"I'm sure."
Hudson bit back a grin. "You're real chatty today."
"Fuck off, Hale."
There it was. The bite. Hudson relaxed a fraction, glad they were back to this—back to the easy rhythm of needling each other instead of whatever the hell had happened in the locker room the other night.
Nurse Mitchell appeared in the doorway. Middle-aged, salt and pepper hair pulled back in a tight bun, no-nonsense.
"Shaw," she called.
Shaw rose and followed her through the door without looking back.
Resuming his laid-back position, Hudson almost dozed off. Ten minutes later, the door opened.
"You." Mitchell pointed a finger at him. "Come here."
Hudson blinked. "Me? I'm okay.”
"I don't care. I need an extra set of hands."
"For what?"
Her expression said his questions were both unwelcome and irrelevant. "Now."
Hudson sighed and got up, following her through the door.
The exam room pressed in around them, all bright lights and the bite of chemicals. Shaw sat on the exam cot, hand laid out flat in front of him on a little side table. The makeshift bandage had disappeared, leaving swelling across his knuckles and dark bruises blooming purple.
Hudson had noticed Shaw's hands a lot lately. Which was normal. Totally normal to notice that your training partner had good hands—strong, capable, the kind of hands that didn't fumble with gear or hesitate on a trigger.
Except Hudson had also noticed how Shaw's fingers moved when he turned pages in a book. The way his knuckles flexed when he gripped a rifle. How he drummed them against his thigh during briefs when something bored him.
Seeing them bruised and swollen felt wrong, and he wasn't touching that thought with a ten-foot pole.
Shaw wore a white shirt, sleeves pushed up, revealing tattoos covering both forearms. Dark ink flowed fromwrists to elbows. A mix of styles—traditional Japanese waves on his right forearm, abstract geometric patterns wrapping around his left. Smaller pieces scattered between—dates, symbols, details too small to read. The canvas underneath was all lean muscle and pale skin, more defined than Hudson had any business noticing.
He stopped so abruptly he nearly tripped over his own feet.
Shaw had tattoos. Lots of guys had tattoos. Hudson had tattoos—his mother’s name on his left arm and a stupid cartoon on his right butt cheek. But Shaw’s were different, intricate and deliberate, like he'd actually thought about what went on his body instead of just walking into whatever shop was closest and picking something off the wall.
The ink made his forearms look—fuck, Hudson didn't know. Good? Distracting? He wanted to touch them, which was a weird thought to have about another guy's arms.
Shaw’s eyes snapped up, widening a fraction before his expression smoothed out again. "What's he doing here?"
"Helping." She gestured to Hudson. "Come. Stand behind him."
Hudson didn't move. "Why?"
"Because I need to manipulate the joint and he needs to stay still." She said it like it was the most obvious thing in the world. "Now get over here before I decide you both need tetanus shots."
Hudson’s eyes cut to Shaw. Shaw ignored him, face blank, eyes fixed on the wall across from him like he could will himself somewhere else through sheer force of focus.
This was going to be weird.
Hudson moved behind the cot, acutely aware of howsmall the room felt. Shaw didn't say anything. Didn't move. Just sat there radiating tension like a live wire.
"Hold his arm," Mitchell instructed. "Keep it steady. He's going to want to pull away."
