Chapter 5
CHAPTER FIVE
HUDSON
Hudson woke up feeling like he’d been hit by a truck. Twice.
The week had been brutal. Hours of combat drills, navigation runs with full packs, more drills, followed by a six-hour night watch. He catalogued the damage.
Shoulders—fucked. Back—worse. Knees—he didn’t even want to think about the knees.
Getting out of bed would require a coordinated effort from multiple body parts that currently wanted nothing to do with each other.
A few bunks down, a long, suffering groan made Hudson’s insides curl. At least he wasn’t alone.
“Jesus Christ,” a voice muttered. “Is this what forty feels like, Novak?”
“Fuck off,” Novak responded. “I’m thirty-one.”
Hudson smiled to himself and swung his legs over the side of the bunk. Standing up took more effort than he liked to admit, but he managed it without making any embarrassing noises. Small victories.
Across the room, Shaw was already up.
Of course he was.
Shaw sat on the edge of his bunk, already dressed, posture perfectly straight. Even from behind, he seemed so damn contained. He rolled his shoulders once—the only sign he might be sore.
Hudson stopped staring and focused on getting vertical instead.
“Morning,” Hudson said as he passed Shaw’s bunk five minutes later.
Shaw glanced up and nodded.
That was it. Just a nod. Like they hadn't spent hours together in the freezing dark last night.
Hudson grabbed his gear and headed toward breakfast with everyone else.
He loaded his tray—powdered eggs, toast, mystery meat—and dropped into a seat across from Reed. The smell of burnt coffee stung his nose.
"How was night duty?" Reed asked, wincing as he reached for his cup.
"Almost froze my balls off."
"That bad?"
"Worse."
A few others joined them, conversation jumping between complaints about sore muscles and speculation about what fresh hell today would bring. Someone mentioned seeing the indoor mats being set up, and the energy at the table shifted immediately.
"Evaluation week," Fernandez said around a mouthful of eggs. "Calling it."
Hudson perked up despite his exhaustion. "Finally."
He'd always been good at this part. Give him something concrete to measure himself against and he'd show exactly what he was capable of. Rankings, scores, head-to-head competition—that was his comfort zone.
After breakfast, they marched straight to the converted warehouse masquerading as “indoor facilities.” Concrete floors, concrete walls, the ceiling high enough that sound bounced and died before it reached the top.
Rubber mats covered most of the floor in overlapping sections, edges curling at the seams from years of use.
A few wooden benches ran along the far wall, already claimed by gear bags and water bottles.
Guys stretched, bounced on their feet, talked just a little too loud. Nervous energy with nowhere to go.
The instructors didn't waste time easing them into it.
"This is evaluation week," Sergeant Barnes said, pacing back and forth. He sounded like he enjoyed delivering bad news. "You will be measured. You will be compared. Every exercise, every drill, every task."
He paused, letting the seriousness sink in.
"You won't even be able to take a shit without someone noting how long it takes."
A few nervous laughs from down the line.
"And you will be ranked."
Sergeant Barnes turned and gestured to a massive board covering most of the back wall. Numbers one through thirty ran down the left side. A thick red line split the bottom ten from the rest. On the right side, blank spaces waited for names.
Up until now they’d all been equals. All there because they were the best.
The attention shifted across the room.
Hudson glanced around, clocking reactions. Fernandez appeared sick—face pale, jaw clenched like he was trying not to throw up. Novak had gone stock-still. Reed just looked determined, shoulders back, ready for anything.
Shaw stayed perfectly still, face neutral, giving absolutely nothing away. If anything, he seemed even more settled than usual.
Sergeant Kowalski gestured toward the mats. "Hand-to-hand combat. Two days. Pairings will rotate. You'll be evaluated on control, adaptability, and effectiveness. Not aggression."
Across the mat, Shaw was paired with Briggs. Hudson had disliked the guy since week one, when he cut Lieutenant Pine off mid-sentence in front of Chen and took credit for her read on the terrain.
Briggs was a big dude—had to be six-four and easily two-twenty, built like he spent his free time throwing cars around for fun. All mass and confidence; the kind of size that probably made him assume he would win fights before they even started.
Shaw was almost lean next to him. Where Briggs was all bulk and brute force, Shaw was controlled strength, same height but built like a different kind of weapon entirely.
Hudson watched with piqued interest.
Briggs came in aggressive, telegraphing his strategy. Shaw wasted no time. He let Briggs come to him, shifted once, and put him on the mat so cleanly it barely looked like effort.
He blinked up at the ceiling, stunned.
Hudson let out a breath.
"Damn," Reed muttered beside him.
Another guy snorted. "Didn't see that coming."
"Yeah," Hudson said. "Neither did Briggs."
When Hudson's name was called for his first match, he stepped onto the mat feeling awake and alert, the soreness fading into background noise.
His opponent came in fast. Hudson read the angle, shifted his weight, and used the guy's momentum to take him down. It took three seconds.
The second fight was harder. His opponent anticipated Hudson's feint, countered before Hudson fully committed. They grappled, reset, circled. Hudson caught an opening, shifted inside the guy's reach and swept his legs. Down.
By lunch, he'd fought three times. Won three times.
He grabbed his water and leaned back against the wall, scanning the room. Names were starting to appear on the board, shifting as results came in. Hudson found his name—third place. Better than most.
Then he searched for Shaw’s name.
Second place. One spot above him.
First was Morrison whose loud bragging Hudson vaguely remembered from the truck ride here. Turned out his cockiness was actually warranted.
Hours later, they were released in waves. Hudson peeled his shirt off the second he hit the locker room and dropped it on the bench, stretching until his spine cracked.
“Jesus,” Novak said. “That was fucking insane.”
Reed dropped onto the bench beside him with a groan. “I can’t feel my arms.”
Hudson gave him a playful punch. “This arm?”
Reed yelped.
Across the room, Shaw removed his gear piece by piece.
Barging through the door, Briggs’s water bottle hit the bench harder than necessary. “Bullshit,” he said to a guy following him. “Absolute bullshit.”
Hudson sat down and reached for his towel. “You lose again?”
Briggs shot him a look. “Funny.”
“Statistically, it’s a fair question.”
A few low snickers sounded around him, and the tips of Briggs’ ears turned red. “They’re rewarding being boring,” he said. “That’s what this is. Play it safe, don’t take risks.”
Reed glanced up. “You mean… be in control?”
“I mean some people get gold stars for doing the bare minimum. Must be nice.” He scoffed.
Hudson saw Briggs’s gaze shift briefly toward Shaw’s back.
Ah. There it was. The nepotism angle. Very original.
He turned back toward Hudson again. “Just saying. Some guys got it easy. Don’t have to prove shit.”
Leaning back, Hudson rested his head on the wall behind him. “Aw. You sound upset.”
“Fuck off, Hale.” Briggs’s mouth turned into a flat line.
Hudson stood and pulled on a clean shirt. As he did, his gaze flicked to Shaw.
Shaw hadn’t moved. He was still facing his locker, back straight, hands steady as he folded his gear with almost irritating precision. Like none of this touched him.
If Hudson hadn’t spent the last weeks watching him closely, he might’ve bought it.
“Hey,” Hudson said casually when he passed by. “See you at dinner?”
His expression was flat and unreadable as ever. “Sure. See you at dinner.”
The following morning, Hudson swung his legs out of bed and stayed still for a second, waiting for his knees to cooperate. Something in his hip popped in a way he could only hope was fine.
When they reached the indoor facility, the energy had shifted. Yesterday had been all nerves and adrenaline, but today felt different. More focused.
They ran through warm-ups quickly, and Hudson was paired with his first opponent. He won without much trouble, body settling into rhythm despite the ache. He stepped off the mat with a shit-eating grin and caught Reed’s eye.
“Still going strong, I see,” Reed said.
“Yeah, you know what they say… Work smart, not hard.”
Reed chuckled and fist bumped him as he walked by.
Hudson barely got to have some water before his name was called again. “Lieutenant Hale. Lieutenant Briggs.”
Great.
Briggs cracked his neck as he stepped onto the mat, eyes bright in a way Hudson definitely didn’t like.
They squared up.
“Ready?” Kowalski asked.
Briggs didn’t answer, just lunged. Hudson shifted, letting the first rush slide past him. Briggs came in hard—all force and speed, still telegraphing his moves like he didn't know better. He probably didn’t.
It took Hudson five seconds to floor him, pinning him with controlled pressure.
“Point,” Kowalski called.
They reset. Briggs stepped in closer as the instructor looked away. “You always fight like a girl, Hale?”
Hudson shrugged. “Efficiently, you mean?”
He rolled his eyes. “Where’s your boyfriend? Not here to cheer you on?”
He meant Shaw—they’d been paired together enough that people had noticed. But the implication stuck. Shaw was… competition. A partner for assignments. That was all.
“Try to focus, will you?” Hudson said and drove forward, taking Briggs down again. He hit the mat with a grunt.
Shaw had joined the line along the edge of the mats and Hudson felt his attention like heat on his skin.
On their last round, Briggs’ elbow connected with Hudson’s jaw, supposedly accidental.
White light exploded behind Hudson's eyes. Pain flared and a metallic, bitter taste of blood filled his mouth. Asshole. He spat blood and dove in, shifting his weight and using Briggs’s forward momentum to take him down hard.
Way rougher than necessary, but whatever. Briggs had it coming.
He swore as Hudson pinned him.
“Point,” Kowalski called. “Match.”
Hudson released him and got up, breathing ragged, adrenaline buzzing through his system. He walked off the mat, hands loose at his sides, some hot restless thing under his skin that he told himself was just the fight.
He grabbed his water bottle and drank, forcing his pulse to slow.
The instructor called a few more names. New opponents fought. Someone went down hard and stayed there a beat too long. The med team hovered, then waved it off.
Then Hudson’s name was called again.
“Lieutenant Hale.”
He stepped forward.
“And Lieutenant Shaw.”
Hudson could have sworn the tension in the room shifted, a few conversations cutting off mid-sentence.
He stepped onto the mat and faced Shaw, stomach coiling. Up close, Shaw gave him nothing.
“Ready?” Kowalski asked.
Shaw nodded once.
Hudson smiled. “Always.”
They circled each other, bare feet silent on the mat. Hudson snapped out a quick jab—testing reach, reaction—and Shaw slipped it, adjusted instantly, matching him without overcommitting.
Okay. So this was how it was going to be.
They were evenly matched in a way Hudson hadn’t experienced in a long time. Every move he made, Shaw answered—like fighting a mirror version of himself, except the mirror had better discipline and less style.
“You’ve been holding out on me,” Hudson grinned and closed the distance. He pushed hard enough to test Shaw’s footing. Their bodies collided, solid and warm and impossible to ignore.
Shaw pressed against him, and the hair on Hudson’s neck stood up. Shaw’s jaw scraped against his cheek, rough and unexpected. Their chests rose and fell together, breath synchronized.
Hudson broke apart fast and circled again. "God, you're annoying,” he murmured under his breath.
Shaw's mouth twitched. "And you're predictable."
"Ouch."
Hudson faked left and went right, catching Shaw just off-center. Shaw compensated, but it wasn’t enough. Hudson swept his legs and they both hit the mat with a thud.
“Predictable my ass.” Hudson smirked at Shaw underneath him.
Warmth bled through Hudson’s shirt where Shaw’s body met his. Their faces were close enough that he could see the exact moment Shaw's pupils dilated. Shaw's breath was warm against his cheek, still steady despite the exertion, and Hudson's brain blanked.
This was not like fighting Briggs. Or any other guy he'd grappled with for that matter. Briggs had been all force and no finesse. Shaw’s body under his felt—
Kowalski’s voice cut through. “Break!”
Hudson rolled off. He looked anywhere but at Shaw as he scrambled to his feet.
The second time around Shaw had him face down on the mat in seconds.
Third time he came in fast again, closed the distance without warning and caught Hudson off guard, driving him back a step.
Hudson recovered, barely, and countered with a palm strike to Shaw’s sternum.
It would’ve worked on almost anyone else, but Shaw anticipated it and twisted Hudson’s arm enough to force him down.
Hitting the mat with a surprised grunt, Hudson stared up at the ceiling. Kowalski called it. “Match.”
Shaw offered Hudson a hand.
His palm was slick with sweat, rough with calluses, grip firm as he pulled Hudson up. Shaw's forearm flexed under his long-sleeved shirt, and for a second they were close—too close—their hands still locked together.
Hudson should let go. Shaw should let go. But neither of them did.
Their grip lingered, not enough for anyone else to notice, but enough for heat to prickle Hudson’s cheeks.
Loosening his fingers, Shaw let his hand fall away.
Hudson met his eyes one last time. Shaw’s expression was neutral—but there was something else there too, something tight he was working to lock back down.
“Good fight,” Hudson said, a little hoarse.
Shaw nodded. “Yes. Good fight.”
Then they stepped off the mat in opposite directions.
Rolling his shoulders, Hudson was already cataloguing what he’d do differently next time. His body still vibrated, blood running hot.
Just adrenaline from the fight. Had to be.