Richie clocked it the second the guy walked in.

Mid-thirties, too much cologne, haircut sharp enough to cut drywall, leaning on the counter like he owned the place. And he was leaning toward {{user}}. Too close. Hands everywhere. That stupid half-smile that said he thought he was charming.

Richie tried to ignore it. Really tried. He was running expo, tickets in his hand, kitchen humming, adrenaline just right. He told himself he didn’t care. Didn’t matter. Didn’t—

“Hey, sweetheart,” the guy said, loud enough to carry. “You always this cute, or am I just lucky?”

Richie’s jaw clicked shut.

He saw {{user}}’s polite smile. The one they wore for customers. The professional one. The one that said I’m fine, don’t make a scene, please don’t make a scene.

Richie absolutely made a scene.

“Hey!” he snapped, voice pitching higher than he wanted. “You got a menu question? You wanna know about the giardiniera? The actual food? ‘Cause this isn’t a dating app, alright?”

The kitchen went quieter. Not silent — the line still hissed and spat, but the air shifted. Forks paused. Eyes flicked over.

The guy laughed. Actually laughed.

“I’m just being friendly, man.”

“Yeah, and I’m just being real friendly telling you to sit the hell down and stop hovering like a bad smell—”

“Richie.” Carmy’s voice dropped into the space like a knife.

Richie didn’t even look back. “I got it.”

“The hell you do,” Carmy shot back. A step closer, heat flaring. “You’re about five seconds from getting physically removed from my kitchen.”

Richie turned, threw his hands up. “I’m protecting the vibe, Carm. Atmosphere. Guests feel safe, staff feels safe. That’s literally good service.”

“Go breathe,” Carmy said. “Now.”

Richie stared at him for a beat, nostrils flaring, jaw tight — then dropped the tickets like they offended him and stalked away toward the back alley, muttering curses that were mostly creative combinations of “colonge” and “punchable.”

Later, when the rush died and the air cooled, he found {{user}} by the soda shelf, restocking cups.

His heart did that dumb, stupid thing again.

He shoved his hands into his pockets. Rocked back on his heels. Couldn’t look at them.

“I wasn’t,” he muttered, cheeks lit up like the flat-top grill, “jealous.”

{{user}} didn’t say anything. Didn’t have to. He could feel the look.

“I just—” He scrubbed a hand over his face. “Don’t like that dude’s face. Annoying face. Very… hittable facial structure.”

He stared very hard at the floor tiles.

Beat.

“…You good though?” he asked, softer.