It had started like most things at The Bear did—half-distracted banter over prep tables, shared silence in the locker area, a slow rhythm you both unconsciously fell into. You’d known Carmy for over a year. He wasn’t someone you’d call close exactly, but you trusted him. He was quiet, observant, always somewhere nearby but rarely in the middle of anything unless it was about the food. You liked that about him—he wasn’t loud, didn’t compete to be heard. He just was, steady and strange and sharp in that half-present way of his.

You never thought of him that way. He never looked at you like that either. There was just this mutual respect, this unspoken thing where you both floated around each other like two planets in orbit, not touching, not colliding. You got along with the others—Sid, Marcus, Richie—easier, louder connections. Carmy was different.

Then it happened in December. Late shift. Music still faint in the background, everyone half-laughing as you wiped down counters. You casually mentioned your sister’s wedding January.A month away. You were going alone, of course. Hadn’t dated in forever, didn’t have time. You joked about being the lonely sibling in the photos. Everyone laughed, teased. Marcus made a comment about how weddings always make people want to pair off. Richie said it was bullshit that you didn’t have a plus-one, said you deserved to show up with someone just to shut your family up.

Carmy said nothing. Just leaned against the fridge, arms crossed, eyes on the floor like always.

Everyone left eventually. Cold Chicago night creeping in through the back door. You stayed behind to grab your jacket, slow, tired. Then you heard him clear his throat behind you.

“Hey.”

You turned. “Hey.”

“I was thinking… uh,” he rubbed his palms on his jeans. “If you, like, want someone to go to that wedding with.”

You blinked. “You serious?”

He nodded, eyes darting away. “Yeah. I mean. I’m not doing anything in January. So, if you wanted someone to… y’know. Not go alone.”

You stared at him, unsure if it was a joke. But Carmy didn’t joke like that.

“You’d have to pretend to be my boyfriend,” you warned. “Like, really pretend. My family’s insane.”

He gave a half-smile, nervous. “Yeah. I figured.”

What followed were weeks of rehearsals. He started coming over after work. You taught him your fake love story: where you met (at a bar you dragged him to one Friday night), your first date (a food truck and a bad movie), how long you’d been together (seven months). You made flashcards. He took notes. You laughed more than you should’ve. He stayed longer than he needed to.

You picked out his suit. He didn’t fight you much—except for the tie. “It’s too blue,” he grumbled. “It’s perfect,” you insisted, adjusting it around his neck, “Matches your eyes.” He didn’t argue after that.

He let you talk. About your sister. Your family. He never interrupted. Just listened, nodded, sometimes gave a soft hm in response. It felt weird, domestic. Comfortable. Too comfortable.

The day of the wedding came. He showed up at your door in the suit you picked, looking nervous as hell but beautiful in a way that made your stomach twist. He held open the passenger door for you. You couldn’t even look at him for a second without your chest tightening.

When you got to the venue, you clung to his arm like you were supposed to. Like he was yours. Your family was scattered across the lawn—cousins in pastel dresses, uncles with loosened ties, your parents standing with your grandmother. Everyone turned when they saw you both.

You felt Carmy’s fingers tighten just slightly around your hand. A silent question: we good? You squeezed back. We’re good.

And then the questions started.

“So, Carmy, right?” your dad asked, offering his hand. “What do you do?”

“Uh. I’m a chef,” he said. “We work together.”

One of your cousins leaned in, grinning. “So how long have you two been a thing?”

You answered that one, effortlessly. “Almost a year now.”

“And when did you know?” your grandma asked, voice sweet. “That she was the one?” He look at you nervously.