#jeremy dad

[sometimes-they-come-back-237]

“I got you.”

[sonatine]

quality advice from jeremy allen white

[city-m0rgue]

i love the contrast between alastor and vox’s rivalry and alastor and lucifers “rivalry” 😭

in “stayed gone” alastor keeps his cool until the very end while vox freaks out and tries desperately to prove he’s better. alastor is still chill even though this rivalry has been going for so long. vox still doesn’t manage to piss him off

the difference here is alastor randomly decided to spark up a fight, with fuckin LUCIFER. lucifer actually manages to piss alastor off to the point of getting him to swear (damn swearing to the king of hell), and alastor actually gets mad over a random ass conflict.

alastor doesn’t even frustrated over a rivalry that’s been going on for years, he doesn’t even break a sweat, but when he decided to fuck with lucifer he turns red

[laiiaaa]

DILF CARMY PLEASE

(18+) thinking abt this so hard. having two little ones and he’s just the best husband you could ask for. fucking each other late at night to show appreciation <3

He’d been driving you crazy lately. Not in a bad way, necessarily—but you couldn’t focus when he was around, him being all buff-armed and tattooed and such a good father. A good dad. Taking his girls to school, learning to braid for them (and for you, so you didn’t have to do it every time), packing their lunches, shimmying pink sparkly shoes onto tiny feet, reminding you every day how much he loves you and the family you’ve brought into his life.

So it’s hard to tell whether the heat between your thighs tonight is because of him being so good, or if it’s the way his white tee rides up to show his happy trail when he scratches at his neck, or if it’s the wine you’d started to drink as he put the girls down to bed. Maybe it’s the fact this is the first time in a while when neither one of you was dead tired. Maybe it’s his rough hands against your soft curves that has you hazy. Maybe it’s everything about him.

It doesn’t matter so much. You’d take him any way he asks—and in a heartbeat.

“That’s it, baby,” he coos, chin tucked to his chest to watch right where he’s pushing inside. His hands grip the fat of your ass firm in the way that has your stomach churning, using his grip to fuck you just a little harder—just hard enough to make it impossible for you to stay quiet. “Ridin’ me so fuckin’ good, huh?”

“Fuck, Carm—” You collapse into his chest, half-tired and half-euphoric as you bury your face into the crook of his neck and whine into his ear. “C-ooh, my God—…Can’t—”

“Shhh…” He snakes a hand up your back all the way to the base of your skull and cups his hand there to keep you close and muffle your whines—or, at the very least, have them spilling into his ear instead of open air. “Gotta quiet down, honey, the girls are asleep.”

“Mmmmm,” you hum, bottom lip tucked between teeth, hands hooked on his shoulders to help pull you back and forth on his cock. “Want it so bad.”

“What’s that? You wanna cum?” Without a moment of hesitation, he’s bringing the both of you to lay on your sides, hiking your leg over his hip you pull you in tight just like you deserve—to have him surrounding you, pounding into your pussy, murmured praises into your ear while your whines vibrate against his chest. “C’mon, baby, be good f’me…”

You’re babbling nonsense at this point, clawing at his back, hiccuping to stifle wanton moans, struggling to grind back into his thrusts, and he’s so fucking in love with you that he can’t think about anything else.

“So good, Carm, feels so so so good—”

“Yeah, I know, angel,” he chuckles, “So fuckin’—fuck, yeah, so fuckin’ tight, so fuckin’ pretty—bein’ too loud, baby—” He smothers your face in kisses before holding your jaw firm and still, brows furrowed with pleasure when he swallows down your moans, kissing you harder to keep you quiet when you’re left reeling and coming on his cock.

By morning, of course, you’ll have been sated. He’ll wake you up with languid kisses and careful palms along the curves of your body before pulling you from bed, easing the soreness in your back with strong hands, adoring you in the clothes he slipped over your frame before you drifted off to sleep—his clothes.

And once your girls come bounding into the kitchen, getting scooped up into Carmen’s arms while you sip on your coffee, you’re practically ready to do it all over again.

[beanzbeanz001]

Evolution of Micheal’s friend group (even tho it’s sorta mark focused whatever)

[caramelberzatto]

sunshine baby // c. berzatto

pre-fatherhood dad!carm, loosely inspired by the fact it's so hot in australia that it regularly feels like i'm sweating my eyeballs out of my head <3 enjoy!

- clarke xx

(warnings: mildy suggestive content, pregnancy. fem!reader, use of fem pronouns.)

The temperatures in the past week had sky-rocketed, leaving you sweating with even the slightest amount of movement, and that wasn’t taking into account the hot flashes that came with pregnancy. At least the air-conditioning unit hadn’t given up yet, though it rattled ominously every hour-or-so. Whenever it happened, you’d glance at it, expecting it to blow up or break down. But it never did.

Until this afternoon, when you’d just gotten comfortable on the couch, ready to watch some television. The unit had spluttered and hummed, trying its very hardest to work, but eventually let out a long, stuttering creak and fell silent.

You sighed, briefly wanting to sit on the floor and cry. Instead, you dragged yourself to your closet, picked out a simple t-shirt dress, and pulled on some sandals. Braving the heat armed with your sunglasses, keys, and a sudden desire for the world's largest iced latte, you hopped in the car and headed for the nearest drive-thru. While you waited in line, car idling, you thought of Carmy. 

He’d left the apartment at five, as he usually did on Friday’s to over-prep for what was usually a particularly chaotic lunch rush, and you’d mumbled a sleepy goodbye, cradling your small bump tenderly. If you’d opened your eyes, you would’ve seen him linger in the doorway, a soft smile on his face.

The bell above the door announced your arrival as you swept into The Bear, balancing two cardboard trays of iced lattes. 

Now, in the drive-thru, your hand rested on your stomach, and you smiled as you felt soft kicks against your palm.

-

“You alright?”

“Coffee’s up,” you called as you stepped into the kitchen, narrowly avoiding Richie storming by in a tuxedo, megaphone in hand. Some things never changed.

“Cousin! Can you watch where you’re fuckin’ goin’, please?!” There was Carmy, his hand on your hip, as he shouted across the kitchen at Richie, who was already out in the back alley, not hearing a word.

“Yeah,” you nodded, setting the coffee down on an empty section of the counter. “The AC broke at home, and I wanted something cold, and then I thought of you, and wanted to see you.”

“Fuck, the AC broke? I’ll get Fak onto it this afternoon.” Carmy cupped your chin, kissing you gently, a stark contrast to the urgency with which he ran his kitchen. “Stay here a while? I’ll make you somethin’, yeah?”

“Okay, Bear, thank you.”

“Nat’s in her office, she’s got the best AC. I’ll bring you a plate soon.”

He kissed you again, a little harder this time, and lingered a little longer than he should’ve. His hands skimmed your stomach, drifted to your waist, holding you against him. To anybody else, it’d just look like a moment of tenderness. But to you… Damn him, he did it on purpose. He knew your hormones were fucking whacked out. And from the look on his face as he pulled away, the subtle smirk, the little glimmer in his eye…

“Mean,” you muttered as he walked away, but you were smiling. That smile only grew as you stepped into Nat’s office, relishing in the fresh wave of cold air that enveloped you instantly. With a sigh, you sat down on the grey couch against the wall, clean fabric soft against your fingertips. You groaned in appreciation, sinking into the cushions.

“Hi, sweetie,” Nat said, smiling. “Comfy enough?”

You hummed, grabbing one of the throw pillows and hugging it to your chest. “I think I dream of this couch sometimes.”

Nat nodded along, knowing exactly how you felt, having spent many hours on the same couch when she, too, had been pregnant. “I’ve just got some paperwork to do, honey, but just let me know if you need anything, okay?”

A dim light filled the room, emanating from the lamp on Nat’s desk, but Nat was nowhere to be found. Blinking sleepily, you rubbed your eyes and propped yourself up on your elbow, wincing at the slight pain in your lower back.

You nodded, adjusting yourself so you were propped up a little better. Fak came in, delivering the coffee you'd brought, and you hadn’t realised until that moment that you’d forgotten all about them. Sighing at your brief lapse in memory, you sipped your iced latte and closed your eyes.

-

“There’s my girl,” Carmy whispered from where he sat at the opposite end of the couch, his hand resting protectively on your calf. “I didn’t want to wake you.”

“What time is it?” Stifling a yawn, you lifted yourself up, back resting against the end of the couch.

“Just past one, baby.”

“One in the morning?”

“Mhmm.”

You groaned, letting your head fall back. “You should’ve woke me up, Carm. We need to go home, you need sleep, too. God knows we won’t get any in five months' time.”

Carmy shook his head, sliding his hands up your shins, rubbing softly, soothingly. He moved to hover over you, resting his forehead against your own. The soft press of his lips was enough to shut you up.

“It’s Saturday, sweetheart, I don’t have to come in until after midday. I just wanted you to get your rest.”

You kissed him back, cupping his jaw in your hands, smoothing your thumbs over the light smattering of stubble. “I didn’t mean to fall asleep.”

“S’okay, baby.” he murmured, peppering your face with kisses. One on your forehead, two on the tip of your nose, one on each cheek. And he descended, pressing a particularly delicate one to the side of your neck, just below your jaw. One against the tender spot beneath your ear.

“Carm,” you whimpered, and part of you was embarrassed at how easily he’d set you alight. 

He persisted, sliding his knee between your legs, the fabric of your simple dress riding up with the movement. His hands found their way beneath, skimming up your sides, fingertips brushing over your cotton bra. You arched up, already breathless at the slightest touch.

Carmy pulled back, and the way his messy curls fell in front of his face, shadowing his eyes, the way his chest heaved through the tight fabric of his white shirt… It made you want to take back everything you’d just said. To hell with morals.

“So sensitive,” he mused, the reverberation of his words against your skin like the low bassline of some song you’d never heard.

“Carmy,” you whispered, not wanting the moment to end, but knowing it had to. “Carm, baby, I’m not having sex on your sister’s couch.”

“Yeah, no, yeah. You’re right, that would be weird. Disrespectful and stuff.” He ran a hand through his hair, sighing. You couldn’t help but laugh, gazing up at him with a soft smile.

“God you’re pretty,” you muttered, propping yourself up on your elbows. Carmy climbed off the couch, taking your hands as you reached out for him, a faint blush staining his cheeks.

“Is that right?”

“Mhmm,” you nodded sleepily, kissing his lips once, twice. “Let’s go home.”

Carmy rubbed your back as he led you out of the restaurant to his car, placing a gentle hand on your stomach as he reached over and secured the seatbelt over your lap. After pressing a kiss to your temple, he shut the door and walked around the hood of the car, running his hand over the cool metal. 

The drive home was quiet, accented by the quiet hum of the radio as the city lights flashed by, streets and alleys rolling by. When he finally turned onto the home stretch, you sighed, eyelids heavy.

Yawning, you leaned on him a little as he let himself into the apartment, the jingle of the keys echoing down the entry hall. And so began the nightly dance of winding down together. Carmy started the shower, adjusting the water to the perfect temperature, while you headed to the bedroom and grabbed pyjamas, turning down the covers on your way back. Your fingers threaded in his hair, massaging shampoo into the roots, while his hands rested on your waist.

You drew hearts and stars on the foggy mirror as Carmy finished off, spending an extra minute under cold water. He towelled off your legs so you didn’t have to bend down, despite your argument that your belly wasn’t too big yet and that you could manage just fine.

“Doesn’t matter, I like doin’ it.”

And finally, once you’d brushed your teeth and made sure the door was locked, you climbed into bed. Carmy pulled you into his side, making sure you were comfortable, careful not to put any pressure on your stomach.

The moonlight filtered through the crack in the curtains, and you lifted your hand, letting your fingertips drift through the silvery glow. Carmy slid his hand into yours, holding it to his chest, and you could feel the steady thump of his heart against your knuckles.

“Sleep, baby,” he murmured against the top of your head, pressing a kiss there. And because he asked so nicely, you did as he said.

[morganbritton132]

I absolutely love every time other people find something out about Steve and are just like ???

I wonder if any of his student’s parents are fans of Eddie’s but have no idea their kid’s teacher is married to him (perhaps finding out at career day 👀)

I love the thought of some rock n roll dad (aka: the guy in the minivan blaring Rage Against the Machine during morning drop off (aka: aka: my dad)) meeting his kid’s teacher during open house and seeing a picture on his desk of him and guitar legend, Eddie Munson.

Steve’s in the middle of explaining the curriculum for the year when Rock N Roll Dad points to a picture of him and Eddie backstage at the Rock N Roll Hall of Fame last year when Eddie presented like, “You like that guy?”

Steve looks from Rock N Roll Dad to the picture and then back, “Yeah, you could say that.”

Then he goes back to talking about what they should expect in terms of homework and that was that until parent/teacher conferences.

The first thing Rock N Roll Dad clocks in the new picture on Steve’s desk. It replaced the Eddie Munson one with a new one of the two of them in the parking lot after a local show. Steve’s got his arm thrown around Eddie’s neck, both of them smiling wide, and Gareth is in the background giving them bunny ears.

Rock N Roll Dad points to the framed picture like, “Pretty cool to have met ‘em.”  

“Yeah,” Steve nods. “It’s one of the best things that’s ever happened to me.”

Rock N Roll Dad is not gay himself but he is not one of those ultra straight Corroded Coffin fans that liked to pretend that half the band isn’t queer. He was actually watching the MTV Music Awards show that Eddie publicly came out at by declaring his love for some guy named Steve, and actually.

Rock N Roll Dad thought it made a lot of sense that Eddie Munson was gay because well. A lot of his songs were… phallic.

So, he knows.

He knows that Eddie Munson is gay and that he’s married to some guy whose name isn’t even listed on his Wikipedia page, and he knows that he lives in Chicago, but what he doesn’t know is why he never put two and two together and got Steve Harrington.

There’s a different picture of Eddie Munson on Mr. Harrington’s desk when Rock N Roll Dad goes to talk to him after his kid gets detention for being a little shithead. There is framed original concept art for CC’s first album on the wall behind Steve when Rock N Roll Dad checks in on his kid during a zoom study session.

Hell, Rock N Roll Dad follows Eddie on Tiktok.

He has seen the ass shots that Eddie has posted of his husband in his running shorts, and he did think, yeah, that’s a great ass. He didn’t know he was thinking that about his kid’s math teacher!!

It’s not even Career Day when he discovers it. It’s the day before when they can set up their booths in the gym because Rock N Roll Dad may be a heavy metal fan always, but he’s also an accountant from 8:30 to 4:30 Monday thru Friday.

 He’s struggling to keep his poster board up when in walks guitar legend, Eddie Munson. He’s carrying a box, following behind a guy carrying an iguana.

Rock N Roll Dad abandons everything and walks over to the booth across the way. He can hear the two bickering with each other but before he can say anything, Steve Harrington is there and he is distressed, “Why do you have that?!”

“Her name is Leia, Steve,” Dustin says, “and she has separation anxiety.”

Steve opens his mouth like he wants to complain but doesn’t even know where to begin so he just accepts it, “Is she going to eat somebody?”

“That happened one time!”

Eddie Munson, infamous guitarist that lived on Rock N Roll Dad’s walls as a teenager, uses the opportunity to slide up next to Mr. Harrington and wrap an arm around him. He kisses his cheek, “Baby, we’re here to help.”

“You’re here to guilt me into letting you be a part of Career Day.”

“I can multitask, babe,” Eddie grinned, still so close to Steve that his smile touches his cheek. Steve just sags against him and Rock N Roll Dad thinks, oh. He thinks, oh, shit.

“You have a fan,” Steve mumbles, pulling away a little. It takes Rock N Roll Dad a second to realize that they’re talking about him and then he thinks, fuck.

“Hey – Hi. Uh.” He stops, thinks about lying and saying he needs tape or something, but settles on, “I didn’t know my kid’s teacher married you.”

“Technically, I married him.”

“Technically, I married both of you,” Dustin pointed out. “I officiated the wedding.”

“Ah,” Rock N Roll Dad says because what else is there to say. “Big fan.”

“Yeah, I can tell.”

[polymathart]

These Varian flashbacks are gonna keep me up at night.

[jerimovich]

presented without commentary

[character-estudio]

Lucifer Morningstar + TV Tropes

[dykevanny]

from every voice, the same question rings:

[actual-arrrchie]

spreading janitor Mike agenda

[lila-rose]

NUMBER 1 UNCLE - 3.2.2024

[pretty--in--purple]

the GALL of leaving a trail of tantalising breadcrumbs of jeremy knox’s tragic backstory/fucked up home life and NOT EXPANDING ON IT?!?!?!?!? i need DETAILS NORA

[laiiaaa]

MY LOVE, MINE ALL MINE — CARMEN BERZATTO 1. BUTTERSCOTCH — you finally say hello to a familiar face in the city after a little girl bumps into you. (2.7k) masterlist | next | taglist

Carmen keeps track of the running grocery list in his head:

Green onions? Check. Shallots? Check. Rolled oats? Check.

“Alright,” he huffs into the phone, a stupid thing tucked snug between his shoulder and jaw.

“Carm, I’m serious—”

“Nat, I got it, alright? I’ll call the fuckin’ guy.” Strawberries? Check. Eggs? Check. “I’m at the store, ‘n I’ll be back, ‘n then I’ll call him. It’s fine.” Dino nuggets? Check. That way-too-sugary cereal Sofia likes—? Even though he wishes Richie never gave it to her—? Check, check, check, so fuckin’ checked. “Now, do you wanna talk to—”

He looks to his side, where Sofia once stood with chubby little fingers hooked on the cart, that raggedy old stuffed animal always caught in the other fist. Gone. Carmen’s heart stops and catches in his throat. 

Natalie’s voice again, much quieter now that the phone’s not at his ear. “Hello?”

He doesn’t even hear his sister, doesn’t process her words.

He turns around. “Sof?” But she’s not there.

He tries again, facing forward, a little louder. “Sofia?” Nothing. “Fuck,” he mumbles to himself, ending the call without a second thought. “Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck—” 

He shoves his phone into his pocket, abandons the cart altogether, pokes his head into the aisle over. “Sofia.” Nothing. “Shit—”

He can’t breathe. A closed fist shoots to his chest to try and soothe the droughted ache. The ceiling’s closing in from above, every aisle looks the same, his feet are too heavy to carry him fast enough through the store.

Where’s his fuckin’ kid?

You’re spooked out of a fatigued trance by a clumsy little girl at your feet in the produce section. 

She can’t be older than four, her chubby little face framed by golden brown curls, dressed in a cute little black dress and pink tights, ballet flats to boot. By her hand is a well-loved stuffed animal: an orange tabby cat with lint fuzzies along its body, teetering on the edge of the display about to fall into the lettuce.

“Well, hello,” you start.

She peeks up at you through stray curls with a grin. “Hi.”

You do a quick scan of the immediate area but spot nothing other than a worker stocking bananas twenty feet away, another pushing a cart of mangoes. “Where’d you come from, hm?” You perch down next to her and try to offer a warm smile to keep her calm.

“I’m here with my daddy.”

“Yeah? Where’s he at?”

Her lips, shiny with drool, puff into a pout. “I…” Her little voice wobbles, and you know that fucking wobble, that precursor to something uncontrollable and wretched, and for a split second you consider letting her cry, just on the off chance her dad hears it.

But you come to your senses: it’ll take all but five, no more than ten minutes to cover the entire store ground. You graze your hand by her back and offer her the sorry excuse for a cat. “Hey, don’t worry, it’s alright. I’ll help you.”

“B-But…” Those pretty brown eyes of her turn glassy, ready for tears, and her lip quivers, her cheeks puff out.

“I’ll help you find him, okay? We’ll wait right here, and I promise he’ll find you. We won’t leave this spot til he does.”

She hesitates before she nods, gives you a warbled, “Okay.”

You give her your name—something you read or heard from word of mouth, how putting a name to your face makes you more trustworthy. “What’s yours?”

“...Sofia.”

“Sofia,” you repeat. “That’s a very pretty name.”

The dimples that come through with her smile have you swooning, your chest filling with something sweet. A supercut you’ve long since abandoned flits through one of the best and worst years you’ve endured: kisses at the door for hello and goodbye, chilly Chicago mornings spent in someone else’s sheets, serving coffee in thick handmade mugs and being thanked for it with lips pressed to your cheek. But that was a year ago, and it’s long gone. You’re better off now—occupied with work, and running a business, and trying new things, and finding comfort in the solitude of an apartment that’s filled with nothing but the smell of coffee grounds.

Your pointer finger lifts her toy’s head: “And who’s this?”

“Butterscotch,” she says, Butter sounding a whole lot like Buttah.

“Yeah? Where’d you come up with that name?”

“My daddy’s a chef, he teached it to me.”

A chef, you hum, No wonder he’s here at seven in the morning.

And you do just about everything you’d want someone to do if this were your kid: you keep her right where she is like you promised her, you listen to all her stories she has with Butterscotch, you answer the silly questions she asks while she holds your finger in a squishy hand and bears a gummy smile.

Until—

A man wrought with stress approaches. Fitted white tee, loose denim on his hips, beat up Nikes that’ve probably seen better days. Golden brown curls like the little girl’s, only thicker, darkened with age, and half-straightened, probably from the way he runs his fingers through them like he does as he walks toward you and the girl. Buff arms, built shoulders, and they’re littered with tattoos…

Not what you expected. And he looks so fucking familiar, yet you can’t put your finger on it—

“Sofia,” he huffs, and she scurries over to him in tiny yet quickened steps and jumps into his arms, his eyes closing and brows furrowing with a relief that’s palpable as he tucks his nose into her swirling hair. “What’d I tell you about comin’ to the store w’me, huh?” A veiny hand with the letters S O U inked on the fingers cups the back of her head as he sways her from side to side, failing to give her much of a stern look at all despite his frustration. “You gotta stay by my side, I told you, you’ll get lost.”

“But I wasn’t lost, Daddy,” she pouts, “I was right here, and—and I had to find Butterscotch, and you—you weren’t there—”

“Okay,” he soothes, rubbing his hand along her back before he thumbs away budding tears from her fleshy cheeks. “Okay, hon…” He props her at his hip. “It’s okay. You’re okay. You just scared me ‘s all, alright? Didn’t know where you were, had me lookin’ all over for you.”

“...I’m sorry,” she mumbles, clearly upset, nuzzling into her dad’s shoulder as he presses a sweet kiss to her head.

He looks to you, then, and you lend him a sympathetic smile.

“Sorry about her, she’s, uh…” He peeks at her, so lovingly— “She can be a handful sometimes.”

“No, don’t apologize, she was great.” Your eyes drift to his hands. They’re big, strong, like he knows what to do with them around the house, with a baby girl...with her mother, too, though you wonder where that stands. You try not to. “She’s talkative, makes for a fun conversation. A great storyteller, too.”

He smiles, and it’s hearty, with a twitch of a brow as he draws just a bit closer—it’s slight, so slight you almost think you’re imagining things. “Think so? She doesn’t usually, um…doesn’t usually wanna talk to people, y’know?” He hikes her up again, and she turns so that she’s facing you. “Get all grumpy, don’t ya, Sof? Like with your Uncle Richie?”

“But she’s nice,” she chimes in, lifting her head from his shoulder and leaving the cat’s head peeking through. “Not mean like he is.”

Again with that smile, he looks at her with raised brows, bobs her up and down as he holds her tight, like she’s his entire world. “Yeah?” He shoots you back a look, half-impressed. “You don’t wanna see him today, huh?”

“No,” she grumbles, face smushed into his tee. “Can she come to work with us instead?”

“Sof…” He scoffs, cocking his head to the side, and his eyes dart between you and his girl. “That’s not—we can’t just—”

“Pretty please, Daddy…” She pouts at him, pulls on his neck with her arms looped around it, starts trying to lean back to stir up trouble but his hands hold her firm to his torso. “You said Eva and Vivi can’t play today…”

“I—I know, hon— . . . It’s just— . . .” Kissing his teeth, he contemplates for a moment. “She probably has work to do, y’know? Just like I have to work? And how sometimes you can’t come with me?”

“Where does she work?”

“Uhhh…” In an awkward pause, he seems to realize the dilemma. The expectant glance your way is almost painful. “Shit,” he hisses, holding Sofia with one hand to run fingers through his hair, “I’m sorry, I should’ve—I should introduce myself, right?” The pained look on his face makes you think the question is genuine, and he offers his right hand to you— “I’m Carmen, but, um, most people just call me Carmy.”

It clicks: He’s Carmen Berzatto. Not just some guy or some chef in the grocery store you’ve happened to meet, but the guy. The guy who owns the fine dining joint across the street from your cafe; the guy who showed up to the city a few years ago only to revamp his family-owned sandwich shop in its entirety; the guy you’d heard so much about from the gossip around the block between vendors; the guy who left his roots to be something so much bigger than anyone could’ve imagined; the guy who came back with a reputation with none to rival and a shattered family in its shadow. The prodigal son of Chicago. You heard of him but never met.

“Y-Yeah, right, right,” you nod, stumbling for the right words. “I thought you looked kinda familiar.” You take his hand graciously as you give him your name. His handshake is firm, solid, sure of himself, with a callused palm and dry skin and cracked knuckles, an inked-on hand with a knife through its palm on the back of his hand. “You own The Bear, right?”

“I do.” Sheepish, like it’s embarrassing to be successful.

“Cool, cool, I’ve, um, I’ve heard a lot of good things about it, but I’ve never been.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Something warm in your belly comes to the surface and you try to drown it. “I own the cafe across the street—? Just a, uh, a smaller place—” You shake your head as if to dismiss the thought of him even knowing about it. “I dunno if—”

“No, no, yeah, I know that one, a few doors down—” he nods, fervently— “Etta’s, right?”

You smile. He knew of it so quick, with so little detail you want to think it means something. “Yeah, that’s the one.” For fuck’s sake, the guy probably just likes to support his local businesses. Get a grip.

“My sister loves that place, goes there all the time. But I, uh…” A soft smile at his girl. “I don’t usually have much time to go myself…”

“Yeah, I can imagine you’re pretty busy with her.” Unless her mom is in the picture…?

But he doesn’t take the bait—he only smiles, hums with a subtle nod, gives Sofia a pat on the back to get her attention, pressing a gentle kiss to her forehead. “Hey, cub, guess what?”

She comes to only slightly, with pale blonde locks like angel’s hair tickling Carmen’s neck. Grumbles something akin to a Hm?

“You know those chocolate chip muffins you like? The ones your Aunt Natalie gets for you?”

Her curls are already caught in her eyelashes. “With the sparkles on top?”

He gives you a knowing look: sugar, not sparkles. “Yes, with the sparkles. Did you know our new friend here runs that shop?”

Her head perks up with a gasp. “What?” Her excitement is so soft, and she can’t even stave off a smile now, tiny teeth shining through to show the dimples in her cheeks again.

“You heard me.”

From her mouth is only a whisper, a doe-eyed look targeted right at you. “No way.”

You smile at her. “Yes way.”

She puts on those puppy dog eyes, looks at Carmen with a pout as she tugs on him again. “Daddy, can we please—”

 In one fell swoop, his hand whisks her hair out of her face. “Uh-uh. Nice try.”

Oh, but she’s a stubborn one. “But please—”

“Not today, baby, we gotta finish shopping, hm? Then go to work?” His eyes dart to meet yours in a knowing glance, a silent apology and excuse to leave. “Maybe I’ll ask Aunt Natalie to get them for you tomorrow. How’s that sound?”

She huffs and buries herself into his neck again, turning away from you now that she’s in a surly mood.

“Okay,” he sighs, smiling to himself, and you can’t deny the comfort in seeing his little girl so cozy with him, like he’s either the only parent around, or he’s really just that good of a father—and husband, or fiancé, or boyfriend, or whatever he might be. You don’t know if you should feel guilty for wanting to pry.

The conversation lulls to a hesitant stop, like neither one of you is sure how to bid farewell—or whether you want to do so at all.

“Y’know,” he starts, with a finality to his tone, “I’ve still gotta—”

“Yeah, me too—”

“And I left the cart in the other aisle—”

“Right, right, of course—”

“And they need me at the—”

“Same here, I need to, uh—”

“Right, yeah, so um—”

“Yeah—”

“I guess I should—���

“Probably—”

“And, uh—…”

“It was nice to meet you, though,” you finish, maybe a little too enthusiastic for only having just done so minutes ago.

But if it were, Carmen doesn’t show it. “Yeah, it was nice to meet you, too. I’ll, uh…I’ll see you around.”

You offer a softened smile. “Guess so.”

And he leaves you with a curt nod before he turns around with Sofia’s face smushed into his shoulder, her arms loosely wrapped around his neck to leave Butterscotch hugged to the nape of it. That’s all you see, then: just a beaten up stuffed animal and springy golden curls as Carmen rounds the corner of the aisle, your breath gone short and face gone warm by the end of it.

Half of it, you’re sure, is the simple brevity of it all: consoling a lost child, to chatting with her father, to finding out he’s a business neighbor. And against your better judgment, the other half of it is a twinge of attraction to him.  Even though he has a kid, and he may very well be married, or at least in a relationship, and by the looks of it, stressed out of his goddamn mind…

But there’s just something about him.

The way he was worried about his daughter like he’s supposed to be, the way he holds her and dotes on her and rubs her back like it’s nothing but natural to him, the heartwarming smile that reaches his eyes just by looking at his precious girl. The hard-earned strength in his hands and arms, the symbolic imagery of his tattoos that you’ve yet to dwell upon in late night hours, the awkward demeanor about him like he doesn’t know if he’s allowed to talk to you—or if he even knows how. And all this, you see in a man working down the street, a man you’ve never spoken to until today, who could be the worst person in the world for all you know.

You don’t, is the thing. You don’t know his middle name, or his favorite color, or favorite food, or where he’s even worked, really, other than here in Chicago. You don’t know if Sofia’s mother is still around, or whatever happened to her if she isn’t, or if it’s a topic he breaches freely or not at all.

You don’t know enough about him yet to judge. You don’t know much at all. You don’t know if you want to, whether it’ll send you head first into a mess of pasts not unlike the one you’ve been trying to crawl out of alone for the past grueling months, if it’d upturn all the good you’ve tried to make stick.

But if there’s one thing you do know, it’s that you want to see him again. 

And that you’ll have to make a batch or two of muffins first.

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