"Yes. And I’m sticking to it."
His little sister, acting like she had all the answers. "When did you get so wise?"
"I've always been wise. You just never noticed because you were too busy being full of yourself."
A guy in a mesh top—drenched in sweat and apparently unaware that personal space existed—squeezed past Taylor on his way to the bathroom. She shuttered, then turned back to Hudson. "On second thought. Pizza place down the street. Let's go."
Hudson didn’t argue.
They headed for the exit, weaving through the crowd. As they passed his booth, Derek had already moved on—same lazy lean against the table, same smile, different guy.
Hudson held the door open for Taylor. "Think he noticed we left?"
Taylor glanced back. "I think he's already forgotten your name."
"Perfect."
The cold outside was a relief after the heat of the bar. Hudson took a deep grounding breath.
"So," Taylor said as they started walking. "On a scale of one to ten, how attractive was Derek?"
"Maybe a five?"
"Could've been worse."
"Could've been better."
"Baby steps, Huds. Baby steps.”
The pizza placewas calledJoe's, which was about as creative as naming a barTherapy, but at least it smelled amazing. The kind of greasy, cheese-heavy amazing that made Hudson's mouth water the second they walked through the door.
"God, I've missed real food," Hudson said, breathing in the scent of pepperoni and garlic.
"They feed you on base, right?" Taylor asked, scanning the menu board like she hadn't been here a hundred times.
"They feed us, but I wouldn't call it food."
Groups of friends filled booths, alongside a few couples and some solo diners hunched over slices at the counter. The fluorescent lighting was harsh, the floor questionable, and Hudson immediately loved the authenticity of it all.
They got in line behind a group of high school-aged kids arguing loudly about whether pineapple belonged on pizza.
"It's fruit," one of them said. "Fruit doesn’t go on pizza."
"Tomatoes are fruit," someone else countered.
"What? I thought tomatoes were vegetables."
Taylor leaned in close to Hudson. "Twenty bucks this turns into a fistfight."
"My money’s on the anti-pineapple guy," Hudson decided.
They shuffled forward in line. The guy behind the counter barely looked up—just pointed at the menu board and waited for people to decide.
"What are you getting?" Taylor asked.
"Pepperoni. Maybe sausage."
"Boring." She studied the menu. "I'm getting the white pizza with arugula."
