The total stress-relief of that fuck carries him through the heat wave of the next couple of days, a meeting with Uncle Jimmy, and some dish trials with Sydney. It's hard to pin down his feelings, to think about wanting something instead of just existing, to imagine having a way to unwind that isn't work or working out. He's nursed a weird little crush for a decade, but it's not like he ever initiates anything, it just happened, keeps happening, in between trying to put together a restaurant.

But that kiss. He's at home in his kitchen, touching his mouth, fucking thinking about it. Palming his dick a little, his usual intense focus when cooking distracted. It's annoying. He's going to break his sauce or congeal his reduction or some other amateur move. He turns the burners off.

come over.

He's been flirty, sure, made eye contact heading into the bathroom that meant Richie knew if he followed Carmy would kneel on the dirty tile for him. But this is direct, and he's a little nervous.