“Well, tough tittie, because you’re gonna have to,” Emilia chuckled, mimicking Tate and going for the light-hearted. She was a decent cook, nowhere near Tate’s standards or skills, of course, but she had to admit that she was pleased that from what she recalled having read about alcohol withdrawal, it mostly included raw ingredients and very little cooking. Not that she was going to let Tate in on that just yet… maybe later, when she knew more.
“I’m looking at you like it’s the first time I’ve seen you in far too long and you look and feel like shit,” she told him gently. “I don’t want you feeling like that, so I’ll do everything I can to make it stop, okay?” But sweet Salazar, his kiss did make her feel better. Much, much better, though he still worried about that split lip of his.
Threading her fingers through his, she let him lead the way to the kitchen, where she easily found the basil and the grinder – she hadn’t doubted Tate wouldn’t keep freshly ground pepper at hand. “Your stepmother did that to you?” she asked as she was rinsing off the fresh basil, crunching it lightly with her hands before she dropped it into a pitcher, along with a small handful of peppercorns and filled it with water. “This just has to soak through the night, and a glass now and then throughout the day should take away the worst cravings.” At least that was the theory, but she had never heard of it not working.