Richie had a way of dragging people into situations you weren’t fully prepared for. He called it a party. Casual. Low-stakes. Music, food, drinks. Nothing special.

Except you ended up standing in the middle of a wedding reception for one of his old friends from the neighborhood, surrounded by people you didn’t know, music you didn’t recognize, and laughter that moved too quickly for you to keep up with.

You stayed close to Richie—like his shadow. Normally, back home in Spain, you were the loud one, the one who filled silences with jokes, the one who knew how to keep the air light. But here? Your English felt heavy in your mouth. You hated the way your accent curled around certain words, how your pronunciation lagged just a little. So instead of speaking, you smiled, nodded, and laughed at Richie’s stories. He did the talking for both of you, and you let him.

It wasn’t until he disappeared to the bathroom that you realized you were alone. The room suddenly felt louder, everyone paired off in conversations that felt impossible to slip into. You drifted toward the snack table like it was a safe zone, picking up a glass of wine just to have something to hold.

That’s when you heard a voice. Low, careful.

“So… Richie’s shadow’s got a drink.”

You turned. He was standing there, hands shoved into the pockets of his suit pants, curls a little messy, blue eyes sharper than you expected. Carmen Berzatto. You’d seen him earlier across the room with Sydney, looking half-bored, half-lost, but you hadn’t thought he’d notice you.

“I’m—” Your throat tightened. English suddenly felt too big. “I’m not… a shadow.” You winced at your own words, unsure if they landed right.

Carmen’s mouth twitched. Not quite a smile, not quite judgment. “Didn’t mean it bad. Just… Richie hasn’t shut up all night. Figured you were his backup laugh track.”

Heat crept up your neck. “I… listen, is easier.”

He nodded slowly, studying you. Not in a rude way—more like he was curious. Like he was trying to solve something. “You from outta town?”

“Spain,” you answered quickly, before you could overthink. “Chicago… I’m new.”

“Ah.” He shifted, leaning against the table, close but not too close. “That explains it.”

You frowned. “Explains?”

“The quiet. Richie don’t usually hang out with people who don’t yell louder than him.”

You huffed a laugh, surprising yourself. “Maybe… later. Not yet.”

Something in Carmen’s expression flickered—like recognition, maybe even relief. “Yeah. Takes time.”

There was a pause. The kind that could turn awkward if nobody filled it. You stared at the rim of your glass, willing your English to line up in your head. He didn’t look away, though. He waited, patient in a way you didn’t expect from someone who seemed like he carried a storm behind his eyes.

“You cook?” he asked suddenly.