Rambo

You were muttering to yourself, holding two identical boxes of penne. “Okay, so the organic one is twelve cents more, but the box is smaller, so the unit price is actually… god, I can’t do math right now.”

Your voice was soft, but it cut through the practically empty store like a clear bell. Carmen, conditioned by years in kitchens to notice distress signals, paused. 

You looked exhausted. There was a smudge of what looked like pureed carrot on your shoulder, and your hair was escaping a haphazard bun. But your eyes, even in their tired state, were warm.

He didn’t mean to speak. It just came out. “The store brand. It’s the same supplier. You’re just paying for the logo.”

You jumped, clutching the pasta to your chest like a shield. Your wide eyes landed on him, and he immediately felt like an idiot. He must have looked a sight himself—pale, shadows under his eyes, wearing a frayed hoodie that had seen better days.

“S-sorry,” he mumbled, shoving his hands in his pockets and starting to turn away. “Didn’t mean to startle ya.”

“No, no, it’s okay,” you said, a small, relieved laugh bubbling out of you. “Thank you. You just saved me from a complete mental breakdown over twelve cents. It’s been a day.” You gestured vaguely to the carrot stain.

He gave a small, noncommittal grunt, a nod, and continued down the aisle, his heart doing a weird, un-calculated thump against his ribs.

The interaction lasted two minutes, maybe even three minutes, but somehow you stuck in his mind like glue. 

The second time he saw you was at a coffee shop a week later. Carmen was hunched over a notebook, scribbling menu ideas that all felt derivative and worthless. The door chimed, and a gust of cold wind followed you in. You were herding a small group of toddlers, all bundled up like colorful, waddling marshmallows.

“Okay, team,” you were saying, your voice patient and bright. “We find a table, we sit, we use our inside voices. Noah, that means the dinosaur roar stays in your belly, okay?”

One of the marshmallows nodded solemnly.

Carmen watched, mesmerized, as you navigated the kids with an effortless calm. You got them settled, distributed sippy cups of hot, or rather lukewarm, chocolate milk, and wiped a nose with a tissue produced seemingly from thin air. 

Feeling a gaze on you, you looked up, catching his stare from across the room. A flicker of recognition, then a small, shy smile. He managed something he hoped was a smile back before looking down at his notebook, his ears burning.

The third time, it felt like fate, or maybe just the universe’s way of telling him to stop being a pussy. He was walking back from The Beef, the smell of the place still clinging to his clothes. Carmen passed a small, cheerful storefront with a sign that read, “The Honeycomb Daycare.” 

The window was decorated with painted bees and bright flowers. And there you were, inside, on your knees, helping a little girl tie her shoe.

You looked up as he passed, and this time, your smile was wider, more sure. You waved.

He stopped. Stared. Then, as if propelled by a force he didn’t control, Carmen pushed the door open. A little bell jingled.

The daycare was chaotic, but surprisingly organized. The air smelled of graham crackers and baby powder. Bright artwork covered the walls. It was exactly the type of environment he’d imagine someone like you working.

“Hi,” you said, standing up and brushing off your knees. The little girl scampered away. “We meet again. This would be the what, third time, now?”

Not that you were counting or anything.

“Yeah, that sounds about right,” he said, his voice slightly raspy. “I, uh… I live nearby in this area. Thought I saw you through the window.”

You extended a hand and told him your name.

He took it. Your hand was warm and soft. “Carmen.”

“Well, it’s nice to officially meet you, Carmen.”

He felt the ghost of a smile touch his lips. 

“So, uh you run this place?” He asked, looking down at the yellow shirt you were wearing, full of bees and flowers, just like the outside window.

“I do. It’s my little hive.” You gestured around you. “Hence the name.”

“Honeycomb,” he repeated. It suited you. Sweet, structured, warm.

“I opened this place up a few years ago and its been doing really well since. And I get to work with kids, so it doesn’t really even feel like a job, you know?”

“Yeah, that uh sounds more like a nightmare to me.”

You laugh at that, and god if it wasn’t just the sweetest sound Carmen’s ever heard. It sounded smooth and cheery, and just like the bell that rings right above the door.

“It’s definitely not for everyone,” You smile, then ask politely, “What do you do?”

“I’m a chef, just moved back down here from New York.” 

You’re eyes widen slightly, making the connection from your first interaction, “That’s how you knew about the pasta.”

Carmen nods, thinking back to that moment weeks ago.

“So do you work at a restaurant here now? Or have your own?”

Carmen gulps, wiping his hands on his pants, “I’m working at my brother’s place right now. The Beef. But yeah, um, owning my own restaurant, that’s always the end goal, right?”

You start to respond, but one of the babies managed to escape their play area, and was now swatting and babbling at your legs to be held. Reaching down for the little girl, you smile and speak directly to her, “Now how did you manage to escape, huh? Let’s get you back where you belong, sweet pea.”

Almost forgetting you had company, you’re met with Carmen’s soft gaze. “I’m so sorry, I’d love to keep talking but—”

“No, no, you’re all good. I’ll leave you to it. I’ll see you around,” he nods, then gives you a warm half-smile and is gone before you can get another word out. 

The bell rings above him as the door shuts.

And that was how it started. 

Carmen found himself walking past The Honeycomb more often. Sometimes he’d stop in if he saw your car, making up a flimsy excuse just so he can go in and have a conversation with you. The conversations flowed naturally. You talked about the kids, your favorite spots in the city, the best place to get a deep-dish pizza, which ultimately ended up as an argument, which you guess is your fault for picking one with a chef. 

Carmen eventually worked up the nerve to ask you out for coffee. 

Somehow you ended up talking for so long and neither of you really wanted the date to end. Luckily for you both, the coffee shop just so happened to be right next to the Chicago River, so you suggested a walk. 

Carmen already found himself struggling to say anything but ‘yes’ to you. 

The wind whipping off the water was sharp and cold. You were telling a story about how you moved from California to Chicago, your hands gesturing animatedly. Carmen had his hands shoved deep in his coat pockets, his shoulders hunched against the chill, but he was listening, really listening, a small, genuine smile playing on his lips.

A sudden, stronger gust of wind caught you off guard, making you stumble a step. Instinctively, his hand shot out of his pocket, catching yours to steady you.

Your words cut off almost immediately. The world seemed to narrow to the point of contact: his large, calloused, slightly cold hand enveloping yours.

“Sorry,” he muttered, starting to pull away, the panic already flashing in his eyes. 

But you didn’t let go. Instead, your fingers curled around his, a gentle, sure pressure. “It’s okay,” you said, your voice softer now. “It’s cold. This is… warmer, better.”

Carmen looked down at your joined hands, then back at your face. You were looking straight ahead now, a faint blush on your cheeks, but you didn’t let go. And he didn’t either. He simply adjusted his grip, his thumb finding a hesitant, gentle rhythm against the back of your hand. Then the two of you walked the rest of the way like that, hands intertwined.

When he asked you again, it was for dinner at his place. Carmy would be straight up lying if he said he wasn’t overthinking the whole thing. He’d basically been a wreck all day, his mind full of self-criticism. 

The pasta is too overcooked, the sauce is too acidic, the apartment is a mess, why did I think I could do this?

But you never noticed. You ate every bite, your eyes closing in genuine pleasure each time. “Carmen, this is incredible. 10/10 best pasta I’ve ever had.”

He’d just shrugged, attempting to be humble, muttering about the quality of the Pecorino, but the tight knot in his chest had loosened, just a little.

When it was time for you to leave, you both stood awkwardly by his front door. The usual ‘thanks for having me’ suddenly felt inadequate.

“I had a really nice time, Carmen,” you opted for, your voice sincere.

“Yeah. Me too,” he managed, before hesitating, “And you don’t have to call me Carmen, if you uh, don’t want to. Carmy also works too.”

“Okay,” you say, “Thank you again for dinner, Carmy.” 

Then you stepped forward. Your arms wrapped around his middle, your head resting just below his collarbone.

Carmy froze. He wasn’t really a hugger. 

Hugs in his family were either bone-crushing or fraught with tension. This was… neither. This was soft. This was warm. This was you, leaning into him without asking for anything, without trying to fix him. Just… holding him tenderly.

Slowly, tentatively, his arms came up around you. One hand settled on your back, the other between your shoulder blades. He felt you sigh, a contented little sound, and he let his chin rest on the top of your head. He could smell your shampoo, something like vanilla and honey, and it overpowered the lingering scent of garlic and anxiety in his apartment. He didn’t know how long the two of you stood there. It felt like both a second and an eternity. When you finally pulled away, his body felt strangely cold.

“Goodnight, Carmy,” you whispered.

“G’night,” he breathed out, restraining himself from pulling you back in for more.

A week later, you went on another date. You hated to feel this way so soon about a guy, blame your attachment issues, but you were genuinely starting to feel like you couldn't go more than a week without seeing each other. You hadn’t felt that way about someone in a very long time. 

You hadn’t decided if that was a good thing or bad thing yet.

You ended up suggesting the Lincoln Park Conservatory, a place you loved for its lush greenery that seemed to swallow the city's noise. It was a Saturday afternoon, and the place was not as full as you imagined it’d be. Perfect.

Carmy had been quiet at first, his hands in his pockets as you wandered through the plants. But then you’d stopped in front of a massive, prehistoric-looking plant, its leaves wide and architectural.

“Looks like something from another planet,” you’d whispered, the humidity clinging to your skin.

He stepped closer, his chef’s brain kicking in. “It’s a Monstera deliciosa. You can actually eat the fruit. Tastes like… a cross between pineapple and banana. But you have to let it ripen completely, or the crystals will shred your throat.”

You’d looked from the plant to him, a slow smile spreading across your face. “Of course you know that.”

He’d shrugged, a little embarrassed. “You pick things up.”

From there, the date unfolded. He continued to point out edible flowers in the show house, his voice low and focused as he explained their flavor profiles.

You asked about everything, holding his hand and pulling him around, even though more than half of the plants Carmy had no fucking idea what they were. Still, he would give you a smile and say something along the lines of “I don’t know if that one’s edible, hon, it’s still pretty cool though.”

And when the Conservatory closed, he drove you home, the car filled with the comfortable, worn-in silence of a day well spent. He walked you to your door, the spring air cool after the conservatory's warmth.

“I had a really good time,” you said, turning to face him on your doorstep. “I like… your brain.”

The corner of his mouth twitched. “Yeah? It’s a mess in there.”

“Not to me,” you shrug softly. Carmy’s heart swelled. Only you would manage to find a way to unknowingly compliment something that he despises.

He let out a soft, shaky breath, his eyes searching yours.  The porch light caught the flecks of gold in them, and for a moment, he looked utterly disarmed.

“Not to you,” he repeated, his voice barely a whisper, as if testing the words.

You nodded, your own heart beginning to beat a little faster. The air between you felt charged, thick with all the unspoken moments you shared together.

He took a half-step closer, closing the small distance you’d kept between you. The world seemed to shrink to the space on your doorstep. You could smell the clean scent of his cologne mixed with the faint, earthy smell of the plants that still clung to his jacket.

“Can I…” he started, then stopped, his gaze dropping to your lips for a fleeting second before darting back up to your eyes, seeking permission. Deep down all he could think was, don’t fuck this up, don’t fuck this up.

You didn’t trust your voice. You just gave another small, sure nod.

Carmy’s hand came up to gently cup your jaw, his thumb stroking a slow, tentative arc across your cheek. His touch was surprisingly warm, his fingers calloused but incredibly gentle. He leaned in, his movement slow and deliberate, giving you every chance to change your mind.

You didn’t.

You felt a soft, tentative press of his lips against yours. It tasted like the gum he’d nervously chewed in the car and something uniquely you. It was chaste, over in a few heartbeats, but it sent a shockwave through his entire system, quieting the constant noise in his head for one blissful, silent moment.

He pulled back just enough to see your face. Your eyes were still closed, a soft, dazed smile gracing your lips.

“Was that- was that okay?” he whispered, his voice rough with a vulnerability that would have terrified him with anyone else.

Your eyes fluttered open. They were warm, sure, holding the last of the daylight. “More than okay.”

He kissed you again, then. This one was a little less hesitant, a lot more sure. His hand came up to cradle your jaw, his thumb stroking your cheekbone, and for a few perfect seconds, there was no Beef, no grief, no pressure or anxiety—just the warm weight of his mouth on yours and the quiet sound of your shared breath.

When you finally parted, you were both a little breathless. He placed one last kiss to your cheek, then turned to leave.

“Goodnight, honey,” he whispered against your lips, the new nickname settling around your heart like a blanket. You liked it. Really liked it.

“Goodnight, Carmy.”

You walked into your house that night with a ridiculous grin plastered on your face and the lasting sensation of his lips on yours. 

From that point on, Carmy, with his naturally reserved disposition, found himself wanting to open up to you more and more. You just made it so easy. Being with you felt like a respite. 

From the stress of The Beef, from his relentless grief and anxiety, from everything. He wasn’t looking for a relationship when he met you. That much was clear. He had nothing much to offer. But with you, he found he didn’t have to give anything. He could just be.

And for a man who was constantly performing, constantly striving, that was a foreign and very addictive peace.

So yes, falling in love with you happened quicker than he anticipated. 

It was slow, then seemingly all at once you two were inseparable. He had his hesitations, of course. Jumping into a relationship so soon into coming back to Chicago. Not to mention the other issues. 

His obsessive behaviors, the perfectionism, his anxieties, and the deep-seated trauma left by his lovely brother.

All 100% relationship turn-offs. He knew that. But you didn’t seem to mind.

You let him voice all his fears and stayed anyway. He didn’t know if that made you crazy or stupid.

Probably both. 

But when Carmy knew for sure that you were here to stay, after almost a year of dating, he finally started talking about you to Nat. Haltingly, at first. “Met someone.” 

Then, “She’s… nice.” 

Finally, after a particularly good day, “Her name’s Y/N. She runs a daycare. She’s… she’s really great, Sug.”

Nat’s smile could have powered the entire block. “Well we need to meet her then. We’ll have a family dinner. Next Sunday."

The panic was immediate. “No. No, I don’t know. They’re a lot. Richie’s… a lot.”

“She runs a daycare, Carmy. I think she can handle Richie.”

Sugar was determined, this dinner was happening, whether he liked it or not. 

Carmy warned you, of course. “They’re… intense. Really fuckin’ intense. Loud. They talk over each other. Lotta cursing. There will probably be yelling about something stupid. It’s… how they show love.”

You just smiled, that steady, calming smile, and squeezed his hands. “I can handle intense and loud. It’ll be fine, Carmy.”

But nothing could have fully prepared you for the overwhelming chaos of the Berzatto family. The moment you stepped inside the house, you were swept up in a whirlwind.

Okay maybe you couldn’t handle intense and loud.

“Cousin! Finally!” a booming voice called out. A man with kind, tired eyes and a presence that filled the room—Richie—clapped Carmy on the back and then pulled you into a hug you didn’t see coming. “And you must be Honey, we’ve heard a lot about you.”

You smiled and raised a brow at the use of ‘honey’ instead of your real name. Did Carm tell them that was your name? Either way, the gesture was sweet.

“Be cool, Richie,” a woman with a sharp gaze and a cute blonde haircut said, pulling him off you. Natalie, Carmy’s sister. He told you about her and how everyone called her Sugar. Maybe the nickname thing just ran in the family. “Hi, I’m Nat. Don’t mind him. He has no concept of personal space.”

The next few hours were a blur to say the least. You made your rounds and introduced yourself to everyone, which took longer than you thought. There were a lot of Faks.

Plates of food were thrust into your hands. Questions were fired at you from all directions. 

“How’d you two meet?” “What do you do?” “How do you put up with his ass?”

You felt a little shell-shocked, smiling and answering all the questions, trying to keep up. You caught Carmy’s eye across the table. He looked terrified, his knuckles white where he gripped his fork, waiting for you to bolt for the door.

But you didn’t. You took a deep, steadying breath, and you jumped in. For him.

You laughed at Richie’s terrible jokes. You asked about the photos on the mantelpiece, listening intently to stories about young Carmy. When a random debate started over the best brand of canned tomatoes escalated to near-shouting, you calmly interjected with a fact about sodium content you’d picked up from Carmy, which made the whole table go quiet for a second before Richie bellowed, “See! She’s fuckin’ smart, too!”

By the end of the night, you were tucked under Carmy’s arm on the couch, a cup of coffee in your hand, feeling like you’d run a marathon. Richie was showing you a video of his daughter, and Nat was asking for your number.

When it was finally time to leave, Carmy walked you to your car. “I’m… sorry. About all that,” he mumbled, running a hand through his hair. “I told you they were a lot. If they made you uncomfortable o-or,—”

“They’re perfect,” you said cutting him off, and you meant it. Despite your first impression, you did really enjoy your time with them. “They love you so much. It’s… it’s really nice to see.”

He looked at you, his expression softening. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” You leaned up and gave him a quick, soft kiss. “I had a great time. But I should probably get going. I have to swing by the daycare. Left my laptop there, and I need it for tomorrow.”

“Oh. Okay, sure. You want me to follow you? Make sure you get in okay?”

“No, no, you go back inside. I’ll be fine. I’ll text you when I’m home.” You gave him one more kiss, savoring it. 

“G’night, honey.”

You got in your car and drove off, watching him in the rearview mirror as he stood on the curb, watching you go until you turned the corner.

Back inside, the scene was exactly as you’d left it, only now all the attention was focused squarely on Carmy as he walked back through the door.

Richie was the first to pounce, a massive grin on his face. “Well? She’s fuckin’ great, cousin. I approve.”

“She’s more than great,” Nat said, her eyes shining. “She’s sweet, she’s smart, and she handled you animals without breaking a sweat. Where the hell did you find her?”

“The pasta aisle,” Carmy muttered, shoving his hands in his pockets, but a faint blush was creeping up his neck.

His aunt came over and patted his cheek, her eyes misty. “She’s good for you, Carmen. I see it. You seem…better.”

The chorus of approval swelled around him after that.

“Yeah, you better not fuck this up, Carm.” “She’s a goddamn delight.” “We’re keeping her.”

Carmy stood in the middle of the living room, surrounded by the messy, loud, loving chaos of his family, all of them beaming at him with joy. 

Carmy felt more than relieved. They saw it, too. They saw the peace you brought him. They saw the man he was when he was with you.

He didn’t say anything, but he knew they were right. About all of it. He could not afford to fuck this up.

He pulled out his phone, your last text staring back at him.

You: Home safe. Thank you for tonight. I really love your family.

He typed back instantly.

Carmy: They really love you too. 

Moving in together felt like the most natural next step after that. You had the family approval and everything. Plus, your apartment was closer to The Beef. 

The adjustment was a process. You both had to get used to your new routines living with another.

You were the early riser, always up with the sun to get the daycare ready before that first kid arrived. Carmy was unique in the sense that he was a bit of both—the early riser and night owl. Either he was waking up earlier than you to head to work, or coming back well past midnight after a long shift.

Still, you both managed to carve out moments together.

Carmy started setting his alarm fifteen minutes earlier, just to share a cup of coffee with you and kiss you before you left. He’d lean against the counter, eyes still heavy with sleep, and just listen as you talked about your day ahead. You started leaving a plate for him in the warm oven with a note. Eat this. I love you. It was a nice balance.

The bathroom reflected your obvious differences. Your lotions and perfumes lined the shelf next to his single bar of soap and his fancy hair product. His razor lived beside your moisturizer. 

Sometimes, on a rare afternoon off, Carmy would show up at The Honeycomb with lunch he made. He’d sit in your tiny office, eating with you while you both watched the kids on the monitor, his leg pressed against yours under the desk. 

At night, when he finally made it home, you’d often be asleep on the couch, a blanket pulled up to your chin, the TV flickering silently with the latest show you were binging. He wouldn’t wake you. He’d just carefully lift you—you always stirred, mumbling his name—and carry you to bed, tucking you in before collapsing beside you.

The domesticity of it all was a balm to his frayed nerves.

Coming home to a light on. Finding the laundry done. Or a meal prepared. To someone he loved. It was the simple knowledge that someone was there. That he wasn't facing the world and all his troubles alone.

One Sunday, his only day completely off, you were both in the kitchen. You were baking cookies for the daycare kids, flour dusting your nose. He was prepping a ragu, the methodical chopping of carrots and celery filled the air.

The sounds and smells mingled—sweet vanilla and rich, savory sofrito. You danced around each other in the small space. You needed the vanilla; he passed it without you asking. He reached for a bowl, you slid it into his hand.

You stopped for a moment, leaning against the counter to watch him, your arms crossed. He felt your gaze and looked up.

“What?” Carmy asked, a small smile playing on his lips.

“Nothing,” you said, your own smile soft and sure. “I just like this. I like us.”

He put the knife down with a soft clink, the sound definitive in the warm, fragrant kitchen. He wiped his hands meticulously on the towel slung over his shoulder, his eyes never leaving yours. He walked over to you, his steps slow and deliberate, closing the small space.

Carmy didn't say anything. He simply reached out, his hands, still warm from his work, coming up to frame your face. His thumbs began to stroke your flour-dusted cheeks, wiping away the white powder in slow, gentle arcs. 

His gaze dropped to your lips, then back to your eyes, seeking and finding the answer he was looking for. Carmy leaned in and connected his lips to yours in a soft, gentle manner. He pulled back a fraction of an inch, just enough to let the breath you were holding shudder out, and then he kissed you again. This time, it was deeper, more passionate.

One of his hands slid from your cheek into your hair, his fingers tangling gently at the nape of your neck, holding you to him as if you were the most precious, delicate thing he’d ever touched. Your own hands came up, roaming the familiar, muscular planes of his back, feeling the solid strength of him as you pulled him closer, until not even a sliver of light could pass between you two.

When he finally broke the kiss, it was only far enough to rest his forehead against yours, his eyes still closed. His breath was warm and unsteady against your lips.

“Yeah,” he whispered, his voice rough and thick with an emotion that made your heart clench. “Well, I love you, honey.”

You could feel the truth of it in the way his hands still trembled slightly against you, in the frantic beat of his heart where your chests were pressed together.

“I love you too, Carm,” you breathed back.

He kissed you once more, a soft, sealing press of his lips, and in that quiet kitchen, surrounded by your love, it felt more solid than anything he’d ever known.

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