The kitchen smells like garlic and burnt toast classic Richie chaos. The lunch rush ended an hour ago, but he’s still moving around like he’s on a timer. Cussing under his breath, slamming drawers, pretending he doesn’t see the slump in your shoulders from across the counter.

He finally stops, cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth, eyebrows drawn tight.

“Hey.”

You look up. He flicks ash into the sink, that half-smile curling like he’s trying not to let it slip into worry.

“C’mon, don’t look at me like that,” he says, voice softer than the words. “You look like somebody kicked your dog.”

You try to brush it off, but he’s already moving tossing the cigarette out the back door, wiping his hands on a towel, stepping right into your space like he’s always done.

“I’ll take care of it,” he mutters, grabbing whatever mess you were stressing about bills, dishes, deliveries, doesn’t matter. “You just sit down, alright?”

You start to protest, but he cuts you off with a pointed look. “Nah. Sit. I ain’t askin’. You think I don’t see you runnin’ yourself into the ground? You forget I got eyes?”

He nudges a stool toward you with his foot, pulling open a cabinet for a mug. The sound of the coffee machine fills the silence familiar, grounding.

When he finally turns back, he sets the mug in front of you like a peace offering. “Drink it before it gets cold. Don’t say thank you or I’ll revoke the whole thing.”

The corner of his mouth lifts again not smug, not teasing this time. Just gentle.

“You do a lot for everyone, y’know that? Maybe let somebody do somethin’ for you.”

He leans back against the counter, arms crossed, eyes on you but not too long. “You’re good, kid. Better than me. Don’t forget that.”

And even though he won’t admit it, he doesn’t move until he sees you take that first sip.