Baba_Kapa
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Richie dropped the condom into a crumpled takeout bag in the footwell of his car.
“So, what, you’re just like, lonely?”
Bookmarked by Baba_Kapa
17 Jun 2026
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There is a turf war raging outside the restaurant, and the staff gets caught in the middle. Carmy takes the brunt of it.
Bookmarked by Baba_Kapa
17 Jun 2026
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She doesn’t even know his name, is the thing. The guy’s a regular at the bar (never at the restaurant), comes in every single Sunday, and he’s quiet and contemplative enough that Sydney’s eyes might’ve skated right over him if he hadn’t stuck out like a sore thumb amongst every other patron the first time she’d seen him.
OR, Sydney turns to bartending after Sheridan Road crashes and burns. Richie's her regular.
OR, five times Sydney and Richie don't go home together, and one time they do.
- Language:
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Bookmarked by Baba_Kapa
15 Jun 2026
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He could tell Mikey how fucking angry he is with him, for completely shutting him out when he was alive then fucking offing himself without giving Carmy the decency to even say goodbye, leaving Carmy with silence and unanswered questions.
Or he could tell him how much he fucking misses him, how much having the most coveted culinary job in the country, and all the accolades and awards he’s won for his cooking, all means nothing to him when compared to his big brother’s approval, or when compared to just having Mikey still be here with him, alive and whole.
In the end, with his vision blurry from his tears and his hands shaking from his barely contained emotions, all he manages to text is this:
“I made hamachi with a blood orange reduction that will only ever be eaten by one person. I fucking miss you.”
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Or: Five times Carmy texts Mikey about Sydney, and one time he doesn't.Bookmarked by Baba_Kapa
15 Jun 2026
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He didn’t want to get a fucking therapist, either, is what’s ironic. Like, if it was his choice his therapist would still be a bucket of hot water and the fucking kitchen floor, or a pack of cigarettes, or a new tattoo from a fuckin’ stick-and-poke shop that would listen when he said he didn’t mind if it did hurt just a little, but he’d blown up, again, the way he’s not supposed to, and Sydney this time didn’t leave, this time shoved his ass into the backroom, shut the door behind them, and with her half-confident cadence and wire-strung hands had told him, okay. You need to make some fucking calls, or like, go to like, Psychology Today, okay, dude, because I’m not fucking working for you if you’re not in fucking therapy after this. Chef.
Bookmarked by Baba_Kapa
12 Jun 2026