Chapter 29
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
HUDSON
Six years after Selection
The RPG didn't hit them directly—just close enough that shrapnel tore through the tail rotor and sent them into a spin that Hudson was about seventy percent sure was going to kill them all.
He'd managed to get them down in one piece, more or less, which his co-pilot said was either incredible skill or dumb luck.
Hudson figured it was a little bit of both.
He broke his left wrist, cracked two ribs, and scored a concussion that made the medics nervous enough to ship him stateside.
Which was how he’d ended up in a military hospital in Germany, then back in the States, and finally in Taylor’s guest room in Brooklyn with his arm in a cast and strict orders to “take it easy. " Whatever that meant.
"You look like shit," Taylor said, standing in the doorway with her arms crossed.
"Love you too."
"I'm serious. When's the last time you slept?"
Hudson shrugged with his good shoulder. "Tuesday?"
"It's Friday."
"Then Tuesday."
Taylor sighed and sat on the bed. She seemed older than he remembered, more settled. Her hair was shorter, pulled back in a ponytail, and she wore scrubs from the hospital where she worked as a pediatric nurse.
"You scared the shit out of me," she mumbled.
"Yeah. Sorry about that."
"Don't be sorry. Just don't do it again."
"Can't promise that, Tay-Tay.”
"I know." She searched his face. "How's the pain?"
"Manageable." Hudson shifted against the pillows, wincing slightly. "The ribs are the worst. The wrist is just annoying."
"And the concussion?"
"Great."
"Huddy."
"I'm all right. The doctors cleared me. If I rest and don't do anything stupid for six weeks."
Taylor raised an eyebrow. "Not do anything stupid. You. For six weeks."
"I can rest. I'm great at resting."
"You've never rested a day in your life."
Hudson grinned. "There's a first time for everything."
The first week was brutal. Hudson wasn't good at sitting still, or being useless. Even worse at letting other people take care of him. And Taylor was relentless—bringing him food, making sure he took his meds, dragging him to follow-up appointments even when he insisted he was fine.
"You're worse than a toddler," she said on day five, watching him try to make coffee one-handed.
She took the pot from him and poured the coffee herself. "You're impossible, you know that?"
“Yeah, yeah.”
Hudson took a sip, then immediately regretted it because the movement pulled at his ribs.
Taylor's apartment was small but bright. Big windows overlooked the street, plants everywhere, stuff on the walls Hudson was pretty sure she'd made herself. It felt lived-in in a way his own place never had, probably because he was never there long enough to make it feel like home.
"So," Taylor said after a minute. "How’s everything besides—“ she gestured vaguely at his broken wrist, “this?"
He squinted at her. "That’s a very casual way to pry."
"Well… Are you seeing anyone?"
"Are you for real?"
“Huds. You’re almost thirty and as far as I know, you haven't had a real relationship since—" She stopped, counting her fingers. "Actually, I'm not sure you've ever had a real relationship."
He set down his coffee. “I'm deployed nine months out of the year. Not exactly conducive to dating."
"You're not deployed right now."
"I'm injured. Also not conducive to dating."
Taylor gave him a look that said she wasn't buying it. "You know what I think?"
"That I'm devilishly handsome and impossibly charming?"
"I think you're full of shit."
Hudson blinked. "Whoa. Okay. Why don't you tell me how you really feel?"
"I'm just saying. Stop with all the excuses and live a little." She stood, grabbing her keys off the counter. "I've got a double shift. Try not to break anything while I'm gone."
She was out the door before Hudson could respond.
A week later, as if Taylor had cosmically willed it into being with some kind of sister voodoo, Hudson met Marcus at a coffee shop in Park Slope.
Hudson had been going stir-crazy in Taylor's apartment, so he'd started taking walks despite his ribs still aching with every breath.
The coffee shop was small and way too crowded.
It was the kind of place where you had to wait fifteen minutes for a latte while everyone hammered away on their laptop pretending to write the next great American novel.
Hudson hated everything about the place, which was probably why he kept going back. Some kind of penance for being useless.
He was waiting for his order when someone bumped into him from behind.
"Shit—sorry—" The guy turned, eyes widening when he saw Hudson's cast. "Oh my god, I'm so sorry. Are you okay?"
"I'm fine," Hudson said automatically. That about covered it right now.
"You sure? I didn't hurt you?"
"I'm okay. Really."
The guy had dark skin, short locs, and a face that probably got him carded on a regular basis even though he had to be pushing thirty. He was wearing a Columbia hoodie and hauling a messenger bag straining at the shoulder strap.
"I'm Marcus," he said, offering his hand, then immediately pulled it back when he realized Hudson's good hand was holding his coffee. "Right. Sorry. I'm an idiot."
Hudson laughed. An actual laugh that pulled at his ribs, but he didn’t care. "Hudson. And you're not an idiot."
"Debatable." Marcus gestured at the cast. "What happened?"
"Helicopter crash."
Marcus laughed like Hudson was joking, then his face did a double-take when he realized he wasn’t. "Seriously?"
"Occupational hazard."
"You're a pilot?"
"Yeah. Army."
"That's—wow. Really cool. Besides the crash part obviously." Marcus paused, tilting his head like he was trying to figure Hudson out. “Wait, so you casually crash helicopters and walk it off?”
“Well no.” Hudson gestured to his cast. “I’m on medical leave.”
“For how long?”
“Six weeks in total. I’m two weeks in.”
“So you’ve got… four more weeks in New York?”
“About that, yeah.” Heat crept up Hudson’s neck as Marcus’s brown eyes studied him.
“This must be my lucky day.”
“How so?”
“Because…” Marcus’s smile was pure trouble. “I really want to hear more about that helicopter crash.”
Hudson’s face turned full-blown crimson, which was fucking ridiculous because he was almost thirty and shouldn’t be blushing like a teenager. “You asking me out?”
“Depends. You saying yes?”
They talked for another twenty minutes before exchanging numbers. Hudson walked back to Taylor’s apartment in a daze, ribs aching, wrist pounding, his brain doing a loop of “did I just get asked out by a guy in a coffee shop” and “why am I this excited about it.”
Turns out Hudson was right to be excited.
Marcus was funny and smart and didn’t seem to give a shit about Hudson being a mess.
When they texted later that night, Marcus sent him a picture of a helicopter in a museum with the caption “grounded and thriving. take notes” and Hudson laughed so hard his ribs screamed.
They got coffee the next day. Dinner two days after that. Spent an entire afternoon walking through Prospect Park while Marcus told increasingly ridiculous stories about whatever it was he did with data and community health programs that somehow kept being hilarious.
Hudson ended up at Marcus's apartment in the East Village one night after dinner. They were barely through the door before they were kissing and Marcus pushed him against the wall.
"This okay?" Marcus asked, hands already under Hudson's shirt, careful around the bandages on his ribs.
"Oh yeah."
The sex was good. Like really good. Marcus knew what he was doing, and Hudson didn't have to explain anything or fake interest or worry about whether he was feeling too much or not enough. He went with it—all of it—and it was easy in a way he hadn’t experienced before.
They fell into a routine over the next couple of weeks. Physical therapy in the mornings, then Hudson would text Marcus, and they’d meet up for dinner or a movie or end up at Marcus’ place ordering takeout, hooking up and falling asleep while Netflix played in the background.
Marcus’s apartment was small but funky. There were actual living plants, books organized by color—which was fucking insane but also kind of hot—and sophisticated art on the walls.
Marcus sang in the shower, badly, and didn't care.
He had friends who texted him constantly and a sister in Denmark he video-called every Sunday. His life had roots.
Hudson’s life was a duffel bag, whatever base he was stationed at and the sky.
Civilian life was surprisingly nice. Maybe dating someone outside the military was the answer. A place to come home to without having to risk everything. Which was a weird thing to realize two weeks before deploying again, but whatever. Hudson had never been good at timing.
One afternoon, Hudson showed up at Marcus's place after a somewhat painful run. Marcus was writing at the kitchen table, and Hudson was bored and restless.
He came up behind Marcus, hands on his shoulders. “How’s it going?”
“Slowly.” Marcus didn’t look up from his laptop. “I’ve rewritten this paragraph five times.”
“Sounds terrible.” Hudson leaned down and kissed his neck. “You should really take a break.”
“I can’t—”
“Fifteen minutes.” Hudson’s hands slid down Marcus’s chest. “Come on. You’ve been working for hours.”
Marcus turned in his chair and eyed Hudson’s mischievous smile. “You’re supposed to let me finish this section.”
“Your thesis can wait.” Hudson’s hands traveled down further and cupped Marcus’s growing erection. “This, on the other hand, can’t.”
They ended up on Marcus's couch. Hudson on his knees between Marcus’s legs, Marcus with his head leaned back. Judging by the sounds escaping him, he enjoyed what Hudson was doing with his tongue—a lot.
When they had both gotten off, Marcus kissed him once more, then went back to his laptop. "Thesis awaits."
Hudson grabbed his phone off the coffee table, scrolling absentmindedly through messages. "I'm gonna go grab a shower."
"Take your time."