Shouldbwe hooks up???
dominick "sonny" carisi x fem paralegal!reader content warnings: drinking/ embarrassing drunk moments, other than that nothing much! summary: you just broke up with your loser boyfriend, so after a night of drinking with your girls, your boss looks like the perfect rebound. wc: 2.8k
masterlist.
You weren’t supposed to be here tonight. You were supposed to be home, wrapped in a blanket burrito, doom-scrolling through other people’s relationships and wondering why yours had fallen apart like an undercooked cookie.
But instead, you were in the backseat of your best friend’s car, clutching your phone like it might spontaneously apologize on behalf of every man you’ve ever dated.
“I don’t wanna go out,” you muttered, forehead pressed to the window. “I wanna- I dunno- sit in the dark and hate men quietly.”
“Too bad,” your friend Sam said, swiping on lip gloss like she was suiting up for battle. “We’re doing emotional triage, babe. Step one: tequila. Step two: forgetting that man’s existence. Step three: realizing your boss is way hotter anyway.”
You groaned. “Don’t start.”
“Oh, we’re starting,” said Mariah from the driver’s seat, flicking her turn signal. “Because your ex? Literal manchild. The kind who brags about parallel parking but still doesn’t know what a W-2 form is.”
“I’m serious!” you said, half laughing, half dying inside. “I think I’m cursed. I attract...I don’t even know...emotionally unavailable adult toddlers.”
Sam snorted. “That’s called being twenty-something.”
The bar was one of those too-cool-for-its-own-good places, dim lighting, neon signs saying “no bad days” even though everyone inside looked like they were having one. The music was loud enough to drown your thoughts, which was maybe the point.
You sat at the table while your friends ordered shots. You didn’t plan on drinking much. Just one or two. Maybe three.
By the second, your shoulders loosened. By the third, your laugh came easier. And by the fourth, oh, by the fourth, you were leaning over the sticky table, confessing your entire romantic history like it was evidence in court.
“They’re all like that,” you said, waving your straw dramatically. “Every single one of them. I try to date men with potential but it’s just-” you made a little explosion gesture- “boom. Emotional immaturity. Everywhere.”
Sam nodded sagely. “You need a man with a pension.”
“I need a man with an attention span.”
Mariah leaned in, her grin borderline evil. “What about your boss?”
You blinked. “What about him?”
“Oh, come on. You talk about him like he’s the second coming of Atticus Finch.”
“He’s my boss!”
“Yeah,” Sam said, smirking. “A hot boss. A nice boss. An older man with an actual job and no commitment issues-”
“—and forearms that could probably bench press your self-esteem,” Mariah added.
You slapped your hands over your ears. “La-la-la- not listening!”
But the alcohol was warm in your chest, and your mind was traitorous. Because now, even through your stubbornness, an image slipped through: Sonny Carisi. Rolled-up sleeves. Soft grin. The way he’d said “good work today, kid” after you’d helped with that last case brief. The way it had made your stupid heart skip a beat.
You sighed. “He’s…nice.”
“Ohhh no.” Sam’s voice went high-pitched with mischief. “That tone? That’s the ‘I’ve thought about him in a suit’ tone.”
You buried your face in your hands. “I hate you both.”
Mariah grinned. “Nah, you love us. Now drink up, heartbreak Barbie. We’ve got bad decisions to make.”
Three songs and two tequila sunrises later, the world had gone pleasantly fuzzy around the edges. The air hummed with perfume, laughter, and the sticky-sweet smell of spilled citrus. All of your friends seemed to be having the best time.
You, meanwhile, were slumped in your booth like a tragic poet, chin in hand. “He called me ‘high-maintenance’ because I asked him to text when he got home,” you said mournfully. “That’s not high-maintenance, that’s, like, baseline safety!”
Sam twirled back toward you, clutching her drink like a microphone. “And that’s why we’re deleting him! Say it with me!”
“Delete!” Mariah chanted, raising her glass.
“Block!” you added, giggling despite yourself.
“Thrive!” Sam finished, and all three of you clinked glasses like it was a sacred ritual.
For the first time all night, your laugh was real, bright, loud, echoing over the music. Maybe you weren’t fine yet, but you were on your way. The alcohol softened the sharp edges of everything: your hurt, your doubt, even your cynicism. The ache in your chest turned into something fizzy, almost hopeful.
“Okay,” Mariah said, leaning across the table, eyes glittering with mischief. “So what’s next? What’s our rebound plan?”
“Sleep,” you said immediately. “A long nap, maybe a therapist.”
Sam shook her head. “Boring. I’m talking about your boss.”
You groaned. “Oh my god, let it go.”
“Never,” she said, sipping her drink. “He’s respectful. He’s mature. He actually knows what consent is, which, babe, in New York dating terms? That’s practically an endangered species.”
Mariah cackled. “Also, those suits? Tailored. And the way he looks at you when you talk? Girl, if that isn’t slow-burn tension, I don’t know what is.”
You pressed a hand over your face, cheeks blazing. “He’s my superior.”
“Yeah,” Sam said, eyes dancing. “And you’re superior for noticing.”
That set them both off in hysterics, and even you couldn’t help snorting into your straw. The ridiculousness of it all, the heartbreak, the tequila, the teasing, melted together until you were light-headed with laughter.
“Fine,” you said, holding up your phone dramatically. “Here. Happy now? I’ll text him something super professional. ‘Dear Mr. Carisi, please go out with me. Sincerely, your emotionally unstable intern.’”
“DO IT!” Mariah squealed.
You hesitated, thumb hovering over the screen, the bar lights turning your drink into pink glass. Somewhere between tipsy and reckless, your mind whispered the most dangerous sentence of the night:
What’s the worst that could happen?
Your phone screen glowed like temptation itself.
Your friends watched you the way people watch Jenga towers—thrilled, terrified, and deeply committed to the chaos.
Sam leans in, whisper-yelling, “Text him. TEXT. HIM.”
Mariah grabs your wrist dramatically. “But make it sexy-professional."
You wheeze. “Absolutely not.”
But your thumb is already tapping open your messages…and there he is: Dominick Sonny Carisi.
Your last text with him was from earlier today, "Thanks for staying late on that motion. Really solid work." "Of course. Have a good night."
Professional. Normal. Until now.
The tequila whispers, be brave.
You type "hows you beennnn"
You and your friends all stare at our phone.
“NO. WAIT. FIX. FIX IT.” you panic-whisper, clawing at your phone.
But it’s too late.
“Oh my god,” you whisper, like you’ve witnessed a car accident. “OH MY GOD,” Sam echoes, delighted.
Mariah fans herself. “History. We are witnessing history.”
Your phone dings.
He actually replied.
"You okay?"
Sam SCREAMS. Mariah slaps the table so hard the drinks tremble. You bury your face in your hands and laugh until your chest hurts.
“Okay okay okay,” Sam says, wiping tears. “Now say something normal.”
You nod. But you do not type something normal.
"im soooo guod hahahah" "it fri and im w my bffs and we dirnking"
Mariah leans over your shoulder, cackling. “You sound like autocorrect gave up and accepted fate.”
Your phone dings again.
"Do you need a ride home?" "Or should I be worried you’re messaging the wrong number?"
You gasp. “He thinks I have OTHER MEN,” you announce.
“Do you?” Sam asks.
“No! I don’t even have FOOD in my fridge.”
Your fingers move again.
"nooooooo im tedinv the rigjh person!"
“Tell him he’s hot!" Sam squeals, shaking your shoulders.
You laugh, barely registering her words before you start to type again.
"you so nics" "and smarts" "and ur suits??" "like wow" "ur arms rtoo"
Your entire body feels like it's buzzing, you can really feel the drinks hitting you...but that doesn't stop you from sending... "shouldbwe hooks up??"
It took you a minute to realize what you typed, but when you do, you shriek, "Oh my god take it away TAKE IT AWAY!”
Sam made a sound somewhere between a scream and a laugh. “YOU DID NOT.”
Mariah quickly tucked your phone into her hand, “You’re done. Phone privileges revoked.”
You collapsed dramatically onto the table, cheek on the wood, "I can't ever show my face at work again." you mutter into the wood.
“Relax,” Sam snorted. “Worst case? He thinks you’re just weird when you're drunk."
“Best case,” Mariah chimes, “he thinks you’re hitting on him and he's into you.”
You stared at her.
Sam stared at you.
Three seconds of stunned silence.
And then your phone started to ring.
Everyone froze.
Slowly. too slowly, Sam reached over and turned the screen toward you.
SONNY CARISI CALLING
“Oh no,” you whispered.
“Oh YES,” Sam said gleefully. “Answer it.”
“No!! I can’t talk to him!"”
“He’ll hang up if you don’t,” Mariah said, already accepting the call and shoving the phone into your hand. “Good luck, intern.”
You gasped like a Victorian child about to faint, then pressed the phone to your ear.
“H-hello?” you said, voice instantly three octaves higher.
There was a pause on the other end. A small sigh.
“…You okay there, kid?”
Something about his voice, warm, familiar, concerned, made your chest squeeze. You were suddenly very aware of how drunk you were.
“I’m okay,” you said. “I’m just- uh- socially networking.”
Another pause.
“You sound,” he said carefully, “a little…not sober.”
You laughed. Loudly. Too loudly.
“Okay but like,” you leaned into the phone, whispering like it was a secret, “that’s not a crime, right? ‘Cause that would be awkward professionally.”
From across the table, Sam mouthed I’m so proud of you.
Sonny exhaled through his nose. You could hear the smile he was trying not to let through his voice.
“Where are you?”
“Mm,” you hummed. “A bar.”
“C’mon,” he said gently. “You sent me…six messages in thirty seconds.”
“Did I?” you asked, horrified. Then, softer: “Were they bad?”
Another pause. This one heavier.
“…You asked if we should ‘hooks up.’”
You slapped your free hand over your face.
“Ohmygod I’m so sorry I don’t even- I would NEVER- please don’t fire me-”
“Hey,” he cut in, firmer now but still kind. “You’re not in trouble. Just, slow down. Take a breath.”
You inhaled. Exhaled.
“…I hate my ex,” you blurted.
There it was.
“He was awful,” you continued, words tumbling out. “And mature men are nice and you’re nice and my friends said you have, like, a calming presence and arms that look like they could carry groceries and feelings-”
“Okay,” Sonny laughed softly. “That’s… a lotta information.”
You smiled despite yourself. There was a beat. Then:
“Where are you?” he asked again, this time not teasing. Worried.
You squinted at the neon sign behind the bar.
“…The Blue Lantern.”
You heard keys jingle on the other end. Your heart skipped.
“Alright,” he said. “I’m comin’ to get you.”
Your eyes widened. “You don’t have to do that!”
“I want to,” he replied easily. “Sit tight, okay? I’ll be there in ten.”
“Okay,” you said, voice suddenly small. Then, because the alcohol had made you emotionally honest: “You’re really nice.”
He softened. “So are you,” Sonny said. “That’s why I’m makin’ sure you get home safe.”
The call ended. You stared at your phone. Then at your friends.
Then promptly shrieked.
“HES COMING HERE.”
Sam dropped her jaw. “DOMINICK SONNY CARISI IS COMING. TO THIS BAR.”
Mariah beamed. “I’m gonna embarrass the hell out of you.”
You groaned, sinking into the booth as the bar lights sparkled overhead, heart racing, stomach fluttering, and your brain screaming at you for how stupid of a move you may have just made
You spotted him before he spotted you.
Which was unfair, honestly, because Sonny Carisi had no business looking like that at eleven-thirty on a weeknight. Dark coat, tie loosened, sleeves rolled up just enough to make your brain short-circuit. He scanned the bar once, then again, focused, concerned, unmistakably him.
“Oh my god,” you whispered. “He’s real. This isn’t a hallucination.”
Sam peeked over your shoulder and immediately gasped. “Oh wow. Oh wow. Babe, your boss is hot in person.”
“I KNOW,” you hissed. “Please stop affirming it.”
He caught sight of you then. His expression softened instantly, the tension melting out of his shoulders like he’d finally exhaled. He crossed the bar with purpose, weaving through people until he reached your table.
“Hey,” he said gently. “You alright?”
You nodded a little too enthusiastically. “Yep. Alive. Thriving. Legally fine.”
One corner of his mouth twitched.
Sam stood up and stuck out her hand. “Hi! I’m Sam. We love her very much.”
Mariah popped up beside her. “And I’m Mariah. Also, thank you for coming. She was about to start flirting with the jukebox.”
You groaned. “I hate all of you.”
Sonny chuckled, low, warm, fond. “Nice to meet you,” he said politely, then turned back to you. “Ready to go?”
You hesitated. The alcohol made everything feel big. your feelings, your embarrassment, the fact that this man had come out of his way for you.
“Yeah,” you said softly. “I think so.”
He helped you up, steady but careful, like he was acutely aware of every inch of space between you. His hand hovered at your elbow, warm without being possessive, grounding without being too much.
Sam immediately ruined it.
“So,” she said brightly, “just to be clear—this is strictly professional, right?”
“SAM,” you yelped.
Sonny cleared his throat, cheeks pinking just a bit. “I’m just makin’ sure she gets home safe.”
Mariah grinned. “Mhm. Very noble. Very handsome.”
You buried your face in your hands.
As he guided you toward the door, you leaned in, far too close, and whispered, “I’m so sorry about the texts.”
He glanced down at you, eyes kind. “We’ll talk about it tomorrow.”
You froze. “Tomorrow?”
“Yeah,” he said gently. “When you’re sober.”
You nodded solemnly. “Good. I’m very articulate sober.”
Outside, the night air was cool, sobering just enough to make your heart race for a different reason. He opened the passenger door for you, holding it until you were settled.
Before he closed it, you looked up at him, eyes glassy but honest.
“Thank you,” you said. “For coming.”
He smiled, soft, genuine, something almost tender flickering there.
“Anytime,” Sonny replied. “That’s what I’m here for.”
As he shut the door and walked around the car, your phone buzzed in your lap.
A new message, from Sam.
Sam: if you marry him i get maid of honor btw
You laughed quietly to yourself, leaning back against the seat as Sonny pulled away from the curb, the city lights blurring past like the beginning of something you definitely hadn’t planned, but maybe needed all along.
You woke up slowly. Not the violent, headache-splitting kind of wake-up you’d braced yourself for—but the quiet kind. The kind where sunlight spills through the blinds in thin, golden stripes, warming your cheek. The kind where your body feels heavy in a soft, you are safe way.
Your first thought was confusion. Your second was panic.
You sat up abruptly, clutching the blanket to your chest, heart racing as you took stock of your surroundings.
Your apartment. Your couch. Your favorite throw blanket, the one that smelled faintly like laundry detergent and home.
You blinked. “Oh,” you murmured. “Thank god.”
Your head throbbed dully, but it wasn’t unbearable. Somewhere nearby, your phone buzzed with a notification you absolutely refused to look at yet. Instead, you swung your legs over the edge of the couch—and that’s when you saw it.
A folded piece of paper on your coffee table.
Neat. Intentional. Placed carefully beside a glass of water and two ibuprofen.
Your stomach flipped. You reached for the note with shaking fingers and unfolded it.
Good morning.
Before you panic, yes, you made it home safe. You insisted on unlocking the door yourself, which took a minute, but you were very proud of it.
You snorted despite yourself.
You also informed me (very seriously) that your couch is “comfier than it looks” and that I was not allowed to leave without taking a bottle of water for the road.
Your smile tugged wider.
I didn’t want to wake you. You looked peaceful, and for the record, you did absolutely nothing embarrassing. You were honest. That’s different.
Your chest tightened.
Drink the water. Take the Advil. Call in late if you need to, tell them I said so.
You laughed quietly, pressing the paper closer as you kept reading.
We’ll talk later, when you’re feeling better. And just so you don’t spend the morning overthinking…
There was a pause in the handwriting there, like he’d hesitated. Like he’d thought about it.
I didn’t mind the texts.
Your breath caught.
Some of them made me smile more than I probably should admit.
Your heart stuttered, then picked up speed.
—Sonny
At the bottom, almost as an afterthought, was one last line:
P.S. Go easy on the drinks next time. Or at least warn me first.
You stared at the note.
Then you pressed it to your chest, letting yourself sink back against the couch with a breathless laugh, equal parts relief, warmth, and something bright blooming right behind your ribs.
Your phone buzzed again. This time, you checked it.
A single new text.
Sonny: Morning sweetheart. Hope you’re feelin’ okay.
You smiled at the screen, cheeks aching, heart doing things it absolutely had no legal right to do.
Maybe last night hadn’t been a mistake. Maybe it had been a beginning.
A/N: I was supposed to post this weeks ago but #yolo
