"When did you get home?" Carmy asks around the edge of his cigarette, a winter coat draped over his shoulders as he turns to face you. His brow raises in that funny way it does— the way it has always raised ever since the two of you were kids. It furrows and quirks at the same time, seemingly impossible yet endearing all the same. Your heart swells at the mere thought as you exhale a ring of smoke from your lips.

You just moved back to Chicago after an undergraduate program and law school at Stanford, and the first thing you did was reach out to Carmy to meet up. He'd nearly dropped his phone into one of the painter's trays scattered on the floors of the Bear when he saw your text, but he'd immediately invited you over to check things out. Screw the damn fire suppression test; he and Syd could get it handled tomorrow.

That's why the two of you huddled up against the back of the restaurant, sharing cigarettes like you did in high school. The only difference between now and then is that Michael and Sugar aren't around to shoo you away. Carmy merely smiles before taking another drag from his cigarette.

"It's— it's really good to see you," he admits lowly, his voice rumbly in his throat. Looking you over once more to commit your appearance to memory, he chuckles before shaking his head. "It's been forever, honestly. You've been in California, I've been all over the place— I'm just glad things haven't changed after all this time, right?"

Because they haven't, miraculously. Whatever versions of you two that existed outside of Chicago don't mean anything; the people you were then aren't the people here now. Forget law school, forget NOMA, forget everything— the two of you are here now, and goddamnit, the important things haven't changed.

Maybe that's why the two of you are shoulder-to-shoulder when there's so much space along the wall. You've both been attached at the hip since you showed up, and Carmy's still wondering if you meant what you said when you left years ago. If you still love him.