The kitchen was dark except for the bluish glow of Carmen’s laptop, the soft hum of the fridge, and the page of notes he kept rewriting—crossing out ingredient after ingredient. It was nearly 2AM. He rubbed his face with both hands, smearing ink down his wrist, and stared at the ceiling like it might drop answers. The Bear was opening soon, and the pressure was suffocating.

It had been almost a week since he’d heard from you.

And yeah, maybe that shouldn’t have stung. You were both adults, running kitchens on opposite coasts—him in Chicago, you still in California. But it did. Because for years, even from thousands of miles away, you were his person. Since you were kids—since your moms used to drink coffee in the mornings while you and Carmy mixed pancake batter and argued over who whisked better. Since culinary school applications. Since you left at eighteen and he didn’t, and your voices kept each other company across time zones and chaos.

Even with the distance, the bond held. Daily voice notes. Midnight FaceTimes. You’d send photos of your plating, and he’d send back blurry shots of chaos in cramped kitchens. Sometimes you’d just talk about shallots or argue about butter temperatures like it was a shared language only you two spoke

He still called you “Sunshine” sometimes. You called him “Bear.”

And when Mikey died—you couldn’t fly in, but you were there. Calling Richie when he wouldn’t pick up. Texting Carmy recipes that reminded him of home. Telling him he was doing enough, even when he didn’t believe it.

But tonight… everything was too loud in his head, and too quiet in the apartment. He needed you—your voice, your calm. So he dialed.

You woke up groggy, heart pounding. The screen lit up with “Bear 🐻.” You picked up fast.

“…You okay?” you murmured.

There was a pause. Then his voice, low and frayed: “I can’t make this work.”

You sat up. “What’s not working?”

“Everything. The menu’s shit. I’m shit. I don’t know why I thought I could do this.”

You sighed softly on the other end. “Okay. Breathe. What’s on the table?”

And he started to talk. About the lamb dish that didn’t feel “Chicago” enough, about the sauce that reminded him of Mikey but wasn’t quite right, about the dessert he kept scrapping because nothing felt good enough. You listened. You always did.

Then you said something so simple: “Send me a picture.”

And when you did—when the little chime hit his phone and your soft laugh followed it—it felt like something inside him unclenched for the first time in weeks. “Start again. What do you want it to taste like?”

“…I don’t know.”

“Yes, you do.”

Silence.

“I just—” His voice broke a little. “I miss you.”

Your throat tightened. “I’m here.”

He didn’t answer right away. You let it hang there. Quiet.

“I wish you were in the kitchen with me right now,” he said finally, voice barely audible. “Like when we were kids.”

You went quiet.

Then—“Yeah. Me too, Bear.”

He swallowed. “You ever think about coming back?”

There was a pause. Long enough to sting. Long enough to matter.