Picture Perfect

by BearCub315

Summary:

When a high profile influencers snaps a flirty pic of Syd and Richie together and then blasts it all over her Insta, leaning into it may be the only way to save The Bear. Syd and Richie are not having fun. At least, not that either of them would admit.

Notes:

Hey all! Haven't posted anything in a while but the Syd/Richie ship has galvanized me haha. Unfortunately with medical school the quality will probably never be where I want it, but I'm enjoying this and I hope you do too! As always, leave me comments!

Chapter 1: Scallop

“Syd, Richie, could I talk to you for a sec before service?” Sugar asked after Richie gave his usual pep talk.
“Sure thing, Sug,” Richie grinned and strolled behind her, all long limbs.
Syd felt a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. This couldn’t possibly be about the picture, could it? It had popped up on her insta feed last night while she had been indulging in her pre-bed doom scroll. She had a google alert set for The Bear, but she followed Sasha Kern anyway. She was a truly brilliant influencer, in the sense that her posts always managed to be not only timely but also a perfect mix of cute, sassy, and sexy. Not to mention that they were mostly about food. Syd usually let out a sigh when she saw her posts. What must it be like, to always say the right thing at the right time?
The picture from last night was neither the right thing nor the right time and when she saw it Syd had screamed and thrown her phone across the room and considered unfollowing Sasha completely. She really hoped this wasn’t about that.
Sugar ushered Syd and Richie into the office and pulled out her phone, scrolling for something specific. Syd felt her gut drop farther. This was definitely about that.
“Soooooo, have either of you seen this?” Sugar said, finally turning the phone around for them to see.
Richie squinted his old ass eyes and bent closer to get a better look. “I haven’t,” he said when he finally brought it into focus. “It’s a nice pic.”
“Read the caption you idiot,” Sydney ground out between clenched teeth.
The problem - well, one of many - was that it WAS a nice pic. It was actually a great pic. Sasha knew what she was doing. Syd had come out to the dining room to meet some not quite high level but not quite low level politician who had been seated at table 4 and wanted to compliment her on the scallop dish. She had been glowing at the compliment, and Richie had caught her on the way back to the kitchen.
“Well done Chef,” he had said, bending low so he could whisper directly in her ear. She remembered his breath tickling her skin, the smell of his cologne making her nose itch so that she scrunched it even as she smiled. It was a nice moment. A fantastic moment actually. It felt like the pinnacle of all they’d been working for - happy guests, good flow, synergy between colleagues.
And the picture captured that. Syd’s smile was caught just so in the light, and the angle of Richie’s jaw was perfect. They looked happy. Relaxed. There were so few good pictures of her that Syd actually had an album on her phone to save them. There were 4. She had briefly considered adding this one until she saw the caption.
The only thing better than the food and service at The Bear last night was watching these two cuties flirt! Only a couple this perfect could make the food this good!
Honestly, fuck Sasha Kern.
“Oh shit,” Richie let out a little half laugh. Clearly he thought it was nothing.
“Oh shit is right,” Syd seethed. “Now the entire internet thinks we’re the perfect couple!”
Richie shrugged. “So what? How many followers does this chick have anyway?”
“1.5 million,” Sugar tried to reign in her squeal of excitement.
“Oh,” Richie rubbed the scruff on his jaw. “That’s, a lot. I have 143.”
“I know the couple thing isn’t necessarily true,” Sugar said, bouncing on her toes.
“Not even remotely true,” Sydney cut in.
“But this is actually really, really good for us,” Sugar went on like she hadn’t spoken. “The fact that Sasha came here at all is great, and this post is blowing up!”
“Blowing up how?” Richie asked.
“It was posted last night and already has 5k likes!” Sugar showed him.
Syd let out something between a groan and a yelp as Richie squinted at the post again.
“This is fantastic!” Sugar promised.
“Not to like, burst your bubble or anything,” Syd cut in, “but people thinking Richie and I are a thing is not fantastic.”
Sugar shook her head vigorously, her earrings jingling. “Forget that part. The point is that we’re getting publicity! I just wanted to thank you guys for giving Sasha such a great photo op!”
“It’s not like she asked,” Richie muttered, rubbing his jaw again.
“Look, the point of this was just to say good job chefs. Don’t worry about it - it was just something I thought was nice.”
“Yeah, okay,” Syd said, very unconvinced.
“Well fine, go pout about 5k likes somewhere else then,” Sugar said, making little shooing motions with her hands.
The two of them left the office, Syd’s jaw and fists clenched and Richie chuckling.
“What are you laughing about?” She asked.
“It’s just funny,” Richie said. “I give you a compliment in public and of course some influencer babe turns it into a relationship,” he used air quotes on the last word.
“Yeah, sex obsessed idiots,” Syd rolled her eyes, starting to feel a little better.
“Oh I’m definitely at least one of those things,” Richie allowed, “but I mean c’mon, you an’ me?” he snorted. “You’re closer to Eva’s age for fuck’s sake!”
Syd felt every muscle in her body clench. “No I’m not,” she said tightly.
It was Richie’s turn to roll his eyes. “Well maybe not actually, but you’re still a kid.”
Syd swallowed. Did he really see her that way? “Actually I’m your boss,” she snapped.
Richie’s face lost its signature grin. “Well yeah of course, but – ”
“I’m so sorry you have to be bossed around by a child,” she snapped and stalked away from him.
“Hey I never said that!” he called after her. She didn’t want to hear it.
“You okay mamí?” Tina asked as Syd started chopping vegetables with much more violence than necessary.
“Yup, yup, I’m so, so good,” Syd promised, slamming the knife down again and again.
Richie watched from behind her, far enough away that she couldn’t see him looking. He desperately wanted to apologize, but he didn’t know exactly for what. Syd was a kid. Not like a kid kid, but a kid compared to him anyway. Anyone imagining them as a couple was obviously either taking the piss or couldn’t see straight. Fuckin’ Gavones. He tried to look at it from her perspective. What was she so mad about? Then it hit him like a load of bricks. The idea of her as a kid. That had to be it. That’s why she’d mentioned that she was his boss. She didn’t want the internet thinking she had gotten her spot as CDC because she was fucking the front of house manager, or that she was into some Daddy shit. She wanted to be taken seriously for the badass chef she was. No wonder she didn’t want to be called a kid. He shook his head. The internet was full of assholes, and he hadn’t acted much better. He should offer to beat up that stupid bimbo - what was her name? Sarah? Tasha? And he should apologize properly too. He jumped as Syd slammed her knife down on an unfortunate potato. Maybe now wasn’t the time.
Sydney did not want people thinking she got her job as CDC because she was fucking her front of house manager. She did not want people thinking she had some Daddy shit. But she also didn’t want Richie to see her as a kid. She started a bit. Why Richie specifically? Obviously, if Carmy or Marcus or Luca called her a kid she would be livid. But Ebra and Tina called her all kinds of parental forms of endearment, and even Cicero had called her kiddo a time or two, which she didn’t mind at all. Richie was way closer to their ages than hers - why was he special?
Not special, she corrected herself. Different. Ebra and Tina hadn’t spent weeks mocking her and publicly humiliating her. Well, actually, Tina had. But that was still different, she told herself. Tina was a woman, and a woman of color at that. Having a white man, a white man who was her employee no less, thinking of her as a kid was a hard pass. He had compared her to Eva for fuck’s sake! Not cool, she narrowed her eyes as she continued chopping. So totally not cool.
Multiple guests that evening remarked that the mashed potatoes were particularly smooth. Probably because Syd imagined every lump as Richie’s stupid fucking face.

Chapter 2: Soul Food

The hype about Sasha Kern’s insta post died down after about a week, and Syd got three blissful days of nothingness before all hell broke loose again. She knew something was up when she got in early, or so she thought, and found Sugar, Carmy, and Cicero all huddled in the office. Fucking vultures.
“Whoa, what’s going on team?” Richie asked, inconveniently coming in just behind her. He wore jeans and his old navy blue BERF shirt, his suit slung over his shoulder in a garment bag.
“Good news!” Sugar gushed at the same time Carmy said “Cousin, I’m so sorry.”
“Well this sounds like it fuckin’ sucks. What’s up?” Richie asked, siddling into the office.
Syd squeezed in behind him. Even if this had nothing to do with her – wishful thinking – she wanted to know what was going on.
“That post from last week has pretty much gone viral,” Sugar said.
“What post?” Syd asked, hoping if she played dumb the universe would follow suit.
“The one of us, dumbass,” Richie said, completely missing her strategy and following Sugar’s line of thinking.
“Yes, that one,” Sugar agreed. “It’s at 100k likes so far, and a ton of people are making reservations just because of it.”
That Richie could attest to. Multiple times over the past week when he had picked up the phone, the voice on the other end had asked if he was “the guy from the insta post.”
“Okay . . .” Syd said, waiting for the other shoe to drop.
“Soul Food wants to interview you guys!” Sugar celebrated.
“Soul Food? What the fuck is Soul Food?” Richie asked.
Syd groaned. “You’re our front of house. How do you not know the biggest food webcast in Chicago?”
“The fuck’s a webcast?” Richie asked.
“I can’t believe this is happening,” Syd covered her face with a hand.
“Why us?” Richie ignored her. “I mean like, why me? Why not Syd and Carm?”
Sugar forced herself to smile a little brighter, and Richie immediately sensed a trap. “They wanted to cover The Bear, obviously, but they also wanted to cover the human interest aspect of the story.”
“The human interest aspect? Like Mikey?” Richie asked, his voice going soft on his friend’s name.
“No,” Carmy interjected. “Not Mikey. You two,” he jerked his chin to Richie and Sydney.
“What, you mean us dating except not really because we’re not really dating?” Richie gestured between Syd and himself before letting out a guffaw.
“This whole thing is bullshit,” Carmy muttered, running his hand through his hair. “It’s not even about the food.”
“If I could interject here,” Cicero said, leaning forward without taking his hands out of his pockets.
“No, but yer gonna,” Richie said, not nearly under his breath enough.
“Like I was saying, Richard,” Cicero went on without even looking at him, “I know you all love your tweezers and your micro herbs and whatever the fuck, but what keeps the doors open and the lights on isn’t art, and it isn’t a vibe, it’s money. Okay? It’s money. And if you two,” he took his hand out of his pocket and pointed to Richie and Syd, “need to go on a webcast or a podtune and pretend to like each other because you wanna keep this fuckin’ money pit that’s so damn special, that’s what you gotta do.”
“This is my worst nightmare,” Syd said aloud to no one in particular.
“Sometimes ya gotta put pride aside in business, princess,” Cicero shrugged.
“I was thinking more like self respect, but, whatever,” Syd shrugged. The full weight of the situation still hadn’t sunk in.
“Sometime’s that’s gotta go too,” Cicero agreed. “Sometimes it’s not who you know, it’s who you – ”
“James, I swear to God,” Richie put his hands together as if in prayer in front of his mouth, “if you finish that sentence and suggest pimping out Chef Sydney I will actually fuckin’ murder you.”
“I wasn’t being literal,” Cicero assured them. “I just mean, being nice to people never hurt anybody.”
“You have threatened to kill me multiple times,” Carmy reminded him.
“Eh,” Cicero shrugged. “Sometimes it doesn’t hurt to be mean either. Anyway, you two are going on the show,” he raised his pocketed hand to Richie and Syd.
“Well that’s, I dunno, awesome,” Syd clapped her hands in a way that said she thought it was anything but. “When’s the interview date?”
“They’re actually getting us in because of a cancellation, so it’s being recorded next Monday. Yay!” Sugar cheered quietly, with jazz hands.
“I need to go throw up,” Sydney said immediately, and headed out of the office and into the back alley.
The cool air hit her face as she pressed her forehead to the cement wall. Anything to ground her, to make her feel like this wasn’t some kind of sick joke. Because the only thing worse than pretending to date a guy she hated was pretending to date a guy she liked.
She didn’t know exactly when she started liking Richie. It was definitely after the ass stabbing, and probably after the suits. He had grown. She didn’t want to say changed, because he was definitely still Richie. Horrible mouth, dumb sense of humor, led with his emotions and absolutely not his head. But it was different. It was directed. He seemed happy, seemed excited to do something new with The Bear, with himself. There was nothing hotter than introspection and self improvement. Sydney almost did vomit at that thought - if she could any more type A she would actually become a Scarlett Letter. Dammit - even that joke was nerdy as fuck!
“Hey,” came a voice, and she knew exactly who it was before she turned around.
“Do you need a place to puke too?” she asked. “There’s room,” she gestured to the wall next to her without looking at him.
“Sorry Cicero was being such a dick,” Richie ignored her joke. “That was disgusting. If someone said that to Eva I would seriously fuck them up.”
Sydney really wished he would stop comparing her to his five year old. It made her stupid crush – okay, yes, she had a crush! – that much more embarrassing.
“Thanks,” she muttered.
“I can go on the web thing by myself. I can tell them we broke up or whatever,” he gave a half hearted chuckle and leaned against the wall next to her, crossing his arms. Had he always been that muscular? Had he been working out?
Syd forced herself back into the moment and shook her head, pushing away from the wall. “No. Cicero was absolutely being a dick, but he’s also kind of right. This’ll be good for the restaurant.”
“Yeah but like, is it worth it?” Richie cocked his head towards her. “I know I’ve been a total asshole in the past but I figured we were kind of like, friends now. If the idea of us dating makes you that uncomfortable – ”
“No, Richie, it’s fine,” Sydney cut him off. She wanted this conversation to be over as soon as possible. “We are friends. It’ll be fine.”
“Only if you’re okay with it,” he said. He wanted to give her an out. This must be awful for her. Having to be publicly saddled with an idiot, an old idiot, just to save the restaurant she had been working her ass off to keep. The universe was a real bitch.
He was definitely not going to tell her that the idea of them dating didn’t make him uncomfortable. It didn’t make him feel uncomfortable at all. It actually made him feel like he had won the lottery. And much like winning the lottery, it was never going to fucking happen. So he needed to calm down, shut up, and stuff his stupid little crush in a box where it belonged so that he could help this woman – not girl – who was his friend and who he really admired and respected pull off a stunt to save her business. Like he said, the universe was a bitch.

Chapter 3: Take Out

“We’re going to have to get our story straight,” Richie told her a few days later as they cleaned up after service.
“What?” Syd asked. Her eyes were barely staying open. Carmy had made her refire a salmon dish six times because it wasn’t perfect, and she was convinced that if she ever smelled fish again she would spontaneously burst into flames.
“For the webcast,” Richie’s voice softened. “They’re going to ask how we met and shit. We should figure stuff out beforehand.”
“Oh, right. Yeah,” Syd squeezed her eyes shut to fend off the impending headache and pushed her bandana up on her forehead from where it was slipping over her eyes. It fell back immediately.
Richie laughed. “You’re falling asleep on me Chef,” he joked, and pushed the bandana up gently. This time it stayed put. He took off his suit jacket and rolled up his sleeves, then took the scrub brush from her hand and gently shoved her towards a stool. “Sit.”
She was too tired to argue, just sat with her chin in her hands and watched him scrub her station with a blank stare on her face and tried not to think about his fingers gingerly touching her forehead. “We should stick to the truth as much as possible,” she said, watching the muscles in his back stretch under his shirt while he scrubbed. There was no way he had always looked like this. He must be hitting a gym. Where did he find the time?
“So we’ll tell ‘em you wooed me by stabbing me in the ass?” he asked, his blue eyes sparking as he grinned up at her.
“We are absolutely not talking about the ass stabbing,” Syd snorted.
“No? It’s a visual medium ain’t it? I could show my scar.”
“Please no,” Syd covered her face with her hand, smiling.
Her smile was brilliant. It lit up a room, Richie thought. Or maybe just him. Enough, he told himself. Back in the box. Friends. Respect. Restaurant.
Shit.
“So how long have we been dating?” he asked, focusing very hard on scrubbing the stove and not at all looking at Syd’s face. He hoped she couldn’t see his turning red.
“Uh, six months?” she yawned.
“No good,” Richie shook his head. “Divorce just got finalized 4 months ago.”
“Why would they know that?”
“I dunno what kinda Big Brother Shit these guys have access to,” he wiped his brow with his forearm.
Syd decided not to point out that Tiff had been dating Frank for a year. Had the divorce really been finalized that recently? Had she really moved on that fast? A pinch of sadness needled at her. He hadn’t dated anyone since she’d known him, or at least not that she knew of. Had he been hoping he and Tiff would get back together? No wonder he was such a prick for the longest time.
“We’re going to have to write this all down,” she realized. “And I’m way too tired for it tonight.”
“It’s coming up fast,” Richie tossed the brush in the wash bucket and rolled his sleeves back down. Syd tried not to feel disappointed. “When should we figure it?”
Syd mustered just enough mental energy to think through her weekly schedule. “Saturday night? We have double coverage for dinner service so we’ll be out earlier. We can go to mine.”
Richie was tempted to ask if she didn’t still live with her dad, then decided against it. Of course she didn’t want to go to his place. Why would she? That was classic murder podcast victim behavior. Tiff listened to enough of them that he would know. Syd probably wanted her dad around, plus any neighbors who knew her routine well enough to notice if something was wrong. It hurt a little that she didn’t trust him completely, but what did he expect? He was the asshole from work who accused her of blowing the guys down at the Telegraph. She said they were friends, but friends still had boundaries.
Syd hated the idea of having Richie over to her dad’s place, but going to his was out of the question. At the moment, it was just a crush. Crushes were like fires - give them fuel and they grew. She could not, would not, indulge the flames by allowing her to see where this man slept. Not that she would be in his bedroom, but his apartment in general. Did he even have an apartment? He must - there’s no way he could afford a house on what The Bear paid him. She tried to picture it, then wouldn’t let herself. There was no way she could see his stupid old movie posters and smell his shampoo when she went to use the bathroom and, God forbid, compliment Eva’s stick figure drawings on the fridge and not keep falling for him. They had to go to her place. Preferably with her dad watching Jeopardy in the background. Her version of thinking about baseball.
“Sounds good,” Richie’s voice brought her back to the present. “I’ll drive us.”
“You don’t have to,” Syd said, and he shot her a look.
“We’re going the same place and I don’t know where you live?” he posed it like a question.
Syd wished the ground would swallow her. “Right, of course. Sorry, just tired,” she said, flustered.
He shrugged. “Get some sleep sweetheart,” he winked. The last word just kind of slipped out. He wished the ground would swallow him.
Saturday came fast, what with the hustle and bustle of Carmy yelling and Fak getting upset about Carmy yelling and Sugar reassuring Fak about getting upset about Carmy yelling and Syd overall dreading Richie coming to her apartment. Well her dad’s apartment. Where she still lived. With her dad. Like a child. She briefly mentioned to Emmanuel that she was having a coworker over after service on Saturday to “go over some work stuff” and that they would be quiet and not wake him. He told her that was fine but not to work too hard.
“You want we should grab some take out on the way to your place?” Richie asked, loosening his tie with a hooked finger as he grabbed his jacket and keys from his locker.
She wrinkled her nose. “What’s even open?”
“Do you like Thai?”
“Like actual Thai or white boy Thai?” Syd asked warily as they headed out to his car.
“Oh ho! Shots fired!” Richie laughed. “That’s gotta be a fuckin’ micro aggression or some shit.”
“As if,” she snorted. “You’re practically a walking micro aggression.” She slid into the passenger seat. She tried not to think about how easy it felt, joking with him. The car was cleaner than the last time she’d been in it. No Arby’s cups. Some kind of woodsy scent.
“Be that as it may,” Richie went on, “I can still take offense. And I’ll have you know, Chef, that it’s real Thai.”
“Suuuuuure it is,” she drew out the word, rolling her eyes.
“Check in the glove compartment, look at the menu, and tell me it’s not real Thai,” Richie pulled out of the lot.
“You keep it in the glove compartment? That’s pathetic dude,” Syd pulled it out.
Richie shrugged. “Eva likes it,” he said, a little softer.
Syd immediately felt like a dick.“She has a refined palate then,” she added, trying to keep it light.
“Yeah, she doesn’t get that from me for sure,” Richie grinned, turning down another street. “That’s all Tiff.”
It was unfair that he should be even more attractive when he was talking about his daughter.
“Is that why you haven’t let her come in yet?” Syd asked without thinking. Screw keeping things light I guess, she thought to herself.
“Uh, no,” Richie huffed a little laugh. His eyes hadn’t left the road since they’d gotten in the car. “I won’t let her come in because I don’t want to slam Frank’s perfect fuckin’ face into Carmy’s fuckin’ bone broth.” He didn’t sound angry. Just tired, and a little sad.
“Oh,” Syd said. “Sorry.” The word vomit bubbled up without her permission. “Like I’m sorry Frank is the male version of a stepford wife or whatever but it’s not like you’re not great. Like I mean the guests love The Bear because of you. Like the food is important and shit but people go out to eat because they want people to take care of them and you’re like really really good at seeing people and knowing what they need and shit so even though Frank is some tech bro or whatever you’re also really really good at what you do.” Sydney gasped for breath and the silence of the car. “I’m sorry I called you a loser,” she blurted, if you can blurt kind of quietly.
Richie had parked the car in the lot of a tiny building with dirty windows that most likely violated several health code violations. “I’m sorry I called you a bitch,” he said, turning to her. Syd could hear her heart pounding. “Do you really think I’m good at my job?” He asked, staring straight ahead again.
“Richie,” she looked over at him, “I think you’re the best at your job.”
“I’m really trying Syd,” he said. “Like I’m trying so damn hard to do all this self improvement shit. Because I really love it. My time at Ever really made me get it, you know? Like the shit you and Carmy get excited about. I mean not garnish and flavor profiles and shit but like the front of house stuff. Like birthday surprises and the wine people had on their honeymoon and just like, making them smile and shit.” He turned to her with a smile that wasn’t just dazzling, but earnest. “And being bad at something you hate is whatever, like who gives a fuck, right? But being bad at something you love? God, that’s the worst,” he sighed and fell back into the driver’s seat. “I just want to get on your level, Syd. I want Eva to be proud of me.”
Syd felt her brain shirt circuit. “My level? The starving millennial living with her dad after her business failed and trying to wrangle a business party with the emotional maturity of a toddler level? You want to be on that level?”
Richie smirked. “No. Like the badass, kicking butt and takin’ fuckin’ names or some shit level. You’re literally so talented Syd. And you’re not one of those assholes who just sits on their talent and wastes it like, I dunno, Babe Ruth or some shit. You work at it. You’re always trying to do more shit. Like fuckin’, I dunno, Lou Gehrig.”
“You think I’m going to die from ALS?!”
“No!” Richie laughed. “I just mean you’re like, really cool. Like I wanna be you when I grow up.”
Syd smirked and tried to think of a comeback. She couldn’t. “That’s . . . really nice Richie. Thanks.”
He could see her white teeth shining in the dark of the car, disembodied like the Cheshire Cat. Fuck he wanted to feel that smile on his skin. Keeping his crush in the box was proving more difficult than he’d thought. Was he too old to use the word “crush”? He swallowed.
“Sure. Now did you pick what you wanted to eat or what?”

Chapter 4: Brown Betty

Notes:

We finally get to see these two be cute together outside of work!

Syd was forced to admit that the place Richie took her was indeed “real Thai” and not “white boy Thai,” which Richie gloated about the entire ride back to her apartment.
“Wonder if I should report you to HR,” he teased her.
“Sugar is literally not going to give a shit,” Sydney told him, the containers of food warm on her lap.
“That’s what all racists say,” Richie sighed, then devolved into cackles when Sydney hit him in the stomach.
They threw good natured jabs at each other all the way up the elevator to the Adamus’ apartment, where Sydney told him to quiet down so they didn’t wake her dad.
“No shit, he’s already in bed?” Richie asked.
“It’s 11 o’clock and he’s an old man,” Syd said. “Even older than you,” she couldn’t help but add. Emmanuel was a full 13 years older than Richie. Syd had done the math. That meant Richie wasn’t old enough to be her father. Not that it mattered. Joking with him was easy. Being his friend was easy. Anything more than that would be complicated. Especially since he didn’t feel the same. It was the old “Risk the friendship for the relationship and then lose both” chestnut. No thank you. Syd would rather wallow in her twilight zone of anxiety and not think about it anymore, like a healthy adult.
“Rude,” Richie muttered as they nudged the door open. The apartment was mostly dark, just a lamp on in the corner. It was a cozy sort of darkness, with the scant light bleeding over piles of books and warm looking sweaters and a mug from the gift shop of the Art Institute of Chicago. There was a note on the kitchen counter in Emmanuel’s handwriting saying that he had his ear plugs in so to have fun, and there was a Brown Betty in the fridge if they wanted any. Syd felt her heart break with fondness reading it. She loved Brown Betty, and she loved that her dad knew she loved it.
“You can grab forks and plates and stuff,” she told Richie, letting her tote fall from her shoulder. “I’ll grab the supplies from my room.”
He nodded and started opening drawers looking for silverware. He liked the apartment, the warm light, the smell of old coffee. It felt safe, a soft place to land. Like a home. He hoped Eva thought that about his place.
“Okay.”
He looked up to see Syd shrugging on an oversized cardigan from the arm of the couch that he bet was her Dad’s, twirling a marker in her hand and looking at the white board she had lugged into the living room.
“You have a fuckin’ white board?” he crowed, coming over to plop himself down on the couch with the plates of food. “Of course you have a white board,” he shook his head, answering his own question.
“Everyone has a white board,” Syd said, looking at him crossly and snatching her mango lassi from his hand.
“Syd, no one has a white board except like, serial killers,” he told her trying not to focus on the cute little lines around her mouth when she frowned.
“Adults have white boards,” Syd said, turning to write the heading in all caps: SYD & RICHIE SOUL FOOD INTERVIEW. “Carmy has a white board.”
Richie snorted around his mouthful of curry. “Carmy is like, the opposite of an adult.”
“Okay, valid,” Syd agreed, adding an underline. “Adults and Carmy have white boards.”
“Fine,” Richie allowed. “What’s the first question?”
“When did we start dating?”
He shrugged. “Three months ago?”
“Solid,” Syd wrote it down. “First date? Art museum?”
Richie blew a raspberry. “That’s not a date.”
“It is too a date!” Sydney defended. “Plus it’s individual tickets so you can go halvsies!”
Richie covered his eyes with the hand that wasn’t holding his fork. “First of all, no way in hell I’m taking a woman on a date to look at pictures of a bunch of naked dudes. Second, I know you’re a “modern woman” and all that shit, but I have never “gone halvsies” on a first date, and I’m not gonna start now!”
Syd pinched the bridge of her nose. “This is actually impossible. Okay,” she looked up at him. “What’s your first date idea?”
Richie answered with his mouth still full. “I took you out for ice cream after work and we held hands and walked by the lake, duh.”
“That’s . . . surprisingly wholesome,” Syd muttered, half to herself, writing it down.
“Here, come eat. I’ll write,” Richie swapped spots with her, his plate already licked clean. Syd made her way to the couch and sat criss-cross apple sauce, her plate in her lap and her eyes on the white board.
“We’ll need to know personal shit about each other,” Richie said, starting to write down categories. “What’s your favorite color?”
“Blue. Yours?”
“Black.”
“Oooh, edgy,” she rolled her eyes.
“The edgiest, baby. Favorite movie?”
“I Dream of Sushi.”
“Ok, disgustingly on brand. Mine’s Alien.”
“Solid girl power movie. I’m impressed.”
“Um, Ripley is hot as fuck.”
“Aaaaand now it makes sense. Do you have a favorite song?”
“Love Story if Eva is in the car, Slim Shady if she isn’t.”
“Ecclectic. Mine’s What Are You Doing New Year’s Eve by Ella Fitzgerald.”
“Total throw back, alright! Favorite food?”
“Day old Doritos and a Dr. Pepper, but if you say that on Soul Food I’ll kill you. Say the vanilla lavender gelato I had in Rome. You?”
“A hot and sweet from the original Beef! Mangia, baby!”
They went on like that for a while, filling the white board with Syd’s crisp lettering and Richie’s scratchy capitals. They had cleaned out half the pan of Brown Betty and were nearly comatose from the sugar rush when Richie looked at the clock and saw it was 2am.
“Aw shit, I gotta go Syd,” he said, dropping his voice to a whisper when he realized what time it was.
“No,” she murmured, half asleep and curled on the couch. “We gotta finish this.”
“We’ve done a lot,” Richie gestured to the board. She let out a wordless little moan that made him bite his lip. He wondered if she could ever imagine how much he wanted to tuck her in right now. Maybe snuggle in with her. He clenched his fist tight enough for his nails to cut into his palm.
One more thought like that Jerimovich, he thought to himself, and you’re going to horny jail. You sick bastard. Leave her the actual fuck alone!
“What’s our song?” she asked.
“What?”
“Our couples song.”
Richie scanned the crowded white board. “What about Let’s Call the Whole Thing Off? You like Ella Fitzgerald.”
“Ooh, good one,” Syd scrunched her nose happily and snuggled deeper into the blankets and Richie actively tried not to die. “Tomato, tamahto, potato, patahto,” she murmured to herself. Richie tried to get up from the floor in front of the couch where he had folded himself, but Syd whimpered and reached for his hand. “Stay?”
Richie shut his eyes and reminded himself this wasn’t real. The insta post. The webcast. The Bear. All just a means to an end. A means to get Syd where she deserved for all her hard work. And he would benefit too; if The Bear was winning, so was he. He sank down on the floor next to the couch again and grabbed the throw pillow Syd wasn’t using. He felt like a complete and total loser.

Chapter 5: Pancakes

Notes:

Emmanuel is actually the captain of this ship. Sorry, I don't make the rules.

Syd let out a truly luxurious stretch. She had panicked for a moment, considering the sun was way too bright for her usual wake up call. Then she remembered: Sunday. No dinner service. She pulled the blanket up to her chin and nestled in. What a fantastic way to wake up. She could already hear the rumble of male voices in the kitchen, the clang of pots and pans, smell her Dad making something delicious.

Her blood froze.

Male voices.

Plural.

Her dad and Richie.

Her dad.

And Richie.

Together.

In her kitchen.

Fuck.

She sat bolt upright and looked over the back of the couch, only to be met with Richie’s broad back as he leaned over the kitchen counter, laughing at one of Emmanuel’s jokes. Syd blinked multiple times. Was this a nightmare? Wonderland? A drug-infused fugue state?

“Mornin’ Munchkin,” Emmanuel Adamu greeted his daughter.

Richie turned and leaned against the counter, smirking. “Good, you’re finally up.”

Syd made a noise like a lizard choking on a cockroach.

“You didn’t mention your work friend was this fine gentleman,” her Dad said, practically wiggling his eyebrows behind Richie’s shoulder.

The cockroach got bigger.

“Found him sleeping on the floor. What kind of a hostess are you, Love? I raised you better than that,” Emmanuel’s eyes sparkled gleefully as he whisked batter in a bowl.

Did she say cockroach? She meant giant ass moth. Possibly a small mammal. Syd shoved the blanket off of her and swung her legs over the side of the couch, rubbing her face. “He wasn’t supposed to stay so late,” she mumbled.

Richie bit his tongue. Did she even remember asking him to stay? It probably wasn’t even her asking. Probably some deep seeded evolutionary reflex, making sure there were enough hunters in camp to fight off roaming sabertooths. A neurological leftover that has slipped through the cracks. It didn’t have to be him. It could have been anybody.

“No worries. Tiff has Eva today, so,” he tried to sound nonchalant. “Plus, Emmanuel’s making pancakes and they smell great!”

Emmanuel put a plate of fluffy, crisp pancakes the color of sunset down on the counter. “Pumpkin chocolate chip. These were Syd’s favorite when she was little,” he winked. Syd couldn’t tell if the wink was directed at her or Richie. She slunk to take a seat at the breakfast bar and Richie plunked himself down next to her, making himself at home. He tucked his napkin into the collar of his t-shirt, visible now that his wrinkled dress shirt was unbuttoned, and dug in.

“Holy fuckin’ shit,” he moaned with his eyes closed and his mouth full. “These are fuckin’ amaze-balls. Syd, you didn’t tell me your Dad could cook too!” He turned to her, his smile smeared with the maple syrup they got from across the lake in Canada. Somehow, on him, it was endearing.

Syd looked back to her plate before she thought too hard about it. “Yeah he’s pretty good at it,” she mumbled, cutting her pancakes into smaller and smaller pieces. Maybe if she did, they would disappear. And so would she.

“No, these are not ‘pretty good’,” Richie shoveled some more into his face. “These are straight up bomb ass shit! Yo, can I have the recipe for these?” he asked. “I’m tryna get Eva ta eat more fruits and veggies an’ shit. She would totally dig these.”

“I’ll write it down for you,” Emmanuel said, delighted. He pulled out a recipe card and a pen and Syd wondered where her life had gone wrong. Waking up to Richie and her dad all buddy buddy in her kitchen was not on her bingo card. She wanted that bingo card to burn.

Richie was in his element, charming the pants of Emmanuel Adamu and getting a kick ass breakfast out of it. He felt much better than he did last night. This was what friends did. They fell asleep on each other’s floors and ate breakfast and had parents that embarrassed them. This is what he and Mikey had done for years. He would fall asleep on Mikey’s crappy braided rug in the sleeping bag from army surplus that Mikey had bought for Carmy during the two seconds he had thought Carmy might like Boy Scouts, and in the morning Donna would pump him full of food and kiss his cheeks and tell him he was a good boy before slapping the back of Mikey’s head and asking why he hadn’t taken the garbage out yet. Learning about Syd’s music tastes and thinking about their fake first date and seeing her curled up on the couch was a certain type of torture. But parents and breakfast he could do. Parents and breakfast he was great at.

“You know Eva might like my zucchini muffin recipe too,” Emmanuel mused, and pulled out another recipe card.

Richie smirked at Syd as he speared another pancake. The look she gave him was more cutting than the knife wound.

By the time Richie left it was nearly noon and Syd had accepted that this was how she was going to go out. Mortification overdose. She probably could have subsisted on life support for a few months if Richie hadn’t seen the 3rd grade school picture on the fridge, hooted, and asked if she still had the red plaid jumper she was wearing in it. Her dad and Richie doing the dishes together - Emmanuel washed, Richie dried — was the cherry on top. It was like every nightmare about going to high school in her underwear, except it was her crush singing in her kitchen. She was pretty sure she blacked out after that, because the next thing she knew Richie was gone and her dad was tidying up the last of the utensils.

“What’s wrong Munchkin?” He asked her, sitting down next to her and wiping his hands on a dishcloth.

“That was so embarrassing,” she ground out, hugging a pillow.

Her dad laughed. “Why? He seemed like he was having fun.”

“Oh, I’m sure he was,” she scowled.

“And uh,” her dad gave her a sideways glance, “quite a handsome fella, too.”

Sydney covered her face with the pillow and screamed. “Dad!”

“What?” Emmanuel chuckled, throwing up his hands in defence. “Dads with young single daughters notice these things! You seem to get along, he seems like a nice man, what’s not to like?”

Syd tried to think, and failed. There was nothing not to like. This was the man who had once accused her of trading blow jobs for a good review and she couldn’t think of a single thing not to like. She was down so bad. It was a disaster.

“Well he has a kid,” she clung to the one thing about Richie that she wasn’t head over heels on. “And he’s old,” she added for good measure.

Emmanuel hummed and leaned back on the couch. “Your mom and I had quite the age gap you know,” he said pensively, looking across the living room at nothing in particular.

“Only eight years,” Syd scoffed.

“True, but when we met it felt like more. I was twenty, just a sophomore in college, and she was already a graduate student. Talk about out of my league!”

“That’s not true,” Syd flounced closer to her father and lay with her head in his lap. “You were a genius engineering student.”

“Maybe,” Emmanuel allowed, stroking his daughter’s hair. “But I had also never done my own laundry. I didn’t know how to get around campus half the time because I had never been somewhere so big and confusing. Your mother was constantly having to coach me through things. Like did you know you need to change the tires on your car every once in a while?” he asked Syd, tapping her earlobe.

“I’ve heard it mentioned, yeah,” she said drowsily.

“She was my guardian angel,” Emmanuel smiled. “But my point is that we were at different places in our lives. I didn’t know how to pay a bill, she was applying for professorships. But we loved each other. I’m not saying it was easy,” he allowed. “But it wasn’t impossible.”

“Richie’s just . . . complicated,” Syd finally settled on, picking at the fuzz on the blanket. “Besides, I’m just a kid to him.”

“Aren’t you his boss?”

“Yeah. He’s not like, disrespectful or anything. But he still thinks I’m a kid.”

Emmanuel hummed again and stroked her hair a little longer. Then he moved her off his lap and stood up. “I’m going to have some of that Brown Betty for lunch. Shall I save you some?”

“For lunch? After pancakes?” Syd wrinkled her nose.

“You want to know one of the things that’s different between kids and adults?” her father asked her, heading to the kitchen. She shook her head, wondering where this was going. “Adults are just kids who’ve stopped asking other people’s permission to go after what they want.”

Syd played with the fringe on the pillow as her dad put the Brown Betty in the microwave. Maybe he was right. He usually was.

Chapter 6: Burritos

Sugar had convinced Carmy that the Soul Food interview was just as important as a night of service, so Syd and Richie were excused from prep on Monday. They were supposed to film from 1-2pm, but Sugar figured it would look better if Syd wasn’t covered in carrot shavings and Richie wasn’t grumbling about Fak’s incompetence, so neither of them were expected to show up until afterwards. They had agreed to drive in together, both in case anyone was watching, which seemed paranoid, and so they could go over the plan one last time, which seemed smart.
Syd’s fingers hovered over her phone for far too long before she sent off a quick text to Richie, asking if he wanted her to microwave an extra burrito for him. What was wrong with her? It was a fucking burrito. He texted back right away.

Fuck yeah!

She smirked and nuked another one, then wrapped them both in tin foil and bounded down the stairs when she saw Richie’s text that he was parked across the street.

“You’re a goddess, thank you,” he said when she tossed him the burrito. “Got you a Dr. Pepper,” he rattled the Arby’s cup in the center console.

“Didn’t you get anything?” she asked, touched that he would get something just for her, without asking.

“Coke,” he said with his mouth full, and raised his own cup from the holder in the door.

Ah, that made more sense. He had been stopping anyway. Or maybe not? Syd bit down hard on the straw and made herself stop thinking about it.

“You ready for this?” he asked, pulling onto the street.

“I mean, not really,” she laughed nervously.

“You’ll do great,” he assured her. “Ten bucks says they don’t even ask about the dumb post. It’ll probably be all about the food, just like Carmy wants, and you can crush it like usual.”

“Maybe,” Syd said doubtfully, nibbling her plastic straw.

The studio wasn’t far, and long before she had steeled herself fully, they arrived. She shaded her eyes as she looked up at the building and Richie came around to her side of the car.

“You want we should hold hands?” he asked. Casual, like it was no big deal.

“Uhh.” How had they forgotten to talk about PDA? She tried to remember how she had acted with other boyfriends, real boyfriends, in the past. Then she remembered she hadn’t had a real boyfriend since her junior year of high school, and he had come out as gay in college, and all of her relationships in culinary school had been hook ups or situationships and she had absolutely no idea what she was doing. “Sure,” she squeaked.

“Ready to charm the fuck outta these guys?” Richie asked, and took her hand.

Dazzling smile. Blue eyes. She was done.

“Um, yeah?” she said it like a question, smiling weakly.

“You got this Chef,” he promised, and squeezed her hand.

She squared her shoulders. “Right.”

The studio was tiny, just a desk and four mics. The hosts, Rachel and Hudson, met them in the green room and were thrilled that they made it.

“We’re so glad you’re here,” Rachel greeted them both with warm hugs. She wore jeans and a camo T-shirt with a Soul Food trucker’s cap covering her blond hair. “We’re sorry it’s so last minute.”

“You’re really helping us out, y’all,” Hudson, a black guy in a maroon Soul Food sweatshirt with a flat top haircut, said, giving Richie a sort of bro hug.

“No problem,” Richie said. “We’re honored to be here. Aren’t we, serduszko?” he asked, turning to Sydney.

Right. Pet names. They had talked about that. That was Polish. It meant sweetheart or something? Sydney tried to remember what she was supposed to call him instead of thinking about the way his mouth wrapped around the foreign word. She plastered a fake smile on her face.

“So honored,” she said brightly.

She felt like she was watching her interactions as if they were happening to someone else. It was insane how easily Richie became a completely different person. Or not a different person, exactly, more like having the saturation of his natural self turned up. She guessed, for him, it wasn’t all that different than working front of house at The Bear. He flirted with guests and was on his best behavior every night, turning the charm up to 11 for hours at a time. But she had never seen it like this. The way he slung an arm around her shoulder like it was nothing. The way he interlaced their fingers and placed them on the table between their mics. The way he let her answer the questions first unless Hudson or Rachel addressed him specifically, and kicked it back to her even when they did.

Syd felt dizzy; this kind of attention was intoxicating. Was this what Richie was like as an actual boyfriend? Was this what he had been like with Tiff? Why the fuck had she divorced him? She felt giddy, stupidly so, like being high. Was her dad right? Could this be real? She almost closed her eyes so she could focus on Richie’s thumb, stroking her knuckles.

“Now we know the food and the service at The Bear are both excellent,” Rachel said, bringing Syd back to the present. “But we want to talk about something a little more personal.”

Richie groaned good naturedly. “They’re onto us,” he grinned at Syd. “Are we gonna talk about the Sasha Kern post?”

“We’re gonna talk about the Sasha Kern post!” Hudson agreed excitedly.

“You have to admit it’s a beautiful picture,” Rachel pulled it up on her phone to show them, as if Sydney didn’t have the image permanently burned into her brain.

“Well that’s the thing about beautiful women – they make beautiful pictures,” Richie said. He brought their clasped hands to his lips, and kissed her knuckles with a wink. Richie had kissed her knuckles and winked at her.

Richie. Richie. Richie. She had to talk to him. She would talk to him.

The seismic shift going on in Syd’s psyche was somehow missed by both Hudson and Rachel as they squealed with delight.

“Damn bro, you lay it on thick,” Hudson laughed. “Can’t say I blame you though,” he winked at Syd. “Chef Sydney, how did you guys end up together anyway?”

“Um, well,” she stammered, remembering how to talk. “We work together. And when you work in a kitchen you spend a lot of time together. A lot of really, really, stressful time. And Richie is really good at making things, less stressful. I mean he can also be stressful like when I ask him to order something and he doesn’t order it so we don’t have it but most of the time he’s like super chill and I guess I was attracted to that because I’m super not chill. I mean like I’m cool, like I’m a cool person and everything but I’m not like chill because chef’s usually aren’t chill because we’re perfectionists but Richie is chill and it’s really nice to have someone who can like, be that rock for you because everyone needs a rock because if you don’t have a rock to hang onto you drown.” Syd realized she was babbling. She needed to reign it in. She gulped down air and tried again. “He bought me ice cream and we walked by the lake after service one night. And I thought I could use more of that.”

“That’s disgustingly adorable,” Rachel smiled. “Richie, what first attracted you to Sydney?”

“She makes me better,” he said simply, smiling at Sydney. “And she makes me want to be better, and that’s super fuckin’ hot to me.”

The interview continued for another twenty minutes or so, and Syd was vaguely aware of talking about the psychology behind menu planning and the art of flavor profiles. Really she was focusing on the warmth of Richie’s hand around her own and what it meant or didn’t mean. Rachel and Hudson wrapped up, shook their hands, and thanked them for coming. Next thing she knew, they were out on the street again.

Richie’s arm dropped from around her as soon as the studio door closed behind them.

“Hell yeah!” he howled, jumping off the curb to walk around to the driver’s side. “We rocked the shit out of that thing! Nice!” he put his hand up for a high five, which she limply returned, the emotional whiplash too much. “Let’s boogie, he said, hopping into the driver’s seat. “Service starts in three hours.”

“Right,” she said absent mindedly, slipping into the passenger side.

It was crazy, how fast he switched it off. Like all those gestures, all those looks during the interview hadn’t meant shit. She had been going to talk to him, really truly talk to him for real. But as he turned up AC/DC on the radio and pulled into traffic, singing along and throwing pretzels from a half empty bag in the center console into his mouth, she couldn’t bring herself to. She should have known. People in the hospitality industry were the best actors.

Chapter 7: The Walk In

Summary:

Things get heated

Notes:

This is the last chapter I have fully written, so updates may be a bit slower from here on out. I do have a very specific idea of where everything is going, it's just a matter of juggling med school and the actual writing it down lol. Hope yall are still enjoying!

Richie was pretty damn proud of himself. Not only had they crushed the interview outright, he had also managed to be perfect boyfriend material for exactly their allotted air time and not a second longer. He had been a mature adult and kept his crush under control so as to not be a creepy old fuck. The interview had been a hit, reservations were pouring in, and the menu was finally locked, loaded, and lit.

Which was why he was so confused as to why Syd was mad at him. She hadn’t said as much, but the fact that she refused to speak to him and actively avoided him at work seemed like a pretty good clue. It was a small kitchen, and yet she still managed to avoid him. It had been like this for two whole weeks and he was still just as confused as he had been when they got back to The Bear on the day of the interview, when Syd stalked in ahead of him, slamming the door in his face. No one else seemed to be pissy about things. Nat and Cicero were both outwardly thrilled with the business their webcast appearance had drummed up, and even Carmy was grudgingly appreciative to have more adoring fans for his fucking genius culinary creations. Their bottom line was in the black for the first time since opening, the staff was starting to gel, guests were happy.

Syd was not happy. Richie caught her looking at him from across the kitchen sometimes, but it was always with such pure vitriol that if looks could kill he would have disappeared from existence in a Richie-shaped mushroom cloud. She didn’t joke with him during service, didn’t take her breaks when he went out to smoke, and only spoke to him when absolutely necessary. He had been playing things back in his head trying to figure out what went wrong, and he kept coming up blank. He had already accepted that they would never be a real couple, that he could stomach. But not even being friends? This was even worse than being a pretend couple.

Sydney couldn’t even fake being okay in the weeks following the interview, and that made her even madder. How could she have been so stupid? Richie was a jokester who had never taken anything seriously in his entire life except his relationship with Mikey, Tiff, and Eva. Her name was not Mikey or Tiff or Eva. If she was being honest with herself, he probably couldn’t even help it. He was just like that - he hadn’t been trying to lead her on; he had been doing exactly what Sugar and Cicero and even Carmy had asked him to do. She had let her stupid crush and her dad’s motivational speech get the better of her, gotten her hopes up, and she had been let down. End of story. She was too old for this shit. She needed to buck the fuck up and do what she did best, which was cook. She didn’t need a boyfriend. She didn’t need Richie. She needed to get to work.

That didn’t stop her from avoiding said not boyfriend at all costs. Just because it wasn’t technically his fault didn’t mean she wanted him in her general vicinity, or the same workspace, city, or universe. She was allowed to ignore him. That was an okay, adult thing to do. Totally. So what if they didn’t chat on his smoke breaks or joke after closing anymore? He probably didn’t even notice. It was probably fine. It was all fine.

The creamy envelope had come to The Bear’s address, but was addressed to “Mr. Richard Jerimovich & Miss Sydney Adamu” specifically. Richie inwardly groaned when he saw it as he shuffled through the mail Monday morning. The only thing that could possibly be addressed to the both of them was something to do with that damn Insta post or the webcast, and it was sure to piss Sydney off even more. But he had learned his lesson about hiding mail addressed to other people, so he steeled himself and went to find her during a break in prep.

“Hey Chef,” he said, finding her seated on an overturned bucket in the walk-in, her eyes closed and head tipped back.

He could see her bristle without even moving a muscle.

“What?” she asked flatly.

“We got a letter. It’s addressed to both of us,” he clarified.

That made her open her eyes. He wiggled the envelope in front of her and she snatched it from his hands to read it.

“Oh fuck,” she sighed, sounding exhausted. “It’s from Sasha Kern.”

“No shit?” He hadn’t even read the return address.

“This is her company,” Syd tapped the left hand corner of the envelope.

“What does it say?” Richie asked as Syd tore it open.

She let out a hollow laugh. Un-fucking-believable. “It’s an invite to an event. Like an influencer ball meet and greet thing. As Sasha’s guests.”

“No shit?” Richie asked, a little more excited now. He snatched the thick card and read it over. “Cordially invited!” he hooted. “This is sick!”

“Why?” Syd asked blandly.

“It’s like a fancy event, right? We can dress up and get free drinks and shit. It’ll be fun!”

“Tbh that sounds like the opposite of fun,” Syd said. It did. It was just pretending again. Pretending to be a couple, pretending she could hold Richie’s attention, pretending all those looks and touches and Polish pet names were the real thing. The thought actually made her sick.

Richie’s face went dark. Enough was enough. “Look sweetheart,” he started. She had told him not to call her that, and he had listened. The fact that he was using it now meant he was either very drunk or very pissed, and she knew he would never drink at work. “I don’t know what the fuck I did to you to make you mad, but we gotta hash that shit out. You wanted me to be your fake-ass boyfriend and I was. I slept on your floor and ate your dad’s pancakes and went on that show and made a fuckin’ idiot of myself for you, an’ now you’re pissed for some fuckin’ reason I don’t understand. So stop pouting and be a fuckin’ big girl and tell me what’s going on.” His Chicago accent got even thicker when he was angry, and it was so thick now she could barely recognize his voice.

“Oh, I’m so sorry being seen with me makes you feel like a fuckin’ idiot!” she snapped back, rising from the bucket so fast he had to take a step back.

“Being seen with you? Babe you haven’t let me get within five feet of you in two weeks!”

“Well maybe I was doing you a favor since being around me is such a fuckin’ embarrasment!”

“What the hell are you talkin’ about?”

Syd let out a bitter laugh and threw up her hands. “You just said how you made a fuckin’ idiot of yourself pretending to be my boyfriend.”

“Yeah because I can’t believe the fuckin’ replicants on the internet think we’re together!”

“You’re right Richie,” Syd said, her fists balled at her sides. He loomed over her, but she was too pissed to be afraid. It just made her more mad. “Only a fuckin’ idiot would think we could ever be a couple.”

“That’s what I’m saying!”

“You are such a fucking asshole!” Syd screamed. She knew the others could hear her in the kitchen and she didn’t care. This was too much. To not realize he was hurting her was one thing. But to say she was an embarrassment? That was devastating.

“Why?!” Richie yelled back. If he was destined to fight in this damn walk-in for the rest of his life, might as well get ready for round two.

“You don’t have to say I’m, like, this embarrassing blot on your fuckin reputation if we were to date!” Syd explained, her hands flying. “We can just laugh about it like normal friends and then move on! You don’t have to, like, double down on how shitty it is!”

“You were the one vomiting in the alley at the idea of it!” Richie roared back. “And why the fuck would you think you were the embarrassment? I’m the fuckin’ embarrassment! I’m a divorced forty-six year old who’s worked in the same fuckin’ building his entire fuckin’ life, and only has two suits because I have to pay child support like a fuckin’ degenerate because I fucked up my marraige trying to take care of my drug addict best friend!”

“Why the fuck would you be the embarrassment?” Sydney snapped. The argument was already stupid, inappropriate, out of hand. But it had momentum now. It was going to take a significant force to stop it, and that force wasn’t going to be Syd’s logical thinking. “You’re an adult! You have a kid! You’ve been married! You’re fuckin’ great at your job! You’re the face of The Bear! You’re always talking about how young I am and how crazy it is that we could be together!”

“Yeah no shit!” Richie wasn’t going to be the significant force either. “Because you’re this amazing, badass young woman, which I tell you all the time, and I’m an old fuck! Who would believe you would be with me? A fuckin’ idiot, that’s who!”

“Enough!” came the significant force in the shape of Carmy. “This behavior is not conducive to a healthy work environment!” He looked back and forth between the two of them. “Now you two need to figure whatever this shit is out, and don’t come back until you do.”

“Cousin, it’s fine. We’ll just – ”

“Richie, shut the fuck up,” Carmy put his hand up. “Go outside, get in a car, go for a drive, go for a walk, whatever the fuck. When you come back, I don’t want this shit in my kitchen. Do you understand?”

“Carmy, I’m sorry – ”

“Do you fuckin’ understand?” Carmy asked again, louder this time, cutting Syd off with the smash of his fist against the walk-in door.

“Yes Chef,” she said meekly.

“Yes Chef,” Richie swallowed.

Chapter 8: Walk Out

Notes:

Confession time, replicants!

The cold air slapped their faces as they stepped outside, and neither of them said anything for a few minutes. Syd stood with her arms wrapped around herself, and Richie tried in vain to light a cigarette. They faced different directions.

“Drive?” he finally rasped around his cigarette.

“I’m not getting in a car with you right now,” Syd told him.

“Fair enough,” he said. “Walk then.” He started off down towards the front of the restaurant and the sidewalk, not looking behind him to see if she would follow.

She did, trotting to keep up with his long legs, which made her feel even more pathetic.

They walked for three blocks and all of Richie’s cigarette, all the way down to the lake front, before either of them said anything.

“I never should have yelled at you in front of our colleagues Chef Sydney,” Richie began. “That was unprofessional and straight up fuckin’ mean.”

“I’ve been kind of a bitch lately. I probably deserved it,” she said miserably.

“No,” he shook his head. “I should have asked what was wrong sooner. We’re friends. Friends check in.” Richie tossed his cigarette and ground it into the sidewalk. “What’s going on, Syd?”

She took a slow, deep breath in and out. It felt like the longest breath she’d ever taken. “I hated having you as my pretend boyfriend.” Richie nodded, resigned, like he’d expected this. “Because it’s too easy to imagine you as my real boyfriend.”

“Haha,” he brayed sarcastically.

“Richie, I’m serious,” she snapped. “That’s the kind of shit that pissed me off in the first place.”

“What shit?”

“Acting like it’s a joke,” she shoved her hands in her pockets. “Like I’m a fuckin’ joke.”

“Syd you’re not a joke,” he assured her. “I don’t even get what you’re saying right now.”

“Do I need to spell it out for you?” she asked, putting her palms together and pointing them at him. “I like you, Richie. Like, like like you. Like high school, have a crush on the upperclassman like you. And I know I’m like, an infant or whatever, and it’s not like it’s going to go anywhere or be anything, but having to pretend to be together was just like, super hard and icky because you were so good at pretending and I tricked myself into thinking it was real and then I couldn’t handle it when it was obviously fake and then I couldn’t talk to you and then we screamed at each other in front of everyone else and now we’re out here and it’s really fuckin’ cold,” she finished up, shoving her hands back in her pockets and looking away from him.

She looked out at the water as the silence yawned. She thought Richie might have walked away, couldn’t bear to look, until she heard his lighter clicking and a muttered “dammit.”

“You tellin’ me you got a crush on me, Syd?” he asked, giving up on the lighter. He couldn’t look at her, either, just looked out at the water. It was choppy and rough, and the wind whipped at Richie’s bare arms and Syd’s braids. It felt like time was standing still, but wasn’t happy about it. Something had to give.

Syd heaved a sigh. “Yeah Richie. I’m saying I have a crush on you.”

Silence again.

“I promise it won’t fuck with work and shit,” she started when his lack of response got too heavy for her. “We’re adults; I’m an adult. I won’t make it weird. We’re friends, like you said. We’ll keep it like, super professional and everything. I can like, delete your number from my phone or whatever if you want, or – ”

“Shut the fuck up, Syd,” Richie said, still looking at the waves. He tucked the cigarette behind his ear. Then he looked at her and smiled. “I’ve been crushing on you too, you fuckin’ nerd..”

“Excuse me?” Syd blinked.

“I said I’ve been crushing on you too,” Richie told her. He reached for her hand and she let herself be drawn in, mostly in shock.

“Um,” she said, Richie running his thumbs across the soft skin of the insides of her wrists. “Is this real?”

“I hope so,” he grinned. “You are serious, right?” he asked, suddenly shy. “Because I’m totally serious, Syd. Like I’m down so bad,” he laughed at himself, nervous.

“In an insane turn of events that I literally never saw coming in my entire life, I’m totally serious and also down very bad,” Syd babbled. She wanted to smile so badly, but she was still waiting for the other foot to drop somehow.

Richie drew her closer, pulled his signature move, the forehead touch. Syd had seen him do it with loads of people - Carmy, Nat, Fak, even Claire the one time she came in on the doomed Friends and Family Night. He had never done it with her though. It felt strange - intimate but also like some kind of locker room gesture; Syd had seen him do this with Sammy Fak while he slapped the other man’s shoulder and told him to “get his head in the motherfuckin’ game, brother.” Then again, Richie’s emotions all bled into one another. Love was big and love was loud and love was messy and he didn’t shy away from any of it. Why would it be different, really? Richie kissed the tip of her nose and she breathed out. Well, maybe a little different.

“Um, sorry,” he said quietly. “Was that okay? Is this okay?”

“Yeah, it’s okay,” she let a little smile slip out.

“You’re a beautiful badass and I am a geriatric disaster,” Richie murmured, pulling her past the forehead touch and into a hug.

“You’re not too geriatric,” Syd said, her voice muffled through his shirt. “But if you could get one of those handicapped parking passes —“

“Shut up, you,” Richie beamed, pulling away just enough to look at her face, wearing an absolute shit eating grin on his. “This does mean I’m gonna have to step up my game though,” he rubbed his jaw thoughtfully.

“No ice cream and walking by the lake?” Syd asked, surprised at how disappointed she felt.

“Oh we will definitely be doing plenty of that,” he said, still holding her around the waist. Now that he could touch her he couldn’t keep his hands off her. “But not as a first date. Not after all this shit,” he gestured between them.

“Meaning our complete and total lack of ability to communicate?”

“Exactly. Like fuckin’ Romeo and Juliet.”

“Um???”

Richie sighed. “They miscommunicated about the damn poison and that’s why Leo DiCaprio dies and I STAND BY THAT! But we can have a philosophical debate about literature later.”

“I just learned so much about you,” Syd said, stunned and thrilled and a lot of other things she couldn’t even name at the moment.

“My point is that I’m gonna knock your fuckin’ socks off,” he grinned.

“Please do,” Syd smirked. She couldn’t wait.

Chapter 9: Dr. Pepper

Syd sat cross legged on her bed in an old t-shirt of her dads, one she had been using as a nightgown for forever. It was white, with a picture of a sailboat in blue, and said “Old Orchard Beach 23rd Annual 5k,” on it. She had no idea where Old Orchard Beach was. She held a Dr. Pepper on her knee, the aluminum can cold against her bare skin, looking at the dress hanging on her closet door.

The past week had been something. She didn’t quite know how to describe it. She and Richie had walked along the lake for a bit after their confessions, holding hands. He had guided her to the rail along the bike path and stood behind her, his arms crossed over her chest, shielding her from the wind, and asked what she wanted to tell everyone at The Bear.

“Nothing,” she said. “Not because I’m embarrassed,” she clarified quickly. “I just don’t want them all up in my business yet. Our business. Like, we don’t even know what’s going on.”

“Thought you had a massive crush on me was what was going on,” Richie rubbed her arms up and down, keeping her warm.

“Well yeah, but like, what else? What next? What even are we?”

“Hmmm,” he mused, resting his chin on her head as they looked out at the water. “Would you wanna . . . be my girlfriend?” he asked, his voice halting.

She turned all the way around to look at him. “Your girlfriend? Like your whole ass official girlfriend?”

He smiled, sheepish. “My whole ass official girlfriend. I told you I was down bad, Syd.”
Syd turned back to the water and flexed her fingers around the railing. “That’s a lot Richie. Like a lot a lot. But is it bad that I like, totally wanna say yes?”

“Not bad for me,” he grinned happily, giving her a squeeze.

They had walked back to work, managing to get in as many kisses and hand squeezes as possible beforehand. Then it was back to work. They had done a pretty good job keeping things quiet in the kitchen. It was almost more fun that way; tantalizingly just out of reach of each other. Syd shivered whenever he walked behind her, ghosting his hand across her lower back as he murmured “behind” in her ear. The next day Richie noticed she wore make up. Not a lot, just a touch of eye liner, a thin sheen of lip gloss. She linked their pinkies together for a split second during the pre service meeting, quick enough that it could be an accident, if anyone saw at all.

Granted they weren’t being super chaste about it on their own time. Richie had started driving her home, which she didn’t think anyone noticed. Even if they did, her place was on his way, and it was getting cold out at the L-stop, so it would have been easy to explain. Less easy to explain would be the window-fogging make out sessions they had been having around the block from her place.

“This is kind of pathetic,” Syd had said the night before, half in Richie’s lap and half in the center console. “You do have an apartment, right? You’re not actually homeless?”

Richie grinned. “Are you kidding? This is a blast. I feel like I’m sixteen again.”

“Richie, I wasn’t even born then,” Syd rolled her eyes.

“Boner killer,” he grumbled, and nudged her back into the passenger seat.

“Hey, I’m not saying I don’t love it,” she promised. “I’m just looking forward to making out on a couch instead of a gear shift. And, uh, doing more than making out,” her eyes flicked to him and then back to her lap while he snickered.

“I promise I have an apartment, okay?” he raised his hands in defense. “And believe me, I’m looking forward to more than making out, too,” he wiggled his eyebrows. “But I’m a gentleman,” he reached over and guided her chin to look at him. “I want to at least earn it a little bit,” he winked.

“The Sasha Kern thing?” Syd asked.

“The Sasha Kern thing,” Richie nodded with a soft smile. Then he had kissed her forehead, and then the side of her mouth, before pulling around the block to drop her at her door, idling on the street until she made it inside.

Tonight was the Sasha Kern thing. A real, outside of work event. A real date. The first she had been on in a while.

A knock at the door startled her out of her musing and she turned to see her dad poke a hand in. “You descent? Can I come in, Munchkin?”

“Yup, all good Dad,” Syd said.

“Nearly ready?” he asked, looking at his watch. “Richie should be here soon.”

It had been impossible to hide the truth about Richie from her Dad, and when she finally confessed, he was thrilled. Someone to share corny Dad jokes and sing in the kitchen with? If she didn’t date Richie, Emmanuel would.

“Almost,” Syd picked at the t-shirt absent mindedly. “Shower, hair, make up, all done. Just need to get dressed,” she jerked her chin towards the dress on the door.

“Oh,” Emmanuel said quietly, noticing it for the first time. He sank down on the bed next to his daughter, who continued to fidget.

“Do you think it’s too much? Like it’s a fancy event and everything but it’s a first date. I don’t wanna . . . waste it.”

“Your mother gave you that dress to wear,” Emmanuel rubbed her back. “That could be never or that could be every day. It’s not a waste if it’s what you want, baby.”

Syd picked at the shirt again. The dress had hung in her closet for nearly two decades. It had been a gift, one of several, when her mother died. They were all things of her mothers, and they all came with messages or dates.

For Sydney, on her first day of school - on a leather satchel with lots of buckles and pockets that Syd had used since second grade, the first year without her mother.

For Sydney, when she graduates college - a pair of diamond earrings Syd only ever wore on the most special occasions.

For Sydney, on her wedding day - her mother’s wedding ring.

For Sydney, when she turns 18 - the dress that she and Emmanuel sat looking at now.

She had never worn it. Not once. It was too perfect, too beautiful to wear. She was afraid of wasting it, like she’d told Emmanuel. No occasion had ever seemed special enough until now.

“Do you think Mom would like Richie?” Syd blurted, leaning into her father’s side.
Emmanuel chuckled. “I think she’d think he was a hoot.”

“Yeah but would she like him,” Syd mumbled.

“She’d like him because you do,” Emmanuel smiled down at her, shaking her shoulder to get her to look back at him. “And she knew you’re an excellent judge of character. And I think she’d be thrilled you’re wearing her dress for ya’lls first date.”

Syd didn’t say anything for a minute, until her phone vibrated on the bed next to her.

“Richie will be here in 15,” she read the text. “Would you mind stepping out Dad?” she asked, biting her lip. “I need to get changed.”

Chapter 10: Dino Nuggets

Richie fixed his cuff links and looked in the mirror. He’d thought about renting a tux, but truth be told he couldn’t afford it. Instead he had called Sugar and asked how to dress up one of his work suits.

“Dress up?” she had snorted, sounding preoccupied. Richie could just imagine her, the phone tucked between her ear and shoulder, bouncing baby Sophie. “What, the suits aren’t enough?”

“It’s called growth, Natalie,” he lobbed back. “I’m just trying to do the whole Maitre D thing right. Ya know, just in case I need to step up my game after the next jerk off review or whatever.”

Syd had wanted to keep things on the down low, and he respected it. Luckily, Sugar had been too tired and distracted to try and ferret out why he wanted to look nice.

So here he was, in his typical black suit with black shirt, but with a bright blue tie he had borrowed from Ted, of all people. Sugar said it would bring out his eyes. He hoped so. The cufflinks were Mikey’s. He had always had better style than Richie, and he had gotten some diamond ones at a pawn shop years ago, and treated them like they were the fucking royal jewels of England or some shit. Richie had found them in a drawer in Mikey’s desk when he tried to clean things up after the suicide. He was shocked they had survived Mikey’s drug addiction. He thought everything that could be sold had been. He had probably forgotten they were there.

Still, it felt nice, to be bringing a piece of his friend with him, tonight of all nights.

“Daddy, the oven’s done!” Eva called.

Richie gave himself one more once over in the mirror and then made his way to the kitchen. Eva sat obediently on a stool at the kitchen island, eyes fixed on the oven she knew she wasn’t allowed to touch.
“Thanks for letting me know Źabka,” he said, slipping some oven mitts on and taking the tray out of the oven. “Which ones do you want?” he asked, setting it on the stove top.

“T-rex!!!” Eva replied excitedly, kicking her feet.

“O-o-o-kay. King of the lizards, I like it,” Richie laughed, getting the plates. “Can you clean up your coloring before we eat and get the silverware, please?”

Eva gathered her coloring book and crayons and slipped them into her Taylor Swift backpack before hopping off the stool and helping Richie get ready for dinner.

“BOOM Shaka lacka!” Richie said, pouring gravy over the mashed potato volcanos and watching it drip over the broccoli trees and dino nuggets.

“Dino volcano is my favorite dinner!” Eva couldn’t contain her excitement any more as Richie put the plate in front of her.

“It’s pretty good,” Richie agreed, sitting down next to her. “Think we can get Cousin Carmy and Miss Sydney to put it on the menu?”

“No,” Eva wrinkled her nose and shook her head, smiling. “Dino volcano is a fun dinner. Adult restaurants don’t have fun dinners,” she explained. “If I had a restaurant we would have fun dinners,” she added, nibbling the tail of her T-rex nugget.

“Bet you would,” Richie smiled before beheading his triceratops.

The ball was only doing drinks and “light refreshments,” whatever the fuck that meant, so he was happy to chow down on some “fun” food with Eva before he dropped her off with Tiff and headed to pick up Syd. So long as he didn’t get some pterodactyl stuck in his teeth or some shit.

“You look nice Daddy,” Eva told him as he helped buckle her into her carseat. She barely needed him to anymore - when had she gotten so big?

“Thanks kiddo,” he said. “I’m going to a fancy party.”

“Is it a birthday party?” she asked, flopping the ears of her stuffed bunny.

“Nah,” he slid into the driver’s seat. “It’s like a just for fun party.”

“Adults have those?” Eva seemed in awe of the concept.

“Yup,” Richie chuckled. She was so on her shit that sometimes he forgot she was still only five.

She had nodded off by the time they reached Tiff’s house – or Tiff and Frank’s house, Richie grudgingly realized – and she didn’t wake up when he pulled into the drive and shut off the car. He scooped her up and snagged her bag with his other hand, using the tip of his shoe to knock gently on the door.

“Sorry, she conked out,” he said quietly when Tiff answered the door.

“No worries,” she smiled, and took their daughter from him. “You look nice,” she said, once his outfit was no longer obscured by a sleeping child.

“Thanks,” he scuffed his shoe. They hadn’t been together in over a year and she could still make him blush. Not the way Syd did, but he would never stop caring what Tiff thought.

“What’s the party, again?” Tiff asked, subconsciously rocking Eva back and forth. She was a good mom like that.

“It’s a publicity thing for work,” Richie explained. “But it’s also kind of a date thing,” he admitted.

Tiff paused. “A date? Richie, that’s, that’s great.” She said it like she meant it. “Have you been with her for a while, or . . . ?”

“We’ve known each other for a while,” Richie chuckled. “But the dating’s new. Really new. I’m scared,” he admitted. It was something he would only admit to Tiff, or Mikey if he were still here. Maybe one day he could say it to Syd.

Tiff’s eyes softened. “You’ll do great, Richie. I mean look at you. You wear suits now,” she said, half on the edge of a laugh, half on the edge of a sob. “I hope you have a great time. And I hope she does, too. Whoever she is.”

She leaned in and he kissed her cheek, then kissed Eva’s head. “I’ll let you know how it goes,” he promised. “And we can talk about it if it gets serious. About Eva and everything.”

“Okay,” Tiff smiled, a tear glistening in the corner of her eye already. “Now get out of here Jerimovich. Don’t keep your date waiting.”

“Yes ma’am,” Richie saluted, and headed down the front steps and back to his car.

Chapter 11: Champagne

Notes:

Hello hello! Sorry I've been keeping you all waiting! I thought this was going to be the smutty chapter but it looks like it'll be the next one. After that I think we'll have an epilogue and then we'll be done. Hope y'all are still enjoying this!

Richie was exactly on time, which was a green flag as far as Syd was concerned, and he came up to the apartment instead of waiting down by the car, which was a green flag as far as Emmanuel was concerned.

“Wow,” he said when she opened the door. “You look . . . Wow.”
He had never seen a dress like this. It was short, and strapless, which were both hot as hell on Syd, but that wasn’t it. It was fucking three dimensional. Crumpled fabric in metallic pink and gold was folded into roses, which bloomed all over. It made Syd’s body look like a garden Richie desperately wanted to walk through. Her make up matched, with pink highlights on her cheeks and gold eyeshadow. He had never understood the phrase ”beautiful enough to eat” until right this second.

“Thanks,” Syd ducked her head, blushing. She was trying to come up with something more intelligent to say, but it was too difficult with Richie looking the way he was. Cuff links??? A tie that matched his eyes??? She was done for. As if she didn’t know that already.

“Have a nice evening, kids,” Emmanuel grinned from behind his daughter, breaking the silence when the couple wasn’t able to say anything for a few moments. Just smiles, awkward laughs, blushes.

“Right, yes,” Richie managed. “I’ll have her home at a decent hour, sir, I promise,” he said to Emmanuel.

Syd snorted. “Just because I live with my dad doesn’t mean I’m in high school, Richie.”

Her dad chuckled. “She’s right. Syd honey, come home whenever you’re done having fun,” he beamed at her. Then he shrugged and winked. “Even if it’s tomorrow morning.”

“Okay it’s time for us to go,” Syd brushed past Richie and out the door. “Bye dad, love you!” She called, already halfway down the hall.
Richie said goodbye and then trotted down the hall after her, quickened his pace to catch up.

“Did your dad just give me the okay to fuck you?” he asked, sliding one hand into hers and putting the other on her lower back, bending low to whisper in her ear.

“Ewww, please never say that again!” she said, trying not to go weak in the fucking knees as Richie’s beard brushed her skin.

He chuckled. “I mean,” he looked around and ducked into an alcove in the lobby of her building, pulling her with him, “we could always get started early, if you wanted.”

He guided her against the wall, pressing his forehead into hers so the slope of their noses matched up and they were breathing the same air. She tried to think of a snarky comment, something like “what happened to wanting to earn it?”, but she found that she couldn’t say anything when he was so close. Finally she managed “this isn’t what I meant when I said I didn’t want to make out in cars anymore, Richard,” but it came out squeaky and less snarky than she wanted.

The lines around his eyes crinkled as he smiled. “You got it sweetheart,” he said, giving her one kiss on the mouth, deep but quick. He took her hand and led her outside to his car. “Let’s go have some fun, yeah?”

Syd had almost forgotten what fun was. It was a concept she dimly recalled, like a dream of a dream, or a memory that you know more from the photographs than the real thing. She was glad, actually, because if she had been able to remember it clearly, she would never forgive Carmy and her job for making her wait so long to have some again.

The event was at the AIC, which made her stomach clench in a way that she didn’t recognize. It wasn’t nausea, wasn’t stress, wasn’t even fear. Could it possibly be excitement? Or even, dare she think it, joy? Richie tossed the keys to his (objectively shitty) Honda Accord to a valet that knew better than to comment on its objective shittiness and then offered his arm to Syd.

“Oooh, so fancy,” she joked, taking it.

“You bet your gorgeous ass I’m fancy,” he grinned. “Ready for this, sweetheart?”

“Nope,” she grinned back. “Let’s do it.”

It was everything she wanted it to be. There were hors d’vors that looked too beautiful to eat even though they did anyway, Syd taking mental notes on the flavor combo and Richie noting the server to guest ratios. There were flutes of champagne that went straight to her head and made her feel like she had drunk stars, or flowers, or sunshine. They were free to walk through some of the galleries that had stayed open just for the event, and Sydney went on about the textile exhibits while Richie wondered if any of the sculptures were as good as John Storrs’ Ceres. (The answer was no, obviously). There was dancing - lots of it, and the DJ wasn’t “a complete and total jagoff.” Syd had never imagined that she would be bumping and grinding her way through an AIC auditorium with Richie, but imagination outside of the kitchen was never her strong suit. She wasn’t complaining.

Towards the end of the night, Sasha Kern herself made an appearance.

“Oh it’s you!!!” she squealed, bouncing on her toes, and Richie could practically see the three exclamation points. Sasha took Syd’s hand and squeezed it, as if they had been friends for ages. “And you brought your handsome man friend with you,” she winked at Richie. “I heard the Soul Food episode with you two - I knew it! You guys just looked like the most perfect couple that day I came in to eat. I hope you’ll forgive me for posting that pic - it didn’t cause any trouble, did it?”

Richie let out a half laugh. “Nah. Not at all. Just what our relationship needed, actually.” Syd tried not to actively smirk.

“Yay!” Sasha clapped, and Syd suddenly wished she would go away. The champagne was already making her a bit of an airhead herself. She didn’t know if she could deal with two. “Well I need to make the rounds, but so glad you came! Selfie?” she asked, almost as an afterthought, before sticking out her tongue and winking for the camera, capturing an image so fast Syd and Richie didn’t even know it was happening. “Okay thanks byeeeeeee!” Sasha waved and disappeared into the crowd.

“I can’t believe we owe our whole relationship to that woman,” Syd said. “I mean like, yikes.”

“Ah, she’s alright,” Richie allowed. He was more relaxed than he had felt in ages, tucked into a seat against the wall, his arm around Syd’s shoulders, sipping a beer. He had liked the champagne, but it was too sweet to keep at it. It was too special to keep at it. Syd let out a dainty little yawn and nestled her head into his shoulder. “You tired?” he laughed, kissing the top of her head.

She picked at some invisible lint on his shirt – his jacket had been flung over a chair at the first sign of dancing – and frowned. “Tired of partying. But not like, tired tired.”
Richie nuzzled her cheek, and she looked up just in time for him to steal a kiss. “You trying to ask me to take you home, baby?” he asked, voice low. He saw her blush under her make up before she nodded vigorously. “Why didn’t you say so?” he stood and offered her a hand.

Syd tried not to think about the last time she had had sex. Richie had one hand hung on the steering wheel and the other on her thigh, his thumb gently rubbing back and forth. It had been right after Sheridan Road had blown up in her face, a tindr hookup one of her girlfriends from culinary school had urged her into. The date itself had been fine; the food was edible, the wine was okay, the conversation was pleasant enough. But the actual sex part of it was . . . unremarkable. Not that every performance could be a 10/10. It wasn’t the guy at all, really. (Syd would absolutely not admit to herself that she couldn’t remember his name). It was more like when you wanted comfort food, but you didn’t have time to actually make any, so you went and got something you pop in the microwave for four and a half minutes, and it’s like, okay, but it’s not super great, and then you’re not hungry anymore but you just had a kind of BS meal that didn’t scratch the itch and you can’t justify getting another one so you just try and sleep it off.

She tried not to think about all the sex Richie had had. She could totally see him with some leggy, skinny blond. She knew Tiff was blond, but she also knew she was soft, cozy. Richie had probably been fucking the girls who smoked cigarettes behind the gym and didn’t give a shit what anyone thought about them all through high school. Her hands felt slick. Wearing her mother’s dress suddenly felt childish.

Richie turned off the car and tapped his thumb on the steering wheel a few times when they arrived. “Um,” he cracked his door, letting in the cool night air and the annoying dinging noise of the door ajar. “Look. I don’t know what you’re, like, expecting or anything but . . . I haven’t actually . . . been with anyone since Tiff.”

Syd tried to hide her shock. She failed.

“Holy shit Syd,” Richie said. “Did you think I was some kind of man whore?”

“No, no!” she clarified, panicked. “I just thought you, uh, I thought you’d be more like, uh, experienced?”

“You totally thought I was a slut!” Richie cackled. “I’ll have you know my body count is three, Miss Adamu!” he held up three fingers.

Sydney had definitely thought it was more than three. “That’s fine!” she said. “Three is fine, thirty is fine, it’s whatever!”

“Thirty?!” Richie crowed. “Are you telling me your body count is thirty? Holy shit Syd, where do you find the time?!” He was laughing so hard they couldn’t even hear the door alarm anymore.

“No! Not, not me!” she continued panicking. “I just mean like, it’s all fine! Whatever you wanna do! You’re an adult!”

“Do you have any diseases I should know about? Should I get myself checked tomorrow?” he asked.

“Please stop,” Syd groaned, hiding her face in her hands.

“Hey,” he said after a moment, and took her hand to kiss her knuckles. “Sorry. I joke when I’m nervous.”

“You’re nervous?” she asked, still covering her eyes with her other hand.

“A little,” his mouth twitched at the confession. “But if you tell Tina I said that I’ll stack the reservations so tight you won’t be able to keep up for three whole services,” he tried to joke his way out of it.

“I’m nervous too,” Syd told him, tapping his cheek gently.

“Shall we go upstairs and be nervous on a couch instead of in a car then?” he asked.

“Sure,” she smiled as he got out to open her door for her.

Chapter 12: Cinnamon

Summary:

The moment yall have been waiting for - the discovery that I can't write smut to save my soul!

Syd took in Richie’s apartment – cleaner and smaller than she’d thought, but with the exact amount of old records and drawings from Eva she’d expected – and he hung his suit jacket over one of the chairs at the breakfast bar.

“You hungry? You want I should make you a drink?” he asked, opening a cabinet and grabbing a glass.

“Honestly if there’s just water,” Syd said, hanging her bag and her jacket on the other chair.

“Yes, Syd,” he rolled his eyes, “I have running water.”

“You know that’s not what I meant,” she snorted.

“You want ice?” he asked, and to her surprise, he had one of those fridges with the ice and water dispensers built in.

“Please,” she nodded.

“Food?” he asked, setting the water in front of her and unbuttoning his shirt, pulling it out of his pants and setting it over his jacket to reveal the black tank top beneath before heading back to the fridge.

Syd tried to remember how words worked. “Have you started working out?” she blurted. The intrusive thoughts had won.

“Like what you see, Sweetheart?” he smirked, flexing with one arm while he got his own drink.

“Stop acting like I’m the only one who’s impressed here!” Syd half shrieked. “I saw the look on your face when I opened the door and you saw my dress!”

“It’s a fucking sexy as hell dress,” Richie agreed, leaning over the counter to kiss her.

“It was my mom’s,” Syd said once they broke apart, then kicked herself. Bringing up dead moms wasn’t exactly an aphrodisiac.

Richie raised his eyebrows and whistled. “Special occasion, then,” he said, softer.

“I hoped so,” Syd looked down at her glass, shy again, tracking a specific droplet of condensation as it ran down the side.

Richie tapped one of the cufflinks he had set on the counter. “Mikey’s.”

They sat in silence a minute, the mostly comfortable kind, until Richie couldn’t help himself any longer.

“If you’re not gonna eat, babe, can I kiss you again?”

“Uh, yeah, yeah of course,” Sydney said, flustered.

“We’ll go slow,” he promised, coming over to her side of the bar and putting his hand on the side of her face, reaching back to thread his fingers through her braids.

“Slow is good at first,” she squeaked, and he nodded.

“Can I, um, am I allowed to touch your hair? I know that’s like, a thing, but normally when I kiss women . . .” Richie petered out, his face red.

Syd laughed. “You can touch my hair, Richie,” she smiled. “Thanks for asking,” she added, their foreheads pressed together again. She liked that. It made her think of cowboys and their horses, or brothers in arms, or some other duo that was about to embark on some kind of adventure.

Richie’s kisses were wet and hungry. Almost sloppy, but not quite. They were like Richie - unrestrained and true and passionate. His beard, short and sharp, scraped her skin raw and she loved it. His hand worked its way up her thigh – slow, like he’d promised – and hooked her panties. Syd helped him by standing up and kicking out of them as he worked them down her legs. He buried his face in her neck as she pulled his tank top from his pants, lifting it over his head.

“Dude you’re so white,” she snickered, taking in his chest. It was indeed “so white,” but also much more toned than she would not have expected from his steady diet of cigarettes and Italian beef sandwiches.

“Racist,” he mumbled into her skin. “Being Italian doesn’t count for anything?” he asked.

“Richie,” she looked up from where she fumbled with his belt, “you’re not Italian.”

“Sacrilegio!” he cried in an exaggerated accent, and scooped her up.

“What are you doing?” she asked him.

“We’re not having sex for the first time on my couch like some punk high school replicants,” he told her. “Does that dress need a hanger?” he asked, setting her down in his bedroom.

“What?”

“I’m gonna take it off you but you said it was your mom’s, so does it need a hanger or are you okay if I toss it on the floor?”

“Maybe just over a chair?” Syd said, dizzy with the implications of Richie caring about what the hell he did to her mom’s dress.

“Done,” he said, and spun her around, fast, before pulling her back flush against him. “This okay?” he asked, kissing her neck and shoulder while he undid the zipper.

Syd could only respond in a low moan while his hands peeled back the fabric and found her skin. The dress couldn’t be worn with a bra, and her panties were somewhere on Richie’s living room floor. In less than a second she was totally naked, Richie’s hands trailing over her back and stomach and chest, and then he was gently setting the dress over the chair next to his dresser before coming back to her.

“Fuck,” he said, looking her over. He ran a hand through his close cropped hair. “Shit Syd, you’re gorgeous.”

“Thank you,” she said, meeting his gaze, and for the first time she didn’t sound squeaky. “Now get over here. It’s not fair that I’m the only one naked.”

“Yes ma’am,” he grinned, coming closer so she could undo his fly and kiss the sharp bones of his hips, sliding off his pants and boxers. He stepped out of them and took her chin between his thumb and the knuckle of his forefinger, tipping her face towards him. “You really wanna do this?” he asked.

And Syd knew that if she said no, he would respect it. Which was exactly why she said yes.

Richie backed her against the bed, hands on the small of her back and the curve of her breast. He nuzzled and kissed her neck and down her shoulder, grazing his teeth over her ribs. The frame hit her and her legs buckled, only for Richie to follow her down onto the bed, his lips never leaving her skin.

“I’m gonna take care of you so good, Sweetheart,” he muttered.

Her snarky reply died on her tongue as his fingers dipped between her legs, pushing inside to her center. She whimpered as he worked in circles, stroking her until her legs shook and she was squirming under him.

“So wet,” he murmured. “Is that all for me?” he asked, half a smile on his lips.

Syd could barely nod before he kissed the inside of her thigh, working his way up until his tongue joined his fingers, curling inside her. He didn’t let up for a second, pushing her over the edge sooner than she’d ever come, licking her from his face and her own thighs like icing.

“You okay?” he asked.

“Yeah,” Syd panted. “That was just, like, a lot.”

“Good a lot?” he asked, concerned for a minute until Syd laughed.

“Definitely good a lot. Great a lot.”

“Good,” he nuzzled her and nipped at her neck.

“You’re like, really good at that,” Syd swallowed, reaching up to stroke the back of his head.

He chuckled and the sound vibrated against her neck. “You make it easy, sweetheart. Shit, you taste so good,” he groaned.

“Do you maybe wanna . . . go again?” she asked, tracing the muscles in his shoulders.

She felt him smile against her. “Thought you’d never ask.”

~~~

Richie was a cuddler, which shouldn’t have surprised her at all. Syd woke up with her back pressed against his chest, his arms around her and his face buried in her shoulder. It was snug, but not claustrophobic. It was a Sunday, which meant no work. Her dad knew where she was, which meant no panic. She burrowed further into the blankets before getting immediately bored and flipping over to face Richie.

“Hey,” she whispered. “Are you awake?”

“I am now,” he said, sleep drunk, his eyes still closed.

“Wake up old man,” Sydney teased him, gently tugging on one of his ears.

“Wassup?” he asked, grinning as he opened his eyes.

Syd went to answer and then found she didn’t know. “I think I just wanted to look at you,” she giggled, which was something Richie could never remember her doing before. Syd wasn’t a giggler. It made his chest swell with pride.

“You couldn’t look at me while I was asleep?” he asked, shifting and drawing her into his chest.

“That would be creepy,” Syd scrunched her nose.

He didn’t say anything, just floated in a sleepy haze, until he felt Syd running her fingers over his face.

“Your freckles are nice,” she mused.

“Yeah?”

He felt her nod. “They remind me of cinnamon,” she said. “I almost wanna cook ‘em.”

“Okay fuckin’ . . . Hannibal Lector,” Richie snorted.

“No,” Syd snorted, embarrassed. “I mean like . . . I wanna put them in a dish. Like the cinnamon and cocoa sprinkled on top of tiramisu. Or nutmeg on fish. You make me wanna cook. You make me wanna create something,” she finished.

He turned to her. “I make you wanna make stuff?”

Syd blushed and nodded, tracing his collar bone.

He swallowed the lump in his throat. “That’s really fuckin’ cool, Syd.”

After they got up (several hours later but who was counting?) and he watched Syd make waffles in his kitchen, wearing his t-shirt, making fun of his music, he thought about the conversation he had with Carmy in the basement of the Beef, when it was turning into The Bear.

Syd slid a waffle onto his plate, dusted with cinnamon, and he smiled.

Purpose, Richard, purpose.