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Carmen’s already out front when someone drops a wine glass inside.
It doesn’t shatter—just that dull, ceramic thud against concrete that makes everyone freeze for a second before someone jokes too loudly. Then chairs scrape and the noise returns, messier now, end-of-night messy. Someone’s laughing too much. Definitely Richie.
Carmen doesn’t turn around. He’s standing by the curb with his coat collar up, looking at nothing in particular. The air smells like wet metal and the kind of tulips that don’t last long in this part of the city. There's a cigarette still burning in the ashtray beside him. He watches it idly.
He hears her before he sees her. Footsteps, the drag of a sneaker toe against the sidewalk.
“Don’t tell me you’re the one Irish exiting my farewell. That’s my move.”
He exhales—quiet, not a sigh—and glances over. Sydney’s already got her bag on one shoulder, the strap twisted. Lipstick mostly gone. She looks tired. Good tired.
It’s the same coat she’s always worn—navy, too thin for the cold—but her posture is different. Straighter, more set. Like she’s expecting something to fall on her or already has, and she’s still bracing for the echo. There’s a flickering porch light behind her that hits her face in flashes. On, off, on again, like she’s flickering in and out of reality.
She doesn’t smile, doesn’t wave. Just waits, like she’s been waiting a long time.
“Nah,” he says. “Just getting some air.”
She steps up beside him at the edge of the sidewalk. They don’t face each other, just sort of angle out into the night like two satellites losing signal.
“You leaving?” he asks. She shifts the strap on her shoulder where it still refuses to lay flat.
“Yeah, I just—felt like if I waited too long someone was gonna make a toast or a speech or, I don’t know, start crying into the free tiramisu. Which, I swear to god, was not tiramisu. But, like, good effort.” The cold air finishes her sentence for her.
He lets it hang a moment, then says, “I’ll walk you.”
She blinks. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
He’s already started walking. She falls in a step behind him, then beside him. They don’t speak for a block. The sidewalk’s uneven. His hands are in his coat pockets; hers are curled around the strap of her bag fingers still pleading for it to cooperate. Somewhere behind them, someone calls out something about leftovers. Laughter follows.
“Still doesn’t feel real,” she says eventually.
He hums. Not agreement. Just sound.
She'd said the same thing six months ago. Standing in the empty dining room at 1 AM, Chicago Tribune folded in her hands. The Bear soars with surprising heart and impeccable technique. She'd read it three times, lips moving slightly on the words, like she was testing if they'd disappear. "Doesn't feel real," she'd whispered to the dark room. He'd been watching her from the kitchen doorway, too wired from service to go home, too afraid to break whatever spell was happening. The way she held that paper—careful, like it might crumble. Like good things always did.
“Like, I have a flight tomorrow and I haven’t done laundry. I still need to tell my landlord.”
“Probably should.”
“Yeah.”
He remembers how she'd looked up then, caught him staring. How her face had split into this grin he'd never seen before—not her work smile, not her polite-customer smile. Something real and unguarded and entirely hers. "We did it," she'd said, holding up the paper, crushing it slightly. We.
They cross at the light, don’t wait for the signal. A cyclist zips past and mutters something under his breath. Carmen doesn’t react. Sydney tucks a piece of hair behind her ear like it’s a nervous tick.
“Six months isn’t that long,” she says, like she’s mid-argument with someone who isn’t him.
He shrugs. “It’ll go fast.”
She makes a small noise at that, something between agreement and disbelief. It’s the second time he’s said that to her. The first was two months ago, standing in the hallway between dry storage and the dish pit, her acceptance email open on her phone and her face frozen like she was staring down something dangerous. He’d said it without thinking. You should go. It’ll go fast. Like it was easy.
Another block. More silence. Not heavy, just tired. Carmen kicks a loose rock down the sidewalk and watches it skitter into the gutter.
“You got the apartment thing sorted?” he asks.
“Almost.”
They turn left without discussing it. It’s not the fastest way, but she takes it anyway, and he doesn’t question her. She walks like she’s done it a hundred times, like her feet already know the rhythm. He remembers that about her—how she moves through the city like someone who’s memorized the margins. The alleys, the shortcuts, which crosswalks ignore. Always two steps ahead.
She points vaguely at a shuttered storefront. “That used to be a bodega that sold the good wasabi peas. Closed last winter. Still hurts.”
He glances at the sign, then at her. “Didn’t know you were a wasabi pea loyalist.”
“Only the good ones. The bad ones are like spicy drywall.” He smiles, small and sharp. It fades fast. They pass a bakery with its windows dark, a stack of chairs barely visible inside.
Carmen adjusts the strap of his coat, mostly for something to do with his hands. This street used to be his route home. That winter when everything was burning behind his eyes and he couldn’t tell if the thing he was building was going to kill him or save him. When he stayed until the lights dimmed and walked home at 3am just to feel cold enough to matter.
One night, he’d caught up with her right here, just past the speed bump. It was February. Slush on the sidewalks. He’d closed up after she left, thinking she had somewhere better to be. But when he turned the corner, there she was. Hood up, walking alone, bag slung across her back like a student, or a kid playing one. He almost let her go. Didn’t want to interrupt whatever world she was in. But she turned before he could say anything, like she felt him behind her.
“You always walk this way?”
He nodded. She blinked. Then said, not unkindly: “That sucks.”
He’d laughed then. Actually laughed. She’d asked if he wanted company, which he didn’t, but she didn’t wait for an answer before walking on. He’d followed without thinking, and they walked four blocks in silence. At her turn, she’d just said, “See you tomorrow,” like it was a fact. And he did. He saw her tomorrow. And the next day. And all the ones after that.
Tonight, they don’t mention it.
He looks at her now. “You nervous?”
“About Paris?” she clarifies, like it would be anything else. But he nods, kind.
“Yeah. No. I don’t know.” She breathes into her scarf. “It’s a stage, not a prison sentence.”
He waits. Doesn’t say anything. She adds, quieter, “Still feels like a test.”
He looks forward again. “You’ll pass.”
“That’s not what I’m worried about.” At the next corner, she veers right without warning. He’s still halfway through a crosswalk when he notices.
“This way?” he asks, catching up.
She nods, hands buried in her coat pockets. “It’s nicer.”
No, it’s not. He knows this street. Cracked pavement, busted drain covers, one streetlight out completely. There’s a chain-link fence to their left sagging under the weight of last fall’s dead ivy. He doesn’t argue, just falls back into step.
It’s quieter here, at least—fewer cars, no neon signs. Storefronts give way to low apartment buildings and fenced-in stoops with rusted metal chairs. The kind of block people live on, not pass through. She walks slower now. Not dramatically—just enough to notice. Her shoulder brushes his once, twice. He moves his hands deeper into his coat. There’s a small park ahead. Not even a park, really—just a strip of grass and two benches under a broken streetlamp. She slows again, doesn’t sit.
“Do you ever think about if we’d met somewhere else?” she asks. He looks at her. She’s not looking at him. “Somewhere with—like, less grease fire.”
No. That’s the first thing that rises in him. No, he doesn’t. Couldn’t. He only knows her like this. Arguing over oil temperatures, rolling her eyes in his direction without looking up from her knife. Her hair pulled back. Her sleeves pushed up. Her voice in the middle of a thought before he’s finished his.
The street goes quiet for a moment—no cars, just the sound of their shoes on uneven pavement—and somehow that’s enough space for it to come back to him. Not a scene, exactly, just Sydney in his office. A still frame with all the air sucked out.
He can remember the facts of it: what she said, what she wore. Eyes sharp, lit from behind. Like she’d already seen where this was going, and just needed him to catch up. But not how it felt before. That part’s gone. Sometimes he wonders if she’s just always been here. Like they didn’t meet, exactly—just collided.
He tries to picture her anywhere else. He can’t. Not in line at a bank. Not at some college party. Not in his life in any other shape. But he can’t say that, so he says the first thing that comes to mind.
“What, like a book club?”
She huffs. “Maybe. Do you even read?”
He blinks at her. “I know how to read.”
“Oh my god,” she mutters. “Carmy—”
“I’m just saying, I can read. I just fucking don’t—”
“I know you can read. I meant do you.”
“I read plenty.”
She stops walking for half a second, scrunches her face, pinches the bridge of her nose. He’s seen that face before. Probably a dozen times. He’s pretty sure she only makes it for him.
He scoffs, still thinking about it. “I read articles.”
She snorts, spins on a heel just enough to face him, like she’s going to say something sharp through the ghost of a grin—but then her mouth parts and nothing comes. Just a breath.
“I’m not—” She shakes her head. “I just meant, like... this. Us. Somewhere else. Forget it.”
He doesn’t. He just stiffens, the line tightening in his jaw before he speaks.
“Right.” Flat. “You’re the one going to Paris.”
He sees her recoil out of the corner of his eye. “That’s not what I mean.”
The air is dense and off-balance. He doesn’t meet her eyes and doesn’t dare ask what she did mean. He doesn’t know what to do with it, so he shoves his hands deeper into his coat pockets like there’s a better response there if he reaches far enough.
“Mise en place,” he blurts, too loud.
She blinks. “What?”
He clears his throat. “It’s French. I mean, you know that, obviously. It just means—like, everything in its place.” He keeps moving so she has to catch up.
She falls back into step beside him, closer now. “I’m aware.”
"It's not just about tools." He keeps going, already halfway in, already a little too loud. "It's mindset, too. Like—physical mise, mental mise. Knowing where everything is before the heat hits. So you don't fuck it up. But it's also—I mean, it's about respect, right? For the ingredients, for the process. For the people you're cooking with. Like, when you have your mise dialed, when everything's in its place, you're not just ready for service, you're—you're present. You know? You're not scrambling, you're not in your head, you're just—there. In the moment. And that's when the best stuff happens.” He's gesturing now, hands cutting through the cold air like he's plating something invisible. “When you're not thinking about it, just doing it, because your hands know where everything is and your brain can focus on the actual cooking instead of, like, where the fuck did I put the salt, or whatever."
“Right. Yeah.” She’s smiling, but it doesn’t fully reach her. She glances down at the sidewalk, scrunches her nose at the yellow paint bleeding off the curb. “Thanks, Chef.”
He winces, shoulders pulling up defensively.“I’m just saying—they're gonna drill that into you. Not just the French terms—though yeah, they'll definitely do that—but the whole philosophy. The precision. The respect for tradition. Which is good, obviously. That's why you should go. It's just—" He stops abruptly, like he's just heard himself talking.
She laughs once, quiet. “Great. Can’t wait.”
He nods, but he’s already somewhere else.
Thinks about his first placement. The second. The third. However many it took before the noise stopped feeling like ambition and started sounding like static. Kitchens where the language didn’t matter because the violence was fluent, all teeth and rage and white noise in his ears. Me, me, me. Everything to prove and nothing to say.
And it hits him then, the thought that maybe the place that broke him will try to make her something else. Carve her down, replace precision with panic, turn that fire in her gut into something cold and mean. Maybe she comes back harder. Quieter. Maybe she learns to sharpen before she speaks. Maybe someone tells her she’s too much or not enough and she believes them, just long enough to bend.
She hasn't even left yet, and already there's this grief for the version of her walking beside him now.
And the thing that makes it worse is that he told her to go. He said it like it was obvious and wouldn’t leave this ringing, awful feeling in his ribs every time he looked at her. At the time, it felt true—generous, even. Now he’s not so sure what it meant. Maybe he thought letting her leave would prove something—that he wasn’t selfish, that he could be good, that needing someone didn’t make him weak. Maybe he thought that pushing her toward something bigger would make him feel bigger too, but all he feels now is small. Small and hollow and walking too fast down a street he suddenly doesn’t want to reach the end of like he can outrun it all.
She notices—he knows she does—but she doesn’t say anything. Maybe that’s worse.
They pass a corner where the streetlamp's been shot out, glass still glittering in the gutter. The sidewalk here is slick—runoff from someone's overwatered planters, the kind of urban gardening that's more hope than sense. She steps around the wet patch instinctively. He walks straight through it, feels the cold seep through his shoes.
“Feels like everything’s moving too fast.”
Her voice is soft, almost lost in the sound of their footsteps on wet concrete. Not directed at him, not really. Just tossed into the dark like a stone into water, waiting for the ripple.
He scratches the back of his neck. “That’s kinda the point, right?”
She doesn’t answer. Not right away. He glances at her—she’s still walking, but her jaw’s tight.
“I just…I keep thinking,” she murmurs, “about how easy it is to get used to things being good. Like, we spend so much time fixing shit—and then suddenly it’s not broken anymore, and I don’t know what to do with that.”
He glances at her. She’s not looking at him.
“So…you break it again?” he asks. The question hangs in the air between them.
She shakes her head. “No, I don’t think I did that. I just—” She pauses, lips pressed together like the words are sharp and she’s testing their edge. “Am I running?”
He doesn’t answer. Just keeps pace beside her, silent. The question doesn't need a response anyway. They both know the answer, and he can see the words pressing at the back of her teeth.
“I don’t know if I’m running toward something or running away from something,” she says. “Or if there’s a difference.”
A beat.
"I think about that every day."
He says it quietly, like it’s none of her business and entirely her business. She looks over, searching his face. He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t soften.
She knows all of this already, somehow. The low-grade sprint of his entire life, the momentum that started long before kitchens gave it a name. Always two steps ahead of whatever was coming—Michael's moods, Mom's silences, the way the house felt like it was holding its breath. In school hallways, walking too fast to nowhere. In his first apartment at 3 AM, pacing because sitting still felt like drowning. The rush made sense in kitchens, had purpose, but it was there before, driving him forward like something was always about to break behind him.
The compulsion to fix everything, everyone. The menu that was almost right, the service that was almost smooth, the restaurant that was almost profitable. Michael, who was almost okay. Himself, who was almost enough. Always almost, never quite, so he'd move faster, work harder, push until something gave—usually him. And underneath it all, the fear of what might unravel if he ever stops moving. What if the only thing holding everything together is the fact that he won't pause long enough to see how broken it really is? What if he sits still and discovers that without the crisis, without the next thing to fix, there's nothing left of him at all?
Sydney, now, asking if she's running. Sydney, who moves with purpose instead of panic. Who can be still in a kitchen during a rush and somehow make everyone else calmer. Who stops walking when she needs to think instead of thinking while she runs.
He envies that. Has always envied that.
“I keep telling myself it’s both,” he says finally. “So I don’t have to choose.”
Something shifts in her expression. Just slightly.
“Does it work?” she asks. He laughs, a dry, honest kind that scrapes on the way out.
“No, obviously it doesn’t fucking work.”
She huffs through her nose, not quite a laugh. “No, yeah, I figured.”
They keep walking. A long stretch now, quiet except for the sound of their shoes on the pavement, the buzz of a streetlight, some far-off shout that doesn’t concern them. Sydney's building appears ahead: red brick, three stories, the kind of place that's seen better decades but still has good bones. She stops at the bottom of the front steps, fishing around in her coat pocket for her keys.
“I didn’t want it to sound like that,” she says eventually. “Like I don’t want to go. I do. I think I do.”
“And you should.” Nods, just barely. Still not looking at her. She waits for more. Doesn’t get it.
“Okay,” she says, but he can hear the bite she’s not good at masking. “That’s it?”
“What else do you want me to say?” he mutters. She doesn’t answer, so he keeps going. “You’re doing the right thing. You’re talented. You’re—fuck, you’re better than half the people out there already. You’re gonna learn some French technique, build a team, run a spot, win some stars, I don’t know. Do the thing. That’s what you said you wanted.”
“I know what I said.”
He nods again, as if that settles it. “So it’s good. You should be proud.”
He leans up against her building.
“You’re not proud,” she says.
"Don't say it like that," he says
"Like what?"
"Like I'm watching from the sidelines. Like I'm not—" He meets her gaze then. She’s two steps up, hands frozen in her pocket mid-search. "That's not what this is."
"Then what is it?"
She's moved up a step or two, keys still in her hand before he blurts, “You remember when we opened The Bear? Like, actually opened? First real service?”
She looks at him, somewhere between caution and concern. “Yeah.”
“You burned the stock. I broke the plate. Marcus dropped the fucking short rib. And we still served it.”
She blinks. “Okay?”
“I think about that night all the time,” he says, fast, the words all over the pavement. “I don’t know why. Just—something about it. It was chaos. It was—bad. But it also wasn’t. Like it—like it meant something, we pulled it together.”
Sydney narrows her eyes, wary. “What’s your point?”
“My point is—fuck, I don’t know.” He runs a hand through his hair. “I keep wondering when that started. When it stopped feeling like I was just holding something up by the bones and started feeling like we were… making it, together. Making it real.”
She’s turned away from him, but even in her profile he sees her eyes looking but not seeing, keys useless in her hand. When she turns back to look at him, he's still at the bottom, looking up at her.
“I think it was you,” he says, finally. “I think it was because of you. And if you leave—if you're not there—I don't know if I work anymore. I don't know what the fuck any of it is without you.”
“Don’t—” She’s shaking her head. “Don’t fucking do that.”
“What?” He takes a step up, one foot on the bottom stair.
“This.” Her hand flits up between them, not quite pointing, not quite accusing. “Say that shit now. Now that I’m going. Don’t put it on me like that.”
“I’m not putting anything on you.”
“Yes. You are.” Each word deliberate. “You’re doing the thing—where you wait until there’s nothing I can do, and then you think it’s safe. Think you can just—”
He laughs, eyebrows raised in disbelief. “You think this feels safe?”
“I think it’s convenient.”
His jaw ticks. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
"I know exactly—" She shakes her head. "If I wasn't leaving, you wouldn't be saying any of this."
“That’s not—”
"When?" Her eyes are wide as descends a step, looming still from the granite. "When were you gonna say it, Carmy? Next week? Next year? After the next fucking crisis?"
He shakes his head, jaw clenched. “I didn’t—I don’t fucking know. I’ve been trying to figure it out, Syd.”
"Try harder." It’s almost dismissive, like she's heard this before. Like she's tired of hearing it. "God, Carmy, just—try harder. Figure it out faster. I don't know what you want me to say."
“I am,” he snaps. The words come out sharp. “I’m trying, like, actually trying to be a person who says things, and you’re standing there acting like I’m doing this on purpose.”
"That's the problem." Her voice gets quieter, which is immediately worse. "You're not doing it on purpose. You're just—you're being exactly who you always are. Here but not here.”
His voice rises, hoarse. “What do you want me to say? That I’m a fucking coward? Fine. I am—I am. But I swear to God, I tried.”
“Come the fuck on, man,” she breathes through a cruel, amused laugh.
“I think about you all the time,” he says, voice cracking. “Your voice in the kitchen, in my head when I'm—when something's wrong, when it's right. When I'm plating. In the walk-in trying not to lose my shit." He's breathing hard. "I go home and I want to call you. Just to—to say good job. To hear you breathe. Or yell at me. Anything."
Sydney blinks. The space between them goes taut, stretched thin and trembling.
"I told you to go because—" His voice drops, gets rough. "Because I thought it was right. I thought you'd hate me if I didn't. But I didn't want—" He stops. Starts again. "I didn’t want you to go. I don't want you to go. And I fucking hate that I said anything because now this looks like guilt or cowardice or whatever—"
"It is." Too fast. Like she's been waiting to say it. "It is cowardice. You don't get to—to dump this on me like some big confession when you waited until—" Her voice cracks. "You think I haven’t been waiting for you to fucking say something? Anything?”
He’s breathing harder now. “Then why didn’t you say something?”
“Because I thought you wanted me to go!”
"I did! I do." He runs a hand through his hair. "I want you to have this. But I didn't think—I didn't know it would feel like—" Nothing. Just air.
“Stop.”
But she doesn’t move. And neither does he. They’re close enough now to see each other breathing.
“I’m still here,” he says. “Right now.” He’s breathing hard again, she can feel it. She can feel everything.
She shakes her head, and her voice comes out quiet, tight as she steps back up to the landing. Her doormat, now missing, leaves a ghost imprint in the dusted tile. “Don’t make this harder.”
“Then stop looking at me like that,” he murmurs.
“Like what?”
He doesn’t answer. Just takes one more step up, and now there’s nowhere else to go. She's backed up against her own front door, keys mindlessly placed in the lock, unturned, but neither of them is thinking about keys right now.
He's imagined this. Of course he has. In the walk-in during service when his hands wouldn't stop shaking. On the train home, silent and overstimulated, still tasting service. At three a.m. with the hum of the fridge and no one else awake.None of those versions looked like this. Not with her eyes bright and furious, not with the aftershock of a fight still trembling between them. Not with his chest tight from saying too much, too late. In his head, it was always softer. Slower.
This is none of those things.
When it happens, it's clumsy and desperate. His hands find her face and she's already reaching for him, fisting the front of his coat like she's trying to hold him together or pull him apart—he doesn’t know. Doesn’t care. Her mouth tastes like anger, like whatever this is that’s been sitting between them for months. She kisses him back like it’s a punishment. Like this is his fault, which it is. Her teeth catch his bottom lip and he makes a sound that gets lost somewhere between them. His hands slide into her hair, careful, reverent, like he's memorizing the weight of it.
Then she's pushing him away, hands flat against his chest, and he lets her because he deserves it. But she doesn't step back. Just looks at him with something wild in her eyes, breathing hard.
"You don't get to—" she starts, but doesn't finish. Instead, she kisses him again, harder this time, like she's trying to prove a point or punish them both. Her hands are still twisted in his coat. Half holding him, half pushing him away. He takes whatever she gives him—the kiss, the shove, the way she looks at him like she doesn't know whether to hit him or hold him.
"I’m still so mad—" she says against his mouth.
"I know," he breathes back, forehead pressed to hers.
But she kisses him again anyway. And he lets her. Because tomorrow she's leaving and this is all they get—this messy, impossible thing that makes everything worse and somehow still isn't enough. When they finally break apart, they're both breathing hard.
"Fuck," she whispers, and it sounds like a prayer or a curse or both.
His thumb traces along her cheekbone without him deciding to do it. "Yeah."
The streetlight flickers above them, casting everything in unsteady shadows. Cars pass somewhere in the distance. The world keeps moving around them while they stand frozen in this moment that changes everything and nothing.
She's the first to step back, putting distance between them even though there's nowhere to go. She should go inside. Her keys are in her hand now—when did she get them out of the door? Her movements are mechanical, practiced. Door. Lock. Home. This is where the story ends—him walking home, her alone in her half-packed apartment, both of them carrying this moment like a bruise. Instead, she fumbles with the lock. Takes three tries because her hands are shaking. When the door finally opens, she turns back to him. He's still standing there, looking like he's not sure if he's been dismissed.
"I still need to pack," she says, not quite meeting his eyes. "Like, a lot. I have boxes everywhere and I keep starting things and not finishing—"
"I could help," he says, too fast, aiming for casual and missing wildly.
"You want to help me pack?" She repeats, like she still thinks this is about boxes. But it's safer than saying what she actually means, easier than admitting she's not ready for him to leave yet. He looks at her for a long moment. Something passes between them—understanding, maybe, or just the acknowledgment that they're both choosing to make this more complicated.
"Yeah." His voice is quieter now. "If you want."
She studies his face for a moment, keys turning over in her hand.
"Okay," she says finally. "Yeah. That'd be—okay."
"Okay. Good. Yeah," he says finally. "Okay."
Her apartment is a disaster. They barely make it through the door before he’s kissing her again, backing her into her hallway, and she’s trying not to trip over—
"Shit," she breathes against his mouth as his heel catches on something. They both look down. A box labeled "Kitchen - non-essentials" in her neat handwriting.
"Sorry, I—" She kicks it aside, and he can hear an ominous rattle. But her hands are already tugging at his coat, and he's letting her, even as they navigate around towers of books and half-filled boxes. The space feels like an obstacle course.
"Bedroom," she says against his neck, and pulls him down the short hallway.
This room is worse. Bed in the corner, suitcase open on the floor, more boxes stacked along the walls. She's already working at the buttons of his shirt when he sits down on the edge of the mattress and the whole thing collapses under him with a soft whump. He looks up at her from where he's now sitting much closer to the floor than expected, knees swept out from under him by the bedframe.
"Oh," Sydney says, staring at the sunken mattress like she's seeing it for the first time. "Right. I sold the—the box spring. Yesterday. Guy from Craigslist picked it up this morning and I guess I forgot about the—" She gestures vaguely at the wooden frame that's now holding nothing but air. "The slats. Which he also took. Apparently."
There's a beat where they just look at each other. Then she's pulling him up and he's following, her fingers working at his shirt buttons as they stumble back toward the living room. He thinks briefly that he’s never hated any version of himself more than the one who chose a shirt with so many buttons this morning. His coat hits the floor somewhere in the hallway. Her sweater gets caught on a box corner and they have to untangle it, laughing under their breath.
He trips over a stack of books and catches himself against the wall, pulling her with him. She's got his shirt halfway unbuttoned—Christ, this never ending shirt—and he's trying to find the zipper on her jeans while stepping around a box labeled "random shit" where each letter plays out in increasingly frustrated script.
By the time they make it to the couch, they're both half-undressed and breathing hard from more than just wanting each other. Her living room looks like a tornado hit it, but the couch—an old, beat-up thing that's probably seen better decades—is mercifully box-free. Mise en place.
The couch creaks again beneath them but neither moves. Sydney’s breathing is still shallow, her mouth parted like she’s waiting for something, and Carmen—Carmen’s just looking. Like she’s a plate he’s not sure he deserves to touch. His fingers ghost along the curve of her jaw, then tuck behind her ear, slow and reverent. Like he’s checking her temperature with his knuckles, like he’s afraid she might dissolve if he’s too rough.
“Come here,” he murmurs, though she’s already beneath him.
He kisses her again, but it’s different now—less frantic. He’s not chasing anything, he’s methodical. Mouth to her temple. Her cheekbone. The soft place just below her ear. His hands on her thighs, dragging upward slow, then up her waist, spanning the space between her ribs. When his thumbs press gently into her sternum, she feels the whole shape of his breath change.
“Still good?” he asks, voice barely there.
“Yeah,” she says, and her voice breaks halfway through it. “Yeah, I’m good.”
His hand travels down, over her hip, then slips beneath the hem of her shirt like. She lifts her arms and he pulls it off—slow, careful. Her bra is decidedly unsexy and one strap is twisted. He doesn’t seem to care. He kisses her shoulder first. Then the space between her collarbones. Then—without hurry—he runs the tip of his nose up her throat like he’s breathing her in.
“You're so—” he starts, then stops. Swallows hard. Tries again. “You’re kind of killing me.”
She lets out a shaky laugh. “Yeah?”
He nods. “Yeah.”
His thumb brushes her bottom lip again. She kisses it. When his mouth lowers to her chest, it’s slow. When he sucks at her skin just above her nipple, it’s careful. And when he finally mouths over her breast, licking, kissing, teasing until she gasps, he pulls back just enough to watch her face.
Not for confirmation. Not for pride. Just to see her. The way she folds under this kind of touch, this kind of slowness. Like it’s breaking her in a different way.
“You’re so—” he tries again, but again the words don’t come. He kisses down her stomach instead, hand on her thigh, his grip steady.
“You don’t have to—” she starts, breath catching as he lowers between her legs, but he just looks up, voice rough.
“I want to.” And then he does. And he takes his time.
Sydney’s legs tense beneath his hands, but she doesn’t pull away. One knee shifts, then the other, and he slides his palms under her thighs to coax them apart—slow, not assuming. Just asking. When she lets him, something in him unspools.
He kisses the inside of her knee first. Then the opposite one. Then lower, working his way up like it’s a ritual. Like each spot has to be acknowledged, thanked, blessed. She props herself on her elbows, breath shallow, watching him with a look he’s never seen on her before—part awe, part disbelief, part don’t you fucking stop.
“Okay?” he asks again, not because he needs reassurance—because he wants to give her a reason to say yes.
She nods once. Her voice is hoarse. “Yeah.”
He doesn’t rush.
He takes his time, laying his mouth just above the seam of her underwear. Kisses her there. Presses his forehead to the heat of her, breathing her in like it’s the first clean air he’s gotten in weeks. When he finally slips her underwear down her thighs, she lifts her hips without being asked. There’s no choreography; all trust, all yes.
He pushes her knees up slightly, hands bracketing her thighs, and lowers his mouth to her, reverent. The first press of his tongue is featherlight. Then again, firmer. He groans softly into her like it’s his own undoing.
She whimpers—quiet, like she’s not used to making noise like that—but he hears it. Feels it in the way her hips shift, the way her fingers twist in the couch cushion beside her. His hands slide under her ass, lifting her just slightly, angling her toward his mouth. His tongue flicks slow, then deliberate, and when he hears her breathe his name—barely audible, but there—it’s like a switch.
He moans into her again, and this time it vibrates. She jolts. Gasps. Her hand flies out, finds his hair, grips hard.
“Carmy—fuck, wait—” she says, but it’s not to stop him. It’s just that her voice doesn’t know where to go.
He pulls back for a second, mouth slick, hair wild. He looks up at her like he’s caught in something holy and he’s pretty convinced he is. “You good?”
She nods, breathless. “Yeah. Just—fuck, don’t stop.”
He doesn’t. He goes back to her like he never left, this time adding his fingers—slow, steady pressure—and the combination makes her cry out. She tries to close her legs around him but he holds them open, thumbs firm in her thighs.
“Let me,” he murmurs, not looking up. “Just let me.”
And she does. It builds slow. Deep. No sharp edges. Just one and two and heat and tension curling tighter and tighter around itself until she’s breathing in broken gasps and her legs are shaking and she’s muttering his name like it’s a litany.
When she comes, it’s sudden. Full-body. Her hands fly to her face, to the couch, to his shoulder. She doesn’t even realize she’s crying out until he’s kissing her thighs and saying her name softly, gently, like she’s something he wants to soothe.
“Jesus,” she breathes, covering her face.
“Hey,” he says, crawling back up her body. He’s still hard, still shaking a little and pressing against his jeans, but he doesn’t seem to care. “You okay?”
She nods again. Can’t speak yet. He presses his forehead to hers. They’re both breathing hard. His voice is barely a whisper.
“That was fucking—”
“Yeah,” she cuts in, dazed. “Yeah.”
He’s still hovering above her, hair a mess, lips kiss-bruised, pupils wide like he’s seeing galaxies. She traces the edge of his jaw with her thumb, still catching her breath. Her body is loose now, weightless and warm like a cord’s been cut. Her fingers find the waistband of his jeans, and he exhales like it hurts. She undoes the button slowly, eyes never leaving his, like she’s checking to see if he’ll stop her. He doesn’t. Just braces himself, breathing through his nose like a man trying not to fall apart too fast.
But when she reaches lower, palm pressing against the heat of him through his boxers, he freezes. “Shit—wait, fuck.”
“What?” she breathes, startled.
“Condom,” he says, already sounding wrecked. “Do you—?”
She groans, flopping back into the cushions. “Oh my god. Maybe. I don’t—I haven’t exactly—fuck, hang on.”
She scrambles off the couch in just her bra, muttering something under her breath. Carmen watches her, dazed, blinking like he’s trying to stay upright.
There’s a crash in the next room. A beat of silence. Then:
“I found one!” she calls.
“Where?”
“Don’t worry about it.”
She tosses it to him like a relay handoff and climbs back into his lap, flushed and a little breathless. Her hair’s falling into her eyes. “If it’s expired, don’t tell me.”
He laughs—soft, ruined. “I won’t.”
And then she’s kissing him again, and they’re gone.
They fall into each other—hungrier now, hands sliding over bare skin like they’ve already forgotten they’d stopped. Carmen kisses her like it’s the only way he knows how to say I’m here, like he’s afraid she’ll disappear if he stops.
He shifts her gently onto her back, the couch groaning beneath them. Her legs part without ceremony, like she’s already made the decision hours ago. Maybe months. His jeans are half off when he tears open the wrapper with shaking fingers, rolling the condom on with a sharp inhale like even that might break him.
She watches him do it, breath caught somewhere in her throat. Her eyes are darker now. Open.
“You sure?” he asks again, voice wrecked and reverent and right at the edge.
Sydney nods, curls a hand around the back of his neck to bring him closer. “Yeah. I’m sure.”
It’s not graceful, not the first push. She gasps when he enters her, one hand flying to his arm, nails digging in as her body stretches around him. He stills immediately, head dropping to her shoulder, breathing ragged.
“Fuck—sorry—”
“No,” she says, fingers tightening around his bicep. “No, it’s—it’s good. Just—give me a second.”
He nods, forehead pressed to her collarbone, jaw clenched like it’s the only way he’s staying still. Her legs shift around his hips, easing him closer. Her breath evens out slowly. Then:
“Okay,” she says. “Okay, go.”
The first few thrusts are slow—halting even—as if they’re both testing the weight of it. But then she lets out this breathy, half-choked moan, and his restraint cracks wide open. His rhythm builds, hips grinding deeper, and she meets him without hesitation, hands scrabbling across his back, into his hair, like she doesn’t know where to put all the feeling.
He’s whispering something now, under his breath, right into her skin—her name, maybe. Or just yes. Yes, yes, yes. Like he can’t believe she’s letting him do this. Like he’s saying thank you without knowing how.
“Carm,” she gasps, her voice ragged.
“Yeah?” he pants, his hand sliding under her thigh to angle her closer.
“Don’t—don’t stop, okay?”
“Not gonna,” he says, almost broken. “Not gonna stop. You feel—fuck, you feel so good—”
Her head drops back into the cushions, and she presses up into him. The couch rattles again, a beat behind them, but neither cares. His chain hits her chest with each thrust. Her moans start coming quicker, raw and unfiltered, and Carmen grabs her hand, laces their fingers together against the cushion like it’s the only thing tethering him to earth.
He’s close. She can feel it—every shaky breath, every tremble in his arms.
“Please,” she says, her voice right in his ear. “Please, Carm.”
That does it.
He groans—deep and low, a sound ripped from somewhere in his chest—and stills inside her, jaw slack, eyes squeezed shut. He comes with a full-body shudder, like he’s falling apart right there in her arms. His forehead drops to hers, and they just breathe.
For a few seconds, the only sound is their ragged breaths, and then the world resumes dialed up gently. The low hum of the fridge. A car alarm somewhere in the distance. And then Sydney laughs. Just once. Quiet and stunned.
He lifts his head, brows furrowed. “What?”
She shakes her head, grinning now, the kind of grin she’s been holding back for months. “Nothing. Just—Jesus.”
He lets out a breathless laugh too, barely able to keep his body upright. “Yeah. Fucking—Jesus.”
They don’t move for a long time. Just lie there, sweaty and half-clothed and out of breath, her arm thrown over her face, his face still buried in her shoulder. The room smells like sex and dust and tequila and whatever candle she lit six hours ago that’s long since drowned in its own wax.
Carmen’s the one who finally shifts, groaning as he rolls onto his back. He drags a hand over his face. His chain sticks to his collarbone. Sydney doesn’t look at him. She just stares at the ceiling, chest still rising and falling like she hasn’t caught up with herself yet.
A long beat passes. Then, quietly: “The couch held up.”
Carmen huffs a laugh. “Miracle.”
Eventually, he shifts to sit up. The condom gets tied off and tossed toward the general vicinity of the trash. He winces. Misses. It lands next to a pile of receipts and an empty LaCroix can. Sydney watches him go through the motions, expression unreadable.
“You don’t have to, like…leave,” she offers, more awkward than she meant it to be.
He pauses. His shirt’s half on. “You want me to stay?”
She shrugs. “I don’t know. I mean, it’s late. You’re probably too tired to—”
“I’ll stay,” he cuts in, quick. “I’ll stay.”
Another pause.
“Cool,” she says.
They shuffle around in silence, gathering clothes, avoiding eye contact. Carmen finds a hoodie that might be hers. She disappears into the bathroom for a minute, and he uses the time to stare blankly at the floor, like if he looks hard enough he’ll find the version of himself that wasn’t in love with her yet.
She returns in a clean tee and boxers that don’t match, curls up on the couch with her knees tucked under her chin. Carmen sits beside her.
"You hungry?" he asks, like maybe that will make things normal again. His first instinct—he doesn't even think about it.
She groans. “Oh, no. Carmy. Please don't try to French Laundry my sad fridge situation, I’m moving and…" She trails off, helpless, and he’s already on the move.
"No, like…" He almost sounds hopeful as he pries the door open, sticking slightly. There's a beat of silence.
"Jesus, Syd."
"Don't," she says, pulling a pillow over her face. Her words muffle behind it. "I know it's bad."
"There's like…condiments. And baking soda."
"The baking soda is for odors," she says through the pillow. "And there's other stuff."
"Half a lemon and—" He holds up a jar. "One pickle."
"It's a good pickle," she says defensively. “Small batch.”
He looks at her, then at the jar, then back at her. "You want it?"
She stares at him for a beat, then laughs—short and sharp and a little hysterical. "We just fucked on my couch and you're offering me my own artisan pickle."
"I'm being a good guest," he says, deadpan.
She hurls the pillow at him.
They end up back on the couch—clothes on now, barely touching, the distance weird but not wrong. Not yet. She chews the pickle. He drinks water like it might cure him. They both look around the room at the same time—at the boxes labeled in her neat handwriting, at his coat still crumpled by the door, at the life half-dismantled and waiting to be sorted into keep, donate, leave behind.
Tomorrow’s already creeping in around the edges. Neither of them looks up to greet it. Not yet.