nerawrites

[nerawrites]

Chapter 42: The funeral

Previous chapter | Next chapter

Ships: The Bear x Fem!oc

Warnings: cursing and angst

Masterlist

The restaurant didn’t feel dead.

It felt… sacred. Dim, reverent, touched by candlelight and the quiet clinking of glassware. The way a kitchen breathes its last — not with silence, but with whispers of legacy in every corner.

David and Alicia arrived early, both dressed in unrelenting black. She walked behind David, head down, her heels clicked on the stone floor—too loud, she thought. Too seen.

It was dumb.

She’d just taken the entire culinary world by storm, revealed herself as the long-rumored ghost of the line, and sent half the industry into an identity crisis. But here? At this table? With these people?

She felt twelve again.

Like she’d snuck into a grown-up dinner party and someone was going to ask her to bus tables any second.

He chose a table in the back, near the bar, dim enough to cloak her but close enough for David to be seen. She sat with her back to the crowd, angled slightly toward the wall where she was least likely to be seen. The agreement was unspoken, but understood: She appreciated that more than she could say.

The room buzzed with low conversation, but not a single head turned her way.

Not yet. Not obviously.

But she felt it.

That prickle.

Like her name—Lloris—was being whispered in four different corners. Like forks paused mid-bite when she breathed too loud. Like she was being remembered, re-evaluated, re-judged.

She hated it.

“You good?” David asked, sliding into his chair across from her, already scanning the room with that annoyingly smug expression of his.

“I feel like a zoo exhibit,” Alicia muttered.

“You are a zoo exhibit. You just lit the entire safari on fire and told everyone to clap.”

She gave him a look. “Not helping.”

“Look,” he said, glancing over his shoulder. “You don’t have to talk to anyone. You don’t have to do anything but sit here, look devastating, and eat the free food.”

“Devastating,” she repeated dryly. “Nice.”

“It’s the vibe. You’re mourning. Mysterious. Unapproachable. People love that shit.”

She exhaled, a sharp breath through the nose, trying not to fidget.

But it was hard.

She was used to kitchens. Chaos. Knives.

Not this. The performative quiet. The wine-glass clinking. The soft laughter of people who all knew each other.

People who’d shared awards, stages, old beef, exes, entire careers.

And her? She was the myth who made it real.

Now that she was here in the flesh, no one quite knew what to do with her.

David leaned forward slightly. “Want me to stay?”

She shook her head too fast, too grateful. “No. Go schmooze. Be a functioning adult or whatever.”

He gave her a once-over, deciding. “Don’t start a food fight while I’m gone.”

“No promises.”

With that, he slipped away into the crowd, arms already opening for a dramatic greeting from some food critic Alicia only vaguely hated.

She stayed. Alone.

Back to the room. Chin up. Heart hammering.

Because bold didn’t mean brave.

And even now, part of her still didn’t believe she deserved to be here.

But she was.

And no one could take that from her now.

Alicia told herself she was just stretching her legs.

Just getting a better look at the wine table.

Just… avoiding the fact that David was now deep in conversation with a food magazine editor whose entire vibe screamed “insufferable.”

So she wandered—slow, inconspicuous, gliding between clusters of guests like smoke. Eyes forward. Ears open.

She passed a table near the service entrance and paused.

Not because she meant to eavesdrop—never that—but because she heard something that made her ears perk up:

Luca.

“—told him to pull the duck off mid-fire and the idiot basted it in sherry vinegar instead of jus,” he was saying, low and incredulous.

“Oh my god,” came the voice of another chef. “What did you do?”

“What could I do?” Luca replied, dry. “I told him it tasted like foot and served it anyway. Call it rustic.”

The other chef barked a laugh.

Alicia, still half-tucked behind a decorative column, clamped a hand over her mouth to muffle a laugh of her own.

That accent. That particular flavor of ego-masked-as-honesty. She remembered it too well.

She leaned just slightly closer, amusement curling at the edge of her lips.

Until—

Another voice joined in. Familiar. Firm. All edge and observation.

“I don’t know, I’ve had your duck. It’s not that far off,” Sydney said coolly as she stepped into view.

Alicia’s whole body snapped back like she’d touched a burner.

Her pulse kicked up, fast. Not fear—just… surprise. Just not ready.

Sydney was standing with a glass of wine and that calm, calculating look she always wore when something interested her more than she wanted to admit. Luca greeted her with a smirk, and the three of them fell into easy conversation.

And Alicia?

Gone.

She was already retreating. Fast. Smooth.

Back through the crowd, dodging eye contact, feeling her shoulders burn beneath the weight of being recognized—even when no one was looking directly at her.

By the time she slid back into her seat at the far table, her face was blank again. Her fingers steady.

But inside?

A churn.

Because for one second, she’d let herself be part of the room.

And then she remembered exactly who she was to them now.

Cut to: Carmy

Carmy stared at his fork.

Not the plate. Not the food. Not even the person talking next to him. Just the fork. The tines caught the light a little too harshly.

He hadn’t slept well. Hadn’t really slept at all since New York.

Not since the award show.

Not since Lloris.

His tie was too tight. His shirt too crisp. Sydney had told him he looked good, but it felt like a costume. Like he’d borrowed someone else’s clothes just to show up.

He didn’t even know why he came.

He guessed it was out of respect. For Ever. For what it meant. For what it could’ve been if everything in him didn’t fall apart every time he got close to something like this.

David had waved at him when he came in, that polite nod of acknowledgment across the room. Carmy had nodded back. But his eyes kept drifting.

Now, at the table, Sydney was in full swing talking to Luca, who’d joined them. They were reminiscing about culinary school, something about lemon pith and a mold that refused to set.

Carmy tried to follow, really, but every few minutes his eyes slid away from them.

To the back of the room.

To the table where David sat.

To the woman across from him, her back turned.

Something in the shape of her shoulders felt familiar.

Carmy looked away.

Focus, he told himself.

Focus.

But the problem was—he hadn’t stopped thinking about Lloris. About the dishes. The notes. The final message.

He hadn’t stopped thinking about her being someone once in his life.

And maybe that’s why everything tonight felt heavy. Why the tribute speeches sounded like background noise. Why every dish tasted over-seasoned, even though it wasn’t.

He was zoning out again, and Sydney elbowed him gently.

“You good?” she asked, low enough that only he could hear.

Carmy blinked, nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, just tired.”

Sydney narrowed her eyes. “You always say that when you’re spiraling.”

Luca gave him a curious look too, like he was trying to read between the lines. Carmy just took another bite, chewed slowly, and told himself to stay present.

But across the room, David laughed again, and the woman with her back turned adjusted her jacket.

And something about the shape of her movement tugged at the corner of his mind.

Alicia feels sick.

Not in a dramatic, cinematic way—just the slow drift that happens when you were surrounded by people who all know each other and all probably hate you even though they don’t know you. Conversations blurred together into a low drone, laughter punctuating stories that had nothing to do with her.

She stared at her water glass, watching the condensation bead down to the linen. The flickering candle in the middle of the table kept catching her eye, a soft pulse of light like a metronome ticking just a little too slow.

Her head had started to tilt, her eyelids heavier than she realized—until David’s sudden, smug grin cut across her line of sight.

He looked like someone’s smug cat.

Alicia blinked, sitting up straighter. “Okay. What’s that face?”

David didn’t answer. Just kept chewing on his food like it was nothing while his gaze stayed locked across the room.

“You’re making your ‘I’m better than you and you know it’ face,” she said. “Who are you aiming it at?”

He still didn’t say anything, just sipped his wine and gave her a very calm, very annoying little shrug.

Before she could smack the answer out of him with her napkin, the lights dimmed slightly and the voice of Chef Andrea Terry, the woman of the hour, rose over the room.

Everyone turned.

“Thank you all for coming tonight,” Andrea said, her voice calm, confident, and laced with bittersweet warmth. “This place meant a lot to me. It meant a lot to a lot of us. Not because of the stars or the lists or the accolades—but because it was the first place we all got to say, out loud, ‘this is what we believe in.’ And because we had each other while we tried to prove it.”

The room softened. Some people clapped. Some raised glasses. A few choked up.

David clapped too, eyes shining a little, even if he was still probably mid-grudge match across the room.

Alicia just nodded along, respectful but detached.

Then came the next course—artful, delicate, something with nasturtium and foam that probably had six more components she didn’t care to dissect.

It was fine.

She was over it.

“I need a break,” Alicia muttered, pushing back her chair. “Smoke.”

David looked up. “You don’t smoke.”

“Exactly.”

She slipped out before he could follow up with a smartass remark, weaving through to make it to long hallway. It hit her face instantly—cool and clean feeling in contrast to the warm, fragrant chaos of the dining room.

She took a deep breath, letting the coldness of the hallway burn her lungs a little. No cigarette. Just a habit she picked up during her worst kitchens—step out the kitchen, stare at nothing, reset.

Behind her, she heard the heavy footsteps.

“Don’t say it,” she said without looking.

“I wasn’t going to,” David replied smoothly.

They stood in silence for a moment, in the middle of the hallway leaning side by side against the brick wall. The muffled thrum of laughter and cutlery drifted through the walls.

Alicia tilted her head up to the sky, blinking at the streetlamp halo.

“I hate dinner parties like this,” she finally muttered. “Everyone knows each other and acts like I’m despicable for coming.”

David smirked. “You’ll be fine. You’re just allergic to pretension unless it’s your own.”

Alicia made a face. “That’s fair.”

Alicia finally moved past the entrance door going outside before she added, “So who were you making faces at?”

But when she turned her head—

David was gone.

The door was still slightly ajar.

Alicia straightened, puzzled, stepping closer to peek through the doorway.

“David?”

Nothing.

But she hears a familiar voice….

“Chef”

She froze.

And for the first time in a long time… she never thought she would hear it again.

Carmy wasn’t listening.

Not to the laughter, the clinking of wine glasses, or the nostalgic ramblings of chefs drunk on memory and aged pinot. Everyone at the table was swapping stories—first burns, worst bosses, most humiliating rushes—and he was just… staring.

Not at his plate. Not at Sydney. Not at Luca.

But across the room, at him.

Chef David.

Perfect posture, clean lines, same dead-eyed intensity he’d had back when Carmy worked under him. Nothing had changed. Not his suit, not the way he moved like he was already five steps ahead of everyone else in the room. Still gliding around like a phantom that could taste a mistake in the air before it happened.

He hadn’t aged. Or maybe he had. But it didn’t matter—he still looked untouchable.

Carmy’s jaw clenched, fork untouched beside him.

“You good?” Sydney asked, nudging his elbow gently.

Carmy didn’t answer.

Luca leaned in from the other side. “Mate. You’re burning a hole through him.”

Carmy exhaled, jaw twitching. “You know who that is?”

Both of them looked across the room. David, talking to a small group, sipping wine like he didn’t ruin people for sport.

Luca snorted. “Yeah. He’s a dickhead.”

Sydney frowned. “That’s Chef David? The one we shall not names friend David?”

Carmy nodded. Then, after a pause:

“He’s the fucking worst… and one of the best chefs in the world.”

“Total prick.”

“Fuck face.”

“Bastard made me probably and very mentally ill.”

“Dead inside. Cold. Never turns it off.”

“He accomplishes more by 10 AM than most people do in a lifetime.”

“I don’t think he eats. I don’t think he sleeps. And it’s hard to believe he loves.”

“…And he is getting up.”

Carmy didn’t even notice the familiar figure sitting in front of David. All he saw was David rising from his chair, effortless as always, excusing himself from the table like he owned the room.

Carmy’s chair scraped loudly against the floor as he stood.

“Carmy—what are you doing?” Sydney hissed, grabbing his sleeve.

“Don’t,” Luca warned. “Don’t go over there. It’s not worth it.”

But Carmy was already walking.

Like muscle memory.

Like gravity.

Luca cursed and got up, following a few steps behind, blending into the edge of the hallway.

Carmy caught David by the entrance to the back corridor, just before he disappeared around the corner.

“Chef?,” Carmy called, low and sharp.

David turned, not surprised.

Carmy stepped forward.

Luca stopped, halfway in shadow, not ready to intervene—yet.

The hallway dimmed behind them.

Alicia didn’t know what else to do but listen.

The hallway was colder than it had any right to be. She had meant to sneak a cigarette and return before dessert was cleared, but now her back was to the wall, arms folded, listening.

“Hi. How you doing, Bergazzo?”

David’s voice was dry, amused.

Carmy laughed. Not out of humor—disbelief.

The moment swelled with something ugly and quiet.

“I always wondered what I’d say to you if I got to see you again.”

His voice was steady, but he was already coming apart at the edges.

David nodded. “Okay. Let’s have it.”

“After ‘fuck you’? I don’t… I don’t have much.”

David blinked, almost impressed. “Fuck me?”

“Yeah, that’s right.”

“For anything in particular?”

“No. Just genuinely being you, I think. Yeah.”

David smirked. “Got it. Well, this has been nice.” He turned like he was about to leave. About to walk toward her.

Carmy cut in again.

“I think about you too much.”

David stopped. “I don’t think about you.”

That hit something sharp in the center of Carmy’s chest.

“Why are you such an asshole?”

David turned, leaned against the wall, almost relaxed. “How am I an asshole?”

“Do you have half an hour?”

David tilted his head. “You’re welcome.”

Carmy blinked. “For what?”

“You were an okay chef when you started with me. You left an excellent chef. So you’re welcome.”

Carmy’s body was tight. His jaw, clenched. His fingers were twitching like he needed something to hold onto.

“You gave me ulcers. And attacks. And nightmares. You—you know that, right?”

David shrugged. “I made you who you are. And guess what? It worked.”

Carmy started shaking.

“My life stopped.”

David just looked at him. “Okay.”

“Okay?!”

“You wanted to be the best. So you let everything go. Got focused. Got excellent. It worked. Look where you are right now.” He straightened, rolling his shoulders back. “I’m gonna go take a smoke break.”

And with that, David turned and headed deeper into the hallway.

He didn’t expect to see Alicia.

But there she was.

Leaning against the doorframe, unreadable.

He blinked. “Eavesdropping?”

“Didn’t have to. You’re both loud.”

They walked side by side for a moment, the hallway narrowing around them.

“He’s not wrong about everything,” Alicia said, quietly.

David scoffed. “He’s also not exactly the picture of stability.”

“Sure. But you’re wrong too.”

“How generous of you.”

They reached the the middle of the hallway, closer to where David and carmy where before, the noise of the dining room echoing in the distance.

“Anyway,” David said, smirking as they walked, “I still think it’s hilarious how everyone here just whispers about what you did these last couple of weeks but still wont go up to you.”

Alicia rolled her eyes. “Oh yes, David—I'm the talk of the town. Mysterious ghost came to life”” Her voice dripped with exaggeration.

David snorted. “Alright, relax, Alicia.”

Alicia shot him a look and spoke mockingly . “I actually exclusively only go by Lloris now since you know I'm such a big deal.”

Laughter erupted between the two, and then—

“What.”

Voices.

From behind them.

Both of them froze.

David turned slowly. Alicia’s heart thudded.

Carmy and Luca.

Both Standing a few feet behind them, expression somewhere between confusion and disbelief.

A/N

Y’all im so sorry for the delay. I literally have refused to watch the new season until I finished.

ALSO pls let me know if you want to be included for the taglist!!!

Taglist:

@eugene-emt-roe

[nerawrites]

Chapter 41: Funeral Fits & Emotional Damage

Previous chapter | Next chapter

Ships:David x Fem!oc (platonic)

Warnings: talk about the past

Masterlist

Alicia stared at herself in the full-length mirror of a boutique that smelled aggressively of money and essential oils.

“Okay but… do I look like I’m mourning a restaurant or seducing the ghost of Escoffier?”

David squinted, arms crossed like a fashion judge on a cooking show. “You look like a haunted bottle of Amaro. Which… is actually the vibe.”

Alicia rolled her eyes and spun to face him. “I liked the first dress better.”

David scoffed. “No. That one made you look like you were doing performance art about tax evasion.”

She groaned. “It was comfortable, though.”

David stepped forward, tugging at the lapel of the structured black blazer she was wearing now. “No. This is the one. This is mysterious. Elegant. Slightly threatening. My plus one has to look good, especially when she’s been the evil bitch making the culinary world go haywire.”

Alicia narrowed her eyes. “Why do I feel like you’ve always secretly wanted to dress a Bond villain?”

“Because I have,” David said. “And now I’m living the dream.”

She turned back to the mirror, taking it in again. All black, tailored to hell, with sharp shoulders and soft lines that walked the edge of masculine and feminine. It was… strong. It felt like armor. The good kind.

“Okay,” she said, softer. “Yeah. This is the one.”

David watched her for a moment, then nodded.

“You know,” Alicia added, fiddling with one of the buttons. “My style used to be… awful.”

“Oh, I know,” he said immediately. “I’ve seen the photos.”

She gave him a shove. “No, like. Before I went to Chicago. I just didn’t give a shit. I was always in frumpy clothes, bad sneakers, like I was trying to disappear into my walk-in fridge.”

“Sounds emo.”

“It was. Emotionally crunchy,” she said with a grin. “But after everything blew up—when I dropped the name and started over—I guess I cared a little more. Not just about clothes, about… being seen.”

David nodded slowly. “And then you met Carmy.”

Alicia laughed, dry and quiet. “Yeah. Then I met Carmy.”

“Ah,” David said. “So that’s when you upgraded from ‘haunted fridge goblin’ to ‘sexy knife cryptid.’”

“I wouldn’t say all that.”

She leaned against the mirror now, letting out a breath. “He never said anything, but I think I started dressing better around him. Just a little. Not even for him, really. Just… around him, I started noticing myself more.”

David’s voice was lighter again. “And now look at you. High-fashion chef-ghost. Devourer of egos. Destroyer of Michelin dreams.”

Alicia smiled. “Thanks, Dad.”

“I’m not old enough to be your—okay, you know what? Fine. Yes. I’m proud of you, sweetie.”

They both laughed again, and the tension melted away a little.

They paid for the outfit—David insisting on covering it as part of her “appearance fee”—and left the boutique with two bags, an espresso each, and a level of petty energy that could crack the Michelin Guide in half.

“You ready to bury Ever?” David asked as they walked back toward the hotel.

Alicia pulled on her sunglasses like a movie villain. “Let’s go mourn some fine dining.”

Taglist:

@eugene-emt-roe

[nerawrites]

Chapter 40: Show Time

Previous chapter | Next chapter

Ships: The Bear x Fem!oc

Warnings: cursing

Masterlist

The ballroom was buzzing, filled with the weight of nerves and exhaustion. Every competitor sat at round tables, tuxedos rumpled, chef jackets loosened, hands fidgeting with napkins or glasses of water.

In a strange stroke of fate—or maybe just some producer’s twisted idea of drama—The Bear and Noma’s teams had been seated together.

Luca caught Carmy’s eye across the table first, offering a small nod. Carmy nodded back, tight, but genuine.

Richie leaned over to Marcus, whispering, “Should we like…start shit or what?”

Marcus elbowed him, grinning. “Shut up, man. Be cool.”

Tina, who had somehow ended up next to one of Luca’s sous-chefs, broke the ice first. “Y’all cook anything that didn’t make you wanna cry?”

The Noma sous-chef barked a laugh. “Maybe. Crying’s part of the game though, innit?”

Sydney cracked a small smile, sitting back, finally letting herself relax for half a second.

Luca leaned slightly toward Carmy and said, “You pulled a fucking shift drink course?”

Carmy shrugged like it was obvious. “We needed it. You?”

“Overthought it,” Luca admitted with a wry smile. “Twice.”

The Bear crew laughed, a low ripple of tension breaking.

“Same here, chef,” Marcus said, grinning. “We had like six panic moments.”

Across the table, Luca’s pastry chef nodded solemnly. “I cried in a walk-in. No shame.”

Tina raised her glass. “To crying in the walk-in.”

They all clinked.

It was…oddly peaceful.

These were supposed to be competitors. But tonight? After what they’d all just pushed through?

They were all just survivors of the same war.

Sydney looked around and realized for the first time—no one at this table cared who won in the way the media or the fans cared.

They knew what it took to even get here.

She let herself breathe.

For a second.

Until—

The lights dimmed.

The murmuring stopped.

A booming voice came over the speakers.

“And now…the results of this year’s Culinary Vanguard Awards…”

Every muscle at that table tensed instantly.

Tina muttered under her breath, crossing herself.

Richie grinned wildly like he was about to fight someone.

Marcus closed his eyes.

Carmy leaned forward, elbows on the table, jaw tight.

Luca sat back, arms crossed—but his knee was bouncing under the table.

They all waited. Breathless.

The whole room crackled with electricity.

Because no matter how much they joked, no matter how much they understood the bigger picture…

They wanted it.

Bad.

The voice continued.

“In third place… Noma.”

Luca blinked, then exhaled softly. Around him, his team instantly straightened in surprise—then stood, applause breaking out. Luca gave a small, almost sheepish grin, shook his head, and led his crew to the stage.

There were claps, murmurs of respect. Carmy nodded up at him as Luca passed, and Luca gave a light pat on his shoulder in return.

They climbed the steps to accept their bronze award, standing tall under the lights.

Sydney whispered to Marcus, “If that’s third…”

Marcus just shook his head, already breathless.

The announcer continued.

“In second place… The Bear.”

The table exploded.

“Let’s fucking GO!” Richie yelled, nearly flipping his chair. Tina whooped loud enough to startle two tables over.

Carmy looked stunned for half a second before the adrenaline kicked in, and he stood with the others, clapping Sydney hard on the back.

They walked up together. One tight unit.

The applause followed them—maybe louder than for third. Maybe just as loud as what was coming next. The industry had been watching them. And somehow, against all odds and chaos and breakdowns… they’d made it.

Onstage, the Bear stood next to Noma, two worlds colliding in the spotlight.

But the air shifted.

The whole room leaned in.

The screen behind the stage flared to life with a clean, serif font.

“And the first place winner of the Culinary Vanguard Competition is…”

Pause.

“Lloris.”

The entire room erupted.

Except… no one moved.

The Bear and Noma crews looked around.

The stage stayed empty.

No one came forward.

Until—David stepped out from the wings, dressed clean in black, envelope in hand. He approached the mic.

“So sorry she couldn’t be here tonight,” he said simply, voice steady. “But I am sure this video will sufise.”

Behind him, the screen changed again.

And then…

The film began.

A plane kitchen background; the same one they worked in.

Delicate hands appeared on the screen moving violently fast yet seemingly graceful. This seemed familiar… too familiar. Then the camera zoomed out on who the hands belong to.

And like a universal thought almost like you can hear it. “Fuck”

Course I: First Burn

Charred onion consommé, scorched cream, sourdough ash crumble.

Interviewer: “Can you tell us what this one means to you?”

Lloris:“First time I got screamed at on the line, I burned the onions. Though it meant I wasn’t cut out for this. Turns out—I just needed to burn better.”

Course II: Family Meal

A refined arroz con pollo: crisp skin, saffron rice, chili, umami broth.

Lloris: “She taught me to salt with my fingers. Said spoons don’t know what food needs,” Alicia said, mostly to the dish, not the crew.

Interviewer: “Are you referring to a mentor?”

Lloris:“No,my grandmother.”

Course III: Silence Service

Beet tartare, horseradish, black vinegar gel, seared T-bone.

Lloris: “Silence can be armor… Or it can be a weapon.”

Course IV: The Note

Interviewer:“Do you want to explain this one?”

Lloris: “It speaks for itself.”

Course V: Reckoning

Pickled pears, fermented chili, bitter greens, citrus blast.

Lloris:“It’s not supposed to comfort you,”

Interviewer: “What’s it supposed to do?”

Lloris:“Remind you I’m here.”

Course VI: Home, Eventually

Cornbread custard, corn gel, smoked butter ice cream.

Interviewer: “It’s sweet,”

Lloris:“Yeah. It’s not sorry about it, either.”

Course VII: Still Here

The last plate was a storm of movement. Nothing about it clean. Everything about it is intentional.

Interviewer:“Final course, what’s it called?”

Lloris:“Still Here.”

Each note she had sent—the funny, the cruel, the sharp.

Every dish a part of a story.

Luca stared up at the screen, jaw tight.

Carmy had stopped breathing.

Sydney was leaning forward, her face unreadable.

The rest on stage just blinked, stunned.

The final course:

Still Here.

Then…

Like a cruel ending the camera moves to Alicia’s face smiling.

Lloris: “Thank you for playing.”

Applause broke out slowly—awkward at first. Then louder.

Then, almost reluctantly, sincere.

They had all just been played.

But it was undeniable:

They had also just witnessed genius and betrayal.

The night bled out into soft murmurs and dazed laughter as the hall emptied.

The Bear and Noma crews lingered near the lobby, still stunned, still trying to make sense of what had just happened.

“I mean…” Sydney started, pacing a little in front of Marcus and Tina, “we thought we were feuding. We thought we were playing some kind of mind game.”

Marcus rubbed the back of his neck. “Turns out, we were getting hustled the whole time by one of our own.”

Richie barked a laugh. “She had us chasing our tails while she was stacking wins.”

Luca crossed his arms, nodding thoughtfully. “Every move we made… she was already two ahead.”

“She knew exactly what we’d focus on,” Carmy said, voice low, almost admiring and pissed all at once. “She wanted us distracted. And it fucking worked.”

Tina chuckled, nudging Marcus. “She even got you with that fancy plated ‘you suck’ note.”

Marcus groaned. “Man, I thought I was doing something.”

They all shared a tired, grudging laugh.

For a moment, there was no competition between them—just silence. Maybe it was the exhaustion bubbling over too much to give a genuine reaction.

Luca sighed and pushed off the wall. “Well. We got played.”

“Hard,” Sydney muttered.

Everyone slowly peeled away, heading for the shuttles to their hotels, dragging their luggage behind them, the high of the competition bleeding into exhaustion.

The Bear crew got their keys, muttering goodnights as they stumbled to their designated rooms.

Carmy opened his door first.

And froze.

Sitting neatly on the hotel bed was a photo. A printed picture from the award show, glossy and crisp, showing him and the rest of the team standing on stage with their second-place plaques.

And across the bottom corner—

A perfect lipstick kiss mark.

He stared at it, jaw tightening.

Across the hall, Marcus swore out loud.

Sydney’s door opened fast. “WHAT THE FUCK.”

Tina laughed from her room. “Yo! Same!”

Richie stepped out, waving his copy. “She’s taunting us now! She’s still playing the game!”

Ebra just shook his head, muttering something under his breath in Arabic about cursed women.

Down the hall, Luca opened his door too—and sure enough, there it was. His team’s photo. Kiss mark.

He smirked, exhausted and amused all at once.

“That crazy woman,” he murmured.

The night settled into tired, baffled silence.

Everyone tucked their photos away, not sure whether to be flattered, pissed, or both.

The competition was over.

The game, though?

Who knows if itreally ended.

Somewhere else…

Alicia slammed the door of the cab shut and blinked up at the faded neon sign of the same shitty bar from her first New York trip.

“Seriously?” she muttered.

David was already leaning against the wall by the entrance, nursing a beer and looking way too smug.

“You couldn’t find a new depressing bar?” Alicia called out as she walked up.

David just grinned. “Nostalgia, baby.”

They pushed through the door, and were immediately assaulted by the same sticky floor, questionable jukebox, and an old man at the bar who might’ve actually been fossilizing in real-time.

They snagged a booth in the back, same as last time.

The second Alicia sat down, she pointed at David. “You’re paying. I’m a celebrity now.”

David snorted into his beer. “You’ve been a celebrity. People just got to see your face.”

“Still kind of wish I waited a tad longer ,” she said, kicking her feet up onto the booth seat. “A couple have haunted people and avoided taxes.”

A server dropped two beers at their table without even asking. Apparently, they remembered Alicia.

David lifted his glass. “To chaos.”

Alicia clinked her beer against his. “To scaring chefs so bad they probably have a therapy group chat about it.”

They laughed, letting it roll out in the grimy, dim bar.

For a moment, it was good. Easy. Like it had been before everything had gotten…big.

But eventually, David leaned back, growing a little quieter.

“So, listen,” he said, tracing the rim of his glass. “You know Ever, right?”

Alicia nodded. “The fancy restaurant. Like, the fancy restaurant. Why?”

David exhaled. “They’re closing.”

She blinked. “Wait, what? Why? That place was like…the Holy Grail.”

He nodded. “Exactly. Which is why they’re throwing a funeral for it. Like, a real one. Suits, speeches, the whole mourning-the-death-of-fine-dining bullshit.”

Alicia raised an eyebrow. “So, naturally, you’re dragging me to this nightmare.”

“You’re my plus one,” David said brightly. “Mandatory. No backsies.”

“Jesus,” Alicia groaned, banging her head lightly against the booth wall. “Are you at least gonna tell me who’s gonna be there?”

“Nope,” he said, looking obnoxiously pleased with himself. “You’ll find out when we get there.”

“David. DAVID.”

He grinned wider.

“You’re an asshole,” she said, but she was already laughing.

“It’s in a couple days,” he said. “Pack something black, dramatic, maybe slightly terrifying. Y’know. Honor the occasion wait no— I’ll just dress you myself.”

Alicia sighed dramatically. “I’m gonna get hate-crimed by Michelin chefs.”

“Good,” David said. “You probably deserve it.”

They ordered more drinks, arguing loudly over who was more emotionally damaged (David, obviously), the bar’s ancient jukebox played some tragic country song from the 80s, and for a few more hours, the world outside—the fame, the tension, the looming funeral—stayed blissfully out of reach.

A/n

So sorry for the late comeback. Like was hitting me hard.

Taglist:

@eugene-emt-roe

[nerawrites]

he just does something to me

[nerawrites]

Chapter 39: In The Quiet

Previous chapter | Next chapter

Ships: Carmy x Fem!oc

Warnings: situationship

Masterlist

It started in sleep.

Alicia didn’t realize she was dreaming at first, it felt too familiar. The kind of memory you don’t revisit on purpose. She stood inside it, watching herself move through all the in-between moments. No clear beginning. Just the middle of something that used to matter.

It was never loud between them.

Alicia had learned that early. This thing between her and Carmy—whatever it was—existed in the quiet margins: in corners of walk-ins, in long silences after service, in texts left on read but still answered through action. They weren’t new anymore. But they weren’t steady either.

They moved through each other’s lives like smoke—visible, undeniable, but never something you could hold.

She came over without warning.

Carmy didn’t say hi just slid the oven mitt off her hand when she reached for a pan and muttered, “Too hot.”

His fingers lingered on hers for a second too long.

She stayed until sunrise. Neither of them brought it up the next day.

Alicia—dream Alicia—watched it like a film she knew the ending to. Like a woman sitting in the back row of her own past.

They had rhythm once. A kind of quiet language in the kitchen: half sentences, unfinished jokes, unspoken trust.

They lived in the hush of what couldn’t be said out loud.

Then the shift.

Carmy started pulling away.

Stopped answering texts the same way.

He’d still brush past her in the kitchen, sometimes still reach for her hand without thinking, but he didn’t linger.

In the dream, Alicia felt that ache bloom again, but distant now. Like remembering pain through a window.

She saw herself biting into a lemon tart left anonymously in her locker.

No note. Just a soft crust, almond cream, and a silence that felt like an apology.

It had meant something once.

Now?

She couldn’t remember why it ever made her cry.

Dream-Alicia watched the tension in the kitchen as she recalled a short memory from the day she came back from New York.

He slammed the fridge too hard.

She threw a spoon—not at him, but close enough.

Neither of them said sorry.

Later, he stocked her favorite tea in the pantry.

Quiet peace offering. Quiet surrender.

She used to think that was love.

But now?

Lying in bed, just barely surfacing from sleep, Alicia realized something she hadn’t let herself think before:

She didn’t feel like that anymore.

Not about him.

The softness she used to hold for Carmy had faded, dulled down by time and truth. There had to be a slight anger and bitterness. There was no way there wasn’t because what else would be the reason for her actions after she found out he was in the competition.

The silence they built everything on?

It wasn’t peace.

It was the sound of something dying too slowly to notice.

Taglist:

@eugene-emt-roe

[nerawrites]

No other story will fill hear pr like this one did.

The Recipe for Remembering

The Bear AU (Part Sixteen - Last Chapter)

Here to my masterlist!

Pairing: Carmen x Fem! Reader

CW: language, NSFW 18+

Summary: It's the final chapter of this love story!

A/N: I honestly don’t even know where to start… Just thank you. Truly. If you’ve made it all the way here, thank you for sticking with this story — it’s been such a ride, and I’ve loved every second of it. Your support, your messages, your excitement... it’s what kept me going. I’ve felt so inspired and so motivated to tell their story because of you. 🥺 I can only hope this final chapter gives you the closure you deserve — something soft, something full of love. Please let me know what you think; I’d love to hear your thoughts. 💛

Audio Recording — September 3rd  “Okay. It’s… September. Still warm out. Carmen’s in the kitchen, barefoot, making pancakes even though we were supposed to skip breakfast and go out. I think he’s doing it just because he knows I love how the apartment smells after he cooks. I’m recording this because—well, just in case. In case my brain decides to do something dumb again. So I can remind myself. Right now, I’m happy. He makes me happy. I feel safe, and grounded, and weirdly new. But not empty-new. Like I get to be full again, just slowly. With him.” 

After that night in her apartment, they didn’t go back. They didn’t undo anything. Instead, they moved forward—messy, deliberate, hopeful. 

They didn’t talk about the “what ifs” much. Carmen didn’t ask if she remembered anything else, and Y/N stopped pretending she was supposed to. What mattered more were the new habits they built. Morning coffee with music instead of news. Her hands on his back as he cooked. His forehead kisses before she left for her culinary classes—because yeah, she’d signed up for a few to step up her game. Quietly, determinedly. She didn’t want to just remember how it used to be—she wanted to live it. 

And Carmen was learning too. Relearning, actually. Because Y/N wasn’t exactly the same. There were pieces of her now that surprised him—quiet rebellions and subtle softnesses he didn’t remember. Like how she started sleeping with the window cracked open, even in the cold, claiming she needed to hear the city breathing. Or how she suddenly got really into old vinyl records, letting entire albums play out as she cooked or showered, singing along off-key without shame. Or how she cried once, not out of sadness, but because someone gifted her a book she used to love and she didn’t remember the story—only the way the cover felt in her hands. 

It knocked the air out of him, all of it. The wonder. The strangeness. The tenderness. He knew her inside out once. And now he was falling in love all over again—with someone familiar, and still completely new. 

They kept building from there. 

Within a month after their first night Y/N finally moved in with him. Living together settled into a rhythm surprisingly fast. Mornings meant Carmen pressing a coffee mug into her hand before either of them spoke. She liked to sit on the floor near the window, writing in her notebook, scribbling ideas, observations, questions. He’d quietly start breakfast, sometimes asking her to taste a sauce or smell an herb—just to keep her sharp, he said. 

They went to the farmer’s market most weekends. Carmen made it a ritual—walking beside her with canvas bags slung over his shoulder, letting her pick peaches and taste tomatoes off a stall. Sometimes, they’d split a pastry and sit on a bench in silence. Other times, she’d drag him into a deep dive about produce sourcing or seasonal menus, and he’d just listen, eyes on her mouth, nodding. 

The nights that they didn't need to work were sacred. No phones, no talk about schedules unless necessary. Just books, movies, slow dinners. Sometimes they danced in the living room, more because she kind of forced him to. Sometimes they said nothing and just laid tangled up on the couch.  

Carmen had made a vow—silent but sure—not to miss a second. Not anymore. 

Audio Recording — October 12th  “We moved in together last month. I didn’t freak out. I thought I might. Thought it would feel too fast. But it doesn’t. Not with him. We folded my clothes into his drawers and made fun of how many jeans he owns. I kept all of my spices—even the ones he says are redundant. It’s ours now, this space. I can feel it.” 

---- 

It happened on a Wednesday. The kind of evening where the city felt hushed but not quiet—horns in the distance, someone’s music echoing faintly through an open window, the clink of silverware against ceramic. 

Their apartment was a mess. Half-unpacked boxes still lined the walls. There was a pile of clean laundry on the couch, not folded, just… there. Carmen had kicked off his shoes but left them in the middle of the hallway. A pan sat in the sink, soaking. 

Y/N stood barefoot in the kitchen, hair up, wearing one of his old sweatshirts that hung off her shoulder. She was trying to light a candle but the lighter kept giving out. Carmen watched from the doorway, arms crossed, tired and full in the same breath. 

“Lighter’s dead,” she muttered. 

He stepped forward, took it from her hand gently, flicked it twice until the flame caught, and lit the candle. 

“That’s because you don’t talk to it nice,” he said. 

She rolled her eyes. “You’re such a dork.” 

They stood there for a second in the amber glow. She leaned back against the counter. He didn’t move. Just looked at her. Hair frizzed from humidity. Eyes soft. Skin glowing like she'd absorbed the light. 

“What?” she asked, tilting her head. 

“Nothing. Just…” He reached up to push her hair behind her ear. “You are really here.” 

She blinked. “That’s a weird thing to say.” 

“You know what I mean.” 

She did. The candle flickered. The apartment was still a mess. And yet—there was this stillness between them, like they’d finally landed somewhere that held. 

Y/N let out a breath, almost a laugh. Then she said it. Like it had been sitting on her tongue for weeks, waiting for the right kind of quiet. 

“I love you.” 

Carmen’s eyes flicked up fast, but he didn’t speak. He just looked at her, and she could see it—all of it—in his expression. The rush. The ache. The relief. 

“I don’t know how many times I said it before,” she added, voice a little smaller now. “Before the accident, I mean. I don’t know if I ever got it right. But I—” She exhaled. “I feel it now. More than ever.” 

Carmen stepped in close. His hand rested low on her back, thumb tracing lazy circles. “You’ve said it before. A thousand times.” He smiled, a little breathless. “Still never enough.” 

She smiled. 

“Say it again.” 

“I love you, Carmen.” 

He kissed her like the words were a promise. Like hearing them now, in this new version of them, meant they’d been found again. Even better. 

And the crew got to know about them during their housewarming party. 

It wasn’t planned. They hadn’t rehearsed a speech or anything. It just happened—like everything else had between them lately—organic, inevitable. The apartment smelled like roasted garlic and warm bread, the air buzzing with conversation and clinking bottles. The lights were dim, music low, and almost everyone from The Bear was there. Even Sydney. 

She clocked it first. One look at the way Carmen’s hand settled low on Y/N’s back, fingers curling in without hesitation, and she raised an eyebrow. Didn’t say a word—just smirked like she’d known since day one. 

Richie, on the other hand, nearly dropped his beer. "Whoa, whoa, whoa—what the fuck is this?" he blurted, pointing between them. "You two? Seriously? Since when?" 

Carmen slid a glance at Y/N before nodding. "Yeah. We’re together... Since Milan." 

Fak let out a triumphant cheer. “I knew it! You had that ‘I’m-seeing-God-daily’ look, Carmy!” 

Laughter rippled through the room. Natalie smiled slowly, moving in to hug Y/N first, then Carmen. “It’s about time,” she said. “I’m happy for you. Both of you.” 

And just like that, it wasn’t weird. It wasn’t dramatic. Just one of those truths that had been waiting for everyone else to catch up to. 

The apartment filled with warmth and clatter, Fak refilling drinks and Tina dancing in the kitchen with Sugar. At one point, Carmen leaned against the counter, beer in hand, watching Y/N laugh with Ebra and Tina, her face flushed, happy. His expression softened into something unguarded. Like he’d finally found the missing step in a dance he’d been doing blind. 

She was at The Bear every day, stepped back into the kitchen as chef de cuisine. It wasn’t easy. The instincts were still there, deep in her bones, but the memory gaps made certain things harder—timing, sequencing, little tricks she used to pull off without thinking. 

She didn’t let it stop her. 

Instead, she studied harder. Took night courses. Watched tutorials on her phone between prep and service. Asked questions, even when it embarrassed her. She was determined to earn her place again—not because anyone doubted her, but because she refused to coast on who she used to be. 

Carmen helped without overstepping. Reviewed her notes with her at night, sent her old recipes they’d developed together. Pulled her aside during service when she looked overwhelmed, just to ask, “You good?” and give her a second to breathe. He didn’t think she needed to improve—didn’t want her to chase some ghost version of herself—but he understood why she had to try. 

And every time she held the line, ran a smooth service, or improvised something brilliant, it showed. She was building herself back—not into who she was, but into someone stronger. 

---- 

Audio Recording — November 9th  

“Today’s the day. Big family party. Cicero’s birthday. Which means—yeah—I’m meeting Carmen’s mom. He didn’t even want to go, honestly. Said it’d be loud, weird, ‘not fun for anyone involved.’ But I told him I wanted to meet her. That I could handle it. So now I’m dressed like I’m going to war with lasagna and emotional landmines. He’s nervous. Keeps pretending he’s not, but he’s been pacing all morning. I think he’s scared she’ll say something cruel or… or just be her. But I want to see this part of his world. Even the hard parts. Especially the hard parts.” 

The Cicero house was packed—heat rolling off the oven and from the too-many bodies in the kitchen. Music played too loud in the background. Kids screamed in the hallway. Someone dropped a fork and it clattered like a gunshot. 

Carmen stood stiff near the kitchen doorway, one hand around a sweating glass of club soda, the other resting on the small of Y/N’s back. He hadn’t let go since they arrived. 

Y/N could feel how tight he was wound. Every muscle in him pulled taut like he expected the ceiling to cave in. 

“Relax, Bear,” she whispered, nudging him gently. “It’s just family.” 

He didn’t answer, just gave her a look like you don’t know what that word means here. 

And then—her. Donna. 

She moved through the dining room like she still owned it, cigarette smoke clinging to her perfume, eyes sharp even before the first glass of wine. Her gaze locked on Carmen instantly.  

“My baby boy,” Donna announced, arms open, voice already carrying a hint of performance. “Look at you.” 

Carmen managed a smile—brief, tight. “Hi, Ma.” 

She kissed his cheek, then turned to Y/N, giving her a slow once-over. 

“And you must be the new girl.” Not her name. Not his girlfriend. Just the new girl. 

Y/N didn’t flinch. She smiled, polite but unbothered. “Hi. I’m Y/N.” 

Donna’s expression didn’t change. “Wait, what happened to the doctor... What was her name again?” 

“Claire,” Y/N said evenly. “That was the last one. Not in the picture anymore.” 

There was a flicker—just a flicker—of surprise in Donna’s eyes before she glanced her over. 

“I hear you cook,” she said. “That true?” 

“I do. Not like Carmen, but yeah.” 

Donna’s smile curved in a way that didn’t reach her eyes. “Mmh. Just don’t let him get too distracted, sweetheart. Restaurant’s hard enough without love lives dragging it down.” 

Natalie, standing by the drinks, went rigid. 

Carmen glanced between them, jaw tight. “Ma, don’t—” 

“It’s a joke,” Donna said, waving him off with a too-casual flick of her hand. “Jesus, don’t be so sensitive, Carmen.” 

Y/N didn’t blink. Instead, she reached for one of the dishes laid out on the buffet—a glass bowl of pasta salad, bright with lemon and red onion, clearly homemade. 

“This yours?” she asked, scooping a little onto her plate. “Smells amazing.” 

Donna blinked, caught off guard. “Yeah.” 

Y/N took a bite, nodded thoughtfully. “Carmen actually showed me your recipe once. I’ve been dying to try it from the source.” 

Donna blinked again. “Did he?” 

“Yeah, we even talked about maybe—if you’d be okay with it—incorporating it into a Sunday special at the restaurant. Something simple. Personal.” 

Donna’s brows lifted, arms folding like she wasn’t sure whether to be annoyed or pleased. “To me you haven’t said anything yet, Carmen.” 

Y/N glanced at him. His shoulders were drawn tight, like he was bracing for impact. 

So she smiled again, turning back to Donna. 

“Well, then maybe tonight’s the night,” she said lightly. “I’d love to hear what you think we should tweak. Honestly, Carmen thinks it needs less lemon—but I say that’s what makes it yours.” 

There was a pause. Not a silence—people still moved around them, music played low, silver clinked against plates. But the air shifted. 

Donna’s face didn’t soften exactly. But the sharp edge in her expression dulled just slightly. Her gaze dropped to Y/N’s plate. Then back up. 

“Hmph,” she said. “Well, it’s not the real version unless you make it with that shitty old Pyrex I used. Glass gets too cold otherwise.” 

Y/N smiled. “Good to know. You still have it?” 

Donna narrowed her eyes. “Of course I do. What, you think I throw things out?” 

“I’d love to borrow it,” Y/N said, calm and sincere. “Might make all the difference.” 

For the first time, Donna let out something close to a laugh. Short, dry. But not cruel. 

Carmen, still watching, exhaled slowly—almost silently—but Y/N caught it. And so did Natalie, across the room, her shoulders finally dropping as she turned back toward the drinks. 

Donna shook her head, muttering something under her breath that almost sounded like, Jesus, she’s good. Then, louder, “Well. Let’s eat before everything dries out.” 

And just like that, she moved on, calling someone’s name in the other room. 

Carmen didn’t move. Just stood there, watching like the air had shifted and he was still catching up to it. 

Y/N leaned in slightly, voice low. “You okay?” 

He nodded, once. Then again, slower. “Yeah. Just…” His eyes flicked to hers, like he couldn’t quite believe what he’d just seen. “You’re kind of unbelievable.” 

Y/N smiled, bumping his arm with her shoulder. “Told you I could handle it.” 

He let out a breath, finally. It sounded like the first real one in minutes. 

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “I think she likes you.” 

Y/N looked over to where Donna was now holding court with two distant cousins and a half-full glass of wine. “Let’s not go that far,” she said, grinning. “But I’ll take ‘not openly hostile.’” 

---- 

Later that night, the party was long behind them. The apartment was quiet, the hum of the city muted behind shut windows, the only light coming from a flickering streetlamp across the street. Inside, all that could be heard were their ragged breaths, the creak of the bed, the wet sound of skin on skin. 

Y/N lay flat on her stomach, hips lifted just enough to let him move, legs parted and trembling beneath him. Carmen hovered over her, his chest flush to her back, his thrusts deep, slow, intentional. One arm braced beside her head, the other working her clit in slow, devastating circles. 

“F—fuck, baby…” he gasped, his mouth at her shoulder. “So—fuck—you’re just… you’re perfect.” 

She whimpered, head turned to the side, cheek pressed into the pillow. 

“You didn’t have to… I mean tonight, with my mom, you—shit.” He bit down gently at the base of her neck, breath caught. “The way you just… handled it. Handled her.” 

Y/N moaned, the pressure building. “Bear, please…” 

“Yeah, I’m here,” he rasped, hips grinding deeper. “I’m—fuck—I’m here.” 

He broke off again as her breath hitched, her moan rising when his fingers stroked her just right. 

“Shit—shit, baby—don’t—don’t do that, I’m—” His voice cracked. 

Then he stilled. Slid out of her with a breathless groan, hand caressing down her spine as she whimpered at the loss. 

“No,” she protested softly. “Why’d you—?” 

“Just—turn over, baby. Please. I gotta—” His voice broke. “Wanna see you.” 

He flipped her gently, not letting go of her for a second. Her body was flushed and slick, eyes glassy with heat. Carmen guided her legs around his hips, slipped back inside with a low moan that sounded like it hurt. 

“God—Carm—” His forehead dropped to hers. 

“I can’t—” His voice was strangled. “You—at that party, the way you… I watched you, and I—fuck. I couldn’t breathe.” 

She clung to him, breath shaking. “Babe—” 

“I love you,” he said, like it punched out of him. “I fucking love you, I—God, I don’t even—” He kissed her, messy, urgent, barely breathing. “You’re so good to me. Too good. I don’t—don’t deserve this—” 

His hips stuttered, losing rhythm, his forehead pressing tight to hers. 

“Try so hard. Every fucking day. To be better. For you. With you.” 

She cupped his face, grounding him. 

“You are,” she whispered. “You are, babe.” 

“I don’t wanna fuck this up,” he choked out. “I don’t wanna lose you again.” 

“You won’t.” She reached up, fingers stroking his jaw, anchoring him. “I love you. You’re everything.” 

That was it. His control shattered. He groaned, low and broken, and drove into her harder now—desperate, deep, each thrust wild and unfiltered, chasing her into the dark. 

When she came—shaking, gasping his name—he was right there with her, falling apart inside her, holding on like he could burn this moment into his skin. 

And afterward, when their bodies slowed and softened, when he collapsed over her, still inside, still trembling, he didn’t say anything else. 

Didn’t pull out. Didn’t move away. Hands at her waist, lips on her shoulder, like maybe if he held on tight enough, he could keep the whole world still. 

---- 

The apartment smelled like cinnamon and brown butter. Carmen was in the kitchen packing up the dessert—pear and frangipane tart, glossy and perfect—while Y/N sifted through a pile of wrapped gifts, mentally checking her list. 

“Fak, Richie, Nat, Sugar…” she murmured, nudging a red box into the bag. “Carmen…” 

He looked over. “You keep checking mine like I’m hard to shop for.” 

“You are hard to shop for,” she shot back. “But I nailed it this time. You’ll see.” 

He gave her a mock-suspicious look and zipped the pastry box shut. 

Audio Recording — December 24th 

“Okay, Christmas Eve update: I might have gone overboard with the presents. Carmen says we’re gonna need a dolly to carry them all to Nat’s. But everyone’s getting something that made me think of them, so… worth it. He’s in the kitchen now, humming some terrible version of ‘Let It Snow’—I think on purpose. We made dessert together, an there’s flour all over the counter. I kinda hope he cleans it before we leave. I don’t know, it’s just—everything feels good. Like… like I’ve got this little piece of happiness, and I want to freeze it. I’m really happy. I’m excited. And I’m so, so in love with him. I want to remember this version of us. Just in case.” 

She stood in the bathroom now, finishing her eyeliner. The air smelled faintly of cinnamon and Carm’s cologne—he’d just passed behind her a few minutes ago, muttering something about finding a belt. 

He came back in quietly, adjusting his sleeves. 

“You think this works?” he asked, looking down at his shirt. “Not too much?” 

She glanced up. 

And then… stilled. 

The shirt was light blue. Soft plaid. Familiar. 

Her breath hitched. 

“I—I know that shirt.” 

He paused. 

“I gave it to you,” she said slowly, “last Christmas. I remember—I thought it brought out your eyes. I found it at that place by the bridge, the one with the weird windows and the bell over the door. We were walking home and you kept teasing me for being cold but didn’t give me your jacket.” 

She laughed a little, shaky. “You wore it the next morning. You made coffee. You burned your hand on the kettle.” 

Carmen looked at her like the floor had dropped out beneath him. “Yeah,” he said. “That’s right.” 

Y/N’s hands gripped the edge of the sink. Her heart was racing now. 

“Is it… is it all coming back?” she asked, barely above a whisper. Her voice cracked. “Is this it?” 

He reached for her hand gently, grounding her. “I don’t know. But if it is—this is a beginning.” 

She nodded, though her brows were pulled together. “And if it’s not? What if this is all I get?” 

He didn’t hesitate. ““Then it’s still everything.” 

She looked up at him, vulnerable, unsure. 

Carmen squeezed her hand. “You—right now—are enough. I loved who you were. I love who you are. If all I get is this version of us? It’s still everything.” 

He paused, brushing a knuckle gently down her cheek. 

“There’s no recipe for remembering, babe,” he said softly. “No steps. No perfect timing. It just… happens. Or it doesn’t. But either way, I’m not going anywhere.” 

Y/N blinked, and a tear slipped down her cheek before she could stop it. “It’s a spark,” she whispered. “That moment—it’s blurry, but it’s there.” 

Carmen smiled, eyes glassy. “Then that’s something.” 

She nodded again, and this time her smile reached her eyes. “It is.” 

He pulled her into his arms, warm and steady, wrapping her tight against his chest. She sank into it, breathing him in, holding him like he was the only thing anchoring her—and maybe he was. 

They stood there for a long moment, just holding on. Not speaking. Just feeling. 

“Merry Christmas, Carm.” 

His voice cracked just slightly. “Merry Christmas, babe.” 

---- 

The living room glowed with soft yellow light, warm and a little chaotic in the best way. Nat moved from couch to armchair, passing around a tray of cookies shaped like stars and trees. Richie tried to sneak three at once, caught mid-grab by her sharp glare and swatted hand. 

The Christmas tree blinked unevenly in the corner—each ornament different from the next. Some glittered, others were clumsily painted by tiny hands years ago, a few clearly handmade by a child with too much glue and not enough patience. It didn’t match. But it told their story. Every crooked star and scratched bauble was part of this loud, loving, stitched-together family. 

Donna sat on the floor—on the floor—laughing as she tied a red velvet ribbon around her grandson’s head like a crown. He squealed with joy, arms waving, and Donna actually let him smear a cookie across her sweater without flinching. Nat caught the moment from across the room, her eyes going soft. 

And in the center of it all was the pile of wrapping paper, tissue, and ribbons, gifts opened and exclaimed over. 

Everyone had loved theirs—Y/N had made each by hand. A tiny spice box for Tina with labels in her handwriting. A painted frame for Sugar and Pete, with a picture she took of them at Cicero’s party tucked inside. A silly mug for Richie that said “World’s Okayest Cousin.” 

But Carmen’s was the one that made the room go quiet. 

He had opened it slowly, almost reverently: a navy-blue scrapbook, the cover soft at the edges from being handled too many times. Inside, it was filled with Polaroids and taped-in ticket stubs, café napkins, and clipped recipes in her handwriting. The pages told their story — not just the one she remembered, but the one she was still trying to piece together. 

There were photos from Milan — him holding a plate of saffron risotto with a proud, crooked smile; her seated at a tiny table outside, mid-laugh, a glass of white wine in hand. Some from Copenhagen — their bundled silhouettes reflected in the window of a bakery at dawn; Carmen kneeling to tie her boot in a snowy alley while she snapped a photo. 

Then the more recent ones — The Bear, glowing behind them at night; her curled on their living room floor, laughing beside board game; a blurred selfie of the two of them, Carmen half-asleep on their couch, his hand tangled in her hair. 

Some photos had little notes beside them in her handwriting — not full memories, just fragments. Guesses. Hopes. 

“I think we were happy here.”  “I hope you kissed me after this.”  “You look like you loved me.” 

At the back, blank pages waited. A folded card nestled in the pocket read: 

To the boy who never stopped loving me. Thank you for staying. Fill the rest together? 

Carmen didn’t speak at first. He just sat there, the scrapbook open in his lap, thumb grazing the edge of the envelope like it might disappear if he moved too fast. His eyes traced over her notes, lingered on each Polaroid like he was trying to memorize the curve of her smile, the shape of their past. 

When he finally looked up, his gaze was glassy but steady. 

Y/N stood a few steps away, unsure, breath caught halfway in her chest. 

He didn’t say a word. Just reached for her hand and tugged gently — a silent question. 

She came easily, settling into his lap, arms slipping around his shoulders. 

He buried his face in her neck, exhaled slow and deep. Then, soft, against her skin: “This is the best gift ever.” 

Her fingers threaded into his hair. “I tried my best, Carm. Hope you like it.” 

“I love it.” His voice caught. “I love you.”  

Then he kissed her — not urgent, not claiming. Just there. Full of gratitude, of love that had waited and endured. 

Now, she stood across the room, watching him talk quietly with Fak near the kitchen. His profile lit by the golden Christmas lights, sleeves pushed up to his forearms, that same light blue shirt she remembered. 

He looked up. 

Found her across the room. 

And smiled. 

Not the half-smile. Not the guarded one. The real one. The one that said I see you. I’m right here. 

She smiled back, a quiet breath escaping her. The memory still tingled at the back of her mind—not fully formed, but real. A piece of something that belonged to them. 

They didn’t have all the pieces. Not yet. 

But they had this. 

A glance. 

A promise. 

Something steady. 

Something true. 

And for now, it was enough. 

@coffeemin, @huh01011, @mryuyux, @nojamsonmytoast, @just-mj-or-not, @ravenouswild, @hipothetical-introvert, @yousigned-upforthis, @dayluxe, @hello-therree, @you-sunshine, @iloveramensm, @lazygirljulia, @ariiireads, @carmenberzattosgf, @nerawrites, @johnmurphys-sass, @zorrasucia, @j23r23, @sithdaya, @bexxs, @toowastelandtale, @gflrs, @bumb-lesy, @justbecause6, @juulifandom, @daisy-the-quake, @itsmadamehydra, @pfudorqueen, @asuperconfusedgirl, @jingjingyi, @sewerrat7984, @6-noir, @criesinlies, @beingalive1, @sydapril15, @cannonindeez, @smthgsmthgidk, @nommingonfood, @drowsyhobiiiidddd, @ssopeworld, @crazygirlinthisworld, @leminjelly, @carmysprincess, @zoenighshade555, @lostgirl219, @daydream-believer19, @longlivedelusion, @itskybabes-blog, @uwuuuuooo, @reengard, @devoutprincess, @forevercaffeinated-lee, @shannonbelle1457, @writttinggggggggggg, @undf-stuff, @tyferbebe, @spiderstyles04, @almostuniquecherryblossom, @justabovewater20, @silas-aeiou

[nerawrites]

Chapter 38: The Ego Room and The Ghost

Previous chapter | Next chapter

Ships:The Bear x Fem!oc

Warnings:none

Masterlist

The Bear…

They landed with the kind of quiet nervousness only Carmy could command. Sydney walked just behind him, flipping through notes she didn’t need to read again. Marcus had his headphones in but wasn’t actually listening to anything. Fak had been talking nonstop until they arrived, where even he now stood silent, his eyes wide.

As they entered the grand building, a concierge with a headset barely looked up. “Name and affiliation?”

“The Bear,” Carmy said.

That was all it took. A door opened to reveal a wide, high-ceilinged space filled with other chefs. Every kind of chef. Cocky pop-ups. Michelin-hardened lifers. Tattooed line cooks standing next to TV-famous culinary school prodigies. And all of them had the same expression: who the hell are you, and why are you here?

“Holy shit, it’s the Ego Room,” Fak muttered.

Cameras lined the corners—silent, unobtrusive, and everywhere.

A giant monitor at the front of the room lit up.

WELCOME COMPETITORS

YOUR KITCHEN STATIONS WILL BE READY SHORTLY.

DO NOTE THAT YOU'LL BE RECORDED THROUGH THIS WHOLE PROCESS.

ALL FINAL SUBMISSIONS DUE BY 6PM.

AWARD CEREMONY TONIGHT @ 9PM. DRESS CODE: FORMAL.

Sydney blinked. “Tonight? That can’t be right.”

Marcus looked up. “Wait, wait. This whole thing is only one day?”

Even Carmy looked up from his pacing. “That’s not how this usually goes.”

Whispers erupted. Then louder whispers. Then shit-talking.

Noma…

Luca barely crossed the threshold before a group of young European chefs clapped him on the back.

“Oi, the English are here!”

Luca offered his usual polite smirk, but his eyes were scanning the room. Not just for competitors—but for chaos.

“You feel this?” he muttered to the sous chef beside him. “It’s like they locked us in a pressure cooker just to watch what blows up first.”

“Feels like a setup,” one of them muttered.

“Feels like reality TV,” another added.

Luca saw the cameras too. Dozens of them, tucked into corners, tracking motion. Subtle red lights blinking.

He caught sight of Carmy across the room—tense as ever, shoulder blades practically trying to pierce his shirt. Their eyes didn’t meet. Not yet.

Someone behind him said, “I heard Lloris isn’t even here. They submitted everything already.”

“Yeah? I heard Lloris hacked the competition. Probably doesn’t even exist.”

“Or it’s some PR stunt. No way someone like that doesn’t have an ego big enough to show up.”

Luca didn’t say anything, but the back of his neck burned. He remembered the kiss-marked photo. The taste of one of the desserts that left him rattled for hours. Whoever Lloris was, they weren’t an amateur. They were dangerous.

The Bear…

“Yo,” Fak whispered, leaning toward Sydney, “why does it feel like everyone here’s about to start a turf war?”

“Because they are,” Sydney muttered. “This isn’t just a kitchen. It’s a battlefield.”

“Do we even know what we’re making?” Marcus asked Carmy.

Carmy didn’t answer. His jaw was locked. His mind somewhere else.

Somewhere between the ghosts of New York and the weight of Chicago.

Noma…

Luca’s team huddled around a table, ignoring the glances from others.

“Plan doesn’t change,” he said. “We make what we came here to make. Let them spin. Let them gossip.”

One sous chef leaned in. “You think they’ll be here?”

Luca’s face didn’t move, but his voice did.

She was going to throw up. Or faint. Or both.

It was stupid—she knew that. She wasn’t a rookie. She wasn’t a baby chef anymore. But still, standing just outside the doors to the competition’s holding room, Alicia felt like a fraud in a stolen coat.

She was one of the last to arrive. On purpose.

Everyone inside was already mingling, networking, scanning the room like hawks. She saw chefs she recognized from articles, shows, and nightmares. People she’d cooked beside and people she’d actively avoided for years. She saw cameras. Too many. One in every corner, it seemed, like the whole thing was a set.

Her breathing quickened, palms sweating against the fabric of her coat. She pressed herself into a shadowed corner of the hallway.

“Okay,” she whispered, eyes closed. “Okay, you’re fine. You’re literally insane but you’re fine. You once lit a duck on fire mid-service and laughed. You threw a cake at a wall in Copenhagen and got a standing ovation. This? This is just nerves. Just ego soup. Nothing new. Be the fucking storm.”

A beat.

She repeated: “Be the fucking—”

“Storm?” a voice interrupted.

Her eyes snapped open.

He hadn’t meant to sneak up. The chef had been mumbling something fierce in the shadows, and he thought they might be hyperventilating.

“Hey, you alright?” he asked, hands up in a non-threatening way.

The woman looked caught. Mid-pep-talk. Mid-meltdown.

She blinked at him once. Then twice. “Yeah, yeah. Just… breathing.”

“Fair,” Luca said. “I’m Luca.”

She hesitated. “Mary.”

He offered a half-smile. She didn’t take his hand.

“I get it. It’s a lot in there,” he said, gesturing to the big glass doors. “Feels more like a cage match than a culinary competition.”

“I wasn’t expecting the camera crews,” she said.

“Yeah, they usually keep things more… underground. This year’s different. No idea why.” He gave a small shrug. “First comp?”

She looked him over like she wanted to laugh but didn’t. “Something like that.”

He caught a flicker in her eyes. A subtle shift in her attention—directed over his shoulder. He followed her gaze, just in time to spot a chef on the other end of the room making eye contact with her.

It was Marcus. From The Bear.

Before Luca could ask anything—

“Competitors, please begin moving to your assigned stations. Kitchens are now open.”

The intercom crackled overhead. The doors swung open wider. People moved like water.

When Luca turned back—

She was gone.

“Wait—what the—?” he muttered.

She slipped into the crowd like a ghost.

Heart pounding, adrenaline fizzing in her ears. Seeing Marcus—of all people—had knocked something loose in her chest. Luca hadn’t recognized her, but Marcus?

He’d looked at her. Really looked.

No time to panic. No time to ask herself why her knees were shaking.

She moved quickly, slipping into a group of chefs being directed toward the prep spaces. David had warned her about the chaos. You’ll want to disappear anyway, he’d said.

He had no idea how right he’d been.

“Why were you talking to Alicia?” Marcus asked without preamble.

Luca turned. “Wait that Alicia? She told me her name was Mary”

“No, that was definitely her. I’d recognize her from anywhere. But why is she her if she wasn’t listed as a competitor”

“Don’t know. Maybe subbing in for some kitchen. But she was—uh—nervous. Looked like she was going to crack any minute. She dipped as soon as the announcement came.”

Marcus squinted. “Yeah. That tracks.”

He didn’t explain, just nodded once and walked off, leaving Luca with a lingering sense of something not adding up.

He couldn’t stop thinking about it—her face, her voice, the way she vanished like a damn ghost.

As the group moved toward the hallway that led to the kitchen spaces, Marcus caught up to Carmy, pulling at his sleeve just enough to slow him down.

“Yo, Carmy,” he said under his breath. “I think Alicia’s here.”

Carmy stopped walking.

Sydney and Richie, just ahead, turned at the sound.

“What?” Carmy asked, brows already furrowing.

“I saw her. Outside the prep room. She was talking to Luca, gave him a fake name—‘Mary’ or something. Then dipped right before the announcement. But it was her, I’m sure.”

Sydney blinked, mouth slightly open. Richie let out a low whistle.

“Wait, wait, Alicia Alicia?” Richie said. “Like—‘rage-quit-the-Bear, lit-everything-on-fire-with-her-eyes’ Alicia?”

“Yes.” Marcus nodded. “Her.”

“Is she competing?” Sydney asked, voice low and tense.

“No clue. Luca thinks she’s working under someone, maybe subbing for a kitchen.”

“Jesus,” Richie muttered. “This place just became the freakin’ Hunger Games.”

Carmy stayed quiet, staring down the hallway like it might offer answers. His jaw clenched once—hard.

Marcus watched him for a second. “You okay?”

Carmy blinked like he’d just been yanked back into his body. “Yeah. Yeah, it’s fine.”

He glanced at all of them and took a breath.

“Listen. Whatever she’s doing here—whatever this is—it’s not our business right now. Okay? Not in there.” He pointed toward the kitchen doors. “When we’re cooking, it’s just the food. Nothing else. No whispers. No theories. None of that high school gossip shit.”

They all nodded, a little hesitant.

“I’m serious,” Carmy said, firmer now. “We’re being filmed. Everything’s being recorded for the show and the judges. Eyes everywhere. Focus.”

Sydney gave a quiet “Got it.” Richie zipped his lips with a pretend motion. Marcus gave a small nod.

Carmy paused, then added, quieter this time:

“We’ve worked too fucking hard to get here. Don’t let anything pull you off the line. Especially not ghosts.”

He pushed open the doors, and the bright, stainless-steel chaos of the competition kitchen greeted them.

And just like that, they stepped in—chefs, not friends. Competitors, not people. The rest would have to wait.

IThey handed her a mic the moment she stepped in.

Not just any light—the kind that burned. Stage lighting. Camera lighting. The kind that made kitchens feel like operating rooms.

“Lloris, right?” a crew member asked, holding out a waiver with one hand and adjusting a lens with the other.

She nodded.

He leaned in. “We’ll grab a few short bites as you move, but where we really want your voice is at plating. Take us through the story of the dish. Just a couple sentences. Doesn’t have to be theatrical, but… you know, it’s good TV.”

Alicia’s lips twitched. “Sure. Good TV.”

He didn’t hear the irony. He moved on.

Then—

The clock started.

She was already in motion.

Focused. Sharp. Silent.

Everything else dropped away. The soft hum of cameras, the shifting shadows of the crew, even the echo of Marcus’s eyes finding hers earlier—

None of it mattered now.

Only the food mattered.

And today, she wasn’t just cooking.

She was telling the story they were never supposed to hear.

Title: Ghosts of the Line

Course I: First Burn

Charred onion consommé, scorched cream, sourdough ash crumble.

The broth was hot, deep, blackened to the edge of bitterness. She poured it with precision, steam curling like smoke signals. The air filled with the scent of carbon and salt and something older—memory, maybe.

A voice beside the camera asked softly, “Can you tell us what this one means to you?”

Alicia didn’t stop plating. Just murmured:

“First time I got screamed at on the line, I burned the onions. Thought it meant I wasn’t cut out for this. Turns out—I just needed to burn better.”

The dish looked bruised.

But breathing.

Course II: Family Meal

A refined arroz con pollo: crisp skin, saffron rice, chili, umami broth.

This one came easier. Her hands slowed, just a touch, like reverence was built into the muscle memory.

“She taught me to salt with my fingers. Said spoons don’t know what food needs,” Alicia said, mostly to the dish, not the crew.

The plate shined under the lights.

“You mean your mentor?” a voice asked.

“My grandmother.”

A small smile ghosted across her lips. Then vanished.

Course III: Silence Service

Beet tartare, horseradish, black vinegar gel, seared T-bone.

Cold plate. Surgical movements. The camera hovered close to the pristine red against white porcelain.

Alicia didn’t look up.

“Silence can be armor,” she said as she wiped the edges clean. “Or it can be a weapon.”

The dish looked like it had never been touched by human hands.

She didn’t elaborate.

They didn’t push.

Course IV: The Note

An anonymous dish, now public.

Same plating. Same proportions. The same sear mark she once used like a signature.

No message this time.

“Do you want to explain this one?”

Alicia paused.

Then: “It speaks for itself.”

The camera held still. Waiting.

She didn’t blink.

Course V: Reckoning

Pickled pears, fermented chili, bitter greens, citrus blast.

A jolt on a plate. The kind of dish that left your mouth stunned, unsure.

She worked faster here. Sharper. Hands cutting through acid and oil with surgical clarity.

“It’s not supposed to comfort you,” she said.

The cameraman chuckled nervously. “What’s it supposed to do?”

“Remind you I’m here.”

Course VI: Home, Eventually

Cornbread custard, corn gel, smoked butter ice cream.

She breathed differently during this one. Deeper. Slower.

Her shoulders finally dropped.

Each component landed on the plate like a memory she didn’t mind revisiting.

“It’s sweet,” someone whispered from production.

Alicia looked up, just briefly. “Yeah. It’s not sorry about it, either.”

Course VII: Still Here

Deconstructed chaos—balanced, wild, whole.

The last plate was a storm of movement. Nothing about it clean. Everything about it intentional.

As she laid the final garnish, her hand didn’t shake.

“Final course,” someone prompted. “What’s it called?”

She stepped back. Eyes locked on the dish.

“Still Here.”

No one said anything for a long time.

She didn’t wait.

When the last plate left her hands finished before time was up. As the dishes got taken away Alicia pulled her apron off like armor after battle. Her body was buzzing, high on adrenaline and memory and defiance. She scrubbed down her station like it owed her something.

The crew stayed quiet. No final interview. No dramatic music.

Just her.

Alone in the echo of what she’d built.

She slipped out the back the same way she came in—

Quiet. Sharp. Undefeated.

Tonight, they’d hand someone a trophy.

But just them?

She told the truth.

And for once…

Everyone had to listen.

Noma…

This wasn’t his first high-stakes service.

But it was the first where everything felt… watched.

Luca adjusted his apron, checked the position of his brigade—tight-knit, silent, ready. He didn’t speak much before service. Didn’t need to. They’d already been through hell together at Noma. They knew what this was.

Still, there was an edge today. And he knew exactly where it came from.

Lloris.

Whoever they were, they’d managed to crawl into the bones of the competition. And into his head. The notes, the gifts, the goddamn pastry he couldn’t stop thinking about.

But today?

Today was his turn.

Course I: Arctic Memory

Pickled kelp consommé, razor clams, pine oil, sea lettuce.

Cold, clean, sharp. The smell of the North Sea in winter.

Luca poured with steady hands, the consommé shimmering like ice in the bowl.

“This is where I learned what control tastes like,” he murmured to himself.

Salt, restraint, clarity.

Course II: Smokehouse Echoes

Grilled duck heart, barley miso, smoked cherries, ash oil.

This one punched. He plated it fast, precise—he wanted the dish to hit the judges with the same jarring force the duck hearts hit him as a young line cook in Copenhagen, forced to break down birds with his bare hands at 5 a.m.

“Messy beginnings,” Lucas sou muttered. “But you learn to love the cut.”

Course III: Fermentation Studies

Carrot koji, aged beef fat, wild thyme.

This was his nerdy side—experimentation at its finest. A whole dish built around patience and decay.

“Time isn’t just an ingredient,” another member of noma said under their breath as they drizzled the beef fat over the koji. “That's the point.”

Course IV: Absence

An empty plate—followed by a covered cloche opened to reveal a single, tiny langoustine claw on a delicate bed of juniper ash and smoked cream.

A statement. A pause. An interruption.

The staff had hesitated when he first proposed it.

Now, he watched them carry it out.

“Loss,” Luca said simply. “Sometimes flavor is just the echo.”

Course V: Heat Check

Roasted bone marrow, chili crisp, Icelandic rye crumble, charred leeks.

This one was bold—unapologetic, even arrogant.

It was his version of fuck around and find out—especially for Lloris, who he knew would hear about it eventually.

“You want to play?” Luca’s sous chef muttered. “Here’s my shot.”

Course VI: Heritage Folded

Pasta ripiena filled with lamb shoulder, fermented mushroom, butter tea foam.

This was the heart of it all. Europe folded into him. Techniques learned on four different continents. A dish that made no sense except to him.

“We carry where we’ve been,” two members of Nomas team say this, watching as each plate was handed off. “You don’t get this overnight.”

Course VII: The Line

A deceptively simple dessert—just a square of aerated chocolate, salted milk skin, fennel pollen dust.

Brutal. Minimal. Controlled chaos beneath glass.

A nod to the line. To service. To every second of pain it took to make it look easy.

As he plated the final dish, Luca exhaled slow. The hum in his bones eased—just barely.

He’d said what he needed to say.

Not with words.

With plates.

With precision.

When the last tray left the kitchen, he leaned back against the counter, pulled off his apron, and let himself feel the exhaustion.

Would it be enough?

Maybe. Maybe not.

But at least now, if Lloris had something to say—they knew they’d answered.

On their own terms.

The Bear…

The cameras were already rolling when The Bear team stepped into the kitchen. No one said it, but they all felt the pressure settle over them—like a second apron, tighter and heavier than usual. This wasn’t just service. This was filmed service. Judged. Dissected. Broadcast.

Carmy stood still for a moment too long at his station. The lights were hot overhead. The film crew kept a careful distance, but their presence was unmistakable—hovering like ghosts around every movement. Sydney tapped her knuckles against the counter once. Tina tied her apron tighter. Richie muttered something no one caught.

They didn’t speak much. Just made eye contact, nodded.

They’d already decided how this would go.

Plates over perfection.

Honesty over polish.

Course I: “Chicago, Rough Cut”

Grilled giardiniera-stuffed quail, pickled mustard seeds, celery root purée

Carmy led, moving sharp and fast. The dish landed hard, spicy and unapologetic—an edible shout.

“This is home,” he muttered, eyes not leaving the plate. “No gloss.”

It was messy. Punchy. The city on a dish. The crew filming flinched at the intensity—like the food might bite back.

Course II: “Hands”

Hand-pulled pasta with beef jus, burnt onion butter, basil foam

Sydney stepped in, focused and steady. Her plating wasn’t delicate—it was intentional. Every twirl and smear grounded in something real.

“Hands make this,” she said quietly, mostly to herself. “Calloused, imperfect. Like ours.”

There was no over-explanation. Just a plate full of sweat and thought and care.

Course III: “Still Learning”

Blood orange sorbet, sesame crumble, miso caramel, chili

Marcus moved next, wiping his palms once before scooping the sorbet with practiced grace. It wasn’t flashy. It didn’t need to be.

“I don’t think I’ve ever made something this honest,” he whispered, mostly unheard over the hum of the kitchen.

Cameras zoomed in on the drizzle of caramel—hesitant, precise.

Course IV: “Fire and Knife”

Ribeye, sweetcorn butter, ancho glaze, charred herbs

Tina’s turn came with a ripple of surprise.

The ribeye was plated simply, but with conviction. She set it down with a small grin, her voice loud and proud.

“Cooked for myself first,” Tina said, flipping her tongs onto the counter. “Y’all get the rest.”

Even Carmy paused to glance her way. Something in his chest tightened.

Course V: “Noise”

Pickled watermelon rind, crispy chicken skin, burnt bread, crème fraîche pearls

Chaos. That was Richie’s pitch. Controlled chaos.

He moved clumsily but with intention, muttering half-insults to the components on the plate like they owed him rent.

“It doesn’t make sense,” Richie said to the camera hovering near him. “But it feels like us.”

And somehow—it did.

Course VI: “Shift Drink”

Chilled tomato consommé shot with basil oil, rye biscuit

Sydney plated again, quick and clean. The consommé shimmered red-gold under the lights. It looked simple. But it hit hard.

“Like exhaling after a brutal service,” she said. “That moment you made it.”

The crew caught a moment between her and Marcus—a quick nod. That one meant something.

Course VII: “Thank You”

Whipped goat cheese, fermented honey, bee pollen, crackling sugar shell

The final plate came from Carmy. Tiny. Icy-clear in its intention.

A goodbye.

A fuck you.

A love letter.

All at once.

He said nothing as he plated it. Just held it for a beat before sliding it forward.

When the last dish left the kitchen, no one spoke.

They just stood there, staring after it—like watching a part of themselves disappear through the pass.

And then they looked at each other.

Not perfect.

Not polished.

But true.

This was The Bear.

And for once, cameras or not—it felt like enough.

A/N

Had to make it long for y’all. Y’all deserve it

Taglist:

@eugene-emt-roe

[nerawrites]

Pasture Child

young carmen berzatto :) or at least my adaptation of him lolol

pairing: carmen x fem!reader

cw: language, fluff and angst

pasture child - dominic fike

summary: carmen finds solace in his classmate, dialing her number every night to escape reality. but as the weight of reality hits the reader, things don’t fall into place as carmen wishes.

a/n: guysssss reader is highkey bad in this 😭 i sorry. also this was originally supposed to be really sweet and heartwarming but like idk things shifted while i was writing. i need to start taking my lexapro again. this is my first time ever publishing my writing so like SCARED but idk if it doesn’t make sense then thats that, but please please pleaseeee give me feedback. this probably won’t reach a single person but like it’s still funn. i lub u guys 🤭 also i think i might do a second part where it’s a timeskip bc that’s how the song goes. idk. LEMME KNOW IF I SHOULD.

carmen hesitated before dialing your number. calling you was a routine for him, but it self like every time he had to talk himself up to talk to you.

the brunette hugged his knees up to his chest, socked feet gently pressing into a wrinkled, navy duvet.

high school for carmen feels a big blur. sure he has friends and hobbies, but everything seemed frayed at the edges and fleeting like the world was a rug being pulled right from under his feet, leaving him to float headfirst into an abyss of nothingness.

but you.

you were the quiet type. your wardrobe a concoction of frills and long skirts, the fabric never brushing higher than your ankle. something that should deter carmy’s teenage brain fogged hormones, but it doesn’t. instead, it makes him sit next to you in culinary club.

it makes him remember that you hate sweets but cant resist brownies. or that you love fettuccini, but can’t stand cheese.

his fingers tighten around his phone as it rang.

your parents were strict, he knew that.

you’d leaned over to him in ap statistics, a folded sheet of paper sandwiched between your pointer and middle fingers. “only call this number after nine,” you demanded while smiling sweetly, the scent of your strawberry lipgloss wafting into his nose. “that’s when my parents go downstairs to sleep,” he remembers nodding, running his thumb over your curly handwriting.

his blue eyes trailed over to the digital alarm clock on his night stand that read 9:01. carmen knew he looked desperate calling you first every night, but any care in the word melted away as the line clicked and your soft breath was audible.

“hi,” you said quietly. you’d been curled on on the floor, head pressed against a childhood teddy bear that was tattered but filled with love.

this is how it always started. carmen would listen to each puff of breath that left your lips and close his eyes, clutching a pillow to his chest. his fingers would trace each fold of cotton, imagining your pajamas bunched in his fingers. he even asked you what perfume you liked just so he could spray it on his bed when you’d call, pretending that you were humming in his arms. it was so pathetic. so, so pathetic. but he needed it.

after muttering quietly about your day,s you paused on the other line, causing carmen to huff to himself. “hello?” he whispered, head rolling back against drywall.

“why are you friends with me?” your words were concise as always, but this time there was a tinge of uncertainty laced in them.

carmen shifted, his hand stilling on the pillow. “what do you mean?”

“like,” you paused. “i’m weird. i live on a farm. we can’t hang out. i can’t even talk to you outside of school—“

“we’re talking right now,”

“we’re whispering right now,” you retort.

carmen blinks to himself, lips parted slightly. “i just like you,” he wants to stop himself from talking, but that’s just not what his brain allows. “you don’t tell me to shut up. you don’t ask for anything more from me,” a dry laugh comes from his side of the line and you close your eyes, clutching the phone tighter in your hand.

“you’re so…special. you’re way smarter than a you give yourself credit for, and just hearing you talk is so refreshing because your brain isn’t fucking rotted,” carmen smiles, then turns onto his side. “and you’re not weird. at least not in a bad way,”

you smile, heat rising up the back of your neck. “thank you,”

carmen scoffs, running a hand through his floppy curls. “no, thank you,” his breath sounded raspy through the phone, a sign that he was getting sleepy. with a new flush on your skin, you stood up and slid into your bed, splaying your fingers onto your freshly washed sheets.

“carmen,”

“what?”

“i like you too,”

on the other end, carmy silently kicks his feet against his sheets, phone pressed into his chest to muffle the rustling before he places it back next to his ear. “yeah?”

“yeah,” you parrot.

“why?”

there’s a pause, then a long breath.

“well,”

a beat.

“i like to think of life as a beach. i think… i think of you, carmen, as a boat. one super, super far from the coastline. like way out there. almost as tiny as an ant. and, i’d like to think of myself as a dock. one off the coast, probably belonging to some snobby millionaire’s beach house,” your voice is a soft lullaby to him, his breath slowing down.

carmy slips under the sheets himself, placing his phone on speaker before the curve of his nose brushes against linen.

“i feel stagnant. like, i’m not going anywhere at all. just…a landmark almost. not a big one that anyone cares about or anything. just kinda there,” you breathe. “carmen. you’re just full of potential and you’re steady moving along. you’re enjoying your life and actually focused on making a name for yourself,” you try not to sniffle as hot tears brim your eyes.

carmen on the other hand furrows his eyebrows, eyes fluttering open to stare at your contact across the screen.

“but for some reason that i can’t put my finger on, you steer away from the big, blue ocean. you…stop at the dock. you sit at it, lay out a blanket and have a picnic. you tan on it. you find meaning in something so meaningless,” a hot tear sears down your cheek. “and you make me feel like i’m more than just a girl,”

carmen falls silent on the other line, biting the inside of his cheek as he hears you quietly cry through his dingy speaker. pain aches and gnaws at his chest, spreading through his lungs. “don’t do that—“

“no, carmy, it’s true,” you croak.

“stop that. you’re not fucking meaningless. you’re not this little dingy dock,’ he breathes, clutching the pillow tighter against his chest.

there’s a few moments of quiet where words linger in the air, but too far fetched to grasp.

until.

“i cant sit here and listen to you rag on yourself when you are literally the air i breathe,” carmen says quietly. it’s stupidly telling. he knows it’s too much, but his lips part again and they whisper, “i love you,”

on the other end, your heart blooms, thrumming against your ribcage in a pattern too fast to comprehend. it’s dizzying.

but it’s impossible. you…you’re not fit to match him. you’re a slow moving river and he’s a rapid. you’re heat and he’s fire. you’re a bicycle and he’s lightning-freaking-mcqueen.

“no,” you whisper, to yourself more than anything.

then the line clicks dead.

a scorching hot phone and damp cheeks. that’s all carmen had that night, and the next, and the next. he’d, he’d gotten a haircut, a new phone, and a diploma.

well, barely a diploma.

it was nice, sure. school was fine. life was fine.

but every night he fell asleep to the smell of vanilla and strawberries, his fingers curled into a pillow.

in his head, he loved you and your smile.

and you loved him too.

[nerawrites]

Chapter 37: Flashbacks

Previous chapter | Next chapter

Ships: Marcus x Luca (platonic)

Warnings: none

A/N

*this chapter is set in two different set of times through the chapters. Sorry for the weird structure but it was needed for the upcoming chapters. (I’ll explain more in the end.**

Masterlist

Flashback 1 : Marcus and Luca in Copenhagen

The air in Copenhagen was crisp, carrying the scent of the sea and fresh bread from a nearby bakery. The kitchen was quiet now, the last of the evening’s work done, but Marcus still stood at his station, carefully piping a delicate swirl of cream onto a tart. He wasn’t sure if Luca was still watching—he usually was, though—but the thought kept him steady, made him want to get it just right.

“You’ve improved,” Luca’s voice came from behind him, smooth as ever. Marcus turned slightly, finding the chef leaning against the counter, arms crossed, eyes sharp but not unkind.

“Yeah?” Marcus asked, stepping back to look at his work.

Luca nodded. “More control. More confidence. Not just in your hands, but in the way you move.”

Marcus let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. “Been trying to really think about it, you know? Not just making something good, but… making something that matters.”

Luca hummed in approval, stepping forward to inspect the tart. “That’s the key, yeah? Precision is one thing. But making something that people feel—that’s what separates the great from the good.”

Marcus nodded, feeling the weight of those words settle deep in his chest. “That’s what we’re trying to do back home. At The Bear.”

Luca glanced at him. “Carmy’s place.”

“Yeah,” Marcus said. “It’s—man, it’s chaos. But in a good way. Or at least, we’re trying to make it a good way.” He hesitated. “You ever think about checking it out?”

Luca smirked, shaking his head. “Chicago’s not really my scene.”

Marcus grinned. “That’s fair. But you’d like the people.”

Luca raised an eyebrow. “Yeah?”

Marcus nodded. “Carmy’s Carmy, you know how he is. But the rest? They’re real. Like, real real. Sydney? She’s sharp as hell. Tina, Ebra—they’ve been around, they’ve seen it all. And then there’s—” He stopped, debating for a second before deciding to say it. “There’s Alicia.”

Luca didn’t react at first, but there was the slightest shift in his expression—something unreadable, something aware. “Alicia,” he repeated, testing the name.

Marcus nodded. “She’s… she’s got this way about her, man. Like she’s been through some shit but still holds her own. Fast as hell on the line, smart, but—” He hesitated, trying to find the right words. “It’s like she’s holding something back. Like she could be more, but she won’t let herself go there.”

Luca was quiet for a moment, then smirked. “Sounds familiar.”

Marcus frowned. “What?”

Luca shook his head. “Nothing. Just—people like that? They don’t stay hidden forever.”

Marcus didn’t know what to make of that, but before he could press, Luca turned the conversation back to the tart, and just like that, the moment passed.

Flashback 2 : On the phone (Around the time of The Article chapter: Marcus and Luca Talk About Lloris

The kitchen in Copenhagen was winding down for the night, the scent of caramelized sugar and yeast lingering in the air. Luca leaned against the counter, rolling a spoon between his fingers, perfecting a dish as usual. Then suddenly a ringing and vibrating sound was coming out of his pocket.

Luca took his phone out setting it up on something on a counter facing him. It was a FaceTime from Marcus.

“Hey mate, how’v-

“Have you ever heard of Lloris?” Marcus interrupted , watching Luca’s reaction carefully.

Luca’s hands didn’t stop moving, but his expression shifted—just slightly. He glanced up, giving Marcus a curious look. “Where’d you hear that name?”

Marcus shrugged. “Been hearin’ about ‘em more lately. Name keeps poppin’ up.”

Luca smirked, shaking his head. “Yeah, I bet.” He set his towel down and leaned against the counter. “I never worked with them, but I know people who have.”

Marcus raised an eyebrow. “And?”

“They’re a ghost,” Luca said simply. “One of those chefs who comes outta nowhere, shakes up the whole scene, then disappears before anyone can catch up.”

That caught Marcus’s attention. “So, they were big?”

Luca huffed a laugh. “Big? Try massive—at least in certain circles. South American influence, but with a technical style that made people pay attention. They had a run in the South, some serious heat behind their name, and then… nothing. Just up and vanished.”

Marcus frowned. “Why?”

Luca shrugged. “Depends on who you ask. Some people think they burned out, others say they just walked away before the industry could chew ‘em up.” He gave Marcus a pointed look. “But chefs like that? They don’t just stop cooking.”

Marcus nodded, processing that. “Man… I’d kill to see them work.”

Luca smirked, shaking his head. “If you ever do, let me know.”

A/N

SO SORRY!! I know it has been a while but I’ve been very busy with school and last minute changes. Turns out all the chapters were done up until the last episode of season 3 but was not satisfied with them and so i eventually decided to rewrite the those chapters.

Taglist:

@eugene-emt-roe

[nerawrites]

Chapter 36: Times Out

Previous chapter | Next chapter

Ships: x fem!oc

Warnings: cursing

Masterlist

David’s apartment…

David scrolled through his phone, half-listening to the hum of the city outside his window. He wasn’t expecting anything unusual—it had been a long day of prep, and all he wanted was ten minutes of silence and a drink.

But then he saw it.

“Lloris Orchestrated Culinary Mind Games? Competitors Outraged.”

“Dozens of Top Chefs Receive Anonymous Gifts, Stirring Panic and Praise.”

His eyes narrowed as he scanned the article, immediately recognizing the pattern. The notes. The emotional precision. The gifts.

It was all her.

He didn’t even hesitate. Dialed.

It rang once.

Twice.

“Yeah?” Alicia’s voice answered, breathless, distant, like she was pacing.

“You made national headlines,” David said, dry. “Again.”

A pause.

Then a quiet laugh. “Which article?”

“Oh, I don’t know—maybe the one where a dozen chefs are claiming psychological warfare?” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Jesus, Alicia.”

“What?” she replied, completely unbothered. “They started it.”

David let the silence hang a second longer. “How did you even have time to pull all this off? Between the prep, the menu, the stress—I mean, we’re basically living at the kitchen right now.”

Another pause.

“I hired people.”

David blinked. “You—what?”

“I outsourced,” she said simply. “I made a list of targets. Then I hired a few freelancers—researchers, errand runners, some culinary students looking for side work, and one very good investigator who specializes in online footprint tracing.”

David was silent.

Alicia continued, like she was explaining how she made soup. “I gave them profiles, places to look, connections to trace. I didn’t need anything invasive—just patterns. Interviews they’ve done. Videos. Background. Stuff they posted ten years ago. Everything I needed to tailor each message.”

“You built a network,” David said slowly. “To spy on chefs.”

“To personalize a strategic brand of psychological disruption,” she corrected.

David blinked again. “You’re insane.”

“No. I’m organized.” A beat. “And they deserved it.”

He exhaled and sank into his couch. “You sent someone a photo of their dead grandmother’s kitchen.”

“And she loved it,” Alicia shot back. “She literally cried on camera during a livestream. Said it reminded her why she started cooking in the first place.”

David groaned. “And the ‘suck my balls, bitch’ note?”

“Different vibe,” Alicia admitted. “I can admit it wasn’t my finest moment, but necessary. That one was personal.”

David let his head fall back against the cushion. “You’re out of your mind.”

“You love it.”

“I do,” he sighed, rubbing his temple. “But this is a lot. The press is already crawling over the competition. You’ve made yourself the centerpiece of the story and no one even knows who you are.”

“Exactly.”

“You don’t think this is going to blow up in your face?”

“It might,” Alicia said, voice quieter now. “But if it does, it’ll be on my terms.”

David was quiet for a moment.

Then he said, more softly, “You’re really doing this. Like really doing this.”

“I have to,” she replied. “It’s the only thing that’s ever felt like mine.”

And for once, David didn’t argue.

He just nodded to himself, even though she couldn’t see.

“Alright,” he said. “Then burn it down.”

The Bear, Chicago…

It was barely 6 a.m., and the kitchen was already alive.

Not with service—but with the kind of chaos only preparation could bring. The clatter of pans, the hiss of blowtorches, the low hum of focused tension.

Tomorrow was the competition.

Tonight, they had to fly out.

And no one was ready.

“Where’s the lamb?” Sydney barked, flipping through her checklist with one hand and pointing toward the walk-in with the other.

“I told you it’s resting!” Richie yelled back from across the room. “It’s been resting like it’s on fucking vacation.”

“Then wake it up!” she snapped.

Marcus chuckled, calmly whisking his mousse as if the room wasn’t on the verge of imploding. “It’s wild we’re doing this. Like—we’re flying out for this.”

“It’s a damn food war,” Tina muttered, rolling dough with practiced efficiency. “And we’re going to war hungry.”

Carmy walked in from the back, already on his second espresso. His hair was messier than usual, his sleeves rolled, his eyes sharp. Focused. Tired.

He didn’t say much.

Just surveyed the room.

Watched Sydney organize her files, Marcus meticulously pack his elements in cooling boxes, Tina double-check the travel equipment, and Richie pace like a boxer waiting for the bell.

They had all worked insane hours over the past week refining their menu. Each dish was selected to say something—about them, about Chicago, about the spirit of The Bear. No gimmicks. Just pure identity through food.

Marcus was bringing a dessert he’d spent three months perfecting—dark chocolate, citrus, candied fennel. Bright, bold, and clean.

Sydney’s main was a nod to her dad. A seafood stew with Southern roots but French backbone. Deep, comforting, smart.

Tina had the starter—a handmade pasta dish layered with memory and tradition.

Carmy?

He didn’t say what his dish was. Just said they’d know when it was plated.

They all pretended that didn’t make them more anxious.

Richie, of course, wasn’t competing, but he had dubbed himself the vibes manager. “Every army needs a general,” he declared. “And I am General Get Shit Done.”

“I’m begging you not to talk to anyone from the press,” Sydney muttered.

“Oh I will be talking,” Richie said, already practicing his soundbites.

Ebra and Natalie helped load boxes. Fak was nowhere to be found—probably off chasing down dry ice or a cooler that didn’t exist.

The energy in the kitchen was electric. Nervous. Buzzing with possibility and dread. This wasn’t just a cooking competition.

This was a stage.

And they weren’t just chefs.

They were the underdogs with something to prove.

“Flight’s in five hours,” Carmy finally said, checking the time. “Let’s move.”

Sydney gathered her binders. Marcus sealed his cooler. Tina tied off her apron.

For a moment, no one said anything.

Then Richie clapped his hands. “Alright, Bears. Let’s go ruin someone’s day.”

And with that, they left their kitchen behind—heading straight into the fire.

Noma, Copenhagen…

The kitchen was quiet.

Not silent—but quiet in a way that meant focus, not absence. There was no yelling, no chaos. Just the soft sounds of knives on boards, the hiss of reductions simmering low, the occasional tap of someone adjusting plating tweezers.

Luca stood at his station, gently brushing a glaze over the edge of a mushroom tartelette. His hands moved without thinking. Muscle memory. Years of repetition. But his mind?

Spinning.

Tomorrow was the competition.

And while everyone else buzzed with excitement or nerves, Luca felt… something else. A pressure that settled low in his chest and refused to leave.

Noma was already a name. A legacy. That carried weight. Expectations. Perfection was the bare minimum.

And this time, it wasn’t just about technique. It was about narrative. About story. And, unfortunately, about drama.

He glanced at the stack of small wooden boxes piled in the corner of the prep area—gifts from Lloris. Unrequested, unwanted, unforgettable.

Luca had received a worn French whisk he hadn’t seen since culinary school, polished and wrapped in parchment. No note. Just an address scribbled on the bottom of the box—the apartment he lived in when he first moved to Paris.

One of his sous chefs got a perfectly replicated plate from their first fine dining job. Another found a rare spice blend they’d mentioned in passing on a podcast years ago.

It was intimate. Invasive. Almost surgical in how precise the gifts were.

And unnerving.

“Still thinking about it?” his sous, Anja, asked from beside him, slicing wild leeks with terrifying speed.

Luca didn’t look up. “Which part? The gifts or the part where the entire world thinks we’re unraveling?”

Anja shrugged. “Bit of both.”

“I’m not unraveling,” he muttered, brushing more glaze onto the tart.

“You did scream ‘fuck Lloris’ into the walk-in yesterday,” she pointed out gently.

He paused. “That was private.”

She smirked. “You were mic’d.”

Luca exhaled, finally letting himself smirk, too. “We’re ready, right?”

“As ready as we can be,” she said. “The menu’s locked. Everyone’s dialed in. And we’ve got backup for the backup for the backup equipment.”

Luca nodded, stepping back to survey the finished tart.

Their concept was rooted in nostalgia and transformation. Dishes that looked like one thing but told a deeper story on the plate. Memory through illusion. Playfulness hiding mastery.

The centerpiece? A deceptively rustic root vegetable stew that, on closer inspection, used molecular techniques to mimic textures, reverse flavors, even shift temperatures halfway through the dish. It was humble in appearance, mind-blowing in execution.

Classic Noma.

Still, Luca couldn’t shake it. That tension in the back of his neck. The knowledge that someone out there—Lloris—had gotten under his skin without ever showing their face.

And it wasn’t just him.

Everyone on the team had been off-balance since the gifts started arriving. Not panicked. But alert. Edgy.

It made him wonder—how much of this competition was about food anymore?

He looked around the kitchen, saw the precision, the control, the quiet confidence in his team.

Then he looked back at the whisk.

Fine.

They wanted war?

Let’s cook.

Back The kitchen was quiet.

Not silent—but quiet in a way that meant focus, not absence. There was no yelling, no chaos. Just the soft sounds of knives on boards, the hiss of reductions simmering low, the occasional tap of someone adjusting plating tweezers.

Luca stood at his station, gently brushing a glaze over the edge of a mushroom tartelette. His hands moved without thinking. Muscle memory. Years of repetition. But his mind?

Spinning.

Tomorrow was the competition.

And while everyone else buzzed with excitement or nerves, Luca felt… something else. A pressure that settled low in his chest and refused to leave.

Noma was already a name. A legacy. That carried weight. Expectations. Perfection was the bare minimum.

And this time, it wasn’t just about technique. It was about narrative. About story. And, unfortunately, about drama.

He glanced at the stack of small wooden boxes piled in the corner of the prep area—gifts from Lloris. Unrequested, unwanted, unforgettable.

Luca had received a worn French whisk he hadn’t seen since culinary school, polished and wrapped in parchment. No note. Just an address scribbled on the bottom of the box—the apartment he lived in when he first moved to Paris.

One of his sous chefs got a perfectly replicated plate from their first fine dining job. Another found a rare spice blend they’d mentioned in passing on a podcast years ago.

It was intimate. Invasive. Almost surgical in how precise the gifts were.

And unnerving.

“Still thinking about it?” his sous, Anja, asked from beside him, slicing wild leeks with terrifying speed.

Luca didn’t look up. “Which part? The gifts or the part where the entire world thinks we’re unraveling?”

Anja shrugged. “Bit of both.”

“I’m not unraveling,” he muttered, brushing more glaze onto the tart.

“You did scream ‘fuck Lloris’ into the walk-in yesterday,” she pointed out gently.

He paused. “That was private.”

She smirked. “You were mic’d.”

Luca exhaled, finally letting himself smirk, too. “We’re ready, right?”

“As ready as we can be,” she said. “The menu’s locked. Everyone’s dialed in. And we’ve got backup for the backup for the backup equipment.”

Luca nodded, stepping back to survey the finished tart.

Their concept was rooted in nostalgia and transformation. Dishes that looked like one thing but told a deeper story on the plate. Memory through illusion. Playfulness hiding mastery.

The centerpiece? A deceptively rustic root vegetable stew that, on closer inspection, used molecular techniques to mimic textures, reverse flavors, even shift temperatures halfway through the dish. It was humble in appearance, mind-blowing in execution.

Classic Noma.

Still, Luca couldn’t shake it. That tension in the back of his neck. The knowledge that someone out there—Lloris—had gotten under his skin without ever showing their face.

And it wasn’t just him.

Everyone on the team had been off-balance since the gifts started arriving. Not panicked. But alert. Edgy.

It made him wonder—how much of this competition was about food anymore?

He looked around the kitchen, saw the precision, the control, the quiet confidence in his team.

Then he looked back at the whisk.

Fine.

They wanted war?

Let’s cook.

In a kitchen somewhere in New York…

Alicia sat at her tiny kitchen table, the last rays of sunlight bleeding through the windows, a pen tapping anxiously against a battered notepad.

It was strange how quiet everything felt now.

For the past few weeks, it had been nonstop. Cooking, planning, strategizing, scheming. A full operation—one that had required more assistants, more contacts, more hidden logistics than even David knew about.

Now, with less than twenty-four hours before the competition, there was nothing left to tweak.

No more notes to send.

No more plates to perfect.

Nothing but herself—and her story.

She leaned back in her chair, staring at the menu she’d finalized that morning.

It was unlike anything else she had ever cooked.

A life laid bare through food.

Course One: Childhood—bright, sharp, chaotic. A dish of clashing colors and textures that somehow came together.

Course Two: Leaving home—simple, stripped down, a single protein and sauce, isolated on a massive plate.

Course Three: Building walls—precise, intricate, almost too perfect, designed to impress and distance at the same time.

Course Four: Breaking—burnt, bitter, intentionally flawed.

Course Five: Beginning again.

She ran a hand through her hair, closing her eyes.

This wasn’t about winning anymore.

It wasn’t about beating The Bear or Luca or anyone else.

It was about her.

About carving a space in a world that tried—again and again—to tell her she didn’t belong.

Her phone buzzed against the table, pulling her out of her thoughts.

David: Ready?

Alicia smiled a little.

Alicia: Born ready.

She grabbed her apron, tossing it over the back of the chair, and stood up.

There was no team behind her. No restaurant brand to carry her.

Just Alicia.

And Lloris—the name she had built from shadows and silence.

Tomorrow, it would all be on the plate.

For better or worse.

She flicked off the light and let the apartment fall into darkness behind her.

Taglist:

@eugene-emt-roe

[nerawrites]

Chapter 35: Package Drop

Previous chapter | Next chapter

Ships: The bear x Fem!

Warnings: none I think

Masterlist

The mood in the kitchen was quieter than usual, but not from exhaustion.

It was uneasy.

Sydney walked in and immediately clocked the huddle around the pass. Something was on the counter—wrapped boxes, neat, clean, unsettlingly curated.

Not food this time.

Just…gifts.

Tina noticed her first. “You might want to brace yourself, Syd.”

“What is this?” Sydney asked, already moving toward the packages.

Richie held up a note, expression unreadable. “From Lloris.”

Sydney blinked. “They’re still going?”

“Oh, they’ve leveled up,” Marcus muttered.

Each box was marked with a name. Everyone had something.

Sydney opened hers—inside was a well-worn, now-restored copy of her first culinary notebook. The one she thought she’d lost during her externship. The corners were still marked, her handwriting still shaky and small on the first few pages.

The note tucked inside read:

“Don’t forget who you were before the pressure. – Lloris”

Marcus’s gift was a delicate carving tool set—identical to the one he had shown Carmy back in the early days when he was practicing sugar work. Tools he’d sold to pay rent once.

His note:

“You’re better than they think. – Lloris”

Tina’s was deeply personal—an old photo of her and her mother in front of a food stall in Puebla. One she hadn’t seen in decades. The photo had been laminated, preserved.

“Some roots run deeper than kitchens. – Lloris”

Ebra’s was strange, but meaningful—an out-of-print French poetry book, something he’d once quoted from during a family meal debate about art and food.

“You were always right. – Lloris”

Richie opened his box last. A perfectly clean, unopened copy of the self-help book he’d once sarcastically recommended to Carmy but secretly started reading after a particularly bad night.

“You’re trying. That’s enough—for now. – Lloris”

Even Fak had a box—an old CD-R labeled “Demo – The Faktones.” His garage band from high school. Somehow, someone had found the only copy.

“Never stop being the weirdo. – Lloris”

The room went quiet as everyone looked at their gifts, shifting from confusion to a shared, eerie realization.

“These aren’t just random,” Sydney murmured. “They know us.”

Richie stepped back, whistling low. “It’s not even just food anymore. This is some Zodiac killer chef shit.”

“They’re watching,” Ebra said solemnly.

“They’ve been watching,” Tina added.

Carmy, standing in the back, hadn’t opened his yet. He stared at it for a long moment before finally cracking the box open.

Inside?

His old, scuffed chef’s knife. The one he left behind when he walked out of New York for good.

Cleaned. Sharpened. Still his.

The note?

“You keep trying to start over. Maybe you should try picking up where you left off. – Lloris”

He said nothing.

Just quietly rewrapped the knife and set it down.

Noma…

The Noma satellite kitchen wasn’t spared either.

The gifts were waiting when Luca arrived. Lined up neatly on the pass. No names, no explanations.

One of the junior sous-chefs picked up a package cautiously. “Chef… these are for us?”

Luca raised an eyebrow, already guessing. “Open it.”

The gifts were similar—personal, too specific.

One line cook received a rare truffle grater from a small forge in Italy. A mentor once told her she’d never earn the right to use one.

A sous-chef got a journal from a staging trip she did in Tokyo. She lost it on the flight home, devastated. Somehow, it was here, intact.

Luca’s own gift was more on the same level—- french whisk he hadn’t seen since culinary school, polished and wrapped in parchment.

He stared at it for a long time before pulling out the note tucked underneath.

An address scribbled on the bottom of the box—the apartment he lived in when he first moved to Paris.

He exhaled through his nose.

This was no longer about sending messages.

This was a campaign.

The Culinary World Reacts

The backlash was inevitable.

After the last round of drops—gifts instead of dishes—the atmosphere around the competition shifted completely.

Chefs started talking. Quietly at first, then loudly, then to anyone who would listen.

Within days, articles started popping up.

“Is the Mysterious ‘Lloris’ Going Too Far?”

“Chefs Across the World Targeted in Culinary Mind Games”

“Gifted, Intimidated, and Unsettled: Competitors Speak Out About Lloris”

Dozens of chefs went to the media with their experiences. Some were amused. Most weren’t. Several claimed emotional manipulation, crossing ethical boundaries, and creating a “toxic pre-competition atmosphere.”

The headlines hit hard—and fast.

Lloris had gone from urban legend to front-page mystery.

But they still didn’t know who.

And in every quote, every article, every talking head giving their take, the question was always the same:

“Who truly is Lloris?”

A/N

Should I make a taglist?

[nerawrites]

Hello

Update on the story….I WILL BE UPDATING ALL CHAPTERS BEFORE THE MONTH ENDS. I don’t think there will be another update this upcoming week as well because of my finals, sorry for bad news. But good news is that after the chapters are uploaded the start of the extra chapters will come out!!!

[nerawrites]

"If you use em dash in your works, it makes them look AI generated. No real human uses em dash."

Imaging thinking actual human writers are Not Real because they use... professional writing in their works.

Imagine thinking millions of people who have been using em dash way before AI becomes a thing are all robots.

REBLOG IF YOU'RE A HUMAN AND YOU USE EM DASH

[nerawrites]

Chapter 34: A Message To Everyone

Previous chapter | Next chapter

Ships: The Bear x Fem!oc

Warnings: none

Masterlist

Just one more push wouldn’t hurt right?

It began with packages that might as well finish with one.

Small, nondescript, and unsettlingly personal.

Each competitor in the upcoming event received something that felt hand-picked—because it was. A pair of chef’s tweezers that matched a set someone had lost years ago. A spice blend only one of them had ever used in a private stage in Spain. A photo of a dish they made in culinary school. A handwritten note referencing a nickname only a former mentor ever used. Every gift arrived with a simple note—no return address, no signature.

Only two words:

“I see you. – Llorris”

The effect was instant. Across kitchens from New York to Copenhagen, phones lit up, chefs whispered in private group chats, anxiety bloomed behind the walls of prep lines. Someone was watching them. Someone knew them. And that someone was Lloris.

The rumors flared again—some chefs laughed it off, some called it psychological warfare, others were genuinely disturbed. More than a few reached out to the competition’s organizers asking for a formal investigation. But there was nothing traceable. No prints. No footage. Just that same signature:

“– Llorris.”

Alicia stood over her worktable, a flurry of empty ramekins, scorched baking sheets, tasting spoons, and sauce-streaked plates crowding the space. She hadn’t left her apartment in days. Her apron was stiff with flour and oil, her hands trembling from too many back-to-back prep sessions, but her mind?

Clear.

This wasn’t just about a menu anymore. It couldn’t be.

Too much had happened. She had pushed too far, been pushed in return. She had watched The Bear rise, crack, then regroup; watched Noma rally with quiet grace. She had felt everything—from pettiness to power to exhaustion.

And now, she knew what she had to make.

Not just food. Not just art.

Her life.

Every course would be a chapter. Every element a memory. Her joy. Her grief. Her rage. The abandonment. The silence. The kitchen that became her home. The betrayal. The thrill. The pain of being overlooked. The thrill of being seen. The feeling of power that came from being Lloris—and the fear of losing herself to it.

Her concept menu wasn’t going to be avant-garde or philosophical or experimental for the sake of it.

It was going to be her.

Menu Draft – Alicia’s Notebook

Title: Ghosts of the Line

Course I: “First Burn”

Charred onion consommé with scorched cream, sourdough ash crumble – a nod to her first time being yelled at on the line. Burned, but not broken.

Course II: “Family Meal”

A refined take on arroz con pollo, layered with umami and spice, delicate but grounded – the memory of her grandmother, the only person who ever truly cooked for her.

Course III: “Silence Service”

A cold, almost clinical beet tartare with horseradish and black vinegar gel with a T-bone steak– the loneliness and anger she felt while excelling in rooms that refused to acknowledge her.

Course IV: “The Note”

A dish meant to mimic the same dish she once sent anonymously. But this time, no message. Just the dish—quiet, precise, sharp.

Course V: “Reckoning”

A surprise palate disruptor, acidic and bold—uncomfortable, demanding attention. A dish to force the judge’s eyes up from the plate.

Course VI: “Home, Eventually”

Warm, nostalgic, deeply savory—cornbread custard, sweet corn gel, smoked butter ice cream. The idea of comfort, earned the hard way.

Course VII: “Still Here”

A deconstructed dish with visual disorder, balanced flavors, chaos on the plate but harmony in the mouth. A message in itself.

She didn’t cry when she finalized the menu.

But she sat down, finally, for the first time in days.

The pressure hadn’t let up. If anything, it had grown tighter around her chest, more suffocating. But she welcomed it now. She knew what she was making. And she knew what she was saying.

Next week, the world would see what she’d been building all this time.

Lloris had made her presence known.

Now?

Alicia was going to own it.

[nerawrites]

Chapter 33: Cost of the Game

Previous chapter | Next chapter

Ships: Carmy x Fem!oc, Luca x Fem!oc

Warnings: revenge

Masterlist

The sun had barely crept through the blinds when Alicia sat across from David in her cluttered living room, papers and notebooks scattered between them. The air between them was thick with anticipation, the quiet hum of an impending strategy session. It was the first time they’d been able to sit down in weeks, the noise of the competition growing louder, the pressure building by the day.

Alicia had spent countless hours refining dishes, testing combinations, but now, they needed something more. A bigger picture. The way forward was simple, but complicated at the same time: a concept menu that would challenge everything, break expectations, and deliver something no one would ever forget. A menu that would put everyone in their places.

“Okay, so you know the basics,” David started, tapping his pen against the table. “It needs to be something that’ll hit hard. Something that’s not just good, but unexpected. Needs multiple courses, layering complexity. It has to be high-stakes, intricate, and hit every single culinary nerve.”

Alicia nodded thoughtfully. “Something that challenges the judges to think, but also knocks them out of their comfort zone. The dishes need to speak for themselves, but also tell a story, right? I’m playing the long game here.”

Alicia leaned back in her chair, exhaling slowly. The weight of it all was catching up to her. As much as she’d distanced herself from The Bear and everything that came with it, the challenge had become too much of a pull to resist. And now, with the competition escalating, she was more determined than ever to get ahead.

David, sensing her growing focus, pushed forward. “Alright, but I also wanted to talk about the other part of this whole thing. The game you’ve been playing as Lloris. You’ve been keeping your cards close, but I want to know how far you’re willing to take it.”

Alicia’s eyes flickered briefly to the window before returning to the table. She had been hiding behind the name for so long, playing the role of the ghost chef, sending dishes, leaving notes—the perfect distraction. But she knew it was getting harder to manage.

“How far am I willing to take it?” she repeated, almost to herself, before her eyes turned steely. “As far as I have to, David. The point isn’t just to cook. It’s to get under their skin. To make them question everything. To make them realize they’re not as untouchable as they think.”

David raised an eyebrow. “And you think sending a few well-placed dishes and leaving cryptic notes is enough to take them down?”

Alicia’s lips curled into a tight smile. “It’s a start. But we both know the kitchen is a warzone. Every move counts. You have to take everything, twist it, bend it, and make them fight to stay at the top. That’s the game.”

David looked at her, searching her face for a moment before speaking again. “I get that. But I still don’t understand something. Why Noma? I get Carmy, I understand the whole Bear thing. But Luca’s team? They’re not even on the radar. He’s a talented guy. Why drag them into this? Why target him at all?”

Alicia paused, her eyes darkening. The question hit harder than she expected, the sudden vulnerability making her feel exposed. Luca and Noma had been a complicated variable—they weren’t a part of the chaos between her and The Bear, but somehow they had been caught in the crossfire anyway.

“I didn’t mean to target them at first,” Alicia admitted, her voice quieter now. “But after seeing all the comments from there team about me… especially the ones where they talked shit about Lloris and everything I was doing, it… it got to me. I guess it was petty, but it just—something in me snapped. I hadn’t thought much about Luca, just heard the name from Marcus here and there. But when I saw the way he was talking about me and my work—it made me want to prove something.”

David watched her carefully, the lines of frustration and determination playing across her face. “You wanted to show them they were wrong?”

“Yeah,” Alicia murmured, her gaze shifting away. “And not just prove them wrong. I wanted to make them feel what I felt. All those critiques, all the dismissals… they were personal, even if they didn’t realize it. It’s like they thought they could ignore me, mock me, and get away with it. But no one ignores me.”

David sat back in his chair, his expression shifting from concern to understanding. “And Carmy—he’s in the middle of all this because…?”

Alicia didn’t have to think long. “He was always going to be the target. Carmy’s the one everyone’s chasing, whether he likes it or not. But with Luca and Noma, it’s not just about who he is as a chef. It’s what they represent. The complacency. The pretentiousness. I want them to feel it, too. To know that nothing is just handed out.”

David nodded, taking in the silence for a moment. “I get it. This is more than just about the competition. It’s about making a point. You’ve been building up to this for months. But be careful, Alicia. You’re walking a thin line. One wrong move, and this could all come crashing down.”

Alicia’s expression hardened, the edge of her determination slicing through her calm. “I’m not going to crash. I’m going to win. And when I do, I’ll make sure everyone knows who I am. They’ll remember this.”

David didn’t say anything more, simply nodding in acknowledgment. He knew Alicia well enough to understand that once she set her sights on something, she wasn’t going to stop until she got it.

Later that night…

As Alicia sat alone in the dim light of her apartment, scrolling through the latest wave of comments and critiques on the Lloris dishes, she couldn’t help but feel a wave of satisfaction. The chaos she’d created, the whispers in the culinary world—it was working. It was all coming to a head.

But as the night drew on, a deeper sense of unease settled over her. The game was far from over, and the stakes were growing higher. She wasn’t sure what would happen next, but she knew that whatever it was, it would be her final move.

She closed her eyes for a moment, and then, with a deep breath, she picked up her phone and typed a message to David.

“The concept menu is almost ready. We just need one final push. I’m going to give them something they won’t forget. Let’s make sure the whole industry feels this.”

She hit send, then placed her phone down on the table, staring out the window into the city lights, knowing that the next few days would determine everything.

This was more than just cooking. It was war.

[nerawrites]

Ayo is such hot, cunty, badass bitch I’m in awe that they don’t have her like this in the bear.

I WOULD FOLD FOR HER ANY DAY!!!

PREPARE TO BE SICK OF ME

[nerawrites]