Archive of Our Own

The journey to get The Beef to become The Bear was long, and hard, and tiring, and still probably the most fulfilling thing Carmy could ever say he had done in his life.

All of his culinary successes, CDC at the best restaurant at planet earth, work at Michelin star establishments, food and wine’s best new chef. Getting to pour his heart and soul into striving towards culinary perfection, destroying his body, getting a stomach ulcer, crippling anxiety and regular nightmares, all to make some of the most beautiful and expensive food that was put out into the world – all of that wasn’t this.

The Bear was everything. It was his first dream. His purest dream. The one he had shared with Mikey, with his best friend. The dream that stayed burning in the back of his mind during those hard, gruelling years in New York, when it felt like he wasn’t a person capable of dreaming, of wanting, of doing or being. All those achievements  he manifested through furiousness and sadness and loneliness and isolation, reached through the sheer adrenaline infused desperation of proving something to a brother that never gave a shit – those achievements didn’t mean what they should have meant. The goal there was always recognition, from Mikey, pride, acknowledgement. And it never came, and now it was never going to come. But – The Bear was a dream he had entirely separate from that. It was never about a nebulous intangible, or repairing a relationship when he didn’t understand why it was broken. It was a dream borne out of love.

It had been born from the joy and the love he had of cooking, when it was a warm place, a familiar embrace, one he shared with Mikey, and with his mother. It was born from the love he had of his brother, of being his sous, cooking braciole with him, always in step, in tandem, in collaboration. Back when food and his brother made him feel good and capable, when he flunked school and when he couldn’t make friends, and when he wasn’t funny and didn’t date and wasn’t sure if he would ever be a person.

A lot of those things hadn’t changed. A lot of those worries had only been compounded. But he had The Bear now. And getting to that – the night after that blisteringly shocking successful opening dinner service, when he realised they had really done it – that had been when he let himself sit down and really realise that he was still a person that could dream, and strive, and want. He wasn’t a fuck up or a let down or a disappointment, and he was still fully capable of having dreams and goals that genuinely made him happy to achieve.

He wondered if maybe it was achieving that dream that freed up so much space for him to want new things. He couldn’t help but think that, in the downtime he started to have when running The Bear became stable and easy and smooth, when he had the profits to hire extra chefs and front of house workers, and all of a sudden they had a safety net for over a month, and a stable repayment plan to Cicero, and a single lost service of fuck up with the electrics wasn’t make or break – he wondered which came first, having space for thoughts beyond survival, or wanting Sydney to be part of his life beyond this success.

Things were different between them. Good, better, great even. They were partners – they’d opened The Bear together. Every step of the way he had a partner in her, for brainstorming, for logistics, for design, for transforming a decade old idea into a reality. They’d journeyed together through the storm and the difficulty of it all, and he was so grateful for her that he couldn’t help but think – couldn’t help but want – for her to be with him indefinitely. He wondered what that would look like. Opening new restaurants all across Chicago? Restarting her catering business? If she wanted him with her, she could have him. He needed her with him, he thought, needed her like he needed breathing.

She felt entirely essential to him at this point. She was present, and consistent, and supporting him, and making him better, and he felt like it had been months since he’d had a single thought that he didn’t want to share with her. They were in such constant communication he couldn’t really remember what it felt like to pass a day without her.

Considering that their first ever messages were stilted and terse, cantered around a fight they’d just had, it was kind of funny that Syd was now the top person in Carmy’s messages at almost any given point in time. She was the person he wanted to go to with everything. And he was always happy to get a text from her.

Syd: yo

Syd: okay so

Syd: think something like this would be good

Syd: for the bear

Syd: [link]

Syd: menu wise

Syd: lol

When she wasn’t mad at him, Syd texted exactly like she talked. A rushing stream of consciousness, new texts instead of punctuation, not a capital letter in sight. He would smile to hear his phone vibrate about 8 times in a row and know it was just Syd sharing thoughts with him. Inviting him to briefly wade in the stream of her mind.

Carmy: Looks tight

Syd: looks so tight

Carmy: You tried it?

Syd: already improved on it chef

Syd: lol

Syd: I think so at least

Carmy: You want a second opinion?

He only deliberated over the text for a minute before sending it. He’d been thinking about it, thinking that maybe he just… Wanted to be closer to Sydney. And it wasn’t weird. Well, no, it was weird - just admitting to himself how much he wanted a stronger friendship with her felt weird. It had been a long while since he’d let himself look at people and relationships as things he could want and reach for. Things he had space for. He was still in the painstaking two steps forward one step back process of building a good relationship with his sister after all, to maintain good relationships with everyone in his kitchen. He didn’t know he had it in him to want more. To want different or new.

He wanted to know Sydney so much better. They spend hours every day together and he would clock out and make his way home and think about nothing but what she might do that evening. He hung onto the stories she would tell him over the course of a day about her life outside. Smiled and laughed as she described the journey to work out a good time to get fresh twists done with her stylist, who was pregnant with baby number 4, an environment no less stressful than the kitchen at The Bear. He clung to the nuggets of details about her and her life and wanted more and more and more.

He wanted to know where she lived, and where she slept, and what she wanted to do, and where she wanted to go from here. He waned to know how she dressed when she wasn’t coming into work. He wanted to know what she would wear to go and eat at a restaurant, or to hang out with friends. He wanted to know what she was like when she got really drunk, and what she was like when she was cooking for herself or her dad or her friends.  

That last bit of curiosity particularly stayed on his mind. He knew that Marcus had been around to Syd’s house before, that she’d cooked for him, and he for her. And at the time when he’d first heard this, he didn’t think about it too much - they were closer, the two of them, than he was with either of them. Than he was with anyone in the kitchen really. And that was nothing new.

Now though… Now, he couldn’t help but feel a little bit… tense. Jealous didn’t feel like the right word but… What else would it be right? It was a new feeling for him with regards to a chef - used to be he looked at any other chef like they were completion for him to crush. Now, he looked at Sydney and all he saw was someone he desperately wanted around. Needed around. And when she was better than him, he just felt happy and fulfilled and proud.

So, sometimes he would see her and Marcus laughing and joking and talking, and his throat would feel a little tight because - he didn’t know how to do it. Build that closeness. That ease. And he wanted to, with her. Well - honestly with everyone.

But especially with Syd. Because… Well, they were partners in this, right? She had been his sous, his incredible partner, she ran his brigade and single-handedly kept the whole place functioning so smoothly his endless worry could melt to nothing when she was around. And now she was his partner, in crime, in the kitchen, in the glowing reviews The Bear kept on getting. She pushed him, improved him, made him better, and reminded him that he shouldn’t get complacent - that he should be striving for better as endlessly as she did. Always moving. Always striving. Always improving. He wasn’t sure he could keep up that momentum if it wasn’t for her. He didn’t think he could have made The Beef into The Bear if not for her.

Well, no - he knew he couldn’t.

So… He had to put in the work. Into building a relationship with her. He had to put the effort into making them work. And he wanted to.

She’d let him know early on that they could work together, but he needed to listen, to be receptive, respectful, and with her. On the same page.

And every time they shared moments of honesty, of opening up, or something worked together like a perfect machine, he hoped she could tell. That he had put in the work. And he wanted to put in more.

Her texts usually came quick, so the minute that passed made his stomach tense a little bit. He saw the typing bubbles appear and disappear - again, unusual for her. He wondered if she was thinking of the best way to say, ‘sorry I don’t want you in my home.’

Syd: you offering?

Carmy: Yes chef

More bubbles appearing and disappearing. But her replies came slightly quicker this time.

Syd: im actually in the middle of making it now lol

Syd: so like

Syd: you free?

Carmy: I am

Syd: cool

Syd: come over!

Syd: if you’re like hungry as well as free

Syd: lol

Carmy: What’s your address?

She sent it over pretty quickly, and he looked up the route - he could drive and make it in about 10 minutes, or take the L and get there in about 30. But he liked the idea of not driving because -

Carmy: You like wine?

Syd: it would be tougher finding an alcohol i dont like

Syd: lol

Syd: but yes I like wine

Carmy: I’ll get some

Syd: oh thanks!

Syd: you don’t have to

Carmy: I know. You like red?

Syd: I think red would go well

Syd: tho it’s a grey area, cos pork

Syd: but it is a red wine sauce so!

Carmy: Rose?

Syd: lol

He didn’t know how she could tell it was a joke but, she could. He smiled at his phone as he left his building and started walking towards the station. He remembered the other night during a dinner prep when he and Syd had been synergizing especially well. All finishing each other’s sentences, not needing to hear the end of a request before passing each other the right item or ingredient, stirring each other’s sauces and checking each other’s prep. Richie had watched them at it for a few moments, before blowing a raspberry.

“You two babies and your one brain cell. This is why this place is getting so fancy, and the working men’s sandwiches are relegated to the window –“

“Oh, wow, relegated, big word for you there Richie!”

“- And you two are in here talking about your fancy French food and fancy French techniques and being a weird little fancy hivemind.”

Tina piped up then from her station with a, “their one braincell is better than all the ones you got up there Richie!” and Ebra laughed, as well as Sweeps from where he was walking by, and Syd had looked over at Carmy, from right beside him, and met his gaze where he was already looking at her. She’d smiled at him, softly,  a little proudly, like she was happy to share one incredible braincell with him. He had smiled right back.

Syd: get a nice red!

Syd: something sweet maybe

Syd: or like what is it

Syd: the full-bodied fruity kind you know

Carmy: Heard

Syd: thanks chef

He left his house, but only after changing into slightly nicer jeans and a slightly fresher, slightly tighter, dark green t-shirt. He didn’t want to come to her house looking as raggedy as usual - it felt a little like an occasion, though he didn’t know why. Maybe it was just the honour of being invited to her house.

Well, invited was kind of a strong turn of phrase, given he had semi-invited himself but…. Semantics. He was excited to see where she lived. A weird kind of energy thrummed through him as he walked, tapping a rhythm on his thighs the whole time. She was going to cook for him. Of course, he felt honoured. Sure, she cooked for him regularly – at work though, it was for everyone, for the masses, for The Bear. This would just be her cooking for him. No real incentive he didn’t think. Maybe just getting a new item onto the menu, but she could just show him at work if that was the case.

On reflection it occurred to him that he hadn’t really invited himself over. He had just asked if he could try the meal and… She had invited him over. He felt a little warm at that. Even more honoured. There might be the slightest chance that she wanted him in her life too.

He got the subway, figuring he’d go to a supermarket near her house since it was a little further out, so there was a better chance at finding a big one. He got off at her stop and walked in the vague direction of her house, glad to see a sizeable grocery store along the way.

He wandered around until he found the wine aisle. Then he wondered, how sweet did she mean by sweet? He knew when Sugar said she wanted a sweet white wine, she meant ever so slightly less dry than the driest of wines, and any actual hint of sweetness and she’d be disgusted. His mom on the other hand, if she said sweet wine, you might as well get a dessert wine because that was the best shot anyone had at getting something sweet enough.

He shuffled over to look at the dessert wines.

The last Christmas he’d attended, a good few years ago, he had brought her two fancy little bottles of French dessert wines. He’d never been to France, but at some awards event some fancy vineyard type had basically handed them to him - something along the lines of wanting him to infuse them into a recipe, they could collaborate… whatever. He wasn’t a candy guy, and definitely wasn’t a sugary sweet wine guy, so he had given them to his mother. She’d been so happy - crowing to everyone in the house about her sweet baby and his sweet gifts.

By the end of the night, she’d shattered a glass that had been half full of the wine. The carpet had been stained. He had come back after everyone left and been the one to clean it. He could conjure up the memory of that cloying smell easier than his mother’s perfume.

He walked quickly away from the dessert wines and picked up a Pinot. Definitely super sweet but still reasonable. He hoped Syd would like it. Then, figured he could just –

Carmy: You like Pinot?

Syd: for sure!!

Syd: a good choice

Syd: when I said sweet I meant sweet

Syd: no one ever commits to sweet they always get like second least dry or whatever

Syd: like no I wanted to taste fruit

Carmy: You wanting a dessert wine or something?

Syd: lol okay not that sweet

Syd: like im not anti dessert wine don’t get me wrong you know

Syd: but like

Syd: with dessert

Carmy: I can get a dessert too?

Syd: omg no it’s fine you don’t need to get that much it wasn’t a hint lol

Syd: just come eat some food

Syd: it’s nearly ready

After less than a second of deliberation, Carmy walked back over to the dessert wine and picked one up. Apparently ‘it paired well with chocolate, acting almost like an aphrodisiac for a sensual and sensational experience.’ The back of his neck heated, and he ran a hand through his hair. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to bring an aphrodisiac into the mix.

At the same time, if Syd wanted sweet wine, he felt like he needed to get her sweet wine.

He didn’t examine how intense the urge to give her and get her anything and everything she wanted had become recently. He didn’t think examining any of these feelings too closely would be useful. They already felt too big.

So, he went to the dessert area and picked up something chocolatey to match. He didn’t ask about this one, figuring that if he did, she’d start doubling down on him not bringing anything. Besides, he kind of liked the idea of surprising her. Wondered if he had a good enough sense of her tastes to have gotten something she’d like.

He paid, left the store, and before he knew it, was outside of her house. Her dad’s house. He wondered if her dad was in - it hadn’t even occurred to him that he might be meeting her dad but all of a sudden, he felt a little panicky. He was running his hand up over his face and through his hair when the door opened, and there stood Sydney.

She looked – good. She always looked good, obviously, or, well - well usually they were at work, so it wasn’t… an active thought, or an obvious one. He didn’t see her in her blue apron and work clothes that she wore 6 days a week and feel his heart beat a little faster in his chest, after all. Like it was speeding up now. He was surprised, he figured. Not that she looked nice. He knew she was beautiful. But - surprised. At how big the thought was.

Her hair was down, without a bandana or scarf covering it as usual, and half was brought forward over her shoulder. One braid was falling over her face. He wanted to push it back.

She was wearing a dress as well. He didn’t know if he’d ever seen her in one. It wasn’t like - like a fancy dress, just a soft looking black slip, down to her feet with spaghetti straps. But it clung to her body, and he didn’t think he had ever been so aware of her curves. He also didn’t think he had ever seen this much of her skin, and it wasn’t even that much. Her arms, her shoulders. Her collarbones. The dress wasn’t that low cut, but he was aware of her breasts then, the shape of them, the shadow of cleavage, in a way he didn’t think he had ever been before. Heat pulsed through him.

He kept drinking her in. Her skin looked soft, dewy, was shining slightly - moisturised, his mind supplied. He could smell shea butter in the air, even through the delicious scents of the meal she was cooking, even though she wasn’t all that close to him. Her lips looked juicy, full and smooth and glistening. Freshly balmed. She didn’t get the chance to do that much at work, he figured, so it was one of the most striking details. He wanted to know what they felt like, he realised all of a sudden. He wanted to know what they felt like against his lips, against his skin, against –

Fuck.

Again, he knew she looked like this. All pretty and soft and juicy and – he snapped his eyes back up, finally looking her intently in the eyes as soon as he realised that he has been dragging his eyes down her body instead of greeting her. He had no idea how long he had just been stood there staring her up and down, but he felt his cheeks heat up in embarrassment at the realisation that it had probably been a bit too long.

“Hey Syd. Smells good.” He forced himself to say, as if maybe speaking and grounding himself would stem the rising panic he was feeling in his chest. He was probably staring into her eyes too hard. Definitely not blinking enough. But he felt a little proud of himself for sounding fairly normal when what he was feeling was nervous and disoriented.

“Hey! Yeah, so, come in, come in!” She shuffled back in the corridor, and he shuffled forward and - there wasn’t all that much space, so he ended up brushing up against her as he moved past.

The kitchen at The Beef was so small and yet he didn’t think he had ever felt so much of her. In the restaurant it was all ‘corner!’ and ‘behind!’ and a delicate dance designed to avoid collision and maintain distance at all times.

Here in her house, it wasn’t like that. They were just two people existing together in a small space. It was a whole different dance, not one he knew with her. And she was wearing a dress instead of the usual layers of shirt and apron and vest and all. It was more form fitting than the clothes she usually wore and all of a sudden, as he shuffled in sideways to get past her so she could lock the door, he was feeling her breasts brush against his chest, soft. And he looked at her as he moved, as her chest pressed into his and his thighs bumped hers. She was soft against him and all he could think about were these points of contact. He was aware, quite overwhelmingly, of her body. The dip of her waist, the curve of her hips and her thighs and her chest and -

“Welcome!” She said abruptly, as she scooted away, turning to lock the door behind him. “Just like, hang your coat up, leave your shoes on the rack, uh, make yourself at home, mi casa es su casa and all that.” She was rambling a little, not pausing for breath, and moving jerkily. “Uh, I saw you through the window, but you didn’t like, knock or anything so I figured I would just like, open the door, in case you weren’t sure you’d gotten the right - but, um, yeah welcome again! My dad isn’t around - works nights. So, um. Welcome! To… my humble abode or whatever.” She turned back to face him, but her eyes were darting around from his face to the ceiling to his chest to the bag in his hand.

Somehow the fact that she also seemed nervous made him feel a little more at ease. Like they were in this together. And he could always feel better at anything he was in with Sydney. Her eyes were focussed on the bag in his hand now, eyebrows somehow raised and furrowed at the same time as she said “Oh! That’s definitely more than one bottle of wine. I totally told you, you didn’t have to get all that!”

He shrugged, figured he would just be honest and say, “I wanted to.”

She blinked at him for a moment. Then a tiny smile formed, in the corners of her mouth and her eyes, as her eyebrows lowered.

She looked back down at the bag then, as she said “Thanks, Carmy. I’ll put it all in the fridge. Oh, wait no not the red wine the – the dessert. Obviously. And the dessert wine – Yeah!” She took the bag out of his hand, gently. But the touch of her fingers almost made him drop the bag – he prayed she didn’t notice. He didn’t know what it was, it felt like an electric shock but, he realised it might just be how he reacted to her touch.

His head was all over the place. He ran his fingers through his hair as she walked away, tugging tight at the roots, absurdly aware that it was taking an active effort to not let his eyes drop down to her ass.

Fuck.

He didn’t resist for long. He watched her as she walked down the corridor. There wasn’t even space in his head to feel properly guilty about letting his gaze sweep up and down her body.

Once she was around the corner and he had regained some of that headspace, the guilt did come. He was being welcomed into her house, her personal space, and was here ogling her? Just because she was wearing a couple less layers? He scratched hard at his scalp, ran his hand hard down his face, then removed his coat and shoes, before taking a deep breath and following her further into the house.

He admired her family photos as he went through - baby Sydney with big afro puffs, kid Syd with her braids ending in pink bobbles, teen Sydney seemingly at prom with friends, her hair straightened, adult Syd with braids all the way down her back, purple at the ends and streaked throughout. She was grinning hugely in all of the photos. He smiled to see this carefully kept up with dedication to her growth. He was sure her dad loved her a lot – and how could he do anything different? She was, after all, undeniably and overwhelmingly lovable.

He didn’t let himself dwell on that.

Her voice came floating over from the kitchen as he approached the open doorway, through which poured a comforting yellow light.

“So, I changed a few things with the recipe - wanted the sauce a little thicker and richer so I added some stock, and increased the seasoning I think, 2 garlic cloves the recipe said, what a joke right? I was just free handing the rest anyway, but I think the balance is right so I’m gonna try and write down accurate amounts when I recreate next time. Oh, and I let it reduce for longer.”

“I like a thick sauce.”

“I know, me too! Plus, I caramelised the onions a little before I – come over here and see?” She sounded excited, and eager, and he was ready to see what it was she was so hyped about. He liked when she got like this. Her excitement burst through her usually tightly controlled body language, her gestures got a little bigger, her voice a little higher, her nods powerful enough that her twists would bounce.

He walked into her kitchen and stood beside her a little awkwardly. He usually felt at home in any kitchen - eyes flitting around guessing where spices might be, where key elements were being kept - but in her kitchen… he didn’t want to take liberties. It felt important that she welcome him in.

“Looks good chef.” He said, as he stood shoulder to shoulder with her and looked at the meal she was cooking.

“Thanks chef,” she replied, bemused. “Marcus is so funny with compliments. All like, observations. ‘I see you seasoning’ and ‘I see you frying’ lol. You’re so different, cos it’s kind of the same tone of stating facts except, the facts aren’t… facts. You just treat them like they are. Okay that didn’t make sense never mind!”

He smiled as she shook her head, laughing at herself, and interjected with, “I think I get you – I guess it’s like… if you’re good and doing good I just want to say that. My own flavour of observation I guess.”

“Yeah. Cooking is your thing, so I guess it makes sense you deliver things like facts. You would know right? You can be blunt when you know something well - no point acting unsure when you’re certain.” She glanced up at him sideways and away from the pot in front of her where the pork was slow cooking, in a bubbling sauce.

“I mean - yeah. Plus. You’re so good it is a fact. Your food looks good.”

She was quiet then, looking down at the sauce she was stirring. Her voice was soft and quiet and shy when she said “Thanks, Carmy.” And he felt heat all through his body when she said his name in that tone.

Fuck.

And then they were quiet for a bit. He watched her, in her element as ever. Adding ingredients, the way he would add them, mixing and stirring and flipping when he would. They could be so different, were so different, but in cooking - felt so similar.

She didn’t ask for his help, laughing him off when he asked if he could help, pre-empting her next steps and asking if he should cover her.

“Just let me cook for you! Don’t be a chef right now!” she grinned at him, using her body to move him away from the pot as he reached for the spoon.

He huffed out a laugh, tried not to get distracted by the feeling of her hip pressing against his to push him away, let her move him as he said, “I don’t think I’m good at turning it off. The chef, thing I mean.”

She nodded, “No you definitely aren’t. But try and turn it off for an evening, for me?”

And that was all she had to say because, frankly, for her, what couldn’t he do. A little part of his brain wanted to panic at that admission. Again, he realised, these feelings were a little bigger than he wanted to examine. But in her presence, as desperately aware as he was of how attracted he was to her, as an additional confusing layer, it was all a lot hard to ignore. He felt like he was sitting on a trunk desperately trying to zip shut but entirely overfull.

So, he just watched, as she plated the food for him, pork belly and sweet potatoes and veg, as she described in a little more detail what she had changed and added, and why. He got the fork as she stood on the other side of the counter, almost vibrating with tension as he got himself a forkful of pork. And then she shook her head.

“Wait no I need to - let me get a perfect mouthful. There’s - you need to let all of it hit your tongue to start and just like set the scene you know! Let me.” She said, full of excitement, taking the spoon from his hands with slightly unstable fingers. He felt a little electric shock again at her fingers grazing his, relinquished his fork to her.

She took it up, getting some of the pork, some of the potato, covering it in a good bit of the red wine sauce, getting the vegetables and some of the decorative herbs around the edges of the plate, and getting it all ready. Then she moved the fork towards him and on some instinct, he couldn’t explain he opened his mouth instead of reaching for the fork. And she didn’t hesitate either just, leant forward, and moved the fork towards his mouth and fed him. He felt like it tasted better than it could’ve any other way - and the food really was delicious. Perfect.

He told her as much and she beamed at him, smile so wide her dimples were deeper than ever and her eyes were basically screwed shut. He wanted to hold her face and feel the crinkles and creases, smoothness and softness of her skin under his fingertips. He wanted to get the next spoonful and feed it to her. He wanted to drag his hands from her face to her neck to her chest and all over her body and - his face heated as he thought a little too hard about what he wanted to do to her, and heat rushed to his dick. Ridiculous. Turned on by a smile.

He looked away from her, took his fork back with some comment about being ready for her to keep feeding him but not if she was going to be so slow, and dug in. She laughed, picked up her own for and did the same, and they ate together in companionable silence for a bit. Just the sounds of forks meeting plates and quiet chewing and the occasional appreciative sounds from them both. His jeans didn’t have a chance to get any less tight when she kept letting out those soft tiny moans. She bit them back, quietened them. But it just made him desperately want to hear the sounds at full volume, when she wasn’t holding back her pleasure.

He wanted her. Urgently, desperately, fervently.

He was trying to keep that to himself, but he wasn’t sure how successful he was at that. He couldn’t stop staring at her, as she stood eating across from him. He watched her face as she ate and smiled at each mouthful, watching the way her eyes dropped closed as she chewed a perfect bite, smiled to herself at her own meal, the way her fingers held the fork, elegant, as she moved it to her mouth. He watched her lips. Every time her tongue would poke out to lick them, he felt it in his gut. He felt off balance – it couldn’t be normal, couldn’t be sustainable, to want someone this much. And it was worse because, he couldn’t for the life of him work out when it had gotten to this point. It felt like it was zero to a hundred, just all of a sudden, this desperate urgent wanting overtaking him so badly he felt like he didn’t know how to act anymore. Didn’t know how to think anymore.

“So.” she said eventually, after they had both scraped their plates entirely clean. He almost wanted to lick his, it was so good.

“So?” he asked.

“What did you think… of it? Now that you’ve finished, I mean. Comprehensive view. I don’t know if you – can imagine what it tasted like originally, from the recipe, but – yeah. I made a lot of changes I think so not sure if this is what you were expecting?”

“Syd. It was incredible.”

“Yeah?” she was beaming again, and he felt his heart thud a little harder at the idea that his approval meant so much to her. He knew, of course, that she cared what he thought. But being able to win these smiles from her just by telling her the facts, that she had cooked something amazing, and he was amazed – it was heady.

There was no way he could go back to being normal about her if it felt like every time he won a smile from her his heart would beat out of his chest.

He continued, “Genuinely incredible. Thank you for letting me try it.”

“No yeah, of course, any time.” her smile softened around the edges, and she leant forward over the counter, rocking on crossed elbows towards him, wavering seemingly without realising.

“And for welcoming me into your house. It’s nice to… See you outside of work. To see you.”

“Oh! Yeah of course I – I’m glad you came. I’m glad you came, and you liked it and…” She trailed off then, just looking at him as he looked at her. The air between them felt heavier then. His mind went blank. All he could think of was her gaze, and her lips, and the warm feeling in his chest. And she seemed similarly caught up in her thoughts, looking at him with wide eyes, unblinking. Then she straightened up, gasping, “The wine! You got like two different wines and a dessert and a dessert wine, we’ve got to um, drink some! Should we, do you want to, move to the couch and drink some? Start with the red and then move onto the dessert and dessert wine?”

It felt like he had to shake his head to get water out of his ears to focus on what she had just said and respond in any kind of normal or functional way. “Yeah. Sounds good to me.”

She turned around to get the wine from the counter, and he picked up the plates and moved around the island to start rinsing them. Ignored her when she said he didn’t have to. Smiled as he moved closer into her space and smelled that shea butter again. She placed a hand in the centre of his back to steady herself as she reached up to get wine glasses out of a cabinet, and he wondered if she could tell how tense his body became at her touch.

He soaped up and cleaned the plates, then put the clean plates on the drying rack all while she poured their glasses elegantly full of red wine, talking a mile a minute.

She talked about her aunt who loved to travel, who had been the one to take her to a winery in California on a trip with a couple of her cousins, and taught her all about the process of making wines and how to best enjoy them. Carmy smiled as Syd talked semi-ironically about the tannins and swilling the red wine around the glass so it would coat the inside and release extra flavour, and allow the scent to burst into your nostrils and enrich the drinking experience. He smiled, but followed her lead. He had faith that if she said this is how to drink wine, she knew what she was talking about. He knew a little bit about wine, hard to be a chef and not, but he’d never been to a winery.

She talked about her aunt from Nigeria coming to visit when she was younger, and how she had admonished Syd’s father for not having nicer wine glasses, and how before she left she had brought them a wildly fancy set as a gift. She talked about how her dad was too nervous to have really nice things like that, and so they were tucked into the highest possible shelf, only to see the light of day again next time her aunt visited. Those were the ones she brought down now, and when Carmy jokingly asked if he was that special of a guest, and she jokingly replied, ‘of course you are!’ he felt heat rise in his cheeks at the idea that she was in any way sincere.

He told her all about times with Uncle Cicero. How it felt like all his strongest memories of his dad had his uncle in them too. Talked a little about how Cicero was always getting them gifts a little too lavish, how his dad would get mad, say it was too much, but never take them away, and never really tell Cicero to stop. He told Syd about a time when Mikey got just old enough to realise the gifts were making their dad feel embarrassed, and tried to refuse them once, and their dad got even more angry and basically forced them to take them and to be extra grateful.

He wasn’t sure why he told her all that except, he wanted to. Felt like she would understand. They could talk about cooking all day every day, but it was just as nice to talk to her about weird family dynamics and tense family nonsense and aunts and uncles and parents and memories. He didn’t think there was anyone else he really spoke to about any of it – not even his sister. They didn’t talk much about Mikey – not in the way that it usually felt dragged out of him. He just let Mikey be a part of his anecdotes, felt the regular pain in his chest ebb as he did, but it didn’t feel uncomfortable. He felt like he could do that tiny grieving with Syd. It was comfortable, he didn’t feel too vulnerable. It felt good.

Eventually she shepherded him towards the couch, and they both sat at either edge of the loveseat as they drank the first glass of wine.

She put on some music, turned off the main lights and put on the warm orange lamps, gave him a cushion that he held loosely against his chest instead of sitting on, ribbed him a little for that. She talked about her dad a bit more.

“I never used to get why my dad is so obsessed with vinyl and so precious about this old player. I feel like it wasn’t until I moved back in that I really like, I don’t know, heard it for the first time? Like the difference? Like… years of just hearing music played out of my shitty half busted iPhone, with the peaks being when I would like put it into a quart cup and listen with people at work. Like no one ever had a fucking speaker. And I forgot how good music could sound and I happened to come home, and I was craving some good old school soul, and I put on a mix, and it just floored me you know?”

“I do.”

“You do yeah?”

“Yeah. I always liked vinyl. Started collecting in New York. Don’t have a player at my apartment, haven’t unpacked any of the records either – it’s a lot of unpacked stuff in there, still, my apartment. Like, even though I’ve lived here for months. Feels like I haven’t been here long though and… I’m not great at making a house a home. Or whatever. Spent years in New York and never… never stayed in a place that felt hard to move on from. The apartments got less shitty, but it came time to move back home, and I realised I just didn’t have that much to pack. But – but yeah, I like vinyl.”

“How comes?” she asked softly.

“How comes I like vinyl?”

“Nah I mean – how comes you never… made a house a home? If it was something, you wanted to do?” she nudged him, her knee pressing into his softly.

“I don’t think… It was? At the time? Something I wanted to do, that is. Like I wasn’t really…I don’t know. Present. New York never felt like a place where I was living it was just like… A place where I was? I…. Only ever felt like I was living, was alive, was a person, for a minute in the kitchen. And even that got beaten the fuck out of me by some really shitty psycho chefs and… I guess it never occurred to me that I could just… be in places and enjoy them. Sounds fucked up. Probably is.” He stopped there, tried to ignore the urge to curl up and hold himself tight together. He looked into her softly accepting eyes, her slow nodding, and felt himself relax again. He could talk to her, really talk to her, painstakingly muddle through putting his jumbled thoughts and feelings into words, and she listened and accepted him, and it was okay.

“A little bit.” She admitted, though the smile on her face stopped it feeling like a dig, “But… Things are different here? For you?”

“I think so. I feel… Uh. I don’t really know, a lot of the time, how I feel? But I’m getting there. And I think feeling at all is… progress.”

She nodded some more, “You feel like a person though? Who is alive, and living?”

“I think… yeah. More now.”

“I’m glad. You’re a person to me. You know. An important person”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“You’re important to me too.”

A while later, once they finished their first glasses, she stood up and went to get the bottle. He was leant back all the way into the couch, body unfurled. One arm slung across the back of the couch, one on the armrest, his body tucked into the corner. One of his knees was up on the couch. He felt relaxed for the first time in a while. He watched as she stood up, still graceful and controlled even as he could tell from her slightly squinty smile, and easier and easier laughs, that she was feeling the wine.

It didn’t occur to him at all to try and control where his eyes fell. The soft shine of her bare shoulders. The small of her back. The swell of her hips. The way her dress clung to the shape of her ass, the curve of her thighs, as she walked. Her ankles. He somehow felt like an extra horny mess for managing to be hot while looking at her ankles but there he was. He could watch her for hours. He wondered if his face was giving him away when she got the bottle and brought it back over to the table. He watched her the entire time, and she watched him back. It felt like it was obvious, like she had to know. Like it was clear from the thick energy in the air between them, that something was there. He wanted her; he was sure she knew that – she was a little more perceptive than him. And he… he had started to feel like maybe he wasn’t crazy for thinking she might want him too. He wasn’t usually the type to connect the dots, but he felt like it was reasonable just then.

She poured more wine into their glasses, even more generous with the pour. And when she sat back down, she was closer to him. She had tucked a blanket and some pillows behind her, and was sat more towards the middle of the couch. She brought her legs up and curled them beneath her, and her knees were touching his. He could feel warmth emanating from her body.

The next glass of wine they spent laughing. He had never thought of himself as funny, honestly, but he said something, and she laughed so hard she fell forward, and reached out to steady herself with her hand on his shoulder. He put his hand on her shaking shoulder and for a while just held her up while she laughed and laughed. Then, eventually, they let go of each other. But they were even closer than before. Her legs were curled into the space between his thighs, and she was almost sitting on his knee now. Her back was pressing against his arm, and his hand was being grazed by the ends of her twists whenever she moved her head around.

“Okay so, who do you think is the funniest in the kitchen then?”

“Not Richie.”

“Obviously not him Carmy, please, who do you think you’re fuckin’ talking to?” she laughed again she said this. Smacked him lightly on the chest playfully. He felt the spark of the gentle tap against his nipple and was grateful that he had left the cushion on his crotch because he had been probably half hard ever since the first glass of wine.

“Okay I think…” He paused then, really thought about it. “T, or Sweeps.”

“Definitely T or Sweeps! I think I like her humour cos, she’ll rib people, all that.”

“Like you huh?” he said, and elbowed her a little in the side.

She collapsed into giggles, and that’s how he found out she was ticklish. She smacked him again, and he tickled her some more, and then he was half on top of her as she gasped for breath and laughed and wailed at him, smacking at his arms and chest without any effort behind it. And then, all of a sudden, he was frozen in place with awareness. He was knelt over her hips, both his knees pressing into her sides, and she was laid out between his legs, her whole chest heaving as she gasped for breath. Her eyes were shut tight as she laughed breathlessly, and her smile was wide, and she was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen, and he just had no idea how he was meant to deal with that.

She took a while to catch her breath, seemingly not noticing how he had just frozen up, getting onto her forearms and sitting up a little. It just brought her face closer to his. Her face was smooth, and her eyes were heavy lidded from the wine and – the laughs, the breathlessness. He knew it was that. But she looked for all the world like she wanted him. He wasn’t sure why his brain tried to tell him it was that but as his eyes roamed around her face it was all he could think. Her lip parted as she still panted slowly for air, wet from being licked, brown and pink. Her eyes were heavy, and she was looking – she was looking at his lips. And he felt for all the world like – he needed to kiss her, just then.

And he did.

He leant forwards, slowly, so slowly, slowly enough that she would have time to stop him if she wanted to. She didn’t. She watched his face with those wanting eyes, gaze wandering between his eyes and his lips, then resting on his lips, and then gently closing as he closed the gap between them.

The first press of their lips was – fireworks, fanfare in his mind. A culmination of this bursting, blisteringly hot want he had been feeling since she’d opened the door. It was sweet and soft and simple, just a press of the lips. Her arms slowly wound around his neck, and – he didn’t resist the urge to slowly move both of them down to lie on the couch. He broke the kiss to do so, and then she was lying on her back, eyes fluttering open wide to look at him, wanting, pupils blown in her brown eyes. And then, she tugged him downwards with an urgency he didn’t expect to be reciprocated, and they were kissing again.

And this kiss was different. It was hungrier. He pressed his lips into hers like he wanted to meld them together, knew it was maybe too hard, and the kiss was bruising, but it wasn’t enough, he had to press harder into her, wanted to be closer to her. One of her hands moved up, her fingers tangling in his hair, scratching lightly at his scalp in a way that made him feel a little bit delirious.

She turned her head to the side to gasp for breath for a moment, and he couldn’t bring himself to take his lips off of her, just moved to kiss her jaw, to bite at it, suck at it, until she was moaning lowly. Moved down her neck, kissing and sucking and worrying the skin between his teeth until he was worried that he would do something as juvenile as leave a mark behind, just because he was so horny he could have sucked at her neck for an hour straight and never noticed the sun setting. He held himself up on one forearm, his other hand finally taking the opportunity to just feel her. He put his hand on her waist, clutching her body tight, let his chest meet hers, and used his grip on her to press her into him without crushing her. She was moaning more consistently now, as he moved his kisses down to her collarbone. To her shoulder. He moved one of the straps off of her shoulder with his teeth, and used his free hand to do the same with the other, and then stopped himself from pulling the dress down to expose her breasts.

“Is this – “ he asked, haltingly, barely able to bite the words out.

“Yes, fuck Carmy.” She gasped.

“It’s, okay?” he wanted to be sure, needed to be sure, but –

“Fuck! Yes!” she said, so impatient he couldn’t help by smile, “Fucking – don’t stop – keep fucking! Fuck!” and she surged up to kiss him again, shoving her top down herself, and putting his free hand onto her breast. He took the guidance, resuming the crushing kiss, but now following her lead and parting his lips – the kiss got hotter, wetter, their tongues pressing together as urgently as the rest of their bodies. He caressed her breast with his hand, then started playing with her nipples. Light touches at first, that he let firm up, as he found the rhythm she liked and started earning consistent keening sounds from her. She once again broke the kiss to huff in air, and he let his mouth drop directly to her nipple. He sucked, hard, and she moaned so loudly, he felt the vibration through her chest. Her grip in his hair tightened so much it was painful, pulling at his scalp hard, but he liked it, loved it, was obsessed with being able to give her this pleasure, all of it. He felt like any pain would melt into pleasure so long as she was touching him.

He sucked at her nipples, one after the other, fingers and tongue in tandem, until she was chanting his name, interspersed with curses and moans, until she said “God, please, Carmy please, can we just – please Carmy please, take off your clothes I need – I need – “ and he cut her off again with another bruising kiss. He struggled to take off his top, hating that he had to pull away from her to do it. But he ripped it off, threw it aside, and revelled in the feeling of his bare chest against hers, all soft hot skin, her breasts crushing into his chests, it felt like perfect agony. He wanted more. He pulled her to standing, and she swayed, kiss drunk, wine loose and breathless – she let him pull the dress all the way down her body. He moved to kneel in front of her then, let her balance with a hand on his shoulders as she stepped out of the fabric. He pulled her panties off with the dress and she gasped when he kissed her belly, kissed the top of her pussy, pressed his fingers against her clit hard. He rubbed gently at her entrance, and her breath quickened so fast. She whispered please, over and over, as he kept rubbing, from clit to entrance, gathering her moisture so it all got ever smoother and stickier. He let one of his fingers enter her and her legs started trembling so hard he realised he needed to put her back on the couch.

He let her sit, pulled his own jeans and boxers off so desperately he nearly fell. She watched him hungrily as he did so, playing with herself – one hand on the nipple he’d sucked so hard it was still wet, one hand between her legs. He saw the way her spine arched, and her lips parted with a gasp as she sunk two fingers into herself. His vision went white for a second, and it was all he could do to make his descent onto her body a controlled one. He gathered her hands between one of his, above her head, stretching her out, and kissed her as furiously as before. And then let his other wander back between her legs. She parted her thighs, one falling to lie against the back of the couch, the other bent, cradling him. He pressed downwards then, his hard, leaking cock pressing his own wetness into the softness of her belly, and she gasped at the sensation, her legs coming to wrap around him, as her arms did around his shoulders, one hand still in his hair.

Everything still felt desperate, but their kiss slowed then for a moment. Open mouthed and wet and slow, so slow he felt like his brain was melting with the building heat of it, all of his senses enveloped by her. All he knew was her lips, the smell of shea butter and wine and onion and food, the smell that was just Sydney, rich and earthy, her wetness and her musk. All he knew was the wet sounds of their kiss, that would be disgusting if he wasn’t in the midst of it, wasn’t the one on the receiving end of that wet pleasure, the sounds of their skin as it met and parted, slightly sticky, damp with sweat and precum. All he could feel was the tickle of her hair, one of his arms curved up under her back so he could press against her harder, and hold the back of her head, clutching her twists, holding her. The press of her breasts where they were crushed into his chest, the press of their stomachs tight together, the feeling of her soft thighs cradling him. The hot skin of her lower stomach against his cock. He felt light-headed.

She broke the kiss again, and whispered, “I want you in me Carmy. I want you – fuck, I want you to fuck me, please, please, I need you to…” and he had to pull away from her, so he didn’t come there and then. He was sure his grip, in her hair and on her waist, tightened beyond the point of comfort, but she just kept whispering his name, talking about how much she needed him. He backed up, left her panting, reached into his bag for a condom he had frankly expected would expire before he used it, opened it and rolled it onto himself with shaking hands. And then slowly crawled back over her.

She was so beautiful. Laid out under him, all soft naked skin, wide dark eyes, parted lips that looked swollen from their kisses. Her chest was rising and falling rapidly, and the swell of her breasts, the shine of the sweat covering them, was mesmerising. Her legs were still wide open for him, and he looked down at her pussy, glistening wet, flushed and dripping for him, and felt his gut clench hard at the idea that he would be inside of her soon.

He moved forward then, and she reached her hand down – got a hold of him. It was the first time she had held his cock, and it felt good – too good – as she stroked it once, twice, getting a feel of it. He had to stop her, bit out into her ear through gritted teeth, “please, Syd, you can’t, I will come right now.” He felt her smile against his ear, felt her place a light kiss behind it, as she guided him towards her entrance. He pushed forward slowly, slowly, steadily. He let her take most of his weight, one hand pressing her thigh down so he could push in more effectively, the other holding one of her hands. Her other hand was at the nape of his neck, scratching lightly, caressing his hair and twisting strands between her fingers. He watched her face as he sank into her, watched her eyes fall shut, tight, in pleasure that almost looked like pain, watched her mouth open wider than it had all night, heard the keen in the back of her throat so high pitched it hardly escaped, broke and stuttered before it could spill past her lips. He glanced down to watch as he entered her, his cock disappearing into her tight, wet body, and had to look away before it got him to the brink way too soon.

Eventually he was flush against her, his crotch against the softness of her ass, her shockingly soft inner thighs. They were both still for a few moments, just breathing together. He looked at her. Her closed eyes and curly lashes, the fullness of her cheeks, her open panting mouth. He waited until she squirmed a little beneath him, looked at him through her eyelashes, and then he let himself move. He pulled his hips back and drove into her, fast, and she moaned loud and hard and tightened around him, digging her blunt nails into his shoulder, and then –

The rest was urgent, hard and fast. There was no time for slow and steady, no casual gentle love making, he was too desperate for her, and he thought she was desperate as well. He set a furious pace, fucking into her, snapping his hips back and forth faster than he knew he was capable of. And she met him halfway each time, driving her hips up to meet him, their collisions hard and intense. They found a rhythm fast, set a blistering pace. The sound of smacking skin, of her constant gasps and moans, his groans, filled the apartment. He couldn’t smell food and wine anymore, for the scents of skin, and sweat, and sex, and Sydney and Sydney and Sydney and –

He wasn’t sure if it was 5 minutes or 50 minutes that passed. She came, a gargled scream escaping her lips, entire body spasming with pleasured jolts, tightening around him so hard he had to stop because it was almost too much – it was too much – he came moments after her body started to relax.

And they just lay together. Panting. He knew he was probably too heavy on top of her, and tried hard to find the energy to move his body off of her. Ended up just about managing to roll so he was mostly lying on the sofa, and she was mostly lying on top of him. Their sticky limbs were pressed together in a way that should have felt gross, but felt perfect instead.

Her fingers found his then, and their hands pressed together, fingers lacing, and his chest felt so full it could burst.

They did all the clean up after a while. He put the condom in the bit, she got a towel and wiped them both up, opened the windows to air the room out. They gathered their clothes and went into her bedroom, lay down under her duvet together. They didn’t really say much, but kissed again, slow now, less urgent, less like it had to go somewhere. They just kissed to kiss, and it was so good, so sweet, Carmy felt tears spring unbidden to his eyes. He broke the kiss, tried to choke them back, throat swallowing nothing on repeat as he tried to keep from crying, his eyes screwed tight shut as he tucked his face into her neck. She didn’t question it, didn’t question him, just rolled them so that she could lie on top of him, and have both hands on his face.

He felt this overwhelming feeling of rightness. The tenderness of it, the vulnerability of it, it was a lot. It was intense. He was grateful that she didn’t question when the first tears rolled out of the corners of his shut eyes, and laughed when she bent her face to lick one of them. He opened his eyes up, leant up to kiss her then.

She rolled off of him, let him press his face back into her chest, held his head and stroked his hair.

And he knew, in his bones, he wanted this, with her, for the long haul.