“Hunt, just—Can we talk about the pizza situation first because I really do think hot honey is—”
He opens my door.
Mr. Smooshy stands in the middle of my bed with the marshmallow bag clamped in his mouth.
Hunter turns around. Slowly.
I rub the back of my neck. “So, funny story.”
“Atlas.”
I hold up my hands. “Jenkins blocked us. You weren’t doing anything about it, and I was lonely, and I just meant to go see if he was home. But Mr. Smooshy was looking out the window, all sad and alone. Like, tragically alone. Pixar opening scene alone. I figured we could have a playdate.”
Hunter’s nostrils flare.
Mr. Smooshy decides now is the time to shake the bag, and marshmallows fly everywhere.
“Atlas!”
I take off running, but only make it two steps past the couch before his arm hooks around my waist, and he slams me to the floor.
He locks an arm around my neck. “Off-limits. How many fucking times—”
“He was hungry.”
“He’s a dog.”
“He’s a guest.”
“He’s stolen.”
“Borrowed.”
Hunter tightens the headlock. “You kidnapped his dog.”
“I left a note.”
He doesn’t let up, so I sink my teeth into his forearm because when you're outweighed by thirty pounds, you fight dirty.
“Fuck.” He jerks but doesn’t let go. “Only five-year-olds bite.”
“Stop choking me, and I'll stop biting.” I hook my leg around him and try to flip his body, but he doesn't budge.
His elbow catches my ribs. I punch his side. He grunts. I laugh because I can’t help it, because this is us.
Then the smell hits.
We both stop and look up.
Mr. Smooshy stands at the edge of the couch, tail wagging, head tilted, looking very pleased with himself.
“Oh, my god.” My eyes water, and not from emotions. “What just came out of your body? Oh my god, that is—Holy shit.”
Hunter rolls off me, coughing, pulling his shirt over his nose. “What did you feed him?”
“Well, we stopped at Starbucks on the way back.” I sit up and gag and wave my hand in front of my face. “Did you know they give dogs whipped cream in little cups? He was very excited about it.”
“Atlas.”