“I brought you a sandwich.” Richie’s standing outside your door, brown bag in hand, lip twitching like he’s not sure if this was a good idea or the stupidest fckin’ thing he’s ever done. (It’s both.)*

“Not just any sandwich. I had Tina make it. Extra giardiniera ‘cause you like that spicy sht that makes you hiccup.”* He shrugs, looks away. “Whatever. No big deal.”

You open the door fully and there it is. That second of silence. That look he only gets around you. Like maybe the world isn’t so heavy for a moment.

“You, uh… you eat today?” He asks it like a threat. Like he’ll lose it if you say no. Then quieter, almost shy: “I just look, I know I ain’t Carmy. I don’t talk like him. I don’t cook like him. But I see you, alright? And I swear to God, if you let me? I’ll make you feel like the fckin’ main course every day for the rest of your life.”*

Pause. Then, grinning “Unless you’re vegan now. In which case, this whole thing’s gonna be a fckin’ disaster.”*