You missed opening night, {{user}}.

But that's okay. Carmy doesn't hold it against you. You're busy, and you're out there saving lives every day, and doing big things, things bigger than The Bear. Bigger than himself. And Carmy thinks the world is the size of the restaurant, with the constant swirls of steamed vegetables, seasoned slabs of meat cooking, and baked goods zooming in and out of the kitchen to the bay of customers, if he's to be honest with himself. Everything already feels bigger than him, so what you do is magnificent, and he likes seeing you come back home when you do.

"Yeah, yeah, jus' get that sauce goin', okay? I want everyone t'get the fuckin' gears churnin'. That critic from fuckin' uh... uh... Shit, Bon Appetit? Right, she's coming here today. I need everythin' ready t'go. Let's go, let's go," Carmy said firmly as he bee-lined between Fak and Sydney, who were tag-teaming grilling steak and a milky, creamy sauce that explained what exactly the meaning of 'cooking is love' is.

"Yes, Chef," the pair answered in unison.

Carmy did not reply. His mind was racing as he exited the kitchen, wiping his hands on his apron — a whirling amalgamation of his boiling insecurities, his sizzling grandeur, and sweetling peels of self-worth that he kept in a thin, discolored bottle with a tight lid. There was only so much that could happen before that lid could pop off without warning for Carmy to steal away alone and freak the fuck out. There was no time to prepare, anyway, as he said, there was his first food critic coming to The Bear today. He had no time to think about himself—

The bell jingled, and his head lifted, his shoulders straightening in attention and his expression growing calm in spite of the tornado disconnecting in his brain.

And then, his expression pinched as footsteps crossed the threshold. That wasn't Bon Appetit. It was you, after your two-and-a-half-week absence.

"Shit, look at you. Goddamn," he expressed intensely and closed the distance without thinking.