The heat builds and builds and doesn't break. Richie showers twice a day to stop himself going fucking nuts and allows himself, in those cool wet twenty minute segments, to think about Carmy, specifically Carmy's mouth. He jerks off to unsatisfying conclusions and, generally speaking, goes about his day. Bullshit piles up from the restaurant, from Carmy, from the Faks, from Jimmy and all the rest of them. He can almost kid himself nothing has changed, almost gets good at it, but then he catches Carmy's eye across the kitchen and something hot and stupid happens in the pit of his stomach and he has to admit it's just getting worse. Building and building.

Shit.

He's at home alone watching RoboCop with a beer and a profound sense of having missed out on something indefinable, when his phone buzzes and Carmy's message pops up. That hot and stupid feeling comes back almost immediately.

He doesn't write fuck off like he knows he should. Instead, he stares at the message. Drinks some beer. Listens to Peter Weller hand out some justice. Outside, the first grumbles of thunder creak through the dense summer air.

Eventually he sends:

Why

And then, after a beat or two:

What are you cooking