#also not all the bear fic i write is syd/carm

[eachmostremembering]

like i have a lot of projects right now that are very romance-focused; there's the romance novel, the bear fic, the bear fic 2, the bear fic three, the bear fic 4, the a6 stuff i fuckin needed to finish two years ago, etc.

but like ngl the bear (and paterson) really got me renewed my belief in love again and that's great

[heavenbarnes]

hi!! i’ve never done this before but id like to request a sydney adamu x femreader :) like maybe with the reader being a new sous chef at the bear or old culinary school crush or smth along those lines haha or literally any other ideas u might have!! there’s an unfortunate lack of sydney fics in general so i’ll rly take anything lol. also LOVED the one you wrote recently (im losing it lately) i have been re-reading it over and over again omfg

Already better for knowing you

Sydney Adamu x female reader

Warnings/Contains: swearing, syd is so fucking awkward, carmy is a meddling shithead, mature themes (involving fruit), beginnings of a praise kink, no actual smut (can you believe it?!)

Thank you so much for requesting this, I thoroughly enjoy writing for Syd! Also sorry that I always write her the same way (awkward-lesbian-munch) but I genuinely think that’s how she’d be. Also cannot believe you’ve read my work multiple times! I didn’t know if you wanted this to be smut so I only hinted, but lemme know if you want more. Anyways, hope you like this!

Sydney and Carmy had to have the difficult talk.

With the success of The Bear, how much it had taken off with their hard work, it was time to bite the bullet.

They needed more hands in the kitchen.

Experienced hands, they needed someone that Syd could rely on. She could give an order and that person would follow.

She needed a sous chef.

They put up the ad and, sure enough, they had a number of chefs in for the interview. They were keen, mostly young, hungry for the chance to break out into their first kitchen.

Both Syd and Carm knew you had to start somewhere but they both really needed the experience, the trust, the reliability.

Their last day of interviews rolled through and Sydney couldn’t help the feeling of helplessness creeping in her chest. Last day of interviews and still no closer to a new sous.

Were they being too picky?

As she shuffled her papers of interview questions and old CVs, she watched Carmy scratch the back of his neck as he read over the last applicant’s details.

“Well, she sounds good on paper.”

Syd couldn’t help the snort she let out, elbows on the table and head resting in her hands. “They’ve all sounded good on paper.”

Carmy shrugged his shoulders at that, but nevertheless sat down beside his chef de cuisine still reading over the paper.

“Says she’s worked in a couple restaurants, out of state- she’s only recently moved to Chicago.”

Syd listened to him speak, trying to find herself a little bit more excited at the prospects.

“Graduated from the CIA, experienced with-“

That perked her up a bit, knowing it was a long shot with the number of campus locations and students that came and went from the institute.

But there was still a small chance.

“What’s her name?” She turned to read the paper over Carmy’s shoulder as the sound of the door opening filled the space.

It all happened so quickly.

The door opened.

Carmy said your name.

You appeared before her.

Still as beautiful as the last time she saw you.

As if she could forget that day, for a few reasons. One, it was graduation, obviously she was going to remember it. Two, well, you were there.

If anyone cared enough to ask, she could tell them what you wore. The way your smile shone under the stage lights. The way you smelt as you hugged her and wished her the best.

Sometimes, when things got quiet, she’d play that moment over in her head.

Sydney thought she might’ve been dreaming when she saw you striding across the auditorium right towards her. You smiled, bright smile, hand coming up to give her a quick wave.

She’d even looked over her shoulder, trying to find out who you were even waving at. By the time she looked back towards you, you were smiling harder and giggling a little.

“Yes, that was for you.” You’d teased, making a heat grow on Syd’s cheeks.

“Yeah- yeah, I knew that.”

Your smile turned into a smirk as you nodded knowingly. “Course you did.”

Then you both stood there quietly, Sydney couldn’t really focus when you were dressed like this. Granted, it was just your chefs whites, but she couldn’t deny you wore the hell out of them.

You’d been wearing them nearly every day, and it still took her breath away every time she saw you. She didn’t even notice you were speaking until you shifted to get into her eye line.

“Sorry- what was that?”

“I said I’ll miss seeing you in the kitchen.”

Syd nodded, earnestly, face softening as she spoke. “I don’t think I’ll enjoy cooking as much without you there.”

She’d surprised herself with her confidence, actually being able to say it. She was pleased to see your smile growing. There was also a glint in your eye that she couldn’t place.

Her chest tightened up as you stepped forward, hands reaching out to pull her into a hug. She melted into you, taking a deep breath to remind herself of your sweet scent.

“Soon as you make it big,” You spoke knowingly, like it was inevitable. “I’ll come find you.”

And here you were now, standing before her in her own restaurant.

You’d found her.

Her mouth fell open as she tried to find the words she’d wanted to say to you all this time. How are you? I’ve missed you? I’ve thought about you every day since the last time I saw you?

Instead, she just stayed silent. She closed her mouth, blinking up at you with those beautiful eyes of hers.

“Syd,” Her name sounded at home in your mouth. “How long has it been?”

“Three years, eight m-months.” She’d only realised how quickly she’d answered when she saw your eyebrows raise.

Carmy shifted beside her, too. It snapped her back into reality, the reality where you were standing right before her and she was acting like a fucking dickhead.

“Well, here’s hoping I’m right on time.” You didn’t look put off, you assumed that same smirk you’d given her all those three years, eight months ago.

You were, you were always right on time. Always in the right place. Always just right.

Syd managed to pull herself together enough to stand up (for whatever reason) and gesture to the seat before her and Carmy. You graciously accepted, sitting down and placing your hands on the table.

Her eyes were immediately drawn to them, the way your fingers intertwined together, the lines coming off your palms. Sydney remembered back to the institute, the distractions she’d face watching you handle a knife or split a citrus fruit.

She couldn’t think of the latter right now.

The way your fingers would pierce the skin, pulling it apart with juices spraying up your wrists. You’d scoop out the flesh with your bare hands, not caring for the way it’d leave you sticky and dripping.

You’d look up at her, finding her watching you and not minding the way she stared. The fateful day you threw the rest of the grapefruit into the scraps, bringing two fingers to your lips to lick the excess off before you washed your hands.

Sydney was completely and utterly-

“Obsessed,” Your voice brought her back into the room, only for the second or third time in the short span of time. “Obsessed with what you’ve done with this place.”

She saw Carmy smile out the corner of her eye, his cheeks blushed a little at your words. You had that effect on most people. Sydney knew better than anyone what you could do to a person with just a few words.

“Well, we’re quite impressed with your CV,” He responded, laying it out on the table. “Aren’t we, Syd?”

By the time she looked away from him, she found you were already staring at her expectantly. She nodded, mumbling an affirmative sound to the both of them.

“Really impressed, seems like you’ve done a great job since graduation.”

You lit up, that’s the only way Sydney could describe it. It was as if your heart was swelling in your chest as your cheeks rose.

“Thank you, that means a lot,” She had assumed you were referring to the both of them until you finished. “Coming from you, Syd.”

If this was how she was at the interview, lord help her in the kitchen. There was no doubt you were getting the job, that was an absolute given. But Sydney would have to think hard about how it’d work practically.

Her sous chef. Following her every move. Responding to her every word. Reliable, obedient, willing, responsive.

Syd had seen you in action at the institute, but never following her own orders. She didn’t know if she’d be able to cope with hearing your “yes, chef” and knowing it was directed at her.

Even the way you were looking at her now, so expectant, hanging on to everything she was saying. She knew that look in your eye, on your face, you’d given yourself away just a little earlier.

“Coming from you, Syd.”

Praise. You were looking for her praise.

The thought sent Sydney into overdrive, forcing her to stand up abruptly and knock her knees into the table as she did.

Both you and Carmy looked up at her in confusion, your mouth opening to ask if everything was alright.

Syd cut you off, babbling as she walked away from the table. “I just remembered- remembered that the stove is on and- that’s the number one cause of kitchen fires- and I will be right back!”

She kept talking as she eventually made her way into the kitchen, hiding in the space right next to the oven (that hadn’t been on all morning).

Sydney knew she was fucked. Royally, totally, well and truly fucked. The crush she’d had on you at the institute had been debilitating and, whilst she’d missed you, these three years and eight months had meant she was finally able to focus.

Now here you were, in her kitchen and looking like everything she’d ever wanted.

Syd had no idea how long she stayed hiding in the kitchen but sooner or later Carmy came through with a stupid smile on his face, leaning against the bench.

“Think you handled that really well.”

“Shut the fuck up, I’m begging you.”

He laughed, laying the brown folder he’d been carrying down beside him as he crossed his arms. She looked up at him, wincing a little as she already knew what was coming.

“You gave her the job, didn’t you?”

Carmy laughed louder, looking down at the heap of Sydney on the floor. She could kick his shins right now.

“Of course I did,” He responded, pushing up from the bench as he turned to leave. “Have fun training your new sous chef.”

Fucked. Completely fucked.

[nolita-fairytale]

so my darling | sydney adamu x the restaurateur (unnamed male oc) | oneshot

summary: sydney falls in love with a restauranteur (one played by pedro pascal). song title inspired by so my darling by rachel chinouriri.

warnings: swearing, unnamed ocs, talking about sex, use of she/her pronouns, no use of y/n, two original characters (the restaurateur & the pastry chef), the pastry chef is the mc from make my heart surrender, wong kar-wai films, ambiguous ending

wc: 4.8k

a/n: ok, so i'm not entirely back, but this photo of pedro pascal and ayo edebiri at the sag awards quite literally haunted me and made me write something about it. also i've really missed all of you. and i've missed these characters. and i miss this world. this oneshot feels really different to me than a lot of the things i've written for the bear and there isn't much inclusion of the other characters because i really, really wanted to write from sydney's perspective. it's limited storytelling in the way that it's mostly her experience of being charmed by the restaurateur but i had a lot of fun with this and i hope you enjoy. fic inspired by the pic below:

nolita fairytale's masterlist

Sydney doesn’t expect to win, yet her name is called out anyway, followed by the phrases: “James Beard Rising Star Award” and “the winner is.” 

Most of the night is a blur. Somewhere between winning the biggest award of her career to accepting congratulations from the best chefs in the world, Sydney’s still trying to gather her bearings. It’s not until Carmy’s girlfriend, the woman who picked up her life and moved to Chicago to be with her exec chef, tugs at her arm. 

Sydney doesn’t mean to completely reduce the woman to just Carmy’s girlfriend. 

She’s also become many other things: the head pastry chef at The Bear, a colleague, and most importantly, a best friend. 

“Hey, Syd! Carm wants to introduce you to someone,” she says, before giving Sydney a chance to politely excuse herself from the previous conversation she’d found herself in. 

As The Pastry Chef leads her away from her present company, Sydney follows with a soft smile, half expecting it to be yet another celebrity chef—someone in Carmy’s network that reminds her why she began working at the Bear when The Bear was The Beef. 

What she doesn’t expect is to meet him, her breath hitching in her throat as she and her best friend who’s dragged her over here, find themselves standing across from Carmy and an unfamiliar man.

“I see a congratulations is in order,” the man greets her, tipping his half-empty glass of champagne in her direction with a smile so charming she has to do a double take. 

“To this year’s newest Rising Star chef.” 

He’s handsome, sure—but that’s not what catches her eye.

The first thing Sydney notices about the man is his soft, dark curls—much cleaner than the unruly ones that belong to her head chef. He wears thick-rimmed rectangular glasses and has a perfectly groomed mustache that surprisingly works for him. It’s not usually her kind of thing, is all. In a white button down, perfectly tucked into his pristine black trousers, it's somehow still black tie with a touch of rebelliousness for forgoing a tie and a proper suit jacket. 

He can’t be much older than Richie, she thinks to herself. What? Ten… maybe fifteen years older than herself? 

Reality comes back to her, as she realizes that she hasn’t said a word, wondering just how long she’s spent caught up in her own head over the handsome stranger. 

“Oh uh, yeah. Thanks,” Sydney replies with a smile and a nod, snapping back to her senses. 

“Syd, this is… probably one of the few mentors I’ve had in my career. Well, him and Terry, ‘course,” Carmy begins to introduce, shyly. He’s not used to the one doing the introductions. “From Malibu.” 

“Fairest Creatures,” the man clarifies with a hearty chuckle, citing the name of the restaurant they worked at together. “Way, waaaaaaay back in the day.”

Right. 

The restaurant that put Carmy on the map, winning himself the same award that year that Sydney’s won tonight. 

That’s when it clicks for her.

An old mentor of Carmy’s. 

Not Terry.

And no, not that one—not the asshole from New York—to put it nicely.

The Restaurateur from California.

“No, I-. Yeah! I’m a big fan of your work, yeah,” Sydney scrambles to say, a glimmer of recognition in her eyes as she reaches out to shake his hand. 

“Carmy was one of my early boys—look at him now. The student has far surpassed the teacher,” the chef adds, implying he’s mentored plenty of then-up-and-coming chefs back in the day.

“Oh thanks, but uh. Nah, I don’t know about that,” Carmy mutters, quick to brush off the older chef’s compliment. 

Sydney can feel The Pastry Chef nudge her playfully, letting out a chuckle in response. The two exchange glances as Sydney follows her gaze from Carmy to his mentor. 

“Oh they’re just being modest. Don’t think I’ve ever met two humbler chefs than these two,” the pastry chef adds with a playful eye roll, shooting her lover a look that doesn’t go unnoticed. “Which… if you ask me, is practically unheard of in this industry so… I consider us lucky, Syd.” 

Sydney lets out a small, nervous laugh in agreement, before raising her own champagne glass to her lips as she finds herself, suddenly, parched. 

*

She sees him again, weeks later, when the pomp and circumstance of winning a James Beard award has almost died down. She’d been quick to assume that, like many other chefs that weekend, he’d only been in town for the award ceremony, but as Sydney listens to the man tell Carmy that he’s moved to Chicago for “the foreseeable future,” she wonders why she never asked in the first place. 

The Restaurateur had come in to say hello, for a meal, and Carmy had quickly declared that it would be on the house—eager to feed the best mentor he ever had in his California fine dining days.

“Yeah, I’ll be steppin’ in for Cuadros… when he goes on paternity leave… and we’re talking about expanding—what that could look like. Well, you know how it goes, Carm. Right now I’m just hangin’ out, helping out where I can between the two restaurants he’s got now,” he explains to Carmy with a nonchalance, as if he’s not a restaurateur whose reputation precedes himself. 

“Ah, man. That’s cool. Well, you let us know if you need anything. I’ll give you mine and uh… Syd, you cool if I give him your number too?” Carmy asks, catching Sydney off guard. 

“What do you-, I mean-?” Sydney begins to ask, unable to hide her surprise. 

“Since he’s new to the restaurant scene here in Chicago. Can help each other out, you know?” Carmy returns, a hopeful look in his eyes.

“Yeah, I guess I-. Sure,” Sydney nods, forcing a small smile in an attempt to shake the ‘deer-in-headlights’ look she’s sure her face has involuntarily contorted itself into. 

She watches her head chef carefully, as Carmy continues to interact with the restaurateur in a way that she’s never seen before. She’s never seen him this eager to try to impress someone—hell, sometimes she wonders if Carmen thrives on pretending like he doesn’t give a fuck what anyone thinks—so it’s sends her head spinning as she tries to reckon with this newly-revealed side of her business partner.

“That means a lot. Thank you–the both of you,” The Restaurateur replies, genuinely, bringing her back into the conversation.

“Sure,” Sydney manages to get out, still caught up in her head—exploring this new side of Carmy she has yet to see. “Anything for a friend of Carmy’s.” 

“I’m at Amaru most of the time these days,” the restaurateur continues, his eyes shifting from Carmy then back to Sydney as he adds one last thing. 

“You should stop by sometime.” 

*

They exchange a few texts here and there, but it’s all business. 

Who’s your preferred vendor for kitchen towels? 

You guys see success with extended weekend hours? 

Thoughts on being open on Monday?

“He likes you,” The Pastry Chef insists one day, in between lunch and dinner service. Sydney quickly shoves her phone back into her apron pocket, as if she’s a kid again—one who’s gotten caught texting in class. 

“What? He does not! I-. This is-, it’s not-, we are two professionals… talking shop,” Sydney dismisses, because it’s easier to push those thoughts aside than to entertain them.

“Syd. He could be texting Carm but he’s texting you,” the her friend continues, completely and utterly unconvinced. Sydney finds herself on the receiving end that says, ‘cut the bullshit’ as The Pastry Chef continues. 

“Even if it is… just about work, I think it says something that he’s texting you, Syd. I mean, do you know how long it took me and Carmy to-.” 

“Okay, but not all of us are you and Carmy!” Sydney interjects, letting out an uncomfortable laugh as a means to break the tension. 

Off her look, her friend just chuckles with a shake of her head, reminded of a time that she too could live this far in denial. 

“If you say so,” The Pastry Chef resigns herself, accepting that she won’t make much progress on this one today. 

She waits a beat, focused on cleaning up her station as Syd unconsciously checks her phone to see if there’s a notification from a certain someone yet. 

“When are we going? To his restaurant, I mean,” The Pastry Chef speaks up again with a quirked eyebrow. 

Could she really have noticed that? Syd wonders. 

This time, Sydney only groans in response with a mumbled, “Fuck off. I am sick of you,” earning a bigger laugh this time from her pastry chef friend. 

But the conversation seems to be the push she needs. It only takes a week or so longer for their days off to align, and Sydney’s the one bringing up the idea: that they should do a happy hour at Amaru to “show support” (and nothing else — really, no ulterior motives at all). 

The Pastry Chef is more than enthusiastic about the idea, easily suggesting that they make it a girls’ night. 

Which is how Sydney finds herself here, seated between her two biggest cheerleaders, Sugar one side of her, and her pastry-chef-colleague-turned best friend, at the bar of the Pan-Latin American neighborhood spot. She’s sure that Sugar was recruited for said girls’ night, in an attempt to get a second opinion on whether the handsome, older restaurateur is or is not in fact, into her. 

She doesn’t hate the idea of it, for the record, but she wonders if they’re reading this all wrong—hesitant to get her hopes up.

But after the first plate—a gift from the kitchen—and the aperitif sent their way, both on the house, Sydney can only assume that The Restaurateur has something to do with it. 

Of course, it’s easy to chalk it up to good hospitality. After all, hadn’t they done the same when he visited The Bear, a few things on the house Carmy insisted they send out? Isn’t it customary? 

Sydney thinks back to how easily Carmy had given her number to the older chef, eager to extend as much support as possible to his previous mentor as he transitioned into the Chicago market. 

But he wasn’t texting Carmy all that much. Just her. 

She tries not to brush off yet another excuse: because she’s the CDC, not Carmy; because maybe he thinks Carmy, as the exec chef, doesn’t have the time when she does. Syd thinks she could go on and on like this, and instead, for a split second, she allows herself to think that maybe, just maybe, it’s because her friends aren’t all that wrong about this. 

“You’ll have to forgive me. I wanted to come say hello earlier, but. Well, you know how it goes,” The Restaurateur says, earning the attention of all three women. While he acknowledges both of her friends warmly, he makes sure to he’s look at Sydney as he concludes with: 

“I’m glad you came.” 

“Oh, yeah. Thank you for everything. Seriously. Everything’s been amazing,” Sydney answers, wondering why it suddenly feels five degrees warmer inside of the restaurant.

Sugar snickers and the knowing look shared between her and The Pastry Chef doesn’t go unnoticed. 

She just might have to kill her best friends later for this. 

The Restaurateur smiles, and with a polite nod of his head, mutters a ‘thank you’ before her friends chime in with compliments, kudos, and their own respective ‘thank yous’ for the superb hospitality. Syd listens as he picks The Pastry Chef’s brain on their newest dessert addition, while Sugar enjoys what feels like a well-deserved second margarita. As The Restaurateur explains the most recent dishes he’s added to the menu since taking over as CDC, she notices that somehow, his focus and attention always seem to return to her. 

He can’t visit for long, The Restaurateur apologizes—it is a busy night of service—and before she knows it, he bids his goodbyes before disappearing to the back of the house for the rest of the evening. 

“Well he definitely likes you,” The Pastry Chef declares, as soon as he’s out of earshot. 

“Oh. So obvious,” Sugar adds with a knowing smirk as the two exchange the exact same glance from earlier

“I’m gonna kill you guys,” Sydney mutters, her head hanging low as she feels a heat rush to her cheeks. She can’t make eye contact with either of them—not right now—or she might just burst into flames. 

“Well, he couldn’t keep his eyes off of you! That’s for sure,” Sugar clarifies, earning a nod of agreement from The Pastry Chef. 

“See! This is what I’ve been telling her since… shit, since he came to The Bear a few weeks ago!” the pastry chef exclaims, sharing another looking with Sugar. “I think he likes you and I think you like him.” 

Sydney opens her mouth to say something, but instead, just lets out an exasperated sigh, earning another round of giggles and exclamations of ‘I knew it!’ from her best friends. 

They don’t stay for much longer, knowing they’re all due back at the restaurant in the morning. The three women say their goodbyes before parting ways, and as Sydney sits on the train, on the way home with her phone on do not disturb, she notices a few notifications waiting to be read.

A text from Carmy about the prep list. 

The pics from tonight waiting for her to open in the group message labeled: Girlies.

And then, from the Restaurateur…

Thanks for bringing friends! It was great to see you. 

There’s a familiar heat that warms her cheeks as her fingers race to reply:

Thank you for everything. The meal was incredible. 

She waits before adding:

I’m glad we stopped by. 

And almost instantly, there’s a reply: 

Come back any time. :) With or without friends. 

*

Come back any time. With or without friends. 

The words linger in her head over the next few days. She lets them settle in, tossing them back and forth in her mind, while holding what feels like a fragile kind of excitement in her hands that’s somehow seemed to have buried itself deep inside of her. 

So he is flirting with you, she thinks to herself, coming to the conclusion that her friends were perhaps right about The Restaurateur. 

She doesn’t want to completely misread the situation, but she’s not sure how else she should interpret it either. 

It takes Sydney two more weeks to work up the courage to go back to Amaru on her day off that week. Part of her wonders whether it’s been too long—if she’s missed her chance—and part of her knows that in the business they’re in, the days blur together, and two days become two weeks, become two months, and that he probably hasn’t even noticed that’s been that long. Her and The Restaurateur are both on Kitchen Standard Time, right? She’s not sure what takes over her, but she’s somehow mustered up the cajones (she can practically hear Tina’s voice in her head as she hypes herself up) to show up, this time, without friends. 

Her risk does not go unrewarded, when he comes out to say hello. This time, he’s not alone, introducing her to his soon-to-be-business partner, Chef Cuadros, the owner of Amaru and his other venture, Bloom. They exchange pleasantries and congratulations (you know, over the huge fucking deal of an award she’s just recently won) before he pats The Restaurteur on the back, excusing himself back to the kitchen. 

The Restaurateur chuckles, noting how much he’s looking forward to joining Cuadros’ restaurant group. 

“Rodolfo’s a great guy,” The Restaurateur sighs, contently. 

“Yeah, he seems great,” Sydney agrees, almost just to be polite.

“Yeah. Really leads by example. Rare to find that in this industry,” he chuckles, before changing the subject. 

“Speaking of. Cuadros is closing up tonight which means I’m off, starting now.” 

“Oh?” 

“Yeah. You wanna get a drink?” 

She doesn’t even have to think about it. 

“Yeah. I uh-, I’m in.” 

*

“It’s devastating!” The Restaurateur declares, the passion evident as the words escape his lips. 

“I mean, the transitions are a little choppy. And even they can’t take away the fact that: It. Absolutely. Without a doubt. 100% ruined my life,” Sydney wholeheartedly agrees, completely captivated this conversation—one that she finds incredibly sexy.

“I cry. Every single time,” the man that sits across from her says, a dopey smile plastered to his face and a heat to his cheeks from the second whiskey on the rocks he’s nursing.

“Every single time!” Sydney emphasizes, just to drive the point home. 

“Because, well-, I mean, they just can’t catch a break! Always just a moment too late. It’s like… well, it’s like they’re never supposed to end up together in the first place,” The Restaurateur clarifies, in reference to what about the film is so goddamn devastating. 

Syd nods with a sigh, examining the idea in her head cautiously, knowing that he’s right—even if she doesn’t want him to be. 

A beat. 

She leans in, the corners of her lips beginning to turn up into a smile. 

“Have you seen Chungking Express?” she asks, because she’s ready to start this whole thing over again. 

“Have I seen-? Are you-, of course I’ve seen Chungking Express,” the Restaurateur answers, building on their shared excitement about finding common ground outside of the kitchen. “I love Wong Kar-Wai so much I even put myself through My Blueberry Nights.” 

“Okay, chill. It’s not a competition,” Sydney jokes, earning a full bellied laugh from The Restaurateur. 

“You’re funny,” he states, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he smiles back at her. 

Her heart skips a beat, her breath caught in her throat. 

The way he says it is genuine. It’s real. It feels… more earnest—more intimate than what should exist between two colleagues.

Then again, she didn’t exactly say ‘yes’ to drinks thinking it was just as colleagues.

“I-,” Sydney hesitates, scrambling to find the right words when it feels like so many of them could burst out of her at any minute. 

Instead she settles on, “Thanks,” feeling more like Carmy than she’s ever felt in her life. 

There it is again—that flutter in her belly. 

This man is most definitely flirting with her, a thought that only mildly causes her to panic. 

The moment feels almost too tender for either of them. Sydney shifts nervously in her seat while The Restaurateur takes another sip of his whiskey, before clearing his throat. 

“I uh. I should probably get going. It’s uh… yeah. It’s getting late,” Sydney says, finding the words to excuse herself. 

She’s not sure what she wants out of this—it’s maybe why she takes the out in the first place, thinking it may be best to end the evening here. Tonight was… more than she expected it to be, and she’s torn between wanting to stay and wanting to flee the great state of Illinois. 

Better pause while we’re ahead, Sydney thinks.

“Yeah, no, of course,” The Restaurateur agrees, easily, before insisting that he pick up the tab. 

“No, I-, I couldn’t let you-,” Sydney begins to argue. 

“Please,” he insists, his tone once again rendering her once again at a loss for words. “You’ve been more than helpful to us over at Amaru since the minute I got here. This is on me.”

*

Syd spends the next few days going back and forth over whether or not it—whatever the hell the other night was—would be a good idea. She eventually concludes that she can’t stay away—from the high, from the way he made her feel when he insisted on paying the bill (a moment she’s replayed in her head over and over again), from him. She doesn’t tell anyone: not Nat, not The Pastry Chef, and certainly, not Carmy. 

She sends the text before she can chicken out one Saturday night, as she finishes closing up. 

Heading to Green Door Tavern for a night cap. 

He puts her out of her misery, quick to respond as always, almost as if he was expecting her to (or waiting for her to, which, she decides is a little too much of wishful thinking). 

I was just thinking about you! Just rewatched 2046 the other night. Want some company?

Yeah. 

Let me close up. I’ll let you know when I’m on the way :)

The smiley face.

The fucking smiley face. 

She discovers that the same dopey smile finds its way across his lips as soon as he enters the bar. The two of them quickly find themselves in yet another deep conversation about foreign films over, for him, a whiskey on the rocks, and for her, a tequila soda. There’s that same buzzing in the air between the two of them—chemistry, one might call it—as they move from Wong Kar-Wait to Jean-Pierre Jeunet with an ease that feels good to her. 

Really good, actually. 

So good that as soon as Sydney realizes it’s getting late, she doesn’t run in the other direction. She’s not sure what she’s expecting, but she thinks this time, she could stay. This time, she could talk to him till the sun came up, allowing herself to get lost in his soft brown eyes she finds more comforting than she should. It’s not till he brings it up that she notices again that: 

“It’s getting late.” 

“Oh shit. Yeah,” Sydney agrees, reluctantly, because she doesn’t want this night to end. Before she can say anything else, her body moves to get up, just half an hour away from last call. 

The Restaurateur stops her, reaching out a hand that feels warm against hers as she pauses, her eyes locked with his. 

“I hope it’s not uh, well, I hope it’s not inappropriate of me,” he begins, clearing his throat as he pauses. 

“No, I-, I don’t want the night to-, you know… I lost track of time too and I-,” she stammers through, unsure of what she wants to say. 

He smiles warmly, his hand moving to grab hers, as if, in spite of the fact that she can barely get the words out, he understands exactly what she’s trying to say. 

“You can say ‘no,’” he prefaces with, a sure nod as his gaze returns to hers. 

“Can I take you home?” 

And the only response that makes sense to her is the biggest, most enthusiastic:

“Yes.” 

*

Maybe it’s just a one time thing. 

Okay, a three-time thing, considering it happened that night, then two more times after the sun came up.

But to Sydney’s surprise (and delight) he texts her later that day, and the one (three) time thing becomes a one to three times a week kind of thing (schedules permitting, of course).

They fall into a rhythm—and she likes this rhythm—they cook, work at their separate restaurants, and then she lets him fuck her into his mattress like they didn’t just work their own respective twelve-hours shifts. 

The Pastry Chef lets out a laugh, noticing that it’s the third day in a row that Syd’s come in having ‘not gotten enough sleep’ yet still glowing. 

“How’s the sex?” she smirks, shooting Sydney a look. 

In return, Syd rolls her eyes, like she isn’t getting laid on the regular, her best friend waiting patiently for a proper answer. 

She checks over both shoulders to ensure no one else is listening before lowering her voice. 

“It’s the best sex of my life.” 

*

She finally moves into her own apartment a month later.

Of course, it’s a decision she’s made on her own volition and has nothing to do with the hot Restaurateur who seems like he might have some kind of staying power—the same one that’s giving her the big bang of orgasms, but that’s besides the point. 

No, it most certainly has nothing to do with that. 

With Chef Cuadros officially out on paternity leave, The Restaurateur somehow still manages to find the time to help her move in between running two restaurants while developing the concept for a third. 

It’s the first night he spends the night and they sleep—just sleep—since she started seeing him, though they christen the place in the morning. 

“We’ve been talking about a full nixtamalization program. For the new spot,” The Restaurateur explains over breakfast tacos one morning—ones he made for her in her new apartment because, of course, they had to christen the place in more ways than one. 

“Shit. That’d be dope,” Sydney replies, as they continue to bounce ideas back and forth. “Do you think you could pull it off in that small of a space?” 

“I’m so glad you asked!” The Restaurateur grins, before going into a near-monologue about the handful of creative solutions he’s come up with, eager to soundboard a few ideas off of her. 

But Sydney finds herself a little distracted. 

It’s not that she’s not listening… but she’s got something else on the tip of her tongue that she’s been holding back. The Restaurateur is in the middle of breaking down the logistics, contemplating whether or not they could pull off what he’s labeled, Idea B, when Sydney finally musters up the courage to blurt out: 

“I want to cook something for you. Like not in a restaurant, or anything. I mean. Here. I want to cook something for you here.” 

“Yeah?” 

A beat. 

“Yeah, I mean. It doesn’t have to be like-, I don’t know, this big thing or anything. But. You’re always cooking for me,” she explains, unsure of why she feels so nervous as she continues. “I kinda want to return the favor.” 

He only smiles. 

“Then it’s a date.” 

*

It started as the best sex of her life, but it’s as if he’s carved out a place in her life without her noticing, seamlessly woven himself into her life, and she, his, in a way that she can’t imagine what it was like before. 

It simultaneously excites her and makes her feel uneasy. 

Fuck. 

She doesn’t really even know what she should call ‘it’ anyway. 

They haven’t really talked about it—haven’t given it a label—but with shifts at The Bear for her, running two restaurants for him, and fleeting nights spent at each others’ places before it was time to do it all over again, it’s not like they’ve had the time. 

She finds herself in late Fall, almost Winter, all dressed with a newly-done silk press at yet another James Beard fundraiser. Her coat was checked in long ago as she bares her shoulders in the near-off the shoulder, gingham-printed dress, with The Restaurateur by her side. He wears thick-framed glasses, his white-collared shirt unbuttoned low enough that she’s more than ready to head back to her place to undo the rest. 

It practically gives her deja vu—the two finding themselves in an all-too-familiar place—as they stand across from Carmy and The Pastry Chef, sipping on their fancy champagne and making small talk to the best of anyone’s ability. 

“Hope you guys don’t mind. Can we get a few pictures?” the event photographer asks as he approaches, noting that a picture of this year’s Rising Star award recipient is a must on his shot list. 

“Uh, yeah, sure,” Sydney replies, a kindness in her voice even through her discomfort. 

It’s not lost on her that Carmy’s more than relieved that he doesn’t have to be in the spotlight anymore, eager to step out of the way. 

She poses for a few photos solo before both Carmy and The Pastry Chef are encouraged to join in, taking a few more shots with her. 

“And then can we get one of the two of you?” the photographer asks, this time gesturing towards The Restaurateur. 

Sydney opens her mouth to protest, to let him off the hook, because what would that mean? Before she can say anything, The Restaurateur has happily agreed, wrapping an arm around her, his hand on the small of her back. 

She exchanges a look with him, something that says, ‘are you sure?’

He only nods in response, a supportive smile and a softness in his eyes that puts her at ease as if to say, ‘of course.’ 

Instinctively, she reaches for him, his right hand landing softly against his midsection. She feels the warmth of his palm as his hand slides up, landing somewhere above her wrist, making another point of contact. Well, now they certainly look like a couple. 

“Great! That’s great, you two,” the photographer grins after taking a few more shots, his eyes fixed to the screen on his DSLR as he plays back the last few photos. “Thanks so much.” 

What could this mean? 

What could this be? 

She doesn’t have all the answers. 

Not yet, at least.

But she’ll take a wild guess—one that fills her with a certainty that she can feel in her bones. 

Because tonight, he stood proudly by her side—his hands all over her as if she were his, in a photo she’s sure will make it out of Adobe Photoshop—meaning maybe, just maybe, The Restaurateur could be here to stay.

[comfortfood-sydcarm]

For the Writers

I have an idea for a jealous Carmen Fic!

Plot: The Bear hires a part-time waiter who is also a musician. He's a tall charming guy who plays lead guitar (of course) in a band. The new guy and Sydney hit it off very well from the start. The part-timer notices that Sydney always keeps a journal around and he asked her if she likes to write because his band is looking for some new music. Syd politely clarifies that she enjoys writing and planning new recipes but hasn't written anything beyond that in a very long time. In her high school years, Syd kept multiple journals where she would just write about anything that came to her mind. It was freeing and she missed that calming outlet she had to truly express herself.

Moving forward Syd spends more time with The Part-timer helping his band by writing and editing the lyrics for them. Here's were things get messy, Sydney has been writing down lyrics in her recipe/ planning notebook that she shares with Carmy. Over time the recipes and the poems get muddle together.

Now Carmen notices instantly the connection between Syd and The Part-timer and it makes him sick and foaming at the mouth. It doesn't help that the rest of the crew make sly comments on how good looking and charming The Part-timer is. When Carmy reads Sydney's recipe journal that has now has random poem written in he's just going through all the emotions. Carm is annoyed at how everything looks unorganized now. He's Jealous about some of the words because Sydney has never expressed herself like this to him before and the fact that this "musician" gets to know this side of Sydney make Carmen want to scream and throw a chair. But lastly Carmen is worried because some of the lyrics are a bit dark which cause him to worry about Sydney's mental health. It gets heated between Syd and Carm in the kitchen (because its them) as Carm is questioning her full focus this time which was the biggest mistake on him and he knows it. Eventually they both come to an even ground and have a heavy conversation. Syd explains what the lyrics about her childhood and growing up without her mother. Sydney shows Carmen some poems that she wrote about him in her journal. They were hidden on random pages but when she put them together they express how much love and admiration she has for Carmy.

[eachmostremembering]

when i'm writing original fiction i usually do dual POV but I am loving the control that a single pov gives as i explore it in fic. I've mostly been writing syd/carmy and when i was writing as if the dream of you it was so fun to be in her head and to see how self-critical she was, but more than that--and there's the great thing about getting to understand how he makes her feel, as we be talking about carm's little feelings all the time (no shade i love his little feelings). There's also the tension of not knowing if the other person likes them, and also getting to observe the other's body.

right now, for iddyiddybangbang (which I REFUSE not to complete this time) i'm writing my little carmy werebear character study, which is so fun b/c aside from the absolute horror of being in carmy's little head I get to observe syd from the outside with a loving eye. it's me when I see gifs of the bear and syd turns her head and a single braid falls down the front of her shoulder, and i think, "what a rapunzel moment," or I get to talk about noticing things that nobody thinks are pretty on themselves, like the way a woman sits in a chair. Or when I write my next syd-centric thing, I'll get to talk about the experience of kissing someone who trembles when they touch you. It's fun! It's POV! It's preparation for Weimar Faerie Novel!