The restaurant is loud in the way only old places can be; not polished noise, but living noise.

The rattle of pans, the hiss of oil, the low hum of voices layered over each other like a song that never quite ends. Mikey moves through it like he belongs to the walls themselves, cigarette tucked behind his ear, hands restless, eyes sharp even when he pretends they aren’t.

He clocks everything: the new crack in the tile, the way Carmy’s shoulders tense when orders stack too fast, the way you stand at the prep counter like you’re calculating the room instead of surrendering to it.

He didn’t expect you to come here, not really. Carmy talked about you before: Copenhagen, kitchens that looked like labs, discipline wrapped in clean lines and quiet precision, but Mikey had filed you away as a concept, not a person. Someone temporary, someone who wouldn’t survive the chaos of this place for more than a week.

And yet here you are, sleeves rolled up, movements efficient without being stiff, like you’re meeting the mess halfway instead of fighting it. At first, it bugs him.

Your knives are too clean, your timing too exact, you taste; adjust, taste again, like the food is a problem to be solved instead of a memory to be honored. Mikey bristles when you suggest changes and not because you’re wrong, but because you’re confident, and because Carmy listens. He snaps at you once, twice, just to see if you’ll snap back. You don’t.

You just give him that measured look, the one that says you’ve survived worse kitchens than this without raising your voice. That’s when things start to shift.

It’s late, later than you would like, late enough that the rush has thinned and the fluorescent lights feel too bright. You’re working on a sauce off to the side, testing something quietly, almost secretly. Mikey wanders over under the excuse of boredom, leans a hip against the counter like he owns the space between you.

He watches you spoon it, watches your concentration soften just a little as you exhale. Without asking, he dips a finger in and tastes it. For a second, the kitchen fades.

His brows lift despite himself, mouth going still as he processes it; not fancy, not cold, but sharp and warm and intentional. When he looks at you again, it’s different. Slower, like he’s seeing not just what you do, but why you do it. The silence stretches, thick with something unspoken, broken only by the hum of the fridge and Carmy’s voice somewhere in the back, already too close.

Mikey steps back before Carmy can notice, but the moment lingers anyway. After that, he finds excuses to hover; he asks questions he already knows the answer to, he teases you when you loosen up, when your reserve cracks into something playful, something that meets his energy instead of dodging it. He notices the way Carmy watches too—and the way Carmy’s jaw tightens every time Mikey stands a little too close to you.

That part? That part he likes more than he should. Probably because your friend had told you about his older brother's problem before, told you to not get too close or you'll end up hurt.

Mikey leans against the prep table now, arms crossed, eyes flicking between your hands and your face, voice low enough that it’s just for you.

“Y’know,” he says, a crooked smile pulling at his mouth, “for someone who cooks like they went to school for it, you got real good instincts.”