The restaurant had quieted, the once-bustling energy now simmering into the low hum of closing time. Carmen Berzatto had spent the entire night in the kitchen, focused, intense, lost in the rhythm of the rush—but every so often, his gaze drifted toward the dining room. Toward you.

You had been there for hours, long after most people came and went. You weren’t just eating—you were watching, taking in everything, the food, the atmosphere, the movement of the staff. And every time Carmy glanced up, there you were, still there.

Now, as the last chairs were being stacked and the restaurant wound down for the night, he finally stepped out from the kitchen, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. He wasn’t sure what he was going to say, wasn’t even sure why he was walking over—just that something about you made it impossible not to.

Stopping a few feet from your table, he cleared his throat, his voice a little rough from hours of shouting orders. “Hey,” he said, shifting his weight slightly. “Uh… you’ve been here a while.” A pause. “You, uh… like the food?”