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January 16, 10 am. That was the exact time your bar exam results were supposed to come out. Carmy knew that because you kept reminding him, in your frenzy of anticipation, the second you handed in your exam. It's been more than a month of stress, a month of waiting, and you were restless.
You spent weeks studying, sacrificing sleep, your social life, hell, even time with your boyfriend, until Carmy would show up at your door with leftovers from the Bear, giving you bites of food while you read your legislation, forcing you to go outside, walk with him, or just stand on your balcony while he smoked a cigarette, justifying it by telling you "fresh air's good for you, babe". Hell, he even let you use his office to study during service, feeling at ease knowing you were near, and if you started to get too overwhelmed, he'd be next door able to comfort you, or remind you to eat.
You told him it was all worth it, all the effort, all the suffering, if it meant you could be one step closer to your dreams, to becoming a lawyer. He had already started planning a small celebration dinner for you, making a menu in his head inspired by your favorite food, and asked Marcus to make you a bento cake that said "future lawyer" for today. Even the rest of the staff at The Bear, who you've come to know and love like a second family, were sending words of encouragement, cheering you on from a distance, proud of you.
Which is why he was checking his phone every ten minutes when the time came. Nothing. No call, no text.
Radio silence wasn't like you. You were the type to always text Carmy, whether it was your random thoughts of the day, sweet reminders for him, photos of you studying with a snack in view to reassure him that you're eating, or just stupid memes.
It's now past two, the lunch service over, three hours until the dinner service, and still no sign from you. Carmy's hands start fidgeting again, his mind going a thousand miles a minute. He calls you once. Straight to voicemail. "Fucking do-no-disturb mode," he mutters. He dials you a second time, knowing that usually the call comes through. Except this time it doesn't. His heart drops. This wasn't like you. Something was wrong, he felt it in the pit of his stomach.
Without thinking twice, he heads towards the exit of the restaurant, his chef coat still on, yelling at Sydney to cover things for a while, before remembering Marcus' cake. Should I bring it? What if she failed? What if it pushes her over the edge? Will she still like it? Will she appreciate the gesture?
He goes back in, grabbing the cake box, and takes it with him. Whatever, worst case scenario she can… I don't know, stab it or something.
He heads to your apartment, almost running all the way there, apprehension coursing through his veins.
When he gets there, he doesn't even knock, already having a spare key to your place.
Carmy opens your front door slowly, removing his shoes at the entrance. Your boots are on the doormat, so you were home. "Babe? It's me."
No answer. No noise either. You always had something in the background, whether it was a stupid sitcom or random music, your apartment always had some sort of sound. But not now. It fell deathly silent.
He walks towards your bedroom, hesitantly, still no sign of life.
"Sweetheart? I know the results came out today. Didn't receive any news from you, so I came here."
The bedroom door is open, he steps through it tentatively.
There's an immobile mass hidden under the covers, dark hair peeking out.
Carmy's heart churns at the sight. He knows you're not sleeping, he's memorized the sound of your breathing by now. He wants to reach down to touch you, to take the covers off, but something about your stillness, your lack of response, scares him.
He kneels down next to the bed, placing the cake box next to him on the floor, then raises his hand, putting it on the covers, where your shoulders would be.
"You okay?"
No noise comes out for a few seconds, until he hears sniffles, and the form under the covers starts shaking slightly.
His chest feels tight, the lack of response from you highly unusual, but confirming what he had feared. She failed.
"Hey, it's fine, you're fine, okay?"
The shaking gets more intense, and Carmy's heart twists. "C-can I remove the covers slightly, sweetheart? Just to see your face."
"Okay", you mutter, your voice almost inaudible, as you lower the blanket, exposing a tear-streaked, red, blotchy face, bloodshot eyes, puffy under-eyes, and a snotty nose.
Carmy's heart drops. She's probably been crying for hours.
You've always been the proud and independent type, never asking for help, which is what attracted Carmy to you in the first place, but it has its downsides, like not letting him know when you're hurt, suffering alone, like now.
The young chef stares at you, concern in his tear-filled eyes, and that pushes you over the edge again. "I'm such a fuckin' loser,” you cry out, your hands in fists, shaking, next to your face, as you're curled up in your bed.
"I'm so fuckin' stupid, I can't do shit right.” You keep going, tears running down your face again.
"What was the fuckin' point? O-of going to law school, suffering like I did, gaining weight, getting cystic acne, just to fail? I-I cut out everyone, everything, and I'm still a fuckin' failure." Your voice cracks at the last word, your breathing becoming ragged and shallow.
"Hey, hey, you're not a failure. You're one of the most driven people I've ever met", he says, leaning in closer, his hand cradling your cheek.
Your heart pangs at his words, not believing them, not wanting to believe them. You shake your head violently, almost like it could make his voice disappear.
He grabs your chin firmly, hoping it'll make you stop thrashing. "Hey, look at me. I'm saying this because it's true, not to make you feel better. You are smart, okay? You are hard working. I've never seen someone so passionate, wanting something so much, never giving up. And you're good at this. Remember when you clocked that health inspector's bullshit about delays? Or when you helped me find errors in the vendors' contracts? Hell, you go toe to toe with Richie on the daily and don't back down, you get him to shut up and listen. I've never seen anyone be able to do that before."
His words are supposed to comfort you, and maybe if you were in a better space, they would, but you're so far gone, full-on sobbing at that point, drained by all the anxiety coursing through your veins through the past few months, all the pent-up energy finally bubbling to the surface.
Carmy sighs, his heart breaking at the sight, before he gets up without thinking, tosses his chef's coat, and climbs onto the bed in one clumsy motion.
He wraps himself around you, your head cradled in his chest,your sobs still going.
“Shh, hey, fuck, hey,” he breathes into your hair, voice cracking. “You’re not a loser. You're not. Goddamn it… I'm so fuckin’ proud of you.”
You try to pull away – old instinct – but he holds tighter.
“N-no,you don’t get to run from this,” he says. “You wanna cry? Cry. But you can't do this alone. I got you. Just don't, you don't get to say that shit about yourself in front of me.”
His thumb wipes snot and tears off your face like it’s nothing.
“You’re not stupid,” he whispers, “and that test? that piece of paper? That's not who you are, okay? That doesn't show how intelligent, how sweet, how passionate, how empathetic, you are. That's not indicative of how much you're gonna kick ass as a lawyer, how you’re gonna help people get the justice that they deserve, like you always tell me.”
Your breath hitches again and, oh God, he feels it in his bones.
He leans down until his forehead presses against yours, eyes shut tight.
"I have to wait a year before I can retake it. What the fuck am I supposed to do in that time?" You mumble into his chest, the defeat in your voice apparent.
"Don't gotta figure everything out right now. Just… for now, lay here, in my arms."
He just holds you tighter, like he's trying to shield you from the world.
"Fuck the year," he mumbles into your hair, voice rough. "We'll figure it out. Together. You wanna work at the restaurant part-time, cool. You wanna take a goddamn vacation, then yeah, we’ll go to Maine or some quiet-ass beach and stare at the water for a week. I’ll cook for you every night. And when next year comes? We’ll do this again.”
Silence settles, not empty this time, but full of warmth and opportunity.
“I love how hard you try,” he whispers finally. “Don’t ever think that means nothing.”
You're too tired to resist, and he's so warm. you bury your face in his chest, the sound of his heartbeat and the feeling of his arms around you pulling you back from the edge.
His arms feel like coming home after a trip abroad, like sinking into bed after a long day at work. He doesn't seem disgusted by your snotty, red face. He's holding onto you like you're going to break if he lets go. He doesn't care that you spent the last month ignoring him and snapping at him, only studying. He's still here.
He doesn’t say much after that, holding you, one hand steady on your back, the other tangled gently in your hair. his thumb moves slow circles at the nape of your neck, like he’s afraid any sudden move might shatter you.
His voice is barely above a whisper when he finally speaks again:
“I know it feels like the end right now, but it’s not. It's really fuckin’ not.”
He pauses, swallows hard, his own eyes still wet, blinking too fast.
“You don’t gotta be strong all the time,” he murmurs, “let me be strong for both of us, today,” he says, pressing a tender kiss to your forehead. “Just, rest now.”
For the first time in weeks, you do. You feel your heart rate lower, your breathing evening out, the feeling of Carmy's arms around you like a drug.
"I love you", you mutter softly against his chest. It's not the first time you've said it, but this time feels different, more vulnerable, realer.
He feels the words reverberate in his chest, making it hard to breathe for a moment.
You've said it in hushed conversations, soft murmurs as he cooks for you, laying in bed after sex, or half-asleep in the morning when he was heading to work, but this time, you sound more fragile, raw.
"I love you so much," he whispers, voice thick. "You know that, right?"
You nod. You know it, not just because he's said it before, but because he's shown it, time and time again. Because he's shown up, time and time again, for you.
Carmy suddenly remembers the cake, left on the floor in its box, and sits up, grabbing it, opening it slowly in front of you, curled up against him, your head on his shoulder.
He blinks back tears, the memory of him asking Marcus to bake the dessert for you, the certainty of the outcome feeling so far away now.
He looks at you, at your pained expression as you see the "FUTURE LAWYER" marked in red frosting on the berry-lemon cake — your favorite flavor.
"Still true, just, maybe more in the future than we thought,” Carmy murmurs, his hand cradling your cheek, not in a performative manner, just firm, like he’s stating an obvious fact.
"Future lawyer," he murmurs against your hair. "My brilliant, stubborn, beautiful girlfriend, just delayed. And I'll still be here, every step of the way."
He grabs one of the spoons Marcus left in the box, scooping out a piece and bringing it to your lips softly, watching your eyes flutter shut.
He feeds you slowly, carefully. His eyes never leave yours as you savor the sweetness on your tongue, watching the tension in your shoulders slowly start to melt.
"Good," he murmurs, as you open your mouth for another bite. "Just relax."
He keeps going, feeding you little spoonfuls until the cake is gone. By then, you're slumped against his chest, exhausted, but calmer.
"Tell him thank you, from me. Thank you to all the staff, for being so supportive, so nice, these last few months,” you whisper, tears filling up your eyes again, but this time, they're tears of gratitude.
"I'll tell 'em," he says, voice thick, thumb brushing the corner of your eye, "but you don't gotta thank 'em like this is the end. They're not done cheerin' for you."
He wraps his arms around your waist, his back to your chest, your body laid between his legs, pressing a soft kiss to your cheek. "You'll be okay. This isn't the end,” he murmurs in your ear.
After all you've been through the past couple of months, all the stress, all the late-night study sessions, and this morning, when your world came crashing down, you start to believe him.
Maybe you won't be a lawyer just yet, but you've got people rooting for you, people who want to see you win, and people who'll pick you up every time you fall.