eubomubo

[eubomubo]

ok so i just reread chapter 4 of midnight noise and it's giving rushed first draft energy 😭 gonna edit tf out of it and hopefully make it less BAD. literally posted at 1am last night after staring at it for HOURS and I’m just now realizing miss girl was NOT ready for the world yet 💀.

spent literal hours on it too like??? how did I not see it needed more work smh

[eubomubo]

⚠️ UNDER CONSTRUCTION ⚠️

| Midnight Noise |

Chapter 4

Authors note: sorry for the wait i've been in the trenches (Full time job + full time student = misery). but i'm back with the messiest dinner date in chicago!! she said 'amateur hour' to his FACE. in his own RESTAURANT. icon behavior only 💅 also Carmy getting the last word for once and making it HOT??

(P.S I’m making a masterlist soon <3)

(P.S P.S sorry if formatting is off, I’m on mobile and I’m stupid <3)

WARNINGS ➺ 18+ minors dni, explicit language, mental health themes (bipolar disorder, breakdown mentioned), substance use (smoking, alcohol), toxic behavior, sleep deprivation, mutual antagonism, enemies to lovers, reader is intentionally unlikeable at first, service industry trauma, emotional dysregulation, description of mental health crisis (past), blacklisting/career trauma, Eventual smut.

DISCLAIMER➺ This story is fiction, and it does not reflect real life in any way.

WORDS ➺ 3.8k

CHAPTER 3 ➺ https://www.tumblr.com/eubomubo/792897737874112512/midnight-noise

——————————————————————————

"Where are we going?" She asks as she walks down west Madison with her date. Some finance bro who tipped well and practically begged her to come out with him.

Three weeks of "Come on, just one dinner." Three weeks of him camping at the bar past close, nursing his beer and staring at her cleavage while she wipes down the bar around him.

Tony had pulled her aside last Tuesday, wiping his hands on the dirty bar towel he kept tucked in his belt.

"That guy drops two hundred a week here," Tony had said, looking pointedly at her. "Good customers are hard to find."

"So?"

"So maybe don't be such a bitch when he's trying to be nice."

She'd stared at Tony's sweaty forehead, not able to meet his beady eyes. "You're seriously telling me to-"

"I'm telling you good customers are hard to find." He'd walked away, leaving her standing there with her mouth hanging open, fury climbing up her throat.

So here she was. One dinner. Get Tony off her ass, get Jake to stop haunting her bar, get everyone to just leave her the fuck alone.

"It's a surprise," Jake had said, hand on her lower back. She'd worn heels and a form fitting nude dress from when she could afford it.

She should've canceled. Should've said she was allergic to gluten or something.

"Almost there," he grinned, steering her around a corner.

The Bear's sign hit her like cold water.

No. Absolutely not.

Her feet stopped moving.

"Come on, don't be shy. I promise it's good-"

He was already opening the door, his hand firm on her back.

She could either make a scene on the sidewalk or walk into that restaurant where Carmy was definitely working, definitely going to see her, definitely going to think she'd come here on purpose.

Jake pulls her in before she could ruminate further.

The hostess glances up with a bright smile. "Name?"

"Jacob Morrison, party of two."

She watched the hostess's finger trail down the reservation list. Please say we can't find your reservation, please say sorry, we gave away your table, please-

"Right this way."

Shit.

The dining room stretched before her. She kept her eyes on Jake's back, on the hostess's heels clicking against the floor. But she could hear it all- the familiar rhythm of service. Orders being called. The printer spitting out tickets. That specific controlled chaos she knew by heart.

A server brushed past carrying plates. She caught the smell, butter and thyme. Her stomach turned.

The hostess stopped. Of course. Of course it was the table dead center.

"M'lady," Jake said, pulling out her chair.

Jesus Christ.

She sat with her back to the pass, but she could feel it, him somewhere behind her.

She hadn't spoke to him since the night they passed a warm Gatorade back and forth like kids with contraband. When she lock picked his door with Bobby pins. When she told him she couldn't— wouldn't help.

"This is perfect," Jake said, voice carrying. "Check out that kitchen. It's like dinner and a show."

She kept her eyes on the menu, but the words swam together. Short rib. Braised. Sauce bordelaise. She wondered if they updated the Sangiovese- and if it was better.

"Wine list," Jake announced, flipping through it. "Let's see... oh, interesting. They're pairing Nebbiolo with the short rib."

Jesus Christ.

"Says here it's their new recommended pairing. Chef's special selection."

Nebbiolo. With short rib. They'd actually made it worse. Like they read that review and decided to go nuclear.

Movement in her peripheral. She couldn't help it.

She looked.

Carmy was at the pass, plating with that methodical precision she recognized. Then, like he'd felt her watching, his head snapped up. Scanning the room with the instincts of prey sensing a predator.

Their eyes met.

Just for a second- she saw it. That flash of what the fuck.

He turned back to his plates, but his shoulders were different now. Tighter. The cook next to him said something that he didn't respond to.

"Good evening, folks. Can I start you off with something to drink?"

"We'll do the Nebbiolo," Jake announced with the confidence of a man who's never been right about a single thing in his life.

"Two glasses?"

"A bottle," Jake corrected, like he was doing them a favor.

"And two short ribs," Jake continued.

"I'll have the fish."

Jake laughed. "Trust me, you'll have the short rib. It's what they're known for."

"She's a bartender," Jake told the server, like that explained everything. "Probably used to fish sticks."

The server looked between them. "So... two short ribs?"

"One fish. One short rib." Y/N's voice was clipped, staring Jake down, close to snapping. "That's. The. Order."

"Of course."

When the server left, Jake shook his head. "You're missing out. The whole point of coming here is the short rib."

"Coming here was a surprise."

"Yeah, well. Try to enjoy it?"

Jake leaned back, surveying the room with satisfaction. "I love places like this. You can really see the desperation if you know where to look."

"What?" Her eyes snapped up.

"My company does restaurant restructuring. We acquire properties, strip them down, rebuild them as profitable chains." He pointed toward the kitchen with his wine glass. "This place? Maybe three months from bankruptcy."

She felt her stomach churn.

She watched him explain the industry to her, his hands making little PowerPoint gestures over the table. She almost craved the Nebbiolo at this point. Even if it meant a headache that came with the territory of cheap wine. He was talking about profit margins. Like she hadn't spent three years balancing Le Cinq's wine budget down to the penny, negotiating with vendors who thought female somms were adorable.

Behind Jake's head, she could see Carmy at the pass, checking a plate with that same focus he'd had at midnight, locked outside his apartment, examining the Gatorade like it might tell him something important.

"The key is streamlining," Jake kept talking. "These places always have too much ego in the menu."

Too much ego. She pressed her tongue against her teeth.

She wondered if he'd still be mansplaining if he knew she'd invented a cocktail that bartenders still texted her about, asking for the specs. That three Michelin starred restaurants still had on their menu with her initials next to it.

The wine arrived. The server poured with the kind of careful movements that made her chest hurt. This was someone who cared about service, trapped in a place that couldn't do it right.

She took a sip of the Nebbiolo. It was even worse than she'd thought. Metallic and young, it would turn to battery acid when it hit the fat from his short rib.

Jake made a show of tasting it. Swirling, sniffing, that little thoughtful frown men did when they wanted to seem sophisticated. She watched him hold it up to the light. What the hell was he even doing?

"Hmm," he said. Another swirl. Another sniff.

The server stood there with that practiced patience she knew too well. The slight glaze behind the eyes. The professional smile that didn't quite reach.

"Getting some really interesting notes here," Jake announced.

Another sip.

"Definitely ... grape?"

Jesus Christ.

"Excellent," he finally declared. "See? They know what they're doing."

The laugh escaped before she could stop it. Bubbling up her throat, involuntarily.

"What?"

"Nothing." She chews her lip trying to stop the giggles.

"No, what's funny?" He sets his glass down.

She looked at him then. Really looked at him. His satisfied face, his mediocre palate, his company that gutted places like this and turned them into Applebee's.

"The wine is terrible."

His face scrunched together. "It's what they recommended."

"It's wrong."

He snorts. "What would you pair it with, a Modelo?"

She met his eyes, raising a brow. "I know wine."

"Right, no, I'm sure you know plenty about it. House pours, right? Two-for-one happy hour?"

"I was a beverage director. At Le Cinq."

Jake laughed. "Right. And now you're pouring beers in Wicker Park."

The food arrived before she could respond. Her fish, perfectly cooked. Jake's short rib, glossy and rich, about to be destroyed by that fucking atrocity.

She watched him take a bite of short rib, chase it with the Nebbiolo, watched him close his eyes like he was having a religious experience.

"Perfect," he announced. "See? They know what they're doing here. You just have to have a refined palate to appreciate it."

Something hot and sharp twisted in her chest. Refined palate. This man who just said "notes of grape" was lecturing her about refined palates.

She took in a measured breath, looking away, reminding herself she needed this job, needed Tony off her ass. Her jaw clenched so tight she could feel it in her temples.

A small commotion at the pass- a welcome distraction. A server holding a plate like evidence, Carmy taking it with barely controlled fury.

She could see him asking rapid-fire questions, the server shrinking under his intensity. Jake was still talking- oblivious to her ignoring him.

Carmy lifted his head suddenly, that same scanning motion from before, like he could feel something wrong in his dining room.

Their eyes met. She was mid sip of the terrible wine. He was holding the sent back plate. Both of them frozen in their respective disasters.

She saw his gaze flick to her glass, to Jake still monologuing, back to her face. Something flickered in his expression- pity?

Fuck him if that was pity.

"Send it back."

He stopped mid sentence. "What?"

"The wine." Her voice came out harder than intended. "Send it back."

"Are you insane?"

"Excuse me!" She signaled the waiter before she could stop herself.

The server appeared instantly. “Is there something wrong-"

"Tell the chef the wine pairing is off."

"I... will relay the message."

Jake leaned across the table, hissing, "What the fuck is wrong with you? You're embarrassing me!"

"You called me m'lady. In public."

"That was chivalry-"

"That was birth control."

She watched Carmy receive the message. Watched his whole body go still.

Then he was ripping his apron off, shoving it to the nearest surface, cutting through the dining room with single minded intensity.

He stopped at their table. His face professionally blank, but she could see the muscle jumping in his jaw.

"What's the problem with the wine?"

His voice was so tight it hurt to hear.

"It's wrong," she deadpans, meeting his eyes.

"Our sommelier selected it specially."

The lie sat between them like a challenge. Our sommelier. As if they had one. As if they had anyone who knew the difference between Nebbiolo and Barefoot.

"Then I'd like to speak to whoever selected your sommelier."

They stared at each other. His jaw ticking.

"When's the last time you even held a wine list?"

"The pairing is amateur hour."

Amateur hour- from the Tribune review. She knew it would land, knew it would hurt. If his silence was any indicator- it did.

"I'm so sorry about this. She's had a rough day-"

"Shut up." Soft, almost conversational, but with an edge that made Jake's mouth snap closed. Still looking at her.

They stared at each other. The whole restaurant seemed to pause around them.

"You seem to have strong opinions," Carmy said slowly, "for someone who serves Bud Light and Fireball."

"You seem to have interesting wine pairings for someone who trained at Noma."

Jake's head swiveled between them. "You two know each other?"

"No," they said in unison.

Carmy straightened. "I'll have the server bring you a different wine. On the house."

"We don't need-" Jake started.

"You have no idea who your girlfriend is, do you?"

She watched him go, watched the line cooks watch him return, saw someone say something he ignored.

Your girlfriend. Fuck him. Fuck him for that.

"I could tell something was off with it too," Jake said, leaning forward. "Just didn't want to cause a scene. But when you spoke up, I was like, absolutely, we're not drinking that."

The server returned with a different bottle. "Côtes du Rhône. Compliments of the chef."

Better. Still wrong, but better. Like he was trying but didn't quite know how.

"This is actually worse," Jake said after tasting it.

"Shut the fuck up."

"Excuse me?"

"Stop talking about wine. Stop talking about the restaurant. Just- Stop. Talking."

Jake's face went through several colors. "You can't-" He stopped. Looked around at the other diners watching. "Three weeks. Three weeks I've been waiting for this night."

"Jake-"

"Tony told me to be patient. Said you were difficult but worth it." His voice was getting that pitched quality men got when they were about to make a scene. "And this is what I get? You humiliating me in front of your ex or whoever that was?"

She saw movement at the pass- Carmy watching.

"You know what's funny?" Jake said, not laughing. "I could buy this place tomorrow. Gut it. Turn it into something that actually makes money."

"You don't know anything about-"

"I know a failing restaurant when I see one." He stood, unsteady. Wine drunk and getting mean.

"I know a washed up bartender when I see one too."

The words hung there.

"What, nothing clever to say now?" He was fumbling for his wallet. "No more corrections? No more expertise?"

His hands were shaking. The wallet wouldn't come out of his pocket.

"Fuck. Fuck this."

He finally got it free, throwing whatever cash he had on the table. Not enough. Not nearly enough.

"You know what? He can have you. Maybe you can fuck your way into a sommelier position here too.

He turned to leave, then spun back around.

"Tony's going to love hearing about this."

Then he was gone, leaving her with an unpaid check and every eye in the restaurant on her.

The server appeared immediately, professionally, gathering the scattered bills. She watched their face change as they counted- that careful blankness that meant bad news.

"I'll..." she started, but what? I'll put it on my maxed out credit card? I'll ask Carmy for a discount?

The server was still holding the forty dollars, waiting.

The restaurant seemed louder suddenly. Or maybe quieter. The couple to her left had stopped talking, forks suspended. The server hovered by the host stand, visibly debating whether to approach.

She sat there, the abandoned short rib congealing on Jake's plate. The wine bottle sat, three quarters full. Everyone trying not to stare.

The server shifted, visibly debating what to do.

"Just give me a minute."

She picked up her glass. Set it down. Picked it up again, wondering if she should've just drank the Nebbiolo.

Could this night just end already?

She stood to leave, and that's when it happened. Her heel caught the table leg. The bottle tipped, that horrible slow motion moment when you see where it's going but can't stop it.

The glass hit the edge of the table then fell to the floor, shattering- Wine erupting everywhere. Across the white tablecloth. Down the front of her dress in a bright stain. Onto the floor in fat, red drops.

The restaurant erupted in gasps- then deafening silence.

"Shit." She cursed. Too loud

A woman at the next table pulled her purse closer, away from the spreading puddle.

Someone's kid pointed.

The couple by the window had their phones out, filming.

The wine kept dripping from the table. Each drop audible in the silence. Plip. Plip. Plip.

She stood there frozen, dress clinging wet and sticky to her thighs, watching the stain spread across the floor.

The server was frozen halfway between her and the kitchen, napkins in hand but not moving, like approaching might make it worse.

From the pass, she heard someone say "Oh fuck."

A laugh came from somewhere in the back.

Her face burned. She could feel everyone watching. Feel the entire kitchen watching.

How was there this much wine in one bottle?

"Ma'am?" The server finally approached, tentative, like she might explode. "I can... let me..."

But the napkins just pushed the liquid around, made it worse. Now she was standing in a puddle, dress ruined, while this poor kid made increasingly frantic dabbing motions at her crotch.

"It's fine," she snapped, even though nothing about this was fine.

She pushed away from the table, glass crunching under her feet, everyone's eyes following her.

She reached for the bathroom door when a hand caught her elbow.

"Storage room."

She yanked her arm away. "I'm fine."

"You're dripping on my floor."

He was already walking toward the door marked PRIVATE, not waiting to see if she'd follow.

Inside there were shelves of dry goods, a mop bucket, harsh fluorescent light. He grabbed club soda and kitchen towels from a shelf, tossed them at her without looking.

"You know how to use club soda, right? You know everything?"

The supplies hit her chest. She caught them clumsily, the club soda bottle sliding through her wine wet hands.

"Go from the outside in," he added, already turning back toward the door.

She poured club soda directly onto the center of the stain. Watched it spread the wine further across the fabric.

"What are you-" He stopped in the doorway.

"I'm fixing it." She says through gritted teeth, spreading it around.

"You're-" His hand was in his hair. That gesture she knew meant he was about to lose it. "No- you're making it worse."

"Jesus- Stop." He crossed the room in two steps, grabbing for the bottle.

She pulled it back. "I've got it."

"You clearly don't."

They were wrestling for it now, ridiculous, her dress dripping between them.

"Let go-"

"You let go-"

The bottle slipped. Club soda exploded across her chest.

Silence.

She was soaked now. Wine and club soda.

Spectacular.

"Sit," he said, quieter. Dangerous quiet.

"No."

His jaw ticked. "Sit. The fuck. Down."

She sat on a crate. He knelt with a fresh towel, movements sharp and angry. Started working the stain properly. The storage room was quiet except for the fizz of club soda against fabric.

She watched him work the stain in methodical sections. Outside in. The way you're supposed to. The way she hadn't.

He pressed the hem taut against her thigh, needing the fabric stretched to work properly. His knuckles rested against her knee.

"Your boyfriend's an asshole," he said without looking up.

"He's not my boyfriend."

The stain was lifting now, becoming a shadow.

"He's with that company. The one that guts restaurants."

"Yeah."

"They've been circling us for weeks."

He stood, handed her the towel. The stain was mostly gone, just a faint shadow on the beige fabric.

"Thank you," she said.

The silence stretched between them, surrounded by tomatoes and boxes of pasta. Neither moving toward the door yet.

"You came here on purpose. To my restaurant. With him."

"I didn't know-"

"Bullshit."

"I didn't know, Carmen."

A knock on the door, Sydney popping her head in. "Chef? We need you on expo."

"Two minutes." His voice had that edge Sydney knew better than to push against. She shut the door immediately.

"You sent the wine back."

"Because it was wrong."

"Because you had to be right."

She didn't respond to that. It was true. She could've just shut up and drank it. Instead she chose violence.

He swipes at his nose, nodding sharply at nothing. His hand finds his hip as his jaw works. He turns to leave then swings back around-

"You couldn't just drink the fucking wine?"

She opened her mouth to speak but he wasn't done.

"Le Cinq to this. Jesus Christ. And you're lecturing me about wine?"

She stood up fast, the crate scraping against concrete. Got right in his space. Close enough to see his pupils blown wide, the muscle in his jaw jumping.

"At least I made it to Le Cinq."

"Yeah? How's that working out for you?"

"How's serving eighty dollar plates no one's ordering?"

His hand came up to run through his hair but stopped midway, clenching it instead. She could see his chest rising and falling. Then he was stepping even closer, crowding her against the shelving.

"You serve vodka Red Bulls and act like you're above it."

"I am above it."

"Then why are you still there?"

"Why are you still serving Nebbiolo with the short rib?"

"Because I don't have a fucking sommelier."

"Because you can't afford one."

"Yeah? How you gonna afford the three hundred dollar check your boyfriend left $40 on?"

She goes quiet.

"Yeah. I'm eating that too, I'm guessing?"

"I'll pay for it-"

"With what? Your Wicker Park tips?"

"Fuck you."

"No, fuck you. You want to humiliate me in my own restaurant? Cost me money I don't have? For what? To prove you still know wine? We get it. You were somebody. So what are you gonna do now? Ask your boss for an advance?"

"At least my boss can stay open."

"Chef, I'm not fucking kidding-"

"HEARD, Sydney!" He shouted so loud his voice cracked before looking back at her. His chest was heaving slightly.

"Get out."

"What?"

"Get the fuck out of my restaurant."

"Carmen-"

"You made your point. Wine's wrong. I'm failing. You won. Now leave."

He ripped the door open, pausing for a moment, then was gone, leaving her in the storage room wet and sticky. She pressed the towel against her dress hard enough to hurt. Her mouth still tasted like that fucking Nebbiolo.

Tomorrow Tony would fire her. Tonight she'd take the L home wet and smelling like a bar floor. Her throat burned with everything she hadn't said. She started to rub her face hard, then stopped, remembering her hands were sticky with wine and club soda.

Her throat tightened. Not here. Not in his fucking storage room.

She forced herself to move. One foot in front of the other.

"Excuse me," she said automatically, as she passed a server in the hallway. Her voice came out cracked.

The conversation in the dining room seemed to halt when she appeared. The couple who'd been filming. The woman who'd pulled her purse away. That fucking kid who'd pointed. All of them tracking her progress toward the door, her slippery shoes squelching slightly with each step, leaving faint wet prints on the hardwood.

Someone whispered. Someone else shushed them.

The hostess was saying something "Miss, are you-" but she kept walking.

The door was so heavy. Had it been this heavy on the way in? She had to lean into it, using her shoulder, and for one horrible second she thought it might not open, that she'd be stuck here pushing against the door while everyone watched.

Then she was out. The September air hit her wet dress making her shiver. She could still feel them watching through the windows. A couple passed by openly staring.

Her throat tightened. Not here. Not on his fucking sidewalk either.

She should've just drank the fucking Nebbiolo.

[eubomubo]

NOW PLAYING: BED CHEM

PAIRING: CARMEN BERZATTO x FEM!READER | “COME RIGHT ON ME- I MEAN CAMARADERIE..”

SUMMARY: a new hire at the bear and her boss have some interesting chemistry. and not the cooking kind.

RATING: implied smut + fluff

CONTENT WARNINGS: afab/female!reader (she/her/hers) — fluff(?): reader fantasizing about carmen, workplace romance / employee & boss trope. it’s pretty clear these two have sex in an office but i’m not giving anyone any sexy time until later hehe

AUTHOR'S NOTES: how could i not write this about him?? LITERALLY THE LINES WHITE COAT AND BIG BLUE EYES ITS CARMEN BERZATTO ALL THE WAY LOL also hehe do you guys just love the fact that i didnt make this as filthy as i planned to

It all begins with a touch.

You understood the rush of being a restaurant like The Bear. Everyone working on everything - orders being called out by Sydney one second, Carmen yelling “hands” the next. It was a rush, one you enjoyed.

Even though this was never your dream job. You had applied because you were new to the area and needed work. It was only meant to be temporary.

That was until Carmen’s hand brushed against your back as he moved behind you, calling out a “behind!” It was meant to move you, and you obliged as you took a small step forward to let him squeeze by.

The second he starts yelling at someone a second afterward, something ignites in you. Of course, you couldn’t pinpoint why. You’d heard him yell before - everyone warned you he was practically a jackass who was (unknowingly, rarely intentionally) insensitive to other people’s feeling in his kitchen.

That didn’t stop it from giving you a warm sensation in your core, though.

Something that led to you watching him as you stood against the wall during prep, waiting for him to give you some mindless task. Watching his hands work on whatever he was doing - cutting vegetables, rubbing seasoning onto meat.

You imagine those hands doing other things. Rubbing your clit as he ate you out, mindlessly squeezing your boobs and the flesh between his palm, the—

“Get this produce into the walk-in.” His voice commands.

“Yes, chef.” You respond.

During service that night, you watch him move around the kitchen with precision, managing to call out commands and respond to other ones with ease. It didn’t deter him any when someone spoke to him, his culinary craft being his focus.

You couldn’t deny the fact you noticed the flex in his arm when he stirred the pot of sauce over the stove, the way his shirt hugged him just right as he reached across the counter.

You also didn’t hesitate to look lower. Carmen Berzatto was never an average man, you had to believe that applied to all areas.

You’re so focused, in fact, you don’t notice him staring right back at you. Once you snap out out it, your name is being called by Sydney to deliver a plate out to the dining room.

You were sure it had to all be in your head. Right?

“Yes, chef.” You say, grabbing the plate from the counter and carrying it out into the dining room, oblivious that a particular chef in a white coat is watching you now.

You don’t notice until Carmen calls you into the office, telling Sydney to take over for a moment. You stand there, hands behind your back as he closes the office door.

“Do we have a problem?” He asks, hands on his hips.

“No, chef.” You answer, shaking your head. Denial.

Carmen supposed he should’ve assumed you’d deny it. Hell, he had been. “Really? Because you keep..” He takes a deep breath, pinching the bridge of his nose before his hand falls to his hip again. “You keep lookin’ at me, and doing that sparkly thing with your eyes. It’s distracting. Incredibly distracting.”

He doesn’t give you the time to respond as he continues, going across the office. He discards his chef’s coat, putting it on the back of a chair.

“Do you know what you’re doing to me? Having me distracted while on the line?” He asks. You have a feeling it’s rhetorical.

You can’t help but notice the bulge in his white chef pants when he walks, standing across from you. “How I have to fight the urge to take you right then and there? To keep my thoughts normal about my employee?”

Well, that sends your brain into a haywire.

“Chef, I promise you that was never my intention.” You lie. You’re trying to save yourself.

He lets out a dry laugh at that, almost as if he doesn’t believe you.

Because he doesn’t.

You realize that by the way he walks closer to you, hands reaching for your hips. He grips them, not particularly rough but hard enough, as if he’s testing the feel of them under his palms.

“Tell me it’s not your intention now.” He says, voice low against your ear. One hand moved from your hip to your breasting, cupping underneath. His fingers felt smooth against the fabric of your work shirt. Not quite squeezing your boobs, rather his hand lightly dangling over it.

“It’s not my intention.” You say, voice quieter, shaky. You’re trying - really, really trying - to hold on to whatever dignity you have left. To not give in to any of this.

Hell, you knew you wanted it. You’d spent the past few weeks imagining the man fucking you in varying ways in various scenarios, of course you wanted it. But you’d be damned if you admitted that right now.

His other hand cupped your heat. “You sure about that?” He murmurs. You knew he couldn’t possibly tell how soaked your panties were, but the smirk you could practically hear in his voice suggested he already knew. He could already sense it.

You wanted this as bad as he did.

But, of course, Carmen was raised a traditional man. He’d never push anyone to do anything they didn’t want to do- well, sex wise. He didn’t really think that could apply to, say, Richie having to do a produce run.

When it came to physical contact? He’d always make sure people wanted it the same. And the man would never dream of pushing you to do anything you didn’t want. So you couldn’t be surprised when he murmurs, low yet firm. “Tell me to stop and I will.”

You shake your head before you can stop yourself, mentally slapping yourself. You were sure you seemed pathetic. “I don’t want you to stop.” You say.

And when you feel his lips attach to your neck with a clear smirk outline, and his hand go lower, lower, lower.. yeah, you knew you were fucked. (Literally.)

[eubomubo]

Im so sorry for the delay on chapter 4 for midnight noise. I was on vacation— but ive still been writing! It’ll be out soon, promise.

[eubomubo]

[eubomubo]

alwaysshipping1;luvayo

Carmy always notices what Syd is wearing

This is a man who forgot his sister had an entire baby yet we are shown over and over again how closely he observes what his (so platonic so professional) co-worker is wearing.

livelovecaliforniadreams

Season 1 pilot: We know he noticed the Thom Browne shirt when they first meet because he remembers everything about that first meeting.

Season 1 Finale: Blue apron that he associates with her even though he bought it for the crew. He tells Tina "You're dressed like Syd."

livelovecaliforniadreams

3. Season 2: On the busiest day of their opening, he notices her chef's jacket is stained.

trueloveistreacherous

4. Season 2: The fact that he bought her a very expensive custom Thom Browne chef jacket with her initials monogrammed on it begs the question: how did Carmy know Syd's measurements?

unladyboss

5. Season 3: He compliments her outfit.

balancethescales; thoughtfulchaos773

6. Season 3: After the scenes from Vertigo (a film where Jimmy Stewart's transference involves obsessively recreating a dead woman's spiral hairstyle for Kim Novak to wear), we see Carmy recreating Syd's bandana.

whenmemorydies

7. Season 3: He has her scrunchie on his dresser.

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8. Season 4: He recreates her water-blurred camo dress from the wedding a week later

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All this is not counting the instances when they dress alike (Season 2 and 3) or have complementary outfits (Ever funeral). Aside from noting that Richie was in a suit or a generic compliment to Claire at Friends and Family, you never see Carmy remark on what other characters are wearing.

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"It's a family business."

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what a professional

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It's honestly hard to find a scene in S4 where he doesn't glance at her lips. Examples include when she finds out her dad is sick, when she comes up to him at the wedding, and right here.

As a Reddit rando wisely stated, "He wants to taste her."

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everyone crashing out over what ayo said about sydcarmy as if she hasn't admitted that she loves lying, that's our minister of deception, we can't trust anything she says

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fave genre of comment on terrible songs

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a billion such cases

Silly Little Text Posts 20/?

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I need Carmy to be more assertive going into season 5 when it comes to Sydney. If he really wants her, then he's going to have to challenge Syd more instead of always caving every 10 seconds. At least in season 3, he was able to get her to go with him to the Evers' funeral despite being so closed off; he didn't take no as an answer!.

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The Evolution of Carmy's Personal Bubble

Behold, how it shrinks over time!

What we see over four seasons is that the shared personal bubble is where there is physical proximity, tuning into an emotional wavelength, eye contact, blocking of third parties, and--perhaps most significantly for Carmy--a shared auditory range. He needs to be able to hear her and, as her comments to him about how Richie and Nat are also dealing with Mikey's death in the finale demonstrate, her words penetrate the fog within his mind because he can hear her clearly. If the inside of his mind is a staticky radio, we can say that Radio Station Sydney Adamu always transmits the clearest signal.

Season 1: He wards her off with his Emotional Support Spoon when she touches his arm.

All gifs: livelovecaliforniadreams

Season 4: If "what grows together, goes together" is our guiding principle, Carmy has grown very close to Syd contrary to her telling Donna she only "thinks" they are close. Now, his personal bubble overlaps so closely with Syd's that there are feet of space between either of them and everybody else working on either side as the camera pans by.

Is this platonic? Is it professional? If so, why is this layered proximity not evident when we compare Carmy's personal bubble vis-a-vis others, including the scenes from Fishes with his beloved brother Mikey ("don't touch me," he told Mikey repeatedly).

The shrinking of his personal bubble with Syd and not any other character is further emphasized to us as viewers by their private communication (often wordless), synchronized gestures, and overlapping comments (including in the finale when they both ask Richie what he means).

Whenever we see Carmy in distress (panic attack or locked in the freezer) he either conjures up memories of Syd, is recalled out of the panic attack by Syd's voice which grounds him back into his body or (as fairestbeard's scrubbing of the sound layers in Season 2's finale revealed) he is crying out for her like a child for its mother and spiraled even harder when she did not verbally acknowledge his cries.

In Season 2, Carmy begins to quite deliberately move into Syd's space and invite her into a shared personal bubble that is distinct from everyone else. In this scene, Sugar's hands are not on the table and the way Carmy has his hand next to Syd's arm is voluntary on his part rather than necessary. They also have a private conversation amidst a public pitch to Uncle that prompts Sugar to nervously recall them back by saying "Okay, kids." We've seen how they navigate the workspace under construction carrying on a private and highly personal conversation amidst others about their families (her father, his sister).

Inviting her to "the" apartment and angling his body towards her, getting closer. Introducing her to a special private form of communication (the sorry sign) that will further enhance the wordless communication of what is increasingly "their" personal bubble, i.e, one shared personal bubble.

By the time of the Bear's opening, Carmy is inviting her into an intimate space under the table, again angling his body towards her soon after we know he has invited her into his mind's eye when he was suffering from a panic attack and memories of her calmed him down. This is an intimacy that Carmy's publicly acknowledged girlfriend is not enfolded into as we see signs of his distress (looking down, breathing unevenly, rapid heartbeat) in the moments when she is literally sitting in his lap or he is holding her in his arms.

Season 3 is a season where Syd and Carmy are at odds, usually pictured with a table between them. Season 4 begins with a brief flash of Syd asleep in Carmy's dream as if in bed next to him. Upon returning to the restaurant, the way Carmy moves from his end of the kitchen counter (where the expo station is) to where Syd is standing in Season 4 Episode 1 signals to us that he is reconstituting his personal bubble to include Syd once more (auditory cue "And I'm gonna tune right in on you" from The Who's Getting in Tune). Except now she is even closer within it and we notice him being hyperaware of where she is in a space, particularly if she is not right next to him.

When everyone sits under the table at the wedding in Season 4, Carmy and Syd's exchange (his calling for her, again inviting her there as well as their private math joke) cordon off their shared personal bubble amidst everyone else--that accounts for whatsherface's sour expression. This follows their private conversation in which their shared personal bubble in a public space was so tight that Cousin Stevie actually apologized for intruding.

Claire, despite their having slept together and being called his "girlfriend," is not within Carmy's personal bubble. They speak side-by-side both on the steps when he apologizes and at the wedding where he does not maintain eye contact with her (a contrast to his unblinking stare at Syd when they discuss Donna). Although they dance with their foreheads touching, Carmy's expression is strained and you suspect that if he was in the kitchen, he'd be reaching for his Emotional Support Spoon. We also see that when dancing with Claire, although Carmy's face is not where the camera can capture his expression, he is nonetheless watching Syd dancing (as we see Claire crane her head in Syd's direction) and also dancing quite close to Syd, almost within range of the conversation she is having with Uncle that we, the audience, are not able to hear. Tuning in to Syd radio again.

Contrast his professional distance in Season 1 Episode 1 when he needed to come closer to taste her dish with barely a glance to her face to Season 4 we see how he voluntarily moves close to Syd, angles his body towards her, blocks her from Richie (on the other side of the room) and stares soulfully into her face--all while the professional pretext does not really require it in that moment.

Outward expressions of anger have also evolved. Before, Carmy raged at Syd (leading to her quitting). Since then, we see Syd express her anger towards him and by Season 4, he is comfortable disagreeing with her with an irritated expression--neither time does he physically move away. This is all the more significant after watching how he physically recoils from Donna as an adult when she is walking behind his chair with her apology letter.

Notice above how he moves close to Syd even when she is visibly angry, lowers his voice, makes full eye contact and uses a private communication (the sorry sign) unknown to the rest of the group to further delineate their personal bubble is not open to anyone else. When she moves away, he follows her.

By Season 4, they can have a healthy disagreement on his personal issue (seeing Donna) in a lowered tone, he can healthily express his irritation at her and yet neither moves away from the other. Nor do they need to resort to the sorry sign.

Over four seasons we have learned how Carmy is a survivor of abuse from Donna, bullying from peers, verbal abuse from Chef Fields and, now, an increasingly toxic relationship with Claire where her mocking of his traumas has rapidly escalated. This throws the shrinking of his personal bubble with Syd into sharper relief, especially since he is usually surrounded by people who have known him his whole life. Yet it is Syd who can pinpoint where he is in his head ("I can feel you shutting down"). He seems tuned in to her as well, recognizing that Syd resents her erasure (all the scenes we see of her googling the restaurant with no mention of her contribution) and has delayed signing the partnership agreement.

Will Syd's loss of trust in Carmy and his rekindling of his relationship with Claire disrupt the overlap of their personal bubbles? By the end of Season 4, it almost seems like Carmy needs to be as physically close to Syd as possible but I don't see how that will be feasible in Season 5 as Syd, logically, will withdraw physically and emotionally from him. From an audience perspective, the scenes of the overlapping personal bubble are electric whereas a regression of Carmy to Claire would swing from unwatchably bland to unwatchably abusive. She stokes his discomfort and it is visually repulsive to witness a character that has been abused suffer further abuses. Their scenes of intimacy are a pale imitation of what we see between Syd and Carmy, even when they are fighting.

Comments from cast members notwithstanding, none of this (known as "blocking a scene" in film lingo) reads as professional or platonic between Carmy and Sydney. Nor does this layered proximity just evolve by accident over four seasons without the camera crew, director and actors working in tandem to establish that Carmy's personal bubble is now a Carmy-Syd personal bubble.

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these idiots

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this is objectively hilarous. his family low key bullies him lmao