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“Hey Carmy?” Sydney leans into the office and Carmy looks up from his desk. “Can I borrow the keys to the van tomorrow?”
Carmy is already reaching into the desk drawer. “Yeah, what’s up?”
“I have to run to Ikea. Picking up stuff for my place.” It’s been a few weeks since she’s moved into her new apartment, and also a few weeks since she’s had any actual furniture to live on. The Bear has been doing well, but it’s busy, and Sydney’s had no time—or frankly, desire—to spend her meager days off on a chore that requires very many hours and very few helpful instruction manuals. But her desire to assemble flat-packed Swedish furniture had quickly eclipsed the desire to sleep with her mattress on the floor for another week, and so she’d finally caved, marking it on her calendar and making a meticulous list of every piece of furniture she needed (all of which, upon cross-checking the Ikea website, were finally and miraculously in stock).
“Let me help you,” Carmy says. He leans down to the next drawer, curls flopping.
“Dude. It’s cool. Seriously.” Sydney hopes he’ll say yes anyways. She knows he probably will.
“Then what are you gonna do?” He glances up at her, teasing. “Waste your day off and go half as fast?”
He has a point, but Sydney decides to poke him anyway. “Oh, so you’re saying I can’t do it by myself, then?” She folds her arms, scoffing in mock indignation.
“No,” Carmy says, tone light with sarcasm. “I’m saying I’m free tomorrow, and I want to help you.” He fishes the keys out of the drawer and they clink in his palm.
“Carmy, give me the keys. Please.” Sydney holds out her hand.
He closes his hand. “I’ll pick you up at ten.”
“Carmy—”
“I’ll pick you up at ten,” he says again, blue eyes smiling, and so it’s settled. “Wanna call for housekeeping?”
The next day Carmy texts her at ten o’clock exactly— I’m parked outside —and Sydney grabs her tote and takes the stairs.
She buckles into the passenger’s seat and Carmy smiles, tapping play on his phone. A Wilco song eases out of the speakers, the one that Sydney always forgets the name of. She turns up the volume and they take the highway out of the city.
Shopping with Carmy ends up being more fun than Sydney expected. They wander through the labyrinthine halls, peering over each other’s shoulders into tiny-living-space showrooms and commenting seriously about the material choices in each room as if they’re hosts on a home-renovation show.
As they follow the arrows through the maze of couches, desks, and kitchen tables, it turns out that Carmy’s taste in interior design isn’t too far from her own. They both tend towards light colors, Scandinavian-inspired, just on the edge of minimalism. Simple and organized.
It would be easy for them to build a home together, Sydney thinks, and then tries unsuccessfully to shake the thought away.
They’ve already built one, kind of, with The Bear. She knows what he likes. He listens to her, knows a good idea when he hears one. They know how to share, and they work well together, ever since Sydney’s very first day staging for him.
It would be almost too easy. It’s stupid and self-indulgent, and yet it sticks in the back of Sydney’s mind like burnt sugar on a hot pan: tough and sweet and hard to scrape away. She folds her arms and hoists her tote back onto her shoulder and waits for Carmy to finish inspecting the wood grain on a heavy-looking dining table.
They slow down in the kitchen section, browsing precisely-decorated countertops and sleek, stainless-steel appliances. Sydney spreads her hands across a pristine kitchen island, complete with a wide-basin sink and induction stovetop. “This one’s nice.”
Carmy leans over her shoulder. “Gas range would be better, though.”
“Mm.” She fiddles with the fake knobs on the stove, peering at the indicators on the range.
“I’m not sold on the—”
“Drawer space, yeah.” Sydney agrees.
“Dishwasher is pretty small, too.”
Sydney glances up at him and grins. “I was thinking the same thing.”
If she didn’t know him better, she’d have labeled Carmy as picky. But Sydney can read him now. She recognizes the way his lips part when he’s focused, the way his fingers worry his hair when he’s thinking, how his brow relaxes when he’s satisfied. Sydney can read him, even if she can’t think of a word to describe him. She watches his fingers skate across the countertop. Detail-oriented , she decides, but that sounds too stiff, too vague. Like a Linkedin profile blurb or something.
Carmy’s deliberate. He has a good eye, and he knows how to mold things into the right shape. He knows what he wants. She likes that about him.
The last showroom is tiny, even smaller than Sydney’s new place. Next to the doorway is a vignette of a couple, smiling: a full life in a small apartment, it reads. The description boasts clever storage solutions, promising that it doesn’t take much square footage to make a happy home. You could have this, the smiling poster-couple urges. You could be us.
Sydney flops onto the couch in the tiny living room, kicking her feet up on a plush ottoman. Carmy wanders into the kitchen, not twenty feet away from where she sits. He always checks the kitchens first, meticulously, as if magnetically pulled. There’s something strangely youthful about it: almost superstitious, like a kid skipping over sidewalk cracks. Like he can’t help himself.
Sydney watches him open the refrigerator, poking around the empty shelves like he’s looking for leftover takeout. And beyond her better judgment, she can picture it: her unloading the groceries, him folding laundry at the counter. Coming home after a long shift, hanging their coats in the same hallway. On the couch, limbs thrown over each other instead of deliberately parallel. His hand on the small of her back, staying there instead of brushing past, and hers buried in his hair, enveloped in the familiar smell of his skin, the feeling of home. Two toothbrushes in the bathroom. Two pairs of shoes by the door.
They share pretty much everything else already, Sydney thinks. They could have this, too.
Carmy closes the refrigerator and she blinks, flicking her gaze away discreetly as possible. She hoists herself out of the cushions, adjusts her tote, and wanders into the master bedroom instead.
Although master bedroom is a bit generous, really—the mattress ends barely a foot away from the showroom wall. But the room is actually really well done, tastefully decorated with linen fabrics, earthy colors, and cozy lamplight. Heavy curtains are drawn over the fake window. It’s mellow and serene, suggesting intimacy in a way that makes Sydney’s fingers twitch.
Sydney feels Carmy’s warmth radiating behind her shoulder before she sees him. Her ears get hot.
Neither of them speak for a moment, though Sydney searches for words. Carmy, look how cozy and sensual this bedroom is. How do you feel about it? Sharing it, I mean? I really love it but it’s making me think a lot of things that I definitely shouldn’t, you being right here behind me and all. She nods in approval, like a guest on an HGTV show, and immediately feels stupid. Her elbow bumps lightly into his sternum.
“It’s nice,” Carmy says decisively.
Sydney nods again, three times for good measure, and hopes it’s enough to make her look thoughtful and composed. Fuck me, she thinks. Fuck this whole feelings thing.
Finally they end up in the marketplace, where Sydney has to pick up a few odds and ends—paper lamps, dish organizers, a mat for the bathroom—but they end up browsing the bins for longer than is necessary and making some less useful purchases: a pair of pink glass mugs, pretty bowls that are nonessential but surprisingly affordable, house slippers, a sleeve of raspberry-jam-filled cookies.
“It’s so weird,” Sydney says, reaching into a bin of patterned dish towels. “This is pretty much my first time living alone. Or, at least since Sheridan Road.” She thumbs through the folded corners.
“Uh-huh,” Carmy says. He’s quiet, leaving room for her to speak. Like he’s listening but doesn’t want to pry. Sydney loves him for it.
Even now, two years later, Sheridan Road is a touchy subject. Because honestly, it’s embarrassing. The implosion of the business, after months of planning and working and sweating and begging and spending , so much spending, still makes her gut writhe with guilt.
It was a complete disaster. And it’s scary to remember that she is capable of creating such a mess, capable of teetering on the edge of such a catastrophe. Throwing her entire heart into something and losing her footing. Falling off the wrong side.
The Bear is fine. The Bear is different. She’s learned from her mistakes. But the threat of failure, disaster , looms like it’s right behind her shoulder. Which is something she should probably talk to her therapist about. And also something that Carmy completely understands.
He knows the same disasters, and he fears the same things. He doesn’t say much, but Sydney knows he’s listening. It makes her feel a little bit better.
“I had a really shitty apartment. Like, shitty. The hot water would just stop working every so often, which was super awesome and fun that winter.”
Carmy exhales through his nose, a short laugh. “Jesus.”
“Yeah. Also, I’m pretty sure there was like, a moth infestation, because something was definitely eating my clothes.” She’d had to throw out dozens of t-shirts, and a red sweater that her dad had bought for her, which had been riddled with holes beyond repair. Loss after loss after loss. “It sucked.” She chooses four dish towels, each a different color, and folds them into her tote.
Carmy reaches into the bin and grabs two more. “How long were you there for?”
“Six months-ish? Not long.” She fiddles with the handle of the tote. “As soon as Sheridan Road was over, I was out. I couldn’t handle it.”
Carmy leans over and tucks his towels into her tote. He glances up at her, nodding. “That does suck.”
For some reason it makes Sydney laugh. “No shit. But it was fine in the end, I guess. At least I had my dad to come home to.” She leans on the handles of the cart and it rattles forward. Carmy walks beside it.
“I like your dad,” he says, steadying its path with the edge of his hand. It’s a simple movement, but the sincerity of his words and the gentleness of his hands kindles a warmth in Sydney’s chest.
“I like my dad, too,” she ribs, just to be annoying, and watches him roll his eyes. “What about you?”
He peers into the next bin, digging through an assortment of silicone kitchen cleaning supplies. “What about me?”
“Living alone.” She watches the muscles flex lightly in the back of his arm.
“First time I lived alone was New York. Do you need one of these?” He holds up a scrubbing pad from the bin.
Sydney shrugs. “Probably couldn’t hurt, yeah.”
“Which color?”
“I don’t care. You pick.”
He chooses a red one and puts it in the cart. “I was living with my cousin for a while, and then I got my own place. I was supposed to have a roommate, but some weird shit happened and he bailed, and then somehow I ended up paying half the rent for twice the space.”
Sydney raises her eyebrows. “You realize that makes you the luckiest dude in the city of New York, right?”
“It was pretty sweet, I guess.” He scrunches up his face, so-so . “I don’t know. I was kind of preoccupied at the time, so it was basically a place to sleep and nothing else.” He sifts through a bin of oven mitts, turning them over and inspecting the tags. “I barely spent any time in there. I think if I did, I probably would’ve gone insane.”
“Ooh, very reassuring for the first-time solo homeowner,” she deadpans, and it scores her another smile.
“Fuck off,” Carmy scoffs, bumping her shoulder. “It isn’t like that, I swear. I think the insanity was a me problem. Seriously.”
She smiles in spite of herself, pushing the cart forward.
“Anyways, when I moved back here, it was all good, after a while.” He pauses as they roll on, sobering slightly. “I think I was still coming down off of Mikey and everything.”
Sydney remembers the Carmy she met on her first day at The Beef: mercurial, short-tempered. The same drive and passion she sees in him now, but less presence. Scattered.
She remembers seeing him in his home for the first time. In retrospect, his apartment shouldn’t have surprised her as much as it did. Mise en place , everything ordered—somewhat. Half-baked. Organized in the wrong places. Boxes of belongings had been stacked neatly against the walls. It looked like a temporary arrangement.
You could tell a lot about a person from their home, Sydney had realized then. It was as if the scrambled knot of his mind was splayed out, and she was stepping into it. Which was weirdly intimate. It had taken her a while to get used to.
“But it’s better now,” he says, “right? I mean, you’ve seen it.”
And it is. It mirrors his temperament. As The Bear had swung and then settled into business, Carmy settled with it. Each time she went to work or had dinner at Carmy’s—more frequently now than they had in the early days—she’d noticed his place starting to become a home. The boxes were gradually sorted and discarded. Cookbooks were on real shelves instead of stacks on the floor.
Carmy is easy to be around, and that hasn’t changed. But Sydney can tell that he’s doing better than before. These days, he looks well-rested, or at least slightly more awake. His hair is tamer and his eyes are brighter. He’s calmer now, quicker to smile. Sydney treats it like a competition, trying to see if she can get him to do it. It keeps getting easier.
Sydney wants to coax another laugh out of him. “Yeah, it’s almost like you’re a real person now. No more surplus vintage denim in the oven.”
It works. “Come on, it’s getting there.” His dimples appear, and Sydney’s heart rattles like a pot overboiling. “Sugar’s got me on Facebook Marketplace now. Coffee tables and shit.”
Sydney smacks a hand to her forehead. “Coffee table! Fuck, I almost forgot.”
They roll through the warehouse, which appears to be the size of the entire city of Chicago, except if the skyscrapers were made of industrial shelving and flat-packed cardboard instead of concrete and steel.
Sydney keeps up the small talk as they navigate the alphabetically-organized shelves, tries to think of funny things to say as they heave deceptively heavy boxes onto the cart. Because, she reasons, if Carmy’s going to take his singular day off to voluntarily haul furniture around, the least she can do is keep it entertaining.
Faintly she worries that she’s slipping into self-conscious rambling, anxiously thinking that she’s been talking for too long and yet not saying enough. But the conversation never dies, because Carmy talks too, ribs her right back, laughs softly in all the right places. Sydney tells him about her freaky awful nightmare roommate from freshman year (“—and I guess she didn’t realize I was in the room or didn’t care , because she fucked some dude while I was in the top bunk —”), and he tells her about some houseboat he lived on when he was working in Amsterdam (“They told me to feed the cat but I swear, Syd, I was there for eight weeks and I never saw him—is this the right bed frame?”).
And soon Sydney forgets to worry about it, because it turns out to be just as easy as always. Messing around with Carmy in Ikea is just the same as messing around in the kitchen, or in his apartment, or at lunch together—just because Sydney’s brain lingers with flights of domestic-living fantasy doesn’t mean it has to be weird .
They load the boxes into the back of the van, and Sydney tries hard to keep it cool, avoiding eyeing his biceps as they flex and shift beneath his tattoos. She tries even harder to ignore the slim, flushed bit of his torso that reveals itself when he lifts the last box up and into the van, the skin that invites her to imagine what the rest of him might look like.
She shoves her tote into the back, slams the door harder than is necessary, and climbs into the driver’s seat. Carmy turns up the music and they drive back into the city.
It takes almost an hour to heave all of the boxes from the van up to Sydney’s floor, and nearly another for Sydney to locate her power drill (a rookie mistake—she makes a mental note to not tell her dad). Carmy is the one who finds it, finally, after they slice through what feels like a thousand moving boxes, and Sydney nearly collapses when he hefts it triumphantly into the air.
The instructions are confusing at first, but there’s a method to it, and they pick it up quickly. In the end it’s a lot like cooking together: they synchronize into motion, two cogs of the same machine. Carmy deciphers the instructions while Sydney lays out the pieces. She hands him the parts, he notches them together, and they take turns: first the coffee table, then the shelves, the dresser, the side-table.
Sydney notices things about Carmy as they work. The way he moves is methodic and self-assured, the same as when he moves from station to stovetop and back again. He jogs the hex wrench between his fingers like it’s his tasting spoon.
But as it turns out, the passion Sydney feels when she cooks does not translate to assembling reasonably-priced Swedish furniture, and by the time they reach the final box, she’s exhausted and drenched with sweat. Her hands are dry from the sawdust and aching from twisting in about a thousand fucking screws. The apartment is a mess, as in The-Beef’s-kitchen pre-Sydney levels of mess. Sheets of plastic wrap and packing foam cling to the floorboards, and the remainders of cardboard boxes are piled, half broken-down, in the doorways.
Outside, the sky has faded from gray to cobalt blue. It’s getting late, reaching the point in the evening where they usually pack up and go their separate ways. As the sky darkens, Sydney is acutely aware of the fact that Carmy has made no excuse to go home. Not that she would blame him. But it’s strange.
She eyes Carmy as they attempt to sort out the empty boxes, watching his shoulder blades slide up and down when he’s facing away from her. She waits for him to roll his shoulders, say I should get going , move towards the doorway and reach for his things, but he doesn’t. Instead he suggests that they break for water in the kitchen.
Sydney pulls two plastic bottles from the fridge, passing one to Carmy and cracking open the other. They sip for a long moment in silence. She wipes her forehead, watches him thread a hand through his floppy hair. He looks perfectly comfortable in her kitchen, leaning back against the bare counter, legs crossed at the ankles. His hair is a little darker now, damp with sweat.
Sydney hopes he doesn’t check the time—selfishly, she hopes that he stays. But they both have work tomorrow, a business to run, real lives to get back to. In an act that is somewhere on the spectrum between self-preservation and self-sabotage, she clears her throat. “You really didn’t have to do this.”
Carmy swallows, twisting the cap onto his bottle. “What do you mean?” His real question goes unsaid: for real, Syd?
“Like, you can go if you want to.” She restrains herself from pounding her head into the refrigerator door.
“Come on,” he says. “We’ve made it this far. It’s just the bed left, yeah?”
Just the bed, and us, in my apartment . Surely there’s reasons why it feels like a mildly bad idea, but for some reason Sydney struggles to think of a single one. “No, it’s okay. I can do it tomorrow or something.” It comes out more defensive than she means it to. “It’s cool.”
“Syd,” he says plainly. “I’m not gonna leave you with one box left.”
His cheeks and arms are flushed, and his eyes are blue and clear, and Sydney doesn’t really feel like arguing anymore.
The bed frame—pale wood, clean lines—is surprisingly easy to assemble, probably because they’ve gotten the assembly down to an exact science by this point. Sydney squats on one side of her mattress and Carmy mirrors her, and together they heave it onto the slats of the completed frame. The mattress is brand-new and lingers with a mild chemical smell. It’s the first mattress Sydney’s owned that hasn’t been a twin—finally—which means it’s a pain in the ass to lift and adjust. It also means there’s space for both of them to collapse onto it as soon as it’s in place.
Sydney flops onto her back and pulls off her bandana, letting her braids splay loose against the mattress. The back of her shirt sticks to her shoulder blades. Carmy slumps against the headboard, one leg dangling off the bed. He winces, stretching his arms. “We’re gonna sleep so well tonight.”
Sydney doesn’t allow herself to consider any hidden implications of this sentence. She hums in acknowledgement instead, gazing at a crack near the corner of the ceiling. “Thanks for helping today, seriously. Some day off, huh?”
“It’s okay. I had fun.”
“Yeah, hauling shit around my apartment is my idea of fun, too.”
She can hear the smile in his voice. “No, I did. Ikea was fun,” he says, and he sounds like he really means it. “With you.”
Something flutters in Sydney’s chest, and simultaneously she wants to look up at him and bury her face in her hands. It was awesome and I would buy a whole new set of furniture and sweat my ass off every weekend just to do this again. “Yeah, not too bad.”
Carmy laughs softly, and she knows that if she looks over now his dimples will be showing. She forces herself to inspect the crown molding.
They lapse into silence. A single brown moth flits around the corner in lopsided circles.
Sydney sighs, and the ceiling stares blankly back at her. “It doesn’t feel like home yet.”
Carmy makes a noise in agreement. “Mine doesn’t either. To be honest.”
Sydney allows herself a glance at him. His head is tilted to the ceiling now, too, curls brushing the wall behind the headboard. “Really?”
“I know it’s supposed to. Sugar keeps telling me that I’m crazy.”
Sydney watches as he cracks his knuckles in his lap. “That doesn’t sound too crazy.”
Carmy sighs. “Yeah, I don’t know. I guess The Bear kind of feels more like home.” The joint of his middle finger pops softly. “That’s where I’m spending all my time, anyways. Like, that’s where all my shit happens. And it kind of freaks me out, because—”
“Because there’s so much tied up in it.” Sydney props herself up on her forearms. It’s as if he can read her mind, or maybe as if she can read his.
“Exactly.”
“So if it falls apart, you kind of have nothing,” Sydney finishes.
“ Exactly .” Carmy meets her gaze, eyes blue and earnest.
Maybe it’s just another side effect of spending fourteen hours a day, six days a week together, but it still surprises Sydney how much they understand each other. How much headspace they share. More than anywhere else, The Bear is home. And as Carmy watches her, Sydney realizes that he is the first reason why. Not the only reason, but the first.
Probably the most important.
The Bear means everything to her, and Carmy is the heart of it. Without him by her side, the place would have no pulse, no meaning. Carmy is The Bear, and The Bear means everything to her. Everything else pales in comparison.
“So it’s not insane, then,” Sydney says slowly, “to still be scared of failing?” She lifts a braid from where it pools on the bed, twisting it tentatively around her finger.
Carmy breathes a short, monosyllabic laugh. “Not at all. No.” He readjusts himself, tilting his head from side to side. “It almost feels like things are going too well.”
“ Yes ,” Sydney says emphatically. She sits up, pushing her hair back, and her knee bumps against Carmy’s shin. “Something has to go wrong eventually, right? Like, it’s going to blow up on us, right?”
Carmy brushes his temple with his thumb, nodding. He sounds like he’s searching carefully for the right words. “Sometimes I get these nightmares that I forgot something. Like, I skipped a piece of paperwork, or forgot to check some pressure valve on something, and the whole restaurant just…I don’t know. Explodes into a million pieces.”
He glances at her. “I feel like it’s not even real, sometimes. Because it’s too good.” It’s so quiet that Sydney hears him swallow. “I’ve never had anything this good before.”
Sydney searches his face, and suddenly she isn’t sure if she has either. “This is real,” she says quietly, and she isn’t sure if she’s talking about the restaurant or this moment.
In any case, it seems to reassure him at least a little. His brows relax, just slightly. For a beat he goes quiet.
Sydney watches Carmy’s face. She follows the curve of his nose, the bow of his lips, just slightly parted, and swallows. “Is this real?”
“Is what real?” Carmy’s hair rustles against the headboard. Suddenly it’s painfully embarrassing to meet his eyes, and Sydney drops her gaze to his mouth instead. Because if he can read her thoughts so easily, he can surely see through her, untangle the twisted-up knot of emotion simmering in her chest, understand exactly what she means.
Looking at his lips, it turns out, isn’t helping her feel any braver. She steels herself. “This.” His eyes are on her still and she can almost feel them on her face, darting across like he’s searching for something. “This feels pretty damn good.” Out loud it sounds feeble. Her ears tingle with heat.
Carmy sits up, straightening. Sydney is suddenly very aware of how closely her knee is pressed against his leg. Her heart swoops into her belly.
“Syd.” He says it like a whisper.
The L rumbles in the distance, beyond the walls of the apartment. Sydney’s heartbeat rumbles louder. She can’t get herself to meet his eyes. His gaze sears against her skin and she wants, very badly, to touch him. “Please say something.” The words barely make it past her lips.
Carmy shifts closer, placing one hand on the mattress beside her thigh. The scent of him, sweat and soap and faint cigarette smoke, is familiar in a way that threatens to override her brain completely. Somehow it’s a feeling she recognizes. This is what it feels like to be on the edge of the precipice.
Sydney has two options: she can do what she always does when shit hits the fan—pull herself together and maintain the order of things. Or she can throw herself off the edge and hurtle in the other direction, towards something unknowable and undeniably reckless.
But beneath it all, curling low in her abdomen, is another feeling: something warmer. Hungrier.
It’s sensible, she forces herself to believe, to cling to the semblance of stability she’s convinced herself of. The sort of order that has kept her on her feet, kept The Bear alive, maintained a roof over her head and buttoned a coat of self-assured pragmatism over her heart.
It’s sensible to protect herself from the swoop in her stomach, the feeling that flutters up and fills her chest when Carmy’s knuckles brush against hers in the kitchen, and now, against her bed. When he rubs his fist against his chest: I’m sorry, I’m listening, I understand, and when he meets her eye in a way that is meant for her, and only her. I know you . When she pictures him at night, all too easily and alone in her bedroom, and her mind and hands wander to places that they shouldn’t.
Sydney has built a home for herself, somehow made it this far without catastrophe. Until now.
It seems likely that this is the moment that destabilizes everything she’s done to maintain order and sense and reason, tilting everything off its axis and spinning everything into an irreparable mess.
But the too-new furniture makes the bedroom yawn vast and bare, and Carmy’s body is warm.
The heat of him glows from somewhere deep beneath his t-shirt, and Sydney gives in, just a little. She inches closer and the mattress dips between them. His breath hitches, just barely, and it feathers against her lips as he exhales. She’s got him right beneath her palms, and now she’s afraid to touch him, because it’s dangerous, and it’s irreversible, and any remaining semblance of order would be well and truly destroyed. But Carmy is so close now that she can almost taste the sweat on his skin. His lashes flutter.
I know you, Sydney thinks, and she is stunned with the sudden clarity, her own decisiveness. I know you. I want you. She isn’t sure if she says it aloud.
Slowly, Carmy tucks a hand up and under her braids, and his fingertips graze lightly across her cheek. “I won’t tell if you won’t,” he breathes, and as he does, the bridge of his nose brushes against the top of her own, and it’s as if Sydney’s body melts and crystallizes at the same time.
Sydney tilts her head up and kisses him. It’s brief and clumsy and mostly lands on the corner of his mouth, and she pulls away by a millimeter. Vaguely she registers that it’s been several years since her last kiss—it had been back in college at some point, sloppy and half-drunk and probably a dare, but Carmy leans back in and parts his lips and Sydney follows him, closing her eyes, and the details slip away and nothing else matters.
Her hands find his biceps, bumping against the hem of his sleeves, tracing up his shoulders to his collarbone. She tilts her head and Carmy’s mouth slides hotly against hers, and something fits together. Her hands crumple in the warm cotton of his shirt, right above his heart.
Carmy doesn’t seem to mind. He dips his head and his hands fumble down her waist, her hips, stalling on the tops of her thighs. He presses messy, wet kisses across her cheekbone, down towards her jaw, against the shell of her ear, and Sydney stifles a gasp.
His fingertips dimple gently into the flesh of her thighs, questioning. It’s delicious, the way he asks so quietly for her approval, and it’s something she recognizes. Sydney opens her eyes.
Carmy’s skin is flushed pink, and his lips shine with saliva. His pupils are blown wide, heavy-lidded with desire, darting anxiously back and forth between her own.
Sydney nods, and the moment is faintly embarrassing, but before she can register the feeling Carmy is pulling her forward by the backs of her knees. She plants her legs on either side of him, settling her weight on top of his lap, and kisses him—slower this time, capturing the guttural sound that resonates from somewhere deep in his throat. She can feel the vibration of it against his chest, and it’s certain and real and overwhelming.
He’s under her control now and she feels like a wild animal, as if something primal and hungry has awakened within her at the presence of his body, the mass and the warmth of him in such close proximity. If this is what it means to lose control, Sydney realizes she doesn’t mind.
And something about the way Carmy pulls her into him makes her wonder why she waited so long to give in. Carmy kisses her slowly, deliberately, and Sydney keeps one hand threaded into his curls and the other fisted into his shirt. Everything about him is familiar but more , dialed into overdrive.
His fingers dance back to her waist, daring to toy with the hem of her shirt, and she leans into him, bites gently on his lip, dares him to go a little bit further. Carmy’s hands, she knows, are marked with scars and burns and ink and made strong by a lifetime of knifework. But he touches her with gentle precision, as if he knows that the trailing of his fingers sparks across her bare skin. No one has ever touched her so carefully. It strikes her as shockingly tender, and as Carmy’s hand traces the dip of her lower back, Sydney shivers despite herself.
Carmy registers her movement and pulls her down and against him, and suddenly Sydney’s body is not her body but something softer and even more fragile, and she makes a noise so desperate that it’s embarrassing, but the wetness of his mouth against hers makes her lightheaded and she doesn’t care. She lets her hands scrabble against his collarbones, finding the hollow of his throat and the curve of his jaw, and he grips her waist, fingers splaying across her ribs like he wants her even closer, needier than she’s ever imagined him.
Sydney’s mind is fuzzy and her face is hot and the apartment is dark and deliciously empty, save for the cardboard boxes and the boy beneath her on the mattress. The emptiness stretches out deliciously around them now, and it kind of feels a little more like home.
“Stay,” she pants, rolling her hips into him. “Please stay.”
Carmy stutters, face hot and flushed against her neck, and he nods, and he does.