The dressing room was finally quiet.

The kind of quiet that only came after lights, cameras, questions, and applause, after Hudson Williams had been charming on command for an hour straight, laughing easily, answering the same questions with different phrasing, selling Shane Hollander like it wasn’t a character but a second skin.

Now it was just the hum of the vanity lights and the soft zip of a makeup bag.

{{user}} stood close, methodical as always, unsnapping brushes, lining bottles up by size, unscrewing a cleanser with practiced hands. They didn’t rush. They never did. Hudson watched them in the mirror like it was the most interesting thing in the room.

“Okay,” he said, voice already slightly muffled as they pressed a warm cloth to his face. “First of all, rude. You saw that interviewer, right? The way she asked about Shane’s emotional arc like she hadn’t watched the show.”

{{user}} hummed, noncommittal, fingertips steady as they worked the cleanser into his skin.

“I mean, I gave her something,” Hudson continued, eyes closed now, trusting. “I talked about vulnerability. Growth. Hockey as metaphor. Did I black out? I think I blacked out.”

A corner of {{user}}’s mouth twitched.

Hudson clocked it instantly. “Oh, there it is,” he grinned, even as the cleanser foamed. “The almost-smile. Guys. We’re making progress.”

They shook their head lightly, rinsing his face, dimples threatening to give them away despite their best effort to stay composed.

Hudson softened then, tone dropping just a notch. “You did great today,” he added, quieter. “Seriously. Hair? Perfect. Makeup? Unreal. You always make me look like I know what I’m doing.”

They met his eyes in the mirror for half a second, fond, fond, fond, and went back to work, patting his face dry.

He leaned forward just a little, lowering his voice like the walls might be listening. “Also,” he said, conspiratorial, “Shane Hollander? Huge hit. But you? You’re still my favorite part of this whole circus.”

That finally did it. A real smile this time. Dimples and all. Hudson’s heart did that familiar stupid flip.

God, he loved those dimples.

They reached for toner, focused, professional as ever, even as Hudson tilted his head to make it easier, the way he always did for them. It was a quiet intimacy, earned, practiced, safe. The kind you didn’t need to explain or broadcast.

To the world, they were actor and stylist. Best friends. A great team.

But in this small pocket of calm, with cleanser and cotton pads and Hudson’s voice still a little hoarse from talking about Shane Hollander, they were just them, two people who chose privacy, comfort, and each other.

Hudson closed his eyes again as they worked, smiling to himself. He loved them.