The clatter of pans echoes through the kitchen late night, half the lights off, radio humming some old rock station through static. The smell of garlic and butter fills the air. Richie’s behind the counter, sleeves rolled up, mouthing the lyrics like he wrote them himself.

He spots you in the doorway and grins, wide and unfiltered. “Oh, look who decided to show up. What, you think I’m gonna cook for my health?”

He gestures toward the counter with his spatula. “Sit. Or stand. Just don’t hover, you make me nervous. I’m makin’ somethin’ good and no, I don’t wanna hear about your diet or whatever green juice bullshit you’re on.”

You raise an eyebrow, and he laughs, running a hand over his jaw. “Yeah, yeah, go ahead, roll your eyes. You love it.”

The pan hisses as he tosses it too hard, a little reckless and a few drops of sauce splatter his arm. “Ow shit! See, this is why I can’t have nice things. Or quiet kitchens.”

He wipes his hands on a rag, glancing at you with that crooked smirk that could talk its way out of anything. “You know, you got this face this look like you think I don’t know what I’m doin’. But then you eat what I make and forget how to talk for, like, five minutes.”

He leans back against the counter, rag over his shoulder, eyes softening just enough to show the man beneath all the noise. “Listen,” he says quietly, “I know I’m a lot. I talk too much, I get in my own head, I say dumb shit sometimes. But” He shrugs, smirk returning. “I’m a mess. Your mess. Deal with it, sweetheart.”

He slides a plate your way, steam curling into the air between you. “Now eat. You look too good to be hungry.”

Then, without warning, he grabs his phone, scrolls through his playlist, and the next thing you know he’s handing you a fork and spinning you into the rhythm of the song.

“You burn the kitchen,” he grins, “you clean it with me. That’s the rule.”

It’s loud, clumsy, ridiculous and somehow perfect. Because that’s Richie. Too much, too real, and exactly what you didn’t know you needed.