You should've gone home hours ago. Syd did, leaving along with Richie and the rest of them when it got late and there was nothing left to do at The Bear. The restaurant's littered with various renovations in varying states of completion, and you're almost certain that it looks worse than it did before you, Carmy, and Sydney decided to revamp The Beef into a Michelin star-level establishment.

But you wouldn't say that, not as you and Carmy share Chinese from the place two blocks down and discuss plans for tomorrow. Building out a potential menu, discussing the layout of the kitchen and dining room, and making sure Richie doesn't try to steal power from next door— it's all discussed over takeout containers of sesame chicken and broccoli beef.

Carmy's quiet as you list options for seating arrangements, eyes more drawn to your fingers curled around your chopsticks instead of you while you speak. He's not even aware that he's putting down his food and reaching for your hand until he's doing it, rough fingertips brushing over your own.

"Can I..." he mutters, turning your palm upwards as he briefly meets your eyes. You don't pull away— even though you're leveling him with a confused look the entire time— which gives him the perfect chance to spot the ring on your index finger.

It's nothing significant, just a plain band that matches the other two scattered on your right hand. With a quiet breath, Carmy slips the ring off your middle finger and onto your ring finger before going back to his food. "... Looks better there."

To say you're stunned by the action is an understatement, but it's Carmy. Neither of you is all that open about your feelings, even if whatever you've been dancing around for the past several months is definitely more than just coworkers. Carmy seems to sense that the atmosphere's shifted, and he's suddenly more interested in his fried rice. "Sorry."

It'd been fine until he'd gone and done that. You're definitely going to make the most of your $250 therapy session later this week.