall, the sound of footsteps follows fast behind you.

You don’t turn around.

“Hey,” Carmen calls. “Wait- fuck, just…wait. Please.”

You stop, slowly turning to look at him.

He looks wrecked. Not in the usual work-tired way, but like, something is just unraveling behind his eyes.

“What do you want?” you ask, flatly.

He doesn’t answer right away. Runs a hand through his hair, paces two steps, then stops again. His breathing’s shallow.

“You never used to smoke,” he says finally, voice rough.

You blink. “What?”

“You never used to fucking smoke,” he repeats, louder now, like it matters far more than it should.

“And you used to call me Carmy. Now it’s Carmen?”

Something sharp tugs at your chest. “Yeah, well, you’re not the same either.”

He looks at you, eyes glassy, mouth opening and closing like he’s not sure which truth to say first. And then he says all of them, in a rush.

“I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing anymore, okay? I’ve been angry, so- so fucking angry, ever since,” he pauses for a moment, voice cracking, “since Mikey…I’ve just been so fucking angry. Like every day, just…I’m so fucking mad at him, and I’m so…I’m just so fucking sad. Sad all the time. Like something’s just gnawing through my fucking chest, and it’s- it’s just so fucked up, because, he’s the one who’s not here, I should- I should feel bad, right? Like I shouldn’t be angry, what’s there to even be angry at, it’s not like he’s here, it’s not like he knows, I can’t fucking tell him off.”

His voice breaks, he fists his hands into his apron, and his voice is strained when he continues.

“And when you left, fuck, when you left it just felt like…I don’t know, but I just realized. I realized that I can’t keep fucking losing people. And I…I missed you. I miss you. Every fucking day of my life, and I was so angry back then too, and I just- I don’t want to keep losing people, I don’t want to keep losing you. I- I still love you.”

You stare at him.

At the way his hands are shaking. At the way he won’t look at you now that the words are out, like he’s afraid that you’ll take them and gut him with them at any second.

You should be angry.

Fuck, you were angry, for such a long fucking time.

But right now, all you can feel is this ache beneath it, beneath everything.

The weight of it all. Everything unsaid.

You sigh. It comes out shaky. Like the breath has been sitting in your lungs for months. No, years.

“I was angry too, you know,” you say. “Still am, sometimes.”

He looks at you, eyes rimmed red. 

“I waited,” you say. “I waited for you to say something. Anything. And when you didn’t, I thought- okay. I guess that’s it.”

“I didn’t know how-” he mutters, stopping, and then starting again, “I didn’t know what to say.”

“Yeah, well,” you blink hard, throat tight, “I didn’t know how to leave either, but I still had to.”

For a while you both just stand there, staring at each other, until Carmen breaks the silence.

“I waited for you,” he says. 

You laugh, not because it’s funny, but because it’s just too much.

Too cruel. 

Too full-circle.

“You, what?” You ask, incredulous. 

“I waited,” he repeats, “All these years, okay, I’ve waited. I mean…I hoped, and I…I just didn’t- I couldn’t imagine being with anyone but you.”

His voice breaks at the end, and you swear he looks how he did when you first met him in this moment. Younger. Hopeful. The man who used to hold your hand under tables, who used to cook for you when he didn’t know what else to say. The one who took your hand and placed it in the snow that day. The one who noticed in the first place.

Your breath stutters in your chest.

“Carmy, I-” you start, cutting yourself off, tired and sad. “You didn’t call. Not once.”

He winces. 

“I didn’t know if I had the right,” he says. “After everything…I just- I thought you would be better off. Without me.”

You shake your head, tears starting to leak out.

“You didn’t get to decide that for me, Carmen.”

He flinches at his name. 

“I know,” he says. Voice small. “I know that now.”

You wipe your face with the back of your hand, angry at the tears, at yourself, at him.

Mostly just at how much it all still hurts.

“I would’ve chosen you,” you whisper. “You just had to let me. You just had to choose me too.”

Carmen lets out a shaky breath, stepping forward like he wants to close the space but isn’t sure if he’s allowed.

“I was scared,” he admits. “Of ruining you. Of dragging you into- into my shit. I thought I was protecting you, but really…I was just running. Like always.”

He finally looks at you, really looks at you, and says, even quieter, “But I wanted you. I still want you.”

Something inside you shifts.

You don’t move, not yet.

But your voice is softer when you ask, “So, what is it that you really want?"

He sighs, reaches forward, takes your hand, just like that first night in Copenhagen all those years ago.

“I want you. I want you to stay, here, with me. I want us, again. I want to make you coffee in the mornings, I want to wake up with you, I want to lay awake at night with you, I want to be the one to smoke with you- I mean, I want you to quit, but I want-”

You can’t stop yourself from laughing.

It bubbles out of you, shaky from leftover tears, but a real laugh. Carmen stares at you, shocked.

“Jesus,” you say breathless. 

“What?”

He runs a hand through his hair, sheepish.

“You-,” you say, shaking your head. “You always make me laugh.”

Carmen’s brow furrows, like he’s not sure if that’s a good thing or if he should apologize for it. You can see the panic flicker in his eyes, like he’s waiting for the punchline to hurt.

“I mean it,” you say quickly, softer. “Even when I didn’t- don’t want to. Even when I was so fucking pissed at you, you’d say something dumb or just…look at me like that,” you gesture vaguely at him, “and it’d ruin the whole mood.”

A small smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “Sorry?”

You shake your head again. “I mean- how am I supposed to be brooding and mad when you look at me like that.” 

He blinks, caught off guard, then laughs quietly, soft, almost embarrassed.

“That’s unfair,” he says, running a hand through his hair.

“Unfair?” you repeat, raising an eyebrow.

“Yeah. You know, being disarmed by me is just part of my charm.”

You grin, the tension easing between you.

“Well, it’s working.”

He steps closer, eyes searching yours.

“Can we do this?” he asks, “Please?”

You hold his gaze, heart hammering in your chest.

“Yeah,” you breathe out. “We can try.”