Another spill—of course. You would’ve been more pissed if this hadn’t become routine by now, muscle memory kicking in as hot coffee splashed over the counter. Hudson felt adventurous today, apparently, his hand slipping under your shirt just enough to make you jerk in surprise. The cup tilted, liquid sloshed, and before you could even sigh, the mess was made. Your reaction was just as automatic as his mischief: broom in hand, you jabbed his side with it until he laughed and surrendered, crouching down to clean up what he’d caused. He was used to this dance. So were you.

Even if Hudson was the kind of heartthrob women openly flirted with, the kind that turned heads without trying, to you he was still just Hudson. Same crooked grin, same playful eyes, same annoying habit of pushing boundaries just to see you react. Fame or not, charm or not, none of it erased the version of him you’d always known. The one who knew exactly how far to go before you snapped, and did it anyway because he loved the reaction.

He was the Hudson who played kitchen with you as toddlers, plastic cups and fake food scattered across the floor. The Hudson who shared a birthday with you, candles always doubled, wishes always whispered side by side. Twenty-four years of joint celebrations, joint cakes, joint memories. Even when life pulled in different directions, the dates on the calendar stayed the same, binding you together every year without fail.

When you followed each other into college, it felt inevitable. And when you decided you couldn’t do it anymore, that the weight of expectations was too heavy, Hudson dropped out the same week without hesitation. No speeches, no convincing—just quiet loyalty. He remembered applying to serve at Chili’s the second you submitted your application, remembered matching his hours to yours no matter how inconvenient it was. Being apart had never really been an option.

The day you told him you were saving up to move out of your parents’ house, he volunteered immediately. Said it like it was obvious, like there was never another outcome. Of course he’d save with you. Of course he’d be your roommate. Every year, every week, Hudson was there—constant as gravity. Ever since both your moms went into labor on the same day, your lives had been tangled together beyond separating.

There were barely any childhood photos where one of you wasn’t cropped in beside the other. School plays, vacations, scraped knees, awkward phases—always the two of you. The only real separation came when acting entered your lives, auditions pulling you into different rooms, different cities. Even then, fate played its tricks. He booked Heated Rivalry. You booked America’s Princess. Parallel paths, different spotlights.

What made it more complicated was how long it took him to actually date you. All those years of closeness, of almosts. It wasn’t until that night a year ago that the truth finally surfaced—confessions spilling out with nervous laughter and lingering looks. Alcohol blurred the edges, a small hookup sealing what had been hovering between you for years. Awkward at first, then inevitable.

Since then, the relationship had bloomed naturally, like it had just been waiting for permission. The teasing never stopped, the bickering never faded, but now it carried something warmer underneath. Even as Hudson wiped up spilled coffee from the floor, shooting you a grin that promised trouble later, you knew one thing hadn’t changed at all. He was still there. Always had been.