Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

He smells like fryer oil. Probably because he is fryer oil at this point — grease in his skin, in his hair, under his nails. The orders are multiplying like lice. The receipt machine is screaming. Richie’s screaming. Tina’s muttering. Sugar’s texting. Mikey is dead.

And Carmy is calm. Or pretending to be.

Chef calm.

He yells “Heard” instead of “fuck,” which is already a victory.

This place is chaos. The floors are sticky. The walls are yellowing. Half the burners are out. Someone drops half a case of giardiniera and just leaves it there like a crime scene.

And he’s plating. He’s slicing roast beef. He’s yelling “Corner!” and “Hot!” and “Behind!” to people who ignore him. He’s moving like he’s still at Empire — but everything around him, this cracked tile, these cursed sandwiches, Richie’s goddamn presence — refuses to move with him.

There’s no system here. No ballet. No choreography. Just noise and fire.

And grief. That one’s always in the walk-in.

He doesn’t think about her. Not by name. Not directly. If a voice cuts through the haze too cleanly, too brightly — he crushes it. If he makes a stack of prepped mise that’s too neat, too beautiful — he tosses it with more force than he needs to. If he hears laughter, that kind of laughter, light and unguarded — he shuts the door.

It’s just this now. The Beef. A shrine to his brother’s chaos. A punishment he gives himself every morning. The only thing he’s allowed to feel.

Carmy moves fast — hands slick, head down, mind tuned into a rhythm that’s barely holding.

“Yo, what the fuck is this?!” Richie barks, a sandwich clutched in one fist like it’s not a piece of food. “You tryna kill people now, cuz? Huh? Because that’s chicken on a beef order and now the guy’s at the counter talkin’ about allergies!”

Carmy doesn’t look up. “It wasn’t chicken on beef.”

“Oh, it wasn’t? Wow. Glad you were there personally to oversee the handoff, Chef.”

Tina turns slowly from the grill, arms crossed, expression locked somewhere between fed up and don’t make me come over there. “Richie, that’s the wrong bag. You took twelve when I said ten.”

“No, you said—”

“I know what I fucking said.”

Richie throws the sandwich on the prep table. “Y’all wanna gaslight me in my own fuckin’ house now?”

“Your what?” Carmy blinks, finally turning.

“This is Mikey’s place,” Richie snaps. “Our place. I’ve been here, every fuckin’ day for years while you were off shaving truffles on the Upper East Side or whatever.”

“I was working,” Carmy says, already tired.

“Oh, you were working! Fancy-ass work! Learning how to turn a cucumber into fuckin’ origami while we were keeping this shithole alive!”

“Then maybe if someone labeled the fuckin’ bags like I asked, we wouldn’t be in this situation.”

“You’re not gonna bark orders like you own this place.”

“Well someone has to, ‘cause you’re clearly too fucking busy talking shit!”

“Fuck you!”

“Fuck you!”

“Can we not do this again?” Tina cuts in, sharp.

Fak jumps in, waving his hands like he’s landing planes. “Guys, hey — hey! Can we remember we’re a team? Like the Avengers! Only with more cholesterol!”

“Fak, shut up,” Carmy and Richie say in unison.

Ebra, cool as ever, doesn’t even look up. “Focus.”

“Thank you, Ebra,” Tina mutters.

Richie slams his hand on the counter. “You don’t get it, cousin. You waltz in here with your fancy jacket and your sad-boy face and you think that makes you better than us?”

“I never said I was better.”

“You didn’t have to. You’re changing shit. Mikey’s recipes. Your dad’s recipes. You’re putting some fancy shit on beef like you’re at fuckin’ Noma.”

“It’s Giardiniera, Richie.”

“Whatever the fuck it is, it don’t belong on the fuckin’ sandwich!”

Carmy’s jaw clenches. “This isn’t about sandwiches. It’s about you not being able to let anything fucking change without losing your shit.”

“Oh, I’m sorry I care about this place!”

“You care about the idea of it. Mikey’s gone!”

The room goes quiet for a second. Just the sound of the overhead fan and the tick-tick of the fryer.

Then Richie says, low: “You weren’t here. You never even came to visit. And now you think you get to run this place?”

Carmy blinks hard, eyes hot. “He never let me visit. But I’m here now. That’s gotta count for something.”

“Yeah, well…” Richie wipes his hands on his apron, voice almost cracking. “You’re late.”

Carmy doesn’t respond. He can’t. Tina steps between them like a referee who’s done this way too many times.

“Alright, enough. We got food to send and mouths to feed. Rich, label your bags next time. Carm, maybe don’t put fennel on the fuckin’ beef without a family vote, yeah?”

“I’ll put a poll on Slack,” Fak offers weakly.

“Shut the fuck up, Fak.”

And so goes on.
Every day is the same. Every day is worse.

The Beef is hot. Always hot. The air barely moves — the ancient fan above the line wheezes like it’s dying, and the vents do nothing but redistribute the suffering. There’s no real air conditioning. No silence. No peace. Just the smell of beef, onions, fryer oil, and tension.

Carmy wakes up in his shitty apartment three blocks away. It’s gray. Quiet. Small. A box with a bed he barely uses and a couch he passes out on after another night of tossing through half-formed nightmares. Sometimes it’s Mikey. Sometimes Fields. Sometimes…her. Always one of them.

He never remembers the whole dream — just fragments. A door that won’t open. A voice he can’t quite reach. A whisper in his ear. Her face, sometimes, turned away.

He wakes up around 4:30 AM, most days still dressed in yesterday’s clothes. The TV glows with some infomercial for a magic blender.

He turns it off, opens the window, and lights a cigarette. Smokes until the sun starts clawing at the skyline. Until the city starts groaning awake. Until he forgets what he was even thinking about.

At The Beef, it never stops. There are sandwiches to make. Orders to crush. Customers to survive. Richie to yell at.

At first — when he came back from New York — it felt like everyone pitied him. Like they looked at him and saw some wounded thing, dragged home from battle and dropped behind enemy lines. Everyone was sorry for him.

Except Richie. Richie had no pity, only fury. A tightly wound ball of grief and betrayal that Carmy couldn’t even blame him for.

But now? Now they’re just annoyed. Tired of him. And honestly, he’s tired of himself too.

He hasn’t spoken to his sister in months. He tried to go to the funeral. He did. He put on the suit. He drove to the lot. He parked. And then he sat in the car. And sat. And sat. Never made it to the door.

He’s a coward. A piece of shit. That’s what his brain tells him. That’s what Richie thinks. He can see it in the way Richie looks at him when things go sideways — like this is on you. That’s probably what Sugar thinks too.

Every time he tries to introduce something new, some idea, some tweak, some flavor that might actually make this place better, Richie loses his mind. Starts yelling about how this ain’t fuckin’ Alinea, bro. Starts accusing him of ruining Mikey’s place. Of ruining everything.

And it’s like Fields all over again — only louder.

Empire was hell, yeah, but at least it was quiet. The pain was whispered there. Precision cuts, psychological warfare served on polished plates. Here? Here it’s yelling. Constant yelling. And slamming doors. And burnt hands. And broken equipment. And Richie’s goddamn voice.

Time doesn’t move here. Or maybe it moves too fast, too slow — Carmy can’t tell. Each day is a copy-paste of the last, only slightly more fucked up. The sandwiches stay the same. The customers keep coming. But the money keeps shrinking. Every order feels heavier. Every mistake cuts deeper.

He doesn’t know how long this can go on.

But he shows up anyway. Ties the apron. Sharpens the knives. Yells at Fak. Smokes out back. Survives the day. Passes out again.

Repeat.
Worse.
Repeat.
Worse.

“What can I get you, sweetheart?” Richie grins, full-on customer service gremlin. “New face. Haven’t seen you ‘round here before.”

From the kitchen, Carmy yells over the steam and sizzle: “Richie, don’t call our customers sweethearts, you fucking creep—”

But then he hears her.

“I’m not a customer. I’m here to work.”

Carmen freezes. Every cell in his body goes cold, then hot, then cold again. His throat closes. He can’t swallow. The heat from the flat top vanishes, and all he can feel is the pulse in his neck, thudding like a drumbeat in his ears. For a second, he’s convinced he’s dreaming, or dying, or both.

He steps forward just enough to peer around the corner, past the shelves of white bread and bulk condiments, and sees Richie standing by the counter — and her, standing on the other side, framed by sunlight and the ghost of something he doesn’t want to name. She’s looking straight at him.

Terrified. Nervous. Steady.

Braids tied up in a ponytail. Bright yellow t-shirt.

He doesn’t know what the fuck he feels.

“Hi, Carm,” she says.

No he knows. 

Anger.

That’s it. That’s all he needs.

“Out,” he snaps, instantly, loudly. “Out, out, out, out, out, out—”

“What the fuck?” Richie says, turning. “She’s a customer, man!”

“I’m not a customer,” Sydney cuts in, her voice tightening. “I saw the ad. You need people. I want to work.”

Richie blinks. “I— I don’t need people. Who the fuck needs people in here?”

Carmen steps into the front like a thunderclap, eyes locked on hers, pupils blown wide. His face doesn’t move. He’s not blinking. Just staring. Holding a knife would make him less threatening.

She shifts one foot further, still in front of the counter, like she is ready to order, halfway into hell, and she sees the moment his gaze slices her apart.

“Get the fuck out,” he says again. “Sydney, out. I don’t want to see you. I don’t want to fucking see you.”

“Carmen, listen—”

“No. Out. What are you doing here? Why are you here?”

Richie throws his hands up. “Dude, what the actual fuck? Are you on something? You good?”

“I’m so sorry,” Richie adds, turning back to her like the world’s worst tour guide. “He’s a fucking psycho. Don’t take it personally.”

Sydney exhales like she’s about to punch a wall. “Listen. I’ll work for free.”

That sentence hits Carmy in the back like a baseball bat as he turns around. Moves back into the kitchen, fists clenched, staring at a rusted prep table like it’s a goddamn portal.

“What?” Richie chokes. “You wanna work here? For free? Are you, like, concussed?”

“I need the work,” she says, leveling her voice. “And I know Carmen. I worked with him before.”

“You know Carmen?” Richie turns his head. “Cousin, what in the heavenly fuck is this—?”

“Can I go talk to him?”

From the kitchen, Carmen’s voice blasts back: “No, you cannot!”

Tina pokes her head out from the back, squinting. “What the hell is going on? Who’s the girl?”

Marcus follows behind her, wiping his hands on his apron. “Is she Carmy’s ex or something? Damn, he’s yelling like—”

“Is she okay?” Ebra says, deadpan, folding his arms like a bouncer.

“She’s fine,” Richie says, still gesturing vaguely toward Sydney like she’s an exhibit. “She’s tough. Clearly tougher than a little bitch Carmy, Jesus.”

Carmy yells again.
“We’re not fucking hiring her!”

Everybody freezes.

Even Marcus’s whisk stops mid-stir.

Carmen barrels forward, face flushed, voice rising with every word now — not yelling to be heard, yelling because he can’t hold it in anymore.

“Not for free, not for less than free, not if she paid me to be here. Got it?”

Tina flinches, but doesn’t move. Richie at the front looks like he’s just been hit with a pan. Even Ebra lifts a brow.

Marcus finally breathes. “Okay. So that’s… a no?”

“Big no,” Tina mutters.

Sydney just stands there. Tote bag still clutched in one hand, like she is trying not to shake.

And then Carmy’s gone — tearing off his apron, tossing it at the counter, blowing past Marcus and Ebra without another word.

The back door slams behind him.

Outside he lights a cigarette with trembling fingers like he’s trying to smoke the memory of her voice out of his fucking lungs.

He cannot believe she is here.
He cannot believe her.
He cannot breathe.

He keeps his head down and his hands moving, building sandwich after sandwich like it’s the only thing holding him together. Brunch is brutal — orders stacking, sweat is dripping, fryer oil popping like it’s pissed off too. He doesn’t look up. Doesn’t need to. He’s convinced she’s gone.

Gone. Like the last ten months didn’t just walk through the door and stare him in the face with those same big, stunned eyes.

Gone, thank fuck.

He grabs a tub of pickled red onions and slams it on the counter.

“Yo, Carm,” Marcus says, voice calm, careful.

Carmen doesn’t look up. “Yo. What’s up?”

Marcus shifts beside him, hovering like he’s unsure whether this is smart. “Sorry, I guess, to ask but… what was that? With the girl?”

Carmen’s jaw ticks. He keeps slicing, faster now, thinner than necessary. “Don’t wanna talk about it, Marcus. Sorry.”

Marcus raises a hand like hey, all good. “Cool. Totally. It just… looked a little bit crazy, you know? Like you just— I dunno, kind of attacked her.”

Carmen sighs, presses his palms flat against the counter. His eyes squeeze shut for a second too long.

“We know each other,” he says. “Quite well. Okay? So there was a reason. There was a reason.”

Marcus backs off a little, nodding. “Cool. I guess. Alright. You don’t wanna talk about it or…”

“Nope.” Carmen wipes his hands aggressively on a towel. “Literally don’t. Please do the cake.”

Marcus pats the counter. “You got it, chef.”

Carmen exhales. Two seconds of peace. That’s all he gets.

Then Richie storms in like a goddamn storm cloud. “Yo, look, cousin, I don’t fucking care what kind of twisted Romeo and Juliet bullshit you had with that girl—”

Carmen’s voice is stone cold. “Richie.”

“No. No. You scared off all the customers. All of ‘em. Too fuckin’ terrified to order a beef with some psycho chef yelling like it’s a warzone.”

“I hear you,” Carmen mutters. “Yeah. Heard. It’s fine. She’s gone already anyway so—”

“I mean, yeah. But, like… not really.”

Carmen finally looks up. “What?”

“She’s on her third sandwich,” Richie says. “She’s been here for like three hours.”

Carmen blinks at him. “She needs to leave.”

“She won’t.” Richie shrugs, like this is just the natural way of things now. “She’s paying money to eat food here. So what, you want me to go throw her out mid-sandwich?”

Carmen runs a hand through his hair, greasy and sweat-slicked.

“What she could possibly fucking do to deserve that behavior, cousin?”

“I don’t want her here,” Carmen hisses, voice low but sharp. “I literally don’t want her here.”

Richie rolls his eyes, hard. “Then grow the fuck up. Jesus Christ. She’s just sitting there at the table—”

“Sitting there at the table because she wants to stalk me, Richie.”

Richie holds up a hand. “Cousin. Carm. Listen to yourself.”

“She wants to work here. Apparently. Fuck her.”

Richie just rubs his face, long and slow. “Jesus Christ.”

A pause. Tension rising again.

“Look,” Richie says finally, “I don’t know what went down in whatever haunted-ass fine dining crypt you two cooked in, okay? But right now? She’s just a girl who gave me fifteen bucks for a sandwich and a Coke. And as long as she’s paying?” He spreads his arms. “I love her. So deal with that.”

Carmen just stares at him, jaw clenched so tight it could snap. “Fine. Fucking fine.”

Chapter Text

Chicken stock.

Pressure cooker. 85°C. Vent closed.

Reduce by half.

Skim. Twice. Always twice.

He doesn’t look up.

Behind him, someone’s getting cut down. Quietly. Ruthlessly. It’s not loud in Empire. It doesn’t need to be.

“You move like a goddamn funeral procession.”

That’s Chef. Whisper-level. Voice like silk stretched too tight. You’d miss it if you weren’t trained to hear it. You don’t miss anything in Empire. That’s the rule.

Never miss. Never slow. Never blink.

Leo’s hand is shaking while he slices mushrooms. He’s a good cook. Not good enough though.

Carmy peels carrots. One by one. Skin to trash. Core to the stock bin. Same rhythm. Same motion.

He does not look up.

Black garlic. Puree. Strain through chinois.

Duck fat. Not olive oil. Not this week.

Keep up. Keep up.

He doesn’t hear his name. Not when Chef says it.

“Berzatto.”

A breath at his back. A whisper. Intimate like a threat.

“You think this is good enough?”

Pause.

“You think you’re good enough?”

He says nothing. Doesn’t blink.

Behind him, Leo breathes wrong and gets sent home. No yelling. Just the whisper: “Useless. Don’t come back.”

Service continues like nothing happened.

The door swings open.

Someone walks in.

Shoes too clean.

Step too confident.

There’s chatter. A voice. Cheerful. Bright like a flare in a blackout.

“Hi everyone!”

Carmy flinches. Almost imperceptibly.

Knife stays steady. Chiffonade continues.

But his jaw ticks.

Because that tone? That energy? That doesn’t live here. It dies here.

He doesn’t look up.

He doesn’t need to.

New line cook. Probably. Just in time—ironic, considering Fields fired Leo like ten minutes ago.

Carmy sees her in the periphery.

Woman. Young. Black.

Dead in two weeks.

Carrots done.

Next.

Bones in oven. 220°C. 22 minutes. Timer in head. Not on wall.

Wall clocks are for people who aren’t serious.

Ignore the voice. The voice is not your business.

But the voice—it keeps talking.

Still cheerful.

Like she hasn’t noticed the way silence here feels like surveillance.

“I’m Sydney.”

Like she doesn’t feel it. The way the walls lean in. The way silence weighs more here.

And then:

Fields moves.

Fast. Silent. Like a spider.

Suddenly he’s next to her. Too close. A whisper again, but sharpened.

“Who told you to speak?”

Calm. Dead calm.

“You think you’re here to brighten the place up?”

The kitchen freezes. Not that it was lively to begin with.

Just a different kind of stillness now. That charged, cruel kind.

Chefs eyes are probably on her.

Carmy doesn’t look, but he hears her voice falter.

“Oh—I— I just thought it’d be polite—just saying hi to the team—”

“You think they’re your team ?”

He doesn’t raise his voice. He never needs to.

“Do you see anyone smiling?”

Beat.

“No? Maybe because you’re ruining the silence.”

Carmy slices faster.

Because this? This he knows.

This is the script. The sick little song.

Been there. Been gutted. Been grilled raw.

But it’s worse for her.

So much worse.

Because she seems genuinely happy to be here.

And it won’t last long.

Fields steps back.

Then tosses a container toward her without looking.

“Four quarts of brunoise celery. Clean cuts. No waste. No noise.”

Her shoe creaks on the floor.

Carmy thinks:

Yeah. That’ll keep her busy for hours.

Days.

Weeks, if he lets her last that long.

He still hasn’t looked at her.

Not really.

But he knows.

“O-okay” she sounds taken aback.

“You nervous?” he asks her. Too close to her ear. Too calm.

“No, chef.” She responds immediately.

“You should be. This place doesn’t need you. You earn your oxygen here.”

Carmy doesn’t look.

He doesn’t look, but his hands go tighter.

He almost crushes the chinois.

He starts reciting again.

Chicken stock.

Pressure cooker.

85°C.

By the end of the day, she’ll probably hate herself for walking through that door.

But also — most likely —

She’ll feel something else.

Not pride exactly. Just… not failure.

And that’s enough to make people come back.

Just enough.

Tomorrow, she’ll be back.

So will he.

That’s how Empire works.

***

Celery.

So much celery.

An unholy, mathematically precise, God-hates-you amount of celery.

And it’s not like she hates celery.

Syd likes celery fine.

She respects it. It crunches. It’s hydrating. It holds its own in mirepoix. Its good for bunnies.

But this?

This is violence.

The pile in front of her is almost comical. Monty Python-level. A biblical plague of crisp green disappointment.

“Four quarts of brunoise celery. Clean cuts. No waste. No noise.”

That’s what he said.

Chef Fields.

Like he was issuing a death sentence through a church confessional.

Like she should be scared.

Funny.

So she’s here. Four hours in. Still chopping.

Still cutting perfect little cubic tragedies while her fingers start developing those tiny, traitorous, near-invisible cuts.

The kind that don’t bleed right away.

The kind that wait until citrus is involved. And then ruin your whole life.

Her right pinky is currently wrapped in one of those sad, translucent plastic finger condoms.

It squeaks when she flexes it.

Hot.

But she gives no fuck.

Because she is here.

Because it’s her first day.

Her actual first day at The Empire.

One of the best restaurants in the world. Like, literally. There’s a waitlist for people to wash dishes here. And she’s in . Somehow. Still not sure how.

Okay, no, she is sure how.

Tori from Le Coucou had a cousin who staged here for a summer, made a connection, got Syd the trail.

So yes. Technically, she’s a favor.

But she’s also a chef. A good one.

And she’s earned this. Kind of. Maybe.

Alright, not “earned.” More like…

Desperately clutched at with both hands and begged the universe not to laugh in her face.

Fields is… scary.

Not loud. Not Gordon Ramsay scary.

He’s like… if death and a barcode scanner had a baby.

Cold. Efficient. Human-adjacent.

He didn’t even say hello when she walked in. Just looked at her shoes, her hands, then shut her up.

“Who told you to speak?”

Great!

Cool.

Love that.

Love a totally non-hostile work environment.

The rest of the kitchen?

Not much warmer.

Nobody talks here.

There’s no music. No laughter. No “shit!” or “hot!” or “fuck!” when someone burns their palm on a hotel pan.

It’s like a library if libraries could julienne.

It’s beautiful, sure.

The mise en place is flawless .

The kitchen runs like a Swiss watch — smooth, clean, terrifying.

But it feels like someone vacuum-sealed the joy out of the room.

During service, they don’t even let her look at th e food.

Which… okay, fair.

She’s new. They don’t know her.

She doesn’t know them.

She spends next four hours cleaning surfaces. Then polishing spoons. Then cutting celery again, for some reason, and cleaning the coils with a toothbrush.

And the whole time, she tells herself:

This is fine. This is what you do. You work. You prove yourself. You earn your stripes.

At her last restaurant she was a CDC for seven months. But nobody cares here. Fields saw her resume and personally handed her the toothbrush.

It’s The Empire.

She’d clean toilets with a paring knife if they asked.

But still.

Still.

She glances up between tasks. Watches the line work without her.

That’s when she sees him .

Not for the first time today — but the first time she really clocks him.

Carmen Berzatto. Sous chef.

The youngest chef to get Best New Chef at Bon App. At twenty-three. Probably from a rich family. Or just a fucking genius.

The guy who made duck fat the new butter and somehow made sous vide cool again.

Right now, he’s at Garde Manger.

She’s seen that back of his head all day. Golden hair, slightly curled, looks styled in a way but still messy.

He hasn’t said a word to her.

Actually…

She’s not sure he’s said a word to anyone .

He moves like he’s got the recipe for invisibility down cold.

But he’s fast. Surgical. Clean.

Beautiful food. Joyless eyes.

Don’t be weird.

She tells herself.

She’s not here to gawk at celebrity trauma chefs.

She’s here to work.

She polishes another spoon.

To perfection.

Her thumb’s cramping.

She doesn’t care.

As the day winds down, Fields appears again.

He doesn’t announce himself.

He just appears, like static shock.

She straightens up instinctively. Her back cracks.

She tries to smile. It’s a mistake.

He looks at her work. Doesn’t say anything for a long time.

Then:

“You’re slow. You cut like a civilian.”

Ouch.

Okay.

“But the size is consistent.”

She blinks. Wait—was that a compliment? A backhanded one?

“Come again tomorrow. Don’t speak unless it’s relevant.”

Then he’s gone.

She exhales. Realizes she’s been holding it since he walked in.

He didn’t fire me. I’m not dead. I get to come back.

A spark of joy flickers in her chest — immediate, involuntary.

She tries to bury it before it shows on her face.

She clock-outs quietly. Changes into her hoodie. Her shirt is stuck to her back with sweat. Her feet feel like they’ve been replaced with lead.

She grabs her knife roll and walks through the back door.

And there he is.

Berzatto.

Outside. Smoking. Leaned against the wall like he might fall without it.

He doesn’t say anything.

She doesn’t either.

But he looks at her. Finally.

Just one look. Quick. Flat. Measuring.

Their eyes meet.

She pushes back her smile.

Nobody wants to see it here.

Clearly.

He looks at her like he is not sure what she is.

Long and careful.

Lets out a clean cloud of smoke.

She turns and walks away.

She’ll be back tomorrow.

Of-fucking-course she will be.

***

She’s been peeling pearl onions for three hours.

Her hands smell like regret and vinegar and the specific kind of ghost that only lives inside walk-in refrigerators.

The little bastard onions roll everywhere. They mock her. Her thumbnails are turning purple from the skins. She thinks one of her fingers is bleeding again, but she’s not checking.

Out of spite.

They don’t even need that much fucking onions.

This is fine.

This is actually so fine.

It’s a good job. A great job. One of the best restaurants in the country. This is what she wanted.

She repeats that internally every seventeen minutes.

The kitchen moves like a living, breathing organism—each part precise, each gesture rehearsed.

No one speaks it, but everyone knows where to stand, when to move, how to pivot without colliding. It’s like a stage play burned into muscle memory, each chef an actor who’s memorized their mark on the floor, some years ago, some months ago.

They all inhale tickets and exhale perfection.

She’s decided the dish pit is the heart. The line is the brain.

She’s probably the gallbladder. Maybe a lymph node. Something unpleasant and quietly essential.

Everyone moves with purpose. Zero hesitation. Nobody talks unless they have to — and even then, it’s code.

You hear “fire three bass” and it’s like a sonar ping in the dark.

“Yes, Chef!” Everyone turns at the same time. No eye contact. No chatter.

No joy.

And honestly?

She’s okay with it.

Yeah.

She knew it wouldn’t be warm. That’s the tradeoff for excellence.

You want hugs? Work at fucking Olive Garden.

Still, it’s weird.

Most kitchens she’s worked in had something — a corner to joke in, a weird playlist, a shitty shift meal where you all complained about the chef’s weird obsession with fennel.

Empire’s family meal is technically “excellent.”

Flawless, even. Braised short ribs last night. Today they served duck confit for family, and when she saw it, her eyes got so wide she was honestly surprised they didn’t roll clean off her face and onto the plate.

But no one says thank you.

No one laughs .

They don’t sit together. They just file in, eat in silence, file out.

Fields and Carmen never eat with them.

It feels like prison with better plating.

She’s starting to learn a few names.

Jules, one of the dishwashers, told her she has “knife hands.” (Which she took as a compliment. Probably.)

Rey, one of the line cooks, said exactly seven words to her today, which is practically an interview here.

She tries to smile when they make eye contact.

Jules usually smiles back. Rey doesn’t. That’s… fine.

Everyone else keeps their heads down.

They don’t dislike her. They just don’t… register her yet.

Which is fine. She’s new. She doesn’t expect to be anyone’s favorite.

She doesn’t even expect to last here.

I’m probably not coming back tomorrow.

She says that to herself at least twice a day.

She never means it. Not really.

But it’s there — like a splinter. Like an escape hatch.

Because there’s something about this place that wants to grind you down .

And you have to decide every day that you’re okay with being sanded.

She hasn’t met Carmen Berzatto yet. Not officially.

She’s sees him, all the time. Him hands are always steady. His eyes are blade sharp.

The other line cooks move around him — like he emits some kind of silent gravitational field of trauma.

He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t smile.

She caught him looking at her once. Just once during prep.

It felt like an accident.

Or a warning.

But it’s fine.

She’s not here to make friends anyway.

Head Chef is cold,

she thinks sometimes.

But he’s good. He’s… necessary.

There’s a system here. A rhythm. And it works.

Sure, she doesn’t love being called “civilian hands.”

And yeah, he made a commis cry yesterday by whispering the words “you breathe too loud.”

But who is she to complain?

You don’t question the storm when you’re just a leaf on the wind.

Pearl onions. Again. Always. Forever.

If she stops, she’ll cry.

Not because she’s sad. Just because it’s so stupid .

She feels stupid.

She also feels kind of proud.

She didn’t get fired yet.

Chef didn’t whisper any slurs at her today.

Her cuts are clean. Her station’s tight. Her back hurts .

But she survived another day.

And she’s coming back tomorrow.

***

She doesn’t know he’s watching.

She’s still got too much light in her.

Not fake light — not performative cheer — just that real, annoying, stubborn kind.

The kind that says: This place can’t break me. Not yet.

She peeled onions for five hours today.

Didn’t complain. Didn’t cry. Didn’t quit.

They don’t need that much onions.

Fields just does it to every stage.

Most people cry on day three. He did.

Not in front of Fields, obviously.

In the walk-in. Real quiet. Face in a cambro.

She didn’t crack though.

Not yet.

That’s the part that worries him.

He doesn’t want to get involved.

He doesn’t get involved .

But she’s new. She’s good.

And she doesn’t know yet what it costs to stay.

She leaves through the back, late. Hoodie on. Knife roll tight against her side.

He lights a cigarette. Doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t expect her to.

She sees him. Nods. That’s it.

He ignores her.

Just exhales the smoke.

And thinks about Fields.

About the way Fields works.

It’s never random. Not ever.

People think it is — the way he talks, the silences, the moments he snaps — but that’s the trick. That’s how he gets you.

He watches.

He studies .

Even when no one talks, even when the kitchen’s quieter than a church, he knows.

It’s like he’s running files in the background.

Like he’s building psychological profiles off the way you peel asparagus.

One guy flinched when someone touched his shoulder?

Fields never touched him again. He just whispered to him. All the time. Got closer.

Another girl? Cried on her second day. Fields waited a week before bringing it up — soft voice, dead smile, said: “I thought you wanted to be here.”

She left the next day.

There was a dude once — Carmy doesn’t even remember his name — Fields complimented him for three straight days.

Said he was gifted.

A natural.

Meant for this place.

On the fourth day, he pulled him into the dry storage and said:

“You’re a fraud. They’re all laughing at you.”

The guy finished service. Then ghosted. No word. Never came back.

With Carmy, it was different.

Fields let him get comfortable first.

Let him believe he was something.

Let him feel good. Let him be creative.

Then flipped the switch.

Said his risotto was “clever — for a hobbyist.”

Said his plating was “sad.”

Said:

“If your brother could see you now, he’d ask for his name back.”

That one still lives in his chest. Somewhere behind the lungs.

And it worked.

It worked .

Now he doesn’t think. Doesn’t dream. Doesn’t create.

Just moves.

Repeats.

Executes.

Fields doesn’t want cooks. He wants clones.

Machines.

Mirror images of himself, but quieter.

And now that girl Sydney.

She’s a problem.

A bright one. The kind Fields hates most.

He’s taking it slow with her.

He always takes it slow with the ones who shine.

She hasn’t been broken yet.

She’s eager. Precise.

She still has… something.

A reason. A hunger.

And Fields can smell that.

Like blood in the water.

He’s just waiting.

Waiting to find the right weakness.

The angle. The pressure point.

It’ll come.

Carmy exhales again. Smoke sharp in his throat.

He doesn’t know what Fields is planning for her.

But he knows he’s building something .

And that’s almost worse.

Because Carmy’s seen what it looks like when someone still believes they can survive here.

He watches her round the corner. Disappear.

He doesn’t look away for a while.

***

He tells himself not to look.

But he does.

Every ten minutes. Maybe five.

She’s cutting onions today.

A mountain of them. Yellow, sharp, peeled with precision.

She’s bleeding again.

Third time today. He can see the way her wrist twitches—just a tiny flinch—then nothing. She keeps going.

Wraps her finger in a paper towel. Tucks it under her grip. Keeps slicing.

He used to do that too.

Still does, sometimes.

Cuts stopped meaning anything a while ago.

But when he first got here? Every slice that wasn’t perfect felt like a death sentence.

Like proof he didn’t belong.

That’s the look she has now.

Except her onions are perfect.

Which is somehow scary.

He forces himself back to his prep.

Crab. Consommé. Reduced to clarity.

No color. No smell. No fucking soul.

His stomach growls.

The only thing he had today was something crushed in foil. Protein bar? Maybe.

He chewed it like punishment. Dry. Cold. No memory of what it used to be.

He looks at her from the corner of his eye, halfway through slicing a shallot:

She’s mouthing something.

Something like:

“Fuck this.”

She doesn’t say it. Just lips it, dramatic, wide-eyed, like a sitcom character trapped in hell.

He doesn’t smile.

But his eyes might.

And that—

That’s when he almost fucking slaps himself.

No.

No no no.

Not here.

He shakes it off. Wipes his blade.

It’s just a new stage. A stubborn one.

Too eager. Too alive.

Won’t last.

Then Fields moves.

Silent. Like always.

Carmy clocks it immediately—sees that calculated stillness in his shoulders.

He’s going in.

Hunting mode.

The whisper comes a second later.

“So, Miss Adamu…” Voice like silk dipped in bleach. “Where’d you train?”

Carmy freezes mid-reach.

He doesn’t look.

Doesn’t have to.

He can feel the tension shift behind him.

Can hear the air change.

Sydney responds evenly, too evenly:

“Culinary Institute. Then Chicago. Then New York. Couple places.”

“Mmm. ‘Couple places.’ Must’ve been nice. Someone must’ve seen something in you.”

There it is. The bait.

Compliment, casual. Soft. Early hook.

She doesn’t take it.

“I’d like to think so.”

No ego. No humility either. Just facts.

Fields pauses. Carmy can hear the pause.

“You seem… motivated.”

Another trap.

But her voice stays cool:

“Sure. Why else would I be here?”

He doesn’t say anything after that. Not right away.

Which means he’s thinking.

Calculating.

Mapping her terrain.

Carmy hates this part.

The opening moves.

The scouting.

He knows what comes next.

It’s a slow descent.

Like water in a crack before winter.

One sharp freeze, and everything breaks.

But Fields doesn’t say anything after that.

Just leaves her to it.

Twenty minutes later he hears her laugh.

Not loud. Not obnoxious.

Just… real.

Like she’s not afraid.

Like she still thinks this place can’t touch her.

And Carmy—

Carmy slices the edge of his thumb without realizing.

A clean nick. Deep enough to sting, not deep enough to stop.

“Shit.”

He sucks the blood off quick, glances up—

—and sees her with Ray .

Line cook. Quiet. Sharp as hell. Never says more than he needs to.

But he’s saying something now.

Low-voiced. Deadpan.

She laughs again.

Not fake. Not polite.

A snort . Quick. Bright.

Like someone cracked a window in a locked room.

Ray smiles for exactly two seconds.

Carmy freezes.

Wipes his hand.

Looks around.

The whole kitchen looks at her.

Some with judgment. Some curiously.

Where is Fields?

Because this—this joy, this connection ?

It’s illegal here.

Dangerous.

Ray’s face is flat now, unreadable as always. Like the joke wasn’t even a joke. Like it never happened.

But he smiled.

And he saw it.

Carmy scans the kitchen like a man expecting sirens.

No Fields.

Not in the corner.

Not by dry storage.

Not watching from behind the glass where he sometimes perches like a fucking crow.

Gone.

Office maybe.

Bathroom.

Somewhere else, for now.

He exhales. Barely.

Watches as she goes back to her onions.

Ray too.

Like nothing happened.

Like they don’t know they almost got fucking sniped for sharing a second of normal human behavior.

Carmy flexes his hand. Thumb still bleeding.

He doesn’t bandage it.

Just breathes.

Just watches the door.

Waits for the silence to return to its usual weight.

It’s been a few days like this.

And it’s become a thing.

A rhythm. A ritual.

Not officially , obviously. Empire doesn’t do rituals. Empire does routine. Orders. Systems.

But still.

Every time Fields leaves the kitchen for real—not just to whisper something in dry storage, but really gone , gone—

She starts talking.

Not loud. Not distracting.

But enough.

Enough to get her fired.

She picks one person. Zeroes in.

Starts with a question. Something about knives or storage labels or which sauce station is worse.

And then she talks .

To Ray, first.

Of course Ray. Stone-faced, world-weary Ray, late thirties maybe, shaved head, arms sleeved in black and gray ink.

Never says more than five words at a time.

By hour two, he’s giving her seven. Eight.

Even let her use his peel knife once.

Carmy hears it.

Then later, she moves to Diego —tall guy, lanky, maybe early twenties. Garde manger. Hair in a bun, always wears his apron too clean.

She says something about how his vinaigrette is “mysteriously hot girl-coded.”

He laughs so hard he drops a squeeze bottle.

By day four, even Erica , the pastry sous, opens up.

Mid-forties. French-trained. Vibes like a fencing coach. Untouchable.

But there’s Sydney, making some joke about “croquembouche as a personality disorder,” and Erica actually smirks .

Carmy blinks at that one.

Then there are the dishwashers.

God, the dishwashers love her.

He hears her in the corner when she thinks no one’s listening.

“Listen, I know this place is Hell’s Kitchen on antipsychotics, but y’all deserve a raise just for surviving that beet reduction fiasco yesterday.”

Laughter. Real, full laughter.

And from them , too. Not just her.

She talks to Marco , pastry chef, an older guy with one deaf ear. And even to Janay , commis chef, a man who barely speaks above a whisper.

They talk back.

They talk back to her.

And the wildest part?

By the fourth day of this… people start coming to her.

Ray asks if she’s had breakfast.

Erica slides her a leftover mini-tart with some terrifyingly perfect grapefruit glaze.

Diego asks for her opinion on a plating test.

Carmy just watches.

Pretends he’s not watching.

Keeps his eyes on the veal jus or the fennel or whatever the fuck he’s pretending to care about in that moment.

But it gets under his skin.

Not in a bad way.

Just—raw.

Like he’s watching something he forgot was possible.

People don’t laugh here.

They survive.

They keep their heads down.

They don’t ask questions .

But she—

She talks like she’s having fun.

Like it’s not a death sentence to give a shit.

Once, he actually catches a joke.

She’s talking to Ray again. Something about the menu change, about how Fields swapped out the scallops for sweetbreads without warning.

“He’s like a sadistic Top Chef judge with tenure. I keep expecting a hidden camera in the soufflé.”

Carmy hears it.

Doesn’t laugh.

But his jaw flexes.

Because that was… good.

Too good.

And worse— she looks at him .

Just for a second.

That bold, stupid, sunny kind of look.

She smiles at him.

Not all teeth. Not flirty. Just—genuine.

Like she thought he might join in. Like she expected him to get it . Find his approval.

He doesn’t smile back.

He looks away.

Goes back to peeling celeriac like it’s a punishment.

She’s never talked to him. Not once.

Which—good.

Smart of her.

She’s read the room. Read him .

He’s not the guy you talk to here.

Not safe. Not easy.

It’s like she knows.

And maybe that’s why it fucks with him.

Because somehow, she knows everyone .

Everyone likes her.

And he can’t remember the last time someone liked him on purpose.

He doesn’t know what she wants.

But she’s starting to change things.

In small ways. Quiet ones.

He should stop it.

He would stop it, if Fields ever walked in on one of those moments.

But so far—he hasn’t.

Somehow, she always times it perfectly.

Carmy doesn’t get it.

Doesn’t trust it.

But he watches.

Watches every time.

He doesn’t do family meal.

Never has. Never here.

Doesn’t need it. Doesn’t want it.

Food here is fuel, not comfort. The dining room is silence. The break room is worse.

So he steps outside instead. For air. For a smoke.

He’s halfway down the hall when he passes the staff lounge—and he hears it.

Not the scrape of forks. That’s normal.

The laughter .

Low, muffled, cautious.

But real.

He glances sideways through the narrow glass window and sees them—half the fucking team—gathered at the long table, hunched over mismatched bowls of pasta and salad, talking. Eating. Existing like people.

And her.

Sydney.

In the middle of it.

Animated. Bright-eyed. Elbows on the table. Braids tied back as always.

Laughing like she belongs.

Like she built it.

He clenches his fist. Just for a second.

Doesn’t know if it’s envy or fear or rage or something worse.

He keeps walking.

Lights his cigarette outside.

Doesn’t look back.

Chapter Text

The vent hood’s rattling like it’s got asthma. The fryer’s making that ominous gurgle-pop again. There’s a leak under the prep sink. Again. And Carmy’s got his phone out because he just texted Nat:

Hey, can you bring Mikey’s jacket to the shop today?

She replies three dots and a full five minutes later:

Sure. Thanks for texting only when you need something.

He stares at it for a second. Types: Sorry.

Deletes it.

Types again: Thanks. See you later.

Sends that. Neutral. Safe.

He doesn’t want to sell the jacket. He really fucking doesn’t. But the beef order came in light and weird and gray and cheap , and he can’t afford to run another day on cut-rate garbage. So the jacket’s going.

Sorry, Mikey. Fuck you.

Richie’s at a 12 on a scale from 1 to “Jesus Christ.”

“Listen, I’m tellin’ you — this little punk at Eva’s school? Tells her she’s bossy, right? Bossy! That’s sexism, cousin, that’s what that is, you believe that shit?! She’s assertive. Assertive like her old man. And now she’s cryin’ in the car, and I’m this close to driving to that second-grade classroom and—”

“Richie.”

“What?”

“Take your five.”

“I DON’T NEED A FIVE—”

“Take. Your. Five.”

Fak’s underneath the prep sink again.

Covered in more plumber’s tape than actual clothing at this point. Carmy doesn’t even ask what he’s doing anymore. He just steps over him, yells “Corner,” and drops a container of hot jus on the counter with more force than necessary.

Fak looks up, cheerful as ever. “It’s the gasket. Maybe. Or the u-bend. Or both. Or maybe we just have a cursed fucking sink.”

“Yeah. Cool. Great. Put that on a fucking t-shirt,” Carmy mutters.

They’re low on peppers. They’re low on patience. They’re low on good beef and sleep and mental stability. Carmy’s chopping onions like a robot. No smell, no pause — just repeat.

Checks on the beef. Hot. Corner. Heard. Behind. Again. Again.

He slams down the prep knife and breathes.

Just breathe , man. Focus. Get through the service. Get through this goddamn day.

He wipes his hands on a rag, then picks up his phone, scrolls to his texts. Natalie’s supposed to come by at six, right after the brunch.

She’s probably gonna bring judgment along with the jacket.

He deserves it.

Richie opens the door.

People start to sway in.

Then he hears it.

Richie’s voice loud and obnoxious. Talking to someone. Something about “you here again?” and “Jesus, you’re stubborn.”

And then Marcus — Marcus — next to Richie is laughing. Not a snort or a wheeze. A full laugh.

He peeks through the kitchen door. And she’s sitting right in front of the order counter.

At the same goddamn table.

Again.

And Carmen wants to rip his hair out.

He looks at Richie, eyes like a knife.

Richie shrugs. “She just ordered a barbecue beef. And she’s being chill. She’s literally chill, Carm, you should try it sometime.”

Carmy doesn’t answer. Just swallows hard. Tries not to think about how close she is. How he would be able to hear the cadence of her voice through the pass window.

He goes back to the station.

The knife is shaking in his hand.

Carmy tries to focus. He really does.

He wipes his hands, checks the station, tries to channel every ounce of whatever discipline he had left from Empire into slicing tomatoes and layering roast beef with some semblance of precision. But it’s brunch, and brunch is hell.

And still —

Still —

He hears Richie talking.

Again.

Low and conspiratorial, like he’s at a damn high school lunch table and not manning the register of a barely-surviving sandwich shop.

“So wait,” Richie’s voice rises above the general chaos. “You’re tellin’ me you actually like the tripe sandwich?”

“I’m just curious,” she says. Her voice is easy, light. Too light. “I mean, this place has history, right?”

Carmy doesn’t look up.

Doesn’t look.

He doesn’t need to. He can hear the shape of her voice like a thread pulling at the edges of his thoughts.

Then Fak laughs — that weird high laughter, when he clearly wants to please someone.

Carmy’s neck twitches.

“She asked about the specials, man,” Fak says, when he passes by with a tool box. “And she’s not wrong — Richie’s kinda good at the front.”

Carmy stares at him. Deadpan.

Then yells, without turning, ”Don’t talk to her, cousin! ”

From the register, Richie barks back, “ Make fucking sandwiches, Carmen!”

There’s a clatter. Something tips over. Tina curses in Spanish under her breath and mutters about how this place is a daycare for dicky men.

Carmy presses his palm flat against the cold steel of the prep table.

He’s sweating. He’s swearing internally. He’s trying to keep it together.

Because she keeps walking up to the counter.

Ordering things.

Asking questions.

And Richie’s answering them.

Like it’s normal.

Like this isn’t a goddamn ambush.

When she sits down again — she keeps throwing look at the kitchen through the pass. At him. He can physically feel it.

And Carmy… Carmy’s just trying not to sink the knife too hard into the cutting board.

He’s going to lose his goddamn mind.

Any minute now.

Brunch ends like it always does — in wreckage. The floors are sticky, the trash is full, the fryer’s still burping oil like it’s alive.

Carmen’s wiping down the stainless steel that won’t ever actually look clean when he hears the front door open again.

Voices filter in.

First: Richie, fucking loud as usual.

“Nat?! Holy shit. Nat-fuckin’-alie Berzatto in the Beef. What an honor. ”

Then her voice: sharp and flat. “Don’t make it a thing, Richie. I don’t want to be here.”

Carmy freezes with a rag in his hand.

“I’m just here because,” she continues, “my brother— who forgets I exist ninety-nine percent of the time — asked me to bring him this.” A pause. “So, if you could just give him the bag or scream into the void, whatever works.”

“I’ll call him,” Richie says, then hollers, “ Cousin! Your sister’s here!”

Carmy pinches the bridge of his nose. “Gimme a second!” he yells back.

Then — Richie again: “ Hey, Sydney, brunch’s over, sweetheart, so you need to hurry up with that sandwich. I know you love loitering here, but we do actually gotta clean this hellhole. ”

And she — she answers. Cool and steady. “What if I don’t want to leave?”

Carmy’s spine goes stiff. He hears that too well.

Then Nat — dry as a goddamn desert — jumps in. “Wow. See, that could literally never be me.”

A beat. A strange pause in the noise. Then:

“You’re Natalie, right? Carmy’s sister?” Sydney’s voice.

“Unfortunately, yeah,” Nat replies.

Carmy bursts through the kitchen door, slamming his rag on the counter.

She’s still at that dumb little front counter, like she’s on brunch break at a place she doesn’t even work at.

“Sydney. Leave. We’re closed.”

Natalie blinks, like she didn’t expect the sheer level of venom in that voice. “Well, hi to you, too,” she says. “Not gonna say thanks? Or maybe ‘nice to see you, Sugar, it’s been months, how’s your life?’ ”

He grabs the bag from Richie — Mikey’s jacket inside. The fabric feels heavier than it should.

“Thanks,” he mutters, not looking her in the eye.

She folds her arms. “That’s it? No hug? No sibling warmth?”

“I don’t have time for this, Sugar.”

“Clearly,” she says, then gestures to Sydney. “Why are you kicking out a paying customer?”

“She’s not a customer.”

“I am a customer,” Sydney pipes up turning around or her stool to face them. “I ordered two sandwiches.”

“Two Cokes,” Richie adds, helpfully.

“And one coffee,” Sydney chimes in again. “Thank you, Richie.”

Carmy doesn’t look at her. Can’t. He’s staring down the counter like it’s the only thing that makes sense.

Natalie watches him. Watches her. Then looks between them, like she just walked in on a telenovela mid-season.

“Okay,” she says slowly. “Clearly there’s a lot I don’t know.”

“I just want to talk to your brother,” Sydney says.

“And I don’t want to talk to her,” Carmy snaps, voice flaring. “So that’s it.”

He storms back into the kitchen, the bag still clutched tight, like it might bite him.

Nat exhales. “Right. So that’s how this day’s going. Sydney, was it? I’m sorry. For…whatever that is. I’m really, really sorry.”

“No… it’s—it’s okay.” Her voice is suddenly weak, he barely registers it.

***

The shop is closed — Mondays always are. Slowest day of the week. No orders. No Richie. No fryer oil screaming. Just Carmy and the quiet. Most importantly. No her.

He tries to draw.

He takes out one of the old pads — the kind he used back in New York. There are notes in there, sketches from long shifts and longer nights, things he doesn’t want to look at right now. He doesn’t flip through them. Doesn’t let himself remember. Just turns to a clean page. Blank. Safe. Quiet.

He draws a line. Then another. Then the curve of a jaw. The suggestion of braids.

He stops. Stares. Laughs at himself, bitterly.

Then rips the whole page out and crumples it into the trash.

Fuck this.

He tries to cook — something slow, comforting. Chicken and rice. Or maybe a pasta. But it all tastes flat. Like cardboard and effort. He eats three bites and tosses the rest into the sink with the pan still hot

He walks around his apartment like it’s a cell. The air feels tight. The couch groans when he drops onto it. He puts something on the TV. Doesn’t watch it. The sound is just a placeholder. A white noise.

He’s pissed.

At her.

At himself.

At Mikey, for dying.

At Fields, for ruining everything.

At New York. At Chicago. At the Beef.

At the fact that no matter how many times he yells at her to get the fuck out, she’s still there.

In his head. In his sketchbook. In his food. In the fucking beef shop.

He lights a cigarette by the window and stares at nothing. Tries to slow his thoughts. Fails.

It’s supposed to be a day off.

It doesn’t feel like rest.

It feels like punishment.

Chapter Text

After the shift he leans against the brick wall.

Truly the best part of his day.

Backpack at his feet.

Cigarette low between two fingers, half-burned, forgotten.

He’s still wired from service. Always is. But tonight, worse.

Because she won’t stop.

With the talking.

With her jokes.

And no one else sees the wire tightening.

Then—

Footsteps. Light ones.

She exits through the back, hoodie on, tote bag slung over one shoulder, like she’s a student heading home from class, not someone who just got psychologically slow-roasted in a Michelin-starred dungeon.

She sees him. Hesitates.

Then:

“Night.”

Quiet. Soft. Not overly familiar. Like she’s testing it.

He doesn’t respond right away. Just stares ahead. Breathes smoke.

Then:

“You have no fucking clue what you’re doing.”

She stops. Turns.

She’s not close. A few steps off. But the air’s still sharp enough to carry everything.

“…Sorry?”

Carmy finally looks at her. Hard.

Expression like a slap.

“This isn’t a fucking group project, okay? You don’t get points for participation. You think you’re making friends? Cool. You’re also getting everyone on that line killed .”

She blinks.

“Jesus—what?”

“You think Fields doesn’t see it? He sees everything. He’s probably already writing the fucking speech for when he torches your name in every kitchen from here to Paris.”

He tosses the cigarette to the ground. Doesn’t stomp it out.

“You’re not charming. You’re reckless. And you’re gonna take all of us down with you.”

She stands there. Stunned for a second. Just holding her tote, unsure if she should drop it or use it as a weapon.

Then she laughs.

Not loud. But sharp.

“Okay. Wow. Um. Did I, like— breathe in the wrong direction today? Or is this just how you talk to people?”

He doesn’t move.

She takes a step closer.

“I’ve done every fucking thing that’s been asked of me. Quietly. Exactly. I cut myself six times today and still didn’t say a word . I barely eat. I haven’t sat down in a week. So maybe I smiled once or twice — shoot me.”

She folds her arms, tote strap twisting under her elbow. “You mad I’m not miserable enough yet? Or you just pissed I didn’t say hi to you first?”

That hits.

He doesn’t show it.

She exhales, sharp through her nose. “You know what? Fuck off, Berzatto.”

She turns. Walks off into the night.

Carmy watches her go. Doesn’t stop her.

But his hands are fists again.

And his cigarette still smolders on the ground, half-finished.

***

The creak of her sneakers echoes on the platform as she stomps toward the yellow line.

Tote bag over one shoulder.

Knife roll bumping her hip.

Rage in her spine.

The fuck was that?

She doesn’t say it out loud. But she thinks it. Loudly. Aggressively. The kind of internal monologue you could subtitle in bold white font with an asterisk next to every exhale.

Don’t say night, Sydney. Just don’t. Keep walking. But noooo, you had to try to be a decent human. And he bit your head off like you offered him a hug made of broken glass.

She kicks a pebble. It ricochets off the tracks and disappears like her patience.

God, he’s such a bitch. What is his problem?

Another step. Her hoodie’s too hot. She yanks it off with one arm and nearly drops her MetroCard.

I knew it. I knew from day one—‘don’t talk to him, Sydney, he’s clearly allergic to human connection.’ But nooo, I got cute.

She makes it to the bench. Drops onto it with a dramatic sigh.

“Sorry for being fucking alive, chef.”

Someone nearby glances over. She glares at them with tired eyes and internally apologizes. That’s not fair. They didn’t ruin her night.

Carmen did.

Because apparently smiling is a crime.

Because she makes Ray smile. Sometimes. Because she shares a five second laugh with dishwashers.

And now she’s apparently a threat to national security.

I’m soooo sorry I didn’t immediately die on day one like you did. My bad.

The subway screeches in the distance. Her phone buzzes.

She takes a breath. Answers.

“Hey, hey—hey Dad.”

“There’s my girl! What’s goin’ on? You sound outta breath.”

She leans back against the plexiglass panel, presses the phone tighter to her ear.

“Nah, just—on the platform. Waiting on the train. Long day.”

“Another one? It’s only been, what, a week?”

“Eight days.” She shifts the knife roll more securely under her arm. “Feels like eight years.”

“That good, huh?” He chuckles. “How is it really? Big fancy place?”

“It’s… something.”

She smiles despite herself.

“Kitchen’s like a—like a surgery room. If surgeons screamed less and judged you more silently. It’s spotless. Cold. I polish spoons with my soul.”

“So you’re saying you’re killin’ it.”

She snorts.

“Something like that. I mean—okay. Look. I don’t love the whole… emotional icebox thing. But, the food? Chef Fields is nuts, but he knows what he’s doing. Like scary-good. Like probably-made-a-deal-with-the-devil level good.”

“Fields? That the boss man?”

“Yeah. He’s… strict. Sadistic, probably. Like, if Voldemort wore chef whites and whispered psychological fucking warfare.”

“Syd.”

“Sorry. Sorry, Dad. He’s not great. There is also a CDC who I shouldn’t talk to ever again. He is an ass but they keep him there for a while now.”

“He’s probably good at what he does.”

“Unfortunately. I guess that’s the worst part.”

She stretches her legs out, tired.

“But the people—I dunno. They’re opening up. Slowly. I think I kinda cracked ‘em. Dishwasher’s name is Malik. He gives me the good side-eye. Another one is Jules who looks like he could break me in half, but he told me a joke about a soap today. It was actually funny.”

“And the roommate? Nina is it?”

“Yeah. Still alive. Still paying most of the rent, thank God. I made her soup yesterday because I think she’s got some kind of alien flu. I dunno.”

“You eating?”

“Yeah I do actually. Their family meals are insane, dad. You wouldn’t believe the shit they make.”

“Girl. Language.” His voice gets soft. Like he’s talking from the kitchen table back home, not hundreds of miles away.

“Sorry. I’m sorry.”

“Mm-hm.”

“But seriously, I’m good. I’m so tired. But I’m good.”

“I’m proud of you, honey.”

She closes her eyes. The train pulls up. Wind rushes under her pants.

“You went all the way to New York. You got into that big-deal kitchen. And you’re doing it. I always knew you could.”

“Even though I’m struggling to pay rent and live on toast?”

“Even then.”

She laughs.

“Okay. I love you. I’ll call again soon.”

“Please do. And watch Nina, she better not die.”

“I’ll do my best.”

She hangs up with a chuckle and boards the train.

Leans her head against the window, eyes fluttering closed—

And smiles.

***

It’s 11:07 a.m., and Sydney already wants to fight the floor.

She’s on her knees, again, scrubbing stainless steel baseboards like she’s trying to polish her own damn grave.

Her knees ache. Her back’s screaming. Her soul has fully vacated the premises and is floating somewhere near the walk-in freezer. Probably crying.

Cool. This is exactly why I went to culinary school. Dream big, kids.

She groans under her breath and adjusts her position, one knee cracking like a haunted doll.

There’s industrial degreaser under her fingernails. In her braids. Probably behind her eyeballs.

She throws a look — a hot, flaming, fuck-you- level look — toward Carmen.

He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t blink. Doesn’t even twitch.

Just juliennes chives. Precise. Trained.

Okay, ignore me. That’s fine. That’s totally healthy and normal. Love that for you, Chef Shadow-of-the-Fucking-Titan.

She wipes her forehead with the inside of her wrist and sighs like it might expel her entire will to live.

And then, like clockwork — because this place is a clock — Fields disappears.

Same time as always. Somewhere between 11:15 and 11:35. Bathroom? Sacrificial chamber? Smoke break where he doesn’t actually inhale?

Who knows. Who cares.

The moment he’s gone, the air shifts. Like opening a valve on a pressure cooker. She straightens up a bit, rests her hands on her thighs.

Ray catches her eye. He’s prepping duck legs like a surgeon. She grins.

“You think he’s taking a dump or just ascending to his final form?”

Ray doesn’t laugh — but his eyebrow lifts. That’s a win.

Diego snorts. “Man’s a myth. Like, he got us out here acting like we want to polish the goddamn grease trap.”

“Exactly!”

She waves her sponge. “Like it’s a privilege to break our spines with lemon-scented floor cleaner.”

Janay looks like he might kill a man with a rolling pin — murmurs, “He made me clean the spice rack with tweezers once.”

Sydney cackles. “Okay, now that’s a kitchen trauma.”

Even Malik, back by the dish pit, lets out a soft laugh. Her heart flutters. This is nice. This is real. This is the only time it feels like something resembling—

“Chefs. Do your prep work.”

The voice cuts like a scalpel. Calm. Even. Controlled.

Sydney flinches. Hard.

She turns toward it and sees Carmen — finally, finally — looking at them. At her. Directly. For the first time today.

Her stomach drops.

“What, we’re not allowed to talk now?”

Her voice isn’t loud. But it has an edge. A flare of challenge. Because fuck him.

Carmen doesn’t hesitate. He doesn’t blink.

“Keep your focus. Stay in your stations. You know better.”

His voice isn’t angry. Just firm. Too calm. Authority wrapped in wax paper.

The air in the kitchen contracts. Tightens. Everyone just… shuts up.

Ray silently goes back to duck. Erica returns to sugar. Janay walks away quietly.

Sydney is the only one still holding eye contact.

“Keep doing your job, please.”

He says it only to her. Not unkind. But not kind either. Just officiant. Cold.

She stares at him. Swallows something bitter.

“Yes, chef.”

Back to the sponge. Back to her knees. Back to silence.

Cool. So he’s not a person. Got it. Message received. Probably sleeps in Fields’s wine cellar or something. Creeps out at night and whispers compliments to the microgreens.

She wipes a clean streak across the tile with more force than necessary. She should’ve known. She did know.

He’s not here to be part of a team. He’s here to survive.

And he’ll let her burn if it means keeping his standing.

Maybe he is besties with Fields. Maybe they trade cryptic compliments and trauma bonding over broken sous chefs.

Whatever. You’re not mysterious anymore, Berzatto. You’re a fucking pussy.

She doesn’t look at him again for the rest of the day.

And that, she tells herself, is better.

So much better.

***

Carmy squats outside the back door, shoulders curled, elbows on his knees, cigarette burning slow between his fingers.

He’s so tired his knees feel like they might fucking snap.

Sweat dried into salt on his neck.

His whites are stiff from service, damp and clinging.

His legs throb.

His spine hums.

His head’s still in there—back on the line. Every plate still echoing like a gunshot.

It wasn’t chaotic—Empire is never chaotic. But it was close.

It was busy. Nonstop. And it wasn’t just the service. It was the performance.

The extra performance of not looking like he was stressed.  

Not flinching.

Not clenching.

Not revealing.

Because if Fields sees it?

If Fields clocks it ?

He’ll whisper things that scrape like rust inside your skull.

Last month: eight suicide jokes. This month? Only three so far. It’s going well. Kind of. Optimistic.

Yesterday, Fields told him to cut off his own hands. Said they were “wasting everyone’s time.”

Today?

Today he leaned in behind Carmen during plating and murmured, too soft for anyone else to hear:

“You’re still pretending you can be excellent. That’s cute.”

Carmy didn’t drop the plate. Barely blinked.

But it stuck. It always sticks.

He inhales sharply, holds the smoke until it burns. Maybe if he burns enough inside, he won’t feel everything else.

And then—

The door opens.

Same routine. Tote bag, sneakers, the lazy slouch of someone whose spine’s been wrung out by stainless steel and degreaser. But tonight—her braids are undone, swinging a little, freer.

She hasn’t seen him yet.

He watches her. That fucking familiar twist in his gut. She’s still here. Ten days in.

She should’ve quit by now.

But she hasn’t. Of course she hasn’t.

Because she’s stupid.

That’s what she is.

Fucking stupid.

She saw this kitchen. She read the room. She knows what this place is.

And she still jokes. She still smiles.

Still talks to people like this is a team.

Like this is family fucking dinner.

She’s not broken yet. And that’s why Fields hasn’t thrown her out yet. Because Fields hasn’t had his fun yet.

And Carmy’s dumb enough to care.

“Hey,” he calls out, smoke trailing from his lips. “I want you to be prepared.”

She jumps. Literally jumps. Her eyes widen and she spins, clutching her tote like a shield.

“Jesus—don’t do that! I thought—god—I didn’t know you were there!”

He almost— almost —smiles. His lips twitch. He catches it, clamps it down hard.

She’s breathing heavy, then stops and glares.

“You know what? No. Fuck you. I’m not doing this. I’m not having another cryptic ‘Chef Berzatto moment’ right now. I’m tired. I’m hungry. I’ve been scrubbing metal and floor and sadness for, like, ten hours. So, respectfully? Not in the mood.”

He exhales slow. Drops the cigarette, grinds it out under his heel.

“You’re a stage here.”

She blinks. Confused. “Yeah. No shit.”

“No. You’re just a stage here. You’re not making anything. You’re not plating. You’re not building shit. You’re polishing fucking forks and slicing produce. And yeah—you’re doing a great job with that. Great form. A-plus knife skills.”

Pause. He runs a hand through his curls. He’s too close to cracking.

“But Fields doesn’t give a shit about any of that. He doesn’t care about you. And if you keep messing with the energy in there—if he gets wind that you’re changing the rhythm, the hierarchy—he’ll bury you. He will end your career before you even build one.”

She freezes. Mouth half open.

He can see it hit her. See it land. The most words he’s said to her since day one.

And then—

“Are you trying to threaten me?”

Her voice is sharp. Her body tight.

“Because dude, that’s not—like, that’s not okay. That’s not ethical.  You can’t just—”

“It’s not a threat.” He stands now, slow, towering. Voice flat. Not loud. “It’s a warning.”

Distance between them. Still far. But not enough.

“Do you even get it?” he asks, stepping a bit closer. “Do you realize what kind of power he has? Everyone knows him. He knows everyone . You get on his list, and you’re done. Every job you ever want after this? Gone. You follow?”

She stares, jaw clenched. Braids swinging.

“The only thing I fucking follow,” she says, biting the words off, “is that you’re acting like an asshole. You think being cold and scary makes you smarter? Makes you right ?”

Her eyes flash.

“You’re just trying to be like him. And guess what? It’s not working.”

He breathes out through his nose. His fists curl.

He should walk away.

But he doesn’t.

“You just don’t fucking listen,” he mutters.

“No, you just talk shit.” she shoots back.

That’s it. That’s the limit.

He turns and storms down the alley, muttering as he goes:

“Fuck this. Fuck you. ”

“Right back at you, chef.”

***

She’s never been this careful.

Not slow — she knows better than that — just exact.  Focused like her hands are the only part of her brain still functioning.

Because this job? This job matters.

She’s not just chopping today. Or polishing. Or pilling.

She’s prepping for one of the sauces — an acidified red wine reduction that gets folded into demi later.

Something real. Something they use .

Something that will end up on an actual fucking plate at Empire.

Which means someone tasted what she did here. Approved it. Thought: yeah, she can handle this.

She tries not to smile. But her chest hums.

The shallots are peeled with almost reverent precision. Sliced into micro-thin half-moons. She’s got the wine lined up. The vinegar. The sprigs of thyme. Black peppercorns already crushed. She’s ready. She’s fucking ready.

Chef is out again, same time as always — his 11:15 vanishing act. Twenty minutes or so of weird, creepy silence where the whole kitchen exhales just a little. Like he presses pause on the internal organ-squeeze the moment he walks out.

So she breathes. She walks toward Erica and says, softly:

“Yo. Real talk. I think this smells good already.”

Erica glances at her saucepan, then grins. “You’re making sauce?”

Sydney mock bows. “Guess I’ve been promoted to, uh, preliminary sauce bitch .”

Erica chuckles under her breath. “Congrats. Just don’t burn it or he’ll eat your spine.”

Sydney whispers back, “Please, I’d sous-vide it first. I have standards.”

They’re quiet, barely audible. Barely a murmur under the kitchen noise. Carmen throws a glance. Just one.

Okay. Fine. She gets it. Again with the look. She turns back to her shallots.

Back to serious.

She’s watching the reduction now, letting it thicken slowly. Not too fast. Not too hot. She knows what to do.

She’s done reductions before, like million times.

Not Empire-level reductions, sure, but she knows balance. She knows how to build flavor.

She’s tasting constantly, adjusting — just a bit more acid, just a little salt, a hint more depth. It smells like warmth. Like something real.

She’s in it.

Until she’s not.

Until she feels it — that freeze, that invisible weight that enters the room with Fields.

He’s back.

And he’s behind her.

She doesn’t turn. Just stirs.

But then his voice, close and clear:

“Miss Adamu.”

She straightens instantly. “Yes, Chef?”

He points at her pan.

“What the fuck is that?”

Her stomach flips. “Uh—sauce base, Chef. Reduction, with shallots.”

He picks up the spoon. Tastes. His face does not change.

Then: “It’s muddy. It’s overworked. There’s no clarity. It’s flat.”

She blinks. “I—Chef, I’ve been tasting—”

“Clearly not hard enough.”

The spoon clatters onto the station. He steps closer. The rest of the kitchen is still, pretending not to listen. But they’re listening. Everyone is always listening.

She catches Carmen’s eyes behind Fields. Blue and big.

“You don’t know restraint,” Fields says. “That’s what this is. This is someone trying too hard to prove they can do it.”

He’s whispering now. Again. A death-whisper.

“You want so bad to matter here, you’re over-salting your fucking mise.”

She opens her mouth. He cuts her off.

“You’re not here to impress. You’re here to execute.”

Lower still, next to her ear:

“You think you’re doing more than peeling onions now? You think this means you’re part of something?”

Her hands start to shake.

“You are not special,” he says. “You are a girl from Chicago with a chip on her shoulder and a dead mom sob story.”

Her body goes still.

How does he fucking know that.

The sauce is burning.

She doesn’t reach for it.

Because he says — louder now, for the whole room to hear:

“Clean this shit up and start over. Or go home. I don’t care which.”

Then, even louder — not yelling, just that icy authority that means it sticks :

“Maybe we don’t need fancy hires from the Midwest. I don’t need a story. I need a sauce that fucking works.”

No one reacts.

Not a breath. Not a twitch.

She shuts off the heat. Grabs the pan. Dumps the sauce in the compost without a word.

Wipes the station. Hard. Fast. Rage under her skin like static.

He walks away.

And no one says anything.

She stays quiet because if she opens her mouth, she might burn the whole fucking  place down. Or cry. Just fucking cry.

But she can’t. She won’t. Because she is not weak. Because that’s what he wants.

So Instead, this feeling presses against her ribcage like heat.

Her sighs sizzle under her skin like static.

Just rage. Just that.

The kind that makes her teeth ache. The kind she used to get in sixth grade when boys made fun of her hair.

The kind that made her want to scream and break every plate just to prove she had hands that could do more than wipe things down.

She swallows it.

It burns going down.

And then—

She looks up.

She looks at him.

Berzatto.

He’s not slicing. Not moving. Just…watching her.

No pity in his face. Thank God. She’d rather be stabbed.

No horror, no softness. Just this… quiet, concentrated gaze.

Like he’s calculating something. Like he sees all of it.

And not just what happened ten seconds ago—no. All of it.

He moves.

Her breath catches, thinking maybe he’s coming toward her.

But no—he’s headed for the walk-in.

Just walking past. That’s all.

But as he moves by—

He leans in. Barely. Just enough for her to hear.

And he says,

“Just keep going.”

That’s it.

Not “sorry.”

Not “fuck Fields.”

Not even “you okay?”

Just those three words. Like a code. Like a lifeline.

Not comfort. Not kindness. But something else.

Like a permission to fight back.

***

The kitchen empties out like clockwork.

One by one, people slip away, tired voices trailing behind them.

“You’re getting the hang of it.”

“Yeah, it’s rough, but you’re doing fine.”

“That’s Empire for you.”

She nods, trying to keep her smile steady, because yeah — this is the place. No sugarcoating it.

“It’s just… yeah,” she murmurs back to someone.

“Welcome to the chaos,” Diego chuckles as he passes.

They all drift off, leaving her alone in the fading hum.

She doesn’t head straight out the back.

She lingers, like she always does.

And she knows — she fucking knows — he’s out there again, like a ghost in uniform. That familiar silhouette just past the back door.

She slips her tote bag off her shoulder and carries it by the handles, the strap swinging a little with her steps. The night air bites at her arms — a late, sharp chill that doesn’t quite belong to summer anymore.

There he is.

Perched on a crooked, rusty pallet, leaning back against the cracked brick wall like he lives there.

He doesn’t look at her right away. Not until she’s a few steps from him.

That glance — no warmth, no chill.

Just a look that says, here you are again.

She doesn’t speak.

She doesn’t have to.

He shifts slightly to the side, making room. It’s wordless, automatic — like he doesn’t even question it.

She sits beside him.

Not touching. Not close enough to brush shoulders.

But close enough to feel the weight of another body nearby — real and human in the dark.

Her breath feels loud in her own head. She tilts her face up, staring at the thin smear of clouds above them. The sky is washed out, smog-stained and quiet.

He passes her a cigarette without looking.

She blinks at it, surprised. Then takes it.

It burns.

It’s been years since culinary school — years since she last smoked anything that wasn’t coming off a grill.

She coughs, one quick, awkward sound. The second drag is better. She passes it back.

“Thanks,” she mutters, voice still rough with smoke.

A pause settles between them. Heavy, but not tense.

More like… charged.

She can feel him watching her.

Then she asks, “Is it always like this with you?”

He takes a slow drag. Exhales. Lets the silence stretch.

Then:

“No,” he says.

A beat.

“Sometimes it’s worse.”

Chapter Text

Next day he walks into The Beef like he’s walking into war — back straight, jaw tight, and a silent prayer to literally any god who’s listening:

Please don’t let her show up today. Please. Let it be just something that happened last week.

Prep’s done, knives are sharp, onions are sliced, beef is ready and the minute they open the front door —

“Good morning, Richie!”

Her voice. Bright. Cheerful.

First fucking customer of the day.

He exhales so hard he sees stars and then proceeds to bump his head against the walk-in door.

Three times. Maybe four.

Tina catches him mid-meltdown and offers a shrug, a smirk.

“She’s insistent.”

“Please ignore it.”

“I’m just saying… the girl spends her whole damn day here. That’s a choice.”

“Yeah, well. Choice being a pain in the ass.”

From the baking station, Marcus chimes in, voice casual.

“I like her. She’s got some nerve.”

Carmen doesn’t even look over. “Marcus… how’s the cake doing? You finished?”

Marcus keeps going anyway. “You clearly made it known she’s not welcome, but she’s still here. I mean… says something.”

Tina chuckles. “She’s not spineless, that’s for damn sure.” Then she adds something quick in Spanish — warm, with a touch of mischief.

Marcus raises a brow. “What’s that mean?”

Tina grins. “Means she’s a woman who don’t scare easy.

That’s for sure.

Carmen finally rounds the counter, rubbing a hand down his face.

“Let’s focus, please. We’re about to start lunch service. No distractions.”

On Wednesday she is there.
Again. Of course.

Usually she just sits there, writes something down in her notebook or scrolls her phone, but also she’s talking to the customers now.

One of them asks what’s good, and she starts explaining the difference between sweet and hot giardiniera like she’s on a damn Food Network special.

She’s cracking jokes, making people laugh, telling stories, being Sydney.

Charming. Magnetic. Impossible.

He sees her hand someone napkins and thinks seriously, with full sincerity, about walking outside and stepping into traffic.

On Thursday she orders a hot dog.

Says she “feels adventurous.”

Richie nearly drops dead laughing.

By the time she starts telling some nasty little joke involving mustard, a plumber, and a raccoon… Richie’s wheezing and begging for more.

She’s got him wrapped around her finger like deli paper.

Carmy doesn’t even blink — this is who she is.

People love her.

She knows how to get to them.

She’s doing it again.

And he fucking hates it.

Richie wheezes. Slaps the counter.

And before anyone can stop him, he’s kicking open the kitchen door like a stand-up comic doing an encore.

“Yo, yo—okay, okay—so she tells me this story from when she was catering this finance brunch, right?”

Marcus looks up. “Sydney?”

“Yeah, Sydney. Queen of the trauma industry brunch circuit,” Richie says, wiping his eyes. “Anyway. She’s telling me about this rich-ass asshole who’s like, ‘My wife can’t eat anything with dairy, soy, gluten, joy, or color,’ right? So Sydney’s like, ‘Cool, I’ll just serve her a fucking napkin.’ ”

Tina snorts. “Already like her.”

“Wait, wait, it gets better,” Richie wheezes. “So she’s in the back plating these bougie-ass egg bites, right? And the dishwasher—some freaky little guy, like real degenerate energy—leans in and goes, ‘Poached eggs look like freshly shaved balls.’ ”

Marcus straight-up chokes on his own breath. Ebra drops a knife.

“And Sydney?” Richie continues, already red in the face. “Sydney goes, ‘I guess brunch is off the menu. I’ve already had enough balls in my mouth this week.’ ”

Tina’s wheezing. “Ayy, dios mío—this girl’s a menace.”

Ebra cackling. “Who said that?!”

“She fucking said that! ” Richie howls. “Dead serious. Just went right back to plating. Like she hadn’t just ruined eggs for everyone forever.”

Carmy appears behind them like a vengeful spirit. He heard this story before. It doesn’t make him laugh anymore.

“ Stop. ” His voice cuts through the noise like a razor. “No one wants to hear this.”

“I do,” Tina grins.

“Same,” Marcus coughs. “Tell another one.”

“Please,” Ebra adds. “More ball jokes.”

“No more ball jokes in my kitchen, ” Carmy snaps, slamming a towel down. “Jesus.”

Richie can barely breathe.

Through the pass window, Carmen catches a glimpse of her.

Still sitting at the counter, sipping her drink. Still smiling.

Like she knows.

He turns back fast. Rubs a hand down his face.

“Focus,” he mutters. “We’ve got service.”

But nobody’s listening.

And her fucking smile is still there when he closes his eyes.

On Friday Richie says, “Welcome back, Sydney, darling, clocking in early again?” Like she’s part of the damn team.

Carmen doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t even look. He focuses on the lunch. On the slicing. On the burn in his shoulders and the hum of the fridge.

But he hears her.

He always fucking hears her.

Today she’s talking to Fak.

Well— talking might be generous.

He glances at her, just a quick peek, and sure enough: there she is, sitting way too close to the counter bar.

And Fak’s posted up beside her like some kind of weird uncle you meet at a wedding who never leaves your side.

Fak’s in full Fak-mode, waving his hands, telling one of his epic stories — something about the time he almost got electrocuted trying to fix a meat slicer using a pencil and two rubber bands.

Carmen can’t even follow it, and he’s known this man for years.

And Sydney—

Sydney looks confused.

No — not just confused. Disturbed . Unsettled. Like she’s trying to figure out what species Fak belongs to.

Good.

Carmen goes back to his knife.

Lets the corner of his mouth twitch, just a little.

Let her sit there in awkward agony. Let her suffer through Fak’s thirty-minute story about wiring a fridge to play ska music.

Maybe next time she’ll think twice before planting herself in this restaurant like she fucking belongs.

He hopes Fak starts another story.

He hopes it’s worse.

He hopes it never ends.

On Saturday she orders the usual.

Classic Italian beef, sweet peppers, dipped.

Like it’s a routine. 

Like she fucking lives here now.

Carmen stares at the ticket. At messy SYD scribbled in Richie’s handwriting like it’s just any other order.

Like it doesn’t crawl under his skin.

He looks at the hot giardiniera.

Then looks at the jar next to it.

The death peppers. Aged, fermented, violent. Stuff that’ll have you sweating bullets by bite two.

He hesitates—

Then scoops a full spoonful into the sandwich. Neatly tucked under the beef, like a landmine.

He doesn’t even blink .

Yeah, okay, he knows it’s immature. He knows it’s petty. But honestly?

He doesn’t fucking care.

She’s still coming here. Still sitting at the same goddamn stool.

Still pretending like he didn’t scream at her seven days ago.

He wants her to burn.

Just a little.

He slides the sandwich onto the counter without a word.

Watches her through the pass.

She takes a bite.

Chews slowly. Thoughtfully.

Then—

A sip of Coke. Another. And then one more for good measure.

Carmen leans forward, narrowing his eyes. Gotcha.

She wipes her mouth, turns to Richie, and says, cool as fuck:

“Tell Carmen this sandwich is fucking excellent. Best one yet.” And then she writes something down in her notebook.

Richie, of course, doesn’t just tell him.

He bellows:

“YO, COUSIN. GOOD FUCKING JOB. OUR REGULAR SYDNEY LOVES THE BEEF.”

Carmen pinches the bridge of his nose, turns away from them both.

Murmurs under his breath,

“…This bitch.”

On Sunday the brunch rush bleeds into slow silence.

The shop’s mostly empty.

Floor’s sticky, sink’s full, Carmy’s cleaning down the station with the kind of focus that only comes when you’re trying not to think.

Which is exactly when Richie slides in beside him like a fucking sitcom ghost.

“Cuz.”

Carmy doesn’t look up.

“Cousin, okay. I get it. I get it.”

“No, you fucking don’t.”

“I’m trying to,” Richie presses, like that’s some kind of defense. “Something bad happened. You won’t tell me, she won’t tell me, fine. But at this point? I feel like me and Sydney are, like… friends. Or some shit.”

Carmy stops wiping.

Stares down at the stainless steel until he can see his warped reflection glaring back.

“She’s not your friend.”

Richie’s already talking over him.

“Okay, whatever, I mean—at the very least —we owe her some fucking respect, yeah? Like, half the cash in the register this week’s hers.”

“No, Richie,” Carmy snaps, low and deadly. “She orders, like, two sandwiches a day. That’s it.”

“Nah, bro, she tips . And she over-orders. And she’s been here every single fucking day. You think that’s free?”

Carmy exhales through his nose.

Hard. Loud.

“And I don’t mind,” Richie continues, smiling . “I like it. She orders food. Tells sick jokes. Pisses you off. I’m thriving , cousin.”

Carmy rolls his eyes so hard he nearly sprains something.

“But I’m a gentleman,” Richie adds, all proud. “And I can tell—she’s trying to play it cool, but she’s sad , dude. She’s like a sad lil’ dog, sittin’ here with her coke and her Italian beef.”

“Richie—”

“Why don’t you just talk to her?”

“I don’t want to.”

“Why?”

“I don’t want to , Richie.”

Richie blinks.

“Are you seriously trying to ‘no means no’ me right now?”

“How the fuck else am I supposed to say it?” Carmen growls. “I don’t want her here. I don’t want her sitting in this shop. I don’t want to talk to her, or hear her laugh, or see her. I want her gone. Gone.”

Richie pauses. Then shrugs.

“Well, the more you want her to leave, the less I want her to leave. So.”

Carmen stares at him.

“Where does that leave us?” Richie asks, grinning like this is a game.

Carmy swallows. Rubs at his eyes.

Like he’s got heartburn in his soul .

Then—

He moved toward the pass.

The dining room’s empty. A few tables still dirty. One stool still occupied.

She’s there.

Still.

He doesn’t look at her.

Eyes fixed on a spot on the wall, the tiles, the neon light flickering above the Pepsi machine.

“Please go.”

She doesn’t move. Looks at her table.

“Can’t you tell I’m here for a reason?” she says. “Every fucking day?”

“I don’t care,” he answers. “Go home.”

She sits up straighter and looks at him. “I’m not coming back on Tuesday.”

Carmy opens his mouth, but Richie yells from the back, “I’m against that , Sydney!”

“Thank you, Richie,” she says, without looking away from Carmy. “Carmen, I just need to talk about—”

“No.”

“Carmy—“

“No,” he says again, firm. Cold. “ Carmen for you. Okay? Please go. Please fucking go, Sydney.”

They lock eyes for a second. Just one.

And he hates that it hurts. It hurts so fucking bad. Like Richie just stabbed him in the heart from the back.

Then he blinks.

Turns on his heel.

Disappears back into the kitchen.

He doesn’t look back—

But he hears the rustle of her things.

The scrape of her stool.

And then the chime of the front door as it closes behind her.

Richie locks the door after and flips the sign to CLOSED.

He cleans for a good two hours in a quiet.

The kind of quiet that buzzes in your ears when there’s nothing left to cut, fry, or scream about.

He thinks he’s the last one out. Moves to the back, shoulders heavy, hands already working the back of his apron. He sits on the locker room bench and exhales like it’s the first breath he’s taken all day.

Undoes his laces. Changes into his old sneakers. He’s halfway through tying the second shoe when he hears it.

“Jeff.”

Fuck.

He doesn’t look up right away. But he knows the voice. He knows the tone. That mom-voice. Not soft. Not gentle. Just firm and human and unavoidable. He’s been around it for two three months now.

He drags his eyes up.

Tina’s standing across from him, one hand on the lockers, the other resting on her hip. Her eyebrows are raised, but not in judgment. More like… warning.

Then she sits. Right across from him. Bench to bench.

He doesn’t say anything.

So she does.

“This is none of my business,” she starts, “and I’m not trying to make it my business. But…”

And he knows what that “but” means. He’s doomed.

“But,” she continues, “we are all adults here. And grown people — we don’t throw tantrums when someone walks in a room.”

He presses his knuckles to his forehead. “Tina, I’m not—”

She holds up a hand. “I know. I know. You’re not yelling for no reason. You’re not mean for no reason. But I’ve been here a while, Carmy. I’ve seen you angry. Like you are at Richie, and it’s reasonable. But this?” She gestures vaguely toward the front of house, toward the ghost of Sydney still lingering in the walls. “This is something else.”

He sighs. Loud. Tired. “It’s not something you need to worry about.”

“Mierda! When its around us? The crew? Then it becomes everybody’s problem.”

He looks at her now, really looks. She’s not mad. Not trying to corner him. Just… there.

Trying.

“She’s clearly not a bad person,” Tina adds, softer now. “You act like she killed a man.”

He flinches at that.

And Tina sees it.

“Carmen,” she says. “I’ve been mad at my husband. Lord, have I been mad. One time, we didn’t talk for a week. We were sleeping in the same bed, and not a single word. You think it fixed anything?” She shakes her head. “It didn’t. I lost a week of love I could’ve had. Over what? Pride?”

He lets out something between a breath and a laugh, but it’s hollow.

“Tina,” he says, “this isn’t about a fight.”

She looks at him. Waits.

He swallows hard. Looks down at his shoes, suddenly unsure what they’re even tied for.

“It’s worse than that,” he mutters. “It’s like… like a betrayal.”

Tina’s quite a moment. Then carefully, like she’s stepping into deep water, says, “So… she cheated?”

He snorts. “No. Not in the way you think.”

Another silence. This one deeper. Sadder.

“And now she’s just back. Like nothing happened. But she is gone for good now.”

Tina watches him. Doesn’t rush it.

“Maybe she is back,” she says, “because something did happen.”

He looks up again. Their eyes meet. His are raw.

And she gives him one last soft smile.

“Just think about it,” she says, standing slowly. “I’ll see you Tuesday, Jeff.”

He nods once.

She walks out.

He sits there a while longer.

Staring at the scuffed tiles.

Listening to the silence.

Wishing he could turn off his brain.

His phone buzzes:

Jimmy: Kid, I need my fucking money back. Like a month ago. Call me.

Chapter Text

She doesn’t quit.

That’s the first thing.

She thinks about it.

Every night, walking home with her hands still smelling like vinegar and garlic, with her shoulders curled like she’s trying to collapse into herself. With no money received.

She’s been a stage for two weeks.

But she doesn’t quit.

And she’s doing more now.

Not just cleaning.

Not just polishing floors till her wrists burn. Not just endless prep, slicing boxes of shallots so thin she starts dreaming in rings.

During service, Fields throws her scraps of responsibility — watching sauces, prepping microgreens for plating, sometimes even holding down a component on the pass.

It should feel like trust.

It doesn’t.

Every time he gives her something, it’s a test. A trap.

One wrong swirl, one micro-stem too long, and he’s already snapping for Berzatto to redo it.

“Too wet.”

“Over-reduced.”

“Color’s off.”

Doesn’t matter what she does.

Doesn’t matter how careful.

It’s always, always wrong.

And Berzatto — Carmen always does it again. No protest. No fuss.

Just slides in and fixes whatever it is Fields hates this time.

But before he does, every time — always when the devil isn’t close— he leans in, just for a second, and whispers something like:

“It was fine.”

or

“Smells great”

or

“That’s not on you.”

Just quiet, almost careless.

Like it doesn’t matter.

But it does.

It keeps her sane.

It reminds her she can actually cook.

It’s not just her hot delusions.

It keeps her standing.

So every day she wakes up sore and quiet and a little more careful.

Doesn’t laugh too loud when Fields is out anymore.

Doesn’t talk unless it’s about prep or plating or something neutral like weather or food cost or where to store the veal bones.

She watches how Diego flinches more around chef.

How Erica stops coming to her with a treat.

How Ray’s face looks like he never ever smiled.

Watches how Carmen sharpens his knives like he’s doing something sacred.  Like maybe steel is the only thing he trusts to listen.

Fields, meanwhile, is a fucking monster.

She sees it all now.

He never yells. For a reason. Doesn’t need to.

His voice lands harder than shouting ever could. It’s controlled. Surgical.

If yelling is a punch, Fields is a scalpel.

He knows exactly where to cut.

He knows her mother is dead.

He is a fucking psycho.

He says things like “What’s this, Miss Adamu? An artistic interpretation of a brunoise?”

“You’ve confused confidence with competence.”

Or, once — after she nailed a prep list so clean she could’ve framed it — he glanced at it, handed it back, and said, “Adequate.”

That one stuck with her longer than the shouting ever would have.

Every day feels heavier. Like the kitchen’s got gravity turned up just a little more than the rest of the building.

And still — she doesn’t quit.

She’s not sure why. Maybe out of spite. Maybe because she wants to prove him wrong.

Maybe because it’s a fucking Empire and it can’t get better.

Or maybe because Berzatto gives her encouraging looks, like she doesn’t actually suck.

They don’t talk. Not really. Not beyond “yes, Chef,” or his whispers when he is about to redo her work.

But after the shift, when the last pan is hung and the walk-in is sealed and everybody is gone  — they both end up outside.

Same wall. Same busted pallet. Same cigarettes.

Every night she walks out, sees him there, he nods — she sits down.

That’s very much it.

But it became something she is looking forward to. Every day.

A ritual.

He always lights it first. Hands it to her without looking.

They share it.

Never speak more than five words. Sometimes none at all.

But she breathes better with that cigarette.

That’s the second thing.

She doesn’t like the silence.

Not at this restaurant.

But she likes it just fine with him .

Because they don’t need to fill it.

Because he gets it — what it’s like to carry all your noise inside your chest and pretend you’re not drowning in it.

He never asks how she is.

She never asks if he’s okay.

But when Fields calls her out for slicing carrots too emotionally — whatever the fuck that means — Carmen’s the only one who doesn’t laugh under his breath.

And when she spills a container of herb oil and gets nothing but a glare and a “maybe you’re better suited for front of house,” Carmen doesn’t say a damn thing, but later that night outside, he hands her a pepto. And it almost makes her cry. 

They’re not friends.

She knows that.

But something’s building.

Quiet and awful and real.

Once, during service, she caught it.

Fields leaning in to Carmen who was at the expo.

Whispering something to him, which is nothing new, he did that a lot.

Walked through the kitchen like a death cloud and dropped poison like it was a seasoning.

But this time she saw Carmen’s hand flinch. Just the smallest twitch.

Like someone had stuck a pin right through the bone.

She didn’t hear it.

Fuck, she wished she had.

She wished she could rewind it, mouth-read it, translate whatever venom Fields poured into him.

But all she had was the flinch.

That night, after service, outside again with the cigarette passed between them, she said it.

Not directly. Never directly.

“Today was something extra fucked, huh?”

He didn’t look at her.

Just hummed. A low sound from somewhere in his chest.

That was it.

They never talked about it.

But it was enough.

***

Prep is quiet. Focused. Knives tapping, pans clattering, someone’s timer going off in bursts.

That low hum of ritual — heads down, everyone moving fast, trying to beat the rush before Fields starts circling.

Carmen keeps his gaze on the cutting board. Mirepoix. Steady rhythm. Dice, dice, dice. Fast enough to keep up, slow enough to stay perfect.

He doesn’t hear him at first — just senses the shift.

The way the air stiffens around Diego’s station.

The way Erica stops wiping the counter and glances sideways.

Then Fields’ voice. Too calm.

“This is your third tray like this?”

Diego nods. “Yes, Chef.”

A pause.

Then, quieter — but sharp enough to prick skin:

“Looks like a toddler chopped it with safety scissors.”

Carmen doesn’t stop slicing. Just focuses harder.

“You want me to use this?” Fields says quietly but still loud enough for everyone to hear.

You mean, me to use this, Carmen thinks.

You barely cook shit on your own.

“You want someone to pay ninety dollars for a plate with this crap sitting underneath the duck?”

Diego says nothing.

Then it happens. Sharp. Deliberate. No yelling — never yelling.

“You know what your problem is?”

The whole kitchen freezes.

“It’s not just your hands. It’s that you walk in here every day with that man-bun like you’re heading to a fucking juice bar, not a Michelin kitchen.”

Carmen looks up. 

“You’re lanky. Slouched. You look like you should be vaping behind a 7-Eleven, not touching my herbs.”

Ray’s knife slips. He catches it fast. No one breathes.

Then Sydney. Her voice cuts in like a match being struck.

“That’s not okay.”

It’s not loud. Just clear. Too clear.

Carmen’s stomach turns.

He looks at her — dead in the eye — and shakes his head once. Small.

Don’t. Please don’t.

But she doesn’t look away.

She straightens. “You don’t get to talk to him like that.”

Fields turns. Slow. A tilt of the head like a snake watching its prey breathe.

“You been here five minutes,” he says, soft as a blade. “And you think you get to tell me how to run my kitchen?”

She holds firm.

God, she’s stupid.

God, she’s brave.

“I think,” Sydney says, “humiliating someone’s appearance in front of everyone doesn’t make you a better chef.”

Silence again.

And then—Fields smiles.

Not a real one.

One of those tight, lip-stretched expressions that means violence.

“Oh,” he says, “so we’re moral now.”

He steps forward.

Looks like he is fucking thriving.

Sick bastard.

“You know, Miss Adamu, I’ve met a lot of people who think being loud makes them brave. But usually, it just makes them unemployed.”

Carmen feels his stomach twist — slow, nauseous.

Part of him — the small, dark, coward part — almost wants it to happen.

For Fields to just say it.

Fire her.

End it.

Be done.

Let her get out. Let her run. Let her fucking breathe.

Let him breathe.

Because if Fields fires her, she won’t be here tomorrow. Or the next day. Or the day after that, looking like she’s been ground down to bone but still showing up with something sharp in her eyes.

If Fields fires her, maybe Carmen can stop watching. Stop waiting. Stop caring.

But he knows how it works.

He knows the asshole won’t just let her go.

He’ll break her first.

Make it hell.

Twist the screws until something inside her cracks in half — and then maybe fire her.

Or maybe not.

Maybe just leave her to rot here in slow motion.

And the worst part?

The worst part is that some stupid, stubborn, reckless percentage of Carmen — a few dumb fucking percent — actually want her to stay.

He doesn’t know why.

He doesn’t want to know why.

But probably because she brings something in here.

Something different.

Because she is not scared.

Then Fields turns. Looks right at him.

Stares.

“And you. Mirepoix.”

His jaw clenches.

“Why the fuck are you watching this like a bad soap opera? Prep your shit.”

No answer.

“Or are you waiting for your big brother to finally call you back? Tell you you’re doing a good job?”

The room cracks.

No one moves. No one breathes.

Carmen’s pulse roars in his ears. The whole kitchen tilts sideways for a second.

He wants to grab the knife. The hot pan. Anything.

To slam it into Fields’ face. To bash in his teeth. To shut him up permanently.

But he doesn’t.

He blinks.

Tries to swallow.

Fails.

Turns back to his board.

Keeps chopping. Hands mechanical. Like they don’t belong to him.

He doesn’t taste the air.

Doesn’t see the cuts.

Just moves.

Then he hears it.

“Miss Adamu,” Fields snaps, “you’re on walk-in duty. Floor. With a toothbrush. I want it gleaming. If you’re still standing when the prep is over, maybe you can come back.”

Diego tries to say something.

Fields cuts him off.

“You. Get out.”

A beat.

“You’re done.”

Fired. Just like that.

He’s been here for two months.

That’s not too bad.

Sydney stands frozen.

Carmen doesn’t turn.

But his throat tightens so hard he thinks he might choke.

He doesn’t look. Doesn’t speak.

He just keeps slicing.

Like a fucking coward.

He lingers in the bathroom too long after the shift ends.

Staring down the sink, splashing cold water on his face like it’ll shock his nerves back into place. Like it’ll carve out whatever’s scraping under his skin.

It doesn’t work.

His head throbs — a dull, full-bodied kind of pain, like something’s pressing inward from all directions.

His temples pulse with it.

He grips the edge of the sink so hard his knuckles bleach out.

He can’t stop thinking about Mikey.

About how fast Fields said it.

How casually.

Like it was just another tool in the drawer — like Carmen was just another fucking screw to strip.

It’s not the first time he mentioned him.

But it’s the first time Carmy actually think about it.

Who told him?

Who the fuck told him?

He doesn’t even care about the answer.

He just wants to break something.

Wants to dig his nails into the drywall and rip it out until it bleeds plaster and dust.

Fields always knows.

Always finds the crack.

Carmen’s seen him do it a dozen times now. Erica. Diego. Sydney.

Sydney.

Fuck.

He slams the paper towel dispenser shut harder than he means to.

The sound echoes.

His chest tightens.

He hates that this is what it is.

That this is where they are.

By the time he drags himself out to the lockers, the kitchen’s a ghost town.

He moves slow, like his body’s made of sandbags.

Fumbling with his shoes.

His hands don’t work right.

He leans against the metal locker, presses his forehead to the cool surface.

She probably left already.

He doesn’t want to go outside.

Doesn’t want to face anything, not even air.

He wants to sink straight into the floor.

But when he finally does walk out — shoulders stiff, stomach clenched — she’s still there.

Sitting on the same beat-up pallet like she lives there.

Her knee bounces.

Eyes flicking everywhere but him.

Until their eyes meet.

She doesn’t say anything.

Just reaches one hand behind her neck, rubs it like it aches.

Sucks her teeth.

He walks to her without thinking.

Sits beside her, heavy and silent.

They don’t speak. Not right away.

Then she says, low: “Can I have a separate one this time, please?”

He doesn’t answer. Just pulls out the pack, hands it to her.

She sticks it between her lips and leans toward him without a word. Waiting.

He lights his first. Then hers.

Swallows hard as her face tilts closer, all tired eyes and bruised edges.

Her cheekbone almost brushes his wrist.

The flame catches.

She leans back.

“I want to kill myself extra hard today,” she says, smoke curling past her lips.

“I know,” he murmurs. “I’m so sorry about the walk-in shit.”

“Nah, it’s okay,” she exhales. “Might get pneumonia later. Not too bad.”

“Sydney…”

“It’s okay,” she says again, softer. “I was in there like, what… hour and a half? People kept walking in and out.”

She shrugs.

“It’s okay.”

It’s not.

The way she says it — flat, light, like she’s already half-convinced herself — makes his throat ache.

They still don’t look at each other. That’s their rule, maybe. Unspoken.

But he keeps stealing these sideways glances anyway.

She looks small tonight. Not weak, not fragile — just… collapsed. Like someone deflated something inside her.

His chest pulls tight again.

This is so fucked.

And the worst part?

She looks like she’s starting to get used to it.

***

The next week is classic hell.

Nothing new, just the usual flavors: exhaustion, fury, knives dulling too fast, Fields sharpening too much.

Carmen half-dissociates during prep.

Fully dissociates during service.

The hours collapse into themselves, muscle memory doing most of the work.

Dice, toss, plate, burn.

Move, move, move.

It’s not living, exactly.

More like… remaining.

Fields is in rare form.

Whispering louder. Much louder.

He’s everywhere — behind their shoulders, in their ears, inside their fucking heads.

And somehow, in the middle of all this, he and Sydney start this thing.

He doesn’t mean to walk in on her.

Really.

He’s just grabbing some damn crème fraîche before service when he yanks the door open and there she is.

Forehead pressed to the shelf like she’s trying to psychically fuse with it.

Shoulders tense.

Breathing heavy.

Face all scrunched up.

She jumps. Actually flinches — eyes wide, scared, stepping back like she’s been caught stealing.

Like she thought it was Fields.

Fuck. This girl.

He closes the door behind him fast, like on instinct.

Keeps it casual. No big deal. Just two people illegally loosing it next to fermented produce.

“It’s okay,” he says quietly. “You can chill for a second. He’s not in the kitchen.”

She stares at him for a beat, then tips her head back against the shelf — eyes closed now, hands on her hips like they’re the only thing holding her up.

Then, dry as hell:

“You’re welcome to join my breakdown. I hear it’s a group special today.”

He huffs. It’s not quite a laugh, but it’s close.

He looks at the crème fraîche in his hand. Puts it back on the shelf.

And then — yeah. He just stands next to her.

Shoulders not touching. Not speaking.

Just two ghosts on ice.

And it continues.

When one of them’s in the walk-in, the other slips in too.

Not always. Not on purpose. Not officially.

But it happens.

She’s checking for greens.

He needs butter.

Allegedly.

He’s grabbing thyme.

She’s “counting” eggs.

And they just… stand there.

No words. No looks.

Sometimes barely breathing.

But close enough.

Sometimes their shoulders almost brush. Sometimes they actually do.

And sometimes she just exhales hard and says, “Fuuuuuck.”

And he goes, “Yup.”

Or she mutters something like, “God, I hate every living soul.”

And he nods, “Absolutely.”

One time, she says, low and bitter, “I hope he chokes on a bone. Not enough to die, just enough to make it really dramatic and fucking embarrassing. To make him suffer.”

Carmen doesn’t even blink before replying, “I hope his favorite knife snaps in half mid-service, and he has to slice scallions with a goddamn soup spoon forever.”

She snorts. Quietly.

He adds, “I hope his gas gets shut off and he has to boil pasta on a fucking candle.”

She exhales slow. “I hope he gets a rash. A real nasty one. Like, peeling .”

He almost smiles.

They don’t say the name. They never do. But it hangs there anyway — like steam on their skin. Like rot in the walls.

They don’t laugh.

But they breathe a little easier.

Once, he hears it — hears him say it, say something so foul Carmen actually slices through his index finger without flinching — it sticks in his ears like rot.

“She’s not that bad. She just needs a man to finish the job right.”

That’s what Fields said to Ray.

Loud enough to sting, soft enough to pretend it wasn’t meant for her.

For Sydney.

Carmen doesn’t even look up.

Doesn’t need to.

He sees the way her jaw sets from across the kitchen. The way she swallows something that tastes like rust.

Later, when he finds her in a walk-in — she’s pacing in a tight little circle like a malfunctioning Roomba, muttering under her breath.

Braids pulled back into a bun in a way that makes her look very young and feral.

Her apron’s crooked, there’s a streak of sauce on her cheek, and she’s practically vibrating out of her skin.

Then she stops, checks that it’s him and bends over slightly, pretends to scream into the floor.

No sound.

Just full mime — fists clenched, shoulders shaking.

Carmen watches, weirdly frozen.

And then, for the first time in what feels like years, he laughs.

Not loud. Not even audible.

But his mouth twitches.

Something cracks open.

She sees it. Straightens up, eyebrows lifted like, Did you just feel joy?

Before he can answer — not that he would — the walk-in door opens and Erica steps in.

All three freeze.

Erica eyes them. Looks from Carmen to Sydney, then back again. Says nothing.

Just grabs a half-gallon of milk, nods once with a little smirk like, carry on , and walks out.

The door thumps shut behind her.

They stay in the silence. One beat. Two.

And then Sydney mutters, “I hope he dies.”

Carmen sighs, not even trying to fight it. “Me too.”

They don’t ever try to find each other’s eyes.

But both stay a little longer than they need to. Risking it all.

***

They’re down to the filter again.

Third cigarette each. His pack’s just a flattened box now, lying between them like some sad little corpse. Sydney nudges it with her shoe.

“That’s it?” she asks, brows lifting. “That’s your whole ration?”

Carmen exhales, long and ragged. “I don’t usually share.”

“Jesus,” she mutters. “You’re a terrible smoker. Amateur shit.”

He flicks ash off his knee. “You’ve had just as many.”

“I’m petite. You’re spiraling.”

He doesn’t argue. Can’t. His lungs hurt. His head hurts. The backs of his eyes feel bruised.

There’s a pause, the kind that tastes like cold brick and shame and tobacco.

“I feel like getting wrecked,” she says finally, dragging the words like they’re heavy.

He hums, low in his throat. “I don’t drink.”

She turns her head slowly toward him. “Seriously?”

He nods. Doesn’t look at her.

“Jesus,” she says again, with more feeling. “How the fuck do you survive?”

He shrugs, jaw tight. “Cigarettes. What—do you go home and get plastered?”

“Nah.” She pulls in her last drag, speaks through it. “I don’t do that alone. Ever.”

A beat.

“I’ve got a roommate. But she doesn’t drink either.”

Another pause.

“Doesn’t mean I don’t wish to.”

Neither of them laughs.

Neither of them moves.

Not right away.

The air smells like smoke and metal and the faint rot of whatever’s dying in the alley dumpster.

And it’s cold again.

That weird New York cold that shouldn’t be happening in early September, but does anyway — like the city just decides to punish you for staying out late.

Carmen sits with his back against the brick, elbows on knees, jaw clenched like it’s the only thing keeping his head from falling off.

He doesn’t want to think about it too much — whatever this is.

Whatever they’re doing.

It’s not anything.

It’s not nothing.

It’s just… there. Like a pulse under the skin.

Like they both need it. And they do.

He tries not to name it, but at this point it’d be stupid to pretend that it’s nothing.

During service, it’s become this thing too — not obvious, not loud.

Just the way her hand stills sometimes when he passes too close.

The way he finds her eyes in the mirror across the pass without trying.

The way they both look for each other—every time their interaction with Fields ends. 

Like they need to make sure the other is still there. 

And then after… after, sometimes they just sit like this.
Way too long.

Past midnight sometimes.

Smoking, not smoking. Phones out. Scrolling through nothing. Saying even less. They don’t talk about personal shit. Not really.

But they also don’t leave.

Like neither of them wants to go.

He doesn’t know exactly where she lives, but he knows it’s not home.

Not here.

Not in this city.

And fuck — he gets that.

Because he doesn’t have one either.

Her voice breaks through the quiet like it always does — soft but clear, knocking something loose in him.

“What do you eat?”

He blinks. Looks over. She’s staring at the ground, tapping ash into a crushed Red Bull can.

“You never eat family,” she adds.

“I smoke.” He exhales through his nose. Shrugs. “Sometimes I eat. Some bar. Something quick. I dunno. Usually just—“

“Something quick and nutritious,” she says, dryly. “Right.”

He gives her a look. Half amused, half exhausted.

She shrugs back. “No, I get it. I just feel like I’d fucking faint if I didn’t have family. And ours is pretty solid, honestly.”

He snorts. “Yeah, I know.”

“Usually you make it.”

“Yeah, well.” He rubs a hand down his face. “It’s the only thing I can make without him breathing down my neck.”

“It’s really fucking good,” she says simply. “When was the last time somebody said you’re good at cooking?”

He blinks.

Almost laughs.

But it doesn’t come out right.

Just a breath that sounds like it’s dragging itself uphill.

“I dunno,” he mutters, shaking his head. “Year ago, maybe. Definitely not here. I’m pretty sure some compliments have been thrown in my direction. But they probably got intercepted by him on the way.”

She lets out a low breath. “Jesus fucking Christ.”

He hums. Doesn’t smile. Just leans back against the wall again, eyes closing for a second like maybe, if he’s lucky, he’ll dissolve into the brick.

There’s a beat. A long, quiet one.

Then Sydney says, soft and a little surprised, “This is the most we’ve ever said to each other. Without—you know… arguing and shit.”

He opens his eyes again. Tilts his head back to look at the sky, dark and wide and mercifully empty.

“Yeah,” he says.

And then—

“Do you mind?” she asks. Careful. Quiet.

He doesn’t look at her. Just lets a small breath escape, and smiles—more to himself than anything else.

“Not at all.”

They don’t say anything else for a while.

Just stay there.

Not going home

Chapter Text

It’s raining actual bullshit.

Horizontal, face-slapping, denim-drenching Chicago sky piss.

Carmen doesn’t have a coat, doesn’t have an umbrella — just this thin-ass jeans jacket that somehow makes it worse. He’s soaked. Hair plastered to his forehead, shoes making that gross squelch with every step.

He probably looks like something fished out of a sewer drain behind a gas station.

He ducks under the back awning of The Beef and opens the door with numb fingers. Shivering. Miserable. Halfway through cursing the weather and his life and maybe God himself, he hears it:

Shouting. Ahhh. Beautiful.

Not just raised voices — no. Full-throttle yelling.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Carmen mutters. “It’s nine in the morning.”

He doesn’t even have to step inside to know. That voice? That righteous, booming Chicago uncle voice? That’s Cicero. That’s Uncle.

And the other one, louder, dumber, more nasal? Richie. Of course.

Carmen exhales. Slumps against the metal prep counter just inside the kitchen. Doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. Just listens like a war journalist documenting two idiots reenacting Saving Private Ryan over a lifetime of petty favors and financial malpractice.

“You always need something,” Jimmy barks. “Always! You, your kid, your ex-wife, your fucking mother, your weird cousin with the toe fungus—always!”

“I gave you back that fifty bucks, Jimmy!”

“Oh, you gave me fifty bucks? That’s adorable. You owe me thousands , you parasite.”

“I’m not a parasite, man, Mikey was the one who—”

“Don’t fucking Mikey me! Mikey’s dead, and I still don’t have hundreds of grands!”

“I didn’t ask him to borrow it, Jimmy!”

“But you sure as shit helped him spend it!”

“I was not supposed to be the one to pay it back!”

“What am I supposed to do with that, huh? Pull the money out of my ass? Do I look like a fucking magician?!”

Carmen sighs. Peeks into the front of house. Yep. There they are.

Two grown-ass men, red in the face, waving their arms like Muppets in heat. Richie’s pacing like he’s about to challenge Jimmy to a duel in the parking lot. Jimmy’s face is purple.

It’s already too much.

Carmen wipes his face with his sleeve, uselessly. He can feel water pooling in his boots.

He steps out finally, raising a hand in surrender. “Alright, alright—fuck me, hi. Jimmy.”

Jimmy spins, looks Carmen up and down like he’s just crawled out of a toilet.

“The fuck happened to you?” he demands. “Don’t you own a car? You look like a drowned fuckin’ squirrel. You got struck by lightning on the way here?”

“Jeans jacket,” Richie snorts. “Classic.”

“I didn’t get struck by—never mind.” Carmen gestures vaguely at the two of them. “Why are you yelling?”

Jimmy points like he’s a prosecutor mid-trial. “Why didn’t you call me? I texted you on Sunday . You turning into Rick?l

Richie throws his hands up. “Here we fuckin’ go—my name is Richie, by the way, not Rick, not Reek, not Ratatouille—Richie.”

Carmen ignores them both. “I didn’t call you because I didn’t borrow the money, Jimmy. Mikey did. Richie did. I didn’t touch it.”

“I didn’t!” Richie slams the counter with his palm.

“I don’t give a flying fuck who borrowed it. Mikey is not here, and you two are, and I want my money .”

Carmen gestures at the empty dining room. “How do you think I’m gonna do that? We’re barely hanging on. We scrape by week to week—what do you want me to do, rob a fucking bank?”

Jimmy narrows his eyes. “No, smartass. You two are gonna cater a party.”

Carmen blinks. “What?”

“A party. For my kid. At my house. Today.”

“No.”

Richie: “Fuck no.”

“Oh, yes. You’re gonna go there, and you’re gonna make hot dogs, and they’re gonna be the best fucking hot dogs those little bastards ever had.”

“Absolutely not,” Richie says, backing away like someone just handed him a live grenade. “I’m not going to some rich-ass house in the suburbs to entertain a bunch of wet, screaming kids. That’s a hard no, bro. I don’t care if it’s your kid or the Pope’s.”

“If it’s necessary,” Jimmy growls, “you’ll put on a costume, Rick. A full-body SpongeBob suit.”

“I’m gonna fucking kill you!”

“You’ll look good in yellow!”

“I’ll drown myself in mustard before I wear that thing!”

They’re both yelling again. Carmen zones out for a second. Hair dripping down his collar. Socks cold. Palms itchy.

He glances down.

The front table.

The one right by the counter.

The one she’s been sitting at every day for a week. With her notebook. With her eyes on him. Just… waiting.

“Carmen,” Jimmy barks. “Hey! You still with us, kid?”

Carmen flinches. “Yeah. Yeah, I—fuck. I hear you.”

Jimmy spreads his arms. “You and Richie. My house. Hot dogs. One of you cooks, one of you smiles.”

“We still have service,” Carmen mutters. “What do you want us to do, shut down?”

“You got people, don’t you?”

“No,” Carmen snaps. “We don’t have enough. Tina’s already covering half the line. Ebra is not ready for that, Marcus is doing cakes.”

“It’s raining,” Jimmy barks. “There won’t be people.”

“There might be later,” Richie chimes in. “I’m not leaving this place, okay? Carmen’s going.”

“No, the fuck he’s not,” Carmen shoots back. “I’m not doing it alone.”

“Well, I need two people,” Jimmy declares. “One to grill, one to entertain. You decide. But this is happening.”

And then—

Knock knock.

All three of them freeze.

A soft knock.

On the front door.

Carmen turns his head slowly.

Because he already knows.

She stands behind the rain-speckled glass, a hood pulled over her head, hands stuffed in the pockets of that olive green jacket he used to hate because she wore it all the time. 

He doesn’t move.

He can’t.

Raindrops still slide down his skin.

Cold slices through his body.

Behind him, Richie groans. “Oh, for fuck’s sake, this girl.”

Jimmy squints. “Who the fuck is that?”

Richie opens the door for her before he can say a word. Sydney steps in and the first thing Carmen thinks is:

She looks like the rain.

Her braids drip water onto the floor in rhythmic taps. Her hoodie is plastered to her shoulders. Her sneakers squish. Her face is pinched and cold and she looks like something out of a painting of a drowned saint. Holy, cold, and soaked to hell.

Jimmy stares at her like she’s a weather-related crime. “Jesus Christ. Do none of you own a fucking umbrella?”

“Shit—sorry,” Sydney says quickly, pulling her hood down and wiping at her face like it’ll help. “Sorry. I didn’t—I literally was just, like, passing by, and the rain’s—uh—it’s crazy, I thought I could maybe, like, wait in here for a bit?”

Richie nods like he’s been expecting this outcome since birth. “Yeah. No shit. ‘Accident.’ Total accident.”

“Definitely an accident.” She nods, too earnestly. Carmen watches the whole performance in stunned silence.

But he knows that voice.

That sheepish, practiced voice. He’s heard it a hundred times, and not once was it honest. She didn’t just pass by. She didn’t get caught in the rain by chance.

She was looking for him.

“Sorry, dear, but who the fuck are you?” Jimmy asks, squinting.

“I’m—uh, Sydney.”

“You work here?”

“No.” She shrugs. “But I wanted to.”

Carmy finally finds his voice. It comes out like gravel. “She can’t work here.”

Jimmy turns on him. “Why not?”

Richie claps his hands like a sitcom dad in a crisis. “Oh here we go.”

“I actually—” Sydney starts, stepping forward and shivering so hard it looks painful. “I actually said I’d work for free. I don’t care. I just need to work.”

“Bullshit,” Carmen says flatly.

Jimmy grins. “That’s fucking perfect. These idiots don’t have any money anyway.”

Sydney sneezes.

Like, actually sneezes.

Carmen flinches.

Jimmy shakes his head, genuinely pitying now. “You poor fuckin’ kid. Rick, make me and Sydney something hot to drink.”

“I—yeah. Okay, fuck.” Richie spins toward the counter, muttering something about herbal tea and senility.

And then it’s quiet again.

Just her and Carmen, staring at each other across the floor.

She’s still trembling. Her hands twitching in her sleeves. But she’s smiling now—just barely. Something half-sorry, half-smug. Like she knows she shouldn’t be here, but she also knows she’s exactly where she needs to be.

Carmen’s jaw works, but no words come. He’s not angry. Not exactly. He’s just—stuck. She keeps showing up. Keeps being here, looking at him like that. All fucking soaked and cold. And stupid.

She wants to show.

That she is close.

Until it matters again.

“I was hoping to catch you out back,” she says, voice soft, low. “Before shift. Thought maybe I’d—I don’t know.”

Carmen rubs a hand down his face. Exhausted. Numb. Still wet. “Sydney...”

Jimmy jumps back in. “Yeah, that’s totally normal situation, by the way. Very healthy. Sydney, can you cook?”

She blinks, startled. “Um. Yeah? I mean, yeah. I wanted to work here so...”

Jimmy snorts. “Rick works here. He can’t cook for shit.”

“Fuck off,” Richie says from behind the counter.

Sydney smiles again. “I can cook.”

“She’s not working here,” Carmen cuts in, sharper this time. “End of story.”

Jimmy throws up his hands. “Good. Don’t give a fuck. She’s not working here. She’s making hot dogs with you.”

No.

Carmen turns like he’s been slapped. “No. Absolutely not.”

“That’s an excellent fucking idea,” Richie calls out, already halfway through pouring scalding water into a cracked mug.

“No!” Carmen repeats, louder now, more desperate. “No. No way.”

No. No. No.

“I can help,” Sydney says, voice chipper as hell now. “Sure!”

Jimmy’s beaming. “This is excellent. Fucking excellent.”

“She’s not coming,” Carmen says. “You don’t understand, Jimmy—”

“I don’t give a single fuck what I don’t understand. Pack your shit. Prepare the fucking buns. Slice the fucking onions. Grab the mustard, the ketchup, I don’t care, whole fuckin’ condiment aisle if you want. You’re taking sausages, lemonade, entertainment. You’re loading it into my car.” He slaps his hand against the counter like a gavel. “You’re going. She’s going. ”

Sydney wipes her nose with the sleeve of her hoodie. Her smile widens.

She looks like she just won the lottery.

That smug little look. The chin up, the I-told-you-I’m-not-done look.

And Carmen?

He hates it.

He wishes he could throw it up.

This feeling.

Forget it.

Leave it somewhere on the ground by the dumpster.

The feeling that twists up in his chest like a hot knife in cold butter.

He missed her.

He missed her so fucking much.

Carmen rubs at his face again.

Palm dragging over eyes, cheek, mouth — like he’s trying to wipe it all off.

Everything. Her voice. The cold air.

The tight coil behind his ribs that’s been twisting since the second she walked in here.

He exhales hard. Jaw clenched so tight it aches. Through his teeth, barely audible:

“Literally fucking fine.”

Uncle Jimmy claps. Loud and theatrical. Like they just agreed to perform open heart surgery together.

“Brilliant! I love cooperation! I love teamwork! I love responsible people! ” He spins toward Sydney like he’s on stage. “Sydney, don’t you love responsible adults? People who text back , who call back ?”

Sydney’s voice is light. Too light. Dangerous.

“Yeah, that’s, uh… definitely a great thing,” she says, eyes fixed on Carmen like an aiming device. “Especially when they don’t block you.”

Carmen doesn’t flinch, but the back of his neck burns.

Cicero laughs — big, booming, delighted. “Yeah, no shit! Somebody tries to block me , I’m gonna level their whole fuckin’ house with one of those… what d’you call it, the big fuckin’ metal ball that wrecks—?”

“A wrecking ball?” Sydney supplies, smirking despite herself.

“Yeah! That! I’ll Miley Cyrus that shit,” Cicero says, swinging an invisible ball and chain with both arms. “Boom. Fuckin’ gone.”

She chuckles. And the sound hits Carmen like static — bright and sharp and nostalgic in the worst way.

Richie, behind the counter with two steaming styrofoam cups, calls out, “Hey, Syd! Tea’s up! Come grab it before I start crying.”

She walks over, slow and smug like she owns the place. Takes the cup from his hand, lifts it to her mouth, takes a long, luxurious sip.

“Thank you, Richie.”

“Not a problem,” Richie beams. “Not a single problem. I owe you so much for this favor you’re doin’ for me, Sydney. You are a fucking saint. ”

She tilts her head, full smirk now. “Oh, it’s my pleasure.”

Carmen can see the way Richie lights up. Like someone plugged him into an outlet labeled validation. He’s glowing.

Then Richie’s looking at him again, still grinning. “Cousin. Bring her my jacket, she’s fuckin’ shivering.”

“I’m also fucking shivering,” Carmen mutters, already pulling his sleeves down further.

Uncle grabs his own cup of tea and doesn’t miss a beat. “Literally who asked you , Carmen. Go get a jacket for the girl. And then go prep all the hotdog shit. You’ve got one hour. Don’t mess it up.”

Carmen’s already walking toward the back, muttering under his breath as he goes. Something about wrecking balls.

Something about fuck and me.

Chapter Text

Last week was Mikey’s birthday.

Carmen called that morning — just to say hey, just to say I love you, just to say please answer.

Mikey didn’t pick up.

He called Richie. Voice low, flat, like he felt nothing at all.

“Hey, I couldn’t reach Mikey. Can you… just tell him I said happy birthday?”

“Yeah, I will, cousin. I don’t know why he’s like this. That’s Mikey, you know.”

“Yeah. Definitely. I get it.”

But he didn’t.

Not in a way that made it hurt less.

It was that particular ache — the kind you get when your brother starts acting like you’re dead weight.

Like nothing you’ve built is even worth a nod.

He was running one of the best kitchens in the country. Mikey hadn’t said shit.

And to Carmen — he’d never say it out loud — but that silence felt like a rejection deeper than any fucking cut.

Prep that day for him was hell.

Slips, seconds lost, Fields furious.

Carmen burned himself. Not a dramatic movie burn — just mean, red-hot skin from rolled-up sleeves.

He hissed, ducked out before anyone could ask. Before Fields could rip him apart.

He locked himself in the walk-in.

Cold air.

Cold shelves.

Colder thoughts.

Pressed his back to the metal and tried to breathe past the thing crawling up his throat.

The burn wasn’t helping. He rolled his sleeves back down.

A minute later, Sydney walked in with a half-bin of produce.

Didn’t see him at first — just doing her thing.

But then she clocked the way he was standing.

Too still.

She paused. “You burn yourself?”

“It’s nothing.”

“You sure?”

“I’m fine.”

She didn’t buy it.

“Let me see.”

“It’s fine.”

“Carmen.”

He wouldn’t look at her. “If Fields sees it, he’ll call me ten kinds of slow.”

“It’s not funny. Sleeve.”

He unbuttoned, rolled up. Angry red, blistering.

“Jesus.”

She touched just beside the burn; he flinched.

“Fuck. Sorry.”

“It’s okay.”

She grabbed a chilled bottle of white vinegar, pressed it to the burn.

“Hold this.”

He obeyed.

“I’ve got burn cream and Tylenol in my bag. Stay put.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re hiding in a freezer from warm air.”

He had no comeback.

She started to leave, then paused. “Can you breathe?”

He nodded. “Yeah.” Voice thinner than he wanted. “I’m fine.”

She turned. “Okay, you fucking liar, I’ll be right back.”

He said it before he could stop himself. “Thank you.”

She looked back over her shoulder, smirked. “Fuck off.”

But she was smiling.

And he smiled back, weakly.

He had no idea why she cared so much. 

Nobody ever did.

Next week she was in service.

Not all the time — but more.

She’s still technically a stage, and technically not supposed to do shit like plate or expedite, but she’s everywhere.

Helping on the line.

Adjusting sauces.

Catching fuckups.

Everywhere Fields tells her to be.

She doesn’t do dirty job anymore — the new guy does.

Poor bastard looks like someone dropped him in a blender.

Satan barely talks to him, just nods in his direction when there’s a mess.

And Sydney? Sydney’s no longer stuck in prep.

She floats.

He’s watching her dice herbs when he hears it.

“Adamu, you’re on family meal,” Fields murmurs, pointing. “Everybody else is busy.”

That’s… weird.

Stages don’t do family meal. Not here.

He glances at her.

She blinks at Fields like she misheard — but then, her eyebrows twitch up. Not insulted. Not even nervous. Just… surprised. A little pleased. A little proud.

She catches Carmy’s eye and her look says, Did that just happen?

His says, Yeah, no shit.

And whatever she’s cooking later smells fucking amazing.

After prep, he heads outside, lights a cigarette, and leans against a wall like it’s going to hold him up emotionally.

He tells himself he’s not hungry.

There’s a melted bar in his pocket if his body disagrees.

He’s fine.

Then the door creaks open.

She steps out, arms full — two containers, a pair of forks. Braids pulled back, apron stained with sauce. Her jacket’s on too. It’s fucking cold.

He blinks. “Why are you out here?”

“I— uh made something,” she says, hovering. “Didn’t wanna eat alone. Or with those fuckers.”

He arches a brow and takes another drag. “You were fine eating with them before.”

“I dunno, most of them are hypocrites.” She shrugs. “Just… felt like hanging out here.”

“If you want a cigarette—”

“I don’t.” She holds out one of the containers. “I want you to try this. You always say I’m good. But how the fuck would you know?”

He actually laughs at that. A little breathy thing, but it’s real.

“I mean… I’m pretty sure you know what you’re doing.”

“Then prove it. Try it.”

He hesitates. But then the smell hits him. Rich, spiced, warm. His stomach growls — fucking traitor.

She grins. “Damn. You sound like you reeeeally could use it.”

He shakes his head, smiling. Flicks the half-smoked cigarette to the ground. “Fine.”

It’s a dish that makes his chest ache a little — something clearly hers, clearly from something. Southern-style, maybe. A slow-cooked stew over rice, layered with flavor. Deep and comforting.

He takes one bite. Then another.

“Your recipe?” he asks, already knowing the answer.

“Sort of. Nothing fancy. Just something my dad used to make sometimes.”

“No, it’s… this is fucking great.”

She just smiles, nudging her fork into a container.

They sit side by side, eating slowly.

Trading notes about the heat, the sauce, what she used instead of stock.

It’s the most peaceful part of this day.

Maybe this week.

“You ever thought about leaving?” he says after a moment. “Like — really leaving, while it’s easy. Somewhere that’d let you create. Be in charge. Before he makes you forget that’s even possible.”

She swirls her fork in the container. “Actually… I’m not a stage anymore. He hired me. Yesterday.”

It lands like a punch to the throat.

“Oh,” he says, flat. “Congrats. You’ve only been a stage for what… almost two months?”

“Yeah. Thanks.” She doesn’t sound thrilled. “It’s weird.”

“You sure it’s worth it?”

She looks at him. “You tell me. Is this place worth it?”

He shrugs. “I don’t know. I really don’t. It’s… efficient. It’ s perfect . But—”

“But it’s not good,  right?” she finishes. “It could get better.”

“In some ways, yeah.” He doesn’t finish the sentence. But not while Fields is in charge.

She bumps his arm gently. “Well. I’m buying you a Pepto with my first paycheck. Consider it a reward for keeping me company.”

He huffs a laugh, looks over at her. “Thanks for the meal. Can’t remember the last time someone fed me.”

She looks at him and says, simply, “My pleasure.”

The door swings open again.

Ray and Janay step out for a smoke, both pausing when they see them sitting there, eating like it’s a picnic.

Janay smirks. “Enjoying your food outside?”

Sydney, deadpan: “Yeah. The weather’s just so great.”

Carmy watches her say it, hears the dryness in her voice and feels the warmth creep into his chest like a sunbeam — stupid, soft, dangerous.

Because he glances up at the sky.

And it looks like it’s gonna rain.

***

She doesn’t tell anyone —not out loud.

But in her head, it’s all listed, catalogued like prep, all the shit he said:

You’ll never make it as a sous.

You fucked this up so bad it’s almost funny. That sauce? Throw it out.

Do it again.

Try not to fucking suck this time.

Lately, fewer critiques barked across the line. More whispers about her “ambition,” her “attitude.” And it cut deeper. Sharper.

Not everything needs your vision.

You don’t have to be the loudest in the room all the time.

You don’t get a gold star for effort here.

You want respect so bad it’s fucking pathetic.

You’re not as special as you think you are.

The last one had been a real punch to the gut. He leaned in, low and casual, while she was plating garnishes. Said “ Your poor dead mother wouldn’t want to see this plate.”

She’d nearly dropped it.

And she remembered then—Fields had said something once to Carmen, about his brother.

That was months ago.

Quiet, fast and purposefully mean.

Fields didn’t just humiliate.

He studied them, like a fucking project. Memorized their triggers.

Weaponized them.

It was the kind of thing that would’ve destroyed her if it weren’t for—well.

Carmen.

Whatever they’d carved out — a hideaway of eye contact, synced steps, a cigarette after service.

The way he passed her things without asking.

The way he looked at her when she got it right — which was often.

She’s only been here three months.

He’s been here a whole year.

Alone.

No one to talk to, not like this.

Not like them.

She’d be curled in on herself without these small moments. Without Berzatto.

She is not too proud to admit it, alright.

Carmen never told her when Fields laid into him.

He didn’t have to.

She saw it.

And lately? Fields was asking him to redo her shit less.

Not never.

But less.

And sometimes—sometimes—he even gave her a pass.

“Could do better. But fine.”

Or

“Serve it. Doesn’t mean you belong here though.”

And it made her want to scream and dance and throw a brick at Fields’ face all at once.

Because it meant she was getting it.

She was getting it. Figuring it out. Still here. Proving something.

Following his instructions.

Perfectly.

She didn’t trust Ray and Janae anymore. Too close to Fields.

Laughing at his jokes. Sharing smirks.

It made her feel stupid for ever trying to make friends here.

Everything was too fast.

Too unstable.

Too fake.

People got fired like it was nothing.

People vanished.

She couldn’t really trust anyone at this kitchen.

But she was still coming here.

Still cooking.

Her dad was proud.

She was proud.

And Carmen…

Was next to her. All the time.

“I’m surprised I’m still here.”

He lights a cigarette, takes a small puff, and passes it to her.

“I’m more surprised you didn’t quit,” he says — low, like it’s not even a question. Just something he’s carried for a while

She shrugs, exhales toward the alley lights.

“I’m surprised they pay this much.”

He laughs — that low, quiet heh. “Yeah.”

“You earn way more. You probably live in some fancy-ass place,” she says, nudging his shoulder. “Full industrial loft vibes. Exposed brick. Big-ass windows.”

“Nah,” he says. “Shitty studio downtown. Small. Empty. Just—eh.”

She tilts her head, smirking. “Can’t be that bad.”

“Maybe I’ll show you sometime,” he says, eyes forward. “If you want.”

It catches her off guard — chest tightening, cigarette paused near her mouth.

“Oh.”

Beat.

“I mean—yeah. I’d love to.”  Totally normal. Just friends. Just… something like that.

Then she chuckles, shaking her head. “But my place? You’d freak. It’s dark and weird. My roommate’s… a character. The whole place smells like incense and cat food. No space to breathe. My room’s… nothing.” She passes him the cigarette.

“But I’m sooo gonna move,” she adds after a beat, voice softer. “Been saving. Soon as I’ve got enough, I’m out.”

He exhales through his nose, watching the smoke float up. “I’m fucking curious to see your place now.”

She blinks. “You say that now.”

They laugh.

“Okay, okay—maybe I was dramatic,” she says, grinning. “But it’s not really a place for… you know.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Hangouts?”

“I mean…” She swallows hard. “That’s what it’d be. Right? If we went to someone’s place… like outside of work?”

“I’m just fucking with you, Sydney.”

She glares, but she’s smiling. “You can choke . ”

Their fingers brush again as he hands her the cigarette — longer this time. Slower.

“You can call me Syd, by the way.”

He raises an eyebrow, offers his hand.

“And I’m Carmy.”

They shake on it.

***

He’s been doing this shit for eight years.

Rat-infested basements with flickering lights.

Michelin-star kitchens that ran on ego and espresso and unchecked rage.

He’s had knives thrown — not at him, but close.

Plates shattered at his feet.

Screamed at until his ears rang. Ignored for weeks.

Worshipped like a prophet.

Once, someone tried to stab him over mise en place.

Another time, the pastry chef left a note — burn it all down — and walked out mid-service.

He’s seen people fired before they even found the walk-in.

Line cooks cry in the alley, squatting in puddles with cigarette butts stuck to their shoes.

Stood mid-dinner rush, watching someone panic while sauté pans sizzled like nothing was wrong.

He’s been screamed at so close he felt spit hit his face.

And through all of it —

every city, every kitchen, every burnt hand and cracked tile floor —

he never once went out for drinks after a shift.

Not once.

People asked, early on.

“You coming?”

He never did.

Eventually they stopped asking.

He had that look. Like don’t bother.

Some thought it was arrogance.

Some thought it was burnout.

It was both. Maybe worse.

But when Syd brings it up —

it lands different.

They’re in the walk-in.

It’s too cold and too quiet and they’re too close. As per usual.

She says it’s her birthday like she’s telling him a secret.

“Wait. Today?”

“Yeah.”

“Shit. Happy birthday.”

She shrugs.

Her hands dig into a bin of greens, elbow-deep, latex glove crinkling with each sift.

The shelf beside her groans slightly as he leans on it.

He doesn’t speak right away—just watches how she sorts the herbs. Focused. Fast. Not frantic.

“It’s going great so far,” she says eventually, dry. “Only got humiliated twice. And only one of those was loud enough for the whole kitchen to hear.”

His blood boils. “So… solid birthday.”

“Top tier,” she deadpans.

She doesn’t look up, but her lip catches between her teeth like she’s concentrating.

He watches her do that more than he should.

“So,” he says softly, “you’re just gonna celebrate at the bar…”

“It’s not my idea, okay?” She leans back against the shelf, mirroring him.

Practically shoulder to shoulder.

He could tilt his head and bump hers.

She doesn’t look like someone who wants to party.

More like someone who wants to evaporate.

“My roommate,” she says, like it’s a diagnosis. “She’s… insistent. She has this whole plan. Drinks. A special outfit. A speech.”

“That sounds… horrifying.”

“I’m convinced she hates me. She’s trying to break me mentally.”

Carmy snorts. “Maybe she’s just trying to set a vibe.”

“She’s trying to ruin my life,” she says. “And I owe her, like, a lot. Money. Emotional damages. A pan.”

Pause. She chews the inside of her cheek.

“I just don’t want to go alone. With her. I won’t survive it.”

“So,” he says slowly, “you want me to keep you company?”

“Yes,” she says. “Obviously. Please.”

He raises a brow. “Isn’t that weird?”

“What?” she blinks. “Why would it be weird?”

“Because…” He shrugs. “Don’t you have, like… friends?”

She squints at him. “I thought we were friends.”

He pulls a face. “Colleagues, maybe. Bonded by trauma.”

“Excuse you—okay—please, Carmen, I’m begging.” Hands pressed together in prayer. “One drink. You make an appearance. Distract her. Then we bail before she starts talking about her birth chart and her quantum soulmate.”

“Her what?”

“Her moon is in crisis,” she says gravely. “It’s going through it.”

He actually laughs—low and surprised. “This the same roommate who brought home that guy named… Beetle?”

“Beetlejuice,” she corrects. “And it’s not a guy. It’s a damn cat.”

“I’m starting to think you live in a sitcom.”

“I’m starting to think you live in solitary confinement.”

He shrugs. “Not that bad.”

“Please,” she whines. “Come on. She wants to do a speech. At a dive bar. I need an emotional support human.”

“You want me to be your emotional support human?” he asks, horrified.

“Yes. Because you’re mean and awkward and you’ll scare her into silence.”

“That’s probably not true.”

She steps forward, closes the space, grabs the front of his chef’s whites and gives him a playful shake. “Please. I’ll buy you a Coke.”

He stares. Her eyes are wide, full of mock desperation.

He doesn’t smile—but his mouth twitches. “You’re really pulling out all the stops, huh?”

“I am on my knees internally,” she says comically. “Emotionally sobbing. Carmen. Chef. Carmy. Carm-bear. ”

“Ew, don’t say that.”

“Oh my god,” she gasps. “Wait. Do your friends ever call you Carms? Like, plural?”

He gives her the flattest stare known to man. “No.”

I have no friends.

“Carms,” she repeats, delighted. “Carmsie. Carminator. Little Carmsalot—”

“Are you ten?” He snatches a handful of parsley and tosses it at her face. Not hard. Just enough to make her yelp.

She gasps. “How dare—”

“You deserved that.”

She grabs a sprig and hurls it back. It hits his forehead and bounces off his chest.

They burst out laughing.

Then—immediately—drop to their knees like lunatics to scoop up every fleck of green.

“No evidence,” she mutters, stuffing spoiled parsley into her pockets.

“None,” he says seriously, scanning the tiles like they’re about to be fingerprinted.

They stand. She leans in, eyes wide like she’s about to confess something grave.

“Carmy,” she says, very serious. “I’m gonna play the birthday card.”

He narrows his eyes. “No you won’t.”

“Oh, I will,” she grins, already halfway to victory. “It’s my birthday. You can’t say no. I’m a birthday girl.”

He crosses his arms. “You love your birthday now?”

“I lo-oove my birthday,” she lies. “It’s my whole personality for twenty-four hours.”

He scoffs. “Since when?”

“Since right now. Come on, Carmy. Please. I need this.”

He shakes his head, but he’s smiling—because she already got to him. She always does.

“Okay. Jesus. Fine. Just once, all right?”

She lights up like it’s Christmas. “You’re a good man, Carmen.”

I’m a weak man.

“Okay then,” she says. “I’ll probably need your, like… number. Or somewhere to send the location.”

He straightens. “Yeah. We can—yeah. During family.” 

She smiles. It’s soft. Unassuming.
Just a flash of something real.

“Cool. Also,” she says, eyebrows lifting, “you’re cooking today?”

“I am.”

“What are you making?”

He tries to smother the grin, but can’t quite. “Crispy-skinned branzino…”

“No!”

“…with beurre blanc.”

“Stop it.”

“And charred leeks.”

She actually gasps. “Shut. The hell. Up. I told you I wanted to try that!”

He shrugs, leaning closer like it’s a secret just for her. “Consider it a birthday present.”

She laughs. A real one. The kind that fills the cold little walk-in with warmth.

He doesn’t laugh like that anymore. But something tugs at his chest. Something close.

And that’s when the door creaks open.

A breath of hot air rushes in.

And Fields appears—too-pristine whites, too-sharp eyes. Like a ghost from a worse life.

Carmy’s spine straightens on instinct. “Chef.”

Sydney bends down, suddenly invested in pease. Her back to them. Carmy steps in front of her without thinking, jaw tight.

Fields’ eyes narrow, flicking between them. Cold. Measuring.

“Walk-in’s for one person at a time.”

Silence.

He knows how this guy operates. Knows something worse is coming later.

Probably on the floor. In front of people. Something that’ll sting her enough to dim that little light.

“Berzatto, compost sort after shift. Adamu, deep drain duty. Now get the fuck out. Both of you.”

Ah here it is.

***

Sydney is tired in the kind of way that doesn’t even feel dramatic anymore. Just… cellular.

Her bones hum.

Her fingers feel swollen, mutinous.

She and Carmen spent two brutal hours cleaning that fucking kitchen in a silence so thick it could’ve curdled milk.

Because Fields was there. Watching.

Tyrant.

She took a cab home — cheating, yes, whatever — scrubbed herself raw, yanked on a clean t-shirt.

But still, somehow, she smells like The Empire. Like it’s in her DNA, at this point.

And now she’s here.

Slouched at a corner bar, elbows on the table, buzzing with regret and salt.

The stool feels like a war crime. Her ass hurts.

She wants to be horizontal. Asleep. Dead? No, just fed.

A snack? A nap? A coma?

What she has instead is Nina.

Nina perches beside her like a human hummingbird — all color, motion, and words. Her short dark hair fluffs out like she styled it in a wind tunnel. She smells like patchouli and some stupidly expensive shampoo.

“ I told him that I don’t care if Mercury’s retrograde or combusting — you don’t Venmo request someone for shrimp toast. That’s not astrology, that’s fraud. That’s what Dutch people do.”

Sydney blinks. She stopped following five minutes ago — maybe ten.

Last night, Sydney had dragged herself into their shared apartment with garlic under her nails and despair in her soul, and Nina, lounging on the couch in a sweater that said ‘ THE MOON MADE ME DO IT ’, looked up and said:

“We’re going out tomorrow. It’s your birthday. You owe me at least seven thousand emotional dollars. I’m cashing in.”

And honestly? It sounded fucking fair.

At least she managed to rope Carmen into this too.

She refuses to be the only one suffering.

This isn’t fun. This is punishment.

If she has to endure a bar on a Friday night, so does he. Misery loves company. Especially company that is good in quiet.

Nina, undeterred, sips her lavender martini — edible glitter swirling lazily in the glass like a potion.

“ Anyway! My day was nuts. I did three tarot readings, helped a Pisces dump her Gemini situationship — thank God — and matched this couple who met for coffee and adopted a dog. Full-on shared custody within four hours. They’re naming him Orbit. Saturn in Cancer is so real this month.”

Sydney blinks again.

Nina tilts her head. “Wait. Are you even listening to me?”

“Of course,” Sydney says, not even trying to lie. Her eyes are fixed on the entrance.

“You’re waiting for someone,” Nina announces, perking up like a meerkat. “I knew it. You wore your cute earrings. That’s like a sign of war.”

“It’s just someone from work,” Sydney mutters, face already going hot.

“Mmhmm. Someone from work.” Nina wiggles her eyebrows like a cartoon villain.

She rolls her eyes. “Literally nothing like that.”

“You said that like it’s definitely like that.”

Before Sydney can respond with something scathing or just fall face-first onto the bar, the door creaks open.

And there he is.

Carmen.

Carmy.

Carmy. Carmy. Carmy.

God, she’s still not used to that name.

It sounds… sweet.

Too sweet.

Like a trap.

Guy is still damp from the shower, curls darkened and sticking to his forehead.

Striped jacket thrown on over jeans.

His eyes scan the bar until they land on her, and then he makes his way over with all the grace of a man walking directly into a trap.

He sits down beside her with a small nod, glancing between her and Nina like he’s not entirely sure which one of them is more dangerous.

“Hey,” he says.

“Hey,” Sydney replies, and wordlessly slides a glass of Coke toward him.

Carmy pauses, glances down, then offers a small smile. “Thanks.”

“Nina, this is Carmen. Carmy… We work together.”

Nina leans forward, chin in her hands, staring at him like he’s just descended from a UFO.

“Oh wow ,” she breathes. “Your energy is insane.”

Carmy blinks. “Uh. Thanks?”

“It’s like… sharp. But also like, sad velvet ?”

His eyebrows scrunch.

“Like a knife wrapped in a baby blanket.”

“Nina,” She hisses under her breath.

“What? I’m just being observant ! You can tell so much from people’s aura. His is buzzing . Something’s up.”

Carmy looks like he’s rethinking every life decision that brought him to this exact stool.

“There’s nothing up,” Sydney says, voice clipped. “We work together.”

Nina leans back, smirking. “You keep saying that like you’re trying to convince a cop .”

“We work in a kitchen , Nina.”

“Which is famously where all sexual tension goes to slow roast , babe.”

Sydney turns to Carmy and mutters, “Do you wanna just leave now and go fight behind a dumpster or something? That might actually be more relaxing than this.”

Carmy takes a sip of his Coke. “Honestly? Yeah.”

Nina just beams, sipping her drink, thrilled . “I love you two. You’re like enemies. But in a hot, star-crossed, 2000s slow-burn fanfic kind of way.”

“What is wrong with you?” Syd asks, nearly choking on her drink.

Nina ignores her completely and pivots toward Carmy again. “What’s your moon sign?”

“I don’t know what that means.”

“Oh we are gonna have so much fun, Carmen!”

Sydney sighs, waves the bartender over, and orders an Aperol. She stares ahead, silent for a beat, then mutters, “I’m just so happy to be alive.”

A little while later, Nina is still in the middle of what can only be described as a crash course in astrology, zodiac dynamics, cosmic compatibility, and minor cult-level enthusiasm — and she is locked in .

Her martini is long gone, but she’s buzzing like she’s high on moonlight and glitter dust.

Carmy’s on his second Coke, sitting with his elbows on the bar, actually listening .

Sydney watches him from the corner of her eye, squinting. Like… what?

Nina gestures dramatically with her fingers like she’s sprinkling understanding into his brain.

“You, Carmy, are what we call an astrological baby . That’s okay. You’re learning.”

Sydney snorts into her drink.

Carmy, somehow, is not annoyed.

He’s smiling, just a little, watching Nina with the same face he uses when he’s trying to follow a chef’s recipe from the 1800s. Patient.

Concentrating like this means something .

Nina turns her gaze to Sydney and claps her hands together like she’s unveiling a surprise.

“So!” Nina announces, eyes twinkling with mischief. “Sydney here is a Scorpio. And do you know what that means?”

Carmy shakes his head. “Not a clue.”

Sydney raises her glass. “It means I’m a bitch.”

Nina gasps. “Nonsense! Scorpios are so much more than that.”

“I’m not wrong though,” Sydney mutters.

Carmy huffs a laugh behind his glass. He tries to play it off. Fails.

Nina, now fully in professor-mode, steeples her fingers. “Scorpios are powerful. Private. Mysterious. Deep. Passionate. You’re ruled by Pluto—death, rebirth, transformation. You’re not chaotic, you’re surgical. You’ll cut straight to the truth but only after watching someone squirm for thirty seconds too long.”

Sydney smirks. “Sounds fake but okay.”

“No, no. You’re intense. Controlled. People think you’re calm ‘til you go feral. It’s very hot,” Nina adds helpfully.

Carmy looks at Sydney, amused. “You do seem calm.”

“You’ve never seen me loose my cleaver.”

He laughs again, and Nina claps like someone just proposed. “SEE? The tension? The restraint? A Scorpio in the kitchen is like a panther in a knife drawer.”

Carmy gives her a look. “That’s… not reassuring.”

“And you!” Nina turns, finger raised like she’s about to cast a spell. “When’s your birthday?”

Carmy pauses like he’s afraid of summoning a spirit.

“Uh. April fifteen.”

Nina gasps like someone just confessed to being a fallen angel.

“Oh my GOD. You’re an Aries! ”

Sydney blinks. “What, like a goat?”

“This is wild! This is Fire and Water. Literally incompatible but cosmically magnetic.”

Sydney groans into her glass. “That sounds like a red flag.”

Carmy glances toward Sydney with an awkward little smile, like he’s not sure if he should be amused or concerned.

“No, listen—Aries and Scorpio?” Nina is fully in the zone now, gesturing like she’s painting constellations. “This is heat. Tension. Power struggles. But, like, the sexy kind.”

Sydney arches a brow. “We didn’t really ask, Nina...”

“Scorpio brings the mystery, the slow burn, the emotional depth. And Aries—” Nina points at Carmy like she’s accusing him of committing arson. “Aries brings the spark. The blunt force. The unapologetic chaos. Together? It’s like a volcano dating a riptide.”

“That sounds stable,” Sydney deadpans.

“Oh, it’s not. But it’s unforgettable,” Nina grins. “It’s eye contact across the room. It’s arguments that end in either a breakup or making out in a stairwell. Possibly both.”

Carmy makes a small choking noise.

Sydney raises her glass, laughing. “So basically I emotionally manipulate and he charges into traffic for me.”

“Exactly,” Nina says, delighted. “But with mutual respect.”

Carmy mutters, “I don’t charge into traffic.”

Sydney grins. “You would though.”

Nina clutches her chest like she’s just witnessed a sacred bond. “Do you feel the chemistry right now? The tension? The banter? I’m getting steam burns over here.”

Then—so casually it should be illegal—she adds, “Also, the sex is supposed to be… like… life-altering.”

Sydney almost drops her glass.

Carmy visibly malfunctions.

Nina, completely unfazed, continues, “I mean it! It’s intense. Transformative. Probably involves biting.”

“Okay—!” Sydney cuts in, eyes wide. “Okay, girl, I think you’ve said enough.”

“Have I?” Nina shrugs. “Because I haven’t even gotten to the part where Aries goes totally feral once they’ve claimed someone.”

“Wow… okay now,” Carmy mutters, looking down at his hands like he might fall into them.

Nina sips Sydney’s drink, angelic. “I’m just providing information. For science.”

Sydney stares at her. “You are the least scientific person I know.”

“And yet,” Nina says, gesturing between them like she’s unveiling a masterpiece, “look at this undeniable sexual chemistry. You’re welcome.”

Sydney hides behind her hands. “You are insane!” 

“Scorpio said, lovingly, to Aries,” Nina giggles.

Carmy leans in toward her, low and warm.

“I had to get something stronger for this,” he says, and gestures with a fresh bottle of non-alcoholic beer.

Sydney snorts, full-on laughing, and it spills out of her, big and unfiltered. She leans back a little too much and loses her balance—her hand shoots out, grabbing his bicep for support.

“Whoa,” she gasps, giggling, fingers curling a little too hard around his arm. 

He catches her with a hand against her back, steady and instinctive.

They freeze there for a second.

Just a second.

Then she mutters, “I’m gonna sue this fucking stool.”

“You okay?” Carmy whispers, still holding her up.

“Yeah, sorry…”

Nina, watching them with cartoon hearts in her eyes, suddenly yawns.

Loud.

Very obviously fake.

“Well wow ! Look at the time! I am just so sleepy and important and busy.”

Sydney raises a brow. “Are you…”

“I have work in the morning,” Nina says, hopping off the stool with theatrical energy. “And plans. And sunlight to greet. I love mornings. And responsibility. And not being a third wheel.”

“You sure?” Sydney says. “We can walk you back—”

“Please. We live like twelve seconds away. I could roll home in a hula hoop. You two enjoy yourselves. So nice to meet you, Carmy.”

She winks. Winks. Then grabs her bag, spins dramatically, and flounces out the door like she’s in a Nancy Meyers rom-com set in a crystal shop.

They just sit there, blinking at the space she vacated.

Then Sydney picks up her drink again and mutters, “I give her thirty-seven seconds before she starts texting me about you.”

He doesn’t look at her, just exhales and mumbles, “That woman is unhinged.”

A beat. A long, loud beat. Their glasses sweating on the table. Carmy clears his throat like it might reset the air. It doesn’t.

Sydney fiddles with her straw like it might become a parachute. It also does not.

“She is… nice though,” she finally says. “She’s a good roommate. Could’ve been worse. Could’ve been, like… a fire juggler. Or someone who composts in the fridge.”

Carmy lets out a low, surprised laugh. “She pays the rent, huh?”

“I owe her so much money.” Sydney sighs dramatically and slumps into her seat. “So… I love her.”

Carmy tilts his head, watching her. “She earns her money with… what? That?” He gestures vaguely toward the door Nina had flounced through, like it might still be echoing with whatever mystic chaos she left behind.

“Oh yeah,” Sydney says. “It’s New York. A lot of people trust astrology.” She leans in, mock-serious. “Like, for medical decisions.”

Carmy blinks. “No.”

“She once talked a guy out of getting shoulder surgery because his Mars was retrograde. Swear to God.”

He stares. “Was she right?”

Sydney lifts her palms. “I don’t know. He’s still alive, I think. But he did move to Joshua Tree to become a sound healer, so…  not sure.”

Carmy chuckles, shaking his head. “Jesus.”

Her phone buzzes “Wow, took her long enough.” She sips her drink and reads the text “She texted that you have, like, tortured Libra energy,” 

“What does that even mean?”

Sydney smirks. “I don’t know, but I agree.”

A beat. They both take a sip.

“Alright,” she says, narrowing her eyes at him. “Tell me something I don’t know.”

He quirks a brow. “About me?”

“No, about molecular gastronomy, dude. Yes, about you.”

He smiles down into his glass. “I don’t know what you don’t know.”

“I know your birthday’s April 15th now. So that’s nice. And I know your number. And that you go by Carmy. That’s new. But besides that, you’re still a mystery, chef.”

He taps his glass against hers. “You’re not exactly an open book either.”

“Oh yeah?” she smirks. “Try me.”

He tilts his head. “Where are you from?”

“Chicago.”

That gets a real reaction. He leans back, blinking. “Wait, seriously?”

“Yeah,” she says. “Born and raised.”

“No shit,” he says, like she’s just revealed she’s royalty. “Me too.”

“I know. Chicago’s lucky.”

He snorts. “Please.”

“What part?”

“River North. You?”

“South Side.”

They both make a face.

“Wow. Cross-town rivalry,” she says.

He grins. “Destined to fail.”

“Destined to thrive, actually,” she says. “If we survive the baseball discourse.”

He nods, clearly amused. “Alright. Siblings?”

She shakes her head. “Only child.”

“Explains a lot.”

She fake glares. “You?”

“Two. Older sister Natalie, we talk. And Mikey. My brother. He…” He stops, choosing the word. “He keeps to himself.”

“That sucks.”

Carmy shrugs. “Yeah.”

“And your parents?”

He stares at the bottom of his glass for a moment. “Don’t remember my dad. Mom’s… a lot. Not in a Nina way. More like — you wanna die just being in the same room as her for too long.”

Sydney’s quiet. Then: “Damn. That’s heavy.”

He nods. “And you?”

“Mom died when I was really little,” she says. “But my dad’s cool. He’s still in Chicago. I don’t visit enough.”

“Shit. I’m sorry.”

”it’s okay. I was like four.”

There’s a softness now. An understanding.

“You went to culinary school?” he asks, changing the subject.

“Yeah. CIA.”

“Damn. How often do you hear a secret agent joke?”

“Not often enough. What about you?”

“I— Just… worked. A lot. Trained wherever I could. That’s how I learned.”

“Well,” she says, eyes locked on his, “you’re fucking great.”

He laughs, half-blushing. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. Like, stupid talented. Wanna be you when I grow up.”

Their eyes hold a beat too long. There’s a brush of his knee against hers, not quite accidental. She doesn’t think so. Her heart hits her throat. Her fingers trail her glass, and his hand is suddenly closer than before.

“Thanks,” he says, voice quiet.

“It’s true,” she says, just as soft.

“You are great too. Empire doesn’t deserve you.”

She just looks at him for a long moment and sucks her teeth.

“You too, asshole.”

They keep talking — about jobs they loved and hated, kitchens they survived and favorite knives.

She told him everything about her failed catering business and he told her about his least favorite Empire recipes.

There is a low buzz beneath it all. A hum. A knowing. Something is brewing.

And when they finally leave the bar, he’s completely sober and she’s tipsy with  cheeks that hurt from smiling.

They walk a few quiet blocks to her apartment building.

Share the usual cigarette, leaning against the railing, not saying a word at first.

Just looking at each other and laughing sometimes, like the silence is in on the joke.

It feels different. Maybe because they’re finally outside of that fucking place.

Maybe because they just spent the last hour talking like nothing else existed.

Or maybe because Nina gave them something — some strange, personal clarity they weren’t expecting.

They smoke.

They glance at each other.

They look away.

Eyes meet again.

And still, no one moves. No one leans in. No one does anything.

It pisses her the fuck off.

They don’t hug. They don’t touch. Maybe they’re not brave enough. Or maybe it would be really, really stupid. 

Irresponsible.

Insane.

Maybe it’s nothing to him.

He starts to back away, hands in his pockets. Then pauses, just a few steps down the sidewalk.

“Happy birthday, Chef,” he says, soft but clear, like he means it more than he should.

She huffs a forced laugh through her nose. “Thanks, Chef.”

He gives her a crooked little salute as he walks backward, almost tripping on the curb. She salutes back, deadpan.

Chapter Text

The heat has been blasting for ten minutes, and Carmy still can’t feel his hands.

Maybe it’s the rain.

Maybe it’s the fact that he’s spent the last twenty minutes stuffing paper bags with hot dog buns while Jimmy chats with Sydney like they’re old pals on a fucking road trip.

She’s in the front seat.

With Cicero.

Like it’s nothing. Like she hasn’t just jumped back into his orbit without a word, without a warning, and now she’s laughing at his uncle’s dumbass jokes like they’re family.

Carmy sits behind them like an extra in a hostage video, bags at his feet, mustard and ketchup bottles wedged against his knee, and a sweating tub of sauerkraut slowly ruining the seat beside him.

He’s soaked. He’s freezing.

He’s overheating.

“…so what’s your deal?” Jimmy asks, eyeing Sydney like she’s auditioning for the family business.

Carmy tries not to look at her.

He fails.

She’s got her hood down, braids damp but calm, face tilted toward the window like she hasn’t just climbed into his fucking life again.

Like this isn’t Carmen’s most cursed social equation since family Christmas dinner.

“What do you mean?” Sydney asks, all polite and unbothered.

“I mean—how’d you end up following this guy?” Jimmy jerks his thumb back toward Carmy like he’s cargo, not a human man. “You his manager? Babysitter? Court-appointed therapist?”

Carmy blinks at the headrest. Doesn’t say anything.

He’s got nothing.

No good version of this conversation exists.

“Uh—none of the above,” Sydney says with a little laugh. “We work together. Worked.”

“Uncle, stop,” Carmy mutters.

“What?” Jimmy looks at him in the mirror, eyes wide. “I’m just askin’. She seems normal. That’s all I’m sayin’.”

“Thanks?” Sydney snorts.

“No, really.” Jimmy nods. “You don’t usually see normal people willingly enter the Berzatto blast radius.”

He laughs at his own joke.

Carmy would throw himself out the window if he weren’t pinned down by condiments.

“So you’re a real-deal chef?” Jimmy asks, like he doesn’t believe her for a second.

“Technically.”

“Technically,” Jimmy echoes, like she just told him she moonlights as a magician. “What, you fake it with the hat and the knives?”

“Nah,” she grins. “I’m just not working right now.”

“Ahhh,” Jimmy nods like he gets it. “One of those chef sabbaticals. Very European.”

“So why the Beef?”

“I don’t know.” Sydney shrugs. “Wanted to try something different.”

“Different,” Jimmy repeats. “From… what? Joy? Structure? Dental plans?”

Carmy glares a hole into the back of his seat.

“Jimmy,” he warns.

“She’s smilin’! She’s fine!” Jimmy grins. “You’re the one back there lookin’ like a prisoner of war.”

“I’m not—” Carmy starts, gives up halfway. He presses his fingers into his temple like he can shut his brain off manually.

“You okay, kid?” Jimmy asks, catching it.

“Peachy,” Carmy mutters.

“Great.” Jimmy turns back to the road. “You just sit there and hold those buns like a good little caterer. I’m talkin’ to Sydney now.”

“Caterer?” Carmy hisses.

Sydney laughs. Actually laughs.

She’s thriving. She looks like she’s on a day cruise.

“So what’s next?” Jimmy keeps going. “You movin’ back to Chicago full-time? Or just here to psychologically torture Carmy for a bit?”

“I’m visiting my dad,” Sydney says, the smile still in her voice.

“Oh, that’s good.” Jimmy nods. Then turns to her with the look. “But you’re gonna see him again, right? After this?”

“Who? My dad?” she asks innocently.

“No, Carmen, sweetheart.”

She leans into the window, rests her elbow, looks at the blur of wet grey road ahead.

“That’s his call.”

“Ohhhh,” Jimmy says, delighted. “So that’s a yes.”

“Jimmy, shut up,” Carmy snaps. He’s not sure what annoys him more — that Sydney is in that passenger seat, or that they’re talking about him like he’s not even here.

“Can’t, kid,” Jimmy grins. “You climbed in the car. That makes it family time.”

Carmy fantasizes—viscerally—about opening this door and throwing himself into traffic.

“But you know what it is?” Jimmy adds, like he’s building toward a thesis. “You people—you Berzattos—you’re allergic to happiness.”

Sydney shifts. Doesn’t say a word.

“I mean, look at you,” Jimmy says to her. “You’re sweet. You’re sane. You didn’t run screaming when you saw what kind of chaos he calls a kitchen. But you stay too long with him?” He points back without looking. “You’ll start flinching at compliments and dodging eye contact.”

Carmy is staring out the window like it might magically teleport him from here.

“Only one in the family with her head on straight is Natalie,” Jimmy declares. “She’s got a man. Stable. Loves her.”

“Pete,” Carmy says, flat.

“Exactly. Fuckin’ Pete.” Jimmy sighs. “You know who Pete is, Sydney?”

“Someone bad?” she guesses, fighting a smirk.

“Worse,” Jimmy says. “He’s annoying. He’s boring. And somehow still exhausting. And today? He’s supposed to show up to my kid’s birthday party. Like we’re close.”

“We are related, Unc,” Carmy says.

“Don’t mean I wanna see his dumb fuckin’ face at 1 p.m., standing by the cake like we’re best buds.”

A silence settles — humid and judgmental.

Then Jimmy flicks again, light-speed.

“You cold?”

“Yeah—” Carmy starts.

“I was asking Sydney,” Jimmy cuts in. Then sweetly, to her: “You good, sweetheart?”

“Yeah,” she laughs, playing along. “I’m good. Thanks.”

“Great. Let’s make this a vibe. You got music?”

She pulls out her phone, presses something, and a guitar riff fills the car.

Soft. Familiar.

Brutal.

“Show me, show me, show me how you do that trick…”

Carmy’s stomach turns over.

Oh fuck.

Oh fuck.

His fingers clench around the ketchup bottle like it might anchor him to earth.

He looks up — and there she is.

That little makeup mirror flipped down on the passenger side. Her eyes catch his through it.

She doesn’t smirk. Doesn’t blink.

Just holds him there, cool and neutral. Like she hasn’t just ripped open the past with four chords and a verse.

“Fucking love this song,” Jimmy says, trying to hum along but getting it all wrong.

Sydney taps the dashboard, tapping out rhythm like she’s done this before.

Like she’s done it with him.

Carmy closes his eyes.

“The one that makes me laugh she says…”

And he holds the ketchup like a fucking life raft.

***

The rain’s eased up but just barely — a slow, stupid drizzle whispering across the patio roof like it’s trying to apologize for existing.

It’s not loud enough to drown anything out.

Not the yelling inside the house.

Not the grill spitting fat in protest.

Not the wet squish of his shoes every time he shifts his weight onto that one loose tile that won’t stop gathering puddle.

Carmy’s shoulders are locked. His arms crossed too tight across his chest like maybe if he holds himself hard enough he won’t come apart.

He watches the sausages — fat and lined up in military formation — hissing under the flame like they know something he doesn’t. Like they’re mocking him.

He tries to think about sausages.

He tries to think about grill temperature. About the uneven slope of Cicero’s backyard.

About the little oil stain on the tablecloth that looks like Ohio.

About anything except the fact that Sydney is currently inside this house, charming Cicero out of his teeth, like she belongs here.

Like she is an angel.

Like she didn’t hurt him.

Nobody gives a fuck about that, apparently.

Not when she’s being bright and clever and fucking adorable . Not when she’s laughing at Cicero’s dumbass jokes like she’s been doing it her whole life.

No one gives a fuck about what Carmy wants. Never have.

Another child explodes out the sliding door behind him like a sugar-seeking missile.

“CARMY—uncle Jimmy said I can ask you—”

“They’re not ready!” he barks, snapping the tongs at the air like that might buy him five seconds of peace.

The kid disappears back into the chaos with a half-sigh, half-sob.

He doesn’t turn around anymore.

Just waves them off. Grunts.

Almost. Not yet. Go away.

How many more can he take before he says fuck off out loud?

That’s a math problem he’s not ready to solve.

The door slides again, and he doesn’t even look up.

“They’re still raw and I will throw one at the next person who asks for a goddamn’—”

He stops. Mid-threat.

It’s not a kid.

It’s her.

Sydney stands under the patio roof, hands in her pockets, hoody dry now, braids pulled back from her face.

She’s got that look — the one that’s half question, half hey , like they didn’t just crawl through hell to get here.

“Fuck them kids, huh?” She chuckles awkwardly, he ignores her. Maybe if he actually does— she will leave.

“Do you, uh—need help or…?” she offers, voice cautious.

He doesn’t even look at her.

She glances at the folding table. The spread. The dumb paper plates weighed down with bottles of ketchup and soggy napkins and those little pre-sliced pickles no one actually eats.

“It takes you a while. You could just let me help,” she says, stepping in like it’s nothing.

He doesn’t answer. Just pokes at the grill like it might answer for him.

She sighs loudly spreading her arms in frustrations. “Carmen, fucking talk to me!”

“I know how to make hot dogs.” He snaps, sharp and fast.

She doesn’t back off.

He pokes a sausage hard enough to make it spit and roll.  “Im perfectly fine. Go, bond with my uncle.”

“He is not really your uncle.”

“I’m fucking aware. Leave.” He says it like he means it. Like saying it out loud might make it true.

But then she steps even closer. Just enough that her smell hits him. Just enough that he wants to vomit directly onto the hot dog buns.

She’s looking at him now — small, serious — and then she says it, so quiet it barely makes it past the sizzle of the grill.

“I missed you.”

No.

No.

Fuck no.

“Don’t do that,” he says, fast. “You don’t get to do that.”

“But I did,” she says, firmer now. “Carmen. I missed you. I—I want you to know that.”

He turns to her, furious. “I want you to go.”

“Carm—”

“I want you to leave. I want you to leave me the fuck alone.”

Her eyes flash. “You’re not being fucking fair to me!”

“You weren’t fair to me !” he snaps back. “You think you can just show up here because you missed me? Are you serious ? You think that’s how this works?”

“You blocked me!” she fires. “Fucking everywhere!”

And for a second it’s dead quiet. Just steam off the sausages and the rain dripping from the gutter.

Carmy stares at her. Breathing hard.

“I had my fucking reasons, and you know that,” he says finally.

The words land between them. Heavy.

“I was worried about you,” she whispers. “You look tired. Are you okay?”

“Do I fucking look okay?” He let out a bitter laugh, too quiet to really qualify. “You weren’t really worried.”

“I was.”

“No, you fucking weren’t.”

“You don’t get to tell me what I felt—”

He turns to her with his jaw clenched, tongs shaking slightly in his hand.

She opens her mouth again — too late.

The sliding door bangs open behind them, and Jimmy’s voice cuts through the tension like a machete.

“ Okay! ” he announces, waving a juice pouch like a white flag. “Nope. Not today. You don’t get to emotionally combust in front of these children. This is a birthday party. There are balloons and cupcakes. You wanna throw down, do it after cake, or, I don’t know, in the fucking parking lot. Fun vibes only.”

Sydney takes a step back. Carmen stares down at the grill like it is the last thing tethering him to earth.

Neither of them speaks. Neither of them moves.

Cicero throws his hands up like he’s scolding puppies. “Sydney, sweetheart, this is not on you, okay? This is Carmy being a little emotional around my grill.”

“Unc—”

“ Carmen , make the hot dogs,” Cicero says, marching back inside. “These bastards are about to eat me alive. No yelling.”

The door slams.

Carmy doesn’t look at her.

The silence hits like a slap — too loud, too loaded. The grill hisses. The sausages begin to burn.

Carmy tongs them off one by one, plopping them into a metal tray without looking at her. Sydney just stares.

Then— he cannot take it anymore.

“You gonna keep glaring at me like that, or are you planning to melt my skin off with your laser beam eyes?” He sets the tray down on the edge of the table with a clang.

She takes a sharp breath, voice low and tight. “I’m trying not to cause a scene.”

“Oh, now you care about causing a scene?”

“You’re acting like I— like I walked into your kitchen and torched your whole fucking life,” she half yelps.

He barks a short laugh. “That’s exactly what you did.” He leans against the table, arms crossed. Shrugs one shoulder like none of this touches him. It does. “Thought you were doing fine.”

Her jaw twitches. “That’s not fair.”

“Isn’t it?” His voice is cool. Measured.

She looks down. Her hands move into her pockets again, fingers curling. “I’m here now.”

He snorts, soft but sharp. “Yeah. Well.”

“Well what?”

Carmy shakes his head. “Nothing. Timing’s never been your thing.”

Her eyes snap back to his.

“I’m saying I didn’t come here to ruin anything.”

“No? You just came to twist the knife and pretend you’re a good fucking person while doing it?”

“Do you actually hate me?” she asks — low and sharp, like a paper cut.

Somewhere in the distance, thunder cracks in.

Neither of them flinch.

It’s not a plea. Not really.

Not an apology or a challenge either.

Her voice carries that raw, threadbare edge he knows too well — the one that always makes him want to punch a wall and kiss her at the same time.

Her fingers twitch, then lift up to her chest like they’re not hers at all. She fiddles with the thin chain around her neck — that necklace. His eyes stick to it longer than they should.

There is that maddening, selfish hunger for clarity in her eyes — for absolution, maybe. For him to still care enough to hate her, but not really.

And Christ, he does.

His jaw tightens. He feels the words pushing up his throat like bile, begging to be weaponized. But they get stuck halfway, jammed against the lump of everything they never said right.

So instead, he exhales through his nose like a boxer trying not to swing.

Then takes a step back — just one — like she might catch fire and take him with her.

She glares. “I’m not even fucking human to you anymore, am I? I have feelings too, Carmen.”

“Oh really?” He spreads his hands, mock-inviting. “Since when should I give a shit about your feelings? You didn’t give a fuck about mine.”

She falters, just for a second. Like she forgot what she came here to say. Her face softens, too late. “We’ve been here before. I didn’t mean to—”

“Yeah, well, I didn’t mean to end up here with you. frying hot dogs for some birthday party in a house full of sticky-fingered brats.” He steps forward, whisper rising. “But here we fucking are. Because you showed up. Again.”

“I’m going to keep fucking showing up,” she says, face furious.

“Nobody asks you.” He bites the words. “You know what? I’ve been totally fine. The past few months? Without you? Best time of my goddamn life.”

“You’re fucking lying to yourself.”

“I’m fucking not.”

They’re both whisper-yelling now, sharp and fast, like two snakes hissing at each other.

“You won’t even let me talk!” she snaps. “You just want to stay mad.”

“Oh you are talking just fine!” he shouts and then whispers again. “You think I want to feel like this? What else am I supposed to do after what happened, huh? How else am I supposed to feel toward you?”

“You just want to stay pissed so you can keep me out. That’s it. Safe little bubble where nothing gets in except your own self-fuckin’-loathing.”

He freezes. She sees it hit.

She keeps going. “I know you like it that way. You’re a self-destructive fucking asshole!” She points at his face.

They’re close now. Too close. Her breath fans across his face. He can smell the smoke off her fingertips. He doesn’t remember moving. Doesn’t care.

She is still smoking.

“I don’t just let people in like that,” he says, voice low. “You know that. And when I did—”

“I fucked up. Yeah, I know that. I know. But I’m here now, okay? I showed up.”

“Why?” His eyes narrow. “Guilt? Charity? You want to prove you’re the better person?”

She throws her hands up. “God, you’re so fucking dramatic. You don’t even want to see my point!”

“Oh, I’m sorry.” He spreads his arms. “Am I interrupting your new Zen chef aesthetic?”

“Shut the fuck up.”

“No, you shut the fuck up. You can’t even say you’re sorry!”

Her eyes burn into him. He sees her, sees himself in her disappointment — and then, worse, sees someone else entirely.

Mikey, maybe. In the flare of temper. In the need to win the moment, not the person.

“I’ve been coming to your place every day like a fucking idiot,” she yells, “trying to talk to you, trying to—fuck, I don’t even know, just trying. Trying to make it right. You think I’m not sorry?”

“I don’t want you to prove anything,” he says coldly. “I already know everything I need.”

“Well, I won’t fucking leave you alone!”

“Great.” He’s shaking now, and it’s not anger, not exactly. “Then maybe I’ll follow Mikey and check the fuck out.”

The air drains out of the yard.

Sydney’s breath catches. She’s frozen, eyes wide. “Carmen,” she whispers. “Carm…”

He shakes his head. Just once. Sharp. Final. Like a door slamming shut.

“I am so, so fucking sorry,” she says, barely audible. “About Mikey and…”

Her eyes are watery now, he can’t look at them. He wants to disappear, he wants to say ‘I missed you. I missed you so fucking much it’s eating me alive.’

“Fuck off,” he says instead. “Please, Sydney. Just… fuck off.”

She doesn’t move. He wants her to move. He wants her to disappear.  He wants to hug her till their ribs hurt.

He wants everything and nothing and he wants it all to stop.

“Why aren’t you in New York?”

Beat. He rubs at his eyes.

She opens her mouth. Closes it again. No sound comes out.

And then— clatter . The blinds shift.

Carmy turns just in time to see Uncle Jimmy standing behind the window, holding a slice of birthday cake in one hand and a butter knife in the other like it’s a fucking weapon. He raises his brows. Does a little stabbing motion with the knife, like cut the shit.

Carmy blinks. Sydney stares.

Jimmy winks. Stab-stab . Then slowly pulls the blind back down like a theater curtain.

Carmy exhales. Sydney mutters fuckfuckfuck under her breath, and walks back into the house without another word.

Chapter Text

Sydney wakes up without an alarm and hates it immediately.

The light in her room is too soft, like it knows it doesn’t belong.

Her bedroom, if you can even call it that, barely fits her mattress and a tiny dresser that sticks every time she tries to open it.

There’s no personality here. It’s not like the room back in Chicago, where every corner had something that belonged to her, really belonged.

Here, she’s got one plant on the kitchen windowsill that’s been dying dramatically for months—currently living only because Nina takes pity on it.

Outside her room, the apartment’s louder—at least in decoration.

Nina’s energy is everywhere in the living room: string lights, moonstones, weird Etsy art prints with phrases like ‘Let the moon guide your hustle’—stuff that makes Sydney want to fight air.

She once made fun of it. Nina told her to shut up and charge her rising sign.

The TV is on but saying nothing. Netflix’s “Are you still watching?” pops up like a threat.

She sighs, tosses the remote onto the couch, and decides to clean something.

Not everything—just enough to feel like she’s moving.

By 8:27 a.m., she’s wiped down the kitchen counter, shoved some laundry into the washer, and paid Nina back for their split Netflix bill. A minute later, her phone buzzes.

NINA

omg. do u finally have money??

Sydney rolls her eyes, taps the payment app again, and sends over the chunk she owes her for rent.

Buzz. Buzz.

NINA

wow you’re in your rich era

i’ve prayed for times like this

“Shut up,” Sydney mutters at the screen. She types back “let me thrive” and tosses the phone onto the table.

Beetlejuice, the fat black cat that is technically illegal per building policy, appears in the kitchen like a ghost with an appetite. He lets out a long, mournful yowl.

“You literally just ate,”

Another yowl. He’s pacing now. Judgmental.

“You are manipulating me.”

Beetlejuice hops onto the counter, almost falls, knocking over a spoon in process.

He stares her down like he pays rent here.

She breaks. Again.

Omelet it is. For her, not the cat.

Though she does slip him a piece because he stares like he’s got dirt on her.

Honestly, he probably does.

Later, while folding laundry, she catches herself humming and immediately stops.

The silence feels too full.

Like it’s pressing in from the edges.

She checks her phone again.

Still no texts. No calls.

Fuck it. She dials her dad.

He picks up on the third ring. “Syd. Hey, baby girl.”

“Hey, Dad.”

“You okay?”

“Yeah. Just… doing laundry. On my day off.”

“That’s rare,” he chuckles. “They finally letting you breathe?”

She flops onto the couch. “Not really. It’s more of a legally-required mercy break.”

“Well, enjoy it. You do anything fun for your birthday?”

Sydney pauses. “Yeah. I went out. With Nina. And— uh… this guy from work.”

“Oh?” He’s already smiling through the phone. She can hear it. “Is he nice?”

“I told you about him. Sous chef.”

“Hmm—“ He thinks for a second. “The one who is an asshole?”

“He’s… actually nice. Once you connect the dots.”

A pause.

“You dating?”

“Jesus, Dad, no. I just had birthday drinks with him, not a wedding.”

He laughs. “Just asking.”

There’s a beat of quiet. Then he asks the thing she was dreading.

“When you coming to visit me? I miss you.”

Sydney closes her eyes. “I know. I miss you too.”

“So…?”

“I don’t know. I only really get one day off. Maybe two if a miracle happens.”

“You can’t ask for more?”

“Not yet. I only got hired properly.”

“That was a like month ago,” he says.

She grits her teeth. “Yeah, but you know how it is. It’s the boss, and the place. But It’s… really excellent, Dad.”

“You keep telling me that.”

“I mean it.”

“I believe you,” he says gently. “But I miss you. And I don’t feel like flying to New York just to stay in your moon-rock roommate’s apartment.”

She snorts. “Fair.”

“And I’m not spending hotel money just to fall asleep on the couch at 8 p.m.”

“I’ll try to come for Christmas,” she says. “Really. I will.”

He doesn’t answer right away. Then: “Okay, I hope so! I actually gotta go—I’m grabbing coffee with Frank.”

She pauses, halfway to annoyed. “Who the hell is Frank?”

“My colleague. We have a break now.”

“Oh. Uh… okay. Sure. Have fun.”

“I love you, baby.”

“I love you too, dad.”

There’s a weird silence for a second after they say goodbye.

Sydney just stares at the phone in her hand like it’s a magic wand.

Her dad, living alone, apparently has coffee dates now. Actual social plans.

And here she is, twenty-six, with a roommate she barely sees and a fat cat she’s talking to.

The room goes still again, too still, filled with the soft hum of the laundry spinning and the occasional meow.

This is what a day off feels like now.

She stares at the TV.

Then the floor.

Then the fridge.

She drops the phone onto the coffee table, flops back into the sad little couch, and stares at the ceiling for a second.

Beetlejuice, fluffy and gleaming and wholly unbothered, walks onto the rug and plants himself directly in front of her.

He stares.

She stares back.

“How do you do that?” she asks him. “Seriously. You’re in this apartment all day, every day. You’ve seen the same five rooms your entire life. And you’re just… fine?”

Beetlejuice blinks. Then lets out a small, dramatic mrrrow .

“I know, man. But that’s psychotic. That’s—like—that’s a psychopath level of peace. You should be pacing the walls, writing poetry on the blinds or something.”

The cat starts washing his shoulder with great purpose, clearly done with the conversation.

“Unbelievable,” she mutters. “You don’t even have hobbies.”

Pause.

“You don’t even know what a… quenelle is,” she tells him, pointing an accusing finger. “You probably think it’s like, a Pokemon or something. Quenelle, I choose you.”

The cat blinks. Slowly. Utterly unfazed.

“You don’t even care . You know who does know what a quenelle is?” she continues, voice rising in mock outrage. “Carmy. Carmy knows everything . Mr. I-Make-My-Own-Mustard.”

And then she just stops.

A beat. Her finger slowly drops.

She looks up, like the ceiling might interrupt this weird-ass moment where she just casually dropped Carmy’s name mid-cat chat.

Above her, tiny streaks of rainbow light flicker across the ceiling—the suncatcher Nina hung last week finally catching the morning sun at just the right angle. She watches the colors dance, hypnotized, like maybe if she stares long enough, they’ll rearrange themselves into the answer.

Would it be weird to text him?

Like, really weird?

Like, freaking weird?

She turns back to Beetlejuice, who has now collapsed dramatically on his side and begun chewing his own foot.

“Okay but like, if I texted him, just hypothetically—like, ‘Hey, Carm, what’s up, remember how we’re not friends? Wanna talk about quenelles?’ That’s not insane , right?”

Beetlejuice lets out a long, low mrrmph that she chooses to interpret as deeply condescending.

“I know we’re not friends, okay? He literally said—he literally said —‘we’re colleagues’” She air-quotes with exaggerated flair. “I didn’t ask him for anything. He just did me a favor. He felt bad, probably. It was probably just pity-for-Sydney situation.”

No reaction. The cat stretches.

She drops her face into her hands with a loud, guttural groan.

“Oh my God, I’m asking a cat for advice. I’ve officially lost it. This is it. This is the breakdown.”

She peeks through her fingers.

Beetlejuice is staring at her.

Judging her.

Hard.

“I swear you just looked offended.”

He blinks. Very slowly. Then licks his chest, like he’s above all this nonsense.

“Yeah, okay, thanks for nothing, you fluffy monster.”

Her phone buzzes once.

She ignores it at first.

Then—

Buzz.

Buzz buzz.

She frowns. Picks it up.

NEW TEXT – CARMEN

[Image attached]

This weird-ass cucumber hybrid is called a ‘Syd’.

Thought you’d wanna know you’re a vegetable now.

Sydney visibly flinches . Drops the phone. Beetlejuice bolts upright, does that cat hop-scare, and launches off the carpet like a missile.

“OH—oh my god !”

She scrambles to pick up the phone, stares at the screen like it’s a live grenade.

“No way. No way.”

Beetlejuice, now watching her from behind the plant, looks deeply concerned .

“No, shut up, Beetle, he actually just texted me.”

She unlocks her phone with a shaking thumb.

The picture is blurry. There’s definitely some kind of long, knobby cucumber situation cradled in Carmen Berzatto’s palm, with a little cardboard sign that just says: “SYD $2/lb.”

She lets out a snort. A real one.

She sinks slowly to the floor, back against the couch, legs splayed. Thumbs hovering, then typing.

SYDNEY

That looks like a vegetable with trauma. Why is it bent like that? It looks like it heard your voice and gave up 

CARMEN

Shut up

This Syd is strong

She’s just misunderstood

SYDNEY

…So it is a she now?

CARMEN

idk

You’re the Syd expert

You tell me

She’s laughing now. Actually laughing. Covers her mouth like that’ll stop it.

SYDNEY

You’re gonna eat her???

CARMEN

Nah

Gonna rescue her

Maybe start a sanctuary

For vegetables with weird names and abandonment issues

She wheezes.

Beetlejuice creeps back, cautiously sniffing at her knee like, Are you done losing your mind now or…

She keeps texting.

SYDNEY

So you’re like, the vegetable whisperer now?

Mr. Emotional Support Produce?

CARMEN

“Emotional Support Produce” is my memoir title

SYDNEY

Subtitle: “How I Learned to Stop Crying Into Onions and Love Again”

A pause. Then:

Where are you now?

Three dots. She actually holds her breath.

CARMEN

Union Square Greenmarket

She hesitates. Her thumbs hover.

Then:

SYDNEY

You wanna maybe grab a coffee or something?

Somewhere nearby?

Pause.

CARMEN

You around here too?

SYDNEY

No

But I literally cannot stand my apartment right now

Another beat.

CARMEN

Ok

Meet you at Devotion? On 20th St?

SYDNEY

In twenty minutes?

CARMEN

I’ll save you a seat

SYDNEY

And a cucumber

CARMEN

Deal

***

He’s sitting there, waiting. For Sydney.

He’s sitting there waiting for Sydney.

And the moment really does hit him like that.

Like a realization that arrives too late and too fast at the same time.

Like a slap with a velvet glove.

It’s freezing outside, and the coffee shop is one of those tucked-away ones that looks like it should only exist in film festivals or Instagram reels.

His coat’s off, his knee bouncing a little, fingers curled around a stupid paper cup.

He cannot believe this is his life.

Because just a few months ago, the idea of “meeting someone for coffee” was so alien to him you could’ve submitted him to a research lab.

He was a controlled environment: no joy, no social life, no serotonin.

Just sleep, prep, service, clean, repeat.

But here he is.

On a Tuesday.

Sitting in this absurdly cozy little café, waiting for her to show up.

Sydney.

His… colleague? Co-conspirator? Friend?

No, probably not friend.

He doesn’t think they’re there yet.

Maybe they’ll never be. But he’s here.

And he’s waiting.

The thing is—days off haven’t felt like anything good for a long time now.

They’re not days off , they’re just a different quadrant of the same endless loop.

Same mind, same exhaustion, no shift to hide behind.

Just dead space where time moves weird and your brain folds in on itself.

He always ends up thinking about how it’ll start again.

That the week is coming.

The prep.

The hours.

And Fields.

Always Fields.

So yeah. This is… different.

He sees her through the window before she pushes the door open.

Oversized scarf swallowing half her face. Black leather jacket, sleeves a little too long. She looks… small. Cozy. Like a person who belongs in a quiet place.

She almost slams into the door on her way in.

The bell gives a pathetic jingle.

She spots him and waves, quick and awkward, like she’s not sure if that was the right thing to do.

He waves back.

He thinks.

Her jacket ends up right next to his on the coat stand. Their scarves are basically making out. He tries very, very hard not to think about it.

“Hey,” she says as she slides into the seat across from him.

“Hey,” he echoes, way too fast.

The silence that follows is… not normal. Not them.

“So,” she says. “You like… come here often?”

He looks at her. Blinks. “Did you just hit me with an icebreaker line?”

She sighs. “I panicked. And also I regret everything.”

“Same.”

They both go quiet again. A chair scrapes at the next table. Somewhere outside, a car honks like it’s screaming into the void for them.

“I, uh…” he nods at the plate between them, desperate to redirect. “I got these. For you. To try. If you want.”

She leans in. “What are they?”

“Italian cheesecake cookies.”

Her eyebrows shoot up. “That’s… not real.”

“Swear to God.” He holds up a hand. “Italian secret menu. We don’t share this with civilians.”

She snorts. “You mean people who aren’t emotionally unwell chefs with intimacy issues?”

He grins, slow and surprised. “Exactly.”

She picks one up, sniffs it like it might be a trap, then bites.

Immediately, she freezes.

Then: “Holy fuck.”

“I know. ”

“What the hell is this? This is like—cheesecake got bored and reinvented itself during a midlife crisis.”

“It gets better with espresso,” he says, like a man who knows.

She grabs another. “This is… This is dangerous. I could eat a bunch of those”

He shrugs. “Not a bad thing.”

She’s smiling now. For real. And so is he. Which is… weird. It just happened.

She swallows, wipes a crumb off her lip, then squints at him. “Okay but—where’s my cucumber?”

He blinks. Pauses mid-sip of his coffee. “Your… what?”

She keeps chewing, grin creeping back up. “My Syd cucumber, man.”

His face finally clicks into it, and he huffs a laugh. “Right.”

He unzips his backpack like this is the most normal shit in the world and pulls out a little paper bag.

“Here it is.” He sets it on the table in front of her with mock ceremony.

She nods seriously, like she’s just closed a deal with the mob. “Excellent. Pleasure doing business.”

He snorts. “You’re insane.”

“Correct.”

She stands to grab her coffee, and for a second, he watches her walk away like a guy in a scene he doesn’t know the genre of yet.

And when she comes back, cup in hand, shrugging like she is still a little cold from the outside chill, she sits across from him like it’s something they’ve always done.

But they haven’t.

Not like this.

Not without Fields.

Not without excuses.

Not without something in the way.

He doesn’t know what this is.

Doesn’t know what to call it.

But she asked.

And he said yes.

And now here they are— pretending not to be overthinking the silence, dodging eye contact like it might explode, eating cookies that are technically therapy.

The city outside doesn’t buzz the way it usually does. Or maybe he’s just not hearing it right now.

He doesn’t think about Empire or Fields.

He doesn’t think about tomorrow.

He just watches her stir her coffee like it’s a science experiment and catch him staring, and roll her eyes, and kick his foot under the table like maybe she didn’t mean to.

Maybe.

And that’s how it starts.

No one calls it dates.

No one dares say the word.

But it happens again.

And again.

Every week.

***

“You’re using mayonnaise?”

“Don’t start.”

“I’m not judging, I’m just—okay, maybe I’m judging. That’s wild.”

“It’s not wild, it’s smart. Mayo gets the crust golden. It’s science, Syd.” He’s got a spatula in one hand and a half-unwrapped block of cheddar in the other, and he’s standing in front of a pan like it’s a goddamn tasting menu.

“I once yelled at a stage for putting mayo on a burger. Like—actually screamed.”

“Cause he probably used some store-brand crap and called it ‘aioli’. That’s different.”

She snorts and leans back in the chair that wobbles ever so slightly beneath her. She glances around.

The rain’s started—soft, but steady.

You can hear it hit the windows, tap against the fire escape just outside.

Carmy’s apartment smells like butter and heat and something warm in the kind of way that makes her stomach ache a little.

Not hunger exactly. Just… ache.

The studio is small, but there’s something kind of charming about it.

Downtown, top floor, corner unit.

The windows are big, and the light’s good when it’s not raining.

But there’s no art, no rug, no throw pillow, no real sign of comfort.

It’s almost aggressively under-furnished.

One beat-up couch. One sad bookshelf.

A couple of plants that are more twig than leaf now.

She clocks a stack of culinary books on the TV stand—Kitchen Confidential, Larousse Gastronomique, White Heat, a random Bon Appétit from like 2016—and what looks like a ceramic ashtray that may or may not be handmade.

He lives here. But not in it.

It’s like the space is temporary, even though she’s pretty sure he’s been here for at least a year.

“This place is actually really nice,” she says finally, casually, like she’s commenting on the weather.

“Hm?”

“Your apartment. I mean, you’re criminally under-using it, but it’s got potential.”

Carmy glances back at her like she just said he had a good singing voice. “Potential?”

“Yeah! The windows? The location? You’ve got a damn fire escape, man. You could hang lights out there. Put some chairs. Drink wine. Watch the city like a sad French man.”

He flips the grilled cheese with annoying precision. “You want me to become a sad French man?”

“I think you’ve got a strong foundation.”

He huffs out a laugh. “Coming from someone whose bed is just a mattress with a blanket on it.”

“Okay, rude.”

“I’m not wrong.”

“You’re not, but still.” She crosses her arms, smirking. “Difference is, I admit I don’t care. You… you seem like you wanna care. Like you almost care. But then you’re like, ‘Nah, that sounds like too much hope.’ And you go back to living in a Room & Board crime scene.”

He finishes the grilled cheese and plates it without a word.

Then, after a beat: “That was… a lot of psychology for one sandwich.”

“You’re welcome.”

He brings the plate over. The crust is golden, crunchy at the edges, perfectly square.

She watches him drop into the chair across from her, knees bumping the underside of the table.

They split the sandwich in silence.

The rain gets heavier.

The dying plant droops in the corner, dramatic as hell.

She chews slowly, watching him chew slowly, and then:

“Okay, fine. The mayo works.”

“Told you.” He wipes his hands on a napkin.

They’re still chewing when she wipes her mouth and says, a little hesitant, “Okay, I’m gonna ask you something, and you can totally tell me to fuck off…”

He swallows his bite and raises an eyebrow.

“But… what if I bring you some— I don’t know—decorations? Or, like, a plant or something?”

He freezes mid-bite. “No. No. Fuck off. Don’t even start.”

“Why?”

“Can’t you see what happened to my plants?” He gestures vaguely toward the corner of the room, where a sad, brittle-looking pot of green is definitely losing a battle with the laws of nature.

She laughs. “Okay, but I’m not talking, like, a full greenhouse. Just—some cute decor.”

“You told me you didn’t even have that stuff.”

“I don’t ,” she says. “It’s Nina’s. Nina has that stuff. I just— borrow aesthetics.”

He snorts. “You’re ridiculous.”

“So… that’s a yes?”

He sighs, dramatic. “Do whatever you want.”

She tries not to look too smug about it. Fails miserably. He catches it. They exchange a look—hers triumphant, his deeply resigned.

He shakes his head like he’s just agreed to adopt a toddler. “You’re unbelievable.”

She beams. He eats another bite.

Then, quieter, he asks, “You going home for Christmas?”

She sighs. “No. I already tried switching—nobody was up for it. So, no. I’m working. Same as you.”

“That’s fucking brutal.”

She shrugs. “I kinda saw it coming. Just—still sucks. It’s the second year I’m not seeing my dad, and he’s trying not to make me feel guilty about it, but… yeah. He’s gonna be disappointed.”

Carmy’s quiet a second. Then, “If it makes you feel any better… I haven’t celebrated Christmas in, like, five years. Maybe more.”

She blinks. “Damn.”

“I went home once for dinner, thinking—maybe it’d be fine, right? Maybe I could, like, muscle through. Total fucking disaster. Everyone screamed. Mikey kept throwing forks and my mom drove through the wall.”

She blinks, a little horrified. “Jesus Christ. What kind of family do you have ?”

He grins, dry. “The kind you go no-contact with for mental health reasons.”

She shakes her head, tries not to think too much about what kind of trauma Carmy carries. “Well, I guess it’s good I’ve only got my dad. And he’s super chill. Doesn’t even yell at the TV.”

“It’s really shitty you can’t see him.”

“Yeah. I mean… we get the 25th off, but it’s not enough, you know? One day’s not enough.”

He nods, and the silence that follows is oddly comfortable.

***

He throws the snowball without thinking. Just packs the slush into his palm, turns, and wings it at her back with the kind of childish glee he doesn’t even remember having.

“Asshole!” Syd spins around, clutching her scarf like it’s a weapon. “You better run, Berzatto.”

He doesn’t. He just grins. “What’re you gonna do, huh?”

She lunges toward him and he shrieks — actually shrieks — trying to dodge, slipping slightly on the icy curb.

“I will push you into traffic,” she threatens, grabbing his arm, laughing. “Don’t test me.”

“No jury would convict you,” he pants, leaning against the lamppost, breath fogging up between them. “It’d be like—temporary snow-based insanity.”

They’re standing at the edge of the Christmas market in Union Square, his cheeks are pink, her fingers are frozen, their third hot toddy long gone.

There are lights strung between the stalls like stars someone bothered to organize.

People mill around them holding paper bags and mulled wine.

Someone’s playing carols on a cello.

It’s cold as fuck.

And she’s beautiful.

He doesn’t mean to notice. But he does.

The way the snow is catching in her braids, how her lashes are damp and curling, her breath a soft white fog, how she keeps rubbing at her gloved hands like she’s trying to coax warmth out of the air.

Her nose looks frozen.

Her laugh still hangs in the space between them.

He wants to take her hands in his. Just to warm them up. Just to do something good with his own.

Just to hold something alive.

But that feels…fucked. Feels like too much.

So instead, he pulls out a cigarette. “You want?”

She nods, takes her glove off, already reaching. “I was hoping you’d offer. My fingers are too cold to dig mine out.”

They lean against the railing near the park. Share the smoke, pass it between them.

She tilts her face up to blow a stream of it into his space, deliberately obnoxious.

He coughs. “You’re such a dick.”

“Thanks. I practice.”

He looks at her — really looks — and for a second he’s outside himself, like… if someone walked past right now and saw them like this — standing so close, sharing a cigarette, laughing, gently insulting each other, glowing in the Christmas lights like it’s a goddamn movie scene — they’d think,

Oh yeah.

That’s a couple.

And something in him shorts out .

Because what the fuck are they?

What is this?

They hang out every week now on their days off.

Split the last plate at family meal without even talking about it.

Sometimes, when family meal is shit, they huddle on the locker room bench, eating noodles out of takeout boxes.

They smoke outside even when it’s freezing. He started walking her to the train without meaning to — it just happened.

They part ways at the station with a tired nod, sometimes a half-smile, like it’s another ritual. Like it’s… something .

It’s not flirting.

Not really.

It’s not nothing, either.

It’s just her.

And him.

Still orbiting.

At the Empire, Sydney had fully taken her place on the line—officially, loudly, undeniably.

She was fast, precise, and unfuckwithable on a good day.

But Fields was relentless, and not in the “I want you to be great” kind of way.

He didn’t criticize because she was failing. He criticized because she wasn’t.

That’s why Carmy leaned in to murmur compliments to her more often now.

“That sauce? Fire.” just quiet enough that no one else could hear.

Or he would give her one of those brief, wordless glances across the kitchen—the kind that said more than a plate dropped in front of a diner ever could.

Carmy couldn’t taste her food much anymore—too busy, too frantic, sometimes too fucked in the head—but when he did, he made sure she knew it.

Sometimes it was just a nod.

Sometimes a “beautiful cook, chef” under his breath.

Every now and then, a soft grin cracked through the stress lines on his face when she nailed a service, and she always smiled back, like it was a private joke.

Some of the crew had started to notice the tether between them—especially when they ate family meal together, always side by side, like it’s a habit.

But honestly? Carmen didn’t give a fuck. This kitchen was hell on the best day, and if he could be the reason Sydney didn’t spiral—or if she could be that reason for him—then fuck it.

Let them talk.

The Empire was a nightmare.

His personal nightmare.

With Fields whispering him death wishes every week.

But outside of it—when they were walking to the subway, or sharing a smoke in the freezing dark, or laughing until she tried to shove him into a road—it almost felt bearable.

Almost.

He takes the cigarette back from her and glances at her hand when their fingers brush.

Her nails are getting long, she’s gonna cut them soon.

There is a scar on her knuckle, she got it last month during prep.

She looks at him. “What?”

He shrugs. “Nothing.”

But he feels alive.

In the way he hasn’t in a long time.

Not clean and bright and joyful — no, he doesn’t get that kind of aliveness.

He gets the kind that aches a little.

The kind that feels like he’s bracing for something he doesn’t have the words for.

She nudges his side with her elbow. “You’re being weird.”

“Yeah. Well. Snowball to the brain.”

She grins. “Punk.”

He flicks ash off the edge of the railing and lets the silence stretch.

Somewhere behind them, a bell rings.

Someone’s shouting about roasted chestnuts.

A little kid screams in delight.

And he thinks: God, please don’t let this be another thing I ruin.

***

Carmy’s studio is small, cluttered in the corners, but she’s made her mark.

There are the pillows she got — big and white and fluffy, bought on a whim after seeing how paper-thin his old ones were.

He didn’t say anything when she gave them to him at work, just shook his head with that half-smile of his.

But the next time she came over, they were on the couch.

That was something.

Now, there’s a little Christmas tree on the coffee table between them.

Not a real one, not quite — just a potted plant she picked up at a thrift shop, but it looks the part.

She found tiny ornaments, red and gold and ridiculous, and hung them up while Carmy was reheating leftovers.

He didn’t protest.

Just gave her a look and handed her a beer.

She glances at the wall between the kitchen nook and the living room space, right where the paint’s chipped a little near the outlet, and there it is — the Radiohead poster she got him a few weeks back.

The one she handed over at that weird little café with the sticky floors and surprisingly good espresso, folded into a brown paper bag like it was contraband.

She hadn’t expected him to actually put it up.

But he did.

Right there.

No frame, just push pins.

Crooked.

It still makes her smile.

And above the TV — her latest addition — a string of old thrifted Christmas lights glows warm, casting color across the walls.

She hang it herself, because he looked like he was allergic to any kind of joy.

So here they are now, a mix of blues and reds and greens.

They hum faintly, almost like music.

She’s curled into one corner of his couch, legs stretched out so they press into his thigh.

He doesn’t move.

Just keeps sketching in that beat-up notebook he never lets her peek at.

His brows are drawn, pencil scratching softly, like the sound of the fireplace YouTube video playing on the TV — soft crackling, mellow jazz piano in the background.

The Thai takeout boxes are still open on the table.

Cold now.

She should probably throw them out, but… it feels wrong to move.

For the first time in months— years maybe — she’s reading a book.

An actual book.

And it’s quiet.

Not awkward quiet.

Not empty quiet.

Just… safe.

The way it always is with Carmy.

She glances at him — the angle of his shoulders, the furrow in his brow, the curve of his mouth, just barely open as he focuses.

He hasn’t said anything in a while.

She hasn’t needed him to.

She smiles.

Because this feels like something.

Those lights.

The stupid tree.

The snow outside.

His company.

And the fact that he’s let her take up space here without once asking her to explain it.

She can hear the scratch of pencil on paper, soft and steady. 

She puts the book on the couch, swallows hard.

“What’s the worst thing Fields ever told you?” she asks, not looking at him.

He doesn’t answer at first.

Just stops sketching.

Then looks up — not a glance, but a look , direct and sharp, his eyes meeting hers like he’s checking if she really wants to go there.

They still don’t talk about it.

Not really.

It’s become a silent code, like an inside joke that’s not funny — the devilry of Fields.

Just an unspoken solidarity every time one of them comes back from his whisper just a little more wilted.

But Sydney’s tired of silence.

It’s been humming under her skin like static.

She continues, voice soft. “I think… I think I’m scared that it’s just, like, become normal now. And it shouldn’t. That kitchen is a fucking machine — precise and clean and cruel. And the only time I feel okay in there is when I’m around you. Or when we leave. That’s when I feel like I can breathe.”

Carmy exhales slowly. Then, nodding, murmurs, “Yeah. Yeah, it’s— it’s a lot of shit daily.”

“I know,” she says. “I just… we never talk about it.”

“Sometimes it feels easier not to,” he says, still not looking at her. “Easier to act like it’s part of the job.”

“Do you think it should be?” she asks. And that makes him look.

His sketchbook lands facedown on the couch with a soft thud.

He turns a little, body angling toward her now, elbow over the backrest.

“What did he say to you?”

“Nothing I haven’t heard before. Just… weird shit. Shit designed to make me small. But I keep thinking about something and I can’t— I can’t let it go.”

Carmy waits. She swallows.

“How the fuck does he know about my mom?”

Carmy’s brow furrows immediately. His jaw clenches.

“I didn’t tell anyone,” she says. “I mean… I never even mentioned it. Who would’ve—” She stops. Her throat’s too tight.

“I know,” he says. “Yeah. It’s— fuck.” He rubs his eyes hard, palms dragging down his face.

“You know about my brother,” he mutters.

“Mikey,” she says.

He nods. “Yeah. I don’t really talk about him. We’re not close anymore. Used to be… inseparable. Me, Mikey, my sister Nat. It’s like you have to be when you grow up in that kind of house, you know? But now… he doesn’t answer my calls. I don’t even know if it’s my fault or if I did something or if he just—”

“I’m sorry,” she whispers.

Carmy shakes his head. “Fields knows. Somehow. And sometimes he throws it at me. Real casual. To make me flinch.”

There’s a long silence.

“Thank you for telling me,” she says gently.

“Nah. It’s nothing.”

“I’m sure he loves you.”

Carmy glances up, confused.

“Who?” he says, almost defensive.

She scoffs. “Not Fields. Jesus. Your brother.”

He laughs then.

A bitter, sudden sound that she joins.

It feels like releasing steam through a crack in the wall.

“I don’t know anymore,” he admits.

She shifts. Slowly brings her legs up and places them gently on his lap.

For a second she thinks she’s misread it — that he’ll stiffen or say something or move away.

But he just looks at her.

That same way.

Like they’re in a walk-in and no one else exists.

Then his hands — careful, warm — begin to rub slow circles into her foot.

Absentminded, like muscle memory.

But tender.

She watches him.

Her pulse trips.

There’s a beat — one moment too long.

She could lean in.

Could reach out and grab the soft cotton of his blue sweater, bunch it in her fists, feel the heat of him underneath.

Could thread her fingers through his chaotic, pretty hair, feel the curls twist around her knuckles.

She knows exactly what he smells like now — clean soap and something sharp and familiar that settles in her lungs like it belongs there.

She could press her mouth to the side of his neck, right where his pulse jumps, and lick it.

Could kiss him.

She could taste him.

God, she wants to.

She knows it.

Has known it for a while now.

And it’s not just the way he looks at her.

Not just the way he touches her like she’s something fragile and wild at once.

But all of him.

The quiet, twitchy, steady parts.

The noise in his brain and the calm in his hands.

And he’s right there.

Looking at her like he knows.

Like maybe he needs it too.

It’s right there, suspended between breath and movement, humming like a held note.

Instead, she just says, softly, “It’s not normal, Carmy.”

He doesn’t look up right away. His thumb moves slow, then stills. “No,” he murmurs. “It’s not.”

She tries not to make any sound, when he presses a particularly tense spot.

The quiet stretches between them like cooling sugar — delicate, thin, ready to shatter.

She shifts slightly. Her voice is quieter now, like she’s confessing to the room more than to him. “I feel sorry for us, you know?” A pause. “Because without him, I think… I think we could’ve made something really beautiful.”

He finally looks up.

“I have so many ideas,” she says. “So many recipes. I dream about them sometimes. They just—come to me. And I wake up and want to write them down right away. But… it’s Empire, you know?”

“I know,” he says, quickly, like muscle memory again. “I—yeah. I… every time I think about wanting to make something of my own, I just—I remember Mikey.” A short breath, barely a laugh. “How he doesn’t want to open a place with me. That it was just talk.”

He rubs his hands together once.

Probably still warm from her skin.

“And then it’s like—it doesn’t matter. So I just keep doing this. Empire. That’s what’s left.”

“That’s so unfair,” she says.

“I know. But like you said… that’s Empire.” He leans back, his head against the couch. “It doesn’t bend. It doesn’t shift. It doesn’t care. It’s been the same since day one. And with Fields in charge—it’s his fucking castle. His own personal hell, and he just lets us all live in it.”

He glances at her now, a flash of shared exhaustion.

“He doesn’t let you breathe. Doesn’t let you move the way you want to move. He trains perfect little kitchen soldiers. And you’re still there, because it’s Empire. People know you work at the Empire. And it’s like—what could be better than that, right?”

She doesn’t answer. Just looks at him,  trying to remember what breathing feels like.

She stretches her legs on his lap a little and says, almost lazily,

“If you weren’t there, I’d probably have lost my mind by now.”

He scoffs. “Oh, come on.”

But she keeps her eyes on the ceiling. Serious beneath the sarcasm.

“No, really. I’d be one of those ladies on the subway with, like, six parrots and a keyboard. Just screaming at Wall Street guys and offering to read people’s auras for loose change.”

Carmy laughs — really laughs — but when he looks at her, she’s not laughing. Just watching him, eyes soft.

“Okay, not parrots. But you get the idea.”

And he looks like he does.

He really does.

He doesn’t say anything.

Just reaches for her foot again, easy, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

His fingers move over her sock again, slow and absent, like he’s thinking about something else.

Like this is just what his hands do when he’s thinking.

And then — almost like by accident, except it isn’t — his thumb slips beneath the cuff, presses against the skin of her ankle.

Bare and warm.

She swears, her breath catches — barely, but still.

Her brain tries to keep up, but her body is already gone.

Because now his hand is moving — not rushed, not clumsy, just sure.

Over her shin, slow, purposeful, warm.

Her pants ride up a little where her leg’s bent, and his knuckles brush higher.

She thinks she might actually die.

Not from embarrassment.

Not from nerves.

But from how good it feels.

How undeniable.

How intentional.

He knows what he’s doing.

And she knows what it means — this bloom in her chest, low in her stomach, flooding everywhere.

She fucking wants him.

Not theoretically.

Not one day.

Right now.

He’s still looking at her.

Doesn’t flinch away.

A muscle in his jaw works like he’s trying not to say something stupid.

Or maybe something true.

The little string of Christmas lights above them flicker gold and red and green in his irises, a strange kind of confession.

He smiles.

Small.

Nervous.

Just for her.

She feels it bloom in her chest like a fucking wildfire.

“Thank you,” she says, quieter than she expects, “for letting me spend Christmas with you.”

He looks at her for a long beat. Then:

“No, thank you. For… you know.” His voice dips, almost sheepish. “Making me feel a little more human lately.”

She stares at him.

Floats.

Dies a little inside.

Because it might be the most beautiful thing anyone’s has ever said to her, and somehow the most tragic.

He glances away right after he says it, like it cost him something real to let it out.

She swallows. “Thank you for letting me bring some shit into your pristine little cave.”

He huffs, then chuckles, eyes flicking back to hers. “Okay — I can admit it. The pillows are really nice.”

“Well duh, dude.”

They laugh.

Quiet.

Easy. 

Their eyes keep meeting — once, twice, again.

Then he shifts. “I, uh. Actually got you something.”

Her whole face scrunches. “Oh no. Fuck no. Please, no.” She hides behind her hands. “I didn’t get you anything.”

“Hey—no,” he says, grinning. “You tolerating my company is already too generous.”

She lowers her hands, face warm, lips twitching.

Wants to say: You’re the best company I could’ve ever found in this fucking city.

But all she does is sigh and lean back, the TV light flickering across her face. “Okay, I give up.”

He pulls something from his front pocket — a tiny, crumpled paper pouch. No ribbon, no box.

She whistles. “Alright the gift packaging.”

“Oh, shut the fuck up,” he mutters, but he’s smiling.

He reaches for her hand.

Gently opens her palm like it’s something sacred.

His hand is warm.

A little rough.

Just—right.

He places the necklace into it, slowly, like a water stream, and pulls away.

She looks down.

It’s thin gold, delicate.

A small knife charm hanging in the center like a whisper.

Her voice cracks a little. “Carmy. It’s— fuck, it’s really nice.”

Their eyes meet — and she swears he’s blushing.

He rubs the back of his ear. “It’s, uh. I just saw it online and thought you’d like it. Let it be a reminder, y’know? That you do this for a right reason. And you’re good at it. No matter what anyone says.”

She blinks.