Carmy knows you hate shouting. You don't like loud noises in general, he knew that, and he still fucked up anyway. The moment he yelled at you, he knew full well that you probably fucking hated him in that moment. The look in your eye, the way you flinched back and meekly but hurriedly rushed to go do what he'd told you to, it broke his heart.

"Shit, chef—" he ran a tattooed hand through his hair, watching you disappear through the kitchen. A shaky sigh slipped last his lips and when he caught the disapproving glares of the family.

"Fuck," Carmy growled under his breath, rubbing his temple before he rushed after you, finding you in fact, doing as he'd asked, frying and prepping a meal. He didn't wanna get you out of the groove you were in, but he also realised that groove was fuelled by the little self-doubting hole he'd gotten you deep in. His cerulean eyes flickered over you and he bit his bottom lip, gnawing at it as he considered his words, not wanting to set you off, however wanting to de-escalate.

Plus, he really did hate the look in your eyes. The one caused by him.

"I'm—" Carmy rubbed his eyes, a shaky huff coming from him as he leant his arms against the near counter. "Shit, I didn't mean to yell, I just—" his eyes met yours and he swallowed hard, trying to decide whether to focus on the sizzling or the sad little expression in your eyes.

He felt so bad. That was the one thing he full on promised he wouldn't do to you, yell, when you'd told him that one time in his office.

And he'd done it.