pairing: carmen 'carmy' berzatto x reader
blurb: you accidentally cut yourself cooking with carmy and it almost leads to a proposal?
warning: cursing as always, mentions of blood, the rest is pure fluffy goodness
a/n: i get random bouts of carmy inspo when i'm cooking and this was the latest one, it’s probably a little ooc but please enjoy!
Cooking with Carmy on Mondays happened the same way your relationship seemed to blossom. Unexpectedly but welcomed. Random mentions of TikTok recipes you wanted to try, conversations about the home-cooked meals your parents prepared when you were growing up, and spurts of cravings in the late night.
A quick grocery store run had Carmy picking up the ingredients for the beef stew that had you nostalgic for home. There were no thoughts other than giving you a piece of home—an opportunity for him to learn more about you and your past.
It fascinated him to learn of your relatively normal childhood, not without any trauma, but normal enough. It soothed him to know you didn't carry the baggage of your entire family. Not because he couldn't handle it, but because he didn't want you to struggle the way he's done.
One dinner was all it took for it to become a ritual. The appreciative smile on your face was enough for Carmy. It was reassuring. The kitchen didn't have to be a place of high stakes, it could be relaxing and fun.
There was no pressure from impatient customers, no elaborate menu, no perfect plating. The only star Carmy wished to earn was the silly gold stars that you shared with your students and him. A little joke you made when he cooked you a chicken noodle soup on a sick day.
There is no yelling. Only laughter. Hands on your hips as he slips past you with a kiss to the side of your neck. Tattooed hands pulling your hair back into a loose ponytail so it doesn't bother you while you stir brownie batter.
"You like walnuts, right?" You ask him as your hand stills mid-air before adding the nuts that complement the chocolate goodness in the bowl.
"No, hate them actually," he says, but the corner of his lips lifting gives him away.
"Very funny," you roll your eyes, swatting his hand away with a laugh as he wraps an arm around you to dip a finger into the bowl.
You pretend to be offended when Carmy secretly adds more spices to your dishes, but you can't deny that he makes them better without removing the nostalgic taste you love.
His mother's spaghetti, your grandfather's chicken stew, TikTok's mac and cheese recipe. Neither of you is picky. It's not about the food. It's about creating a safe space for your relationship to grow. To transform a typically stressful environment into a relaxed one.
"One of my kids' parents is getting remarried, and they decided to ask if I'm married," you tell Carmy on a random Sunday as you dig through your messy fridge door to find an onion.
The rules of the restaurant don't apply to your old fridge. The drawers are overfilled with produce that might or might not be salvageable, and the shelves are stocked with mysterious leftovers waiting for trash day. It will remain a mess forever. It's just how you like it.
"What did you say?" Carmy asks, leaning back against the kitchen counter, definitely not checking out your butt as you bend to sort through the fridge drawer.
You look over your shoulder and raise an eyebrow, "I said not yet, and then Billy A. said he'd marry me." Facing the white fridge light again, you playfully wiggle your ass at him, earning a soft chuckle.
"How much should I be worried about William?" Carmy wonders, coming up behind you, hands on your hips, trailing dangerously low.
Turning on the balls of your feet. You're chest to chest with Carmy as you hand him the onion. "I'll just say he's very handsy." As expected from five-year-olds, who have a hard time understanding what boundaries are.
"I can understand why," Carmy mutters under his breath as you walk away. He finds the chopping board and one of your knives, which he sharpens every week, cause it sucks.
"Mr. Berzatto…" you hum, staring disapprovingly, and yet you keep buying impossibly tight jeans that hug all your curves.
"Alright, alright, want to chop the veggies? I'll start on the meat," he raises his hands in surrender, kissing your cheek on the way to the stove.
You smile, enjoying the banter. Carmy has come a long way since the early stages of your relationship. He used to be so shy and reserved, often worried about messing up. With enough reassurance, he slowly began to open up, and now he's shameless when it comes to the relationship.
You start with the carrots since they are easier to cut, bringing up a piece to your lips. Carmy swipes the next one you pick up, plopping it into his mouth. "You'll spoil your dinner."
His jaw clenches as he chews a slice of carrot, and you stare as he turns away with a smile. "As if a carrot will spoil my appetite."
You and Carmy work in harmony. Music plays in the background as you sway and chop the onions, peppers, and garlic. Something about Carmy is that his knives are very sharp, they glide through the vegetables like butter. Not just vegetables, actually, as it glides across your finger, slicing the skin open.
"Fuck," you hiss, seeing blood rush to the surface. You're typically very careful, considering the sight of blood has you feeling faint. One mistake and your vision blurs. "Carm…"
"What? Oh shit, fuck," he rushes to you, holding your hips, "Fuck, babe, it's okay, don't look at it, look at me, hey, look at me," Carmy says softly, pinning you against the kitchen counter and cradling your face with the palm of his hand.
"I'm looking at ya," you respond, shaky, mimicking the deep breaths he's taking. Only when your vision starts clearing up does Carmy move to press a paper towel to your finger.
"Here, let's run it under water," Carmy suggests, one arm wrapped tightly around to guide you to the sink, "Don't faint on me, okay?"
"No promises," you nervously laugh, keeping your eyes on your boyfriend instead of the blood in your hand.
"Here," Carmy turns on the sink and grabs your hand, placing it under the running water.
"Ow," you inhale sharply at the stinging sensation.
"It's okay, it'll feel better in a second." Carmy has a lot of experience with cuts on his hands. It's part of the job. A lot of pressure and one small distraction can lead to big accidents.
Turning off the sink, he grabs another towel and tells you to keep pressure. "C'mon, let's sit." Carmy helps you hop up to the counter before he searches for the first aid kit. "You good?"
You nod, "Do you think it'll need stitches?" Curiosity takes the better of you as you begin unwrapping the wound to look at it. At the smallest sight of red, your world begins to spin.
"Stop looking at it!" Carmy exclaims with a slight smile when you hand your head back with your eyes scrunched.
"Sorry!"
Carmy gently takes the paper towel away from your finger to examine the wound. "It doesn't need stitches. It's not bad at all, just bled a lot."
"That's good to know," you sigh, keeping your gaze to the ceiling.
Carmy cleans it with alcohol for good measure and sticks a Band-Aid around your finger before he taps your thigh. "Bet little Billy A. couldn't have helped you."
His joke makes you laugh. Looking at your finger, you notice the Bluey bandage, "You forgot to kiss it better, which is arguably the most important part."
Carmy shakes his head as he suppresses a smile. "Alright," he laughs breathily, grabbing your hand carefully as he kisses over the pad of each finger until he finally presses his lips against the bandaid and the center of your palm. "Better?" He questions as he places your hand on his cheek.
"Never better," you grin, leaning down to kiss him briefly.
Carmy helps you hop down from the counter, slapping your butt, "Come on, I'll chop, you stir."
"Aye aye, Captain," you fake salute, making your way over to the stove and turning it back on.
"By the way, tell Billy A. you'll officially be off the market soon." Carmy turns to you, a serious look on his face that makes you raise an eyebrow.
"I'll believe it when I see it, Berzatto!"
