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buzzcutlip · 3 months ago

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11 J and Carmy because I love the fluffy stuff.

I've written something rather romantic for you, the title can't be anything else than:

December 1st (Prompts from my seasonal prompt list: "Thank you for spending time with me today" & "First kiss") Carmen x gn!Reader 2000 words

“Good morning,” Carmen Berzatto greets you with a tentative smile, his breath clouding in the frosty morning air.

Your heart jumps, like every time Carmen comes, instead of Tina, to pick up the fresh dairy products.

“Hello,” you wave from the open door, the sun shining into your eyes, unable to stop yourself from smiling back. “Come on in,” you beckon him as you see his red nose and cheeks, holding the heavy metal door open to let him inside the storage room.

Carmen steps inside, shoulders tense against the chill. He rubs his hands together briskly, the friction sending little clouds of warmth into the air. “Colder than I thought it’d be,” he mutters, glancing around at the neatly stacked crates of milk and cream, along with various types of cheese.

You grab a clipboard from the hook near the door and pretend to study the inventory, but you’re acutely aware of every move he makes—the way he shifts his weight from one foot to the other, the subtle dip of his head as he surveys the shelves.

“You get used to it,” you reply, even though the truth is, you’ve never really adjusted to the cold. It’s just something you tolerate.

“Do you wanna take something extra?” you ask, and as you look up, you find Carmen already watching you. His eyes quickly dart away. He looks skinnier than the last time you saw him, his cheekbones protruding.

Carmen does want to take something extra, and he asks you a surprisingly huge amount of questions regarding butter and mature cheddar and Swiss cheese from Stockton. Usually, Carmy barely speaks — he quickly loads the crates and is off. Not today.

“Swiss, huh?” you prompt, watching him as he shoves his hands into his coat pockets. “You planning a fondue night, Chef?”

Carmy huffs a laugh through his nose and shakes his head. “No, just… experimenting. Trying to see what works with, uh, some new ideas.” His explanation comes out fast, like he’s rehearsed it, but the way he avoids your gaze makes you think there’s more to it than that.

You glance over at the neatly wrapped blocks of Swiss cheese, then back at him. “Alright. But you usually know exactly what you want. Today’s… different.”

That gets his attention. His eyes snap back to yours, wide for a moment before narrowing like he’s trying to read what you mean. “Different how?”

“Dunno,” you shrug, though you absolutely do. “Just… you’re asking a lot of questions. Usually, it’s just a quick ‘hey’ and ‘thanks.’” You keep your tone light, playful, but there’s a part of you that wants to ask why he looks so worn down, why his usual confidence feels frayed at the edges.

Carmen glances at the crates and lets out a breath, his shoulders sagging slightly. “Yeah. Sorry, I’m—uh—“ He pauses, scrubbing a hand down his face. “It’s ... the first of December.”

“It’s the first of December,” you repeat slowly after him. Surely, there must be more to it than just the beginning of a new month.

Carmy looks immediately regretful, his boots shuffling on the concrete floor. “Family trauma,” he explains plainly. “Christmas. It always seems like once it’s December, I can’t avoid it any longer.”

“Oh.” For a moment, you don’t know what to say. Carmen doesn’t look at you, his eyes fixed on the floor like he’s bracing himself for judgment—or maybe just for silence.

He huffs a bitter laugh, the kind that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Yeah. Sorry. Didn’t mean to dump that on you.” He shifts his weight, his hands digging deeper into his coat pockets. “It’s not your problem.”

“Maybe not,” you say quietly, watching the way his shoulders curl inward, like he’s trying to make himself smaller. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t care.”

You lean back against the shelf, crossing your arms to ward off the cold. “So… Swiss cheese, huh?” you say, trying to steer the conversation back to safer ground.

Carmen blinks, the corners of his mouth twitching like he’s trying to decide whether to let you change the subject. Finally, he gives a small nod. “Yeah. Swiss cheese.”

You add the extra products to another crate, noting them on your list. Carmy pays, and you put the money into the cash box, then help him with the lighter crates into his car. Well, it’s Richie’s car; you already know that. Tina uses it too. Carmen shyly asks you to come along, explaining that they want to give you Bear Christmas Cookies, just as they do for all their suppliers. He shivers when saying “Christmas,” but you agree, quite happily, and get in the passenger seat. The car is cold too; the heating clearly doesn’t work. You intentionally don’t look around too much, just in case you spot something exceptionally gross in the clutter.

“I’m sorry for the state of the car. It’s Richie’s,” he adds quickly. “The only available car at the moment,” he winces.

“It’s fine,” you smile at him.

The two of you lapse into a comfortable silence for a moment, the hum of the car’s engine filling the space between you. The city streets blur past outside, with festive lights strung across lampposts and storefronts, their warm glow a sharp contrast to the December chill.

At the restaurant, you help Carmen get the products to the walk-in fridge. The kitchen is empty, being Monday morning, and gives off a completely different vibe—a bit sad, maybe. It makes you wonder if that’s one of the reasons Carmy’s been stalling so much today.

When you bring in the last crate, setting it on the metallic counter with a clang, Carmen’s there with a round, dark blue tin. As he hands it to you, your fingertips touch, fueling your well-nourished crush, and you can’t help but want more of him.

“Thank you,” you say, studying the Bear logo on the lid. “I’ll make sure to share it with the rest of the team,” you tell him. “Even though I don’t want to.”

That makes Carmen bark out a laugh, one that sounds genuine for once.

As there’s nothing else to do, the moment starts to stretch awkwardly.

“You know, maybe it’s not my place to say this—” you start bravely, “but I think a cup of coffee or tea would cheer you up.”

Carmen’s brows lift slightly, his lips parting like he’s about to respond, but he hesitates, caught off guard. “Yeah?” He looks down at the tin still in your hands, then back up at you.

You shift your weight, feeling the sudden urge to backpedal, but you’ve come this far. “Yeah,” you say, steadier now. “I mean, it’s cold as hell, it’s Monday, and you look like you could use… I don’t know. A minute to just breathe.”

Carmen huffs a small laugh, though it’s quieter this time. “Is it that obvious?”

You tilt your head, giving him a playful look. “Let’s just say you’re not exactly radiating holiday cheer.”

Carmen snorts and then says, decidedly, “Okay.”

It’s not a surprise to find out that the chef doesn’t know any nearby places that specialize in beverages, so you lead the way to the first decent-looking coffee house one street over. You order an almond milk latte, while he has chamomile tea, and then pays for both of you without hesitation.

The two of you lapse into a hesitant talk at a corner table with two armchairs, the hum of conversation and the clinking of cups filling the space around you. Outside, the festive lights strung across the street sway gently in the breeze, their glow reflecting on the window.

As much as your heart is ready to give out, with your fingers tapping nervously against the ceramic mug, a careful conversation develops. You talk about your job at the Home Produce shop, sharing gossip about all the other restaurants and chefs that buy from you.

When Carmen does speak, you can’t help but sneak glances at his tattooed hands, the ones you can’t get out of your head. Unfortunately, you’re pretty sure Carmen catches you on one or two occasions but doesn’t say anything.

The conversation moves on to other topics, like favorite dishes, shared horror stories about difficult customers, and even the occasional joke. You’re pleased to see Carmy relaxing, taking off his quilted coat. Meanwhile, you’re wearing only your thick woolen jumper and a long red scarf, the coffee adding a very pleasant warmth to the mix.

Things take a turn when Carmen starts sharing half-explained stories about his family and the Seven Fishes tradition: festive cooking, car crashes, divorces, moving to New York—all without mentioning Christmas once.

You listen carefully, letting Carmy know you’re there, willing to help him carry a bit of the burden.

“Everything was always… too much,” he says, his gaze fixed on his tea, now lukewarm. “Loud. Messy. No one ever sat still long enough to actually… enjoy it, you know?”

You nod, watching him carefully, letting the words settle in the air. “And New York?” you prompt gently, sensing that he needs a nudge.

He huffs a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “I thought it would be different. It wasn’t. Just… louder. More people, more pressure. The only time I really liked Christmas was when I was on shift. Cooking. It was the only time I could control anything.”

Your heart aches at the vulnerability in his voice, the way he talks about control like it’s both a lifeline and a curse.

“You’re good at it, though,” you say softly. “The cooking, I mean.”

Carmen fidgets with his sleeve, his fingers brushing against the edge of the table, and you realize he’s looking at you—not quite directly, but close enough that your pulse quickens.

“You’re easy to talk to,” he says suddenly, like the thought just slipped out.

You blink, caught off guard. “Oh. Well, uh—thank you.” Your nervous laugh fills the space as you grip your mug a little tighter.

You feel like you’re dancing around each other a little, trying to figure out where you stand or if there’s any affection coming from the other person. It’s exhilarating and a bit terrifying at the same time. You really want Carmen to like you, and you have nothing else to offer but honesty and openness.

It’s almost 1 p.m. when you get up, your stomach rumbling, murmuring something about having to get back to work. Carmen offers to drive you back, which you accept gladly. As soon as you both get into the car, you can’t help but shiver from the cold outside—and inside, as well.

“Oh, here you go,” Carmen shrugs off his warm jacket and drapes it over your arms before he starts the engine. The gesture takes you by surprise, and you blush furiously into your sweater’s neck.

When he parks and shuts off the engine, the sudden quiet feels almost intimate. He turns to you, his expression softer than you’ve ever seen it. “Thanks for spending time with me today,” he says, his voice sincere. “You didn’t have to.”

“I know I didn’t have to,” you cut in, a little sharper than you mean to, but his self-deprecation stirs something protective in you. “But I wanted to. Because it’s you.”

The words hang there, and for a second, you wonder if you’ve said too much. His eyes search yours, and you can tell he’s caught off guard, maybe even a little unsure what to do with the kindness.

“I’m not great at this,” he finally says, his voice low, like it’s a confession. “Talking about… stuff.”

“Clearly,” you tease, trying to lighten the mood, though your smile is gentle. “But you don’t have to talk, you know. Not if you don’t want to.”

He exhales slowly, his breath curling in the frosty air like smoke. You’re unsure if he’s about to speak, but then he does something else entirely. He leans in and presses a soft kiss to your lips, plain and sweet. Instantly, it ignites a fire inside of you, the flames making your cheeks burn despite the cold.

For a moment, the world narrows to just that touch—fleeting, but enough to send your heart racing. When he pulls back, Carmen looks almost as surprised as you feel, his cheeks flushed, eyes wide like he’s already second-guessing himself.

“Sorry,” he mutters, voice barely above a whisper. “I—I shouldn’t have—”

“Don’t,” you interrupt, your voice steady even though your pulse is anything but. “Don’t apologize.”

His eyes dart to yours, searching, as if he’s trying to figure out if you mean it.

“I… I’ve been wanting to do that,” he admits, his voice rough and hesitant, like the words are being pulled out of him against his better judgment.

You bite your lip to keep from grinning too wide. “Me too,” you confess.

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