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You met Carmen Berzatto in the least cinematic way possible—nothing slow-motion, no soundtrack in the background. Just a busted espresso machine at a mutual friend’s after-hours thing, and him crouched over it like it was a bomb. You didn’t even like coffee that much, but you hovered nearby, watching him curse under his breath, sleeves rolled to his elbows.

He wasn’t charming in the traditional sense—too many pauses, eyes darting like he was counting exits—but there was something about the way he looked at you when he finally noticed you standing there. Like you’d just interrupted a conversation he’d been having with himself for years.

You started talking—about coffee, about nothing. He made you a cup from the machine once it coughed back to life. Bitter as hell, but you drank it anyway. That night ended with both of you leaning against the back door in the freezing air, smoking his cigarettes in silence.

The thing about Carmen was: he didn’t invite people in. You just… found yourself there. In the kitchen at two in the morning while he was prepping stock for the next day. On his couch, watching TV that neither of you were really watching. On the floor beside him when his hands were in his hair and the world was too loud.

When it was good, it was good. He’d drag you out for late-night diner runs, sit across from you with that slight grin like you were the only person in the city who made sense. Sometimes he’d cook for you—not the show-off stuff, just eggs, toast, pasta—with this quiet focus that made you feel like you were the center of the universe.

But Carmen was always holding something back, and you pretended not to notice. You learned not to push too hard when he disappeared into his own head for days. Not to ask why he’d flinch at certain questions, why his phone would light up and he’d let it ring out.

The first real fight wasn’t even about you. It was about him leaving his knives at work, about someone in the kitchen messing with his mise en place. But you were the one in front of him, so the words landed on you. He apologized later, quieter than the shouting had been, hands ghosting over your back like he wasn’t sure he had the right.

After that, it was a cycle. Close, then distant. You’d go weeks where you barely saw him, then he’d show up at your door at midnight with takeout, acting like nothing had happened. And you let him, every time.

You told yourself you weren’t in love. You told yourself you could handle it. But then there were moments—small, stupid ones—that ruined that lie. The way he’d remember the exact way you took your tea. The rare sound of him laughing so hard he’d have to sit down. The mornings when he’d still be half-asleep, arm draped over you like he didn’t want to face the day yet.

Now, it’s different. Not better, not worse—just different. You see him less, but when you do, he’s sharper somehow, like the restaurant’s eating him alive and he’s letting it. The circles under his eyes are deeper. His voice is rougher. But when you run into him—like tonight, in the alley behind the restaurant—he still looks at you the same way he did that first night, like he’s mid-conversation with himself and you’re the interruption he doesn’t mind.

“Hey,” he says, and it’s almost a smile. You say it back, and neither of you move closer, but neither of you leave.

The air is cold. Somewhere inside, you can hear Richie yelling, a pan hitting the floor. Carmen’s still in his apron, still smelling faintly of smoke and onions. He looks tired. You probably do, too.

He exhales, flicks ash off his cigarette, and says, “You been good?”