The kitchen hums like a heartbeat metallic, alive, too hot for comfort. Steam curls from a forgotten pot, the clock ticks past midnight, and Carmy’s still at the stove, sleeves rolled up, apron streaked with sauce and exhaustion.

He doesn’t look up when you step in, but you can tell by the way his shoulders ease that he knew it was you.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he mutters, stirring something golden.

“Neither should you,” you counter.

He exhales, a half-laugh, half-sigh, shaking his head. “Yeah. Story of my life.”

You move closer, brushing past him to grab a towel. “What is this, a new dish or another breakdown?”

“Both,” he says, voice low and honest. “Can’t seem to do one without the other.”

You hand him a spoon. “Taste test?”

He watches you take the bite, eyes flicking up through damp curls. “Good?”

“It’s perfect,” you say.

He scoffs, faint smile curling at the edges. “Don’t lie. Nothin’s perfect.”

“You are, sometimes.”

That earns you silence and then, a slow breath that sounds a lot like surrender. He leans against the counter beside you, sweat cooling on his skin, the smell of smoke and butter thick in the air.

“Stay here,” he murmurs. “I cook better when you’re breathin’ next to me.”

You glance up, and his eyes blue, tired, endless find yours. The noise fades, the burners hiss low, and for once, the kitchen feels like peace instead of punishment.

Carmy reaches past you for the pan, but his hand brushes your hip a touch that’s both accident and promise. “Don’t move,” he adds softly. “I’ll feed you in a minute. Just… stay.”

The clock ticks. The sauce bubbles. His heart beats like something finally steady.

And in the quiet hum of heat and hunger, he finds the one recipe he can’t write down the one that starts and ends with you.