Chapter 27
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
HUDSON
Four years after Selection
Hudson woke first.
Shaw was on his side, back to him, taking up approximately thirty percent of the mattress. Everything about him was so disciplined and tidy, even unconscious. Hudson had a full king and Shaw had claimed his corner of it like he was trying not to impose.
His gaze traveled down Shaw’s back. The line of his ribs. The tattoos. The 0.5 between his shoulder blades, small and precise.
He'd been thinking about that tattoo since the wedding.
He got up, pulled on sweats and a T-shirt, and went to make coffee. The machine was cheap and loud and took forever, which Hudson had always considered a design flaw, but now considered a potential crime given that Shaw was asleep nine feet away. He hovered over it, willing it to be quieter.
Bringing his mug out to the balcony, he sat in one of the two chairs, feet up on the railing. The Sound stretched out between the buildings—flat and silver this early. The sun sat low and the cool air brushed his skin.
Shaw had kissed him in the kitchen last night, and asked him if it was okay. After they had sex, Shaw’d stared at the ceiling like he was finally letting himself breathe.
Hudson couldn’t process how much he'd wanted to keep him there, away from everything, safe.
He was on his second cup when he heard movement inside.
Shaw appeared in the balcony doorway, hair slightly disordered in a very attractive way, wearing yesterday's shirt and his boxers. He looked at Hudson's mug. Then at the coffee machine visible through the window behind him.
"Is there more?"
"Yeah. It's bad, though."
Shaw got some anyway, then came back out and took in the view. Hudson watched him take a sip without comment.
"Sleep okay?" he asked.
"Fine." Shaw glanced at him. "You?"
"Yeah."
Shaw leaned on the railing, both hands wrapped around the mug. Morning light caught the side of his face and Hudson had to force his gaze away.
“So, what are we doing today?”
"Clam chowder," Hudson said.
Shaw seemed confused. “You want clam chowder?"
"Best in WA. I've told you this."
"You have, repeatedly. If I say yes, will you stop talking about it?”
“Absolutely. Maybe.”
Shaw eyed him over the rim of his mug. “If I hate it, I’m telling you.”
“Shaw. Just say yes.”
”… Fine.”
They hit Alki Beach in West Seattle around noon.
The clam chowder truck was in its usual spot, parked at the far end of the lot with a line already snaking back toward the promenade.
Hudson joined it without hesitation. Shaw fell in beside him, hands in the pockets of his jeans, sunglasses on, looking like he was conducting a threat assessment of the surrounding tourists.
“Relax,” Hudson said. “You don’t need to surveil the crowd."
"Am not. I’m taking in the scenery. That's not the same thing."
Hudson grinned. They shuffled forward in the line.
The beach was busy—families, joggers, a group of guys playing volleyball near the waterline. The air smelled like sunscreen and salt and whatever was coming off the grill. He filled his lungs and exhaled.
They ordered and found a spot on a low wall by the sand, trays balanced on their knees, the Sound spread out ahead of them.
Shaw took a bite. Chewed. Closed his eyes.
"Well?" Hudson said.
"It’s good."
"Come on. I saw you close your eyes. It’s insane."
"Like I said. It’s good."
Hudson snorted. "You're being difficult on purpose."
Shaw grinned and took another bite immediately, totally giving himself away.
They ate without talking much. A jogger zoomed past them, pulled along by a dog clearly in charge. Two kids argued over a boogie board while their dad stood nearby, pretending not to hear.
“You want to walk?” Hudson asked when they had finished their chowder.
They ditched their trash in the nearest garbage can and walked down to the waterline, shoes off, the sand cold and damp underfoot. Shaw rolled up his jeans with precision and Hudson had to bite the inside of his cheek not to joke about it.
As they walked, the waves came in and pulled back in a calming rhythm. A pelican cruised low over the water and Shaw tracked it for a minute before apparently deciding it wasn’t a threat.
“Reed texted me last week,” Hudson said. “Sarah’s pregnant.”
“I know. He told me.”
“You think he’s going to be a good dad?”
Shaw seemed to consider it for a second. “Yes, annoyingly good.”
“He’s already unbearable. Sent me a photo of a camouflage onesie.”
“Imagine working with him then. He brought a color palette to work a few weeks back. Asked what I thought about buttercup yellow. Apparently being gay makes me a decor expert."
Hudson laughed. “Okay, you win. I only had to assess the font.”
“The font?”
“Yeah, of the text on the onesie. He made a poll.”
“Jesus. This is going to be a long pregnancy.”
Hudson shook his head. “Reed’s going to be a dad. Absolutely unhinged.”
Up ahead, a toddler made a break for the water on unsteady legs while his mother sprinted after him. When she caught him in her arms and swung him up, he shrieked with laughter.
Hudson couldn’t help but smile at the sound. “You want that someday?”
Shaw glanced at him. “Kids?”
“Yeah.”
He picked up a shell and brushed off the sand. “I haven’t really let myself think about it.” His gaze was fixed on the shell, jaw tight with tension that indicated the answer was more complicated than that.
“I do,” Hudson said. “Someday. House, dog, kids, the whole thing.”
“Very ambitious.”
“It’s not ambitious, it’s—” He gestured vaguely. “Normal.”
“Nothing about our lives is normal, Hale.”
“Yeah, I know.” Hudson shot him a look. “Doesn’t mean I don’t want it.”
Shaw said nothing. Hudson watched him turn the shell over in his hands one more time and then drop it.
“House, dog, kids… You can’t even keep a plant alive.”
“I’ve never tried to keep a plant alive,” Hudson countered.
“That explains the dead cactus on your windowsill.”
“That’s—” He sighed. “Cacti are harder than people think.”
“Right.”
“Shut up.” Hudson kicked water at him.
Shaw’s gaze dropped to his jeans. “Oh— You didn’t.”
Hudson kicked water at him again, then shoved him sideways and ran.
Shaw caught up in about four strides. They sprinted down the waterline like absolute idiots, kicking up spray, Shaw pulling ahead and Hudson cutting into the shallows to slow him down.
“That’s cheating—” Shaw got hit by a wave for his trouble.
“Tactical maneuvering,” Hudson called back.
Shaw’s expression turned determined and Hudson knew he’d approximately two seconds before things escalated. He increased his pace.
Shaw tackled him into the shallows.
They went down in a tangle, cold water everywhere, Hudson laughing too hard to fight back properly. Shaw had him pinned for about three seconds before Hudson reversed it, and then they were rolling around in the surf.
Shaw came up on top, sputtering, soaking wet, hair plastered to his forehead.
Their eyes met.
“You’re an idiot,” Shaw said.
“You tackled me.”
“You shoved me first.”
“You asked for it,” Hudson laughed.
Shaw shoved a wave at him and Hudson got a mouthful of saltwater.
They dragged themselves back up the beach and collapsed onto dry sand, both breathing hard, clothes soaking wet. The sun was already starting to dry the salt on Hudson’s arms.
Shaw was on his back with one forearm over his eyes, chest rising and falling.
Moving over, Hudson settled against his side. Shaw’s arm curved around him, fingers combing through his damp hair absentmindedly.
Hudson wanted this. His throat tightened at the thought of just how much.
“Worth it,” Hudson said.
Shaw didn’t answer, but he felt the corner of his mouth curve against his temple.
They were both still slightly damp from the shower when they settled on the couch, Shaw in a pair of Hudson’s sweats that were a size too big, Hudson in a T-shirt with a hole in the collar he kept meaning to throw out.
Hudson handed Shaw the remote and went to get water and popcorn from the kitchen. When he came back Shaw was still scrolling through Netflix.
Hudson sat beside him. Close enough that their shoulders touched.
“Just pick something,” Hudson said.
“I’m trying.”
“It’s not rocket science. What are you into?”
“Hm. Thriller. No, wait— Political drama.”
Hudson shot him a look. “Of course you are.” He grabbed the remote and put on A House of Dynamite.
Shaw seemed satisfied with the choice. He leaned back against the cushions and Hudson followed. Their shoulders stayed in contact and neither of them moved.
The credits rolled sometime around 2000. Shaw had fallen asleep on Hudson’s shoulder forty minutes ago and Hudson hadn’t moved a muscle. Shaw was snoring lightly, his hand resting in Hudson’s lap.
“Hey,” Hudson said gently.
Shaw stirred.
“Hey, you hungry?”
He straightened and ran a hand over his face.
The sleepy, amber green eyes focusing on him made his pulse spike. If he wasn’t starving, he would have kissed Shaw senseless.
“Yeah. I could eat.”
“Perfect. There’s this French place a couple of blocks over that I thought you’d like.”
“Tu me connais bien.”
“Eh. Well, yes. Like I said.”
Elliot laughed. “It means ‘you know me so well.’” His expression changed from teasing to something more earnest. He leaned in and planted a kiss on Hudson’s lips. “Merci.”
Three hours later, they were four courses fuller and halfway through their second bottle of wine.
Hudson was warm and full and not remotely ready for the night to end.
“Okay… so don’t say no before I finish,” he said.
Shaw eyed him suspiciously. “No.”
“I hadn’t even—”
“You made that face.”
“What face?”
“The one that tells me you’re about to suggest something crazy.” Shaw picked up his wine. “Whatever it is, no.”
Hudson waited. Let the silence do some work.
Shaw set his glass down. “What?”
“There’s this club ten minutes from here. Good DJ, good crowd. We’re already dressed, already out—”
“I don’t dance.”
“I kinda feel like you could.”
“I’m serious.”
“Okay, then you can watch me dance.” Hudson winked.
Shaw snorted. Then surrendered.
“One drink,” he said. “And when I say we’re leaving, we’re leaving.”
“Deal.”