Archive of Our Own

There is a small brown dog sitting on the floor of the office. Sydney cranes her head back towards the kitchen.

“Carm?” she calls. “Did you leave your new dog in the office and forget to tell me?”

“What?” Carmy yells back. His voice is muffled, as if shouted through several yards of bubble wrap. He’s probably got his head in the walk-in. 

Sydney eyes the puppy. It has perfectly round eyes and two massive triangular ears. There is no name tag around its neck, which rings the first alarm bells. As she stares, it gazes back at her guilelessly and tilts its head to the side in an oddly human way. 

She pushes the office door shut with her toe and slips quietly to the back door. The restaurant is nearly silent; the only sounds are her Birkenstocks squeaking and the soft rumble of Carmy in the kitchen, listening to the radio. She pushes the back door open silently, clutches her hands to the outside of her arms to brace against the billow of early Chicago cold. 

Outside the air is frigid and the sky stretches obliquely from indigo to dull grey. There are no 6am joggers or irresponsible dog owners anywhere to be seen. She waits a few moments for somebody to come tearing around the corner, clutching an untethered lead and shouting, but nobody comes. There’s a distant bang and somebody cursing, but that’s probably just Carmy dropping a crate of cauliflower on his feet.

She closes the back door firmly and steals back to the office, half-expecting to find that the puppy has disappeared and to write this off as her sleep-deprived brain deciding to take matters into its own hands and just start her on hallucinations. But the puppy is still sitting there, exactly where she left it. 

She hasn’t had a dog in a very long time, but she’s a functioning woman and remembers the basics. Crouching down, she extends a loose fist towards the puppy, two fingers curved forward for it to sniff. It leans its extraordinarily disproportionate head forwards, tiny nose twitching, and then crawls forward to nudge her fingers. Its dark brown fur is almost excruciatingly soft. 

The office door bangs open. “Did I hear you say something about a—” Carmy begins, and then falls silent. Sydney looks at him over her shoulder, and the puppy leans around her hand to gaze curiously up at him. It’s probably a funny picture. Carmy’s mouth has dropped clean open. He’s frozen in the doorway like a cartoon character caught robbing a bank.

“What are you doing here?” he asks eventually. Sydney shrugs, strokes one hand down the dog’s lovely brown coat. 

“I found it here. Not yours, is it?”

“No,” Carmy says distractedly. “I would’ve told you. Is there anyone outside looking for it?”

“Just checked, couldn’t see anyone,” Sydney replies. “I guess this means we’ll have to support it.”

“Very funny,” Carmy says. “Can you imagine what Sugar’s gonna say if she finds a dog in her office? We gotta call the owner, is there a nametag?”

Sydney flourishes her hand towards the dog’s collarless neck. Carmy nods, grimaces, as if to say, fair enough . The dog gives an exquisitely tiny shake, and scratches behind one ear. 

“Do we call ASPCA? They’ll know what to do, right?”

Sydney shakes her head emphatically. “No way,” she says, retracting her hand and brushing it against her jeans. “It’s gotta belong to somebody nearby, they’ll show up sooner or later. And it’s way safer to keep it here than to send it to like, secondary location. Didn’t your mom ever teach you about kidnapping?”

“I guess,” Carmy says slowly. “If it stays in the office. And doesn’t touch any of the food. And nobody finds out.”

Sydney rolls her eyes. “Why are you being like that? It’s a puppy, not anthrax.”

Carmy regards the puppy suspiciously. “I didn’t have pets growing up.”

“No shit,” Sydney exhales as she stands up. “Just give it a pat, dude.”

Very slowly, Carmy lowers himself to one knee, then looks up at her, totally lost. “What now?”

“Oh my god,” Sydney says, and bobs back down next to him. “Here, just— give me your hand.”

Carmy complies dubiously. Sydney, very sarcastically, points this hand towards the puppy and holds it atop the tiny head. “Now, just… yeah, exactly.”

The dog makes a high-pitched little sigh. Carmy’s tattooed thumb skates hesitantly across the top of its ears, and it blinks up at him with total adoration. Get it together , Sydney thinks reproachfully. So obvious. The puppy either doesn’t hear her silent warning or doesn’t care, and puts its nose inquisitively into Carmy’s palm. He cracks a miniscule smile. 

They straighten up at the same time, the puppy sandwiched between the toes of their shoes. Both of them stare down at it for a long moment, before Sydney snaps her head towards Carmy.

“What are you doing here?”

“I need a Band-Aid,” Carmy says. “I dropped the cauliflower on my feet again.”

Sydney snorts. 

Two hours later, the puppy is winding around Sydney’s ankles while she slices tangerines. Camy, supposed to be prepping celeriac for a special, is staring down in abject despair; although his resting face sits somewhere around despair, so he might just be looking at it. She smothers a laugh. He glares up at her. 

“This is so unhygienic,” he mutters. “It’s going to eat something off the floor and get sick.”

“And what would you know about eating food off the floor?” Sydney remarks, thinking of the first time she tried Her Donut, and watches interestedly as red patches bloom across Carmy’s jaw. She’s going to bring that back up later. The puppy sniffs hopefully at her heel. 

“Nothing,” Carmy says determinedly, turning back to his celeriac. “I’m just worried it’s gonna get hungry, that’s all.”

“Right,” Sydney says slowly. “Have you had breakfast yet?”

He shakes his head. “I got a coffee from Phil’s on the way here.”

“I’ll make us something, then.”

Carmy looks pained. “I don’t wanna waste time.”

“Dude,” Sydney says, laying her knife neatly next to her pile of tangerine slices, so thin you could read a newspaper through them. “It’s like, 9am. We have hours . Look up what dogs can’t eat.” 

The dog punctuates this with a tiny bark. Carmy sighs.

*

“I’m kinda feeling, like, a spicy relish on the side,” Sydney says some time later to the empty kitchen. “You wanna get in on that?”

No response. 

She pushes her diced tomatoes to the corner of the chopping board. “Carm?”

“Yeah, sorry,” Carmy replies abruptly. He’s supposed to be in the walk-in looking for halloumi, but his voice sounds like it’s coming from the office. The puppy is nowhere to be seen. She sets her knife down.

“Can you Google if dogs can eat onion?”

“Alright,” she hears him mumble. “Give me a second.” Then there’s a scrabbling sound, a loud thud, and a cheerful woof!

She frowns bemusedly and steps around the kitchen bench towards the office. “What’s going on?”

“Don’t worry—” Carmy tries, but she’s already in full view of the hallway. Carmy is sitting criss-cross-apple-sauce on the floor, the dog climbing joyfully up his tatty old sweater. He unsuccessfully tries to pull it down, large hands around its little body, but the dog wriggles free and licks his knuckles instead. Sydney covers her smile with a hand. It’s breathing so impossibly fast. She figures its tiny heart must be going like a hummingbird. 

“Everything’s under control,” Carmy tells her, uselessly holding the dog away from his chest as it sniffs enthusiastically at his neck. “What was the question?”

“It feels unfair that it likes you more than me,” Sydney decides. “I’m the one who took it in and raised it as my own.”

Carmy raises an eyebrow. “The first time you saw it was like, two hours ago, tops.”

“Love is love,” Sydney replies. At the sound of her voice, the dog’s ears have flicked up, and it suddenly shoots off Carmy’s chest and bounds towards her, tail wagging rapidly. It completes one full circle around her, then collapses in a little heap in front of her shoes, tiny pink tongue hanging out the side of his mouth. Sydney crouches down and strokes its scruff. “Hi, darling,” she murmurs. “Tired from bugging Carm? I feel you.”

She glances up at Carmy, who has stood up and made his way back into the kitchen. He scratches his cheek embarrassedly, the same scarlet blush emerging from beneath his sweater and wreathing his collarbones. She vaguely wonders what it would taste like if she put her mouth on it. 

“Did you have pets growing up?” Carmy asks her. 

“No,” Sydney answers. “My cousins outta town had dogs, though, so I’m not completely…”

“Incompetent with animals?” Carmy suggests. “Not at one with nature?”

“Yes,” Sydney says. It teases the corner of Carmy’s mouth. She wants to touch it, so she points at him instead. 

“Onions. Google.”

“On it,” Carmy says, and she gives the puppy a scratch between the ears before standing up. Carmy taps away at his phone for a second. “Dogs can not eat onion,” he announces. “Hard no on the relish.”

“Heard,” she says, and wanders towards the walk-in. The dog stays curled up on the floor, blinking slowly. “How d’you want your eggs?” she asks. “If we can’t do relish, maybe like, a chilli scram? Real simple.”

“Sounds fire,” Carmy nods. “What’s the protein?”

“I’m thinking pork? Have we got any of that pulled pork left?”

“Yeah, should be in there. What was the rub on that?”

Sydney rubs her forehead with the heel of her hand. “Um, it was an apple cider… smoked paprika, dry mustard.”

“That’s all fine,” Carmy confirms, scrolling through his phone. “You think it’ll take long? Marcus is due in fifteen.”

“Give me ten,” Sydney replies, grabbing the pulled pork and the halloumi Carmy never got from the shelf. 

Easy as breathing, she cuts a hunk of halloumi into quarter-inch wide pieces and pours olive oil into a spotless pan to heat, tossing the halloumi on top. The puppy snuffles gently as it dozes, burying its sweet face in its paws. She slices four pieces of sourdough, thick with grain, and leaves them to toast while she whisks eggs with cream and chilli flakes. Carmy is topping up their lime zest, glancing at the dog distrustfully every now and then. She smiles silently down into her eggs. Once they’ve turned a satisfying sunflower colour, she carts them over to the stove and retrieves the grilled halloumi, just turning crispy, golden and perfect at the edges. The eggs go into the hot pan with a hiss, and she scrambles them messily with a fork. 

“Yo, can you get me two plates, please?” she calls over her shoulder. “And another pan?”

Carmy grunts in assent, and the plates materialise at her elbow. The pan goes on a separate burner, the gas already flicked on underneath. “Thank you!”

Keeping one eye on the eggs, she pinches the tupperware box of pulled pork and throws it onto the empty pan, just to heat up. The eggs finish at almost the exact same moment the pork does, and she spoons them into separate containers for plating. “Smells good,” Carmy mutters without looking up from his zest box. She bites down a foolish grin. 

The toast pings out, and she plates two slices each for them, smearing softened butter across their uneven surfaces. Then the halloumi, diagonally aligned, and a heap of scrambled eggs on top, flecked with chilli. Lastly, she piles a generous helping of pulled pork atop each serving, leaving a quarter of the tub for the dog, who hasn’t actually got a name, she realises. 

She slides a plate towards Carmy, who drops his zester like it’s burning him. “You wanna go eat in the dining room?”

“Nah, I’m good here,” Carmy demurs, and Sydney brutally murders an extremely short-lived fantasy of accidentally knocking their feet together under the table. “Hurry up, get a fork, I’m fucking starving.”

Sydney smiles awkwardly. “I don’t wanna, like, food-catfish you. This isn’t exactly gonna win any stars, it’s just eggs.”

“Fuck stars, I don’t care,” Carmy says. “I didn’t realise how hungry I was until you started cooking. Where’s your fork, c’mon, I’m not starting without you.”

“Okay, okay,” Sydney relents, and she goes to yank open the cutlery drawer. When she turns back to the end of the bench, Carmy is holding his fork poised over the plate, which makes her laugh. He frowns at her. “What?”

“Nothing!” she says. “I just don’t think I’ve ever seen you this excited to eat my food before.”

Carmy’s face falls, just a bit. “Have I really make you feel like—”

“I’m joking,” Sydney interrupts, even though he does, all the time. He does make her feel like. “Eat your damn eggs, man, I’m here now.”

They dig in at the same time, but instead of shovelling a forkful into her mouth like she wants to, she does what she always does, which is watch Carmy’s reaction. She knows it’s a ten-minute breakfast on some random Tuesday that she’s probably never gonna make again, but it doesn’t matter. If it’s Carmy, and if it’s her food, she wants to watch. It’s not a big deal, it’s only gonna determine her mood the whole rest of her week. 

Carmy swallows slowly, then pinches the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger. Sydney smiles, but there’s a plummeting sensation in her gut. She doesn’t put her fork in her mouth. “What is it?”

Carmy scrunches his brows, then looks straight into her eyes. Sydney feels like a moth pinned to a corkboard. “This is,” Carmy starts, “fucking incredible, chef. I feel like I’ve just been born.”

“Fuck off,” she says disbelievingly, but there’s a smile pulling uncontrollably at the corners of her mouth. 

“I’m serious,” Carmy presses, “You’re insane, Syd. This,” he gestures towards the plate with his fork, “This is worth its weight in fucking gold.”

She rolls her eyes and takes a bite. But goddamn, he’s right, this is fucking great. The rich salt of the halloumi and tang of the pork taste divine together. But there’s something just slightly missing, she thinks. Maybe she didn’t add enough chilli?

“Hold on,” Carmy says, as if he’s just read her mind. He heads towards their pantry cupboard, wiping this back of his mouth with one hand, and pulls out a glass jar. Taking a teaspoon from the drawer, he spills something golden and syrupy over each of their plates, then closes the jar. Sydney catches his eye, and they simultaneously saw off a new piece, taste it. Sydney closes her eyes and groans involuntarily. Carmy ducks his head. 

“Fuck me,” Sydney breaths slowly. Carmy looks away. “Hot honey?”

“Needed the extra kick,” Carmy points out. It’s crazy, the way he always knows what she’s about to say before she says it. But still. She wanted to make something good enough to stop him from saying anything. Her food could speak for itself, and in the meantime they could stare at each other and she could count the tattoos on his arms. Or something. 

Sydney nods. “So it wasn’t perfect before, then.”

“Hey,” Carmy says, holding eye contact. “Not asking for perfect, alright? I told you it was great, I meant it. If it needs something else, then… then— that’s what I’m here for.”

He’s so annoying, with his compliments and stupid eyes and low voice. He makes her feel like such a fucking loser. She bites down on the inside of her cheek. “I’m feeding the dog.”

“Hey, Syd.”

He’s looking at her, with his absurd blue eyes and his messy hair. “Thank you,” he says seriously. She smiles back at him, like a normal amount, she thinks. 

The nameless puppy has woken up and is hopefully sniffing the air. It looks up at Sydney with the roundest, most imploring eyes she’s ever seen. She plucks the box of pulled pork off the counter and kneels down. “I’m just gonna put this down here, okay, baby?” she tells it gently. “You hungry? Yeah, look at you, you’re gorgeous, yes, please try not to get it all over the floor.”

She sets down the container at the dog’s front paws. Hesitantly, it noses around the edge, but it obviously seems to like what it finds, because suddenly it lurches forward, plunging its whole face into the pulled pork. She looks over her shoulder, where Carmy is watching with a half-smile. They stare at each other for a moment while the puppy wolfs down her food in the background, and Sydney feels something heavy and solid settle on the left side of her ribcage. 

Somebody coughs from the hallway. They both turn at the same time. Marcus is standing there, beanie in his hands, a look of utter shock on his face. His mouth forms words soundlessly. Eventually, he gets out, “What the… um, what the fuck?”

“I can explain,” Sydney says. Carmy puts his head in his hands. 

“How did it even get in, Jeffrey?” Tina is asking as Sydney plucks the petals off red nasturtium. “I mean, did you leave the back door open overnight?”

“Of course not,” Carmy replies. The puppy is currently on a mission to meet every single member of the staff, which has prompted excessive cooing, hand-washing, and the vein in Carmy’s neck beginning to stick out while he slices mushrooms. His hair is a glorious mess. They’re not running behind on any prep yet, but they’ve gotta lock in if they want to sail through service tonight. Fat fucking chance of that, she thinks, with Richie coming in half an hour. That man has never been locked in a day in his life. Well, except for maybe opening night. She’ll give him that. 

“Maybe it came in during delivery?” Manny suggests. “You see anything, Syd?”

“No,” Sydney says. “Just found it in the office.” She tosses a bald stem in the bin. 

“And nobody’s come to collect?”

“Not yet.”

“Got a name?” Tina prods. 

“Not that we know of,” Carmy says. “Chefs, can we keep our heads screwed on? I want all eyes on the rainbow chard and hake tonight, we can’t afford another complaint like that. ”

“In our defence, that guy was a fucking asshole,” Gary puts in, tapping his clipboard with a ballpoint.

“Yeah, a fucking asshole who can write a review,” Carmy says, punctuated by a perfect slice. “Let’s be diligent, let’s pay attention, we’re not gonna drop a fucking broad bean, okay? Hit your stations, guys, we can chat about the new team member during family. And wash your hands, if you touched the dog.” 

“Heard, chef,” Gary nods. Carmy’s eyes flick towards Sydney. 

“Syd, can you take the dog to the office?”

“Sure,” Sydney says. “You wanna finish the flowers, T? Not too busy?”

“I can handle it, ma,” Tina smiles. Sydney drums her hands against her thighs. The puppy is presently investigating Connor’s non-slip sneakers. She creeps over, and Connor slips out of her way, giving a cursory nod. “Hey, sweetie,” Sydney hums. “You wanna come with me to the office?”

The dog springs over to her, its nails pattering against the tiled floor. As soon as it gets near enough, Sydney scoops it up, one hand on its belly, the other supporting its legs. Its fur is short and warm, and she holds it close against her chest. She can feel the little body trembling with energy, and something about it calms her. To hold a small shaking animal against yourself is to forget the things that are stressing you, the human, out, she reasons. The dog looks up at her, and she feels the weight of responsibility descend, but it’s not unpleasant. This tiny creature needs her to look after it, and she’s not going to fuck it up. She presses her mouth down and gives it a quick kiss on the forehead. When she looks back up, Carmy is watching. She raises an eyebrow at him. 

“Door shut?”

“Please,” Carmy says, and Sydney carries the dog back to the office, setting it on the ground carefully and closing the door behind her. 

Five minutes later, she’s watching Carmy show Daniela a more efficient way to puree horseradish, when she hears the back door opening. There’s a few slow footsteps, and then the office door opens. A pause. 

“CARMEN!" Nat bellows. 

The whole restaurant freezes. Carmy cringes. Nat, furious Nat, Nat who just gave birth, marches into the kitchen. Her pretty face is red with fury. 

“EXPLAIN YOURSELF.”

“Sugar, please calm down,” Carmy says plaintively, which is so patently the wrong thing to say, and he always says it. “Can we not make this into a big deal?”

“Oh, this is already a very big fucking deal, Carmen,” Nat snarls. “Who the fuck put their dog in my office? Why are you allowing it?”

“We don’t know,” Carmy says, holding his hands out like a peace offering. “Syd found it here this morning, it’s in the office so it’s outta our way. We’re just keeping it here til its owner comes back.”

Nat scoffs. “You didn’t think to call ASPCA? I don’t suppose you want to know, oh, maybe how many fucking Health and Safety guidelines we’re violating right now?”

“I did think of that, Syd told me it wasn’t a good idea!”

Sydney glares at him. “That is not what I said, I said it was safer to keep it here for a bit before moving it to a secondary location!”

“I can’t deal with a fucking dog right now, I really can’t,” Nat seethes, pacing back and forth. “Do you not, like, respect me, at all, or something? Is that it? You know I spend all night with a screaming newborn, and then I show up here, and it’s like, here, Nat! Look after this dog for me! By the way, can you call ten repair guys and email the city? Also, Richie broke all the fucking windows, and— and— the plumbing is gone!”

“The plumbing is fine,” Carmy says. “I don’t need you to look after the dog. Are you…” He breaks off, steps closer to Nat, asks in a lower voice, “Are you okay, Sugar?”

Nat brushes him off, massaging the back of her neck. She takes a deep breath. “Yes, yes, I’m fine, I’m totally fucking fine, but can you just…” She casts her eyes skywards. There are dark purple bags under her eyes, the kind that make Sydney’s hurt just to look at. “Can you just call me next time? So I don’t have a fucking heart attack when I open the office door? Just so I know what’s going on when I show up on 20 minutes of sleep?”

“Yes,” Carmy says. “I can do that.”

“Great,” Nat says slowly. “I’m so glad we had this little chat in front of everyone we know. If you need me, I’ll be in the office. With the dog. Calling the ten guys.”

“Thank you,” Carmy calls at her retreating back. When he turns around, the rest of the staff abruptly pretend they haven’t been listening and start hurriedly chopping leeks, polishing forks. Carmy rubs his hands together and meets Sydney’s eye. 

“I think that went well,” he says. 

Sydney sighs. 

Sydney cracks open the office door and sticks her head in. “Have you got last week’s greens invoice?” 

Nat looks up from her computer, her lips pursed. “What do you think?”

Sydney winces. “...Yes?”

“Depressingly,” says Nat. “Top drawer of the filing cabinet.”

Sydney pushes the door the rest of the way open. The hallway light illuminates the faces of critics pinned to the wall, the framed photo of the team on opening night, Nat’s careful filing system; and behind her chair - the dog, calmly bundled into the playpen Carmy and Richie built for Nat's daughter. 

“You put the dog in Sara's playpen?”

“Well, she’s not gonna use it for a while,” Nat explains, spinning a pen casually between her fingers. Sydney’s jealously impressed; she’s never got the hang of that. “And I didn’t want our new hire bolting out the door.”

“Sure,” Sydney concurs. Nat gives her a closed-mouth smile, just like Carmy, then turns to the puppy. Upon being noticed, it lifts its head hopefully, and sniffs the air, looking for affection. Don’t pet it, Sydney tells herself. Just get the invoice. You do not want to wash your hands again. But she’s already bending down, balancing her hands on the rail of the playpen. Nat’s thin lips grow into a proper smile; Sydney takes the opportunity. 

“You’re not actually mad, are you?” she asks hesitantly. “I mean, I’d get it if you were. But it’s mostly my fault, I did tell Carmy not to call.”

“No, I’m not,” Nat says grudgingly. “Frankly, I should be more upset. And I’m surprised you’re not more concerned about the contamination risk.”

“I have a lot of cognitive dissonance.”

Nat snorts. “Yeah, same. I’m so used to this circus I can’t bring myself to complain. It could be so much worse.”

“It could,” Sydney echoes, thinking about the time the toilet exploded and they lost power in the same morning. Now there was a health and safety risk. 

“And it’s cute,” Nat continues. “Don’t tell the others, I’m trying to keep up the stone-cold bitch thing, so they don’t treat me like cut glass, you know. But this is getting me. It’s the new mother hormones.”

Sydney’s heart swells. “Yeah, it’s cute.” She reaches for the puppy, and it rolls onto its back for a tummy rub. She can feel her own face involuntarily scrunching up in overwhelmed adoration. 

“I see you,” Nat says warningly. “Do not fall in love with that dog. Before you know it, someone will come to pick it up, and then you’ll be destroyed forever.”

“I resent that you know me that well,” Sydney replies. The fur of the puppy’s chest is so sleek, so velvet-smooth. What she should say to Nat is, too late for that.  

Nat chews her lip thoughtfully. “On the other hand,” she ruminates, “If no one comes… well, do you have a dog already?”

“No.”

“And you wouldn’t be opposed to…?”

“Stop getting my hopes up,” Sydney tells her. “I’m already in too deep. Getting this invoice was supposed to take fifteen seconds, now look at me.”

“Too right,” Nat says. “Get out, I have shit to do.”

“O-ho, what the fuck do we have here?”

They both turn to see Richie slouched in the doorway, arms folded over a spotless charcoal suit, obviously new. His eyes are fixed on the dog, a signature exasperating smirk on his lips.

“Good afternoon, Richard.”

“Good morning, Natalie.”

“Nice suit,” Sydney tells him. 

“Thank you, chef,” Richie replies, and does a little boy-band spin and flourish. “Nice dog. This the new mascot, or what?”

“No,” Nat sighs, leaning back. “Sydney found it here this morning. No nametag, no phone number, nothing. It’s not feral, though, so no risk of rabies, if that’s something you’re concerned about.”

“Deeply,” Richie says, one hand over his heart. “So we’re just keeping it here til someone shows?”

“That is,” Nat does an unhappy little spin in her office chair, “Unfortunately, exactly what we’re doing.”

“Hell yeah, fuck those Health and Safety guidlines, right?”

“No,” Sydney and Nat say simultaneously. 

“I’m kidding, I’m kidding,” Richie defers. “I follow the rules now, I’m a changed man. I respect all Health and Safety guidelines.”

“That is so great to hear,” Nat says flatly. “I’ll tell you what I told everybody else, which is: wash your hands before and after touching it, don’t feed it anything, don’t let it near any food, and obviously, never speak of this again.”

“First rule of fight club,” Richie says, crouching down. 

Sydney pulls a face. “I’m pretty sure that’s not what the first rule of Fight Club is.”

Richie ignores her. “Got a name?”

“Not yet.”

“Well, that obviously has to change,” Richie says, reaching for the dog. “You’re a real nice dog, aren’t ya? Sweetheart like you oughta have a proper name. Bet they’ve just been referring to you as The Dog, very dehumanising.”

“How else, exactly, would you have liked us to refer to it?” 

“Well, don’t worry, my friend, I’m HR. I’ll rock the shit of anyone who disrespects you.”

“Haven’t you got, like, menus to put out?” Nat chided. “Can you maybe leave me the fuck alone? With the dog?”

“Sure do, Natalie,” Richie says, straightening up and wiping his hands on his pants. “Give my regards to your newborn child. Sydney.”

“Wash your hands,” Natalie yells at his retreating back. When she turns to Sydney, she’s smiling, but frustration is drawn taut between her eyes. Sydney caves. “I’m leaving, I’m leaving, don’t worry."

“I say this with utter love,” Nat replies, “Good.”

Sydney finds the greens invoice in the closest divider - and she was right, it does take fifteen seconds. She waves it gracelessly at Nat as she ducks out the door. “Enjoy watching the dog!”

“Oh, I’m sure I will,” Nat calls sarcastically; but just before she turns the corner, Sydney catches a glimpse of Nat and the puppy looking at each other. The puppy has the same adorably imploring expression it always has, but Nat’s frown has melted away. She’s smiling, and lifts one hand to give the puppy a small sweet scratch on the nose. Its tail thumps the floor of the playpen in joyful quavers. 

It settles over Sydney like a warm jacket. Goddamn, she thinks to herself. Nat’s gotta be the best mom in the world. 

Her heart feels full to the point of overflowing. She knows, she knows, the dog's owner is going to show up soon. But still, it can't hurt to check. She pulls out her phone and dials her dad. 

Ebra’s cooked a chickpea stew for family, and Sydney and Tina help him carry it to the table in three of their enormous mixing bowls. The steam is drifting directly into Sydney’s face, and it smells so fucking good. So light. At 2pm the autumn sunlight slants just so between the towers, and it washes the whole front in glimmering afternoon gold, sparkling like champagne. It’s her favourite time of day, and Sydney’s never been more glad that they don’t open til evening. Just stepping into it warms her skin. She sets her dish down in the middle of the table, cutting right through a perfect sunflower-yellow beam, and begins spooning stew into nine of their shiny white bowls. 

Marcus, Gary, and Connor come in, bickering about the game last night, and drop into seats on Sydney’s right. Fak follows them in, rubbing his hands together. Marcus leans back and quickly inspects the floor. 

“Did someone arrive for the dog?"

"Not yet," Sydney says. "It's still in the office, unless Nat brought it out."

"I did not," Nat says. 

“I’ll grab it.”

“No, let me,” Gary says, jumping up from his chair. “I haven’t met it proper yet.”

“No big deal if it runs around in here, right, Sugar?” 

“No,” Nat says, as Ebra pulls out a chair for her, “But someone will have to sweep in here afterwards. Right, Gary?”

“Heard, Chef Nat!”

“And you all have to wash your hands.”

“Alright.”

“And don’t feed it.”

“Did anyone buy dog food?”

“And what if it gets picked up in the next 10 minutes, huh?” Richie derides as he swings through the kitchen doors. “Then we’ve got some massive fucking thing of dog food and no dog. Smells fucking bomb, Ebra.”

“It was just an idea,” Fak says defensively. “And nobody’s come in all day, so I don’t think they will!”

“Stupid idea,” Richie retorts, “And that’s not how that works.”

“Not impossible,” Ebra says, as Sydney finishes filling the last bowl. “People are careless. They leave things behind.”

“Family’s up,” Sydney interrupts. 

She sits down in the middle of the table, between Tina and Marcus. Carmy hasn’t arrived yet, probably won’t. In the whole time she’s known him, she’s seen him eat lunch with them about three times. At first it worried her in the kinda way that she brushed off as just not knowing him that well or his own mental health, but now it worries her more. 

Behind them, the kitchen door opens, and a joyful woof sounds. The dog comes bounding out, scurries straight over to Sydney, and jumps up on its hind legs to place its paws on her calf, tail wagging madly. Sydney grins uncontrollably. “Hold up,” Gary says belatedly. “Slow down, man!”

“It’s cool,” Sydney says. “Hey, baby, how are you? You miss me?”

The dog gives an assenting yip, as if to say, of course!

“Why’s it so obsessed with Sydney?” Richie intones, loud enough for the entire table to hear. 

“Shut up, Richie,” Nat says. “You’re just jealous.”

“Don’t worry about eating the food I spent all day preparing,” Ebra says. “Please just keep looking at the small dog.”

“Sorry, sir,” Gary says. “Looks fire, Ebra, thank you.”

“I forgive you,” Ebra says magnanimously. “The rest of you are on thin ice.”

“Oh, shut up, you sour old crab,” Tina tells him. “We’re eating it, Lord.”

The stew tastes even better than it smells: comforting without being heavy; balmy, but lifted by cumin and coriander seed. It’s delicious. Sydney grabs Ebra’s attention with her fork. 

“You put a little bit of allspice in this?”

“Yes, chef,” Ebra responds. “Elevated, yes?”

“For real.”

While they dig in, the puppy winds warm furry circles around everyone’s feet beneath the table. She can map its location by the hands dropping to give it a scratch. Nat seems to have given up on telling people to wash their hands, but at least nobody’s trying to feed it stew. Not even Fak, although Sydney can tell he’s considering it. 

“What do we do, though?” Marcus asks between bites. “For real. What if nobody shows?”

“I think they’re going to.”

“But if they don’t,” Marcus persists. “What, we call the refuge? We’re supposed to do that, right?”

“But it’s not, like, feral,” Daniela muses, stroking the puppy’s head. “This is clearly a trained dog. Like, it needs a family.”

“But that’s what the refuge is for, right?” Connor wipes his mouth. “Families come in and adopt.”

“Not all families,” Nat says. “The shelter system is so overcrowded, and if nobody takes an animal in time, then...”

Sydney shudders. She doesn’t want to think about that at all, but it sticks in her mind like honey. 

“How ‘bout this,” Richie suggests, with his mouth full of chickpeas. Sydney wrinkles her nose. “If nobody comes to claim it by the end of the day, one of us gets the dog. I, for one, would like to put Cousin forward. He needs companionship.”

“Absolutely not,” Nat says.

“Why?”

“I don’t know that we need to get into—” she begins, as the puppy jumps onto her knee. “Oh, hi, sweetie— uh, the psychology of it all. I’d take it, but as some of you may know, I just had a child. So.”

“I heard about that,” Gary says. Nat throws her cloth napkin at him, and it hits Marcus square in the face, then falls into his stew. Fak guffaws. The puppy hops off Nat’s leg and comes running back over to Sydney, nosing at her calf again. She puts down her fork, and lifts it onto her lap with both hands. The puppy gazes up at her, round black eyes like river stones, and wags its tail lightly, sweeping back and forth across her legs. 

Gary continues, waving his spoon around. “I don’t know about y’all, but my place got no rules about pets, and my lady and I are ready to become parents.”

Envy blooms silently in Sydney’s chest, and she shovels spinach into her mouth to keep it from bursting out. Hands off! she wants to say. The puppy squirms in her lap and cheerfully tries to attack a stray braid. 

“Hold up,” Marcus cuts in. “Chester and I’ve been wanting a dog for ages, cause our landlord doesn't have rules either.”

“Alright,” Richie crows. “Fight!”

“Shut the fuck up, boys,” Tina says. “It is very fucking clear who this dog wants to go home with, and it ain’t either of you.”

Sydney looks up. “Oh, no—”

“Oh, yes,” Tina overrules. “That’s your dog now, ma.”

“I can’t really—”

“I think we can all agree,” Tina says, looking purposefully at everyone at the table. “Including you boys. If nobody comes, the dog is Sydney’s.”

The table rumbles in agreement, even Gary and Marcus. Sydney averts everybody’s gaze. She doesn’t have the heart to tell them, especially not looking down at the puppy’s trusting eyes. “Alright,” she mumbles. 

“That reminds me,” Richie says. “We must name Sydney’s new dog.”

“I don’t know if that’s necessary,” Sydney tries, but she trails off as Fak asks, “Well, is it a boy or a girl?”

“It’s a girl,” Richie says authoritatively. Marcus frowns. “And you know that, how, exactly?”

Gary interjects, “How do you think?” just as Richie says, “I checked, obviously.” Marcus wrinkles his nose. “Gross, dude.”

Richie shrugs. “Don’t ask questions you don’t wanna know the answers to.”

“Sydney Junior,” Fak says, and Sydney scowls. “No.”

“Spatula,” Ebra says helpfully, and she doesn’t bother dignifying that with an answer. Richie leans forward, and very seriously, says, “She looks like a Richard to me.”

“I’m not naming my dog after you,” Sydney sniffs. “Giving an animal a human name is a whole new level of odd. I’d sooner name my dog after an ingredient than one of you lot.”

“Broccoli.”

“Yeah, not that.”

“What about Coco?” Marcus suggests. 

Richie nearly spears him with his fork. “Not Coco, every fuckin’ brown dog on earth is named Coco. Be original.”

“I like Coco,” Gary muses. “What’s it short for?”

“I don’t think it’s short for anything,” Sydney says, one hand placed protectively on the puppy’s head, at the exact same moment as Marcus says, decidedly, “Concrete.”

Sydney glares at him. “We are not naming the dog Concrete.”

“Concrete!” Sydney calls worriedly. “Where are you?”

She rounds the corner of the bar, and skids to a stop when she sees Carmy sitting criss-cross apple-sauce in the corner, his back against a glass beer fridge. Concrete is cradled in his lap, her little head pillowed on his hand. Her eyes are closed, fluttering, and Carmy holds one finger of his free hand to his lips. Sydney nods and creeps towards them. 

“I was looking,” she says unnecessarily. 

“I know,” Carmy says. His voice is so soft. 

Sydney sinks onto the floor and leans back against the opposite fridge, cool through her shirt. The golden afternoon light has faded a little, half-sunk behind one of the neighbouring buildings, and it filters in with the silvery clarity of pouring water. She pulls her knees towards her chest, and sitting like this, there’s nowhere to look but at Carmy. The toes of their shoes are almost touching. 

“Did you have lunch?” she whispers.

“Yeah,” Carmy replies. “Nat brought me some.”

He brings his one free hand to rest on Concrete’s back, and Sydney watches it rise and fall just so as she breathes. Her eyes trace the S-O-U on his fingers, and it seems so incongruous with the sleeping puppy, the faint sounds of the kitchen next door, the cloud-pale afternoon sunlight flickering through the skyscrapers. His fingers tap, just lightly, on the soft fur at Concrete’s collar. Carmy notices her noticing.

“What?” he asks quietly. 

She can feel her cheeks warming. “You’re doing better,” she replies. “With Concrete.”

He snorts. “Worst fucking dog name ever.”

“Oh, I know.”

“No fucking contest, right?”

“None at all, no. But it’s stuck now, I can’t fight it.”

Carmy smiles at her vaguely. He never really smiles like a normal person, it’s always the smallest thing she’s ever seen. Sometimes it breaks her heart, and sometimes she wants to snap her fingers in front of his face and yell hey! Just smile at me like a fucking human! 

“I dunno," he says. "I'm not really... you're better with her. It’s good she’ll be yours," he clears his throat, “If no one comes to pick her up. I know you’re supposed to call the shelter, but all I can think about is—”

“Not being adopted in time?” Sydney finishes. He nods, recognition blooming across his eyes. “Yeah, same. Obviously I can’t really take her home, but it’s a nice thought.’

“Wait up, why not?”

“I called my dad,” she says. “Few hours ago. To check if our apartment still had a no pets rule.”

“Oh, shit,” Carmy says. “Does it?”

“Yeah,” she replies. “That’s why I didn’t have any pets growing up. But it’s been, like, eight years since I moved out, so I thought, maybe…”

“But no?”

“No.”

“Fuck,” Carmy says, scrubbing a hand through his hair. “So what are you gonna do? If no one shows?”

“Tell the others, I guess. Then call ASPCA.”

“Would you take her, though? If there wasn’t a rule?”

“And I lived alone?” Sydney sighs. “What do you think, man, of course. Part of me— most of me, I guess, hopes that nobody comes to pick her up. I know that’s, like, bad, because I’d have to send her away, and I’d probably think about that every day for the rest of my life, but I don’t want her to leave.”

“Heard,” Carmy whispers. They both look down at Concrete, snoring with impossibly tiny breaths in the crook of Carmy’s arm. Longing lights up Sydney’s veins, trailing from her stupid heart to the tips of her fingers like sparks from a fire. There’s an alternate reality here she wants to entertain, and knows wholeheartedly that doing so would be a huge mistake; but for a split second, she wants to fall sideways into a world where this is their apartment, and their dog, both shared between them. Sydney could feed it while Carmy does the dishes. They could take it for a walk on their Mondays off, around Lincoln Park. It’s more than what she can hope for. She wants it so badly. 

She looks up at Carmy, and finds his eyes already on her.

“Does your place have a rule?”

“Not sure,” Carmy says. “Don’t think so. Never checked.”

“Would you take her? If nobody comes?”

The corner of his mouth turns down. “I don’t know.”

Inside his arms, Concrete whimpers and pushes her face into his elbow. Carmy jostles her gently, and Sydney stares at him incredulously. 

“Look at this shit,” she says. “She already loves you. Why not?”

“I wouldn’t be any good at it,” Carmy says uncomfortably. Sydney stares at him, and he rubs the back of his neck, a coral-tinged flush blooming from under the collar of his shirt. 

“I don’t think,” Carmy retries, then glances away, a grimace turning his mouth. “I don’t think I’m really capable of… of taking care of something else.” He fiddles with a loose thread at the hem of his apron. “It’s not in me. I’m not like you.”

Sydney’s heart clenches in her chest. “I think Concrete would beg to differ.”

“I think Claire would,” Carmy mutters, staring resolutely away.

“That’s not fair,” Sydney says to the side of his face. “Dogs aren’t people. And even if they were, it was… a different time.”

Carmy turns back to her, and there’s something behind the shutters of his eyes. Sydney wraps her arms around her knees nervously. “I don’t want you to think I’m excusing your behaviour, because I’m not, you were acting like a fucking dick. But I don’t think that one breakup means you can’t ever take care of anybody—” She clears her throat. “Or anything, ever again.”

“Thanks,” Carmy says. Concrete sniffles in his arms. “But it’s not just her, you know. I wasn’t really… the way I was brought up, it wasn’t. I don’t think the way my mom cared about me, and Mikey, and Sugar, was the way I wanna care about things. But I don’t know any other way.”

Sydney tilts her head back and forth, rolling out her neck. “We don’t become our parents, that’s not a real thing. You think Nat’s anything like your mom?”

“Fuck, no,” Carmy exhales. “I think she grew up determined to be everything she wasn’t.”

Sydney raises an eyebrow. “You don’t think the same applies to you?”

Carmy huffs out a half-laugh, his fingers flexing nervously against his leg. “Sure, maybe. I don’t know. You were made to take care of things, Syd, and I don’t think you— you can’t see the world any other way. I’m… I don’t know, I’m not like that.”

“I think you could be,” Sydney says, so obvious, too obviously. “I think if you tried. You’re already better at it than you were six months ago.”

Carmy sighs. “Low bar.”

“I don’t give a shit.”

“I just don’t think any dog would want me as their owner.”

“Lies,” Sydney says. “That one does.” She flattens her legs, leans forward. Carmy’s gaze follows her as she bends down to Concrete and scratches the top of her head. Concrete’s eyes flicker open curiously. “Morning, sunshine,” Sydney murmurs. “You ready for service?”

Concrete nuzzles her tiny face gently with one paw, then yawns and shivers all over. Sydney strokes one finger tenderly over her snout. “You’re so sweet, aren’t you? I wish I could look after you, I really do.” 

Concrete’s eyes close with bliss, and Sydney wants to explode. She can’t handle this. Not Carmen and a puppy. She was only built to withstand so much. Very softly, she traces the tips of Concrete’s ears with both thumbs. Above her, Carmy quietly says, “Like that.”

Sydney glances up. “Like what?”

Carmy scratches the side of his face, looks like he wishes he hadn’t said anything. Sydney narrows her eyes at him and he folds immediately. 

“You, now,” he says. “This dog fucking adores you, and it’s known you like eight hours. It’s how you make people feel, it’s who you are.”

Sydney rolls her eyes to hopefully distract from the way all the blood in her body has rushed to her head. She keeps her thumbs slowly stroking Concrete’s ears. “I’m not. And they don’t.”

“You are,” Carmy says earnestly. His eyes are boring into hers. “They do.”

His eyes are so fucking blue. Sydney has the indistinct feeling that no song, so movie, no corny metaphor in any book she’s ever read has captured what this feels like. The impossibility of thinking about anything else. The moment stretches, and she wills herself not to look at anything else. Especially not his mouth. She’d die, if Carmy knew what she was thinking. She’d curl up and die. 

With a snuffle, Concrete springs up from Carmy’s lap and scrabbles towards the tiled floor. Carmy lets her go. With one last shake, she pads away from them, nails clicking on the floor, and rounds the corner towards the front. They both watch her go, then look back at each other; and Sydney is suddenly, hotly aware of how close their faces are. She pulls back, and something unreadable crosses Carmy’s face. 

“We should get back to…” she starts, and Carmy’s eyes flicker with realisation. “Oh, shit, yeah, what’s the time?”

“Like 3:30? We should put Concrete back in the office before service.”

“Okay.” 

“And wash our hands.”

“Alright,” Carmy mumbles, pulling himself to his feet. Sydney looks at him while he surveys the front, his profile lined with pale golden light. Apparently satisfied, he glances back down at her and then after a second, he offers her a hand up. She takes it, and doesn’t think about it at all. Carmy’s fingers flex again at his side, and he touches the little cleft in his chin with his thumb. He does that a lot, she’s noticed. 

“I don’t want you to think I was just saying that,” he says. “Before. About you, taking care of things. Like Concrete. I wasn’t just trying to be nice.”

“I wouldn’t’ve,” Sydney says awkwardly, moronic happiness exploding in her ribcage. “I didn’t. You’ve mentioned it before, so it wasn’t, like.”

“Good,” Carmy says. “Cause I mean it. But I don’t want to be, like, weird.”

“It’s not weird,” she says. “I don’t mind.”

“Okay,” Carmy says, and then, unbelievably, reaches for her. His hand against the outside of her arm. Warmth and terror all at once. “You get the dog, I’ll get the door?”

“Yes, chef,” Sydney says, her heart in her mouth, and steps away. 

Service that night is chill enough that Sydney doesn’t have steam literally coming out of her ears when she opens the walk-in door. Most of the tables are up to dessert, so she’s just helping Marcus finish plates. Nobody's arrived for Concrete yet, and the hope that nobody will is blossoming steadily in her chest.  Carmy’s already rummaging around in the walk-in as she steps inside. He catches her eye. 

“Hey, I wanted to ask you something.”

“Is it about the T-bone? Cause it really did look fine to me, chef, you were just overthinking it.”

“It’s not about the T-bone,” Carmy says. “But, yeah, I was overthinking it. No, it’s about the thing you said earlier.”

“What thing?” Sydney says nervously. She prays she hasn’t accidentally given herself away. She shouldn’t have sat so close to him at the bar, she knows. Or wanted to touch him so badly. She knows she’s not subtle, that every emotion is written is huge light-up letters across her face. Carmy can probably read her every thought. He taps his fingers against his side. 

“When you said you thought I could take care of something,” Carmy says, “If I tried. Do you really think…”

“Yes,” Sydney says fast. She’s glad this is the thing he’s picked up on, something she feels no uncertainty about. “I wouldn’t have said it if it wasn’t true, you know I’m not like that.”

“I do know,” Carmy says. 

They look at each other quietly for a moment, before Sydney motions haltingly to the shelves. “I need the mint leaves, can you, uh…”

“Oh, yeah, sorry,” Carmy falters, and shifts out of her way. She grabs the mint leaves, and is turning to go, when she feels his hand tug at her wrist. When she turns back to look at him, he won’t meet her eye. 

“Sydney,” he says quietly. 

“What’s up?” she says, overly-casual, to disguise the way her heart is pounding in her chest at twice its normal rate. 

Carmy glances up at her, and it’s like he’s trying to tell her something only using his eyes. His gaze is so fucking intense, it’s almost too much. To be the focus of all that heat. And she can’t read him beyond that, she can’t. Not like he can with her. 

“I looked it up,” he says. “The rules on pets, for the apartment.”

“And?"

“There aren’t any,” Carmy says. “I could take her, if I wanted to. Will you…?”

Sydney doesn’t even want to know what her face is doing right now. “What?”

The door bangs open, and the moment shatters. Carmy drops her hand like a glass. Richie is triumphantly framed in the entrance. “Sydney!” he bellows. “Fak is feeding the spare T-bone to Concrete.”

“Motherfucker,” Carmy mutters. Sydney groans and strides out of the walk-in. 

“Neil!” she orders. “Leave my dog the fuck alone!”

“I didn’t even do anything! Concrete is literally in the office!”

“Yeah, now she is,” Tina gripes. 

“Sydney, you got my mint, chef?”

“I got it,” Carmy says, materialising at her elbow. She hands the mint off to him, and then storms after Fak. “Wash your hands, you piece of shit!”

Concrete is curled up in her lap. The rest of the kitchen is washing up, but Sydney’s skiving duties, snuck off to the office. Nat took one look at her as she closed the door behind her, rolled her eyes knowingly, and declared she needed to take stock of all their spoons and had to leave the room immediately. Sydney didn’t protest. 

“You were so good today,” she murmurs to Concrete. “I thought you might be the type to cry through all service, and then Richie would’ve let you run away, but you didn’t. I appreciate it.”

Concrete bows her head benevolently beneath her scratches. And Sydney wants, and wants, and wants. She wants so many things, so much. 

“I wish I could…” she says, and the longing is so patent in her voice, she wishes she could push the words back into her mouth. Concrete blinks up at her, so soft, so young. Her heart is going to burst. She can’t say it, she already half-expects someone to barge down the door, like FBI, open up!

The alternate reality is opening up again, she can feel it. Spending every evening like this, cradling Concrete’s little head, watching trashy TV with a warm little bundle curled up by her feet. Feeding her every morning and evening, watching her get bigger. Strolling through Chicago holding a lead, like the millennial health freaks in athleisure she’s always made fun of. And somebody walking beside her, scooping Concrete up when her little legs get tired. She knows who it is. 

All they need is a few more minutes. She shouldn’t hope for it; she is, with her whole heart. The restaurant is closing in ten. Then the day will be over, and that’s it, they already decided Sydney can keep her. And if Sydney transfers ownership to Carmy, who cares? She’ll still get to see her. And Carmy wants - he basically said so, in the walk-in. 

Concrete suddenly lifts her head up, black nose quivering. With a yelp, she uncurls her body and vaults her front paws onto Sydney’s shoulders. Sydney smoothes one hand down her back. 

“What’s up, baby?” she soothes. “You good?”

There’s a knock on the door. She knows it’s Carmy without looking, can tell just from the rhythm of his hands. “Come in!”

It is Carmy. But there’s someone else with him. With an eager yelp, Concrete bounds out of Sydney’s lap, skitters around her legs, and throws herself into the waiting arms of some lady she doesn’t know. 

“I’m such a fucking idiot,” Sydney says again. She swings her legs beneath the table. It’s pathetic. Pitiful. The inside of her chest feels like it’s made of broken glass.

Carmy looks at her sympathetically. “You’re not,” he says, closing the front door. 

“I am,” she says. “I mean, what the fuck was I thinking? That I was gonna get to keep a dog somebody obviously owned? In my apartment, with my dad, where I’m not even allowed to have one?”

“I don’t think these are, like, rational things anyway,” Carmy says. 

She glares at him. “Not helpful, Berzatto.”

“You know what I mean,” he says. “Cut yourself some slack, Syd.”

She can hear Nat and Richie bickering in the back as they turn the lights off and let themselves out. When Nat had seen her face after Concrete got picked up, she hadn't said anything; just hugged her and stroked her back. But now Sydney's arms are empty, and the floor is spotless in the dark, the kitchen glittering as the streetlights reflect off all the shining surfaces. There’s no trace that there was ever a puppy here who might have been Sydney’s. And she’s not going to cry, for fuck’s fucking sake, she’s not . 

She tilts her head back, willing the hot flush out of her head, as Carmy approaches. He stands just in front of where she’s perched on the edge of a table, his head ducked as he rakes a hand through his hair. He looks so good in the half-lit gloom, and she hates it, hates herself for noticing. She bites down hard on her bottom lip. “I just thought,” she begins, then wants to die when it comes out wobbly. “I just thought, like. Here is one thing that I wasn’t going to fuck up. And obviously I had no way of knowing that, but it was just, like, I don’t know.

“I just liked that dog a lot,” she says, and her voice cracks.

Carmy has the gall to laugh at her. Actually laugh. She whips her head up, scowls at him furiously. “What the fuck is your problem, dude, my heart is, like, fucking shattered right now, and you’re laughing—”

“Sorry,” Carmy says. “Sorry, sorry, this is just…”

“Just what?! ”

Carmy works the edge of his apron between his fingers. “It’s like what I said before, what I’ve been saying since, however long. About, you know, taking care of things. This is that, like, played out over 24 hours.”

“Fuck you, man,” Sydney exhales. Her heart is a crumpled fucking piece of paper. “This was not an excuse for you to psychoanalyse me.”

“That’s not what I’m doing.”

“That is what you’re doing.”

“Come on, Syd.”

“What? ”

“Just let me give you a fucking hug, Sydney,” Carmy says. “Goddamn it.”

“Fucking fine,” she relents, and he steps closer, puts his arms around her. She’s balancing on the very edge of the table, and can feel her heart beating like a kickdrum against her ribs; knows with absolute deadly certainty that he can feel it too. Her head fits so perfectly in the crook of his shoulder.

“I’m sorry about Concrete,” Carmy mutters against her hair. His lips are impossibly close to her ear. “And I’m sorry for laughing.”

“It’s okay,” Sydney says over his shoulder. He smells so fucking good. “It was too good to happen to me, anyway.”

Carmy’s hair brushes her cheek. “What?”

“Like, it was too good to be true,” she says. “For me. I would’ve fucked it up some other way, if I’d got her.”

“You were right,” Carmy says. “You are a fucking idiot.” And he presses his lips to the side of her head, holds them there for a second. Sydney freezes. Don’t move, she prays. Don’t fucking move, you idiot. If she holds still for long enough, they might both stop thinking and just stay like this forever. 

But Carmy pulls away, looking horrified. 

“Wait,” he says. “Wait. Syd, I’m sorry, I’m fucking sorry, I’ve made it weird, I didn’t want to—”

All of Sydney’s insides are churning, and she tries to say no, please, but it comes out just a squeak, too small to be heard. Carmy moves further away, one hand over his mouth. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I’ll say it again, I’ll keep saying it—”

“Shut up,” she forces out. “Why are you saying this?” 

 “In the walk-in,” he says, looking anywhere but her. “I was going to tell you something. I want to tell you now.”

She stares at him, thinks God fucking damn it, Carmen Berzatto, do not let me down gently, do not say that was an accident, don’t do this to me. 

“I thought I could try,” Carmy begins. “To care about something. And I thought it could be the dog, but it was because— I would be doing it for you. Because, it’s you.”

He reaches up with one hand, one of the hands she’s so damn obsessed with, and it’s trembling. He brushes one braid back from her face. She feels like Marcus’ gelee; shaking, blushing, so easy to break. “It’s me, what?”

“If I tried to care about anything in the world, Sydney,” he tells her. He looks at her so tenderly, so intensely, he breaks her fucking heart. “It— come on, man, you have to know this. It would be you.”

“I know,” she says, and he leans in and kisses her. It’s every perfect dish she’s ever cooked, every moment of joy she’s ever had in this goddamn restaurant, every time he’s ever half-smiled at her turned into the real thing. The broken pieces of her heart are reassembling, now, she can almost see them. She buries one of her hands in his stupid, stupid hair, pushes hard against his chest. She could cry, right now. She probably still will, thinking about Concrete, but God, she's lost one thing that wasn't her's, she's gaining something that could be. 

“Carm,” she breathes. “I need to— you need to know that it’s— it’s you, too. For me.”

“Yeah?” Carmy says against her mouth. 

“Yeah,” she says. “Since, oh, God. This whole fucking time.”

“I know,” he says. 

His arms have circled around her, forearms cradling her back, and she leans into them, pulls her mouth away. Carmy follows her for a second, then draws back. His gaze flickers between her eyes and her mouth, and she feels herself beginning to smile. He smiles back at her slowly, confusedly. 

“What?” he whispers. 

“Would you really have kept Concrete for me?” Sydney asks.

Carmy laughs and presses his lips to hers again, just once, closed-mouth, and it’s too much for her, she’s going to explode. “Yes,” he says. 

“Even though you’re incompetent with animals?”

“Yes.”

“And not at one with nature?”

“Yes.”

Sydney beams, presses her hands to the back of his neck. “You know how fucking nuts you sound, right?”

“Yes,” Carmy says again. “I don’t care. I’d do a lot of things. I’d get a dog, that was really yours, if you wanted."

She can feel her face do something insane and Carmy's brow creases. "Sorry— fuck, I know that's probably—"

"Shut the fuck up," Sydney whispers. Every cell in her body is alight; he presses her lips to her forehead. She feels delirious, like a fucking high school student, so head over heels. 

Carmy shrugs at her. "We can, you know.”

Sydney kisses him, and knows.