Hudson would remember all of it in excruciating detail, and then he'd have to get up and go for a run at oh-dark-thirty because apparently his body hadn't gotten the memo that this was over and Shaw was three thousand miles away and probably hadn't thought about Hudson once in the past year.
Then he’d think about reaching out to Shaw. But what would he even say? Hey, remember me? Still can’t stop thinking about you. Is this torture for you too?
Yeah. That would go great.
Hudson shelved it. That wasn’t a part of their agreement.
By the time dinner wrapped up, his mom was packing enough leftovers to feed Hudson for a week and Taylor was debating with her about whether the Tupperware needed to be returned or not. Hudson stayed out of it, helping clear plates and letting the comfortable noise of their bickering wash over him.
“You take care of yourself,” his mom said when they were finally leaving, pulling Hudson into another hug at the door. “And call me. Don’t make me worry.”
“I’ll call.”
“He never calls,” Taylor said.
Hudson shot her a pointed look.
His mom smiled, squeezing his arm. “Be safe, okay?”
“Always, Mom. I promise.”
They left, the door closing behind them, and stepped back out into the cold night air. Taylor walked quietlybeside him, which meant she was thinking, which meant Hudson should probably prepare himself to face interrogation.
“You seemed off tonight,” Taylor said finally.
“Jesus, what’s up with you Hale women. I’m fine.”
“You keep saying that.”
“BecauseI’m fine.”
“Really?” Taylor stopped walking and turned to face him.
He avoided her gaze. “I’m not used to being on leave. It’s an adjustment.”
“Bullshit. I know you, Huds. Something’s going on. So either tell me what it is, or I’m going to keep bugging you until you crack.”
Hudson bit the inside of his cheek. The military had trained him to resist interrogation—actual interrogation, the kind with shouting and pressure and designed psychological tactics. He’d passed. Top of his class, actually.
The curriculum hadn’t covered little sisters though. So yeah, he was probably fucked.
“Seriously… can we not?”
“Hudson.”
“Taylor.”
She crossed her arms, clearly not buying it. “You know you can talk to me, right? About anything.”
Hudson felt the resistance crack. He’d been carrying this around for a year—the wanting, the wondering, the fact that Shaw had apparently rewired something fundamental in his brain—and he hadn’t told anyone.
“Can we go home? I’m freezing,” he said.
Taylor studied him for a long moment, then nodded. “Fine. Let’s go. But this is not over.”
They climbedthe three flights to Taylor's apartment, the sound of neighbors bickering and soft footsteps filling the stairwell. The unfinished conversation loomed between them, Taylor practically vibrating with questions she was dying to ask.
She unlocked the door and they stepped inside. The apartment was small but comfortable—one bedroom, a kitchen that barely fit two people, a living room dominated by the couch Hudson had helped her carry up the narrow flight of stairs a couple of years back. His stuff was arranged in neat military stacks around the room.
