Hudson shoved Shaw’s shoulder. "Better than building bridges."
"At least bridges don't crash."
"Can collapse though."
"Only if the engineer is incompetent."
"And helicopters only crash if the pilot is incompetent."
Shaw snorted. "Fair enough.”
The wind howled outside and Hudson shivered. The temperature was dropping fast.
"We should try to sleep," Shaw said, turning off the flashlight—currently the only thing letting them see each other. “Long day tomorrow.”
Hudson knew he should let it go. But something about Shaw’s dream of being an engineer becoming irrelevant because of his shit luck in parents bothered him. And honestly, when did he ever let stuff go?
"Does it ever get exhausting? Living up to someone else's expectations?" he asked into the dark.
"Every single day." Shaw's voice was almost too quiet to hear over the wind. "But that's the deal, isn't it? He's General Shaw. I'm his son. There's a standard to maintain."
Hudson had a feeling this was something Elliot rarely admitted. He thought about his mom working double shifts so he could stay in school. The way she never once told them something was out of reach or that they were aiming too high. Hudson could’ve told her that he wanted to be a Broadway ballerina and she would’ve cheered him on despite him having two left feet.
That’s why failing wasn’t an option. All that work couldn’t be for nothing.
“I get not wanting to disappoint,” Hudson said.
“You do?”
"My mom—" He stopped, trying to find the right words. "She never said it outright, but I know she sacrificedeverything to raise me and Taylor. Her whole life became about making sure we had opportunities she never got. And I... I can't fuck this up, you know?"
"So you're here to prove something?" Shaw asked.
"Aren't you?"
"Yeah. I guess I am."
"What happens if you don't make top twenty?" Hudson asked, genuine curiosity overriding the usual competitive edge.
"I make top twenty."
"But hypothetically?—"
"There is no hypothetically. My father doesn't accept excuses. Either I'm the best or I'm a disappointment. Those are the only two options."
Hudson turned his head to stare at him, but there was nothing to read—just Shaw’s outline in the dark. "Jesus, Shaw. That's... that's a lot of pressure."
"You get used to it."
Hudson let it go. He rearranged himself in the tiny space, trying to find a position that wouldn't result in his elbow in Shaw's ribs. It was impossible. They ended up pressed together from shoulder to knee, sharing body heat whether they wanted to or not.
He tried very hard not to think about how warm Shaw was. He noticed anyway—the feel of him against his side, the relaxed rhythm of his breathing. Hudson stared at the shelter ceiling and told himself this was purely practical. Body heat. Survival basics. Completely standard.
He almost believed it.
"Night, Shaw," he said in a low voice, deliberately using the last name because first names felt too intimate for whatever this was.
"Night, Hale."
