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Summary
There’s no more restaurant to manage, no more food to cook, and Syd doesn’t really know what to do with her body, except fuck Richie, apparently.
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Bookmark Notes:
There's no god in the walk-in, only ghosts.
In her mind, she pictures the menu, spinning plates on thin poles that she can’t balance. The signage of the restaurant is bright and new still: red neon and classic with a sweeping ‘Y’ under the whole thing just to underscore the feel of the restaurant, to bring it down to the locale of Near North Side Chicago. It’s unassuming and surprising, just like its namesake. It’s not her soul, but it’s also too much of her heart; it’s too much of Carmy, and why did she do this, her heart feels just like this walk-in, too cold and too empty and—
Two rough, warm hands envelop hers. A warm breath follows, and the tips of her fingers shiver in response.
When she looks up, Richie is there, and there isn’t a hint of pity in his eyes.
Syd pries her hands away, and he lets go without protest; he knows her body now. When she steps into his arms without hesitation, he holds her as tightly as he did when he first stopped her running into her burning home. He’s safe, and he smells good. His front-of-house suit is pressed; Syd is a chef, it's her job to know details, and she knows this suit is the one he wore to Carmy’s funeral. Richie presses a kiss into the top of her head. She wrinkles his suit with how hard she’s holding on.
“When you’re ready, Chef, I’ll open the doors,” he says roughly.
They stay like that a while; they burn slowly.
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Bookmark Notes:
Syd/Richie hatefuck except make it sweet and angsty and full of emotions and happy ending!!