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“Joey, I feel like I’m going to be sick.”
Hudson turns her attention away from the stove to glance over her shoulder at where Dylan’s sitting at their kitchen table, brows raised. “You shouldn’t have drank so much last night,” she says, and she drops her eyes back down to what she’s cooking, eyebrows furrowing. “If it helps, I think Pratt’s doing worse than you are. I woke up to a text asking if I’d be willing to put him out of his misery.”
All she gets in reply is a soft groan— and a thump, Dylan’s head presumably ending up on the table. “It doesn’t,” she says, voice slightly muffled. “Can you put me out of my misery? Just— pull the trigger, babe.” She holds one arm up, aiming towards her head and snapping with her fingers in her best imitation of a gun. “Pow.”
“At least wait until you’ve eaten before you make any rash decisions,” Hudson says, turning the stove off and scraping some eggs onto a plate. She moves to set it in front of Dylan and leans over to smooth her hair back, pressing a kiss to her cheek. “It’ll help.”
Groaning again, Dylan sits up and cranes her head back against the chair to stare up at Hudson. “I don’t know if I’m up to it,” she says, reaching up to gently take Hudson’s face in her hands and bring her down for another kiss— this time on the lips, short and sweet. She offers up a tired smile, then, letting her go and shifting in her chair to pick up her fork. She doesn’t move to eat— just taps it against the plate, over and over, as if she’s still debating whether or not she wants to. “Thanks, though. What would I do without you?”
Hudson breathes out a laugh. “I’m thinking you’d probably starve,” she says, and she runs her fingers through Dylan’s hair. Then, as an afterthought, she begins to plait it. “I don’t think I ever saw you eat anything but junk before you moved in.” She leans over to press yet another quick peck to the other woman’s lips, pulling back with a crooked grin. “Lucky you have me, hm?”
“Lucky,” Dylan parrots. She sets her fork down and shifts again, effectively messing up what Hudson’s already done with her hair. “What are you doing back there?”
With a hum, Hudson moves to start over. “Well, if you’d stop squirming, I can get your hair out of your face before you do get sick,” she says, fingers threading through Dylan’s red locks and braiding it with a certain skill. “That way the only casualty we might have is Pratt’s shirt. Does he know you stole that?”
Dylan glances down at the too-large, too-loose t-shirt she’s wearing and tugs at the collar. “Eh, s’not like it’s the first one I’ve taken,” she says, mouth hanging open to continue— instead, she closes it and makes a face. She reaches for the glass of water on the table to take a sip, swallowing hard before barreling on. “He can just deal with it ‘cause I’m not giving it back. It’s comfy, it smells like him, and I like it.”
“Fair enough,” Hudson says. She takes a momentary pause to tie off the braid she’d done with the hair tie she’d already had on her wrist and pats Dylan on the shoulder. “There. Now we match.” She gives her one last kiss to the forehead. “You going to be alright?”
Dylan breathes in deeply, picking up her fork once more. “Yeah, think so,” she says, and she takes a tentative bite of eggs. “Long as I have you around, anyway.”
“And you always will,” Hudson says, turning towards the counter to pick her phone up and swipe to her messages. She lets out a laugh. “Can’t say the same about Pratt. He’s convinced he’s dead and this is purgatory.”
That gets a snort out of Dylan. “Doesn’t he always?”