“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.
