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(h-ahn) pfp: ratsandlilies ao3: @tripledogsdare

[triplingdogsdare]

limerence | chapter three | carmen 'carmy' berzatto x reader x chef luca

angst. angst. angst. w/ a love triangle. | chapter one | chapter two

You've been in a relationship with Carmy for years, but before there was Carmy, there was Luca. Well, sort of. There was sort of Luca. You were never actually really together, but still. Luca's moving back to Chicago, and Carmy's burning out. Will your relationship survive, or will old flames be reignited? Well, let's find out.

*there's two interactive spotify playlist links in this fic*

a/n: hey thanks for reading, i've had this saved for MONTHS and i just thought i should start posting in installments, thank u so much in general for the response to my fics im so excited ive had most of these saved for a while now, ur all so kind and it means everything. There will eventually be a sydney x oc insert, i repeat, this story WILL contain an oc. fic playlist syd x oc will be introduced next chapter final warning

There’s a knock at the door.

Neither of you move to answer it.

Carmen doesn’t even seem to hear it, he’s too close now. His words still catching in his throat, eyes still burning into yours like he’s trying to memorize every detail in them.

Another knock, slightly harder.

Still, you don’t answer it. Can’t.

And then the door creaks open.

You had forgotten that Carmen didn’t lock it when you walked in.

“Hello?” Luca’s voice cuts into the room, breaking the silence between you and Carmen, uncertain and sharp.

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…

You were in Luca’s bed.

[the-forest-library]

kill the imposter syndrome in your head because not only is there someone out there doing it worse than you, they’re also using chat gpt to do it

[buildmeafairytale]

Get these ai writing assistants out of my face!!!! I don't care if my writing is bad at least it is mine!!!!

[triplingdogsdare]

hiii would you write some headcanons for carmy x reader who’s been in a really shitty relationship before (you can elaborate on that however you’d like) ?? if not that’s totally fine!! thank you either way! appreciate you!

a/n: thank u so so so much for ur request, i've never written headcanons before so i hope this is sort of what u had in mind. i once again feel immensely honored that yall trust me with writing pieces like this, as i completely understand this type of scenario and am by no means a stranger to it myself. as a fellow survivor im always happy to write carmy as a comfort character for others who need might it. to anyone currently struggling w these types of things, 800.656.HOPE (4673) is the number for RAINN an organization that specializes in SA/abuse, and my dms r always open if anyone ever needs help locating more resources i am here and always ready to be there for anyone who needs it requests updates: if u requested just know its being worked on, im getting through all of them one by one and feel free to keep sending them in (i do other fandoms too so feel free to ask outside of the bear), thank u all so much again content warning: implied history of abuse

Carmy may be demanding in the kitchen, but such is the unfortunate standard of the industry, in every other area of life he subscribes hard to that soft life stuff, he’s not looking to rush you or himself into anything.

Sex? He doesn’t need that. Not unless you want to. Otherwise? He’s all good, he’s set. He just wants to spend the time he has off with you in whatever way that might be.

He does enough yelling at work when he gets home his voice is all rough and quiet and he’d never dream of raising his voice at you anyways, you’ve only ever really truly seen him get agitated at someone other than himself once and it was when he was trying to parallel park in a spot that was most definitely too small for the car, and even then, he apologized profusely, which just made you laugh. 

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. 

And here’s one that you’d never know: When you’re asleep, sometimes he just lies there, just staring at you in the dark, the shape of your outline, the vague details of your face that he can make out, just struck dumb by the fact that you’re here, with him, out of everyone in the world, and that he has the privilege and honor of you feeling the most safe and secure with him. For a man who’s spent the entirety of his life just feeling like he’s never enough, or not stable enough, or just never good enough for anyone, the most beautiful, terrifying, grounding truth that he’s ever known is just this: you chose him, and every day, he’ll spend the rest of his life choosing you back, every damn time.

[triplingdogsdare]

Pleaseeee make you only love me in the dark a series.. perhaps y/n is a chef in nyc now, perhaps she’s from nyc, or just moved there idkkk it’s so good!!

you only love me in the dark | chapter two | chef luca x reader

a/n: thank u so so much for ur request they always mean a lot to me and im so happy to hear that you like you only love me in the dark! this will probably end up being 4-5 parts, and i hope u like it! thank u so much again <3requests updates: if u requested just know its being worked on, im getting through all of them one by one and feel free to keep sending them in (i do other fandoms too so feel free to ask outside of the bear), thank u all so much

content warnings: minor smut for the sake of the angst | chapter one

Luca wasn’t careless. He was…distracted.

It’s not like he was in love or anything, right? He was just…thinking too much. 

“Behind, chef, watch out,” the sous barked, brushing past him. “Stay focused.”

“Sorry, chef,” Luca muttered, shaking his head like he was trying to rattle himself back into place, trying to regain his focus. 

He wanted to say that it wasn’t you, because if it wasn’t you, then maybe he could just forget. Maybe he could just move on. 

But no. He was certain. It was you. It had to be you. It couldn’t have been anyone else. 

So…why? Why were you here? Why now?

His head felt like it was spinning, and no matter how hard he tried, he just couldn’t seem to get it to stop. 

His eyes seemed to zoom in and out of focus as he tried to stare down at the cutting board, chopping onions, carrots, peppers, cucumbers, rhythmically, methodically, like if he just julienned one more carrot in the right way, he’d finally be able to stop thinking about this…thinking about you.

In fact, he was so focused on trying to not think about you that he completely forgot what he was actually supposed to be thinking about. So, when the knife slid just an inch off from where it should’ve been, when he felt the steel plunge into his finger, he dropped it with a startled hiss- “Fuckin’ hell” -and staggered backward as if the board had suddenly caught fire.

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.

That night, neither of you moved, and neither could tell if this quiet between you was the start of something new…or the first chord of a pain that neither of you would survive.

[triplingdogsdare]

Hello! I read you’re glad about any request you get right now and i’ve been getting inspired by your latest stories so here’s my request (if you’re comfortable with it):

Reader and carmy have been ‘together’ you could say for a few months and everything’s been going well, carmy’s been helping reader heal from some things he didn’t even know about (maybe an traumatic ex) but one night she got into her head way too much and is scared carmy’s gonna come home wanting to be intimate bc she’s been feeling off wayyy too much throughout the day and is stressing herself out so much so when carmy comes home totally oblivious, she is so on edge he kinda just wants to greet her and say hi but she almost scurries away from him and is so scared of saying no to him so carmy’s alarmed to say the least and they talk about it and reader is like ? “you didn’t want to-?” and carmy’s all comforting and kind and his heart kinda breaks when he realises how scared she was of him in this situation and he goes on and on about how he’d never wanna pressure her or force her to even kiss him if she didn’t want to etc etc (this kinda stems from personal experiences and the way you write comforting carmy is such a hug for the heart but if this makes you uncomfortable pls ignore me!)

Thank you for your time either way! Appreciate you!

a/n: thank u so so so much for this request, i feel very honored that u would trust me with writing something like this. i completely understand this type of scenario and am no stranger to it myself. as a fellow survivor i'm glad that u trust me with the opportunity to get to write carmy as a comfort character for others who need it. and to anyone reading this who needs help with anything like this 800.656.HOPE (4673) is the number for RAINN an organization that specializes in SA, and my dms r always open if anyone ever needs help locating more resources i am here and always ready to be there for anyone who needs it requests updates: if u requested just know its being worked on, im getting through all of them one by one and feel free to keep sending them in (i do other fandoms too so feel free to ask outside of the bear), thank u all so much content warnings: implied history of SA/abuse

You weren’t really sure what it was exactly about this day in particular. These things always seemed to ebb and flow, some days were good, others were…like today. Maybe it was the branch outside the apartment, that fucking branch, hitting at the window every few seconds at this exact wrong angle, scratching a rhythm that reminded you of a night you didn’t want to remember, sending chills down your spine, all pooling cold in your feet. Maybe it was the hallway light, flickering since the morning, the one that Carmy couldn’t fix until he got home from work, strobing like…No, maybe it was the way the pillows on the bed seemed to just…stare at you. The way that the fog in the bathroom seemed to swallow the room whole when you turned on the water to shower until you couldn’t see anything at all. 

Whatever it was, something about the day left you on edge.

By afternoon, your chest felt tight. Like you’d been holding your breath for too long, or like the air was just being sucked out of the fucking room, or collapsing in on itself completely. 

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.

You didn’t just feel the love. You were it. You were all of it, infinite, absolute, ineffable. This is love.

[triplingdogsdare]

could you write a fic where Carmy had a situationship when he was working in New York that he completely ghosted when he moved to Chicago, but maybe she shows up at the restaurant with friends or something and he HAS to talk to her and apologize because for both of them it was WAY more than a situationship. Could be an angsty or happy ending! I just love the idea of Carmy owning up to his shit and apologizing and making things right.

(or ignore this request and keep writing limerance bc I NEED more Luca Carmy love triangle in my life)

a/n: thank u so so much for this request and im so so excited that u like limerence! its been a huge passion project of mine so im thrilled to have finally worked up the courage to post it and to receive the feedback ive been receiving so far! i hope this fic is to ur liking, love a good gut-wrenching situationship, cause been there lol. thank u so much again bc wow anon ur mind, prompt genius, i had so much fun writing this.  (wine lovers pls dont come for me im a somellier/mixologist myself in the industry, im making fun of myself, also im from NYC and no shade to NYU ok pls yall r fine and good and cool, im sorry its just that ur everywhere, NYU has taken over) requests updates: if u requested just know its being worked on, im getting through all of them one by one and feel free to keep sending them in, thank u all so much :)

spring. now. chicago.

His voice hits you before you even see him.

The faint sound of it tracing into the dining room from behind the kitchen doors, low, rough, and familiar in a way you wished it wasn’t. 

The door pushes open and you swear that you can feel the air in the room shift. 

He steps out, head turning toward the sound of your laugh from just seconds ago, eyes scanning the room until finally landing on you. 

The clattering of cutlery and chatter of voices all seems to mute in that instant.

Cigarettes and late nights, early mornings and the feeling of his skin on yours, all slams into you at once.

Suddenly, you’re twenty-two again, barefoot on cracked tile in his New York apartment, wearing his t-shirt, standing in the glow of the refrigerator light, all hushed laughter and quiet whispers in the early hours of the morning. 

“(y/n)?”

You swallow.

“...Carmen?”

His hand flexes at his side, fighting the urge to reach for something that isn’t his to reach for anymore. 

“What are you doing here?”

spring. years ago. new york city.

You were late.

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.

You believe it, love can work out.

[hananfamily]

I lost my baby after 6 months of hope… No words can describe the pain 💔💔

I share this update with a heart weighed down by sorrow and heartbreak…

We are still living in the heart of catastrophe. Ongoing starvation, fear, and the lack of safety have destroyed what remains of our humanity. We lost our home, our jobs, our dreams… we lost the life we once knew!

I lost my baby after six months of pregnancy. Six months during which I awaited his birth as a sole beacon of hope amid death and destruction. I held onto him as a symbol of a new beginning… but he left before seeing the light of day. 💔😭

The miscarriage was difficult and painful. My body could no longer endure. I became unable to move, and my health has sharply deteriorated. My heart tears apart every moment I remember that I lost my baby…🥹

My family and I are now suffering from severe malnutrition. We’ve lost a great deal of weight and can no longer find anything to satisfy our hunger. We need flour, basic foods, nutritional supplements, and urgent medicines so I can regain my strength and care for my child and family who are still alive and struggling every day to survive.

I know you have never hesitated to help, and you have always been a symbol of humanity. But today I write to you with the last strength I have left… because my life and the lives of my family are in your hands.

Your support now means life for us… it means we have not been forgotten in this hell.

From the depths of my heart, Please not leave us alone in these moments.

Vetted by @gazavetters, my number verified on the list is ( #152 ) ✅

This campaign has also been verified by @90_ghost ✅

[triplingdogsdare]

you only love me in the dark | luca x reader (the bear)

angst & smut (but it's more like the smut exists for the sake of the angst)

chapter two

a/n sorry for all my posts, im cleaning out my drafts i have like literally thirty fics just saved up on my computer bc i was just writing to write for a long while and couldnt bring myself to post but now im just kind of posting them all so exception of requests ive been just like essentially proof-reading and posting. also currently working on two requests

You know it’s him before he even knocks.

You know it’s him before you ever look at the caller ID.

And you always know it’s him the second your phone lights up and it only ever lights up like that when something’s gone wrong. When he needs something. When he needs you.

And every time. You let him in. Always.

You let him speak for as long as he needs. 

You tell him to come over. 

You unlock the door, and sit on the edge of your bed like it’s not pathetic, like it’s not ritual, like you’re not already half-undressed by the time his car pulls up outside.

He never knocks like he means it either. It’s always the same. The three soft taps, hesitant, like he’s sorry before he even enters.

You open the door anyways. Of course you do. 

Three years spent in Copenhagen, three years spent on Luca.

He doesn’t say hi, he doesn’t have to.

He just crosses the threshold of your doorframe like he’s done it a hundred times before, which he has, and shrugs off his coat, tossing it aside the same way you know he’ll toss you aside later.

But that doesn’t stop you.

Because somehow, for some fucked up reason, the fact that it happens at all means more than the way it hurts. 

It’s always been better to hurt than to be nothing at all with Luca.

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.

Maybe next time, he’d be able to say your name.

[triplingdogsdare]

hello! saw you’re taking requests and i’ve been loving your latest posts so i was wondering if you’d be willing to write this: (tw: sexual harassment/assault) reader used to work at a different kitchen in town that every cook knows is a horrible place and then comes to work for carmy. at first she seems fine to work with and everything’s fine but after a few days/weeks carmy notices her subtle flinches or stiffness whenever he walks past her/behind her etc and how she trembles at times whenever he explains something to her and he wonders if he did something wrong so one night after service he wants to talk and ask what’s wrong and reader basically explains at her old kitchen she used to get harassed by her old chef (and groped whenever he wanted to) (you can expand this part however you like or don’t) so she’s really traumatised but one night her old boss also held her back after service to try and pressure her into sleeping with him bc according to him “he helped her become someone in the food industry so now she owes him” and that’s when she quit, ran, and started working for carmy. basically just a lot of angst and comfort from carmy, him being all mad that she had to go through that and him assuring her that would never be acceptable behaviour in his restaurant etc (sorry this is kinda long, if you don’t feel comfy with this, don’t worry!!) thank you either way <3333 also would like to start anonymous but maybe i can get an emoji? 🧀

a/n: hello, thank u for this request! i know i’ve talked about this before, probably too much, but as i’ve said i’ve worked in this industry for a very long time and i’ve been through the ringer, and this is also another very important topic that i hold close to my heart. i’ve witnessed this exact type of scenario hundreds of times and been at the receiving end more times than i’d like to admit and it’s just so fucking sickening and fucked up and it’s so normalized, so, thank u for bringing this to light with ur request, i hope it can help bring whoever needs it some sort of comfort or closure and if nothing else i hope it shines more light on this issue in the industry.

contains: angst, mention of SA/harassment from former boss

now, chicago

“Behind!” Carmy yells brushing past you in a hurry, you duck your head, pulling your elbows in tight, making yourself as small as possible to let him through without contact.

“Sorry, chef,” you mutter under your breath, resuming dicing onions once he gets through.

“86 on the brisket, chefs!” he shouts.

“Yes, chef!” everyone answers in unison, your own response seeming to come just a fraction later than the others, flinching at the echo of his tone. 

“You good, chef?” Marcus asks, eyebrow raised.

You nod quickly. “Yes, chef. Sorry, chef.”

He gives you a soft smile, laughing lightly. “Nothing to be sorry about, chef, just making sure you’re okay.”

You return his words with a thin smile and quickly drop your gaze back down, blade moving in a steady rhythm, just doing your best to fold yourself back into the noise and motion of the kitchen.

five months earlier, chicago

You bounce your leg up and down, sitting in a chair across from Carmen Berzatto, a desk separating the two of you in the space between.

He’s looking down rifling through a small stack of papers, your résumé presumably among them, sits in his hands.

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.

Because after tonight, you know you’ll forget the other man’s name long before you forget his.

[triplingdogsdare]

limerence | chapter two | carmen 'carmy' berzatto x reader x chef luca

angst. angst. angst. w/ a love triangle. | chapter one | chapter three

You've been in a relationship with Carmy for years, but before there was Carmy, there was Luca. Well, sort of. There was sort of Luca. You were never actually really together, but still. Luca's moving back to Chicago, and Carmy's burning out. Will your relationship survive, or will old flames be reignited? Well, let's find out.

*there's two interactive spotify playlist links in this fic*

a/n: hey thanks for reading, i've had this saved for MONTHS and i just thought i should start posting in installments, thank u so much in general for the response to my fics im so excited ive had most of these saved for a while now, ur all so kind and it means everything. There will eventually be a sydney x oc insert, i repeat, this story WILL contain an oc. fic playlist

The sky was already starting to fade behind you into that soft early-evening shade of blue. 

Luca opened the door after two knocks, his hair was damp, his t-shirt slightly rolled up on the side.

“Hey- sorry,” he starts, motioning for you to come inside, “You’re a bit earlier than I expected, you caught me right out the shower.”

You nod, wordless, still shellshocked from the day you had just gone through. 

He shuts the door, turning to face you.

“You came,” he says.

“I did,” you respond.

He just grins back at you.

“Wait- Did you think I wasn’t going to?” you ask him, an eyebrow raised.

“What, I mean, no, I thought you were coming,” he paused thinking for a moment, “Just always glad to see you.” 

Your stomach flips.

Inside, the table’s already been set, mismatched plates, flickering candles, bouquet in a green vase off to the side of the table, and there’s something simmering gently on the stove. It smells fucking incredible.

“Sit,” he says gently, looking like he wants to say something else, but doesn’t. 

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-

There’s a knock at the door.

[triplingdogsdare]

hii id rather stay anon but i thought we could all kinda start a convo/discussion/open convo about this: i saw someone on tiktok say that carmy’s so emotionally manipulative, he’s the type of guy to pressure you into doing stuff for him in the bedroom…….. the way my jaw dropped bc ???? i hate when random people on the internet can perceive my fav character like 🥲 idk just thought that was such a wrong thing to say and i was wondering what your take on it was :)) if this makes you uncomfy pls ignore this completely!!

tw: assault, coercion, mental health the following is just my personal exp. and opinion also want to take this chance to state that im a poc and the treatment of poc in the kitchen is sooo shit sometimes which might also impact my experiences

also i might delete this i think its important to say but im getting kind of stressed about having my personal stuff on here im sorry

hi! totally, yea i get what you're saying completely.

i don't want to trauma dump on main but i want to preface this by saying that i speak as someone who's unfortunately been on the receiving end of this type of behavior in relationships and as someone who has been sex-ually assaul-ted in my life, but also, as someone who personally can identify with carmen because of the struggles which i face due to these experiences.

at the end of the day characters are just what we personally perceive them to be, and it's completely possible that someone might recognize something in carmen that reminds them of someone who has harmed them, and those types of associations are deeply personal and not something im gonna try to like take away from anyone.

that being said, as a victim of such things, i find carmen to be the opposite for me as is just my personal experience and connection with the character

carmen's family dynamic is something that i very strongly recognize in my own life. the way he shuts down and completely breaks under pressure, that internalized need to stay small, stay useful, and not ask for too much, is part of why i think that some of us can relate to him so deeply, and honestly, it's also a large part of why i've been able to survive in the restaurant industry for so long myself.

a line in the show that really struck me was when he said "i don't need to provide amusement or enjoyment. i don't need to receive ay amusement or enjoyment" for me, that hit really hard. to me, that line shows exactly how little carmen even allows himself to experience closeness, let alone exploit it in that way. we've seen him actively avoid intimacy and vulnerability. when he does get close to someone, it's brief, and ultimately self-sabotaged. and that's what resonates, i think, not abusive behavior, but fear. a deep and intense fear of connection and the instinct to destroy it before it can destroy 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.

to wrap it up with a personal connection, for me, leaving the industry (recently) was a choice i made in part because of this show. in carmen, i saw parts of myself. as a survivor of a household like his and of abuse and sex-ual abuse i recognized a lot of my own patterns, the shutting down, the withdrawing from people and situations before they can hurt you. watching him helped me realize that the abuse that i underwent in the kitchen, in my home, and in my personal life, caused me to lose my abilities to connect and communicate at all. i think he did too, and the industry not only feeds on and exploits these traits at times, but also can reward them in ways that keep you from ever really stopping to address the roots of this type of pain. and this recognition gave me the strength and permission to walk away. less serious side note: carmen confronting his kitchen abuser was so cathartic it was like i was getting to do it from my couch

[triplingdogsdare]

hii! i really like your writing and how you portray carmy so i was wondering if you’d write something along the lines of this: reader and carmy have been seeing each other for a few weeks and she was at the bear recently after it re opened but saw the way carmy can become so loud and almost aggressive with others and that really frightened her so she starts to overthink how he’d be at home with her and starts to only walk on eggshells around him to avoid aggravating him bc she’s almost scared of him…. carmy starts to notice and wants to find out what’s going on and she gets scared of his reaction so she panics and carmy breaks a little when he realises she’s scared of him physically and mentally…. angsty af but if you’re uncomfortable with this pls ignore me!! either way thanks for your time!!! <33

a/n: hello hello hello!! thank u so much for ur request, im super excited to keep receiving them, and i hope this is to ur liking!! :) also this was cool to get bc i work(ed) in the fine dining industry for a long time as a mixologist and sommelier and the normalization of this type of aggression in the industry is so damaging and normalized so im happy to get to touch upon the damage/impact it has on people in and outside of work. the detail about a head chef throwing a plate at someone is also true lmao, it was me, i got a plate thrown at me, and no i did not quit tl/dr hope we can break this cycle of abuse in the industry one day. thank u so so so much again! 

contains: angst, toxic kitchen culture

“Table for two?” Richie asks, eyes down looking at a screen behind the host stand, two menus in hand, before finally looking up, his eyes meeting yours. 

“Oh shit-” he says, a grin appearing on his face, “(y/n), you’re here.”

“I am,” you say, grinning back at him.

“Carm’s gonna be thrilled to see you here tonight- does he know you’re coming?”

You shake your head. “No, no, it’s a surprise. I was able to get off work last minute.” 

He nods.

“Well, let me get you a table, and then uh-,” he thinks for a moment before continuing, “you want me to send him out, or do you wanna come back and surprise him?”

“Are you sure it’d be alright if I come back? I mean, I’d love to, I’d be really excited to, I’ve never seen him like, in action before, y’know?”

“Well,” Richie starts before pausing for a moment, “It’s certainly a sight to be seen.”

You laugh. “I’m sure it is.”

Richie gives you a tight smile before guiding you to a table, exchanging some light conversation about your days on your way over and being seated. You thank him, and he disappears into the back.

A few minutes pass and you watch the hustle of the dining room, the careful rush of the front of house staff as they move between tables, and try to ignore the low hum of nerves which sit heavy in your chest. You were excited to see Carmy tonight, and you were just hoping that he would also be just as excited to see you tonight.

The restaurant is humming and alive with chatter and laughter, the soft clinking of silverware. It’s beautiful and everything looks just how Carmy had described it would be, warm lighting, the smell of herbs drifting through the air. 

You sip your water letting five minutes pass, and then ten.

Someone drops off some drink off the seasonal menu at your table and you thank them softly before taking a sip. Ginger, chai, something like brown sugar and cinnamon lining the rim, it’s delicious. 

About two minutes later Richie reappears at your table, nodding at you. “Alright, (y/n), you ready to see where the magic happens?”

You grin at him, and nod, excitement fluttering in your chest as your rise from your seat and follow him through the maze of tables, past a server station, and toward the double doors to the kitchen. As they swing open, the sound and heat hits you like a tidal wave.

Carmen is standing at the expo line, a hand running through his hair.

“No! Behind! Corner! You said it too fucking late, chef!”

“If you can’t plate it clean, don’t fucking plate it!”

“Fak, you’re on expo, not break, lock the fuck in!”

Somewhere a pan clatters to the ground and Carmen throws a Sharpie at a wall, it bounces off and falls to the floor. 

“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!” 

You turn back to your book, the rhythm of the kitchen behind you, and smile, because this time, it doesn’t sound like chaos. It just sounds like Carmy.

[triplingdogsdare]

loveee ur writing can u pls do a carmy fic in the exes to lovers trope? maybe along with some jealousy and angst too? tia <3

a/n: hi tia!! thank you so so much for sending in an ask, im so excited! and thank you so much for reading, it means a ton! i hope this is at least sort of what you had in mind :)

contains: angst, a break up, mention of mikey, happy ending, guest starring luca.

chicago, now

The kitchen is chaos.

The heat presses in like it’s a second skin, leaving everyone warm and sweaty, tense. 

Carmen runs a hand through his hair. 

“Let's fucking go chefs, move it, we’re behind!”

He says it loud enough for it to bounce off the walls of the kitchen, loud enough to potentially shoot out into the dining room. 

Someone yells, “Heard!”, someone else drops a pan.

You wipe your forehead with the back of your arm and slide a plate onto the pass.

“Two minutes out on the salmon!” you call out.

Carmen doesn’t even look at you.

“More char on that. It’s under.”

You pause, blink at him. “It’s not under.”

“It is.”

You reach for the plate, but he’s already re-firing, his hands are a blur, and you feel yours involuntarily curl into fists.

“I had it under control,” you say, low, tense, your teeth clenched.

He doesn’t respond to you, doesn’t have to. 

Behind you, the printer shoots out about three more tickets.

You spin back toward the station, plating faster now.

“Behind,” you mutter, slipping past him.

“Say it louder next time,” he snaps. 

You slam the spatula onto the counter.

“Maybe you need to pay more attention, chef.”

He looks up at you, sharp, cold. 

“Excuse me?”

You take a deep breath, but it’s already too late. You’re vibrating with rage, exhaustion, and heat. 

“You treat me like I’m one of your fucking interns,” you spit. “I’m not your fucking student, we staged at the same places together, chef.”

He turns fully around, looking you dead in the eye. 

“Then fucking act like it, chef.”

copenhagen, before

The kitchen in Copenhagen had been quieter. Still intense, still cutthroat, but it was silent and cold in a way that was different from the other places you’d staged at. You remember the snow, the way your fingers burned when you left work too late, too tired to feel them thaw.

You remember burning your hand one day- careless, in a rush, reaching for a hot pan, not really thinking about it. You bit down the pain and forced yourself to finish the shift, cradling it behind your back when no one was looking. You didn’t want to step away. You couldn’t afford to seem weak, like you couldn’t handle it, the kitchen. 

Carmy had seen it anyway.

He didn’t say anything until you were both outside after work, coats on, breath and smoke clouding in the air.

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.”

He closes the distance, and when his lips brush yours, everything, the anger, the pain, the silence, seems to melt away, leaving only the certainty that this is where it starts.

[triplingdogsdare]

limerence | chapter one | carmen 'carmy' berzatto x reader x chef luca

angst. angst. angst. w/ a love triangle. | chapter two | chapter three

You've been in a relationship with Carmy for years, but before there was Carmy, there was Luca. Well, sort of. There was sort of Luca. You were never actually really together, but still. Luca's moving back to Chicago, and Carmy's burning out. Will your relationship survive, or will old flames be reignited? Well, let's find out.

a/n: hey thanks for reading, i've had this saved for MONTHS and i just thought i should start posting in installments, thank u so much in general for the response to my fics im so excited ive had most of these saved for a while now, ur all so kind and it means everything. There will eventually be a sydney x oc insert, i repeat, this story WILL contain an oc. fic playlist

The restaurant industry isn’t for the weak. 

Long hours.

Typically thankless. 

High rates of alcoholism, high rates of chronic anger, high blood pressure.

He always came home smelling like smoke, which he had sworn he had quit. 

He swore a lot of things.

Swore he’d come home on time, swore you’d do something this week on his day off, swore that you’d spend more time together at all, swore that he’d at least talk to you…nothing. 

You knew you had to leave maybe about a year ago. But you stayed regardless. How come? You couldn’t be certain. Maybe it was because you liked his family, or because you liked the people he worked with. Maybe it was because of how good everything was when you had first started seeing each other, when you first met he made you feel as if you had hung the stars in the sky yourself…these days he doesn’t look at you much at all. 

Maybe it was because you couldn’t handle seeing him all alone with everything he was always going through.

You heard the door unlock from the couch and then it opening, stirring you from your light sleep which you had accidentally fallen into while watching some show on Netflix waiting up for Carmy to come home, the “Are you still watching?” prompt had long disappeared, replaced with a dark, empty screen. 

You could hear him step inside, but you felt a little awkward tonight for reasons which you weren’t entirely certain of, opting to keep your head down and hidden behind the couch, you hear Carmen drop his keys and other belongings at the door before approaching the bedroom. 

About halfway into the doorframe of the bedroom, you got up from the couch and started towards him, 

“Carm…” 

Carmen startles every-so-slightly, then turning towards you,

“Jesus Christ…You trying to give me a heart attack?”

You give him a genuine and apologetic look, “I’m sorry…”

He runs a hand through his hair, he looks exhausted. 

“Fuck…” sliding his hand down his face, he turns his whole body back towards you,

“Where were you?”

You look at him perplexed, 

“Where-...Where was I?”

“Yea, I mean, shit, did you just materialize out of thin air?”

“No.”

“Yea, so, where were you?”

“The couch.” 

“The couch?”

“Yea, I,” you shift your feet, that self-conscious feeling which you had first felt when you heard him coming in returning to you, “I guess I fell asleep or something…” you mumbled, trailing off, looking down at the floor.

“Ah, shit,” Carmen puts his hand over his head, a silent facepalm, “I forgot, I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay, Carm.”

“Really?”

“Yea, it’s okay.”

He nods at you, seemingly satisfied with the end of the interaction, but something in you hopes for more.

You wait for it. Some sort of follow up to it, maybe a deeper apology. But he just walks past you, into the bedroom, pulling off his shirt and letting it fall into the laundry basket by the door of the room. You say nothing more, following him a minute later, brushing your teeth in the dim light of the bathroom, looking up at the middle light over the sink which Carmen had promised to change after the lightbulb had gone out weeks before. 

He’s already asleep by the time you crawl into bed.

You lay down beside him, staring at the ceiling for a while, and you’re not entirely sure why, but you begin to cry.

When you woke up the next morning, Carmen was gone, turning and looking over at the clock it read a big bright red 7:30AM, you rolled back over and pulled the sheets over your head, grabbing your phone from off the bedside table and clicking it open in the process.

You opened the calendar app, reading off the events of the day, 

Meeting at 1pm, dinner at 7pm…

You couldn’t help but flip back to the day beforehand, looking at the screen, you could feel your heart shatter a little, the screen read,

All day- Anniversary,

at the very top of the day. 

You knew he hadn’t forgotten, not completely, opening your text chain from yesterday a brief and to the point, ‘happy anniversary babe, love you, see you tn x,’ staring back at you, sent at 5:12PM the day before. 

He wasn’t lying, he had seen you last night, just not as early as you had initially planned. 

Last week standing in the kitchen, him on the couch just across the way, you called over, 

“Hey- Carm?”

Looking up from his phone he called back, “What’s up?”

“So, like, next week…”

“Next week?”

“Yea, so like, for next week, our anni-”

“Oh shit, yea, sorry, our anniversary next week,”

“Yea, what do you want to do?”

“I mean- I dunno, babe, whatever you want to do.”

“You sure?”

“Yea,”

“Do you want to maybe just,” you think for a moment, knowing he was incredibly busy with work and everything, you reconsider what you had initially been thinking of suggesting and opt for something more simplistic instead…less demanding, “How about we just…stay in?”

“Really?”

“Yea, really, when you come home from work-” you pause for a moment thinking again, “maybe you can pick something up and we can watch a movie or something like that?”

“Yea, okay, sounds good,” he pauses, thinking for a moment, before looking you in the eye, “If you’re sure.”

“I am.”

“Okay, sounds good,” he looks back down at his phone, eyes moving side to side, reading, before furiously texting someone back.

“Sounds good…” you mutter to yourself, going back to spreading some jelly on a piece of bread. 

So yea, he hadn’t forgotten, per say, he had just…he was just too late. 

-

You’d be lying if you said that you didn’t miss him. 

Him in general.

Him in the beginning of the relationship.

When you had first gotten together, everything seemed really good, like you were unstoppable together, like you could do anything. And you did…sort of, he got what he wanted, and so did you, in a way. 

You did have to move over to where Carmen was located pretty abruptly, and you got swept up in the rush of it all and everything that opening a restaurant entailed, but it’s not like you uprooted your entire life for him, no. You had your own things, and he had his, and it was good, it is good. 

When you had first met, it was when he was still working at noma. 

You had gone to Denmark to visit your friend, Luca, who you had known from an exchange program which you had done in undergraduate school, it was during that time that you had met Luca and immediately hit it off with him. 

It was also there in Denmark, during one of your many visits during your third year of law school, where you had decided to attend a small party with him, 

“Are you sure you want to go to this thing- I mean, we really don’t have to, it’ll probably be kind of fucking, you know, kind of boring anyways. It’ll just be mainly people from work and…Yea, I’m just saying, you really don’t have to go if you don’t want to. Just say the word and we both get to get out of it.” 

You laughed at him, appreciating how much he cared for you (or how much he really wanted to get out of going to this party, it could’ve been either one).

“No- Luca- stop it. I really do.”

“Do what?”

“Want to go!”

“Fuck- really?” 

“C’mon, it’ll be fun!” 

“I don’t know if I can fully agree with that…”

“Oh, I get it,” you recoil in mock offense, “You just don’t want to have to introduce me to your friends-”

“What? No that’s not-”

“-You’re embarrassed!”

“No-”

“You’re embarrassed of me! Ashamed!” 

Luca shot you an annoyed expression before smiling at you.

“Fuck you.”

You grin back at him, “Fuck you too,” you tossed him the keys to his apartment, “Now let’s go! Let’s get to this party thing- I don’t want to be the last person there, gotta make a good first impression.”

“Okay sure- but you don’t want to be like, the first person there.” 

“I’ll just make you walk in first.”

Frowning at you, “Oh so you just have an answer for everything, don’t you?”

“Obviously.” 

A moment of silence passed between the two of you, looking at each other just in front of the door, neither of you moving to reach for the handle, just looking at each other in comfortable silence, expectantly, like something was going to happen.

“...Are you sure you want to go?” Luca broke the silence, making you laugh again.

“Oh my god, Luca, yes, do you?”

“Well obviously fucking not.”

“Well too bad, I do.”

“Fuck you.”

And that’s how you and Luca ended up going to the party that night. 

He wasn’t entirely wrong. 

It was a little lame, there weren’t a lot of people there, but there were just enough to make it more crowded than you were comfortable with. You stood towards the corner of a room which you presumed to be a living room area of sorts, it was an open floor plan type of place with a spacious kitchen and a nice dining room which were all sort of part of the same area, a table with scattered plates of food and a large variety of drinks sat just to your left. Luca stood uncomfortably behind you.

“Who are these people?” you asked, looking behind you to Luca.

“Mostly people from noma- and then the friends of the people at noma, I told you- No, warned you, it would be lame, and you didn’t listen.”

“Yea, well-”

“Luca.”

You heard a voice in front of you, turning your head back forwards, this was when you first officially laid eyes on Carmen. 

He was shorter than Luca with longer curly hair and, much like Luca, quite the collection of tattoos scattered about his arms and hands. 

You immediately liked him. 

“Carmen.”

“I thought you weren’t gonna come?”

“Well- Call it a change of heart.”

“I see, well, glad you’re here.”

“Yea.”

“And who is this?” Carmen asked, motioning to you, face stoic in a way that made you nervous.

“Why don’t you ask them yourself?”

Carmen turned his gaze to you, making the hardest eye contact that you had ever experienced in your life.

“And who are you?”

You could feel your face heat up.

“I’m (y/n).”

“Carmen,” he said, sticking his hand out for you to shake, you took it, awkwardly intertwining hands and shaking them twice before letting go and retracting your hand, wiping it on your leg, suddenly very self-conscious about whether there might be sweat on them or not.

“Yea, I- I know.”

“You know?”

“Yea.”

He lifted a skeptical eyebrow at you, crossing his arms over his chest, “How?”

You twisted the hem of your shirt, looking down at it, “How what?”

“How did you know my name?” 

You looked back up to meet his eyes, “Um- Luca like, just said it.”

“Oh,” a noticeable red flush made its way across the bridge of his nose to his cheeks, “I’m sorry,” he shook his head, “I’m all fucked up tonight, a lot to drink.”

“That’s okay,” you said, “I’m also a forgetful drunk.”

“Is that right?”

“Yea.”

“Speaking of drunk- can I get you a drink?” 

You looked back towards Luca, who you now realized had been silent for a while, “Do you want one Luca?”

He looked at Carmen, and then you, back at Carmen, and then returning his gaze to you again-

“Nah, that’s okay,” he crossed his arms and leaned his back against the wall, “I think I’m gonna stay here and keep being all brooding and mysterious and sexy.”

You laughed in response,

“Sexy?”

“What- You don’t think I am?”

“I-” Carmen cleared his throat in front of you, not in a rude way, just sort of quietly and awkwardly, nervously shifting his feet, you turned back towards him.

“Yes- sorry, Carm, uh- drinks?”

He gave you a small smile, “Yea.” 

You followed him over to the other side of the room, towards a sliding glass door which you presumed led to a back patio of some sort, you shot one last glance at Luca who motioned to you with his hand to ‘go on,’ while he wiggled his eyebrows at you once, twice, and then took out his phone, leaning back against the wall, and you turned back to Carmen.

“Oh- fuck,” you said, stepping out of the door and onto a back patio.

“Hm?” Carmen hummed in response, reaching down to what appeared to be some type of cooler and fishing his hand around in it.

“The air- it’s so much better outside.”

Carmen gave you a small snort, looking up at you, “Beer? Seltzer? Questionable wine cooler?” 

“Alcohol.”

“They’re all alcohol, dear,” 

Dear, you remembered how much that had made you blush, how badly it had tripped you up in that moment.

You didn’t have a mirror, or any other reflective surface on you for that matter, but you already knew that you turned red as a beet, immediately regretting saying anything as you repeated the word before you could give a second thought to it-

“Dear?” You echoed back to him, blinking.

“Yes?”

“What?”

“I thought you were asking me somethin’,”

“What do you mean?” 

“I thought you were calling me dear,”

“What- no, I mean, I would, but I was just repeating what you said, because it- It caught me off guard,” you looked down, taking a beer from his hand as he passed you one and cracked open one for himself, “I mean, I don’t think I’ve ever been called that before.”

“What- dear?”

“Yea, dear…And also babe, honey, darling, or anything else for that matter.”

He gave you a shocked look, taking a swig of his drink before turning to you again.

“What- so you’ve never been flirted with or something?”

“What, flirt-Oh my god, dude, are you flirting with me?”

“Ouch, dude.”

“Sorry.”

“Yea, dude, I’m flirting with you.” 

Later that night he asked you to go back to his place, and you did, Luca giving you the go-ahead and making sure you were safe, promising to come pick you up the next day to take you back to his place. 

You ended up spending a lot of time with Carmen during that trip, Luca always promising to you that it was “totally okay,” and that there was “always next time,” to do one thing or another together, and something about how if this was truly someone who might be the one that he felt it was entirely necessary for you to pursue that. You were incredibly grateful for his leniency and understanding, Luca was truly always a great friend. 

After your meeting you ended up spending a lot of time texting, calling, and visiting each other back and forth, racking up what could only be described as record breaking numbers of miles on your respective credit card rewards programs as you flew to one another multiple times over the course of just a month sometimes. 

You truly felt like if love was real, that this was surely it.

This being said, you definitely have been wrong before. 

But he made you feel so…alive, alive in ways which you had never felt before, the whole thing was too exciting and too intoxicating to stop.

So when Carm had asked you to move in with him, uprooting your life completely from where you had lived previously to come to Chicago, you did.

When he asked for help setting up the restaurant and for patience while it happened, of course you were happy to help and happy to wait.

You were always happy to wait. 

Or at least that’s what you allowed him to believe. 

-

You aren’t a clueless person. Things had been falling apart, or at least aren’t quite what they used to be. But it’s not as if things were all falling apart at once. They almost never do.

There were still good days. Really good days, even. There were still those mornings where you’d wake up to a coffee cup from the shop on the corner of your block, on the bedside table, a heart haphazardly scribbled on the side of it in black sharpie. Even if he had left before saying goodbye. Even if it had gone cold. There were still times in the middle of the night when you were both awake, restless, unable to sleep, next to one another staring at the ceiling and he’d lean closer to you and mumble something like, “You’re the only thing keeping me sane in this world, you’re all that makes sense to me.”

But more often than not, you felt more like a ghost than a person. Like you were just something that was lingering in the apartment longer than it ever should have been. 

You liked to leave notes on his things with little post-its, his shoe, his keys, his jacket pocket; bad jokes, a doodle of your cat, a reminder that you loved him. So much. 

Sometime he’d text back, 

‘thnx babe’

But other times you’d catch them in the trash, or under a table. Crumpled. Stained with oil. Looking like he had never even read them. 

The worst part was, you didn’t know which one hurt more. 

-

One night, his shift seemed to bleed from late night into early morning, he came home and found you still awake. Sitting on the couch, blanket pulled up to your chin, face dimly lit by your laptop which was resting on your thighs. 

He sat down next to you, quiet, exhausted, his leg touching yours, he leaned his head on your shoulder. 

Smoke. 

You smelt it on him.

You decided not to say anything.

“Hi Carmy,” you said quietly, you shut your laptop and placed it on the ground in front of you.

“Hey,” he responded back to you, quiet, reserved, exhausted.

“How was your day?”

“It was…” it’s like you can hear the gears in his head, turning, uncertain if he should let you in or not, “It was busy.” 

You nod into his hair in response and he puts his head in your lap, you both sat in silence like that for a while, until you noticed the sun peaking through the blinds, 

“Can we go to bed?” Carm whispers it softly into your lap.

“Yes Carm, we can go to bed.”

-

You wake up the next morning with a start, it was later in the day, and the room was scattered with clear remnants of Carmen having had done the same. A dresser drawer half opened with one of his many white t-shirts sticking out, boxers on the floor next to the hamper just missing it, the door to the bedroom still slightly ajar, you rub your eyes and open your phone. 

The time is 12:30PM, it’s Saturday. Opening your notifications, you find a text:

Sent at 10:16AM

LUCA

You smile at the screen, clicking the text message open it reads,

‘hey so ik u prob already know but im moving to chicago this week, was wondering if u wanted to help me move in? (dinner will be provided)’

You think on it for a moment before texting back.

‘when u need me by?’

‘today too soon?’

‘not at all’

He texted you his new address, close enough to walk over in no more than twenty minutes, you shower, get ready, throw on your coat, a pair of shoes, and you’re out the door.

-

When you get to his place, Luca’s already outside, seemingly waiting for you. He’s sitting on the steps up to his front door, leaning back, a peaceful expression on his face, a pair of headphones cover his ears,

“Luca!” you call out to him still a few houses down, but you feel your stomach flip at the sight of him, and pick up your pace, despite the headphones Luca still seems to have heard you through whatever he was listening to because he quickly looks your way, flips them from his head to drape around his neck and calls out back to you.

“(y/n)!” He gets up from his steps, moving towards you, meeting you in the middle, you embrace, and then pulling away-

“I feel like it’s been forever,” you say,

“Yea, right?” he responds before narrowing his eyes at you and playfully adding, “-And whose fault is that?” 

You roll your eyes, looking down to your shoes.

“Me,” you mumble under your breath.

“Sorry what was that again- didn’t quite hear you?”

You look back at him, smiling.

“Me! You asshole, me, it’s my fault.” 

“That’s what I thought,” he shoots you a smile, “You ready to unpack some boxes, or what?”

“Born ready.” 

You both step inside to his place, you immediately clock how good it smells in there, like vanilla and baking bread, a touch of smoke, the type that rose out of a pan, not a cigarette. Luca helps you with your jacket as you pull it off, he hangs it up on a stray hook on the wall by the door, and you start to take off your shoes.

“You know,” he starts while moving over to a pile of boxes in the center of the room, the entryway opening up into a living room, kitchen, dining room area, another open floor plan similar to his last place in Denmark, and the house that that party was at, the place it had all started, “I’m a little surprised you didn’t text me first.”

You finish taking your shoes off, moving towards him and the pile of boxes.

“What do you mean?”

“I dunno, I mean, I mean nothing bad by it or anything, I just thought you might text me first when you heard I was moving here.” 

You looked at him, perplexed.

“I’m sorry Luca, I’m not really sure what you mean.”

“Oh,” he raises a brow at you while picking up a lamp out of a box marked ‘FRAGILE’ across the top in big red lettering, “You mean Carmen didn’t tell you I was coming here?” 

You blinked at him, couldn’t say anything for a moment, shocked.

“No?”

“No?” he blinks back at you, “Really?”

“Yea.”

Luca and you just stand there looking at each other for a moment before he breaks the silence, shrugging.

“That’s weird.” 

You nod slowly, still unmoving, while Luca moves to put the lamp down on a small table in the living room area right next to a vase balanced on a small stack of books, dessert-based books, by the looks of it. Luca then moves back to the pile of boxes, starting to unwrap something else wrapped up in bubble wrap,

“That’s…weird.” you echo back at him quietly.

Luca looks up at you, the corner of his mouth twitching upwards, pitiful gaze on his face which you can tell he’s trying to hide while he says:

“I mean, maybe he just forgot.”

“Yea, maybe,” you respond, but the words feel sour in your mouth, you can’t help but wonder, ‘how does someone just forget about something like this?’ 

You think it, but you don’t say it.

You crouch down beside Luca, grabbing at the edges of a taped up box in an attempt to open it, just to have something to do with your hands.

“It’s not like we haven’t been talking,” you add quickly and maybe just a bit too defensively,

Luca made a soft noise in response, not an agreement or disagreement, just a confirmation that he had heard you.

You keep pulling at the edges of the box, and picking at the edges of the packing tape, you just can’t seem to be able to get it off, you run a hand over your face, starting to get very frustrated with this box which is seemingly refusing to open up. 

Luca stands over you, reaching over your shoulder, prying the box open with ease, revealing even more books, 

“Thanks,” you mumble, picking up a few, and turning to shelve them on a bookcase in the living room, before turning to him playfully, “I loosened it for you.”

“Yea,” he smiles at you, “Sure, you can tell yourself that.” 

“I will,” you quip back, you drag the box over the floor over to the shelf, reaching down to pick up another small stack and turning to line them up on the shelves.

You can feel him watching you as you move. 

Luca clears his throat.

“Hey (y/n),”

“Mhm?” you respond, not turning around to meet his eye.

“I don’t mean to pry but like-,” Luca was never one to be awkward but suddenly it felt like he was, “Are you okay?”

You paused, book halfway onto the shelf, accidentally pausing just long enough for it to be suspicious, and just long enough to make it feel worse.

“Yea, of course, I mean-” you motion around the room, “I’m helping you move in, it’s a good day!” 

You smile at him for extra measure before returning to your unpacking activities.

“Are you sure?” Luca raises a meaningful eyebrow at you.

“Sure about what?” 

“I mean,” he started before pausing, and then starting again, “You don’t have to lie to me.”

You freeze with your hand still on the spine of a book.

“I’m not.”

Luca says nothing in response to you, he just sits back on his heels in front of a box, forearms resting on his thighs, watching you like he’s trying to give you space to tell the truth if you decide that you want to.

You clear your throat, “So, what’s the job?”

“Hm?”

“Like, what brought you here?”

“Oh yea,” he leans back from a box, “My sister lives here…And Marcus and Carm said they could use a hand with the new menu…” he hesitates before continuing on, “And it just all aligned…it ended up feeling like the right time to leave, I was stagnating.” 

You nodded in response, running a finger along the shelf. 

He carefully adds, “I was also just feeling…really tired of having to watch people I love fall apart from far away, and not being able to do a single fucking thing about it.” 

By the look on his face, you can tell that it landed heavier than he had meant for it to. 

You didn’t respond to him, instead, you made your way back over to the boxes, kneeled beside him, and began opening another box.

“Tell me where this one goes?” 

Luca watches you as you reach for a pair of scissors which he had fished out of another box while you were shelving the books, thank God.

“Bedroom.” 

-

A few hours later you had both decided you were done for the day, with the living room unpacked, most of the kitchen, and having had just finished the bedroom, you both slid down, sitting at the foot of his bed next to one another, his hands on his knees, your legs splayed out straight in front of you, you let out a long exacerbated breath.

“Dinner?” 

You look to him, and then pick up your phone from beside you, quickly clicking on the homescreen just in case Carm might've texted you anything, nothing. 

“Sounds good,” you say, smiling lightly.

“Fantastic, tell me the shittiest takeout place in this city,” Luca joked, standing up, grinning, stretching his hands above his head, the bottom hem of his shirt lifting slightly in the process revealing the ‘Calvin Klein’ band of his boxers around his waist, you averted your gaze quickly.

“Shittiest, huh? You’re really testing me here.”

He pulled out his phone, clicking open a text chain, he scrolls upwards, finally landing on what looked to be a long list-like message from someone, 

“Well- It looks like there’s a place called The Golden Duck, and apparently it’s the most MSG riddled food in the city.”

“Oh well, that means it’s delicious.” 

“Exactly.” 

He ordered for both of you on his phone, tossed it onto his bed, and then himself, his top half on the bed with him staring at the ceiling from his mattress, while his legs hanging off the side,

“So, what’s it been like?”

“What’s what been like?” You turn towards Luca, sitting up on your knees, resting your forearms on the bed and resting your head on them, you and Luca looking directly at one another, his head turned to you from his laying down position, you looking at him from your position at the very end of the mattress, 

“What was it like, and how has it been like moving here? I mean, starting over.” 

You hesitated for a moment.

“I mean, I guess it’s kinda weird. Like it’s all familiar, I know how to get around without Google Maps, and I know where everything in my place-, sorry, me and Carm’s- our place, is…Like, it’s all familiar, but at the same time, to be honest? Nothing feels completely right yet.”

He grins at you, “You do know you moved here like three years ago, right?”

You roll your eyes at him, “Shutup, you asked, now do you want to hear my answer or not?”

“By all means.”

You continue.

“I’m just, it’s like I’m still waiting for something to like, click. I feel like I’m just holding my breath, waiting for it.”

Luca nodded slowly at you.

“Yea I can get that, it can feel like being kinda, trapped between two worlds. Like, me, personally, I thought Chicago might feel like home when I got back, because you know, I’ve been here before, my sister is here, but it’s more like a pause than anything.”

You looked away, and then back, noticing how the street lights coming in from the window fell across his face in a way that made it extravagantly clear that he was incredibly handsome, like the type of handsome that snuck up and pounced on you, you looked away again, pretending not to have noticed, worried he might be able to read your mind or something. 

“Yeah.”

There was a silence, comfortable and charged all at once, until Luca finally broke it, peering at his phone.

“Oh shit- it’s here.” 

You watch as Luca gets up from the bed, stretching his back out and rubbing the back of his neck, heading for the door. You follow him down the hall, both of you barefoot, you could feel the hardwood cool under the soles of your feet. 

He opens the door, trading a few words with the delivery guy, making him laugh and smile in only a few lines. Luca had always had that type of affect on people, you had always envied him for this ability. He had a kind of voice that made you trust him immediately without even really knowing why. He slips the guy two ten dollar bills, (and as if he wasn’t already extremely likable, he was a damn good tipper too), and then he shuts the door and you trail behind him, watching him unpack food onto the kitchen counter. Styrofoam containers, paper boxes, plastic utensils and two pairs of wooden chopsticks wrapped in red paper, two sweating cans of soda. 

“God, it smells like regret,” you say peeking over his shoulder.

“Best kind of dinner, five dollar noodles, what could go wrong?” he responds, “Tonight, we feast like royalty.”

He motions to the barstools at the counter, telling you to sit down, you do. 

The food is exactly what was on paper. Five dollar noodles. Objectively questionable, but also, somehow something which you would order again and again. It was perfect. 

Halfway through eating, Luca turns to you, a bit more serious than before.

“Hey,” he starts, “Not to be weird or anything, but thanks, like seriously, for helping me out…For showing up. It means a lot.”

You sip your soda, meeting his eyes over the top of the can, bringing it down from your mouth.

“Oh my god, Luca, of course, literally anytime,” you say while placing the can down on the counter, “That’s what friends are for.” 

He nods, his smile shifting slightly, a look you don’t quite recognize flashing in his eyes, not sad, not amused, something like disbelief. Something you hadn’t seen in a while.

“I still owe you though- Tonight’s dinner doesn’t count.”

You raise an eyebrow at him, your chopsticks dangling in between your fingers.

“What, you want an invoice for manual labor or something?” 

“No,” he grins at you, “I mean, I wanna cook something for you. Like actually, once I get my whole kitchen all set up and in order, like…I need someone to try some stuff I’m been trying to make for a new menu, and I think it could be fun to have you be like…You know, the test taster or something.” 

“Ah, I see,” you say, “So you just want more free unpaid labor?”

“Exactly.”

“Mover, interior designer-”

“Well, I would hardly call you that-”

“Taste tester…What’s next? Electrician? Plumber?”

“Well, actually, now that you mention it, I do have a lightbulb that needs changing and I do need help figuring out how to use the weird portal thing my landlord has to pay the electric bil-”

“Woah, I’m gonna stop you right there,”

“What?”

“That’s one thing I don’t know how to do?”

“What do you mean? You don’t know how to pay an electric bill?”

“No, I do, I mean, even if it’s a new weird portal system thing I could definitely figure it out, it’s just, that’s kind of…That’s kind of Carm’s one thing, you know?”

“His one thing? No, I don’t know. What do you mean?”

“You know, it’s like his…chore?” 

“His chore?”

“Yea, like I do stuff, he does stuff, he makes sure the electric bill gets in on time.”

Luca stares at you, an eyebrow raised, a frown on his face.

“Okay…”

“What? It’s not like I can’t, I don’t-”

“No, no, that’s not what I meant.”

“So, what do you mean?”

“I mean like…,” he looks up, thinking before speaking again, “No offense but like, what do you mean his ‘one thing’ like, surely, he does more…things?”

“Oh no- He like, he definitely does, like…He just has a lot on his plate, and he does a lot for everything outside the apartment, you know what I mean?” 

“Yea, I guess, I mean, I get what you’re saying but like…”

“Like what?”

“Like no offense to anyone, I truly mean that, but aren’t you like a lawyer or something (y/n)?”

“Well I- Yes, I mean, I am, but I’m like, I’m okay.”

Luca raises an eyebrow at you,

“I am!” you protest, “I’m good!”

“(y/n), aren’t you like a public defender and a pro bono immigration lawyer?”

“...yes…”

“And that’s his one job?”

“Listen,” you say defensively before softening your tone, “It’s more complicated than it sounds okay? There’s a lot of dimensions to it that you just don’t get.” 

“Okay, heard,” he says, putting his hands up in surrender, “Sorry, I didn’t mean to imply anything.” “No, no, you didn’t…It’s okay.” 

“Okay.” 

A long moment passes between you before you speak again,

“So this taste testing thing…Are you gonna like, feed me weird zest foam or like a spinach goo or something?”

“Well first of all, I’m offended,” he laughs, and goes on, “And second off, what the fuck is a ‘zest foam’ or a ‘spinach goo’?” 

“I don’t know! I’m just wondering.”

“I’m gonna feed you carbohydrates and love, don’t insult me.” 

You try to not let your expression betray how that statement makes you feel. 

Luca stretches over you, grabbing your empty container.

“Alright, you’ve helped, you’ve eaten, and now I’m kicking you out.”

You grin at him, getting off of your stool, “You wish.”

You’re both walking towards the door when he says your name, softly, and you turn around to face him.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” 

His eyes flick upwards to look at you, and you find yourself hesitating yet again, not quite sure how you wanted to respond or if you even knew how to, then nod.

“I will be.”

He looks at you, perhaps a second longer than he should have, and you’re quite certain that he wants to say something else, but he doesn’t. He just reaches past you, opening the door. 

“Text me when you get home?” he asks, not quite meeting your eye.

“Yeah. I will.” 

“You promise?”

“Promise.” 

With that you stepped outside into the night, and you didn’t look back until about halfway down the block when something in you told you that you should, and when you do he’s still standing in the doorway, leaning against the frame, watching you go, until you reach the very end of the street and you turn around to see his door just closing. 

-

When you get home the time is 10:15PM. The apartment is still, quiet. You shut the door behind you and start toward the hallway, only to pause when you notice movement on the couch; Carmen, half-asleep, or maybe lost in thought. You hadn’t seen him at first, hadn’t really expected to see him. He usually got home much later than this, and the sight of him catches you off guard.

You take a step towards him and he shifts, turning his head slightly. 

“You’re back,” he says, his voice is gravely and strained from work. 

“Yea,” you respond, a pause stretches out between the two of you, so long that you start to feel awkward about standing, “I didn’t think you’d be home,” you added.

“I left early,” he stops for a moment and then continues on, “Wasn’t feeling very good.”

You nod in response, although he wasn’t looking at you to see it. He runs a hand over his face and he sits up a little straighter. You can see the crease from the couch cushion pressed into his cheek, he must’ve been laying there for a while. 

“Where were you?” he asks, and it’s soft, you can tell that he’s trying to sound like he doesn’t care, like he doesn’t want to make you feel uncomfortable and doesn’t want to be accusatory, like he was thinking of you. You sit down next to him.

“I was helping Luca, with his move.” 

He nods, quietly repeating what you had just said to himself under his breath, processing it. He must’ve just woken up, he drags his hand slowly down his face like he’s trying to shake off the sleep. Another minute passes, like he was waiting for his brain to boot up, and then,

“That’s good,” he said, “That you helped him.”

Your knee is brushing against his, and you feel tethered to him for the first time in a while, like it was proof that you lived here with someone else and that you weren’t living completely separate lives.

“Carm,” you start, looking at him and then down at his hand, you brush it with yours before continuing, “Are you alright?”

“Yeah, yeah,” he says it like he’s brushing it off, like it’s nothing, you know he’s lying, “Like I said, I just…M’not feeling great, I think I’m just…Tired…” he trails off, and you’re both quiet, he puts his arm around you, and you put your head on his shoulder. 

“Me too,” you respond and you don’t mean for the next words you say to slip out but they do before you can stop them, “Did you know that Luca was moving here?” 

You can feel Carmen go rigid for a moment, his shoulder tensing and then relaxing again.

“Yeah,” he sighs, “I did.”

“Carm,” you start softly, “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I don’t know, I guess I forgot. I’m sorry I didn’t think it really would matter all that much I guess, it just slipped my mind.”

“Didn’t think-,” you pick your head off his shoulder turning to face him, “Didn’t think it would matter? Carm, he’s my friend…He’s my like, best friend, and he’s your friend and-Why didn’t you think this would matter?”

“I’m sorry, I’m just exhausted, I forgot,” his voice raises a little, defensive, “Jesus, I’m sorry.”

You both fall quiet again, your head finds your way to his shoulder for a third time, and the air feels thin. Fragile. Not angry, just delicate. 

Carmen is the one to break the silence again, and it comes out quietly, like he’s trying not to startle you when he speaks.

“I didn’t think it’d be a big deal,” he says, “Didn’t think you two still talked like that, I guess.”

You lift your head. Not accusatory, but confused, “Like what?”

Carmen shrugs, looking at you, his jaw is tight, and his eyes flick away before you can read them.

You think about following up your question with something else, feeling awkward in the silence filling the room, but couldn’t think of anything to say.

“I wasn’t trying to hide anything,” he says his voice flat, “If that’s what you think.”

“Carm, I didn’t think you were.”

He nods, but it’s unconvincing, like he doesn’t really believe you, and something in his facial expression tells you that if you were him, you wouldn’t have either.

You try again.

“It’s not really about Luca.”

He still doesn’t look at you, his shoulder shifts ever so slightly, “Okay.”

“It just would’ve been nice to know.”

He exhales, it’s short and tired, “Yeah.”

There’s something heavy in the air, but you couldn’t name it, it seemed he couldn’t either.

“I’ll tell you next time,” he pauses thinking to himself, the side of his mouth quirking upwards a bit, “Y’know, if there’s ever a next time.” 

It makes you giggle a little, and Carmen smiles at it, at you. 

You nod in response, and you believe him.

The smile fades slowly from his face, but the softness in it never leaves. 

You’re not really sure what to say, a part of you wants to say everything. Everything that you had been feeling, everything that you think he’s been feeling…The other part of you wants you to shutup. 

You can’t think of a way that you could even verbalize everything that you’d been feeling without making it feel worse, for either or both of you. Without risking him withdrawing. You want to tell him simply that you’ve just missed him, that it feels like he’s been far away for a really long time…even when he’s here. That sometimes you go whole days without touching or even speaking, that you notice it, ‘Do you notice it too?’ you thought about asking him, but you didn’t. You didn’t want to have to think about whose fault it might be.

You don’t say another word.

Instead, you press your knee in a little closer to his, and he puts his hand on yours in the small space between you on the couch. His palm is rough, warm, and familiar. 

“You wanna go to bed?” he asks, and it sounds like more of a peace offering than a genuine question. His way of calling it for the night. 

“Yeah,” you say. 

Neither of you moves right away.

Eventually you stand up together at the same time, the lights stay on behind you as you walk down the hallway together, to the bathroom brushing your teeth in silence, and then crawling into bed together.

You sling yourself over him in the bed, and he holds you in return.

But you couldn’t help but wish that you had said more, that he had. That something more had occurred. 

You drift off to sleep together that night. 

-

When you awake the next morning you realize it’s a Monday, and that you have no court hearings today on Zoom or otherwise, no clients, no meetings, that today you don’t have any work which is directly demanding, this makes you smile. When you look to your left you realize that Carmen’s arm is still around you, and that above all, he’s still here. 

You begin to poke Carmen, willing him awake, and he starts to stir.

“Carm…Carm…Carm…” you half-whisper his name as you continue to poke at him.

“Huh?” Carmen opens one eye, looking right at you, “What?”

“Are you like, late or something?”

“No.”

“Really?”

“Monday. Closed Mondays.”

“And there’s nothing to be done at the restaurant?”

“I don’t think anyone thought it was a very good idea for me to go back in today, I was uh,” he pauses, yawning, rubbing his eyes, “I got pretty sick last night.” 

“Ah, well, I’m sorry…Are you feeling better this morning?” 

“Yea,” Carm responds, turning to look up at the ceiling, taking his arm out from under you and stretching both his arms above his head, “Yea, I think I am.”

“That’s good.”

“Yea, yea. And you? Do you have anything today? Any lawyer-ing?”

“No, can’t say that I do.”

“That’s good, I’m glad.”

“Me too.” 

“Yea, I think it’s safe to say we’re both pretty burnt out.” Your heart skipped a beat, it was so small, but, this was the closest he had come to opening up to you at all recently. It felt good. 

You roll over onto your back to stare at the ceiling with him, your fingertips brushing his. 

“Burnt out,” you echo back to him, “Yea, that’s one way to put it,” letting out a light laugh as you said it.

Carmen doesn’t respond back to you right away, but his fingers curl tightly around yours, and for a few moments you just lie there together, the sun peaking through the window blinds casting warmth in little strips over the bed. Eventually you sit up, pushing the sheets off of your legs.

“I’m making coffee,” you say, “You want eggs or something?”

“I feel like I should be the one asking you if you want eggs or something.”

“Okay, so ask me then,” you say giggling at the exchange, how long had it been since you had last talked like this? You couldn’t remember, you just knew that you missed it.

“Do you want eggs or something?”

You tap your point finger on your bottom lip, looking up, pretending to think.

“Pancakes,” you both say it in unison.

Your eyes light up as you look at him.

“How’d you know?”

Carmen’s lips twitch into a small smile, the kind that doesn’t reach your eyes, but it’s genuine,

“Because pancakes are the only things that make life bearable.”

You laugh softly and Carmen goes on,

“-And I made pancakes for you that first morning we spent together.” 

That makes you pause, a small smile playing at the corners of your mouth.

“That was a long time ago,” you say softly.

He shrugs, sitting up in the bed, playful but exhausted.

“Feels like yesterday.”

You grin as you watch him work. You love seeing him like this. Not stressed, pulling his hair out, in some fancy restaurant, calling out orders, but in his element. Calm, at work, just doing something that he loves without it demanding anything back from him. 

He moves with ease around the kitchen, flipping pancakes with a certain suaveness to him that made him look incredibly cool, in your opinion.

“Wow, Carm, you’re really showing off right now, huh?”

“At what? Flipping pancakes?”

“Mhm, it’s hot.” 

“Jesus,” he mutters, grinning, “Well, I’m glad you like it because it’s basically the only thing I can do.”

You shake your head at him,

“Nuh-uh, I saw you make eggs a few weeks ago.”

“Well- yes and that.”

“And,” you go on, “You made me a mean grilled cheese the other week. You’re really good.”

He grins at you, still looking down, focusing on the pancake flipping.

“Yea well..I’m glad you think so, because if I wasn’t, I’d be committing some serious fraud.” 

It makes you both laugh, and for once things feel normal. Like they’re stable, like there were no problems at all. 

The moment lingers, and the air smells sweet and a bit like melted butter, you rest your chin on your palm, continuing to watch him, wondering how much longer things could go on like this.

“I’ve got court this week,” you say after a moment, keeping your tone light,

Carmen glances over at you, “Like court-court?”

“Zoom court,” you clarify for him, “But yes, big one. Wednesday morning. I’ve been preparing for like weeks, honestly, just kinda excited for it to be over.”

He nods, thoughtful, and he flips the last pancake onto a stack. “Anything I can do?”

“Just- don’t be too rowdy in here,” you joke, “No big house parties.”

Carmen laughs through his nose, “Heard counselor, no noise. I’ll cancel the huge blow out I had planned, but it is a shame, I’ll need to reach out to all 300 people now to tell them not to come.” 

He picks up two plates, swinging around to your side of the counter, kissing you on the head in the process, he places them down with exaggerated flourish. You raise your eyebrows at him.

“I’m joking of course, I’ll probably be at the restaurant at that point.”

“Right,” you say nodding and looking down at your small stack, “What, no parsley garnish?”

“Jesus,” he mutters again, pulling out the stool to sit beside you, but he’s smiling and there’s a light blush playing along his cheeks.

And for that moment. Things felt alright. 

That night the two of you sat curled up on the couch next to one another, laundry piled around you. Carmen was flipping through a sketchbook, thinking about new dishes, reviewing old ones, you were typing away on your laptop, writing up some papers. Your eyes drifted upwards to stare at the pile of Carmen’s t-shirts.

“Weren’t we doing something?”

“Hm?” Carmen responds, pencil in his mouth,

“Weren’t we like folding the laundry?”

“Oh-oh yea,” Carmen puts his sketchbook on the table, sticks the pencil behind his ear, “How did we even get sidetracked?” 

“To be honest with you, I don’t remember.”

He shrugs at you, “Restaurant brain.”

You nod in response, you want to laugh at his joke, but honestly you had heard it as an excuse so many times at this point that you don’t think you could find it funny if you tried, but you keep a neutral smile on your face, careful not to tune Carmen into this in fear of making him feel too bad. Motioning to the pile of t-shirts in front of you-

“Jeez Carm, how many white shirts do you have?” 

He starts to answer you, but gets cut off by a light buzzing noise as the lights flickered off for a moment and then back on. Carmen draws his gaze back to you from the ceiling.

“Old wiring,” he gives you a half shrug, “Old building, it used to do it a lot more before you moved in…I think the apartment likes you better or something.”

He gives you a smile as he begins to tackle folding a pile of laundry.

By Tuesday morning, the apartment smelled like Dawn dish soap and a light smell of garlic leftover from last night’s dinner. Carmen was in the kitchen, washing dishes, some light music could be heard coming out of his headphones, knowing him he probably had them turned up all the way. 

There was something very comforting about this, very ordinary, but in the best way. 

Still a little tired, you sit down at the counter, startling Carmen for a moment, before he shoots you a small smile, and hands you a cup of coffee, which you sip gratefully. 

“Morning,” he says, flipping one headphone half off his ear, he looked as if he had been up for a while, hair messy and slightly damp from a shower, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, suds scattered about his forearms. 

“You didn’t have to do all that,” you say motioning towards the sink and then the stack of clean dishes piled neatly on the rack.

“I wanted to,” he says it simply, like there was nothing else in the world that would have made more sense to him than this, “I figured that especially with your hearing tomorrow, you just really shouldn’t have to worry about shit like the dishes.” 

“Thank you,” you smile at him warmly, “Wait- what about the restaurant, are you-”

“Chill, I’m going in a few hours, they’ll live without me for a bit.” 

“Oh, okay.”

After finishing the dishes, Carmen sits down on the couch, his phone in one hand, computer on the table, and a giant stack of mail splayed out next to it. You watch him quietly from over your laptop screen, as he pulls out a crumpled envelope, flipping it open, he holds up a bill, squinting at the details.

He glances over to his phone screen in his other hand, quickly clicking on something, checking something, online, letting out a faint sigh.

“Water bill’s all good now too,” you hear him mutter to himself from across the room, he stuffs a bunch of papers back into a larger envelope and then sets it down, the stove timer going off. 

You glance back down at your laptop, the quiet hum of the apartment and muted drone of the world outside filling the air, the weight on your chest feels like it’s been lifted, even if just a little. Carmen’s calm and suddenly steady presence, the way he was handling things without it being too complicated, it was all very grounding. 

He reaches over towards you and flicks on the small kitchen lamp, the warm glow lighting up his face, and you look up again, catching him watching you with a faint smile, like he knows exactly what you’re thinking. Like he feels it too. 

“I got it,” he says to you, meeting your eyes, “Everything.” 

You nod, your words caught somewhere between relief and gratitude.

The timer behind him goes off and he jumps, and he heads back to the oven.

There’s no tension, no unfinished business hanging in the air. Just a quiet, steady, pulse of the two of you moving through life together.

It was a good two days, but deep down, you knew you couldn’t trust it.

After all, two good days didn’t erase a year of being overlooked.

Carmen had long since left for work when you heard your text tone go off, pulling your eyes away from the array of documents that you had scattered across your table, you picked up your phone and opened up your messages.

LUCA

‘hey i just got all my kitchen shit in and i took a trip to some expensive ass market, u down to come over tmrw night?’

You smile at the text fondly, responding back.

‘i’ll be there,’ you type out before playfully adding, ‘better be good,’ and pressing send.

You get another message back almost immediately.

‘or else?’

‘don’t be a smartass’ 

‘heard’

You laughed to yourself, starting to return back to your work but then your phone goes off again.

‘r u doing ok btw’

It makes you pause.

‘im’ You start to type out a response but if you were honest with yourself, you weren’t sure how you were, you settle on-

‘im doing alright def scared tho’

‘scared?’

‘big case tmrw’

‘how big we talkin’

‘like huge very high stakes’

‘how huge’

‘omg stfu’

‘srry’ A pause before another text message from him came through,

‘ur the best lawyer out there u cant lose’

You clicked your phone off, grinning.

-

Wednesday morning started out unkind. When you woke up, Carmen was already gone, but that wasn’t the unfortunate part. The unfortunate part came after you had finished getting ready, put on your ‘courtroom’ suit, and walked into the kitchen, only to immediately feel a wet squish through your socks. You bent your knee and lifted your foot up to look at the bottom.

“Ew,” you said softly to yourself, your eyes dropping to a small sticky puddle on the floor. Carmen must’ve spilled coffee and had forgotten to clean it up before leaving. It was such a small thing, but maybe that was the point. A small thing, and yet it was still there. A small mess, lingering anyway.

Peeling off your socks, you grabbed paper towels to clean up the spill. Then you noticed it, sitting on the kitchen counter, the same envelope from the day before. Smudged with greasy fingerprints, probably from where Carmen had absentmindedly set down a plate or a pan at some point before picking it up again.

You remembered him mentioning the water bill being all sorted or something to that effect the day before, but you now realized that he hadn't actually sent it. Not yet. 

It was all too familiar. This quiet letting down. 

You sighed softly but resolved to handle it yourself after your meeting, you really couldn’t afford to have your mind on anything else right now. 

Just as you were settling into your morning routine, with thirty minutes left before your Zoom court hearing, you were sitting at the counter flipping through your client’s files, getting your arguments in order, then your phone buzzed against the marble surface of the kitchen counter. Glancing down, you were met with a message from Luca-

‘look outside’

Curious, you opened the door to your apartment. There, waiting on your doorstep, was a neatly packed breakfast, a croissant, somehow still warm, a small container of fruit, and a note stuck on top of it in Luca’s familiar handwriting: 

Good luck today. And tell Carmen that Luca says to do more than just the electric bill.

You chuckled softly to yourself, the small gesture easing some of the tension building inside of your chest. For a moment, the day felt a little less daunting. But then your smile faltered, the hard truth of it all settling in: In one week, Luca had shown up for you more than Carmen had in a whole year.

You tuck the note into your backpocket, your mind haunted by thoughts of comparison that you hadn’t meant to have but couldn’t quite shake. Luca. Carmen. You tried not to go there.

You flipped your phone over in your hand, checking the clock on it. Almost time. You took a long, deep breath, closing the door behind you, and headed back inside to set up your laptop for the hearing.

Your phone vibrates on the desk, clicking it open you see a message from your client where you had been secretly hoping to see a message from Carmen, you shoot them a text back, reassuring them that today was going to be just fine, also reassuring yourself in the process. 

You line your papers up. Your notes. All of the necessary documents to defend your client today. You feel your stomach flip as you try to hype yourself up, rehearsing your opening statement just under your breath. 

The Zoom opens, the screen lighting up. The familiar ping of incoming Zoom participants. The screen begins to fill with familiar faces, colleagues, the judge, your client’s name blinking in the corner as they join the call. 

You double-check your notes again, just once more in your head.

The apartment is still and quiet.

You’re mid-sentence and about half-way through the hearing when it happens. 

No flicker of the screen, no warning, just frozen. Completely still.

Everyone’s face vanishes in a blink.

The little red “No internet,” icon flashes up in the corner of your computer screen, and your stomach drops so fast that it knocks the air out of you. 

It must be a mistake. You wait one second, two…Nothing.

You stand up in an instant, you can hear your heart pounding in your chest, you rush toward the router like that actually ever does anything.

The router is dark, and that’s when you realize that everything was dark. No lights.

The lamp beside it, off. 

You paused and listened, expecting to hear the humming of the fridge, but instead, silence.

The power was out. Entirely.

You spin back towards your desk, already pulling your phone out of your pocket, opening your settings, you try to open up a hotspot.

Nothing.

You toggle it on and off again, still nothing.

“No Service.”

The apartment’s oddly thick concrete walls had always been an issue.

You had once joked with Carmy that it was built like a bunker, that you’d be safe in an apocalypse. It was insulated as fuck, and nearly impossible to get a signal through. 

Suddenly, this was all a lot less funny to you.

You held your phone up towards the window, still nothing. You lowered your phone slowly, your hands were shaking so hard you thought you might drop it, you could hear blood rushing in your ears.

No Wi-Fi.

No service.

No power.

Staring out the window blankly, unsure of what to do, trying to grapple with how unfortunate the timing of this power-outage was, that’s when you noticed it.

Across the street.

The bodega’s neon “OPEN” sign, still glowing.

The laundromat that was two doors down from it, lights on, machines still spinning. 

Even the traffic light at the corner was ticking normally, green to yellow to red, and back to green.

You press your head against the window, waiting for an explanation to just appear, but it doesn’t. It just confirms what you already know, but don’t want to admit.

The power isn’t out.

Not in the city.

Not on the block.

Not even in your apartment building.

Just here. Just in your unit.

It clicks.

Carmen hadn’t paid the electric bill.

Not because he couldn’t. But because he hadn’t thought.

Because he hadn’t remembered to. 

And it wasn’t just the power.

It was your work. Your case. Your client. Your trust. 

Your mouth went completely dry, your tongue sticking to your teeth, you’re not just standing in the dark…You had been left in it.

You don’t really remember changing out of your clothes and into new ones, or grabbing your keys, or opening up your phone to turn on the ‘do not disturb’ mode. 

But the next thing you know, you’re standing outside of Luca’s door.

[triplingdogsdare]

say it before i do | carmen 'carmy' berzatto x reader

contains smut!, wedding crashing, and also someone gets punched (not you tho)

Carmen has been in love with you for a very long time, problem is, you’re with someone already. Even worse, you’re engaged. Yet, no matter how hard he tries to bury it, his feelings for you just can’t seem to go away especially when it’s possible that maybe, just maybe…you might feel the same way.

a/n: hey thanks for reading, gonna warn u rn this is corny asf i was really going for that telenovela type vibe sorry, also pls don’t date ur bosses irl lmao its #highlyunethical 

Carmen had never planned on falling in love. In fact, he didn’t want to at all.

Love just made things chaotic, distracting…messy, and he already had more than enough mess to manage without a relationship or feelings getting thrown into the mix. 

There was the restaurant, the ghosts of his fucking past, and that buzzing in his head that just never really seemed to shut the fuck up.

But sometimes life just doesn’t go quite as planned.

You had started working at The Bear around a year ago. He liked you enough, so he decided to hire you that same day. You were always on time. Steady. Sharp. He respected that.

You were a damn good chef, too, and you weren’t loud about it either. You weren’t arrogant about any of it in the way that some other chefs tended to be. 

Actually, Carmen noticed just about everything about you whether he wanted to or not. The way that you would cut vegetables with a rhythm that always seemed to sooth that constant buzzing in his brain. The way that you would stand up for people without flinching or thinking twice about it. The way that you always cleaned up after everyone else had already left.

One night he caught himself just watching you laugh in the alleyway behind the restaurant. You were just laughing, existing, smiling, and that was the exact moment that he realized it. 

He was into you. Totally. Completely. Unreasonably.

But he never said anything, not a thing.

Because the timing of it all just felt like some sort of fucking practical joke on him by life. Besides the fact that maybe he just hadn’t really been ready for that type of thing when he first met you, you were seeing someone already.

And he was happy for you, really, he was, but it didn’t exactly stop his blood from boiling just a little every time your boyfriend came to pick you up from work, or stop by to say “hello” during a service. 

So when you got engaged to him, Carmen told himself that it was fine.

When he called Carmen up one night to ask him for “a favor” to set up “something special” for you during your shift, he obliged. 

It was fine.

He nodded at the announcement like it didn’t burn him, literally watched as your boyfriend got down on one knee, watched you accept, like it was nothing. He smiled, clapped, and congratulated both you and him, and then went back into the kitchen. He buried it. Deep. Deep. Down.

He was happy for you, he was, but he swore to God this was when he really started seeing you everywhere. In the morning when he’d stare down into his cup of coffee he could swear he could see your reflection in it. Whenever he went out to a store and there was some sort of mirrored or windowed wall, he swore he could see you there, staring back at him. Every song he listened to. Every show and movie he tried to watch to distract himself. You were always there, like you were haunting him. 

Eventually it started to bleed out in ways that he couldn’t really control.

In the way that he would hover over you just a little longer than was necessary whenever you were plating, or how he’d ask you questions that he most definitely already knew the answers to. In the way his eyes lingered whenever he thought that you hadn’t been looking at him.

And maybe you weren’t supposed to notice all of this, any of these things at all, but you did.

You noticed everything.

You noticed how his voice would soften just a little whenever he said your name.

How he never let anyone else take over your station, even when you were off, he’d just take it over himself. 

How he never asked any questions about your fiancé, not because he didn’t care or wasn’t interested in your personal life, but because it seemed that he couldn’t stand to talk about him at all. In fact, he’d ask you just about anything but that, and when other people brought it up, he’d turn away most of the time, or suddenly freeze up, like a deer in headlights. 

Your fiancé said that he had started planning it with Carmen a few weeks ago, that he had asked Carmen for his help and that Carmen had been more than happy to lend a hand in the whole ordeal. Mid-shift Carmen sent you out to the floor, said someone wanted to talk to the chef, or a chef, you could feel your feet go cold as you begrudgingly made your way out to the front of house, but there, just across from you at a table by the windows, sat your fiancé. Bouquets of flowers on the table, a speech in his hand, your song playing softly over the restaurant speakers, and a room full of guests all staring at you. 

They all applauded for you and some cheered, everyone congratulated you, even Carmen.

But you noticed the way that he glanced down at your hand when you walked back into the kitchen after the big proposal, the one with the ring on it.

That day, the day of the proposal, he had cut his finger on a mandoline, said it was nothing, and then didn’t look at you for the rest of the week.

And then there was that one night, months before the wedding had even been planned, just a few weeks before the proposal, even.

It had been a particularly brutal service that night, the type that made your feet ache twice as bad, your eyes sting, and the type of night that just left your patience hanging by a single thread. The ovens had gone down for two hours, Richie got into a fight, Neal knocked over an entire tray of mise on the way to the pass, and you were about one more ticket away from completely fucking losing it. 

Halfway through the night, you saw Carmen running his hands through his hair, eyes panicked, pacing, he met your eyes, looked down at his wrist, tapped it twice, seemingly calm for just a moment in that disaster of a night. 

Every second counts.

Don’t let it slip away.

You looked away from him after that and worked twice as hard with twice as much patience for the remainder of the night. 

You stayed late to clean, partially because you were never the type of person who could just trust everyone else to do it right, but mainly because you needed to not go home yet. You needed the quiet meditation of cleaning, time to think, time to be with yourself. Stillness. Just a moment to breathe before going back to that version of your life outside of the kitchen, back to that version of your life where everything was just fine and no one ever talked about it anyways.

Carmen had stayed late too, he said it was to close the books, but he never touched his laptop.

You found him in the alleyway behind the restaurant, smoking. His elbows were on his knees and his head was down, he had a faraway look in his eyes.

“You finish the inventory?” you asked, even though you were pretty sure that you already knew the answer to that question. 

He shook his head. “Didn’t feel like counting, not tonight.”

You nodded, leaning against the wall next to him, careful not to get too close. 

“If it makes you feel better, I almost never feel like counting.” 

That got him to huff a small laugh, just barely, but it was something.

He didn’t look at you, though, he just flicked the ash off his cigarette and stared at the concrete like it owed him or something.

You both just stood in silence for a while, the type of silence that would’ve felt uncomfortable with anyone else, but not with him, not with Carmen, and maybe it should have. Maybe it should’ve felt especially awkward with him, but it never was. It always felt like it meant something with him, like it was safer than talking sometimes, like it could speak for you.

Eventually you said it, and you’re not sure why you said it, but you just did, “You ever think about just…walking away?”

He looked at you, he wasn’t startled by the question, but he lifted an eyebrow at you, seemingly just a little intrigued by the whole notion, by the fact that you would even bring it up with him.

“From what?” he asked.

You shrugged at him, looked down. “I don’t know, like, all of it. The kitchen. The city, all the fucking nosie. Relationsh- just…everything.”

Carmen went quiet for a moment before responding to you, “Yeah. Yeah- I do, like every day.”

You nodded, still unable to really meet his eyes. “Me too.”

He brought the cigarette up to his mouth again, but didn’t take a drag. He just held it there, near his lips, like he needed something to do with his hands more than he actually needed the smoke.

“You ever get close?” he asked you after another moment had passed, his voice was quieter now, nearly whispering his words to you like you were co-conspirators or something.

You shifted your weight from one leg to the other, looked up at the sky. “Yeah,” you said. “Yeah, I think so. But then something always just sort of seems to- to like, pull me back, y’know? Responsibilities, guilt…whatever.”

You glanced over at him, and he was watching you again, not staring, nothing intense, just looking at you…seeing you.

“I think he wants that sort of life,” you added, almost like you were talking to yourself, and Carmen had just happened to be there. “Suburbs. House. Dinner parties, or barbeques, or whatever the fuck, with people I don’t even really know, or maybe even like…I think I used to want that, or I don’t know, I thought I did. Not that anyone, he, ever really bothered to ask me about it- what I want, I mean.”

“And now?” Carmen asked.

You shrugged at him, eyes fixed on a puddle that was reflecting the dull light coming off a streetlight above you. “Now I don’t know if I even recognize myself in the middle of all that- I don’t think I…I don’t really think I want it anymore.” 

He didn’t say anything back to you, and you didn’t really expect him to. You weren’t sure that you could’ve handled it if he had. But then he did, quietly, gently.

“I think…you’re more you when you’re here…In the restaurant, I mean, like you’re the most (y/n), here.”

You looked at him again, gaze sharp, like you hadn’t realized he’d actually been paying that much attention, or maybe you had just been hoping that he wasn’t.

He didn’t look away from you, he didn’t even blink, he just held your gaze like it had really meant something. Maybe it did.

You wanted to ask him what he meant, to elaborate further, but you didn’t.

Because you were pretty sure that you already knew.

Because you could feel it all, in your chest, at the pit of your stomach, your pulse quickened slightly.

He dropped the cigarette finally, crushed it under his shoe.

“You should get home,” he said in a tone that made it sound like it had physically pained him to say it.

You nodded, but neither of you moved.

You stayed there just a moment longer, caught in it all, the weight of all the things unsaid, the closeness between you that didn’t need a name.

You let yourself think about it, just for a moment. Just you, and him. 

But guilt flooded in quickly, and you pulled away from the scene, slowly, like someone was tearing apart two pieces of velcro. 

“Goodnight, Carm.” His jaw tightened, before he looked you in the eye, tapped on his wrist twice, and then, “Night.”

You walked back into the kitchen, and he stayed there in the alleyway a while longer, like it was something that he just needed to do.

You didn’t end up sleeping much that night.

You had told your fiancé, boyfriend at the time, that you’d just had an abnormally long service, that the ovens had gone out again, that Carmen looked like he was going to rip his hair out and have an aneurysm at one point, so you stayed late to help, and most of that was true, in fact, all of it was. It was more about what you were omitting. 

What you didn’t say was that you stayed late because you couldn’t quite stomach the idea of going home.

What you didn’t say was that you’d stood in the alleyway behind the restaurant with your boss spilling your heart out to him.

You didn’t tell him that Carmen had said your name like it might really mean something.

The next morning, you handed your fiancé his coffee on his way out the door, he kissed your cheek flippantly, not quite meeting your eyes, like he always did before leaving for work. And it all should’ve felt comforting, you knew that, familiar. But instead it all just seemed to make your stomach twist in knots, like your body recognized something that your mind refused to reference.

The next few days at the restaurant were strange in the way that only the weight of things unspoken can be. You and Carmen didn’t reference the other night, not what you said, not what you hadn’t said.

But it was still there, all of it.

You remember the way that you had told yourself that you were just imagining things when you had first felt him standing just a little too close at the prep table, when your hands brushed while passing something to him, you had always told yourself that it was nothing when he hesitated before saying your name, the way he would say your name.

You told yourself it had to be nothing, that you were just imagining things, for those first few months you worked there, but the true gravity of the situation really came to you when you realized that you also found yourself standing just a little too close to him, brushing against him, that you said his name in that same way, that same look in your eye that he would have in his, adoring, enamoured. 

You felt horrible for it.

And then you found yourself back there, in that space again where it was just you and Carmen, just a few nights later. 

It was late again, too late.

You found yourself inventorying things that didn’t really need to be inventoried. Carmen was wiping down an already clean counter across from you, like he was afraid to leave, or at least, didn’t want to yet, wasn’t quite ready to.

Neither of you had said much to each other since that other night in the alleyway.

The playlist that had been playing out of a small speaker in the kitchen had ended hours ago, the lights were all dimmed, and it was just the two of you in the kitchen, just clinging to the end of the shift for some reason. 

You were going to keep it that way, silent, just working in the same room, but you couldn’t help it, you hadn’t stopped thinking about the other night- you just had to know, had to ask, had to say something.

“You ever think about what your life’s supposed to look like?” you asked, not looking over at him.

Carmen didn’t respond to you right away, for a moment you wondered if he had even heard you, but you knew that he had because you could hear the cloth in his hand stop against the counter, the faint scuff of his shoe on the kitchen tile.

“Sometimes,” he said, finally. His voice was low, like he wasn’t sure if he really should’ve said anything at all, or if it was just rhetorical. “Not lately.” 

You nodded.

“It’s weird,” you said, lowering your voice to meet his tone. “The version people expect of you. That checklist, marriage, kids, dog, whatever…”

You didn’t finish the sentence, you just let it hang there in the air.

You picked at the label of the inventory clipboard. The silence stretched on longer than you thought that it would. 

Finally, Carmen spoke again, his voice was rough and low, like he knew that he shouldn’t say what he was about to, like he was going to say too much.

“Your fiancé…he talked with me last week. Said he wanted to do it here.”

Your fingers froze in place, the words landed like a weight that you already knew was there but just hadn’t expected to hear from him, not Carmen.

You didn’t look up at him, just swallowed hard and resumed fiddling with the clipboard.

“Asked if I could help set something up,” he added quietly, a slightly guilty tone in his voice

You nodded, eyes still on the clipboard, and then you said, barely above a whisper, “I found the ring, a few weeks ago.”

Another pause. 

“I wasn’t gonna say anything,” you said.

Carmen looked at you, his gaze was steady but soft.

“I wanted it to feel right for you,” he said. “Some place that feels like home, y’know?”

You didn’t answer.

“-I mean, he wanted that too, that’s why he- why he asked me, reached out to me…,” he added just a little too quickly, rubbing the back of his neck.

You swallowed again, the clipboard suddenly felt too heavy in your hands. 

Carmen stared down at the floor, like he was waiting for it to swallow him up, he rambled on, “He wanted it to be here, he said it just felt like- like the right place for it- for you.”

You nodded slowly and then swallowed hard before responding to him.

“Yeah…it does.”

There was a long pause, like you had said something with a double entendre but you both knew which one it had really meant, which meaning it was really referring to. Probably because that was exactly it.

Carmen’s voice softened. “I mean- I’m glad he asked me.”

You glanced up, surprised. “Why?”

He shrugged, looked at the floor. 

“Because…I guess I just- I guess I wanted to be a part of it, somehow. Even if it’s not actually mine to be a part of.”

He met your eyes for just a second after that, just long enough to convey everything that he couldn’t put into words.

And then, just like that, he dropped it. 

So now, here he was. 

Months later, a wedding invitation clinging to a corkboard in his office, his name in fancy cursive lettering, just staring at him. You had stuck it up there at some point during a shift a month or so ago, and he didn’t have the nerve to take it down. 

Didn’t have the nerve to look at it for very long either.

But it was there, just mocking him with its quiet permanence. 

To make it all worse, like a final ‘fuck you’ from the universe, he had to be there, at the wedding. He was a groomsman afterall. Your fiancé had been kind enough to ask him, to include him, because he knew that you would want him to be a part of it all. 

“Fuck me,” Carmen muttered to himself.

Carmen sat at his desk in the dim glow of his office at The Bear, the only light coming from a single lamp next to his computer that cast long shadows across the room, up the walls.

Stacks of invoices, menus, and half-drunk water bottles crowded around the surface, but his eyes were fixed on that wedding invitation, still staring at him from the corkboard across the room. 

He pushed aside a pile of papers, sighing, the screen of his laptop darkening.

He should’ve gone home hours ago, really. But the restaurant was quiet now, the kind of heavy and breath-held silence that could only really come after everyone else had cleared out, completely. He rubbed a hand over his face, leaned back in his chair, and just stared up at the ceiling like it might offer some kind of relief. It didn’t.

His eyes drifted back to the corkboard, to the invitation.

His eyes dragged across your name written next to someone else’s.

He dropped his head back with a soft thud against the top of the chair, closed his eyes.

And then, the door opens.

You stood there in the frame, silhouetted by the low hallway light, a faint shine of sweat still at your temple from the service earlier, apron strings dragging behind you.

You didn’t knock, you never knocked.

“You’re still here,” you said, almost like you were relieved, or maybe disappointed. 

Carmen blinked at you slowly, looking at you, lips slightly parted. 

“Yeah,” he said, his voice low and scratchy from calling out orders all night. “You too?”

You stepped in, closed the door softly behind you, and the room seemed to get warmer.

He watched as you crossed his office, slow, deliberate, until you were standing right between his knees, his hands stayed on the arms of the chair, gripping at them so hard that his knuckles turned white.

“You looked like you needed something,” you said.

Your hands came to rest on either side of his neck, thumb brushing the hinge of his jaw, he leaned into your touch like it was instinct, his eyes fluttering closed as your fingers slid into his hair, you onto his lap.

“Don’t,” he whispered, he wasn’t even sure what he was saying it about. “What about your fiancé?” 

You just gave him a flirtatious smile. “Don’t worry about him.”

Carmen just looked at you, dumbfounded, as you kissed down his jawline to his neck, biting and sucking at it lightly.

“(y/n), seriously, what about him?”

You pulled away for a moment, just slightly and spoke right into that area where the shoulder meets the neck, “I called it off, I love you. I want you.”

Carmen’s jaw dropped, only slightly, he closed it. “I love you too.”

You let out a small breathy laugh, going back to his neck, “Oh, Carmy, I know.”

He flushed under your mouth, his hands gripping at your hips now, grounding himself in the heat of it all.

You rolled your hips on him, once, slow and deliberate against him, and he let out a low groan, his eyes squeezing shut.

Your lips brushed against his ear. 

“I want you to fuck me right here,” you said, voice barely above a whisper. “Right now. I’ve thought about this since the day I met you.”

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, almost like a prayer, as your fingers slipped beneath the collar of his shirt, dragging your nails lightly over his chest. 

He was going to fucking lose it.

He leaned in, mouth catching yours finally, hungry and frantic, over a year of want colliding together all at once, it was dizzying, relieving. 

“God,” he moaned into your mouth, “You have- you have no idea how much I’ve fucking wanted you, (y/n).” 

He stands up, grabbing you, pushing everything out of the way before lifting you up to the edge of his desk, pulling your pants and underwear off in a frenzy, peeling his shirt off, his pants, his boxers, his cock rock hard, pressing up against your bare thigh, pre-cum just leaking out of the tip. He reaches up, presses the palm of his hand to you, he feels you groan against his shoulder, biting into it. 

He pulls back from you, just slightly, just enough to look you right in the eye, and pushes two fingers into you, you gasp. He starts to move them, agonizingly slow, his cock visibly throbbing.

“Oh fuck- shit,” he mutters, pumping his fingers in and out of you.

“Carm,” you moan out, “Carm- I need you, please-”

Carmen pulls his fingers out, looks you right in the eye again, “You need what?”

“You, Carmen, please, now.”

“What do you need?” he raises an eyebrow at you, teasing. 

“You- please, I need your cock, now, please.”

“All you had to do was ask,” he says as he enters you all at once, you gasp out his name, you can feel him throb inside of you now.

“Oh fuck,” he groans, “You feel so fucking good, I’ve wanted this for so fucking long, oh shit-”

He pumps in and out of you, heat building up in his core, sweat, moans, and curses filling the previously silent office, he-

A knock at his door. 

A real one this time. Sharp. Twice.

Carmen’s eyes snapped open, his hand still touching himself over his pants.

“Shit,” he mutters to himself, panic setting in. 

He tucks his cock into the waistband of his boxers, hoping that it’s not too obvious.

Not too obvious that he had been sitting here in his office, at work, fantasizing about you, like a fucking perv. 

He rubs a hand over his face, wipes the sweat from his brow, and exhales, shaky and frustrated. Disgusted with himself.

Another knock.

“Yeah,” he calls out, voice cracking just slightly in the middle of the word, “I’m coming-,” he face-palms internally, “just a sec.” 

For good measure, he yanks his hoodie on, pulling it down, standing up just a little too fast, bumping his knee against the desk. Papers slide to the floor, invoices, prep sheets, a goddamn menu draft with your handwriting in the margins of it.

He doesn’t bother picking any of it up.

He opens the door. 

It’s Neil. “Hey, sorry Carm, you got the keys to the walk-in?”

Carmen nods at him stiffly, grabbing them off the hook by the door, tossing them to him with a grunt.

Neil hesitates for a moment. “Hey man, you good?”

“Yeah. I’m fine I just-,” Carmen clears his throat, “Just tired, man.”

Neil gives him a small nod and then disappears back down the hall.

Carmen shuts the door again, leans his head against it with a soft thud.

What the fuck are you doing, man.

This isn’t sustainable, he knows that. Not the wanting, not the guilt, not the way that you always just seemed to be walking around in his head like a goddamn fever dream.

He turned, staring back across the room at the corkboard.

At your name next to someone else’s.

His jaw tightened, tomorrow. Tomorrow he’d pretend like nothing happened.

Just as he always did.

You sat at the kitchen table, a wedding RSVP folded neatly next to your untouched cup of coffee, the steam curling up.

The clock on the wall ticked loudly in the quiet morning light, marking time like it was a countdown. One big countdown to tomorrow, to the day. The wedding.

The day that was supposed to be all excitement, planning, futures…But in truth, it just all felt wrong to you, like one big mistake. 

You glanced at your phone, no new messages from anyone, certainly, not from Carmen, although there was a part of you that was secretly always hoping that one day you’d click your screen on to find something from him. 

You swallowed hard, reaching for the RSVP again, tracing the cursive of your name with a shaking finger, Was this really the life you wanted? Or was it just the one you were supposed to want?

The one that all of those people dining in the restaurant that fateful night had seemed to want for you as your fiancé got down on one knee and asked you, their eyes all looking at you expectantly as the “yes,” slipped out of your mouth before you could even think it over, before you could even really give it a second thought in the moment.

You had known about it, but hadn’t really decided. You didn’t know.

But with all those eyes, all those people, all those expectations…

A sudden chill ran down your spine.

You shivered, even though the kitchen was warm. The steam from your coffee blurred your vision for a moment, or maybe it was just that familiar knot tightening in your chest. You couldn’t really remember the last time that you’d felt at peace, not truly at least. 

Your fingers trembled still, as you folded the RSVP back up, the crisp cardstock feeling heavier than it should. The noise from the street outside filtered faintly through the window, a distant hum of cars, the murmur of a city that never quite slowed down. It was a world which was constantly moving forward, moving on, and you just felt…stuck. 

Your phone buzzed suddenly, startling you. It was a message from Carmen.

‘Hey, need some extra help with taking inventory today if ur free would appreciate it, no pressure, thnx’

You blinked down at the screen, heart skipping a beat. 

The simple words felt more heavy than they should, it was just a casual request really, but it still felt charged. You stared at the message, thumbs hovering just over the keyboard, wanting to say yes, unsure why, but you knew it went past wanting to be employee of the month.

Maybe it was guilt, curiosity? Or maybe, you just wanted to see him again. To feel something again. That flicker of something real amid all this fucking noise and waiting. 

You typed back: 

‘yeah can come by, be there soon’

And almost immediately, the little typing bubble appeared.

‘Thnx see u soon’

When you arrived at The Bear, and not much to your surprise, you seemed to be the only person there. Well the only person besides Carmen, you were after all, not supposed to be open until much later.

The front door creaked as you let yourself in, echoing into the eerie stillness. The restaurant was dim, basked in a soft gray light from the cloudy weather outside.

Empty tables, empty chairs, it looked so much smaller without the noise, felt so much smaller. You could hear the faint clatter of something in the kitchen, and you already knew it was him.

You stepped through the pass slowly, letting your fingers trail along a countertop. 

Carmen stood near the walk-in, his sleeves pushed up to his elbows, two clipboards in his hand, a pencil behind his ear, he didn’t look up when he spoke.

“Hey. You came.”

You swallowed. “Yeah, thought I’d help out.”

His lips twitched into just a hint of a smile, the kind that didn’t quite reach his eyes. 

“Thanks. Shouldn’t take too long.”

You moved to stand beside him, closer than you maybe needed to.

The silence between you stretched thin, suddenly feeling unbearable.

“Got the dry goods already logged,” he said, flipping a page. “Still gotta hit the walk-in and the freezer, you wanna-?”

“Yeah, I got it.”

You took one of the clipboards from him, your fingertips brushing against his for just a moment. Sparks. Carmen stiffened just barely, something told you he had felt it too. You didn’t say anything, he didn’t either, you just clutched the clipboard to your chest and turned to the walk-in.

The hum of the refrigeration unit grew louder as you approached it, it was the kind of noise that typically would fade into the background, but today, it rang in your ears. You opened the door, a gust of cold air rushing out all at once to meet you like a slap to the face.

Carmen hovered around behind you, flipping through inventory sheets now, reading them off to you one by one.

You answered automatically, ticking things off as your hands moved across boxes and crates, your voices echoed in the enclosed space, the chill of the walk-in seeping in beneath your sleeves.

“Five flats of eggs?” he asked.

“Yeah, got ‘em.”

“Two cases of butter?”

You hesitated, eyes narrowing at the shelf. “Might need to order more, Carm.”

“Okay,” he murmured, scribbling something down.

Silence again, but not quite, it was more like a precursory type of silence. The type that said something was coming. You felt it in your spine.

“Is it weird that I texted you?” Carmen asks suddenly, his voice low, quiet.

You paused, your hand rested on a crate of herbs, heart stuttering in your chest.

“No,” you said softly, “It’s not weird.”

Another pause, and then, “I didn’t know if I should.”

You turned to him slowly, facing him, the door behind him was all fogged up with condensation, and the light overhead was casting both of you in a pale flickering glow.

“But you did.”

He looked up at you, finally, really looked.

“I just-” he started, then cut himself off. “I just wanted to see you.”

You blinked, throat tightening. There it was.

All the pretending, the silence, the distance, the wedding, all seemed to crack open, in just six words.

You looked at him, and you could see it, the truth of it all there on his face.

“I think about that night,” you whispered. “In the alleyway, what we talked about…”

His jaw clenched.

“I think about it too.”

You take a deep breath, it’s shaky and cold, you can see it in the air. 

“I think I’ve been trying not to.”

He stepped forward to you, slowly, barely closing the space between you. “Me too.”

The air between you felt charged, like one wrong move might set something off. 

You dropped your gaze, your voice barely audible. “Carm…Why’d you really text me today?”

Silence again, a long one.

Then, so quiet that you almost missed it, “Because tomorrow you marry him, and I couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t try- didn’t say something. Just once.”

You swallowed hard, there was just something about the way he had said it. It wasn’t dramatic, not desperate. It just felt...honest. 

The cold from the walk-in bit into your fingertips, but your skin felt like it was burning. You weren’t sure if it was from the way he was looking at you or the guilt that was curling up in your stomach like smoke. You opened your mouth, maybe to say something, grabbing for words, but Carmen spoke again, his voice lower, almost sounding ashamed.

“I know I shouldn’t have. I know you’ve got-” he gestures vaguely, like even saying it, the wedding, your fiancé’s name, any of that, would be too much, “-your stuff. Your life, and I respect that, I really- I do.”

You stared at him, unsure of what to say, what to do.

“I just…” He exhaled, it was sharp and broken. “I just didn’t wanna…I didn’t wanna just let it all happen. Just- keep going on, like…Like I don’t care or something.” 

Your heart stammered. 

The walk-in seemed to get narrower, there was a part of you that wanted to step closer to him, to close the distance, do something reckless. But you stayed still. 

“Carmen…” your voice faltered. “Why are you saying this now?”

“Because it’s tomorrow,” he said. “And I…I just thought maybe if I didn’t say it before then that I’d…I’d regret it for the rest of my fucking life, and I just-” 

He shut his mouth, his face said that he felt he had said too much already, and he just looked at you then, and it was like you could feel his gaze pierce your heart, clean, right through the center.

You could feel everything, all of it.

Every shared glance, every time you watched each other from across the kitchen, the way he waited, the way he had wanted, quietly and fiercely and completely, without ever saying it.

You didn’t say anything, you couldn’t.

Because the truth is, you wanted him to say it, you wanted to hear it. You just didn’t know what to do with it.

Your hand moved before your brain caught up, reaching out- maybe just to touch his arm, or maybe just to steady yourself, but it landed on his chest instead, your fingertips brushing against the soft cotton of his shirt, you could feel the rapid beat of his heart underneath. He didn’t flinch, he didn’t speak.

He just looked at you like you were the only thing to him that mattered in the world.

And for the first time in weeks, maybe months, years, even. You felt like you could just breathe. 

Your hand was still there, pressed lightly against his chest, he looked down at it, then back to you.

And then, he moved.

It wasn’t sudden, but it wasn’t hesitant either.

He moved like he’d already done it thousands of times in his mind.

Like it was inevitable.

He leaned in.

And you didn’t stop him.

His lips brushed against yours once, barely there at all, just a whisper of contact.

And then again, firmer this time, his hands shaking, and the world just seemed to fall away.

You kissed him back.

Slowly at first, soft, but then something just snapped, and it became more desperate, more frenzied, more needy.

Your hands curled into the front of his shirt, pulling him in closer to you, and his clipboard hit the floor with a dull thud. He cupped your face, his fingers freezing, his touch reverent. 

You pulled away from it first, your breath ragged, your forehead pressed up against his, and neither of you spoke for a moment. “I shouldn’t have done that,” you whispered.

“I know,” he said, his voice hoarse.

But he didn’t move away.

You stepped back from him, just once.

That was all it took to put miles between you.

“I…I have to go,” you said.

Carmen just nodded at you slowly, like every second was agony. 

You didn’t look back when you left, and neither of you said goodbye.

The morning of your wedding is pale and gray.

You’re already ready, already dressed, already at the venue, but your chest feels hollow, something empty and sharp chipping away at you. 

You smile when people speak to you, you nod when they hand you a small flute of champagne, you stare at yourself in the mirror, and no matter how long and how hard you stare, you can’t seem to recognize the person in the reflection.

Your fiancé looks at you like you’re a prize. A future. Like everything is exactly as it should be. Exactly as it will be.

And you…You keep thinking about yesterday.

The walk-in.

His mouth.

The way Carmen had looked at you like he couldn’t seem to bear the thought of living without you, couldn’t bear the thought of living with regret.

You try to shake the thoughts away. Try to stand still while everyone just moves around you, pinning, fixing, adjusting. You sit. You wait.

And then, the music starts.

It’s all happening.

You take one step down the aisle. Another.

The room is quiet in that strange sort of held-breath way. Every seat is filled, every eye seems to be set on you.

You walk.

Carmen seems to see you before anyone else does. 

He’s standing just off to the side of the altar, in a line of men in matching suits, all of them strangers to him for the most part. They laugh softly at something one of them says, but Carmen doesn’t move, doesn’t laugh. He just watches you.

Your gaze lifts, and you see him too.

Carmen’s eyes catch yours, steady, sharp. His hand rises slowly, just enough to be seen, but it’s controlled, purposeful. Then, twice, a quick tap on his wrist.

Your breath catches in your chest.

That simple, silent motion.

Every second counts. Don’t let it slip away.

The noise of the room seems to fade away, the expectant faces blur in your vision, your heart hammers with a sudden clarity to it.

You take a deep breath, step forward once more, then pause, you stop mid-step.

Your heart is pounding in your head like a drum, your gaze flicks to Carmen’s wrist, then to his eyes. 

The room seems to hold its breath, some murmurs starting to come from the crowd.

You take a shaky breath, and speak. 

Your voice is loud enough for everyone to hear it but trembling, “No, I’m sorry. This isn’t what I want.” 

Your eyes lock with Carmen, and you can hear your fiancé say something, but it sounds distant and muffled, he steps forward, “Um- babe, what are you talking about right now?”

You tear your eyes away from Carmen, just long enough to meet your fiancé’s.

“I’m sorry,” you say again, it’s quieter. “I tried to want this, I really did.”

He looks stunned, blinking at you like he’s trying to catch up on everything that’s happening.

“And- you- you’re seriously doing this? Now? In front of everyone?”

You flinch. “I’m sorry I didn’t plan it like this, I swear.”

He scoffs bitterly, “You can’t do this.” 

You blink at him, he goes on.

“You can’t. I mean, really? ‘This isn’t what I want’? Are you serious? You never know what you fucking want, how can you just make a decision like this right now, no, how could you be trusted to even make a decision like this right now, when you’re always just so goddamn indecisive!” 

You stare at him for a long moment, the rest of the room does too. This man who was supposed to be your future, the rest of your life. And all you can feel is exhaustion and…relief.

You take a step back. 

“You’re right,” you say, voice steadier now. “I don’t know what I want, not exactly at least, but I know it’s not this.”

He scoffs again, shaking his head at you. “Un-fucking-believable.”

“I can’t marry you,” you say, firm. It lands heavy. Final.

Your fiancé takes a half step in your direction, like he might grab you, but Carmen’s already moving.

“Hey-” Carmen says, his voice low and sharp, his eyes locked right on him.

Your fiancé turns, chest puffed. “Oh, so that’s what this is about?” 

He’s shaking his head like he’s the only sane person in the room. 

“Of course, of fucking course,” he mutters.

He looks over at Carmen and something mean flashes across his face, then he turns to you, then back to him, he gives a sharp and humorless laugh, “Wow, look at you, man, always the side act, never the main event, huh?”

“Don’t,” you say, taking a step forward.

Your fiancé’s laugh cuts sharp, but Carmen doesn’t blink, he just steps forward, his voice low and steady, “I’m not the one making the scene, man.”

Your fiancé’s sneer seems to twist into something darker as he steps forward, and shoves Carmen, hard on the chest.

Carmen stumbles back but doesn’t lose his footing, his eyes just narrow, his fists clenching at his sides, and without thinking, he pulls his hand back, and gets him right in the nose.

Your fiancé reels back, clutching at his nose, a small spray of blood blossoming between his fingers, shock flickers across the crowd’s faces. 

Carmen looks at him, then at you, lets out a slow sigh, and without another word, turns and walks out, leaving the room heavy with silence.

You hesitate for a moment, just watch the chaos of it all, people starting to get up and approach you or your fiancé, then you push through the stunned crowd and follow him out.

Outside the air is cool and refreshing, Carmen leans against the wall of the building, his jaw is tight, he’s breathing heavily.

You step closer to him, your tone soft. “I’m sorry…About everything. About all of that.”

He looks up to you, a small flicker of a tired smile breaking through. “Yeah, me too.”

You don’t say anything else, just slide your hand into his.

Later in the main dining room at The Bear, laughter fills the room as Carmen, you, and the rest of the staff there sit around a cluttered table.

A half-eaten slice of your wedding cake sits in the center, crumbs scattered about the plate.

There’s a quiet buzz of conversation, and the clinking of glasses and cutlery. 

“That was a real fun wedding, (y/n),” Richie jokes.

You roll your eyes at him, smiling.

Carmen gives him a half-smile, raising his glass. “Best wedding I’ve ever crashed,” he takes a sip from it, “Only wedding I’ve ever crashed.”

You laugh, the warmth of the moment settling deep in your chest.

Sydney nudges your shoulder, grinning at you. “Glad you’re back where you belong.”

You look around the room, at the familiar faces, at Carmen, then turning back to Sydney, “Me too.”

[triplingdogsdare]

an ego thing | carmen 'carmy' berzatto x reader

contains smut! (light bdsm(?) slight choking(?) chef(?) kink(?))

you and carmen have been rivals since new york. years later you both find yourself in chicago, and get invited to do an interview together all the way back where it started.

a/n: hey thanks for reading, i havent written for the bear yet but wanted to have a go at it especially as someone who has worked in the industry for most of their life in ny. i've spelt his nickname ‘ber’ (albeit pronounced bear) idk if thats what everyone does? i just assumed bc his name is spelt berzatto, idk tho im new to the bear fanfic writing thing, so apologies if yall spell it bear im uncultured. hope u like it. if u do, i love requests.

chicago, now.

You open your eyes.

The sun is shining.

The birds are singing.

Just another beautiful day in Chicago.

A great day to work. 

You swing your legs out of bed, methodologically you shower, brush your teeth, get dressed.

You grit your teeth together, open an article on your phone:

Your name is printed just right above his on the Tribune’s “Top 5 Chefs Under 35” list.

You don’t smile, you just close the window, pack your knife roll, and head to work. 

The kitchen is already buzzing when you walk in, there’s prep lists, chopping and dicing, the sound of pots and pans, the frantic scribbling of notes as chefs take down the menu changes for the day.

One of your line cooks approaches you, holding up their phone to you with that look on their face.

“Chef,” they say, their face just a little more serious than it should be, perhaps, “Carmen Berzatto posted about you.”

You don’t flinch. Barely react. “Did he tag me, or just allude to me in a very vague way on his story?”

They blink at you. “The second one, chef.”

You nod. “Fuckin’ coward.”

You take the phone from them anyway, Just for a moment.

It’s a photo of some dish. A duck breast, cooked to perfection. Blood orange gastrique. Fennel pollen.

You made something suspiciously close to this about two menus ago. 

Your version had pomegranate. 

The caption reads, ‘Innovation is imitation with better technique.’ 

“Oh fuck off,” you mutter, handing the phone back to the line cook. “Tell garde manger to go heavier on the fennel today, I want them to fucking taste it from across the street, chef.”

The line cook nods, disappears, and you’re alone again. Surrounded by chaos, but still.

You don’t look at your phone, or any other phone for that matter, again until after service, leaning up against the wall by your locker.

You know you shouldn’t look at his account.

You shouldn’t. But you do.

The post is gone. You slam your locker just a little harder than is really necessary.

Of fucking course it is.

You roll your eyes, he’s always been so good at that. Throwing a proverbial punch, hiding his hands. Letting you look like the one who’s too sensitive, or too reactive, or too…hungry, driven.

Your coat smells like smoke and citrus and work. You toss it into your tote deciding that you’d pass up the assault on your senses during your walk home. The walk-in hums to your left, like it’s talking to you, whispering, telling you to go home.

And you should go home.

Instead, you walk. In the opposite direction.

There’s an all-night coffee shop somewhere around halfway-ish between your place and The Bear, a neutral ground as you call it, if such a thing exists at all. You’re about three minutes into waiting for your order, scrolling mindlessly on your phone, when the door chimes jingle like they’re trying to warn you.

And there he is.

Carmen Berzatto, that fucker.

His hood is up, his sleeves pushed to his forearms, a notebook open in his hand, a look on his face like he’s composing a sonnet to microgreens and regret.

You see his eyes flick toward you, then back down, your name is called, and you sit one stool away from him. Not closer. Not farther.

A power move. 

You take a sip of your drink, keep your eyes on your phone, like you haven’t noticed him at all.

“Bold move,” you say, quiet, pointed, not looking at him.

“Didn’t realize this place was yours now,” he replies smugly, barely glancing up at you.

You hum like you’re amused with the situation. You’re not.

“You liked the duck?”

“I liked it better when I made it…first,” you say, still scrolling through your Instagram feed. “Two menus ago. Pomegranate instead of blood orange. Remember that? Bet you do.”

“Yours was sweeter.” He says it like it’s an insult. Probably because it is.

“Yours was derivative.” You respond, just as pointed, just as dry. 

You see his eyes narrow at you in your peripheral vision. He snorts, but he doesn’t deny it. You finally look at him.

“Nice quote, by the way, Carm. Real subtle. Real mature.”

“Wasn’t about you.”

“Right. Just happened to post it the day that article ran, just happened to use the same plating.”

“Same cut, different execution.”

“Same cut, worse execution.”

“Is that the maturity you were referring to earlier?” 

You roll your eyes, a light blush starting to dust your cheeks betraying you in the process. 

He tilts his head, studies you. He has that familiar look on his face, like he’s trying to solve you and break you all at once. You recognize it all too well from all the way back in New York. 

He used to look at you like that from across the line, down the line, wherever he was situated, there was one thing that Carmen Berzatto was gonna do, stare you down. Steam rising between you, always. Ten minutes to service and he’d always say something just fucking infuriating like, “You gonna do the scallops like that, chef?” just to fuck with you. Just to get under your skin. You hated him.

He seemed to like fucking with you just a little too much.

You didn’t appreciate it in the slightest.

“I remember your duck,” he says finally. “Was good.”

You raise an eyebrow at him, “That sounded dangerously close to a compliment.”

“Don’t get used to it.”

You scoff, take another sip from your drink. “Relax, Ber. You still win when it comes to presentation.”

“Because you don’t care about that shit.”

“I care when people like you pretend that they invented it.”

That hits, you know it does, you watch as his hand flexes around his cup like he’s trying to keep it together, maintain his composure. It excites you.

“I didn’t delete it because of you,” he says.

You arch an eyebrow. “Sure.”

“I deleted it because I didn’t feel like a fight.”

You blink at him. That was…unexpected. Unwelcome, even.

“Well, you should’ve thought of that before you started swinging, then, hm?”

“Wasn’t swinging,” he says, his voice dropping lower. “It was…I don’t know. I saw your name above mine, and it just- fuck.”

“What?”

“It just pissed me the fuck off.”

A moment of silence passed between the two of you, the music of the coffee shop filling the space, low, jazzy. 

“I didn’t ask for the article,” you say, quietly, face falling.

“Neither did I.”

“Doesn’t stop it from feeling like something, though.”

“Yeah.”

“Like a win.”

“Or a loss.”

You both turn, stare ahead for a moment.

“We were better,” you say.

“When?”

“Back then. Before Chicago. Before…all this.”

He turns his head, looks at you again, like he might actually say something, something…honest.

“Maybe,” he says, “Or maybe we just hid it better.”

You don’t respond to him, you’ve had enough of this tonight.

You stand, deciding to take your drink to go. 

And as you pass him, “Same cut, Carmen,” you say, you don’t look back at him. “Same wound, too.”

new york, then.

The kitchen was finally quiet, well, except for the hum of the fridge, and the crackle of the old radio someone had left on. You and Carmen were the last two standing, which was nothing out of the usual. Wiping down stations, just trying to shake the exhaustion from your bones, knowing very well that you’d just be right back standing in the same place within the next twelve hours. 

“You ever think we’re too much alike?” Carmen said as he slipped on his jacket, leaning against the counter with that half-smile that you didn’t quite want to admit was just the slightest bit magnetic, attractive, even.

You turn to him, head tilted. “Or, maybe not alike enough.”

He shrugged at you, his eyes darkening. “Or, maybe we just want the same thing.”

You look him right in his eyes, scanning them, daring him to elaborate. “Or, maybe, I just think you should be more like me.” 

Carmen chuckled, a low, amused sound that made the back of your neck heat up and your stomach flip. 

“More like you, huh? I don’t know if the world’s ready for that.”

You smirked, stepping closer to him, your shoulders nearly brushing. 

“Maybe the world needs shaking up, maybe that’s the point.” 

His eyes flicked down to your lips for just a second, before snapping back up to meet your eyes.

“Well, you do like to push people’s buttons.” 

“And you’re too stubborn to admit you like it.”

He shook his head at you, but the corner of his mouth twitched upward.

“Maybe I do.”

A silence settled in, charged and comfortable all at once, electric.

Carmen breaks the silence, gives you a crooked grin.

“So, want to grab a drink? Blow off the last twelve hours?”

You hesitate, the corner of your mouth twitching. 

“Only if you promise you can keep up, Ber.”

He throws an arm around your shoulder playful, friendly, as you head for the door, the world outside buzzing with New York City nightlife and potential.

Down the street a dive bar’s blue and red neon sign flickers, you make your way towards it together. Inside, the lights are dimmed and there are worn wooden booths, a long bar, older TVs on the front and back walls, a pool table in the back, a jukebox in the front, and a large crowd of people of all ages. 

You order drinks, and the conversation flows easily at first. Then Carmen leans into you, just a touch closer than ‘friends’, his voice is low, teasing.

“You know, I’m starting to think you might actually like me more than you let on.”

You snort, nearly spill your drink.

“Please, you wish.”

He grins at you, his eyes seem to glitter under the bar lights. “Maybe I do.”

It catches you off guard, the way he says it, quiet, steady, more sincere than you’re used to, it trips you up for a moment longer than you’d have liked for it to. 

You cover it up quickly with a laugh, one that’s maybe just a touch too loud. “Now, don’t get all soft on me, Carm.”

Before he could respond to you, there’s a cheer from across the room. A few line cooks from the restaurant are sitting towards the corner of the bar, seemingly already halfway through a sizable pitcher, waving you both over to their table.

You begin to lift your hand to wave back when someone brushes past you from behind, hands light on your shoulders, just a little too familiar. 

You turn around.

“Hey stranger.”

It’s Alex. One of the sous chefs you had met just a few months back when you had staged over at the Olivette. Tall, pretty, maybe just a touch too confident for their own good. They smell like cardamom and something more expensive that you can’t quite make out. 

You smile, it’s polite, casual. “Alex.” 

“Didn’t know you’d be here.” Their hand stays on your arm for just a second longer than it should’ve been.

Carmen doesn’t say anything, but you can feel the shift in energy before you can see it, his whole posture going stiff.

“We were just-” you start to say, but Alex speaks, cutting you off.

“You coming to Devon’s thing after this? He said you might.”

Before you could answer that you weren’t, that you actually hadn’t even been made aware of Devon’s thing, Carmen stands up abruptly. 

“I’m gonna grab a pool cue,” he says to no one in particular, not quite making eye contact with either of you, already walking toward the back of the bar.

You exhale sharply. “Excuse me,” you say to Alex, your tone clipped, as you hop off your stool and follow Carmen across the bar.

You find him at the pool table, he’s chalking the cue like he’s trying to wear it down to dust. It dawns on you that you’re actually not even entirely sure that he’s ever touched a pool table. 

“Is everything, like, okay?” you ask.

He shrugs, doesn’t meet your eyes. “Fine.”

“You sure?” you press him. “Because that didn’t really look fine.”

He takes a deep breath, rests the cue on the table, and finally meets your eyes.

“Look, I know it’s stupid, alright? I just…I just wasn’t- I wasn’t expecting that.”

You blink at him. “What? Alex?”

He nods, just once. “Yeah.”

You tilt your head at him, soften your tone. “They’re just like, some person, I worked with, okay? It’s like, it’s not a thing, like at all.”

“I know. I know that.” His mouth twitches, like he’s more frustrated with himself than he is with you. “And, like, what am I then, am I just like some person you work with, then?”

You pause, blink at him, startled by the question, completely and utterly caught off guard by it. Not because it’s unfair, necessarily, but because it’s just such a total pivot. It throws you for a loop.

You recover quickly with a scoff, attempting to deflect. “You? You’re, you’re Carmen fucking Berzatto, okay, you don’t- you don’t count.”

His brows lift at that. “What the fuck does that mean?”

“It means you’re different.”

“Different?” His eyes narrow at you, he’s watching you too closely, and you hate how warm your face feels under his gaze. “Different, how?”

“I don’t- I don’t know,” you mutter out, suddenly wishing that you’d just stayed over at the bar. 

Carmen steps toward you, pool cue forgotten. “Then why does it feel like I just watched someone hit on you and I felt like- like some sort of fucking idiot for thinking-”

He cuts himself off.

“For thinking…what?” 

You say it too fast, sharper than you had intended.

He hesitates, his eyes flicker over to the other side of the bar before coming back to meet with yours. “Something.”

Your pulse stutters.

“Something,” you echo back to him, not quite a question, not quite an answer.

Carmen’s tongue darts across his bottom lip like he’s working through the right words to say in his head before they come out wrong, but they still do.

“Doesn’t matter, just, nevermind, forget it.”

You shake your head in utter disbelief. “Are you serious right now, Carmen? You can’t just like- you can’t just drop that and then say ‘forget it.’ That’s not how-” 

You stop yourself, close your mouth, swallow your frustration.

He’s already retreating, you can see it happening in real time, not physically, but that shuttered look on his face, the one that you’ve seen about a thousand times during a particularly bad service when he feels himself starting to care just a little too much. He’s not angry, he’s protecting something. 

“I shouldn’t’ve said anything,” he mutters, half to you, half to the floor. “It’s late.”

You stare at him, jaw tense, “You’re such a fucking coward sometimes.”

That lands, and he flinches like you’d slapped him.

“I’m being honest with you, (y/n),” he says sternly, like when he has to call out an order one too many times, a flicker of irritation behind his eyes.

“No, Carm, you’re being half honest,” you snap back at him, the irritation in his eyes makes you irritated. “You say just enough to make it my fucking problem. Like I’m just supposed to fucking, read between every one of your moody little silences and just like- just figure out whatever the fuck page you’re on.”

Carmen gives you a humorless laugh. 

“Oh, that’s rich coming from you,” he bites back, his voice raising just a little. “You flirt like it’s some fucking, some fucking sport and then act all shocked when someone thinks that maybe, just maybe, it might fucking mean something.”

You fall silent.

You don’t mean to do it, just, the silence falls out of your mouth before the words can.

He notices it, a look of regret falling over his features almost instantly. 

“Fuck,” he mutters, his eyes softening, “Fuck, (y/n), I’m sorry, I really- I didn’t mean-”

“No, it’s fine,” you say, cutting him off with a laugh that sounds just a little too light to be friendly, too brittle. “You were right the first time. Doesn’t matter.”

You turn away before he can stop you or say anything else, move back towards the bar, and you don’t look back at him.

Carmen stays standing by the pool table, cue leaning beside him, shoulders all hunched like he’s trying to keep himself from reaching for something that’s already slipped away. 

The next morning you walked into work like nothing had happened at all. 

Walked into work like you’d slept at all the night before. 

Like you didn’t play the whole fucking thing on loop in your head until your alarm went off, telling you to get up and go to work. Like it didn’t sink into your skin, that something that he almost said.

Carmen’s already there when you arrive, his hair is wet from what was a presumably too-fast shower, his eyes looking tired, focused on his mise like it’s the only thing anchoring him to planet Earth. 

Neither of you say anything about the night before. 

In fact, neither of you said much of anything to each other at all. 

“Morning.”

“Morning.”

And that was it. 

The first service shift back is fine.

Fine like a cracked plate. 

The service moves fast. You work clean, correct, efficient. Carmen works, albeit, quieter than usual, but it’s sharper. Sharper in a way that makes you want to beat him at something. Anything.

He doesn’t look at you during the dinner rush, not really, at least, not when you’re looking, not when there’s a possibility for you to catch him looking. But what you do see is him when he clocks your dish from across the pass. He stares at it just a little longer than is comfortable, your citrus-cured hamachi, plated with fennel, sorrel, a tasteful lemon vinaigrette so acidic that it makes the back of your mouth clench just watching it hit the spoon.

He says nothing to you, nothing about it in general. But you can see it, that spark of recognition on his face. He did something almost exactly like it just last month. 

Later on as you pack up your stuff to leave for the night, Carmen just to your right a few feet over, you hear one of the line cooks whispering,

“Didn’t Berzatto do something like that?”

Another one responds,

“Yeah, but this one hits so much harder.”

You smile to yourself. And then hate that you smiled at all.

You hear a locker to your right slam just a little harder than usual, you jump, startled, look up just long enough to see Carmen walk past you, brisk, nails digging into his palms. 

You pissed him off.

When you come into work the next day you find that Carmen has, subtly but completely unmistakably to you, added a new amuse-bouche to the board. 

Your eyes narrow at it.

A challenge. You know it. You know him. 

Crispy duck skin chip. Cherry gastrique. Microgreens.

You step just a little closer to the board, your fingers hovering just a breath away from the duck chip, squinting your gaze as you take it in, the sheen of the cherry gastrique is catching the light like it’s a dare. Like he’s daring you. It’s meticulous, precise, unfortunately, near perfect. A very typical Carmen move, to throw down a gauntlet like it’s just nothing. You hate him for it.

You sharply inhale through your nose, crossing your arms. 

You scan the kitchen around you, busy prepping, chopping, focused, but you know every glance from across the room is slowly landing on you. The whispers have started again, the bets are quietly being placed.

You roll up your sleeves, push back the nerves, get to work. That’s the moment you decided, you’re going to answer the challenge…And every one that comes after that. 

He wants a game? Fine.

You’re game.

Let’s fucking play.

You begin pulling ingredients, tasting, testing flavors in your head, envisioning how to turn something simple into something completely unforgettable, how to make that stupid fucking duck chip regret ever existing in the same kitchen as you.

You don’t look at Carmen. You don’t need to. 

You know he’s watching you, waiting.

This isn’t just about who plates the better amuse-bouche, it’s about respect. It’s about territory. It’s about control.

And you’re not about to just let him have it, not without a fight, not if you could help it.

You’re not flashy about it, that’d be missing the point. At least for tonight.

It’s precise, clean, surgical. Devastating. It takes everything in you not to cackle to yourself.

A whipped chicken liver mousse. Buckwheat cracker. Pickled blueberry. Burnt shallot.

Served. Cold.

Fuck. You. Carmen.

You send it up without a word, front of house goes wild. A regular asks to meet the chef. Someone on the floor calls it “visionary.” A food writer snaps a photo before they’re even done chewing.

You want to smile. Want to laugh, throw your hands up, after all, Carmen aside, this was everything you’d ever wanted…But you don’t. You keep a straight face, even as the compliments echo their way back into the kitchen, even as Carmen hears it too. You don’t react.

You don’t feel a need to.

You just don’t feel like it. 

You just work harder.

Carmen doesn’t say a word to you, he just keeps working.

But as you’re both wiping down the pass at the end of the night, he stops you, doesn’t touch you, just hovers close enough to get your attention.

“You’ve been holding onto that one, huh?” 

You shake your head at him, cool, exhausted. “No. Made it up this morning.” You brush him off.

“Right,” he says.

You raise an eyebrow at him, “Why? That’s a problem or something?”

Carmen shrugs. “Guess we’re doing this now.”

You smirk, but nothing feels good about it. “Guess so.”

You would think that would be it. That maybe he’d let it go. That maybe you’d let it go.

And maybe any normal person would’ve let that go, but of course, neither of you were about to.

Weeks later, you walk into the kitchen and he’s already there, his sleeves are pushed up, his arms tense, focus clipped. The mise set up with surgical precision, as per usual. Carmen doesn’t look at you, but you know he knows you’re here.

The duck chip is still on the board. Still on the menu. Like a fucked up warning shot he never stopped firing. But then again, so is yours. 

So, you don’t flinch. You don’t back down. You just bring your A-game. Again.

And then, as per usual, it starts small.

He adjusts the garnish on your plate…again.

He doesn’t ask. He doesn’t pause. With just a quick flick of his fingers over your work at the pass, he changes the positioning of every single one of your garnishes, like it’s his goddamn right.

And if this was anyone else, you wouldn’t have had an issue. You can take criticism, oftentimes, you’re grateful for it even. But this was Carmen. He wasn’t doing it to help you.

He was doing it to spite you.

You freeze mid-plating.

“That supposed to be helpful?” you ask, your voice is low, a harsh whisper, you don’t look at him.

He doesn’t respond to you, doesn’t look at you, doesn’t address you at all. He just moves onto the next plate. 

Your blood boils. You slam the ramekin down just a bit harder than necessary.

“You touch my plate again, and we’re gonna have some serious issues, Ber,” you say through gritted teeth.

The ramekin doesn’t make him flinch, neither does the threat, but you see it when he hears the nickname, he flinches, just slightly. “Your citrus was bleeding. I fixed it.”

You snort at him. “Right. You fixed it. You’re just fixing it.”

He then wipes the rim of another plate with his towel, still refusing to make eye contact with you.

“You make it messy,” he mutters, like that settles it, like that means the end.

“No, you make it yours.”

That seems to grab his attention.

Carmen’s head lifts, just slightly, and it’s just enough for you to catch the twitch in his jaw, he sets the plate down at the pass. You watch as he wipes his hands slowly, finally daring to meet your eyes.

“You done?” he asks, barely above a whisper.

You step towards him, just an inch closer. “Not even fucking close, chef.”

The kitchen falls quiet around you, not silent, not completely, but it shifts. Everyone keeps their heads down, their knives chopping faster, their mouths shut tighter. Everyone pretends that they aren’t listening. Pretends that they aren’t watching. 

Carmen’s gaze is heavy on yours and you can feel it deep in your bones. He doesn’t blink, he doesn’t move.

There it is. That electricity. 

“Cool it,” he says finally. “We’re in service.” 

“Then stop trying to play God with my station, Carm.”

He flushes at the mention of his name, what you used to call him so adoringly, spit out with such venom punctuating it.

He leans in slightly, speaks low and sharp, you can feel the heat of his body, his breath on your face. “Then stop plating like you’re doing it in the dark…chef.”

Your heart slams against your ribcage. You open your mouth to say something, but then snap it shut. Not because you don’t have something to say, but because you have too much to say, and you know better. If you start now, you won’t stop.

You step off, step back, finish your plates. You don’t look at him again.

But later, just past the peak of the service, your adrenaline cooling down to something meaner in your bloodstream, you catch him. 

He’s tasting one of your amuse-bouches.

Just one. Just one bite.

He doesn’t react, he doesn’t blink. He just sets the spoon down.

Later still, when you return to your station, there’s a mise list on your board, and it’s not yours.

It’s someone else’s. 

It’s his.

In his handwriting. 

At the bottom of it, there’s a note scrawled in blue Sharpie: Heavy on the horseradish, chef? Cute.

You exhale a breath, that’s almost a laugh. Almost.

Then, you slam your knife down so hard that the entire board jumps, the sound cuts through the kitchen like a bone snapping.

You find him outside after close, he’s leaning up against a back brick wall, lighting what looks to be his 3rd or 4th cigarette judging by the smell lingering in the air and the fresh cigarette stubs that surround his feet. He’s flicking at the lighter like it personally offended him.

He hears you coming before he sees you. 

“You really think this is how we’re gonna do this?” he asks, he doesn’t turn around. 

You cross your arms. “Do what?”

“This fucking- this fucking, one-up game, (y/n), it’s- it’s fucking bullshit.”

“You started it.”

“You finished it,” he mutters, cigarette between his teeth, “you always fucking do.” 

He turns to you then, slowly, the smoke is curling around his face like a frame, his voice is even, but his eyes, his eyes look enraged. “You ever stop and think maybe I didn’t want a war with you, (y/n)?”

You step into the halo of light coming in from an overhead streetlight. You stare him down.

“Then maybe you shouldn’t have made it a fucking knife fight.”

A beat passes. 

“Yeah?” he says, his voice is lower now. “Then maybe stop fucking twisting that shit in my side every time I breathe, like a bitch.”

Silence. Long and heavy. Not quiet.

You can feel your head swimming, you feel like you’re going to explode.

You stare at him like you’re seeing him for the first time, and maybe you really are. He’s exhausted, unfortunately still beautiful, but he’s mean. He’s cruel. Cruel in a way that’s familiar and intimate. 

“You trying to start a war, chef?” you ask, your voice was almost soft.

Carmen doesn’t blink, doesn’t look away from you. “If you’re losing, don’t call it a war, chef.”

The alley is dead silent, and somewhere from inside the kitchen, a pan clutters.

You shake your head at him. “Fuck you, Carmen.”

Carmen just shrugs at you. “Too late.”

He tosses the cigarette, he doesn’t stomp it out, he just lets it burn.

You leave first, turning around, heading toward the door.

You don’t look back.

chicago, now.

A few days later, after your little coffee shop showdown with Carmen, an email came with a subject line: Culinary Voices: Legacy and Innovation.

You almost deleted it, almost sent it to the trash bin.

At first glance, it really just felt like spam, or even worse, networking. But at second glance, your name was spelled correctly, the tone was reverent, professional, and buried three lines down:

“We’re excited to be asking you to participate as a featured speaker alongside Carmen Berzatto for our upcoming panel, Culinary Voices: Legacy and Innovation…”

You read it.

Read it three more times. That name again. 

That same pressure in your chest.

It was always going to come to this eventually, you knew it. Being in the same room again, except under bright white lights, on a literal stage, in front of an audience, dressed in business casual, pretending all the knives were just literal, none of them metaphorical. 

The irony of the situation was not lost on you. 

You hover over the RSVP link, hesitate only for a moment before clicking it: Accept.

Fuck. You. Carmen.

You close the laptop, sitting back in your chair, and stare up at the ceiling like it might have answers.

Of course it would be him, of course, out of everyone. Legacy and Innovation, as if the two of you didn’t represent complete opposite fucking ends of that exact axis. Like you hadn’t been trying to outdo one another since the very first fucking tasting menu.

You’d told yourself time and time again that it didn’t matter anymore, that Chicago was big enough, no, that the whole culinary world was big enough for both of you, that it was just him carrying on this bullshit rivalry. It was his fault, really. You were over it…Over him.

Clearly not.

Because now you’re pacing across your office, remembering how he looked at you back in New York, at that bar. That half-smile he would always give you, like a dare. Like he was just daring you to say something, to do something. Before it all went sour.

You shake your head, trying to shove the memory away, but it sticks to you regardless, like smoke in your lungs.

You shouldn’t be thinking about him, not now, not when you have an interview coming up, a new menu to think of, people counting on you, a panel to prepare for…a panel where every word, every glance, every goddamn gesture will be under a microscope.

Still, you can’t help but wonder, was he thinking about you too?

Had his stomach dropped when he saw your name in the email?

Did he hover over the RSVP button, picture your voice already cutting across his in front of an audience, your gaze on him?

Or did he smirk to himself, already sitting in his office plotting how to get in the last word?

You wouldn’t put it past him. Carmen has always known exactly how to weaponize his silence, how to make a room really bend toward him without ever raising his voice, without ever saying too much. That was the problem. He didn’t have to try very hard to get under your skin. He just had to be there.

And now you were going to be there too on a panel called Legacy and Innovation, like some junior marketing intern had just googled your names and decided to stir shit up for fun.

You could already hear it, a moderator’s voice saying some shit about “creative tension” or "competitive admiration” like it wasn’t about you and him, expecting both of you to just smile like you haven’t wanted to scream at each other in a walk-in freezer on more than one occasion.

You reopen your laptop, type back a two-line reply to the event coordinator just to officially confirm your attendance, you make sure to CC Carmen. Professional. Clean. Chilling.

Just before you hit send, your fingers hover again.

You type a third line, impulsive. 

Looking forward to it.

And you don’t know if that’s a lie or a threat.

The reply comes back faster than you’d expected it to.

From: Carmen Berzatto

To: (y/n) (y/l/n)

Subject: Re: Culinary Voices: Legacy and Innovation

Sent: 3:14PM

Got it. See you in New York. Looking forward to it.

That’s it. No greeting, no signature, just that.

You stare at the email for about a full minute before closing your laptop again.

You should be used to this by now, the way he says almost nothing yet still somehow manages to say far too much. Like every word he doesn’t use is deliberate. Like it’s a strategy. 

Three days later, your publicist forwards you a press blurb talking about the panel, there’s a graphic on the article with both of your faces, side by side, turned just enough away from each other to make it look dramatic. 

“Legacy and Innovation: A Conversation Between Culinary Titans.”

You almost laugh, stop yourself. It’s nauseating.

Some food blogger on Twitter posts a side-by-side photo from when you and Carmen both won some of your first awards, your plating versus his, flames in the quote retweets of it.

Another post calls you the “Culinary’s most eligible opposites” and in the replies underneath:

@ m1chelincurse: Bet they’ve fucked.

@ eaterchicagos1ns: Or wanted to.

You don’t engage, you just shut your laptop, cheeks burning, the heat trailing down your neck.

They don’t know what they’re talking about. 

Not really, at least.

The panel prep call happens two days before your flight to New York, for the real thing. Both you and Carmen are meant to fly in the night before. The flight is only supposed to be around two hours, but the idea of sitting next to Carmen for that long nauseates you regardless.

You log into Zoom, clicking the meeting link, you’re met with three other faces already in, the event coordinator, the moderator, and much to your dissatisfaction, Carmen in from what looks like to be a very poorly lit office or dining room table somewhere. He has that look at his face again, like he’s half-listening, half-plotting. You narrow your eyes at his little box on screen.

“We just want to keep things light, conversational,” the moderator says, chipper. “You know, like maybe a little good-natured ribbing for the press, if it comes up? You two are kind of infamous for your, uh, competitive spark.”

You glance at your own image on the screen and smile with all your teeth, nodding.

Carmen just scratches his jaw, says nothing.

“Great!” the coordinator says, seemingly pleased with the meeting so far.

There’s a pause, and then Carmen finally speaks, his voice low and slightly giant through his laptop mic. “Just don’t ask us to do a live demo.”

You think it’s meant to be a joke but you scoff before you can think better of it and say, “Scared I’ll show you up again, chef?”

The moderator on the other end laughs just a little too loudly. “See? There it is! That’s exactly the kind of energy we’re talking about, you two, you’re electric!”

You don’t look at Carmen on your screen but you swear that you can feel him roll his eyes.

“We’ll keep the talking points broad,” the coordinator jumps in, sensing a need to redirect. “Innovation, mentorship, maintaining legacy while pushing boundaries. You both represent something exciting, some fresh.” The coordinator looks down at their notes, continues, “There’s a real uh- public interest, in your…dynamic.”

You glance at Carmen’s box on the screen for just a moment, just enough to catch the tail end of his smirk. It was subtle, almost gone immediately. You’ve seen that look before, know it well. You’ve seen it before a win, or worse, right before a loss, the type of loss you feel guilty for.

“Right,” you say tightly, you smooth the front of your t-shirt. “Glad to know we’re so trend worthy.”

The moderator nods enthusiastically at you from the screen. “Exactly! Think of it as an opportunity to showcase some mutual respect, maybe…admiration?”

Carmen’s gaze flicks up, deadpan. “Sure,” he says. “Admiration.” 

You can’t help but let out a short laugh. “Well, let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”

Another all too bright chuckle from the moderator. “Ah, kitchen rivals turned panel darlings, it’s gold. Just, you know, don’t murder each other on stage,” they joke.

“No promises,” you say.

And without missing a beat Carmen says, “I’ll bring bandages.”

The coordinator’s smile is starting to look a bit strained at this point. “Okay, great. We’ll send a final run-of-show and travel logistics info list this afternoon. You’re both scheduled to arrive Thursday evening, just to re-confirm with both of you while I have you here in person- erm, on Zoom. Same hotel, different rooms, obviously."

Your stomach flips, but you nod like everything is fine, like none of this really matters to you, like you haven’t already Googled what the hotel bar looks like, what the layout of the rooms is like. 

The call winds down, you’re polite, professional. You click Leave Meeting just as Carmen says, “See you in New York.”

You stare at the blank screen for a minute.

Little did you know, you’d actually be seeing him sooner.

Like in two days at the airport sooner.

You spot him before he can spot you. Of course he’s already sitting at the gate, white tee, headphones on, one leg bouncing with a nervous energy about it. Classic pre-service Carmen posture. He’s got a book on his lap that you’re almost 100% sure that he’s not actually reading, and a carry-on bag that looks like it’s been through a war.

You hesitate for a moment, debating on whether you should just keep walking, come up when it’s officially time to board instead, get a coffee, take a call, pretend you didn’t see him at all until it’s absolutely necessary. But then, as if he can sense you there, he looks up. 

He makes eye contact. He doesn’t wave, doesn’t nod, he just lifts one eyebrow, barely.

And just that is enough to pull the irritation right up your spine.

You walk over to him, slow, controlled, every step a silent refusal to let him get under your skin.

“You’re early,” you say.

He shrugs. “You’re late.”

You check your watch. “We board in half an hour.”

“Exactly.”

You resist the urge to roll your eyes, then he gestures to the empty seat next to him.

You sit. Your legs just a whisper away from touching.

“So,” you say, “What seat are you in?”

He still has his book in his hands, he doesn’t look up, just taps the boarding pass tucked between the pages.

You lean over, just close enough to read it, just close enough that your legs are now touching.

“13A,” you mutter.

He glances at you. “Don’t tell me we’re seatmates.”

You pull out your own boarding pass, hold it between your fingers like a playing card. “13B.”

You can see the muscle in his jaw twitch. 

You smile at him. “Guess we’ll be rubbing elbows all the way to JFK.”

Carmen exhales sharply through his nose, amused. “I’ll ask to switch.”

“Shutup.” 

He huffs, shaking his head at you, he goes back to his book, but you can see it now, that tiny twitch of a smile threatening to appear at the corner of his mouth.

The gate attendant calls for pre-boarding and Carmen stands without a word, stretching just enough for the hem of his shirt to ride up slightly. You look away quickly, but not quick enough.

He notices, doesn’t say anything. He picks up his bag and waits for you to fall in line beside him. 

You board together in silence, but it isn’t truly quiet, not really. Every brush of your arm against his, every glance from the row ahead, you suddenly feel very self-conscious. 

You settle in your seats.

The moment that you buckle in, your knees bump against one another. Too tight of a space, too much history to fill it. You cross your legs towards the window, subtly angling yourself away from him, but it just makes his thigh rub up right against yours.

He doesn't shift away.

You try not to look at him when the flight attendants start going over the safety procedures, but your eyes drift regardless. HIs gaze is fixed ahead, jaw clenched in that way that he does when he’s trying to remain unreadable, stoic.

When the plane finally takes off, there’s a pocket of turbulence that makes your shoulder knock against his, you expect him to pull away from you, but he doesn’t.

Twenty minutes in, he puts his book away, and you’re still pretending to scroll through something you’d downloaded on your phone prior to boarding, but you catch him glancing at your screen. Once. Twice.

“You still using that same knife?”

You blink, look up at him. “You stalking my mise, Carm?”

He shrugs, but there’s just the ghost of a smile on his face. “Just noticed it in that photo from the press tasting.”

“Oh, so you’re following my press too?”

He exhales a laugh through his nose, low and quiet. “Hard not to, they just won’t seem to shut up about you lately.”

You tilt your head, pretending to be flattered. “What can I say? The camera loves me,” you say, then add, “Not like you’re doing too bad yourself though.”

Carmen gives you a look, mildly incredulous, slightly amused. “Right,” he says, his tone monotone, deadpan. “Because you know I just thrive in front of a camera.”

You give him a half smile. “You do this thing where you act like you hate attention, but we both know you secretly love it.”

“I don’t love it,” he says, too quickly, then quieter, “I just don’t mind it when it’s earned.”

You raise an eyebrow at him, “Oh, and mine isn’t?”

He looks at you again. “Didn’t say that.”

You nod slowly at him, narrowing your eyes. “No. You never say much of anything, do you?”

His jaw flexes, just barely, a flicker of something passes behind his eyes, something guilty maybe. 

“You always need to hear it?” he asks, his voice is lower now, quieter than the hum of the cabin. 

Your breath catches somewhere in your chest, but you still manage to keep your tone light, albeit, biting. “I don't need anything from you, Carmen.”

He hums like he doesn’t believe you. 

You both go silent again, just for a few bears, the space between you feels charged, electric. His thigh brushes up against yours when he shifts, deliberate or not, and neither of you move away.

Finally, he breaks the silence. “You think they’re gonna uh, ask about us?”

You blink, caught off guard by his question. “What, like, like us us?”

He gives you a look, the corner of his mouth twitching. “You know. The press. This whole dynamic bullshit? The fake rivalry they all love to talk about so much?”

You scoff. “Fake? That’s cute. Adorable, really.”

He grins. “So, you gonna play nice on stage?”

“Are you?”

His grin falters, just for a second, but you catch it anyway.

“I’ll try,” he says. “Depends on how smug you look when they introduce you.”

You lean in slightly, just close enough that he has to meet your eyes, “I always look smug. That’s just kinda like, my thing.”

He exhales a small laugh, shakes his head at you. “Yeah, trust me, I know.”

You don’t remember falling asleep.

One second, you were staring at the back of the seat in front of you, pretending not to care or notice that your arm was resting just against his, and the next, you’re blinking awake to the faint sound of the landing gear descending, the announcement overhead is distant and muffled. You’re warm.

Too warm.

You blink hard, and then realize that you’re leaning on him. You’ve been leaning on him.

Not just leaning, no. Your head has been against his shoulder.

And he let you.

His sweatshirt is soft against your cheek, and he hasn’t moved yet, his arm is still up against yours, stead and unmoving.

You jolt upright, your eyes wide.

“Fuck,” you mumble.

He glances at you, barely. “You snore.”

“I do not.”

He smirks. “No, you don’t. Just wanted to see if you’d argue.”

You scowl at him, adjusting your shirt, trying to pretend like your face isn’t heating up.

“You could’ve woken me up, you know.” 

He shrugs. “Didn’t want to.”

You’re still processing it all when the plane bumps against the tarmac, and Carmen’s already shifting around in his seat, pulling his bag down from overhead with ease, like he didn’t just completely short-circuit your brain.

The hotel is sleek, modern. Minimalist lobby, curated playlists, a concierge who says both of your names with an irritating amount of recognition when you walk up together. Carmen doesn’t meet your eyes as you both approach the front desk, his duffel bag is slung over one shoulder, you don’t know why it bothers you so much that he’s packed so light.

“Two rooms under Culinary Voices,” the front desk staff says, looking from Carmen to you a few times. “You’ll find your rooms right next to each other.”

Carmen gives a small nod, signs the form, you step up to do the same, feeling his gaze brush over your profile. 

You’re handed your key card and he’s handed his, and still, you don’t say anything.

Not until the elevator.

It’s silent as the two of you stand there next to each other, just the occasional ding of passing floors. You catch each other’s reflections in the mirrored walls, you’re too aware of how close you’re standing to one another again, it feels like the plane all over again. 

“What’re you doing after this?” he asks.

You raise an eyebrow at him. “After what? This thrilling elevator ride?”

He glances at the ceiling, suppressing a grin. “After check-in, I was gonna hit the bar downstairs.”

“Oh,” you say. “Planning to brood into a whiskey, chef?”

He shrugs at you. “Only if you’re not already doing that.”

You laugh, just under your breath. “You buying?”

His eyes flick to you, then to the ground, “If I do, will you actually drink it?”

You step out of the elevator first as it reaches your floor. “Guess we’ll see.”

It’s low-lit and quiet, just a faint clinking of glasses, a low murmur of conversation. 

Carmen is already at the bar by the time you walk in, a drink in front of him, another one beside it, untouched.

You slide onto the stool next to him without a word.

“What is it?”

He nods at your glass. “Negroni, thought you might want something familiar.” 

You lift the glass to your mouth, take a sip, then glance at him. “Still remember what I like?”

He looks at you, serious, far more serious than you expected. “I remember everything.”

You smile faintly. “Dangerous thing to say to a rival.”

He doesn’t smile back at you, he just looks at you, his gaze steady.

“I’m tired of being rivals.”

Your fingers pause on the rim of your glass. 

For a moment, all you can hear is the quiet jazz from the corner speaker and the distant sound of a shaker being rattled somewhere behind the bar, it feels like the floor shifted beneath you.

You laugh, soft, just a little unsure. “Carmen, we’re scheduled to be rivals, literally, tomorrow. On a stage.”

“Yeah,” he says, his voice low, “I know.”

He looks down at his drink, contemplative, then back up to you. “But it’s never really been just that, has it?”

You fall quiet, the air between you sharpens, charged with everything that’s gone unspoken. You sip your drink again, just trying to buy yourself some time to think of what to say. When you finally meet his eyes, there’s no point in denying it anymore, and you can’t recall who moves first, maybe he leans in first, or maybe you do, but either way, when his mouth finally finds yours, there’s no hesitation, no smugness. Just heat. 

And something that feels a lot like relief.

The door clicks softly behind you as you step inside his room, it’s one of those types of hotel rooms that’s fancy enough to have a small kitchen in it, a mini fridge, a counter, all that, it’s a direct mirror image of yours, which was right next door. You don’t speak, you just toe off your shoes by the door, the carpet muffling your movements. He watches you from across the room, standing near the countertop, the shadows playing over his face in the dim light. 

“I wasn’t expecting company,” he says.

You move toward him, the space between you shrinking with each step. Just one more and you’d be touching. You can hear his breath catch, he’s standing still, but you can see it in his body, he’s nervous.

“I don’t fuck rivals,” you say, it’s quiet and firm. It’s also a lie.

He tilts his head at you, just the ghost of a smile tugging at his mouth. “Then stop making everything a competition.” 

You raise an eyebrow at him. “Then stop trying to win.”

His voice lowers, it’s dark and slow. “I haven’t won a fucking thing since you left." 

You blink and you start to feel lightheaded, you can feel your body start to heat up, you can feel it in your throat, in your chest. 

He exhales, once, it’s quick, and he looks at you like he’s just stepped off a ledge of a skyscraper. 

“I really- I really don’t want to fight with you anymore.”

You stare straight at him. “Then what do you want?”

His gaze drops to your mouth, your throat, then back up.

“You,” he says again. 

Your stomach flips, and you can feel it, low, electric. You swallow hard, you know he can feel it too.

You step in even closer, and he doesn’t lean back, you’re close enough now that you can smell him, something acidic, smoke, something woodsy you couldn’t really put your finger on. You hate how familiar it still is, after all this time.

“You say that like it’s simple,” you murmur.

He huffs a laugh, “It’s never been simple.”

You tilt your head at him. “Then why say it at all?”

He meets your gaze, it’s steady and raw.

“Because it’s been eating me up inside for years.”

He doesn’t wait for a response after that, he puts his hands on your waist, fingers digging in just enough to hold you firmly in place, but not enough to hurt. Your breath hitches, caught between irritation and something much sharper, hungrier. The sharp scent of smoke and spice is overwhelming now, mixing together with your own heat.

He leans into you, voice low. “Ready to call it a truce?”

You meet his eyes, cool but charged. “You wish.”

“You sure?” he shoots back.

You hold his gaze, steady. “Why, you scared to lose?”

He gives you a half-smile. “Not scared. Just ready to win.”

Before you can react, his hand slides up your side, his fingertips tracing a slow, deliberate path beneath your shirt, the world shrinks to just the two of you, the heat between your bodies and the sharp edge of challenge in his eyes, the one he always seemed to save for service, is now on you. You’re not sure if he wants to ruin you or revere you, and that only serves to make your body heat up further.

“Say it,” he murmurs, his thumb brushing up against the hem of your pants.

“Say what?”

“That you want this, as much as I do.”

You bite your lip, your body already seeming to answer for you as you lean into his touch. “Cocky, as per usual, I can see.”

His mouth is much closer to yours now, barely a breath away. “Always.”

Then he kisses you, it’s hot, precise. Like even now, even in the heat of this moment he’s still trying to outdo you.

It turns you on.

You respond by just as sharply pulling him by his collar, daring him to take it further. It’s teeth and tongue and tension, it’s years of heat collapsing in on itself all at once. He presses you back against the kitchen counter without breaking the kiss, the edge of it bites into your hips in a way that catches you off guard and makes you gasp, he swallows the sound like he’s been starving for it.

His hands continue to roam down your body, they’re rough and calloused. They search you, greedy, wanting. You want him right back. He palms your waist, your back like he’s relearning something that he used to only dream about, you shove his jacket off his shoulders, and he lets it fall to the floor with a thud, never once breaking from your mouth. 

“You always this easy to beat, chef?” you can feel him smile against your lips.

You grab a fistful of his shirt, drag him in tighter. “You wish, chef.”

He groans low, deep in his throat, and it ignites something in you. You hook your leg around his, pull him in even closer, grinding up into him, you can already tell he’s rock hard.

He stills just for a moment, just one, and then his hands are under your thighs, lifting you onto the counter fully, with a grunt, his mouth is trailing down to your jaw, then to your throat, and he bites, just a little, just enough to make you tilt your head and gasp again.

“You gonna stop me?” he mutters, his breath is warm against your skin.

“Only if you get lazy,” you shoot back at him.

His laugh is dark, breathy, and right on your collarbone. “Not a chance.”

His hands grip your thighs tighter and he drags you towards the edge of the counter, your hips meet with his with a bruising pressure. His mouth is back on yours, and it’s hotter, messier…needier now. 

You bit at his bottom lip, it’s hard enough to make him curse into your mouth.

“Fuck,” he says into your mouth, “Like playing dirty, huh?”

You smirk, breathless, “Only way to play, Carm.”

He pulls back from you just long enough to yank your shirt, and over his head, his eyes rake over you like he’s pissed about how much he likes what he sees. You reach for his belt buckle, un-do it without ceremony, you whip it off of him, and it hits the ground. 

He’s back on your neck, his hand sliding between your legs like he knows exactly what’ll undo you. You roll your hips up into him, grinding on him shamelessly, daring him to keep up with you.

“Fuck,” he breathes, “Still such a fucking brat.”

You dig your nails into his back, “Still such a fucking control freak.”

His hand wraps around your throat, and it’s not hard, or dangerous, but it is just enough to make you tilt your head up so he can look you dead in the eye. His thumb brushes along your jaw.

“You want this?” he asks, his voice is low and serious.

Your breath stutters, catches in your throat. 

You nod, “Yeah.”

“Yeah?” he repeats back to you, grinding into you, “Yeah, what?”

“Yes?” you say, gasping.

“Yes. What.”

“Yes, chef?”

That’s all it takes.

He kisses you, deeper, slower, but no less hungry. His hands are everywhere, pushing your pants down, dragging you flush against him, and it’s frantic and fast and rough in only the way that hate turned to heat can be. 

You pull at his waistband, nipping at his neck, “Less talk, chef, more show.”

He groans, bites down on your shoulder, “You asked for it.”

His hand slides down your stomach, under your waistband, you suck in a deep breath, his fingers are sure, arrogant, searching, and then they find exactly where you’re already aching for him. You gasp when his fingers make contact, your hips grinding into his palm without really meaning to, completely shameless and instinctive.

“Oh fuck,” he groans, “You’re so fucking wet for me.

He says it like it’s an insult.

“You’re not special,” you breathe, even as your voice shakes.

He pulls back just enough for you to see his smirk. “You keep telling yourself that, chef.”

Then he’s on his knees, and before you can say anything cocky back, he hooks his fingers around the waistband of your underwear, pulling them down in one swift motion, rough but careful. You barely get a breath before he leans in, his tongue flicks over your inner thigh.

“You gonna be nice and quiet for me?” he says against your skin. 

You scoff. “Not a chance, chef.”

That earns you a grin, then he licks you, slow at first, just a single stripe, just enough to make you twitch, to make you gasp, to make you wait. He doesn’t give you what you want right away, he never has, but that was always the game.

But when he does, when his mouth finally closes over you, hot, wet, greedy, your hand flies to his hair without thinking, tugging at it tight as he goes down on you. He moans like he loves it, like he’s the one being completely unraveled by it.

Your thighs begin to tense around his shoulders, your back arching off the counter, and you don’t want to give him the satisfaction, but fuck, he’s good. He’s always been so fucking good.

Your voice breaks when you gasp his name. “Carmen-”

He pulls back just enough to say, “Say it again.”

“No.”

“Say it.”

You hesitate for a moment, then, caving, “Carmen.”

“Good,” he breathes, “Very good,” and goes back to giving you head like he’s got something to prove.

You don’t know exactly how long he keeps at it like that, or how many times he brings you right up to the edge just to pull back, but you’re a mess in his hands, cursing his name, clinging to his shoulders when he stands up again, mouth glistening, eyes dark.

He presses his forehead to yours.

“You still want this?” he asks, rough, “Still want…me?”

You meet his eyes, nodding, breathless, “Yeah.”

“Yeah what?” he teases you, a grin spreading across his features.

You pause, roll your eyes. “Yes, chef.”

He grins, dark and triumphant, and pulls you against him.

“Good,” he says, “Cause now I’m gonna show you what winning feels like.” 

He drags your hips back to the edge of the counter, and lines himself up with you, the second that his fingers slide between your thighs again, he groans.

“Fuck, still so wet for me,” he mutters, almost like it’s to himself. “Should’ve figured, you always had such a fuckin’ mouth on you, never could hide anything.”

You glare at him. “Then quit talking and-”

He pushes into you in one sharp thrust, cutting the words clean off.

You gasp, head tipping back, back arching, fingers clawing into his shoulders. 

Carmen bites his lip like he’s trying to keep it all together, but his hips are already rolling into you, deep and rough and devastating. You can feel the fight in every motion, every snap of his hips, like he’s trying to fuck years of rivalry out of you. Good luck with that.

He fucks you with precision, exact and so good. You meet him thrust for thrust, your nails dragging down his spine, biting at his shoulder just to get a sound out of him, and he gives it to you, a low wrecked noise in the back of his throat.

“Still think you can win this?” you breathe, your teeth are gritted.

He pulls almost all the way out, waiting just long enough for you to catch your breath again, then slams all the way back into you, bottoming out. “Already won, chef.”

You could slap him. You might. Later.

Right now, all you can do is hold on, your hands grab at his hair, his grip bruising on your thighs, his body against yours, hot and sweaty. The sound of skin and breath echoes off the tile in the kitchen, the counter shudders under you, your thighs are burning from where you’re wrapped tight around his waist.

And still, he doesn’t slow down.

“Fuck,” you whisper, “Carmen-”

He groans, it’s low and desperate, and you can feel his thrusts getting more erratic, you can feel his body tensing up, “Say it again.”

You lock eyes with him, bite back another moan, you’re riding just at the edge of your orgasm.

“Carmen.”

“Yeah,” he pants, his thrusts sloppy, stuttering. “Yeah, I got you-”

It builds up fast, heat curling in your spine, pressure threatening to break you open, and you’re right there, right fucking there, so close- and then.

You come with a cry torn straight from your chest, your legs tightening around him, nails digging into his back, he fucks you all the way through it, riding out ever last tremor, whispering something hot and fractured up against your neck.

It’s only a few more thrusts before he follows, groaning, stifled, biting at your shoulder again like he can’t help it.

And then, it’s just quiet.

Your breathing, his heartbeat, the faint hum of his fridge. 

You blink up at the ceiling, chest still heaving, your fingers are curled into his back.

He doesn’t move, he just rests his forehead against yours.

You break the silence first.

“So,” you pants, “that’s your idea of a truce?”

Carmen chuckles, breathless. “Fuck no.”

You tilt your head, eyes narrowed. “Still trying to win?”

He leans in, kisses you again, it’s slow and genuine.

“No,” he murmurs. “Just not ready to lose you.”

The first light seeps in through the curtains, it’s soft and pale. You’re only half-awake when you feel the weight of Carmen’s arm draped over your waist, his breathing steady. You watch him for just a moment before turning your head slowly to meet his gaze as he starts to stir. He gives you a lazy smile.

“Morning,” he murmurs.

“Morning,” you reply, a gentle smile on your face,

Neither of you says much more before the reality of the day creeps in, the panel, the press, and the crowd.

You both know this won’t be just another event.

Later, as you get dressed in the adjoining hotel room, the space between you feels different, there’s less rivalry, more…possibility.

You share a cab to the venue, the lights of the city blurring past the windows. The silence between you is filled with nerves, anticipation, an electric charge that neither of you can ignore.

At the entrance to the event the air buzzes with photographers and murmurs, but when Carmen slips his hand around your waist just for a moment, you don’t pull away.

You step inside the venue, someone from the event staff approaches you, their headset is slightly askey, their eyes wide, urgent.

“Oh, hey, so um, just a heads up,” they say, clutching a clipboard to their chest. “I mean- you already probably know but, you two are…a bit of a trending topic right now.”

Carmen stiffens next to you.

“What?” you ask, confused.

They lift their phone, tilt it so you can both see the screen, and there it is. Blurry, dark, but unmistakable, a photo of you and Carmen from last night. At the bar. His hand on your jaw, your mouth on his, mid-kiss, undeniably intimate. It looks like a screenshot from someone’s Instagram story, but it doesn’t matter, it’s already been reshared and reposted on at least three other accounts at this point.

@ plate.watcher

Enemies to lovers arc real as hell

You feel Carmen shift beside you, not looking away. His hand finds its way to your lower back.

“Fuck,” he mutters under his breath. 

The staff member winces sympathetically. “PR says to, um, to maybe lean into it? They’re calling it ‘strategic chemistry.’ “

“That is so not a thing,” you say.

They gesture to the phone, “Well, it is now.”

Carmen exhales a sharp breath, tilts his head toward you. “You good with this?”

You nod once at him. “You?”

He meets your eyes, his gaze steady. “Yeah.”

The staff member’s expression brightens. “Great, you’re on in five!” They hurry away.

You and Carmen step into the wings, the buzz of an audience hums through the air like static, someone’s mic screeches just slightly for a second as the moderator laughs into it.

And then, the moderator’s voice cuts clearly through the house, “Our next guests need no introduction, two of the most talked-about chefs working today, brilliant, bold, and yes, famously competitive. Please welcome (y/n) (y/l/n) and Carmen Berzatto.”

Carmen gives a short wave to the crowd as he walks on, you nod, the applause seems to stretch just a moment longer than it should. You settle into your seat, your mic clipped onto your collar, your posture upright, trying to ignore that Carmen is sitting so close to you that your knees are brushing.

The moderator opens smoothly, “So let’s just start with the obvious, how do two people with such…distinct philosophies end up on the same panel?”

Carmen exhales a small breath through his nose.

“Mutual stubbornness,” you say, and the crowd laughs.

“Excellent PR scheduling,” Carmen adds dryly, which gets another laugh.

The moderator nods, amused with the two of you. “We love a bit of friction.”

Carmen glances at you, then the mic clipped to the rim of his t-shirt, then back to you, something in his eyes saying watch this to you. “We’ve been…well-acquainted with friction.”

The crowd chuckles again, but it lands differently. Like they’re all onto something, all in on some not-so-private private joke. There’s a new kind of attention now, not just curiosity, but speculation.

The moderator picks up on this instantly, leans forward with a practiced smile.

 “Well, whatever’s going on, it’s certainly working for you both. You’ve had a hell of a year, the both of you.”

“Busy,” you say, brushing some invisible lint from your pants. “Lots of big moves, new kitchens, new menus.”

“And yet,” the moderator says, their voice lifting, “somehow you always seem to circle back to each other, is that right?”

You glance over at Carmen, but he’s already looking at you, you look back to the moderator, cross one leg over the other and smooth your hand down your knee.

“Some people are just…hard to shake,” you say, a light tone in your voice.

Carmen’s voice follows, low and even. “Some people don’t want to be.” That earns a laugh from the crowd, but it’s quieter this time, like they’re all leaning in now, waiting for the next word.

The moderator blinks, then recovers, smiles wide. “So, what’s the real story here, competition or collaboration?” 

You tilt your head at them, “Why not both?”

Carmen nods slowly. “It’s always been both.”

The moderator hums, clearly enjoying the push and pull of it all. “Well, whatever it is, it’s magnetic, and the food world just can’t seem to get enough.”

“They should probably focus more on the food,” you say, offering a diplomatic smile.

“Yeah, that’s what the camera crews are always doing, zooming in on the risotto,” Carmen deadpans next to you.

A ripple of laughter moves through the room, the moderator holds their hands up in a mock surrender.

“Okay, alright, let’s talk about the food then. What’s something that you admire about each other’s work?”

You glance over at him again, and this time neither of you looks away.

You answer first, measured but honest. “He cares more than most people do, more than most ever will. And you can taste it.”

Carmen swallows, and then, “They know exactly what they want a plate to feel like, and they always make it impossible to forget.” 

The moderator gives you both a warm smile. “Sounds like there's some serious respect in this rivalry.”

You glance at Carmen again. “Respect,” you say, “maybe something more.”

Carmen leans into you just slightly. “Yeah,” he agrees, “something more.”