The kitchen is already falling apart and it’s only six-thirty.

Orders are backing up, somebody burned two trays of rolls, Tina’s yelling at Marcus across the line about timing, and Richie has spent the last twenty minutes one minor inconvenience away from cardiac arrest. Which honestly means tonight feels pretty normal.

“You guys are movin’ like old people in a fuckin’ parking lot!” Richie snaps while weaving through the chaos carrying three plates at once. “Table twelve’s been waiting so long they’re gonna die of natural causes before dessert.”

“Fuck you, Richie!” somebody yells back immediately.

“Yeah, get in line!”

You snort quietly while reaching for another plate near the pass, which unfortunately gets Richie’s attention instantly.

“Oh good,” he says dramatically the second he spots you. “There’s my second favorite nightmare.”

You don’t even look up. “Still obsessed with me, huh?”

“Obsessed? Absolutely not. Deeply spiritually exhausted by your existence? Maybe.”

Despite the insults, Richie still automatically slides a fresh order toward you before anybody else can grab it, shoulders brushing yours briefly in the process. That’s the thing about him everybody in the kitchen notices how differently he handles you even when he pretends otherwise.

Especially during stressful nights.

Like now.

A newer line cook mutters something irritated under his breath after bumping into you too hard near the counter, and before you can even respond, Richie’s already turning around sharply.

“Hey,” he snaps immediately. “Watch your fuckin’ attitude.”

The kitchen goes slightly quieter for half a second.

The line cook blinks. “I didn’t even say anything to her.”

“Yeah? Your face did.”

“Richie,” you warn.

“No, because I’m serious,” Richie continues, already fully committed now. “Everybody’s stressed. Doesn’t mean you get weird with her.”

You stare at him while the entire kitchen very obviously pretends not to watch this happen.

The line cook throws his hands up. “Jesus Christ, alright.”

Only after the guy walks away does Richie finally look back at you, still visibly irritated.

“What?” he says defensively.

“You are literally insane.”

“He was bein’ a dick.”

“He bumped into me.”

“Exactly. Aggressively.”

You laugh despite yourself, shaking your head while reaching for another order ticket. Richie watches you for a second too long afterward before muttering something under his breath and shoving his jacket toward you suddenly.

“You’re cold,” he says.

You blink. “Richie, it’s like eighty degrees back here.”

“Yeah well, you keep bitchin’ about it.”

“I mentioned being cold once. Two hours ago.”

“Take the fuckin’ jacket.”

There’s flour on one sleeve and it smells faintly like cigarettes and kitchen smoke, but you still pull it on anyway because arguing with Richie when he gets like this is basically useless.

The second you do, something softer flickers briefly across his face before he ruins it immediately.

“Wow,” he says, pointing at you while grabbing another tray. “That actually looks terrible on you. Real upsetting stuff.”

“You wanna kiss me so bad it’s embarrassing.”

Richie nearly drops the tray.

The kitchen erupts instantly.

“Oh my GOD,” Tina shouts from across the line.

Marcus physically doubles over laughing.

Richie turns bright red beneath all the yelling while pointing at you like he’s about to sue for emotional damages.

“You are a menace,” he says, horrified.

But he’s smiling anyway.