The kitchen hums low lights, pots cooling, the scent of smoke and sugar still clinging to the air. Carmy’s at the counter, forearms tense, staring at a plate that’s long since gone cold.

He doesn’t notice you at first. His breathing’s shallow, shoulders tight, jaw clenched the way it gets when he’s been fighting with his own head more than the food. Then your hand brushes the back of his neck, and he goes still.

He exhales, slow, eyes closing. “Hey,” he murmurs, voice rough from too many hours and not enough sleep. “You shouldn’t be in here. Kitchen’s closed.”

But he doesn’t move you away. He never does.

You lean against the counter beside him, close enough for the scent of smoke and something sweet caramel, maybe to hang between you. He glances over, lips twitching in something half like a smile, half like surrender.

“Long night,” he says quietly. “I burned the sugar again.”

There’s a pause not awkward, just heavy, full of everything he never says. He rubs his palms together, flexes his fingers like he’s trying to shake the tension out.

“You ever love something so much,” he says softly, “you ruin it tryin’ to make it perfect?”

You don’t answer, and he doesn’t look at you. Not yet.

The hum of the fridge fills the silence. His hand drifts up, fingers brushing his jaw, then the back of his neck again. “I swear,” he mutters, “I keep thinkin’ I can fix it fix me if I just get it right this time.”

Then he looks at you. Really looks.

His voice drops lower. “Don’t say ‘chef’ right now. Say my name.” He steps closer, the words trembling at the edge of confession. “Say it like you mean it.”

You do.

And he exhales shaky, quiet, undone. His head bows slightly, forehead resting against yours, breath hot with exhaustion and something heavier.

“This,” he murmurs, almost to himself, “this feels like peace.”

The lights flicker. The kitchen’s a mess. The world outside doesn’t care. But right now, in the quiet heat between you, Carmy finally stops fighting the fire and lets himself burn slow, soft, and holy