Chapter 18
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
HUDSON
One year after Selection
Hudson’s arm hung around his sister’s shoulders as they walked along the East River, the Manhattan skyline glittering across the water like fireworks.
The air bit cold, enough that their breath fogged, but not the bone-deep kind—nothing like Selection.
March in New York ran crisp and clear and tolerable as long as you kept moving.
“I’m just saying,” Taylor muttered, bumping against his side, “if you’re going to be home for a whole month, the least you could do is pretend to be fun about it.”
“I am fun.”
“You’ve been back three days and you’ve done nothing but fuck up my spice cabinet.”
“It was a mess.”
“It was alphabetized.”
“Yeah, but not by category. Who puts cumin next to cinnamon?”
Taylor laughed. "Most people, Huds. Because they both start with C."
“That’s really a flawed system.”
“Oh my god, you’re bored out of your mind.”
She wasn’t wrong. Seventy-two hours home and his mind had already started eating itself.
A month of leave. Great idea in theory, absolute disaster in practice, because apparently 'normal life' meant his brain had way too much time to think about things he'd spent a year successfully not thinking about.
Like this annoying guy with too many tattoos and too much self-control.
Fuck.
They turned onto their mom’s street—tree-lined, familiar and exactly the same as it had been since Hudson was a kid.
They’d moved here after his father left.
His mom had made it work without complaint, trying her best to fill the void.
Still, it had taken Hudson years to stop waiting for something else to disappear.
“Fair warning,” Taylor said as they climbed the steps. “She’s been cooking since yesterday. I think she made enough food to feed your entire unit.”
“Good. I’m starving.”
“You’re always starving.”
Gloria Hale opened the door before they even knocked, enveloping Hudson in rosemary and lavender—all five feet of her trying to squeeze life back into him.
“Look at you,” she said, pulling back to study his face. “You need a haircut.”
“Hi, Mom.”
“And you’re too thin. Are they feeding you?”
Hudson caught Taylor's eye over their mom's shoulder. Her grin stretched wider, clearly enjoying this.
“They’re feeding me.”
“Not enough, apparently.” She turned to Taylor. “Doesn’t he look skinny?”
“Terribly.”
Dinner delivered exactly what Hudson had expected—too much food, too much hovering.
His mom kept refilling his plate like he was still sixteen instead of twenty-four and perfectly capable of feeding himself.
The roast chicken hit perfectly though, and for an hour Hudson let himself just be here—home, safe, surrounded by people who loved him even if they didn't really understand what his life was like anymore.
His mom asked about Washington, flying, whether he was being safe up there.
Hudson gave her the sanitized version—yes, the base was great, yes he loved the work, no he wasn't taking unnecessary risks.
Taylor made sarcastic comments that kept things from getting too serious.
The intimate rhythm of family dinner took over, passing dishes and trading stories. It almost felt normal.
Almost. Since joining the military, Hudson had never quite managed to feel like he actually belonged here anymore.
Not that he regretted any of it. The past year had been great.
Better than great. Flight training delivered—thrilling, challenging, intense, the kind of work that demanded everything he had.
He'd barely had time to think about anything that wasn't flying, which suited him fine.
And when he did have downtime, when his brain tried to wander back to Selection and everything that had happened there, he just...
worked harder. Flew more. Pushed himself until he was too exhausted to think.
It worked. Mostly.
Except for the nights when it didn’t—when his guard was down and he was too tired to keep his brain in line and he let himself remember the specifics.
Shaw's hands, competent and sure, learning exactly how to take Hudson apart.
The ridiculous control he had even when he was falling apart himself, like he could never let go completely.
The sound he made when Hudson had done that thing with his tongue, low and surprised and so unlike Shaw's usual careful quiet that Hudson had done it again just to hear it twice.
The way Shaw had kissed him that last night. Slow and deliberate and like it mattered.
Hudson would remember all of it in excruciating detail, and then he'd have to get up and go for a run at oh-dark-thirty because apparently his body hadn't gotten the memo that this was over and Shaw was three thousand miles away and probably hadn't thought about Hudson once in the past year.
Then he’d think about reaching out to Shaw. But what would he even say? Hey, remember me? Still can’t stop thinking about you. Is this torture for you too?
Yeah. That would go great.
Hudson shelved it. That wasn’t a part of their agreement.
By the time dinner wrapped up, his mom was packing enough leftovers to feed Hudson for a week and Taylor was debating with her about whether the Tupperware needed to be returned or not. Hudson stayed out of it, helping clear plates and letting the comfortable noise of their bickering wash over him.
“You take care of yourself,” his mom said when they were finally leaving, pulling Hudson into another hug at the door. “And call me. Don’t make me worry.”
“I’ll call.”
“He never calls,” Taylor said.
Hudson shot her a pointed look.
His mom smiled, squeezing his arm. “Be safe, okay?”
“Always, Mom. I promise.”
They left, the door closing behind them, and stepped back out into the cold night air. Taylor walked quietly beside him, which meant she was thinking, which meant Hudson should probably prepare himself to face interrogation.
“You seemed off tonight,” Taylor said finally.
“Jesus, what’s up with you Hale women. I’m fine.”
“You keep saying that.”
“Because I’m fine.”
“Really?” Taylor stopped walking and turned to face him.
He avoided her gaze. “I’m not used to being on leave. It’s an adjustment.”
“Bullshit. I know you, Huds. Something’s going on. So either tell me what it is, or I’m going to keep bugging you until you crack.”
Hudson bit the inside of his cheek. The military had trained him to resist interrogation—actual interrogation, the kind with shouting and pressure and designed psychological tactics. He’d passed. Top of his class, actually.
The curriculum hadn’t covered little sisters though. So yeah, he was probably fucked.
“Seriously… can we not?”
“Hudson.”
“Taylor.”
She crossed her arms, clearly not buying it. “You know you can talk to me, right? About anything.”
Hudson felt the resistance crack. He’d been carrying this around for a year—the wanting, the wondering, the fact that Shaw had apparently rewired something fundamental in his brain—and he hadn’t told anyone.
“Can we go home? I’m freezing,” he said.
Taylor studied him for a long moment, then nodded. “Fine. Let’s go. But this is not over.”
They climbed the three flights to Taylor's apartment, the sound of neighbors bickering and soft footsteps filling the stairwell. The unfinished conversation loomed between them, Taylor practically vibrating with questions she was dying to ask.
She unlocked the door and they stepped inside.
The apartment was small but comfortable—one bedroom, a kitchen that barely fit two people, a living room dominated by the couch Hudson had helped her carry up the narrow flight of stairs a couple of years back.
His stuff was arranged in neat military stacks around the room.
Taylor dropped her keys on the counter and went to the fridge, pulling out two beers. She tossed one to Hudson, then leaned against the counter, arms crossed.
"Okay," she said. "We’re home. We’re warm. Now… spill."
Hudson opened the beer and took a long drink, stalling. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"Oh come on." Taylor lowered her voice, gentle but firm. "Clearly something's on your mind, and I don't want you to suffer in silence. Being your loving sister and all."
Hudson sat down on the couch, beer in hand. "Really... It's nothing. I'm fine."
"God, you’ve said that more times than I can count."
"Because it's true."
"Is it?" Taylor plopped down in the armchair across from him. "Because you haven’t been your funny, slightly obnoxious self ever since you got home."
Hudson leaned back into the couch cushions and studied a water stain on Taylor's ceiling like it was the most interesting thing he'd ever seen.
"Is it about someone?" Taylor asked.
He kept quiet, which was apparently answer enough.
"Oh my god, it is." Taylor sat forward, eyes lighting up with that special brand of sibling nosiness that Hudson had been dealing with his entire life. "Who is she? Do I know her? Is she military?"
Hudson sipped his beer, still not answering. His ears were ringing, like his body knew he was about to step off a cliff and was trying to warn him against it.
"Come on, Huds.” Taylor’s voice softened. “I'm not going to judge. Just tell me who she is."
Hudson opened his mouth. Closed it. Ran a hand through his hair instead, postponing the inevitable.
He could lie. Make up some girl from base, keep it vague, change the subject. Taylor would let it go eventually.
But honestly, he was so fucking tired of not talking about it. A year of keeping it locked down, and for what? They were not at Selection anymore. He would most likely never see Shaw again. The rules didn’t apply anymore.
"It's not—" Hudson stopped, trying to figure out how to do this. His palms were sweating. Jesus Christ, his palms were actually sweating. He’d flown combat missions without this kind of physical response. "There's no she."
The words came out quieter than he meant them to. Almost a mumble.
Taylor leaned in closer. “What?”
He stared at his bottle, picking at the label with his thumbnail. “I said, there’s no she.”
Hudson could practically hear the gears turning in her head. "Okay. So... you're not seeing anyone?"
"No, I—" Hudson ran a hand through his hair, frustrated. He forced himself to meet her eyes. "There was someone. At Selection."
"At Selection," Taylor repeated slowly. "Okay. And this person...?"
Hudson didn't answer, just braced himself for when the penny dropped.
"Huddy." Taylor's voice was gentle now. "Are you telling me she is a he?"
Heat crept up the back of Hudson’s neck, but he still wasn’t looking at her. "Well… Yeah."
"Oh." Taylor sat back in her chair, processing. “Okay.”
His head snapped up. “Okay?”
"Yeah." Taylor’s expression was… he couldn’t quite read it. Surprised, maybe. But not disgusted. She nodded slowly. “So… a guy. From Selection.”
“Yeah.”
"And you... what? Dated?"
"No. God no. We—" Hudson stopped, face burning. "We hooked up.”
"And you haven't seen him since?"
"No."
"But you're still thinking about him?"
Hudson let out a loud breath. "It's not about him specifically. It's about—" He trailed off, not sure how to finish that sentence.
"About what?" Taylor's voice was less teasing now.
"About the fact that I hooked up with a guy." It felt weird to say it out loud. "For like three months."
Taylor tucked her feet up under her, thinking. “So you're gay."
Hudson nearly choked on his beer. "What? No."
"You just said you hooked up with a guy for three months."
"That doesn't make me gay."
"Right, so you're… occasionally into guys."
"I—" Hudson stopped. "I don't know. Maybe? I seriously have no idea, Tay."
"You don't know if you're attracted to men?"
"I don't know if I'm attracted to men or if I was attracted to him specifically." Hudson set his beer down on the coffee table. "He's the only guy I've ever... been with. So I don't know if that means I like guys or if it was just him."
Taylor was quiet, which was very unlike her. "Okay. That's... actually fair." She tilted her head. "But you were definitely attracted to him? Like, you wanted to hook up with him?"
"Yeah." He looked away. "Very much yeah."
"Interesting."
“Don’t say interesting like that."
"You're my brother and you just told me you hooked up with a guy. I'm allowed to analyze this." Taylor leaned back in her chair. "So what's he like? Is he hot?"
"Jesus Christ."
"What? I want to know if we have the same taste in guys."
"You're terrible."
"I'm supportive." Taylor reached for his phone. "Now, show me a picture."
"No."
"Come on. I need visual confirmation that this guy is worth a year of pining."
"I'm not pining."
She waggled his phone at him. "Picture. Now."
"I don't have one."
"You don't have a single picture of the guy you hooked up with for three months?"
"We were at Selection. We weren't exactly taking selfies."
"All right, fair point." Taylor set the phone down. "Okay, so. You hooked up with this guy—what's his name?"
The simple question nearly undid him.
“Sh— Elliot."
"Elliot. For three months. You haven't talked to him since. And now you're home not knowing what to do with any of this."
"Pretty much, yeah."
"Okay." Taylor headed to the kitchen, opening the fridge again. "So here's what we're gonna do."
"Oh no."
"Tomorrow night, we're going out."
Hudson groaned. "Tay—"
"No, listen. You need to figure out if this was an Elliot thing or a guy thing. And the only way to do that is to actually test the theory. One night, we go somewhere, you talk to some guys, see what happens." She handed him another beer. “Recon. You’re familiar with recon, right?”
"This is a terrible idea."
Taylor sat next to him on the couch this time, bumping his shoulder. "Look. I know this is weird and you probably thought you had yourself all figured out. But clearly you don't, and that's okay. It’s actually kind of refreshing.” She said that last part with a smirk.
Hudson eyed her—his little sister, who was somehow handling this better than he was. "You're really okay with this?"
"With what? You maybe being into guys?" Taylor shrugged. "Can’t say I blame you." Her expression softened. "Seriously though. Thank you for telling me. I know that wasn't easy."
"It really wasn't."
"Well, for what it's worth, I'm glad you did." She stood up and stretched. "Now get some sleep. Can’t have you yawning through your sexual awakening."
Hudson threw a couch pillow at her. She caught it, grinning, and headed toward her bedroom.
"See you tomorrow, Huddy."
After she disappeared into her room, Hudson lay down on the couch and stared at the ceiling. Great. Perfect. Exactly how he'd pictured spending his leave—letting Taylor drag him out for some kind of scientific experiment on his dick.