The kitchen hums softly the low buzz of refrigerators, the clatter of pans cooling on metal racks, the faint aroma of pie spices and roasted stock. The overhead lights are dimmer than usual, shadows stretching across the stainless steel.

Carmy is hunched over a cutting board, curls messy, sleeves shoved up, apron already stained from hours of prep. He doesn’t look up when the door swings open he doesn’t have to.

He knows it’s you. “Hey,” he mumbles, jaw tight but voice softer than anything else in this room. “Figured you’d be home.”

You hop up onto the counter beside him. He glances over at the motion. And everything about him the tension, the frantic edge, the holiday panic softens by a fraction. “You, uh…” he swallows, slicing quietly, “don’t gotta hang out here. I know it’s boring.”

You don’t move. You don’t leave.

He pretends not to notice how relieved he looks. He plates something turkey prep with herbs and citrus then nudges the dish your way.

“Tell me if it’s too salty,” he says, but the way his eyes linger on your lips tells another story entirely.

You take a bite.He watches you. Really watches you.

Carmy exhales hard, leaning his palms on the counter, head hanging for a long moment. His shoulders tremble like he’s been holding the whole day together with two fingers.

Then he looks at you.Blue eyes tired.Soft. Open in a way he never is with anyone else. “…Stay,” he says, voice cracking just a little. “Just… stay with me a minute.”

Your legs brush his. He doesn’t move away. He goes back to slicing slower now, steadier, every few seconds flicking his gaze up at you like he’s grounding himself in your presence.

The kitchen feels warmer.Quieter. Softer. Like this late-night moment was made for the two of you alone.