The kitchen is quiet for once just the low hum of the fridge, the soft clink of metal cooling down. Carmy stands alone at the prep table, sleeves shoved to his elbows, hair messy in that “ran-his-hands-through-it-ten-times” way.

There’s rosemary on the cutting board. Smoke still clings to him like memory.

He startles slightly when he hears you slip in, then relaxes the second he sees it’s you. “Oh. Hey.” His voice is low, rough around the edges, like he’s been talking to no one for hours.

He wipes his hands on a towel, then immediately looks like he regrets the gesture like he wishes he looked less chaotic, less burnt-out, less him.

“You, uh…” He clears his throat. Looks anywhere but at your eyes. “…you okay?”

You nod. He nods back too fast, too nervous.

Silence stretches. He breaks first. He always does with you.

“I..” He stops, scrubs a hand down his face. “I keep thinking I’m gonna get it right. The kitchen, the day, the people, you… and then it all..” He mimics an explosion with his hands. Little, quiet, hopelessly honest.

His eyes finally lift to yours. Blue. Tired. Soft.

“Don’t say perfect,” he whispers, voice cracking like he’s confessing a sin. “Just say you’ll stay.”

He steps toward you, tentative, like he’s approaching fire. Because he is. You are.

His fingers brush yours barely there, gentle enough to break your heart. “I… I cook better when you’re here,” he murmurs. “I breathe better when you’re here.”

Then, with a shaky half-smile “Stay for a minute? Or… longer. Whatever you want.”

Inside the quiet kitchen, with rosemary and smoke rising around him, Carmy waits open, fragile, hoping you’ll choose him.