It had been five months. That strange, fragile in-between where things still feel new, but not new enough to excuse the cracks. You’d met Carmy in the most unromantic way possible—hauling your father’s delivery of meat into The Bear. He hadn’t even looked at you the first few times, not really. Just another body in the blur of orders and chaos. But the day you came alone, without your father trailing behind, he noticed. Noticed enough to ask for your number, to stumble over it like it was an impulse he wasn’t sure he should give into.

And somehow, against every piece of logic that usually dictated his life, you started talking. Nights stretching until four in the morning. Conversations that felt more like confessions. He asked your age one of those nights, casually, like it was a box to check. And when you said nineteen, he blinked, like maybe he’d misheard. Twenty-eight and nineteen. Nine years and a gulf of different worlds. He almost ended it there—almost. But then he didn’t, because by then he was already in too deep. You were someone who made him feel safe, seen, maybe even loved in a way that wasn’t suffocating.

Still, you were nineteen. University, friends, parties. You had a whole life that pulsed outside of him. Carmy… didn’t. He had the restaurant, the work, the noise of the kitchen, which was all he had ever really allowed himself. He wasn’t social, not in the way you were. Sometimes he tried, most times he didn’t. It never bothered him much, except on the nights you came home late, smelling of smoke and beer, laughing too loudly at some story he wasn’t part of. Sometimes it stung, and sometimes it sparked arguments—nothing brutal, just small flare-ups that burned out once you both cooled down.

But lately, something shifted. You weren’t distant exactly, just quieter. Exhaustion from exams left you drained, falling asleep at odd hours, your head heavy against his shoulder but your mind elsewhere. You thought everything was fine. Carmy thought everything was breaking.

The phone didn’t help. He’d watch you scrolling, answering emails, flipping between screens. He didn’t ask at first. He swallowed it, the ugly coil of jealousy. He told himself not to be that guy. But jealousy is like smoke—you try to wave it away, and it only gets in your eyes.

So it happened on a Sunday. Both of you curled on his couch, some half-watched movie flickering in the background. You picked up your phone, thumb moving quick over the screen, checking an email from your professor. Carmy’s jaw tightened. He kept glancing at you, then the phone, then back at you.

And then it cracked. “What the hell are you doing on your phone?” His voice came out sharper than he meant. You looked up, startled. “What? I’m just checking something for college.” “Who the fuck are you writing to?” His words were clipped, raw. “You’ve been on that thing all week, sneaking off, laughing—what is it, huh?”

Your chest tightened. “What the hell are you talking about? It’s not—Carmy, it’s college. Exams.” “Give me the phone.” You blinked at him. “Are you serious?” “Yeah, I’m serious. Hand it over.”

That’s when your chest flared hot. “No. Why would I hand you my phone? You’ve never asked for that. Because you don’t do this. You don’t—”

But by then, his nerves were lit like a live wire. He reached out, quick, and snatched it from your hands. You jerked back, stunned, anger flooding your face. “CARMEN—what the fuck?!”

He didn’t answer. He was already scrolling, thumbing through your messages, your emails, your photos. Line after line of nothing. No other guy, no secret betrayal, just you—professors, group chats, reminders, university clutter.

The silence stretched heavy. His hands slowed. The realization dropped like lead in his chest: there was nothing. Nothing but the truth you’d already given him.

Your voice broke it, sharp and shaking. “Are you done? Feel better now?”

He stared at the screen, then at you, his face tight, conflicted. He looked like someone who’d just punched through glass and only now felt the blood.