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juliabow · 2 months ago

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JUST FRIENDS - FRED WEASLEY

Summary: You and Fred are just friends. However, you can't help but feel a tug at your heart whenever he does little things - making you question if your 'just friends.'

warnings: a pinch of angst, cussing, friends to lovers.

Word Count: 4,504

You and Fred were just friends. Nothing less, nothing more. At least that’s what you kept telling yourself. Over and over, like a charm you hoped would eventually work—because if it didn’t, you weren’t sure how much longer your heart could take it.

He did things, little things that didn’t feel exclusively friendly.

Like how he always found you in a crowded room—his eyes scanning until they landed on yours, lighting up like you were the only one worth seeing. Or how he saved you the best part of every dessert at dinner. Or when he’d throw an arm around your shoulders after a long day, fingers curling into the fabric of your robes like he didn’t even notice. Or when he’d lean in close during study sessions, reading your notes upside down, his cheek brushing yours while he made some cheeky comment that had your stomach somersaulting.

And the worst part? He never seemed to notice what it did to you.

It was the casual intimacy of it all—his easy affection, the warmth in his voice when he said your name. The way he’d ruffle your hair when you were annoyed, or hold your pinky instead of your hand when he tugged you through the busy corridors between classes. Things that shouldn’t have meant anything… but always did.

The saddest part was that you knew Fred Weasley. Almost as well as George. You knew he flirted with half the castle. You knew the not-so secret hookups he’s had with other Gryffindors and some Ravenclaws here and there. You knew he wasn’t serious about relationships with them, or maybe even anyone.

However, none of them got the quiet parts of him. The stillness behind his laughter. The worry in his eyes when you were too quiet. The way he’d wait up for you after late Prefect rounds, claiming he “just happened to be up,” even when his hair was mussed from sleep. Or maybe you just noticed far too much and overanalyzed him.

So no, you weren’t in love with Fred Weasley.

But sometimes—when he looked at you like you hung the moon—you really, really wished you were just a little better at lying.

Because whenever he does things like that, you find it even more difficult to keep pretending. Like tonight.

The Gryffindor common room was buzzing with post-Quidditch victory energy—scarlet and gold banners fluttering, laughter echoing off the walls, and butterbeer flowing in celebratory bursts. Someone had dragged a wireless from the dorms and turned the volume up, and a few people had pushed the couches aside to make room for dancing.

You sat curled into the arm of a chair, trying to keep your focus on the cup in your hands and not the way Fred Weasley moved through the room like he belonged to it—easy, magnetic, glowing with that same wild charm that made people gravitate to him without even realizing it.

Your stomach flipped when his eyes landed on you. He was still in his Quidditch gear, hair windblown and cheeks flushed from the game, but somehow he looked better like that—unpolished and completely alive.

“Hey,” he called, making a beeline for you through the crowd. “There’s a rule that says you have to dance with the winning team.”

“I think you made that up,” you replied, raising an eyebrow.

He grinned, unbothered. “I make up a lot of rules. Doesn’t mean they’re not good ones.”

Before you could protest, he was holding out his hand. And you—idiot that you were—took it.

The crowd parted just enough to let the two of you fall into step with the slow rhythm of the music. It wasn’t really dancing, not proper anyway. Just swaying in place, your hand in his, his other resting gently at your waist. But the closeness made your thoughts stumble.

He smelled like firewood and grass and a hint of cinnamon—like autumn wrapped in trouble—and he was looking at you like you were something rare.

“I told George you’d say no,” Fred murmured, tone soft enough that only you could hear it.

You tilted your head. “To what?”

“Dancing with me.”

“Why would I say no?”

His smile flickered at the edges, a little too careful. “Dunno. Just figured you might’ve had enough of me.”

You rolled your eyes to hide the way your heart skipped. “Don’t be dramatic. Why would I ever say no to you?”

He chuckled, spinning you lazily in a slow circle. “I can’t help it. It’s part of my charm.” And it was. All of it was. The humor, the warmth, the way he pulled you close without a second thought like you belonged there.

But you had to remind yourself again- just friends. Thats exactly what you were.

His eyes lingered for a second longer than usual, and his smile shifted—less mischievous, more… genuine.

“You look really nice tonight,” he said, voice quieter than before. “That color suits you. Its my favorite to be exact.”

You glanced down at the red fabric tucked neatly into your black leather skirt—nothing fancy, nothing flashy, just something that made you feel a little braver than usual. “It’s your house color,” you said with a small smirk. “Of course it’s your favorite.”

Fred tilted his head slightly, his eyes still on you. “Yeah, well… you make it look like a whole thing.”

You laughed, mostly because it was easier than letting yourself sink into the way he was looking at you. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And you’re stunning,” he said simply, without any of the usual flair. Just that. And then he looked away like it hadn’t completely disarmed you.

“I could say the same about you,” you replied, trying to keep your voice steady.

His brows lifted. “What, this?” he gestured to himself—the grass-stained Quidditch uniform, his jersey untucked, pads hanging a little lopsided. “I’m literally sweating. This is me at my least impressive.”

You grinned. “That’s the sad part. You still look good.”

Fred let out a loud, theatrical gasp. “Are you—flirting with me?”

You rolled your eyes. “Relax, Weasley. It’s a compliment, not a marriage proposal.”

“Damn,” he muttered. “And here I was already planning the color scheme.”

He twirled you unexpectedly, making you laugh again as you stumbled back into his arms.

It was easy with Fred. Always had been. You danced like that for a while—slow, steady movements in the middle of a party that was growing louder by the minute. But in your little bubble, the noise faded. He asked you about your classes, groaned when you reminded him about your shared Transfiguration essay, and gave you a dramatic reenactment of how he almost died catching the last Quaffle, complete with flailing arms and fainting poses.

You rolled your eyes, but secretly you lived for these moments—when he let the silliness melt into something softer.

You talked about how much longer you had at Hogwarts, about the DA meetings, about how he and George were already plotting something “big” before they left for good.

He looked down at you as he spoke, his expression open, like he wanted you to remember this version of him—the one who wanted to be more than just a bloke who never took anything serious. The one who wasn’t laughing at the world, but sharing the laugh with you.

And you let yourself pretend, just for a moment, that you were something more.

“Oy, Weasley! Get over here, mate! We need a you!”

It was Lee Jordan, standing near a cleared table that had clearly been repurposed for an aggressively chaotic game of wizard’s Exploding Snap. George stood beside him, smirking like he’d been waiting for the perfect time to interrupt.

Fred groaned dramatically but smiled at you as he loosened his hold.

“Sorry, love,” he said, voice low and far too casual for the way your heart reacted to the nickname. “Best if i head off to Lee before i get a bludger to the head next practice.”

You forced a laugh, letting your hands fall away from him slowly, too slowly. “Wouldn’t want to deprive the common room of your talents.”

He grinned, already backing away, fingers still brushing yours until the last second. “Exactly. Sacrifices must be made.”

And then he was gone—folded back into the crowd, into the noise and the warmth and the chaos that always seemed to orbit him. Like he had never looked at you like that. Like he hadn’t just taken your breath away without even trying.

You stood there for a second, unsure what to do with yourself, before your eyes scanned the room and landed on Hermione, seated near the fireplace, a cup of punch in her hands and a knowing look already blooming on her face.

She glanced up as you walked up to her, lifting her cup slightly in greeting. “Well, you two looked cozy.”

You scoffed, too harsh, too fast. “We’re just friends.”

There was a pause—brief, but enough.

Then Hermione set her cup down and leaned forward slightly, her voice calm, like she wasn’t trying to pick a fight—just deliver the truth.

“You say that like it’s a fact,” she said softly. “But you look at him like you’ve already written a thousand love letters you’ll never send.”

“That’s quite dramatic,” you muttered, though your voice lacked bite.

Hermione didn’t respond right away. She just looked at you—really looked at you—with that frustratingly perceptive expression she wore when she was holding back something she already knew. You hated how well she could read you, even when you were trying not to be readable at all.

“I notice things,” she said quietly, as if reading your mind. “Like how you laugh before he even finishes a joke. Or how you scan a room the second you walk into it—only to relax the moment you see him.”

You stayed silent, because… well, what could you say to that?

“He touches you differently than he touches anyone else,” Hermione continued. “It’s not just friendly. He’s gentle with you. Like he’s afraid if he holds on too tightly, you’ll disappear.”

Your throat closed up. She wasn’t wrong. And that was what made it so much worse.

“I can’t…” You shook your head, struggling to find the words. “I don’t want to feel like this, Hermione.”

She frowned. “Why not?”

“Because it’s Fred,” you whispered, like saying his name too loud would unravel you. “He’s not—he’s not someone who does real feelings. He flirts with everything that moves. He jokes when he doesn’t know what else to do. He’s… impossible to pin down. He’s not the kind of boy you fall for expecting something back.”

Hermione’s voice was gentle but firm. “Maybe he’s not the kind of boy who used to do real feelings. But maybe you’re the exception.”

Your heart ached at that. It would be so much easier if you could believe it.

But you’d seen Fred with other girls. Heard the way he flirted, laughed, turned everything into a joke. And even if he was different with you, what if it was just that—different—but not more?

“You don’t get it,” you said, barely above a whisper. “If I tell him how I feel and I’m wrong, I lose him. I lose this. I lose my best friend.”

Hermione reached over and gently placed a hand on your arm. “I do get it,” she whispered, “More than you think. But you deserve to be loved out loud. And I think Fred might be a lot closer to that than you realize.”

You looked over at her, eyes stinging.

“I’m scared,” you admitted.

“I know.” Her smile was small, kind. “But just because you’re scared doesn’t mean he’s not worth the risk.”

It had been three days since the party, and you still hadn’t stopped thinking about the way Fred had looked at you or the way he spoke to you. You couldn’t stop replaying Hermiones words of affirmation she informed you of.

“You deserve to be loved out loud.”

You didn’t argue with the concept of it- no, you knew your worth. You argued with the fact it was Fred. You knew it wouldn’t be him no matter how many times you’d pray and hope just maybe- maybe he’d be the one who would shout your name from rooftops. The one who would love you out loud. You knew it was a fantasy - a fantasy that you’d have to be mad to believe would become true, because its Fred.

That led to reminding you on Hermiones other expression.

“But maybe you’re the exception.”

You didn’t believe that at all. You refused to. He must look at other girls like that right? You two were just friends. It’s what you both told everyone, so why act like theres something there?

Still, you’d kept it to yourself. Like always.

It was now time for dinner, and the Great Hall buzzed with the usual chatter. You sat across from Ron and beside Hermione, absentmindedly poking at your bangers and mash while Harry launched into yet another rant about Snape deducting points for “existing too loudly.”

“Honestly, I breathed, Hermione,” Harry said, gesturing with his fork. “And he docked me five points for being ‘aggressively present.’ What does that even mean?”

Hermione sighed, though she was clearly holding back a smile. “It means you were being annoying again.”

“He said it with fanfare,” Harry added. “Like it was the highlight of his week.”

You smiled weakly at their bickering, but your focus was slipping. It had been since the moment you caught sight of Fred down the table.

He was leaning in toward Angelina Johnson, all relaxed shoulders and easy grins, his arm casually draped behind her on her shoulder. Her hand was on his forearm—light, familiar—and he didn’t move. Didn’t shift away. If anything, he leaned closer when she said something in his ear, and he laughed—open and loud and effortless. You noticed how she looked at him.

It shouldn’t have meant anything. He and Angelina had been friends for years. Teammates. Comfortable.

But you’d always noticed the way she touched him—like she could. Like she had every right to. And she did, Fred wasn’t yours to claim.

And in the quietest, most insecure part of yourself, she had always been the reason you never said anything. Because if Fred Weasley were going to fall for someone—really fall—it would be someone like her.

Beautiful. Confident. Untouchable.

Not someone who spent the night rereading every word he said and pretending her heart didn’t race at his touch.

You looked down at your plate and tried to focus on the way your mashed potatoes were pooling into your sausage. Anything but the twisting in your chest.

“So I told him,” Harry continued, oblivious, “if he wants me to stay quiet, he can try giving me detention, but I refuse to stop breathing.”

“Very brave of you,” you muttered, your voice a little flatter than intended.

“Thank you,” Harry perked, then returning to his conversation about how ‘insufferable’ Snape was

Hermione looked over at you for a moment, quiet. You could feel her eyes on you like a weight. “You okay?” she asked softly, voice low enough that Ron and Harry wouldn’t hear.

“Perfect..” You mumbled, eyes flickering between Fred and your plate.

Hermione’s eyes followed yours, hers landing on Fred and Angelina - which she immediately caught on. “He doesn’t look at her how he looks at you though.“

“It doesn’t matter, Hermione.” You bit out, voice sounding more bitter than you intended. “I can’t keep telling myself something is there when there isn’t. I refuse to pretend that he’ll randomly wake up one morning and pick me. Because we’re friends. Just friends. And its stupid for me to pretend that theres something more lingering between us when it’s just me.”

You didn’t want to hear any of Hermione’s comforting words now- because you knew you wouldn’t believe it for a moment. Not when Fred was laughing like that, not when his hand stayed where it was, not when you felt like you were five inches shorter than usual and your chest was trying to cave in quietly while everyone else just enjoyed their dinner.

You pushed your food around and nodded along as Ron started going on about Quidditch lineups, and you told yourself—again—that it was fine. Because even though it wasn’t far from fine, you had no say in it whatsoever. You and Fred were friends. Nothing less, Nothing more.

And you had to accept that.

You told yourself you had to start pulling away.

Whatever this thing was—this not-quite friendship, not-quite something more—it was starting to hurt. It sat in your chest like weight, blooming every time he looked at you like you meant something and fading just as fast the second someone else made him laugh harder.

You started with small things. Sitting at the far end of the table. Taking longer routes to class. Turning the other way in corridors when you saw that familiar flash of ginger hair coming around the corner. You told yourself it was for the best. That you were being smart. That it was self-preservation.

But then you saw him in the halls. Again. And again. And always… she was there.

Angelina.

She wasn’t doing anything wrong, not really. She wasn’t draped over him or clinging to him in a way that demanded attention—but she was there. Lingering at his side like it was natural. Like she belonged.

And the worst part? He didn’t look like he minded. If anything, he seemed at ease—laughing at something she said, leaning in close to hear her, nudging her shoulder as they walked.

It chipped away at you slowly. Like frostbite. You didn’t even notice how cold it made you until it started to numb everything else.

So when Fred tried to talk to you—because of course he did—you gave him almost nothing in return.

“Hey, you heading to Charms?”

“Yep.”

“Mind if I walk with you?”

A shrug. “I suppose.”

He tried to joke, keep it light, keep it Fred, but you didn’t meet him halfway. Didn’t give him the usual grin or sarcasm or playfulness he was used to.

Just short answers. Polite, distant. A version of yourself you didn’t even recognize.

He looked at you a little funny when you said goodbye—like he was trying to figure out where he lost you, and whether or not he was supposed to chase after it.

“Hey,” he said, reaching out to gently catch your elbow just before you turned down the corridor. “Hold on.”

You stopped, but didn’t turn.

“You’ve been short with me,” he said, not accusing, just… confused. “Barely said more than a sentence all week.”

You shrugged, eyes fixed on the stone floor. “Busy.”

There was a pause, and then a quiet scoff. “Love, you don’t expect me to buy into that, do you?”

You finally looked at him. He looked tired in a way you weren’t used to seeing—like the mask of constant jokes and easy charm had slipped for just a moment.

But it didn’t matter. You couldn’t let it matter.

“Then don’t,” you said, voice sharper than you meant it to be.

Before he could say anything else, you turned on your heel and walked away, your footsteps echoing far too loudly in the quiet corridor.

Snow had settled thick across the rooftops of Hogsmeade, like icing on a gingerbread village. Icicles hung sharp and glinting from every overhang, and the crunch of boots on the snow-covered paths echoed softly with every step.

You were wrapped in your warmest coat, scarf snug around your neck, but the cold still bit at your fingertips through your gloves.

It was supposed to be a good day. One of the rare weekends where you could all go into the village, drink hot butterbeer, browse shops, feel normal. And for a while, it worked.

You and Harry had argued over whether the sweets at Honeydukes were superior to Zonko’s joke shop, while Ron had made it his mission to find the thickest socks in the village. Hermione kept insisting you all stop walking directly in the path of slush puddles, tugging you out of the way with narrowed eyes and half-smiles.

Eventually, the four of you ducked into the Three Broomsticks for warmth and steaming mugs of hot butterbeer. The fire crackled nearby, warming your cheeks and thawing the chill from your coat. For a moment, you let yourself settle. Let yourself pretend you weren’t avoiding anyone. That you weren’t trying to keep your heart from splitting open every time you saw Fred.

After finishing your drinks, you and Hermione wandered into a little winter shop tucked between two larger storefronts—full of knitted scarves, earmuffs, enchanted mittens that refused to get wet, and cloaks lined with soft furs and golden clasps. Hermione was flipping through a rack of deep green cloaks, going on about practicality and wool content when something over her shoulder stopped you cold.

Fred.

He was across the store, walking with George, Lee, and—of course—Angelina.

He looked good. Too good, honestly. That effortless charm about him, jacket open just enough to show his Gryffindor scarf, cheeks pink from the cold, and his hands animated as he joked with the group.

Angelina was laughing, nudging him with her shoulder. She lingered close. She always did. And as if it couldn’t get worse, Fred turned his head mid-laugh—and his eyes met yours.

Your stomach dropped.

You looked away instantly, hands fumbling with the scarf you were holding. Hermione didn’t notice at first, still explaining how she’d been needing a new cloak for weeks.

“I’m just going to pay,” you said quickly, already stepping toward the counter.

Hermione blinked. “Alright, I’ll just look at these earmuffs—”

“No,” you said too quickly, too firmly. “Actually, why don’t you go ahead to that bookshop you mentioned earlier? I think I’m just going to take a walk.”

She gave you a look. “You sure?”

You nodded, offering a smile that was tight and definitely not convincing. “Yeah. Just… need a bit of air.”

And then you were gone. You didn’t even remember what you bought. You just needed to not be there. Not see him. Not feel that crushing ache rise every time you remembered all the things you could never say. It had been weeks since you spoke with him, but it felt just like yesterday. Too soon. Too early.

After you turned the corner, you let out a shaky sigh. Due to the cold and your heart’s pounding within your chest.

Before you could even think, a hand grabbed your arm—firm, urgent—and before you could react, you were pulled into the narrow alleyway between two shops, boots scraping against packed snow, your heart thrashing in your chest.

“What the—let go of me!” You slapped wildly at the arm until the grip loosened.

“Oi, alright—bloody hell—stop hitting me!”

You froze, your hand dropping mid-swing.

“Fred?”

He stepped back, holding his hands up, breathing hard. “Hi.”

“Are you bloody mad?!” you snapped, your voice sharp, angry, and very much covering the panic and heartbreak roiling underneath. “You don’t just drag people into dark alleyways!”

“I had to talk to you!”

“There’s this thing called speaking like a normal person, Fred!”

He ran a hand through his hair, flushed, snow catching in his lashes. “You haven’t been speaking to me at all. It’s been fuckin’ weeks.”

You folded your arms. “I’ve been busy.”

“Don’t.” His voice cracked a little—just enough to silence you. “Don’t give me that. You’ve barely looked at me in weeks. You won’t sit near me, won’t talk to me, you disappear when I walk in the room. It’s like I’ve done something awful and you won’t even tell me what it is.”

Your throat tightened.

Fred took a shaky breath and kept going.

“I miss you,” he said, voice raw and exposed. “I miss everything. I miss your laugh in the common room, how you always threaten to hex me whenever i steal your homework, I miss your smile. I miss knowing you’ll be there when I look up. I miss… you.”

You looked away, but he stepped closer.

“And I don’t get it,” he said, eyes searching yours. “What did I do? Did I screw something up? Did I say something? Just—just tell me, and I’ll fix it. Just—don’t leave me like this.”

You swallowed thickly, heart racing. And then—

“I’m in love with you.”

Fred froze.

Your words had sliced through the cold air like a blade, sudden and shaking.

“I’m in love with you,” you said again, more quietly this time. “And I’ve been trying to pretend I’m not, but it’s exhausting, Fred. And it hurts. It hurts to see you with her, even if there’s nothing going on. Even if she’s just your friend. Because I’m not just your friend. Not anymore. Not in my head.”

His mouth parted like he wanted to speak, but you didn’t let him.

“You always made me feel like maybe… maybe there was something there. And I held onto that. Every time you looked at me like I mattered. Every time you made me laugh when I wanted to cry. I thought maybe… just maybe you saw me the way I saw you.”

You shook your head, voice cracking.

“But then she’s always there, and you never push her away, and I know it’s stupid, but I thought—I thought if I got some distance, I’d stop hurting. But it didn’t work. It just made everything worse.”

Silence. Thick. Cold. Endless.

And then Fred moved.

He stepped forward, cupped your face in his hands, and kissed you.

It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t clumsy or desperate. It was gentle. Like something he’d been carrying for far too long, and could finally let go.

When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, breath trembling.

“It was always you,” he whispered. “It’s always been you. I don’t know how you didn’t see it. I flirted with half the castle just to hide how badly I wanted you. Because I was terrified of scaring you off. Terrified of making you uncomfortable. Terrified that if I wanted you too loudly, I’d lose you completely.”

You blinked up at him, tears brimming, your chest aching in that awful, beautiful way when hope finally claws its way through.

“I don’t want anyone else,” he said. “You’re not some backup plan. You’re not some secret I was waiting to get over. You are—you’ve always been—the only one I’ve ever wanted.”

His voice shook now.

“And if you give me even half a chance, I swear I’ll never let you wonder again.”

Your hands gripped the front of his coat. “Fred Weasley—if you walk away after saying all that, I’m hexing you.”

He grinned—really grinned—and kissed you again. The snow kept falling, yet the cold didn’t touch you.

And for the first time in a long time, you didn’t feel like you had to lie to yourself anymore.

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juliabow · 2 months ago

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little sister, my arse (f.w.)

Pairing: Fred Weasley x Reader

Word Count: 8.9k

Summary: You were “like a little sister to him”—or so Fred said. Please. Anyone with half a brain could see there was something way more between you two.

A/N: For the sake of this fic just imagine that GoF and OotP are a giant mushed up piled okay?

Credits to @saradika-graphics for the divider

Fred Weasley was absolutely insistent that you and he were just friends.

Best friends, even.

“Like family.” He’d say with a laugh, ruffling your hair and tugging you into his side like you were an annoying little sister. Honestly, it made you roll your eyes so hard you were surprised you didn’t find a second brain back there.

Because everyone else knew Fred already had a younger sister—two years below you, in fact—but he never treated her the way he treated you.

In fact, he was practically blind to her antics. He waved off her detentions with a grin and said Hogwarts was meant for mischief.

And when she spent the better part of an hour snogging Dean Thomas in the corner of the Gryffindor common room? Not a word. Not a look. Just Fred, lounging like nothing was happening.

Even Ginny didn’t think a single year made such a difference—but Fred? Fred seemed to think it was a chasm. Enough of one to put you firmly in some sacred category: completely off-limits. Practically blood.

Your older brother? Please. He was clearly anything but.

You reached the base of the stairs and scanned the common room for your roommates, who were waiting to leave for the party in the Ravenclaw tower. You smoothed down your skirt and gave yourself one last look in the mirror.

You looked hot.

Not just hot—head-turning, legs-for-days, traffic-stopping hot.

Fred, who had been lazily chatting with your roommates (and turning down their offers to come along—claiming he was far too tired and absolutely couldn’t be hungover before tomorrow’s Quidditch practice unless he wanted to face Oliver Wood’s wrath), absolutely short-circuited.

He stared at you.

One second. Two. Three. Four. Five.

Then sputtered, “What in Merlin’s name are you wearing?!”

You turned in place, giving a little twirl, “Cute, right? What do we think?”

He narrowed his eyes, “I think you forgot the bottom half.”

Your friends broke into laughter. George just rolled his eyes, especially since Ron had walked out of the common room not fifteen minutes ago on his way to the same party—and Fred had told him that if he didn’t come back completely smashed, he was a pussy.

You crossed your arms, incredulous, “It’s a skirt, Fred.”

“It’s a postage stamp.”

“It’s called fashion.” You shot back.

“It’s called a crisis! You bend over and you're going to court!”

Your jaw dropped, “This is couture!”

Fred threw his hands up in exasperation, “Well, couture clearly means no pants in French!”

You rolled your eyes.

Fred stepped in front of you, arms crossed like he was about to fight someone, looking like he was about to have a stroke, "Go put on some pants, or you're not going."

You blinked at him, "Excuse me?"

"You heard me." He gestured vaguely at your legs like they offended him, "You can’t just go out dressed like that."

Your brows shot up, "Why do you even care so much?"

He didn’t hesitate, "Because you’re like a little sister to me!"

That earned a very loud groan from your friends. One of them actually facepalmed. George gave an exaggerated sigh and muttered under his breath, “Here we go again.”

"I'm not changing." You said, matching his energy with your arms crossed.

"Fine," Fred said, jaw tightening, "Then I’m coming with you."

You blinked again, "For what?"

He paused, "To supervise."

"Fred," George drawled from his seat, not even looking up, "You’re not a prefect. And this isn’t a Ministry investigation. It’s a party. You're being a real Percy."

Your friends exchanged looks and stifled more laughter. One of them leaned over and whispered, "If this is what having a brother’s like, I’m out."

"This is what it's like having a boyfriend but she gets none of the upsides." One whispered back.

Fred glared at them though they were hardly deterred, giggling louder now, “I’m being responsible.”

You just shook your head, turning toward the portrait hole, "Whatever. Keep up if you’re coming, mum."

Despite what Fred Weasley told everyone—including himself—you knew exactly how he felt about you.

He said it all the time, like repeating it would somehow make it true.

“You’re like a little sister to me.”

He’d ruffle your hair, wrap an arm around your shoulder, call you squirt. Like he wasn’t two seconds away from spontaneously combusting every time some poor boy looked in your direction for longer than a heartbeat.

And maybe he thought it was brotherly affection.

Maybe he genuinely believed that he was just being protective. Maybe he hadn’t noticed how his voice always changed around you—softer, warmer, less teasing. Maybe he didn’t realize that he never reacted this way when Ginny got into trouble, or when Hermione dragged Ron across a dueling mat.

But you noticed.

So did everyone else.

And every time Fred got all riled up on your behalf, trying to cover his nerves with shouting or sarcasm, it made you feel like the center of the universe. Like a sunflower turned toward its sun.

And because you were a menace—and because you were in love—you liked to test just how far you could push that brotherly façade.

Every Dumbledore’s Army meeting became your personal playground. Every duel, a performance. Every trip, stumble, or wince? Another chance to watch Fred's expression twist from calm to frantic in real time.

Today was no different.

You were paired with Zacharias Smith—a pompous, loud-mouthed git who was all talk and absolutely no skill. The second your names were called together, you spotted Fred across the room stiffen like he’d just been personally insulted.

But you simply smiled.

Smith was already getting cocky before the duel even started, twirling his wand with the confidence of someone who'd only heard about talent. Then he shouted an Expelliarmus—a bit too forcefully—and you seized your moment.

You gasped, staggered backward, and threw yourself to the floor with a dramatic thud, wand flying from your hand as you landed.

It wasn’t a bad fall. It barely even hurt. But that wasn’t the point.

Across the room, Fred froze mid-spell.

“Oi!” He shouted, already shoving past George and dodging Neville as he sprinted toward you.

His face was a picture of panic.

Your internal grin was feral.

He skidded to his knees beside you, eyes darting across your body like he expected to find a missing limb, “Are you alright?! What the bloody hell was that, Smith?!”

You bit the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing. He was always too easy. Like flicking a switch.

“I’m fine, Freddie.” You said, your voice soft and sweet, fluttering your lashes for good measure.

He didn’t even acknowledge it—too busy inspecting your arm, pulling up your sleeve to check for bruises like he was some kind of medic.

"That spell was way too aggressive," He growled, “He could’ve dislocated your shoulder, or—or cracked your wrist!”

You made a soft, wounded noise in your throat. (Maybe laid it on a bit thick, but who was judging? Certainly not Fred.)

“I’ll be okay,” You murmured, letting your bottom lip tremble just slightly, “My hero.”

Fred scowled. A full-on, brows-knitted, jaw-tightened scowl, “Don’t get soppy on me, squirt. You’re like a little sister. I gotta keep you safe.”

Little sister.

Right.

You tried not to roll your eyes.

Not like he said a word when Hermione accidentally launched Ron into a bookshelf twenty minutes ago and Fred had laughed so hard he almost cried. Not like he’d won a sickle betting against his own brother.

No, it was different when it was you.

When it was you, he sprinted. He shouted. He scowled like the world was ending.

You inhaled slowly and offered him your sweetest, most angelic smile, “Of course, Freddie.”

He didn’t look convinced. His eyes lingered a little too long on your face before he stood and offered you his hand.

You took it—warm, calloused, grounding—and let him pull you to your feet.

As he turned away to go yell at Smith again (Zacharias had wisely retreated to the far side of the room), you brushed off your robes and watched Fred’s retreating back with a sense of calm satisfaction.

You’d get him eventually. You were patient. And Fred Weasley had no idea what he was in for.

It was one of those rare warm afternoons in October—the kind that made you forget how quickly the season was changing. The sun hung low over the Black Lake, and a gentle breeze rolled off the water, ruffling your notes and carrying the faint scent of moss and sun-warmed grass.

You’d spread your books beneath a tree, determined to study for your upcoming exams. But, predictably, you’d spent more time watching the sky ripple across the lake than reading a single line. Still, it was peaceful. Quiet. A perfect moment.

Until it wasn’t.

A body dropped into the grass beside you with a dramatic sigh.

“Ugh,” Fred Weasley groaned, flopping onto his back like the world had wronged him, “I knew I’d find you out here being obnoxiously productive.”

You glanced over your shoulder, amused, “And here I thought I’d actually get some work done without distractions.”

“I know,” He said, shielding his eyes with one hand, “My devastating good looks are very distracting.”

You snorted, “Wow. Didn’t think anyone could love themselves more than Malfoy.”

Fred gasped, “That’s low. Even for you.”

You grinned, turning back to your parchment. For a while, the quiet settled between you again—comfortable and companionable. Sunlight filtered through the branches above, casting warm, dappled shadows over your notes. A few first-years skipped stones near the lake, their laughter drifting on the breeze. It felt like Hogwarts had slowed down—like the Tournament hadn’t upended everything, like you hadn’t spent the entire morning stressed about things you couldn’t control.

Fred sat up beside you, resting his arms on his knees. “Weird, innit?” He said, nodding toward the water, “No Quidditch this year.”

You nodded, “Yeah. I didn’t think I’d miss it, but… I kind of do.”

“No bludgers to the face every Saturday,” He sighed, “What a tragedy.”

You laughed, “You liked getting hit.”

“I like winning,” He corrected with a smirk, “There’s a difference.”

You exhaled a laugh, shaking your head.

Fred leaned back on his hands, stretching his legs out in front of him, “Well, who needs Quidditch when there’s the Triwizard Tournament, eh?”

You wrinkled your nose, “I still can’t believe they’re actually holding that thing again. A student died last time. I mean—who would be stupid enough to enter?”

Fred rolled onto his side, propping his head up with one hand and giving you a lazy, mischievous grin, “Funny you should ask. George and I are entering.”

You blinked, “You’re not serious.”

“Oh, I’m very serious.”

Your mouth fell open, “Fred, you’re not even of age.”

“Technicality,” He responded, waving a hand, “We’ve got plans.”

“You’re mad,” You said, gaping at him, “Do you even know what the tasks are?”

“’Course not,” He said brightly, “That’s the fun of it. Life’s full of surprises.”

You raised an eyebrow, “Life’s also full of death, Fred.”

He grinned, “I think that’s a fair trade for a thousand galleons.”

You stared, “You want to risk dying for money?”

He gave you a look, “I want to open a joke shop.”

That shut you up.

He didn’t say it like a joke. There was a rare steadiness to his voice, something quiet and real beneath the usual chaos. He plucked a blade of grass and twisted it between his fingers, not quite meeting your eyes.

“George and I—we’ve been working on stuff for ages. Skiving Snackboxes, Canary Creams, that cough syrup that changes your voice pitch—we’ve got an entire catalogue in our dorm. No more sneaking around under Umbridge’s nose. We want real walls. A shop. Our names on the window.”

He paused, then added, “We’ve been looking at places in Diagon Alley. But they’re way out of reach. Even if we worked our arses off for the next ten years, we’d never make enough. The Tournament’s our best shot.”

You blinked, “Oh Godric. You’re actually serious.”

He finally glanced over at you, “Deadly.”

Your heart did a weird little lurch. Not just because Fred Weasley could be serious—which was a revelation all on its own—but because now you could see it. The dream behind the jokes. How much it meant to him.

“Why didn’t you tell me before?” You asked quietly.

He shrugged, suddenly shy, “Dunno. Guess I didn’t want anyone laughing at it. It’s not exactly the career Mum had in mind.”

You nudged his shoulder gently, “Well, for the record? I think it’s brilliant.”

He looked at you then—really looked. The wind ruffled his hair, and the sharpness in his grin softened into something slower, more genuine.

“You do?”

You nodded, “Absolutely. I mean, if anyone can build an empire out of nosebleeds and puking pastilles, it’s you two.”

Fred beamed, and for a second, the world felt lighter.

“Thanks.” He said, quiet but full of meaning.

You smiled back and nudged his foot with yours, “You’ll still be an idiot, though.”

“Obviously,” He said, flopping onto his back with a groan—his head landing squarely in your lap, “Just a rich one.”

You looked down at him, sunlight catching in his eyelashes, his grin lopsided and smug. And you laughed—soft and full, like the sun had settled in your chest.

It was nothing and everything.

Just a moment. Just a feeling.

But it was these moments that truly made you believe.

You were never a just 'little sister' to Fred.

The Yule Ball was a glittering, dazzling spectacle—lights flickering off icicles, laughter rising above the string quartet, and students twirling like they belonged in fairytales. You, however, sat near the edge of the ballroom, nursing your second Butterbeer and watching the swirl of color and sound with a wistful smile.

You hadn’t come with a date. Not for lack of trying—well, trying in your own mischievous, joking way.

A few weeks ago, you’d cheekily asked Fred if he wanted to go with you. Just for laughs. You knew he was going with Angelina—everyone did—but you asked anyway, leaning across the common room table with a dramatic flutter of your lashes.

“Freddie, darling,” You’d purred in a mock-sultry voice, “would you do me the honor of escorting me to the Yule Ball?”

Fred had laughed so hard he nearly fell out of his chair, “Merlin, no. You’re like my little sister.” He said, ruffling your hair like it was the funniest thing in the world.

Ugh. Little sister. Would he ever give it a rest?

It still clanged around in your brain like a badly played triangle.

You’d rolled your eyes at the time and played it off with a sarcastic bow, “Guess I’ll be a single lady then.”

You could’ve gone with someone else—you’d been asked by a few boys from all three schools—but you couldn’t bring yourself to accept any of them. You’d considered it briefly, wondering if maybe it would make Fred jealous. Part of you hesitated because you didn’t want to give him another reason to believe you weren’t available—romantically or otherwise.

But, really… you didn’t want to go with anyone who wasn’t Fred.

So you came alone. In a dress you adored. Ready to have a good time with your friends instead of pretending to care about someone you’d barely remember in a year.

The small detail you’d failed to factor in?

Your friends hadn’t come alone.

So here you were—alone in a dress you actually loved, watching the dance floor glow with candlelight and spinning silhouettes.

You weren’t bitter. Not really.

…Okay. Maybe a little.

You were fine. You were great. You were single, glowing, unbothered—and just a little disappointed.

Fred had been dancing most of the evening with Angelina, stopping now and then to mess with George or shove cake in Lee’s face. But the moment he spotted you sitting alone, something shifted in him. His laughter faltered mid-sentence. The smile dimmed just slightly.

He watched you from the edge of the crowd. Your eyes followed the dancers, your foot tapping along with the beat. But you weren’t smiling like you usually did. You looked like you were waiting—for something. Or someone.

Fred excused himself from the group without a word and made his way toward you, face unreadable.

You looked up as he stopped in front of you.

“Fred?”

“You look like a lemon.”

You blinked. “Charming.”

He held out a hand, “Dance with me.”

You raised a brow, “And abandon my hard-earned reputation as the designated wallflower? You sure you want to ruin that for me?”

He smirked, but there was something softer beneath it, “Just so you’re not sitting here looking miserable. I mean, you looked like you wanted to dance. And you’re not a lemon. You’re… a pomegranate.”

You stared at him, “Wow. How could a girl possibly resist?”

You placed your hand in his, warmth zipping up your arm at the contact.

“Thanks, Fred. I didn’t want to sit here all night.”

“I’m rescuing you from a night of tragic wallflowering,” He said, placing one hand on your waist and taking the other in his, “A truly chivalrous act.”

“Right,” You said dryly, “Should I curtsy or just kiss your feet?”

He narrowed his eyes, “I could still leave you here, you know.”

“You won’t.” You said smugly.

You were on your third dance with Fred—completely unaware of time, music, or the fact that your feet were starting to ache—when someone tapped your shoulder.

You turned to see a Ravenclaw boy you vaguely recognized. “Hey—sorry to interrupt,” He said, smiling, “Would you like to dance the next one?”

You opened your mouth, startled, but Fred beat you to it.

“She’s booked for the night, mate." He said smoothly.

The boy blinked, “Oh. I just thought—”

Fred clapped a hand on his shoulder, laughing, “Appreciate you trying to put me out of my misery, really. But I couldn’t do that to you.”

The boy hesitated, then walked away.

You turned back to Fred, eyebrows raised, “Didn’t you just say you were dancing with me because I looked like a lonely?”

Fred shrugged, “I couldn’t, in good conscience, let him suffer through your dancing. Besides, you’d be bored with anyone else.”

You snorted, “I’m calling your bluff, Weasley. You just don’t want to admit you’re having fun.”

He gave you a wicked grin. “Maybe I am… but don’t let it go to your head.”

The night wore on, and you were breathless from laughter. Despite his usual disinterest in McGonagall’s dance lessons—apart from embarrassing his brother for dancing with her—Fred, to his credit, was a surprisingly good dancer. He had already spun you around twice, always managing to keep you steady even though, in these heels, it felt like one misstep away from disaster. But his latest antic nearly gave you a cardiac arrest.

“Ready?” He asked, eyes gleaming.

“Fred—what are you—?”

Then he dipped you.

Dramatically.

One strong arm behind your back, the other holding your hand as your head tilted back with a surprised squeak. You gripped his arms tightly, heart hammering.

“I could drop you,” He said casually, “Let everyone see you take a tumble in that pretty dress.”

“Fred Weasley, don’t you dare—”

He chuckled, voice low and steady, “I’d never let you go.”

Your breath caught.

He was close—too close. His voice was warm against your cheek, his grin lazy, his eyes crinkled at the corners. Like what he’d just said meant something.

You stared at him for a heartbeat too long.

Then, with a cheeky flourish, he pulled you upright again, smiling like it had all been a joke.

You didn’t say a word. Because if you did—if you pointed out how soft and sweet that had been—he’d ruin it. He’d backpedal. Say something like “Because you’re like my sister,” and you weren’t about to let that ruin the moment.

So you said nothing. You let him hold you a little too close. Let his fingers linger at your waist. Let yourself feel the weight of it—of him.

And then, slowly, the teasing faded. The jokes quieted. You were just dancing. Holding each other. His hand warm against your back. His eyes drifted to your lips just once and you had to stop everything in you from leaning into him.

At some point, your fingers brushed his collar, adjusting it just to touch him.

The both of you just lost in your own world.

Until the crowd began to thin. Until the music slowed. Until reality crept back in.

Fred glanced toward the edge of the ballroom.

“Oh, Merlin,” He breathed, “Angelina.”

You blinked, “Oh my God. You had a date.”

He winced, “I didn’t mean to leave her—”

“You left her the whole night, Fred,” You worried, still slightly dazed that the guy you had been crushing on forgot his own date for your company, “For your pomegranate.”

He looked sheepish, running a hand nervously through his hair. “That makes it sound worse.” He muttered.

“It is worse.” You said quietly, the concern in your voice barely masked by the soft glow of the ballroom lights.

Fred swallowed hard. “I’ll go talk to her,” He said, rubbing the back of his neck, eyes flickering with a mix of guilt and dread, “She’s gonna kill me.”

He found Angelina standing near the exit, her arms crossed, the faintest crease between her brows. She didn’t look angry—not really. Just… tired. Like she’d been waiting too long to say what she needed to say, and it had worn her down.

“Took you long enough.” She said coolly, voice steady but carrying a weight beneath it.

“Angelina, I’m sorry—”

“Don’t be,” She interrupted, stepping closer, her gaze sharp and unyielding, “Just be honest with me.”

Fred blinked, confusion clouding his expression, “Honest?”

She nodded, her voice softer but no less firm, “The moment you saw her, you forgot I even existed.”

His cheeks flushed, a mix of embarrassment and something deeper, more complicated, “It’s not like that. She’s—”

“Don’t,” Angelina said sharply, cutting him off, “Don’t say ‘little sister.’ You’ve been using that excuse for ages. It’s not cute anymore. She’s not your sister. You didn’t spend the whole night laughing with her, dancing with her, looking at her like she hung the bloody moon because she was your sister.”

Fred opened his mouth, as if to protest, but no words came. The truth hung heavy in the air, unspoken but impossible to deny.

Angelina gave him a sad, almost wistful smile, “You know what? I hope she finally says something. Because you’re too stupid to realize you’re already halfway in love.”

With that, she turned on her heel and walked away, her silhouette swallowed by the crowd.

Fred stood frozen, watching the heavy doors swing shut behind her. The sounds of the ball—the music, the laughter—seemed distant, like they were happening to someone else.

Across the room, you were laughing with George, your eyes bright, your dress catching the light with every twirl. Your joy was undeniable, effortless.

Fred’s heart thundered painfully in his chest.

Oh.

Fred stumbled into the Gryffindor common room later that night, hair a complete mess, and his tie still hanging loosely from his collar like a badge of defeat. His usually cocky grin was nowhere to be found. He wasn’t going to sleep tonight. Not after Angelina. Not after you.

He hadn’t even managed to reach the part of his brain that could make sense of why the latter felt like it mattered more. The weight of it pressed on his chest in a way he wasn’t used to.

He made a beeline for the couch and flopped down face-first, letting out a long, weary sigh. Unfortunately, his relief was short-lived.

“Enchanté, loverboy.” Came a familiar voice.

Fred groaned without opening his eyes, “Go away, George.”

But George was already there, sprawled comfortably with a smug grin and a pillow in hand.

“Why should I?” George asked, grinning wide, “I’m genuinely enjoying your emotional meltdown. It’s been ages since I had this much blackmail material on you.”

Fred peeked one eye open, glaring, “You’re delusional.”

“Oh, am I?” George leaned in, his grin widening wickedly, “So, just to make sure I’ve got this right—you asked Angelina to the Yule Ball, spent exactly zero time with her, and then danced the entire night with someone you keep insisting is ‘just your little sister’?”

Fred scowled, sitting up slightly, “She didn’t have anyone to dance with—”

George gasped dramatically, clutching his chest, “Oh no! Poor darling (Y/N), tragically unwanted and left to fend off all those desperate wankers alone. Thank goodness you stepped up to do your familial duty and ward off all those other blokes with your death stare!”

“I didn’t—”

“And then there was the moment when you full-on blocked that Ravenclaw who asked her to dance—”

“He was creepy.” Fred interrupted, defensive.

“Was he?” George raised a skeptical brow, “Or did you just not like some other bloke getting close to what you think belongs to you?”

Fred sputtered, cheeks flushing, “She’s not mine!”

George leaned back, hands behind his head, looking like he’d just won the Quidditch Cup, “That’s not what your face said last night when she laughed at someone else’s joke.”

Fred blinked in surprise, “She did?”

George threw back his head and howled with laughter, “You absolute muppet. You’re in love with her.”

“No, I’m not.”

“You are in love with her.”

Fred narrowed his eyes, “She’s like a sister.”

George chuckled, eyes sparkling with disbelief, “Right. And I’m the Queen of England.”

The days after the Yule Ball stretched on with a strange sort of silence between you and Fred. It wasn’t the loud, obvious kind of silence that comes from a fight or an argument—it was quieter, more complicated. Like a door left slightly ajar, inviting but uncertain whether to open or close.

Fred wasn’t usually the type to get tongue-tied or awkward. He was a master of quick jokes, cheeky grins, and effortless charm. But in those weeks, whenever you were near, something tangled inside him—like a knot he didn’t quite know how to undo. His usual bravado wavered just enough that it made you catch him staring a little longer than usual or pause mid-joke, like he was rehearsing lines in his head that never quite made it out.

The common room felt different now when you sat near each other. The easy camaraderie you’d always shared was still there, but it was layered with something unspoken—something neither of you dared to say aloud. Conversations that used to flow effortlessly now stumbled into sudden silences.

He found himself watching you more, stealing glances when he thought you weren’t looking—the way your eyes lit up when you talked about something you loved, the subtle way you bit your lip when you were deep in thought, the way your laughter made the whole room feel warmer. Every little detail seemed to grow in significance, like clues to a puzzle he didn’t realize he was trying to solve.

He kept telling himself it was safer to keep things as they were. Safer to laugh it off, to shove feelings aside and pretend they weren’t there.

Still, the more he tried to ignore it, the harder it became. Every shared glance, every accidental touch, every laugh felt like a spark. And sparks—no matter how small—have a way of turning into flames.

So the days rolled on, filled with stolen moments and unspoken truths, until the night of the twins' birthday.

You’d gone all out.

Of course you had. They were your closest friends—your brothers in chaos, your constants—and no amount of recent awkwardness between you and Fred was going to change that. You weren’t about to let a few strange, tense weeks ruin what had always been effortless. You had promised yourself you'd make their birthday unforgettable.

So you did.

The common room was full of warmth and flickering firelight, the remnants of cake crumbs and torn wrapping paper scattered across the floor like confetti. Laughter echoed off the stone walls, and the twins were basking in the glow of attention and affection from everyone who adored them.

George let out a low whistle as he unwrapped your third gift—a meticulously crafted set of self-replenishing joke parchment. His eyes lit up like a kid in Honeydukes.

“Blimey, (Y/N),” He said, grinning, “Trying to buy our affection?”

You laughed, nudging his shoulder, “Obviously. Isn’t it working?”

They were thrilled—joking, laughing, trading banter with anyone who approached. It should’ve felt perfect.

And yet… that other gift still burned a hole in your pocket.

The real one.

Your eyes found Fred across the room—red hair tousled, cheeks pink from laughing too hard, head thrown back as Lee told some ridiculous story. He was glowing in the way only Fred could glow, like he was lit from the inside.

And still, you felt that tug in your chest. The ache of what hadn’t been said.

When the noise began to settle and the party mellowed into pockets of low chatter, you crossed the room and gently tugged at his sleeve.

“Fred,” You said, just loud enough for him to hear, “Come with me?”

He blinked down at you, caught off guard. “Yeah. Alright.”

You led him toward the farthest corner of the Gryffindor common room, past the roaring fire and beyond the clusters of chatting students, until you reached the quiet nook beneath the grand stained-glass windows. The flickering moonlight spilled in, mingling with the soft glow of a single enchanted lamp, casting gentle shadows that danced along the stone walls. Here, removed from the laughter and bustle, it felt like the rest of the world had paused just for the two of you.

Your hands trembled slightly as you reached into your pocket and pulled out a small, worn box. It wasn’t wrapped. It wasn’t fancy. It didn’t sparkle or shimmer. But your heart was in it—completely.

Fred frowned a little, brow furrowing, “You didn’t have to—”

“Shut up and open it, Weasley.” You interrupted, pushing it gently into his hands.

He raised an eyebrow at you, amused but curious. Slowly, he lifted the lid.

Inside was a snow globe. The little snowflakes drifted gently over a miniature brick-and-mortar storefront, with a bright red ‘W’ hanging proudly above the door. As Fred looked closer, a tiny charmed figurine—obviously meant to be him—stepped onto the shop’s doorstep. The figure carefully put on his hat, then lifted it to reveal a small rabbit sitting playfully on his head. When he placed the hat back down and lifted it again, the rabbit was gone.

His fingers hovered over it, stunned. Not because it was extravagant—it wasn’t—but because it was him. It was the dream. His dream. Captured and preserved with such quiet devotion, it took the air straight out of his lungs.

“I made it,” You said softly, barely above a whisper, “I wanted you to know that no matter what… I’ll always be on your side.”

Fred stared at it.

Then at you.

His expression shifted like a storm—surprise first, then something softer. Something heavier.

You hesitated, “I know things have been weird these past couple weeks, but I just—”

Before you could finish, he stepped forward and kissed you.

There was no warning.

No hesitation.

Just Fred—urgent and messy and real. It wasn’t graceful, wasn’t the kind of kiss you saw in fairytales. It was all clumsy affection and months of unsaid things. You made a startled sound, but your hands moved before you could think—one curling into the front of his shirt to keep him close, the other gripping the side of his face.

You kissed him back with everything you had.

When he finally pulled away, breathless, his face was burning. His hands lingered on your waist, his forehead resting lightly against yours.

“Don’t say a word,” He muttered hoarsely, eyes squeezed shut, “Not. A. Word.”

You opened your mouth.

He jabbed a finger at you without even looking, “I mean it.”

You closed it again, biting back a wicked little smirk.

Fred groaned under his breath, dragging both hands through his hair as he turned back toward the others like a man marching to his execution.

The moment he stepped back into view, the common room erupted.

A chorus of laughter, wolf whistles, and mock applause rang out like someone had set off fireworks.

“FREDDIE!” Lee shouted, pointing, “You’ve got lipstick all over your mouth!”

George nearly fell off the couch, howling, “Finally, you absolute muppet!”

Fred turned back to shoot you a look—something between a death glare and a desperate plea for mercy.

You just leaned against the wall, arms crossed and smile syrup-sweet. “You told me not to say anything.” You called innocently.

His jaw dropped. George clapped him hard on the back.

“You’re doomed, Freddie. Doomed!”

Fred groaned again, eyes still locked on you, like he couldn’t decide if he wanted to strangle you or kiss you all over again.

You just winked.

And Fred, cheeks flaming and heart pounding, couldn’t even pretend anymore.

He was absolutely, irrevocably, spectacularly in love with you.

And he always had been.

Fred didn’t talk to you for two whole days after the kiss.

Which was absolutely hilarious, considering he couldn’t stop staring at you.

Every time you caught his eye in the common room, he’d jerk his head away so fast you half expected him to get whiplash. His cheeks would flare bright red like he’d just walked through a blast-ended skrewt.

At breakfast, he knocked over his goblet of pumpkin juice—not once, but twice—sending sticky liquid splashing over the table. When he tripped on the stairwell on his way to Charms class, narrowly catching himself on the banister, you barely suppressed a laugh.

George caught on immediately, his grin spreading wider than the Great Hall on feast day.

“You’re a bloody mess,” George said gleefully, clapping Fred hard on the shoulder as if congratulating a champion, “And all because of one little kiss.”

Fred muttered furiously, burying his face in his hands, cheeks still flaming. “It wasn’t a kiss,” He insisted, voice muffled, “It was—it was—”

“What? CPR?” George teased with a wicked smirk, “Pretty sure you didn’t need to snog her to save her life, mate.”

Fred groaned loudly and pushed his hands away, blinking rapidly as if trying to erase the image from his brain.

This went on for days.

He’d catch your eye, panic, and look away like you’d cast a Confundus Charm on him. His ears would burn brighter than the Gryffindor common room fire, and he’d mutter under his breath whenever you passed by.

It was, frankly, kind of adorable.

George was having the time of his life.

On day one, he started pacing the common room, sighing dramatically like a Shakespearean actor. “Ah, young love,” he muttered, voice thick with mock sentimentality. “So fragile, so awkward, so completely bloody hilarious.”

Whenever Fred glanced your way—no matter how fleetingly—George would launch a strategic attack with Bertie Bott’s Every Flavour Beans, pelting him like a mischievous spellcaster.

Fred just huffed and tried to act nonchalant, but even someone as blind as him could see he was utterly, hopelessly smitten.

Meanwhile, you watched the whole spectacle with a quiet smile—knowing this was just Fred's pathetic way of trying to come to terms that you were actually the love of his life.

Fred wasn’t there for the DA meeting today. While he said he was just not feeling well, a part of you wondered whether he was trying to avoid you on purpose.

Without his ever-watchful, overprotective presence hovering nearby, you found yourself sharper—faster, smarter, more daring than you’d realized.

You sparred with Harry, and it quickly became clear: you were a natural. Your feet barely seemed to touch the ground as you ducked, weaved, and cast spells with precision and flair. Your counter-curses came swift and clever, each movement more confident than the last.

When you finally disarmed Harry with a clean, flawless flick, sending his wand soaring across the room, even Hermione couldn’t help but clap.

Harry grinned, breathless as he retrieved his wandm “Merlin, (Y/N), where have you been hiding that?”

Your heart raced, a triumphant spark lighting up inside you. You shrugged with a sly smile.

“Maybe I just don’t like showing off.” You said playfully.

Harry’s eyes narrowed playfully, suspicion flashing in them.

Then it hit him. Slowly, deliberately, he raised his wand and pointed it at you.

“Wait a minute,” He said, voice teasing, “You pretend to be useless around Fred, don’t you? So he’ll fuss over you?”

You batted your eyelashes and gave him your most innocent, wide-eyed look.

“Moi?”

Harry burst out laughing, shaking his head, “You are pure evil. Brilliantly evil.”

You just winked, utterly unapologetic.

You didn’t plan to storm into Fred’s dorm like a thundercloud, but after days of the cold shoulder, the sidelong glances, and the maddening silence, you’d finally reached your limit. Tonight, you were done waiting.

The door swung open before Fred could even answer, and he was caught somewhere between surprise and guilt. His usual easygoing grin was gone, replaced by a flush creeping up his neck and a nervous flicker in his eyes. The room around him was cluttered with scattered prototypes and half-finished joke shop inventions, mirroring the chaos you sensed in his mind.

He shuffled uncomfortably, running a hand through his untamed hair, his gaze flicking anywhere but at you. The words he tried to form tangled and tumbled inside his head, leaving him stumbling over silence. His posture was tense, shoulders hunched as if trying to make himself smaller, less exposed.

He was still rambling—stumbling over half-hearted excuses about how you were “like a sister,” how George was “just taking the mickey,” and how “it didn’t mean anything.”

That was when you snapped.

You grabbed him by the tie, yanked him forward, and kissed him like it was the only way to shut him up.

For a single, suspended, electrified second, Fred froze. Then he kissed you back, like he was catching up on something he hadn’t even let himself want until this very moment. His hands gripped your waist with a fierce uncertainty—unsure if he was pulling you closer or holding on for dear life.

He tasted like mint and adrenaline and something sweeter, something dangerous—because somewhere in that kiss, Fred realized he wanted to do it again.

Again and again and again.

But then you pulled away, chest heaving, lips swollen, and before he could stop himself, Fred chased after you, his mouth searching for yours on pure instinct.

You held him off with a hand pressed to his chest.

“This isn’t how you treat your little sister.” You whispered, voice soft but sharp—words that still landed like a hex.

Fred blinked at you, stunned, lips parted, like he’d just been hit by a bludger he never saw coming.

Had he really been calling you his little sister all this time?

Ew. What the hell was wrong with him?

“Yeah,” He finally said, “That’s… that’s not what this is.”

You tilted your head, that infuriating little smirk tugging at your lips—the one that always got him into trouble, even when he didn’t know why.

“Took you long enough to realize.” You murmured, voice all velvet and mischief.

Fred stared, mouth opening to argue—but he had nothing. Not a single retort. Because, bloody hell, you were right. He had taken too long. Too long pretending, too long denying, too long calling you his “little sister” when all he wanted was to kiss you again until he forgot every reason not to.

And now? Now he was properly wrecked.

Fred swallowed hard, eyes flicking back to your lips before settling on your smug little smile.

“Yeah?” He said, voice low, a little dazed, “What else am I late to, then? Might as well catch up properly.”

He stared at you, breath caught somewhere between a laugh and a groan. Then—just as he stepped forward again, a little more sure this time—

“Oi!”

The door slammed open.

George stood in the doorway, wide-eyed, munching on a half-eaten apple, “Didn’t realize we were hosting Snogwarts: The Reunion. Should I come back later, or are you two gonna keep traumatizing me?”

Fred groaned loudly, “Merlin’s bollocks, George, ever heard of knocking?”

George shrugged around a crunchy bite, “Ever heard of boundaries? That’s my bed you’ve shoved her onto!”

“Godric's bloody—George, do you mind?”

George took another loud bite, “Yes. But not enough to leave.”

You giggled, wrapping your arms around Fred’s shoulders, and he groaned again, forehead dropping to your shoulder like he was silently begging for mercy.

Later that night, Fred found you curled up in the common room, tucked beneath a soft blanket with a book resting in your hands. The fire flickered gently, casting dancing shadows across the walls. Without a word, he collapsed beside you with all the dramatic flair he was known for, letting out a long, theatrical sigh as if the weight of the entire Quidditch league was pressing down on his chest.

“I’m a disaster.” He declared, voice heavy with self-reproach.

You didn’t look up from your book, “Mhm.”

Fred ran a hand through his tousled hair, voice dropping to a low confession, “I panicked. That first time. The moment caught me off guard. I was trying to show you how grateful I was—and well, I thought kissing you was the best way to do that.”

You closed your book with a soft snap and finally met his eyes, a teasing smile tugging at your lips, “It was a good idea. Until you ran off with lipstick on your face and hid behind George for two days.”

He groaned, dragging his hands down his face in mock despair, “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

“Immensely." You said, amusement sparkling in your gaze.

Fred muttered, “I probably deserved that.”

“You do.”

He exhaled, steadying himself, “Look… I’m sorry. You’re not my little sister. You never were. I’ve been stupid and blind and oblivious, and I’m lucky you didn’t move on from a fool like me. I like you—more than is remotely reasonable.”

You smiled, a victorious glint in your eyes, “Say it again.”

Fred rolled his eyes, but the sharpness was gone, replaced by something softer, more real, “I like you.”

You tilted your head, voice gentle but playful, “Properly.”

He shifted closer, his heart pounding in his throat, “I like you, alright? I’ve liked you for ages. I just didn’t know how to say it… or what to do with it.”

Your smile softened into something warm, inviting, “Then show me.”

He did.

This time, the kiss was slower, deliberate. No panic, no rushing away. Just the warmth of his hands finding your waist, your fingers threading through his hair, and the quiet, electric certainty that everything was finally falling into place.

Bonus:

It was a brand-new day. Literally. But somehow, it felt metaphorically new too—like the kind of fresh start you didn’t even know you needed until it happened.

Fred Weasley strode into the Great Hall that morning, and when his eyes landed on you already seated at the Gryffindor table, casually sipping pumpkin juice like you hadn’t just rewritten the entire script of his life the night before, he nearly tripped over his own feet. He blinked, stunned.

You caught his eye, flashed a mischievous smirk, and patted the seat beside you.

He sat down slowly, unsure if this was real or some elaborate prank hatched by the combined mischief of Peeves and George.

“Morning.” You said, effortlessly snagging a piece of toast from his plate the second it appeared.

“Morning.” He echoed, eyes fixed on you, clearly unsure what to do with his hands—or how to behave now that the world had shifted on its axis.

“You sleep alright?” He asked cautiously.

You gave him a teasing look, “Better than you, probably. You kept tossing and turning. Too busy lying awake, replaying every moment from yesterday.”

His jaw practically hit the floor, “How did you know?”

“I didn’t. But now I do.” You quipped.

Fred groaned, “You’re the worst.”

“You’re the one who took three years to kiss me. I’m allowed to enjoy this.”

Before he could reply, George plopped down across from you both, grinning like a Kneazle with a bowl of gold coins in hand.

“Well, well, well,” George announced, sliding a crumpled parchment onto the table with theatrical flair, “What do we have here? Oh yes—that’s right! Three galleons, eight sickles, and a bag of Fizzing Whizbees. Collected over three bloody years.”

Fred blinked, “What is that?”

George’s grin widened, “The betting pool. Started it when I first noticed our dear brother here looking at you like a lovesick Kneazle but being completely useless about it. Most gave up after sixth year, but not me. I believed.”

You stared at him, incredulous, “You bet on us?”

“Of course I did. I’m not an idiot. Also, Lee Jordan owes me five chocolate frogs and the next round at Hogsmeade.”

Fred groaned, burying his face in his hands, “This is a nightmare.”

You patted his shoulder, barely holding back laughter, “Don’t worry, love. At least you’re finally winning something.”

He peeked at you through his fingers, utterly defeated, “You’re never going to let me live this down, are you?”

You leaned in, planting a light kiss on his cheek, “Not a chance.”

Just like that, Fred Weasley—world-class prankster, confident flirt, and now completely and irrevocably yours—blushed bright red over eggs and toast. Meanwhile, George was already shouting across the table, “Oi, Angelina! Pay up! I told you it’d happen before graduation!”

“Well, well, Weasley,” Came Angelina Johnson’s voice from the far end of the table, her eyes sparkling with amusement as she set down her toast, “Not only did you break my heart, but now you’re making me lose a bloody bet?”

Fred groaned again, looking up just in time to see Angelina approaching with that infuriating grin firmly in place.

“I didn’t think it was possible to make this more awkward,” She said, sliding onto the bench beside George, “but you’ve really outdone yourself. I bet you thought you were clever, calling her your ‘little sister’ while sneaking off with her every chance you got.”

Fred’s cheeks flamed. “It wasn’t like that.” He muttered, unable to meet anyone’s eyes.

You nudged him playfully, “I know Fred’s an idiot, Angelina, but you should’ve had some faith in me. There was no way I was going to graduate without pointing out that he’s clearly in love with me. Honestly, he should’ve figured it out last Valentine’s Day when he nearly had a conniption because Roger Davies asked me to be his valentine.”

Fred groaned again, but this time the sound was lighter, less burdened. He was too wrapped up in the warmth of having you by his side, teasing him—this time as his girlfriend—to care about anything else.

Bonus Bonus Scene:

It started innocently enough. (Okay, no. It really didn’t. Not even a little bit.)

You were at the Burrow for a family dinner—Molly, ever the doting mother hen, had insisted you come along. “You’re practically one of us, dear!” she’d said, completely unaware that you and Fred were teetering on the edge of indecency every time you looked at each other.

Fred had spent the entire afternoon teasing you with little touches—brief brushes of his hand at the dinner table, secretive smirks, and whispered comments that made you choke on your pumpkin juice while Molly gave you an oblivious, comforting pat on the back.

By the time dessert was cleared, you were practically vibrating with pent-up energy and barely able to keep your hands to yourself.

Fred caught your eye across the kitchen, his gaze locked with yours—and that was all it took.

You hadn’t even made it two steps into the hallway when he caught your wrist, pulled you into a shadowy alcove, and kissed you like he’d been starving for it all night.

You giggled into his mouth, clutching the front of his shirt, “Fred—someone will see—”

“Don’t care,” he muttered, his lips already trailing down your neck.

You melted against the wall, laughing breathlessly, tugging him closer.

Fred kissed you like a man who’d been waiting forever, hands roaming, mouth hot and urgent.

You were completely lost in the moment, lost in him—so much so that neither of you noticed the heavy footsteps approaching.

Until—

“FREDERICK GIDEON WEASLEY!”

You both jumped, nearly a foot in the air.

Fred stumbled back, his ears flaming bright red, wiping his mouth. (He was quite traumatized from the incident after your first kiss you see)

Molly stood in the kitchen doorway, arms crossed, face the exact shade of a ripe tomato.

For a long, frozen three seconds, no one moved. No one breathed.

Your heart pounded so loudly it was all you could hear.

Fred looked like he was calculating a quick Apparition out of there.

Molly pointed a trembling finger at both of you, “WHAT—WHAT ON EARTH—YOU—AND—HE—YOU—KISSING!”

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Opened it again, but no words came.

Fred, somehow, found his voice first, “Uh... surprise?” he offered weakly.

“How long has this been going on?!”

Your cheeks burned as heat rushed up your neck, “Um... a while?”

Molly gasped as if you’d just confessed a crime, “A WHILE?!”

You winced. Fred winced.

Behind Molly, George peeked into the room, grinning so wide it looked painful.

Ron snorted from somewhere nearby.

Ginny was cackling so hard she had to lean against the wall.

Fred ran a hand through his hair, looking utterly defeated, as if willing the earth to swallow him whole.

“Mum,” He said, voice low but serious, “I’m in love with her.”

The room fell utterly silent.

Even George stopped laughing.

You blinked at Fred, stunned. He’d never said it like that before—not out loud, not so plainly.

Molly stared at him, then at you, then back at him again.

And then—much to everyone’s horror—she burst into tears.

“Oh, Fred!” She sobbed, “My little boy’s in love!”

You leaned in, grinning against the swell of your own heart, “Didn’t think you’d be the first one to say it,” You whispered, voice warm with mischief, “I was sure I’d have to drag it out of you in another three years.”

He chuckled, not pulling away, gazing at you in such a way that told you that had his mother not been in the room, you would've found yourself pressed against the wall once more, “Had to beat you at something, didn’t I?”

Bonus Bonus BONUS scene: (because I CAN)

The Three Broomsticks buzzed with weekend chatter—students crammed into booths, scarves trailing off shoulders, butterbeer steaming in their mugs. You were nestled between Hermione and Ginny, a little flushed from the warmth and the laughter, your empty glass pushed to the side.

“I still can’t believe he’s not here,” You murmured, stirring absentmindedly at a napkin, “Feels weird, doing all this without him.”

“Aw, you miss your boyfriend.” Ginny cooed dramatically, nudging you with her elbow.

You rolled your eyes, “Of course I do. But it’s more than that. He was everywhere last year. Loud, obnoxious, stealing sips from my drink, sticking notes to my back... It’s just quiet now.”

“He did write you, though,” Hermione offered, smiling, “Nearly every day, if I recall correctly. Your poor owl is exhausted sending your cute little love notes back and forth.”

You pressed your hand to your chest, mocking deep emotion, “Yes. A romantic sentence followed by ten paragraphs of commentary on the exact ratio of sugar to fizz in Fizzing Whizbees. I could swoon.”

“Well, it is Fred,” Ginny said, giggling.

“He said he might try to visit this weekend,” You admitted, eyes flicking toward the window as a group of third-years raced past outside, “But I haven’t heard anything.”

“Maybe he’s surprising you.” Hermione offered with a coy smile, lifting her mug.

“He’s not subtle enough for surprises,” You replied with a grin. “He’d probably drop from the ceiling shouting, ‘DID YOU MISS ME?’.”

At that exact moment, a familiar voice rang out from behind you.

“Well the ceiling was taken so I guess I'm doing this the old-fashioned way.”

You blinked, heart stuttering, and whipped around.

Standing just a few steps away, snow dusting his hair, cheeks pink from the cold, scarf looped loosely around his neck, and the most insufferable grin on his face.

You barely had time to register him before you were out of the booth and throwing your arms around his neck. He caught you easily, spinning you once before setting you down, laughing.

“You prat,” You breathed, hands on either side of his face, “You didn’t tell me—!”

“Would’ve ruined the surprise.” He said, eyes warm and crinkled at the corners.

Ginny raised her butterbeer like a toast. “You owe me five Sickles,” She told Hermione, “I said she’d cry.”

“I’m not crying!” You called back, affronted, though your eyes were definitely misty.

Fred beamed, “Give it ten minutes. I’m very moving.”

“Ugh, can't imagine why anyone would miss that.” Ginny muttered, grimacing into her drink.

And as Fred pressed a quick kiss to your lips and tucked you in closer beside him, it felt like everything had snapped back into place. The noise, the laughter, the warmth—Fred was back, and for a little while at least, the world was exactly as it should be.

Forever Taglist:

@simonsbluee

@haniscrying

@superheroesaremyjam113263

@writers-whirlwind

@paankhaleyaaar

@superlegend216

Harry Potter Taglist:

@downbad4reid

@revesephemeres

@catiwinky

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juliabow · 2 months ago

Text

blueberry pancakes, sirius black

sirius black x fem!reader | masterlist

summary ༄ sirius x fem!reader ... sirius wakes up to you making breakfast. insane amount of fluff, newly dating, sirius is DOWN BAD.

word count ༄ 878 words

nora’s notes ༄ first drabble i've written!! hope u enjoy

The first thing Sirius does when he wakes up is check for you. It’s not the first time he’s stayed over at your place, but it’s still early enough that he doesn’t have a drawer of his things here. He’s never thought of himself as a domestic type, but that thought of having his clothes in your drawers tickles his heart. God, he wants to write grocery lists with you, wants to do the dishes to the sound of your voice, wants to do your laundry in a single basket, just to see your lives intertwined together. He likes you. Maybe too much.

His palm splays across the bed. Empty.

He rolls back over with a low groan. Where are you? The sun slips through your blinds, spotlighting the skin of his bare chest. He pulls one of your pillows over his head to block it out while listening for where you are in the house.

Clang. Definitely the kitchen. It sounds like you’re cooking something. A lazy smile tugs at his mouth. He’s excited to see you, as much as he would for a friend he hadn’t seen in a few months. There’s something about you that calls to his hands; he wants to be touching you, admiring you, always.

He stumbles out of bed less reluctantly now, pulls on a pair of boxers and wanders downstairs.

You’re in the kitchen, wearing his kidnapped shirt (it looks better on you anyways) and mixing up blueberries into a pancake batter. You look like love itself.

An overwhelming fondness for you—for that streak of white flour in your hair, for your hip cocked against your kitchen counter, for your lovely, lovely smile as you notice him in the doorway—spills into him. He walks into your kitchen, arms twisting around you, and drops a kiss onto your shoulder. Your soft sound of surprise makes his heart ache with affection. He likes you so much already that he’s worried he might burst with more time alone with you.

“Thought you ditched me in bed,” he whispers into your ear.

You turn, poking your nose into his cheek, giving him a quick peck. “Were you heartbroken?”

“Very.” He nods solemnly. “But I suppose pancakes could make up for it.”

“Mmm, that’s too bad, because these are all for me,” you respond, slipping out of his embrace to turn on your stove.

“You’re going to eat all of those pancakes? There’s enough batter for, like, ten,” he says skeptically.

“Sirius Black!” You swat his shoulder lightly, pretending to act scandalized. “You never comment on what a woman eats, you dog.”

“I’d apologize, but I can’t deny the truth.” He encircles you again, lets his teeth graze at the side of your neck.

“Stop biting me,” you murmur, pouring pancake batter onto the pan.

“I can’t help it,” he responds. “You taste good.”

You roll your eyes, turning to chuck a stray blueberry at his face. “Shut it.”

He backs up just a step to catch the blueberry with ease, popping it into his mouth with a smirk. “Delicious. But still not as sweet as you.”

“Quit the flirting, Black, I might just begin to think you like me,” you tease, flipping your pancake.

“I sure hope you know I like you. Why else am I sacrificing my beauty sleep, awake so early on a Sunday morning, just for you?” He flops onto your counter, peeking up at your face, framed by the late morning sun. Your eyelashes are glowing in the light, bathed in some kind of angel’s halo. “You kept me up last night.”

“You should go back to sleep.” You raise an eyebrow, a cheeky smile kissing your lips. So pretty. “Lord knows you need that extra beauty sleep.”

“Are you calling me ugly?” He pouts, rising to squish your face between his hands. You smell like sunshine and blueberries and everything good that Sirius has ever known. “I can’t believe it.”

“My deepest apologies, my lord,” you say. “Whatever will I do to make up for it?”

“A kiss and a proper apology would suffice,” he decides, lips pulling down into a fake frown.

You lean in and he can’t fight his smile, closing his eyes. Just when your lips are about to touch, you grab a fistful of flour and toss it into his face. He sputters, coughing, wiping his eyes to wash away the powder.

“Oh, it is so, so on,” he says, blindly reaching for anything on your counter. He finds the spatula and flings the batter on it at you, splatting it onto your face and half-side tackling you, arms coming around to grab your waist.

You turn around and your noses bump, breath mingling until all you’re breathing is each other. You kiss him like it’s all you want to do, pull back just to look at him again, to rove over his face.

“Hi, pretty boy,” you say, wet kiss on the side of his mouth.

You giggle and Sirius thinks it’s the most intoxicating thing in the world. He wants to get high on you, wants you running through his veins. He’s lucky, then, that there’s no such thing as an overdose from you. He doesn’t think he could ever get enough.

masterlist

tags: @lydiasfalling @cowboylikemac @treefairy-28 @lolwey @callsignwidow @navs-bhat @hisparentsgallerryy @brxght-world @grxcisxhy-wp @luvv-danielle @idkman5353 @just-here-for-ff @rubyinthebooks @laurenzitaa @ariesandwolves @wasiasproject @starkluvrr

have a great day 💝

641 notes · View notes

juliabow · 2 months ago

Text

The Archive

Remus Lupin x Fem!reader ✩ 7k words

summary: After starting work as a museum guide, you get to know the brooding barista in the café.

cw: strangers to friends to lovers, a bit grumpy remus x sunshine reader, fluff, one mention of vomit, reference to a weird/creepy co-worker

The bus is loud and crowded, typical for a Monday morning, but the quiet thrill of starting a new job still flutters in your chest. It lifts you above it all, leaving you untouched by the noise and motion around you. Even with the sky draped in grey, you feel sunny.

The bus comes to a stop a few hundred metres from the museum with hissing breaks. The clouds haven’t moved; they still hang heavy and indifferent above the city, but you’re buoyed by a quiet sense of purpose.

Week two. You’re still learning the way your voice carries in the marble echo of the Ancient Cultures hall, still fumbling to remember if it’s the 5th or 6th century when someone asks about the mosaic floor. But you’re getting there. You like the way the museum smells in the morning, like paper and stone, a little musty, like it’s still half-asleep. You like the rhythm of it. Predictable. Solid. A place with weight.

Your feet know where to take you now. Down the staff hallway, past the security desk, a nod to the sleepy guard who never remembers your name, and then the turn into the little tucked-away café, the archive, with its blackboard menu and always-fogged windows. You’d discovered the free coffee perk on your first day and it’s quickly become the small joy you look forward to each morning. A soft landing before the day begins.

Except, this morning, the usual barista – a blonde girl with star tattoos on her fingers – isn’t at the counter. Instead, there’s someone new. Well, new to you.

He’s tall, lanky, with a sweater pushed up to his elbows and a couple of rings that flash silver when he adjusts the grinder. His hair is the kind of soft brown that probably curls if he lets it, and his face, there’s something unreadable in the set of it, even handsome as it is. A few pale scars slash across his cheek and nose, faint but distinct. Not recent. You try not to stare.

You clear your throat quietly, stepping up to the counter. “Hi.”

He glances up, eyes warm-toned and quick. “Morning. What can I get you?”

Your routine wants to blurt out vanilla latte, but his voice is lower than you expect with a little gravel in it and now your brain’s off script. You manage to get the words out, but with half a second of lag.

He just nods and starts moving. Efficient. No wasted motion. There’s a practiced rhythm to it, like it’s all muscle memory. He doesn’t speak again until he’s back with the cup, reaching for the till. “That’ll be—”

You hold up your lanyard, the little plastic card still stiff from disuse. “Staff.”

His gaze flicks to it. “Oh.” He leans slightly, reading your name. “Are you new?”

“Yeah.” You smile, trying to match his neutrality, but you know your grin probably tips too friendly. “I started last week. I’m Y/N, by the way.”

There’s a pause, one breath longer than it needs to be. Then a tight smile.

“Remus.”

And just like that, he’s turning back to the machine, rinsing something out, already done with the conversation.

You blink, standing there with your cup cradled in both hands. Okay then.

Sliding into your usual seat by the window, you sip the coffee - it’s better than last week - whilst sneaking a look back at him as he wipes down the counter. He doesn’t look up. Doesn’t glance your way once.

Grumpy, you decide, watching him. Great. What did you do, breathe too loud?

You exhale into the drink. Maybe he’s just not a morning person. Or maybe he’s like the museum – slow to warm up, full of quiet corners.

Still, part of you hopes he’ll say something tomorrow. Even a hi would do.

You finish your drink, the cup warm in your hands, and head off for the start of your shift, back to the echoing halls and curious strangers. But the thought of him lingers, your attention captured by a stranger.

Everything goes on like that for a while.

Every morning, your routine holds. You nod to the guard, who now thinks your name is “Eloise,” but you don’t have the heart to correct him, push through the café door with its quiet jingle, and find Remus already behind the counter. Always there before you. Always quiet. Always efficient.

The blonde girl reappeared once, briefly, but only to drop something off and vanish again, leaving Remus in charge. You’d hoped she might make conversation. Or at least act as a buffer. But no, it’s just him now. And you.

Your greetings are consistent, cheerful. Predictable, even.

“Morning, Remus.”

“How are you today?”

“Busy morning so far?”

“Did you get a break yet?”

Each one is met with a version of the same reply: a nod, sometimes a “fine,” sometimes just a half lifted brow that could mean anything. You get a thank you if you say something like “have a nice day,” but it’s clipped, almost like it costs him.

Still, you keep asking. Keep smiling. Keep showing up with soft eyes and the same friendly tone, like politeness might one day wear him down.

You start noticing things. The way he always double-checks the milk temperature. The way he loosens one ring absentmindedly when the café is empty. The way he looks at the sky for a second before opening the blinds.

Week four. He hands you your drink, and when your fingers brush against his – purely by accident, you're sure – he doesn’t flinch away. He just glances at your hand, then back at you.

Week five. He asks, “Do you work in that old tile room?”

You blink. It’s the most he’s said to you in a sentence.

“The mosaic floor, yeah,” you say. “Ancient Cultures.”

“Thought so.” He looks down at the counter as he wipes it.

You leave that day flushed, heart pattering like a schoolgirl with a stupid crush.

After that, his answers get longer. Not much. Not always. But enough to notice.

Some days, you learn things about him in scraps.

He used to work evenings somewhere else. He hates the music they play here now (“Too jangly”). He doesn’t like sweet drinks but will sneak half a biscuit if the blonde-haired girl (Marlene) leaves them on the staff table.

His eyes are a hazel that looks green in the café’s light, and when he smiles it’s a small, barely there thing.

He still never asks anything personal. Never lingers. But he’s warming, you think.

Week seven.

The museum has settled into its summer rhythm, a slow, humming drone of tourists and school groups, all trailing sun cream and questions. You’re learning to smile through the heat, through the endless questions about where things are, even though your exhibit is half a wing away from what they want. You ignore that one co-worker, Josh, who has made it his mission to make work so much harder than it needs to be. But it’s easier somehow lately. The rhythm of it. The known things.

And then there’s Remus.

You come in with your usual nod to the security guard – still calling you Eloise – and push open the café door. The bell chimes above your head in its usual sleepy way. You step into the warmth and scent of dark roast and milk foam, already sliding your lanyard from your pocket.

There’s a line today, longer than usual, and you join it without thinking, eyes on your phone, thumb tapping through unread texts.

“Yours is at the end,” a voice calls, smooth and unhurried.

You glance up.

Remus isn’t even looking at the current customer. He’s looking at you, wiping his hands on a towel like he’s been waiting. He tilts his chin toward the side counter, where a white cup already waits with its lid on, your usual blue marker initials scrawled across the sleeve. Still steaming.

You blink. “Wait–really?”

“Vanilla latte.” He says it with a shrug. Like it’s nothing. Like he didn’t just take a quiet little hammer to your morning.

People behind you are shifting, someone’s tapping a foot, but for a second you just stare at him.

“Thanks,” you manage, a little too high-pitched, and scurry around the line and out of people's way.

You cradle the cup like it might shatter if you hold it wrong. Still hot. Still yours.

When you glance back, he’s already returned to the espresso machine, sleeves pushed up, rings catching the soft overhead light. But as he slides a shot glass under the portafilter, he glances at you. A flick of his gaze.

Then, the smallest twitch of a smile.

And just like that, the air feels warmer than the coffee in your hands.

You retreat to your usual window seat, hiding behind your cup, heart thrumming somewhere in your throat. You just sit there, quietly stunned, sipping the drink he made for you before you walked in. Like he knew you’d come. Like he looked forward to it.

You want to say something. To go back to the counter and offer something casual, “That was really sweet” or “So you do have a heart under all that broodiness.” But you don’t.

Instead, you watch him work. Watch the careful way he knocks the grounds from the portafilter, the way he leans into the counter when no one’s ordering, thumb worrying the edge of a napkin.

You wonder if he’ll do it again tomorrow

The café quiets, the hush of espresso machines powered down, the last clink of a cup into the dish tray, the low hum of fluorescent lights buzzing faintly overhead. Remus moves through the space with the same muted precision he always does, wiping down the counters in wide, practiced strokes. There's a quiet satisfaction in it, the methodical wrap-up.

It’s muscle memory by now. Stack the ceramic cups, flip the chairs, sweep the corners, start locking everything up. His body knows what to do even while his mind wanders.

He doesn’t know why he made your coffee ahead of time.

He told himself it was efficient and you always come in around the same time anyway, like clockwork. A latte with syrup. Easy. It’s not a big thing.

But it sits oddly in his chest, the memory of your face when you saw the cup. The way your voice went slightly wobbly when you said “thanks,” like he’d surprised you.

He tells himself he didn’t mean to watch you the entire time you sat by the window, fingers curled around the cup.

“Stupid,” he mutters to himself, rinsing the last milk pitcher with a little too much force. The water splashes up onto his sweater sleeve. Of course.

He dries his hands, tosses the towel into the laundry bin, and flicks the back lights off. The place dims to a hush, that same familiar closing-time gloom. It’s a comfort, mostly.

Until he gets to the cubby room.

It’s a small alcove off the hallway outside of the café, half locker room, half staff closet. His bag waits in its usual spot, slouched and tired-looking. He shrugs his coat off the hook, ready to leave, already half-thinking about which book he might try and read tonight, but then–

He freezes.

A sound.

Barely there, muffled. A sharp inhale, the kind people try to bury. Then another. A stifled breath, wet at the edges. Like someone’s trying to cry quietly.

His jaw tenses before he even fully processes it.

He should leave. It’s late. It’s probably someone from exhibitions or marketing. Whoever it is deserves their privacy. He could just grab his stuff and go, let them have their moment, pretend he didn’t hear a thing.

But he doesn’t move.

There’s something about the sound that sticks under his ribs. He knows that kind of crying, the kind you push down until it erupts in the wrong place, where someone might hear. The kind that only slips out when you’ve kept too much in, for too long.

“Shit,” he mutters, exhaling sharply through his nose. Then, like the world's most reluctant ghost, he drifts toward the staff toilet door.

He knocks once, soft. The kind of knock you can ignore if you want to.

A silence. Then a rustling behind the door. He almost hopes they don’t answer.

“Hey,” he says, voice low, almost gruff. “You alright in there?”

Another silence. A breath. Then, to his slow dawning horror – your voice.

“I’m fine.”

You are absolutely not fine.

And now he’s stuck. Standing in a narrow hallway with your voice cracking on the other side of the door, and the memory of how happy you looked this morning when he handed you that cup.

Remus’s heart stutters painfully in his chest. Your voice cracking makes his stomach twist tight with something sharp and unfamiliar.

“Y/N?” he says, his voice softer this time, like saying your name might somehow soothe the raw edges in the air between the door and him.

There’s a long pause. Then the door creaks open slowly.

You step out, shoulders hunched like you’re trying to fold yourself small enough to disappear. Your face is blotchy, tears streaked down both cheeks, and your eyes are red-rimmed, desperate to look anywhere but at him.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, voice barely more than a breath. “I didn’t mean for— I thought... Go ahead.” You try to step past him, head bowed, like you’re ashamed for letting yourself break in the first place.

But before you can slip away, Remus steps forward, blocking your path without a word. His hands clench into fists at his sides, like he’s trying to hold himself together. “What?” he asks quietly, but there’s something fierce in his eyes now, a sudden urgency. “No. I’m not leaving you like this. What’s wrong?”

You blink, the shame flickering against the tiredness in your eyes. You open your mouth to answer but nothing comes out for a moment. The weight of the silence between you is thick, almost suffocating.

You swallow hard, the lump in your throat making your voice catch before you manage to say, almost reluctantly, “Do you… know Josh?”

Remus’s jaw tightens, and something flickers in his eyes; something fierce, protective. He folds his arms, stepping aside just enough to gesture toward the bench by the lockers. “Yeah,” he says low, voice rough around the edges. “Enough said. He’s a right sod. What did he do?”

You drop onto the bench, shoulders slumping as if the weight of the day has finally caught up with you. For a long moment, you just stare at your hands, fingers twisting the hem of your sleeve, before you start to explain. Your voice is quiet, but steady.

“Josh… he’s made working here a nightmare. He’s always around, hovering where he’s not wanted, acting like he owns the place even though he barely knows anything about the exhibits. And worse–he’s gross. Like, constantly making weird comments, and he tries to make me feel stupid.” You let out a bitter laugh that barely hides the hurt. “He acts like he’s smarter than everyone, even though he clearly doesn’t know his stuff. I mean, I work in my area – I know what I’m talking about – but he’s like this constant shadow, trying to undermine me. Like if he can’t have control, he’ll just make things miserable for everyone.”

Remus’s eyes darken, and his hands clench again, fingers tapping against his thighs. “That’s bullshit. No one should have to deal with that crap, especially not here.”

You nod, grateful for the sudden flare of his anger. “I’ve been trying to ignore it, keep my head down, but some days it’s just… too much.”

Remus hesitates, then slides down onto the bench beside you, the scrape of his jeans against the chipped paint breaking the silence. His voice is softer now, cautious but edged with concern. “Have you talked to Mindy about it? The HR girl?”

You shake your head, shoulders trembling just slightly. “No. I didn’t want to kick up a fuss. I figured it’d just blow over… or maybe I’m just being too sensitive.”

He scoots a little closer, the space between your thighs shrinking until they’re almost touching. His knee bumps yours. “You’re not being too sensitive. And if you don’t say something, he’s just going to keep on doing it. It’s not right.”

You hum in reply, a soft, unsure sound. You lean your head against the cool locker behind you, taking a shaky breath as the tremors in your body slow. The pressure of his presence, quiet and steady, feels nice.

The silence stretches between you both, thick but gentle, as if the room itself is holding its breath. Your chest rises and falls unevenly at first, the raw ache behind your ribs dulling little by little.

After a few minutes, his voice comes, low and careful, almost hesitant like he’s testing the air. “I’ll have to make Josh’s drinks even worse than I do now.”

You scoff, opening your eyes to find him watching you with a hint of dry humour flickering in his gaze.

“Do you really do that?” you ask, a small smile tugging at your lips despite everything.

He rubs his nose with the back of his hand, a little flush creeping into his cheeks, and shifts so his body angles more toward you, less guarded. “Yeah,” he says quietly, voice rougher than usual but soft underneath. “Of course I do. People get the coffee they deserve.”

You laugh then, a short, genuine laugh that feels warm. It breaks through the tension in your chest, lightening the air around you. The sound seems to ease something in Remus, too, because his usual stoic expression softens, and you catch a flicker of relief in his eyes.

“Why do you think your coffee is always so good?” he adds, a teasing note threading through the words.

Remus watches you laugh – properly laugh – for what might be the first time. It softens something in his chest that’s been tight for weeks, like a string pulled too taut. The sound of it settles somewhere behind his ribs, where he knows it’ll stay longer than it should.

You're still smiling as you shake your head, brushing your sleeve across your cheek. “I thought you were just… good at your job.”

He huffs out a quiet breath, almost a laugh himself, but his eyes don’t leave yours when he says, “No. You’re just lovely.”

The words land in the air like something delicate. Not a throwaway. Not a joke. Just soft and honest and entirely intentional.

Your breath catches.

You look down, smiling before you can stop it. It’s a helpless sort of smile that blooms despite the redness in your eyes. You tuck your hair behind your ear in that absent, nervous way he’s come to recognise.

“Thank you, Remus,” you say softly. And the way you say his name twists something sweet and aching in his gut.

You glance at your watch then, eyes widening. “Shit. I have to go – or I’ll miss the bus and be stuck wandering the halls till morning.”

You stand a little too quickly, brushing off invisible dust from your coat. “But… I’ll see you tomorrow?”

He nods. “Yeah. I’ll be here.”

You give him a grateful look and then you’re gone, your footsteps fading down the hallway.

The air outside hits colder than you expect. The evenings dropped fast, draping the sky in a dull blue wash, and the street lamps blink on with a hum as you walk to the bus stop.

You shove your hands deep into your pockets and try not to replay the whole thing in your head. But of course you do.

You hadn’t meant to cry. Not here. Not where people could hear. Not where he could hear.

God, Remus.

He hadn’t turned away. Hadn’t offered you a useless platitude or made a weird joke or said oh no no no please don’t cry in that awkward way people do when they don’t know what to say. He’d just… sat there. Like it was fine. Like you weren’t making a mess of yourself.

And then that voice with its low, gravel-edge, “you’re just lovely.”

You groan quietly, ducking your head.

Great. Now you’re the girl who cried in the staff toilets and got soft-eyed over her barista. Maybe he was just being kind. Maybe he says that sort of thing to people all the time. He probably doesn’t.

Still, your brain itches with doubt. What if he thinks you’re too much? That you made it weird?

You scuff your boot against the pavement and watch a wet leaf stick to the toe.

Too late now. You’ll have to face him again tomorrow. You always do.

You let out a slow breath and step onto the bus.

He probably doesn’t think you’re a freak.

You hope.

You’re early but this time it’s not because of excitement or routine. This morning, it’s avoidance.

You skip the café.

You push through the museum’s staff entrance, still shrugging off your coat, and march straight past the security desk before Old Greg can butcher your name again (“Morning, Eloise!”). Your steps echo down the polished hallway, heart thudding with a strange mix of regret and mortification.

You should go in. That’s the truth. You want to, if only to prove you’re not the kind of person who has one crying episode and then pretends it didn’t happen. But the thought of seeing Remus again, of meeting those steady, unreadable eyes after sobbing in front of him makes your stomach roll in embarrassment.

So instead, you beeline for your exhibit.

The mosaic gallery is still dim when you get there, the lights on their early-morning timer delay, casting long shadows over the tiled floor.

You throw yourself into prep work you don’t need to do.

Brochure restocking. Cleaning the display cases, even though the cleaners already did it. You even re-label the “Unknown Roman Male Bust” for the fourth time, aligning the plaque a single millimeter straighter, because apparently today that matters.

You keep telling yourself it’s fine. This is fine. He probably didn’t think about it again. Probably chalked it up to an awkward one-off. If anything, maybe you did him a favour by not showing up.

Still, you feel… wrong. Like you’ve knocked something out of balance, a rhythm you didn’t even realise was holding you steady until it faltered.

Your first tour group filters in, three parents, two bored teenagers, and a kid who’s far too interested in whether anyone’s ever died in the museum. You manage it fine. You’re getting good at this. The words come smoothly now, practiced without being robotic, your voice echoing just right off the marble as you explain how these mosaics were lifted from their original sites in the early 1900s, how they tell stories if you know how to read them.

But your thoughts are elsewhere.

You wonder if he noticed.

You tell yourself it’s better if he didn’t.

You hate that you kind of want him to have noticed.

It’s only after the group has trickled out, sticky-fingered children and camera-toting grandparents in their wake, that you return to your little info desk tucked near the back corner of the gallery. You’re digging for a fresh stack of feedback forms when you spot it.

A cup.

Sitting quietly on the far edge of the desk.

Still warm.

White lid. Blue sleeve. Your name written in sharp, angled handwriting — the kind you’ve only ever seen scrawled on one café chalkboard.

A folded note lies underneath.

You freeze.

No one’s nearby. You glance toward the hallway as if the coffee might vanish the moment you look away.

You reach for the note with slow fingers, like it might burn you.

Unfold it.

You didn’t come to the café this morning, and I prepared my best cup yet :( — R.

The sad face is ridiculous. You stare at it like it might shift into something else. But no, it’s real. Undeniably him. A little crooked and careful. Like he’d been trying to be light about it, but something in the curve of the frown betrayed him.

And just like that, the giddy thing in your chest unfurls. Something warm and bright spreads up through your ribs, so soft you want to laugh and cry at the same time.

He noticed.

He didn’t think you were weird. He didn’t pull away. He made you a coffee anyway.

And he left it here. He found your station, dropped it off without a word, then vanished like a ghost with rings and good taste in espresso.

You hug the cup between your palms, holding it for a second before taking the first sip.

It’s perfect. Better than usual, even. He wasn’t bluffing about it being his best.

You smile into the lid, lip quirking against the rim.

Of course he made it today, of all days. The day your eyes are still puffy and your pride feels scraped raw. The day you told yourself to keep your head down.

And now you want to go see him.

But you don’t get the chance.

The museum is relentless. Your supervisor pulls you for an extra tour. Someone in admin ropes you into helping set up folding chairs for a lecture in the east wing. A kid throws up in the Greco-Roman alcove (pink slushie – impressive range) and you spend fifteen minutes helping a mortified mum find the right staff member.

By the time your shift winds down, the café is already closed.

You pass the doors on your way out. The lights are off and the chairs are stacked and you press a palm briefly against the fogged glass, just for a second.

There’s nothing in the window, no sign of him but you’re still smiling.

The next morning, you don’t hesitate.

No detours. No self-conscious stalling in the exhibits. You walk straight past Greg (who’s migrated from Eloise to Louisa, bless him), turn the corner before your nerves can change your course, and push open the door to the café with a soft jingle.

And he’s there.

Of course he’s there with his sleeves pushed up, a towel tossed over one shoulder and his whole shape haloed in the early light streaming through the fogged-up windows. He’s halfway through restocking the pastry case when the bell rings, but the second he looks up and sees you, he grins.

Not the usual small, polite tilt of his mouth you’ve come to know. No, this is a real smile. Full. Bright. It changes his whole face. Softens everything. Makes you feel like you’ve just walked into a sunrise.

His eyes crinkle a little at the corners as he leans both elbows on the counter, forearms flexing with the shift. One hand tucks under the other, fingers idly tapping as he watches you cross the room. The silver rings flash when they catch the light, and you’re momentarily derailed by the unfair handsomeness of it all.

“Morning,” he says, voice rough with sleep but lighter than usual, like the gravel’s melted into honey.

You raise your brows, dropping your lanyard on the counter between you. “Wasn’t sure I’d get such a warm welcome.”

“I was hoping I’d see you today,” he says, and there’s no hesitation in it. No second-guessing. Just those words, said with quiet conviction and a flick of warmth behind his eyes.

You grin, chin tilting just slightly. “Why? Did you miss my loveliness?”

Remus laughs that soft, startled kind of laugh that curls from his chest before he bites down on it. His head ducks a little, hand scrubbing the back of his neck, like he hadn’t meant to let it out quite so easily.

“Something like that,” he murmurs, glancing back at you with a spark in his eye that makes your stomach tilt a little too happily.

You lean on the counter to mirror him, fingertips brushing the wood. “Must’ve been hard for you yesterday, pouring your best coffee and no one showing up for it.”

“It was tragic,” he says, tone dry but eyes bright. “You’ll be pleased to know Marlene got to drink plenty of it.’”

“Well I suppose if I couldn't have it, Marlene would be my top choice” you say, smug.

“Don’t tell her that it’ll go straight to her head,” he says, mock-sulky.

You laugh, and the sound seems to light something between you.

The rest of the morning blurs. You talk too long. Neither of you mentions it. He hands you your drink with a soft “here you go, lovely” that makes your ears feel too warm, and you tease him about his very nice handwriting. He deflects by accusing you of being a coffee snob with “absurdly high standards for someone who used to drink instant.” You gasp in betrayal and he shrugs, all innocence.

By the time you leave, you’re buzzing more from the exchange than the caffeine.

And then… it just keeps happening.

Every day that week, it’s the same. Easy. Familiar. Better than before.

He greets you with that real smile now, the one that makes you feel like you’ve been missed. Sometimes you catch him watching the door before you walk in, like he’s waiting. He’s still quiet in that Remus way, still folds into corners and doesn’t give much away, but with you, something’s shifted. He leans into the banter. Laughs more. Looks at you longer.

You learn he reads poetry – “the sad kind, mostly” – and hates using digital calendars. You tell him, what feels like a million little tidbits about yourself

Sometimes he tosses you a biscuit wrapped in a napkin. Sometimes you bring him a weird little fact from your gallery – “Did you know Roman cement gets stronger with seawater?” – and he rolls his eyes but always listens.

It’s all easy. Soft.

But underneath it, something else simmers.

A glance that lingers a beat too long. A brush of fingers over a coffee cup. The way your name sounds different when he says it, like he’s tucking it into his pocket.

The museum is quiet, everything is hushed and humming with the sound of a building exhaling. Somewhere, a cleaner wheels a cart down a hallway, the distant squeak of mop wheels echoing like footsteps in a cathedral. The last of the visitors are long gone, the lights dimmed to half, and you’re tucked into the little bench nook outside the Ancient Cultures gallery, coat balled beside you, bag in your lap, phone in your hand but not really looking at it.

The bus app offers its verdict with the apathy of a machine that does not know how tired you are. Next arrival: 47 minutes. Last update: 6 mins ago.

You sigh.

It’s fine. You’re fine. You’ve had worse. It’s just – you’re tired. And it’s unseasonably cold in the kind of creeping, inside-your-sleeves way that makes everything feel a little thinner.

You glance out through the thin museum windows. The sky’s gone blue-black, smeared with the last streaks of orange. Your reflection stares faintly back at you in the glass, hair a little mussed, cheeks flushed from the air.

You don’t hear footsteps.

But you do hear his voice.

“Hey.”

It’s soft, close, and it pulls you out of your thoughts like a hand gently tugging at your sleeve. You blink up and there he is.

Remus.

Still in his work clothes – jumper rumpled, sleeves pushed up, messenger bag slung crosswise over his chest. His hair’s messier than usual, like he’s been dragging his fingers through it.

His expression is familiar. Open. That gentle, attentive look like he’s trying to read your mood before you can even name it yourself.

“What are you still doing here?”

You shift, a little embarrassed, brushing at the hem of your coat. “Oh – my bus got cancelled. Signal issue or something. Not sure. The next ones delayed too.”

He huffs out a breath, the barest edge of a smile curling at his mouth, and moves closer. Not just a polite step, either. Close.

You can feel the heat of him now, the warmth from his coat, the faint smell of coffee beans and citrus soap. He stops in front of you, hands tucked into his coat pockets, one eyebrow lifted.

“Come on,” he says, like it’s already decided. “I’ll give you a lift.”

You blink. “What?”

“A lift,” he repeats, deadpan, one brow raised. “In my car.”

You let out a startled laugh. “Remus, no, it’s okay. Seriously. I’ll be fine. The next one’s just a bit delayed, and there’s a bench, and I can’t ask that of you–”

He cuts you off with a tilt of his head. “You’re not asking, dove. I’m offering.”

Your brain trips over the word, the pet name, like it hit a loose stone. He says it so naturally, like it’s always been your name, soft and certain and low in his throat.

You look up at him, eyes narrowing just slightly. “You can’t just call me a nice name and expect me to go along with whatever plan you’ve cooked up.”

“It’s working though, isn’t it?” His smile curves sharper at the edges and it’s stupidly smug as he sighs. “Please let me give you a lift, lovely.”

You stare at him – this utterly ridiculous, infuriatingly warm-eyed barista with stupidly good hands and a knack for catching you right when you're about to spiral – and you want to say no. Just out of principle. Just to prove you can.

But it’s cold.

And the bench is hard.

And his voice is a warm hand on your spine.

“…fine,” you say, quiet but clear.

Remus smiles, it’s not smug, but pleased, quiet and certain. And before you can even start doubting your own choice, he reaches down and takes your hand.

He slides his fingers around yours like it’s nothing, like you do this all the time. Like you’re not two people who have existed solely in the space between lattes and locker room small talk.

The contact is warm. Solid.

You blink down at your joined hands, startled but not resisting, and he gives yours a soft, reassuring squeeze. Doesn’t tug. Doesn’t rush. He Just waits until you lift your bag with your other hand and nod and then he starts walking.

He doesn’t let go.

Even when you’re halfway down the main corridor. Even when Greg mumbles “Good night,” and you toss him a weak wave with your free hand. Even when the staff door groans open and lets in a rush of cold night air.

Remus keeps your fingers wrapped in his like he’s afraid you’ll float off otherwise.

You reach the staff car park, tucked behind the museum’s east wing. His car’s parked under one of the flickering lamp posts. A beat-up, dusky green hatchback with mismatched hubcaps and a dent near the bumper that you think might be shaped like a shopping trolley. It’s endearing. Stupidly so.

He drops your hand only to unlock the doors, tossing his bag into the backseat before opening the passenger door for you with a little half-bow.

You narrow your eyes, trying not to smile. “I take it back. I am getting back on the bus.”

“You’re awful.” He grins. “It’s too late anyway. You already agreed.”

You slide in. The seat is a bit low, the dash cluttered with a few loose receipts and what looks like a crumpled poetry zine jammed into the side panel. It smells like bergamot and espresso grounds – not unpleasant. Just… him.

He starts the car with a cough and a wheeze that makes you both wince. “That’s normal,” he says, fiddling with the heat dial.

The first few minutes are… quiet. Not tense, exactly. But unfamiliar.

You’ve never been in a space with him that didn’t include steam or café noise or the soft clink of ceramic cups. This is different. Too quiet. His profile in the passing streetlights is sharp — all nose and jaw and flickers of shadow — and you catch yourself sneaking glances like a weirdo, trying to place this version of him. The one who drives you home.

You fidget with the strap of your bag.

He adjusts the heat and says, casual, “Do you not drive?”

You glance over, surprised, then laugh. “Not all of us want to be in charge of a vehicle, Rem.”

He smirks. “I suppose if I had people willing to drive me about, I wouldn’t either”

“Oh, shut up. I don’t know if you’ve realised, but the only chauffeur I have is public transport.”

He raises a brow, glancing over as he turns down a quieter side street. “ And me, now.”

You pause. “…And you.”

He grins, and it’s like the air eases. Warms. His voice goes a little gentler. “So. How was today?”

You shrug, staring out at the blur of headlights. “Long. Better than yesterday, though.”

A pause.

Then: “Glad to hear it.”

You glance at him, then back at the windshield, your smile small but sincere. “Thanks for the coffee, by the way.”

He hums, casual. “Which one?”

You nudge his arm with your knuckles. “You know which.”

“Oh. That one.” He feigns thoughtfulness. “Yeah, I wasn’t sure you’d find it. Had to bribe Carol from admin to tell me your desk.”

You laugh. “Carol? Cardigan Carol?”

“That’s the one. Very protective. Nearly bit me when I asked.”

“She likes me,” you say, pleased.

“Everyone does,” he mutters. “Lot’s of competition for your work time affections.”

There’s a beat of shared amusement, and then the conversation just… flows. You talk about nothing and everything. He tells you about a café regular who only orders hot water and leaves a ten-pound tip (“I'm worried it's some kind of social experiment”), and you tell him about the time a kid on your tour started a rumour that one of the Roman statues was haunted and it spiraled into a three-week school ban.

Somewhere between the second roundabout and your street, your laughter fills the car in easy bursts, the kind that makes your stomach flutter with something dangerously close to joy.

He pulls up to your building with a gentle halt, the engine coughing softly before it settles into silence. The headlights catch on the chipped curb outside your flat, and for a moment neither of you moves.

The street is quiet. No one else around. Just the two of you, tucked into the warmth of his little car, the windows fogged at the corners.

You hesitate.

Your fingers fidget with the strap of your bag again. Then you glance sideways, your voice softer now, careful. “Thank you.”

Remus looks over, brows ticking together just a little like he’s not sure why you sound so serious. “Of course, lovely. Anytime.”

But you shake your head, shifting a little in your seat to face him more fully. “No. I mean… for everything.”

He blinks.

“For being kind,” you say, voice low but steady. For making me laugh when I felt like shit. For remembering how I take my coffee. For not making it weird. I just—” You pause, breath catching. “You didn’t have to be so nice. But you were. You are. I was sure you didn’t like me when we met.”

There’s a flicker in his eyes, then something gentle and sharp all at once. His hand is still on the gear shift, thumb resting idle, but his whole body seems to lean in a fraction.

“I don’t think there’s anything that could make me not want to be nice to you,” he says. “I did like you, I’m just slow to warm.”

And while he says it, his eyes drop, just for a second, to your mouth.

You notice.

And you don’t look away.

“You’re really lovely,” you whisper, voice catching only slightly on the truth of it.

Your words tremble a little, but not from uncertainty. More like something building. Your eyes flick down to his lips, then back up again.

Then down.

Then up.

Remus swallows. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

The silence stretches, soft and crackling, full of tension like the second before a summer storm breaks.

And then – like it’s inevitable – you both move at the same time.

It’s not rushed. Not desperate. Just sure. The way his hand rises to cradle your jaw like he’s done it a thousand times. The way your breath mingles in the narrow space between. The way your lips meet. Warm and firm and certain, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

The kiss is slow at first. Testing. Careful. His mouth moves against yours like he’s learning the shape of your breath, like he’s been waiting for this and wants to remember every second. His hand slips to the side of your neck, thumb brushing just below your ear.

You lean in closer, fingers curling in the collar of his coat, anchoring yourself to him. Your lips part and he kisses you deeper, fuller, with a low hum in the back of his throat that makes your stomach flutter.

The windows fog a little more.

And when you finally pull back, breath shaky, he doesn’t go far. Just rests his forehead against yours. His nose brushes yours. He smiles, small and stunned and glowing.

You laugh, quiet and breathless. “Hi.”

He lets out a soft chuckle. “Hi.”

You linger there, neither of you ready to break the moment. Outside, the street stays quiet. The world can wait.

Right now, there’s only the warmth between you.

And the way his thumb keeps brushing your cheek like he still can’t believe you’re real.

masterlist <3

779 notes · View notes

juliabow · 7 months ago

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THE BEAR AND THE BEE HIVE

summary: in which carmy falls for the sweet café owner that supplies him with endless americanos

pairing: carmen berzatto x fem!reader

word count: 14.4k

warning: it's a little bit of a slow burn. sorry. i'm a sucker for it and i feel like carmy is a slow burn kinda guy. 18 +, cursing, smut, p in v, oral (m. receiving), fingering, they use protection guys! i deserve a pat in the back. nothing too wild. oh, and very brief mention of suicide.

a/n: i started writing this way back in october and then it was nearly done and i abandoned it. well i finally got around to completing it tonight!

this is my first time ever writing for carmy and i tried my best writing this. i love carmy and the show but i didn’t expect it to be hard to write him as a character. i wanted to get him right so i took my time with it and didn’t rush it. hopefully you guys like my carmy. enjoy!

i think i've had this stored in my drafts for like 4 months and it's time for me to set it free.

The cigarettes were not enough anymore. No matter how many smoke breaks Carmy took, he still felt the edge on his shoulders. A fear laced with anxiety that overtook him.

After deciding that blowing through yet another wall in his restaurant was the way to go, Carmy took a break. He needed it before he used the sledgehammer to destroy the restaurant in its entirety, along with his dream.

He remembers a coffee shop only a block away from The Bear and thinks he could use a coffee right about now. Maybe the mixture of caffeine and nicotine will be able to relax his shoulders, if only for an hour.

As soon as he opens the door, the smell of ground coffee beans greets him. He looks around, taking in the cozy ambiance the decorative wood brings to the place and the splashes of warm yellow that lighten it up.

Then he sees you, and his focus shifts entirely. His eyes only see you.

"Hi, welcome to Bee Hive!" You chirp with a small smile.

Carmy freezes, forgetting why he's there in the first place. He slowly steps up to the register, where you patiently wait for him. It's just after the lunch rush, so you're in no hurry.

He finds he's acting like a teenager who has just seen a pretty girl. Only he's not a teenager, and you're more than a pretty girl.

"What can I get for you today?" You ask, not noticing the effect you've had on him. You take a sharpie out of your yellow apron, preparing to scribble down his order in a cup.

Carmy has perfected the empty on the outside but screaming on the inside face. Strangers don't tend to know he's almost always losing his shit.

"I-I don't…sorry," Carmy looks at you briefly before diverting his eyes. He apologizes in a flurry, looking for an excuse for his weird behavior, "Uh, it's my first time here. What do you recommend?"

"It's not a problem," you say softly as if to calm him, "I'm a simple girl. I love the latte, but if you're looking for something stronger, the americano is one of the favorites."

Carmy nods as you ramble about the drinks, where the coffee beans come from, and the different notes of each blend. He hangs onto every word that slips from your lips. The static in his brain clearing up for the first time in hours.

It ends too soon as you realize you're talking too much and probably overwhelmed him. You sheepishly smile at him and trail off, but he continues to stare, waiting for you to continue.

"I'll take the Americano," Carmy nods, giving you a tight-lipped smile. Although he had been hanging to every one of your words, he was too focused on the shape of your lips and the sweet tone of your voice.

"Good choice," you nod, grabbing a cup from the tray beside you, "What's your name?"

Carmy looks up, slightly alarmed, as if you've asked for his social security number. "What?" He thinks you'll be forward and ask for his number next, seemingly forgetting how coffee orders work.

"Your name? For the order?" You explain, trying to ease his worries. He's odd, but in an endearing way. You believe this is his first time here because you're confident you would've remembered him.

"Fuck, right, yeah," he nervously says, pinching the bridge of his nose, "My name's Carmen."

"Your Americano will be right out, Carmen," you tell him, capping your sharpie back up.

Carmy quickly pays and stands to the side to wait for his order. He forces himself to not look at you or in your direction as you take other customers' orders. He just knows he's made a fool of himself already. Not that it matters. Why would it matter? He's there for the coffee. Nothing else, no one else.

As he walks out of Bee Hive, he sips his coffee. His shoulders instantly drop, and his fear-induced anxiety starts to dissipate for the moment. He's unsure if the effect is because of the caffeine or the thoughts of your pretty smile.

Visiting your coffee shop becomes routine for Carmy. Whenever things at The Bear become crazy -or he starts to lose his fuckin' mind- he makes his way to Bee Hive with a cigarette hanging from his lips.

For twenty minutes, he's free of Richie's constant hounding, Sugar's struggles with the permits and scheduling, and Sydney's disappointment because the menu is still extremely underway.

Each time he's stopped by, you've been there to greet him, and each time, you've left a little heart by Carmen's name, which makes his heart race in a peculiar way. His hands would touch his chest to check if it was heartburn, but it didn't feel like that. It's not anxiety either cause he knows pretty well how that feels.

All he knows is he hasn't done anything to deserve such a gesture. He's convinced himself you draw little hearts for everyone because he's not special.

One Thursday afternoon, Carmy realizes he doesn't know your name. He looks for a name tag, but you're not wearing one on your yellow apron. He should know your name if you insist on making small talk despite his short answers.

He can't help it. He gets too in his head to answer like a normal person, so his answers come out choppy and dry.

"Alright, Carmen, your order will be right out," you say, handing his cup to one of the baristas. You always hold out and ask him what he wants to order. He has the right to change his mind anytime, but for now, he's stuck with the americano, which he drowns in sugar.

As curiosity eats at him, he gathers the courage to ask. "Thanks. Hey, uh, I've-I’ve never gotten your name…” Carmy says, cursing at himself for not formulating the question correctly. His hand comes up to grip his hair instinctually.

Your smile widens when he asks your name. The silly crush you've developed for your customer fluttering to life. It's just a crush over a stranger, nothing to write home about.

You tell him your name but follow it with "-call me Honey. Everyone knows me by that name. I'm sure if you ask my friends about me with my real name, you'll throw them for a loop."

You're rambling, hoping he doesn't think calling you by your nickname is weird. Then again, how can he judge when he has a sister people call 'Sugar' and he and his siblings also don the nickname 'Bear.'

"Honey." Carmy repeats your nickname, smiling as he finds it fitting. "In that case, call me Carmy."

"Nice to properly meet you, Carmy," you say, grinning.

Like all the days before, Carmy steps aside and waits for his coffee. He doesn't let himself continue the conversation or ask more about you even if it’s everything he wants to do.

It's rare for Carmy to be in a good mood, and whenever it happens, it doesn't tend to last. His goal of opening a restaurant in 12 weeks makes it impossible for him to relax and enjoy the ride. To prolong this unusual feeling, Carmy stops by Bee Hive on his way to The Bear.

"Have you made your boss angry, Honey?" He asks as he pulls out his wallet to pay. He ordered the americano as he always does.

"No…why do you ask?" You ask, tilting your head in confusion.

"Uh, 'cause you-you're always here. Do you not take days off? Not that I'm complaining. I-I like seeing you here." Carmy's words get quieter as he speaks, red creeping up his neck. So much for trying to make a joke.

You look around the room and tell him, "Imma let you in on a little secret."

Carmy follows your hand, waving him to get closer. The smell of cigarettes invades your senses as you get close to him. You'd never admit that the mix of his cigarettes and your coffee is addicting. As both lean over the counter, you whisper, "I'm the boss. I can't run away even if I wanted to."

"You own the coffee shop," Carmy pans in shock.

Carmy is more than surprised at your words. Especially now that he knows how expensive it is to open a business. You can't be a day over 25 and own a successful coffee place. There is hope, after all.

"I do," you nod, standing straight once more.

A couple of years ago, you had inherited a hefty amount of money from an estranged aunt. Fresh out of college and with no real plan, you thought it would be a good moment to follow your dream and open the cozy café.

"How do you do it?" Carmy asks, amazed at the girl smiling at him. "I don't know if you know, but, um, I-I'm opening the restaurant around the block. Used to be The Beef?" He finishes grimly as he points to his side of the block.

"Oh, yeah. The guys who worked there helped me move some equipment when I first opened two years ago," you reveal, "Tell you what, whenever you have a break, come around. I'll give you a free americano and tell you all about it. Neighbor to neighbor."

Stuffing his hands in his pockets, Carmy agrees. "I'll take you up on that."

Weeks go by, and Carmy seemingly forgets about Bee Hive and your pending conversation. You try not to overthink about his absence or how you might've scared him away. He's probably just busy remodeling his restaurant. You know better than anyone how much time that takes.

Still, his presence has become part of your routine, and you can't help but look at the door each time the bell rings. You expect to see him walking up to the counter, the remnants of cigarette smoke coming out his nose as he breathes.

You're pretty close to your assumption because Carmy has been dealing with the fire suppression test. They didn't fail the test once but twice, and if they didn't pass it on the third try, their plan to open the restaurant in 12 weeks goes out the window. Fak has tried everything, and nothing works.

He'd sent Richie once on a coffee run, but the fuckin' idiot went to the nearest Starbucks. Carmy had been looking forward to tasting your coffee and seeing his name in the cup with the little heart because he's 100% sure he's the only Carmen you know. It's not a common name in these parts of town.

One very early morning, he's walking to work, and as he passes Bee Hive, he sees you inside, wiping tables down before you open at 6:30.

Impulsively, he knocks on the glass, not giving himself the time to overthink things. You turn to look at the window and see him standing outside, his hands stuffed in the pockets of his familiar plaid jacket to protect himself from the chilly March air.

"Hey stranger," you greet him, opening the door and inviting him in.

"Hi," he breathes out, staring at you, "you're here early," he tries to casually mention.

You roll your eyes dramatically and say, "It's a downside of the job. Did you know people want coffee at the crack of dawn?"

You try acting as nonchalant as possible. It's not like you missed seeing one of your favorite customers, his beautiful blue eyes, or the way he rocks a simple white t-shirt.

"I had no idea," Carmy smiles, bringing his tattooed hand up to his lips, "I, uh, usually drink mine at night." That much is true. On those sleepless nights when insomnia takes over him, the best remedy is coffee.

"Would you make an exception and join me for a morning coffee at the crack ass of dawn?" Anxiously, you play with the rings on your fingers. It feels like you're asking the guy on a date when it's just a friendly coffee.

"As long as you have some business advice to spare?" Carmy responds shakily. He briefly looks down the street to glimpse at his restaurant. It's too early for anyone to be there yet.

"Deal."

Throwing the towel over your shoulder, you make your way behind the counter. Carmy attempts to make small talk with you as you prepare both drinks.

This is the first time he's watching you in action since you tend to stick to the cash register when he's around. It's not a coincidence. After the first time he came to Bee Hive, you wanted to see more of him, so you stationed yourself at the register where you'd be sure to see him, and he'd see you.

"Here you go." You place his coffee mug on the table along with yours before disappearing momentarily and returning with an orange soufflé coffee cake. You're pulling all the stops for Carmy to leave a good impression.

Carmy thanks you and sips his coffee, "Wow, this is fire!" He expected to taste an americano, but what you prepared was entirely different. He can make out hints of hazelnut and caramel in the coffee.

"Thanks. I took the liberty of changing your order. You can always come back to the americano, though…" you shrug shyly, looking at him over the rim of your mug.

"I-I appreciate it. Thanks." Carmy throws you a nervous grin. He gestures with his tattooed hand to dig into the cake you brought out. He shouldn't be the only one eating.

You and Carmy share the cake as you talk about yourselves and the crazy businesses you own. Somehow, talking to you comes easy to him. He's still nervous and scared to fuck things up, but the warm coffee and your even warmer smile ease him into it.

"How do you do it? This place is always packed, and you seem like you run a tight ship," Carmy wonders, playing with the fork. The cake is long gone, although the notes of orange remain on his tongue. Would you taste the same?

"It wasn't without mistakes. I had to learn a lot from my fuck ups and listen to my team because although I'm the owner, they are the ones doing most of the work. Whenever there's a flaw, they are the first to know," you speak softly, afraid of ruining the calm ambiance you've set up, twirling the small amount of coffee left in your mug.

It's your favorite part of morning coffee. When you have just the smallest bit of coffee left, and you know you'll never drink it because it's cold, but it gives you an excuse to remain where you are.

"So, all I gotta do is listen?" It's funny you say that because Carmy listens, but his friend's voices get muddled somewhere along the way. As much as he tries to focus on them, they merge together and form a cacophony in his head.

"A lot of listening and a lot of experimentation. I've been open for two years, and it's only been in the last six months that I can confidently tell you we found our groove," you admit with a grimace.

Bee Hive is your baby, but bringing it to life was everything but easy. You messed up so many times, costing you so much money. You didn't know shit about owning a business or building one from the ground up. Doing research and putting your pride aside to ask for help got you through it.

"I've only been doing this for, like, less than a fuckin' year, and I already want to pull my hair out," Carmy admits with a pitiful laugh.

"I'm sorry I can't tell you it gets better soon," you say apologetically, reaching for his hand that rests on the table.

Carmy freezes, glancing at your hand on top of his. He hasn't got a clue what to fucking do with the display of affection. Was it a display of affection? He doesn't fucking know. "It's, uh, it's, uh, it's alright. As-as long as you give me coffee, I think I can make it through," Carmen furrows his eyebrows as he stutters through the sentence.

"I can't wait to see what the award-winning chef does," you say, bringing your hand back to your lap, none the wiser to Carmy's internal struggle.

He should've done something to keep your hand on his. Place his other hand on yours or fucking turn his hand around to grasp it. He liked feeling your warm skin on his. It hasn't been a minute since you pulled away, and he's craving it already. It's ridiculous. Is he really that touch-starved that he's seeking affection from a near stranger?

He coughs and darts his eyes between the wooden table top and you, "Fuck. You-you know about that?"

"I might've done some research after finding out you're opening the restaurant. I got curious. I'm sorry." Apologizing is your default thing to do. Messing things up is your area of expertise. You really didn't think he'd mind you mentioning it.

"No, no, no, uh, you don't have to apologize. You just caught me off guard," Carmy shakes his head, reassuring both of you.

"Okay, good," you lightly smile at him, averting your eyes when your gazes meet.

If there's a time for you to make a move, it's now. Taking a shaky breath, you speak up, "I was wondering if you'd ever like to-."

A loud knock on the glass door interrupts you. You and Carmy jump and look towards the source of the noise. It's one of your regular clients, waving at you to open up. Looking at your watch, you see it's 6:30 already.

"Shit. I'm-I'm sorry I took so much of your time," Carmy apologizes, picking up his mug and the plate to put away.

You grab his wrist to make him stop in his tracks, "Relax. I enjoyed talking to you. Maybe we can do it again soon?"

Carmy nods wide-eyed. He likes the idea just as much as you do. You take away the mug and plate with a soft 'okay.' He then follows you to the door as you unlock it and turn the sign to 'open.'

"I, um, gotta go work on the menu. I'll probably be back later for another coffee?" Carmen asks you as if he's asking for permission, which you find adorable.

"I'll be behind the register," you say, watching him walk away. He turns his head back for a moment, and you catch the smile gracing his lips as yours turns to mimic him.

"Oh, he's cute," your customer, an older lady, says, watching him go along with you. "It's about time you got a boyfriend."

"Mrs. O'Hara, here for your tea?" You ask her, ignoring the comment about your love life. That woman will set you up with anyone. She does love her tea, though, and expects you to provide it on time.

It's slow, but Carmen warms up to you. Instead of grabbing his coffee to go, he now drinks it at the café, coincidentally around the same time you take your break.

He's been hesitantly opening up. It's not like he's telling you about how fucked up his family is or how his brother committed suicide. More often, it's about the restaurant and his work as a chef, the struggles of getting every permit they need on a tight schedule since they are supposed to open in about four weeks now, or the occasional childhood memory. It's everything you need to know at this stage.

You love listening to Carmy talk, even if you have to coax it out of him sometimes. He's passionate about the restaurant despite all the stress that comes from it, and he adores the people he works with. He's shy but not in a dorky way because he's actually fascinating. Before meeting him, you never knew that collecting denim was a thing.

The smell of cigarettes that clings to him is also tightly laced with his character. When you step outside to get some sun and the scent of someone smoking hits you, your heart instantly speeds up, hoping it's him coming for his daily americano, or to come swoop you away into a sunset.

"-I fell on my ass in the middle of the street. I was freaking out, thinking I was gonna get run over by a car," you exclaim as you tell Carmy about the crazy Christmas you spent in New York last year.

"It's New York. You probably would have been run over," Carmy chuckles along with you. "There was this one time I was running late and-" His phone vibrating interrupts him.

"Sorry, it's just the fridge guy," he tells you with a furrow of his eyebrows. You notice he does that a lot when he's thinking deeply. Carmy silences it and looks back over to you.

"You should pick that up. A busted fridge is the last thing you need. Trust me. Been there, done that." You encourage him to take the call. The restaurant is more important than your story about how you bruised your coccyx in New York.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, Carm! Call him back before you forget," you insist, grabbing his empty cup to trash it. You don't give him any other option, leaving him there to help your employees with a faulty machine.

He watches you closely, closer than ever before. He allows himself to watch how you frown at the machine and how your ringed fingers fumble with the knobs. His eyes keep trailing down involuntarily, and they take in how nicely your jeans hug your ass.

He goes into a spiral into these old pair of Levi jeans popular in the 90s and how they would fit nicely with the shape of your hips and legs. Carmy continues on the tangent, imagining himself peeling them off your body.

The phone vibrating in his hand snaps him out of it. Clearing his throat, he picks up the phone and walks outside. He waves at you through the window as he makes his way back to The Bear. Your frustration at the machine vanishes momentarily as you wave back, except the machine splatters, forcing you to redirect your attention. When you look outside again, he's gone.

Stakes are high at The Bear. There's less than four weeks until Friends and Family, and there is much to do. Marcus has returned from Copenhagen and is working on the desserts. Tina is doing her job as the new sous chef. Fak and Sweeps are helping out wherever they can. And Richie is being Richie, trying to be open but resisting change.

"I need coffee or a pop. Anything with caffeine," Sydney says, throwing her head back. She and Carmen have been working on the chaos menu for hours, and she keeps messing up. Carmy insists that it's okay that they'll adjust and get it right soon, but she's beginning to lose hope.

"Me too. I'd kill for an espresso," Natalie agrees, softly rubbing her hand over her growing bump.

"I thought you couldn't have caffeine cause of the baby," Richie mentions, remembering Tiff's time while pregnant.

"I don't need you to fuckin' tell me what I can or can't eat, Richie," Natalie yells, glaring at him. Although he's right, the doctor told her to limit her caffeine intake. Hard to do when she's up all night thinking about everything she needs to do for The Bear.

"Shit. I'm sorry for fucking caring," Richie screams back, lifting his hands up in defense.

"I can go to the coffee place down the block. Get everyone something," Carmy pipes up, looking forward to seeing you today.

Natalie is quick to shoot that idea down, "You can't. The fridge guy is coming in 20 minutes."

"Fuck, that's right," Carmy groans, digging his head in his hands. His fingers rake through his hair, messing up his curls. He wanted to see you and talk to you, even if it was for five short minutes.

"I'll go," Sydney sighs. She needs to leave the kitchen for more than five minutes, or she'll go crazy, "Just tell me what you guys want to order."

Natalie grumbles about getting decaf, Richie orders a plain black coffee, and Carmy asks for his americano. As Sydney leaves to ask Marcus, Carmy yells after her, "Please, go to Bee Hive. If you get Starbucks, I'm gonna fucking lose it."

Richie and Natalie exchange a look. Richie because he's confused, and Natalie because she knows something is happening with Carmy. He's never been picky over coffee. In fact, they have an old coffee machine in the office that now goes unused because he's always at that coffee shop.

"Sorry, I didn't get the fuckin' memo. Since when is Starbucks bad?" Richie frowns, looking to get a rise out of Carmy.

"I don't think it's about the coffee, cousin," Natalie responds, directing her gaze towards her brother, who is hunched over the counters, chopping vegetables.

"If it's not about the coffee, what is it about?" Richie questions, crossing his arms.

"Shut the fuck up, Sugar," Carmy grumbles, looking at his sister with a glare. He already knows where she's going. She tried to bring it up a couple of days ago after she walked by the coffee shop and saw him being friendly with you.

Natalie smiles and responds, "Carmy has a crush on the barista."

"That's ridiculous. I don't have a crush on her." Carmy shakes his head, avoiding Richie and Natalie's eyes on him. They always do this. They gang up on him if he shows even the slightest interest in a girl. They think they can help, but all they do is embarrass him.

"Come on, Bear. Why else would you go almost every day to get coffee?" Natalie asks, giving him a look.

"Because it's good fuckin' coffee. Jesus, it's not that deep." Carmy grabs the veggies he chopped and drops them into a container to use later.

"It's okay to admit you like a pretty girl, cousin! I'm excited for you! Makes you human and not a lonely hermit," Richie jokes, pushing on Carmy's buttons. "When was the last time you got laid?"

"I swear to God, Richie. Shut the fuck up," Carmy points at him angrily.

"No, I should go with Sydney and see who this girl is!" Richie says, walking out of the half-built kitchen.

Carmy follows him instantly, "You're not going fuckin' anywhere, fuckin' jagoff." He's turning red from anger, seeing Richie with his mocking smile. Natalie follows behind them, amused at the situation. It reminds her of the banters they used to get in with Mickey.

"Admit that you like her," Richie shrugs, giving him a choice.

"No, I won't," Carmy refuses. "You always do this shit."

"Then, I'm going," Richie nods, stepping towards the door.

"Fuck! Shit, alright. I like her, okay? Don't fucking go anywhere," Carmy yells, rubbing a hand on his face out of frustration. It's like he's not allowed to keep anything good to himself.

"Was that so hard?" Richie grins, clapping a hand on Carmy's shoulder.

"Don't fuckin' touch me," Carmy grumbles, walking back to the kitchen. Natalie follows him with a smile, shaking her head at Richie.

Carmy sighs and squeezes his eyes shut. He has yet to admit that he likes you more than he should. He's been avoiding it, afraid of what it might lead to, or rather, what it might not.

He couldn't let Richie go see you. He has a big fuckin' mouth and will tell you Carmy has a crush on you whether it's true or not. Just like that, he feels the sour taste in his mouth, his heartburn making an appearance. Carmy should go look for his pepto before it gets worse.

Unaware of the argument back at The Bear, Sydney walks to Bee Hive. She's walked past many times but has yet to have the time to stop and try it out.

As she waits in line, she reads over the drinks menu. It's clear that it's been carefully curated. Starbucks has nothing on this menu. She can see why Carmy would prefer to come here instead.

When it's her turn to order, Sydney takes out her phone to recite everyone's drink order. She also points to a few pastries, thinking Marcus would like to try some of them and get inspiration. That and she knows Natalie will enjoy them as well.

You're sitting at a table close to the pickup counter. You often find yourself all over the store, ensuring everything goes smoothly. Sometimes, you stop to talk to your regulars and see how they're doing.

You notice Sydney struggling with all the cups she has to carry. It's proving difficult despite the to-go trays your barista put them in. Deciding to approach her, you ask, "Do you need help?"

"Oh, no. I'm fine, thanks," Sydney responds with a nervous smile. She's trying hard to grab everything, including the box with the pastries.

You continue watching her struggle because you know she needs help. You let her try and figure it out for one more minute before stepping in again when she almost drops two of the drinks, "Need some help now?"

"Yeah," Sydney sighs, "I guess I can leave one of the trays here, go to the restaurant, and come back for the rest," she speaks mostly to herself.

"Are you going far?"

"No, just the restaurant down the block," Sydney responds with a sigh, scratching her eyebrow as she tries to figure out the logistics of carrying the drinks. She could get a box to put everything in.

You perk up at her response. The only restaurant down the block is Carmen's. Could she work there? "Carmy's restaurant?"

"You know Carmy?" Sydney asks, tilting her head. Maybe Nat was right. Carmy spends his time here because of the woman in front of her.

"He comes here often. Anyway, I can go with you to help you out. It's not far, and I'd feel bad if your drinks got cold." You offer to help her out because you're a nice person. Not because you want a chance to see the curly-haired man you are developing feelings for.

"You really don't have to…"

"It's really not a problem," you press, grabbing one of the to-go trays and motioning for her to lead the way.

Sydney sighs in defeat and nods, "Thanks. I'm Sydney, by the way."

"I'm Honey," you smile, following her outside.

You chat all the way to the restaurant with Sydney. She reminds you of Carmy in some ways, so you can see why they are friends. Before arriving at the restaurant, Sydney apologizes in advance for any sort of mess there might be, including yelling.

As you near the building under renovation, your palms start to sweat. Maybe you shouldn't have come. You're showing up unannounced, and he's probably too busy to talk to you anyway. You can slip in and out without him noticing. That's the goal now.

You open the door for Sydney, letting her go through first, and quietly follow her into the restaurant. There's no time to escape, as all eyes are instantly on you.

Richie is arguing with Fak when he sees you walk in. He narrows his eyes as Carmy looks in your direction from the kitchen. With just one glance to Carmy's face, he knows who you're supposed to be.

"Guess I didn't have to go anywhere. She came to me," Richie whispers, rushing out the door.

"Shut the fuck up. Where are you going? Don't embarrass me!" Carmy whispers out to Richie unsuccessfully.

"Oh, you'll do that all by yourself," Richie throws over his shoulder.

"Honey, hey, what-what're you doing here?" Carmy speaks, not giving Richie a chance to open his big mouth. He stands between you and Richie, blocking him for the time being.

"Sydney needed help with the drinks," you answer nervously, averting your eyes.

"Oh, thanks for that. You didn't have to," Carmy approaches you and takes the drinks from your hands. His fingers brush with yours momentarily, causing you both to blush.

"I did, or else you probably wouldn't have anything to drink," you whisper to him.

Sydney, Fak, and Richie all watch the interaction amusedly. Richie has a big teasing grin on his face as he makes a plan in his head.

"Hi, I'm Richie! Carmy's cousin," he introduces himself, shoving Carmy to the side and shaking your hand enthusiastically. "I gotta say Carmen right here is obsessed with your coffee. He's banned us from getting Starbucks."

Carmy curses under his breath as Richie does precisely what he tells him not to. He has the urge to throw the coffee at him and run away.

"Is that right?" You ask, amused, looking over at Carmy with a raised eyebrow.

"Oh yeah," Richie answers for him as Carmy tries to find the right words to say. "Cousin, why don't you give the nice lady a tour of the place?"

"It's not done yet. Could be dangerous," Carmy hopelessly says with a gulp.

"Nonsense! You'll take care of her!" Richie insists. He takes the coffee from Carmy's hands and pushes him in your direction. "Go give her a tour."

Richie, Sydney, and Fak all disappear to the office to stay out of the way and try to snoop simultaneously. Fak sends Carmy a not-so-discreet thumbs-up that makes you giggle.

He's internally screaming at his so-called friends but is glad to see you. It was all he wanted before Sydney left to get their drinks. It's strange having you here at The Bear, though. He's so used to seeing you in your own space back at Bee Hive.

Trying to make things better, you say, "Sorry you've been roped into this. You probably have better things to do. I can go-"

Carmy doesn't let you finish. "No, stay. I want to show you around."

"Let's see what you got then, Berzatto," you grin, following him to the kitchen.

Carmy takes his time showing you The Bear. He wants you to stay. He wants to spend time with you but doesn't really know how to say it. So he takes it slow, answers your questions about the restaurant, shows you the front and how everything will be laid out, and introduces you to the ones around, including the fridge guy working on the handle.

Sadly, you get a call from Bee Hive asking you to come back. Carmy walks you outside, dreading having to say goodbye.

"I'm really excited for The Bear to open. You have a great place and team," you tell Carmy.

"I really got lucky with them, huh?" He asks, playing with a dish towel.

"I gotta go. I'll see you later, Berzatto." You don't know where you got the guts to lean towards him and kiss his cheek.

Carmy stays still as his face heats up. You start walking away and throw him a smile over your shoulder. When you're a distance away, he touches the cheek you kissed. Back inside, Richie runs over to Sugar to tell her what he just witnessed.

It's late when Carmy leaves The Bear. As he walks to the train station, he has his hands stuffed in his jacket pocket. On his way, he sees a lone light turned on in your café. Crossing the street to check it out, he sees you're still there with glasses perched on your nose in front of the computer.

He tries the door, and to his luck, it's open. You look in his direction, startled, but relax once you see it's him.

"Nice glasses," Carmy teases, pulling out a chair to sit.

"Are you making fun of me?" You purse your lips, propping your chin on your palm.

"No, I…I think you look cute with them," Carmy admits. After a stern talk from Sugar and Richie, he's realized he should probably make a proper move on you because if what they say is true, you also have a crush on him.

"Thanks," you blush, the light from your screen making it obvious to Carmy, who can't stop the corners of his lips from turning up into a smile.

"Late night?"

"One of my baristas is moving out of state. I have to find someone new, preferably who has experience," you say with a sigh. Glancing at him, you add, "Are you perhaps interested in the position?"

"Poaching me from my own restaurant, nice. I'll let you know I'm an excellent worker," Carmy jokes, tapping his fingers on the table.

There's no doubt in your mind he's an excellent worker. He has to be if he's considered one of the best up-and-coming chefs. Or to work in one of the best restaurants in the world with three Michelin stars.

"I don't know. I'll need references," you speak as if not believing him.

Carmy smiles and softly chuckles, "Fair enough."

There's a moment of silence between the two of you that Carmy is quick to fill, "So, uh, have you had dinner yet by chance?" This is it.

You shake your head no and look at him with hopeful eyes.

"Wanna go grab pizza? I know a place," he asks, finding your gaze on him.

"Say no more," you say, closing your laptop and taking off your glasses. "I'm starving."

Carmy waits for you to lock Bee Hive and grab your things. Then, you both walk to the pizza place. To pass the time, you and Carmy talk about your days and anything that comes to mind. Nothing serious as you get to know each other.

Waiting in line to order the pizza, you tell him all about your nickname and how you were donned 'Honey' to everyone who knows you. In return, he tells you about his nickname 'Bear' and why his restaurant is named as such. For the first time, he dares mention Mickey.

"Best pizza in Chicago," Carmy says, taking a slice of the pie and placing it on your plate.

"I'll see about that," you murmur. You wait until he has a slice of his own and dig in simultaneously.

"It's good, but this is not the best pizza place in Chicago," you say after chewing the first bite, "I'm gonna get your chef license revoked."

"Are you? With what proof? Have you tried all the pizza places to know?"

"I don't have to because I've tried the best," you hum, taking another bite. The cheese stretches as you pull it away.

"Oh yeah? Which one?" Carmy questions you, taking a drink of his beer.

"Mine. The pizza I make is the best," you shrug modestly.

"Wait. You cook?" Carmy asks, giving you a look of surprise.

Cooking is a universal thing. Most people know how to cook up to a degree, yet only some are as confident in their skills as you are. You know you're definitely not up to Carmy's level, but if there is something you know how to do properly, it's pizza.

"Yeah! You're not the only good cook here, Berzatto," you sass back at him, dipping the pizza crust in the marinara sauce.

"Sorry for assuming," he raises his palms.

"You're forgiven," you chirp.

"When will I try this famous pizza of yours then?" Carmy wonders. An attempt to see if you'd like to see more of him.

"I promise I'll make it for you once you open The Bear. You're too stressed to fully enjoy it now," you respond. You were reaching out. Throwing hints that you want this to continue in the foreseeable future.

The conversation continues to flow with an empty pizza box in front of you. Customers come and go until it's only the two of you and a drunk customer picking up his pizza.

"Tell me about your tattoos. Were they an act of rebellion or something else?"

It's an excuse to touch his hands. You reach for them, turning them to see the black ink on his hands and fingers. You gently trace over them with the pads of your fingers. Over the hand that's stabbed, the letters S.O.U. on his knuckles and the forget-me-nots. The one you're dying to touch, though, is the one on his bicep; you'd give anything to feel the hard muscle underneath the rolled-up sleeves of his white t-shirt.

"Uh, my first tattoo is the 773. Got it when I left Chicago for the first time. After that, I sort of became addicted to them. I found they helped my anxiety when it was becoming too much. The pain distracted me and made me feel stronger than I actually was," he says, letting you touch him. He finds that he likes it. Your touch is soft and warm. Comforting.

"So what you're trying to say is you're a masochist," you say, bouncing your eyebrows at him. Your touch goes further up his arm to turn it and look at the fish tattoo on his forearm.

"I guess so," Carmy responds with a breathy laugh, "Do you have any tattoos?"

"Maybe…" You shrug as the pads of your fingers trail back down to his palm until you pull them back towards you. Carmy instantly misses the feeling, opting to cross his arms to retain the warmth you left behind.

"It's bad, isn't it?" He says knowingly. Your reaction told him everything he needed to know.

"The worst," you grimace, shaking your head at the memory of you getting it.

"So, rebellion or something else?"

"Rebellion. For all the wrong reasons," you groan, burying your face in your hands, "Growing up, everyone saw me as a good girl because that's what I was. Breaking the rules terrified me. So, as a teenager, I didn't want to be seen as a goody two shoes, so the summer before I went to college, I decided that getting a tattoo would make me a badass."

"Did it work?"

"God, no. I only got the outline done 'cause it hurt like a bitch. Then I went crying to my parents, fully having a meltdown, apologizing for disappointing them," You scrunch your nose as you say the following words, "They laughed in my face, called me a wimp, and told me to suck it up."

Carmy fully laughs at your story. Head thrown back, eyes closing, "What did you get?"

"That's a secret, Berzatto," you purse your lips, avoiding responding. You just know he'll make fun of you for it.

Everyone who has seen your tattoo has made fun of you for it, yourself included. It's so silly and not badass. Carmy will have to wait to see your tattoo, and you hope this continues so he can see it up close.

"Really? That bad?" Carmy stares wide-eyed.

"It's terrible," you nod, leaning on the table. "We should probably get going before the waitress throws a fit."

Carmy looks over his shoulder to see the waitress glaring at them. It's five minutes till close, and they've made no move to go. He turns back to you and nods towards the door. Carmy helps you with your jacket and leaves a tip on the jar for the waitress. At that, she happily calls after them with a 'Good night!'

"Do you live far?" Carmy asks, seeing how dark it is now that most places have closed. There are too many lamp posts that aren't working. He'd feel better if he could walk you home or you called an Uber. Preferably the former.

"Only a couple of blocks away. Why?"

"It's late. Let me walk you home," Carmy says decidedly, not giving you much of a choice.

"Thanks," you respond with a small smile.

The pace you set is slow. You don't want your time with Carmy to end just yet. He's such an interesting and sweet guy. He's a little awkward, but it adds to his charm, and you can see he's trying.

Somewhere along the way, his hand brushes against yours briefly. Then, it happens again, and you decide to bite the bullet. You grasp his hand in yours.

"Is this okay?" You ask when he falls silent.

Carmy doesn't have a lot of experience with girls. He can't even remember the last time he held a girl's hand. All he knows is he doesn't remember ever feeling this good. "Yes, uh, this is okay."

Carmy walks you up to your front door when you reach your house. You unlock the door but stay outside face-to-face with Carmy.

"Thanks for the pizza," you say, fiddling with your fingers. You were about to make one more move for the night. Because as long as Carmy allows you, you'll keep pushing for more.

"Sorry, it wasn't the best," he retorts, rubbing his jaw with his hand. You notice he does that a lot when nervous.

"Your company made up for it," you reassure him, "g'night Carmy." You kiss his cheek goodbye, watching as his cheeks blush.

"Night," he whispers.

As you turn to leave, Carmy stops you by grabbing your wrist, "Wait-uh, can I? Uh-shit. Fuck it." For a second, Carmy shuts out the excessive thoughts in his head and does what he's been dying to do for weeks.

Carmy cups your jaw and kisses you. It's soft and slow. He gives you enough leeway to pull away if it's something you don't want, but you reciprocate eagerly. You've been waiting for this all night.

As confidence surges through his body, Carmy throws an arm around your waist, pulling you closer. You wrap your arms around him, one of your hands resting on his neck, tangling on his curls. The tug of your fingers feels like heaven.

The kiss turns needy and desperate, your lips moving perfectly in sync. His tongue brushes over your lip; Carmy has been dying to test a theory. Are you as sweet as your name?

He's rewarded by a little noise in the back of your throat as he slips his tongue into your mouth. It's endearing, and he finds a way to make you do it again. With heads tilting to deepen the kiss, he concludes he was right. You're pure honey. Sweet and addicting.

When Carmy returns to his apartment, he gets the urge to create, to cook. He wants to bring your taste to life with his cooking. Something with honey.

"I was wondering if you'd want to come to the restaurant for Family and Friends."

You and Carmy are in your little office at Bee Hive. He stands between your legs as you sit on the desk. His lips are slightly red and swollen, and the hair at the nape of his neck is messier than usual.

"Hm, I could be persuaded," you pretend to think as you play with the golden chain around his neck, pulling him towards you.

"Yeah?" Carmy laughs, leaning to brush his lips against yours. When he feels you nod, he closes the small gap between the two of you.

His hands hold your hips, pulling you impossibly closer. He tastes like coffee, which is to be expected from the discarded cup beside you. It's funny how your relationship, if it could be called that, has moved all around Bee Hive from the register to the front and now to your office.

You're at a weird spot where you're not exactly friends because friends don't kiss, but you're not a couple either. It's a situationship for sure. You're content with what you have now, although you'd also love it if Carmy were to ask you to be more. You pin it on him being shy. He'll get around to it.

"What do you say?" Carmy questions as he kisses a trail from your cheek to your jaw.

"Consider me in," you giggle when he kisses a tickly spot.

Carmy brushes a strand of hair out of your face, remaining close to you. This is what he needs. After months of stress and anxiety of having to deal with The Beef, now The Bear, he needed you and your calming presence. Someone removed from the chaos, a safe haven.

He's quiet as his thoughts consume him, and you take the intimate position to fix his gold chain. Turning it so the clasp faces the back instead of the front. "I'm excited, Carmy," you say with a smile, brushing his cheek with your thumb.

"You can bring someone with you," Carmy offers nervously because he realizes he probably won't have the time to spend much time with you. "I-I don't think I'll be around much. I'm sorry. I'd understand if that makes you change your mind," Carmy drops his head as he braces himself for disappointment.

As the weeks pass, you learn more about Carmy and his insecurities. It doesn't deter you from wanting to be with him. Everyone has their issues. "Berzatto, stop. Look at me," you softly divert his attention, "I'd love to go and support you even if it's from the sidelines."

"You sure?" He asks once more.

If reassurance is what he needs, that's what you'll give. "Don't worry about me. This is your moment, Carmy. Enjoy it. I'll be around afterward."

"Thank you for understanding," Carmy responds, stealing one more kiss from you.

When he returns to The Bear, he helps Sydney prep the dishes they finally chose to serve. He notes how everything is laid out and anything they should fix before opening.

Richie struts into the kitchen with a suit on. Apparently, it's his thing now. Carmy figures staging at Chef Terry's restaurant had a good impact on him. All Carmy wanted was to show Richie he had what it takes. That he's not a fuck up.

"Glad to see things are going well with Honey," Richie thunders.

"What are you talking about?" Carmy says in a rush as he plates the lamb expertly.

"That thing on your neck," Richie says, motioning to his own neck. He has a smug look on his face.

"I don't have time for this, cousin," Carmy grumbles, wiping the plate where the sauce might've splattered.

Groaning, Richie grabs one of the new pans and holds it in front of Carmy. "I don't see anything," he frowns, looking at Richie for an explanation.

"Right here," Richie points towards the edge of his t-shirt around his neck.

Carmy pulls it back and finally spots what Richie has been referring to. There is a fading purple bruise on his skin, a hickey. You must've done it when he was back in your office. He'd been too busy touching you to notice.

Sydney, silently watching, pipes up, "No wonder he hasn't been as on edge lately." Carmy shoots her a glare, which causes her to shrug and laugh with a, "What? It's true."

"Ay, yo, Sugar, get in here!" Richie yells down the hall to the office.

"What is it?" Natalie barges in, afraid something went to shit.

Carmy ignores Richie as he babbles to Natalie what he found. His face is red, though, as Sydney nudges his side.

"That's enough about me. We have shit to do," Carmy shouts in his chef's voice.

Everyone in the kitchen, including Richie and Natalie, repeats, "Yes, chef!"

Walking out of the kitchen Richie, 'whispers' to Natalie, "I've always wondered if he likes to be called chef in bed."

"Fuck off, Richie," Natalie glares, but then it falls, and it's replaced with a teasing grin, "He definitely does."

"I heard that! Don't you two have better things to do?" Carmy screams at them.

"Yes, chef!"

Carmy keeps hearing Cicero's 'Uh-oh' throughout the whole day. He understands Cicero, he really does, but to call you a distraction?

His work with The Bear is only starting. They managed to make it to Friends and Family. Now, they have to keep up their best work to fill up the restaurant daily and have a waiting list. His work is far from done. He should listen to Cicero.

Cicero said it with the best of intentions. He doesn't want the Berzatto siblings to fail. He wants to believe they'll succeed and, most importantly, get him his money.

If there is something Cicero has learned throughout the years, it is that girls are distractions. They mean well, but oftentimes, they keep your eyes off the ball. Especially when it's a new relationship like Carmy's. Ultimately, it's up to Carmy to decide what he wants to do. Cicero has played his part by giving him his advice.

One last delivery is made to the restaurant an hour before opening. Richie is the one to receive it and place it in front of Carmy. "She's a keeper, Cousin," he says with a pointed look and a nod. He also wants the best for Carmy, and yet it doesn't align with Cicero.

You knew Carmy would be too stressed and all over the place to eat or drink, so you sent everyone at The Bear a drink and a pastry. One of the cups has Carmen's name with a little heart and 'good luck' written on it.

"Yeah, she is," Carmy sighs, turning the cup in his hands to look at the message. His thumb brushes over your handwriting longingly. Is listening to Cicero the wise thing to do? He's one of the most successful men he knows in his family.

When it's 10 minutes till open, Carmy changes into his uniform and looks in the mirror. His heart is racing, begging for Friends and Family not to be a complete failure. Walking out of the bathroom, Carmy is a man on a mission.

It starts relatively well, but like everything in Carmy's life, the kitchen starts welcoming in the chaos.

They are too slow getting the orders out, which causes Sydney to start doubting herself and asking Carmy to step in. He reassures her she's doing good. They just have to keep up the pace.

Then, one of the new chefs disappears mid-rush. Forcing Tina to work two stations and Marcus to step out of his to help Sydney. Carmy ignores some weird tension between them as he works on ensuring the dishes are good to go.

Next thing he knows, Sugar is rushing into the kitchen, yelling at him about forks. It's wasted time, as he can't do anything about it. A shrill reverberates inside his head as he looks at the ticking clock. It's enough to give him a headache.

With no one to take a dish to its table, Carmy takes it upon himself to do it. There's no time to re-fire or wait for someone. He places it on their table and pours the tea into their cups before retreating with an 'enjoy.'

He looks at his restaurant, and suddenly, the ringing in his head gets louder. Sitting in a booth is his old boss, staring back at him like he did back in New York. Like he was waiting for Carmy to fail.

His voice echoes in Carmy's head. Why are you so fuckin' slow. Hurry up. Go faster motherfucker. Talentless piece of shit.

Right before Carmy spirals, it all goes away. His focus shifts entirely as he sees you taking your seat for the night. The one he chose because he'd be able to see you from the kitchen. You have successfully blocked the mirage he'd conjured up.

You're there with your brother as Richie talks you up, thanking you for coming. As if sensing him, your eyes lock with Carmys. Shyly, you send him a wave, which he returns, thanking you in his head for getting there at the perfect time.

Carmy ducks back to the kitchen with newfound energy. Richie enters shortly after him.

"Chef, your girl is here."

"Thanks, Chef, um, do you have the notepad?" Carmy asks as he continues cleaning dishes and making sure each one is up to par.

"Here you go."

Taking the notepad from Richie, he begins scribbling. I love- No, too fuckin' soon. Thank you for- Nope, it's too stale.

I'm happy you're here, Honey. Wait for me after you're done? -Bear

"Here," Carmy hands it to him without even looking at Richie.

"Keep up the good work, Chefs," Richie yells out to the room before disappearing to the front of the house. The door swinging shut behind him.

"Yes, Chef!"

Something isn't working in the kitchen. They're too backed up, and no matter how hard they try, they're always a tad too slow. Through Sydney surrounding the wheel to Richie, Carmy steals glances out the kitchen window. You're smiling at whatever your brother says, your lips sipping the wine he chose. Carmy can get through this night because, in the end, you'll be waiting for him.

"There he is," you sing as you spot Carmy walking out of the kitchen. The chef's whites back in his locker as he sports his white t-shirt, jeans, and jacket.

Fak, who kept you company while Carmy finished up, speaks up next, "My brother, I'm gonna grab a sandwich and head home. Honey, it was a pleasure meeting you."

"You too, Neil!"

"Thanks for everything," Carmy tells him, giving him a hug and a pat like dudes do.

Carmy turns and grabs your hand to pull you close and kiss your cheek. "What did you think?"

"It was the most delicious thing I've ever tasted," you tell him, wrapping an arm around his shoulders.

There's a reason Carmy has had so many accolades despite his young age. He has a gift in the kitchen. The moment his food touched your taste buds, your life changed. He and Sydney outdid themselves, and the way everything flowed showed how much work they put into the restaurant.

"You're exaggerating," Carmy modestly says, his arms wrapping around your waist.

"I'm really not," you shake your head, pursing your lips. Carmy can't resist placing a small peck on your red-painted lips.

"What about your famous pizza?"

"No, it might be the best pizza in Chicago, but whatever I ate today topped it," you smile at him, scrunching your nose. "Consider your chef's license reinstated,"

"Thanks," Carmy laughs breathily, "Do you mind if we walk? I feel some of the rush still."

"Lead the way, Mr. Berzatto."

Carmy grabs your hand, leading you to the streets of Chicago. It's silent momentarily as the wind cools Carmy's heated face. He places his hand along with yours into his pocket.

"Did your brother like it?" He asks, breaking the ice.

"Oh yeah. I'm officially like the best sister ever," you respond, squeezing his hand.

You had accidentally forgotten that your brother had passed the Bar exam. So, you didn't have time to get him anything in celebration. You figured dinner at a lovely new restaurant would help while you got him a proper present.

"How did you feel throughout, though? It looked intense." You often found yourself looking through the small glass window into the kitchen. They were always on the move, looking for the next thing to do.

"It didn't just look like it. I'm used to it, though," Carmy admits with a sniff. Everyone's best and worst habits shone through for those couple of hours. It's an environment he's all too familiar with, in and out of the kitchen.

"That rough," you grimace.

"It's fine. We have a lot to work on, but it's a start, and it wasn't entirely terrible," Carmy says, thinking back on tonight. Before coming out to meet you, he wrote down a couple of things to go through with Sugar and Sydney.

"Good, 'cause I hope The Bear sticks around the block," you say, bumping your shoulder with his.

You invite Carmy into your house when you arrive. He takes up your offer, holding your hand to help you balance as you take your heels off. It reminds Carmy he forgot to mention how beautiful you looked today.

He follows you to the kitchen, watching your hips sway and your dress skirt swishing. Padding to the wine fridge, you pick out a bottle of red to celebrate.

Carmy indulges in looking at your legs as you stretch up to reach for the glasses of wine up in your cabinets. His blue eyes darken as your dress hikes up, exposing your pretty thighs.

His gaze darts back up at you when you turn around to place the glasses on the kitchen counter. You hand him the wine opener so he can do the honors because you suck at taking the cork out. It's why you mainly stick to cheaper wines with twist-off caps.

"Here is to The Bear and its amazing owner," you say, lifting your glass in front of you.

"Here's to not fuckin' it up entirely," Carmy follows, making you giggle. Your wine glasses clink, and you take a drink.

Placing the glass back down, Carmy pins you against the counter, his strong hands resting on the edge of it. You look at him through your lashes, a hand coming up to his chest to feel the steady thumping of his heart.

"You look beautiful. I like the dress," Carmy murmurs. It's better late than never.

The dress you wear is a pretty shade of light blue. Simple yet dressy. The neckline gives him a good view of your cleavage and has long sleeves to compensate for the shorter length. They currently cover the goosebumps lining your skin.

"Yeah? I picked it out thinking you might," you reveal, biting your lip. The shade reminded you of his eyes.

"You were right," he whispers, cupping your jaw. As pretty as the dress is, he's sure it'll look so much better on the floor.

Carmy closes his eyes as he leans down to kiss you. He's always struggled with words, so he hopes it's enough for you to catch what he's trying to say.

You smile into the kiss, blindly leaving your glass to the side to be able to touch him. Your palm presses against his chest and taut abdomen. He hides a nice amount of muscle under his t-shirts, a pleasant surprise.

Carmy easily lifts you up to sit down on the kitchen island. He steps between your legs, never breaking the heated kiss. The hands on your waist trail down to your thighs and under your dress. Carmy's tattooed hands squeeze your ass and thighs, earning him a moan from you.

This is the farthest you've ever gotten, and you're more than ready to have all of him. Carmy knows this, which leads to his thoughts getting out of control.

He has to make a decision now. Does he allow himself to be with you, or does he remain by himself like always? Richie's, Sugar's, Cicero's, and Sydney's voices all shout at him different things. Some are in favor, and others are in opposition. 'Uh oh.'

He can't lead you on and sleep with you if he will back out tomorrow. The voices become deafening in an instant, ripping him away from your embrace. His emotions bubbled over and spilled all over the place.

"Wait, stop, I just-" Carmy breathes heavily, taking a couple of steps back from you. Carmy's hand comes up to his forehead as he attempts to organize his thoughts.

"What's wrong?" You ask worriedly. Did you do something wrong?

Carmen's thoughts spill out his mouth without making much sense as he paces in your kitchen. "I can't stop thinking about it and owe it to my team..."

"Carm?" You slide off the kitchen counter, approaching him slowly.

"-keeps saying it's a distraction," he rambles mostly to himself. His heart is pounding painfully in his chest. If he didn't know any better, he'd think he was having a heart attack.

"Hey, hey, hey. What's a distraction?" Softly, you grab onto his arms, stopping him in his tracks, trying to find his lost gaze.

"You. Whatever this is," Carmy breathes, finally meeting your eyes, which he instantly regrets as your eyes turn sad.

The watering of your eyes is unintentional, as is the knot forming in your throat. "You think I'm distracting you?" You question barely above a whisper.

His response is instant, "Fuck, no, the opposite. W-When I'm with you or-or think about you, things get clearer, and it's-it's when I feel the most focused." Carmy holds your shoulders, comforting you because he never meant to hurt you. He can't stand the sad look in your eyes.

Slowly, you begin to piece together his rambling and conclude that other people have been telling him you're a distraction. You wonder if they don't want him to be happy. The Bear is the center of Carmy's life, and before that, it was the restaurant in New York. He deserves more than this crazy job.

"Then fuck what others tell you, Carmen. You deserve to have a life outside The Bear." Maybe you're selfish because you don't want to lose him, but you hope he believes your words.

"I-I don't. I don't deserve all your attention or your affection. I'm nothing special. I don't deserve you." Carmy says, shaking his head with furrowed brows.

Weeks ago, he had no source of enjoyment. He said it himself at the support group. Now, he has you, yet he can't bear the thought of you wanting to be with him. He feels like he's tricking you into a bad deal. That's what he is, though, isn't he? An overachieving fuck up with tons upon tons of baggage.

Carmen Berzatto is an anxious person with too many problems in his life. He has a fucked up family. His mother is a mentally unstable alcoholic. His brother was addicted to painkillers and decided that shooting himself on a bridge was better than living this life. That's without mentioning all the trauma he has from his job and the terrible people he's worked with.

What good does he have to offer you?

"Yes, you do," you reassure him, placing your hands on his cheeks. The cool metal of your rings soothes him somewhat, grounding him. "You deserve all that and more, Carmy. You're so sweet and kind and hard-working. You've been through shit. You deserve something good in life. Maybe it's me, or maybe it's not, but don't close yourself off."

You're begging at this point. Whatever this relationship is, it's just starting. He's not giving himself a chance. You like Carmy so damn much. He's funny without knowing it and thoughtful, too. There are so many qualities he doesn't realize he has.

His eyes watch you as tears line them. He's silently pleading for you to convince him. To get him out of his own head and forget the expectations others have on him.

"I'm not going to force you into anything, Carm. It's your call, but I've enjoyed our last couple of months together. I know we don't know each other completely, but I want to know everything about you. I have feelings for you, so whatever you decide, I'll support it."

Being honest is all you can do at this point. You pour your heart out and hope Carmy chooses you.

You and Carmy stand in the middle of your kitchen. Face to face, reaching out towards each other. It's clear as day that you want the same thing. It's only a matter of taking the right steps now.

"I can't let you go," Carmy responds, grabbing the hand on his cheek. His thumb brushes over the back of it.

"Then don't."

Carmy's decision is made. Without another thought, he smashes his lips against yours. He grabs the back of your neck, tilting your head to meet his heated kiss.

It's more intense now that the cards are on the table. Nothing to hold him back.

Tongues clash together as your bodies seek each other out. The temperature rises when Carmy lifts you up to wrap your legs around his hips. His hands are on the back of your thighs, holding tight onto you.

"Bedroom?" He asks, breaking the kiss, a trail of saliva between the two of you.

"Down the hallway," you breathe heavily, kissing down his neck.

Carmy makes it to the bedroom, opening the door with a bang. He spots your bed, placing you in the middle with him holding himself up on top of you.

He watches as your back meets the bed and your fair fans around you like a halo. The curvature of your breasts accentuated even more from the position.

Carmy hikes your leg further up his hips as he dips down to kiss a wet trail down to the neckline of your dress. He leaves open-mouthed kisses on the rounded flesh, nipping at the skin playfully when you arch your back to push more into him.

"Carmy," you breathe, cupping his jaw to pull him back to your lips. Grinding your hips, you manage to graze against his bulge.

"Shit," Carmy shakily curses, thrusting his hips to meet your touch once more.

Curiously, your hands wander across his body. Carmy's moans in your ear make your panties wetter than they already are.

You grasp the hem of his shirt, pulling it up and off. You're desperate to have him, your cunt aches for him. Your nails scratch down his firm stomach when he bites into your earlobe, softly calling your name.

"Unzip me," you pant, pushing him away and pulling your hair off to the side.

Carmy grabs the small zipper, pushing it down and exposing your pretty skin. As he slides the fabric off of you, he kisses your shoulders and back, taking note of the goosebumps on your skin.

His mind is in the present, and nothing can take it away from him. It's like a switch he managed to turn off in his brain. No more family drama, no more The Bear. It's just you...and him. Honey and Bear.

You stretch your neck to the side, giving Carmy more space to pepper kisses across the delicate skin. The dress pooling at your feet exposes your chest, and Carmy's hands come up from behind you. His fingers shyly brush up your stomach, tickling you, until they find your breasts.

He draws a moan from you as he squeezes them in his palms, pushing you back to meet his chest; turning your head to the side, you find his lips.

The kiss breaks when he slides one of his hands into your underwear, dipping his finger to feel your wetness. Your arm reaches back to dig your fist in his curls.

"You're soaked, Honey," he moans, finding your clit to tease it.

"Been waiting for so long, Carmy," you whine as your hips stutter along with the flicks of his wrist.

"I'm sorry. I'm here now," he purrs into your ear.

Carmy can hear the distinct 'shlick, shlick, shlick' of his fingers against your clit. It spurs him on as he slips a finger into you. He can't wait to have his cock inside of you, snug and warm.

"Oh my god, Carmen," you gasp when he prods another finger into your entrance. Hanging onto his arm across your chest, you roll your hips against his fingers.

"I got you," he says, digging his fingers deeper into you and curling them.

Your knees buckle as the tips of his fingers curl and hit your g spot repeatedly. If it weren't for him, you'd be on the floor. With your tummy tensing under the weight of the pleasure, you stutter out, "I'm gonna cum."

Carmy's hand is wet from your juices as he ups the ante. Just as your walls begin to squeeze around his fingers, he pulls them out to circle around your clit.

"Oh, f-fuck!" You squeal, throwing your head back onto his shoulder.

The way your clit softly twitches under the pads of his fingers fucks with Carmy. It makes his cock throb and leak into his jeans.

Untangling from his embrace, you place a breathless kiss on Carmy's lips. His slick digits dig into your hips as he prolongs it.

Blindly, you find the edge of his jeans and unbutton them. If Carmy notices, he doesn't say anything. You want to give him one more reason to stay with you.

He moans into your mouth when you grasp his length through his boxers. He's rock hard as he desperately ruts against your hand.

With your hold still on him, you push him to sit on the bed. Carmy looks up at you lustfully. You plant a single short kiss on his lips before kneeling on the floor between his legs. You leave love bites down his chest while looking up at him through your lashes.

Carmy brushes away any hair that falls on your face, his blue eyes focused solely on you. When you reach the waistband of his pants, you pull them down along with his underwear.

His length pops up from its confines, slapping against his tummy. Its tip is a pretty pink shade, with a thick length and a slight curve to it. You salivate instantly at the sight of it.

Carmy's nervous under you. It's been a long since he's been with someone else, and he's never been the most confident.

"Relax," you say teasingly, kissing around his lower tummy to calm him.

Finally, your hand wraps around his cock, lightly pumping it. Leaving sloppy kisses down his happy trail, you feel Carmy's stomach taut in anticipation.

It's been so fuckin' long.

With your eyes staring into his hungry ones, you kiss the pink head that glistens with pre, teasingly brushing it against your lips. Keeping eye contact, you lick his length from base to tip. You alternate between kissing and licking for a minute, enjoying watching Carmy squirm.

"Fuck, Honey," Carmy throws his head back at your torturous pace.

"Look at me," you sweetly say.

Taking mercy on him, you part your lips to take his length into your warm, wet mouth, bobbing your head to a steady rhythm. Prying one of Carmy's hands from the bedsheets, you place it in your hair, encouraging him to use you.

"Good girl," he moans, fisting your hair to force you to take more of his cock. You let your hands rest on his thighs, feeling the strong muscles underneath.

Carmen observes you with hooded eyes as you hollow your cheeks, sucking him expertly. He's obsessed with how your lips leave behind a tinge of red lipstick on his skin.

"Shit-Fuck me," he yells into the room when you swallow around him.

You want him to cum, but Carmy has other plans. He doesn't think he'll last long if you make him cum now, so after the stunt you pulled, he pulls you off his sensitive cock.

The sight in front of him is erotic as a string of saliva connects you to his cock. The tears lining your eyes and blushed nose add to that pretty picture.

"c'me 'ere," he says, helping you up and kissing you as he leads you back to the bed. He tugs off your wet panties, throwing them somewhere in the room.

You lay back on your pillows with Carmy slotted between your legs. It's torture having him so close and yet so far. Now that you've gotten a taste of his cock you need more.

Carmy touches the inside of your thighs, inching his way closer to your cunt. He instantly notices how fuckin' wet you are. You're dripping even more than before.

"Sucking me off, got you this wet, princess?" He asks, leaning his forehead against yours.

"Mhm, Carmy, wish you would've cum in my mouth," you admit, tilting your head up to brush your lips against his.

"You have such a dirty fuckin' mouth," he chuckles darkly.

Where did this side of you come from? You're usually so sweet and delicate. He should've known you would be a freak in bed. To think he almost let this all go.

"Carmen, please."

"Please, what?" Carmen teases, lining his cock against your opening, wetting his cock.

"Fuck me," you moan, kissing his jaw.

"'m gonna fuck you good, princess," he promises, with a shaky nod before he remembers, "Fuck! I-I don't have a condom with me."

"I should have some in my drawer," you mention breathlessly.

Carmy opens the condom in record time but is surprised when you take it from his hands and roll it down his shaft yourself. You just want an excuse to keep touching him.

With your leg hiked up, he aligns himself and slowly pushes in. You both gasp at the sensation. Carmy, for one, is trying to not bust a nut so soon because you're so tight and warm.

Meanwhile, you hold onto Carmy's back as he stretches you out. It's been so long, and your toys aren't nearly as thick as him. You breathily moan in his ear, which he takes as a good sign as he begins thrusting more forcefully and deeper.

Carmy hopes this isn't a dream, and if it is, he hopes he doesn't wake up anytime soon. He has one hand holding onto your thigh and the other holding himself up. His gold chain dangles above you as he picks his head up from its spot on your shoulder. You take the chance to tug on it, returning his attention to your lips.

"You feel so fuckin' good, princess," Carmy groans, squeezing your thigh.

"I love your cock, Carmy," you whine, feeling the drag of his cock on your walls. The pleasure is all-consuming, leaving a fuzzy feeling in your brain.

"You like when I fuck you like this?"

"Yes, yes, yes, keep going."

His hips snap hard against yours, hitting that spot each and every time. His pelvis hitting your clit. He squeezes your thigh, hips, and sides before his hand squeezes your tits, too, playing with your nipples.

Suddenly, he straightens up, pulling you down the bed to have you flushed against his pelvis. He's a sight for sore eyes that forces you to keep your eyes open.

His thrusts are more forceful like this, where he digs his fingers into the fat of your hips to pull you towards him with each snap. It makes your tits bounce, hypnotizing him.

Through your lustful gaze, he looks like a marble statue. His chest glimmers under the lowlights of your room as sweat clings to him, his chain jumping against the blushed skin of his chest, and his fucking hair falling over his pretty eyes. The set of his jaw could've been sculpted by Michaelangelo himself.

Your hands indulgently reach down to touch him in any way you can. You can only reach his stomach, where a nice pair of abs appear due to the effort.

"You like what you see?" Carmy teases. He's entirely lost on you because otherwise, he wouldn't be as cocky to say that.

"You're so handsome," you pitifully say. Your brain not computing as it should, but how can it when it's being fucked out of you?

Carmy doesn't know how to respond. It's not often he's called handsome or looked at as lustfully as you're looking at him. Thankfully, he doesn't need to say much as your eyes roll back and you squeeze your walls around him.

"Carmy, I'm so close," you pant, trying to find any part of him to hold. He offers you his hand, lacing your fingers together.

"Just a little longer, princess," Carmy groans as you clench around him. "Fuck, don't do that to me."

He glances down at the spot where you and him meet to see a ring of white on the base of his cock. He's enthralled with the way you stretch to accommodate him and the way your pink walls drag along his length when he pulls out. Fuckin' beautiful.

Putting all his knowledge to use, he thumbs your clit, making you jolt. He needs you to cum now, or he won't make it. His balls feel like they're about to burst.

"Carmy," you cry out, tightening the hold on his hand.

You teeter on the edge for only a second until you cum, waves of pleasure washing over you. Carmy curses from above you as your tightening walls choke his cock, making him cum too. He stutters his hips a couple more times, riding out his orgasm.

He leans back down again, catching your lips in a small kiss. His body slowly relaxes against yours as his head rests on your neck, breathing in the scent of sweat and perfume.

"That was good," you breathe heavily, rubbing your hands up and down your back. You're just starting to think clearly.

"Fuckin' amazing," he adds.

There's a beat of silence before you both burst out laughing.

A bubble encases you, and it can't be popped as long as you stay in your bedroom. Carmy doesn't want to leave; it's late already, and in a couple of hours, he has to get up and go to The Bear to repeat the process.

For once, he forgets about that and focuses solely on you. He has a couple of hours to spare. Sleep is overrated.

You face each other on the bed, talking in hushed whispers. Your fingers trace the '773' tattoo on his bicep like you've always wanted to do. It tickles Carmy, so he grabs your hand and kisses your palm.

"Now that I'm thinking about it. I didn't see your tattoo," he whispers to prevent disturbing the peace.

Your face warms at his words. You had forgotten about that. He's seen a lot of you in the past couple of hours. What's a bit more of skin?

"You missed my big bad tattoo?" you joke, poking his nose.

"Show me," he says with a lopsided smile.

You make it dramatic, rolling your eyes and giving him a big sigh. Sitting up on the bed, you peel the bed sheets from your body. Carmy props himself up on his elbow in anticipation.

Right there, on your left side and under the curve of your breast is a small outline of Winnie the Pooh's face. Carmy touches it, biting his lip to hold back a laugh. Unsurprisingly, it's precisely what he expected from you.

A few chuckles pass his lips as he pulls you back into his arms.

"Don't laugh. It made sense at the time," you whine, covering yourself back up.

Carmy pulls you to his chest, kissing your temple, "I'm sure it does. Pooh Bear loves his Honey," Just like he does.

"Exactly! Someone gets it!"

And he does because Carmy, aka The Bear, is quickly falling for his Honey.

A couple of days later, Carmy is back at your house helping you prepare the famous pizza you promised him. He lets you take the lead on everything, preferring to follow your instructions rather than let his mind run wild. It's not like you'll let him do most of the work anyway; it's your recipe, and you're protective over it.

"Can you chop up the veggies?" You ask him as you lay down the dough in a pan.

"Yes, Chef," he nods, kissing your cheek as he digs through your kitchen drawers for a knife.

"Oh, I like the sound of that," you muse, shaking your shoulders as you knead the dough to spread it.

"Don't let it get to your head, Hun," Carmy smiles, slicing the vegetables expertly.

Cooking with Carmy is surprisingly easier than you thought. He's not controlling over the kitchen or judgy. He lets you do your thing in peace, following your orders no matter how strange they might be. This is your kitchen, not his.

As you spread the sauce and cheese over one of the doughs, Carmy gets a call. He wipes his hands with a rag and picks it up. You only hear his side of the conversation.

"No, I'm off tonight. I'm with my girl. Call Sugar. She should be able to help you with that. Great. Thanks."

Carmy had promised himself that he would try to balance it all better. He has his team to help each other out. The Bear is a priority, but so are you because you help him keep whatever sanity he has left.

Carmy hangs up, and when he returns to you, he notices the grin on your lips as you put the toppings he chopped on the pizza.

"What's with the smile?" Carmy stands behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist as he props his head on your shoulder. Your hair tickles his nose, smelling the notes of coconut of your shampoo he digs his head farther into it.

"I'm your girl?" You ask, the smile still present on your face. He'd missed your initial reaction when you heard him call you 'my girl.' You almost dropped the container of pepperoni that was in your hands. It's a shock cause he never asked you to be his girl.

Carmy pauses and tenses up against you. "Uh, yes? Hold up. Turn around," he orders, as he places his hand on your hips to turn your body around.

"Yes, chef," you respond cheekily, your arms around his neck, careful not to touch his sweater with your messy hands.

"Aren't you my girl?" He frowns, rubbing a thumb over your hips.

"I could be, but I don't remember you asking," you pretend to think.

Carmy never directly asked you to be his girlfriend, and you never asked him to be your boyfriend. You might as well be a couple since you've been dating long enough. You decide to seize the opportunity now to get it out of him. Having a proper anniversary day would be nice because you hope this lasts.

"I see, my mistake," Carmy nods, catching your vibe, "Honey…"

"Yes, Carmy?" You blink innocently at him.

"Would you do me the honor of becoming my girlfriend?" He finally asks.

You could joke around but decided against it cause the moment is perfect, "I'd love to," you nod, giving him a small kiss.

When the pizza is cooked, you bring it over to the dining table. Serving Carmy a pretty slice. Excitedly, you wait for him to bite into it and taste it.

"What do you think?" You ask expectantly.

"You were right. Best pizza in Chicago," Carmy agrees with an unbelievable laugh. He's got a lot to learn from you. It's the truth, or maybe he's blinded by his feelings. Only time will tell where you and Carmy will end up.

The End?

thank you guys for pulling through and reading! i know it's a slow burn but i hope you liked it! i certainly enjoyed writing it even though it took me like 4 months.

if you liked it, i would appreciate you liking it, commenting or reblogging. if you have some feedback feel free to send it my way too. i wanna get better at this whole writing thing!

thank you! bye xx

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