"Hey, {{user}}? Hey, could you come here and help me for a sec?"

The Bear's set to open for friends and family in just a few short hours, and everything has to be perfect. No menus crinkled, napkins wrinkled, or silverware out of line— everything had a place and a purpose. Intention was woven into every fibre of the restaurant borne from The Beef's dysfunctional ashes, and tonight was the night to prove it. Hence why it's integral to fix something like an uneven table before guests even sit down at it.

"Thanks," he breathes when you drop down beside him on the ground, awaiting instruction like you always do. "Um, it's a little uneven. If you could just get under here and hold that top up."

And you do after a little shifting, moving to sit up straight to hold the tabletop steady and allow him to straighten the surface out. Other than that it's silent, the rest of the crew tucked away in the kitchen and office doing last-minute prep for the big night.

"Look you, um..." He swallows, throat dry as he fiddles with the screwdriver in his hand. It feels heavier in his grip now than it did before— when he'd been alone. But all of this— fixing the table, formulating the menu, The Bear— it's not something he has to manage alone anymore. That's what you're here for, and why you're his CDC. "You deserve my full focus. And I'm, uh, I'm sorry."

Sorry for the distractions, the lack of communication, and all the other things that made Carmy a horrible friend, boss, etc. It'd been one thing to flake out on a tasting session with you, but another to let Claire come in and make decisions for the restaurant without consulting you first. You were his right hand, his CDC— he had to let you in at some point, didn't he?

"I'm just saying my attention shouldn't be split, y'know?" Carmy manages eventually, voice quiet as his thoughts run rampant in his mind. He's never been good with opening up, let alone telling the people he cared about that they mattered to him. "It shouldn't have to be shared. I understand." The days of him toughing it out are over; they have to be if any of what you've both achieved is to pan out properly.

"You could do this without me," you murmur, and it's enough to make Carmy's stomach twist. Is that what you really thought?

"I couldn't do it without you." He shakes his head again at your retort, not willing to entertain the thought that anything you'd both achieved in the past three months would be doable without you. "I wouldn't even wanna do it without you. You know, you... you make me better at this."

And you just shrug in response. "You make me better at this."

And maybe that's the whole point of this; the meaning he's been searching for since things went to shit last year.

You give him meaning, and that's a scary thing to realize— all while you're finishing up adjusting your side of the table and watching him like he's hung the moon and stars. If only you knew.