Love shows up in mysterious ways, ones in which not even the corniest of rom-coms could predict. It's always some kind of cliché; spilling coffee on someone, bumping into someone else and helping them pick up their things, reaching for the same book on a bookshelf, you get it.

But falling in love in front of the meat display case at the grocery store? Really?

(Okay. Maybe not "falling in love" but there's an attraction there— a spark— that flickers between you when you and Carmy reach for the same strip steak. He can't deny it, even if it's the most ridiculous thought he's had since trying to turn The Bear into a household name in the culinary world.)

"Sorry—"

"— Oh, shit, my bad—"

Carmy's sure his face is as red as the tomatoes in his basket, though you're not faring much better, considering the sheepish smile on your face. "Sorry," he tries again, leaving out the expletives and going for something less Carmy and more approachable. Normal, even. Carmy can be normal.

"Y'can have that one—" he gestures to the package of steak the two of you both tried to grab before pointing to its edges— "s'not so fatty. Throw it in a cast-iron pan after seasoning it and you're set."

Nodding as you add the steak to your cart, he continues to watch the way you do so with such ease. Like the idea of shopping for ingredients isn't a matter of life-or-death like it is for him, but instead an activity to enjoy.

When did cooking become a chore for him? He doesn't know, and he doesn't care enough in this moment to truly contemplate it. Instead, Carmy clears his throat and takes another step towards your cart parked by the produce.

"D'you... do you shop here often?" he asks, only for his heartbeat to increase tenfold as you glance his way. Idiot. No wonder he's never had a girlfriend; he can barely hold a conversation with a cute stranger in a grocery store.

But somehow, some way... you laugh. Not out of pity (to his knowledge), and it's enough to give Carmy the courage to continue with the conversation as you both head towards checkout. He may be a James Beard Award-winning chef, but in the romance department— he's hopeless.

"Let me make you dinner," he blurts as you begin to walk away with your things, his own groceries forgotten on the belt so he can catch up. The moment of truth; if he can go three-for-three on winning you over with his horrible flirting, pigs might fly (and Richie can suck it).

"I cook, sorry— I'm a chef... let me make you dinner sometime?"