Chapter Fifteen Hudson
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Hudson
I pull into my driveway and just sit there, the truck’s engine idling, as I’m gripped by an unease that’s hard to shake off.
I’m stewing over the sight of Jamie lingering outside Ella’s apartment.
Why was he sitting there, in the shadows, like some creep?
A part of me wants to drive back and confront him, to make sure he’s not there to start trouble.
But another part, the rational side, insists that she can handle herself. She’s proven that well enough.
Still, the protective urge doesn’t fade easily, and it gnaws at me as I wait here alone. I half expect my phone to light up with a text—some kind of SOS—but nothing comes. With a heavy sigh, I finally kill the engine and decide it’s time to let it go.
As I walk through the front door, the familiar clutter of our living room greets me. Levi is sprawled on the couch and glances up, a casual nod of recognition as I enter. But then his eyes narrow as he takes in my appearance.
“I thought you weren’t going to open lift,” he says.
“I didn’t,” I say, dropping my keys on the small table by the door.
Levi sits up, scrutinizing me further. “So, what’s with your face?”
“My face?” I touch my cheek, self-conscious, feeling the residual heat of exertion from the gym.
“You’re all sweaty and gross, and you have this look that says you just had a major rush of adrenaline. So, either you’ve been pumping iron, or pumping something else,” he teases, waggling his eyebrows suggestively.
“Jesus Christ, are you thirteen years old?” I say, rolling my eyes.
“Twenty-two, last I checked.”
“I wasn’t pumping anything. I was … with Ella,” I admit, a bit too defensively.
He smirks. “Yeah, that’s not convincing.”
“We were at the all-star gym she’s been training at. I did a few stunts with her. That’s all.” My voice is flat, trying to sound nonchalant about something that, honestly, felt like rediscovering a part of myself I’d almost forgotten.
Levi’s expression shifts from teasing to genuinely interested. He’s one of the few people here at Whitland who knows I used to cheer, and surprisingly, he’s always respected it.
“Oh, sweet. How was it?”
I give a noncommittal shrug, my mind replaying the night—the challenge in nailing the grips and lifts, Ella’s focused expression, the sound of her laughter. “I liked it,” I say, more to myself than to him.
He chuckles, folding his arms behind his head. “Wow, high praise.”
“I think I’m gonna go again. Do some tumbling practice next time.”
“Huh.” He stares at me, a playful suspicion in his eyes.
“What?”
“Oh, you know, it’s just that you have so much ample free time,” he teases. “I’m not surprised in the slightest you would take up another extremely demanding hobby.”
I huff, annoyance flaring up. “I’m not committing to anything. It’s for fun, when and if I have the time for it.”
“I’m sure it helps that there’s a pretty girl there, too.”
“Yeah. Sammy’s easy on the eyes, now you mention it.”
“Watch your mouth,” he says quickly, a protective glare hardening his features.
I raise my brow. “Thought you two weren’t together.”
“We’re not,” he says. “But she’s mine to look at.”
“Pathetic, I’m telling you.” I shake my head, dismissing the conversation as I head toward my room. “Where’s Sour?”
“Not sure,” he says. “He was sleeping when I got home hours ago. He must be getting his beauty rest.”
“He didn’t even want to say hi to his dad?” I grumble, more to myself than to Levi. I head down the hall and push open my bedroom door.
There’s a lump in the middle of my bed, Sourdough curled up beneath the blankets like a warm cinnamon bun.
He raises his head at my arrival, one paw releasing the blanket he’d been clutching in his sleep.
With a soft, contented sigh, he shifts until I can see those familiar blue eyes staring up at me.
“Hey, bud,” I murmur, setting my bag down before slowly approaching the bed. I stroke his soft fur, and he purrs his appreciation. “Missed you, too.”
My phone buzzes from where I’d discarded it on my bedside table, pulling me from our quiet moment.
I sigh, but when I see Ella’s name flash on the screen, a corner of my mouth twitches; she’s sent a picture of me at the gym.
In it, Ash and I attempt to push Luke into the air, one of his limbs kicking out and nearly hitting me in the face.
I chuckle, replaying the moment in my head. Luke’s panicked expression as he struggled to keep his balance, Ash’s exasperated yell as I nearly lost my grip on him, and Ella’s infectious laughter filling the gym.
Hudson: everything go okay? Ella: yeah. he left pretty quickly Hudson: you okay? Ella: not sure
I frown as I contemplate what to say next.
I may like to push her buttons, but the thought of someone actually hurting her makes me irrationally angry.
I feel this strange urge to protect her.
A desire to ensure that she feels safe here at Whitland.
It’s not something I’m used to experiencing when it comes to women, and it confuses the hell out of me.
Hudson: do you need anything?
She doesn’t answer right away, and I stare at the blank screen as I wait for her response. My mind races through the possibilities of what could have happened between them after I left. Did he say something to hurt her?
Finally, after what feels like an eternity, my phone buzzes with her reply.
Ella: maybe you could call me
I hesitate only a moment. I don’t really call anyone these days except my mom. It’s always texts, maybe a video chat if someone’s feeling particularly nostalgic. But calling Ella feels right.
The phone rings, and after a few tones, she answers: “Hey.” Her voice is soft and sends an unexpected rush of relief through me.
“Hey,” I echo. There’s a brief silence. “So, how many minutes did you give him before he fucked up?” I cut through the quiet with a half-joke, trying to lighten the mood.
She laughs, a heartfelt sound that makes me smile. “Oh, none. He fucked up the moment he showed up outside my flat.”
“Did he say anything weird?” I ask, leaning back against the headboard, picturing her standing there, strong and breathtaking as usual.
“Yeah.” She sighs, and I can hear a rustle of fabric, probably as she shifts position. “I don’t think he was too happy that you dropped me off. Thought you were, you know, my new fella.”
I let out a snort, the image of Jamie’s face painted with jealousy giving me immense satisfaction. “And what did you tell him?”
“I told him it was none of his business,” Ella says firmly, and I can almost picture it, hands on her hips, her hazel eyes blazing with defiance.
“That’s my girl,” I murmur before I can stop myself. There’s a pause and for a moment I fear I’ve overstepped. That I’ve said something too presumptuous, too familiar, and that I’m about to get a load of shit for it. But then soft laughter trickles through the phone.
“Well, your girl is exhausted,” she says, a touch of amusement in her voice that soothes my racing nerves. “But thanks for checking in.”
“Sure.” I pause for a second before moving the conversation on. “When can I, uh, when’s the next open gym?”
“Thursday night.”
“Turns out I’m available.”
“Oh, what a lucky coincidence,” she drawls.
“Isn’t it?” I respond with a light-hearted chuckle. “I’ll see you then, Davies.”
“Goodnight, Hudson.” Her voice is low, as if she’s whispering the words into my ear rather than speaking over the phone.
She hangs up, and I stare at the screen for a moment, my thumb hovering over the Call-back button before I push the impulse away. I toss my phone back onto the bedside table, leaning back against the headboard again with a sigh.
I let the weight of the conversation settle on me, more tethered to her than I want to admit. It’s this undeniable pull between us, one I’ve been fighting because I know how messy it can get.
I’ve seen firsthand what happens when things fall apart—my parents’ relationship crumbled under the weight of resentment. I’ve spent years keeping myself at arm’s length from other people, too consumed by my own compulsions, the guilt, the need for control.
It’s easier, I think, to push people away than risk burning everything down in the end.
Yet here I am, already looking forward to seeing Ella again, to that rush of being back on the mat beside her. It’s like stepping back into a part of myself I’d locked away, and it feels damn good.
My thoughts are interrupted by the silent call of my bedtime routine.
First things first, I head to the bathroom, peeling off my sweaty clothes and stepping into the shower.
The hot water cascades over me, removing the grime and sweat of the gym, but it’s more ritualistic than cleansing.
It’s a full reset—a washing away of the entire day.
After I turn off the water, I wrap a towel around my waist and head out to check the house. Levi’s gone to bed, and it’s time for my nightly ritual, one born out of necessity rather than choice. Every light switch needs to be flicked off, every lamp unplugged.
I check, double-check, and sometimes triple-check before I can convince myself that everything is safe, that the night can pass without incident.
Once I’m satisfied, I make my way to the kitchen to feed Sourdough. He’s waiting for me, his eyes following my every movement as I scoop his food into the bowl. “Here you go, bud,” I say as I set it down.
Finally, the weight of exhaustion settling into my bones, I head back to my bedroom. Sourdough reclaims his usual spot. I slip into bed, careful not to disturb him too much, and let out a long, tired sigh.
As I lie there, my mind inevitably drifts back to that phone call with Ella and the raw attraction we’ve both been trying so hard to ignore. The soft spot I seem to have for her is growing and part of me doesn’t want to fight it anymore.
The last woman I dated was during my sophomore year at Whitland.
Things started off light and casual, the kind of relationship you fall into without quite realizing how deep you’re in until it’s too late.
She was a nice girl, fun to talk to. We met in one of my early Classics lectures, and spending time with her was like a new hobby I couldn’t put down.
But as the months slipped by, she began to feel as if I wasn’t giving enough, wasn’t open enough. She argued there were parts of me she couldn’t reach.
I could sense her frustration, the way her voice would tighten as she told me I kept too much to myself. It’s not that I didn’t want to let her in. It’s that being all in looked different for me.
I liked spending time with her, but when it came to sharing the darker, twisted corners of my mind, the compulsions and obsessions that followed the fire, I hesitated.
When I finally did open up, showed her the routines I couldn’t shake—she laughed. It wasn’t the gentle, understanding voice I’d hoped for, but a harsh, mocking laughter that made me feel exposed and ridiculous.
Her words afterward picked at me, little jabs about my “quirky habits” that felt more like sharp hooks. Until eventually, I pulled back and reasoned that if “all in” meant being laid bare only to be laughed at, then I was out.
I decided then I wouldn’t let anyone in again that readily. That’s when the random women, all those nights spent drinking, hit an all-time high. I felt a bit like I was heading down the same path as my deadbeat dad.
But I’ve grown and changed since then. I have so much on my plate now, so much else I need to focus on. If I tried again, would it be different?
Can I trust someone not to flinch at my scars or scoff at my fears? It’s hard to say if the exposure is worth the risk. And I’ll be damned if I let my walls slip only to realize it’s another mistake. I’ve worked too hard, for too long, to get to the place I’m in now.